They’re in the line beside each other for dinner. It’s something that smells mildly like chicken and greying mashed potatoes, but there comes a time when it just stops mattering, and Liam could eat anything. He could eat sand if that was the only thing left. Zayn’s body is warm, Liam’s knowledge of it humming barely contained beneath his skin in the air between them.
He is careful not to say anything to Zayn, merely watches the side of his face when he glances up to thank the men who hand him food. There are dark circles under the boy’s eyes which are glossy, too bright. Something is wrong. Liam knows it, knows it like he knows his own heart is beating in his chest, but he can’t exactly press Zayn into the counter and ask him.
Instead, voice low and seemingly directed toward himself, he whispers, “Can I see you tonight?”
Blank brown eyes flash to his, “Probably not.”
“Za—”
“Excuse me!” The same American with his too loud voice, his too callous hands, his too trigger happy fingers, jostles into Liam’s side. Their hips collide painfully. Liam grips his tray harder, turning to face the man, “I said—”
“It’s okay,” but it’s not. None of this is okay, and Zayn is frozen at his side, eyes focused intently on the shiny counter.
Liam is done getting food, and he tries to inconspicuously follow the staccato of Zayn’s retreating footsteps across the cafeteria. Last night, when Liam had been sealing kisses across his hips, his ribs had seemed more fragile, more protruding or something terrifying. He hadn’t said anything at the time, because maybe he was just imagining it? Maybe the lights were weird and making him see things? But now, now he’s sure. The man comes out of nowhere.
A second later, Zayn is standing, empty handed, in the center of the cafeteria. The room has gone silent except for the sound of Liam’s own heart beating too quickly in his ears. Throwing his head back to laugh, the man who knocked Zayn’s tray to the ground is kicking his food in every direction, and Liam is bending down to pick it up without thinking. This is the boy he loves. Zayn doesn’t need to do this alone anymore.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Zayn’s voice is low, hissed. “Get up, Liam. Go.”
“Z—”
“Get the fuck up.”
Liam looks into Zayn’s eyes for a long time, trying to find some sort of crack there. He wants Zayn to want his help. They are together now, they have decided to give their relationship a real try after this war, and this is the beginning. They are all entitled to a little anger, fighting this war for who knows what reason, against people who are good and hardworking, for a country that hates them, but it has never been like this. This is—
“Stupid fucking faggot.” A kick aimed hard at Zayn’s stomach. The place where there is supposed to be softness.
Even as Zayn flattens on the ground, lunchroom silent as death, Liam doesn’t see anything in his eyes except for steely, determined hatred. Liam stands up slowly. Wiping the palms of his hands flat on his jeans, he walks out of the bland beige walls of the cafeteria, can’t quite feel anything and is okay with that. Everything is this crazy hum of go the fuck away go the fuck away go the fuck away. What happened to the boy who kisses the fragile skin between his collarbones, the boy who’s throat is all sunlight and gold when he is laughing? Sleep won’t come easy that night.
