Short Stories

I Could Write Songs About Your Face (Ziall)

I don't know if you all are going to be really happy with this story being long, or really annoyed. But here ya go :)

Here is the ziall mpeg fic!

Summary:

A story on pretty blond hippies, world tours, getting pregnant in Las Vegas, and singing about the sun.

~~~~~~~~~

"You should just do it." Zayn's mother had said to him. He had been sulking for a whole week, wanting to become the best R&B artist around. But he was nothing, just a little boy from Bradford. Dreams were made under the California heat where pretty girls in bikinis walked the beaches and recording studios were at every corner, not here.

His mother though, she wouldn't tolerate his mopey behaviour, she never did, and now she was packing his own bags and giving him a ticket to the show of a lifetime.

It was called The X Factor. A television talent show that he'd watch sitting in his living room at the normal times it always was expected on. He would sit in awe and jealousy at the young teens like him that all got shot into fame and fortune and all he ever wanted was to be at that level, too. He practised, his mom even got him a mic-stand for christmas one year with a stern 'only play it in the basement so you don't wake the whole neighbourhood up.' He never stopped using it, and he was so, so sure he could do this show but now that the oportunity was finally given to him, he recoiled in distaste.

"No, mom I can't. I'd never get in." He picked at his fingernails, sitting cross-legged on his dark blue bed sheets. His mom was still packing, ignoring his words as she threw shirts and pants into his suitcase.

"You will. You know why? Cause my son never thought of himself as a failure, and you aren't going to think that now." She gave him a stern look over her shoulder, and that was it really, it was a losing battle arguing with his mother, he'd never win.

He had looked at that X Factor audition form and ticket for days and days, saying yes but then saying no, rethinking and then ignoring it completely. His stress levels had gone through the roof, his heart was a permanent loud and uncomfortable beat against his ribcage in anxiety. He had held back his thoughts so much until all his time was run out and it was all too much for him to take in. He refused to get out of bed, he couldn't do it, he just couldn't.

"Zayn, baby please. I know you can do this." His mother pleaded, she was sitting beside his laying form, grabbing at his shoulder and shaking it. But he didn't want to do this, he'd rather work at some grocery store for the rest of his life, than risk making a fool of himself in front of live television, just because he had a silly-boy dream to become a singer.

And no matter how many times his mother said please, he didn't budge from his bed. He was curled up into a tight ball, fisting the covers over his head so his mom couldn't see the nervous tears streaming down his face. Anxiety was going to swallow him alive, and he couldn't do this anymore.

"If that's your decision, than alright love. There's always next year." And then she had left him to himself, letting him cry until he fell back asleep. He wouldn't have gotten in anyways, he wasn't that good of a singer.

-

He never did go the next year, or the next after that, or ever.

His mom didn't push him when the time came around every year for the audition, yes, she would give him small dissapointed and urgeful looks with big eyes that pleaded for him to just try, but he soon adapted to that and learned to ignore it.

Being a big star in the world wasn't for him he guessed. He made himself repeat that in his mind over and over, year by year till that was something he simply lived by. But even that little motto didn't stop him from singing of course, and he had packed his bags when he hit the College years and moved to London, where he'd play at the bars downtown.