brainchild | z.m. & n.h. au

v.

“So, Niall,” the doctor begins, hands clasped in front of him and placed strategically on his desk, knuckles white, “How are you?”

The blonde shrugs, figures it’s better than nothing. His shoulders feel heavy—like the bones that build his arms have been replaced with cement and he is only just noticing. He rolls the muscles in his back until his shoulder blades pop and he wonders just what he’s made out of.

“Are you...adjusting well?”

Niall perks up a bit, eyes widening the slightest bit as he asks, “Am I supposed to be?”

“You’re not supposed to do anything but be yourself, Niall. That and try to follow through with my suggestions. Now, how are you adjusting?”

And it’s bullshit, honestly, because if he’s simply supposed to be himself than why the hell do they have him locked up here? In an institution that's sole purpose is to cure people of the very plagues that come along with being themselves. Niall might not be brilliant but he’s not a complete idiot, either; he still knows left from right, despite the fact that his brain is a bit weathered and he is sososo tired.

“Niall?”

“Um,” he stutters, has to think. It’s not often that he gets like this—nervous, jumpy, on-edge. He’s not the type to fight back and this is no exception. He sighs, “Alright, I guess.”

“Why just alright? We want you to be comfortable here, Niall. What can we do to make things better for you? Is there anything specific?”

The said blonde shakes his head, feels the dampness on his forehead catching the hair falling into his eyes and winces; hates himself for being so nervous. “N-nothing, I”—he gulps, “I just miss home is all.”

“Home as in Mullingar?”

Niall nods and watches his lap.

“Home as in your family?”

He nods again and it’s shameful. He knows he’s wrong and his heart squeezes uncomfortably at what little bit he can’t forget.

“It was your dad’s idea that you stay here, right?”

Niall shrugs, “You were going to keep me anyway...right?”

“Perhaps. But it was your dad who offered the suggestion to the police, is that correct?”

The Irish boy is crying now and he hates himself for it—hates the burn of reddening eyes and the lump that forms in the back of his throat, hates himself for being such a goddamn embarrassment. “I don’t know...I guess so.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Niall. This is a safe space. Feel free to let out your emotions anyway you need to.” And he says it’s safe and it looks safe but the way he scribbles across his notepad suggests otherwise.

Niall cries some more because once he starts he can never stop, and holds his ribcage in fear it might fall apart—that he’ll sob so hard his bones will end up scattered across the deep-coloured floor in front of him and that the doctor will see his heart. He’s sure the tissue is red and swollen and sick with everything that makes Niall Niall. The thought alone has him squeezing his eyes shut; hiding the blue and hoping the bad thoughts will follow suit. Don’t be bad, Niall, you promised you weren’t bad.

“Niall,” the doctor begins softly, “Can you tell me exactly what is making you upset? You miss your family?”

“I’m a bad son,” the Irish boy chokes out, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, “I didn’t mean to be.” He’s not even sure what he’s talking about, to be completely honest. Everything is a mess and he doesn’t remember half of it—can’t decipher between real memories and dreams and he’s a fucking disaster.

“What makes you say that?” and it’s useless. It really is. Niall is crying so vehemently he can barely hear the doctor’s words, let alone compose an appropriate answer.

The doctor sighs in resignation, “Alright, Niall, I think that’s enough for one day.

...

[a/n: I had a lot more planned for this chapter but then it was beginning to get a bit long and I was *hoping* to keep the chapters relatively short, if that’s alright. So, the more interesting part will be posted sometime this weekend c: anyway, I hope you like it]