Niall Centric One-Shots

The Measurement of Time

A.N.: Basically, everything around you is grey until you meet your match; you have to make physical contact to meet your match and to colour your view. When this happens, all colours imaginable appear on your skin and runs from your fingers to colour the world around you. I actually really liked writing this, like a lot, so, enjoy!

Or, the au no one asked for . . . oops?

I actually really liked writing this, like a lot, so, enjoy!

(Gif credit to original owner.)

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It takes eight years for eight-year-old Niall Horan to figure out that he's different.

It's when his parents are in the kitchen conversing, his dad uncorking a bottle of wine that smells sour and his mum complaining about her boss at work, the topic of colour arises.

"He hasn't met his match yet, dear."

"And he's forty-two?"

"Forty-two years of living in the grey."

And Niall leans back and looks down at his hands. They're grey; the walls a lighter grey. The flooring is a deeper grey than his hands. The sky outside the windows is a pitch black, white pinpoints in clusters adorning the colourless sea. Everything's either grey, white, or black.

Niall's never found a problem with this, he's always thought it was normal to see monochromatic colours daily, so eight-year-old Niall toddles into the kitchen. He skips over the black tiles and pounces onto a dark white bar-stool. His hands are placed on the various coloured counter-top, and he looks at his mum. Her hair is a light grey, the top of her hair a light silver colour. Her skin is a darker shade of grey than his, thin lines of black trace her features, her eyes a darker white.

"Mum," he states loudly, "what's wrong with grey?"

His mum laughs softly, strands of grey falling over her face as she twirls a warm grey liquid in a wine-glass, "Honey, nothing's wrong with seeing grey."

"When you're young, of course," his father chides as he pours more of the liquid into his own glass. His mum nods silently and looks back at Niall, her eyes shining, "You'll see colours when you find your match."

Niall frowns and looks at his hands again, "Isn't grey colours?"

His parents snobbish, airy laughter bounces off the kitchen walls and straight into Niall's heart. His mum nearly loses her balance, and his father snorts out a bit of the bitter liquid into his work trousers.

His mum pats his head, "Grey isn't a colour; it's a punishment from God."

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It takes 13 more years for Niall to grow bitter of the matches around him.

He hates it.

He hates it when people find their pair and look all affectionate together as they bask in the new colour that swells and overwhelms their optical nerves. Every day, he hears people speak of how great it is to meet their pair. He reads about all the artists who flaunt the ability to finally see the beholden pigments that make up the visible spectrum. Niall hates how everyone thinks colours are important. The colours are just a mere detail on the prominent features of their lives. There're more important things than differing shades, like smiles and moods.

Niall thinks a person's reactions and moods are more important than the colour of their eyes or hair. But everyone seems to worry about just that.

Nobody seems to be able to appreciate the beauty that lies within the black and white. The people he labels as a romanticist miss the point. They can't see how just one hue can contain so many spectra. From just black to white, there are so many shades, and each shade has the capability to express just as much as any other pigment. Niall likes how the smallest difference in contrast makes the black pop up off the white, or the white sharpen against the black, or how the two blend to form a middle ground: A beautiful grey.