What Would You Say

Finale

Niall laughs rambunctiously.  He may be a bit high on the powder thingy that they snuck in the air ventilation system back in the theatre but he can’t bring himself to care.

The five of them are in their Range Rover, on their way to their flat.  They’re currently underwater in the tunnel that connects the UK to mainland Europe.  Louis is driving—about ten miles below the speed limit, Niall should add—and Liam is sat right in the passenger seat.  Liam occasionally leans over to whisper whatever into the older boy’s ear. 

They must be blind, Niall thinks absentmindedly as he watches Zayn dose off next to him. Both Liam and Louis are so head-over-heels for each other yet neither are able to see it, or feel for that matter.  He has seen Zayn shake his head at the love-struck idiots at least five hundred times since they have come together.

Just as he has caught himself staring at Harry about five hundred times by now.

Niall shakes his head, as thought the physical jerk of his head will help him clear his mind.

A couple seats over, Harry has a glazed-over glint in his eyes as he is thinking of the same thoughts as the Irish blond.  He still has some feelings for Niall; he just wishes that Niall doesn’t still hate him for all those years ago.

“I can’t believe it,” Niall fumed, stomping all over their craphole of a flat.  “You fuckin’ did it again!”

“Babe, I—“ Harry starts but shuts up because he is bound to say something stuoid again.

He always does.

“G’ on, then,” Niall snarls. “G’ on and spin a tale about how you accidentally landed your big mouth on that slag’s.”

“It was an accident, Ni—”

His next words were quite literally punched off his mouth.  Niall’s pale fist collided with his mouth and Harry’s head snapped to the side from the impact.  He pokes out his tongue, tastingthe disgustingly metallic taste of his own blood, mixed with spit. Niall didn’t even give him a chance to recover as he choke-slammed the younger boy to the scratchy surface of the carpeted floor. The backs of Harry’s knees burned as he felt the carpet-burns form on the thin skin. Niall didn’t relent as he let loose another punch, this time straight to his solar plexus.  Harry coughed weakly as Niall punched him again, on his brow bone this time.

He let Niall do whatever.  He knew that he deserved this; no he deserved far worse than this for what he had been putting Niall through.  He deserved to be dragged down the street naked and then dunked in the Thames a thousand times until his lungs were burning with the foul water.

A few stray tears fell and when he blinked them away, Niall was long gone.

“—ry? Harry?” the same Irish lilt from his memories says, splashing Harry with a fresh wave of reality. “We’re here now.  Time for the next phase.”

Harry nods. 

He is not fond of the next set of orders they have to follow.

“Why am I the one who has to do this again?” Harry whines, pouting adorably.

“Because you are the person who’s, y’know,” Zayn shrugs, “the best actor out of the lot of us?”

“The fact that you’re phrasing it like a half-arsed question doesn’t reassure me that this is the best plan we’ve got.”

Liam glances back. “It’ll work out, Harry.  I promise.”

Zayn laughs, all crinkly-eyes. “Ah, Styles, suck it up and be a man about it.”