Finley Abbott and Liam Payne were inseparable since they were little kids. Fast forward to 2012- as they finally meet again. This time, Liam and his bandmates are internationally famous and tour worldwide.
Finley thinks she's got all of Liam's mates figured out, all except one. Zayn Malik.


13. failure to finish.



To my great surprise, Zayn Malik continued to visit me at night time. Sometimes, he'd miss a night, or two, but in the end I'd always find him there. Hanging outside my window, hands shoved in his pockets, usually a cigarette hanging from those cool lips. I don't know why, but for some reason, I let him inside and in turn, so did he. In some messed up metaphorical sense.


When he didn't know what to say, he'd just hum to himself, or ask me to sing for him. He drifted off a couple of times, but I shook him awake so he would leave as he always did, as soon as the night start fading. He started asking more questions about me too, somehow always ending up to do with my unexplainable scars and what happened that night when my hair was butchered to scraps. 


One night, after describing to me expilcitly how it felt after smoking weed and obviously enjoying how visibly I squirmed, he took out a cigarette and put it to his lips. As he tucked the box back into his pocket, he said quietly,


"By the way, Harry wants to invite you over." He seemed fixated on his hands, busily fiddling with his pocket.


"Harry?" I asked, surprised. "Why?" Zayn shrugged.


"He likes you," he muttered with an almost inaudible sigh. He took his lighter out, playing with it absent mindedly. He flicked it on, a warm orange flame bursting from the metal. I watched it, fascinated as it hovered infront of my eyes, the warmth of it brushing my face ever so slightly. Then he flicked it off.


"He probably won't have to wait," he added, flicking the lighter on and off again. "Liam will probably go visit Danielle in London again and drop you off at ours so we have to babysit." I sighed, letting my heap drop to the side, hardly aware it was onto his shoulder. He froze for a second, before gently lowering his head to mine. My eyelids started to flutter closed, when his touch startled me.


His hand was on my upper arm, which he was so fascinated by because of the scars. He trailed his fingertips against the skin lightly, enough to make me shudder.


"When are you gonna tell me what these are?" he asked almost impatiently, fixing his eyes on me. We were so close, I could see the dark speckles in those golden irises. I hesitated.


"One day," I lied. I'd never really be able to trust him enough to look at me without juding me if I ever dared to tell him why I had those marks on me. I found him still studying me closely with a small frown.


"I haven't forgotten the hangover," he spoke abruptly. I knew that somehow, this topic would arise. I felt my cheeks flush with colour uncontrollably.


"What hangover?" I shot back wearily.


"Finley," he said impatiently, in a voice that I could imagine was ringing while he was stomping his foot like a little kid. "Don't do that."


"Do what?" I said snappishly.


"Just ignore things," he muttered, pulling his fingers away from me and crossing his arms over his chest. His cold expression told me enough. I could hardly believe him.


"Me?" I said disbelievingly, "I'm not the one ignoring things!"


"Then why haven't you said anything about what happened in the kitchen?" he demanded angrily.


"Why haven't you?" I snapped back.


"How was I supposed to bring it up?" he asked, bewildered.


"How was I supposed to?" I shot back, narrowing my eyes. He stared at me for at least a good minute, before turning away, muttering,




"That's it?" I asked, "That's how you bring something up in a conversation? You leave it hanging and don't finish what you started?"


"You want me to finish what I started?" he hissed, whipping the unlit cigarette from his lips. "Do you?"


"Go ahead," I braved back, daring him with a smirk. He grabbed my face with his hands, his smoky breath blowing all over my face. OK, well that wasn't what I was expecting. He was leaning in. No. Did I really want this? Maybe. Wait-what? No! I shoved him off me angrily, brushing my pyjamas straight with my hand. "What the fuck?"


"You told me to finish what I started," he said blankly, looking at me in surprise as though he'd expected to sit there while he molested me.


"I didn't mean that!" I hissed pointedly, swallowing thickly.


"Then what did you mean?" he demanded to know, staring at me expectantly. I forced myself to shrug as though it couldn't possibly matter. He made a quite noise of disgust at the back of his throat. "So. This is it, right? The great Finley Abbott Liam told me about. Failed to mention that you were a stubborn bitch with trust issues."


"Well he failed to mention you were an egotistic, self-centred fuck wit with a drug addiction," I snarled back defensively. His eyes narrowed dangerously.


"Are you scared of me, Finley?" he said with a faint smirk, leaning closer to me, forcing me tighter against the side of the bed. "Scared of good old Zayn with the drug addiction?"


"No," I whispered. He puffed his smoky breath in my face again, nearly causing me into a coughing fit.


"Pity," he mumbled back, "I like girls who are scared of me. Usually, they're the easiest ones to pull." My cheeks burned at what he was implying. Just lke the night at the concert. That I was a common whore. My hands closed to fists and I resisted the urge to punch him.


"What if I told Liam?" He froze completely, turning slowly so he was facing me again.


"What?" he asked jerkily.


"What if I told Liam about your habit?" I demanded, my jaw set firmly. "I can't see why he shouldn't know. In fact, I don't see why all the boys shouldn't know."


"They wouldn't believe you," he muttered, but I could see in his eyes, betraying the sense of slight reproach. "No. Not over me."


"They deserve to know."


"That's not your place to make that decision!" he snarled abruptly, getting up. "Fuck, I knew this was a mistake."


"Look," I said quickly, staggering unsteadily to my feet. "They could help you, and you could try stopping-"


"No one," he hissed, grabbing one of my wrists. His grip was tight. "No one can stop me." Then he dropped it viciously, before walking back over to the window.


"Zayn," I tried again, "The drugs, they're not-"


"They're not what? Good for my health?" he gave a humourless laugh. "I'm not fucking stupid, Finley."


"Then let me help you!" I snapped, angry at his defiance. "Why did you tell me all of this, then? Because you were bored and just had a couple of minutes to spare?"


"I don't want your help," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't want anything from you. You have your problems, I have mine. I'm not forcing myself into your life, so stay out of mine!"


Was he bipolar? Why had he bothered to tell me about all of this if he was just trying to push me away in the end?


"Then tell the boys," I suggested, "Let them know, they could help you more than me."


"I don't want their help either," he replied, trying to open the window but failing.


"Those drugs could kill you!" I said, desperate for him to actually listen to me, not just hear me.


"Let them!" he yelled loudly, apparently forgetting that Liam was just down the hallway. "Let them kill me! For god's sake, just fuck off and get your own life!"


He turned and shoved me out of the way. Luckily, this time I fell to my bed instead of into a wall. He shoved my bedroom door open and disappeared. Moments later, I heard the front door open and slam behind him with rattling force.


I forced myself to crawl back into bed. Liam was probably stirring, if not wide awake by now. In the moonlight still peeking from my curtain, I could see my wrist, where he'd gripped me. There were tiny finger marks there, small red blotches where I knew the wounds would bruise.





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