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“We both knew this was a possibility,” Liam says, shifting. Zayn can barely make him out in the pixelated image on the webcam, and he quickly says, “Liam, sit still,” because he only gets so long with Liam, only gets these few precious minutes a week, wants to make the most of it. But Liam's continuing, voice muffled, “I'm sorry, Zayn. I want to be home too... I miss you.”
“It was my birthday first,” Zayn manages in a tinny voice, trying not to sound accusatory. He pulls his knees close to his chest as he reaches out to stroke the Liam's face on the computer screen, imagining tanned skin under his finger-tips, corded muscle under his palms. “And then our anniversary. And now it's this. Are you ever gonna come back, Liam?”
Liam runs a hand over his buzzed head, and Zayn winces even though he's known Liam hasn't had his quiff for awhile—has had his hair shorn short for the last six months he's been in Iraq. Liam looks impossibly tired, too old for his skin, dark circles under his dark chocolate eyes, body stretched too thin. He's lost weight, Zayn thinks, he needs me to take care of him.
“I got your care package, Z,” Liam says, changing the subject, “all the lads down here are real jealous.”
Zayn takes a deep breath, and pretends, for Liam, because that's all he's been doing lately. His life has become a compilation of gestures: he says all the right things, thanks people the way he's expected to, tells people it's hard, but he loves Liam, he supports him, it'll be okay. But it hasn't been okay since Liam came in, telling him he was doing it for them. It hasn't been okay since Liam got on the plane, leaving Zayn alone, vision blurred with tears. And maybe it won't be okay, maybe for New Year's he'll get Liam home in a body bag, and he just can't. “I'm glad you liked it—Niall championed the crisps quite hard.”
“Good,” Liam smiles, and Zayn pockets it, because he knows Liam's smiles are hard to come by, fleeting, rare. “Say hi to him for me, yeah? Give him a hug.”
“Yeah,” Zayn replies, his eyes filling with moisture in spite of himself. “Yeah, I will.”
They're silent, Liam fiddling with his metal canteen, Zayn's eyes drifting over to the bedroom, unopened Christmas presents meant for Liam, Christmas cards addressed to the both of them—ones that feel wrong to open without Liam there.
“I love you, Zayn,” Liam says suddenly, “you know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, giving Liam a watery smile. “That's why I married you.”
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It's the first Christmas he's spent without Liam by his side. Zayn knows Liam is pacing, dessed in army fatigues, short, strange hair unkempt, face lined and covered in dust. He can hear the ba-dum, ba-dum of Liam's heart as an explosion sounds off in the distance. He sees Liam reach for his canteen, water spilling down chapped lips that haven't been kissed by someone who loves him in the last six months. He feels Liam tossing and turning in his sheets, willing the ache in his heart to lift.
Zayn curls himself up on the bed, imagining fingers brushing the side of his ribcage, a hand working its way softly through his hair, the thrum of a familiar heartbeat against his back. He thinks about a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck, sweet nothings spoken into his skin. He waits for Liam to sleep, whispers, “Happy Christmas, love,” before tucking himself into his thin sheets, cupping a hand on the heart he has long since given away.