roasthoney
Zayn dreams of green. A green so familiar, so pale, he can't quite figure out where the color's from like a word balancing on the tip of his tongue. When he closes his eyes there's always a flash of green before the dark overtakes him and swallows it up, unforgiving and unavoidable; Zayn isn't sure if he wants to save the color, fearful of the day it'll fade out of his memory like the old photos of his grandfather that have turned a dirty yellow, or run away from the way his stomach twists every time he sees it.
Or, when Zayn and Harry sleep together but not in that way.