The Executive & The Artist (H.S)

XIX

ZAYN had a habit of knocking on the door at the worst times.

There was that one time he barged in when one of Nat's flings was between her legs, and another time when Niall was watching that American reality show with all the little girls who walked in the pageants, cursing at the telly because the blonde little girl didn't win.

And Zayn had a habit of knocking on the door at the worst times, so that day, many years ago, when Nat and Harry weren't Nat and Harry, when Zayn was still around, he knocked on the door in the middle of a hysterical crying session between Nat and her cellphone. He knocked once, then twice, before opening the door and stopping right there - right in the doorway.

The scene before him was a bit sad and a bit odd and a bit hopeless, like a purple, kicked puppy sitting on the side of the road. A bit sad. A bit odd. A little more than a bit hopeless. A girl with tangled brown hair sat on the floor with her back propped up by the couch, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Tissues were crumpled up in the lap of her paint-stained blue (and red, and purple, and green) jeans. The shirt she wore wasn't hers. And a onesie, a yellow onesie, was neatly displayed on the coffee table, like it wasn't the object of all her woes.

Immediately, the brother (step-brother) instinct caught up with Zayn, and he said "oh shit. You're screwed."

Nat jumped a bit from her position on the living room floor. The flat was previously empty, seeing that her best friends left the space not an hour ago, making it cold and unfamiliar and cold, cold, cold. And Nat jumped a bit from her position on the living room floor because the flat was previously empty but she's screwed, now, as Zayn so helpfully pointed out, uninvited, from the doorway.

Regaining her composure, Nat sniffed and obnoxiously blew her nose before tangling her fingers in the rats nest she calls hair. "I'm not screwed. Liv was screwed. By Niall." The brunette gestured lazily to the small article of clothing on the surface in front of her. "And they made that." Zayn nodded understandingly and then said "achoo" so Nat asked "tissue?" and Zayn padded across the carpet to sit next to his sister (step sister) before grabbing a tissue and (quietly, unobtrusively) blew his nose.

"I don't mind to be rude," Nat told him as he grabbed another tissue. "I really don't, Zayn, but why are you here? Like, if you wanted me to buy you another thing of chicken soup you could've just texted me, or something." Zayn shrugged and said "I have something to tell you. Thought it'd be better in person."And the flat was cold, cold, cold because Nat's best friends left an hour ago and the flat was colder, colder, colder because Zayn had a cold and was blowing his nose next to her, but that was pushed to the back of her mind.

Because he had something to tell her that would be better in person and that meant death, and black clothing, and endings, endings, endings. Talks in person meant endings, endings, endings.

"In person?" "Yeah." "So... bad?" That was when Zayn said "bad."

Death, black clothing, endings, endings, endings.

"Mum?" "Mum." "Chemo?" "Endings, Nat. Endings, endings, endings."

Death, black clothing, endings, endings, endings.

"How bad?" Zayn said "endings, Nat. Endings, endings, endings." "Does my mum know?" "She wouldn't answer me. When I called, I mean. She wouldn't answer when I called."

Nat started to chew on her thumb nail and glance at the unfinished, Louis' beer stained paintings, her anxiety doubling at the daunting task she needed to complete in the next few weeks. Then it tripled when Zayn said "they say 3 months. 4, if we're lucky."