Archive of Our Own

I. (Winter 2011)

The problem was that he’d got used to it, him and Lou and their flat in North London. That it had become a routine.

Life was spinning, a whirlwind of shows and recording studios and tour buses and business meetings he felt too young to be in and a bank balance that felt like monopoly money.

The apartment had been still, in a lot of ways.

It had been reliable, a place to come back to with Louis and collapse on the couch, watch stupid telly and lose terribly at FIFA. To constantly do both the cooking and the washing up, because Louis considered himself above such nonsense right up until it was time to actually eat. To have someone to crawl into bed with when he'd felt overwhelmed and exhausted and homesick.

Louis had been there, was the point. Spending his free time with Harry, sharing the same space, wearing Harry’s joggers because he’d been out of clean laundry.

He was there all the time, until he wasn’t.

And this whole thing with Lou, it had never been what everyone on the internet seemed to believe. Louis had said it once, drunk and philosophical: that he felt lucky—lucky to have met, to have been given the chance to live together, to have fallen into one of those rare friendships where you know someone, really and truly know them, so much more deeply than should be possible after such a short time. He’d put into words exactly what Harry was feeling, and what he was feeling wasn’t everything twitter thought they knew. It wasn’t star-crossed-yet-cruelly-torn-apart, and it also wasn’t some tragic story of unrequited love.

Only.

Well.

It was a story of something.

Because Harry was positive that Eleanor was a lovely person. Louis was so happy, and out with her all the time, and talking about her when he wasn’t. And Harry was so happy for him, he was truly so so happy, except he was also sitting at the kitchen table of their fancy London flat by himself for the third night in a row, staring at the chair that Louis should have been sitting in, mooching food off of Harry’s plate and complaining loudly about whatever was on the telly and otherwise filling the room with his presence, and Harry was pretty sure that the tears stinging at his eyes weren’t quite as happy as they could have been.

He stood up rather abruptly, aggressively blinking and telling himself to stop aimlessly scrolling through twitter, because for god’s sake he didn’t even like twitter, and to stop being such a mental case. He’d just…he’d call someone else, get out for a bit to clear his head. He had a brief moment of thinking he’d text Niall or Liam or Zayn, but his mind was conjuring images of being invited down the hall to flats that mirrored his own, ones that also should have had Louis in them, loudly taking up far more than his fair share of the space—should have, but wouldn’t—and when he opened his messages, none of them were the conversation he pulled up.

18:17
Hey! Very last minute, but any chance you’re free tonight? Would love to get out of my flat for a bit

He debated for a full thirty seconds whether or not to add a smiley face at the end, decided against it, and then regretted it as soon as it was too late.

18:18
:)

18:18
This is Harry, by the way

18:18
Styles

18:18
I thought I’d switch to whatsapp

18:19
Just in case it was easier for your phone, after last time

18:19
I forget if the numbers transfer automatically

18:19
So

18:19
If not

18:19
Yeah

18:19
It’s me

The two little check marks at the end of each message were mocking him as they turned blue. He shoved a hand into his hair, pushing it back from his face, and forced himself to hold off on sending anything further.

Nick Grimshaw
typing...

18:20
harry who???

18:20
not sure i know anyone by that name, soz!!

Harry snorted, let his head head hang down for a second. He’d probably deserved that one.

Having said that, well. Two could play that game.

18:21
Easy mistake

18:21
“And are you his father?? You must be really proud!”

18:21
^^^ to jog your memory

Nick Grimshaw
typing...

18:22
noooooooooo

18:22
i was legit about to apologise and tell you to come over

18:23
invitation rescinded!!!!

18:23
except not really

18:23
do come

Harry bit his lip on a smile, sent back ‘rescinded invitation accepted’, and went to change into jeans. Not that he was going to—to dress up, or anything, but Nick always looked…nice, and it would be a bit rude to show up in cargo pants and an old henley.

Plus, Harry didn’t actually know what Nick wanted to get up to, but more likely than not he did have some plans for his Saturday night, so better that Harry was ready to go out. Just in case.

More than just in case. Nick almost definitely had plans, and far be it from Harry to be an embarrassment.

He spent a minute buttoning and then unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, trying to decide which way made it look more casual, and wishing he’d thought to ask Nick where exactly they were going. It would be a bit weird now though, what with Nick expecting him to just turn up.

Plus, Harry could be spontaneous. He was a proper Londoner now, with a flat, and a posh wardrobe, and shoes that had zippers on the sides, no laces in sight.

He ran a hand through his hair, decisively unbuttoned the collar and the next button down, and did a quick pat-down check to make sure he had his wallet, keys, and headphones. It was a fairly simple check, when he was wearing jeans this tight. No wonder Gem never seemed to forget anything.

The taxi ride was supremely uneventful, the cabbie seemingly having no idea who he was or where he was taking him. Nothing more than a quick cash exchange, tip, thank you, and mutual have a good night once they pulled up to Nick’s flat.

The door was unlocked when he got down the steps, and he stepped through at Nick’s shouted, “Come in!”

“Hiya!” Nick called from the kitchen once Harry had got the door shut, still out of sight. “I’m making drinks, want one?”

“Uh— yeah. Yes. Thank you,” Harry called back, not sure if he should request something or if Nick just had the one thing going, whatever that may be.

Nick’s quick, “Coming right up!” answered that though, and Harry found himself studying the art on the walls, looking at the pictures Nick had framed. It never ceased to be astounding that he knew everyone, and somehow the pictures had Harry even more convinced that they were about to quickly down a couple rum and cokes before rushing right back out the door.

When Nick came out of the kitchen though he wasn’t exactly dressed for a club. He was wearing a t-shirt that said Dr Dre on it and a pair of exercise shorts, holding out a glass in Harry’s direction, and Harry meant to reach for it, he really did, but instead he just sort of…stared.

Nick raised an eyebrow after a beat, and Harry flushed, stumbling forwards to take the drink. “Uh…sorry. Your— I like your shorts. You look…” he gestured vaguely, careful not to spill whatever this was onto Nick’s rug, “y’know, long.”

Nick’s grin was delighted. “Inspired, truly. Long.”

Harry fought down a blush. “Shut up. Here’s me, trying to be kind, to…” he tried to remember the headline he’d seen earlier at the shop, “to share some of my deep, enigmatic thoughts—”

“God, you sound like Heat.” Nick sprawled onto half of the sofa. “Go on then, have a seat, spill your secrets. What’s brought you to the point of calling little old me on what should be a wild-and-crazy-seventeen-year-old Saturday night? Don’t get me wrong, dead nice to see you, but,” he glanced over and his face changed abruptly when he got a look at Harry’s expression. “Harry,” his tone was different too, teasing lilt having completely evaporated, “what’s— are you alright?”

Harry took a gulp of his drink, swallowed a bit painfully, wished he could go back to blushing. “Course, yeah.” He wasn’t sure what Nick was reading off of him, but he clearly wasn’t convinced. Fantastic. And Harry had thought he’d been doing better about keeping his thoughts and emotions off his face, that the hours of media training were finally paying off. He took a seat next to Nick on the sofa, not at all trying to make it at least slightly more difficult for Nick to get a good look at his face.

Nick looked concerned, reached out a hand to clasp him on the shoulder, “Hazza…”

The nickname didn’t help. “It’s nothing,” Harry shook his head. “Really, I’m not even sure why…it’s just. Louis was meant to— or, he wasn’t actually, it’s not like he…it’s only— we usually go out on Saturdays. Together. Not that this—! This wasn’t like, a backup plan, or— I wanted to come over. I’m really, I wanted to see you, thank you so much for inviting me—”

Nick still looked a bit worried, but there was a smile playing around his lips now, laughter in his voice, “Don’t strain yourself, Styles. I know I’m the chopped liver in this situation, I won’t let it get me down.”

Harry must have looked as appalled as he felt, because suddenly Nick was full on laughing, “I’m kidding! I’m kidding. Jesus, you should see your face.”

“I like chopped liver anyway. Comes in a gold tube, good on crackers,” he mumbled, and Nick’s laughter grew.

“Good on—” he muttered under his breath, lips still twitching, and drained the rest of his drink. “You’re crackers.”

And Harry laughed, or tried to, but somehow it got a bit stuck in his throat.

Nick turned to face him fully at that, “No, really. Louis was meant to…?”

Harry shook his head. “He wasn’t. He— he wasn’t meant to do anything. He’s just,” Harry stopped, cleared his throat. “He’s out with Eleanor. Again. Not that he shouldn’t be, obviously he— I mean, she’s obviously…important, and,” Harry took a deep breath, wished it had sounded a bit steadier. “Fuck, sorry. I’m sorry. Can't believe I'm—” he scrubbed furiously at his eyes. “It's not…I know what people say, about us, but it's never been— there's no reason for me to be…” he pushed his lips together, still couldn't seem to keep them fully steady. “Hurt.”

This was great.

Miraculously catch Nick at a time when he was either free or willing to push his plans around for Harry, of all people, and then have a breakdown on his sofa. Ace. What a way to make himself seem worthy of the time of someone he used to only watch on telly and hear on the radio.

Fuck.

Nick didn’t seem like he was trying to think of a way to politely push him back through the door though. If anything, his eyes were big and sympathetic, and before Harry knew it he was wrapping an arm fully around his shoulders, pulling him into his side. Harry heard him take a couple careful breaths before he spoke, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Harry, it’s…” he swallowed, let the silence stretch, “I don’t really know enough about the whole,” he waved his free hand around, “to offer advice, or, or anything. But the thing is,” a breath, “And I could be wrong! I could be completely— but,” Nick licked his lips, “Thing is, it doesn’t have to be— you don't have to be in love with him, for him to be, y’know,” Nick’s hand fluttered again, and he sounded a bit like he wished he could have found better words, “for him to be breaking your heart.”

Harry’s breath caught the slightest bit, and Nick tightened his arm, kept going. “He doesn't— he doesn't have to have done anything wrong. You can still be…” Nick trailed off, and Harry looked up through his lashes, could see Nick run his free hand through his hair, tug a bit on the end. “God I'm shit at this. Literally anyone else would be better, Simon Cowell would probably be more comforting.” Harry surprised himself again with a bit of a laugh, and Nick’s eyes warmed, lips quirking up in response. It was quiet for a while before Nick spoke again, the words seeming to burst out of him, “Just— you have…people. Other people. People who care. You’re not…never think that you don’t.”

Which.

Harry didn’t think he could trust his voice right then, swallowed a bit painfully and breathed in for four counts, repeated it on the out.

“Thanks, Grim,” he finally managed, touched and choked up and wishing he were a little bit older, had moved a little bit beyond whatever he was feeling right then. He was leaned almost fully into Nick’s side, but if Nick didn’t seem to mind, then Harry certainly wasn’t moving. “I know this is— stupid, really. It's stupid. Obviously I'm happy for him, and it wasn't going to…it wasn’t going to stay the way it was forever. I didn't— he should have that. He deserves it. I just,” he took a breath, then another, “I wasn't ready yet, I guess. For him to find his person. Other person. And…god, this is going to sound stupid, but I just. I want,” Harry ran a hand through his hair, tried to find the right words. “I want to be someone's first choice. For someone to, like, want to do something, and immediately think Harry. Which, how selfish, I know, but—” Nick had opened his mouth, and Harry rushed to cut him off. “Real Harry. I don't mean— not One Direction Harry, not the fans wanting me to, like, y’know. I know there are people who’d want— but like, me. Actual me.”

Nick closed his mouth, was quiet for a minute before pulling back to look at him, eyes serious and soft in a way Harry somehow wasn’t expecting. “I could—” he cleared his throat, “I could call you, sometimes, when I want to do something. If you’d like. Get you on my speed dial.” Nick bit his lip, then spoke all in a rush, “I do this sometimes, with new friends. I go all or nothing. Like, I'll decide we get on and then immediately be confused when someone doesn't want to spend every waking minute together, because haven't you heard? We’re friends! and it tends,” Nick laughed a bit, “it tends to be a bit tragic and crazy-ex-girlfriend, so I usually try to rein it in, but.” He shook his head, “Point being, you can…you can be someone I call. If you want. I'd really— yeah.”

Harry's eyes were apparently never going to stop shining, but he could feel a smile breaking through again, small though it was, “You don't have to— you're going to regret that offer. You'll get sick of me.”

Nick’s face did something complicated at that, fond and a bit incredulous and the farthest thing from crazy-ex-girlfriend that Harry could imagine. “Course I don't have to. I stand by it though.” A grin took over, “And really, sick of you? Of Harry Styles off of The Wanted?” Harry shoved him in the side and Nick laughed, but his voice was serious when he caught Harry's eye to say, “No. I won't.”

II. (Spring 2012)

“For Valentine’s Day?”

Nick actually hated her sometimes.

“Obviously not, like— He’s just got back from Paris, we’re just going to get our tea and go to Shoreditch or Groucho or—”

“Hang on, tea like ‘we’re going to sit on the couch and have a pizza delivered’, or tea like ‘I’m only calling it tea because I’m British but we’re actually going out to a candlelit dinner and I’ve changed my outfit five times’?”

Nick had not changed his outfit even once, thanks very much. “A candlelit— How often do you go for candlelit dinners? I have literally never in my life—”

“Well, you know what they say, never too late to teach an old dog new tricks,” Aimee drawled, needling.

“Okay, one, how very dare you, I am in my prime. And two, no one has ever actually said that? Like, people are always on about you know what they say, never too late to,” he waved his hand, not that she’d be able to see it over the phone, “whatever, but I mean— have you ever heard someone just casually throw that into conversation? Like, some old lady is all voice-shakingly telling her aquafit instructor that she doesn’t think she can do that stretch or owt, and he turns to her all serious and is like it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks. It’s just— it’s not going to happen, is it?”

There was a pause. “Fascinated as I am by the life and times of this imaginary aquafitting grandmother and her pervy cougar-loving instructor,” Nick snorted, “I’m a bit more fascinated by young Harold arranging to train back from the city of love in time for the two of you to swan around London like the world’s gayest romcom—”

“If the world’s gayest romcom stars a straight boy and a camp radio DJ, I’m really starting to understand the criticisms of representation in Hollywood.”

“Straight boy my ass,” she retorted immediately. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you stumbling through the least believable so-sorry-think-I-heard-Daize-calling-me to ever be told when he was falling all over you at Shoreditch last month. You may as well have said brrrrring brrrrring and then excused yourself to take a phone call.”

Nick spluttered, mainly because she wasn’t entirely wrong about Daisy’s hastily-invented emergency, or Harry having been hanging off of his arm like an angelic looking limpet, making faces that spelled trouble for Nick’s sanity. But—

“For fuck’s— he was joking. We joke, it’s funny, we don’t let it—” Nick cut off, took a breath.

“Oh no, please go on, because that sounded like it was going to be we don’t let it get out of hand, which—”

“Can we just— why are you—”

And Aimee sighed, voice suddenly serious. “I just. Grim, I don’t want this to— Just, be careful, yeah?”

Nick sighed right back, muttered, “I’m always careful,” which at least got the snort he’d been hoping for. “Listen, I appreciate it, I do, but honestly, Haz isn’t— he’s just like that, you know he’s just like that. Very selective memory of that night if you’re forgetting both the girl he snogged for the entirety of that Erika Jayne song and the one who followed him into the back of his car after. It’s harmless. He’s just, y’know, a bit of a slag. In the best possible way, of course.”

Aimee sighed again, muttered something that sounded like for some reason he didn’t ask them out for Valentine’s Day which, what, suddenly she was an oracle of romantic wisdom?

“Could I remind you how we got on this topic in the first place? The you free tonight, Grim? I want to go get fucked up and start yelling at strangers on the street that love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Because it sounds a bit like you were asking me out for Valentine’s. Something you want to tell me, Aims?”

“It’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Don’t play the idiot, Grim, it doesn’t suit you. It’s different, I don’t make the rules.”

They’d been due for a married-for-decades bickering match, him and Aimee. Nick tried not to feel fond. “Did you just say ‘I don’t make the rules’?”

She made a sound in the back of her throat, but he could tell it was more amused than exasperated, her admitting defeat. “Fine, whatever. Have fun on your completely platonic outing. See if I care.”

“You can come with, you know. That was an inclusive I’m going out with Harry, not a brush off.”

“Oh, right, because that’s what I want to do on February 14th. Go on someone else’s—”

Nick rolled his eyes, cut her off before she could say date. “Don’t get moany at me, as if I’m doing so well in the Valentine’s department. Pretty sure I didn’t even know the names of the last three blokes I slept with, which, god, good thing the music was bloody loud.” He stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder, started to flick through the shirts hanging in front of him for something that wouldn’t look terrible over a grey t-shirt. “Why can’t we just get married, Aims? We could be happy. Buy a minivan, little house in the country. Paved driveway, of course, so our heels wouldn’t sink into the mud—”

Aimee was laughing, cut him off with a deadpan, “I haven’t got that one thing.”

Which, “Fuck off, you are literally the worst.”

He got back, “Yeah, yeah, go out, get shitfaced, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and he didn’t try to stifle his snort.

“Well that’s going to be restrictive.”

“Ugh, why am I even friends with you. I’m going now, try not to die or propose marriage to anyone else before I see you Friday.”

A woman with priorities. He tried to tone down his grin. “Bye, Aims, love of my life! Future co-owner of my Toyota Sienna! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

And obviously he couldn’t see her middle finger through the phone, but he felt its force deep in his soul all the same.

They ended up at Groucho’s, Harry and him, and it wasn’t a date, obviously, and Harry was a loveable slag, obviously, and Nick hooked up with someone blonde and waif-like in the toilets whose name he embarrassingly did not catch. (Obviously.)

And if there was a moment, when Nick got back with two brightly coloured Pimm’s and lemonades—it was the Valentine’s special, they were 2-for-1, sue him—and Harry looked at his mouth for just a second too long while Nick was chasing his straw with his tongue, brow furrowed, before jerking his gaze away to chat up the woman leaning next to him, then, well. Nick certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.

He took a fortifying sip of his horrible pink drink instead, leaned over to catch the girl’s eye and make some awful joke about who-wore-it-better between himself and Harry—thank god Nick had the paisley shirt on, or they’d have literally ended up in a scene from a teen movie saying well one of us needs to change—which miraculously worked, had her laughing and shaking her head at him apologetically and pointing at Harry.

And if there was something in Harry’s eyes later, when he made his way back from wherever he’d taken her, something horrifyingly close to a you up for it? leer being shot in Nick’s relative direction, even as Harry was still wiping his hand over newly-swollen lips, then: brrrrring brrrrring so sorry Haz, phone call, just give me one sec.

Because this was too important—Harry was too important—for him to throw away over a bad romcom plot starring a curious probably-straight boy and a camp radio DJ who (horrifyingly) cared too much to want the one night that was on offer, any distracting curls or dimples or accidentally matching outfits be damned.

(x)

III. (Spring 2013)

“Grim! Grimmy, look! Look what I’ve found!”

Which was always going to work, Harry thought, all but bursting with fondness. Nick was never one to turn down an invitation to get in on a joke. Not one that Harry was offering, anyways.

It was still a bit of a thrill though, when Nick immediately turned from where he was chuckling about something with Emily and Jamie to watch as Harry rushed towards him, cardboard cutout in tow, Cal struggling to keep up.

And then suddenly chuckling didn’t really cover the noises Nick was making. Harry felt his own laugh bubble up in response, and it was—excellent. The whole night was excellent. They could just stay like that, in that exact moment. Harry didn’t even need to tell him the rest, the I found a bedazzler in the basement of whoever’s house this is story.

“What—” Nick looked like he was having trouble getting the words out, he was laughing so hard. “What is that?”

Which was, frankly, a ridiculous question. “It’s Robbie Williams!”

Nick was still laughing in that gasping way of the truly gleeful, smile stretching across his face and tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and Harry felt a bit—floaty, almost, because that had been him. He’d done that. “Yes, I can—” a giggle, “I can see that, Hazza. I meant more like, where the fuck did you—”

Ah. “I actually, I don’t, like— know? Exactly?”

“Oh my god, Haz,” Nick choked.

“No, it’s— I think it was from someone else’s house? Because I was talking to this girl, and I went up and said I like your cutout, which, I didn’t mean to, but it ended up sounding a bit like come up and see my etchings, so then like, I sort of felt like I had to really sell it? So I said no, I really like your cutout, it’s so so great, y’know. Whatever. So she was laughing and trying to carry three drinks and the cutout and she kind of like— handed it to me? And I asked her where to put it but she said I could keep it, which, sick, yeah? So I said thanks Lydia! Really loudly, like. Only then I don’t think she’d introduced herself? So she probably wasn’t called Lydia. And— yeah. That’s where I got it, so. Thanks, Not-Lydia.”

“Oh my god.”

“Imagine if her name was actually Lydia, though. That would have been magic. Love at first cardboard.”

Jamie and Emily were cackling by then, Jamie muttering something that sounded like, “How are you even a real person.”

Harry smiled his most winning grin. “I also found a bedazzler.”

Nick just nodded, face screaming of course you did, and this was why Harry liked him best.

It also didn’t hurt that Nick had apparently got his hands on a giant bottle of vodka, and was very willing to share with the class. Cal gave them a long suffering look, but didn’t say anything as Harry grabbed Nick’s arm and dragged him towards one of the front rooms, the party getting less crowded the farther away they got from the kitchen. Emily and Jamie broke off on a quest for squash or soda or literally anything but vodka straight from the bottle, some of us are out of our teens, and they lost Cal to the empty armchair that he sagged into almost as soon as they cleared the doorway of the sitting room. Harry hovered by him for a second before Cal rolled his eyes and waved them on, his stern, “Do not leave without me,” belied by the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

And then it was just him and Nick, the two of them making their way towards the corner of the room, snagging throw pillows that had been pushed off of the sofas to make more seats as they went. Harry plopped his cushion down against the wall a couple feet from the corner, sliding down to sit on it, and Nick mirrored him on the other wall.

Harry won the honour of putting his knees over Nick’s—admittedly a bit of a hollow victory, given Nick’s complete lack of even token resistance, but a victory nonetheless—and Harry thought that they probably made a fairly ridiculous picture. His back was against one wall, Nick’s against the other, their legs were crossed perpendicularly, and a two-dimensional Robbie Williams was looking down on them from above. And there was a bedazzler sitting next to Harry’s thigh, still in the box, with pink glittery writing on the side declaring it aimed at children over the age of 6.

“X marks the spot,” he giggled, delighted and gesturing grandly at their legs, and Nick breathed a laugh through his nose, head tipping back as he took another sip from the bottle. Harry reached for it, swallowed a burning mouthful when Nick handed it to him before passing it back, gaze falling to the box at his side.

He should write Grimmy on something. Maybe Nick’s shirt. Nick would probably actually kill him though—that was almost definitely Gucci—so maybe something else. He figured it probably had to be fabric for the machine to work and was vaguely considering his own shirt, but when he opened the box there was also a sheet of stick-on gems inside, no fuss required, and a whole new world of possibilities opened up in front of him. What could he—

Nick thrust the bottle in his direction again, vodka miraculously not sloshing over the top despite the violence of his swing, and Harry thought: an excellent idea.

“I’m going to leave enough room, this time.”

Nick tipped his head in Harry’s direction, still leaning back against the wall. “What?”

“The Y. There won’t have to be a little dash.”

He blinked a couple times. “Haz, what’re you—”

“Remember? With the advert, for Breakfast? There had to be— I tried to write Grimmy, but it didn’t fit, and I couldn’t just like, leave it like that. Like the fairytales. So I have to had a—” he huffed, tried again, “had to have a dash, and a Y underneath. Remember?”

“I— yeah. Course I— how could I forget. Strong hair that day, Hazza. Well fit.” He stopped, shook his head a bit, blinked, “Uh— but, what are you—? You’re…writing my name on your arm? Again?”

“No, the bottle!” He was flapping his hands impatiently, reaching for the lid Nick had set down on his thigh. It evidently took Nick a bit to realize what he was after, but then he gamely handed it over.

“The—”

“I found a bedazzler, in the basement.”

“You said, yeah, and I can see— but. Wait, you’re— you’re going to bedazzle my name onto a bottle of vodka?” Nick sounded a strange mixture of confused, endeared, and trying desperately not to laugh.

Harry nodded in a way that felt very serious, waved the sheet of stickers. “Yes. This will be your legacy. Shine bright like a diamond.”

Nick cracked up, “God, you’re pissed.”

And Harry winked, because, “Right detective-y, you are. What was your first clue?” He lost it about half way through the already-slurred question, forced the rest out through his giggles.

Nick seemed like he’d understood anyways though, rolling his eyes but ruining the effect with a huge smile.

“Don’t be rude, Harold. No one’ll fancy the rude one from that boyband.”

Harry snorted, threw on an exaggerated pout, and pulled off the first few gems to start on the G. “Thought I was the fit one. Don’t you read Heat?”

“Do you read Heat?”

“Obviously. Where else would I get my pictures of you snogging Alexa or falling out of a club wearing leopard print heels.”

Nick barked out a laugh, not embarrassed in the slightest, and: the very very best. “Okay, that was one time—”

“Quality journalism, that.”

“Ugh, why are you so awful. The awful one from 1D.” The hand reaching out to pull on one of his curls said that he probably wasn’t that awful. “That girl over there was eyeing you, but she’s looked away now. Probably heard you insulting Aimee’s shoes. See if anyone takes you home now.”

As if Harry was going to go off with some random tonight. “Fuck it. Who cares. Plus, then you could take me, if—”

Nick cut in, apparently outraged, “Excuse you, I could, as if I don’t already— who was the one holding back your mess of hair as you vommed for about ten hours straight last week? I take you home all the time, ungrateful little—”

“Well, yeah, but— not like that.”

Nick’s hand froze where he’d started fondly carding it through Harry’s hair, and Harry had a moment of being seven years old again, sitting in the theatre watching the first Harry Potter film with Mum and Gem, with Hagrid muttering I shouldn’t have said that. I should not have said that.

And then Nick laughed, loudly, and Harry laughed, loudly, and everything was very funny and very loud and absolutely fine.

And then Emily showed back up, and they all had another shot or three of vodka straight from the bottle, chase-quest having been tragically unsuccessful, and Harry finished sticking the last two gems onto the stem of the Y, brandishing his handy-work to anyone who glanced their way. Cal helped lever him up off the floor after a while, and Jamie and Nick were sort of leaning on each other to stand, both upright but looking like they might not stay that way for long, which had a grin stretching across Harry’s face again.

He caught Nick’s eye like that, and Nick smiled easily back, said “I’ll stay out if you lot come on the radio with me,” and Harry was nodding vigorously, drawing out his yessss for ages, because he was one with the rattlesnakes, obviously.

And then things actually were fine, after all.

(x)

IV. (Autumn 2014)

“Hello?” Withheld number almost certainly meant Harry, but that one time it had been the Burberry head office trying to book him for a set was still haunting enough that ‘Hiya popstar!’ was no longer his standard greeting.

“I did it.”

Harry, then. Someone lesser may have bowed to convention and started a phone call with a greeting, instead of as though they were already halfway through a conversation, but Harry was unconstrained by such societal chains. A free spirit. Nick was mostly successful in holding back his laugh.

“Oh god, did what? Are we burying a body, because I have to warn you, I am not wearing the right shoes for muddy fields or frantic shovelling.”

Harry didn’t laugh. “The break. After the next album, I—” he broke off, swallowed audibly, and Nick’s grin fell off his face as he registered Harry’s tone. “We were at this studio and they were, they were debating if they should go stronger than caffeine pills, for Zayn, and— it was like we weren’t there? Like the five of us couldn’t hear them talking about it, and— They left us alone, to write,” the emphasis Harry put on write made Nick wonder what he thought they’d actually been left alone for, but he didn’t interrupt. “And I just, I just— said it. That I think we need a break. To stop this, for a while.”

It was usually harder to read Harry’s voice over the phone than it was in person, given that Nick couldn’t see his face.

It was dead easy right now.

He was breathing too hard and speaking too fast, and his voice was thin.

Nick licked his lips. Stop this for a while? “I didn’t— I didn’t know the lads were even considering—”

“They weren’t. We weren’t. Not as a— group, or…” Which, oh. Oh god. “Well, not out loud, anyway. I think Zayn might have— he just sort of nodded, and Liam started rambling on as soon as I’d finished, something about the timing being good for the market and it helping numbers on this tour’s sales, not that he knows fuck all about—” He broke off again, took a few breaths, and Nick thought: it’s late, thought: what have you been doing between then and now?

“It was okay, then?”

Harry was quiet for a beat too long. “Niall, he was— he was really quiet, for a while. Which isn’t— that’s not like, unheard of, or anything, but then when he spoke it was his, his interview voice, and he went ‘Alright! That’s that, then, is it lads?’ and it— it wasn’t—”

“I’m sorry, love. That’s shit.” Nick wasn’t even sure what he was saying, wasn’t registering what Harry was saying in response either, mind stuck on the one person’s reaction they’d very obviously skipped, and he thought oh no.

There was sweat prickling under his arms in what felt like dread.

He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to ask, but Harry probably needed to say it, and god Nick hated not knowing things. But he couldn’t just—

Harry finished whatever he was saying about Niall, and they stayed quiet on the line for what felt like twenty years, but which the clock on Nick’s microwave informed him was just over a minute. Harry’s breathing wasn’t slowing. It also wasn’t his normal measured breaths. It was erratic, steadying and then hitching, deep and then shallow, and Nick had to do something, he had to—

“He’s never going to forgive me. For being the one to say it.”

Oh no. “Haz…”

“It’s— I was right. Am right. We need it.” He took a breath. “Liam isn’t…and Zayn, and. We’re fighting, and we’re tired, and— we need it.” He sounded closer to tears than he had yet, and Nick, bafflingly, could feel his own throat start to burn a litte. “I was right.”

“Of course you were,” Nick’s voice was soft. Harry’s breathing was even heavier than before, and Nick felt compelled to go on. “Plus, it’s Louis. Famous for his temper, but. It’s you and Louis, Hazza. He’ll calm down.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “Yeah, he’ll calm down.” Nick could hear him swallow, didn’t think he was going to go on until, “but we— we’re not…I don’t really know when it happened, but,” he broke off, took a shaky breath. “He’ll calm down, but he won’t— He thinks I’m leaving. Which,” another painful-sounding swallow, “I guess he’s not wrong, but. We haven’t been Harry-and-Louis in,” his voice was trembling, and he couldn’t seem to finish a sentence. “Maybe I am leaving, but he—” a quick inhale.

Nick was biting his lip hard enough that he was almost drawing blood. He couldn’t imagine Harry.

“He left first.”

“Oh Haz,” Nick breathed.

Harry’s breath noticeably hitched, “He left first, and it isn’t— it isn’t fair, what he’s— It’s not my fault, if he feels like I’ve changed, like I’m not me, anymore. That isn’t— I’m exactly who I’ve always been. And maybe there was like, a holdover, where he got both. Where he got my first call and El’s first call, and maybe he liked it, or he misses it, but— fuck,” he broke off on what sounded like a sob, stifled quickly but still in his voice when he went on. “I was right, about the break. And he thinks I’m pulling away, from the band, from,” he stumbled, “from him, but— it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.” He sucked in a breath. “He was— I didn’t pick someone else, to be my first choice. I’m not the one who decided that we weren’t enough.”

His voice broke on enough, and Nick’s mind was racing, trying to piece together this halting speech that was very obviously twisting two things into one, to figure out how it was all taking shape in Harry’s head. To pull back pieces of a conversation from years ago, when a younger Harry had been choking out I wasn’t ready yet, for him to find his person.

And then Harry’s breath caught again, and it struck Nick for what was somehow the first time since he’d picked up the phone that Harry was almost definitely by himself, crying down the line, in London.

Parsing exactly what he was saying was suddenly not even close to the top priority.

“Come over.”

“What?”

“Come over now. We’ll order curry and watch shit TV and buy a life-size cutout of Tomlinson and deface it with a horrible sharpie mustache and dress it in a pink leopard print shirt and then tweet it at him and break the internet.”

“Nick—”

“I mean it, popstar. Right now. Call a car.”

“It’s almost nine, Grim. You have to be up in eight hours.”

Seven and a half. Whatever. He’ll sleep when he’s dead. “This is what they don’t tell you about Breakfast. They warn you about the early mornings and the top 40s pop and the family friendly language regs, but they completely ignore that bedtime will suddenly be the only thing you ever talk about. Parents? What time do you go to sleep, then? Friends? Are you sure you can come out tonight? Teenage popstars supposedly at the height of misspending their youth? You have to be up in eight hours—”

“Excuse you, I’ve been twenty for months.” He was clearly trying to sound put-upon, but he was laughing. Softly, and with a throat that needed clearing, but laughing nonetheless. Nick had to bite down on the corner of his own smile.

The smile was harder to keep up when Harry stepped through the door half an hour later, because he looked awful. Well. Not awful. It would’ve been difficult for someone with his bone structure to actually look awful—which, Nick hated him sometimes, he really did—but he certainly didn’t look like he was doing all that well. His face was blotchy and his hair was in need of a wash, like he’d been running his fingers through it all day, clothes matched haphazardly enough that Nick figured he’d probably just grabbed the things closest to him while they were on the phone.

There was a small smile on his face when he saw Nick though, and that was the bit Nick was hanging onto.

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in.” Nick’s tone was all wrong for the words coming out of his mouth, soft and warm and horrible.

Harry sniffed, shaky smile widening the slightest bit. “Was that a dig at my hair? Because you and the rest of the world, mate. Get in line.”

Nick laughed, “Nah, I like the hair. Very Essex girl.”

And Harry wasn’t looking in Nick’s direction, had turned around to get his coat hung up and put his boots near Nick’s by the door, but Nick could practically feel him rolling his eyes and biting down on a grin regardless.

“Or, not even Essex girl. Very Nigella. Which, actually, speaking of! Well, not speaking of, but,” he waved his hand, “whatever, doesn’t matter— there was a Masterchef marathon on earlier, or Hell’s Kitchen or summat. Let’s watch kingdoms rise and fall on the back of an undercooked beef wellington, yeah?”

Harry’s face when he turned back around was far more grateful than a proposed night of crap telly deserved, and Nick somehow felt his heart simultaneously swell and break, turned and hustled Harry in the direction of the sofa so he wouldn’t read either one off of Nick’s face.

“Get that on, would you? I’ll make tea.”

Nick had apparently become his grandmother. Tea. It hadn’t even occurred to him to start mixing drinks, which. How revoltingly adult.

Of course when he got to his kitchen he had an empty box which had fooled him into thinking he was stocked on PG Tips, loose-leaf earl grey with lavender that he couldn’t find the strainer for, and a box of detox turmeric green tea that was so revolting even Harry probably wouldn’t be able to choke it down without a grimace.

So that facsimile of adulthood had lasted a long time.

He could make coffee, but it was going on ten, and he didn’t have decaf.

And then suddenly he had an idea, and next thing he knew Nick was stirring a saucepan of milk on his stove and rummaging through his cupboards to see if he had any marshmallows (he didn’t), which was apparently what his life had come to. Christ.

At least he had something steaming in the mug he handed to Harry when he finally sat down next to him, the incredible image of a red-faced Gordon Ramsay and a crying minion blubbering in an American accent flickering at them from the screen.

“Thanks,” Harry grinned, wrapping his hands around the mug.

Nick firmly didn’t cringe. “Thank me once you’ve tried it. Didn’t have any tea.”

Which got him a raised eyebrow and a bit of a chuckle before Harry raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.

And Nick didn’t know what he’d been thinking, not having his phone pointed directly at Harry, because he would have paid actual money for a clip of Harry’s face as he tried to keep his expression blank.

“What, uh—” Harry’s lips were twitching, “What…is this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

And it wasn’t even funny, but Nick felt himself suppressing hysterical laughter all the same. “So last Thursday, yeah, there weren’t any marathons on, and obviously there was nothing else I could have done with my time—exciting life, me—so I watched about thirty seconds of a Harry Potter film that was playing. And chocolate was supposed to be really restorative after the trauma of being attacked by a raggedy flying cape? So I was going to give you some instead of the tea, but then I couldn’t remember if you were actually off sugar or if that was just an internet thing, and I figured better safe than sorry?” He took a breath, “Unless that was a literal question, in which case it’s almond milk and a tablespoon of cocoa powder that I bought three years ago when I decided I was going to take up baking.”

Harry’s smile had been growing the entire time Nick spoke, which sort of made the whole thing worth it and was probably the only reason he’d kept going past I watched thirty seconds of a Harry Potter film last Thursday. Harry was unexpectedly quiet when he stopped though, didn’t jump in with I used to work at a bakery the way Nick had thought he would, and there was something in his eyes that Nick couldn’t quite pin down.

He took another sip and swallowed, eyes still on Nick, and Nick quirked his lips up in return. He was about to turn back to the screen, to let Harry do his creepy staring thing that people only called dreamy because of his cheekbones and the amount of money in his bank account, when Harry seemed to shake himself.

And then the smile was back, half hidden behind the mug, and Harry was looking him straight in the eye when he said, “You’re my best friend,” softly, but with no hesitation.

Nick blinked, could feel himself just sort of goggle back at him, eyes suddenly too wide and really thankful that he wasn’t holding a mug of scalding hot milk. Because—

That wasn’t at all what they’d been—

And he’d sort of thought, in the back of his mind where all such thoughts lived, that he might have nabbed the fifth slot on Harry’s best friend list, but—

What—

“Same. Obviously.”

And then Harry’s smile was the widest it had been yet, and he drank the entire mug of hot almond-cocoa-whatever, and a shocking double elimination had two people losing their dreams of becoming America’s Next Masterchef.

They wound up shuffling themselves off towards Nick’s room and the siren song of his bed far later than they should have, Nick setting an alarm to go off in an incredibly painful three hours, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

And his last thought, at almost two o’clock in the morning, right in that moment of clarity between being awake and falling asleep, was that there might have been something in that chocolate advice after all.

Because this Harry, the one who’d stolen one of Nick’s t-shirts to sleep in, who’d wrapped himself in about ninety percent of Nick’s duvet and was already snoring softly into a pillow—this Harry looked about a million times less sad than the one who’d walked through the door.

V. (Summer 2016)

As a general rule, Harry didn’t think it paid to get angry with yourself. Frustration was sort of a useless emotion, guilt a rather paralyzing one, and sadness just sort of drained some of the colour out of your day—none of which were particularly appealing, under normal circumstances.

It paid a bit when songwriting, though.

Or at least it sometimes had with Jamie and Julian back in the day, some of his best lyrics falling from his lips like confessions, like he was on a couch in a very different sort of office.

So he let himself be reproachful when he wrote, let himself wonder what he’d done that he wished he hadn’t have.

Which was how he found himself pulling up Messages, staring down at his phone on the balcony of a recording studio that looked out over actual paradise, reading ‘so are you eating your weight in french fries yet?? The internet says you’re constantly swimming which !!!! That must be really fun this time of year. Don’t be a stranger, soldier boy’, and feeling a bit useless and paralyzed and like the sky was slightly duller than it had been the minute before.

Because it had been months. It had been months, and he hadn’t replied, and there was no reason. There was nothing he could say to explain himself, not that anyone was going to ask, but— It didn’t make sense. He could have written something, anything, so easily, but he just— hadn’t. And the longer he hadn’t the more he couldn’t, and this wasn’t— Nick was the exception to this.

He didn’t debate over wording with Nick, never had to cast around for things to say, didn’t worry about accidentally offending him or feel compelled to reread his messages to check the tone before he hit send. It wasn’t work, didn’t take effort, to get back to him. Nick was the person who always knew what he meant. The person Harry’s mum checked in with when she wanted to know if Harry had any news, because Nick was both better at responding and probably already knew.

So how could he have done this?

If this was so important to him, why couldn’t he just—

And then he was typing ‘Nicholas it has been far too long’, hitting send before he had the chance to change his mind.

Nick probably wouldn’t even respond. Harry had no idea what time it was in London, and anyways, chances were he would take one look at that message and roll his eyes, think too little too late, and reply in October. Not that Harry would blame him. And the whole thing was just so unnecessary, had been so avoidable, if only he could have just pulled himself together—

‘Indeed it has, moviestar. (hate that, by the way. Enjoy it, because that was the first and only time i’m using it). How’s jamaica?’

Which, god.

God.

Nick was so much better than he was sometimes. How anyone, Nick himself included, could ever even laughingly describe him as ‘petty’ defied comprehension.

‘Really good so far. Feels like I’m writing something true. I hope you like it.’

And the ‘of course I’m going to like it popstar’ he got immediately in return, the three little dots that kept appearing on his screen moments after each time he pressed send—they obviously weren’t meant as any sort of absolution.

But—

Well.

Tell that to his fucking emotions.

VI. (Spring 2017)

Nick’s smile was practically splitting his face. “Well if it isn’t Harry Styles off of solo artistry.”

And then suddenly he had a shower-damp, half dressed pop star wrapped tightly around him, and his mum was still right on his heels coming through the dressing room door, and the combination of those two things was absolutely fine. The fact that Eileen didn’t even raise an eyebrow at having to edge around the two of them somehow said more than any reaction ever could have.

Nick didn’t have long to dwell though, because Harry was shaking. He’d seen Harry right off the stage before, was well used to witnessing the adrenaline rush, but Nick had a sinking feeling that there might be a bit more to it this time.

“You were great, Haz,” he murmured softly, bringing a hand up to Harry’s back.

Nick could feel him shake his head slightly without lifting it from the crook of Nick’s neck, and he tightened his grip, dragged his hand up Harry’s spine until he felt the bones at the base of his skull. Harry eventually pulled back, still didn’t quite meet Nick’s eye.

“I should have been better.” His voice was quiet, and very successful at shattering Nick’s entire fucking heart.

Because he’d done well.

He’d broadcast live from coast-to-coast, somehow managed SNL skits that didn’t just devolve into second-hand embarrassment, and he’d sung well.

And maybe some notes had been a little off and he’d looked a little squinty, but it’d had soul, and he’d done so well.

“Haz, it was,” Nick stopped for a second, gripped Harry’s shoulder tightly, “it was wonderful. It was wonderful and real and you got up there and sang on your own and you wrote that incredible haunting song and played the guitar live in front of the entire world and, and, just,” Nick could feel his hands fluttering, “just— put on some fucking trousers and do up two buttons on that shirt because I’m blubbering and it’s embarrassing and we need to get to an afterparty as soon as possible so I can start blaming it on the alcohol.”

Harry’s eyes were glassy by the end of Nick’s impromptu little tirade, staring basically right into his soul, and Eileen was still standing right next to them, Jesus fucking Christ.

The corner of Harry’s mouth was curved up in a smile though, so. Worth it.

“All right. Yeah, just give me,” he was reaching for jeans that had been flung onto the chair behind him, pulling one leg through and then trying to get the corresponding boot on before he’d fully regained his balance. It was a comforting show of incoordination. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Eileen stepped up to give him a hug of her own once he was dressed, and Harry all but melted. She linked their arms together, and Nick could hear his mum murmuring how much she’d loved the songs, not that she was surprised, of course, as they made their way down the hall and out of the studio.

The smile growing on Harry’s face was enough that Nick didn’t even mind being left to trail behind the two of them like the last unloved duckling.

The car waiting for them steps outside the door also helped, as did the greeters who fell all over themselves to usher the three of them into VIP, take their coats, and offer to put in their drink orders the second they arrived at the club.

Money apparently could buy you love, so long as it came along with dimples and that jawline.

“Feels like the Primrose days,” Harry yelled, once they’d got their drinks and were weaving through the crowd to get closer to the decks. Or at least Nick thought he did. It was a bit difficult to make out over the music, but Nick nodded regardless. It did, somewhat, because the club was set up in a way that Nick found distinctly strange, with VIP essentially just mirroring the general floor. There were a couple booths off to the side, one of which his mum was already halfway towards, having waved them off with the promise of joining in with the dancing later in the night. But other than that it just seemed a bit like two club floors that were joined together by a velvet-barrier-barred doorway.

Mostly it looked nothing like anywhere they’d been before, but it was dark and loud and the lighting was blue and there were bodies crushed up around them. It did feel familiar, in its way, very 2012, and if Harry’s grin was anything to go by he hadn’t picked it by accident.

They finished their drinks and ditched their glasses on the bottom of a railing—proof that Nick was never really going to outgrow immaturity at clubs—and then Harry was laughing, spinning him in a ridiculous circle that did not at all match the techno beat blaring around them.

They ended up in a group of people that Nick vaguely recognised, and he was pleasantly surprised by the music. The DJ wasn’t half bad. He closed his eyes for a second, let himself feel the beat reverberating through the floor, and then he started to move. It had been too long since he’d had a proper night out, and Nick always forgot how much he liked to dance when no one could really see him. Especially here, where no one had any idea who he was, and even then, wouldn’t have cared.

They stayed on the floor for ages, stopping a few times for rounds of tequila shots—both because Nick was a master at good decisions, and because Harry apparently liked the lime. (Privately, Nick thought that Harry liked being able to make eye contact with bartenders whilst licking salt off the back of his hand, but he wasn’t going to push it.) And then they were playing Rihanna, because of course they were, and Harry’s face when he recognized the first lines of Bitch Better Have My Money could honestly have launched a thousand ships. He was laughing, barely waiting for Nick to throw back the shot before dragging him back into the crowd, and this was the post-show Harry he’d hoped to find backstage. Handsy and happy and buzzing, shoulders finally relaxed and dimples pressing into his cheeks. And dancing like a newborn baby giraffe, of course.

It was enough to sustain Nick for a few more songs before he started to think that maybe he needed to take a page from his mum’s book and have a seat. “You know, I think I actually need to stop drinking? Who even am I anymore, but I’m going to fall asleep standing up.”

Harry had his ear all but pressed to Nick’s mouth, still shook his head a bit like he couldn’t make out what he’d said. They were clearly in New York, if Nick was having uni flashbacks whilst in VIP. Nick opened his mouth to try again—who didn’t like a good deafening every now and then—but Harry laughed and grabbed his wrist, pulling him off of the dance floor.

He assumed they were headed back to the couches where he could just make out Eileen essentially holding court—his mum was such a legend—but Harry apparently had other ideas. Nick let himself be led towards the back of the room, down a corridor that branched off in the opposite direction of the sign for the toilets. Nick had to hand it to him, because it was significantly quieter once they cleared the press of bodies and got to the end of the hall.

“Sorry, I didn’t,” he gestured to his ear, “what was that?” Harry was grinning, tequila-clingy, leaning into Nick’s side even though there was very obviously enough room for him to step back.

Nick shook his head a bit, “Nothing, just a bit knackered. Probably from the flight. Hate flying, always makes me feel like I need to shower seventeen times and inhale steam to clear out my lungs and sleep for three days straight.” He could feel Harry chuckling where he was pressed up against him. “Apparently a couple weeks lazing about on the beach wasn’t enough. Life is hard for the old and world-weary among us,” he sighed dramatically.

Harry swung around a bit as Nick finished, not so much letting go as shifting so that he was looking at Nick straight on, mirth still evident.

The smile didn’t leave his face, but his voice was dead serious when he said, “Thank you, though. For coming today, despite your world-weariness. I…it meant a lot.”

And Nick almost wanted to laugh, probably would have done if his heart hadn’t chosen that moment to swell to three times its normal size, because, “Really, Haz, as if there was ever any chance of me missing your first show.”

Harry’s face was doing—something, and Nick hadn’t quite noticed that they’d wound up pressed fully together, Harry leaning into him from chest to thigh.

His heart rate kicked up a notch, and fuck but he needed to get out of this situation as soon as humanly possible, because they’d reached it. The line. Somehow, inexplicably, they’d stumbled down a hallway, exchanged a couple sentences about Nick’s exhaustion, and arrived at the potentially-friendship-ruining moment that always meant Nick had to feign some sort of health crisis or family emergency or friend in need.

Eileen was here, though, and all Nick’s friends were in London, and Harry was still looking at him like that.

They were silent and staring for too long to pretend that they hadn’t been, and Nick’s brain was screaming at him to abort immediately, but his hand was recklessly reaching up to push a bit of Harry’s hair off his forehead and then sliding around the back of his head. He gripped the hair there, so much shorter than it had been but still long enough to pull, and Harry made a noise deep in his throat that shot straight through Nick. Which. This was so entirely not the plan. Fucking—

Harry’s breathing was picking up speed, and Nick could feel the movement of every inhale and exhale against his chest, and Harry was just breathing, for Christ’s sake, it should not have been so affecting.

He liked to think he could see the same question reflected back at him in Harry’s eyes, the we’re not really doing this, there is no way that we’re doing this, but then Harry had always been so much braver than Nick, and it wasn’t as shocking as it should have been when he leaned forwards and closed the distance between them.

It didn’t feel like a first kiss, likely because it wasn’t—Nick had never had a friend that he hadn’t drunkenly snogged at a party, and Harry was no exception, though they’d stopped doing that very quickly, suspiciously near the time when it would have run the risk of no longer being a joke.

Still though, this wasn’t jarring or awkward and Nick wasn’t using half his brain to figure out if he was standing weirdly or what he should be doing with his hands. He was—fuck, he was pulling Harry close with the arm that was still wrapped around his neck and tangled in his hair, and using the other hand to untuck Harry’s shirt and slide his palm up the warm skin underneath. Harry was good at this, which didn’t come as any kind of shock, but the knee sliding between Nick’s own and pressing up slightly, propelling them backwards until Nick’s shoulders hit something solid behind him and then the full weight of Harry crowding up against him—that sort of did.

He dimly registered that he was leaning on a closed door and tried to prop himself up on the handle, felt it give way under his palm. The room they stumbled into was small, but there was a lamp that went on when Nick fumbled for the light switch next to the doorway, and he could see a sofa just behind them. It was also blessedly empty, which, to be honest, was the highest point in its favour right then.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, that would result in them laughing this off as an ill-advised snog and then taking advantage of the private space to straighten themselves out, but what actually came out was a whispered, “Fuck, Haz.” And then Harry’s eyes were locked back on his, blown black, and Nick wasn’t sure if he was still wearing his lip stuff from onstage, or if he’d just bitten his lips near raw, but it was. A lot.

And he still needed to say something, he really really needed to say something, because that wasn’t what he’d meant at all, but—

Maybe there was a part of him. The same part that had decided at ten years old that he was going to host the Radio One Breakfast Show, that at nineteen had filled out hundreds of applications for work experience jobs in London with absolutely zero qualifications but complete certainty that he’d get one eventually, that let him be friends with models and movie stars and pop sensations without feeling like he was any less than they were.

He needed to stop this, but maybe there was a part of him that wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t.

Harry was still staring, one hand fisted in the front of Nick’s shirt and the other pressing hot at the small of his back, breath heavy and something like hope mixed in with the heat in his eyes, and Nick thought god, he’s beautiful at about the same time that he thought fuck it.

And then Harry was taking an impossible step closer, gaze darting down and then up again, a question taking shape on his face, and Nick felt himself nodding, because: yes. This was Harry, him and Harry, and something in Nick had just—shattered, out of nowhere. Shifted, so that this moment which had seemed so impossible, so doomed to ruin everything, suddenly just felt inevitable. This was Harry, and that reckless and grasping part of Nick decided that whatever Harry was asking, whatever it was that he wanted, however badly this was going to end, the answer was yes.

Evidently what he wanted was Nick, because both of his hands were suddenly scrabbling at the buttons of Nick’s shirt, Harry laughing breathlessly when he fumbled a bit in trying to get them undone. Probably used to them opening the other way, which— Nick shut his eyes for a second, opened them in time to watch the laughter on Harry’s face fade into a sharply bitten lip as he reached for Nick’s belt.

Nick had the wherewithal to fling his arm out behind them and get the door shut, press the button for the lock, but it was a near thing. And then his hands were on Harry, somehow miraculously succeeding in undoing the buttons on his shirt one handed, and Harry let go of him for long enough to shrug his arms out of his sleeves before he was back flush against Nick’s front, pressing his mouth into the hollow of Nick’s throat.

And it was—Nick was feeling far too out of his head for someone who didn’t even have his shirt all the way off, but. Fuck it. He bared his neck to give Harry better access, and Harry took advantage, never one to go in for even an ounce of shame, grinding against him so that Nick was both incredibly thankful that his jeans were undone and gasping in a way that he’d maybe be embarrassed about later.

Then again, maybe not, because Harry was suddenly dropping to his knees and looking up at Nick through his lashes, cheeks flushed and hair mussed and—Christ, look at him—Nick dared anyone to have reacted any differently.

And then he wasn’t thinking about much of anything for a while, his body registering flashes of sensation, waves of heat flowing through him and the softness of Harry’s hair grasped tightly between his fingers and the choked-off groaning noise Harry made when Nick pulled roughly on the strands. Nick felt almost lightheaded, like there was warmth rushing down his arms and legs to the very tips of his fingers and toes, and he tried to warn Harry, pull him off.

Harry was having none of it, widening his jaw and taking Nick deeper and fucking swallowing around him and fucking shit, but Nick was gone, head tipping back and gasping something that sounded like Harry’s name and barely keeping his knees locked under him.

He pulled Harry up as soon as his eyes would focus again, taking in the sight of him for the briefest of seconds—the swollen lips that Nick had thought looked red before, and the way he was wiping the slickness off his face with the back of his hand—before Nick was sealing their mouths together again. Harry whined, flushed and squirming against Nick’s thigh and tasting like Nick’s come and fuck, if Nick had ever wanted anyone this badly before he couldn’t remember it.

He almost couldn’t catch his breath, pulling Harry over to the couch and then pushing him down onto it, climbing over him and getting his hands on Harry’s flies. Nick got them open after a brief fight with the zipper, all but yanked Harry's jeans down his thighs along with his pants, and then he had a hand around him, wishing for lube but making do with spit. Harry certainly wasn’t complaining.

He looked obscene, shoulders against the sofa cushions and body arched up into Nick’s hand, abs straining and butterfly fluttering with every breath, some combination of angelic and sin itself. Nick didn’t know how he did it, was pretty sure that he himself just looked a bit dazed and overwhelmed, but Harry like this was—he was something else. A Renaissance painting, if Renaissance paintings had blown pupils and swollen blood-red lips and traces of come smeared across their cheek. A gasping Renaissance painting, one who caught Nick’s gaze and held it, who was grabbing for Nick’s shoulders to pull him close enough to lock their mouths together. It made the angle a bit awkward, but that didn’t seem to matter, because minutes later Harry was panting against Nick’s lips, breathily gasping, “Nick— Nick, I’m gonna—”, before Nick was sliding onto his knees and taking Harry into his mouth, just enough higher brain function left to register their complete lack of anything to clean up with if they made a mess.

And then Harry’s hands were in his hair, and it was Nick’s turn to swallow him down, and Harry was coming with a shout that made Nick thank whomever was listening that he’d managed to lock the door.

He was panting against Harry’s hip, thumbs smoothing over the laurels that he’d always thought should look tacky but somehow didn’t, and then Harry was laughing, carding Nick’s hair back out of his eyes and shimmying out from under him to get his jeans back up over his hips. He didn’t bother to do them up, just slid down to join Nick on the floor where he’d gone to his knees in front of the sofa, collapsing beside him with his legs stretched out and his head tipped back to loll against the cushion he’d been lying on a second before.

Which was a good idea. A very good idea, sitting like that, and one which Nick hastened to copy, yanking his jeans into place and matching Harry’s gaze on the ceiling, and—

Well.

He chanced a glance to the side and then immediately flicked his gaze away from Harry—shirtless and disheveled and grinning and still breathing too hard, hair looking like Nick had spent a good ten minutes yanking it in every direction.

Likely because he had. Christ. Likely because Nick had indeed just spent a good ten minutes pulling Harry’s hair before he’d come down his throat, Jesus fucking—

At least Harry didn’t seem to be panicking. Yet. Which was—good. It was good, obviously, but—

What the actual fuck had they just—

Nick swallowed.

Had Harry even done that before? He’d obviously done it before, unless he actually was just a natural at literally everything he tried, which Nick couldn’t quite let himself believe, but—when? With who? Not that it mattered, but—was it going to be that sort of panic, when it hit? Nick was not equipped for that sort of panic.

He actually might be more equipped for that sort of panic than he was for the inevitable regret, though, now that he was thinking about it. The look that Harry was going to give him in a second, the one that said wow I can’t believe I’ve just done that, what a laugh but let’s not ruin the friendship, the one that meant you’re super great Grim, thanks for the shag, but I’ve just remembered that I’m Harry actual Styles and only sleep with people in Victoria’s Secret catalogues, my mistake! Let’s get a drink. Or—didn’t mean that, not really, but did mean there’s a reason we don’t do this, and that reason is that I’m twenty-three and a literal international superstar and I don’t like to give people the wrong idea so I’m really really sorry, because I know that you can do casual hookups with almost anyone, but for some reason you don’t want to do them with me.

Maybe if Nick just kept his gaze glued to the ceiling, he could hold on to this stolen, impossible moment for just a little while longer. Could postpone the inevitable way that Harry was going to turn towards him with that apologetic, life-ruining look.

That was Nick’s forte, after all, coming up with good, long-term solutions—

“You’re freaking out.”

Nick looked over for just a second, long enough to register that Harry had rolled his head to the side, was looking at Nick all fond and relaxed even as he tried to do up the buttons on the shirt he’d somehow picked up and got his arms back through without Nick noticing.

He’d started one buttonhole too low on the left side and then skipped from the third to the fifth so that the fourth one was bunching out. Ridiculous. Somehow Nick could relate.

“I’m not— freaking out, I’m. I’m just lying here. Serenely. Picture of calm, me. Stop projecting.”

Harry grinned, “I’m not. Can’t be, actually. I’m feeling good.” He sang the last bit like he was Nina fucking Simone, voice gravelly and even slower than normal and still sounding a bit fucked out, and shitting hell but Nick actually couldn’t breathe for a second.

What were they doing?

“You know what, you’re absolutely right. Feeling good. Calm. Nothing out of the ordinary happening here. Just slept with an international pop sensation, must be Tuesday!”

He could see Harry lean forward slightly in his peripheral vision, trying to catch his gaze. “Nick—”

“Rock sensation? Dunno, hate to type-cast, but I don’t think you’re escaping that label any time soon. Not that it’s a—”

“Everything’s fine, Grim.”

Which, it wasn’t. It really really wasn’t, but Nick took a deep breath nonetheless.

“It’s— we’re in the world’s strangest room right now. Like, what even is this? What are we leaning on? You go down a corridor that leads to nowhere and there’s a room with a massive sofa and a lamp and not much else? With a lock on the door? What does anyone— this can’t be an office. Is this, is this a sex room? Is that where we are right now? God, Americans are fucked. Quite literally, apparently.” Nick flicked his gaze towards Harry, away again. Breathed in - two, three, four; out - two, three, four. “It’s okay if you didn’t,” Nick waved his hand, “mean this, or whatever. You’ve— it’s been quite a night. We stumbled into a sex room. You’re drunk.”

Nick watched the last of the amusement fade from Harry’s face, his eyes abruptly serious. “I’m not.”

He might have been telling the truth. Nick tried to count their drinks, tried desperately to work out how many shots they’d had after that first vodka soda.

“Drunk on solo success, then. And,” Harry was opening his mouth, and Nick rushed to get this out, “and we’re in America. Free pass, if you want. I’ll still— we can go back to normal, in London. When you’re h— back. When you’re back.”

There was a long pause in which Nick closed his eyes, determinedly kept his breathing even.

In - two, three, four; out - two, three—

Harry broke the silence, voice wavering so slightly that it was possible Nick was imagining it. “Do you want to go back to normal?”

Which.

Nick swallowed compulsively.

He wanted promise rings and babies and groaning at the alarms that went off everyday at 15 minute intervals starting at 4:30am and song dedications and the kind of morning sex that’s possible when someone’s still there in the morning. Which was to say absolutely nothing that Harry could give him.

There was a reason they didn’t do this.

“I want,” he shook his head, blamed some combination of the maybe-waver and tequila and the weirdly vivid memory of Jonny once asking why he couldn’t ever just be fucking honest for what came out next, “I want ponies and unicorns and commitment, and,” he stopped to take a breath, continued on the exhale, “and I’m not going to put that on you, Haz.”

And then Harry was pushing himself upright to peer down at him with the kind of intensity that Nick by all rights should have been used to, given how long they’d known each other. Nick’s lips were still swollen though, and he could feel finger-shaped bruises forming on his hip. His defenses were down.

“Why not?”

“Why— Harry. You’re,” Nick floundered, “you’re Harry Styles off of The Wanted. This isn’t…”

Harry reached out, grabbed his arm, “Put it on me. Try.”

“What?”

“I probably can’t pull off unicorns, but the rest, I mean.” Nick watched him lick his lips, twitch the corner of his mouth up, “How hard can it be to find a baby horse?”

Nick really did feel a bit lightheaded this time, like he’d fallen into an alternate universe where this conversation made the slightest bit of sense. “What exactly are you—”

“We could try, if you want to.” A pause, and his voice was soft when he went on, “I want to.” And then suddenly he was grinning, “The Mirror’s bromance of the year, now with bonus orgasms!”

Nick swallowed, told his heart to calm down, tried to remind himself that this was Harry. Harry, who always intended to keep his promises, but had a habit of not quite realising how people were going to feel when he inevitably broke them.

This was—

This was the worst idea he’d ever considered. Absolutely, bar none, the worst.

And yet.

There was that small part of him. The part that always set its teeth and reared up at the worst possible moments, that had chosen the Breakfast Show and landed an internship at MTV and texted regularly with Kate Moss, that had looked at a seventeen year old boy on his couch six years ago and thought: yes. This one.

And he hadn’t meant it like that, not then, but—

It had been six years, and Harry was here, and grinning at him conspiratorially, and—

Nick turned his gaze upwards to the ceiling, tried to yoga-breathe. In - two, three, four; out - two, three, four. In - two, three—

“We don’t have to, Grim. I won’t…I know it’s not exactly, like,” Nick turned his head to see the hope on Harry’s face fading, his smile turning into one that Nick recognized from magazine covers and interviews and fan pictures.

He hated it.

Nick took another breath.

Yes. This one.

“Okay.”

There was a very cinema-worthy moment of silence. Nick tried to remind his lungs that oxygen was not a luxury. In - two, three—

“Yeah?” Harry breathed.

Nick bit his lip, hoping the twin feelings of euphoria and terror rushing through him would cancel each other out before he died of some sort of stress-related heart attack. Any time that little brave part wanted to take over would be fine with him.

“Okay.” His voice was a bit stronger this time. “Yeah. Let’s— okay. Just…warn me, yeah? When you’re getting sick of me. Or, of the speculation, the questions, the being in one place for more than a day at a time. I’ll— just give me a bit, to slot us back into you and me minus the orgasms. I’ll, I’ll be able to, but just…bit of warning, yeah? When you get tired of me. It. Whatever.”

There were a few seconds where all Nick could hear was Harry’s breathing, and then suddenly he had two very long arms octopused around him. “I’m not going to get tired of you,” Harry pressed into his shoulder, “There is literally no way—”

“You will. Everyone does, eventually, and it’s, it’s okay. I’ll be—”

“I won’t.”

“You will, and—”

Harry pulled back, cut him off, cupped his jaw. “Nick.”

He locked their eyes together, and Nick meant to look away, he really did, but Harry was holding him steady.

“No,” Harry all but vowed, eyes shining and tone final, “No, I won’t.”

And Nick, god help him, because this was going to end so badly, there was literally no way this was going to end in anything other than disaster, but right at that moment, Nick—

Nick believed him.

(x/x)