A fic where Zayn, the super high-priced rentboy, accidentally picks up backalley whore Harry, am I right?
Zayn’s Friday regular always pays for the whole night, then cuts out shortly after midnight with a phone pressed to her ear and a hundred pound note pressed into Zayn’s mouth. She pays for the entire weekend at the hotel and lets Zayn stay as long as he wants, charging up the room service and rolling around on the slick sheets, long limbs taking up as much room as he likes.
He’s always grateful for the break, for the chance to sleep as late as he wants and bathe alone in the tub the size of a swimming pool without anyone to take into account. There are no special preferences about what he should or shouldn’t shave, what sort of soap he ought to use, whether he ought to be stretched and slick or tight and impossible. It’s good. But tonight he’s restless; summer is slipping away and the evenings are shading into autumn and Zayn is restless. He dresses in his slacks and waistcoat, phones his handler, then slips the keycard into his pocket and goes for a walk.
The city is quiet, winding down for the night. Zayn ambles along with his hands in his pockets, not looking at anything in particular, just enjoying the warmth that lingers on his skin, the way the smell of sex and perfume are still lingering on his hands. His guard is down for once, and that’s why he’s so surprised when the boy slides up to him, hair a riot around his pretty face, and slips one hand into the waistband of Zayn’s slacks.
“Twenty quid for a handjob,” he says, tilting his chin up. “Come on, pretty boy.”
Zayn would normally give him the eye and get gone, but there’s something about this kid. Or—more likely it’s nothing about him, and something about Zayn, that he’s got the luxury life today. He’s been here, though, hoping to haggle out to fifteen quid for a blow so he can stay at a hostel instead of the shelter.
“That’s awful technique, mate,” Zayn says, and pulls the hand out of his trousers. “Good way to get arrested, for one.”
The kid looks around, wide-eyed and suddenly tense. “Are you police, then?” he asks, and Zayn laughs.
“There’s a place over the high street does a good hearty soup for cheap,” Zayn tells him. “Come with me, I’ll get you one. It’ll be better business in an hour anyway.”
“How would you know that?” The kid looks him up and down, but it’s not the way customers do. He’s looking at Zayn’s clothes, his hair, his necklaces.
“Tell you about it over dinner,” Zayn says, and walks off without checking to see if he’s following.