The wanted murderer L.S.

Unexpected Beauty.

Zayn had lived a lonely childhood.

He was from a poor area of a poor town, living with his mother and five siblings above a takeaway shop.
He'd grown up in a family of women, besides a twin brother who he no longer saw. He didn't, in fact, see any of his family nowadays—not ever since he betrayed their trust, religion, and morality back when he was younger.
He'd spent the latter part of his teenage years trying to get his life back on track. He'd tried to find a school, tried to get a job, and tried so very hard to find someone older to help him.

Fortunately, he'd always had an eye for unexpected beauty. He craved day and night for bright wonders born in the darkest places. Stones he could crack open and find diamonds within, crowds he could search for a face that'd look back.
He starved for roughness around the ages, and gold swirling within.

Art had been his saviour-he'd sat on the streets and sold the most remarkable paintings, up until the day an old woman had come along and offered him a small artisan job in London.

His own loneliness made him agree in a heartbeat.
Summer passed, as did many seasons after. It was in the Autumn time when the old woman met death in her sleep. The artisan job seemed to have no point or meaning, and Zayn had found himself with a home and an art set, yet no one around to spark the flame in him.

Three years later, a man with Raspberry Rose curls entered the lonely shop.

He was one with the devil in his eyes, one with a hostile message that challenged anyone who met them; a man so prideful that people opened paths for him to walk down in a crowd; for he knew his place, and that place was King.

He commissioned a portrait of a young boy with green eyes and blue curls, standing by a girl just a little younger than he. He demanded they be on a beach somewhere, with a bucket and spade in each hand and smiles on their faces.

His last request-one that Zayn never forgot-was that the piece be so good, it could be mistaken for a photograph.

On the final day of completion, Zayn gave the artwork back his client. The vicious eyes examined every detail of the painting- every stroke of the brush to every drop of colour. Zayn's client appreciated the time and work spent, as all good men at heart would.
The roughness about him seemed to pass as he examined the rest of the work in that shop. The roughness about him seemed to pass as he examined the rest of the work in that shop. The more he stayed, and the more he talked-the more he piqued Zayn's interest. He was misunderstood, a bit eccentric, perhaps; he'd done ballet once. He told Zayn that he wanted to be a poet; and that art this good was a skill to not let go of.

Those were the words that took the lonely artist by the taut strings of his heart and reeled him in.
Zayn fell head first into every demand the man had for him; any portrait, any sculpture, any creation that the man would pay for -Zayn made for him.

And there reached the point where the man with Raspberry Rose curls became Zayn's entire life; where every part of his own heart and mind was consumed by the thought of him. The creations turned into something darker; moving from a tiny studio to a carpark; from lifeless eyes on a canvas to a limp figure in blood on the ground. Zayn had always had an eye for unexpected beauty; it was his biggest strength and unfortunate weakness, for as all dying prey in a leech's sight-the man had latched onto him.

***

Niall watched Zayn quietly, as the early morning light shone through the low-down window onto the artist's face as he slept. It wasn't a soundless sleep, but he'd never been one to feel at peace with himself. Niall had seen Zayn during the quiet hours of the night once before, when he'd stayed over at Louis' house and they'd all camped in the garden.
Even then, Niall had woken up to see Zayn sitting alone on the grass, gazing up at the stars as if he were visiting an old friend.