Room 301 [Zarry]

a glimpse of heaven

He's dripping in Louis Vuitton and I catch a glimpse of heaven in his eyes.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like," he breaks the silence, eyes glimmering as he looks at me. "To climb the Hollywood sign, gaze out at this little world of over-indulgence and disillusion, be at the height of fame at the highest height of the hilltop. I don't want to become someone I'm not-" his voice drifts off. "I just want to remember my roots and water them."

"I like the way you describe things," I say softly, leaning against the balcony railing. There's a restlessness about me when I'm out here. An anxious feeling I just can't shake.

There's laughter, the flitter of orange light from his cigarette. "I'm holding death between my fingers," his eyes flick over my face as he inhales. He looks so beautiful, cheekbones hollowed out, lips wrapped around his wettened cigarette. "Thought about it a few times," he admits, tapping ashes with his middle finger. "It's the drugs and clouded judgment. I don't really want to die, just want something worth living for...lose sight of myself sometimes. I do love my fans and I have so much passion for music and how I use it to communicate my thoughts. My anxiety can just be crippling and I lock myself in here."

I just listen, wait until he pauses. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Enlighten me," he jokes. He stubs out his cigarette and turns towards me, tongue behind his teeth as he smiles.

Why is he looking at me like that? My palms are sweaty, I slightly lose my grip on the railing and his hands move to my waist. "That scared me," he whispers, breath fanning on the back of my neck. "I don't know why the balcony makes me so uneasy...please, come inside."

He pads back in, flops onto the bed, letting out an exasperated sigh. "What do you know Harry?"

I'm not sure why things are so comfortable with him or why the two weeks I've known him have felt like eternity but I understand exactly what he means, there's a certain amount of familiarity about him. From the way his eyes crease in the corners when he laughs to the way he crinkles his nose. Our souls feel oddly connected and I can't shake the feeling.

"You just need a reminder."

He looks puzzled, sits up, brows furrowed. "Reminder of what?"

"What makes you happiest," I ask, picking up his songbook. He doesn't react as I flip through it, just keeps his eyes on me. His gaze isn't intimidating, it's just kind. There's no judgment behind it.

Zayn is more reserved than most celebrities but he's surprisingly open with me, is trusting enough to share his vulnerabilities, discuss his battle with anxiety and skipping meals. He has such a quiet intelligence about him. He doesn't have much to say but when he does, he articulates things so well. He's expressive and witty. There's a certain radiance about him when he talks about things he's loves so I know it's still there, his admiration for all things music

He does everything so tenderly, slips his rings off and places them on the bedside table, carefully fluffs his pillow. I can't stop staring at his lips as movement finds them. I could listen to him talk about metaphors and motifs forever, silly little anecdotes and complicated allegories.

There's a candid smile on his face pulling at my heartstrings. "I think I just explained everything that makes life worth living. I was in a bit of a funk...didn't realize how much I needed that, needed to come back down to Earth."

"I think you're very grounded," I reply earnestly. "Maybe you just let your roots get a little bit too dry."

He laughs, a full and genuine laugh. There's a field of butterflies in my chest. "I really like you Harry. I've gotten a lot of pushback from my label recently, just feeling down," he admits with a sigh. "I know I want this but...I dunno. I'd like to think that I'm chasing my dreams."

"Are they coming true," I ask, sudden wave of deja vu washing over me.

"Maybe I have it all wrong," he frowns, the color draining from his eyes.

I move to the bed, leave a good amount of distance between us as I sit on the edge. "I believe you," I whisper, strange warm fuzzy feeling in my chest.

"Believe what," he questions, staring at my lips.

"What year is it," I ask, mind a mess.

"1973," he responds with a laugh. "Are you feeling okay?"

It's 1976. I swear on my life. "You're going to think I'm crazy," I blurt, heart pounding. He draws closer, breath tickling my skin. He reaches out, tucks a stray curl begins my ear.

"I won't think that," he whispers. "Is everything alright? You look pale."

"You were dead," my voice is barely there, eyes stinging. "In 1976," a tear rolls down my cheek. "Say you remember-"

He looks completely lost, knuckles catching my tears as they graze my cheeks. There's a long stretch of quiet, stillness all around us. I can feel puzzle pieces interlocking, excited butterflies fluttering their wings. "I don't understand," his voice breaks, forehead pressing to mine. "How?"

We're both breathless, I can feel his heartbeat pressed aginst me, the slightest hitch in his voice "I thought I recognized you. You-" His nose nudges mine, he laces our fingers together. "You saved me in so many ways Harry."

"I loved you," I choke on a sob. "Please make this make sense...I thought I was going to wake up without you beside me, I thought I would lose you."

"Maybe this is how things were supposed to be," he whispers. "But I believe you,"" his words are lost upon my lips.

He pulls me into his arms and there's playful wrestling, giggles as his body ends up on top, his legs straddling my waist. "Sit up," he orders gently, tugging my shirt up over my head. He kisses my torso, fingers tracing the tattoo feathers on my skin. "I love this," he smiles as he stops to catch his breath, still stroking my inked skin.

"They tickled their way inside," I say softly, cheeks blushing. "I always feel that way around you."