Oh, Won't You Let Me Burn (Won't You Let Us Conquer) [Zarry] [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter Three | Of Course Apollo is Up Here

Zayn wakes to a pounding head in the morning.

Or at least, he thinks that it's the following morning. He's too tired to open his eyes to check, and it feels like a drum is aggressively beating on his brain.

He groans, rolling over slightly to get more comfortable, and whining even more when the motion causes him to feel as if he's stuck on the spinning throne from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song.

He's suddenly cold now too, his movement apparently separating him from the source of warmth that he'd just felt wrapped around him.

Needless to say, it's a terrible start to his day.

"This fucking blows," he moans miserably, finally peeling his eyes open after he's felt the cold become too much but has also realized that his head is spinning way too out of control for him to even try to move again.

"Tell me about it," a rough, sleep riddled voice, slow as molasses, tired, murmurs to his right, and Zayn hates (more than anything now) that he immediately still recognizes it. His body goes taut at the sound in a second. His blood runs cold. "Why'd you move?"

Fuck.

His body emits a strangling, choking sound as soon as he hears him. He feels bile race up his throat, and he has to slam his eyes closed and fling a hand up to his mouth to keep from being sick in that moment.

Please tell him that he's still asleep right now.

He's counting down from ten, hoping against hope that he is, when a soft chuckle interrupts him, slicing into his thoughts.

"You know, closing your eyes that tight doesn't make you disappear, Zayn."

He sighs heavily, finally fluttering his eyes open, albeit quite reluctantly. "No, but I was hoping that it might make you," because this is a bloody nightmare.

"Heyyy," Harry Fucking Styles practically whines from mere inches away from him. "You don't get to be mean to me in my own home," he reprimands, and Zayn feels poorly all over again. He's sure that he's as green as Harry's irises right now.

"Y-Your home?" He immediately sits up as he demands it, ignoring the throbbing ache in his head. "What? Why the fuck am I in your home?"

Harry gets up a bit, moving to rest his weight on his elbows. He frowns over at him. "Well, where did you think we were?"

"Hell, maybe," he murmurs, glancing around. They've got to be, right? In what other world would he wake up cuddling Harry Fucking Styles?

The man next to him lightly kicks him for that and glares, bringing Zayn's attention away from his purple walls, particularly the one that's embellished with a shedload of Polaroids.

"That's a bit rude, don't you think? At least you're not out pissed on the street, Zayn."

His eyebrows furrow at those words. He thinks about that, and he really isn't, is he?

Zayn feels the guilt settle in. He means, he doesn't remember a fuck of what happened after he left Harry in the kitchen last night, but if he had to guess, he definitely got rat-arsed as soon as he did.

But he'd felt that he had to, you know? He'd had to forget the way that Apollo looked standing under the bright lights in Louis' kitchen, the ones that still didn't manage to be quite as bright as he was; he'd had to forget the way that his eyes glittered green with mischief and something else that Zayn couldn't even begin to put his finger on; he'd had to forget the way that Harry chatted at him in the way that he always did, batting away his barbs and calmly throwing in a few of his own when he felt like it, grinning all smugly and unaffected like Zayn's words hardly struck him at all.