Chapter 4

Louis strode into the Farmer's Market, brushing past a crowd of people in his path. He smiled and apologized several times, eyeing the steaks and other goods they carried as they walked along. He quickly scanned the gorgeous space—its walkways were covered in cobblestone and there was a large, grassy area for relaxation—and found the men he was to meet with. He had planned a day at the marketplace of Rapture for the group of new arrivals (all by himself, of course, arranging events and get-togethers was his forte), and was delighted to see the pair had showed up.

"Lads!" he greeted them. "So sorry to have kept you waiting."

"It's no problem," Zayn replied, shaking his hand. "We haven't been here but a few minutes."

"Someone looks excited," Harry said, grinning.

"I am! This place is great, you know," Louis exclaimed, beaming with adoration. "Rapture is so…perfect. A true Utopia. Great people, great views, and God, it has great food."

"Isn't that the truth," Harry agreed, chuckling.

"Speaking of food, I'm starving. You lads want to take a look around and see what these places have got?" Zayn asked.

"Definitely."

Harry and Louis had both replied at the same time, and shot each other cheeky grins. It was a small, yet prevalent gesture of esteem and approval that brought veneration to their eyes. A flare of energy sparked between their gazes, igniting an ember of coalition within the two.

Amidst the poignant air Zayn stood, watching as a new friendship was silently forged.

"Let's get going, shall we?" he interrupted, clapping his hands against the men's backs. Harry and Louis nodded, beginning to move through the tightly packed, condensed clusters of civilians that dotted the area. It was difficult to maneuver around the thick patches, and it took the trio a while to reach their destinations. They traveled from Paddon Meats to Milton's Fine Quality Cheese, and then to First Class Fruit, Artisan Distilled Water, the Worley Winery and, finally, to the Central Square Bistro.

"I'm beat," Harry said, sinking into the booth of the restaurant. It was another high-class, luxury establishment for Rapture's wealthy. Its booths were comfortable and lush, with soft padding and a sturdy back. There was a bar in the opposite half of the building, fractured conversations and bits of dialogue seeping through the walls.

"How long has it been?" Zayn asked, absentmindedly searching for a clock.

"Four hours," Louis replied, sliding his watch back under his cuff link. "Crazy to think we've been out that long, the wife better be happy…"

"Where is, er…Elouise? Is that her name?"

"Her name is Eleanor," Louis chuckled. "She's off seeing some musical, or play, or whatever down at the Footlight."

"Oh," Harry said.

"Liam!" Zayn shouted, suddenly. He waved a hand in the air at the lone man—who glanced around in confusion—motioning for him to head over. Liam groaned softly, careful not to let the uneasiness he felt slip in his features.

"Hello," he said when he reached the booth. "Did you need something?"

"Uh, well, I wanted to know what you were doing here alone," Zayn lied.

"It's not as though I have anyone else to be here with," Liam stated plainly. He wasn't looking for pity or solace from any of them; to him it was just a clear and simple fact that he lived in solitude.

But he received the sympathetic benevolence of the men, regardless.

"Sit down with us, then," Zayn offered. "You lads don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Harry said.

"Drinking alone is no fun," Louis added, smiling.

"I'd rather not," Liam answered, truthfully.

"Oh come on," the three beckoned, words booming throughout the restaurant. "Just one drink."

"I only need to stay for one?" Liam asked.

"One!" Harry echoed, ignoring Liam's discomfort.

"Well, if you insist…"

Zayn patted the open space next to him, a friendly, inviting smile on his face. Liam sat down reluctantly, attempting to stay as far away as possible on the small platform.

"Do you ever take that thing off?" Harry asked, referring to Liam's lab coat. It draped down and around him, folded neatly under his bum.

"Not usually," Liam answered.

"You're very…" Louis started, gesturing with his hands. "How do I say it? Direct?"

"I find it easier to be straightforward," Liam replied, slightly galled. "I'm getting my drink, now."

He stood, lightly stepping out of the booth and headed towards the bar. He could have flagged down a waitress, but he was becoming irritated with the pestering, irrelevant questions thrown at him by the men he somehow ended up sitting next to. He ordered an Arcadia Merlot, an already-popular alcoholic beverage in the depths of the city. The bartender poured it in the glass, after dashing several different liquids and mixing them together, with great efficiency. He slid the drink across the bar stool, a few droplets falling against the polished wood. He swiped a rag across the dirtied surface, and returned to his work.

Liam huffed, and started back to the three strangers. He held the drink in hand, sipping as his feet tapped the floor. He was in the middle of a long, torturous swig of the fluid—his head was tilted back as his lips placed around the cold material—and as a result, failed to see the leg of table (which seemed to be sticking out much too far, really) that obstructed his path. His shoe caught on the long, thin rod, and he went tumbling downwards.

His knee slammed against the hardwood floor and his ankle twisted at an agonizing, painful angle. The glass he held slipped from his grip and crashed against the ground, shattering in a high-pitched, ear-splitting dissonance that sounded through the room.

"Fuck!" Liam whispered, reaching for his pained limb.

"Liam!" Zayn cried, rushing to his side. "Are you all right?" he asked, worriedly.

"I'm nearly positive I tore something in my tarsus…" he stated, calmly.

"Here, let me help you up…"

"No, I've got it, I'm fine," he lied, clutching the nearest table in support. He attempted to stand with his left leg first, and was fine. Upon placing his right ankle against the floor, though, he wobbled and a small yelp escaped his lips.

"You're not fine," Zayn told him, wrapping an arm around his neck. "Let's get you back home and put some ice on that."

"I'm not comfortable with this."

"I don't care what you're comfortable with, Liam. You and I both know you can't get back to your flat alone."

Liam knew that there was no way he could possibly get out of the situation. Not only had Zayn seemed determined, but he had learned enough in medical school—despite his majoring in biology—to know that a tear in the tarsal joints could lead to severe injury, if not treated properly. He unwillingly accepted the help of the sometimes-beleaguering, yet always-placating olive skinned man as he staggered home. He cursed under his breath, flustered and perplexed by the incessant, jabbing thoughts in his brain and the throbbing, arduous pains in his ankle.

"There," Zayn said, helping Liam to sit down. "Do you have any ice in the fridge?"

"No," Liam cringed.

"Wait here, then," Zayn told him, swiping the key off the kitchen table. "Be back as soon as possible."

Liam sighed, and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He hated that he needed to rely on someone else; needed somebody to take care of him. He felt helpless and weak, broken and worthless. It would be weeks before he could walk on his own (at least without pain), and there was no way that he could look, let alone find, a job before they were all taken. And to top all of the taxing, stressful mental and physical pressures, there was Zayn.

The man only added to the turmoil and inner-chaos that Liam now battled with. Feelings of strange, deviating origin surfaced, spreading about his stomach in their bizarre and eccentric ways. They fluttered and jumped, uncontrolled and careening in their promenades of…well, Liam didn't know.

He had never experienced such a thing before.

He was unsure of what he was going through, and it bothered him. He seldom felt anything, and an emotion of this magnitude was overwhelming. His heart ached, his mind was disorganized, and his leg throbbed all at once. It left with him with a bitter-sweet, fiery and fuming trail of tears that painted his face.

Which, in the end, simply made him angrier.

For he had vowed ever since that day never to cry again. Never was he to feel so lamented and dismal; so alone, so afraid.

Yet there he sat, whimpering as he fought the uncontrollable, obstinate wails of sorrow that caused anguish with every new tear.

Zayn burst through the Bistro, frantically darting to the booth. Louis and Harry still sat, chatting, laughing and immersed in their conversation, several empty glasses strewn about the table. Zayn rushed to the seating arrangement to pick up the bags he had left behind when taking Liam to his suite.

"How's he doing, mate?" Harry asked, pausing in his communications with Louis.

"I got him up to his room, but I need to get him some ice, and get this meat cooled before it goes bad…"

"Need any help?" Louis offered.

Zayn paused. He could use the help; he wouldn't have to hurry from place to place, exhausting himself, and it would prevent further collapse from fatigue. If he was being honest, though, he really did not want the pair of gentlemen to cut into his alone time with Liam.

It was selfish, irresponsible, and stupid, but he tucked the thought away to a crevice of his mind.

"No, I've got it lads," he said, faking a smile. "You two enjoy the day out."

He spun on his heel and moved as hastily as his baggage allowed out the restaurant, headed straight for Liam. It pained him to know that the man he knew was alone and hurting.

I'm not comfortable with this.

The words echoed and played over and over again in his head, nearly driving him to insanity. He gazed back at his earlier actions, searching and doubting himself, knowing that he must have made some sort of mistake in his mannerisms. He carded over the past day and a half, speculating upon the events that had unfolded. He had tried to be poised and sophisticated, all the while incorporating a dash of humor and a perky demeanor.

The only question was: had it worked?

He became self-conscious, insecure, uncomfortable. Liam was a brilliant man; a genius. Zayn was sure that he had undoubtedly seen through his little act of amiability, and he hated knowing that his flirting and dalliance had not gone unseen. While questioning whether or not he should engage in such coquetry, or recede from the risky interactions, the sign for the Olympic Suites came into view. It buzzed and hummed in conjunction with his flitting heart beats, casting a dim glow against the whites of his eyes.

The grocery bags sagged in his arms as he moved deliberately up the steps and down the hall. He arrived at room 312 B, slid the key in, and kicked open the door; somehow managing not to drop a single item in his possession.

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry it took so long, I—"

Zayn froze.

Liam stared up at him with his soft brown eyes, wide and rimmed with red. His wet face glittered under parlor room's lights, cheeks rosy from where he had evidently buried them in his hands. His coat was wadded into a ball and tossed on the floor, threaded and fortified with dark, moist stains. There had been no shirt under the coat, Zayn could see that now.

Now he dropped the sacks of food.

He stared at the bare, muscular chest, acknowledging the caramel-colored skin. His pectorals were nicely developed; solid, yet smooth. His eyes traveled down the cut, divinely crafted features to a sinewy, tight abdomen where an inviting six-pack was visible. He noticed a light, hardly discernible trace of hair that led into unseen, sensualistic parts of pleasure at which he lusted after. Mind hazed with passion and desire for the sandy-haired man, Zayn took a trembling step forward.

"Don't," Liam said, the silence cracking and crumbling beneath his words. He melted the avidity in the air, the one simple word flowing through in a now-clear route to Zayn's mind. It struck his thoughts in a profound and deep way that somehow shocked him back to reality.

"I—"

"Don't come a step closer."

Liam's voice shook and his lip quivered, eyes glazed with tears threatening to spill over once more. Zayn never thought he would see the resilient man so weak, so vulnerable.

He ignored the broken but determined words and moved further towards the troubled man.

Liam jumped from his seat, practically stumbling to the floor in the process in attempts to escape the raven-haired lad. It was to no avail of course; Zayn was much faster and far more incisive at the moment, despite his dubitable, foggy brain. He grabbed Liam by the arm—who desperately struggled to get away—before turning him slowly around.

Their eyes locked and their bodies went motionless. It was quiet all around, except for the trickling, warm breaths of the distraught men. At such closeness Zayn could see Liam's nostrils moving slightly as he inhaled the sultry air. Liam stared back, still delicate and feeble, melting Zayn's heart.

Liam drifted closer, and the olive-skinned man acted upon the whisper of hope within.

Their heads leaned and their lips, which were moist from the heated indignation, just about touched. They were not more than an inch apart, and the moment was so intimate that for several minutes, their bodies were fixated in such a position. Mouths were open and panting, the warm air pervading across the miniscule distance and to the other's lungs.

Finally, as if some celestial, beatific being had urged him to go on, Zayn bridged the gap between the two. Both were careful and cautious as their lips adjoined; reluctant, at first, to fall wholeheartedly into the kiss.

Everything poured from one man to the next. The worries, the fears, the doubts; it all seemed to flow thoroughly and holistically through the affectionate embrace. It was cathartic, purging, eye-opening, and their souls calmed in the fleeting moment.

It was once again silent in the room, and the pair basked in the ethereal shroud of passion.

Not desire, not lust; a true, undying and unfathomable passion.