Zayn and Niall: Everybody Needs Somebody Sometimes

Confessions Again

--

A series of dreams.

The knowledge of being somewhere else, somewhere away from everything he knew. Wasn't this what he wanted? To run away? To be as far as possible from the problems that plagued him? Wasn't this exactly the sort of refuge he'd been looking for?

Maybe. Niall just watched, he always stood at the sidelines of any picture he saw in his mind, watched as it came to life, watched the events that took place, watched as it faded and was replaced by another dream. It was always a different picture, things that were hidden deep inside his subconscious.

Mum and Dad and Greg, especially. Remnants of his childhood, sunlit roads and broken picture frames. Sometimes Niall felt like screaming, but no sound ever escaped. It was like trying to push a boulder uphill, it was exhausting, it felt like his muscles were being burned away, and still the boulder always rolled back down, crushed any self-esteem or remaining strength.

Niall spent hours thrashing, because sometimes the things he saw frightened him. Screaming and alcohol and blood. Rape and murder. He didn't know where the images came from, he just knew that he was so afraid.

Niall wasn't someone who'd lived his life in fear of death. But now he was afraid of dying. He didn't want to live though, because sometimes life was just as bad. It didn't take much for him to realize how confused he was feeling.

The passing of endless, timeless sleep waves. Everytime he thought he would break free, something pulled him back into the blackness, shackled him to the horrifying images once more.

Was it ever going to end?

--

Zayn pushed open the door, stepped inside slowly. His vision flicked to the bed and then he quickly glanced away. No, he wasn't going to allow himself to cry again. Never.

Anywhere else. The white-tiled floors, the creases on the sheets where he moved about, the vase of flowers on the table. The dripping of the IV tubes, the nauseating smell of the floral air-freshener. Maybe even the broken petals of the white roses he held in his hand, slowly disintegrating within his tightening grip.

"Zayn," Louis put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Zayn exhaled slowly, opening his fists and letting the crushed flowers fall and scatter over the floor, white petals everywhere. He walked to the bed, stiffly, like those toy soldiers he had played with as a child. Still not looking at Niall, he sat down on the chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and determinedly stared at the beeping of the heart machine, an unsteady green line that rose and fell with Niall's heartbeat.

"Oh God, he looks terrible," Liam whispered. "So sick and frail and -"

Zayn's gaze slid down to Niall's face and his heart somehow found its way into his throat, pumping wildly against his skin. The nurses had cleaned his body of the blood, and to Zayn the situation looked a little more manageable. Other than the obvious bruises and cuts on his face, Zayn's mind found itself scrambling to think of a time where Niall looked as lovely as this.

Why hadn't he noticed how creamy Niall's complexion was before? Why hadn't he seen how attractive the tufts of spiked blond hair looked on his head? Why hadn't he ever thought of those small pink lips, and what it would feel like to kiss them? Why was it that now, when Zayn was so desperately close to losing this boy, he finally wished he had the courage to say the things he felt?

He reached out a trembling hand to caress Niall's face gently, his knuckles brushing over the boy's cheek. He could hardly even control the upsurge of tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away, determined not to lose sight of Niall, as if he could be torn away from him if he let his guard down for half a second. He slid his hand down slowly, over Niall's shoulder and arm before stopping to intertwine their fingers together. Niall's hands were weak but soft, and Zayn found comfort in holding them in his own tight grip, holding on to Niall, never letting him slip away.