Scars And a Cup of Coffee | Zarry [complete]

Chapter 23: Zayn

Scars And a Cup of Coffee

Speeches.

Zayn hated speeches. He hated how they made your palms sweat, and your throat close up. He couldn't stand how no matter the amount of water he drank, his tongue still felt like sandpaper. Then the excessive water drinking led to excessive bathroom visits. He remembered being in school and always freaking out about all the freaking speeches his teachers forced him to read.

But never did he think that he could hate something more. Then a goddamn telly interview was at hand, and fucking interviews easily replaced his number one. Speeches were a piece of cake compared to interviews.

Why was he even doing this? Why couldn't he just mourn this wretched day in his flat, Harry's hand in his as he cried?

Zayn snapped out of his daze, and nodded intelligently at the brunette that was slowly losing patience with him. He could say the same about her. She was the fifth interviewer, someone from Channel Whatever, and she was asking the same question as the last person just in different words.

She licked her lips, "Last question, Mr. Malik, what does this day mean to you?"

He could feel his lip twitch, but then a hand was on his shoulder. It was a reassuring weight that kept him focused on the matter at hand, not the past.

"Death." He got up, taking Harry's hand and getting up. Harry wrapped his arm around Zayn's waist, and they were about to step down from the platform, when the interviewer spoke up.

"That's what it means to you? Death?" She asked, an incredulous look in her hazel eyes. "Where's your compassion?"

Harry's jaw tightened, as he rubbed reassuring circles into Zayn's hip. He placed his hand on his seething lover's chest.

"I have it trust me." Zayn grumbled, not because he was angry, but because he was tired and the day was only half over. "I'm not the one exploiting the death of my friends. I'm here because I want their memories to stay bright and alive. My answers death because a part of me died with them. Tell me miss, where's your compassion?"

He left her gaping, but all he could wish was that he said the right thing. But Harry was whispering sweet nothing's into his ear, and the worry seemed to slide like water off a duck's back. Zayn leaned into the taller stature, limping his way to the stage.

The speech wasn't for another half an hour but he didn't want to walk around pretending to be happy, on a day meant for tears. His leg was in pain and his physical therapist was insisting it was all psychosomatic. Zayn just wanted to lounge and remember the fallen, but he was stripped of it, that simple pleasure.

"You did great, love." Harry whispered, handing him a bottle of water. Zayn took it, sighing against the cool condensation on the outside. "Are you ready?"

Zayn smiled, "I think the question is if I'll ever be. I hate speeches."

"So you've said," Harry chirped, rubbing his nose into Zayn's temple. Zayn was glad that he got rid of the gloom that had surrounded him a week ago. He wouldn't have survived up to this point.

Zayn glanced at the stage, observing all forty-nine head shots of his friends. They were in their service uniforms, as was he. All saluting the camera with fierce determination. Zayn could feel the heat in their gazes even now. He looked at every portrait,  and recalled every name.

Frank. Jesse. Dex. Sal. Ava. Gingy. Raul...

He swallowed thickly. He promised that he wouldn't get himself worked up. But, who was he kidding? How could he not? He was fooling himself.