02 | eyes like the sky

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❝With my wide eyes, I've seen worlds that don't belong. My mouth is dry with words I cannot verbalize. Tell me why we live like this.❞ ▬ We Are Broken, Paramore.


CHAPTER TWO

He stares at me, and although I've never exactly been good at maintaining eye-contact, I greet him with an unwavering stare of my own; his eyes are such a gorgeous shade of crystal-blue that I can't help but keep my gaze locked with his. 

I think he's waiting for me to say something, and possibly explain myself for intruding, but I'm too distracted by those captivating eyes, and the trace of little moles down the side of his neck, and as my gaze travels further downwards, his slender fingers, which are still wrapped around the neck of the battered-looking guitar.

Luckily, he doesn't look angry. Just startled and, let's face it, a little shocked. "What are you doing here?" He asks incredulously, and I take note of his accent; it's soft, wonderful, and heart-meltingly Irish.

He takes a step forward and I take one back, because even though this handsome lad has been nothing but completely enthralling so far, I still know that getting too close to strangers -- especially when you're alone with them in an old abandoned house, far off the edge of town, beyond a thick wall of trees, where nobody can hear you scream -- is a bad thing to do.

Possible lies frantically swim around my mind. "I- I was just taking a walk along the cliffs," I stammer. "The view is really nice from up here."

I wait to hear that gorgeous voice once more, but he says nothing, as if waiting for me to further explain myself. Then a terrifying thought hits me: maybe he knows. Maybe he saw me out there on the edge of the cliff and hence started to play his guitar, deliberately trying to pull me away from my imminent death. Embarrassed and ashamed, I quickly turn my face away, refocusing my gaze on the dusty floorboards beneath my combat boots. "I like coming up here because it's quiet. At least, it was, until you started playing." I'm trying to not sound bitter, but the truth is, I'm annoyed at myself for getting distracted so easily, and I'm annoyed at him, too, for not waiting ten seconds more before playing that damn song and ruining everything. If he had -- waited, that is -- I'd be as gone as a speck of dust in the wind, and everything would be alright. I look up, meeting his gaze once more. "Anyway, I wanted to see where the music was coming from."

"And what did you think?" He asks smugly, lifting his guitar strap from around his neck and propping the instrument against a nearby wall. I notice tiny words scratched into the peeling wallpaper, and instantly wonder what they say, if they tell a story or depict the words to a song. However, I don't comment on it. The boy folds his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands beneath each arm with two thumbs sticking out, and I realise that he's still waiting for a response.

"Oh. Well, it was nothing special." That wipes the cocky grin straight off his face, and I smile, triumphant. He may be tall, gorgeous and Irish, of all things, but that doesn't change the fact that he stopped me from doing the one thing I've always wished I had the courage to do -- and now that the initial fascination at his beauty is over, I'm mad. "I mean, it was a little cheesy."

"Cheesy?" He repeats, incredulous. "But I wrote that song myself!"

"Yeah, cheesy. And do you really need to jump around so much?"

A shadow passes over his face and I instantly feel bad. I'm never usually a bitch -- I guess all the emotions of today have summoned out from me an inner darkness I never knew I had. "Maybe jumping around and writing cheesy music is the only thing I take solace in," he mutters, leaning against the wall before sliding down to a sitting position.

I walk over to him, hesitating before joining him on the dust-covered floor. Our thighs gently bump together -- we're sitting much closer than I'd originally planned -- but I don't mind; in fact, I can feel his warmth, radiating through my jeans and soaking into my skin. "Can I just say something, before you kick me out of here and demand that I never return?"

"Go ahead," he says solemnly, hugging his knees.

I lean in closer, until I'm certain he can feel my breath tickling his ear, and whisper, "Your voice gave me goosebumps." I pull back, resuming my usual volume as I elaborate. "Seriously. You're amazing, uh..."

"Niall," he states flatly.

"Niall. You're amazing, Niall. Truly. Your voice is like warm golden syrup."

"Don't," he murmurs, just as his stomach lets out a desperate, heart-wrenching gurgle. It echoes throughout the vast house and Niall instantly looks ashamed. "Every time somebody mentions food, or I even think of food, my belly does that. It's like a magic trick," he mumbles.

I frown; in my head, it all clicks into place. This large, empty, abandoned house, inhabited by a lonely boy with dishevelled hair and a skeletal body, his stomach rumbling at the slightest notion of a sweet, delicious treat. For the first time in the few minutes that we've known each other, I realise something: this boy is just as broken as I am. His past is probably just as rotten as mine. It's an odd feeling, realising this; when your life is crumbling around you, it's hard to think about how others could be experiencing the exact same feelings as you. You're so absorbed in your own unhappiness that other people's problems seem insignificant or simply non-existent.

Gone is the annoyance, the rage. Now all I feel is pity. It swells in my heart and leaves an ache in my chest.

"Tell me everything," I say softly. Me and Niall are both equally surprised by my request. He looks down at me, those beautiful blue eyes wide. "I know we don't know each other," I add quickly. "I mean, you don't even know my name. Nor do I know why you're here, or why you're hungry, or why you're spending your Saturday morning singing songs in a dark, empty room. But I'd like to help you, in some way -- at least, I'd like to try."

I suppose part of it is due to my curiosity. I've always been an inquisitive person; even as a child, I was fascinated with learning how the world worked, and had a constant thirst for knowledge which led to me being one of the smartest kids in my year (which of course led to teasing, as intelligence often does in primary schools, but at the time I didn't care). I've always been interested in other people, too, and I get a thrill from learning things about them that I shouldn't know. Which is why I know so much about my father's death. Although the knowledge haunts me every day, at the time I was desperate to understand more about his passing -- as a result, I know what his last words were, what position his body was in when it was found, and where exactly the knife pierced his skin. In fact, the only thing I don't know is who killed him; but, then again, nobody does. His murderer is still out there, roaming the streets a free man, the fact that he destroyed so many lives probably never even crossing his mind.

However, another part of it -- the larger part, mind -- is the fact that I genuinely want to help Niall. He seems hopeless, sad, scared -- and maybe, even though I can't fix myself, I can try to fix him.

Or maybe he's absolutely fine, and I'm just looking too far into things, as I always bloody do.

A clap of thunder interrupts the silence that follows, rumbling throughout the house. Niall sits as still as a statue, staring straight ahead. His composure gives nothing away as to how he'll respond. "If you tell me your name," he begins slowly, turning his face towards mine, "I might just consider it." He cracks a smile and, my heart racing, I return it.

"My name is Anna," I say quickly. "Anna Winters."

He really looks at me then, studying my facial features, and I do the same back. I really take him in: the slope of his nose; the thinness of his pale pink lips (and the chapped surface of them); the glisten of his crystal orbs, even in the dimness of this room; the soft thickness of his blonde hair, and how it flows into a darker shade towards the roots; the freckles upon his cheeks; the tenuity of his skinny arms, still wrapped around his legs as he sits with his knees up to his chin; the faded white t-shirt he wears, and the cheap-looking trainers on his feet; his boyish scent of Lynx deodorant and sweat.

He's still looking at me even as I turn my face away, and a part of me wishes he'd stop because I can feel an uninvited blush creeping onto my cheeks. However, another part of me doesn't because for once, a boy has actually taken real notice of me, rather than just viewing me as something to be made out with once drunk (I've only had a few encounters with members of the opposite sex, but it's been clear that none of those boys have ever developed proper feelings for me -- clearly, most boys think with their dicks, not with their heads or their hearts).

Eventually, Niall looks away. "I was only eleven," he begins. "That's when it all started. My mum died, and I was sent away to live with my aunt and uncle. But that didn't work out, so, I moved away. And, well, here I am. I've had a bit of trouble getting money, y'see, and so I'm living here until I can get myself back on my feet. Like a squatter. Anyway, that's pretty much all you need to know."

My heart sinks. Not because I feel bad for him (even though I do, I really do, because I know what it's like to have somebody you love taken away from you), but because I was expecting so much more. But I can't blame him, can I? I haven't exactly been Little Miss Truthful. But still... No. I banish the thought, feeling unbelievably selfish, and try to focus on helping him rather than attempting to gain information that he obviously doesn't want to give. "If you ever need anything," I say slowly, "I'm here for you. Okay?" An idea pops into my head, and before I can expel it, I'm blurting it out. "In fact, let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night. I bet it's been a while since you've had a good meal."

Niall glances at me, his eyes all wide again. "It has," he says, "but I can't let you do that. I don't have any money, so..." He trails off into silence, looking down at his fingers as he fumbles with the hem of his shirt.

"It'll be my treat," I assure him, and even though I'm not certain that I'll even be able to get enough money, I add: "I've got some cash stashed away in my piggy bank. Say yes?"

A grin spreads across his lips, racing to his eyes until they're lit up like sunbeams. "In that case, yes! But are you sure? Wow, thank you so much. That would be amazing, I... I don't know how to repay you." And then, without warning, he throws his arms around my body, his warmth enveloping me like a giant embrace. I hug him back, loosely though, because he's so small that I fear he'll break under my touch, and somewhat awkwardly, as we're still sitting side-by-side on the floor.

Rain begins to slash against the cracked windows, water leaking through the ceiling overhead. Drip, drop, drip, drop. Niall jumps to his feet and disappears, returning seconds later with a plastic bucket, which he strategically places beneath the source of the leakage. For a few seconds I watch as the raindrops steadily hit the inside of the bucket, but another slap of thunder shakes the house and me alike and I'm pulled away by Niall. His breathing is heavy, and I get the feeling that maybe he's frightened of thunderstorms.

"Do you want a tour of the house?" He asks quickly, and I wordlessly nod, a little startled by his terrified demeanour. He leads me to the next room, and on the way there, I catch of glimpse of the outside world through a dusty window. I see the sky, thick with huge grey clouds, and the fierce, raging ocean, and just the sight of it all pretty much knocks the wind out of me.

Because, for the first time, I realise how just one little action, such as Niall picking up his guitar on this dark summer morning, has the power to change everything.

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