For once, he's surrounded by white. Walls, bed sheets, clothes and curtains, the entirety of this room is white, pure and immaculate.
His nose prickles, and as he touches it, Zayn feels a tube, thick and feeding him oxygen. His mouth is strangely wet, muddy with earth and blood. He can't open his eyes completely, eyelids sticking together wetly.
Like music, he can hear cries. Loud sobs typical of Liam when he's truly sad about something, and it doesn't sound right, because Liam is Liam and he doesn't cry like there's no reason left to fight.
Niall's sobs are quieter, but no less heartbreaking. Through his blurry vision, Zayn can see him being held by a larger figure – Liam's, probably, ever Daddy Direction – hands clutching the shirt's material so hard it seems ready to torn.
Louis, never one to show weakness, lets the tears fall silently, back slightly turned to him. He from time to time wipes them on his shirt, cursing and apologizing and asking why are you so fucking stupid, Malik?
Harry runs his hands across his hair, a caress that an eternity ago occurred the other way around, Zayn's tan hands detangling the knots made by curls. His tears fall on Zayn's forehead, scurrying along his cheekbones to land on the white pillow behind his head, and he looks somehow detached, an illusion made by Zayn's exhausted mind.
"I'm sorry boys, but there's no way to remove the roots. In fact, I'm surprised Mr. Malik survived for so long, considering their extent in his lungs"
The voice is foreign, but it's a memory.
So, it's finally time.
Rising a trembling hand, Zayn touches Harry's face softly, committing all the dips and beauty marks and imperfections – too separate eyes, a side of his lip fuller than the other – to his mind, knowing this is the last time he'll ever have this chance. The skin is wet and feverish beneath his fingers, and Harry's eyes are dulled with the amount of tears he sheds.
Zayn will miss this; the young face expressing true feeling with no hesitation, an open book to everyone who knew how to read. He'll miss the sunny days of eating junk food and playing video games, the cold ones in bars drinking and laughing together; the cuddles after the shows, the dynamic during those, the playful banter and the pranks. He'll miss the honest smiles, the shinning eyes and the large warm hands.
He'll miss what he never had; morning kisses under the sheets and burnt breakfasts because of snogging sessions; marathons of films who'd end with moans and loving, caring lovemaking or maybe fast, urgent shagging. Zayn will miss the whispered declarations of love he never had.
...C-Cough...
The single sunflower petal is red, not as beautiful as the yellow ones that decorate his house.
His eyes close, and don't open. The pain is over.
Zayn misses Harry anguished scream, followed by a pair of wet – by tears – lips over his still warm ones.
YOU ARE READING
Sunflower | ZARRY
Fanfictionwhere there's a type of disease that makes people throw up flowers when they suffer from one sided love, and Zayn is one of them.
