Unconventional // z.m.

i. In Which He Calls

The gif:

"It exists." - Zayn regarding Ziam rumours.

It's another one of those evenings.

One of those evenings where not even drawing or listening to music can save him. Zayn's on his laptop like he always is on evenings like this, looking up pictures of his former bandmates and feeling depressed. The TV's on mute opposite the couch, leaving him with nothing but his own self-inflicted pain in the heavy silence. It's during evenings like this that Zayn wonders why the hell he ever even left One Direction. It felt right at the time, but it took all of six months for him to regret his decision, and by then it was too late. Perrie had left about five months after he'd announced it: she couldn't handle all the hate and abuse she got for "being responsible for Zayn's decision", on top of all the hate she already got - the hate that came with the fame. Honestly, Zayn can't blame her, but on nights like this, anger boils up in his veins like lava and he erupts, screaming at everything and nothing. Didn't she agree that they'd spend the rest of our lives together? Didn't the ring on her finger mean anything? Did she even miss him?

'Perrie Edwards,' he types into the search bar (against his better judgement, of course). He hasn't done so in about a year - and he knows in his mind that it should've stayed that way. Her face is the first thing he sees, still as stunning as ever even with evidence of the last five years passing. It's when Zayn realises that there's somebody else next to her that he receive what feels like a blow to the gut. Standing beside her is a tall and - as straight as Zayn is - what can only be described as a mega hunky brunette guy. Who the fùck is he? His bright blue eyes seem to be mocking Zayn from inside the screen, the slow smirk patronizing him. Zayn doesn't even read his name, but one word jumps out at him from various places on the page.

Official.

They've made it official.

Bile rises in his throat as he shoots to his feet, the laptop emitting a loud crack when it hits the ground. He doesn't even flinch at the damage as he runs to the bathroom to empty his stomach; those five years in 1D were enough to finance the rest of his life - and he spent practically nothing compared to what he made. Zayn staggers back into the living room after flushing the toilet, passing through to get to the kitchen. As stupid as it is, he's angry at Perrie for moving on, even after five years. A part of him is still hung up on the 'rest of our lives' thing, and part of him almost expects her to be living as if that's still valid... like he is.

Zayn shivers as the cold hits his bare chest when he opens the freezer, reminding him that he's wearing nothing but sweatpants. He hasn't been with or touched anyone since he met Perrie, despite the rumours that eventually contributed to Zerrie's demise. It occurrs to him - and not for the first time - as he opens the tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, that he is a mess. An utterly pathetic mess.

He's lost and alone, sitting there in his lavish apartment, attempting to stuff himself with ice cream like a lovesick teenage girl. Ironically, he pretty much is lovesick. A part of him has always been waiting for Perrie to show up on his doorstep again, apologizing for leaving and wanting to continue where they left off. It's hard to believe that one tiny picture on a laptop screen can destroyed five years' worth of hoping and wishing. A few pixels arranged the right way and bam! A lifetime of plans and fantasies gone.

"Stupid. Goddamn. Spoon." Zayns mutters, punctuating every word with a hit to the frozen minty goodness. "Come on!" The spoon suddenly bends at a right angle where the handle meets the bowl, but the ice cream still doesn't budge. Isn't it supposed to be soft scoop ice cream? "Ugh!"

He throws the spoon aside, ignoring the loud clatter of metal against tile. Ice cream won't cut it - he needs something stronger.

An hour later he's completely wasted.

He's lost count of how many bottles of beer he's drunk, but by then the ice cream has melted and Zayn is happily eating it like soup whilst watching Spongebob reruns. The broken laptop lies on the floor by the wall where it fell when he lobbed it in a fit of rage, smashed beyond repair.

"Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?" he sings quietly. He loves singing. Why did he ever give it up?

"Nuh uh. Too depressing. More ice cream," he mutters, heaving himself off the sofa. "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Hmm, under the sea... Under the sea..."

Zayn grabs another tub, shoving it in the microwave to avoid bending another spoon. "Under the sea. It's always better, down where it's wetter, take it from me."

Were those even the words?

"I dunno, I'm drunk," he answers his own question, slapping his forehead. "Idiot."

The microwave beeps, which is his cue to retrieve his now half melted ice cream.

"This is vanilla!" Zayn realises. "I don't want vanilla! Why do I have vanilla?" he muses aloud, unexplained anger suddenly surfacing once more. "Why does that crab get to be down where it's wetter! I wanna be down where it's wetter! He's a motherfùcking crab!"

He slams both the spoon and the tub of ice cream down on the counter. "Stupid crab. I'll show you," he mutters under my breath, marching to his phone.

Five minutes later he has the number, barely hesitating before dialing it so he can't change his mind.

"Pandora Pink's, how may I help you?"

A pause.

"I'd like one of your best girls, please."