Just a little drabble to help me overcome my writer's block. I dedicate this to my friend, Aly, just because :)
Summary: "Here we are again, in the middle of the night..."
Niall had this sort of thing about himself, this thing that consisted of not being able to loosen his grip and let go. His hands were like a vice grip, holding tightly, even when the pain was apparent and overwhelming. He had this thing where he didn't know when to give up and accept things as they were and not how they should've been; the imagery would play in his mind; the potential of things; and they would drag on for quite some time. The cigarette in hand and the empty bottle of alcohol aside the couch wasn't clue enough, just a temporary remedy. That was how things worked with him, life and such. He had a way with working as a suffocation, though it only afflicted damage on his own heart. He wasn't much of a smoker, maybe a little whiff here and there, until his body went numb. He'd still cough from time to time, the blaze running wild throughout his throat and nostrils, making it a little harder to breathe. It was a life, as he loved to put it. It was his life and his pain and the remnants of his cigarette in the ashtray.
The distress started about a month ago, sometime between his trip to the carnival that only came 'round once a year and that inevitable argument between him and his mother. Oh, how he he loathed the moment he ever stepped onto the rug of her parlor. She made him bitter and a little cynical; loved to remind him that she gave birth to him; loved to remind him that he was "disrespectful" to her, though she truly only felt that way because she was controlling. Being twenty-one now, his decisions were his decisions, and she refused to come to a mutual agreement with him. She loved to remind him that being with Harry was possibly the most irresponsible thing he could"ve done. She wanted the typical, for her child to marry a lawyer or a doctor, someone who could financially provide for not only her son, but also allowed her to reap the benefits. It was all a complex cycle of what could've been and what should've been; but Niall's feelings for Harry remained and kept his mother at bay for a period of time.
"You have a stench on you, Niall." He remembered the way Harry antagonized him continuously, ordering the blond around in hopes that Niall would break down and confess. It wasn't necessarily the stench that was the problem, but the meaning behind it. Harry was fearless when it came to a lot of things, but one thing he couldn't sustain was any strength to cope with a broken-heart. Niall had been walking on cracked-glass for quite some time and he was nearly a step away from allowing everything that they were to completely shatter. It was a Thursday - a late Friday, possibly - time and days were blurred within their household, so Harry couldn't exactly remember; but he did remember how Niall broke down and started to sob into the fabric of his own shirt, face crimson with ache and shame. Niall confessed that night, confessed how the years of his mother's words had finally seeped into his skin; manipulated him. He confessed about his three-month affair with a lawyer named Zayn. Harry did pack his things that night.
Niall has this sort of thing about himself, this thing that consists of not being able to loosen his grip and let go. Harry left three years ago and Niall still wishfully thinks of what could've been. His dope in hand and it's lit. Another sleepless night.
