Chapter Text
As expected, Liam waylays him the second he steps out of the utility closet and drags him into his dressing room.
Niall sits in the chair, staring at the Polaroid photos of Sophia that Liam’s got stuck all around the edges of his mirror, waiting for Liam to launch into his lecture about the brand and the fans and the press and hoping he won’t be called upon to say much. But Liam seems oddly unsure where to start. Finally he just blurts out, “Couldn’t you have just, y’know, found a girl?”
Niall gives a little half shrug. “Not really into girls, mate,” he says with forced casualness, and he swears he can hear Liam’s entire worldview readjusting, like he’s running through a reel of the last five years in his head and mentally reframing every encounter he’s ever had with Niall. It doesn’t feel as weird to say it out loud as he expected. He thought the universe would shudder to a halt, but it really only gives Liam a few seconds’ pause.
“Well, did you at least make him sign an NDA?” he asks, as if it’s totally normal to whip out legal paperwork before someone goes down on you in a storage closet. Niall chooses not to comment on this, as Liam’s clearly chosen to deal with the shock of Niall’s revelation by going into professional fixer mode. Nothing puts Liam at ease like handling problems, especially ones that might jeopardize the future of the band and ruin all their reputations. No doubt this approach has the side benefit of allowing him to avoid thinking too much about Niall touching other people’s dicks, or about all the times Niall’s seen him naked.
Niall wants to tell him that Jack won’t tell anyone. But he’s honestly not sure that’s true; he barely knows the guy, and he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to picking men. Instead he says, “Couldn’t go to the tabs. He’s got no proof.”
“Could’ve been recording it in his pocket or something,” Liam says immediately, in a way that suggests that he’s been thinking about this nonstop since he walked in on Niall with his dick in someone else’s mouth fifteen minutes ago. “Could’ve had somebody waiting outside to jump in and snap a pic and then blackmail you with it. Jesus, Niall, you’ve got to think.”
As if Niall doesn’t think. As if Niall does anything but think and think and think, until he feels like he’ll go out of his head with it.
“I know,” is all he can manage. “It won’t happen again. It was the first time, like. In a while.”
“Good,” Liam says with evident relief, and then seems to realize he’s maybe being a bit insensitive and adds hurriedly, “I mean—um, there’s plenty of time for that later, yeah? Like, maybe you can sort all this out once, um, things have slowed down a bit for us.”
“Yeah,” Niall says, “yeah, good call.”
Liam hesitates, then asks, “Have you—what about Harry?”
“What about him?” Niall replies evenly, because if Liam is trying to imply what he thinks he’s implying—that he and Harry, as the only two non-straight members of the band, should just pair off with each other to avoid anyone else finding out—Niall is damn well going to make him say it out loud.
But Liam just looks awkward again and says, “You’ve told him, right?”
“Not really his business, is it?” Niall says easily. He sees it again in his mind for a second: Harry pressed up against the wall, head tipped back, mouth gone slack with pleasure as Xander groped at his dick through his jeans, kissing his way up the long, pale expanse of Harry’s throat. Then it’s gone, and he’s just looking at a Polaroid of Sophia in a tiny pink bikini, pouting vacantly at the camera. “If we’re done here, I’d better go find Lottie, yeah?”
“Okay,” Liam says, blinking slowly, and Niall seizes his chance to escape.