Liam tries not to notice Zayn over the coming days. He’s been, if the bruised circles under his eyes are any indication, assigned to more night watches for what happened. The other men, judging by their expressions, have not been reprimanded, and that makes Liam wonder what the commander actually knows. He wants to march into his office, demand to talk to him, tell him that Zayn kissed her and helped her. He wants to defend Zayn.
Then, without his noticing, he is paired for night watch with Zayn.
Sitting on the edge of the camp, knees pulled to his chest, the other man looks small and scared and tired. Liam sinks to the ground beside him, hands in his lap. He brought a blanket and a jacket, fearing how cold the desert would get. Zayn, huddled into himself, doesn’t even look at him.
The desert is in shades of blue and black, like a bruise, and Liam thinks that it should be in reds, like an open wound. This sand has seen so much blood, so much killing, has claimed so much horror. How is anything supposed to stay the same after seeing so much violence? How is he supposed to be okay after watching a little girl get shot in the head?
“I keep thinking about her,” Zayn whispers into the night.
Liam looks at the side of Zayn’s face, purposefully doesn’t notice the silver tracks tears leave down over his cheekbones.
“It just… It shouldn’t have to happen like that, yeah?” Wide, earnest gold eyes turn to Liam, “No one should have to di—die like that.”
“You’re gonna go mad thinking like that,” is what slips out of Liam’s mouth. He doesn’t know how he can even offer this advice when she’s been on his mind a lot too, just at the fringes, but always there, “She can’t get hurt anymore.”
“We’re no better than any of those assholes.” Zayn says vehemently, “We’re ki—”
“This is a war.” Liam meets his even, intense gaze, “There’s no guarantees here. We all make sacrifices.”
Zayn shakes his head, “I didn’t think people—”
“We are better than them,” Liam drags his finger through the dirt and watches it, avoiding Zayn’s gaze. It is too heavy, too expectant, like he can take all of that pain out of Zayn’s head, somehow justify what happened, and he can’t. No one can do that but himself. “None of them are mourning her. Not a single one of them. But you are.”
“What about her family?”
“What about our families?” Liam doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation, but the words are filled with heat when he says them. What about their families? What about all of the people that they left behind? What about the sisters that Liam is sure Zayn has?
“I chose this,” Zayn says evenly, “I made this decision.”
“Why?”
“Singing isn’t a very practical way to support anyone, yeah?”
And the thing is, Liam can see it. He can see those eyelashes as shadows on Zayn’s cheek, the golden of his eyes alluring and unattainable in the stage lights. Maybe he’d be an R and B singer? Or maybe he’d be one of those indie acts? Either way, Liam can picture the person beside him commanding attention from anyone around him.
“What?” Zayn’s eyes are narrowed at him, his arms crossed on his chest in defense.
“I can see it, is all.” Liam murmurs. It’s probably telling, how much time he’s spent thinking about Zayn since he got here, that he can imagine how the man who look with a microphone in his hand. His cheeks, in the darkness, flush.
“Thanks,” his voice is gruffer than a second ago.
They spend the rest of the night in a silence that is not comfortable, because war is not comfortable, but it is familiar. Liam feels like, if he had to, he could pick out the even in and out rhythm of Zayn’s breathing in a tent, the quiet exhalation when he stands to stretch, the popping sound of his ankles and neck cracking. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing, doesn’t waste time pondering it when they could be killed at any second.
