Stand By Me

Chapter Seventeen

The days blur into each other after a while. He's pretty sure he counts three, but he can't be sure. All he knows is that he feels too heavy to get out of bed, too tired to sleep and too hungry to eat, nothing makes sense and he's too exhausted to try and understand.

Dad and Papa come in a lot. They tug the duvet down from over his face and brush his sweaty hair away from his head, cup his cheek with a hand and speak softly to him, thumb brushing back and forth over his clammy but cold skin. He picks at the food they bring him, sips at the water, rolls over and tugs the blankets up over his head again the moment they leave.

Nobody tries to force him up and out. Even Harry and Liam tiptoe around the place like they're afraid to startle him in case he shatters into a trillion tiny pieces like that glass he'd dropped less than a few weeks ago.

His head is a mess, and it takes all of his energy keeping himself from drowning in all the badness that he can't bring himself to do anything other than just lay there and allow time to drift by.

His mother killed herself.
They fought, he told her he hated her and then he left her all alone, and then she killed herself. That makes it his fault.

But alongside the guilt is this muted sort of anger. Most of it directed at himself but a lot of it directed at her because she left him forever this time. He'll never get to experience how it feels to have a mother who loves him and takes care of him because she'd decided to abandon him before ever trying.

Maybe if she'd just tried then they never would have been stuck with a man like Paul for so long, and they'd still be okay and living together happily now.

(Maybe if he hadn't run away, his mother would still be alive.)

At some point, he moves from the bottom bunk of the bed to the space beneath it, seeking comfort in the one constant place of safety that he's always had. It's small and compact but he doesn't feel claustrophobic, he feels secure. Hidden away from the dangers that he knows aren't here anymore — they're locked away behind bars and in a morgue somewhere.

It's dark beneath the bed, shadowed by the quilt hanging down on either side, blocking out the afternoon sunlight entering the room through the sheer curtains. He's pretty sure Harry and Liam are at school, or maybe they're already back. Nobody forced him to go.

He barely even registers the sound of the door opening and then the soft padded footsteps that pass by the bed before he hears Louis call out softly to him.

"Ni?" He asks nobody in particular, sounding a cross between confused and concerned upon finding the bed empty.

Soon enough, one side of the quilt is lifted and the man kneels down on the floor, dipping his head down to peer beneath, eyes creasing gently when he spots Niall curled up underneath.

"It's a little dusty down there, buddy. Don't you think the top of the bed's comfier?" He asks softly with a smile that looks pained.

Niall blinks at him for a moment, mind taking time to catch up with the words. Then he shakes his head, tongue darting out to dampen his chapped lips before he speaks in a voice that's husky from disuse.

"There aren't any stuffed animals under here," he murmurs, and he's not sure why he says it, it just suddenly occurs to him that Harry has never had to hide his toys beneath his bed to stop them from being broken or thrown away.

Dad just smiles. "Most of Harry's old bears are up in the attic. He's got that one that he tucks beneath his pillow though, not that he'll ever admit that it's there," he says with a fond smile.

"Derick," Niall says, then goes on when Dad frowns. "The bear. He named him Derick, when we were little. I remember."

The man grins then, nodding. "That's right. My memory's getting rusty in my old age," he jokes lightly, and Niall just shakes his head a little. Louis smiles. "Budge over."