Niall Centric One-Shots

Axiom: "Home."

The only similarity between a subconscious reality and a concrete dream is that nothing is what it seems. His mind morphs parallel universes, in which he attempts to weave with reality to fill the vacate spaces of nothing, fragments of both a broken world and a perfect world, like puzzle pieces fitting together. It seems dazzling and sweet, but it leaves venomous tastes lingering on his tongue.

He tries to forget the fragments of memories that are singed around the edges, rough to the touch, and bitter in colour. He tries to forget the discoloured bruises and burnt skin, tight around the edges and wrinkled in the center. The memories still dig into his skin like the broken shards of beer bottles that were used as weapons. He tries to pull out the discomforting shards, slowly and gently, treating them like splinters, but it avails useless because he still has to return home every day.

The only escape is to pack a quick bag full of thrown together outfits, water bottles and food bars, loose euros found in crevices of couches, and to flee the house in one night.

Escaping and distancing himself from the ground covered in shards of glass; that's exactly what he does.

Niall runs away from home, never to turn back. Niall leaves behind the constant worries; he sheds his skin. The pale outer layer that was tainted with strange bruises, burns, dried blood, and tears is taken off and left to drift in the wind with the other forgotten pasts.

He's hopeful on the first night; he's scavenging on the third month.

He asks for loose change, steals food from unsuspecting passersby, turns down the men and women looking for a night of meeting sultry needs, and meets a boy who's willing to pave his path of life with him, hand-in-hand and smiling.

__ _

Niall's lost for the fifth time. He doesn't recognize the street lamps or the names of the streets, he only recognizes his shoes on the broken asphalt.

The night is empty and cold, leaving him shivering and almost regretting the decision he made three months ago. The thin, long-sleeved shirt isn't giving him enough coverage against the Winter air, and he's beginning to think that stealing the coat from the woman that's sleeping on the bench inches away from him wouldn't be so bad.

Niall's beginning to lose his morals, along with his sense of direction.

He continues to tread on, resisting the temptation to rip the pea-coat off the sleeping body. He seems to be the only occupant on the sidewalk, and the night is lonely. The moon vails him in a thin sheet of hope, glazing him over with a lighting that marbles around the dips of his face; his frown lines are most prominent.

His hands are rubbing his arms pitifully, and he pouts to himself, hoping that if someone is watching him he's putting on a great show of being hopeless and in need of help. Sadly, when he glances around his location, no one is standing around him to offer him change.

The grass sparkles with frost when he steps into it to pass around an ally. He's learned from his experience not to trust allies from the months of living on the streets. He remembers sulking behind a man when that said man was jumped in the alley to his right. The hands came from nowhere, jutting out from the darkness and grasping the man and robbing him of his valuables and dignity.

Niall chooses to take the safety precautions instead of taking the shorter way to the bridge he's trying to find.

The arches are visible from the tops of the buildings, the green-rusted metal high in the air and covered in ice. It looks like frozen luck to Niall.

He's leaning carelessly over the frostbit railing, watching the moonlight melt into the dark currents, when a flash of red enters his peripheral vision. He flinches, thinking that he's being jumped, but the boy just taps the railing between his fingers.