cough cough cough
it's difficult.
the tour for 'four' gets harder by the day, and he nearly gets caught several times. it's impossible to hold in the coughs and the consequent petals, and zayn finds himself spending more time than necessary inside bathrooms, spitting meadows of bright yellow down the sink. he's had to quit smoking as well, quickly learning that his now captive lungs couldn't handle the irritation anymore and if he tried, pools of scarlet would join the golden spilling out of his mouth.
it's even more difficult to sing, hitting the high notes that once came like second-nature leaving him with sweat beading on his forehead and a ravaged throat. zayn has to hide behind the microphone so the others won't notice, coughing into his hands and swallowing the dry petals. tears cloud his eyes, stomach churning at the foul aftertaste coating his tounge, dirt and despair.
perrie calls everyday. she's the only one who knows, and zayn's not sure how, but he assumes that after spending so many years lying to the world together, it's easy to spot each other's. each call goes the same: an obligatory 'how are you?' and erroneous 'fine', and then she cries, begging and pleading for him to stop being such an idiot and just endure the surgery. zayn always denies, explaining over and over again why he won't rid himself of the poisonous love. perrie doesn't understand, but she respects his decision- at least, she tries to. nevertheless, zayn is grateful beyond belief for her. he feels like a parasite, stealing in every ounce of care and sisterly love he can before he dies. the word still feels foreign and metallic in his mouth, and he rolls it around like a gobstopper. just four letters, yet they hold so much power.
love. gone. hope. dies. loss.
perrie hates the word, wincing everytime he brings it up, smiling in tight-lipped denial. it's the reality though, and there's no way around it.
he knows louis suspects as well. as ninja-like as lou believes himself to be, it's not easy to miss the eyes boring into his back, analyzing everything from his eating habits (they're terrible, he simply doesn't) to his interactions with the fans (strained smiles and flimsy poses) and the other lads (he avoids liam's gaze, niall's hugs, louis's outing's and harry's... entirety). paul is equally sceptical that there's something wrong, tagging beside zayn more often, with a comforting hand on his shoulder.
the fans, of course, notice. zayn has forever said that they could beat the fbi with their shrewd observation abilities, terrify a swat team with their keenness, and bring the best mi-6 agents to their knees with their ruthlessness. except now they've turned their hawk-like eyes onto him, claiming that he's lost the will to sing or that he's become too cocky and spoilt, while other simple spit venomous words of hate about his religion and race. a few are sure that perrie is to blame, ripping apart the engagement facade with ferocity, and even fewer express concern for his health.
it's difficult.
cough cough cough
