two | he can't seem to take off those (sunglasses)

The next morning when I wake up, it doesn't seem to hit me that I'm in Spain. It's like when your sleep is so good, that you temporarily forget that you're not in your own bed. I feel like I'm home in London, waking up to another dreary day. The sunlight blares through the doors and windows I left open last night and I groan, covering my eyes as soon as I open them. That was extremely stupid, leaving everything open to kill me in the morning.

I sit up in my bed, rubbing my eyes as I reach over to the dresser where I remember throwing my phone on last night. I press the home button, running a hand across my face. I groan once again when I see that it's eight o'clock in the bloody morning. Why am I awake at the ass crack of dawn?

A yawn escapes my lips as I'm rolling out of bed and taking my phone with me. After coming in yesterday and examining the room, I fell right into bed and slept for however long I slept.

I pick up one of the brochures I snatched last night, and look through it, wanting to go to an art museum. I flip through a few pages until I see an acceptable location; The Museu Picasso.

"Not bad," I murmur, searching the museum on my phone. It seems like I have my day set.

The first thing I do is shower, because not only am I dirty, but for some reason I have this dirty feeling along with it. As if I rolled in mud and vomit in my sleep. Oh god, gross; now I feel dirtier.

I grab a change of clothes (something warmer than I had on yesterday, because it felt strikingly chilly) and head to the bathroom, breathing in the approving scent.

"It only lasts so long," I sigh, knowing that bathrooms are rarely as fresh as this one is. When I step into the shower and turn on the water, as soon as it hits my already cold back, I wake up. The water is ice cold, and when I try to turn the knob to the 'H', it stays at the same fucking temperature.

"Shit showers," I curse, complying to washing myself off in ice water.

One dangerously cold shower and a different change of clothes later (warmer, because by now I feel like my body is living in an ice age), I'm downstairs in the restaurant serving myself breakfast.

"¡Hola!" someone greets me.

"Hola," I give him a nod and walk away to a table. When I look up to see if the man is still around, he isn't there anymore. He's gone from the end of the breakfast line and nowhere to be seen.

"Weird," I mutter, eating my toast and checking all my social media. Nothing interesting seems to be happening anywhere else in the world, so I suffice with my own surroundings until I finish my food and get on a bus to the museum.

It's not far from here; the map said it was thirteen minutes away when I checked it this morning. Short bus ride, two hour tour. It's all sounding so great so far. Somewhat boring, but great nonetheless.

I wonder how I would feel if I was some type of art guru. I'd probably sit in front of one of paintings for ten minutes and try to figure out what a picture of a watermelon meant to Picasso. Did Picasso even paint watermelons? Or was that Salvador Dalí? Well, it's a good thing I was the only kid in my last year that failed art interpretation.

Good fucking thing.

Why am I even going to an art museum?

It's too late for me to change my mind when the bus pulls to a stop right in front of the place. The building has an elegant old-fashioned style to it, and the feeling of superiority overwhelms me.

I don't belong in this building. It's too nice for me to walk into. I hope to god that the art is worth looking at here.  Suddenly a chill runs up my spine and I shiver, looking around.

I could have sworn to god, I felt eyes on me. Taking one last look around for the possible culprit, I shrug, turning around and entering the museum.

I'm almost last for the tour, and after apologizing six times to the teen tour guide, she eventually shrugs me off and continues with her job. I make a mental note to leave her a small amount of euros as a tip. Rude witches do not get my money.

She gives us the roundabout, telling us a little history about Picasso and what inspired his art and his themes. She described his periods (I grew personally fond of the Rose Period) and themes of art and by the time she finished the intro, I already felt like a Picasso professional. I could take on any art guru (bring it on Malik).

I smile at the thought of my best friend Zayn, sitting at home watching Netflix and probably wondering how my glorious trip is going. I would definitely call him and brag about being in an art gallery surrounded by Picasso paintings, but I'm not spending international coverage on him. He isn't worth that money.

We move to the next floor, it being filled with paintings from his Blue Period. The tour guide's talking mellows out into a blur as I move around on my own, admiring specific paintings. My eyes stay trained on one named 'The Old Guitarist'. The man in the oil painting (totally read that on the label) is hung over his guitar and it's one of the most saddening things I've ever seen.

"Looks more like a dead guitarist rather than an old one, hm?"

I turn to the low husky voice, startled at its sudden appearance. I'm about to say something undoubtedly snarky and sassy, but my words fall short as my eyes fall upon a man sitting on a bench, his eyes covered by sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His hair is long, sweeping down a little past his broad shoulders. His lips are a dark rosy pink (I'm sure Picasso would have painted them during his Rose Period) and everything about him seems to mesh together and his smooth milky voice is the frosting on the cake.

What is a beautiful man like him doing talking to me?

"I uh," he smirks as I stand before him, flabbergasted, "it's a little morbid to assume that, don't you think?"

"Might be morbid, but he does look dead," he shrugs.

"Well I for one don't like to think that way," I say sitting next to him on the small bench as we examine the painting.

"I'm not a fan of Picasso," the man says, biting his lip and he fiddles with his fingers, "more of a Dalí guy myself."

"I uh...I'm more of a...Diego Velázquez type of guy," I think of the first person that comes to mind, wanting to sound cultured, "but you know, I'm not that invested in art."

"Hm," he hums, breathing in and out smoothly. I don't want to stop the conversation I've already started, already swooped up in this man's presence, so I continue to pry into his personality.

"Why do you like Dalí?"

"Because no one could figure him out." He answers simply. I nod, biting my lip softly as I try to understand. I really don't know a lot about Salvador Dalí. Just that he had a weird ass mustache.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," I say eventually, "care to elaborate?"

The man licks his lips and nods, propping his elbows on his knees as he turns to face me, his chin resting in his palm.

"The best people are insane. They make you think, step over the boundaries you're accustomed to. Dalí was a fucking maniac; but he makes people think. Most wonder what he was; they want to be a part of him, feel what he feels, understand what he sees out of his eyes. Wouldn't you want to understand why Dalí painted cubed virgins, or math equations, or melting clocks?"

I'm in awe at his observations, and with every word, he has me more and more invested in him.

"No," I say, wishing I could see his eyes, "but you're making me curious."

"See?" he grins and I'm captivated by his bright smile, "People that make you curious. They're the best people to surround yourself with. That's why I love Salvador Dalí."

"Then why are you sitting in a Picasso museum?"

He chuckles, pushing his long curly hair behind him before he fools with one of the many rings that are fastened onto his fingers on his left hand.

"I'll take what I can get."

I nod, sniffling as I tug at my sweatshirt sleeves. The rings on his hand are all similar in size, each one being a dark shade of a specific color. All except a bright teal colored ring on his index finger. A few lay on his right hand as well.

"What are the rings for?" I ask, unknowingly reaching out to touch them.

"They're for punching."

My eyes widen in horror as my hand rushes back to my side. He laughs quietly, a class A smirk on his face before he speaks again.

"I'm kidding. They're just an accessory. You can look if you want."

He holds his hand out and I take it by his fingertips, admiring the jewelry on his hand.

"They're beautiful," I compliment them, turning his hand as he looks at me looking at his hand. He smiles as I look into his eyes (fucking sunglasses) again.

"Thank you." He replies as I set his hand down, "What's your name?"

"Liam," I tell him, "What...what's yours?"

"Eh, you don't need to know that."

"What." I say, "Are you--we shared our opinions on art! I at least deserve your name!"

"Being in my presence is enough," he smirks, "let's go."

"Go where?"

"Lunch," he says it as if this is something that was already planned, "where else?"

"What makes you think I'm coming?"

"I'm paying."

Dammit. Free food. No name wins.

"Fine, but I'm calling you Nameless." I argue, "I'm not just going to keep referring to you as 'sir' or 'mystery man'."

"So be it," he says, "I won't mind. Come on, let's go."

"Where are we even going?"

"El Restaurante Japonés Pan Asia."

"What."

"Come on," he says charmingly, holding the door to the stairwell open for me, "you're in Spain! Get accustomed to the way of the Spanish!"

"Please tell me that you said we're going to get Japanese food," I beg, hoping that my Spanish translation wasn't wrong.

"Yeah, you got it."

"Yes," I bless the Lord as we descend down the stairs. It turns out I'm not that much of an outsider compared to the artistically cultured handsome man taking me to get sushi. In Spain. It makes me wonder what kind of life he lives, if this is what he does every day.

-

"So where do you live?" I ask Nameless as soon as we're seated. We both sit in opposite sides of the booth, and he rests his hands on the table alone with his phone. It hadn't occurred to me that I just agreed to lunch with a stranger until I was in the booth, with the menu in my hand.

"Here," he shrugs, looking around the restaurant. He sure does a lot of shrugging.

"Nice," I respond, "I live in London."

"Got a girlfriend," I blush when he asks, especially because as the words leave his lips, the sunglasses leave his face. He folds them neatly and places them on the table as I finally get a good look at his eyes.

They're a piercing olive green and compliment his tan skin.

"You have beautiful eyes," I tell him absentmindedly, "they're like emeralds."

"I asked you about your girlfriend, but thanks." He laughs and I blush a deeper shade of red. Why do I always point things out that I find nice?

"I'm single," I answer for him, "not that much into girls either."

"I figured that out when you called my eyes beautiful," he says cheekily and I nod, knowing that probably gave it away. My sexuality is a funny story. Maybe funny for someone else to hear, but not for me to reminisce over. The way I found myself out was one fateful night in my room. Everyone was asleep, and I decided a little late night rendezvous in my pants sounded like a good idea. While looking for the classic porn, I accidentally stumbled upon gay porn. Naturally, I was freaking out and trying to get back to what I was used to, what I thought I liked.

But once it started playing I shot up like a rock. After that, all I've ever watched is gay porn. And when I finally got together with a girl? Oh god, she hated the sex. We ended up splitting because I just wasn't into it. The porn made me assimilate to the gay culture. It eventually turned me gay.

"Yeah you know me," I say, "smooth like butter."

Nameless laughs and it makes me smile wider as a platter of sushi is dropped in front of us. Wait; did we even order? I don't remember ordering at all. In fact, I'm still holding a menu.

"Muchas gracias," he tells the man that dropped our food on the table. He puts his hands together and bows before walking over to the table.

"Did you order ahead of time?"

"No," he shakes his head, "I'm a regular here. When I bring a friend with me or summat, they just double my classic order?"

"Well what if I don't like your classic order."

"Well," he says, "it's not like you've ever had sushi before, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"Wait wait wait," I stop him, holding my hand out, "how did you know I've never had sushi?"

"Just a hunch," he picks up the chopsticks set beside him and skillfully arranges them in his hands before he picks up the first piece of sushi, biting in it smoothly.

"How the fuck..." I murmur, picking up the two thin sticks of wood and looking at them peculiarly.

"It takes a little practice," Nameless advises me, "you can use your hands."

"Oh thank god," I murmur, "I thought I was gonna starve."

He chuckles again, and I find myself becoming extremely fond of the soft laughter that escapes his lips every once in awhile. It's a nice soothing sound to hear after I talk, especially because this guy manages to be so perfect without trying.

"How do you know how to use them so well?" I ask, motioning to the chopsticks.

"Went to Japan." He shrugs as if it's nothing, but my eyes bulge out, my jaw almost falling with them. The things I would do to go to Japan! I'd kill a man to go to Japan. Okay okay, no maybe not, but I would go through a lot of shit to land myself there. Everything about Japan is beautiful, from the culture to the food to Tokyo, oh god I love Tokyo.

"That's amazing," I sigh, resting my cheek on my chin, "did you go to Tokyo."

"Yep."

Ouch.

"I can tell you're worldly," I mumble, taking in some of the raw fish, "your appearance in general is so cultured. What do you do?"

"What do you mean? For work?"

I nod to confirm and he sighs, crossing his arms,

"I...I do a lot of work in travel, explaining why I've been to so many places. What about you?"

"I work at a law firm," I wave my hands and roll my eyes, "the most interesting job in the world."

"No no," he insists, "it's a good practice. You work in law?"

"Yeah," I shrug, "but I've always been more of a traveller. Your job would suit me more."

"Trust me," he chuckles, "stay where you are."

"Your laugh is contagious," I tell him with a smile, "I like it."

"Thanks," he says, "I like to hear that a lot."

"Why?"

"Laughter is the sugar coat for crying."

-

When we make our way back at the hotel, I can't help the sadness bubbling up in my stomach. Am I ever going to see him again? What if he ends up being the best thing that ever happened to me, and I just let him walk away like he meant nothing to me?

"Well," he says, "it was nice to meet you Liam."

"You too," I say, my mind in a daze from the day I've had, the person I've met, never to be seen again. He holds out his hand for a shake and I take it. He gives it a squeeze before his other hand reaches up to hold my face as he kisses my cheek.

"Bye Liam."

"Bye--wait, I still don't know your name."

"Let's keep it that way," he says slyly, "for the sake of an enigma."

"I hate enigmas."

"Then I guess I'm the only one you like."

My mouth falls slightly as I look at him, trying to remember all these features before I never see him again. His sunglasses are on again, shading the emerald gems from the sun that isn't nearly as bright as him and somehow, my heart aches for my departure. I don't want to leave his presence.

"Bye Liam."

"Bye Nameless." I breathe out before turning from him, running a hand through my hair as I bite my lip harshly. I should have asked for his number or his e-mail or something. Maybe he wants another follower on Twitter?

"Hey, wa--"

I turn to speak to him again, but he isn't there to hear me.

"I am just about done with people disappearing out of nowhere," I mutter, opening the doors to the main hall and stomping over to the elevator. I step in once it opens, leaving me alone. But even though I'm by myself, my cluttered mind seems to make the room more crowded than it is.

"God," I sigh, stuffing my hands in my pockets. My fingers graze on a piece of paper in my right pocket and I cringe when I get a paper cut. Of fucking course. Nonetheless, I pick the small paper out of my jeans pocket and unfurl it.

I promise, it won't be the last time.

- H

-

"You're using international coverage on me?!" Zayn exclaims in the phone and I sigh, "Am I really worth that much?!"

"No," I tell him, "but I need your help right now."

"Wait wait, how's Spain?"

"I went to a dumb art gallery," I roll my eyes, "now help me please?!"

"Yeah yeah," he teases me, "come on, what's on your mind?"

"Okay okay," I sigh, "so at said art gallery, I met the most beautiful person in the world. Like, Zayn, I swear he was prettier than all the art in the museum. But yeah, we talked and then he took me to lunch and he's so cultured! He's been all over the place, including Japan. We went out to get sushi and he was eating with chopsticks like he was ⅛ Japanese and I was sitting there being uncultured European scum."

"You sure he isn't Japanese?"

"He had a British accent," I roll my eyes, "and he lives in Spain."

"Well--"

"Zayn he isn't Japanese."

"FIne fine," he says, "so tell me, did you two get all freakay in the bathroom?"

"No," I say, bypassing Zayn's dirty humor, "but I have no way to contact him. At all. He didn't even tell me his name or anything. Zayn I have no way of reaching him."

"Puzzling," he murmurs.

"He said 'for the sake of an enigma'."

"Oh god, Liam don't even get involved. Those guys aren't even worth it. They'll just string you on and on until you're strung out."

"But--"

"Liam, take it from someone who took that shit for years; it's not worth it."

"Okay," I sigh, flipping the note around in my fingers. He said it wouldn't be the last time. But I want to be the one to decide when the next time is.

"So go out tonight, get drunk, and grind on some Spanish dick."

"Dear god Zayn," I groan, "I'm never spending international coverage on you again."

"Okay okay! But seriously; get drunk off your ass and forget about him."

"Will do Zayn, talk to you when I get home."

"Bye!"

He hangs up and I sigh, throwing my phone on the other side of the bed. Get drunk, and forget about him. Seems pretty easy. I feel like I've seen this a million times; a one night stand (or in this case, a one day stand?) and the latter that fell under the spell and needs to forget about it.

I get up off my ass and take my shirt off, searching for a nicer one in my closet. I feel warmer now, so I go for one of my thinner dress shirts, and keep my black skinny jeans. Black skinnies are the savior of jeans. Bless them. Just, bless them.

I take my hotel key and my phone out of the room as soon as I'm finished gelling my hair up and spraying cologne all over myself. I try to hard, I mean honestly, I do. I step in the already open elevator with two girls and once in shuts, I look down at the two of them as they giggle.

"You good?" I ask.

"N--Yeah yeah," they smile as the elevator dings and they get off. I'm not that old, but teenage girls are weird these days. From the two in the elevator to Zayn's younger sister, they're all on the crazy scale.

I see the bus in front of the hotel and step on, knowing that I'm only six minutes away from Club 4. I looked it up, and everyone loves it there. I figured why not, because if I need to forget, I'm going to have to have a hell of a good time.

-

Just kidding; this is the worst experience I've ever had in my life. This may be fun for someone that loves to party, but I just want to drink myself into oblivion until I can't remember my own name, let alone wonder what his is.

I sit at the bar, the loud music banging in my ears. I cringe, trying as hard as I can to block it out. I roll my head back, clutching my drink as I do so. When my eyes graze the back of the night club, they meet with another pair of cold eyes. I turn back around, my face beet red as I drown my drink quickly and ask for another one, not wanting to bring too much attention to myself.

But after ten minutes, that sick feeling of being watched is still there.

see, that one was almost 4,000 words and i'm writing chapter three now, lol don't give up on this one yet