His head is resting heavily against the mattress where Zayn’s hand is wired to a million machines. Caramel skin faded to a whiteness that is terrifying, Liam almost doesn’t recognize him. His lips are parted too widely for the ventilator, and Trisha, when she’d seen, had collapsed back against the door, a hand over her pink mouth. Trisha, his entire family really, is just as beautiful as Zayn promised they were.
Once the shock of seeing a severely weakened, hurt Zayn had warn off, Trisha and Safaa and Waliyah and Doniya, all dark haired and umber eyed, had taken seats around the bed, placing trembling hands on the unbroken parts of their brother. They’d had stories, some mundane, some crazy from their life while Zayn had been gone. They talked a lot about a dog, some Boris, and Liam had wanted to curl up in the corner of the room and disappear.
Their relationship wasn’t something that happened in reality. They never had anything normal to hold onto, and what if Zayn wakes up and doesn’t want him? What if Zayn doesn’t remember him? What if they have to go back?
It is on the fifth day that Zayn’s fingers tighten around his own.
On the seventh day, Zayn’s eyelashes flutter like caged birds against his cheeks.
On the tenth day, when Liam is ready to give up hope of ever having his boyfriend back, he gets the news in the cafeteria and drops his cup of tea. He runs as quickly as he can back to room, runs into doctors, into doors, into angry receptionists and mean cleaners.
But then. Lying on the bed, brown eyes wide and alert, lips closed tightly, is the boy that Liam loves. He doesn’t look normal, not yet, but he is awake. There is a constant, slow sound of his heart beating, the assuredness of, for now, his life continuing. Liam can’t move for a long time, can only stare, openmouthed and scared.
A nurse presses a hand into his back, whispers, “Say something, honey.”
Liam opens his mouth. Closes it.
Zayn smiles softly, “’S a bit like a fish, yeah?”
Then, he is striding. His hands are framing Zayn’s face and they are kissing desperately, wet and uncaring of anyone else, and his fingers can’t touch enough of the other boy and he can’t tell Zayn all of the things he wants at the same time and Zayn’s fingers are tangling into his longer hair and he’s saying something ridiculous about stubble and Liam wants to keep him in his pocket, keep him safe.
When he pulls back, Zayn whispers, “I, like. I really love you.”
Liam can only laugh wetly and nod, “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I love you too.”
