With Open Arms

Waiting To Break

Niall hates this place.

It's not the worst. Not even close. Almost the opposite in fact.

That's what makes him hate it.
He feels like an outsider looking in on this perfect family. A big house with a front and back garden; a living room with a huge TV, games consoles and a box filled with toys in the corner; a kitchen with cupboards stocked full of food rather than empty and bare; perfectly decorated bedrooms with wardrobes full of clothes. They have two loving parents and two clever kids, a freaking pet dog like something out of a fairytale.

He isn't meant for a life like this. He never has been.

He knows it won't last. And he knows that this perfect family won't turn out to be all that they seem. It'll only be a matter of time before he pushes them too far and they snap - it's inevitable.

At first, they do nothing. Then they shout. Then they throw a punch, or lock him up, or - or they do things he doesn't even want to think about.

But they never stay perfect.

The last place had been the worst. The streets had felt like a safe haven in comparison; the cold and the hunger and the thirst, the guys who had thought they could get away with pushing him around...all of that had felt so much more secure than being in that house.

"Hey. You coming down for breakfast?"

Niall never intends to flinch at sudden sounds but he does anyway, sitting up on the bed - and god, the bed is the most comfortable thing he has felt in months - to face the tall boy in the doorway. His hair curls around his face in a way that makes him look younger despite his height, eyes soft as he smiles.

He wonders what life would be like if he had spent the last thirteen years so sheltered and taken care of.

The boy, Harry, seems to be making an effort to look anywhere but the bruises on his face. He wants to roll his eyes at the failed effort.

Instead his stomach rolls with hunger and he gives the slightest nod. "Okay," he mumbles, kicking his legs over the edge and standing up. He's in the same clothes as yesterday, long sleeved blue hoodie and tattered grey jeans. He doesn't have much, left it all at that last place.

There's no way he wants to go back and get any of it.

Harry waits for him in the hall and leads the way down the stairs.

"Dad's making pancakes. He, uh, he doesn't do it often and it usually ends up with the house nearly burning down so...just be warned," the boy says over his shoulder with a loose grin.

Niall raises an eyebrow at the fact that Harry refers to the men as if they're his real parents. He was two when his birth parents died. Not old enough to ever remember calling them 'Mom' or 'Dad'.

He doesn't even realise that he's stopped walking halfway down the stairs until Harry turns at the bottom with an uncertain sort of frown. "You do like pancakes, don't you? Because if not, I'm sure -"

"It's fine. I don't care," he mutters, making the older boy clamp his mouth shut and give a stout nod before leading the rest of the way into the kitchen.

He's greeted with a sight that resembles a scene out of a hallmark movie. A table set with plates and cutlery, a stack of pancakes in the middle alongside syrups and sauces. The two men from last night, Zayn and Louis, are sitting opposite a smaller boy with dark hair and eyes to match. They're all talking and laughing, the dog sniffing the pitifully at the boy as if asking for scraps.

Zayn smiles softly when he enters the room and he tightens his jaw. It's a trick. It's always a trick. Lets all be nice to the naive little  care kid just to dash his hopes with a kick or a punch or -