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

ix.

“You’ve got eyes like lasers,” Zayn comments, voice low and barely more than a whisper.

Niall presses his lips together, decides he’s been staring too long at Zayn’s hands; his fingers, the way he rolls his lighter across his knuckles. The younger boy’s face is red, he’s sure, but the raven has already come to terms with his outstanding ability to blush at every comment that comes his way.

Niall’s been trailing the older boy all day—sticking to him like a fly watching him out of the corner of his eye. It’s not that he wants to be creepy (for a lack of a better word), Zayn just makes him feel…safe. And he’s not sure why that is. Perhaps it’s because that’s exactly what the older boy had promised him and, for some ridiculous reason, he chose to believe him. Not to mention, the raven-haired boy is awfully pretty.

“Niall?” Zayn questions, turning to look at the boy on the grass next to him.

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Oh, um, yeah…sorry…got a…I stare a lot.” It’s fucking humiliating, he’s fucking humiliating.

Zayn just smiles and pats Niall’s knee absentmindedly, “S’alright, doesn’t bother me. You’re the one with the pretty face.”

The blonde’s jaw very nearly drops, “Hardly.”

The older boy seems surprised, “You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“I think you’re pretty,” and he honestly cannot believe he’s admitting this. Zayn speaks with a casual tongue and Niall has come to the conclusion that his comments are meant for everyone, everything. The younger boy is…different. And he doesn’t quite remember when that became the case.

“Is that so?”

Niall buries his face in his sleeve and makes a few muffled noises that make Zayn laugh. He likes the sound, decides he’d like to hear it again (and again and again).

…

The second group therapy session Niall is unfortunate enough to attend just so happens to take place on a rainy day. He doesn’t understand it, honestly, how the sun can disappear so quickly just when he needs it the most. The hospital is stuffy, muggy with the humidity of a summer rainstorm and the patients are covered in thin sheets of sweat. Niall can feel his shirt sticking to his chest, his back. He tries to keep as still as possible but his fingers are twitching and the man next to him won’t stop staring.

Don’t let him see, Niall, don’t let him see.

Niall’s not an idiot. He’s know the voices aren’t real. But he also knows he should listen to them. He’s not an idiot.

The session progresses similarly to the last one—Mary has enormous blue eyes and talks about the desert, Andrew has a meltdown, and Patrick (on Niall’s left) cries because he thinks there are bugs beneath his skin and he can’t scratch them out. When Niall’s turn rolls around, there’s a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He swallows, tries to think of something to say that will get him out of participating, and then finds Zayn.

The older boy has been quiet this entire time, sitting slouched in his chair, decidedly uninterested. It Niall a moment to catch his eye, but when he does, he smiles. And it’s nice. Warm.

And before Niall knows it he’s speaking, and he wishes it were nothing but nonsense, “I-I hear voices.”

“Voices?” the nurses’ voice is high-pitched and loud, probably as a result of the shock that has clearly registered on her face. Niall doesn’t talk much.

“Or…other things—things that everyone tells me aren’t really there,” he shrugs as if any of this is easy, “I know they’re not there…doesn’t stop me from hearing them.”

“Well, Niall, that’s good. It’s important to recognize the difference between reality and these…fabrications,” the nurse offers, nodding enthusiastically. Niall returns the favour as the red-haired lady continues her speech. Her words are as dry and bland as the walls of his cell and it doesn’t take long for him to get distracted.

From across the room, he can still feel Zayn’s eyes on him and he wonders if it will always be like this—if dark eyes on him will always make him burn from the inside out, if his fingers will always spark in time with his heart beats. A part of him hopes so. Another part reminds him that it’s ridiculous to feel this way for a boy with no known last name and tattoos in languages he can’t speak. But fuck, he’s beautiful.

Zayn smiles and bites his lip and Niall is so, so lost he might as well have checked out last week for all of the advice he’s absorbed.

And he can’t really bring himself to regret it.

…

Niall falls asleep that night with his pills tucked under his pillow, his heartbeat uneven and the voices whispering nothing but ZaynZaynZayn.

 

 

[a/n: hi guys, I really hope you like this! Please let me know what you think! I love you very much]