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Chapter Eighteen
✦
IT'S WEIRD to stare at someone while they sleep. I never understood why people do it, I've even tried the action myself after hookups or in old situationships. But staring at their every flaw only turned me off. It made me feel uncomfortable, watching the way they'd drool or snore loudly. I hated it, actually.
But watching Zavier interested me. He didn't snore at all, and when he did they were soft baby snores. He didn't drool, and barely rolled around, it was like he was pretending to sleep. Much too still and calm, it felt forced; His relaxation felt forced. Zavier was often so still while studying that it was like he'd take breaks between reading in which he'd sit quietly, staring at the wall and holding his breath. I'd hear a quick exhale, more silence, another exhale, and then the sound of a page flipping.
His habits were terrifyingly serene.
Sometimes I felt the small urge to reach out and touch him when that happened. It was like he temporarily turned into a painting, I'd wonder if his skin felt like oil paint on a smooth canvas. Zavier either felt the way charcoal residues remained on your fingertips, leaving a stain and imprint on your day, or as stiff as an oil painting on a dry brush.
I watched silently, hardly blinking like a fucking psychopath until Zavier had begun to stir in bed, his eyelids twitching. Just when I thought he was waking up, he went completely still again and returned to his normal routine as if nothing had happened. A little road bump in the paved dream of his, that's all.
I was standing above him at this point. I wonder if his consciousness could recognize the shadow being cast upon his face. Not being able to help myself, my hand slowly extended, fingertips brushing his cheek.
Zavier twitched but otherwise didn't wake up. Tracing the outline of his nose down to his jaw, I inspected every inch of his face.
I don't know when his eyes blinked open, whether or not I realized it instantly, but I was suddenly making eye contact with him.
"What are you doing, Kaiyo, "He questioned, his exhaustion evident in his raspy baritone voice.
I blinked, dropping my hand down to my side. I don't know what I was feeling. Perhaps I was disappointed. "You don't feel like a painting," I commented - mostly to myself - before turning and returning to my side of the room.
"What the fuck are you on about?" He replied moments later. I heard a shift in his bed, and glancing over from where I lay underneath my own sheets, I saw he was facing me.
What was I on about? "I just think you present yourself to be much more appealing than you actually are. You feel ugly."
There wasn't any other way to put it. He looked as if he was a delicate illustration when in reality he was no more than a rough draft. I was thoroughly disappointed in how absolutely plain he was.
