Liam tries to sleep. In the end, all he accomplishes is a wicked crick in his neck and an intimate knowledge of all of the positions that his spine is not okay with being forced into. His mind races wildly: nightmares of a dark haired boy under a tan colored tarp, a flag sent to an unsuspecting mother, and dream of a pair of hip bones like cliffs, and licking smudges of chocolate off of his lips. Liam can’t decide which scares him more: Zayn’s death or the knowledge of how hard he’s already fallen.
After three hours of fruitless staring at the ceiling of the bunk above him, Liam leaves the barrack. The world has darkened into bruise like tones of purple and blue and black around him. It’s nice to wander around the camp when it isn’t buzzing with activity, with people. Liam can even see the stars.
He remembers the summer night he’d spent laying in Louis’ backyard. On their backs beside each other, Louis’ hip warm against his, his perfectly feathered hair whisked into disarray by the wind. The thing about Louis is that he’s beautiful. He may not see it, may never have believed when Liam would whisper it into his ear, but he was and is. He’s got those blue eyes and that hair, miles of caramel skin. That night, he’d attempted to teach Liam something about constellations but had mostly taught him about endings. Liam remembers the quiet, rushed I met someone, and I really like him. He asked me to have dinner with him this Friday.
“Didn’t I tell you to sleep?”
Liam startles out of his reverie, his eyes falling on Zayn’s form. A bubble of relief rises, powerful, bowling him over, in his chest, “I couldn’t.”
Zayn slowly walks closer to Liam. There are bags under his eyes, and his lower lip is bleeding, probably from him worrying it between his teeth, but he is beautiful. He is so pretty, prettier than Louis, and his hands capture Liam’s waist like they were meant for that. Liam’s body responds like it has been hotwired to Zayn’s touch: his shoulders drop, his hands finding the warmth of Zayn’s neck, the pulse humming there.
“Liam,” Zayn whispers, low and intimate, “What am I going to do with you?”
He can feel the words vibrate through Zayn’s vocal chords, wonders what those same vocal chords sound like when they sing. If Zayn wasn’t here, would he be singing on stages, making other people happy, instead of enduring the constant hatred of men who are meant to be on his team? Liam doesn’t know. He knows that Zayn’s eyes are umber during the day and dark brown in the night and that he laughs at immature jokes and has tattoos and three sisters and a mum who he loves, but he doesn’t know where Zayn would be if he wasn’t here.
“Liam.” Zayn’s thumb is back on his lower lip, “Liam, can I kiss you?”
His heart speeds, “Yeah. Please.”
It is like nothing he could’ve imagined. Zayn’s thumb moves back and forth over the hollow of his cheek, as Liam focuses on the feeling of warm, soft, wet lips against his. He is deceptively gentle, deceptively thorough, his tongue quick as a jumping spark across Liam’s lower lip. A sound falls out of Liam’s mouth without his permission: maybe a moan, maybe a whimper, as his head falls back, Zayn’s teeth worrying his lower lip.
