Archive of Our Own

The envelope arrives during the 8:30 news on Friday. Or at least that’s when Fiona comes back with it, after an excursion to find a protein bar. Licking a bit of chocolate off the corner of her mouth, she slides the letter under the hand Nick has resting on the desk.

“What is it?” Nick asks, though he can see with his own eyes it’s sealed and there’s no return address, so it’s not all that likely she has any more information than he does. It’s quite fat, medium size, the thick, creamy paper and calligraphied lettering like a posh wedding invitation. Except he doesn’t know anyone who’d send him a wedding invitation addressed to Nicholas P Grimshaw, DJ, ℅ BBC Radio 1, Broadcasting House, Portland Place, London.

Fiona shrugs, sitting back down behind her computer. “Arrived by courier, apparently. Ruth from downstairs brought it up.”

“Who addresses letters ‘Nicholas Grimshaw, DJ’, anyway? It’s a job, not a fecking OBE.”

“Oy,” Matt says. He thinks there should be no swearing in the studio even when they aren’t on air, in case someone slips up. Nick has never slipped up, but Matt likes a rule. Nick ignores him, turning the envelope over again to double check there’s not a sender embossed on it somewhere he missed the first time.

“Fifi,” Nick wheedles when she ignores him even more thoroughly than he ignored Matt.

She gives him a look that clearly says, why don’t you just open it instead of asking me questions I obviously don’t know the answer to?

“You’re mean,” Nick says.

“Nicholas, just open it,” Matt says. “After your link.”

“Thank you, Tina,” Nick says into her headphones as he hits the station promo clip, and then play on Sam Smith’s new track. He can do a link in a minute.

He hasn’t got a letter knife in the studio, but the flap is only stuck down near the point, so it’s not hard to get into now he’s decided on that course of action. There’s no sender’s name inside either, though. What there is, is a return train ticket from St Pancras to Paris, leaving after the show and returning Sunday afternoon, a members card in his name for what turns out to be a private club he’s not heard of in the second arrondissement—thank you google—a smaller, but still creamy, envelope containing five-hundred euros, a map of the Paris Metro in English, and a postcard, blank on the back, of the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night.

“What is it?” Matt asks. Fiona’s snuck around the desk while he was going through the envelope and is peering over his shoulder.

“Looks like a weekend in Paris,” she says.

“Ooooh-ooooh,” Ian, Matt, and Fiona all chime in together. “Who’s taking you to Paris?” Matt adds. “Like we need to ask.”

“It doesn’t say.” Which is the truth. Sam is winding up now and Nick really should do a link. He shoves all the things back in the envelope and keeps his elbow on it so no grabby hands can steal it as he fades up his mic. “Sam Smith,” he says. “Still loving that one. What about you, Matt, still into it?”

“It’s good,” Matt answers. “Doesn’t he have a song about Paris?”

He doesn’t, and Matt knows it. Nick glares, but Fiona giggles, so Matt preens anyway. “No,” Nick says quellingly, as though Finchy can be quelled.

“He’s playing in Paris next month,” Ian pipes up.

“No one cares about Paris,” Nick says.

“Everyone cares about Paris,” Fiona corrects. “Laura on the text has tickets to his Paris show for her boyfriend’s birthday present. I hope it’s not a surprise, or he’s already at work and not listening.”

“We’ve got the Nixtape coming up in about…” Nick lets the pause like he’s looking at the clock drag out just to annoy Matt― “twenty minutes time, so give us a text on eight-double one-double nine and let us know what you’d like to hear. Now some Little Mix for you.”

As soon as his mic’s off, Nick’s up and heading out the door, phone in one hand, envelope in the other.

He shuts himself in the cubicle in the men’s near the 1Xtra studio and rifles through the envelope again. No letter from the sender appears, but Nick has his suspicions. One Direction played Madrid last night, and they’re due to tie up this leg of the tour with some promo over the weekend. Harry’s supposed to be back in London Monday; they’d made plans for a night in at Harry’s place now the builders are done with it. Nick hasn’t seen it since Harry got someone in to paint the last bits of trim and hang the art. Monday’s only two more days away, and Harry hadn’t said a word when they were texting last night, but Nick can’t think who else it would be. It’s not like he has a boyfriend to surprise him with weekend get-aways.

The door bangs open and Fiona calls, “Nick? Matt said get your uh-hmm back in the studio now unless you’re having some kind of intestinal disorder.”

“You’re the one with an intestinal disorder,” Nick says, tucking everything back in the envelope.

“Not anymore,” Fiona says, and the door bangs shut again.

Nick heads back to finish his show.

*

The first song he plays for his part of the mix is Fat Boy Slim, and he wonders for a second if the envelope’s from Davin, a friend of Aimee’s from New York who took Nick on a very memorable trip to Brighton a couple of years ago. Can’t be, though. The ticket, maybe, but they haven’t even spoken since Coachella in 2012, and he wouldn’t give Nick an envelope of cash. It’s got to be Harry. The boy who’d give five hundred quid to a virtual stranger without even asking what they need it for.

It’ll be Harry. And even if it isn’t, it’s Paris, and Nick’s going.

After he finishes this set.

He mostly manages not to think about it for the next half hour, but as DJ Q-Kid does her mix, Nick checks the weekend forecast in Paris and does a mental run through his wardrobe, trying to remember what’s clean. He hopes this club he’s apparently now a member of is more jeans and a t-shirt than must-have-tie-to-dine aesthetic, because Nick can do dressed to the nines, but club ties aren’t really his look. Packing is the worst.

Q’s mix is on form, and the listeners appreciate it, which is great for, like, keeping the feature, but today Ian has to remind him twice to read out some of the texts. Why Paris? What’s with the Eiffel Tower postcard? If the envelope had been for Fiona instead of him, Nick would think her boyfriend was going to propose. But she’s been with him for ages. They live together. He and Harry are— friends. Who have a lot of sex when they happen to be in the same city.

Nick’s afraid Matt’s going to rant at him for his level of checked-out-ness, but apparently he’s feeling forgiving, because Nick not only doesn’t get a lecture, Matt only makes him stay for the first bit of the post-show meeting. His only punishment is a chorus of the trashbag song as he leaves the room clutching his envelope to his chest.

Nick’s almost out the front door of the building when Chelsea―Elsie?―the new girl on reception, calls, “Mr Grimshaw?”

“Nick,” Nick says out of habit. ‘Mr Grimshaw’ makes him feel like his dad, and there’s no need for that.

“Mr― Nick?” she corrects herself. “Only, your friend stopped in. Said I had to give you this.” She bends out of sight, then emerges, a bit hunched over, dragging what turns out to be his Yves Saint Laurent wheelie duffle from behind the desk. In her other hand she’s got an envelope. It doesn’t match the one he’s carrying, is just one of the security-lined letter envelopes his mum sent down to him a few years ago, in case he time travels back to 1989 and has to send a cheque through the post. It says Grim on it in Collette’s hand. For a second, he wonders if this whole thing is her doing, but she’d not bother with calligraphy, or cash, and she’d be here to meet him.

“She said don’t let you leave without it. I put a sticky note right on my monitor so I wouldn’t forget.”

There’s only about two metres square behind the desk, so Nick’s not at all sure how one could forget a bloody great bag tripping you up, but he’s grateful. Assuming Collette packed him anything useful. Even with the abbreviated meeting, he doesn’t really have time to go home and pack before the train. “Thank you,” he says. “She didn’t threaten you with anything horrible, did she?”

“No?” Chelsea-Elsie doesn’t look all that convinced.

“Her bark is worse than her bite,” Nick reassures her, opening the envelope to find his passport and a letter.

You owe me, the letter says. Under your bed’s disgusting. When’s the last time you got the hoover under there? But I found the condoms you’re obviously trying to hide from the cleaning lass. You’re on your own for lube, though. The bottle I found was leaking, and I wasn’t bloody touching it.

“Oh god,” Nick mutters.

“What?” Chelsea-Elsie says.

“Nothing.”

The letter ends, Have fun. Don’t get arrested.

Why the fuck would he get— But on Collette’s last trip to Paris there was that little misunderstanding she had with the rollerblading ‘street artists’ dressed like police officers who turned out to be actual police officers. Nick just hopes he’s going to have more use for the box of condoms from under his bed than her advice about police relations.

“Anything else?” Chelsea-Elsie is back behind her desk now.

“Can I get a taxi?” Nick asks. “To St Pancras.”

“It’s waiting outside,” Chelsea―Nick’s pretty sure it’s Chelsea―says. “Just got the alert.”

It seems Collette and Chelsea both know more about his weekend than Nick does. Nick hates that. Harry knows Nick hates that. Everyone Nick knows knows Nick hates that. But, Paris. So.

“Well. Great. I hope you have a nice weekend,” Nick says.

“You too!” Chelsea’s smile stretches wide across her face, and she gives him a cheery little wave. Nick grabs his bag and heads for the cab. He’ll have to check what Collette packed for him later. It better be more than condoms, though from the weight of the suitcase, it might be his entire collection of coffee table books. Or shoes. Maybe she went overboard on the shoes. She’d better have at least packed him a change of pants.

St Pancras should be a quick drive, but half-way there something has left traffic at a standstill, so it takes as much time as if Nick had gone home and done his own packing, which means he barely has time to hit Boots up for lube before he’s got to check in. In the end, however, he’s sitting in his very posh seat perusing the lunch menu―he hadn’t even noticed the tickets were premium class until he went to get on the train―wondering if somewhere in his suitcase, which is now secreted in a fancy luggage hold, is his laptop. Collette does know he likes to pass the time on train journeys with marathoning TV shows. But it’s too late now unless he wants to bother someone to get his bag for him, and he’s at least got his phone. He connects to the train’s wifi and googles St Grégoire House again to find out more about where he’s going. The website doesn’t have much information as to levels of casual, but there’s a Michelin starred restaurant, two bars, a nightclub, and guest rooms that in decor are more Shoreditch House than St James’ Club, so he’s got high hopes he’ll fit in. Not that he expects Harry would get club membership someplace he’d be asked to take off one of his precious headbands.

Assuming it’s Harry.

It must be Harry. But why is he being so mysterious?

Once he’s exhausted the website’s resources, Nick messages Collette to thank her for packing his bag. She doesn’t answer. With most of his other friends this would be cause for alarm, but Collette’s often leaving her phone in the other room, or putting it on silent and forgetting about it completely, so he’s not worried. He texts Harry and again gets nothing back. Maybe it’s all part of the conspiracy. But lunch is being served, and it smells amazing, so Nick doesn’t sulk for long.

Gare du Nord is busy when Nick’s train arrives, and while it didn’t look overly difficult to get to the club on the Metro, he elects to break into the envelope of cash in his pocket and take a taxi. There’s a queue, but Nick’s used to that, and he uses the time to peek through the zip on his suitcase. Collette did, indeed, pack his laptop―now he wishes he’d bothered someone to get it for him on the train―and something slick and plastic he can’t quite see before a flurry of cabs arrive at the rank, so there’s no time to look further. Nick gives his driver the address, hoping his accent isn’t too dreadful, and settles back for the ride.

The club is discreet on the outside, a small plaque next to a door in what Nick would say was a converted work house if it were in England, though as this is Paris, it might be something much more interesting. In any case, he doesn’t have much chance to look at it, as the door is opened as soon as he approaches, and a man in a black suit takes his bag and ushers him inside.

“Bonjour,” Nick says. “Je suis Nick Grimshaw, and— um, et—”

“Good afternoon Monsieur Grimshaw. Welcome to Maison St Grégoire. I trust your journey was satisfactory?”

“Yes, thank you,” Nick says, relieved to not have to use any more of his school French.

“We’ve been expecting you. Stéphane will show you the facilities and to your room. I’ll have your bags brought up.”

Nick nods, mostly because it seems odd to switch back to French when clearly this man speaks flawless English, but it seems rude not to say “Merci” instead of “thanks.” Before Nick can second guess himself, Stéphane materializes from behind a heavy tapestry and sweeps a hand in the direction of the corridor to Nick’s right.

The dining room is the first stop. At a rough count, there are twenty or so tables, and another ten seats at the bar that curves along the side of the room and disappears through a darkened arch either side into what Nick assumes is the nightclub. Four men occupy one of the booths; the way they wear their clothes and hair, Nick would bet actual money they’re Italian. Definitely the type that would prompt Aimee to play Gay or European. The one on the end nearest Nick is wearing black jeans and an exquisitely tailored jacket, which gives Nick hope there will be appropriate clothing in his suitcase.

As though he’s a mind reader, Stéphane says, “Dress code is jackets for dinner, and no canvas footwear. Denim is acceptable. Ties are optional.”

Since Harry’s addicted to his jeans, this makes sense.

“Dinner service starts at seven, drinks and hors-d'œuvre from—” he takes a pocket watch from his waistcoat and peers at it. “Now.”

“Excellent,” Nick says, because it seems expected. He can’t help wondering where Harry is.

Stéphane shows him the darkened room which is apparently a dance club, the reading room lined with racks of newspapers, the corridor down which there are meeting rooms, and then finally takes him to a gilt-and-mirrored lift which jerks them roughly up to the fourth floor and Nick’s room. The keys are old fashioned actual metal, but turn smoothly in the well-maintained lock. The room is dominated by sturdy oak beams and velvet drapery paired with the kind of designer furniture that’s all sleek lines and hand-printed fabrics and costs more than Nick’s mortgage. It’s not Nick’s taste particularly, but it suits a dirty weekend just fine.

His suitcase is nowhere to be found, but it turns out one of the doors off the sitting area goes to a dressing room that’s nearly as large as Nick’s bedroom at home, and his suitcase is lurking on a fancy stand in there, mercifully still closed. It would be just like Collette to put something ridiculous on top to shock the porter. The room opens one side onto a bathroom with a claw foot tub long enough even Nick could lie down in it, and a large tiled shower with no doors. A toilet, bidet, and double sink round out the suite. Back through the dressing room is the bedroom, dominated by a massive four poster bed.

“Will you need anything else, monsieur?”

Harry. Nick could do with Harry, but he’s not going to tell Stéphane that. “I’m good, ta.” Nick’s not sure what should be done about tipping in a private club in Paris, but he’s got a five in his pocket the taxi driver gave him in change, so he passes it to Stéphane as the man turns back to the door. And then Nick’s alone. With an ornate bed, a suitcase of mysterious content, and a distinct lack of company.

The first he can’t do anything about, the third will hopefully be resolved in time, so he’d best tackle the second. When Stéphane said denim was acceptable, he probably didn’t mean Nick’s second favorite jeans with the ripped out knees and worn-thin crotch, and Nick’s Converse definitely contravene the no canvas footwear directive. Time to see what Collette sent him with.

When he pulls open the bag’s zip, he’s greeted by his laptop and a large ziploc bag of condoms. Bigger than his laptop large. Definitely more condoms than he had under his bed. She must have gone to at least three corner shops to buy them. (It’s possible Nick’s gone on one or two corner-shop hunts for condoms in his neighbourhood, and they aren’t as easy to come by as one might hope.) Even Harry, who can will his dick hard again after his third orgasm if you look at it right, couldn’t get it up that often.

Under the condoms is a pair of dove grey wingtips that don’t go with anything he owns, and that Henry’d convinced Nick to buy in a moment of weakness, Nick’s least favorite pair of jeans, and what he desperately hopes isn’t his powder-blue jacket.

It’s absolutely his powder-blue jacket, creased beyond wearing. The rest of his weekend’s wardrobe consists of three of his floral dress shirts but not the one that actually goes with the jacket, a single pair of white briefs—older than Collette herself and full of holes; why hasn’t he binned them yet?—a Camden Market knock-off leather jacket he didn’t even know he still had, and two jumpers. Not a single t-shirt. It’s July. One jumper would be pushing it; he certainly doesn’t need two plus a leather jacket. And where is she thinking he might go in a jumper but not need a t-shirt or a clean pair of pants?

The room phone rings as he’s wondering what particular prank Collette’s getting him back for this time. “Hello?” Nick says, forgetting in his bemusement over the contents of his bag to answer in French.

“Monsieur,” the man on the other end says drily. “I’ve been asked to remind you that your dinner reservation is at half past seven this evening.”

“Okay?” Nick doesn’t bother to tell him this is totally new information. “Thank you.”

“If you would like, I can send a valet up at seven to assist you with dressing.”

Nick definitely doesn’t need help getting dressed. He’s done quite well on his own for at least twenty six of his twenty-nine years. Oh. Except— “Does ‘assist’ include ironing my jacket?”

The man doesn’t even pause. “Of course, monsieur.”

“That, then,” Nick says. “Someone who can iron would be fantastic.”

“He will be there at seven. Bonsoir, monsieur.”

“Bonsoir,” Nick says. He looks at his mobile. It’s almost five o’clock. There are no messages from Harry, but his phone is asking him if he’d like to join the club’s wifi. He would.

He listens to Greg’s show while he hangs up his meagre supply of clothes and puts a handful of condoms and the hastily purchased lube on the table by the bed. The rest he leaves in the duffle, which he tucks against the wall in the dressing room. There is still plenty of room for Harry’s clothes, assuming he’s brought any with him. With Harry it’s 50/50 on that score. Perhaps Harry’d packed to stay indoors the entire weekend, and Nick won’t need any pants after all. That’s rather a lovely thought, actually, and now Nick’s finally alone, he indulges it.

After a soak and a good scrub in the bath with some of the club’s toiletries—just as well there are any, since Collette sent him with nothing but a toothbrush—Nick figures he’d better decide what to wear to dinner. He should probably save his clean pants for any adventure they might take in actual public, so Nick pulls his new jeans over his bare arse, wishing Collette had sent him something with a little more room at the waist and a little less around the thigh. These would have to do, though. The shirt situation was more of a problem. Nick ends up laying them all out on the bed and texting a picture to Henry asking which one he should wear.

He gets back: 1) wtf is that? Burn it. You know I love a floral, but I wouldn’t even make my Aunt Hazel’s blind bulldog wear that thing. 2) I’ve been looking for that for a YEAR you thief. Don’t you dare get jizz on it it’s 80% silk. 3) this one obviously. What the hell did you do to Collette this time?

The third shirt is greens and greys that don’t go with the jacket at all, so Nick bins Henry’s advice and gathers Henry’s silk and the jacket ready for the valet to come. Since he has no intention of making the man look at Nick’s love handles while he irons, Nick puts the lighter of the two jumpers on before settling on the sofa with his phone and French television to wait.

The door knocks exactly at seven, and Nick wonders if the valet was waiting outside for his appointed time, or if the French are just insanely prompt. He has a nifty cart with a clothes hook and a steamer and drawers filled with Nick doesn’t know what, and he disappears into the dressing room with it and Nick’s outfit, and calls for him fifteen minutes later.

The jacket is transformed, looks better than after the last time Nick had it dry cleaned, and Henry’s shirt—thank god—looks perfect. “May I help you dress?” the man, who hasn’t introduced himself, asks.

Nick’s still pretty sure he can manage to dress himself, though he might wrinkle things a bit in the process. Still. He hates having people dress him when he must, like on a photo shoot; he’s going to avoid it while he can. “No, thank you,” he says. “You’re a genius with steam, though.” A genius with steam? “I appreciate it.”

“Of course. If there’s nothing else?”

As he’s dressing, Nick notices that the valet ironed his other shirts as well, which makes the creaseless perfection of the fabric even more impressive. It would have taken Nick twice as long to do one shirt and it wouldn’t have looked half as good. Maybe he should get a valet of his own.

Or maybe he should get to dinner. He’s going to be late if he’s not careful. Keep Harry waiting.

The dining room is much busier at this hour, but Nick is shown immediately to a table at the edge of the room with a good view of the bar and the entryway. Harry doesn’t seem to be waiting.

What if Harry’s not actually coming? What if someone thought Nick just might enjoy a weekend on his own in Paris. Someone who’s never met him, obviously. Or this is a cruel joke. This would be hell of a payback for him pretending to be locked in the ladies’ lavs, though. He hasn’t done anything that would merit something this awful. Not since he cut up Andy’s favourite football jersey when he was eight. And Andy’s got him back for that. Several times. Plus, he’d never spend this kind of dosh on revenge.

Before Nick can get his phone out and text Collette again to demand what’s going on, a tuxedo’d waiter appears with a bottle of champagne and a silver bucket. “Monsieur, the gentleman at the bar wishes you to accept this bottle,” the waiter says.

Nick looks over the waiter’s shoulder, and there’s Harry. Finally.

He’s wearing a pair of dark-blue jeans Nick hasn’t seen before, his mid-brown boots, a jacket Nick’s ninety-per-cent certain he last saw on Zayn on a red carpet somewhere—it’s too tight in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves and still manages to look fantastic; how does Harry do that—and a white shirt unbuttoned enough that Nick can see the wings of Harry’s birds, but not enough that he’s risking getting kicked out of the dining room. His hair has got longer, curling around the tanned angles of his face despite the scarf he’s got trying to tame it. Nick wants to eat him.

“Of course,” Nick says, and the waiter smoothly opens the bottle and pours Nick a glass. Nick’s never turned down champagne in his life. He’s certainly not turning it down if Harry is buying.

“He also asked me to give you this.” After settling the bottle in the bucket on its stand, the waiter pulls a folded paper out of an inner pocket. Confused, Nick opens it.

Couldn’t help noticing you’re sitting alone. Someone as fit as you is probably meeting someone, but a lad can hope. Please accept this bottle either way, but if you have no one else to share it with, I’d love to join you.

When he looks up again, Harry’s giving him a hopeful smile, like he really is a stranger, like there’s any universe in which Nick doesn’t want to drag him over here immediately. Before Nick can consider the proper etiquette of the situation, he flaps his hand at Harry in a get-over-here gesture. The waiter, seeing he’s no longer required for message bearing, melts away.

Harry, ridiculous child that he is, puts his hand to his chest in an exaggerated who-me? gesture, before sliding his arse off the edge of the bar stool and making his way across the room.

As Nick watches Harry approach, he considers what he’s supposed to do here. Clearly Harry’s playing like they’ve never met before, but is it a whim that he’ll be done with by the time he’s made his way past the other diners to Nick’s table, or is this what he’s planned the whole weekend around? Is he going to do that pouty thing he does if Nick doesn’t play along? The one where he tries to look like he’s only joking, but instead looks like Christmas has been cancelled? Nick has plans for young Harold, and no intention of cancelling his Christmas. Not today. Especially not when they both enjoy a bit of role play.

“Champagne,” he says as soon as Harry’s close enough to talk to. “Nice one.”

That gets him a smile, coy, like Harry’s seventeen again and not yet deep-down certain of his ability to charm everyone in the room. “I hoped you like it. I wondered if—some people like wine better.” Harry’s smile edges into cheeky. “But a man in that jacket looks like he enjoys a glass of bubbly.” He stays standing, but rests a hand on the back of the chair to Nick’s right, like maybe—

Like he’s waiting to be invited to sit. “I do like a good bubbly,” Nick agrees. “But you should share it with me.” Not a whim, then. Harry’s in this for the long haul. Or at least for dinner. “Excuse the jacket. My friend packed for me; I had to work.”

Harry pulls the chair out and sits, closer than a stranger would, but not as close as he usually does. Especially when they haven’t seen each other in a while. “Tell your friend they did a good job. You’re very eye catching.”

For a second, there’s a flash of Harry’s taking-the-piss grin, all in-jokes and knowing, firm in the belief that Nick will find whatever he’s grinning at as funny as Harry does, but Harry reins it in, turns it into something lascivious and sweet at once. “You look good enough to eat,” he adds, low enough the men at the next table won’t overhear.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Nick says. It’s what he’d say to a stranger who looked like Harry, one who’d bought him a drink. Not what he’d say if they weren’t doing— this. Whatever this is. He’d tell his Harry he looks like he woke up and rolled through the nearest suitcase on the way here. Ask how he won a fashion award. Even though he wouldn’t be able to help looking at him the way he can feel himself looking at him now, like he’s the best thing Nick’s ever seen. Harry looks pleased with the compliment.

“I’m Harry,” Harry says. “What’s your name?”

Nick laughs, a single huff of air that escapes before he can help it. There’d been no pretending for either of them they didn’t know the other one even the first time they’d met, X-Factor contestant and presenter, both familiar faces if not the house-hold names they are now. Maybe that’s why Harry’s doing this? Though, knowing Harry, it might not even be that complicated. “It’s Nick,” Nick answers, voice still laugh-bright, even with his threatening giggles under control.

“Nice to meet you, Nick.” Harry shakes his hand, the first time they’ve touched in eleven weeks, and Nick wants to drag him in, wrap Harry up in his arms and never let him go, even if never is a very long time. But Harry doesn’t jump him, though he does lick his lips, lean in enough Nick can smell the product in his hair, and the handshake goes on far longer than is appropriate even for a very dedicated flirt.

“Nice to meet you too,” Nick answers weakly. Who needs champagne, or dinner, or anything else, really. “I have—”

“Would you like to order?” a different waiter than the one who brought the champagne interrupts.

Nick was going to say he has a room upstairs, but Harry says, “Yes, please.” Says, “Whatever the chef recommends tonight, his two favorite dishes?” and the waiter nods, pours out a second glass of champagne, and walks away.

“Or we can eat first,” Nick says, voice still a little wobbly with the way Harry’s not let go of his hand still, the way he’s tracing light fingers along the line of Nick’s wrist.

“I like the sound of first,” Harry says, a low drawl that rumbles right down to Nick’s cock. Crossing his free hand awkwardly across his body, Harry picks up his glass and takes a sip of champagne. “I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since six this morning. Think I’m going to need my strength to keep up with you.”

“Yeah. Because I’m the fit young p—” Harry hasn’t told Nick he’s a popstar. Had introduced himself like Nick wouldn’t know who he was even if they hadn’t been mates for ages. “Person.”

Harry shoots Nick the tiniest grateful smile before eyeing him up over the lip of his glass. “You look pretty fit to me.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Just where I want to be,” Harry says, and finally lets Nick’s hand go—so he can lay his palm hot and heavy on Nick’s thigh. He keeps it there while he chats about unnamed business he had to take care of in Madrid this morning, and here in Paris earlier this afternoon, all the things that kept him from eating lunch. Nick knows he means interviews and photoshoots, but Harry makes them sound like business meetings any executive might go to. If he were a stranger, Nick might think he’s a bit young for all of that, but then again, he might think he’s a model, or might not be thinking at all because Harry’s hand is rather occupying the bulk of Nick’s brainpower.

Nick’s done his fair share of flirting and being flirted with, by strangers and acquaintances, and by Harry himself, but he’s pretty sure he’s never been more desperate to just push someone down and take them right where they’re sat than he is right now. “Har—” Nick starts, but the waiter appears with their plates and a look on his face like he knows exactly what Nick’s thinking, and while he doesn’t blame him one bit, he’s not going to stand for sex on his dining tables. The spoilsport.

Harry’s hand disappears off Nick’s leg, but even without its distracting presence, Nick has no idea what’s on the plate that’s been put in front of him. There is something meat, something green, something pale and pureed, and mushrooms. Harry’s been presented with a fish that’s staring up at him disconcertingly. Harry doesn’t look disturbed though; he’s almost bouncing with excitement as he picks up his knife and fork.

“Mango salsa,” he says. “I love mangos.”

“Have you ever met a fruit you didn’t like?” Nick asks before he remembers he’s not supposed to know anything about Harry beyond his name and that he likes champagne.

But Harry rolls with it. “Bananas are my favourite, but all fruit is pretty good.”

“I, too, am a fan of a good fruit,” Nick says, tasting the puree and veg while eyeing Harry up and down with obvious gusto.

“Puns!” Harry says around a mouth full of fish.

“Nice seefood,” Nick adds.

Fortunately, Harry covers his mouth with his hand before he laughs. God, Nick’s missed making him laugh.

“Puns are the best,” Harry says, once his mouth is empty.

“I’ve a friend who does amazing puns,” Nick says, as un-fondly as he can manage.

“I bet I’d like them.”

With a wrinkled nose, Nick shakes his head sadly. “I doubt it. He’s terrible, really. Incredibly average face, complete lack of charm. All puns and dick jokes and stealing your clothes when you’re not looking.”

Harry tries to school his smile into something serious, fingers the lapel of his stolen jacket. “Sounds dreadful. Is that how you ended up with nothing but the castoff from an American 80’s movie to wear?” He’s even worse than Nick at keeping a straight face, and Nick wants to kiss the twitching corner of his mouth so much he can hardly hear what Harry’s saying. Nick takes a large bite of his dinner instead. He’s not drunk enough to actually think it’s a good idea to kiss Harry in an unknown dining room filled with people. Maybe he should drink more.

“Nick?” Harry asks when Nick drains his glass and reaches for the bottle to fill it up again.

“You’re not going to want dessert, are you?” Nick says, not really caring how pathetic he sounds.

The pinch of worry between Harry’s eyebrows disappears and he gives Nick a leer. “Not anything on the menu.”

Nick’s gaze flits to Harry’s plate. It’s nearly empty, and Nick’s had enough food to last him. He’d be stunned if they don’t have some kind of room service here if he needs something later.

“I have a room,” Nick says roughly, keeping up Harry’s game that Harry doesn’t know that, didn’t arrange it, because it seems to be making Harry happy, and so far it doesn’t seem to be hurting Nick’s chances of getting laid. Though maybe he should check they really are on the same page here. “If you kiss on the first date.”

“I do more than that,” Harry says. “Let’s go.” In the time it takes Nick to process that Harry’s said yes, Harry’s scooped up both champagne flutes with one hand, hooked the bottle out of the ice bucket with the other, and is half way to the door. Nick makes a half-hearted effort to find someone to bring the bill, but Harry’s Harry, so it’s probably already signed to the room. Nick takes off after him.

They don’t touch as the elevator creaks its way to the fourth floor, but Nick can’t keep from trying to undress Harry with the power of his mind. Sadly, he doesn’t seem to have acquired that skill yet. Nor the skill to keep Harry, who’s preening like he just won six grammys, from noticing. It turns out he doesn’t need either skill, though. As soon as they’re through the door, Harry hands him the bottle and glasses and starts shedding his clothes himself on his way to the bedroom. Nick can’t help wondering if this is his method with all his one night stands, or if Nick’s special. Then he remembers the pictures of Harry wearing nothing but a quilt with his band only days after they became a band. When it comes to Harry’s naked arse, no one is special.

Not everyone gets Harry’s naked arse in Paris, though.

Now, wearing nothing but a smile, Harry flops onto the giant bed and rolls so he’s posed on one hip, head propped on a hand, the other hand resting near his half-hard dick. “Fuck me like I’m one of your French girls,” he coos in the worst Kate Winslet Nick’s ever heard.

Only half suppressing a snort of laughter, Nick says, “Isn’t that supposed to be draw you?”

Harry cups his junk, gives his nuts a squeeze and his dick a stroke. “You can draw me if you’d like, but I’m offering you a pretty sweet ride.”

He is, too, and it’s been far too long since Nick’s ridden. He deposits the champagne on the desk by the door, not caring one whit about water stains, toes out of his shoes, and drops his jacket. “Can’t draw anyway,” he says, pushing Harry onto his back.

“That’s—“ Harry starts, but Nick doesn’t wait to hear what that is. He’s been waiting all day—waiting for weeks—he needs to kiss him.

A dirty thrill from the cool, damp cling of fabric next to where Harry’s rubbing eagerly against his belly shivers down Nick’s spine before he remembers he’s still wearing Henry’s silk shirt. “Shit,” he mutters into Harry’s mouth. “Shit. Lemme—” He tries to roll off, just long enough to get his clothes out of the line of fire, but Harry’s got both arms wrapped tight around his back and his legs hooked over Nick’s thighs, and Nick isn’t going anywhere without permission.

“Mmmf,” Harry groans, sucking hard on Nick’s tongue like he means to remind it that it has better things to do than form words right now. It does. It really does. But Henry will actually kill him if he comes round to collect his missing shirt and finds it covered in jizz, and Nick is notoriously terrible at remembering to take things to the cleaners in a timely fashion.

“Hny ‘l kll ee,” Nick says.

Harry releases his mouth in order to nibble at the edge of Nick’s jaw. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he complains between nips.

“Yes!” Nick agrees. “My point. This shirt is Henry’s and he will kill me if you come on it.”

“Henry likes me,” Harry says, rolling his hips with firmer purpose, no doubt smearing precome over more flowered silk in the process.

“Not as much as he likes raw silk and obscure Japanese fashion designers,” Nick says. “Besides. I thought I was wearing too many clothes.” The conversation has distracted Harry enough that Nick manages to get a hand between them and make a start on the shirt’s buttons, and once Harry notices, he helps.

“You look really hot in this shirt; you shouldn’t return it,” he says, even as he’s doing his best to pull it over Nick’s head, having got too impatient with fiddly buttonholes.

Nick’s head pops free, and Harry throws the shirt off the side of the bed. “I’m going to need my legs back if I’m going to take my jeans off,” Nick reminds him. With a show of reluctance that involves a stupidly endearing pout and rather more groping of Nick’s arse than is necessary under the circumstances, Harry unhooks their legs and lets Nick roll onto his back.

He watches Nick undo his flies, which nearly leads to disaster, as Harry Styles gazing lustfully at your junk is enough to make a man forget he’s gone commando, and zips are no friend to a foreskin. But before Nick gets more than a millimetre open, Harry says, “Oh. I mean, who’s Henry, then?” giving Nick a chance to remember not only that his dick is in danger if he’s not careful, but that they’re pretending this will be the first time Harry’s ever seen it.

“Henry is not someone I want to talk about when I’m about to get my cock out,” Nick says, which is true. Henry’s seen Nick’s cock literally covered in Nick’s own sick, and been pressed into service when Nick was too squeamish to put aloe on it the time he thought nude sunbathing in Ibiza was the done thing. There were a few cheeky hand jobs in the early days, but they’ve been friends long enough now that Henry just takes the piss every time Nick’s dick comes up. Which is two puns for the price of one and Nick shouldn’t pass up this opportunity, but with Harry all naked and right there, and Nick’s dick trying to break out of its denim confines all on its own, he’s not actually sure how to smoothly get puns into the conversation, so he keeps them to himself.

“Not your boyfriend, then?” Harry runs a finger up Nick’s thigh like a flirty porn star. Nick’s cock is shamefully interested.

“Definitely not,” Nick says. Now there are two fingers walking up the seam that is currently trying to crush his nuts, making their way to Nick’s flies.

“Want some help with that?”

“I—” Nick clears his throat. “Let me—” He squeezes a hand under the waistband—damn Collette’s packing choices—and gets his dick out the way of the zip, then gives Harry a nod.

“No need to be shy,” Harry says. “I’ve done— Fuck me, you’re not wearing pants.” He sounds scandalized and delighted. Which is, it has to be said, Harry’s default tone when it comes to anything saucy. Once he found out how dirty-minded Harry is himself, Nick thought the scandalized part was an act, but he’s since learned that Harry’s belief in the innocence of those around him is an endearingly genuine holdover from his school days.

“Figured I was bound to pull in that jacket, might as well go balls to the wall.”

“Bound to pull whatever you’re wearing, face like that,” Harry says with a smile cheeky enough to charm a nun out of her habit.

Nick makes a valiant attempt to roll his eyes, but he can feel himself grinning back, which likely ruins the effect. “Do you actually get anywhere with those lines?”

Harry pulls Nick’s flies wide and slips his own hand half under Nick’s on Nick’s cock. “I don’t know,” he says. “Am I getting anywhere?”

“Nghnh,” Nick answers as Harry starts rubbing.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Harry nudges Nick’s hand out of the way and leans in to peck a kiss on Nick’s cheekbone, another to the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Nick agrees. “I—“ his jeans are still crushing his nuts, and as a bonus are cutting off the circulation to his legs, but Harry’s hand feels really good and Nick’s having trouble coordinating the movements that will rid him of his fabric bonds. “Shit. You feel good.” An understatement, but they’re words that feel safe.

“You feel good,” Harry argues. “So hard for me already,”

“Yeah. Well.” Nick gets enough traction with his heels to lever his hips off the bed and shove his jeans down his thighs. “Have you looked in a mirror? There’s a whole wall—shit your hands—of them through that door if you need a reminder.”

The fraction of Nick’s brain not concentrating on the excellent, if a bit dry, hand job Harry’s giving him is pleased with the mirror line. Nick usually teases him under these circumstances about there being photographic evidence of how hot he is everywhere he looks, and maybe Nick’s not a complete disaster at this roleplaying-strangers lark.

“Shush,” Harry says in a voice that sounds more like, yeah, I am gorgeous, thank you for noticing.

“You shush,” Nick replies out of habit.

Harry kisses him again, and Nick gets lost in it. Harry’s such a lovely kisser. Much better than when they first started this, and he’d just shove his tongue in then go for your willy. Nick hasn’t thought of that in ages. About teaching Harry how to kiss like that’s all you’re gonna do—even when it’s not—about learning from Harry to bite like you mean it, about how it feels to fuck someone when their likes are more familiar to you than your own. Nick doesn’t even know how to pretend anymore to be hesitant going in to grab Harry’s hair, to act surprised when it gets him a low groan and a fresh blurt of precome against his hip. I missed you, I missed you, Nick thinks, but his lips are occupied, his tongue deep in Harry’s mouth, and none of the sounds that escape are likely to mar Harry’s fantasy that this is their first time, or give away too many of Nick’s secrets.

Still kissing, though admittedly at the expense of Harry’s hand on Nick’s dick, they manage to get Nick’s jeans the rest of the way off, and Harry’s weight full-length on top of him. He’s all abs and hipbones, his body honed by yoga and hotel weight rooms a sharp contrast to Nick’s shaped by beers down the pub, and Nick has to fight down the nasty voice telling him he’d never pull an actual stranger who looks like Harry, not with these love handles. It helps a bit that Harry’s making desperate little huffs and moans of pleasure as he rubs himself all over Nick’s belly, that he’s grabbing at Nick’s ribs and waist and thighs trying to get him closer, like there’s room for a breath of air between them.

“You feel so good,” Nick whispers into Harry’s hair when Harry moves his kisses down to Nick’s collar bones. He does, and if Nick thought he could go twice tonight he’d keep going, but he wants to make use of the bag of condoms Collette packed, fuck or be fucked, he’s not picky, just more than this inconsistent friction and desperation.

“No,” Harry says, nipping Nick’s nipple. “You. You do. I want to— Can I fuck you?” He looks up, finds Nick’s gaze, gives him the puppydog eyes like Nick might say no. “You smell so good. All clean and amazing. Want. I want—” His hand goes back to Nick’s dick, his balls, behind, his fingers tracing the curve of Nick’s arse, between to rub over his hole.

“Yeah,” Nick breathes. “Yeah. Yes. The bath here is massive.”

That’s obviously what Harry wants to hear, because Nick’s barely got the word bath out before Harry’s climbing off him, urging him over onto his belly and shoving a pillow under his hips. “Bet you taste good, too,” he says as he pushes Nick’s thighs apart and shoulders between them. “Been thinking about this all through dinner.”

“Dirty bo—nngh.” Nick bites his lip and then the sheet as Harry licks wide and wet over his hole, grunts when Harry gets a fresh grip on his cheeks to pull them wider so he can do it again. It feels good to rock back into the press of the thumbs holding him open, forward into the pillow cushioning his dick, and even better when Harry licks in again, tongue pointed this time, soft pressure behind his balls, teasing heat around his hole.

This was something he never had to teach Harry, how to be good with his mouth, and he’s never asked who did teach him. Maybe he should someday though; might be nice to send them a fruit basket or something. “Fucking fuck, Haz. Fuck.”

Harry can’t answer, but he moans, tongue deep in Nick’s arse, the sound vibrating deliciously, sending shocks all the way down to Nick’s knees. Helplessly, Nick grinds back against his face, trying to thrust into the pillow at the same time, and he ends up humping in jagged bursts, Harry forced to ride it out or stop and leave Nick hanging.

Nick is forever grateful that Harry is anything but a quitter.

By the time Harry finally does let up, Nick’s desperate to come, desperate to have more than Harry’s fingers and tongue filling him up, desperate for someone to touch his dick, and he’s got practically his whole arm in his mouth to keep from begging. Because while Harry is incredible with his mouth, he’s absolute shite at ignoring begging, even when he knows full well Nick doesn’t actually mean ‘please stop that amazing thing you’re doing with your tongue and do something different now.’ Nick never means that, not even when Nick himself thinks he does. Because good as being fucked is, being rimmed until Harry’s so desperate to fuck him he has to do it now is even better. Every time.

“Gotta,” Harry gasps, pushing himself up onto his knees with shaky hands on Nick’s already shaky thighs. “Gotta.”

Nick flings a hand out toward the bedside table where he’d left the supplies. He almost expects Harry to pick up his line about Nick clearly being out on the pull tonight, but Harry just dives for them, fumbles the lube onto the bed next to Nick’s elbow and starts tearing into the condom.

“Hey,” Nick says. “Hey. We’ve got all night. All weekend if you want.” Not that Nick doesn’t want him like yesterday, but he’s going to break something the way he’s going.

“I know.” Harry takes a deep breath. “Just. You feel unngh and I’m gonna come if I don’t—”

“How do you want me?” Nick interrupts. “Like this? Or do you—” Harry usually wants to fuck Nick on his back, watching him with those big eyes and a look of concentration on his face that’s going to be the death of Nick one day, but one-night-stand Harry might have other plans.

“Turn over,” Harry says. “I need to kiss you.”

Nick isn’t going to argue. By the time he’s gotten comfortable, pillows under his head and the one he’s been humping under his arse, Harry’s got the condom on and is slicking up his cock. His beautiful, massive cock, which is now framed by what the internet assures Nick is a crown of laurels. He’d laughed when Finchy first showed him the pictures, only half because he didn’t want the piss ripped out of him, but he’s not laughing now. Even though the sight of a latex-clad dick framed by a pair of ferns is, in fact, completely laughable.

But Harry’s got his lower lip caught between his teeth, and he’s reaching for Nick with lube-slick fingers, and he’s just licked Nick hard and wet and open and shaking, and Nick wants. It’s shameful and embarrassing, and Nick doesn’t even care. He’s stupid gone on this ridiculous boy, and by this point everyone whose opinion Nick cares about knows it, so why pretend? “You gonna put it in me?” Nick asks when Harry seems to be hesitating.

“Kinda want to ride you,” Harry mumbles, still biting his lip, probably because he knows Nick’s a sucker for that.

It surprises a laugh from Nick’s chest, a single, incredulous, Ha! “You can ride me later, oh my god, you insufferable boy. Need you to fuck me.”

“You need it?” The brat sucks his whole lip into his mouth, clearly trying not to smile. Teasing bastard. Nick’s not going to play into his hand.

“I need it. Please, Harry. Now.” Except for how apparently he totally is.

Eyes shining, Harry shuffles forward until his cock’s snugged up to Nick’s arse, and then he’s sinking in, heavy and full and so good.

Nick’s hips protest a bit as Harry folds him in half to get to his mouth, but they can suck it up because Harry’s rocking against his prostate, rubbing that ridiculous butterfly on Nick’s dick, and it’s not like this is going to last very long anyway.

They’re still kissing when Harry’s rhythm, such as it was, gets even more ragged, and he shoves in hard, coming with a whine and a grunt that Nick always wishes he could record to play back in times of need, or when it would be most likely to make Harry blush and protest with a hot-eyed stare that negates his words. He pulls out before they risk losing the condom—been there, done that, avoided A&E by a miracle—but he’s a boy who knows the value of a good fuck, so when he moves down to suck Nick off, he gets his fingers in again, deep and wide and steady thrusting pressure, a perfect counterpoint to the sloppy mouth on Nick’s dick. He’s watching Nick’s face, eyes sparkling like the stretch of his lips is part smile, and Nick can’t help smiling back, even as he’s trying to catch his breath around the jolts of pleasure tensing his thighs and making his abs jerk.

“So fucking—” good, Nick was going to say, but it comes out a strangled gnngh that definitely does not need to be recorded ever, and he’s coming into the sucking heat of Harry’s mouth. Which is something he doesn’t make a habit of doing with one-night-stands, but is one of Harry’s things, something Nick’s known since before they even started shagging. (Harry’s attempts to get Nick to realize he was serious with the flirting weren’t very subtle by the end, there.)

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, rough and low, dropping a kiss on Nick’s thigh as he pulls his fingers carefully out of Nick’s arse. Worst part of sex, that bit, but the kiss helps.

Harry pillows his head on Nick’s thigh for long enough for Nick to run his fingers through the sweat-damp hair curling over his forehead, but then he’s up and headed for the en suite with a saucy look over his shoulder. “Warm,” Nick calls after him, because Harry’s been known to bring back face cloths that feel like they’ve been dipped in an ice bucket. Speaking of which. Champagne. There’s more champagne. Harry will have to fetch it when he comes back, though, because Nick’s not moving.

The face cloth is warm, and the champagne is cold enough to be getting on with, and a satisfied Harry curled up against him is perfect. All they need is a tele, but the designers put that in the sitting room. “Are the French too posh for TV in bed, d’you think?” Nick asks, holding the bottle up to Harry’s mouth so he can drink from it even with his arms wrapped around Nick’s ribs.

“Mmm,” Harry says, taking a swallow. “Probably. Could watch summat on your laptop if you’ve got it.”

“In the other room,” Nick says. His legs seem to be working again, but he still doesn’t fancy getting up.

“I could tell you a story.”

Nick laughs, because he’s been told many times that no one in their right mind willingly subjects themselves to Harry’s stories. But that’s okay, because he’s never been right in the head.

“Tell me something from when you were in school.” Nick puts the now empty champagne bottle on the floor and wriggles until he’s got Harry resting more comfortably against him. “Something scandalous.”

“How do you know there’s something scandalous?” Harry asks, smile in his voice, even though Nick can’t see his face the way it’s tucked into Nick’s neck.

“You picked up a stranger in Paris and gave him some of the best sex of his life. Of course there’s something scandalous.” Apparently it’s easier to flatter Harry when Nick’s pretending not to know him. Oh well. Harry knows he’s good in bed even when Nick is his usual sarcastic self, so one compliment probably won’t go to his head.

“Some of, eh,” Harry says, digging his fingers in just where Nick’s ticklish between his ribs, but going almost immediately back to soothing stroking. “We’ll have to try again tomorrow and see if we can hit all-time best.”

“Oh we will, will we?”

“Definitely,” Harry says.

“Story time now.”

He starts setting the scene, a middle class lounge room and a group of friends, bowls of crisps and chocolate digestives, mock exams finally over for the year, and Nick’s eyes are closed and his limbs are heavy by the time Harry gets to the meat of it, where his friend’s ninteen-year-old cousin visiting from Florida jerks him off under a blanket while they all watched High School Musical. It’s not one Nick has heard before, and it gets a cracked eyelid and incredulous smile. “I think she was pretending I was Zac, to be honest,” Harry finishes.

Nick snorts. He very much doubts it, but says, “Probably,” anyway.

“I got a boner every time I heard Get’cha Head in the Game for like two years after that.”

The night they had sex on the sofa in the middle of 17 Again is suddenly taking on new meaning, and Nick has to ask: “You’ve never pretended anyone was Zac Efron while watching a Zac Efron movie, have you?”

Harry bites Nick’s chest lightly and chuckles. “No. Have you?”

Nick has actually pretended a shag was Zac, but it wasn’t Harry and it wasn’t while they were watching anything, so he feels like he’s being truthful to the spirit of the question when he says, “Absolutely not,” without a hint of sarcasm.

“Good,” Harry says, his voice gone thick the way it does when he’s almost asleep.

Nick shuts his eyes again and doesn’t say anything at all about the number of people who probably fucked someone tonight pretending their partner was Harry Styles off of One Direction.

*

Nick wakes up to watery daylight and someone mouthing at the skin on his hip. “Mmmvmp?” he says, lifting up the sheet to peer at the top of Harry’s head.

“Morning,” Harry says, and licks Nick’s thigh wetly.

Nick licks his lips. “Morning?”

After wiggling his way up Nick’s body until he’s half lying on his chest, Harry props his chin on the arm he lays across Nick’s ribs. “Morning. Did you like your surprise?”

Being licked awake? Then Nick’s brain catches up and he realizes Harry must mean Paris. “Terrible.” Nick proclaims. “Awful. Who wants a dirty weekend in Paris with the second hottest member of One Direction when he could—”

“Heeeeyyy,” Harry interrupts.

“No one’s ever told Zayn Malik he has an average face, I bet,” Nick says.

Harry bites him, hard, then digs his chin into the base of Nick’s sternum. Which bloody hurts. “Ow!” Nick gets his fingers into Harry’s ribs, tickling him so he jerks away to curl into a protective ball. Which puts his elbow far too close to Nick’s junk.

“Fine!” Nick cries. “Hottest member. Zayn’s too perfect anyway. You’d get a complex going out with him. I’ll take average any day.”

“Yeah, you will,” Harry agrees, coming up to give Nick a minty kiss.

When Nick’s stomach makes an embarrassing grumble a moment later, Harry beams at him. “I already ordered breakfast,” he says. “You should just have time to wash up before it gets here.” Nick’s bladder lets it be known that it would appreciate such a thing.

“Since you insist,” Nick says. “But this is a revolting hour to expect me to be up on a Saturday.”

Harry just laughs, gives him one more smacking kiss, and pushes him towards the bathroom. “We were asleep before half ten. You’ll be fine.”

Just at first glance, the breakfast cart contains the entire contents of a patisserie, a small plate of English sausages, a large bowl of cubed fruit, and an even larger one of whole fruit including a pineapple with a crown the size of a palm tree. “Are we having company?” Nick asks.

Harry looks perplexed for a second then follows Nick’s gaze to the spread. “I’m planning on working up an appetite later, and I didn’t want to have to get dressed to answer the door again.”

Since Harry is wearing nothing but a scarf around his head and a tiny pair of boxer briefs that do not very much to hide the fact he’s happy to see Nick (or the bunch of bananas snuggled up to the pineapple, Nick can’t say for sure), dressed seems an overstatement. Not that Nick’s going to argue if Harry wants to spend the day wearing even less. “A man with a plan,” Nick says. “Me likey.”

Patting the space next to him on the sofa, Harry says, “Come. Eat,” and reaches for the pot of coffee.

Over coffee, juice, and croissants, Nick catches Harry up on what their friends in London are doing, how the show is going, and what his family’s up to, and Harry gives him more details than they’d covered in texts about the European leg of the tour. Nick ends up with his legs across Harry’s lap, Harry stroking his calves, wrapping his fingers around Nick’s ankles, using his knees as a plate rest, and while the sofa isn’t as comfortable and the art is nothing he’d choose ever, it’s so much like home that for just a moment Nick wants to ask Harry to never go away again.

It passes, of course. The delight on Harry’s face when he talks about the stadium crowds there to see him isn’t anything Nick would ever dream of taking away, but there’s no convincing himself he didn’t miss him.

“Why’d you pretend you didn’t know me last night?” Nick asks in the middle of Harry’s story about Niall pissing on the side of the road in Portugal.

Harry stops fiddling with a twist of Nick’s leg hair, looking a bit guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Was that okay? You didn’t—”

“No,” Nick says, stretching a hand out to squeeze Harry’s elbow. “It was fine. It was good. Hot. I just—“

“It was weird.”

“Not weird. I mean. Not every morning you wake up for work and end the night in Paris with a hot bloke buying you champagne.”

“Niall was just saying how he mostly missed the chance to find out if he could ever pull if he weren’t, you know, Niall Horan from One Direction, and I got thinking about it.”

With an incredulous laugh, Nick pokes Harry’s thigh with one heel. “You were pulling uni students when you were fifteen, Styles. You do not need fame and fortune for people to fancy you.”

Harry wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t try to deny that. “You’d have asked for my number even if I weren’t on X-Factor?”

“You took my phone out of my hand and sent yourself a BBM.”

“Because you asked for my number.”

Nick doesn’t actually remember that part, but he remembers wanting to ask for Harry’s number, and there had been a few drinks. Whatever. He got Harry’s number, and they became friends.

And this. Whatever this is.

“I would have made Cordy introduce us, I’m sure. But don’t go thinking you’d still have met Keith Richards.”

“Don’t want to shag Keith Richards, so it’s okay.” Harry gives him a warm smile before biting decisively into a pain au chocolat.

“Mick Jagger, though?”

Without swallowing first, Harry says, “Everyone wants to shag Mick Jagger.”

“Much like everyone wants to shag Harry Styles. Including me. Despite the fact he speaks with his mouth full. Are you done eating yet?”

“Is it later?”

Nick’s had a whole cup of coffee, but that doesn’t help him get it. “Later?”

Harry shifts out from under Nick’s legs so he can straddle Nick’s lap, hands on his chest, arse brushing Nick’s thighs. “You said I could ride you later.”

It’s definitely luck more than skill that lets Nick set his coffee cup solidly on the table. “It’s later.”

*

Much later than that, when the breakfast cart is nothing but a pineapple and a pile of orange and banana peels, all the wet spots are dry, and Harry’s hair looks like several families of birds are nesting in it—Nick doesn’t want to know what his own hair looks like—Harry says, “I made dinner reservations if you want to go out.”

Hmm. Out. Nick could do out. But, “Do you have any clothes? I don’t really have any clothes. Enough condoms we could supply a Las Vegas brothel for a month, but Collette clearly thought I wouldn’t need pants.”

Harry grins. “It’s like she’s met me. God that was hot when I realized you’d been sitting there at dinner with nothing on under your jeans.”

It’s too hard to stop himself poking a fingertip into Harry’s dimple, so Nick doesn’t bother resisting. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Tell me it doesn’t get you hot thinking about me with no pants on.” Harry turns and nips at the end of Nick’s finger, and when Nick doesn’t pull away, starts sucking on it. Nick forgets the question.

“I forgot the question.”

“Out or in,” Harry mumbles around Nick’s finger.

“Can we have sex for dessert again?”

Harry sucks Nick’s finger down until the very bottom knuckle is between his teeth and then swallows around it.

“Fuuuuuck,” Nick moans. But he is going a bit stir crazy. “Out. And then blow jobs.”

Slowly, torturously, Harry pulls Nick’s finger out of his mouth, finally releasing it with a pop. “You take first shower, I’ll get us clothes.” With both hands and a knee, Harry shoves at Nick like he thinks he won’t get up without prodding. To be fair, the bed is really comfortable, so Harry might be right.

When Nick emerges from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, it’s to Harry trailing into the dressing room behind a porter who’s depositing a valet trolley hung with the freshly laundered contents of Harry’s tour suitcase.

“Um!” Nick says.

The porter gives him a brief stiff nod, shifts Nick’s bag slightly to the left to make more room for the trolley, then takes the folded banknote Harry’s holding out to him and goes back the way he came.

“I’m wearing a towel,” Nick points out. Except he’s not because Harry gives it a tug and drops it on the floor.

“Nope.” Harry gives Nick’s junk a fondle on his way past. “You were wearing a towel.” With a flick of his wrist, he smacks Nick’s arse. “You look good with no clothes on. But I think this place has a dress code.”

“Go shower. You stink of sex.”

“If you want to borrow anything…” Harry sticks his tongue out as he backs toward the shower, and Nick has a moment of terror that he’s going to bite it off when Harry trips on his own feet and stumbles, but no blood appears, and Harry manages to turn in time to step over the lip of the shower stall instead of slamming into it.

“And try not to die, Harold.”

“No death.” Harry raises his voice to be heard over the water.

“Yes,” Nick agrees. “No death.”

Harry’s tour wardrobe is an odd mix of sexy-ugly designer shirts, skinny jeans Nick doesn’t have a hope in hell of fitting into, t-shirts Nick probably wouldn’t wear down the pub back home, never mind a Parisian restaurant one makes reservations at, and flannel shirts. But there is a suit hanging on the end. A suit Nick recognizes.

To be fair, he stole it first—with permission, thank you—from a magazine shoot he did over a year ago, and he hasn’t worn it since, but apparently that’s because young Harold has had it in his possession. Nick wants it back.

As gratifying as Harry’s reaction to him going commando was, Nick is not going out in public in a suit without pants, so before he liberates the trousers from their hanger, he digs through the stack of folded clothes on the trolley’s shelf and steals a pair of Harry’s Calvins, pulling them on to the accompaniment of Harry singing Yellow in the shower.

“You better not be wanking to Chris Martin,” Nick calls.

“Not wanking,” Harry says, loud enough to be heard over the water. “But have you ever wondered if he’d say yes to a threesome if we asked him right?”

Nick peers around the bathroom door to find Harry lazily soaping his belly, looking at him like he’d been waiting for Nick to materialize. He’s a cheeky devil, and Nick’s a hair’s breadth from bogging off dinner and fucking Harry in the shower instead. “No,” he says. “There is no right way to ask Gwyneth Paltrow’s ex-husband to have a threesome.”

There is, probably, and if there is, Harry is certainly the one who could pull it off, but, no.

“More likely than Freddie Flintoff.” Harry turns so his front’s in the shower’s spray.

Nick scoffs, but Harry probably can’t hear him with his face under the water. “Less likely than Matty off of The 1975, though,” Nick says. “He’s definitely got a boner for you.” Not that Chris, and probably Freddie, don’t have boners for Harry. Chris has even admitted to his in interviews. But an actual threesome is a whole other thing.

When Harry refuses to rise to the Matty Healy bait, Nick goes over and wipes the mirror so he can check his hair isn’t drying too much before he has a chance to do anything with it.

“Oh, hey, you’re wearing my pants.” Harry’s rinsing his hair now. “That’s almost as good as you not wearing any pants.”

“It’s definitely better than wearing the pants Collette sent with me. And when did you steal that navy suit?”

Harry turns off the water and holds out a grabby hand for his towel, even though it’s only half a step away from the shower door. Nick, chump that he is, gives it to him. “You loaned it to me to wear to that thing, and then I didn’t go, because that other thing with Niall, and then Caroline wanted us in something blue, so we all had to bring something and she brought some things, and then when I was packing to come home, I found it in wardrobe, so—”

“Okaaaay. Okay. I’m stealing it back.” Nick tugs one of Harry’s wet curls. “Come help me find a shirt.”

It turns out that Nick’s own grey and green flowered shirt goes best with the suit, and Harry decides on black jeans and boots, the shirt so ugly Henry wouldn’t make a dog wear it—“You’re wearing my pants, I’m wearing your shirt.”—and a hunter-green Burberry cardigan/jacket that could only be pulled off by grandfathers and supermodels. Harry looks like the former trapped in the body of the latter.

“How Alexa kept a straight face presenting you with a style award will always be a mystery to me.”

“She didn’t,” Harry says, pulling his socks on. “She totally laughed at me.”

Harry doesn’t look the least bit put out, but Nick still says, “Mostly because she was jealous though.” She’s denied it, but Nick still contends that tug of war she played when Harry tried to take the statue was only half put on.

“She’s ten million times more fashionable than I’ll ever be, and I’m pretty sure she’s comfortable with that knowledge.” Harry fingers one of the buttons on his cardi. “Zayn said I looked good in this though, so I figured it couldn’t be all bad.”

Since Zayn Malik would look incredible in a bin liner, Nick’s not certain his judgment can be entirely trusted, but at the same time, he’d still totally blow Harry even if Harry kept the cardigan on, so he can’t talk. “Alexa says tank tops might make a comeback, so who knows. Maybe you’re onto something.”

“I usually am.” The last thing Harry puts on is his watch, and it definitely edges him away from granddad towards supermodel.

“Do I look okay?” Nick asks.

Harry takes a step back and lets his eyes sweep Nick’s frame, then again, slower, top to bottom and back up to top. “Fucking fantastic,” he says. “Look.”

He crowds Nick, turning him toward the wall of mirrors, resting his chin lightly on Nick’s left shoulder so he can peer over it at their reflections. The suit actually fits Nick even better than it did at that photoshoot, and makes his legs look a mile long. The grey shoes should look dreadful but pick up the grey in the shirt and somehow don’t make it look like he has clown feet, and after Harry slyly unbuttons an extra button at his throat, Nick looks almost as good as the probably Italian boy from the bar last night. “I’ll do, I suppose,” Nick says.

Harry kisses his cheek. “More than do. Come on. The driver will be waiting.”

Of course Harry has a driver. Nick forgets sometimes that Harry is actually Harry Styles off One Direction fame, and can’t always do just as he pleases. “Is it someone I know?” Nick asks, following Harry to the door.

Harry looks contemplative, which at least means it’s someone he knows, which makes Nick feel better somehow. “I don’t think so,” Harry says. “It’s Armand. Pretty sure he’s only been with us in Europe.”

“He just hanging out while we’re—” Nick gestures back toward the room, and Harry laughs.

“His brother lives in Paris, so this gave him an excuse to visit him. And tonight gives him an excuse to take a break from the four nephews under six.”

“Convenient.”

“I won’t say it didn’t factor when I was figuring out if I could get you away for a weekend.”

“I still can’t believe you—” The lift’s arrival interrupts Nick as it opens to reveal four men dressed for dinner. With six of them on board, it’s rather close quarters for conversation. They don’t need to know Harry sent Nick an envelope of cash and tickets like some kind of sugar daddy with Nick his kept boy. They also don’t need to know that Harry’s got at least two fingers wedged between Nick’s thighs where Nick’s backed up against him to give the others room. Nick hopes there isn’t an angle on that in any of the mirrors.

If there is, none of the other men seem to notice it, and before the fingertips brushing his nuts can get to him beyond the blush rising on his cheeks, the lift doors open again to release Nick into the cool air of the club’s foyer. The other men turn toward the dining room, but with a nod to the man at the desk, Harry leads Nick to the front door and out into the night.

Armand is indeed waiting, jumping out to open the car for them before Harry’s even cleared the first step. Harry introduces them and asks after Armand’s nephews, but once they get inside, there’s a screen between the back and front seats, so it’s just the two of them again. The screen’s clear, though, and the car’s windows are only lightly tinted, so it’s not like Nick’s going to be getting a back-seat blowjob as they drive through Paris.

Speaking of which. Their room has a view of a brick building with a slate roof, and Nick hasn’t even seen much of that in the last twenty-four hours, so he’s almost managed to forget where he is. But now they’re driving past buildings he’s used to seeing on TV, and there’s no mistaking he’s in the city of love. While a rich and famous popstar holds his hand. It’s a little overwhelming.

“There’s the Louvre,” Nick says, pulling his hand away to point. Harry leans over him to look out Nick’s window, and the smile he gives him on his way back past makes Nick wish he had his inhaler on him. When Harry takes his hand again, Nick doesn’t resist.

“If we had just met last night, would we be doing this right now?” Nick asks.

“Are you, you in this suppose?”

Last night, Nick hadn’t known, was he supposed to be Nick Grimshaw, DJ, like the envelope, or was he supposed to have been a Nick whose life never put him in the limelight the way Harry’d been playing it for himself. Nick doesn’t like to think of himself without his dream job, though, so as he’s being given the choice… “I’m me,” he says.

“Then yes.” Harry rubs his thumb over Nick’s knuckles. “I’ve wanted to meet you for ages. Whether I’m a popstar or, I don’t know, whatever I would be that brought me to Paris for boring meetings.”

“What if I’m not me?” Nick feels weird about this whole conversation, but he can’t let it go, either.

Harry shrugs, but not like he’s blowing Nick off; like he doesn’t know the answer. “If you’re just you from ten years ago, not famous yet, but still you, especially if you know how to do that one thing with your fingers already—” Harry gives Nick a smile and the fingers in question a squeeze— “probably? But if you’re not you because you’re someone else, I don’t know.” Harry shrugs again, the smile dropping off his face. “The point is— I mean the whole th—”

Nick hadn’t even realised the car had parked until Armand opens the door an inch from Nick’s shoulder, stopping Harry mid-word. “There’s no one out here, Harry,” Armand says, leaning down so he’s on their level. “Do you want me to check inside?” Nick can’t see past Armand’s shoulders to what the restaurant looks like, but the street they’re on is narrow, and there’s little passing traffic.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry answers. “They only have four tables, nowhere for paps to hide, and I’d imagine cell phones are discouraged.”

Nick doesn’t even want to know what Harry did to get reservations in a place like this. Though, knowing Harry, he probably just smiled.

“I’d rather be able to tell Paul I checked, if you don’t mind.”

Harry lets him check, but he doesn’t finish his sentence while Armand’s gone. “The whole—?” Nick finally starts, but then they’re getting out of the car, and Harry says, “Later.”

With the only four tables thing, Nick was expecting the sort of food made of mist and smoke that comes in a test tube, but the menu is very gourmet rustic, meats wrapped in pastry, cassoulet, roasted vegetables and whatnot, and it smells delicious. The hostess is the spitting image of Daisy Lowe, if Daisy were five-foot-nothing and had a pixie cut, and seems equally taken with Harry’s smile and Nick’s suit as she shows them to their table. They’re seated next to two women in evening dress with their hair cut in matching severe bobs—they look like politicians, or possibly headmistresses in fancy dress—and across from a couple with their chairs pushed so close together they’re practically sitting on each other’s laps. The fourth table, closest to the kitchen doors, is empty when they sit down.

“Shall we get starters?” Harry asks. “The food here’s meant to be amazing.”

“You order the food and I’ll order the wine?” Harry’s got quite good at wine, actually, but he goes all pleased when Nick lets him order for them both. He can take ages over it, though, and Nick needs something to do while Harry’s deciding on their meals.

Harry’s smile as he hands over the wine list says Nick said just the right thing.

Nick picks a white, a light red, and a robust red, prepared for whatever Harry orders, and they end up with a carafe of each. The sommelier approves the first to accompany the mussels and crusty bread to start, suggests a slightly spicier light red to go with the white bean cassoulet, and praises Nick on his third choice to go with the lapin a la moutard, which Nick is pretty sure is rabbit.

“Is it later yet?” Nick asks lowly once the staff have left, giving Harry a smirk to let him know Nick remembers Harry asking the same thing this morning, before being hit with the certainty that the amazing sex they spent today having was Harry giving him a last hurrah before telling him they can’t keep doing this. Nick’s going to be sick.

Except Harry bites his lip all coy and flirty, and presses the top of his foot to the inside of Nick’s ankle, and it’s Harry as he’s always been, and it’s filled with promise, and Nick draws a breath. Still, “Not yet,” he says. “Later, later. Food first.”

Harry is the worst. He wasn’t kidding about the food though.

It’s delicious, as is the wine, and Harry is hilarious telling stories about tour, and of Anne and Robin’s latest holiday to Tenby in Wales, where Anne was shit on by not one, not two, but three seagulls, apparently, and wrote Harry an amazing email of the tale. No one is staring, no one has their phone out pretending to text but clearly angling for a not-so-sneaky picture, and there are no paparazzi outside trying to find a crack in the curtains. The fourth table filled while they were ordering, and the one-to-one ratio of staff to diners means there are enough people to soothe the agitated buzz Nick gets if he stays indoors too long; it’s pretty much the perfect night. But Nick can’t stop wondering what Harry was going to tell him in the car. Are One D splitting up? Is he moving to LA full-time to take up songwriting? Is he going on tour with Coldplay? Are Zayn and Perrie up the duff and going through Harry to give Radio 1 the world exclusive?

Okay. Probably not that last one. Hopefully not any of them. He’d looked so serious, though. And not Harry’s Greek-philosophers-are-amazing kind of earnest serious, either.

“You done, love?” Harry interrupts Nick’s wilder musings. He’s laid his knife and fork side by side next to the last two bites of field potato and a smear of mustard sauce, and is taking the last sip of wine.

Nick’s own potatoes are gone, but he’s a bit of tenderstem broccoli and a few bites of meat left. He definitely doesn’t need to eat them. “Done.” He lays his own cutlery on his plate and reaches for his wallet. They usually trade off paying for dinner, and Nick’s pretty sure it’s his turn, especially as he’s got all that cash Harry gave him. But he’d obviously missed something, because Harry’s signing the receipt and thanking the waiter in endearingly—to Nick anyway—badly accented French, before Nick even gets his fingers into his pocket.

He must be doing a face thing because Harry says, “My mum taught me better than to make a date pay for his own supper.” He does the little wiggle that means he’s trying to get something into one of his front pockets while sitting down. It’s different to Nick’s wiggle that means the same, and Nick wonders if that’s an odd way to recognize a person: their skinny-jeans wiggle. Harry pokes Nick’s foot with a toe. “Wanna go for a walk? The Eiffel Tower is just across the road.”

A chance to digest before dessert—even the non-food version—sounds like a good plan. Especially as a walk probably counts as later. It had better. But Nick doesn’t want to make Harry dig his heels in by mentioning it again. “Is that what this is?” he says lightly instead. “A date? Not just a dirty weekend?”

“Let’s walk,” Harry says, giving Nick a prod toward the door.

Armand follows them at a discreet distance as they head towards the tower peeking over the buildings up the road, Harry, clearly having decided later isn’t now, asking Nick for commentary on the meal they’ve just eaten. The tourist spot is not quite as close as Harry’d implied, and Nick’s wishing he’d paired his suit with his converse instead of dress shoes. But then they turn a corner and there’s nothing but lawns between them and the postcard view, and Nick doesn’t care about his feet so much as the press of Harry’s shoulder against his arm and Harry’s fingers brushing the back of his hand while they’re looking at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. France. It’s stupidly romantic, and so Harry Styles it hurts.

“The thing,” Harry says softly, linking their fingers between the press of their bodies. “The thing is that I want to date you. Proper date you. All the time.”

“You want to—” Nick looks around, but there’s still no one watching them. Everyone has eyes on the tower or each other. “You want to date me?”

Harry nods. “I mean more— Not that we’ve never— Like it could be exclusively.” Harry gives Nick’s hand a tug like he needs to make sure Nick’s listening. Nick’s definitely listening. “I’m saying this wrong.”

They’ve never—not since that one time when Harry was eighteen and incredibly drunk and asked Nick to marry him—ever talked about being exclusive before. Not that Nick’s never thought about it, idly, what it might be like if Harry were someone he could settle down with, but Harry’s not in a settley time of life, and what they have has been working.

“I’ve been trying it, this tour,” Harry continues. “Being exclusive.”

“You have?” Nick’s not sure why he feels like he should have known. It’s not as though Harry used to tell him about his shags in such detail that a lack of stories would be noticeable. It was just what Nick would see in the gossip pages, most of which he knew wasn’t true anyway.

“They ask if I have a girlfriend I say no, because that’s true, they ask if I’m single, it’s not that hard to change the subject.”

A couple with their arms around each other walks past and nods, says, “Bonsoir,” and Nick can’t help letting go Harry’s hand, the habit’s so ingrained.

“You’ve been pretending to the press that we’re dating?” Nick hisses. Harry’s face falls, and Nick’s not sure if it’s his words or the fact that dropping Harry’s hand made them sound harsher than he intended.

“Not pretending,” Harry says. “Just—”

Nick’s been so careful not to say anything that might make Harry think he’d want this. Not to imply that he’s ever needed more than Harry could give him. And Harry’s been—

“Let’s sit,” Harry says, tugging on Nick’s sleeve until his feet move towards a nearby bench. Harry’s been pretending Nick’s his boyfriend behind Nick’s back?

Out of the corner of his eye Nick catches someone following them, but it’s just Armand, staying far enough away he can’t hear them, but close enough he could keep Harry safe if he needed to. God knows Nick wouldn’t be much good if it came to a knock-down-drag-out fight. Or an over-excited mob, which, honestly, is more likely.

“Sorry,” Nick says once they’re settled knee to knee, the Eiffel Tower looming off to their right, a grass and gravel plaza laid out before them. “I’m not— Are you—?“ Is Harry leading up to some big coming out scenario? Nick can’t even imagine it. Except for how it’s not that hard to imagine the death threats he’d be getting. And he doesn’t have an army of Armands and Pauls to follow him around, and doesn’t really want one.

Harry shrugs. “I’ve just been trying to figure out if there’s a line between lying, and letting the world in my private life. Before I— Before we decided anything. I didn’t want to promise you something I couldn’t follow through on.”

What can Nick even say to that? “What does that have to do with pretending not to know me last night?” Apparently, he can change the subject.

Even in the tree-filtered light coming from the tower, Nick can tell Harry’s flushing. His mouth always does a thing, even when his cheeks don’t turn red. “I wanted— It wouldn’t have to be all boring nights in, hiding or whatever. We can still go out on the pull, just, we’re pulling each other? You don’t have to give anything up. Not really. I wanted you to know that before— Before I asked you.”

“You thought— Harry. I don’t need—“ It’s weird how true that feels. A year ago, Nick would never have considered arguing that he doesn’t care about going on the pull, but it’s been more out of habit lately than because he’s got any real satisfaction from the hunt. “Not that last night wasn’t fun, but I don’t need you to be anything but who you are.”

Harry gives him a tentative smile. “Is that a yes, or a no?”

“To being exclusive?”

“To being my semi-secret boyfriend.” His mouth turns down wryly. “I know that doesn’t sound good. The secret part. But I’m not sure how…”

Nick can’t do this. He can’t. Reading about his friend-with-benefit’s conquests in the Sun is one thing, but Nick’s not sure he’ll be okay reading about his boyfriend shagging starlets and supermodels. Not that he’s really had a boyfriend to test this theory with, but he imagines.

“There’s so much…” Harry trails off again. He’s looking at Nick like if he looks hard enough, the answers to all the problems in the universe will appear on Nick’s face.

The thing is, the papers would write that shite about random models and reality TV stars no matter who Harry was actually dating. That, and the speculation that he’s going solo, are the darling headlines of the tabloids at the moment. And Nick’s always promised himself he wouldn’t let what the papers say rule his life. Why should he start now? Fuck it.

Besides. Nick has never been able to say no to that face.

“The secret part sounds fine,” Nick says, squeezing Harry’s thigh just above his knee. “Right now, anyway. I think it’s probably better. We’ve been doing okay as semi-secret fuck buddies, right?” Nick’s shit at pretending he’s not mad gone on Harry in interviews anyway, a word isn’t going to make a difference. And for all he loves a good gossip, Nick’s always been able to keep a secret when it counted. “It’s a yes.”

“Yes!” Harry whoops, his smile going incandescent. “We’ve been doing great.” He squeezes the hand Nick’s still got on his knee. “I really want this to work.”

After the UK leg, One Direction have got four months before they go on tour again, and Nick figures that’s the best chance he and Harry are likely to have. “Okay,” he says. Harry knows him well enough by now to realize that’s as close as Nick’s going to get to saying he wants it to work too.

“Okay,” Harry echoes, his tone saying he does know. “Okay.” He does his little bounce that means he’s excited about a surprise—have there not been enough surprises for one night?—and digs his fingers into his pocket, pulling out a small manilla envelope.

Nick’s brain runs through the possibilities: club drugs, rings—god, is this another proposal?—but he doesn’t expect what Harry actually pulls out, which is a key on a long chain.

“Key to your heart?” Nick jokes.

“Don’t need a key to that,” Harry says. With fumbling fingers, he puts the chain around Nick’s neck. “’S my house.”

Nick holds it out so he can see it. There’s not much light, but enough to make out that it’s got dimples along its length instead of teeth. When Harry’d bought his place, the front door had three chubb locks, so he’s obviously got them changed. “Fancy,” Nick says, because he can’t find any other words. Harry’s had a key to his for years, but at least ten people have a key to Nick’s. Last he knew, even Gemma didn’t have a key to Harry’s.

“You can come over any time. Don’t have to ring first,” Harry says.

Of course Nick’s going to ring first, Harry may be all LA now, but Nick’s too English to let himself into someone else’s house without some warning. He can’t say his belly doesn’t warm with the sentiment, though. This is mad, but Harry’s always been mad, and Nick hasn’t got where he is by being careful.

“We going back for dessert now?” Nick asks.

“You don’t want to go up?” Harry gestures toward the tower.

Nick looks up at the top of the glowing structure. “They gonna let me blow you up there?”

Harry looks too. “I wonder if it’s too late to buy out a whole tour? A whole elevator? I don’t know how they do it.”

“No.” Nick laughs, prods Harry in the ribs with two fingers. “No. We are not getting diva on the Eiffel Tower to have public sex. Not when we have a whole suite to ourselves. C’mon. Where’s Armand?”

“I was going to give you your key on the top. All romantic. But then I couldn’t wait any more.”

Standing, Nick holds out his hands to pull Harry up, mostly because he needs to touch him but there are lots more people walking past now, any of whom might recognize the bloke having his face snogged off in front of a bench in the Champ de Mars as Harry Styles. Harry puts both hands in his; one still has the envelope in it, corners sharp on Nick’s palm. “You gave me a key,” Nick says, soft, half hoping Harry won’t hear him.

“Course I did,” Harry says back, just as soft. He looks so pleased with himself that Nick wants to smack his own face for the niggle of worry that someday he’s going to have to give it back.

“Where’s this dessert you promised me?” Nick says at normal volume, pulling his hands from Harry’s grasp, though not arguing when Harry takes one again as he falls into step beside him.

“Room service,” Harry answers. “Flip for who services whom first.”

“You are terrible.”

“You love me anyway.” Harry skips towards Armand, pulling Nick to go faster.

*

They’re much less good at keeping their hands to themselves in the car on the way back to the club than they were on the way to dinner, but they stick to hands, and apart from one filthy hot kiss to Nick’s neck in retaliation for Nick whispering about how he plans to make Harry beg when they’re back in private, they don’t do anything that would look suspicious through a stray long lens, or even in Armand’s rear-view mirror. Nick is proud of their restraint.

Their restraint falls apart in the lift, however.

As soon as the doors close on the foyer, Harry’s got Nick pushed up against the side wall, mouth hot on his lips, hands hungry, one groping his junk through his trousers, the other pushed up under his jacket, trying to untuck his shirt and knead at his waist and back at the same time. Nick’s no better, both hands on Harry’s arse, hoisting him half onto his tiptoes in an effort to get him closer. It takes forever for them to get to the fourth floor, yet they’re there too soon, shocked apart by the loud ding when the doors open.

Much to Nick’s relief, there’s no one waiting to get on when they get off, and no one wandering the corridor to watch Harry grope at Nick’s arse as he tries to walk with a hard-on and get his key out of his pocket, all without tripping on his own feet. “Niiiiick,” Harry whines when Nick tries to shove the key in the lock upside down first try, but it’s Harry’s fault because he’s got arms around Nick’s waist, one hand on Nick’s dick, the other on his chest pressing his house key to Nick’s sternum, and how is Nick supposed to think with that happening?

“Haaarrrrrry,” Nick says back, finally getting the key in and turned.

“Never mind flipping, I need to suck you,” Harry announces, but Nick was through the door first, which means he’s got the leverage to push it closed with Harry’s shoulders, and the space to drop to his knees while Harry’s pinned up against it.

“Too late.” Shoving Harry’s ridiculous cardigan out of the way, Nick undoes his flies, tugs Harry’s jeans around his hips.

“Oh,” Harry says weakly. “Okay, then.” He helps by unbuttoning his cardi and Nick’s hideous shirt so they fall open either side of his cock, which has gone from semi-hard to standing stiff against his belly in the time Nick’s got Harry’s pants down his thighs.

There’s something nice about sucking a bloke hard, but Nick can’t deny it’s gratifying when someone gets there just watching you go to your knees. And Harry does that a lot. Harry, who is the only one Nick’s going to be blowing from here on out. Or at least until Harry changes his mind about Nick being the only one to give him head ever again. Shit. What are they doing?

“Nick,” Harry moans. “Please—” He’s got one hand on his dick, stroking it like he just really needs someone to be touching it now, which, Nick did kind of promise here.

“You want my mouth?”

With his other hand, Harry reaches out and touches Nick’s lips. “Always. I always want it. But I really, really, really want it now, yeah?”

“Here?” Nick pushes Harry’s hand away so he can take over stroking. “You want it here?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and Nick thinks that’s his second favorite thing after making Harry laugh, making him say yes like that. Harry’s prick is dripping as Nick squeezes it, and Nick wants to lick so bad he can taste it already, but he hasn’t made Harry proper beg yet.

“You want it like this?” he asks, giving a soft quick kiss just above where his fingers wrap around the side of Harry’s cock, and sitting back to look up at Harry’s face. Harry’s hips jerk as he tries to get closer to Nick’s mouth again, and his own mouth is all twisted half pout half smile. “Or like this?” Nick kisses the patch of hair at the end of his happy trail. He’s keeping his hand moving, but in tiny squeezing strokes that he knows do more to drive Harry crazy than get him off.

“In,” Harry says, petulant. “Put it in your mouth.”

Nick opens wide as he can, carefully putting an inch between his lips, not letting it touch anything, resisting tonguing at the slit or the sensitive crown, though he has no idea how. When a whine starts in Harry’s throat, Nick breathes out, hot and moist, keeping still as he can, using his grip on Harry’s dick to keep him from thrusting and catching Nick’s teeth. Harry’s whine hitches and turns to a groan, so Nick sucks in cold air and blows out hot again.

Harry’s eyes are wide, fixed on Nick’s mouth, and he clutches the wrist Nick’s got resting on his hip. He seems to have lost the power of speech. Which is better than begging, so Nick’s not going to complain. His mouth’s awfully dry for sucking dick now, though, so he sits back again, gives Harry a few longer strokes. “In like that?” he asks.

“Unnngh,” Harry says, shifting his grip from Nick’s wrist to his shoulder.

Nick swallows deliberately, works up some spit, not breaking Harry’s gaze.

“Please, please, pleaseplease, suck me,” Harry finally says, just before Nick’s going to break on his own. So Nick does.

With a little noise of satisfaction he can’t help, he finally tastes Harry’s cock, licking the slick head, tonguing hard at the spot that makes Harry hiss in pleasure. But done with teasing him, he goes down, sucking and swallowing, trying to take more than he’s really ready for. Harry buries a hand in his hair and tries to slow him down, but Nick’s on a mission, wants to see if he can make Harry swear now he’s begged. He can go slow in a minute.

Using his grip on Harry’s waist for leverage, Nick pushes past his gag reflex until tears prick his eyes and he starts choking, and he still doesn’t want to stop. There’s a part of him that doesn’t care about breathing, about how Matt would kill him if he can’t talk properly Monday, about anything but the feel of Harry everywhere like this, but Harry’s got both hands in his hair, pulling hard, and he’s saying, “Fuck, Nick, fuck, breathe,” and Nick should probably listen to him.

He lets Harry pull him off and draw him in to rest his forehead on Harry’s hip, and takes a deep breath, two, but then he’s mouthing at the faint impression of Harry’s old might as well… tattoo—hidden under the leaf unless you’re this close to it— pinching the skin between his teeth for a moment, before moving again to kiss and lick at Harry’s dick.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes again, and this time Nick does go slow—well, slower—bobbing his head, using his hand on the base, breathing through his nose, working up to taking more. They get a rhythm going, Harry rolling his hips, going deeper when this time Nick doesn’t choke, until Nick isn’t even using his hand anymore, is busy kneading Harry’s arse, while Harry guides Nick’s head with one hand, wraps the other around the key still hanging over Nick’s chest.

And this is—christ—Nick’s having sex with his boyfriend. Actual, key-to-your-place, talked-about-it, boyfriend sex. Not, not, not the time to think about how his mum would be proud. Fuck.

Nick stops to take a breath, clear that image from his head, and “You said yes,” Harry whispers, awed. He tugs the key and leans down to give Nick a kiss. It’s soft, but still makes Nick feel the rubbed tenderness of his lips, and Nick likes it.

“Fuck my mouth,” he says. “Come— You can come, please.” Harry doesn’t need to be told twice.

It takes a minute to get their rhythm back, but once they do, it’s not long before Harry’s breathing fast, making the little noises in his throat that mean he’s close, and this time Nick’s glad. He’s overheated in his suit jacket, jaw and knees starting to ache, and cock wanting some attention. But when Harry starts to beg again, please, please, please, Nick, fuck, so close, pleeeeaase, all of that fades to background noise.

A squeeze or two of Harry’s nuts has him coming, head thumping back against the door and hand gripping just this side of too tight in Nick’s hair. He’s still holding the key around Nick’s neck when he slides to his knees practically in Nick’s lap.

“You’re really good at that,” Harry says, kissing Nick’s face, licking at his mouth. “I’m lucky.”

“Ungh,” Nick says, because Harry’s getting sappy and Nick still has a hard-on here, and also it’s kissing time.

Kissing leads to Harry pushing Nick—Nick pulling Harry? He’s not actually sure—onto the floor. On the way down, Harry gets Nick’s jacket open and his own shirt and cardi half off so he lands on Nick’s chest with his arms pinned like a model walking a runway in a fur.

But he’s Harry, so before Nick barely has time to laugh at him, he’s shirtless and working on getting Nick the same way. While he’s at it, the key slips down and thunks softly to the carpeting above Nick’s shoulder, distracting Harry from rubbing his face on Nick’s chest hair. “Get up here, you,” he says, moving it back to sit on Nick’s sternum, patting it in place.

“You are ridiculous,” Nick points out. He doesn’t point out that he’s completely charmed by how chuffed Harry is that Nick’s wearing his house key. That would just make Harry go on about it.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry counters, and blows a raspberry on Nick’s belly, making him squirm.

Nick would protest, but the raspberry is followed by a hot, sucking kiss and Harry’s fingers working on Nick’s flies, which is distracting.

Harry blows Nick right there on the floor, their legs all bent because they’re too close to the door, and Nick’s hair getting all staticky on the carpet. It’s not at all comfortable, and Nick couldn’t care less, because Harry’s mouth is wet and hot on his cock, and his fingers are playing with the hair on Nick’s belly, and Nick was so close from blowing Harry, it’s not like he has to lie there for long.

*

They have breakfast in bed Sunday morning, or whatever the French equivalent of brunch is, anyway, but then Harry has to leave.

“I’ll be back tonight, though, not tomorrow, so maybe you could go to mine from the train?” With a lingering kiss to Nick’s fingertips, Harry backs away from the bed.

Nick doesn’t want to go anywhere. He wants to stay holed up in a sex suite with Harry forever.

“Are you going to take this suit back with you? And do you need to borrow another pair of pants?”

“Unless you want me naked under my jeans on the train with all those pretty French boys headed to London.”

Harry pops his head through the doorway from the dressing room. “Will you send me a snapchat from the train toilets?”

“No,” Nick says, face stern, because Harry does not need encouragement for his dirty snapchat habits.

In response, Harry sticks his tongue out and throws a pair of pants at Nick’s head.

“If I end up with croissant crumbs stuck to my nuts, I’m blaming you.” Nick picks up the pants and brushes them off dramatically.

“I’ll lick them off when I get home.”

“Ew.” Nick wrinkles his nose in disgust, but Harry’s gone back to his packing and misses it. With a sigh, Nick drags his well-fucked carcass out of bed. “I said, ‘eww’," he says, wrinkling his nose again at Harry as he passes him on the way to the bathroom.

“Mm-mm, pastry and ball sweat.”

Nick gags, only mostly pretending, and drops the clean pants on top of his bag. “I am never eating croissants again.”

“At least until the next time someone offers you one. Are you taking first shower? Only my car will be here in forty minutes.”

“I hate your car.” Nick pouts his lower lip out as far as it will go.

“I’m going to be home in like,” Harry picks his watch up off the valet trolley. “In like seven hours.”

But at home they’ll be secret boyfriends. Here, they get to be plain old boyfriends. Nick probably shouldn’t feel so sulky about that if they’re going to make this work.

“Hmmpf,” Nick says. “I’ll shower while you finish packing. You can join me when you’re done if I’m not finished.”

“That sounds like a terrible way to make sure I’m downstairs on time.”

If the look on Harry’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t actually care about that, so Nick takes his time soaping up.

Harry comes in as Nick’s rinsing his hair; one second the shower’s empty, the next, Nick has a wet wiggly bundle of popstar pressed against his side. “Hi,” Nick says, knuckling water out of his eyes.

“Hellooo.” Slowly, like maybe Nick won’t notice if he doesn’t make any quick movements, Harry edges Nick out from under the spray, and moves in himself.

“I see you,” Nick says, which is probably obvious, because he’s standing there staring like a lemon. But the water is dripping down Harry’s chest and his arms, which are tanner than they’ve been in ages, and more muscled, and moving all glisteny as Harry lifts them to push his hair back off his face, and the jizz dried on his belly is making the shower smell of sex layered over the expensive body wash, which is apparently Nick’s weakness.

“You gonna wash my back?” Harry asks, not even pretending it’s anything but a line.

“Is that code for giving you a hand job?”

“I have to be downstairs in ten minutes.” Harry pours shampoo onto his hair, but his hips hitch forward just a little bit, and his dick is not as uninterested as it had looked a second ago.

“Come on. I can do it in three.”

Harry grins as he starts lathering his hair.

There’s just a handful of body wash left, but that’s all Nick needs to get Harry’s abs and hips and thighs all soapy. By the time he’s done that, Harry’s dick is bobbing up between his laurels. “I thought you said three minutes,” Harry says roughly.

“I have two left.”

Much less subtly than Harry’d done it, Nick maneouvers them so he’s the one in the spray and Harry’s got his back against Nick’s chest, his thighs making a hot, wet space for Nick to thrust into. He hasn’t fucked Harry’s thighs in ages. They used to do it all the time, when this was new and mostly something they did when drunk and Nick was less able to convince himself that Harry didn’t mean it than he was sober. He’d forgotten how good it feels.

With slick-soapy hands, Nick wraps Harry’s dick up from base to tip, just holding on and letting the thrust of his own hips work Harry in his grip.

“Oh,” Harry sighs as Nick bites his neck. Not hard enough to mark, not when Harry’s on his way to a press round-up, but hard enough Harry knows he’d like to.

Harry’s working with him, squeezing his thighs together, grinding and working his hips in little hitching movements, and Nick could definitely come like this, but it’s going to take him more than the forty seconds or so he reckons he has left of his promised three minutes, so he wraps his left arm low around Harry’s belly, holds him tight against his hips with Nick’s dick snugged up behind his ball sac, and jerks him hard and fast and tight the way that always makes him whimper and gasp and come helplessly before he thinks he’s ready.

“Fucking cheat,” Harry says, laughing, still catching his breath. “No fair.”

“You’re the one who’s easy,” Nick protests. “And you’re the one on a schedule.”

“Stupid schedule.” Harry turns and plasters his slippery self to Nick’s front. Nick could probably also get off rubbing against Harry’s soapy stomach. Another thing they haven’t done in forever.

But, “You got time for me to take care of this?” he asks, wrapping a hand around his dick.

“Always,” Harry says, even though that’s not strictly true.

It’s good, though, jerking himself against the slippery firmness of Harry’s abs while Harry kisses him soft and slow and thorough as he comes.

They dry off and get dressed quickly, Harry shoving the last few things on the valet trolley into his trunk, though not before Nick can filch a t-shirt off the top.

“Hey,” Harry complains, because that’s what they do when the other one pinches something without asking, even though neither of them ever actually minds. Mostly.

“Hey yourself. It’s not like I’m jetting off to the states with it.”

“No going to the states. Going to mine. I’ll be there before eight. Hopefully just after seven.” Harry leans in and kisses the corner of Nick’s mouth, and then his chin, then his nose, before kissing him properly. “Don’t forget your train is at two.”

“Yes, mum,” Nick says, giving him a swat on the arse. A knock on the door interrupts before he can go for another kiss. “See you tonight,” he says as Harry goes to let the porter in.

*

Once Harry’s gone, the room seems much emptier than it had when Nick was waiting for him to arrive, and it had been pretty empty then. Maybe he’d better go spend some of that cash he’s still got in an envelope in his pocket. There’s definitely a few cafes in walking distance, and he’s pretty sure he spied some shops from the cab on the way here.

He doesn’t spend all the money, but he does get an excellent cup of coffee, finds a camisole that absolutely screams Daisy’s name, and a pair of briefs with cowboys on the front, their little printed lassos wrangling the fly, that Henry will laugh at for a week. The pair of shoes he likes are €2,300, and they’re nice, but not worth breaking out the credit card for, so he leaves it at that and goes back to pick up his bags and get a taxi to the station.

As Nick’s settling in his seat, laptop with him this time, he wonders where Harry is. Still in Paris? Jetted off to some other Euro destination for the afternoon, or maybe back in London already, but with things to do until tonight? They hadn’t talked about it. They rarely do, beyond the basics of available and away. Not that Nick isn’t interested in Harry’s life, but there’s far too much of the latter to keep track of.

How was it? the text from Collette comes as soon as Nick’s logged onto the train’s wifi.

Had to spend the whole weekend naked, as someone didn’t see fit to send me with any usable clothes, he replies.

She returns with a string of emojis from crying laughing to a cup of coffee, through several leaves and plants, to a panda, with four eggplants and a half a sweet potato at the end. He doesn’t try to decipher it. He can’t wait for the new pack to come out, if the promised middle finger is part of it. In the meantime, he sends back the cow and the smug moon.

Did you get arrested?

Did you?

Did you get engaged?

What had Harry told her when he asked her to pack his back and send over his passport? NO.

She doesn’t reply right away, and he adds, he did give me his key tho, despite his better instincts. Nick’s shite at ignoring instincts that tell him not to overshare with friends.

that boy needs to put a diamond on your finger. He can certainly afford it.

Nick tries to imagine what Harry would pick out if told he had to buy Nick diamonds. If he followed the three-months wages rule, never mind a ring, Harry’d need to buy him a diamond-encrusted Ferrari. Nick doesn’t need one of those. Nor a ring. Harry’s twenty. He may be ready to let Nick have a key, but he’s not going to want to settle down like that for years yet.

no one needs a diamond.

I’m at Sadie’s. The kids say come for tea.

Maybe Nick should do that. It’s probably much more sane than going to Harry’s to wait for him to come home. Going to his boyfriend’s place. That doesn’t sound right. Nick isn’t ready for this. But, he promised Harry he’d be there. Can’t, he sends.

ring me tomorrow, love.

Nick doesn’t bother sending a response, because once Collette says to ring her later, she’s as good as gone. There must be someone else willing to chat with him. But after no reply from Emily or Pixie or Jane, Nick shoves his phone into his pocket and opens his laptop.

Unfortunately, despite assurances that there would be naked boys, True Blood can’t hold his attention, and that’s all he’s got downloaded right now.

He turns to tumblr. The first thing he sees is a picture of Drake riding a dolphin with a cartoon rainbow shooting out of its blowhole. There’s no caption explaining why you might want such a thing, but the longer he looks at it the more amazing it becomes, no explanation needed. Everything after that is boring, until he gets to a collage of pictures of himself off Aimee’s instagram, which reminds him he needs to go to the tanning place; it’s not long until Ibiza, and he needs a better base.

Need tan, he texts Aimee.

A minute or so later, she replies, Wed night?

There’s nothing on his calendar for Wednesday, so he sends back a yes. Except, maybe he’s supposed to ask what Harry’s doing first. Is that a boyfriend thing? Nick’s pretty sure that’s a boyfriend thing. He’s heard Matt checking with Lizzy before committing to things sometimes, and Fifi has James’ art shows on her calendar. Nick isn’t cut out for sharing calendars.

He’s probably not cut out for this at all. What does he know about being a good boyfriend? Harry’s a romantic, all quoting poetry, and getting song lyrics tattoos, and moonlight declarations at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Nick’s impromptu sleepovers with half his friends, and overbooking himself three nights out of seven. He’d given Harry a key on a whim for fuck’s sake, because he’d found an extra in a drawer while looking for one to give Collette. Harry’d been cleaning spilled Diet Coke out of Nick’s fridge at the time. Nick is the sort of person who puts half-empty cans back then hides them behind the leftover Chinese takeaway.

What does Harry want with someone like that?

Nick hates being the arsehole who makes phone calls on a train, but there’s no one next to him, and he knows when he needs an impartial third party. He needs an impartial third party. Daisy. Daisy won’t steer him wrong.

She picks up on the third ring. “I’m not on the radio, am I?”

“On a Sunday afternoon?” Nick asks incredulously. It’s possible he should stop ringing his friends and putting them on the radio.

“I could be. You sound echoey. Why do you sound echoey?”

“I’m on a train,” Nick admits. “There’s no one next to me.” He tries to lower his voice a bit. Everyone’s always telling him how loud he is, and there are other people in the carriage.

“Oh god. What’s wrong? Have you been home? Are your family alright?”

Nick reassures her about his family, promising that nothing has happened to any of them, but being vague about where he’s been. She’ll get all overexcited if he mentions Harry’s surprise trip, and he wants her levelheaded. Once he’s convinced her everything’s peachy, he raises the subject he’d called about to begin with.

“On a scale of one to ten, how terrible of a husband would I be?”

Daisy scoffs. “One? Ten? Eight? I have no idea what the numbers on this hypothetical scale refer to. Who are you marrying?”

“No one.”

“Are you sure I’m not on the radio?”

“You’re not on the radio!” Nick looks around guiltily. He might have yelled that last bit. There’s only one person giving him a dirty look, though, so it’s probably okay.

“Okay, okaayyy. Fine. I’m not on the radio. You’ll make someone a fabulous husband, I’m sure. So long as they aren’t looking for someone to actually, like, change a lightbulb or anything.”

“They’re very complicated fittings in the kitchen.”

“Yes, sweetie. If you say so.”

“I’m kind of selfish,” Nick points out.

There’s a soft thunk in the background like Daisy’s just put down a mug of tea. “Are you trying to fill out a dating website profile or something?”

“No. Why would I—? No.” May he never ever fill out a dating website profile. Though that’s probably where he’ll be next year when Harry’s left him for a younger, fitter model. That, or letting his friends set him up.

“Wait a minute. Is this Harry? Are we talking about Harry?” She sounds just as excited as he’d feared she’d be.

“Maybe.”

“You should have said we were talking about Harry. You’re the perfect husband for Harry. It’s disgusting.”

“Why?”

“Have you seen yourselves together? He thinks the sun shines out your arse, and you’re just as bad.”

Nick knows his face goes a bit stupid sometimes when Harry’s around, but that’s not what he meant. “But why are we perfect for each other?”

There’s a slurp and another thump. She’s definitely got tea. Nick wants a coffee, but he doesn’t fancy getting up to get one. Like she’s speaking to a small and particularly stupid child, Daisy says, “Why do you think, Grim?”

“He could have literally anyone he wants.”

“And so could you. And you want each other. What could be more perfect than that?”

“But—”

“I thought you two were chill, anyway. Having fun, no strings. What happened? Is that why you’re on a train? He didn’t try to break up with you, did he?”

Nick feels sick at the thought. Which probably means his budding plan to tell Harry this is a bad idea, is an even worse one. “Noooo. No. He— gave me a key.” Nick fingers it through his borrowed t-shirt. “And said he wants to be exclusive. Whatever that means.”

“It means you have a boyfriend! Grimmy! That’s adorable! I mean, exciting. I mean, congratulations. Does this mean the papers are going to stop saying I’m dating him?”

“Haha, no.” Nick had forgotten about that when he thought Daisy was the best person to call in his moment of existential angst. “We’re not exactly telling the papers he’s off the market.”

“Oh. Well. Always the beard, never the bride.” Daisy fails to sound too broken up about it.

“You’re not a beard. God. You just look too hot with all the men you hang out with.”

Daisy snorts. “Seriously, though. That’s great. It’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes?” Nick’s never sounded less convincing in his life.

“You’re always going on about how you want a boyfriend, and Harry’s basically been your boyfriend for the last two years, what’s wrong with it being official?”

Nick doesn’t know, is the thing. But the closer he gets to London, the more insane it seems. “What if he cheats on me?”

“Is he cheating on you now?”

Nick shrugs. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my business to know. Now it probably is.”

“Probably?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly talk about that part.”

“What part did you talk about?”

“Mostly we had sex,” Nick admits.

Daisy chuckles. “So, then, you talk about it. It’s 2014. Couples are allowed to make their own rules these days.”

That sounds a lot like feelings. Nick doesn’t like feelings. “Ugh,” he says. “Feelings.”

“Sorry. That’s part of the deal.”

“I don’t want this deal.”

“Yes, you do. When do you see him again?” Daisy sounds very stern.

Never? Nick could just go home when he gets back to London. Pretend Harry never gave him a key. “Tonight. I’m meeting him at his tonight.”

“Perfect. So you talk. Find out what exclusive actually means to him. Tell him what it means to you. If those things don’t match, talk about it until you find a definition you can both agree on.”

Daisy is terribly practical. “That all sounds very practical,” Nick tells her. “And like hard work. You know how I hate hard work.”

“Nicholas Grimshaw, you are one of the hardest working people I’ve ever met. Don’t give me that bullshit you sell to the papers that you’re some kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants partyboy. A relationship’s no different to getting your dream job before you’re thirty. You figure out what needs to be done and you do it.”

“We could just have more sex,” Nick tries.

“Stop. Stop talking. You are on a train. Go watch a video on your laptop or something. And don’t be an idiot tonight.”

“That’s a bit nasty.”

“Stop trying to make 'nasty' happen. I’m not Matt Fincham. Go. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

“Fine. Love you too, Lowe. Even if you’re nasty.”

Daisy hangs up on him.

In the forty-five minutes that remains of his journey, Nick replies to two work emails, likes Liv’s four latest Facebook posts, and catches up on Instagram. He doesn’t think about Harry, or Daisy’s advice, or the headlines the Sun would slap above the fold if it comes out he and Harry Styles are doing a romance rather than a bromance. Mostly doesn’t. Hardly at all.

When he gets in the taxi at the station, he tells the driver Primrose Hill. They’re nearly at Edgeware before he realises. “Sorry. Hampstead.” He touches Harry’s key. His key. To Harry’s house. Which Harry gave to him on a chain to wear around his neck like he’s in school. Only you don’t give school children Tiffany necklaces. Not where Nick’s from anyway.

“Hampstead it is, mate,” the driver says, and goes back to listening to sports on the radio.

Letting himself into Harry’s house is odd, even though he’s done enough house sitting for various friends over the years that it shouldn’t feel strange at all. He considers putting the key on his keyring when he’s done with it, but puts the necklace back round his neck instead. Keys are right on trend at the moment.

Unsurprisingly, Harry’s fridge gives new meaning to the word empty, so Nick calls for a takeaway, making sure to get enough for leftovers. While he waits, he figures out the remote for the new entertainment system Harry’s had installed. Nick can’t help wondering if Niall’s the one who talked him into it. Then he can’t help wondering if Niall and the others know what Harry was up to this weekend. If they knew before Nick did, maybe. Or not. Surely Harry’d want to know what Nick would say before he told his friends. They’ll have had time together this afternoon, though. So they might know now. Nick’s not really friends with them they way Harry is with Nick’s mates, but they’re good lads and he likes them. He hopes they’re happy.

The buzzer at the gate rings before Nick can convince himself that Harry’s bandmates have made him second guess his choice of romantic partner and Harry’s going to get home tonight and tell Nick he’s changed his mind. Just.

He’s unpacking the food onto the counter when his phone sounds Harry’s text alert. Be there in 10, it says. Gonna order all the takeaway in the world. I’m starving.

It’s already here. I’ll put it in the oven to keep warm for you. Hope Indian’s okay.

Nick’s phone rings. “I love you,” Harry says as soon as Nick answers. “I love you. And not just in the you bought me food way.”

It’s not the first time Harry’s said it, but he’s not—as far as Nick knows—drunk, and neither of them have their dicks out, and Nick’s standing in Harry’s kitchen with a key on a Tiffany chain around his neck. “Daisy says we should talk,” Nick blurts out, because god forbid he say ‘I love you too.’

Fortunately, Harry laughs. “Mum says the same. Also hi. And I’m also supposed to tell you not to let me take advantage just because I have a cheeky smile. I think she likes you better than me.”

Anne. Nick hadn’t even considered Anne. At least it sounds like she doesn’t want to skin him for shagging her son. Though he’s pretty sure she’s always known about the shagging. Harry’s not great at secrets when it comes to his mum. “Well. If Daisy and Anne are telling us to talk, I suppose we should talk.”

“Don’t sound so scared. I won’t make you talk about your feelings.”

“You will,” Nick complains. He will. It’s part of his whole cheeky smile thing. No amount of warnings from Anne can help him.

Harry doesn’t answer, and Nick suspects he’s plotting a dick joke about feelings, but then he hears the sound of the door opening from the front of the house and also through the phone. A muffled conversation follows, and before Nick can decide if he should go out to meet him, the sound of the door closing again.

It’s definitely too late to run. And Daisy, damn her, is right. Now he’s here, really, actually here, Nick doesn’t want to. When Nick first sat down in front of the board at his first radio station, he wasn’t remotely equipped to be a DJ. Now he’s the host of the Radio 1 breakfast show with a standing invitation to do his best to drink Sara Cox under the table if he thinks he’s up for it. He has no idea what he’s doing here in Harry’s kitchen, either. But he can order a takeaway like a champ, and he knows how to make Harry laugh, and how to do that thing with his fingers Harry’s so fond of. Things could be worse. Probably. For sure this is not the stupidest thing Nick’s ever said yes to, anyway.

Harry’s heels thud on his newly refinished hallway floors. “Honey,” he calls, walking through the kitchen doorway. “I’m home.”