The Tattoo Artist - 𝘡𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘈𝘜

Cigarette Scented Air

༓☾　1　☽༓

Zayn exhaled a puff of cigarette-scented air, running his hands down his jeans, leaning against the wall of his apartment. The sky was dimming outside, and he had finished his shift at the store. It was just him and the night sky, it was a scene out of a movie, he chuckled to himself. His life wasn't a movie, and if it was, it would be a boring mundane movie. A movie without a plot revolves around the same day, like groundhog day without Bill Muray. It wouldn't be a movie that swept the Oscar's he thought to himself. But he hoped it would be a movie that was treasured by a small audience, a small audience of people that wouldn't recommend it to others because it was too good to be shared with the world like that.

"It's just me myself and I," He croaked out, his voice miserably offbeat. It was a Beyonce song, his sister is quite fond of it. Well, she was fond of it, Zayn wouldn't know how he was a prisoner in his own isolation from the world. Sighing, Zayn picked himself up and opened the door of his apartment. The door creaked loudly, it was a creak Zayn had grown familiar with. The apartment was dreadfully bare, except for the spray-painted wall. He didn't do much decor-wise, he kept it minimal. Not in a Kim Kardashian mansion way but in a college dropout who can't afford to decorate his apartment way.

He grabbed his notebook off the couch, flipping past pages of random scribbles and poems he had written when he was high off his mind. He hummed a song under his breath, he didn't remember the name but it was a Mohammed Rafi song his grandfather sang to him when he was a child. He slumped on the couch, turning on the tv. Flipping past channels until he grew bored and gave it a rest.

His phone buzzed, he leaned forward and grabbed it off the coffee table. It was Alexa from work, "Hi, it's Zayn."

"Hey Zee, I'm so sorry but I'm out of town this weekend. I'm so sorry babe, but can you cover my shift." She's out of breath and slurs her words, probably wasted Zayn thinks to himself.

"Um, fine," Zayn forces a chuckle, "I don't know how Joe will feel about it? And it's not like I have anything better to do." It's not far from the truth.

"Thanks so much, ugh I love you," Zayn could hear loud club music in the background, "I owe you one."

"It's fine," Zayn responds, "take care." He hangs up before she has a chance to respond. Sighing he lays on the couch, closes his eyes, and lets sleep wash over him.

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of birds chirping, it's an annoying sound, too high pitched and squeaky. The sun rising outside his window, brilliant shades of burning pink hues and orange.

He skateboards to work that day, taking in the chipped sidewalks and LA businesses that scream "healthy and organic" the air smells like smog. The tattoo shop is a fine line in between run down and Tumblr grunge. Whatever it is, it's work.

"Morning," He greets Daria, "covering for Alexa."

The day passes rather slowly, giving him time to daydream about absurd shit. Customers come and go. It's the same as always, millennials getting infinity signs on their ring fingers. And the sheer amount of deathly hallows signs he's had to tattoo. He once even tattooed a death eater mark on a girl with mousy brown hair and the most intimidating eyes he had ever seen.

The stores about to close and he starts cleaning the countertops, Daria smiles at him, "I'm gonna clock off now." Zayn nods, if it wasn't clear, Zayn wasn't a man of many words.

Zayn sat by himself waiting for five minutes to pass so he could go home, home where he would sit by himself, talking to himself. 

"Um hello?" Zayn looked up and saw the most beautiful man he had the audacity to see. He instantly recognized him as Harry Styles, a pop star. He was tall in this gentle way and had emeralds for eyes. "I know I'm late but can I schedule an appointment?"

"Um yes," Zayn snapped out of his shock, and started to schedule an appointment, "what time?"

"Uh does," Harry checked his watch for whatever reason, it was endearing to  Zayn for some reason, "five o'clock on Wednesday work?"

"Definitely, and I will need a name and phone number," Zayn clicked the keyboard keys, pretending he didn't know who this attractive man was.

"The name is Harry," Harry coughed a little, "Harry Styles."

"Cool," Zayn faked interest, "and a number?"

"310 617 8933" Harry grinned, "do you really not recognize me?"

"Of course?" Zayn finally admitted with a light chuckle, "Harry Styles? Pop singer, global phenomenon."

"That's me," Harry smiled right back, "not to sound snobby or anything." 

"Cool, I'm Zayn Malik," Zayn smiled right back, Harry's eyes and his connected for a second and it felt strange. Magical almost. They kept gazing at each other for seconds, lost in the oceans that were the other's eyes. Like they were having a conversation through their eyes. "Um," Zayn interrupted the silence, "Well see you on Wednesday?" 

"Of course," Harry winked at him, and Zayn felt butterflies somersault in his stomach. He shrugged it off and smiled, two could play at this game. "Anyways, I'm off." Harry turned on his shoe rather excessively. Zayn laughed at his antics, and just smiled to himself. A stupid grin resting on his face. He swept the floors, humming to himself. The grin stuck.