Post a bit of a work in progress you've got going? Miss your writing!!
oh godddd- well, you asked for it.
this is the start of my Narry!epilepsy fic. ask box is open ☺️
From the moment Niall opened his eyes this morning, he knew something was off. He’s feeling off kilter, a buoy loose in a stormy sea. He’s just not quite right, and he’s sick of this already. He sits up, trying to not disturb Harry, and goes to his medbox. Harry sets out his med boxes for weeks at a time, so Niall doesn’t have to think about what he’s taking as he pops open the ‘Tuesday AM’ box. It’s a pattern that’s familiar to him. Wake up, take meds, live life, sing a bit, take some more meds, go to bed. Rinse, cycle, repeat.
When he can’t find the bag he’s looking for, he starts to panic, a bit flustered in his early morning haze. He has to go shake Harry’s shoulder, a murmured “Haz, where’re my needles? Need one.” Harry shuffles in his sleep, nose scrunching adorably before he cracks an eye open.
“Whassit?” He murmurs, voice rough and cracking from sleep. Niall suppresses a shiver, just barely. Harry visibly shakes himself awake. “Did you say you needed a needle?” He immediately jolts himself out of bed. “Are you okay, love? What’s going on?”
“Just- have the feeling, you know? Hate it.” Niall responds, gritting his teeth. Harry nods, short and quick, and immediately goes to his carry on bag. He rummages for a moment before coming up with the insulated bag he carries everywhere. Niall rolls his eye, a little, fond as ever.
Harry gestures wildly with a needle he pulls from the bag, trying to make Niall laugh. He succeeds, even if it’s just a little. “You wanna do it, or do you want me to?”
“You. Please.” Niall says, cheeks pinking up. This bit never really gets easier.
Nodding, Harry tosses him an alcohol pad, humming a song they haven’t titled yet. As soon as he’s ready, Niall nods his head and looks at the hotel ceiling, until his vision is clouded with curls he thinks he could draw in his sleep. That’s saying something- he’s no artist, he’s just spent enough time swallowing Harry’s hair in bed over the years he’s pretty sure the curls are probably tattooed in his throat.
Harry leans down and sticks him with the needle, and Niall counts backwards from ten. By the time he reaches three, his toes uncurl a bit, his jaw relaxes, and he slumps forward like a puppet whose lines have been cut. Harry tugs him back to bed, when he tucks himself right into Niall’s side, nosing at his cheek while he waits for Niall’s all clear signal.
“Thunder cats are a no, pet.” Niall finally says, minutes (maybe hours) later. Harry exhales, deflating a little, glad the feeling has passed, and kisses Niall’s cheek, and his forehead, and his nose. Niall whines, waiting, until Harry kisses him soundly on the mouth, and Niall tucks a stray curl back behind Harry’s ear.
They stay like that for a moment, breathing each other’s air, forehead and noses touching, just enjoying their quiet moment. They’ve learned long ago not to take these for granted, especially when Niall’s disorder could steal the moment at any point, some days.
But, days like today, they take what they’re given. It took them both a long time to figure out what they were doing, and even more time how to be together and what that actually means.
As they drift off into a nap, Harry starts to sing, voice still raspy and quiet. Niall smiles, kissing his the crown of his head, falling asleep to his boy. All things considered, he’s pretty lucky.
“One day you came into my world and said it all, you said we’ll be together even when you’re lost”
