925 miles | z.m. au

xxi.

From Zayn’s experience, most human beings are composed of carbon and bones dustier than the desert, hearts that beat at familiar rhythms, nestled between arteries and capillaries that are fragile as spider webs on a particularly dewy morning. And then there are others. Ones with rosy cheeks and the kind of skin that puts even the most precious possessions to shame, cells that are built from galaxies and thoughts wide enough to swallow him up, to choke down the bad things until the world is spinning with enough light to blind him.

And what he really means to say is that Mary is trapped in the worst kind of prison imaginable. He cannot begin to fathom what it must feel like to cram a soul the size of the universe into a vessel smaller than his tiny, insignificant form. And perhaps he has a fucked up way of viewing the world, of fitting it into the spaces between his ribs and his brain cells; small splits and cracks that cause him to fall apart and falter.

Zayn is selfish.

Zayn wants more than his body can possibly handle and he’s just so strung up on the fact that Mary is so much more than he ever will be. Ever can be.

But the small girl stares at him with eyes that are speckled with stars and he can’t find it in himself to be anything more than human. Selfish. Wanting. Ragingly masochistic.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Mary asks, swirling her straw around her chocolate milkshake, elbow planted firmly on the red-speckled countertop.

Zayn has flashbacks looking at the small diner he’s found himself in, Niall and Harry sat in a booth while he takes up more space than he should next to Mary at the bar. “Because you’re special.”

She blushes like it’s not the greatest truth he’s ever told. “Did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful, Zayn Malik?” she reaches for his hand and pulls it into her lap, letting his fingers rest against the hem of her shorts. Her skin is fucking incredible.

“Maybe.”

“You’re stunning,” she offers, finding his bird tattoo and smiling like she’s glad it didn’t disappear, “Like, the kind of pretty that makes people cry.”

“Shut up,” and it’s a joke but he’d never want her to stop talking. He could listen to her voice from now to the end of eternity and be exceptionally happy.

“Make me,” is Mary’s response, giggling and biting her lip as she leans forward a bit—almost close enough to kiss if he had it in him.

Zayn thrums his fingers against her thigh despite his best efforts and immediately feels guilty, like he’s continuing to make the same mistake over and over and over. The small girl doesn’t flinch, however, doesn’t do a thing but smile at him like she’s trying to figure him out. It scares him. She scares him. But sometimes fear is more exciting than harmful, and he toys with the idea of becoming something stronger than what he is.

Mary glances over at Harry and Niall, feeding each other French fries in the booth as they laugh about something or other, before averting her gaze back to him. “They’re sweet. Didn’t think you’d ever introduce me to your friends.”

“Well,” Zayn is about to say that they’re not his friends but, well, he knows that’s not true. He knows they’re the closest friends he has on this side of the pond and that he’s bloody well kissed one of them for Christ’s sake. “Yeah.”

“Why’d you bring them out here to meet me?” Mary breathes, voice weak as she gives him a sad smile. “You guys could be somewhere else by now, somewhere better.”

Zayn shakes his head because she’s absolutely insane, “No”—

But she kisses him before he has a chance to continue his slightly, if not completely, pathetic speech about how mad he has it for her. Her lips are soft and the kiss is short and sweet, leaving Zayn wanting more than he should have.