Just Like Gravity

Niall looks pathetic. He's sat on the bathroom floor, a dribble of saliva slipping slowly down his chin, a feathered nest of blonde claiming his head. He's drunk. Verging on absolutely pissed and all he wants to do is pass out but his stomach has other plans. Mostly revolving around the idea of upchucking every morsel of food that has naively passed his lips in the past twenty four hours. It's time like this when Niall hates his endless appetite and the alarming metabolism that turns him into a bottomless pit. A dry heave shudders it's way up his throat, he tenses, groans, and wraps his arm desperately around the loo.

“I'm pathetic.” He announces to no one in particular. He's sure at some point that his friends had been around somewhere but now it's just him and the porcelain throne. They've abandoned him at his greatest time of need and he will never ever forgive them. “...never ever.” he mumbles darkly into the bowl.

“Mate!” The words slam into Niall's ears, knocking his brain against his head, and forcing his skull outward in a painful explosions of blinding lights. His motor skills are so pitiful that he's given no reaction. Not a flinch in the direction of the voice, or even a slight blink. He just keeps focused at the bottom of the bowl, his hands wrapped protectively around it, unable to even acknowledge the offender.

“Shut up ya twat.” Niall mutters, the words clogging his mouth like a wad of cotton. His tries to move his eyes, a sad attempt to focus on the intruder but he's hopeless. He's sure his eyeballs are like a spinning wheel in their sockets. He squeezes them shut.

“Niall! Mate!” The voice takes no notice to his misery. A hand comes down hard on his shoulder, causing his head to spin. “What happened to ya? Been looking...” the voice fades a bit as he hears a stumbling of feet, “looking all over for ya, mate.”

Niall's only response is to shrug his shoulder, an attempt to remove the clammy hand from his already impossibly hot body. Harry's turned the furnace up again, always complaining about being cold while walking around half naked. The movement causes his stomach to roll, another dry heave escaping. “m'sick.”

The voice behind him scoffs, running a hand through the blonde's matted hair, “You're not sick. You're Irish.”

This makes Niall irrationally angry. “M'sick you prick.” He swings his arm trying to bruise the legs stood behind him but only being successful in knocking his hand into the tub beside him. Niall groans, the anger fading as quick as it consumed him. He takes a deep breath that catches in his chest. “M'sorry mate. M'sorry.”

The body behind him falls sloppily beside him. A bleary and red-eyed Liam runs a comforting hand up and down his back. “You drank too much.” He states definitely, continuing through the groan and whine that Niall releases, “Drank too much too fast. Learn to pace yourself buddy.”

This lecture, a seemingly blossoming tradition, if the last few nights out hold any weight, should be enough to keep Niall sober for a lifetime.

“What've I told ya Nialler? Remember? We did that thing? Online? Ya know, you can only process so many drinks every hour.” Niall tries to swipe at Liam but his hands just come to rest on his chest, “...and how many drinks can ya process little guy?”

Niall curses, hates the patronizing tone of Liam's voice, and tries to flash his middle finger (unsuccessfully), and then resides to answer, “Fuck you.”

“Exactly,” Liam nods, “two drinks Niall. Only two drinks every hour.”

Liam is a continuation of chiding. Drunk Liam is like the tape recordings of a more responsible sober Liam, Niall zones out. How is it that even though Liam is drunk, his ramblings about drinking responsibly seem so...sensible? The thought leaves Niall heads spinning in circles to big for his body . He forces himself to stop thinking and is sure he's about to pass out when a tree falls on top of him.

Niall is okay with this. It seems like an appropriate end to the somewhat unusual chain of events that have made up his life. After all his chances of death by tree surely outweigh his chances of becoming a pop-star.

“OOMF!” Niall tries to catch his breath but his mouth is full of leaves and he just chokes. The tree has shoved all it's solid branches into every organ of his body. Limbs shoved between ribs, indenting his bladder, crushing his chest. Luckily the tree moves. This is when Niall realizes a tree hasn't landed on him after all. Only a Harry. Somewhat equally solid and dense.

“Shove off.” Niall groans but just lays helplessly pinned underneath the bigger boy's sprawled out body.

Harry rolls himself off Niall, managing to hold on to his drink overhead, a fruit cocktail in a laddy mug. “Niall, you're here! You're here in the loo!”

This exclamation once again causes an irrational surge of anger. Harry's drunk, properly smashed, his voice is all slurred and giggly, his motor functions reflect the speed of a dying sloth. Niall's ill, Harry and Liam are drunk, and something about that is not right and Niall's going to let him know. His mind is racing but his mouth only lets a heap of an accusation fall from his heavy lips, “You're drunk.”

This throws Harry into a fit of laughter. The drunk kind. Where Harry's is all teeth and flailed limbs. If Niall looked down the black cave that is his throat he's sure he would see every nook, cranny, and crevice that consumes his body.

“Of course I am Nialler!” While he rolls around on the floor Liam steals his mug and pours the remaining liquid down the drain. Niall's pulled himself back around the loo and keeps his head ducked. He readjust his positioning, wedging a foot under Harry's ribs in what he hopes is an uncomfortable place.

As Liam refills Harry's mug with water from the tap a disfigured body appears in the doorway. A look of horror passes Niall face as he looks at the spinning monster before him.

“Lou's going to pass out.” Zayn informs the bathroom, readjusting his hold of Lou next to his side. Niall realizes that the monster is just Zayn supporting a now drooping Louis from falling. He lets the deadweight fall as gracefully as a drunk man can and takes a spot beside his sleeping form.

Minutes ago Niall could fester alone in his own drunk self-pity and now it's too crowded. Liam's body is pressed between the tub and his torso, his foot is jammed in Harry's rib, Zayn's feet have wedged themselves under Niall's bum, and Louis hot breath is moistening his leg.

This bathroom has a carrying capacity of two people and it is currently supporting the weight of five. They're ten pounds shoved in a five pound bag and yet someone it's still comfortable. Niall's not sure how it always ends like this... their parties, or gigs, or night's out.

He figures they're like those stretchy muscle men toys that he used to play with when he was little. He would take the limbs and neck and stretch them as long as his arms would allow. Sometimes he would tie the man around various objects, sure that it would keep the man from ever putting himself back together. However no matter how much sweat and persistence Niall put into keeping the man apart he always pulled himself back in, always falling back into the same tight formation.

This is how Niall thought of them. They may drift from each other during the course of the evening, Harry chatting up some older guests, Zayn stepping out for a smoke break, Liam hiding in a dim corner with Danielle, or Louis falling into step with Eleanor on the dance floor but they always ended up closer than they had started. Always gravitating back towards each other.

Maybe Niall was just trying to put a positive twist on the fact that they are all drunk, ill, or passed out on Harry's bathroom floor but either way he's happy for it all.