Rogue (Zayn Malik)

Chapter 5: The hangover

When you wake up with a headache and your nemesis right next to you on the bed, it's your cue to know nothing good happened the night before.

"Crap, the sun."

And the lesson goes, 'maybe you should have stayed home last night.'

I scrunched up my face towards the open window curtains and groaned like a baby. My limbs hurt to the point where I knew that just one painkiller wouldn't work at all.

"Somebody close that bloody thing."

My whines and an empty room. What was I expecting?

"Zayn? Can you please get that thing?" No answer. "Zayn?" No answer. "Zayn-What the freaking shit in the world are you doing in my bed?"

It was like I had to hear my own self speaking to realise Zayn, of all people that ZAYN, was in my bed. Right next to me. Sleeping right next to me. Oh my God.

I sprang from my lying position in a second as the pain sat forgotten. The first sight my eyes chose to soak in was whether he was sober, clothes wise, and thank Jesus that he was all covered up. The leather jacket from last night was there, so was that t-shirt although I could see some yellow-y stuff splattered over the white; maybe alcohol. His hair was disheveled in every sense of the word and matted against my pristine white pillows. Just that they weren't white anymore because there were little drops of bloods, all over it. It seemed like my drawing book from grade two drawing class where we drew scenery by dotting coloured dots from our sharpies. Except here were little dots of blood. And it wasn't just on the pillow, a few 'sharpie' marks were on the duvet as well. He just ruined my two hundred dollar sheets.

"Get the hell out of my bed you dog."

That remark wasn't uncalled for.

"Woah, Mother Teresa. Calm down."

His voice sounded groggy and raw and had I not been hating him from the time I first ever spoke to him, there was a chance, only by a little though, that I would call his tone utterly breathtaking. It's the female hormones, I tell you.

"Calm down? How can I calm down when I wake up with you beside me in my bed and the blood. Where did that come-"

If only he'd let me ever finish my sentence because he started laughing. And it wasn't just any hey-that-was-funny-laugh because I would have been fine with that. No. It had to be the point-at-Anya-and-giggle-like-she-had-just-grown-two-horns-on-her-head.

"What? What is it?"

And rather than scolding him for the childish behaviour I was actually feeling shy over the possibilities of what he could be laughing at. Perhaps I had grown a pair of out-of-the-world-commodities on my head; after all I had no idea what happened last night and I certainly couldn't cross meeting an alien while he got lost with his spaceship and end up somewhere in the alley of Brooklyn that we were partying in last night, off my list without any confirmation. But to my distress, no response. Only louder outbursts of laughter that were undeniably getting on my nerves.

"Are you going to talk? Or just choke on your own spit?"

Any amount of sleep, that would be lurking in the eyes of a normal person just after he woke up, was absent in his. Only an amusement that seemed to fill the entire room with the liveliness that he possessed.

"Do you even remember," he had to hold his abdomen because apparently he was starting to catch up on physical pain, just like me. "What happened last night?"

"If I did I would know about the blood. Now stop laughing and tell me what happened? What happened to my face?" I covered my face, which was also a little hot out of blushing, with my hands and dipped my head low. "My head is pounding."