Niall Centric One-Shots

Nyctophobia .2.

A.N.: The much requested sequel to The Boy In Your Closet! Albeit it is a bit more modest than the first, please, do enjoy!

Warning(s): Very minor, nongraphic handjob; you probably won't even find it arousing at all. (Literally, it just says Niall wraps his fingers around him. (I know people personally who read this, so oops.))

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When Harry wakes up in the center of a white-washed hospital room, he's told that he's forgotten the last two years of his life: all the companions and loved ones completely erased from his memory. But it's not like he cares because he can't find the memorable capacity to actually miss them.

Everything starts out excruciatingly slow; hours and days pass by as the doctors test him for hidden diseases or injuries. The doctors return to his parents and him with a perfect checkup; all the exams and analysis was for nothing. Albeit it irks Harry that he had to poked and prodded at for absolutely nothing but the conspiracies of anxious doctors, he goes home comfortably.

And then the voices start.

The voices start off subtle, like a silent hum in his ear that keep him retreating on the edge of sleep and his subconscious, but they slowly turn into a loud, continuous thrum in his ears. Almost like his ears are constantly and obnoxiously ringing. The sounds start out as a jumbled heap of incoherent syllables, almost like jabbering in his ears, and then the yelling or whispers form instantaneously from the stabs of tongues. It's uncomfortable; the voices don't stop. The murmurs are insistent, forceful even; they want - demand - him to give into their greedy needs. They demand him to stay awake, to stray from the path of the relief of sleep and to entertain them instead.

Play with them. The voices want Harry to play with them.

The voices coax him out of his sleep, so he lies awake, eyes bruised and hooded, large fists trembling in the dark.

Harry can't distinguish the voices from one another, but each night, there are those that are louder and pushy, easier to pick out from the rest, but not recognizable. The voices are different, though; they constantly change, whether it be octaves or intentions. They're alike in their words, but different in their disguse.

There are nights where the voices scream, rub their throats raw by screeching profanities at him; eventually robbing him of his sleep and leaving him chilled and alert of his surroundings. There are nights where the voices are soft and humble, a smile graced over their coaxing words; those nights Harry almost gives in to their sweet words of reassurance and motives because they sound so fantastic, so perfectly intoxicating.

Niall is always there, though. He's always there spewing comforting words into his ears that barely breach into Harry's numb mind; front facing Harry's, knees in the expanse of Harry's lap. He tells Harry not to give in, not to listen to them. Niall is the only reason Harry stays in the dark, insomnia-ridden nights.

But it's not like Niall would let him leave anyways. He's protective like that, despite his small build and soft touches. But Harry still hasn't completely propagated an idea or sense of Niall. He's not been able to understand Niall and his personality, likes and dislikes because he's never there long enough for Harry to inquire.

Niall leaves with the moon; he disappears completely when the sun peeks into his curtains. He refuses to stay with Harry when the sun rises, no matter how many tears the larger one sheds or how many pleas he sobs. Niall leaves with his fingertips and lips. He kisses Harry on the forehead, chin, cheeks, everything but his lips; he brushes his fingers over his lips before fleeing the room melting in the sunset.