FIC, serotonin, harry/zayn
title: serotonin (lost and found)
fandom: 1D
pairing: harry/zayn
rating: 17+
word count: 2,816 words
summary: zayn gets sad, harry tries to make him happy again
disclaimer: For anyone who is unaware, S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a real condition that some people suffer from and I am in no way trying to fictionalize the disorder or offend anyone who does/has suffered from it. This was not written to cause offense in any way. This was not written as a literal reflection of a S.A.D. sufferer and more based around the idea of the seasons, the weather and imagery. And ofc, I do not own 1D.
Serotonin/ ser·o·to·nin
1. A chemical in the brain that is believed to be linked to depression.
2. A neurotransmitter that most likely contributes to the regulation of sleep, appetite, and mood. People experiencing depression or anxiety often have a serotonin deficiency.
It starts in September.
The only month it could have. The beginning of the cycle, and the seasons and the days; endless by nature.
When they think about it now- the boys often think about it now- they wish they had foreseen it all. Things might have been different- maybe this, maybe that, maybe we could have...- or fate might have been spinning its wheel from the very start. They were all just caught in the spokes when it happened.
Harry thinks about it most, naturally - why at that precise moment, why so soon, why him - but he knows there will never be an answer. So he just waits instead. Looks up into the sky, sees a balloon, sees Zayn, and he waits.
+
It starts in September.
They don’t see it, not yet. Because it gets dark so early nowadays- Zayn is saying, and they still don’t see it. Because it’s 4PM and the clouds have cloaked any light or compassion that the afternoon could have brought; it’s all been shrouded by shadows and loss and uncertainty and the wind is whispering things they can’t make out. And they’re all staring out the car window, images blurring and merging into flashing lights and empty voices but no one sees Zayn pushing his fingertips into his temple. His head is aching and he doesn’t know if it will stop.
And maybe Harry sees something because he’s picking a bit of cottony fluff from Zayn’s jeans affectionately- at least it’s still warm out - Harry is saying and he looks but he doesn't see.
It’s cold- is all Zayn can offer up and he’s not cold at all. The car is toasty with a pleasant, lip-curling kind of heat but somewhere he feels cold, he’s not sure where, he just knows.
It’s still September when Zayn won’t come down for breakfast. Niall checks on him first and fills them in on his return -he’s in a mood, had to beg him to let me in- but his mouth finds a croissant and forgets the rest. Forty five minutes later and it’s started raining so Harry thinks of a rain drop, he thinks of a misty window and a windowsill, he thinks of curtains shutting out the cold and a TV shutting out the sound of raindrops against tarmac. It makes him think of Zayn and so he asks Liam to check on him; he does, returns puzzled - he’s ill, says he has the flu, doesn’t want a croissant- and Liam sits back down, doesn’t see it yet.
It’s still September when they’re going to a label meeting and Zayn is fifteen minutes late. When he arrives his eyes are red with feeling, his hair flails, uncertain against his forehead and he’s blinking too much, like his brain has too much to process, too much it can’t articulate. Louis and Liam rise - Z, what’s happened? are you feeling okay? are you hurting? I know you’re okay but- and Zayn is shrugging, is smiling in all the wrong places and nodding in all the right because he doesn’t know and nothing’s happened and yes, it’s hurting but he’s not sure where. For a moment Harry sees, hands find Zayn’s, he squeezes and then elbows him lightly, playfully, because no, no, he doesn’t see- have you been crying?- and yes, maybe he sees it. And Zayn shrugs, brushes the world from his shoulder quietly and settles back -it’s just my head, it still hurts- he’s telling them and he can pretend to be okay now because they can’t see it. They can’t see it because it’s gone again.
+
It’s December when it reappears. The continual sequence of day and night manages to erase memories, start afresh, a new page has been turned and oh, its colourful and it all looks so bright. Harry is the only one who remembers. And one night he thinks about it, remembers the look in Zayn’s eye but then drifts, sleeps, and the clouds in his dreams aren’t like the ones Zayn sees.
It’s a Monday and Zayn is sleeping through his alarm- he won’t get up- Niall is saying, and -I’ve been calling his name for thirty minutes- Louis is saying, and no one has the key to his hotel room because no one has seen him for two days. He’s ill again and tired again and - no, he doesn’t want to sing again- when Harry and Paul burst into his room and it’s 3PM and they’re performing tonight. It takes too much energy to move so he lies there, head facing the wall, eyes shut; he needs them to leave, doesn’t like the noise anymore, doesn’t want this unwarranted attention. Paul walks out, he doesn’t see. But then Harry’s walking too, shutting the door and it’s almost shut when he sees but he’s not seeing that, he’s seeing something else and it looks so out of place, so alien sticking out from under the pillow like that. And he’s back in the room and- what’s this, why does he have this- Harry’s thinking but he’s not saying, it’s sleeping pills, sedatives and he wonders why Zayn can’t sleep so he says his name- Zayn- but Zayn doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere else entirely. So Harry places them back, thinks Zayn looks so delicate, so vulnerable in his daydream-sleep; and he thinks all this because he still doesn’t see.
It’s December still, three days later when it rears its familiar head. They’ve left the States and flown to Stockholm to spend two days in the studio. It’s Zayn’s turn to record and he hasn’t said anything all day, just slept in the car with Harry’s arm around his shoulder. He dreams of happy faces with dots for eyes and brackets for mouths and now the microphones below him and he can see the words but he can’t read, it’s just consonants and vowels and he doesn’t want to be here. Zayn rubs his face, he’s panicking because- I need to get out - is all he can think and the boys have stopped talking now from behind the glass and Harry’s there but he looks so far away and the lights looks so bright and his hands won’t stop shaking. So he walks out. And he -can do this, keep walking and breathing and find somewhere safe- he’s thinking but as he reaches the door handle he’s crying and his face is all contorted and his voice is strangled and he doesn’t know if he can do this anymore because he can’t stop sobbing and falling and falling. And everybody sees something suddenly; their eyes are everywhere and they can see too much.
+
It’s late January when it next happens. The only one who has seen it everyday since December, the only one who has chosen to see is Harry. The others float along on their springtime surface, hoping that what they say is true, that seeing is believing therefore in some kind of twisted logic, they can choose to believe that Zayn is okay. Because he is, isn’t he - yes you are, of course you’re okay- Harry is telling him one morning in his bedroom. He sneaks in during the early mornings- Zayn notices after a week or two; his brain is muddled, he doesn’t see things as clearly as he used to- and sleeps next to him until he wakes up. Sleeping Zayn is the only Zayn that he recognises now.
The warmth that Harry radiates, breathing softly beside him is bliss and Zayn appreciates the sensation for a second, maybe two, before the feeling fades. He sleeps better with Harry there, doesn’t need the bed light on, his insides work better with Harry, doesn't need the pills; they watch TV in his room as the rain drowns the world outside and Harry sings to him, rhythms and melodies and lyrics that he hasn’t heard for weeks. Harry scrubs him down when he can't reach the shower and washes his hair with the lemony vanilla shampoo that reminds him of summer. Even when its 6PM and he needs Harry to leave because he wants to be alone, even when Harry can’t make him smile because the side of his heart that makes him feel has been weathered by the storm and the thunder and the dark and all this vacancy.
Its 4AM now and Harry's arm is at Zayn’s waist, shallow breath tickles Zayn’s ear and he’s choking up a little because this should make him happy but it doesn’t. Because happiness isn’t a feeling, it’s unreachable and sometimes he can't remember the toe-curling warmth of it inside him, the tickle of a laugh in his throat, sometimes he wishes he could. Zayn turns in his sleep, reaches for pills and as he turns the lid, his hand
jolts, sets fifteen pills running out into his hand like snowflakes tumbling
out and into his mind; he knows what they do
he knows where all this chemical goes- straight to the heart- he thinks, and yes, that’s what he needs, he needs something to make him feel
so he lets them drop into his mouth, and the action is sudden and
forceful because the pills go down wrong and he can’t swallow and he feels so
detached from himself and -why isn’t it working- his head is yelling and it’s like Harry can hear him.
Because he’s sitting up now, eyes still sleepy and celestial and his thoughts turn to Zayn- it’s always Zayn- he thinks, and then he stops thinking because the pill container is upside down beside him, because Zayn is swallowing things, lots of things and his eyes are all glazed and his breathing is fractured and there are pills spilling everywhere and scattering like tiny, dancing ghosts.
And Harry doesn’t know what to do for a moment, his brain closes down, this only happens in the movies and he can’t move and he can’t quite breathe so his heart takes over because it loves this boy more than it knew it could.
He carries Zayn into the bathroom, tripping over and spluttering and -no, no, no, you’re not doing this, I won’t let you do this- is all he’s saying and he’s sitting in the bath now, Zayn draped over him, all bones and skin and a beating heart, all Romeo and Juliet without a rightful love story. And he’s sobbing into Zayn’s chest because -fuck- he’s screaming and - what do I do, Zayn - he’s crying because if he loses him, he loses everything. He panics, sticks his fingers inside him, reaches down until his fingertips touch tonsil and trachea; he’s seen this before, he’s heard this works, so he keeps going until Zayn’s muttering turns to heaves and that turns to cries. His free arm tightens around Zayn’s stomach, yanking and pulling his limp frame, and then up, up, up. Everything goes up...
and pills and liquid and yellow and red spill out of Zayn’s mouth, running down Harry’s chest, and Harry can’t stop sobbing - why did you, why can’t I, I need, I love, what do I do Zayn, what do I do now- because he’s so lost, with or without Zayn he’s so lost
and Zayn’s sobbing too. Not because of the pain scratching at his throat, or the tearing of the lining in his stomach but because it didn’t work. The numbness overwhelms him and someones turned the shower head on and cold water is screaming at them and their hair clings and Harry’s crying out for him, yet all he can do is shake and watch the trails of water running past him, reach the drain and fall into the unknown.
+
It’s March when it stops happening. No one is sure exactly when this happens at first, but when it does everything is suddenly different, their world is once again disturbed and distorted yet it's all so familiar, in a way it's exactly the same. Harry calculates the date at March 18th when Zayn returns to them. He's thin and pale and broken but they recognise the dash of life in his eyes, the old bent smile and the wetness of his voice dripping out from the shower. His light is somewhat brighter when he comes back; he's jumping and he's singing and he's running circles around them like he's never known sadness, like it hadn’t led him to the edge and watched him drop.
Harry still folds into him at night, their hands come together like magnets and Zayn's laughing quietly and there's so much feeling in his eyes that it pours out and surrounds them until they're squealing from this foreign sensation and -I don't know how to live without you now- Harry is saying and -you don’t have to- Zayn says back.
And he doesn't. But the alternative is living with the nauseating, drowning feeling that this is only temporary and the sun always sets, Harry knows, and somewhere up there, Zayn is caught in it's ray. He knows this because it was February when the Doctor clasped his hands and lowered his glasses to the bend of his nose- he's very ill- he was saying, but Harry knew that, he'd seen it all - he's sad and next year, he'll be sad again- and Harry swallowed, felt their little world collide with fate and his heart ache from the collision.
It never mends. His heart. And Zayn doesn’t mend and the scars that they carry don’t mend and Harry tries to cover them over, puts plasters over and seals them with remedies and ointments and sometimes they fade as the sun is rising and Zayn is planting soft kisses at his neck and twisting his fingers through his hair
but they come back, as winter always does.
So as the days get longer and the nights get lighter, Harry starts taking photos of Zayn and every morning he captures a different smile, heart warms at the glow in Zayn’s eye and the blush of his cheeks and the bruise on his lips. He sees a lost and found poster on a tree by the sweet shop one morning in July and the idea comes to him, it kind of unfolds slowly but once it starts growing he gets a little infatuated by it.
Every morning he takes a photo, February till August and it works like instinct, becomes like breathing and -what are you doing with these- Zayn says sleepily, his words hazy with dreams - you’ll see- Harry says but that isn’t true.
Zayn doesn’t see, he’ll never see because it’s early September now and the days are getting shorter and Zayn is getting sad again and- shut the window - Zayn is saying because it’s cold and the clouds and the wet and the dark are coming and Zayn’s losing his light, Harry almost feels it drain away
and - smile- Harry says one morning, camera in hand but - no, I can’t, I’m tired - Zayn is saying - I just want to sleep, leave me, please - he’s muttering and Harry just wants more time, he just wants more time but winter is here and it’s too late.
So he starts this thing up. And every morning he stretches out the end of a balloon and slips one of the summer photos inside it. Sometimes he selects the photo at random and smiles when he sees Zayn beaming back at him, hair a little lighter from the sun, face a little rounder
and he ties a piece of string to the end, pumps the balloon and lets it sail off into the icy morning and up, up, up. Everything goes up and sometimes he can see a glint of Zayn’s face as the balloon sets off into the sky and it’s like lost and found, really
because Zayn’s up there somewhere, he thinks, he’s up there lost in the darkest of clouds, trapped behind the sun. And maybe there’s someone up there who will see the balloons, Harry thinks, maybe they’ll find it and they’ll bring Zayn home and maybe he won’t be gone till Spring this time.
+
It’s March 2nd when Harry feels soft, cold hands at his stomach, pressing a little, making him squirm and then letting go. And he’s felt the change for a few weeks now, that little tickle inside when Zayn makes a sarcastic comment or throws a knowing look, a sweet kiss that lingers longer than it should, hands trailing through his hair in the middle of the night, the hum of Zayn’s voice in the shower, that faint little glow.... and there....there it goes.
The balloon slips through his fingers and it doesn’t really matter if it doesn’t reach the sky this time because the sun is coming up now, and Zayn’s there too.
fandom: 1D
pairing: harry/zayn
rating: 17+
word count: 2,816 words
summary: zayn gets sad, harry tries to make him happy again
disclaimer: For anyone who is unaware, S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a real condition that some people suffer from and I am in no way trying to fictionalize the disorder or offend anyone who does/has suffered from it. This was not written to cause offense in any way. This was not written as a literal reflection of a S.A.D. sufferer and more based around the idea of the seasons, the weather and imagery. And ofc, I do not own 1D.
Serotonin/ ser·o·to·nin
1. A chemical in the brain that is believed to be linked to depression.
2. A neurotransmitter that most likely contributes to the regulation of sleep, appetite, and mood. People experiencing depression or anxiety often have a serotonin deficiency.
It starts in September.
The only month it could have. The beginning of the cycle, and the seasons and the days; endless by nature.
When they think about it now- the boys often think about it now- they wish they had foreseen it all. Things might have been different- maybe this, maybe that, maybe we could have...- or fate might have been spinning its wheel from the very start. They were all just caught in the spokes when it happened.
Harry thinks about it most, naturally - why at that precise moment, why so soon, why him - but he knows there will never be an answer. So he just waits instead. Looks up into the sky, sees a balloon, sees Zayn, and he waits.
+
It starts in September.
They don’t see it, not yet. Because it gets dark so early nowadays- Zayn is saying, and they still don’t see it. Because it’s 4PM and the clouds have cloaked any light or compassion that the afternoon could have brought; it’s all been shrouded by shadows and loss and uncertainty and the wind is whispering things they can’t make out. And they’re all staring out the car window, images blurring and merging into flashing lights and empty voices but no one sees Zayn pushing his fingertips into his temple. His head is aching and he doesn’t know if it will stop.
And maybe Harry sees something because he’s picking a bit of cottony fluff from Zayn’s jeans affectionately- at least it’s still warm out - Harry is saying and he looks but he doesn't see.
It’s cold- is all Zayn can offer up and he’s not cold at all. The car is toasty with a pleasant, lip-curling kind of heat but somewhere he feels cold, he’s not sure where, he just knows.
It’s still September when Zayn won’t come down for breakfast. Niall checks on him first and fills them in on his return -he’s in a mood, had to beg him to let me in- but his mouth finds a croissant and forgets the rest. Forty five minutes later and it’s started raining so Harry thinks of a rain drop, he thinks of a misty window and a windowsill, he thinks of curtains shutting out the cold and a TV shutting out the sound of raindrops against tarmac. It makes him think of Zayn and so he asks Liam to check on him; he does, returns puzzled - he’s ill, says he has the flu, doesn’t want a croissant- and Liam sits back down, doesn’t see it yet.
It’s still September when they’re going to a label meeting and Zayn is fifteen minutes late. When he arrives his eyes are red with feeling, his hair flails, uncertain against his forehead and he’s blinking too much, like his brain has too much to process, too much it can’t articulate. Louis and Liam rise - Z, what’s happened? are you feeling okay? are you hurting? I know you’re okay but- and Zayn is shrugging, is smiling in all the wrong places and nodding in all the right because he doesn’t know and nothing’s happened and yes, it’s hurting but he’s not sure where. For a moment Harry sees, hands find Zayn’s, he squeezes and then elbows him lightly, playfully, because no, no, he doesn’t see- have you been crying?- and yes, maybe he sees it. And Zayn shrugs, brushes the world from his shoulder quietly and settles back -it’s just my head, it still hurts- he’s telling them and he can pretend to be okay now because they can’t see it. They can’t see it because it’s gone again.
+
It’s December when it reappears. The continual sequence of day and night manages to erase memories, start afresh, a new page has been turned and oh, its colourful and it all looks so bright. Harry is the only one who remembers. And one night he thinks about it, remembers the look in Zayn’s eye but then drifts, sleeps, and the clouds in his dreams aren’t like the ones Zayn sees.
It’s a Monday and Zayn is sleeping through his alarm- he won’t get up- Niall is saying, and -I’ve been calling his name for thirty minutes- Louis is saying, and no one has the key to his hotel room because no one has seen him for two days. He’s ill again and tired again and - no, he doesn’t want to sing again- when Harry and Paul burst into his room and it’s 3PM and they’re performing tonight. It takes too much energy to move so he lies there, head facing the wall, eyes shut; he needs them to leave, doesn’t like the noise anymore, doesn’t want this unwarranted attention. Paul walks out, he doesn’t see. But then Harry’s walking too, shutting the door and it’s almost shut when he sees but he’s not seeing that, he’s seeing something else and it looks so out of place, so alien sticking out from under the pillow like that. And he’s back in the room and- what’s this, why does he have this- Harry’s thinking but he’s not saying, it’s sleeping pills, sedatives and he wonders why Zayn can’t sleep so he says his name- Zayn- but Zayn doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere else entirely. So Harry places them back, thinks Zayn looks so delicate, so vulnerable in his daydream-sleep; and he thinks all this because he still doesn’t see.
It’s December still, three days later when it rears its familiar head. They’ve left the States and flown to Stockholm to spend two days in the studio. It’s Zayn’s turn to record and he hasn’t said anything all day, just slept in the car with Harry’s arm around his shoulder. He dreams of happy faces with dots for eyes and brackets for mouths and now the microphones below him and he can see the words but he can’t read, it’s just consonants and vowels and he doesn’t want to be here. Zayn rubs his face, he’s panicking because- I need to get out - is all he can think and the boys have stopped talking now from behind the glass and Harry’s there but he looks so far away and the lights looks so bright and his hands won’t stop shaking. So he walks out. And he -can do this, keep walking and breathing and find somewhere safe- he’s thinking but as he reaches the door handle he’s crying and his face is all contorted and his voice is strangled and he doesn’t know if he can do this anymore because he can’t stop sobbing and falling and falling. And everybody sees something suddenly; their eyes are everywhere and they can see too much.
+
It’s late January when it next happens. The only one who has seen it everyday since December, the only one who has chosen to see is Harry. The others float along on their springtime surface, hoping that what they say is true, that seeing is believing therefore in some kind of twisted logic, they can choose to believe that Zayn is okay. Because he is, isn’t he - yes you are, of course you’re okay- Harry is telling him one morning in his bedroom. He sneaks in during the early mornings- Zayn notices after a week or two; his brain is muddled, he doesn’t see things as clearly as he used to- and sleeps next to him until he wakes up. Sleeping Zayn is the only Zayn that he recognises now.
The warmth that Harry radiates, breathing softly beside him is bliss and Zayn appreciates the sensation for a second, maybe two, before the feeling fades. He sleeps better with Harry there, doesn’t need the bed light on, his insides work better with Harry, doesn't need the pills; they watch TV in his room as the rain drowns the world outside and Harry sings to him, rhythms and melodies and lyrics that he hasn’t heard for weeks. Harry scrubs him down when he can't reach the shower and washes his hair with the lemony vanilla shampoo that reminds him of summer. Even when its 6PM and he needs Harry to leave because he wants to be alone, even when Harry can’t make him smile because the side of his heart that makes him feel has been weathered by the storm and the thunder and the dark and all this vacancy.
Its 4AM now and Harry's arm is at Zayn’s waist, shallow breath tickles Zayn’s ear and he’s choking up a little because this should make him happy but it doesn’t. Because happiness isn’t a feeling, it’s unreachable and sometimes he can't remember the toe-curling warmth of it inside him, the tickle of a laugh in his throat, sometimes he wishes he could. Zayn turns in his sleep, reaches for pills and as he turns the lid, his hand
jolts, sets fifteen pills running out into his hand like snowflakes tumbling
out and into his mind; he knows what they do
he knows where all this chemical goes- straight to the heart- he thinks, and yes, that’s what he needs, he needs something to make him feel
so he lets them drop into his mouth, and the action is sudden and
forceful because the pills go down wrong and he can’t swallow and he feels so
detached from himself and -why isn’t it working- his head is yelling and it’s like Harry can hear him.
Because he’s sitting up now, eyes still sleepy and celestial and his thoughts turn to Zayn- it’s always Zayn- he thinks, and then he stops thinking because the pill container is upside down beside him, because Zayn is swallowing things, lots of things and his eyes are all glazed and his breathing is fractured and there are pills spilling everywhere and scattering like tiny, dancing ghosts.
And Harry doesn’t know what to do for a moment, his brain closes down, this only happens in the movies and he can’t move and he can’t quite breathe so his heart takes over because it loves this boy more than it knew it could.
He carries Zayn into the bathroom, tripping over and spluttering and -no, no, no, you’re not doing this, I won’t let you do this- is all he’s saying and he’s sitting in the bath now, Zayn draped over him, all bones and skin and a beating heart, all Romeo and Juliet without a rightful love story. And he’s sobbing into Zayn’s chest because -fuck- he’s screaming and - what do I do, Zayn - he’s crying because if he loses him, he loses everything. He panics, sticks his fingers inside him, reaches down until his fingertips touch tonsil and trachea; he’s seen this before, he’s heard this works, so he keeps going until Zayn’s muttering turns to heaves and that turns to cries. His free arm tightens around Zayn’s stomach, yanking and pulling his limp frame, and then up, up, up. Everything goes up...
and pills and liquid and yellow and red spill out of Zayn’s mouth, running down Harry’s chest, and Harry can’t stop sobbing - why did you, why can’t I, I need, I love, what do I do Zayn, what do I do now- because he’s so lost, with or without Zayn he’s so lost
and Zayn’s sobbing too. Not because of the pain scratching at his throat, or the tearing of the lining in his stomach but because it didn’t work. The numbness overwhelms him and someones turned the shower head on and cold water is screaming at them and their hair clings and Harry’s crying out for him, yet all he can do is shake and watch the trails of water running past him, reach the drain and fall into the unknown.
+
It’s March when it stops happening. No one is sure exactly when this happens at first, but when it does everything is suddenly different, their world is once again disturbed and distorted yet it's all so familiar, in a way it's exactly the same. Harry calculates the date at March 18th when Zayn returns to them. He's thin and pale and broken but they recognise the dash of life in his eyes, the old bent smile and the wetness of his voice dripping out from the shower. His light is somewhat brighter when he comes back; he's jumping and he's singing and he's running circles around them like he's never known sadness, like it hadn’t led him to the edge and watched him drop.
Harry still folds into him at night, their hands come together like magnets and Zayn's laughing quietly and there's so much feeling in his eyes that it pours out and surrounds them until they're squealing from this foreign sensation and -I don't know how to live without you now- Harry is saying and -you don’t have to- Zayn says back.
And he doesn't. But the alternative is living with the nauseating, drowning feeling that this is only temporary and the sun always sets, Harry knows, and somewhere up there, Zayn is caught in it's ray. He knows this because it was February when the Doctor clasped his hands and lowered his glasses to the bend of his nose- he's very ill- he was saying, but Harry knew that, he'd seen it all - he's sad and next year, he'll be sad again- and Harry swallowed, felt their little world collide with fate and his heart ache from the collision.
It never mends. His heart. And Zayn doesn’t mend and the scars that they carry don’t mend and Harry tries to cover them over, puts plasters over and seals them with remedies and ointments and sometimes they fade as the sun is rising and Zayn is planting soft kisses at his neck and twisting his fingers through his hair
but they come back, as winter always does.
So as the days get longer and the nights get lighter, Harry starts taking photos of Zayn and every morning he captures a different smile, heart warms at the glow in Zayn’s eye and the blush of his cheeks and the bruise on his lips. He sees a lost and found poster on a tree by the sweet shop one morning in July and the idea comes to him, it kind of unfolds slowly but once it starts growing he gets a little infatuated by it.
Every morning he takes a photo, February till August and it works like instinct, becomes like breathing and -what are you doing with these- Zayn says sleepily, his words hazy with dreams - you’ll see- Harry says but that isn’t true.
Zayn doesn’t see, he’ll never see because it’s early September now and the days are getting shorter and Zayn is getting sad again and- shut the window - Zayn is saying because it’s cold and the clouds and the wet and the dark are coming and Zayn’s losing his light, Harry almost feels it drain away
and - smile- Harry says one morning, camera in hand but - no, I can’t, I’m tired - Zayn is saying - I just want to sleep, leave me, please - he’s muttering and Harry just wants more time, he just wants more time but winter is here and it’s too late.
So he starts this thing up. And every morning he stretches out the end of a balloon and slips one of the summer photos inside it. Sometimes he selects the photo at random and smiles when he sees Zayn beaming back at him, hair a little lighter from the sun, face a little rounder
and he ties a piece of string to the end, pumps the balloon and lets it sail off into the icy morning and up, up, up. Everything goes up and sometimes he can see a glint of Zayn’s face as the balloon sets off into the sky and it’s like lost and found, really
because Zayn’s up there somewhere, he thinks, he’s up there lost in the darkest of clouds, trapped behind the sun. And maybe there’s someone up there who will see the balloons, Harry thinks, maybe they’ll find it and they’ll bring Zayn home and maybe he won’t be gone till Spring this time.
+
It’s March 2nd when Harry feels soft, cold hands at his stomach, pressing a little, making him squirm and then letting go. And he’s felt the change for a few weeks now, that little tickle inside when Zayn makes a sarcastic comment or throws a knowing look, a sweet kiss that lingers longer than it should, hands trailing through his hair in the middle of the night, the hum of Zayn’s voice in the shower, that faint little glow.... and there....there it goes.
The balloon slips through his fingers and it doesn’t really matter if it doesn’t reach the sky this time because the sun is coming up now, and Zayn’s there too.