Hurrying down the stairs with Zayn's dirty shirt in my clutch, I walked into the washing room and set the item on top of the washing machine, ready to work off my confusion and stress.
How do you clean vomit off cotton? I had a feeling that it was a handwash kind of thing.
Travelling, and grumbling, from the washing room to the cupboard under the stairs, I began to search frantically for a pair of rubber gloves. Gripping the found couple of yellow hand protectors, I suddenly remembered the spark of an idea that I'd had not so long ago.
Zayn needed clothes and the only male that lived in my house was my dad. There was no way that my dad's clothes would fit Zayn as well as there was no way that I would dare offer them to my unexpected guest. But there was another collected of male clothes in the house that would fit Zayn. Finn had left his shopping in the foyer...
Damn my kind nature and loyalty to Zayn. Still cursing, I strolled to the 'dumping area' of the entrance hall and hovered over Finn's shopping bags. Two large bags full of new underwear, t-shirts and socks.
It looked like Finn was going to have a collect a sum of money compensation rather than his bag of buys.
Did the fact that I was helping someone, who was evidently in need, justify borrowing clothes, without consent, of a boy who had confessed his feelings to me only hours ago? And if it didn't... Would it be wrong if I pretended that it did?
I looked over my shoulder, half expecting a person to be shaking their head in disappointment behind me. I pushed Zayn's rucksack out of the way and reached for Finn's bags... Then stopped.
Retraced one step backwards. Back to Zayn's rucksack. Zayn's rucksack of important things. How was it that he'd managed to travel to London with no other outfit but the tainted attire on his back? Were clothes not a priority for him? What were the things that he deemed important enough to pack?
As curiosity won me over, I found myself sneakily unzipping Zayn's sports bag and glancing at each possession inside.
A large pack of Skittles. (Typical)
His Blackberry.
His Blackberry's battery.
A pack of cigarettes.
An empty bottle of Coke.
Some condoms. (My heart shuddered)
Another large pack of Skittles.
His silver lighter.
A half empty glass bottle of vodka.
An empty pack of Quavers.
His wallet.
And a small plastic bag half filled with bundles of a greenish herb.
Something told me that the herb wasn't oregano. My heart sunk like the Titanic on 15th April 1912. Drugs.
-x-x-x-x-
I sat on the edge of my king-size bed and fiddled incessantly with my fingers. I'd carried two of Finn's shopping bags up with me, regardless of the disgust I was currently feeling. Drugs? Fuck. There I was thinking that Zayn was being timid because he was feeling broken and remorseful, but he was probably so high that he didn't even know what was happening. That stupid bastard...
Suddenly, my blue bedroom door flew open and Zayn waltzed in, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. I didn't even acknowledge the girlish design of the fluffy fuchsia towel he wore; all I could see was his toned chest and dark hair dripping wet... The prominent ink of his tattoo... Whatever argument I was planning on flinging at him, seemed to float right out of my head.
YOU ARE READING
My Beautiful King
FanficI think--I think when it's all over, It just comes back in flashes, you know? It's like a kaleidoscope of memories. It just all comes back. But he never does. I think part of me knew the second I saw him that this would happen. It's not really anyth...
