Zion hasn’t seen that other side of Zayd yet, just the glorious one – the one who knows his worth and projects it for the world to see, like the light of a thousand wild fires are burning inside of him. Zion’s attracted to that intensity, to that energy. He’d be even more intrigued if he knew the lows that plagued Zayd, if he knew how far down the legend could fall, how much he could hate himself. It would all make him even more appealing to Zion who is constantly searching for common threads. That insecurity could stitch them together.
After the initial interest in the band, Zi didn’t think that Zayd (or the others) would want to spend this much time with them – he thought, for certain, that he would be denied when he asked (and he’s been asking a lot because he doesn’t know a lot of people in Los Angeles yet, and he’s terrified). Zayd usually has the time for him – if not to physically hang out then to ease his anxieties with a few well-placed text messages. It’s not like it even requires a lot of effort.
And Zion’s had a thing for Zayd since high school, at least. He had posters and t-shirts and vinyls, had insisted their band do covers of the other guys’ music (actually one of their top watched videos, thank you). Meeting the guy had been terrifying, but Zayd’s everything Zion had hoped he would be and so, so much more. That celebrity crush turned into a legitimate one and was quickly snowballing into something else. Something dangerous.
The way Zayd’s looking at him has a heat coiling in his belly and under the surface of his skin. He’s sure he’s fevered, and he wants to lean into it, let that aura and energy consume him. His gaze is trained on Zayd’s eyes – they’re so intense and pretty – but it falls to his mouth when the other man smirks like that and calls him baby. His nostrils flare slightly, fists curling into the fabric of the sofa just for purchase. “Y-yeah.” He stammers, “I just, we never, I – there’s usually, like, someone else, a buffer? I’m not interesting enough to have all your attention on me.” He confesses, feels like he might throw up. Oh, God, please don’t. He swallows thickly, pretty eyes casting over the entirety of Zayd’s face now, like searching for something even as he levels Zion with that vulnerable honesty. “I’d like to see you less put together, might make me feel better.” He teases, relaxing just a little as the joint is revealed, put between Zayd’s lips, and lit. He breathes in the scent of the smoke, his heart slamming against his breast plate (or so it feels), and swallows again. When the joint is offered to him, he’s slightly embarrassed that he accepts it with trembling fingers, offering Zayd a sheepish smile. “I have anxiety.” He says, like it’s any kind of explanation, then takes a long drag off the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs until it hurts. He fucking coughs when he exhales, but he can’t help it that Zayd’s got some next level shit. “God, trying to kill me?” He asks, eyes watering slightly.
