The Sin of an Angel

Chapter One

The soft, led tip of a pencil stroked across the blank page. A dark-haired boy sat lazily on his cushioned seat, his body relaxed, yet his mind. With each stroke he became more and more confused of what he was drawing. His hand seemed to move on its own, with no thought to what his intention to sketch was when he first brought out his art supplies. Feathers and tattoos sprouted upon the sheet before him. He was mesmerized by the developing person in front of him. The incredible features beginning to take shape had put him in a trance where this was the only thing that mattered.

A bang echoed through his dimly lit room. A screech of his name could be heard. "Zayn! Mate, I'm home!" Zayn huffed out a frustrated sigh, knowing the magnificent work before him would not be finished until his flat mate left him alone.

He slowly crept up to his cracked door, silently shutting it whist locking it in the process. A breath left Zayn's mouth when he realized he wouldn't be disturbed by him. He pressed his forehead against the door before glancing at his almost finished drawing over his shoulder. A drawing he had now lost all hope of finishing. A moment where he gets so utterly lost in his artwork that he doesn't know what he's drawing, doesn't happen often. Now it's ruined. The beautiful portrait of what seemed to be an angel, will most likely remained unfinished.

Slowly, he moved away from his place on the door, moving a few spaces to the confined space of his closet. Hangers shook as he raked through all the miscellaneous of clothing. Soon he was dressed in black skinny jeans with a hoodie he didn't know he owned covering his torso. He slipped out of his flat, double checking to make sure it had been locked behind him. Zayn walked down the concrete steps until he was at ground level.

The harsh November wind whipped against his face, blowing his perfectly styled hair in front of his eyes. Zayn began the trek to campus, one he made every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. He clutched his hoodie tighter to his body, trying to push the hair from his eyes to see the sidewalk in front of him. Ten minutes of speed walking, Zayn finally was trailing up the steps leading to his first art class of the day.

As the door opened corridor, a heated gust of air feel upon the shivering boy, causing him to pause to embrace the warmth. Glancing down to his watch, his heart skipped of beat to see that he was already five minutes late to class. He pivoted to his right, quickly making his way down the hall. Just as he was in sight of the classroom, a much larger body that his own clumsily stubbled into him. His back made contact with the tile floor, already bruising from the harsh fall.

Zayn turned his head to the left to see a mop of dark chocolate curls giggling on the floor next to him. The head turned to show off dazzling green eyes that were staring at the scowl rested on Zayn's face. The lanky man, or rather boy, rose to his feel extending a hand for him to take. Reluctantly, Zayn grasped the abnormally big hand and was hoisted to his feet. "Sorry about that, I'm really clumsy. At least that's what Lou tells me. I'm Harry." He offered up a smile showing off two rows of perfectly straight teeth.

He tilted his head to the side, very obviously waiting for Zayn to introduce himself. "So do I get to know the name of the man I just pushed to the floor?" Harry innocently questioned. Zayn shook his head, wondering why he was getting déjà vu from seeing the head of brown curls. "I'm Zayn." He managed to mumble out, directing his gaze to floor beneath him.

Harry beamed at the comment before his eyes wondered to the ground behind Zayn. "Is that your pen?" His gaze shifted from his feet to the area Harry was looking. A very bulky, metallic pen rested on the space near the wall. "Nope." Zayn snapped, wondering why the stranger continued to carry on the conversation.

Harry walked around Zayn and delicately picked up the pen and twirled it between his fingers. "Well, couldn't hurt to have a spare." Harry brought his hand closer to Zayn, with the pen now resting on his palm. "Listen, mate, I'm just trying to get to art class. Just leave the pen."

Harry's mouth dropped at the attitude displayed towards him. His forehead began to dampen, and his eyes darted to both end of the hallway as if he was looking for someone. "Zayn, just take the pen. Would be a waste just leaving it here."

The shorter man quickly took the pen from Harry's possession and walked into his art class. The interaction had him on edge, but his mind was soon drawn to the paints displayed on his desk next to a clean canvas. Three hours had passed, and Zayn's painting was far from finished. Red and black streaks covered the white material. He took a step back to examine what he has created so far. Again, something unknown to him was placed before him.

Frustrated with his work and inability to comprehend what he painted, he stood from his stool and made his way to the classroom door. His hand was pressed against the handle when a high voice stopped him from doing so. "Don't forget your pen Zayn." His head whipped around and was met with a short feathery haired man with radiant blue eyes. A subtle smirk was plastered along his thin, bubblegum pink lips. "How do you know my name" Zayn cautiously questioned.

The smirk of the other's face only continued to grow. "Well, your paints have Zayn written on them, so I took a wild guess. I'm Louis by the way." Louis made his way other to the art station to grasp the pen in his hand before slyly walking to meet Zayn by the door. "Wouldn't want you to forget this now would we." A chill ran down Zayn's bruised spine.

Instead of resisting like he had done with Harry, he accepted the pen and roughly stuffed it into his hoodie pocket. "Thanks." He muttered, wanting to end this conversation as soon as possible. "I suppose this is where we part ways. I'll see you soon." With that last phrase Zayn was out the door rushing. Deciding to skip his 1:00pm class, he started the cold walk back to his flat.

Questions swirled in his head from the two interactions he had experienced today. The pen felt heavy in his pocket, and he withheld the urge to chuck it into a gutter and never look back. He scurried up the concrete steps, promptly unlocking his flat door and rushing to his room. He grabbed his sketch book and travel art supplies, putting them carelessly into an old backpack. He removed the pen from his pocket and twirled it in his fingers just as Harry did. Something was strange about it. It was thicker and heavier than any other pen he has seen. He tossed it in his cup holder, questioning as to why he was overthinking about a pen.

He slung the backpack on and locked the flat door before making his way to the Starbucks next door to his flat. Zayn sat down in an isolated coroner. His chilled fingertips went to work emptying the backpack before him. The pencil pressed against the paper and time stood still. The picture from this morning was finally going to be finished. Feather morphed into damaged wings and defined features were added to the face. The last thing Zayn sketched were the eyes. These bone chilling, attention catching eyes. The eyes that didn't look as innocent as the damaged wings that rested on his back did.

The sketch book was slammed shut immediately. He sluggishly walked up the concrete stairs and barely making it onto his floor before running into to yet another person. A tall boy with wavy, short hair stood there with a box in his hand and a necklace that said 'N.H.' on it. To his left, was a slightly shorter man with brownish blonde hair and a button up. He had a box pressed between one hand and his hip while his other arm was tightly secured around the other's waist. He could smell a strong cologne radiating off of one of the two men. The shorter one opened his mouth to speak but was quickly cut off with a shake of Zayn's head.

He dashed into his flat and falling right on his messy bed to fall asleep. He didn't bother to wonder why his front door was mysteriously unlocked. He didn't seem to realize the empty closet on the opposite side of his room or the lingering smell of slightly familiar cologne.