Niall Centric One-Shots

be still

A.N.: I'm still working on prompts, buT I'M AN ASSHOLE FOR TAKING SO LONG. I APOLOGIZE!

Prompt - this is along the lines of what you texted me: . . . I FEEL THAT YOU HAVE THE ABILITY TO DO THE SAME THING (make her catch the feels) JUST WITH WORDS. - I'm basically writing something based on Be Still by The Fray. (Youtube won't let me add the dumb video. I hate everything.)

This is for @imjustafangirl_ I love you boo. Even though this isn't the same context of the song, I hope you enjoy it! This is your welcome-back-from-that-cruise-gift. (That's not even a thing, but I don't care.)

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That night, twenty-one balloons flew into the sky.

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Niall hates the late nights and early mornings. Those are the hours where he lies in bed, eyes restless and lips pursed, thinking about the past - maybe even the future.

The years when he used to obsess over Justin Beiber, the years when he asked girls out, and that one time when he cried during an airline take-off and latched onto the stranger next to him. All of his past memories come creeping in, sly smiles and soft fingertips slinking their way out from the back of his mind.

He hates it. He hates the flush of his cheeks when he thinks back to all of his shameful moments; he hates the fear that trickles down his spine when he thinks of the future.

He hates it, but he can't stop. His mind runs endlessly and obnoxiously. He'll try to close his eyes to lull himself to sleep, but the thoughts buzz underneath his eyelids. A baritone voice thick and suffocating like quicksand, guttural and hoarse like sand-paper, mellifluous - a unique voice that has a name to it that Niall refuses to speak of - whispers to Niall as he lies sleepless in bed.

The voice comes from the walls, sometimes from underneath his mattress, and shoves His wooden words and cotton laced songs into his mouth. This disembodied voice is dulcet and gruff all at once, almost like the dusk perfume of smoke - like the brittle punch of smoke that comes after a forest fire. Niall hates this voice; he loves it as well. It embraces him in arms coiled with strength and inked in symbols and stretches of curved lines, but it drags him down and clogs in his ears until he can't hear anything but Him.

And, He talks of the past, no line of the tomorrows - the future - spoken. He exclaims his love when He'd wake up late for work on Sunday's with Niall still in His arms. He sings lullabies that Niall would serenade Him with when He was scared. He talks about the joy of the way they played like children; He says he misses their childish ways. He talks about the way He loved Niall's eyes when they were set on him. He says his eyes were alluring; they sparkle like the snow on your front porch.

Niall thinks he hates the snow that's sitting outside the confinement of his house more than the sleepless nights and the daunting voice.

The snow took his mother away when he was eleven. She had been driving home from the pharmacy with medicine for Niall. The reports said she lost control of her wheel; the ice was too thick and the snow, too blinding. Her car swerved and derailed; she died on impact.

Harry- Niall shivers from the name leaking out of his subconscious. He hasn't spoken that name in years.

Harry had been there through it all. He had brought boxes of tissues to Niall's bedroom, and he forced his way into the thick barrier of blankets with Niall. Harry sat through it all.

"It'll be okay, Niall," Harry whispered, "please don't cry."

Niall remained silent; he didn't know he was crying until Harry pointed it out. He could feel the warm tears stain his face now. He felt vulnerable.