he survives for time than anyone imagined. by the end of july, he's clinging onto some shred of hope, that perhaps he can learn to live with the endless sunflowers and strangling roots tightening around his chest. after all, if he can endure the death threats and stalker attempts of his old fans, and now some new haters after the split with perrie, he can make it through anything. zayn has always been good at being invisible, and he mingles with the crowds and stays in the shadows easily.

less easy was cutting off his last lifeline, refusing to let perrie hurt to any further extent for him. it didn't work as expected, because she still calls and checks in every few hours, and now ant and danny know as well, joining his ex-fiance in her crusade to get him to undergo surgery. end the suffering, the pain.

it never wanes or remains constant, however.

it simply grows.

cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough

zayn is disgusted, mostly at himself. he can no longer leave his room, too weak to do anything but drag himself to the kitchen or couch. he needs help from his family and friends, all of whom seem to have come to some unspoken decision about schedules and jobs, assisting him with bathing and eating like some ancient geriatric or baby. an eternal fever consumes him, body constantly aflame with that and the effort of living. not exactly living, perhaps that is too strong a word. it is more existing, a feeble attempt too, since he's dropped another ten pounds and looks skeletal, translucent skin taut over bones that stick out sharply and barely sustain his weight.

and as though that isn't torture enough, zayn makes it a point to watch each and every one direction concert. he feels a flush of pride at niall's solos, seems to take on liam's role as parent when he hears the boy nail the high note, fondly grins at louis's antics and perfect chorus. but he can't even convince himself that he's here for anyone but harry, eyes fixated on the slow drawl around words that used to be zayn's, on the green eyes' either downcast or glassy in a sea of fans, on a face housing a forced smile over heart crushing betrayal and loneliness. zayn's own heart throbs at the sight, tears so salty they burn his already overheated face.

he hurt harry. he hurt the most special person in the world, the person zayn always said he would die for without a second thought, except now he is and he's not sure what he's doing anymore.

cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough

little things, once a cheesy declaration of unadulterated adoration sung in harmony with the fans, is now a glaring reminder of his absence, the gap between niall and harry enough to hold an ocean of tears. the performances are still great of course, and even though he never talked much in interviews, he can't help but feel that there's something off kilter.

can't help but feel like he's missing, like he should be there to mother his chaotic band, talk louis out of constructing a homemade zip line and explain to niall for the fourth time in an hour why surviving on piri piri chicken is not as good as it tastes. he should be grabbing liam before he slips or slides off the stage, helping them all back up when they gracelessly fall into heaps. especially harry, with his gangly limbs and never ending excitement that had ensured his backside met with the floor more than a few times. a strange nostalgia fogs over him as he recalls a performance when harry had nearly gotten even hotter than usual, if that was possible, by nearly walking into one of those pyrotechnic devices (zayn was sure that they weren't meant for children) before he yanked him backwards. he shuddered to think what would have happened if harry had actually injured himself, clutching his face as though he has been burned instead.

after the shows he would sit on an armrest beside the holmes-chapel boy, head tipped backwards so he could look at an upside down harry as they threw popcorn into each others mouths. he misses those corny jokes, told in a lazy yet sensuous voice that contrasted with harry's innocent puppy looks. and if there was a near-death experience, a more common occurrence than zayn felt comfortable with, they would drink hot chocolate and watch terrible hallmark movies until a pouting harry fell asleep against his chest as zayn wished for more, despite the improbability of it.

he remembers when he realized that what he felt was harry was more than friendly camaraderie, or brotherly love. when he realised why he felt so empty when harry left his arms, why he searched for harry before anyone else, why hugging harry felt different than the others. it was less of an epiphany or a sudden acknowledgment than it was an inner discovery, finding gold at the end of a rainbow he'd been following forever.

they were sharing a hotel room for the night, and despite having two beds, harry had burrowed into zayn's. the crisp sheets were crumpled immediately, the cold breeze from the air conditioning interrupted by harry as he wrapped his arms around zayn like an octopus, but zayn didn't mind. because as he looked down at the sleeping boy, the tousled caramel hair and fluttering eyes like emeralds set in snow, the parted lips and spidery fingers clad in rings that pressed against zayn's skin, his heart and mind decided to speak in unison for once.

he was irrevocably, ardently in love with harry edward styles.

cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough

it has become a habit by now, second nature to collect the clean petals and arrange them in painstaking detail to form one flower, slotting together like a bright puzzle. he places them around his room, some with pipe cleaners stolen from safaa's art and craft kit and others hanging from the wall with string. it's a desperate attempt to make hanahaki appear less like a morbid signal of his existence and more so a nod to the beautiful aspect of it. and it acts like a timer as well, tracking the days his decaying body, dry of tears and too tired to feel far beyond heartbreak, continues on. the petals come more frequently and numerously as well, so much so that he is no longer capable of hiding or swallowing them.

so it doesn't come a surprise, least of all to him, when he is found collapsed on the rain-soaked tarmac outside a bus stop, painting the slate gray in sunset shades of red and yellow.

cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough