these bountiful silences

ix. combust

WARNING: Brief description of violence.

"You are the reason why I won't lay down and give in."

ix. combust.

Niall Horan's flat is monstrous, practically a cavern. But somehow he manages to make it feel... real. With the -surprisingly- warm colours and the overuse of digital fireplaces in nearly every room besides the loo. Harry shifts on the obscenely plush sofa and politely denies the tea that Niall is trying to shove into his hands.

"Meal plan denying you it, then?" Niall asks in understanding after he quits wheedling Harry, Harry nods and Niall easily nods along with him. "Right, then. I forget, sometimes. At least take a biscuit, yeah? You're too thin."

Niall's inquiring eyes are too big and too blue to say no to, and the biscuit is actually good, so it's worth it, even though he feels bad for some reason. Niall hums happily when Harry polishes off the biscuit and shoves a second one onto his plate. Harry eats this one slower, now, turning towards the telly just in time to see the announcer moving his hands exuberantly as a projection of crudely dressed Unconformists pops over his shoulder.

"Don't know how I feel about them," Niall murmurs quietly, tilting his head towards the telly.

You hate them, Harry wants to supply, but he doesn't feel like using his words today. It's kind of exhilarating, really, to make it so late in the day without using any words yet. It makes him feel powerful and like he can shout into the wind and not worry because he still has three words left.

"I mean, they're not all that bad. Can be quite a riot, some of them." Niall clears his throat easily, he doesn't even look scared to say this, is the thing. "I wouldn't ever want to do what they do, of course. I don't see how they could hate something so bad when all The Movement is doing is helping us avoid certain disaster."

Harry shrugs. He doesn't really understand why they reject it, either. Because The Movement's rules have actually worked for hundreds of years. No wars. No epidemics. No utter destruction. Seriously, what more can anyone ask for? The Movement has taken all of the precautions for history to not repeat itself, but the Unconformists are still unhappy, for some reason.

"They're growing in numbers, they're multiplying and trying to convert regular people to join their forces," the announcer stresses. "Nobody - not any child, any adult, any mate - is safe from the brainwashing ways of the Unconformists. They lure people in with false promises, but what do they really have? The Unconformists can only promise a few things to you and actually follow through with it: loss of decorum and certain punishment."

Niall makes a light humming sound in the back of his throat, "He actually sounds scared of them." He explains to Harry's inquisitive glance.

He's right. The announcer did seem scared, slightly frantic and extremely emotional. It's scaring Harry, himself, what if the Unconformists have more power than they know of? They obviously have people who are skilled and untouchable on their side. They have Louis, who can invent objects so that people can communicate without limits. He could probably make something harmful, too. And The Movement is doing nothing to stop him beside giving him more power. He just doesn't understand anything anymore.

"Harry?" Niall asks. "You look poorly all of a sudden, is everything alright?"

No, nothing is alright. Everything is wrong and terrifying and he just wishes he was young and clueless again. Harry presses his palms into his eyes and leans over. He's just so bloody confused and upset and he has no idea why. He wishes he was Gemma; the type of person that can be handed all of this information and actually be able to make sense of it and form an opinion over it. But he's not. He's just a confused idiot.