Stand By Me

Chapter Six

His stomach flips at that, finger hovering over the call button again because he's sure it must have been a mistake — Niall never declines his calls; sometimes he doesn't pick up but that's different. The decline had been almost instant, no hesitation.

Another text pings through.

Ni
sorry. can't talk, being sick.

He sends it with a little green-faced emoji, and Harry stares at the screen for a couple of seconds before he starts to type out a reply.

H
are you okay?? you've been sick a lot lately.

There's no point in trying to hide his concern. It's pretty blatant anyway. Niall takes a few minutes to reply, and Harry watches the his phone the entire time, leaning against the wall and tugging anxiously at his bottom lip.

Ni
i'm okay, don't worry.
really sorry, haz.

Harry sighs at that, feeling bad for making his friend feel guilty for being ill (though he can't help but feel like it's more than that, somehow), tapping out a quick reply to assure him.

H
it's fine man, just feel better soon.

He goes back into Liam's room after that, settling back down by his brothers side as another movie loads up. He finds himself unable to concentrate this time though, too caught up in his concerns for Niall — and he hates to admit it, but there's disappointment too, now, that his best friend isn't going to be with him on his birthday.

He huffs and tries to focus on the TV.

Even as the day wears on into night, there's no ignoring that sinking feeling in his stomach that it's more than that, somehow.

.

His lip is bleeding.
Thick trails of crimson trailing down his chin from the split on the inside of the flesh caused by his own teeth. He holds his breath as he lifts the damp corner of one of the darker towels that he could find in the bathroom, dabbing at the sore wound and then pulling away with a small hiss.

He tries to avoid his reflection — he knows what he looks like, he knows how bad it is. Worse than it's ever been before.

His left eye is swollen shut, a dull throb emanating from the front of the socket deep into the back of his skull. His cheek on the opposite side burns hot, likely a vibrant red that will fade until his pale skin is left to clash with the violent purple bruising that will mar the rest of his expression.

What's beneath his clothes is even worse, he knows. He can feel it; every cautious movement causing painful twinges that expel all air from his lungs momentarily. His ribs are the worst, particularly the area that hadn't fully healed from the last time.

He drops the towel to the ground and squeezes his right eye shut, trembling hands clutching either side of the sink as if he thinks he possesses the strength to tear it in too.

Behind the darkness of his lids, the memories play on an old roll of film, flickering in time with the pangs of pain that erupt through his brain every few moments.

Paul's fist colliding with his face three times before Niall finally falls to the ground, landing on his back in a way that had knocked the wind from him but taking no time to catch his breath before he scrambles backwards on instinct. Heavy hands wrapping around his ankles in a brutal grip, yanking him away from the corner that offers him his only protection, so he has no choice but to curl up into a ball with his hands wrapped around the back of his head instead. The solid curve of a boot slamming into his stomach, his sides, his chest, over and over until Niall begins to doubt that he'll ever know how it feels to breath without pain again.