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The sound of his feet pounding against the pavement is synced to his heartbeat, his blood thumping in his ear and distracting him from the ache that is taking over his calve muscles.
Once a week, Coach Grabe holds a one-on-one private practice with Zayn, and today was that day. The only thing that is helping Zayn push through the hour and a half session is the reminder that it's Friday and he will be able to go home straight after.
"HARDER, MALIK! RUN HARDER!" The shouts are accompanied by a rapid string of claps coming.
Zayn rolls his eyes, but continues with his run, willing to endure Grabe's obnoxious commentary finish faster. It's not that he doesn't want to run, he just wishes he could run in peace, without someone watching him, tracking his every move, recording and jotting down when he finishes a lap. He just wants to run, not train. Training is just adding to the weight that had accumulated on his shoulders during the school week.
With homework assignments being thrown at him from left to right, project due dates creeping up behind him and strangling him with their demands, and people being seemingly oblivious and ignoring all of his attempts to brush off conversations, it was all too much for him. And it's only the first month into the school year. How the hell is he going to make it through the year?
"TIME!" Coach yells as the young, raven-haired teen speeds by him. "I SAID 'TIME', MALIK!"
He slows down to a paced trot, turning his head over his shoulder. "I think I'm gonna keep running for a bit more." Perhaps it could help ease the ball of tension that he's feeling.
"Extra laps are unnecessary, we've had a perfectly fine training session. You're done. Go get changed and go home," Coach states, arms crossed firmly across his chest as he stares at the young runner.
Before Zayn can even try arguing, Grabe turns away, ending the conversation.
"Dick," Zayn mutters under his breath. He makes his way to the benches on the side of the track, picking up his water bottle and taking small sips. He lays down on the bench, not bothering with his cool-down stretches, which he might (will definitely) regret later. He stars up at the sky through the glass ceiling, wishing he could be somewhere up there. The clouds in the Sky look fluffy, like big wads of cotton that were made for angels to sleep on.
His eyelids feel heavy as he continues picturing how it would feel to lay on clouds, exhaustion coursing through him. He lays there for minutes, basking in the silence. That was until the gym door swung open, loud, disturbing the bubble Zayn had managed to momentarily surround himself in.
Coach whistles a light tune as he walks in. The high-pitched sound stops mid breath when the older man notices Zayn. "Why are you still here?" He asks, beginning to walk the student's way.
Zayn shrugs, returning his head to lay against the bench. "Just wanted to lay here a little bit."
Grabe sighs at the glum tone interlaced in the response. "Did you do your stretches?" Zayn shakes his head no. "Have fun being sore this weekend, kid." Coach leans over the boy, staring down at him. What's wrong, Malik?"
"Nothing. Just tired. Had a good practice."
The coach scoffs. "You wanted to keep doing more laps; you only do that when something's wrong. Now let's try this again, what's wrong, Malik?" Zayn doesn't need to have his eyes open to know that Coach Grabe is glaring down at him with his stern eyes. "Is it school, need me to talk to your teachers?"
"Uncle Grabe, I'm fine."
"You sure, son?" Zayn nods, opening his eyes and sending up a failed attempt at a reassuring smile. Grabe shakes his head, patting the young boy's shoulder.
"Are you coming over for tonight?" Zayn asks, groaning as he sits up.
"Your dad wants me to come watch the game, so yeah. I'll probably go home and take a shower, though."
Zayn stands, picking up his water bottle while grabbing his gym bag in the other hand. "Well I'm gonna head home now. I'll see you later."
"Bye, kid." Grabe's response grows faint as Zayn walks off, missing the worried look on the coach's face.
-
Zayn steps out of the gym, immediately spotting his car. The air is humid and the clouds in the sky are dark with threats of precipitation. He unlocks his car and throws his gym bag into the backseat, beside his backpack. The sight of the backpack dampens his mood even more, reminding him of the hours of homework he is facing this weekend.
He closes the door once he is sat in the driver's seat, throwing his head back against the seat and taking a deep breath. The clouds chose then to let go, the fat raindrops splattering as they hit the car windows.
Ringing sounds from inside the car, barely audible through the loud downpour.
Zayn turns his body, reaching into his backpack to retrieve his phone.
He doesn't have to see the caller ID to know who it is. He quickly answers the call, putting the phone up against his ear.
"Hi, sorry, baba, I wa-"
"You are late, Javaad."
Zayn bites his lip, nervously scratching his nails against the steering wheel. "I apologize."
A huff from Yaser is heard from the other side, a clear sign that Zayn is still getting an earful the second he enters the house. "I will be home in just a few minutes, I'm already in the car. I promise, baba."
His father ends the call without bothering to respond.
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He spends the short ride home talking himself up, muttering 'Don't fret, Zayn!", "It's not your fault you are late!", "Don't be scared!" Of course his small pep talks never do much for him, but there's no one else to run to for advice on how to handle his father. It's just Zayn.
He curses himself for letting his mind stray to her, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. It feels like his chest tightens as the image of his mother takes over his thoughts. He sees her warm, brown eyes, her curled hair thrown over her shoulder. But it's her smile that makes it feel like a knife is being stabbed into his chest. The way the apples of her cheeks raise, lifting the corners of her lips and making her laugh lines apparent. Zayn has a smile of his own ghosting his lips as he remembers the many times he has been the one putting the smile on her face.
He misses her. And it hurts him to think about how much he misses her.
Memories don't ease pain, he reminds himself.
Zayn blinks away tears as he parks the car in the driveway, taking a deep breath before grabbing his bags and jumping out of the car.
The rain has eased up, but his clothes are still splotched with rain drops by the time he reaches the front porch. His fingers stumble as they go to locate the house key hanging on his keychain. He manages to unlock the door after a couple tries, cleaning his feet on the welcome mat in front of the door.
As soon as the door is closed behind him, he hears his father's heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. He shuts his eyes, a chill of fear running up his spine.
"You missed dinner, Javaad." His father leans up against the door frame to his office, eyebrows arched, ready for Zayn to explain.
"Baba, I had my practice with Uncle Grabe today. I thought I sent you a message," Zayn says. His voice doesn't waver like it has many times before, having spent many hours of his life training himself to learn how to cloak his fear and lies. He knows he didn't send a text. He didn't even know he had practice today, Grabe having the tendency to think he can schedule Zayn anytime he wants, which always results in Zayn getting in trouble.
Yaser takes out his phone, already having the texts between him and Zayn out, knowing his son would use the same excuse he has used time and time again.
"He doesn't tell me when we are going to have our practices, baba! I don't know what else to say! You can ask him tonight, when he comes. He decides when we practice, I don't have a say!" Need new lies! He says, making a note to himself.
His father shakes his head. "Grabe is no longer a coach the second he leaves that school campus, I will not ask him about work. This is your responsibility, it is your schedule. Do not try to pin this on me!"
Zayn stares at his father, frustrated. His jaw tenses, his nostrils flaring as he tried to gain control of his rising anger. If he tries arguing, his father will really get angry. After living with the man for all his life, he is well aware of all that his father is capable of. "Yes, sir. I'll bring this matter up to him on Monday."
Yaser nods, content with the response. Just like every other time he wins an argument. A shaky breath leaves Zayn once his father returns to his office to continue his work. He doesn't know how he managed to get off that easily. Zayn checks once again to confirm Yaser's office door is closed before beginning to head upstairs.
On any other Friday, the father and son would be in the living room, watching the History channel, because that was the only channel the two could agree on. But since Zayn arrived so late, this is Yaser's attempt to teach the boy a lesson.
A stupid lesson, Zayn mutters in his head. He hates the History channel. He only ever agreed to watch it because it was better than watching sports and having to deal with his father trying to convince him to try another sport.
A sigh of relief leaves him as he reaches his bedroom. His nimble hands push the door open, releasing his grip on his bags, and placing them by his closet.
The room is dark from the lack of sunlight outside, but he's so familiar with his room that he's able to maneuver his way to the lamp beside his bed without stumbling. He flips it on, as he pulls off his t-shirt, throwing it off to the side of the room. His shoes and pants soon follow.
He stretches, feeling slightly grimy with sweat. But the disgust and urge to take a shower go away the second he lays down on his bed. He reaches under him, pulling back the blanket and slipping in under them. The comfort of his bed welcomes him as he soaks in its warmth. He turns onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillows.
This is the escape he has been searching for all week. He doesn't have to do anything but lay there. Of course, his escape can't last long. He eventually has to get up from bed and shower, and eating would probably be a smart thing to do.
So many responsibilities, he screws his eyes shut tight. Too many responsibilities.
A long sigh leaves Zayn's fatigued body. He wraps the sheets even closer to his body, while he nuzzles his head into the pillows.
With the blanket covering one ear and the pillows covering the other, he is able to block out any sounds. And with that silence, he is able to doze off.
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Okay, so that's kind of a peek into the Malik family. What'd you think? Sorry if there's any typos, I write super late at night so I might mess up a couple times.
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Thank you for reading xx