hELLO and welcome to .. Anobrain, my second story. I hope you enjoy it as much I as I loved writing it.
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prologue. the boy in the plastic bubble.
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The number three is common nature to me. The number tells a story I'd never thought I'd be retelling again and again afterwards. A story— a long story about the twisting, appalled surprises consisting of love, encounters and abandonment. That all happened within the span of one year.
WHEN I WAS THREE years old I moved to Manchester. It was the ideal place for my mother. She thought the destination was flawless to obtain the abilities a fashion designer would. One that can get their name on the catwalks and bright billboards one sees on an expressway. And fortunately for her, after some time, she successfully succeeded.
Then after another three years that decided to pass by my sister became a local model. She had discovered an interest in the fashion world, and she has the face for it. After years and years of practise and an alter of her name (From Cara Horan to Cara Delevingne, my mother's maiden name), an agency found an interest to sign her. Cara signed many, many, contracts. Under mums supervision, of course.
Now, as of currently, she's a professional supermodel -- and I can't believe I'm her average little brother. The same for my mother.
I'm this adolescent boy living in Manchester with his mother and older sister (when they have the privilege to be around). Into his studies along with three friends. While my family travels around the world for a living, I hold down the vacant fort while they're away.
Light reflects off of me and it's radiant. The room is dark and I'm craving the rare taste of cajun flavoured french fries. Harry, my best friend, is sitting beside me kissing his boy toy, Liam. As Louis and Zayn are far cuddled into the the plush carpet in the lounge below.
The five of us are watching Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the hundredth time within the past month.
It was Zayn's decision on what film we're suppose to watch for our weekly Friday night movie night. My home was just another destination to view it in as we do our house rotations every week.
My stomach calls out for me. Embarrassingly, I look around the dimmed lounge to see if anyone heard the rambunctious noise. Greens eyes stare at me with a subtle smirk. With a mild blush, I look away as I stand to walk towards the kitchen nearby.
"Does anyone want a snack or anything?" I call out quietly. (I've always found distractions more than irritating, so, I try my hardest not to be one for anyone. Unfortunately that's not the case in some situations).
Zayn shakes his head. Louis's eyes stay glued to the television screen. Liam deliberately doesn't answer me. And Harry murmurs a faint no — my cue for departure.
After some couple to ten minutes or so, I return to Quidditch with a turkey and cheese toasty wrapped prestigiously within a napkin.
Warm vanilla milk is in my mug as I perch myself on the right of the couch to still keep a reasonable amount a distance from myself and LiamandHarry.
Distance doesn't matter because Harry charges forward so he's sprawled on about every inch of the couch closer to me. He unmannerly helps himself to half of my well made sandwich. Sending me a thoughtful smirk when he bites into it. I thoroughly frown as I pluck Harry in his forehead.
Harry groans. "Niall," he croons. It's dramatic, but meets Harry's aura for the last eight years I've known him. "That wasn't nice, at all."
I roll my eyes then land on dark ones, Liam. They thoroughly observe my interaction with Harry with vague emotion that has him whispering into the closest ear to Harry. I frown at the both of them while uncomfortably looking away.
Liam's body abruptly retreats from the couch—I choose not to look in his direction. I discreetly re-watch the film I've seen more than a handful of times as Liam murmurs faint words into the shell of Harry's ear— he catches a chill.
I think to the cold, cold winter. And how Harry doesn't dress himself accordingly to the weather and his cheeks are habitually flushed with his arms always wrapped around his body to keep his body heat endothermic. The soft warnings his mum, Anne, would give him were always swept underneath a carpet rug until Harry'd catch ill. And still, he'd repeat the treacherous cycle annually.
That, sort of, looks like him now. An internal all the same prominent picture lights up my mind; fires up my past winter memories as Harry sits beside me, flushed. Shivering from Liam's cold winter words. The difference is, I cannot feel them. I can't experience them alongside him.
Swiftly Harry nods at him. And just as quick Liam departs. Zayn and I share bewildered glances as his eyes go back to the television. He makes sure to keep his arm secured around Louis's waist as he does so. I resist the urge to coo— Harry disturbs and distracts me from doing so.
"Liam," is all he says. A minute or more breezes by and then Harry sighs, he moves closer to me, only to lie his head onto my lap. Those bright eyes with specks of hazel and -- is that a bit of an indefinite blue? -- stare up at me; contrasts with the dimmed lounge. "I think he's upset with me."
I'm used to hearing these same words time and time again. Liam's usually upset. Or angry. Or confused. Or disturbed with Harry. Apparently because of Harry. I never hear a story about a time when Liam's ever happy with him. Or grateful for Harry, but I am familiar with their distressed cycle. A usually upset Harry when Liam gives him silence for the next few days.
Confusingly and responsively -- ignoring my assumptions --, I ask, "Why?" Just as responsive Harry shrugs at me. It seemingly feels like he shrinks more into me in the search for comfort. The kind I can't give to him that he wants, that he strongly desires.
"He made up some bollock excuse to leave just now," Harry explains. His eyes flicker briefly towards my front door then back to the depths of my eyes. "Said, he has to study but, Liam never studies for any subject."
And that's a valid and undebatable argument— it's enough to write an argumentative essay with the gist of: Liam doesn't study because he can never focus properly when there's too many disruptions and distractions around him.
All the same I shrug while combing my fingers through Harry's hair. Tangles stop me en route, although I only continue to run my fingers through his greasy mess. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about Liam," I say teasingly, intentionally wanting to uplift the pessimistic thoughts roaming through the depths of Harry's mind. "I'm sure, Liam is, somewhere – somehow, cradling a book while memorising relevant information."
Harry just chuckles. His eyes don't lock with mine though. The thoughts may be beginning to corrupt him, and I, being his best friend grab onto his shoulders to carefully reassure him. The coldness of Harry's shoulders burn my fingertips ironically. And if I'm warm, I'm most probably freezing Harry.
Forrest green eyes skim my face. Hot breath fans my skin, giving it a mild chill. One that's strongly needed to outweigh the burn gnawing my fingertips from Harry's clothed shoulders. But I ignore it all because .. because. "Hey, hey, hey," it sounds like a murmur. A murmur for only the two of us to hear. "Don't you act so down. I'm sure Liam's fine. Okay?"
There's a subtle look of doubt on Harry's face. Nonetheless he nods and within the passing seconds that transitions into minutes then to five then to ten, Harry situates himself. Himself and his balance. He nods repeatedly at me before a small smile finds his lips that I don't hesitate to return.
Simultaneously, our eyes go back toward the television screen that never blinks. And just like old times, I'm with my three and only friends.
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And that's all. I will warn everyone my author notes and chapters will be lengthy.
Expect this story to, only, be written in Niall's PoV. It will certainly not alternate to another character's perspective and it won't under any other circumstances (e.g. recommendations, aggressive suggestions, and/or commandments). Thanks.