Archive of Our Own

When Nick gets the text, he’s out for drinks with Aimee and Pixie at the pub.

His phone buzzes just as Aimee’s reaching the punch line to some incredible story about the time she had to drag a girl kicking and screaming out of a concert venue ‘cause she was causing such a scene, and Nick’s expecting a text from Henry to finally let him know whether he and Dave are going to make it out to meet them, so he’s surprised to see Harry’s name lit up at the top of the screen instead. He thumbs his messages open quickly.

 Hey, you round? I’m in the neighbourhood

Nick’s stomach drops. He’s seen Harry – properly hung out – just once since he’d gotten back to London. Yet here he is texting Nick at nearly 9pm on a Wednesday night. And it’s so obvious what Harry wants from his text. He’s always been pretty transparent with that kind of thing, Nick doesn’t think that stops just because they see each other about half as much as they used to. Less.

He can’t say he’s not a little surprised though. Nick knew Harry was back but he wasn’t sure for how long. He’d seen him at Alexa’s belated birthday dinner a week earlier but Nick figured he would have headed back to LA already. Apparently not.

As he’s re-reading Harry’s text, Henry’s response comes in to tell Nick that he can’t get away tonight – has to finish off some final pattern for a skirt that just won’t cooperate – but Portobello Markets with Gells is still on for this weekend, yeah? Nick fires off a reply to Henry, giving Aimee and Pixie the news as he does.

He doesn’t text Harry back. Instead, he contemplates it over another beer, engaging in idle chitchat. Nick thinks about explaining his dilemma to Aimee and Pix, before quickly deciding against telling the drawn-out tale it would be bound to become. They know he and Harry fucked around and it was silly and fun but Harry’s only barely out of his teens; can’t even legally drink in some countries for god’s sake. Nick’s not sure they know that it’s a thing that’s still happening and he doesn’t think he’s ready to face the questioning just yet.  

By 9:30 Nick tells them he’s going to turn in. Pixie whines and clings to his arm and Aimee calls him weak, but they don’t have much to argue with when he reminds them he does have to be up at 5am. They relent eventually and after hugs and promises to text later, Nick leaves them in the booth and goes outside to hail a cab. The night air is brisk, it being almost December now, and Nick wraps his scarf tighter around his neck as he searches the street for taxis. He’s still debating whether or not to just ignore Harry’s text, pretend he had an early night and didn’t see it until tomorrow morning when he’s clambering into the back seat of one. He should just ignore it. Logically, that’s the smartest move, Nick knows. The thing is, he’s never been that smart when it comes to this stuff. Never been all that practical when it comes to Harry.

Nick’s five minutes away from his flat when he texts back.

 Yeah, just getting home. Come over if you want.

Aimee was right, he thinks. He’s so, so weak.

-

Nick’s in the middle of brushing his teeth twenty minutes later when the muffled knock sounds from his front door. He spits quickly, and places his toothbrush back in the cup, taking a breath and trying to remember why he texted Harry back tonight.

Oh right, he thinks to himself as he makes his way to the front door, because you’re an idiot, Nicholas. 

Harry’s forehead is creased into a frown when Nick opens the door to greet him.

“You changed your locks?” is the first thing he says when Nick finally gets the finicky new chain off the door. And, okay, that’s not exactly what he expected.

“Uh yeah, I guess – a few months ago. How did you –“

“Tried to use my key and all, didn’t I,” Harry answers quickly, the crease smoothing from his forehead as he pushes past Nick into his flat and oh, Nick had forgotten. Plenty of his friends had keys to his flat, and he’d mostly gotten around to replacing them when he’d had to change the lock on his front door a few months back but with Harry being away so often… it hadn’t even crossed his mind to be honest.

“Sorry,” Harry continues, stretching out of his coat and throwing it over the back of the couch “should have just knocked”. He dumps his keys and wallet on the side table and barely spares a glance to where he’s dropping them.

Nick stands in front of the door after he closes it, watching him fastidiously, remembering all at once how messy Harry is, how he always seems to take up the whole room once he’s walked into it. It’s not like Nick had forgotten after so long – he’s had Harry around too often, mooching around his flat, spending lazy days curled on the sofa or as semi-co-host to Sunday night dinners with friends to forget what it’s like to be around him. It’s just… Nick hasn’t spent all that much time with Harry like this in the past year. Now that he’s coming here to Nick’s flat, late on a weeknight, alone, it’s suddenly flooding back.

Harry’s hair had been tied back in a haphazard bun when he walked in, like he hadn’t had time to do it properly in a rush to be somewhere but he yanks it out now, freshly-washed curls falling around his face. Nick wonders idly where he’s coming from, where he’d been just now.

Finally Harry looks up to find Nick still stuck by the door, watching him.

“What?” the inkling of a smirk forms at the edge of his mouth though, like he knows exactly what.

“Nothing,” Nick mentally shakes himself, walking towards Harry and matching his smirk properly. Harry reaches for him as he wanders closer, anticipating his proximity. Nick steps into his space and when Harry moves in to kiss him Nick dodges, leaning down to mouth at Harry’s neck instead.

If Harry thinks it’s odd, he says nothing. Instead Nick feels him relax instantaneously at Nick’s tongue sliding warm against his throat and a small thrill rushes through him, the same as every time, at the knowledge that he can still draw the tension from Harry with just his mouth. 

Harry’s hands cling to his hips, tightening just so as Nick’s kisses his way down to Harry’s collarbone, teeth grazing gently at the skin there. He knows what Harry likes; doesn’t think he could forget. The motions are embossed onto his brain now. It’s like muscle-memory, coming back to it so easily after all this time. So he’s not thinking about trying to please Harry as he bites more headily at his neck, earning him a loud exhale. Instead, Nick’s thinking that they’ve barely said a full sentence to one another since Harry arrived.

That there’s no small talk to begin with isn’t entirely unusual – there have been plenty of instances when, too eager to get their hands upon each other, they’ve saved the pleasantries until after, curled up in Nick’s bed – but Nick can’t even fathom what he’d say to Harry now. To ask him about his day feels suddenly too casual, too domestic, for their months apart.

Nick splays one hand firmly against the dip at Harry’s back and Harry inches closer readily. The other hand, Nick presses into Harry hair where his head is tilted back, exposing his throat for easy access. And oh how easily Harry makes himself vulnerable. Nick has to swallow hard through that sudden recollection. He curls his hand around the back of Harry’s scalp, around hair so much longer than he’s used to.

“Nick.” Harry’s voice is rough when he finally speaks. Nick can tell his name almost gets caught in his throat. “Nick,” Harry tries again, clearer this time.

Nick pulls back, blinking at the marks already blossoming on Harry’s skin. This time when Harry leans in there’s nowhere to go. His lips are soft against Nick’s own, not chapped from cold and wind like he might have expected them to be. And he’s not even been in LA for weeks! Nick thinks absurdly. His laugh spills into Harry’s mouth as he’s running his tongue along Nick’s lower lip. He feels crazy, lightheaded from the feel of Harry’s mouth against his and the thought of spending the night with him again. Nick can feel Harry’s mouth twisting into a grin in response to Nick’s, likely imagining the spike of endorphins as the reason for Nick’s sudden snicker.

When Harry pushes his tongue properly into his mouth, Nick stops thinking, giving himself over to the sensation completely. His hand, now curled around the nape of Harry’s neck, grips tightly at the heat of it. His fingers are almost long enough to reach all the way around to the marks he just sucked into Harry’s skin and he pretends he’s pressing his fingertips into them, a feeble substitute for the pressure of his mouth. He can feel the line of Harry’s cock confined against his hip by too-tight jeans and Nick shifts against him, trying to create some kind of friction against his dick, trying to make him moan. He succeeds on the second try and then Harry’s movements become frenzied, trying to push ever closer to Nick where he’s standing, until there’s not one speck of air between them it seems.

Finally, Harry pulls back. His eyes are dark boring into Nick’s and it goes straight to Nick’s own dick. Harry leans in again to press a quick kiss to Nick’s lips, like he can’t help it and Nick squeezes the back of Harry’s neck for good measure.

“Bed,” he finally proposes when retreats, and Harry nods once, extracting himself from Nick’s grip to kick his shoes off next to the couch. In the meantime, Nick leaves to find Pig so he can take her out for a wee before bedtime.

He finds her curled up on the rug at the foot of his bed and murmurs his apology at neglecting her for the new visitor. She doesn’t seem to mind too much though when she sees him grab a treat from the plastic container that sits atop his chest of drawers.

“C’mon, Pig. Wee and then bedtime,” he tells her, though clearly she needs no encouragement by the way she’s already sat at Nick’s feet, one paw lifted, beseeching.

She’s fast tonight since she knows there’s promise of a treat when she gets back inside. Nick doesn’t usually coax her with food for her wee, even when it’s rainy and takes a good 20 minutes because she’s being stubborn and won’t go out. He’s generally pretty good at not giving in too often when she stares up at him with those pleading eyes and lifts her little paw so cutely, either. But tonight Harry’s waiting and Nick can’t cope with too much time to think fully about what he’s doing. Given too long he thinks he might start to calculate how much time has passed since Harry was last over at his place this late. Since the last time they actually slept together. And that, Nick thinks, would be unwise.

In the end, Nick’s only waiting at the conservatory door for two minutes before Pig comes bounding back in from the garden, ready for her treat. After feeding it to her and locking the door, he turns around to find Harry curled over her wriggling body on the floor, her tummy bared for a belly rub, front paws pulled up to her neck. He glances up at Nick as he’s scratching her belly, his face split into a grin that gets stuck in Nick’s throat. He has to take a deep breath before returning a smile, notices that Harry’s shucked his jeans and is now just in a t-shirt and tight black pants.

“I guess she does like me,” Harry giggles, glancing back down at Pig where she’s pawing at Harry to make sure he doesn’t get distracted from the task at hand. When Harry had come over a few weeks earlier, before Alexa’s birthday dinner, he’d been so eager to meet Pig for the first time. Nick had warned him beforehand that she sometimes gets shy around strangers and not to worry too much if she acts a little skittish and scared but in his excitement Harry hadn’t paid him much attention. When she did dart to Nick’s side instead of running up to greet Harry, and stayed near Nick until it was time to leave, only letting Harry pet her when she was safely in Nick’s arms, Nick could tell Harry was disappointed, even though he’d tried not to act it. 

Seeing how happy Harry is at her easy affection tonight though, Nick doesn’t think he can stand it. It’s all so domestic, so reminiscent of the nights they’d spent sprawled on the sofa with glasses of wine, chatting quietly about the most trivial things, or making dinner together – just for them, or for their friends when they came over – alternating who had to chop the onions, always the worst job. Curled up in bed next to each other, whispering slowly, exhausted and sated after a long day and fucking each other stupid. 

“Harry,” he chokes out weakly and coughs to mask it. “Harry,” he says louder, better. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” Nick hopes Harry can’t hear the unease clear in his voice. He mustn’t though because then he’s standing easily, calling Pig to her bed over by the sofa and looking so pleased when she does as bid after a quick glance at Nick. Good girl, Nick thinks, as she settles, and then he’s reaching out for Harry’s hand, silently calling him back.

“Us too,” Nick says when Harry finally takes his hand, and he pulls him along to his bedroom without letting go, closing the door behind.

When they finally climb into bed after they’ve divested themselves of clothes, turned off the lights, and Nick’s triple-checked his alarm, Harry’s on him in an instant. “Missed you,” he murmurs between kisses, and Nick has to remember to breathe steadily, to give himself over to it and not revise the number of times they’ve actually seen each other in the past year. How every time he catches sight of Harry’s hair splayed out on his pillow, he can’t help but be momentarily astounded at how long it looks, how strange against his sheets.

“Missed this,” Harry keeps going, and Nick lunges up to kiss him, needs to stop him talking already because it’s too much. He rolls them over, pushing Harry back into the mattress with a thrust of his hips and Harry whines into his mouth when their dicks finally make contact. Nick tries again and Harry moans louder, fumbling a hand to grasp at Nick’s hip, pulling him flush against Harry’s body.

“Fuck me,” Harry murmurs into Nick’s ear, and okay. Nick’s never needed telling twice.

It’s late already anyway and Nick has work in the morning. He wonders if he had more time, would he try to make this last? Would he eke it out, making Harry come with his mouth before kissing him half-hard again, sliding into him to finally get him there and then making Harry come again while Nick’s inside him? A thank you for coming home, or one last hurrah before he finally gets his shit sorted and puts a stop to this.

Nick thinks Harry would take it well – it’s not like he’s even around half the time anymore. They could just go back to being friends, without the benefits. Nick thinks that might be okay.

He brushes those thoughts aside now though, reaching over to fumble in his bedside table for lube and a condom from the strip he knows is buried in there somewhere. Meanwhile, Harry keeps grinding up against him, hips moving in tiny circles so that their dicks keep grazing each other. It’s making Nick’s search for a condom all the more difficult and finally he has to press a hand against Harry’s lower abdomen with a huff, keeping him still as Nick’s fingers finally happen upon the familiar cool plastic.

With a dexterity that impresses even Nick himself, he manages to tear a condom from the strip with one hand, the other still firmly resting below Harry’s abs, his dick starting to leak obscenely onto the back of Nick’s hand. It’s a sight to see, though Harry wouldn’t know since his eyes are shut, his lower lip pulled into his mouth by his teeth, already looking like he’s trying desperately not to come.

Nick knows he can’t be that close though, he’s not even properly got his hand on Harry’s dick yet. Still, the sight of him looking so fucked out, already, gets Nick slightly worried. He pauses, lifting his hand to push back the curls from Harry’s forehead. “Harry,” he whispers, when he still doesn’t open his eyes. Harry blinks, gazing up at Nick finally. “You okay?” 

This gets him a smile, big and warm, and, Nick thinks, somewhat stupidly, one that could power the sun if needed. It’s not his popstar smile, it’s different, Nick muses. More relaxed, natural. Contented. “Yeah,” Harry whispers back, “just missed this.” And for everything Nick’s been thinking about tonight, how sure he was before Harry arrived that he was going to talk to Harry soon about stopping this, he can’t help but smile back just as big. Can’t help but lean down slow and slide his tongue against Harry’s like they have all the time in the world. 

Nick flicks the cap on the bottle of lube with his thumb, smothering two fingers and tossing it onto the sheets next to them, still within reach. Harry pulls his legs back so his knees are bent for better access, as Nick wiggles down to press a first finger to Harry’s hole. And call him a tart but it’s then that it hits Nick just how much he’s missed this, too. Slowly he presses his finger past the tight ring of muscles, his other hand stroking at Harry’s thigh because Nick knows it helps him relax when they do this. He can hear Harry’s breathing thicken as he slides his finger out and back in, adding a second when he’s relaxed enough to take it. He makes sure to press all the way in, trying to nudge that sweet spot with every slide until he gets it. Finally adds a third finger, stretching him out as much as he needs. Harry’s moaning loudly now, grasping at the sheets with one hand, the other limply stroking at Nick’s shoulder.

“Ni– Nicholas,” Harry stutters, and Nick’s throat pangs at hearing his full name fall from Harry’s lips. Remembers the first time that had happened when they were fucking and Nick had admitted after, snuggled sticky in the sheets, how much he’d liked it. Harry had made a ridiculous point after that to call him Nicholas all the time. Mostly during sex, although sometimes Harry would be trying to be intentionally vexing and say it in front of their friends, always earning him a flush from Nick and a pained, “stop”. Nick thinks the half-supressed smirk on his face whenever he’d pleaded though, and the quick squeeze of Harry’s hip after, didn’t do much to quell this behaviour.

It became something that could always get Nick off though. When he was right there at the edge, Harry’s hand curled around his dick pulling him off fast, all he’d have to say is, “c’mon, Nick– Nicholas. Come for me, you can come,” and Nick was gone.

“Nick,” Harry’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. “Can you – could –“ he’s grasping for a proper sentence, coming apart under the steady press of Nick’s fingers. “Fuck me now. Please,” it’s practically a whine.  Nick doesn’t bother quipping that ‘well, since he asked so nicely…’ He needs to fuck him already or he’s going to come, too, at the sight of Harry gorgeous and writhing beneath him. 

Nick presses his fingertips against Harry’s thigh more firmly, something to distract as he takes his fingers away and reaches for the condom finally. He catches Harry’s eye as he rips the packet open and doesn’t look away until he has to glance down as he rolls the condom on. When he lifts his head again, Harry’s closer than he’d expected and suddenly pulling him into a kiss, one hand reaching to grasp the back of his head, and, a second later, the other slicking his dick with lube in a practiced move. He hadn’t even seen Harry grab the bottle.

With Nick’s dick suitably wet, Harry settles back against the pillows, acquiescing when Nick drags one of his feet up to rest against Nick’s shoulder as he finally, finally, presses the blunt head of his cock to Harry’s hole and starts the slow push in.

They’ve done this what feels like a million times together, so the sensation is nothing new. Regardless, Nick feels every inch he pushes into Harry right down to his toes, his fingers curled around Harry’s thigh, pressing hard this time for his own benefit rather than Harry’s. Nick gives him a second once he’s all the way in before pulling out slowly and pushing back in hard, setting a steady pace for Harry to match. 

“Y– yeah,” Harry’s mumbling, coming apart completely underneath him. “Miss– missed – wanted –“ he starts to say, and Nick can’t hear it a third time. He leans forward to kiss him, stealing a gasp as he pushes in on a particularly hard thrust. Harry licks into his mouth, the words dead on his lips, his hips jerking up to meet Nick’s in a perfect rhythm. Harry fumbles to grab Nicks hand, dragging it down to circle Harry’s cock and Nick thumbs at the head, using the wetness there to slide more easily down his cock, his grasp firm and tight. 

Harry’s breathing quickens once Nick starts to jerk him off and Nick can tell he’s close now. But it’s only when he reaches over to grip Nick’s wrist, the one not on Harry’s dick, that Harry finally comes. Nick thrusts in and stays deep, watching as Harry’s come streaks his chest with every jerk of Nick’s hand on his dick, his eyes closed and head tipped back against the pillows in ecstasy. When he’s done, Harry reaches his hand down to tug gently at his softening dick, fingers tangling with Nick’s as he wordlessly pushes his hips up, urging Nick to keep going, to finish fucking him through the sensitive aftermath.

Nick snaps his hips back in response, fucking him faster now to get himself off, one hand still half-tangled with Harry’s, the other grasping Harry’s leg. He’s vaguely aware of Harry’s hand now pressed tight against his own, their fingers linked together as Harry squeezes, thumb stroking the back of his hand. Of the string of gibberish Harry keeps muttering, punctuated by grunts every time Nick bottoms out inside him. “Love – love… this, Nick, love –“ Harry keeps saying over and over, and Nick can’t stand it, can sense it coming and can’t bear to hear him say the words. Again, Nick silences him with a kiss, pressing forward without breaking his rhythm and he doesn’t mean for it to happen but it’s the wet, warm press of Harry’s mouth against his that finally pushes him over the edge. He comes with Harry’s hand still tightly locked with his own and the thought that he’s never going to do better than this; Harry hot and solid and pliant beneath him, this coordinated partnership of knowing what the other likes, the physical ease. Nick thinks it’s the most terrifying thought to come down to in the world.

-

The alarm trills next to his head three times that morning. It’s all Nick gives himself before he opens his eyes properly and fiddles clumsily with the keypad, trying to turn it off before hauling himself out of bed and in the direction of the bathroom. As he closes the doors to the en suite, he glimpses the curls splayed across the pillow in his bed, just visible in the streetlamp light streaming through the half-shuttered blinds over his window. The head that’s just poking out from beneath the duvet next to where he just lay. He closes the door and flicks on the bathroom light.

Nick brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face, moisturises; inspects the rapidly deepening (he’s sure of it and will raise the topic with whomever will let him of late) wrinkles around his eyes. He shuts off the light in the bathroom before opening the door, out of habit, but he doesn’t near the bed as he crosses the room to collect a jumper, t-shirt, and stray pair of jeans lying on the floor. He changes in the dark and doesn’t bother to assess his outfit before heading to the kitchen to grab some toast. No smoothies this morning: he’s sick of avocado to tell the truth. He texts Fiona as he’s leaning against the kitchen counter chewing on his toast mindlessly, still half-asleep. She’s the only one who’s sent anything into their group chat yet and Nick’s response is barely an attempt – an eggplant emoji next to a crying face.

When the cabbie texts to notify Nick of his arrival, he brushes any stray crumbs off his jumper, shoves his arms into a jacket he’s grabbed off the back of his sofa and his keys and wallet into one pocket, and shuts the door behind him quietly. 

Absentmindedly, he wonders if Harry will be gone before he returns home. It’s barely a fully formed thought though, before he’s climbing into the cab, and then he’s thinking about work, about the show ahead of him. Then he’s not thinking about Harry at all.

 -

He dawdles at the studio after the show, giving Harry extra time to leave just in case. It’s not that Nick’s avoiding him, it’s not, it’s just that – well – what would Nick even say to him? ‘Hey, thanks for a great fuck last night, really enjoyed it; hope you did, too. Guess you’ll be going back to LA right now? Yeah, okay, have a great time! See you in six months!’ Nick knows he’s being ridiculous but he can’t help it. He keeps thinking of how helpless he’d felt last night, how good and intoxicating having Harry in his bed again had been. If he goes home and Harry’s there waiting, he’s not sure what he’ll do, but he knows it will be utterly stupid.

When he finally gets home – he’d relented after realising that Pig was probably hanging out for a walk by now – he’s met with an empty house (save for Pig skittering up to greet him) and nothing to worry about after all. The duvet’s haphazardly smoothed back into place, like someone’s vague attempt at making the bed, and there’s a note sitting on the guest side. Nick picks up Pig for a cuddle with one arm and the note with the other.

 Had to duck out.

 Borrowed a jumper, thanks!

 P.S Pig’s been for a wee

The note is scrawled in green pencil – god knows where he got that from as it’s not like Nick’s keeping them stocked around the house – and there’s something half-written and then scribbled out at the end of the page. Nick can still read the aborted ‘sorr–‘ through the scribble though, and he sighs as he places the note on the side table. He fully expects to find a broken mug in the bin later or a new stain on the bath mat that Harry had neglected to tell him about; started to in the note but thought better of it at the last minute.

There’s no hearts or kisses drawn at the bottom, and Nick’s glad of that. Glad they’re not trying to really force something just to save face for both of them. Harry’s not really the type to leave notes anyway, at least not for Nick. Even when they were still… whatever, Nick was more likely to find the coffee table cleared of empty glasses and bottles from the night before, or be awoken to the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen where Harry had fried some up earlier and left it covered under a tea towel for Nick, if he woke up and Harry was already gone. Sweet little gestures that made him feel special and – god forbid he even think it – loved.

Not notes though. It sticks in his mind the whole time he’s walking Pig that morning, just because Harry’s never left him a note before. Even after stealing considerably more than just a jumper from his wardrobe he’s tended to text Nick about it during the day, or sometimes just dump a pile of borrowed clothes on a visit months later. The whole thing makes him feel funny but he can’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it’s how intimate, how boyfriend-y the act feels. They’d fucked and then Harry had stayed over and left him a note on his pillow in the morning, just to let him know (unnecessarily, Nick thinks) he’d stolen a jumper and let out the dog. The thing is, Nick wants a boyfriend, a proper one. He thinks he’s ready. For all he’s moaned about it to his friends, to the press, without follow through, he thinks people are starting to disbelieve him. He’s had flings – lasting ones – but none that ever became that serious. He’s starting to think that he’s… whatever the opposite of a magnet for it is. That something inside him just innately repels that sort of commitment in people.

“But there was Harry,” Aimee reminds him once, in the kitchen of his flat one night as he rummaged for the last bottle of wine he knew he had hiding in the back of his fridge somewhere. They’d already split a bottle between them but they were feeling sorry for themselves – Nick because he hadn’t had sex in two months and Aimee because she was missing Ian, up to visit his parents for the weekend. Nick had been complaining to her for the umpteenth time about his single status; how he was probably the only person in the world who’d gotten to thirty without having a proper boyfriend before. At her words though he’d whipped around to stare at her accusingly.

“Harry wasn’t my boyfriend,” he tells her seriously, and she rolls her eyes and mutters, “close enough.” He doesn’t put up a fight – he needs that bottle of wine already – but he thinks about it later after she’s gone. She’s wrong, she doesn’t understand. He and Harry – it wasn’t like that. They were friends, properly and first. Sure they fucked around sometimes but it wasn’t – it wasn’t boyfriend-y. It was just… a thing. He doesn’t think about it much more after that. Harry’s still halfway around the world and if Nick concentrates on it too much he starts to miss him. And that’s stupid, Nick decides. They have jobs and commitments and Nick has plenty of other friends. (He doesn’t think about how it feels different with Harry. About when calling Harry ‘friend’ started to feel altogether inadequate.) 

Everything that Nick wants: a proper boyfriend, stability, to settle. Harry is the furthest thing from that. He’s 20 years old, internationally famous; completely not tied down nor looking for any kind of serious relationship. And yet Nick keeps fucking him, keeps letting him back into his home, his bed. He’s starting to wonder if this is his subconscious rebelling against his conscious desires. If maybe this is his brain’s way of telling himself he doesn’t want commitment at all, that he’d be happier alone with just his dog for company as all of his friends start to settle down and have their own families. Maybe he should just work on godfathering as many children in the North London area as he can instead of trying for his own. He wants a boyfriend but it feels like everything he does is to counteract that. Nick’s heard of self-sabotage but this just feels ridiculous.

-

Harry calls two days later as Nick’s getting home from work.

“What you up to?” he asks without delay, as soon as Nick presses the phone to his ear.

“Not much.” He’s only just gotten the door shut and Pig’s run up to say hello so Nick puts his laptop on the table by the door and drops onto the ground for a cuddle. He scratches behind her ears as he listens to Harry propose lunch plans at this new Japanese restaurant that Niall hadn’t stopped texting him about since tour ended.

“Sorry, Haz. Told Collette I’d meet her for lunch today.” It’s not quite a lie. He had half-heartedly arranged to have lunch with her sometime this week – they just hadn’t specified a day. Nick thinks today is as good as any, though.

“Bring her along then.” Harry answers, undeterred. “She likes Japanese, right?”

“Uh, yeah I think so. But, uh, I think she actually wanted to talk to me about something today. Just like, the two of us, yeah?” Nick cringes at how crap the excuse sounds once it’s out there. Pig nuzzles against his knee and he thinks he doesn’t deserve her unwavering canine affection. 

“Oh. No that’s fine. Hey, don’t worry about it.”

“We’ll catch up later, yeah?” Nick promises, unsure yet whether he means it or not. He could catch up with Harry, meet him for dinner or drinks later tonight; for breakfast at Lemonia in the morning, and it would be so easy to fall back into their friendship from before. But Nick knows all too well what that leads to. He doesn’t think he’d be able to resist letting Harry come back home with him afterwards. He’s terrible and weak, this he knows. More so than ever when it comes to Harry, though.

But maybe it would be different this time; maybe that’s not what Harry wants anymore. What if Harry wants to go back to being just friends, too and that’s why he’s calling to meet for lunch? They can make the mutual decision to stop messing around and it’ll be like a huge weight off both of their shoulders.

Nick thinks back to Harry splayed across his sheets the other night; smiling serenely as Nick had wiped the come off his stomach with a warm flannel, pulling Nick down into a kiss before he could duck away and murmuring into the shell of his ear, “feels like I could do this forever”. And Nick thinks – or, maybe not.

“Yeah, great.” Harry sounds brighter already at Nick’s offer. “Just – text me whenever okay?”

“Sure, Haz.” Nick feels tired suddenly, like he could take a long nap until dinner. “Talk to you soon.”

Lunch with Collette sounds nice though now that Nick thinks about it. As soon as he’s hung up on Harry he clicks into his favourites and calls her, hoping she won’t be busy. He tries hard not to think he’s a bad friend while he listens to the dial tone. It’s better for both of them that he doesn’t see Harry today; it would only make things more difficult. He’s making a responsible decision here.

Lunch with Collette turns into coffee, which turns into 5pm drinks after Emily joins them and then they’re heading back to Nick’s to watch whatever’s on the telly on Friday night. Emily promises to cook but he has no ingredients in, as usual so they end up getting takeaway from the Indian place a few blocks down.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Nick,” Collette comments as the movie they’re watching winds down. Vanity Fair – Collette had chosen it. Nick thought it was dead boring but they’d mostly chatted over it so it was okay. Emily’s long since headed home. She presses a cool hand to his forehead in a motherly gesture of checking his temperature and he wriggles away to the other side of the couch, laughing and reassuring her that he’s fine, just tired. Waking up at 5am every day will do that to you. 

“5am! Ha, don’t give me that cheek, Nicholas. Closer to 6, more like. Don’t forget how many mornings I’ve had to drag you out of bed just to get some breakfast in you before work so you don’t starve. All skin and bone you are and it’s because you never eat breakfast, I’m telling you. I saw it in OK magazine last year.”

“Oh OK mag – reputable source that one.” He makes a face and shifts back to his original spot.

Collette thumps him on the knee and stands, picking up their empty wine glasses from the coffee table and carrying them to the kitchen. Nick stares at the cluster of ads playing on the TV, not properly paying attention, listening to the sink run as Collette rinses the glasses, and the clatter of takeaway boxes as she replaces the lids and puts the leftovers in the fridge.

Five minutes later she reappears and he makes grabby hands from his seat on the couch, prompting her over for a hug.

“Sorry for being such a misery guts.”

“Oh don’t even worry about it!” She swats his apology away loudly with a wave of her hand as she pulls away. “You sure everything’s okay though, Grim?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he smiles feebly. Tries harder and turns it into a real grin. There’s a beat where she looks at him like she doesn’t quite believe it but he pushes on. “You staying then?” 

“Not tonight darling, got some recording to do early tomorrow and then a meeting at 11. Oh don’t look at me like that,” she chides him when he pouts up at her.

“Fine,” Nick feigns real anguish, flopping himself back against the couch cushions. Collette just scoffs, used to the dramatics, and scrubs his kneecap fondly as she tells him she’ll call tomorrow.

“Love you!” Nick calls, still splayed against the cushions, when he hears her unlocking the door and she returns the sentiment before slamming it shut behind her.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Piggy,” he announces, blinking up at the ceiling. The TV hums softly in the background and Pig snuffles on the floor. He tries to guess what Harry’s doing right now. Wonders if he’s disappointed Nick didn’t text him tonight. Probably not. Nick’s sure he’ll see pictures in Heat on Tuesday of Harry coming out of some club in Shoreditch (that Nick introduced him to!), swathe of models in tow. Probably hasn’t given his conversation with Nick this morning a second thought.

Nick scrubs the thoughts away quickly with a hand over his face and sits up. His head swims and his eyes are dry from wearing contacts all day. He really is tired. Maybe he’ll just sleep until Sunday and not have to bother with leaving the house until he has to go to work. Somehow he thinks he’d never get away with it – the downside to doling out so many spare keys to his flat. 

“C’mon, Pig,” he murmurs, sensing her ears prick up in attention. “You wanna sleep with me tonight?” He knows it’s a bad habit and he shouldn’t be encouraging it but he’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and can’t bring himself to care.

As he drifts off he decides he’s going to tell Harry they should stop fucking around next time he sees him. He’ll understand. Besides it’s not like he’s hard pressed to find casual hook ups among their friends. Or among the general population, he adds on second thought. Nick will tell him next week. Easy as pie. In fact, maybe he’ll even tell him over a slice of it.

With that last, half-delirious thought, Nick rolls over and goes to sleep.

-

Nick’s plans are thwarted when he remembers on Monday they have guests in for the show every day this week, a rare occurrence this close to the end of the year. On top of that he’s got Christmas recording spots to do and a meeting with his publicist to “review the year” whatever that means; Nick has yet to find out. He texts Harry on Wednesday after the show to say he’s absolutely flat out and sorry but raincheck if he’s still around next week?

The reply he gets arrives just as he’s heading to bed that night, literally pings on his bedside table as he’s pulling back the covers to hop under the duvet.

 Got it

The words sit at the bottom of the message feed, looking kind of lonely. With a sigh, Nick places his phone back on the table and flicks the switch on his bedside light. He knows Harry’s probably trying to tell him something with that text but he’s so tired from the day and has so much to focus on coming up that he has neither the time nor energy to read into it. 

At the start, everything meant something. Every little fucking thing; how Harry was always around, spending time with all his friends and taking the time to get to know them, staying at Nick’s all the time and accompanying him to gigs and festivals. Every wink or smirk across crowded pub tables, every careful glance, every idle brushing of hands as they walked along. That clandestine love feeling.

Love! Nick had wanted to shout it from the rooftops; to whisper it in bed, in the dark. He’d wanted to spill it to his friends, bashfully admit the truth to his sister when he was home for Christmas.

He doesn’t know if this is what love feels like anymore. He thinks it occupies just as many of his emotions but it’s different to the way it was before. Back then everything felt light and happy and exciting. He felt – invincible, sometimes. Now he just kind of wants to curl up and mope every time he sees Harry. Like some ridiculous Pavlovian response that comes with the knowledge that he’s just going to leave again. For longer and longer stretches each time it seems. And then just as Nick’s gotten used to not having him around, he’ll show up at Nick’s door and Nick’s heart will thud and he’ll have to go through the whole cycle all over again. Lengthy and painful and just all around crap. That’s what it makes him feel like.

For Harry it doesn’t even matter. He’s not even here, Nick reminds himself. He’s on the other side of the world meeting new people and hanging out with his friends in LA. Hanging out with Nick’s friends in LA while Nick’s stuck in dreary London doing the job he’s dreamed of having since he was eleven. And that’s what he hates most: that Harry can make him – even for a second – frustrated at the life he’s worked so hard to carve out for himself. That’s what makes him hate himself just a little bit. 

So it’s easy, late at night before he drifts off to sleep while all of this is whirring round in his brain, to be so sure that he’s going to text Harry tomorrow and tell him he should come over so they can talk. To prepare what he’s going to say and pre-empt Harry’s reactions and plan for that, too. Come morning he’s forgotten, focused on work and the show ahead, and when he finally gets around to remembering by lunchtime, it’s easy to convince himself to do it later, later. Prioritise everything else he has to do until before he knows it it’s 11pm and asking Harry to come over that late would be sending the wrong message entirely.

In the end it’s Harry who calls him on Tuesday afternoon when he’s at home playing through some records that Chloe on Playlist has sent him, trying to decide what he likes for the show and what he really doesn’t.

“Hey, you busy?” Harry asks him. Nick thinks he sounds a little breathless and guesses he’s probably just been for a run or something. So healthy, popstars. Nick considers joking that it’s probably the one obstacle that stood in the way of him becoming one. Harry’s voice jars him when he hears it though, even though it’s not even been a week since they last spoke. For a split second he contemplates telling him, yeah, he is actually, but he’s already lied to him once about hanging out last week and it’s still weighing on him.

“Yeah, actually. I’m just at home – you should come over. Wanted to talk.”

“Great!” Nick’s barely got the words out before Harry’s enthusiastic response. He wonders if Harry even heard the part about Nick wanting to have a chat. “Be over in a bit okay? Want me to bring anything?”

“Uh,” Nick runs through a mental list in his mind. Milk, bread – is that what Harry’s asking? Does he actually mean condoms instead? If so this might head south a little faster than Nick’s expecting. “Nope” he finishes lamely. “Got everything I need, me.” He tries to sound blithe but he’s no idea if he’s succeeding.

“Okay, see you soon!” Harry blurts and hangs up and Nick’s left with the dull feeling that this isn’t going to go at all as he’s planned.

It only takes 10 minutes of Nick playing different tracks on his computer, trying to pay attention to them but not really doing a great job, before Pig’s scrambling to her feet and running to the door to bark at the footsteps tripping down his stairs. 

With a sigh Nick stands, closing his computer on the coffee table and stretching out one arm as he walks towards the door. This time he’s got the door open before Harry can even knock.

“Hey,” Harry pulls him into a hug before Nick can even consider objecting. He smells like – well, Nick guesses he just smells like Harry now. He can’t pick out the individual scents, just knows that it’s a little bit comforting and a lot sexy and he doesn’t need those thoughts running through his head if he’s going to even attempt this discussion. Harry pulls away and Nick almost has to stop himself from breathing an obvious sigh of relief.

“Feels like it’s been ages,” Harry tells him as he finally steps inside, ducking to pet at Pig’s short coat as Nick locks the front door.

Nick hums noncommittally. “You want tea or something? Or I’ve got diet coke in the fridge but it’s draughty out and –“

“Tea’s great.” Harry’s not looking at him as he says it. He’s leaning against the back of the couch, jacket still pulled tight around him even though Nick’s had the heating on all day. He thinks he recognises it – the jacket that is – as one Harry wore nearly incessantly two winters ago. It’s huge and dark brown, with a soft suede outer and fleece-lined collar. It’s funny to see Harry in it now – Nick had almost forgotten he owned it. It’s not that it even makes him look younger or anything, but it’s reminiscent of something. Nick can’t quite put his finger on it and anyway, he has tea to prepare.

Nick nods and takes barely a full step in the direction of the kitchen before Harry starts talking though and Nick swivels back to face him as Harry says, “could we maybe – could I say something? First?”

Nick eyes him carefully, folding his arms in front of him. “Sure, Harry. What’s up?”

For a moment Nick can tell Harry feels torn, like he’s not sure whether to just drop whatever he’s about to say or press on. Clearly he decides upon the latter though, because he takes a deep breath and starts speaking. 

“I didn’t – I didn’t really explain why I came home.” Harry is watching his shoes fastidiously so Nick’s free to watch him just the same. He looks… nervous. Something in Nick’s tummy jolts. 

“I wasn’t even going to, like, say anything but you just seemed so – and then when I came over last week it was so…” Harry’s cutting himself off at every turn with frustrated sighs. Like he can’t figure out how to say what he wants. Harry only gets this tongue tied when he’s trying to say something important or difficult and Nick’s fucking scared.

“Harold, it’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it. I’ll get us some tea, yeah? We can curl up on the couch and you can tell me all about the glorious Los Angeles. You’ve still not told me anything about your stay!” Nick surprises himself at how light he manages to sound in the face of how wobbly Harry seems right now. Trying desperately to give him an out by diverting the conversation with a joke.

“No. Nick. I want – I think I –“ 

“Harry, it’s fine. In fact, I actually wanted to talk to you about Aimee’s party coming up. Do you think I should talk to Ian about whether –“

“Nick,” Harry’s voice cuts through his babbling; hot knife through butter. “I’m trying to tell you that I came back because I wanted to see you. Because – because I fucking missed you. I missed you.”

It’s exactly what Nick didn’t want to hear. God, one minute he’s planning on telling Harry he thinks they should stop messing around because it’s turning him into someone he hates, someone awful and pine-y and weak-willed. The next, Harry’s telling him that he’s missed him. That although for the past six months they’ve barely been in constant text contact let alone hung out, Harry’s decided that it’s okay to tell Nick that he came home for him.

“Nick, say something.”

“I – Harry, what would you like me to say?” Nick asks, the words trickling out slowly.

“Whatever you want to say. Say what you’re thinking.” Harry bites his lip in a move Nick usually finds charming but barely notices now.

It’s too much. Too much to have Harry in front of him after so long and suddenly trying to give him everything Nick’s not had for months. He pulls a hand from the crook of his arm and scrubs it over his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts.

“What changed,” Nick’s almost defiant but he needs to know. To know why after all this time Harry’s telling him he wants to come back to him, to be… what? Nick’s not even sure. 

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly, ducking his head as he reaches to curl a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I guess –“ he sighs. “You know when you called me a couple months ago?” he glances up at Nick who’s ready to shake his head stubbornly because no, he doesn’t know the exact phone call Harry’s thinking of out of the hundreds they’ve had. “After I was hungover and threw up on the highway and they got all those pictures?” Harry continues, and oh, yes. How could Nick forget.

He doesn’t shake his head, but he doesn’t nod either. He stands watching Harry, watching Harry watch him in return; Nick’s arms are still folded in front of him like a shield. Harry continues. “And you were making fun of me but like – not – it was in the good way, you know? Made me feel better even though I was still feeling a bit poorly and stupid, and then you crashed your car and you were telling me about it as you drove home. Made it like I was right there with you, even as you kept saying you were so annoyed at yourself and huffing. You still kept asking me if I was okay and what LA was like and I just, like. Missed you.”

Nick’s really trying his best to breathe steadily as Harry’s telling him all this. It’s fast becoming more than he can handle but he’s not sure how to stop it. Harry fiddles with the zipper on his jacket. “I know that sounds… dumb. I don’t know how to explain it better.” Harry huffs in frustration, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about it and then a few weeks later I came home and kept trying to see you but you kept avoiding me and I think I knew then. That you were, like – that you didn’t want…” Harry’s gaze is stuck to the floor now so Nick can’t read his face. 

“I think I just thought if I got you alone I could remind you. And then I did and – that night, you finally let me come over and… I guess I realised then.”

There’s a long pause where Nick’s hanging off the proverbial edge of his seat. Harry doesn’t make any moves to continue and finally he can’t stand it. “Realised what?” his voice scraped out of his throat like sandpaper. He’s still gripping his arms tightly in front of him, standing stupidly in the hallway.

Harry stands and crosses the short distance between them. Nick has to will himself not to shiver when Harry steps into his space. He’s so close Nick can feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. He can feel the heat radiating off him; Harry the hot water bottle, he used to call him in bed. His lashes are damp but there’s a disconnect in Nick’s brain and he can’t properly work out why that would be. Like he just had a shower, Nick thinks dully, as Harry fits his hand at the juncture of Nick’s shoulder and neck tentatively. Curling his fingers with a slow breath. He makes sure to meet Nick’s eyes before he says the next part, and Nick’s sure he knows what’s coming, wants desperately to look away but he’s frozen, his eyes glued to Harry.

“That I’m in love with you.” He sounds surer now. His voice isn’t wavering as it comes out. “Thought we could maybe, like, work the rest out together.” Harry ducks his head quickly but Nick doesn’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple.  “Y’know,” he glances back up, trying to gage Nick’s reaction, “this. Us.”

That Nick stays rooted to the spot instead of fleeing right there and then, should earn him a prize, he thinks. Or perhaps not. He doesn’t think he could leave even if he wanted to right now. He feels petrified. Suspended in thick amber and laid out like a specimen in front of Harry.

“Nick,” Harry coaxes, scared and suddenly Pig is scampering up to him and Nick needs to escape the compulsion of Harry’s gaze. He blinks and looks down at her, dropping one arm for her to stand and nuzzle into.

It’s not that Harry’s never said it before. Two years ago when they were properly fucking, seeing each other all the time, mocked by their friends for being the only two not to know they were dating, they’d gotten reckless. Fallen into the habit of saying ‘I love you’ mid-fuck, still tipsy after getting home late from Groucho or Koko or Shoreditch House with friends, high on endorphins and the feel of full body contact. Nick had known it was foolish, that it could never end well, but at the time he hadn’t cared. Lost to the steady beat of Harry’s heart under his palm, Nick, too, had said the words over and over, heard Harry repeating them back to him. He had been so young; they both had. 

Nick shifts his gaze back up to Harry who’s still staring at him, waiting for some kind of indication of how Nick’s feeling.

“Nick,” he murmurs again, softer. He hasn’t pulled his palm from where it’s resting against Nick’s neck and Nick can feel it getting clammy.

Harry leans forward so, so slow. Giving Nick every chance to step back, opt out of the kiss he knows is coming. He’s never felt more submissive than when, a second later, he lets Harry close the distance between them and press their lips together in a soft, dry kiss. Nick closes his eyes and knows, knows that this is not that way to let things play out. He’s scrambling for some path to take, for a beacon of guidance but his brain is not cooperating and all he can do is stand there and wait for Harry to stop kissing him.

He does when he realises Nick’s not really moving to kiss back. When he pulls away he looks hurt and confused and Nick wants to wipe the expression off his face forever. Harry lets his hand fall from Nick’s shoulder.

“Harry,” Nick tells him slowly, defensive now “you’ve been away for six months.”

Harry gives him a look like, ‘yeah. And?' 

“I mean – you’re not. Here. You’re never here.” Nick tone is insistent this time. He tries to make it not sound like a whine. Nick sighs roughly and glances over at Pig where she’s now curled up on the rug near the sofa. “Why are you even telling me this?”

Harry blinks, clearly feeling a bit wrong-footed. “I – I thought you should know. I wanted to tell you, like, as soon as I got back but then I thought that would be a bit stupid and…” he glances down. “Guess this feels a bit stupid, anyway.”

Nick can’t take it. He needs to tell Harry, if only to get him and his miserable expression out of Nick’s flat before he starts consoling him instead. Gives him what he wants just to wash that face away. 

“Harry. I don’t think – you can’t,” he pauses, trying to find the words. “I don’t think you can give me what I want.”

Harry still doesn’t look up and Nick’s not addressing this speech to his ridiculous curls. He needs Harry to hear this. Tentatively Nick reaches out to clutch his shoulder and Harry’s gaze snaps back to him.

“I want a boyfriend. A proper one. Like one who’s actually in the country for more than half the year,” Nick chokes out a laugh to show it’s meant to be jokey but Harry just keeps staring at him like he’s slowly tearing his heart out with each word. Nick swallows. “I want to, like… settle. I want kids. I’m not 25 anymore, Haz.” Or 28, he thinks. “I want more than just… this. The odd fuck when you’re back in the country and missing you the other 90 per cent of the time you’re not.” 

And maybe he’s giving too much away now. About how he thinks about their relationship, telling Harry he misses him all the time like he’s the closest thing Nick’s had to a proper boyfriend.

“But, that’s what I’m trying to say. That’s what I’m trying to give you.” Harry’s voice breaks at the end and the edges of his mouth are trembling, threatening to turn downwards and Nick can’t, can’t see him cry. “I came over last week, we – I stayed the night.”

“Harry you were gone before I even got home in the morning.”

“I had a meeting!” Harry’s arm flails out. “I left you a note! I was going to tell you sorry for being away so long and then I thought it would be stupid to put it in the same note that I was telling you I’d, like, taken your dog out for a wee and stuff so I just figured I’d tell you the next time I saw you. Thought we could talk about it then. But you kept avoiding me and wouldn’t text me back.” He sounds nearly hysterical now. “Nick,” Harry grasps his arm. Nick shuts his eyes.

“I – I think I need you to go.”

Nick’s never, in the entire history of their friendship, kicked Harry out of his flat. He’s dragged him in from the cold late at night and joked about making him sleep on the couch if he doesn’t stop fidgeting in bed and begged him to visit the corner shop to pick up eggs or wine. And he’s never sent Harry home for any other reason than he wanted to go.

To Nick’s surprise, Harry doesn’t offer a word in protest and Nick hopes (ignoring the tiny, stubborn part of him that doesn’t), that it means Harry finally understands. He doesn’t open his eyes until he hears Harry at the door and then there’s a pause, Harry standing there, waiting. Nick doesn’t turn around though, and after a minute he hears the lock clicking open, Harry closing the door quietly behind him and then Nick’s alone again. The only sounds Pig’s oblivious, quiet snores from the rug and Nick’s heart thudding dully in his chest, feeling like the sound is echoing around the whole flat.

-

He mopes around his flat for the rest of the day like an idiot. Half-heartedly listening to the music Chloe’s sent him home with until he gets to the seventh track and realises he can’t remember a single one of the ones he’s played already. He gives up after that and answers emails in front of the TV. There’s a Bake Off marathon on that keeps him distracted until Pig gets restless in the early evening. She’s barking incessantly at something in the backyard, Nick can’t tell what, but he thinks it’s only fair to take her for a walk around the block so she can expend some of her energy. 

By the time he gets home it’s just after six and he’s hungry from only snacking on a few stray biscuits and some cheese he’d found at the back of his fridge that thankfully still seemed okay; too upset to eat proper lunch. He shakes out some kibble into Pig’s bowl for her to eat and finds some spaghetti in the cupboard when he’s placing the bag back so decides to have that for dinner. He can’t even summon up a real interest in food right now but if he doesn’t eat something he’ll wake up starving tomorrow and he knows from experience that doing the show when he’s like that is not fun for anyone. 

He finds a jar of pesto behind the leftover Indian from the other night as he’s throwing the boxes out and grates whatever’s left of the cheese to sprinkle that on top of his dinner which, now that it’s ready actually looks quite good.

Gillian texts him in the middle of The Simpsons, just as he’s slurping the last strand of pasta down, feeling a little better with a full tummy and Pig cuddled up next to his knee.

 Hey, everything okay Grim?

Weird. He hasn’t said anything to her about the whole Harry thing. He scrolls up through their conversation to make sure he’s not having some kind of brain lapse but sure enough there’s nothing since their texts two days ago when he’d messaged pictures of a stained glass lamp he’d seen at a shop asking if she thought he should buy it or if it was decidedly too horrendous. (Consensus: horrendous. ‘Leave the shop now and go get a coffee to wake up your brain.’)

Maybe she’s seen some horrible article about him in the Daily Mail and that’s why she’s texting to ask him if he’s okay. Nick would think he’d have seen it already though – his publicist would have warned him about it at the very least. It would have to be pretty bad for Gillian to be texting him about it.

 Yeah I think so? Should I not be?

His phone buzzes with a reply just as he’s placing back on the coffee table.

 No! Just checking up. You watching this episode of Come Dine With Me by the way? Lols at that woman with the feather hat.

He texts Gillian through the rest of Come Dine With Me and all the way until Have I Got News For You and then he realises he feels exhausted and decides to have an early night.

That night he doesn’t think about anything before he goes to sleep. It takes him barely five minutes before he’s drifting off and when he wakes up in the morning he feels rested and slightly better than the day before. It doesn’t stop him from thinking about Harry all the way to work though. Thankfully they have two guests coming into the show that morning so he barely has time to think about anything else with all the interview prep he has to catch up on.

-

In the afternoon, Nick texts Gillian to ask her to come over for dinner and she accepts immediately. He silently cheers that she’s not busy because he really wants to talk to her. She was the first person he’d told when he and Harry started sleeping together and is his most practical, rational friend. If anyone’s going to have good advice, it will be Gillian, Nick thinks.

Gillian ends up bringing sushi over for dinner at Nick’s request, when he’d realised he still had no proper food at home to speak of. He really should go grocery shopping soon. 

“So,” she starts once they’re settled on the couch with wine and are tucking into dinner. She’d remembered to get his favourite, the grilled salmon. Nick really, really loves her.

“Yeah,” Nick mutters. Clearly she can tell already that something’s up.  “So, I sort of had this thing with Harry the other day.” He bites into a piece of sushi and chews thoughtfully while he tries to figure out how to explain the story. Gillian for her part just waits patiently and sips at her wine.

“So, um. He’s back in London, right? Like you saw him at Alexa’s the other week, yeah?” Gillian nods. “Well he was texting me last week wanting to come over and of course, I said yes,” like an idiot, he thinks, but figures it’s implied. “And we sort of had sex and it was fine. Like not just fine, it was nice, but it just made me realise how – made me think that this stopped being fun, y’know? Like just hooking up and stuff. I want like, a proper relationship, yeah?” Gillian nods, brow furrowed in sympathy, and places a hand on Nick’s knee.

Nick takes a deep breath before he continues. “Anyway, he came over on Tuesday after work and I thought maybe I’d tell him that I wanted to, like, stop. But then before I could even say anything he’s telling me that the reason he came home was ‘cause he missed me and he wants to, like. I don’t know, be together or something.” He swallows, reliving the way Harry had looked up at him, heartbroken, after Nick had told him Harry wasn’t going to be the one to give him what he wants. “It was awful, Gills.” Nick leans over to grasp his wine glass and takes a long sip to wash away the memory.

“I told him what I wanted and that it wasn’t him and then I told him he had to leave.”

Gillian’s quiet for a moment before she asks, “have you spoken to him since then?”

Nick shakes his head. God, he doesn’t even know how that would happen. Would Nick relent and start missing Harry again, as though he were all the way across the world, and text him eventually? Or would they just go on ignoring each other forever? Nick doesn’t want that at all. Harry’s one of his best friends. The whole point of putting an end to this situation was so they could still be friends.

Gillian doesn’t say anything else, seems to be still mulling his confession over. Nick laughs aloud suddenly at how nonplussed she seems about the whole thing. “You seem to be taking this awfully well.”

Gillian averts her gaze and takes another sip of wine. Okay, that’s odd. “About that…” she murmurs, looking a little embarrassed and almost… guilty. What would Gillian have to be guilty about concerning this, Nick wonders.

“What?” Nick asks, slightly alarmed now and Gillian grimaces at him. 

“I kind of… talked to Harry after he was over here yesterday.”

What. “What?”

“He sort of texted me and sounded pretty upset and then he asked if he could meet me for lunch to talk and he wasn’t that far from my office so I agreed.”

Nick did not see that coming. “What did he say?! Why did he call you?” He knows he sounds desperate but he can’t help it. Gillian and his… Harry have apparently been having secret rendezvous’ behind his back and nobody bothered to tell him.

“Heyyyy,” Gillian whines in jest. “Harry’s my friend, too. He’s not just all yours, Nicholas.”

“Yeah,” Nick drops his gaze to his lap, “not anymore.” This time Gillian looks apologetic when he lifts his head.

“Sorry,” she winces and strokes her thumb over his leg where her hand’s still rested.

“Doesn’t matter,” Nick answers quickly, “just – what did you – tell me what he said to you.”

“Okay,” she takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Please don’t hate me.”

Nick frowns at her, even more confused. “I won’t,” he says slowly.

“So, at Alexa’s birthday, Harry sort of… came to me for advice. About you.” Nick’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “I know, I was surprised, too.” 

“When?” Nick asks after a moment. He remembers watching Harry the whole night, unable to keep his eyes off him even though he’d just spent the afternoon with him at home. Nick’s not sure when he would have had the chance to sneak off and talk to Gillian without him noticing and he doesn’t remember seeing them chatting by themselves at any point during the night. 

“It was when you were standing on a chair re-enacting the story about the time you dove off a boat into the ocean in Ibiza and threw up with dolphins all around you for Alexa’s parents.” Gillian barely supresses an eye roll.

Ah yes. That. It was possible Nick had had a glass of wine too many at that point. Along with a handful of well garnished cocktails.

“He came over to where I was sitting after Pixie switched seats to chat to Ian and everyone else was watching you and said he had to talk to me. And then he asked if you’d met someone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well I was kind of playing it by ear so I just told him the truth – that you hadn’t.” Nick nods. “Then he asked me if I knew why you might be avoiding him.”

“He was at my house to meet Pig that afternoon before Alexa’s!” Nick cries at that. “I wasn’t – avoiding him,” but even as Nick says it he knows that’s not the whole truth.

Harry had texted him a couple of times since he’d gotten back the week before, and each time Nick had begged off, claimed exhaustion or meetings or work prep. When it had gotten ‘round to Alexa’s party, Nick had figured he was going to see Harry anyway, what would a few more hours matter? So he’d invited him over, hung out with him for the first time in absolute months.

It hadn’t been that he didn’t want to see Harry, but he was scared that he would see Harry again and fall as hard as he had before. Unable to stop himself like some kind of weak-willed child who can’t help stealing a cookie from the jar on the counter even when his parents have told him not to. He couldn’t let that happen, not after he felt like he’d finally moved on. Could text Harry and miss him in a just friends way; finally felt like he didn’t need anything else from him. Of course, that had all happened when Nick saw him again before Alexa’s party anyway. Exactly what he was scared of, what he didn’t want.

“Harry seemed to think otherwise.” Gillian states, and she looks at him like she can see right through him. Nick thinks it’s probably useless, they’ve been friends too long. Gillian knows when he’s lying, even when it’s mostly to himself. “Anyway,” she continues, “I told him no, of course, because I didn’t know why you would be. Or even that you were.” She rubs at Nick’s leg again, calling his attention for the next part.

“I think he was a little drunk, because then he asked me – not very subtly, I might add –“ she’s speaking cautiously now, “what I would do if I’d realised I was in love with someone and they’d started avoiding me.”

Nick only realises he’s been holding his breath when Gillian presses her thumb into his thigh and he shuts his eyes, letting out a big sigh. Neither of them says anything for a moment until Gillian asks, “Is that what he said to you?”

Nick can only nod as he blinks his eyes open to find Gillian watching him carefully.

“What did you tell him?” Nick manages to get out.

“Well, I said that if it was me, I’d talk to the person about it and try to find out how they felt. That if they felt the same they’d probably come around. That was it. I didn’t know what else to say because I wasn’t sure about you and I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea just in case. He said thanks and gave me a hug and told me not to tell you. He seemed really sad, Nick.” 

“You should have told me,” Nick says quietly once she’s finished. “I could have –“

“What? Figured out his game plan? Avoided him until he finally gave up? I think it’s better you had a conversation about it, even if it was awful.” She gives his leg a squeeze to show she’s not trying to be mean, before reaching for more sushi.

Nick wants to protest but he knows she’s right. He drains the rest of his glass and notices Gillian’s is empty, too. “More?” he asks and she offers up her glass with a thank you.

It’s only when he’s in the kitchen fumbling for a corkscrew that Nick remembers. He rushes back out to the living room, arms full. “Wait, so what did he say to you at lunch?”

“Ah,” Gillian starts to reply, mouth full of a cucumber roll. Nick crosses back to the couch and plonks everything down on the coffee table where he starts to unscrew the cork from the bottle of wine while he waits for Gillian to finish. After a big gulp she continues.

“Not much actually. He was upset I think, but he was trying not to show it. I think he just wanted to talk about you to be honest.”

“What do you mean?” Nick pours their glasses, extra big this time.

“We went to the Pret round the corner from my office – it was nearly empty, luckily – and he just kept asking me about what you’d been up to. Like things we’ve been doing since he’s been away. How your birthday was. He told me that he’d talked to you and it didn’t go that well but not much more than that. God I thought it was strange at the time but now that I know what actually happened – That’s pretty weird, Nick.”

“Yeah. He is pretty weird,” he doesn’t mean it to come out as anything more than a bland agreement but he can’t quite keep the fondness out of his voice as he stares down into his glass. Nick thinks Gillian can tell because there’s the ghost of a smirk on her mouth when he looks back up at her.

“Well, what do you think?” As Nick says it, Pig sidles up to the couch where they’re sitting and looks at him, one paw raised pleadingly. Nick rolls his eyes without feeling and moves to let her jump up into his lap. He thinks he deserves a cuddle after having to go through all of that again. 

“I think…” Gillian pauses. “I don’t know, Nick. It just seems odd to me.”

“What does?” He strokes Pig’s ears as she nuzzles into him, trying to lick at his wrists.

“I mean –“ she sighs and looks at him properly. “It seems to me like you both want the same thing.”

Nick stops stroking Pig’s ears. “No, I want someone who’s actually home some of the time,” he insists lowly. “Harry’s fucking flying around the world at a moment’s notice. He’s never here, Gill. You can’t make a relationship out of that.”

“But you’d want one,” she presses, “with Harry – a relationship. If you could have it?” 

Nick pauses. “I – I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” He stares down at Pig in his arms. His petting seems to have sent her off to sleep: her eyes are closed, her little head rested on his thigh. 

Gillian places her glass on the coffee table and shuffles closer to Nick and Pig, reaching to run her hand gently down the short fur on Pig’s back. She clears her throat before speaking. “This is what I know, Nick: Harry’s in love with you. I think I probably knew that even before he half admitted it to me. I know you think it could never work because he’s always away and he’s so young but –“ She stops, tries again.

“You should see yourself when he leaves, Nick. You know the first few times it happened, I didn’t realise what it was that was causing these weird strops. But then I worked it out – you get that way when Harry goes away. And when he comes back it’s like… You’re ridiculous together.” She says the next part softly; “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that happy.”

Nick swallows hard, willing himself not to cry, his eyes still stuck on the warm pile of Pig on his lap. He can’t think about what Gillian’s saying because he doesn’t have that anymore. Maybe he never really had it. Maybe everything she’s saying is completely wrong, after all she doesn’t know. She’s not been there every step of the way.

“I can’t promise you that it will work out. But I don’t think I’d be saying this if I didn’t think there was a chance. I think he’s trying to give you what you want, Nick, because I think that he wants it, too. If you think there’s even a possibility – if you feel the same way… I think you owe it to yourself to at least try.” 

Nick’s been friends with Gillian for longer than he can remember. He doesn’t know if she’s right. It’s fucking scary to even think about. But what if she is? 

For just a few seconds he lets himself imagine a future with Harry in it. Not just in the background; there at parties and other peoples’ weddings and slowly drifting further away as they all lose some of that bonded dependency that comes with being in your 20s and living out of home. But like, sharing a life with him. Coming home at the end of the day to each other, to a place that’s theirs. Sharing everything from a bed to their wardrobes to their friends. Going to breakfast on the weekends and taking Pig to the park on slow Sunday afternoons. Being able to kiss Harry in public – Nick stops. Growing up together, he thinks.

Some of that Nick can’t even imagine having. Some of it, Nick realises, he might have, just a little bit, already.

“It won’t last forever, you know.” Gillian’s voice punctures his thoughts. “He’s not going to be on tour travelling the world forever. One day he’s going to need someone to come home to.”

Nick nods and stifles a small sob. “I pushed him pretty far away,” he admits. “I basically told him it was never going to happen.”

“I think you should talk to him.” Gillian’s soothes.

“Yeah,” Nick lets out a shaky breath. They stay that way, stroking Pig together on the couch, their wine long forgotten, until Nick manages to get his breathing back to normal. 

They don’t discuss Harry after that. Instead talk turns to Aimee’s birthday party coming up and whether or not Theo and Alexa are ever going to work out this weird relationship they keep resuming and if the opera lady really has a chance at winning X Factor this year. (Gillian thinks definitely not but Nick’s sure she’s in with a chance to get to the finals at least.) 

Talk dwindles when it gets past midnight and Gillian calls a cab, giving Pig a good cuddle and a couple of kisses before Nick walks her to the door. “Sunday roast’s at mine this weekend. Don’t forget, you’re bringing wine.” Nick tells her before she steps out into the cold.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Gillian grins at him, the both of them remembering all too well the last time it was Gillian’s turn to bring the wine and she’d forgotten. The Waitrose near Nick’s had been closed and she’d had to walk 20 minutes to the next store and juggle four bottles all the way home for everyone.  

Nick pulls her into a lasting hug before she turns to step out the door. “Thanks, Gellz. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

When she pulls away she tells him, “oh probably spend your Thursday nights drinking alone instead.”

After seeing her out, Nick goes to step back into the living room to tidy the coffee table before heading to bed but ends up pausing in the entranceway for a moment. He’s thinking about how he’s going to talk to Harry – when he should do it, what he should say – when he spies a stray hair tie on the side table near the door where Harry had left his keys when he’d come over last week.

Stupidly, he wanders over to pick it up. It’s just an elastic band – there’s no secret, special meaning behind it besides the fact that it belongs to Harry – and Nick feels stupid for how full with emotion it suddenly makes him feel. Everything bubbling up from before because Harry left his fucking hair band in Nick’s house and for some reason it’s making Nick want to cry again.

He puts it back and takes a deep breath. Wills himself not to cry because even when he’s alone, that’s just embarrassing.

Curled up in bed later, he scrolls through his phone. Checks Instagram and Twitter a last time before he goes to sleep and then thumbs into his texts. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s almost like habit when he clicks into his messages with Harry. It’s not like he expects there to be anything there – he hasn’t heard anything from Harry since their conversation on Tuesday – and yet, when he opens the little text feed, three blinking dots sit at the bottom, letting him know there’s someone on the other end typing.

Nick sits up so fast his head spins. At first he thinks a mistake, his text screwing up and telling him there’s someone there when really there isn’t. After a minute of staring inanely at the screen though, the dots disappear.

Oh god. Nick thunks his head back onto the pillow. He wasn’t going to text Harry tonight. Admittedly he actually hadn’t worked out how he was going to talk to Harry, yet. But seeing evidence of Harry’s own aborted text on his phone…

Fuck it, Nick thinks. He picks up his phone from where he’d dropped it on top of the duvet next to him and types:

 Hey. Think we should talk.

It feels serious, properly punctuated and everything. He blinks once and clicks send, his heart stuttering as he does. Then he clicks his phone shut and places it on his bedside table, fully expecting not to get a reply until morning, if then. It buzzes barely twenty seconds after he’s put it aside though, and Nick reaches over and taps it open, fingers twitching restlessly.

 Yeah, ok

Nick breathes out hard, unsure if it’s fear or relief coursing through his body at the sight of those words. Before he loses the nerve he replies.

 Come over on Sunday. Having roast dinner at mine.

Harry’s reply is faster this time.

 Okay. Sorry about the other day

God. Nick has to close his eyes and steady himself at that because what does Harry even have to be sorry for? Nick was the one being a complete arsehole.

 Don’t be

Nick types out quickly. Hoping those two tiny words will convey everything he really wants to say. Hoping Harry gets it.

He falls asleep with his phone in his hand and the recollection of the last time Harry had come over for Sunday roast with everyone, almost a year ago now. Nick had sat pride of place at the table, Harry next to him, laughing at all of Nick’s stories – even the stupid ones. Telling even stupider stories himself and still earning laughs from the charmed guests around them. Remembering the way Harry had placed his hand upon Nick’s thigh under the table after the plates had all been cleared and left it there through coffee and dessert. The thrill that had jolted him every time they made eye contact and Harry would give his leg a small squeeze. Most of all, how desperately Nick had felt the desire to tell Harry he loved him then. Outside the protection of his bedroom; without the defence of drunkenness. If he’d felt scared then – and he had, oh how he had – it’s nothing compared to what he feels now.

Still, he lets the thought of it guide him to sleep, the sense-memory of Harry’s fingers splayed against his thigh soothe him as he drifts off.

-

Pixie and George arrive at 4pm on Sunday, just as Nick’s finished putting the roast on and is in the process of placing napkins and cutlery in the middle of the dining table. They get comfy immediately, divesting themselves of jumpers and coats and taking up residence on Nick’s sofa, teasing Pig and Busta with a squeaky toy as they chat to Nick about their trip to a weird antique store that morning. 

Gillian arrives at around 5, wine in tow as promised, and the rest of the guests filter in soon after; Aimee and Ian, and then Daisy carrying some sort of cake that looks especially rich and chocolate-y.

“And probably contains about a zillion calories,” Nick comments as he watches her place it on the top shelf of the fridge.

“It’s flourless,” she answers in reply and Nick’s got no idea if that’s meant to be an explanation or a defence.

Once Nick’s attended to drinks, they all sit around chatting, waiting for the oven to ping signifying that dinner’s ready. Nick checks his phone every couple of minutes, only half paying attention to the conversation going on around him until Aimee leans over and asks him, “Harry coming tonight?” with a tiny smirk like she knows exactly what’s into him.

“Mmm,” Nick hums vaguely, and darts into the kitchen with the claim that he thinks he smells something burning. 

Harry arrives just as Nick’s pulling the roast pan out of the oven and placing it onto the stovetop. He doesn’t see him get in so much as hear Pixie’s squeal and then Harry’s throaty laugh when Busta starts yapping in response.

Nick pokes his head out from the kitchen a second later, after shucking his oven mitts and taking a quick, fortifying slurp of wine.

“Hi Harold,” he singsongs, pasting on a grin that Harry meets tentatively. In response, Harry holds up an expensive looking bottle of red that looks to be a peace offering. Gillian scoffs at it immediately, teasingly complaining that ‘he just always has to show me up, doesn’t he?’ Harry spares her a guilty glance before walking over to where Nick’s still staring from the kitchen entrance.

“Hey,” he says quietly, once everyone has resumed their conversations.

“Hi,” Nick’s soft tone mirrors his. 

“Where do you want this?” Harry asks, and Nick cocks his head towards the kitchen. 

“Bring it in here, you can help me carry the stuff out to the table.”

Harry nods and follows Nick in. They’re being cautious with each other and they both know it. Nick’s still not sure how he’s going to broach the topic of their earlier conversation with Harry but now is definitely not the right time.

The silly thing is it’s not even been a week and Nick’s noticing how much he’s missed Harry already. As they fumble around the kitchen together in silence, filling the gravy jug and placing green beans into the serving bowl, Nick tries not to think about how nice this feels; having Harry back in his kitchen, doing the most mundane of tasks.

Nick’s pulling the plates out of the cupboard when Harry starts, “Nick, I –“

He’s interrupted by Aimee calling out to ask if they can come to the table yet or if Nick’s planning on just leaving them all out in the living room to starve. Nick doesn’t shift his gaze from where it’s now stuck on Harry as he calls back in reply that yes dinner’s about to be served. Doesn’t even have the wherewithal to respond with a witty insult because his heart’s hammering in his chest and Harry’s staring at him like he’s trying to see into his soul. 

Ian snaps them out of it when he pops his head in to ask if he can help carry anything out and Nick loads him up with the plates before turning back to busy himself with sliding the chicken onto a serving plate. When he turns around Harry’s gone, the beans and potatoes with him, and Nick gives himself a moment to lean against the counter and take a breath before carrying the chicken out to the whoops and hollers of all of his friends.  

After dinner winds down and they’ve managed to polish off Daisy’s cake, each of them moaning between bites about how good it is, everyone retires to the living room to chat lazily and finish off the rest of the wine. Someone puts music on, something quiet and slow, and it’s nice, sitting here with all of his friends around. This is one of Nick’s favourite things.

He keeps catching Harry staring at him all throughout the conversation, offering polite smiles at first before quickly turning his attention to whomever he’s talking to. But after the fourth or fifth time of meeting his gaze, Nick stops bothering to look away. Maybe it’s the wine that’s making him brave (or stupid), but they end up looking at each other across the room until someone else calls their attention to an argument they’re having or to prove some point.

At 10, everyone starts to head home, used to Nick’s schedule by now even though some of them don’t need to be anywhere before midday tomorrow. Gillian gives Nick a significant look as she slips on her coat by the door, as if silently making sure he’s okay. From where she’s standing Nick knows she can still see Harry curled up on the couch, chatting quietly to George. He didn’t really get a chance to talk to her tonight but he thinks that’s okay. The other night helped to put things into perspective enough.

With a small smile Nick nods, leaning in to kiss her cheek and tell her goodbye, he’ll call her in the week and thanks for the wine.

When he turns back to the living room, he can see Pixie standing, reaching to pull her jacket off where it’s strewn over the arm of the couch, laughing aloud at something George is describing with his hands. 

“We’re gonna head off, Grim!” she calls without looking up. Nick sidles up to stand behind the couch and Pixie smiles at him as she grabs her bag. George pushes himself off the couch, looking around for his own coat. Harry leans his head back against the couch cushions, blinking up at Nick tipsily, making no moves to show he’s ready to leave.

When Nick’s finally got the door closed behind George and Pixie and all the guests, bar Harry, have gone home, he braces himself and walks back out into the living room.

Harry’s where Nick had left him, socked feet curled up on the couch next to him; Pig, who’s apparently taken a real liking to him now, snuffling in his lap.

“Hey,” Harry says in his familiar slow drawl, gazing up at Nick.

“Everyone’s gone home,” Nick answers dumbly. Harry blinks, seeming to refocus his gaze.

“Do you want to –“

“More wine,” Nick stops him. He needs another second to prepare himself for this conversation. “I’ll go get us some glasses.”

Harry’s brow creases but he doesn’t say anything else and Nick dashes off into the kitchen to brace himself for what’s ahead.

He finds the bottle of red Harry had brought over still sitting unopened on the counter. They’d ended up just sticking to whatever Gillian had brought, and Nick thinks he might as well open it now. If this doesn’t go well and Harry never speaks to him again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach it later. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste. 

He finally locates a bottle opener after rummaging through several drawers and pulls some fresh glasses from the cupboard. When he turns around to take them back out to the lounge though, he’s startled to find Harry standing in the doorway, watching him headily. 

“Harry –“

“Wait, let me talk.”

Nick nods, struck. Places the glasses on the counter and turns back to Harry.

“I’m sorry for the other night.”

“Harry,” Nick sighs, “you don’t have to be –“

“No. I am. It wasn’t fair to put that on you when I’d been away for so long. I mean, for me I just felt so – it felt so urgent, you know? I’d missed you so much and I was so glad to be finally coming home and I…” Harry shakes his head slowly. “I guess I just forgot how long it had been.”

Nick chews at his lip nervously, the slight haze in his brain from the wine earlier making everything seem at the same time more immediate and yet less tangible.

Harry walks towards him, until he’s barely an arms length away and Nick fights the urge to back up against the fridge. “Never feels like any time has passed every time I see you, Nick,” Harry admits and Nick doesn’t know what to do with that at all. 

Harry drops his gaze to the floor, lets out a shaky breath. “I know that I can’t, like. I know I can’t give you what you –“

“Harry,” Nick cuts him off gently. Harry doesn’t continue, doesn’t look at Nick.

“Harry,” Nick says again. When he looks up this time, Nick thinks he should be fucking terrified. Harry’s eyes are dark and he looks like he’s ready to give Nick everything he has if only Nick would ask.

“Think I’ve been a bit stupid,” Nick murmurs finally.

Grasping his elbow, Harry pulls him over to stand nearer him, against the counter and Nick goes easily, the fight all gone out of him. Harry’s still looking at him, his forehead creased like he’s concentrating, his eyes bright from the ceiling light’s reflection. Drunkenly, Nick recalls Alexa once likening Harry’s gaze to staring into a lighthouse. He’d found the video of her being asked about it by some interviewer and had tormented her about it for days over text. Remembers teasing that just because he was in a band didn’t mean she had to date him and “OMG why do you love Harry Styles so hard????” (And okay, he knows he had no leg to stand on there but it was the principle of the thing.)

“You’ve not,” Harry answers uselessly, forcefully. Nick wants to kiss him. Nick wants him to walk away and never come back. He doesn’t deserve Harry; this sweet, warm, compassionate specimen. This boy who keeps seeking him out at every turn, disregarding Nick’s recklessness; his stupidity.

“Why did you come back?” Nick asks. 

Harry frowns. “I told you. It was for you. I missed you, and –“

“No,” Nick shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “Like, why did you come back for me?” 

He not fishing for compliments; trying to get Harry to tell him all of his best qualities and stroke his ego. He needs to know why. That Harry’s not just decided he wants Nick on a whim. He thinks Harry gets that though, because he straightens and nods.

“I – when I was on tour, I kept thinking about coming back home to London,” he explains. “To like, see you and mum and Gemma and everyone. And like, I don’t know, get Indian at that good takeaway place nearby and take Pig for a run around Primrose Hill.”

Nick nods, his heart thrumming.

“And then I realised. I kept thinking of London and coming home and I wasn’t thinking about Hampstead or Cheshire or, anywhere else when I pictured it. Every time I thought about coming home, I thought about your flat, your street. Just kept thinking about home and it was you.” 

He’s so close to Nick now. Their knees almost touching where they stand against the counter and Nick’s not even sure how that happened. That they shifted closer to one another and didn’t even notice, like some kind of unconscious gravitational pull. 

“It’s you,” Harry whispers. “It was always – It’s just you.”

This time, when Harry leans in to kiss him, Nick meets him halfway.

It’s slow and languid, the type of kiss that’s trying to convey an array of complicated emotions, until it stops being about what they’re trying to say to each other and becomes heated instead. Nick licks into Harry’s mouth, grazes his teeth against Harry’s bottom lip. His hand comes up to fit against Harry’s hip and he wonders how he could possibly have forgone this for the past week.

Harry’s the one to break the kiss, pulling away breathlessly to stare at Nick, dazed. “Does this mean… I mean, do you –“

Nick closes his eyes and figures if there was ever a time to be honest, it’s now. He nods, opens his eyes. “I want you,” his voice comes out coarse, low. “I think maybe I’ve been trying so hard to get over you that I forgot just how much I do.” He laughs, self-consciously. “Don’t think that’s going to go away anytime soon.”

Harry darts in and seals his mouth against Nick’s again. Presses his hand to the back of Nick’s neck to pull him in closer. It’s so hot Nick’s knees nearly wobble. 

They separate with a slick pop. “I know there’s more stuff,” Harry continues, “we still have tour next year and things, but. I’ve been thinking, what if I came home and it was to you? Do you think we could try that? Just a little bit?” 

Nick’s not really sure what “just a little bit” entails. How you can actually come home to someone less than the full amount. Maybe it doesn’t matter though.

“Yeah,” Nick nods. “Think I’d like that.” 

The wine sits on the counter, forgotten, as Harry pulls him in for another kiss.

-

Once they’ve finally managed to disentangle themselves, Harry volunteers to take Pig out for a walk while Nick sets the dishwasher and gets ready for bed.

He’s just finishing putting their unused wine glasses back in the cupboard ten minutes later, after filling the dishwasher and turning it on, when he hears the jingle of Pig’s leash as Harry trips back inside. Nick gives the countertop a once-over with the sponge, thinking Harry’s going to come back to the kitchen and drag him off to bed.

When he doesn’t, Nick walks out into the living room to find Harry standing over his wooden cabinet, fingering the lit-up neon sign resting atop it, against the wall. At hearing Nick walk in, Harry looks up and smiles slow, lazy.

“Remember when I gave this to you?” Harry asks, and really, this boy is a marvel. Like Nick could forget.

“Think you were a bit hungover when I came over with it that night after your birthday,” Harry’s staring back at the light now, running his fingers along the blue lettering. He huffs a laugh and Nick watches him curiously. “I remember I felt bad cause I hadn’t had time to wrap it and I’d only been able to pick it up that morning – they were fixing the wiring or something. Some part of it wouldn’t light up properly. So I hauled it inside wrapped in this big plastic bag and everything; made you close your eyes and sit on the couch so I could set it all up before you saw it.”

Harry drops his hand and turns to step towards Nick, facing him properly. “I didn’t know where to put it so I just rested it over there,” Harry points at the floor where the wall juts out and Nick follows his arm, turns the memory over in his own mind.

Harry had been so insistent that Nick wait on the couch for his present while he set it up and Nick had done as he was told even as he heard the familiar yelp of Harry tripping on something and whacking his arm; the dangerous scrape of furniture being moved. What Nick remembers most though, is the excitement that had coursed through him, permeating the alcoholic fuzz that coated his brain. He could practically hear his synapses snapping into action. Harry Styles was in his flat obviously trying to make some kind of grand birthday gesture for Nick of all people. Him! Just some radio DJ on the wrong side of 25, who still drank too much and was always complain-y and who still occasionally forgot his mum’s birthday.

“Harry. Haz,” Nick murmurs softly, ready to end the story and take him to bed. Harry presses on though, taking a step closer to Nick.

“When I finally turned you around and told you to open your eyes I thought for a minute you were going to cry,” Harry admits. “You looked so sad for a second and I thought that I’d done the wrong thing. Like it was too much. Was always doing that, going too far with things. Still am to be honest.”

Nick looks down and tries to swallow past the lump forming in his throat.

“Especially with you, you know. You made me feel crazy all the time. I always felt like I was racing to catch up but – in a good way. I’d never –“ he pauses.

Nick looks up to find Harry still watching him closely. He doesn’t know if he can bear another second of this unabashed attention but he also feels like if Harry looks away right now he might stop being able to breathe. “I wanted you so much all the time. I didn’t tell you that then. Remember thinking that I’d die without you, and that that was so stupid. I was so scared you were going to work it out and stop talking to me.” Harry doesn’t say anything after that, the only sound in the room their irregular breaths and Pig’s quiet doggy snores coming from her bed.

“But I didn’t,” Nick whispers roughly, unable to endure the silence any longer.

“No,” and there’s Harry mouth finally twisting upwards into a fond smile. “You didn’t.”

For the final time, Nick wonders if this will be enough. They haven’t even talked about things properly, but here’s the offer right in front of him. Harry’s extending his hand out and it feels different, real. Feels bigger than everything that’s come before. Maybe this will all fall apart in a matter of months. Or maybe Harry will leave and he’ll keep coming back, until he doesn’t really have to leave anymore. And they’ll find themselves in three, five, eight years time, still the two of them against the world just like it’s always felt. Nick takes a shaky breath and Harry’s hand, helpless as always.

“Love you,” Nick blurts, before Harry can say anything else, and the thrill, the pleasure, of saying those words finally and meaning them overpowers anything else he’s feeling right now. Harry’s face brightens, a grin spilling out onto his lips and Nick thinks if he gets to do that forever, make Harry smile like that, he’ll want for nothing else again. 

Nick thinks he might be crazy. He knows that he’s scared.

“Nick,” Harry slides their fingers together now, squeezing once. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?” He’s already tugging them towards the hall though, hasn’t bothered to wait for a response. Nick’s heart’s in his throat anyway and all he can do is nod.  

Harry’s on him before they’ve even gotten the door closed behind them.