the boy who loved the moon «on hold»

three

The first thing I took notice of was the smell. It was strong, masculine, with a touch of fresh mint. It smelled earthy and somewhat rough, nothing like the vanilla smell that was characteristic of my room. Then, the sheets. How they were a bit ragged and crumbled, maybe even torn from the edges. I could feel the immense headache immediately, but that wasn't what I was worried about at the moment. All I could think about was the fact that I wasn't home.

And I was very scared.

I opened my eyes as slowly as I could, greeted by a dark room. Sunbeams streamed from the window, though only by the sides due to the curtain over it. There were two white walls staring back at me, the third half-covered in newspaper and spray paint. It had numerous designs and sketches, some of them colored with paint and some others in black. There were at least 30 different drawings, give or take, and none of them were exactly the same although some were fairly similar.

I tried to sit up gradually to not intensify the pain in my head, not that the headache would go away that easily anyway, as I took notice of the rest of the room. There were several pieces of clothing scattered on the floor, as well as many bottles of spray paint, and a few papers here and there, most balled up and tossed to the side.

My eyes shifted over to the nightstand, a fresh glass of water and a packet of aspirins next to it. I wanted to quickly grab both and swallow a few pills, but my head would not cooperate and I had to do that calmly too, finishing the water after getting two aspirins in my system. I wanted to get up and look around to see if someone else was here, yet I stayed seated for a bit longer, letting the pain subsided some before I swung my legs to the side of the bed. As they dangled somewhat, I itched closer to the edge until I felt the floor beneath my feet and stood.

I watched the floor carefully as I walked, also making sure not to bump into anything. I made it all the way to the door, opening it ever so quietly to not make any noise. Not that it would've made much of a difference, I realized, when the music almost slapped me as I finally opened the door. It wasn't precisely loud -I couldn't hear it from inside the room- but it was loud enough to make me step back and close my eyes for a moment. I waited silently as I got used to it, opening my eyes and moving towards its source. I looked around the hallway, taking note of another door at the end of it, one in front of me, and nothing else obstructing the way - it'd be pretty stupid to put something else in there, a person could barely fit due to how narrow it was.

I finally made it out of the hallway and saw the living room in front of me. It was barely even a living room - just a sofa, a coffee table, and a tv on the side - but I guess you could call it that. There was a window all the way to the right, opposite to the tv, that gave all the light in the room. Across from me, at the other side of the room, was the other side of what I assumed to be the kitchen counter and a single swinging door.

Just before I yelled out for someone, I saw a man's back through the counter window, his head jumping up and down at the rhythm of the music.

Zayn, my head processed in a heartbeat, even though I didn't even remember half of what had happened last night. I remembered a man, slender, fit, with long, dark brown hair, and soft hazel eyes. His chin lined with a soft stubble and his light skin tainted with black ink, mostly on his arms and a bit on his chest. I remembered a few glasses of a clear, reddish pink color. I remembered laughing and saying a lot of things, yet I didn't remember how I ever got to this small apartment.

"And now we're just outside of town, and you're making your way down," Zayn sang softly while he kept cooking over the stove. He was oblivious, I thought, that I was even here watching him.

"I didn't know you could sing," I speak up as I sit down on one of the stools under the counter. Zayn doesn't look surprised by my sudden appearance, as he keeps cooking and humming to the song softly.

"You didn't ask," he chuckled as he put whatever he was cooking on two plates. He then turned to me, setting both plates on the counter along with two forks, smiling with his teeth. "I'm guessing your head hurts pretty badly right now."

"What did you give me last night?" I wonder resting my head in my hands, closing my eyes for a moment. I can hear him laugh above the music even, a sonorous melody that could make anyone melt in an instant. I force myself to open my eyes to see him, watching as his eyes turned to narrow slits and his teeth showed just beyond his lips, that lifted upwards in happiness.

"Oh, Morgan, you were the one that kept asking for one more drink," Zayn pointed out once he was able to stop laughing. He set two steaming mugs on the counter before getting out of the kitchen and joining me on the stool beside mine. He grabbed one of the mugs and took a careful sip, nudging the other towards me. "It's coffee with a bit of sugar and milk."

I nod a bit absentmindedly at him wrapping my fingers around the handle, taking a look at the contents inside. It was a tan colored liquid, the rich smell of the coffee filling my nose. I let my mouth curve along the edge as I tasted the beverage, a relieved sigh escaping my lips as it made its way down my throat.

After we finished eating the delicious breakfast Zayn had made - eggs, toast, and bacon - he let his eyes fall on me, sipping the last of his coffee. "So, where am I taking you now?"

Choking on my last piece of toast, I cough loudly gripping the counter for support. It takes me a good minute or so to stop coughing and I clear my throat. "What?" I can barely get out.

"Yeah, where will I take you? I mean, you told me you didn't want your parents to see you drunk so I brought you here, but I can take you now," he explains to me, his attention on me directly.

I let out a breath, rubbing my face with my hands for a few seconds while I thought. I mean, Zayn seemed like a nice guy, right? He took me to his place and let me sleep instead of sleeping with me or just leaving me on the street. He made me breakfast even though I owe him nothing - hell, I owe him a lot more than what I'll ever be able to pay. There's nothing wrong with asking anyway, right? "Well, I actually wanted you to help me out with something."

a/n: so, finally, after six months, there's an update. I hope you guys like it and comment/vote because I'd love it if you did.

updates will take less time now, hopefully, but I'm also updating other stories so please bear with me.

and a photo of Morgan to the side, that's how I imagine her to be.

- andy .x