Zayn’s hands are curled into the neckline of Liam’s ratty sweatshirt from track. In the darkness of the barrack, his eyelids are the color of bruises, the bags under them merely smudges of war paint. He has his lips closed tightly; chin perched on his hands, entire rest of his body in line with Liam’s.
It is surprisingly peaceful to just feel the assurance of the life in each other’s chests. Sometimes, Liam almost wonders if it wouldn’t have been less work to gather all of their things together and run away into the golden sunlight of the sandy city standing proudly, resolutely on the other side of the desert. Zayn can speak Urdu, can communicate with the people, and Liam knows that he could smile his way into the heart’s of some of the other vendors in the market. It seems so possible to him that they could make a life for themselves beyond this horror.
“Babe,” Zayn’s voice is nearly silent in the emptiness of his barrack. The rest of the men are off on duty. “Stop that.”
“Hm?” Liam hums in the back of his throat. His hands are resting heavily over the dip in Zayn’s lower back, almost feminine. He’s got two dimples there where Liam’s thumbs fit almost perfectly, and he feels something giddy rise in his chest at that knowledge. Like someone knew that that small awareness could be the difference between feeling good and feeling bad on this night.
“Your brain is making noise again. ‘S not my favorite thing about you, babe, especially, like. Especially when I’m trying to sleep.”
Liam laughs, his chest rocking the sleepy, soft Zayn lying on it. The dark haired boy scowls: his lips pulling together in the middle and his nose scrunching up in a manner that Liam tries so, so hard not to find endearing. Liam spreads his fingers over Zayn’s cheeks, presses into the hollows there, “My deepest apologies.”
“I won’t kiss you for, like.” Zayn opens his umber eyes, “A while. A long time.”
“I’d like to see you try,” but the smile in his voice betrays his confidence that the hours they’ve spent snogging in the past week have been mutually enjoyable. It’s been the best kind of break from the stress of constant fighting. “You are a horrib—”
Zayn rises so that he’s sitting up after using Liam’s chest to leverage himself. Like his hands were meant to fit there, Liam’s hands fall to Zayn’s fragile waist, the elegant curvature of his hipbones like canyons. It’s, like, Liam doesn’t believe in soul mates. He doesn’t believe in fate or stars or any of that bullshit that’s only aim is to make lonely people feel less lonely for a moment. What Liam does believe in is the way the sunlight turns Zayn’s eyes liquid and his pink lips, pressed tightly together to try to stop a laugh, and how his throat looks like honey when he lets Liam kiss it in the dying light of a sunset, all orange and red and the cinnamon taste of Zayn. He believes that love is probably something like this, and that scares him, so he pushes it back down.
“You’re a bit barmy sometimes, yeah?” Zayn whispers, a desperately fond smile on his lips.
Liam thumbs across the ridges of his hipbone, hard and defined and beautiful, before tucking it under the Afghani boy’s tee shirt. Zayn doesn’t squirm away from the contact, but his eyes do droop closed, eyelashes heavy against his cheekbones. For the first time all week, the boy relaxes, and Liam props up his knees, so that Zayn has a place to lean.
