Habibet Albi (Incomplete)

Chapter 11: Styles

"THRILLER" BY MICHAEL Jackson blared throughout Malik's room. He stared at the blank canvas trying to think of what the hell to create. He hated whenever his mind couldn't produce anything. Putting the graphite pencil to it he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Before he knew it he got lost in all the swirling lines, the frustration faded like a dream you couldn't quite remember. He wasn't even sure what he was drawing, all he knew was that he was projecting the image in his head.

The music lowered, Malik's hand paused then dropped to his side. He spun around in the computer chair to see who was responsible for it.

Beside the stereo stood a tall, sunkissed, young man around the same age as him with a mop of unruly, chestnut curls spilled past his ears in tufts.

"When you're done will you paint me like one of your French girls?" He asked in a thick British accent, a smirk tugged at his deep pink lips, dimples indented his cheeks.

Malik rolled his eyes, "What the hell are you doing here Styles?" He questioned, amusement soaked his tone.

"I've got a sold out show tonight at Madison Square Garden." Styles boasted. He walked over to the velvet blue, high backed chair and plopped onto it.

He wasn't that shocked that Styles had sold out Madison Square Garden. Five years ago he remembered when they lived together in Los, Angeles, both freshly graduated, eighteen year old, struggling musicians. Styles was signed by Columbia Records a year later, attaining instant success, becoming an overnight sensation. His album was sold number one on Billboard's top 100 charts, ranking above Adele's new album. Malik would've gained recognition if he hadn't had to fly back to New York City to visit his mother who had stage four Leukemia at Mount Sinai Beth Israel hospital.

Malik felt obligated to be jealous but he wasn't. After his mother's death he no longer had any motivation to pursue that career. Regardless he still loved music, writing songs, strumming cords on his guitar and singing until his throat ached. It was his passion, passed on from his mother. It was the only way he still felt connected to her. She would sing him lullabies in Arabic before bed every night until he turned thirteen and claimed to be too old for that kind of treatment. Now he would do anything just to hear her sing one last time.

"Bet you have girls begging you to sign their tits and take their womanhood." Malik joked.

Styles nodded, "It's truly devastating to see such young girls degrade themselves. What has this world come to? What happened to the time where women had dignity and integrity?" He sympathized.

In response, Malik emitted a noise between a choke and a laugh. "Are you certain you like chics not dicks? I have no problem with you being gay." He raised his hands up in defense.

Styles scowled at him and raised his middle finger, "Being a decent man doesn't equate to homosexuality." He protested.

A wicked grin pulled at his lips. "Oh, I bet you're the type to ask the girl your fucking if she's ok at a thirty second interval...if you even last that long." He ridiculed.

He didn't let his mockery bother him this time. "What I do or how I please a woman in the bedroom is exclusive information. You shouldn't share such an intimate experience with others." Styles chastised.

Malik groaned, "Where's the fun in that? Well suit yourself. Wait..." his voice trailed with his train of thought, "What girl is responsible for casting this lovesick puppy trance on you? I wanna meet her."

Styles rolled his eyes at his friends' immaturity, "There's no girl...yet. Meaningless sexual escapades really aren't my thing anymore. I want something real that will last long and maybe if I'm lucky become something more." He explained wistfully.