S-s-stutter [Zarry]

the boy who

+Harry

It hurts too much. I've been trying so hard to let go but I can't.

"Say it for me," he jeers.

Me shaking my head. Crying uncontrollably like a fucking baby.

His friend spits at me, laughs when it lands in my hair. I don't know why I'm so weak but what can I do?

What are you supposed to do when your legs feel like wax and your voice falters? When words fail you and all you can do is cry?

And they're prying with greedy hands, fingers fisted in your hair. Yanking and tugging and you're biting your damn tongue.

It isn't like anyone would help you anyway. The fucking twink with a stutter. The boy who wears flower crowns and has pink bedsheets and wishes for nothing but love.

The boy who watched the stars twinkle and rushed out to get fairy lights to hang up.

The boy who likes the soft lull of rain and the feeling of sand between his toes.

The boy who trips over dogs and cuddles cats.

The boy who spent a whole allowance on candy and got a toothache.

The boy that gets slammed into lockers and kicked in the stomach.

The boy that rushed out of the classroom during a presention.

The one that had an anxiety attack when the new kid talked to me.

The boy that crawled across the bathroom floor when he got home and threw up his insides. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Flushed the pain down the toilet.

The boy that sobbed in the shower, hoping it would wash down the drain. The boy who couldn't scrub the filth from his body.

The boy that still smiled and lied to his mum.

The boy that was forced to see a therapist.

I'm not a boy anymore. I'm not a damn child but it still hurts.

And I still cry.

Cry at the softness in his eyes and the tone of his voice and the way I felt it inside my bones.

The way it sent a shiver down my spine, made my heart hiccup.

I love you.

Nobody has ever said it that way.

Maybe that's why I can't say it back. I swallow the lump in my throat.

His hands are tracing circles in my back. He's so gentle I almost don't believe it.

Everybody wants something. There's always a catch.

Sometimes I think he can see my thoughts. That he tries to unravel the web of jumbled syllables in my head.

That he knows what I'm thinking when he whispers "I would never hurt you."

He's thrusting into me relentlessly. I'm no longer concerned with the tears streaking down my cheeks or the imprints of fingers where he slapped my ass.

I know I should have just obeyed. Submission. Folding in on myself and letting his take control because that's what he wants and I can't deny him.

Jabbing, jerking movements, my mind is panicking.

"Everything hurts."

We're huddled under blankets, my body chilling.

It's not from the cold. I can handle that. It's how cold those two pairs of eyes were, how callous they were.

"Harry," warm arms embracing me, amber eyes meeting mine.

"I don't want to be t-touched," I stammer.

So he lets go.

"Just wanna be alone."

Sad eyes and a deep frown on his face. I must be crazy, telling the only person that cares about me to give me space.

"I understand. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'll be in the kitchen."

I nod and nestle back under the blankets. I wasn't scared until he said he loved me. That's terrifying. I don't know if I can stomach it.

He pities me. Feels sorry for me like everyone else that knows.

Why did I say anything at all?

I want to go home, want to burrow myself in covers and bury my face in pillows and suffocate.

I hate being alone, hate feeling vunerable. Now I want to take it back. So when he kneels down to stroke my cheek I stir, my eyes opening up slowly.

Love and pity are two very different things.

"I didn't mean it," I mumble.

"What babe?"

"I like when you touch me."

Cheeks stained pink and the sound of his laughter and his lips capture mine.

"That's what I thought."

I hear the whistle of the tea pot and smell the sweet aroma of cinnamon.

Maybe this is home.

"Would you like a cinnamon roll?"

"Cinnamon bun," I correct. "You have it all wrong."

"I was going to give you extra icing," he pouts.

"Zayn," I whine. "Please."

Sad eyes. He'll cave.

But he doesn't. His fingers tickle my sides, sending me into a fit of giggles.

"Stop! I'm sorry. You're right. Cinnamon rolls."

He chuckles, his hands growing still and I follow him into the kitchen. My eyes watch him as he spreads on more icing and turns on the radio.

John Mayer and I'm humming along, dancing around in his kitchen like I am still a child.

That boy is still trapped inside of me. Zayn bursts into laughter, taking a bite of a cinnamon roll. There's a glob of icing on the tip of his nose that I lick off. He sets down the roll and grabs my hand, a smile on his face.

"I can't dance. You should teach me."

"It's easy," I grin. "Just let your feet find the rhythm and have some fun with it."

I'm singing along now, loudly and enthusiastically.

My hands are on his hips and he's stumbling along, trying not to step on my feet.

He stops suddenly, his hands gripping the counter.

"Just keep singing for me love."

So I do and I'm that boy again. A happier version. Carefree and young and not exposed to the terrors of the world.

Zayn brings out that side of me.

I'm eating too much icing and watching Zayn's body move as he washes the dishes.

It's okay to revert back to childhood. Times were simple then. I had hopes and dreams and so much to live for.

His arms loop around me, his sweet lips pressing against mine, tongue parting my mouth.

My heart is thudding in my chest but I'm safe.

I'm not afraid of him touching me. I'm not afraid of those three words.

So it tumbles right out of my mouth.

"I love you Zayn."