Z.A.Y.N.

TRACK 7

Four days pass between the time Liam and Zain part ways at the North London studio, and the former kicking off his shoes in the front doorway of the writer's flat.

Not one of those days went by without Liam having to ward off thoughts that would send him into a downward spiral thanks to Zain wanting to sift around in his emotional turmoil. He knows it's for the betterment of their art, which is the statement of justification he's come up with that he thinks might come close to how Zain would put the torture, but Liam's emotions don't seem to care about why they've surfaced; they have and that's all that matters. It's not going to dissipate until some sort of creative work comes out of it either, Liam knows this.

He's stayed at home for the past four days because of it as well, only opening the front door to go to the gym or pop around to the shop to fill the fridge. Thankfully Liam lives alone, otherwise he's sure he'd get shit from his partner or flat mate for moping around as much as he had over something that happened well over twelve years ago.

At one point Liam actually sat himself down in his home studio, pen and paper in hand, ready to write his emotions out of him before Zain had the chance to poke and prod for however long it took to get material for a song Liam wanted nothing to do with. He wanted to just rip the plaster off, because if he could show Zain that 'look, here, I did it' then maybe they could move on and construct words he actually wanted to put on his next album.

But nothing came.

Well, a few tears and balled up pieces of paper came, but that was it. Nothing to act as a Get Out Of Jail Free card for when Zain would inevitably ask for him to take a deep breath and start with the story of his ultimate heartbreak. A thoughtful approach seems like something Zain would use.

"You want a hit?"

Or not.

From where he's sitting on the floor, finishing up the bowl of Weetabix that Zain had made for the two of them after he arrived ("I just woke up and I can't stand the thought of anything overly flavourful at the minute" was Zain's response to the singer's inquiry on why such a boring cereal for a chef like him), Liam peers up to see a joint being pointed his way. Zain's preoccupied with rummaging around his desk to see Liam's surprised expression at the offer his left hand's extending.

"Is it just weed?"

A red lighter shows itself from under one of the many papers scattered about. "Yeah," Zain chuckles as he faces Liam, bringing the tip of the rolled up paper to his lips and lighting it there. "I'm not trying to kill you."

There's a bit of cereal left at the bottom of his bowl, but Liam leaves it, he's too fascinated in the way Zain's whole image changes with the smoke that's swirling around him now. It's seductive, even in a platonic sense; the way the fumes escape the man's lips make him overwhelming alluring.

"If it's not your thing, that's cool. I just thought it'd make things easier for you to talk about the past."

Liam pauses as he stands with their stacked bowls.

"Or I've got alcohol if that's more your thing. You don't seem like you'd want to do this sober."

Continuing to avoid looking Zain in the eye, Liam adjusts the bowls in his hand. "Having something to take the edge off would be good," he agrees, depositing the bowls in the kitchen sink before joining Zain in the sitting room once more.

"I used to smoke cigarettes, but when I started working in kitchens I had to quit," the older male shares as he hands over the joint when Liam walks to where he's opening the large window that's right behind his work desk. "It kinda just happened, since I didn't really have control over my breaks and even when I did, there weren't that many, so I just gave it up altogether. Can't give this up though," he nods to the drag that Liam's just taken.