a look at zayn and harry
current word count: 4102
i am so sorry for the long wait but school has been very hectic lately but i'm writing as much as i could! please enjoy this small snippet as my apology!
and this is why zayn loves harry:
once zayn woke up from a deep morphine sleep with his lashes tangled and he’d fluttered them wetly to try to loosen them like wings. he dreamt that he was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes of a butterfly, and flew freely without care about humanity, conscious only of his happiness as a butterfly.
but then he woke and he was invariably zayn, solid and trapped and sad, and zayn did not know was he before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly or is he now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?
between him and the butterfly, here must be a difference; an instance of transformation.
he tells harry as much and harry just kisses him silent with his soft mouth and electric tongue and he forgets all about it once the amphetamines hit his bloodstream.
the night before zayn’s 18th birthday, harry brings him to his present on the balcony of his flat. they sit on the floor, legs poking out through the gap of the railings, light cigarettes, then harry moves the underbrush of a patch of sunflowers and zayn stuns at the sight of the chrysalis anchored at the stalk of the plant.
“ - is that…” zayn gapes.
harry’s smile is laced with affection, “it is.”
he shakes his head in disbelief, “h-how…how did you - i - when?”
“anytime now.” answers harry confidently.
so they sit quietly for the next hour - zayn’s skin feels heavy like he might be molting as well - until the chrysalis starts to break and he gasps the first moment he saw the delicate pupal wings that had gone through rapid mitosis slice through the paper cocoon. the body stretches and the feelers extend, the scales on the wings gleaming, dusted with shimmery powder.
a sweet little lavender butterfly (gossamer-winged lycaenidae).
it’s vulnerable and just emerged. it needs to spend time waiting for its pastel paint to dry, fanning them in slow new motions, filling the veins in the wings before it could fly.
“it’s a palos verdes.” harry says, owl green eyes never leaving zayn. his big pretty face curious and fond and desirous, a supernova compressed into diamond clavicles and opalescent hands.
“why?” the gossamer creature is bleeding excess dye; wet indigo acrylic slick on his fingertips when he reaches out tentatively to feel the fragile slender wings. harry reaches to expertly pluck the butterfly into a nearby jar, getting smears of blue on the glass.
“because i have a tender spot in my heart for cheaters and bastards and broken things.”
he repeats his question, because that’s not the truth, “why?”
he blinks and when harry blinks back, all his electrons are charged, his mouth cherry-sweet with popsicle dimples, “so you can have your instance of transformation; your metamorphosis.”
the two sweetest pleasures zayn has known to man is drugs and butterflies. and harry styles gave him both.
i am so sorry for the long wait but school has been very hectic lately but i'm writing as much as i could! please enjoy this small snippet as my apology!
and this is why zayn loves harry:
once zayn woke up from a deep morphine sleep with his lashes tangled and he’d fluttered them wetly to try to loosen them like wings. he dreamt that he was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes of a butterfly, and flew freely without care about humanity, conscious only of his happiness as a butterfly.
but then he woke and he was invariably zayn, solid and trapped and sad, and zayn did not know was he before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly or is he now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?
between him and the butterfly, here must be a difference; an instance of transformation.
he tells harry as much and harry just kisses him silent with his soft mouth and electric tongue and he forgets all about it once the amphetamines hit his bloodstream.
the night before zayn’s 18th birthday, harry brings him to his present on the balcony of his flat. they sit on the floor, legs poking out through the gap of the railings, light cigarettes, then harry moves the underbrush of a patch of sunflowers and zayn stuns at the sight of the chrysalis anchored at the stalk of the plant.
“ - is that…” zayn gapes.
harry’s smile is laced with affection, “it is.”
he shakes his head in disbelief, “h-how…how did you - i - when?”
“anytime now.” answers harry confidently.
so they sit quietly for the next hour - zayn’s skin feels heavy like he might be molting as well - until the chrysalis starts to break and he gasps the first moment he saw the delicate pupal wings that had gone through rapid mitosis slice through the paper cocoon. the body stretches and the feelers extend, the scales on the wings gleaming, dusted with shimmery powder.
a sweet little lavender butterfly (gossamer-winged lycaenidae).
it’s vulnerable and just emerged. it needs to spend time waiting for its pastel paint to dry, fanning them in slow new motions, filling the veins in the wings before it could fly.
“it’s a palos verdes.” harry says, owl green eyes never leaving zayn. his big pretty face curious and fond and desirous, a supernova compressed into diamond clavicles and opalescent hands.
“why?” the gossamer creature is bleeding excess dye; wet indigo acrylic slick on his fingertips when he reaches out tentatively to feel the fragile slender wings. harry reaches to expertly pluck the butterfly into a nearby jar, getting smears of blue on the glass.
“because i have a tender spot in my heart for cheaters and bastards and broken things.”
he repeats his question, because that’s not the truth, “why?”
he blinks and when harry blinks back, all his electrons are charged, his mouth cherry-sweet with popsicle dimples, “so you can have your instance of transformation; your metamorphosis.”
the two sweetest pleasures zayn has known to man is drugs and butterflies. and harry styles gave him both.