Stand By Me

Chapter Eight

Harry huffs, flicking through the book he's supposed to be halfway through reading for English, watching the dust puff out from between the pages for a moment before he gives up entirely, dropping it down on the mattress of his top bunk beside him.

He can't concentrate so it's pointless trying. He's had a bad day, a bad week, it's nearly a whole year until his birthday again so he has nothing to look forward to, he has a ton of homework sitting in his backpack that he plans to do with Papa after dinner even though he doesn't feel like it, and to top it all off, Niall avoided him all day at school after their argument. He won't admit it, but he's feeling pretty sorry for himself.

He sits with his legs criss-crossed, elbows digging into his knees and his head buried into his hands, his hair brushing against the ceiling every time he moves to sit slightly more upright. If he listens closely, he can hear Liam laughing with one of his friends over the phone the next bedroom over, Dad and Papa downstairs with their music on in the kitchen, making dinner together.

The loneliness that he's felt all day remains, hanging over him like a weighted blanket of the suffocating kind.

The first tap at his window makes him frown, glancing up at his drawn curtains, squinting at the light of the sinking sun that manages to blare through the thin red material. He looks back down to continue wallowing in self-pity and stressing about the entire day, when there's another tap — closer to a bang this time.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and dismisses the ladder entirely, climbing down using the bottom bunk where all of his old stuffies and discarded clothes lie.

The curtains are tugged open just in time for another stone to bounce off of the glass, and Harry frowns harder, peering down into the area at the side of the house, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He isn't sure how he knows that the person beneath the navy-blue hoodie with the rucksack on his back is Niall, he just does.

Not bothering to question why his friend hasn't just come through the front door without knocking like usual, or even why he's here at all since they've fallen out, he hurries down from his room and pulls the front door open, stepping barefoot onto the step and peering around the side of the house, just as his friend turns the corner.

They both pause for a moment. Harry crosses his arms over his pyjama clad chest, the weather already growing cold on the first week of October, unable to see his friend's face properly beneath the hood that shadows his features. He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't even know what, but Niall beats him to it, voice cracking.

"You can't tell your parents I'm here. Please," he whispers.

Harry frowns at that, a million questions running through his mind that he tries to forget about for now. He gives a small, uncertain nod, stepping aside and allowing the shorter boy to pass by him. Niall keeps his head turned down, shoulders hunched, one arm wrapped around his middle so that he's all but curled in on himself.

He eyes him with a frown, closing the front door as quietly as he can possibly manage, wanting to ask what's going on, wanting to apologise for what had happened between them that morning, wanting to know the truth. He does none of those things, and Niall just leads the way up the stairs in silence.

Harry steps into his room behind his friend, closing the door to block out Liam's phone conversation, turning around just in time to see his best friend turn his back to him, tugging down his hood and dropping his backpack down to the carpet with a padded thud.

They stand like that for a moment, Harry staring at the back of Niall's hoodie and waiting for him to speak or explain or something, Niall remaining silent and never turning to face him.