Niall Centric One-Shots

He Said Go .2.

A.N.: Feels up ahead, man. You can thank GirlOnTheBlueMoon for this; she gave me this prompt. (This is dedicated to you, boo.)

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The sun filtered through the hospital curtains, thin rays dancing into Harry's eyelids.

Outside, the sky was a warm blue, the kind that makes your heart swell, and the clouds were puffed and small in numbers. The sun seemed to be especially warm and golden as it welcomed itself into Harry's swollen eyes. This kind of weather was the kind that was portrayed for honey laughs and blissful dancing. The weather outside should mean that Harry's happy, but the current weather doesn't dictate one's mood.

It's a choice.

A choice whether to be happy, sad, anxious, fuming, hurt, and so on. Harry could be happy during a monsoon, but sad on a cloudless day. It's Harry's choice of his mood. But, he doesn't know if he remembers how to be happy anymore.

Harry's eyes break from the crust keeping his eyes shut, and he seems to coil away from the light intruding his sleep. He'd probably only gotten three hours of sleep that night.

The reason for that is the question the constantly gnaws away at him at night; he tells Niall it's only his insomnia.

Will this day be different from the last?

Will the medicine finally start working again?

Will he die today?

Harry grunts and sits up, his appendages feel like dead-weight; he doesn't know if it's from the effects of sleeping on a plastic covered couch or from dread. Albeit the couch is small, he can't get in the bed with Niall anymore.

There's, too many wires in the way, and Harry doesn't want to risk accidentally unhooking them from the machine or pulling them out of Niall's skin. Niall complains about the lack of Harry every day he comes in from school.

Harry's got his head in his hands now, fingers untangling the ruthless kinks and ringlets on his head. His knees ache from the pressure he's putting on the caps of them, but he doesn't find any fiber in his body, besides the pain fibers, to care right now.

He's, too busy thinking about the brevity of life.

Of Niall's life to be exact.

He finds it unfair that the people walking the street on their way to work or school get to take those privileges into rights. Harry's sensible side whispers to him that he's just envious of their health and upset over Niall's condition.

It tells him he's ridiculous and selfish, selfish for someone who can't spare a minute of oxygen and health to be selfish of anyone.

It makes Harry's chest burst with anger, maybe even self-pity, and he thinks that when he looks at Niall, he sees where his bad habits originate from.

It makes him feel sick.

Empty and vacant.

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He can hear the patrons of the ICU walking outside Niall's room, can see them even through the open door.

Their silhouettes spurt onto the canvas of dimmed hospital lights and hand railings; cream wallpaper blending into the thick shadow making it look as if the profile is momentarily clawing out of the walls.

His ears twitch as a woman's heels clack down the hallway, he can hear the neighboring room's occupants soft yet cordial laughter, the sound of the doctors murmuring about patience and discussing the deaths of the day, the lights in the hallways pearly white colour is crackling and hissing, but the sound that makes him cringe the most is Niall's heart monitor.