The Gifts -Narry & Ziam- (AU) *Completed*

Chapter 7; Day III

Chapter 7; Day III

Niall had his eyes open in the bunk bed room, his stomach full of vitamins, his arms poke marked with needle holes, but he was not seeing. He was seeing nothing but the white of the painted walls and feeling the scratch of the sheets under him, and fingers the dark blue comforter pulled up to his chin. Everything was lost. Everything was different. Everything had changed. Niall dwelled in his own depression, the sadness bubbling in his stomach and creeping up to his throat and stinging at the back of his eyes. He hated those men and he hated his mom for dying and his step-dad for beating the living daylights out of him. Nothing was real anymore. Nothing made sense.

Where was Harry? Where was his mums gentle eyes and light blond hair? Questions with no answers. Nothing was right. Niall was no longer all knowing. Niall had not previously known the pain of having everything you held dear ripped away from you, your innocence stolen from you, and the power of green eyes and hands that curved into his own nicely. Was he the president? Was the world ending outside of his white walled prison? Was there anything left but him and these stiff sheets and blue eyes? He screamed. The terror ripped from his throat and bounced off the walls.

He scratched at the white wall beside him, until his nails were chipped and blood was dripping down his fingers and his throat was so raw it was hard to suck in a breath. Niall was no genius. He was a boy that had pissed himself and been taken over, not strong enough to do anything but plug his ears and cry and scream and listen to the sound of Harry singing. Niall wondered if Harry was still singing for him, in that puppy cage way down the hall. Or was Niall in heaven? Or was he burning in hell, the devil placing him in a room of entrapment and letting his sanity fall away? Or was Harry singing with the angels, looking down upon him and his sore bum and bleached hair with a smile and malicious laugh? Nothing seemed real anymore.

Was he still Niall Horan? Was he still a super genius? Was he still a siren? Was he alive? Was this a dream? When would he escape, like his sanity had escaped him? All Niall could smell was his own piss and the scent of Harry’s curls. He screamed again, ripping at his hair and skin and howling for anyone to take him. The devil, God, whoever was willing to put him out of this misery of not knowing. Because now he knew nothing other than the fact that he was gone, and so was everything he knew and thought he knew.

What was pie?

Niall didn’t know. Not anymore.

A scream climbed out of his throat and flew around the room. That’s when Niall stopped, and sat up in bed. His fingers were curved and bleeding and he’d ripped some skin off of his cheeks and around his eyes. He was nothing but the animal he was inside. Lost, confused. He put a hand up to his left ear and snapped his fingers, listening. In when he brought his hand up to his right ear and snapped, he heard nothing but the sound of ringing silence brought with it.

Niall screamed again. What was wrong with his ear? More snapping, some clapping, a pinch of singing. Nothing. Nothing. Was Niall the first Irish president of the United States? Was he a body in a cemetery, or a jar on the mantel? Was he famous? A wolf or a dog? Was he still a being, or was he nothing and life was all a dream and he’d wake up and be nothing but open air and blue skies with all the others? Another scarring, blood curdling scream. His right ear remained silent.

Was this hell? Was this the end? Was he loved or was his mother still alive? Did he audition for some TV show and was he thrown into some boy band? Was he on the top of the charts? Was he in love with curls and green eyes? Would he grow wings?

He spiraled back into his own abyss of not knowing. He clawed at the wall again. His only friend was the sound of his screams and the endless go round of questions?

Niall had checked into his own personal hell, and he was far gone I even wondered if he’d ever check out again. Because now, Niall knew what he really was. A bleach blond freak with blue eyes. And that’s all he’d ever be.

~…~
Harry was so tired, so sore, so sick of singing. But he didn’t stop. If Niall was gone he’d sing him to the gates of heaven, where he belonged. Or if he was awake somewhere, missing him, he’d sing to tell Niall’s heart he was missing him too. “Isn’t she lovely?” He whisper croaked, needing a drink and a shower and to pee. Louis had wet himself in the cage a few doors down. Liam had fallen asleep with his head against the cage and with his face toward Zayn. Harry didn’t stop singing. He refused sleep. He refused anything but blue eyes and blond hair and sirens and the sound of music in both of his ears.