Broken Strings || Niall Horan [AU]

11 | walking on sunshine

❝When you're happy like a fool, let it take you over. When everything is out, you gotta take it in.❞ ▬ Good Life, onerepublic.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Niall's laughter fades into silence as the credits of the movie begin to roll. "That was brilliant," he chuckles, wiping a joyful tear from the inner corner of his eye; in the darkness, his smile shines bright, radiating positivity. 

"We should do this a lot," I say, lifting the remote to switch off the television. The screen goes fully black and the gloom consumes us. "I mean... watch movies, and stuff."                             

"Yeah," Niall says in agreement, staring up at the ceiling. "Pretend that we're not broken." He exhales slowly and I can tell he's thinking of the decrepit building he calls home, the scars upon my wrists. 

"It would be good for us," I admit. "Doing normal teenager things."

Niall rolls over onto one side, and back still pressed to the mattress, I turn my face so that we're looking at each other. As my vision adjusts to the dimness, I can make out his tired eyes, his sleepy smile. He lets out a yawn. "I guess this is normal, isn't it? Two kids lying side by side, half-naked, taking their conversation late into the night."

I scoff. "You're the only one half-naked, Niall." 

"And who's fault is that?" Niall asks. Before I can even think about constructing some kind of sarcastic response, he quickly continues, "I mean, this is what most nineteen year-olds do. Isn't it?"

I roll over too, my cheek pressed to the cool pillow. "S'pose so."

Niall's fingers find their way to my exposed arm, slowly dancing up and down the tender skin, leaving shivers in their wake. Thankfully, in the darkness, it's hard to make out my scars. And besides, I think Niall knows now, after everything, that it's best not to mention them again. We've wiped the slate clean tonight. Nevertheless, I admire how he doesn't even flinch at the ragged feel of the marks. "You know, I've never been this close to anyone before. I mean, physically." He gestures to the tiny space between our bodies, and I note that I can feel his breath on my lips as he speaks. "This feels... strange, but nice, you know?"

When I remain silent, he goes on, "I mean, obviously, I've hugged people. When I had nightmares as a kid, I'd crawl into bed with my mum and sleep curled up to her. But when it comes to wearing just my underwear... and being with a gorgeous girl..." Niall trails away shyly and I can tell what he's implying. He looks unbelievably embarrassed, as if he wishes he'd never brought it up. I decide, for his sake, to change the subject.

Unfortunately, the first thing I can think of to ask fits into an even more sensitive subject, and the second the words leave my lips, I want to pluck them from the air between us and stuff them back down my throat. "What was your mum like?"

Silence falls upon us, and it's not the kind where there's background noise, like the drip of a tap or faint sound of chatter in the distance -- it's a real silence, during which you could hear a pin drop. Eventually, Niall sighs and the noiselessness is broken. "She was the best mum I could ever ask for. She used to take me up this hill near my home in Ireland where, from the top, you could see our whole town. We'd take tartan blankets and a picnic basket and a bunch of cheese sandwiches and at the top we'd just sit there, together, admiring the view. It was just me and her, and I liked it that way. I didn't care that my dad didn't care about me." In the quiet, he chuckles humourlessly. 

"Niall, if I could get rid of my mum to bring back yours, I would."

"Thank you," Niall says. "That means a lot to me." But there's something wrong. He's chewing on his lower lip, staring at the mattress between us, his expression sad. After a short while, he lifts his gaze and blurts, "Why do you hate your mum so much?"