Ziam One Shots [hiatus]

i. polaroid

The picture on the cupboard had fallen out of a tucked corner, a blurry Polaroid of two boys. The disturber, a boy of around twenty-six, stops dead with his hazel eyes wide and his lips slightly parted in surprise.

He kneels, gingerly picking up the photo. It was of him a long time ago, and he remembers exactly where it was. Bradford, England. 11:15 PM. Zayn was eighteen, and at a bar with the other boy, their faces frozen mid-giggle. The other boy in the photo is the one that stuns the boy.

He knew him.

He remembers that whole day, when he asked him to the bar, and chatted with him throughout the night as their friends did outrageous acts with the girls like belly shots and jägerbombs.

He also remembers the months afterwards, waiting outside of his room as he readied himself, pulling at his tie or fiddling with the buttons of his flannel shirt or spraying a little extra cologne and at one point, fingering a velvet box in his pocket three years after meeting at the bar.

He remembers a silver suit, shiny rings, and dancing as his head was pressed onto his husband's chest, rocking to the music of John Legend.

The boy has managed to make it back to his room and he shuts his door, leaning against it and looking up at the ceiling. He also recalls flashing red lights, doctors shaking their heads, and a police officer pulling him aside and telling him that it was a head-on crash and there was no way he survived.

He recalls his favorite black suit and tie, white roses on top of an oak coffin being lowered into the ground, a gray gravestone that read 'loved by all'.

"Liam," he whispers, cupping his hand over his mouth to stem his sobs as he slides down the door until his backside collides with the floor and his tears stream down his face.

The photograph trembles in his grip as he sobs, looking at the bright light in Liam's eyes, his perfectly tousled brown hair, his tanned skin, his arm around his shoulders as if they were already dating.

The boy slips the photo into his pocket and stumbles to his dresser, drunk on the scent he recalls of Liam's cologne and the way his hair felt after showering and his voice when he sung Justin Timberlake to himself as he made dinner.

He approaches the bouquet of white roses sitting in a watered pot on his dresser, hurriedly slipping one out and exiting the room. He slips on a pair of shoes, not bothering to tie the laces, and slips on his coat due to the chilly winter air that hits his face as he opens the door.

The boy leaves the house, the first time since Liam's death three months ago.

He walked to the graveyard, which was only a couple houses down. He opens and shuts the creaky wired black gate behind him, widening around the stones until he approaches the one he wants.

The grass looks fairly new, the dirt cleanly churned. The gravestone sits ominously above the patch, and the boy traces the curvy letters carved into the granite, speaking them under his breath.

"August twenty-ninth, nineteen ninety-three to September twentieth, two thousand and fourteen," he whispers, choking back a sob. He carefully places the white rose on the gravestone, looking at all of the wilted bouquets of once-vibrant pansies and daffodils, their petals shriveled from frost. He pulls the photo out of his pocket and looks at it for a long time, debating on whether he should leave it.

"Hey."

The boy jumps, whipping around. Another boy stands a little ways behind him, his brown hair curly and messy, his green eyes red from crying. The photograph flutters to the ground and the boy picks it up.

"This yours?" he asks. The boy nods vigorously, practically tearing it from the other's grasp. The first boy shoves his hands into his pockets, his breath making clouds in front of his cherry red lips.

"Sorry, I just...yeah. I'm Harry, by the way," the boy rasps, his voice shaky from crying. The other boy stuck out his hand and shook Harry's. "Zayn. Zayn Malik," the boy said softly, looking down at the ground.

"I lost my fiancée. Car crash."

Zayn's head snapped up, looking at Harry in surprise. Harry pushed his curls out of his face, toeing the ground with his shoe. "It was head-on. Shouldn't have happened. He got back late. It's just not fair. He was a good person, and he didn't deserve this," Harry said slowly, his voice shaking.

He pulled out a Polaroid photo similar to Zayn's, only with himself and another boy, with feathery brown hair and bright blue eyes, smiling widely.

"I'm so sorry. My husband...car crash. I haven't left my house for three months," Zayn said, and Harry nodded. "You want to go get some coffee? I haven't had Starbucks in what feels like ages," Harry remarked.

The first smile since Liam's death spread across Zayns face.

"Of course," Zayn said, looking back at the stone. The rose seemed to be glowing, as if saying you're doing the right thing. Zayn looked away, pocketing and walking away with Harry.

Zayn would unveil the same velvet box three years later, as he kneels in the middle of the park next door and hears Harry's squeals of "yes! Oh my God, yes!" as he throws himself into Zayn's arms.

And Zayn would smile, feeling Liam smile from the clouds.

Courtesy of a Polaroid.