it has been a while since zayn saw white. the kind summer clouds radiate, newborn daisy petals and lace topped waves. it is pure and clean and crisp, everything from the curtains to the clothes in the room as blank as a fresh canvas.

his nose prickles, and he brushes a finger against it, recoiling when he feels a rubbery tube snaking inside. his mouth feels strange as well, coppery and thick with earth and blood. even his eyes won't open completely, fluttering like butterflies as he strains to stop them from drooping back into sleep.

from across the room- or perhaps beside him, he can't tell anymore- he can hear crying. sobs hidden behind a hand, typical of liam. but it doesn't sound right, because liam never cries. liam is liam, bold and noble and brave, and these cries sound like ones of someone with no reason left to fight.

niall's whimpers are louder, but no less heartbreaking. through his bleary vision zayn makes out arms surrounding him- the tattoos marking them as liam's, ever daddy direction- and niall's hands gripping the faded shirt with such force it looks close to tearing.

as always, louis is never one to show weakness, back turned slightly so he can knuckle away his tears, cursing and apolgizing and chanting, why are you so fucking stupid, malik? occasionally, he leaves the room to update a flight bound trisha or text perrie, using it as an opportunity to punch the wall until his palm is lined with blood.

harry runs a hand through his disheveled hair, a caress that zayn feels a pang at, knowing that an eternity ago it would have occured the other way around. it would have been his tan hands gently detangling the knotted curls, harry tucked between his knees as elvis played in the background, rain smattering against the windows of the tour bus in a steady rhythm that lulled them to sleep. now, instead of being soaked by the storm, tears stroke zayn's cheeks. he's not sure whether they belong to harry or him, and he doesn't care. all he can focus on is the in-out of harry's breath, the familiar coconut conditioner diffused in the air around them, the warmth of his hand as he scrubs at a dried tear stain on the bedsheet.

and then he is jolted out of his haze by a ear-splitting crash as louis storms inside, face flushed and expression contorted. harry jumps to his feet, practically racing to hear the news as louis's voice cracks uncharacteristically. the words are muttered, but zayn's heart still skips a beat at every one he catches. 'no way to remove them, 'too late', 'surprising he's still breathing'. there's a few other comments as well, an obligatory 'stupid fucking doctors' and 'no, no, no' and a defeated 'he can't leave me, not yet'.

it's finally time.

raising a trembling hand, he tugs on harry's sweater sleeve, and it takes the him less than a split second to be kneeling beside zayn again. he commits every dip and mark and line on harry's face to memory, tattoos the crooked lips and sculpted jawline into his brain. this is the last time he'll ever do this, the last time he'll ever stare into those gold flecked eyes and dream about the lips so close yet so far. the last time he'll wonder how harry is so open and emotional, how he feels no fear while wearing his heart on his sleeve.

he'll miss this. miss the days spent racing through parking lots with skateboards tucked under arms, holding onto harry's hands as he slowly edges along. the nights spent on rooftops with cold kfc, making up names for constellations they pretend to be experts about. the playful banter and childish pranks, followed by guitar serenades and packets of oreos slid under doors in apology. miss the way he talks at a sluggish yet steady pace, the easy charm and welcoming aura.

he'll miss what they never had. miss the raspy good mornings and tangled limbs between sheets. the breakfasts' burnt by unplanned kisses, the quick pecks over coffee after a long day. the film marathons that they'll never know the ending of, dreaming their own happily ever after instead as they fall asleep on each other's shoulders. the baking sessions resulting in flour everywhere and raw cookie dough doused in sprinkles because harry claims his favourite flavour is salmonella. miss the ring that will tie them together forever and ever, the whispered declarations of hope, the family photos decorating the home they'll grow old in.

zayn will miss love.

... cough

the singular petal is not the golden yellow of a sunflower, but stained a deep cherry wine. zayn has built his legacy now, created his spectrum that will echo and paint the world for eons to come.

he just misses the anguished scream, the lips pressing over his, the aftertaste of sea salt and the lingering warmth washing away the pain.

his eyes close. it's over.