Bring Color to My Skies (Ziam)

Part 1

In the crowd alone
And every second passing reminds me I'm not home
Bright lights and city sounds are ringing like a drone
Unknown, unknown

Zayn squared his shoulders, straightening his hair as he stared into the mirrored wall of the lift. He raised his chin, schooling his features into a mask of indifference, grateful that the bump he'd done in the loo just off the lobby seemed to be doing its job. Energy thrummed through him, buzzing across his skin and sharpening his senses. All too soon he arrived on his floor, a quick glance at his phone reminding him of where he needed to head next.

He shook his head to vanquish the lingering reluctance he felt, purposefully forcing his movements to appear strong and confident and he walked down the brightly lit hallway. His lifted one side of his mouth into a lazy smirk as he raised his fist to knock on the door, but inside he felt the same rush of nerves that he always did.

This was the part of every date that he hated the most. The seconds before the moment of truth, when he had no idea who was standing on the other side of the door, or what they would want from him. More than once he'd begged Ana to get more information when she arranged the dates; to find out how old the john was, and whether they wanted Zayn on his hands and knees or tied to the bed; for him to be sweet and charming or rough and cocky.

But apparently it wasn't her place to ask such things up front, just as it wasn't Zayn's place to know what type of situation he was walking into. It was unsettling, never knowing if they'd want to chat him up a bit, pretending like it was a real date, or if they'd prefer to get straight to business, forcing Zayn to play into whatever fantasy they'd been harboring in the months it took for them to build up the courage to call the number on the little black card they'd been handed, their boss or roommate from uni or favorite bartender promising a night of discreet fun with no consequences.

Because that was what people wanted Zayn for. What they used him for; hours of pleasure without any repercussions on their daily lives; the only lasting effect the memories they'd use to get off for years to come while their unsuspecting wives slept next to them. And Zayn used them right back, soaking up their praise and lust and attention, spending their money and fucking away their hours as he pleased.

Zayn rapped on the door, three hard knocks whose echos were muffled by the lush carpet under his feet and the thick brocade wallpaper lining the walls. Zayn only met his clients at the best hotels in London, but he had to admit that this one was even nicer than most. He stood up a little straighter, fully aware of how beneficial another rich regular would be to his bank account as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

He'd just raised his hand to knock again when the door finally swung open. A man close to his own age filled the doorway, his shoulders broad beneath his crisp, black business suit. He wasn't much bigger than Zayn, but his presence made him seem larger than he was, his gaze firm and unforgiving as he looked Zayn up and down disinterestedly, taking in his black trousers and halfway unbuttoned white shirt, the tattoos lining his chest and the rings circling his fingers, his expression never changing.

Zayn couldn't tell if the man liked what he saw, but he knew that he did. The stranger before him was fit as fuck, his skin tan and his jaw sharp. Zayn's smirk turned into a genuine grin, the evening already looking up.

"I'm Zayn," he said, holding out a hand with an easy smile.

The man looked at the hand stretched between them for a moment before taking it in his own, his grip strong. "Liam," he said curtly, releasing Zayn's hand as soon as the word had passed his lips. He stepped back, allowing Zayn to enter. The room was huge, a wall of windows looking out over the heart of London, and Zayn could just make out Big Ben in the distance.