Something About You

Four. September, 2008.

On the first day of Year Four, Niall's late to class.

He'd stayed up the entire night writing a song, something he'd first started doing after that night at Lough Ennell. He wasn't sure what was driving him at first—he just knew he had feelings that he had to get out, and his fingers were itching to press against his guitar strings. Once he started, he couldn't stop. He's not told anyone what he's been up to, sure his friends will demand to hear what he's been working on and then take the piss out of him for his surface-level, lovesick attempt at lyrics—but, still, he's giving the songwriting thing a go.

He'd been up late writing some shite, vague lyrics about late nights and sharing jumpers and waves crashing against shores, and he'd slept through his alarm, slept through all the noise Greg made making breakfast, slept through just about everything until Mully called him four times to ask why he hadn't met him for their walk to class that morning. And now he's flustered, sprinting to school with his tie undone, his hair falling into his eyes, his backpack wide open, his lunch forgotten on the counter at home. He bursts into his first class a full 15 minutes late, and Mr. Molony rolls his eyes before directing Niall to a seat toward the back of the room, saved for him with Mully's bookbag.

Niall keeps his head down and takes his admonishments without protest and class is a breeze, really. Mr. Molony lets him off with a warning, seeing as it's the first day, and with 15 minutes cut out of class time Niall almost feels like the bell rings too soon—he'd only just started scribbling lyrics into his notebook.

'Are you actually taking notes?' Mully asks, the second the bell rings.

Niall slams his book shut before anyone can see, brings it close to his chest as he gathers his stuff. 'New year, new me,' he says, and Mully laughs in his face.

--

He doesn't see Isla until lunch.

They're eating out on the playing fields. Niall's had to buy two packets of crisps and the world's worst tuna sandwich, but Mully is happy to share his massive, family sized package of pretzels, and it could be worse, all things considered, Niall thinks. Nicky is talking about his family holiday to the South of France and Niall couldn't care less, really, about somewhere he'll never be able to afford to visit. He's seconds away from telling Nicky to shut it when he notices her.

Deo does too, it seems, and he says, 'fucking hell, that's uncomfortable.'

'What is?' Niall asks, a little too quickly, and with a little too much interest. He ignores Mully raising an eyebrow in his peripheral vision.

Deo carries on, oblivious: 'Colm and Isla having to see each other again, after the summer.'

'Did something happen?' It's Mully this time. He sounds like he genuinely doesn't know—still, Niall knows he's asking for him, too.

'Heard it was pretty fucking nasty,' says Nicky, relishing in it. 'Isla caught him necking her French exchange student. In her own back garden.'

Mully gasps, Deo laughs, and Niall feels sick. There's a sudden rush of blood to his ears that makes it hard to hear what his mates are saying, but whatever it is, he knows he doesn't like it. He doesn't like that Deo is laughing, doesn't like the goofy look on Nicky's face, doesn't like the image of Isla flashing through his mind, shocked and tearful and heartbroken, while Colm snogs some girl with a French accent. The thought of it makes Niall want to vomit.

He's suddenly angry: at his friends for being so flippant about this, at Colm for what he did, at the universe for letting it happen. He remembers this feeling from his parents' divorce—the anger, the fear, the desperation to figure out a way to fix things. That time, he'd gone down the path of least resistance, sat his ass down, been a good boy, and tried to make life as easy as possible for his mam and da. He thought if he was good enough, if he and Greg stopped fighting, stopped screaming at each other, stopped complaining and asking for more and making messes in the house, their parents would've forgiven them, would've gotten back together.

He knows, now, that it's so much more complicated than that. He knows, now, that it's not his fault things didn't work out between his parents. And he knows, of course, that Isla and Colm breaking up has nothing to do with him. But he feels the same desperation to make sure Isla is okay, the same overwhelming urge to punch Colm in the face for hurting her. He realizes with a start that he hasn't felt emotions this clear and straightforward in ages.

From where he's sitting, Isla looks okay. She's laughing with Siobhan Foley and the rest of their group of friends, her back to Colm, her eyes focused on whatever Una Moran is showing them all on her phone. Niall takes a few deep breaths, tries to remind himself that this is none of his fucking business.

But before he looks away, Isla looks up. Her eyes catch his, one, two, three, four seconds and then she smiles, dimples prominent, hand coming up in a gentle wave. Niall waves back, cheeks flushing like a fucking idiot, and feels his heart stutter and gasp in his chest as Isla giggles.

When he tunes back in to his friends, Mully looks smug.