Niall clutches for Taylor, the hot skin of her wrist slipping out of his sweaty grip. He calls for her, his throat clogged and rotting. Taylor. His vision swims, something hits his face. It’s dirt. Soil. Damp and musty. Taylor.
Niall wakes with a start. It’s dark and it takes a few moments for his vision to adjust to the dim. He blinks, his eyes filling with tears.
He can smell the smoke and the ash, his throat aching.
Fingers grip his own, rough and dirty and twisting to squeeze some heat into them. Something falls on Niall’s face and he jerks, his aching muscles spasming before he catches himself.
“It’s okay,” comes a voice in the dark and it’s Harry, his voice choked and brittle. He’s sick again, the last lashing of rain doing a number on his throat. “You’re okay.”