The Way It Is ! ** Ziam

Part 6

It's not the greatest neighbourhood, for sure, but that doesn't really bother him. He's still reeling, buzzing, high on adrenaline from tonight's show, and he will be for hours. That's how it works; either a show wears him out, and it's all he can to do get into an actual bed before he crashes, or his energy is jacked up so high that he can't sit still. Later, when that crash finally does come, it'll be worse. But totally worth it.

There's a bell above the door that chimes as Louis pushes it open, and their one security guard (mandatory, they keep pretty close tabs on him and Louis… for good reason, admittedly) takes up the rear, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest. It'd be a threatening move, if they were anywhere else. But for some reason the stocky man behind the desk at the back of the room, body covered in swirling art, is way more intimidating.

"This place is great," Zayn says, taking it all in. There's a certain air to tattoo shops, the grittier ones, that he loves. The walls, just like the man, are covered. There's black paint underneath, but you can only see cracks of it through all the framed artwork, the tacked up pieces of paper with drawings on them.

"You sure you're not getting anything?" Louis asks for the third time that night.

Zayn shakes his head. "Not tonight."

Louis shrugs and makes his way to the counter, his paper with the shoes on it clutched in his hand. Zayn makes his way around the room, careful to stay away from the equipment and chairs. He knows his boundaries in these places, and while he could definitely afford to pay if he accidentally broke anything, he doesn't want to risk it. Money can't replace sentimentality, and this place is practically glowing with it.

"The ones on the wall are all personal designs," says a voice to his right, and Zayn jumps. He chances a glance at his security, but the guy just blinks at him. "One use only. As soon as they're paid for, we take 'em off the wall. Keeps 'em original, special, you know. Drew them myself."

The voice belongs to an old woman. She's got greying hair and a map of wrinkles on her face. She's also got so much ink that it looks like she bathes in it, and there's a row of studs in her left ear, going all the way up the cartilage.

"Really," Zayn says, eyebrows raising. It's not meant to sound so incredulous, but it does.

"What? Thought a man drew 'em?" she asks, looking more amused than offended.

"Maybe," Zayn admits, because he did. The art on the wall is a similar style to a lot of stuff he's seen, a bit more edgy than anything he's personally gotten. Bleeding roses, daggers, anatomically correct hearts. He stops on one, a little high up. It's a fish, drawn in extreme detail. Something big, vibrantly coloured, each scale made up of a different colour so they all blend together in a rainbow sort of effect. Each of its fins are wrapped in barbed wire. "So what's this one mean, then?" he asks, tapping the picture. "If you drew it, I mean, then what was it supposed to represent? Or did you just think it looked cool?"

"What's it mean?" the woman repeats. She shrugs. "'s up to you, isn't it? Beauty's in the eye of the beholder and all that crap, right? Doesn't matter what it means to me. Matters what it means to you."

"How much?" Zayn wonders.

Another shrug. "Depends on where you want it. How big."

He chews his lip for a moment and turns his gaze to Louis, who's already in a chair with that burly man prepping his arm for the tattoo. Not somewhere that obvious, he thinks. Not too big, either. The ankle seems too girly, for some reason, and he's already got tattoos on his hips. Definitely not his back or shoulders. He taps the back of his thigh. "Here?"