Customer of the Month

Chapter 11

Zayn's not exaggerating either, they really are. All eight of them, one on top of the other in a neat, welcoming stack, begging for Liam to open them and take a look inside. What's even better is that he doesn't need to wait until the sun has set to do so, Zayn surprises him by packing up at three and cutting his typical eight hour cafe visit short. It's what they do every afternoon for the next few days, and even though it might earn him at least one suggestive comment a shift from his friends and several more in their group chat afterwards, Liam endures them all with a straight face because he can't remember reading ever making him feel this fulfilled.

But perhaps that's to do with the fact that it's not just reading. It's sprawling out on Zayn's sofa, feet up, relaxed, escaping into worlds unknown, all the while, keeping his eye out for movement that lay just beyond the paperbacks' thin pages.

He's hardly able to make out any of Zayn's facial features with him working at his desk, but without having the responsibility of always being on guard - for his team and customers alike - Liam's able to pick up on a lot more of Zayn's unique mannerisms than when at work. Like how he's constantly moving around the desk's corner lamp, the one that looks identical to the fixture in Pixar's logo. He'll grab it by its neck and angle it whichever way he sees fit for the moment, like he's some sort of radio host that needs his microphone readjusted. Other times, Liam's attention will be brought to the artist when the noise of fingers tapping on keys seizes and the squelching of leather bends under Zayn weight as he shifts into a crouching position, leaning forward, his forearms against the desk's wood and his face practically right in front of the monitor. He'll read over what he's just written, even mumble the characters' lines to himself as if to make sure that they're worded in the most realistic way possible. Unfortunately, Liam's too far away, and too out of the loop to be able to follow along, but he can hear when Zayn doesn't like a certain set of dialogue. The same sounds and syllables will be made repeatedly until Zayn gives in, the leather cries out in protest, and he's back tending to the keyboard.

It's particularly interesting for Liam to watch (and ultimately try and predict) when the man will toggle between the screenwriting software, his master drawing tablet, and one of his countless black sketchbooks. At any given moment, Liam's reading can be disrupted by the screeching of a metal kickstand scraping along the desk in haste and Zayn's mumbling that he needs to stop forgetting to charge his pen as he wakes the tablet. Sometimes, he'll leave his sketchbook directly next to the touch screen and switch between drawing with the electronic stylus and one of the various graphite pencils that he keeps close to the book, even though they always manage to roll away from him when he's finished using them. The best explanation Liam can come up with for the redundancy is that Zayn might feel more comfortable practicing something on paper before giving it digital permanency, but that rationale goes out the window when on one occasion, Zayn catches him staring and invites him over for a lowdown of how the machine works. Right away, Liam spots the "eraser" tool, and succumbs to the fact that he shouldn't question Zayn's methodology, just respect it for what it is.

He's expected to politely be told to go back to the couch after the short introduction is finished, but he's proven wrong when Zayn turns in his chair just enough that he's able to pull Liam down into his lap.

"What're you doing?" Liam asks in a half-laugh, half-serious inquiry.

"Letting you try. Here, put this on."

He takes the short black glove that he's already been given the demonstration of and slips it over his right pinky and ring finger so neither will create smearing or random lines on the screen when he rests them there while drawing.

"Now hold the pen like you would a regular one and make whatever you want," Zayn instructs softly.

All Liam can do is stare between the fresh canvas that's been opened for him, begging to be defiled, and the black pen in his hand. When he inevitably starts, he draws a circle, a lopsided one that winds up looking a lot more like a balloon than a symmetrical ring, but he runs with it. There's a part of him that thinks if he didn't and he touched the undo button, he'd get a slap on the wrist.