Liam first sees Zayn when they are getting off of the plane in Afghani territory. He is smaller than most of the boys, skinnier, more fragile with his high cheekbones and dark black hair. Liam’s heard the whispers about him, of course. Terrorist. Killer. Monster. Fag, fag, fag, and for some reason, that one is the worst of all.
It’s probably because, as the man behind him tripping pushes him through the camp gates, he’s gay. He doesn’t run from the knowledge, doesn’t hide it, but he doesn’t exactly share it here either. There are places and times, and the army is neither of those things. It works better, Liam thinks, to be average here.
Zayn, beautiful and small and dark skinned, is not average. He is, if the rumors are true, one of the smartest men here, and he is quick. As the men walk into the station together, searching out their bunking assignments, Zayn gets jostled, pushed, crowded, but he does not react. His tan face stays an indifferent mask.
Liam, as someone shoves a number into his hand, is turned the other way from Zayn, losing sight of him. This gives him time to look at the bunker. Like everything else in the army, the camp is neat and beige, rows upon rows of houses that contain beds like barracks. The mess hall, off to the right, is tall, looming, and he thinks that the gym must be over there too.
His bed is small and creaky which makes him grin. He remembers his mates back home. Harry’s dimpled grin as he’d held Louis, his boyfriend, close to his side and made cheeky comments about beds at the university, about how he hoped they didn’t creak for their roommate’s sake, and Louis’ reddened cheeks as he’d pressed his embarrassment into the pale, pale skin of Harry’s throat.
Wistful doesn’t quite describe how he’s feeling, but the smile he gives the other five or so men he shares the room with is probably not quite right.
