Viva La Vida

Chapter 14: Part Two: The Old King is Dead, Long Live the King

We're never going to make it," Liam says, feeling his blood turn to ice. "They're too fast."

"Exactly," Zayn says. "So you better get going."

"What do you—oh my god," he says as Zayn begins checking his ammo without turning around to keep running. "Zayn. No."

"Zayn, yes," Zayn says calmly. "You think either of us is going to make it out of here if we both go? They're literally gaining on us as we speak. Get going."

"I can't leave you here."

"You can. I'll be fine."

"You're going to die," Liam says hollowly. "And you know it."

Zayn inhales and then exhales slowly before turning around. He doesn't say anything, just looks at Liam with his impassive golden eyes and waits. Waits for Liam to turn away and leave him.

"Why can't I stay?" Liam asks, tilting up his chin. "If only one of us can get out, why is it me?"

"Because you're the only goddamn person who can fix this mess," Zayn says. "I can't. You're more important—and don't say you're not, because in the grander scheme of things, you are." He smiles lopsidedly. "Nothing personal, remember? This is a political move. Get moving, Your Highness."

"Liam," Liam says. "I won't let you do this."

"Sure you will. To die for king and country is the greatest honor a man can have, yeah?"

"I'm not the bloody king," Liam says tightly. There's a painful lump in his throat. "I might never be the king."

"Yeah, well, I'm betting on you. And your odds are zero if I don't do this. I want to, Liam. I'm telling you to go; you're not leaving me."

"You don't want to die."

"Everybody wants to save the world, but no one wants to die," Zayn says with a shrug.

"I know that's a My Chemical Romance lyric, Zayn."

Zayn flings him a sharp smile over one shoulder. "Whatever. It's a good song."

"You don't want to die," Liam repeats, because he can't understand why Zayn is doing this.

There's a beat of silence like Zayn's trying to come up with another smart-arse response, and then: "No," Zayn says, his voice quavering for the first time, and Liam suddenly sees a great and raw terror in his eyes, the most basic and animalistic fear a man can have: that he will die alone, without comfort or mercy, and that there will be no one to mourn or bury or remember him. And that this is all very close to being realized, so close that he can smell it coming for him. "But I always did need something worth dying for." He smiles again, but it's an even more pathetic excuse than the last. "Think I found it."

***

Liam wakes up like he usually does—abruptly and gasping for air. It takes him several long seconds—minutes—hours—to realize that he is not still in the claustrophobic hallway where Zayn died and instead in the huge and airy king's chambers of Buckingham Palace. Even then, he has to draw in fifteen slow breaths just to work up the courage examine his nightmare, to force himself to think back on the moment his mind had dredged up and pick it apart until it doesn't hurt anymore.

He doesn't want it to stop hurting.

This is the price he pays for a crown and throne and a country which has been peaceful for an entire year: three best friends when there should have been four, a mind that won't let him sleep at night, and a terrible wound he carries in his chest that refuses to close. Sometimes, he can't believe so much peace and widespread good could be bought with the life of one skinny young man, but—