Sickfics of ONE DIRECTION

Christmas catastrophe (Niall)

"Maybe you should sit down, and rest for a bit," Zayn suggested, leading him to the sofa.

"No, no, I'm fine. I don't need to rest. I'm sorry about the mess, though. I'll clean it up," Niall said, looking at the shattered ornaments.

"Don't worry about that, we'll take care of it. You just sit here, and relax," Liam said, grabbing a broom.

—

As the laughter and chatter filled the room, Niall sat quietly on the sofa, his gaze following the others as they tidied up the scattered remnants of their day. A wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision blurring at the edges like a poorly focused photograph. He entertained the thought of a concussion but quickly dismissed it, not wanting to cast a shadow over the light-hearted mood.

The clatter of dishes signaled the end of cleanup, and the boys gathered around the table, their faces alight with anticipation for the meal they had prepared together. The conversation turned to plans for the morrow; a day filled with the joyous abandon of sledding down snowy hills, the thrill of snowball fights, and the comfort of watching movies wrapped in warmth. Their excitement was palpable, a shared eagerness for the adventures that awaited.

Niall attempted to chime in, to match their enthusiasm, but a growing unease coiled within him. His stomach churned, a relentless throbbing took residence in his head, and the room seemed to spin ever so slightly. He masked his turmoil with a feeble smile, hoping his friends wouldn't notice the struggle behind his eyes. Food lost its appeal, tasting bland and uninviting, and even water failed to quench the discomfort that clawed at him. He longed for the solace of darkness, to simply lie down and let the world fade away.

It wasn't long before the others sensed the shift in Niall's demeanor. His skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His usual lively banter was replaced by silence, and the untouched food on his plate spoke volumes. Concern etched into their faces as they watched him, his body language screaming distress, his posture that of a man on the brink of collapse.

Niall's stubbornness clashed with the concern etched on his friends' faces. Harry leaned in, his voice gentle but insistent. "Niall, are you sure you're okay?"

Niall's smile wavered. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he repeated, though the room seemed to sway around him.

Louis's frown deepened. "You don't look fine, mate. You look sick."

"It's just exhaustion," Niall insisted, the lie slipping easily from his lips. "Long day, that's all."

Liam's kindness softened his words. "Maybe you should go to bed. You need some rest."

But Niall shook his head, determination sparking in his eyes. "No, no, I want to stay with you guys. It's Christmas Eve, after all."

Zayn's reason prevailed. "We're not going anywhere. We'll be here in the morning. You should take care of yourself first."

Niall's resolve held firm. He wanted to prove he could handle it—a little fall, nothing more. He didn't want to dampen the festive mood or miss out on the camaraderie. So he ignored the nausea, the throbbing headache, and hoped they'd fade away.

As the boys finished their dinner, dessert beckoned—a sweet respite. They gathered around the table, slicing into cookies and pie.

Liam and Zayn's baking skills earned praise, and laughter filled the room. For a while, they forgot about Niall's pallor and the unsteady world. They savored each bite, the warmth of friendship cocooning them, and in that shared moment, Christmas Eve felt magical.

Niall's attempt at dessert was futile; the room spun, and nausea clawed at his insides. He staggered to his feet, desperate for the bathroom. "Excuse me," he mumbled, his voice strained, and made his way down the hall. But strength abandoned him, and he crumpled to the floor, consciousness slipping away.