I woke up to arms around my waist and a warm body beside me. Harry looked absolutely adorable in his sleep, though I would never tell him that. I didn't suppose gang leaders liked being called adorable, even if it was true.
It was obvious that he was out cold, because even as I stirred in his arms, he didn't wake, but I did notice his fingers tighten slightly around my form and I smiled delicately at the protectiveness he held over me even in unconsciousness. After several long minutes I managed to wriggle myself out of his grip without waking him and I padded downstairs in search of food. It had been too long since I'd last eaten.
I found Zayn in the kitchen, his normally perfectly styled quiff a messy disarray. Somehow it still managed to look fashionable. Why was it that a male gang member could have nicer hair than I could?
"Morning," I smiled at him as I entered the room. I immediately detected the scent of bacon and wandered over to see that he had poured half a pound into a frying pan on the stove and it was crackling and sizzling.
"Good morning," he answered. "Sleep alright?"
His question had a double meaning for me. I had slept, once again, without any terrifying nightmares. I was beginning to wonder if they had vanished entirely, but I couldn't be sure.
"Yeah," I nodded. "You?"
"Niall's not my favorite person to bunk with," he smirked. I stifled a laugh. "He likes to roll around a lot in his sleep," he added with a grimace.
"I would have had him sleep on the floor," I replied bluntly. Zayn laughed and nodded in agreement.
We made idle chitchat as the bacon cooked. I learned that Zayn aspired to be an painter someday, and didn't believe on giving up on his dreams just because he was nineteen now. "They're still alive and thriving," he told me.
I told him about my job and how horrible my boss was, but he didn't seem particularly interested in that. He was more intrigued by the fact that I enjoyed writing and wanted to do something more once I got out of the sinkhole I was stuck in.
"We're both types of artists, if you think about it," he mused. "I paint and you write. They're both creative ways of expressing yourself."
"I've never truly expressed myself through writings though," I said slowly. "I only ever write the assignments I'm given." Zayn looked at me incredulously.
"Really, Alice?" he raised an eyebrow. "You've never written anything personal? Not even a simple sentence that might have tapped into your emotions somehow? I'm sure you saw my paintings in my room. Each one of those, no matter how misinterpreted they may be to someone else, has a special meaning to me. They're never just random splashes of color. It goes deeper than that."
There was one thing I had ever written for myself. It was probably the deepest thing I had ever written, though it was just three words, purely because it was something that was just me. The words were not written by pencil on paper though, but instead ink on skin. It was the only tattoo I harbored, and it had been kept a secret from absolutely everyone. No one knew I had it.
I had received it during my time with Seth. I was at a point where I felt like I was drowning in the horror of what I lived through almost every day, so I went and got the words etched permanently onto my skin.
"Alice?" Zayn's voice pulled me away from my thoughts but I cast my eyes downward, unsure if I should share this one very personal thing with him. It seemed wrong almost to do so, when Harry should be the first to know.
My mind immediately thought about him. It was as if I was attuned to Harry, wondering how every tiny action would affect him. Would this make him angry, me sharing a part of me with Zayn? Despite the fact that I had never trusted someone more than I trusted Harry, Zayn seemed to be the type of person who had many secrets of his own, and after thinking it through a few times in the awkward silence that had ensued, I decided that he would be the first one to know.
