Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's the biggest scandal of the decade. No, the century. The biggest, maddest, awfulest scandal, and Nick, as a broadcaster and as an Englishman, is truly broken up about it. 

"Oh my god, the photo they've used of Liam," he says into microphone, on air on a Monday morning in July, one full day after One Direction - currently on tour in America for their sixth studio album - has decided to cancel - well, postpone - the rest of their dates and the writing of their next record. "He looks- wow." 

"It is pretty amazing," Ian says, peering at the Heat magazine Nick has open in front of him on the desk.

"He looks like he's about to tell someone off!" Nick says, laughing. "He looks like he's fully ready to go in. And ooh, look at that rock on his finger, I like that they zoomed in on that, it's massive." 

"Can we stop gossiping about One Direction and get back to the radio, Nicholas?" Matt says. 

"No, we can never stop gossiping about One Direction's big breakup," Nick says. "This is an awful day for pop music. Do you see all the people crying on the text? Do you? Effie from Hertfordshire is in a serious depression." 

"They haven't broken up, they're taking a break," Matt says patiently. 

"Every time someone's said that to me, it's meant breaking up." 

"Awwww," Ian and Fiona chorus, and Nick flips them off, laughing. 

"Oh shut up, Fi-fi." 

"1D's brotherhood is stronger than any relationship you've ever had, Nick," Matt laughs.

"That's a bit nasty!" 

"That was a bit nasty," Ian adds, backing him up. Good bloke, Ian.

"It was a little bit nasty," Matt laughs. "Sorry. Play the next record, please, Nicholas, so we can get to the news by 9:00."

"Oh, fine. We've got some Swifty up next." 

He hits play, and yanks the magazine out of Ian's grip, scans the article. 

Five Directions? it's titled, which is a bit weak. Why the world's biggest boyband is splintering and what fans can expect. 

Nick chews his bottom lip, digs out his phone. It's been a while since he's spoken to Harry - a while longer since he's seen him in the flesh - but still. He can't just not text him. 

You alright? Tell me niall didn't really scream at liam for getting hitched. The papers are going mad!! Hope you're well

He contemplates an 'x' for about four straight minutes, all the way through a new Rudimental song, and then hits send without adding it. 

He turns his phone over right away, says cheerily into mic, "That was  the latest off Rudimental, love that record, and yes, Finchy, I see you, stop wavin' at me like a bloody traffic cop. It's 9 AM, so here's the news with Chris Smith."

He pushes the mic away from his face, gives his phone a quick check. Nothing. 

He wouldn't be surprised if Harry doesn't text back. Not that they aren't still mates, because they are. They're mates, and they spent a good chunk of Harry's four-month holiday last year holed up in Nick's flat shagging their dicks off. 

It's just - Harry is Harry, and always will be. 

Nick checks his phone again, and then sets it down. 

"Need a wee," he says, and Matt looks up from the computer, sternly. 

"Nick-" 

"Just do two songs, please," Nick says, and he pushes his chair back, because not only is he seriously about to piss down his leg, his stomach's going nauseous and wobbly. He knew that canteen egg was undercooked, just like it was yesterday morning, and last week. He'll need to make a complaint.

He locks the toilet door behind him, stares at the toilet for a second, wildly, not sure if he's going to wee or vomit, and then abruptly drops to his knees and does the latter. 

He heaves up a nasty mix of bile and coffee and egg, barely digested, and then spits a few times, eyes watering. How unpleasant. He better not have the bloody flu. 

He staggers to his feet, and flushes it down before unzipping his jeans to wee. Fuck that egg, and fuck the canteen, and fuck this whole morning too. He shouldn't have sent that stupid text to Harry. 

Matt's just hitting play on the second song after the news when Nick lets himself back into studio, wiping the corners of his mouth, chewing a piece of gum he stole out of Fiona's jacket. 

"Am I back on time?" he asks, poking Matt's shoulder. "Am I, Finchy? Ammmm I?" 

"You're a pain in my arse," Matt says, smacking his hand away. "Sit down." 

Nick slides into his chair, laughing, and picks up his phone. 

His heart jumps and his empty stomach clenches.

I'm not doing that great, Harry's texted back, and Nick stares at it, wide-eyed. i mean i'm fine. Just sad, i guess. I might get away for a while. Like really away. Need a break . x

Nick puts his phone down as the song ends, babbles something coherent into mic, but his mind won't stop running over the text. Just sad, I guess. Fucking hell, poor popstar. The tabloids used to gossip about Harry going solo, but the truth is he never, ever would, at least not until everyone else had fucked off. He'd be the last one at the table. He fucking loves his band. 

Nick pulls his phone towards him as the Showquizness music plays, reads the message again, until Ian pokes his shoulder, yanks the phone out of his hand and turns the screen black with a click of his thumb. 

Nick pulls a face at him, and says brightly into mic, "Alll-right! Welcome to Showquizness! We have a new caller today, don't we, Matt? Is Annie on the line? Annie, you there? Hiya, Annie!" 

---

He gets a cab back to his flat after the production meeting, gets stuck in traffic on the way, and decides quite stupidly to call Harry. He's not even sure where Harry is - Texas, maybe, that's where One Direction was for their last show, not that anyone knew it was their last then. Maybe in LA. Maybe in Idaho at the resort he always retreats to in the depths of the boiling American summer. 

He picks up the phone, though. Harry is pretty good at always picking up. 

"Hello?" 

"Harold," Nick says, sticking a fingernail into his mouth, staring out the window. "Hello!" 

"Hey, Grim." 

"You alright? I mean, no, you're not alright, you already said that, but like. What's going on? You're not, like, spiraling, are you? Stay away from the coke, alright?" 

"Nick, you're the only person I've ever done coke with," Harry says, sounding amused. His voice is tired, though. 

"Is that true?" Nick says, flattered. "Honestly? Wow. I should put that in my autobiography." 

"Writing an autobiography now?" 

"Oh, you haven't heard? It's gonna spill all the details on Matt Fincham and his tyrannical production of the Radio One Breakfast Show. The world will be shocked." 

Harry huffs out a laugh. "Can't wait." 

There's a pause, and Nick inhales, slowly. 

"Honestly, though," he says. "Is it gonna be alright?" 

Harry doesn't answer for a second. 

"I don't know," he says, finally, voice so low Nick has to strain to hear. "I don't know if it's gonna be alright. I don't know if we're ever going to finish the tour. I don't know if the album's gonna get finished. I don't fucking know anything and no one will tell me anything and I hate it. I fucking hate this, Nick." 

Nick shuts his eyes. 

"Shit. I'm sorry," he says, roughly.

"Yeah," Harry says, sounding thick and close to tears. Damnit. "Yeah. It sucks." 

"Why won't anyone tell you anything?" 

"I dunno," Harry chokes "I just, like. Liam got married, and - and yeah, it fucking sucked that he didn't tell us, because, like, what? We're his fucking - we're supposed to be brothers, and he didn't, who cares if he was drunk and in Vegas, but - but then Louis wouldn't write with him and everything started to go mad and we tried, Nick, like, we tried to keep just playing shows, but - but-" 

He stops, exhales loudly, harshly into the phone. 

"Haz," Nick breathes. 

"I really hate this," Harry says, voice forced steady. "And I think I need a break. I need like a massive break, I think that's what we all need, I think we just - we just need to take a break from each other until we're all, like, happy again." 

Well. Nick winces, opens his eyes. 

"Yeah?" 

"I dunno, I guess." Harry sniffs in hard. "I'm - I'm gonna, like, tie up some loose ends, finish some stuff I was working on, and then, like. I dunno. Jeff has this island." 

"An island?" Nick says, leaning back against the seat. His head's spinning like he's going to throw up again. He tries to breathe deep. "Like, where?" 

"It's in the British Virgin Islands, I think," Harry says. "I dunno exactly. He said I can - I can stay there for as long as I want, and I just. I think I just need to figure some stuff out." 

"That's very cliche of you, popstar," Nick says softly. 

Harry huffs out a rough sad laugh. "Yeah, well, we're a bit of a cliche these days, apparently." 

"Oh, love." 

"I know, I know. I just. I know it's kind of stupid." 

"It's not stupid." Nick sucks in a breath. "It's not. If it's what you need, Haz. Fuck what they say." 

"I know." 

"Just come back someday, yeah? Don't get lost at sea, you're not Tom Hanks." 

Harry laughs again. "Nice callback, Grim." 

"Always got an ancient movie reference on hand. Like an encyclopedia of film, me." 

There's another pause. 

"If I'm in London, I'll call," Harry says, quietly.

"Alright, Hazza." 

"I'm - I'm sorry. You know. About, uh, about the spring." 

Nick swallows hard. "Yeah. Me too." 

Harry breathes softly into the phone. 

"Take care, Nick," he says, voice small. "I - like. Just. Good-bye, I guess." 

Nick swipes his wrist over his eyes. 

"You be careful," he says. "Alright? Don't get eaten by a shark." 

Harry laughs wetly. "No sharks." 

"And no dolphins, I don't trust dolphins." 

"You're so weird," Harry says softly. "Bye, Nick." 

Nick swallows again, shakily. "Bye, Harold."  

Harry hangs up, and Nick sits there frozen for the rest of the ride. 

---

Back in his flat, his cozy familiar flat he always vowed to move out of if he ever started something serious with someone - ha, that hasn't happened, has it - he makes himself a cup of tea, drinks it at the kitchen table, scrolling through his emails and answering none of them. 

God, the spring. "The spring" is code for a weekend at the end of May, when Harry flew back to England for a weekend during tour because his great-aunt passed away. The funeral was in Cheshire and then Harry came to London, didn't tell anyone, came straight to Nick's flat, and Nick had no clue what to expect. 

He certainly didn't expect to open the door to Harry Styles, rain-soaked and wild-eyed, or the way they got drunk, falling-down sad weepy drunk together on Nick's sofa, or how Harry put his face against Nick's chest and started to cry. 

They fucked, too, but it's harder for Nick to remember that bit. He really was drunk. He just remembers Harry pushing into him on the bed, both of them gasping, Nick's back arching as Harry fucked him. He remembers slurring beforehand, who've you been fucking, huh, Styles, and Harry saying back no one, which was almost certainly a lie, but Nick let Harry shag him bare, come inside him anyway. It felt like a good idea at the time, felt messy and right and dirty in a way Nick needed. Harry's always clean, anyway, so Nick wasn't that worried. Harry always gets tested, and he's always clean, and he'd never fuck Nick if he wasn't, Nick knows that. 

That was the last time he saw Harry. They passed out in a heap, and when Nick woke up Harry was gone- early flight back to the U.S., and an apologetic text on Nick's phone, because Harry had a show in about twelve hours. 

Nick takes a sip of his tea. It was a weird night, that. Weird of them to be that drunk, weird that Harry was in town, weird that Nick let Harry fuck him bareback, weird that they cried. It was all just. Weird. Like a dream. 

Speaking of weird. He pulls up a new email to the office manager at the BBC, types: 

Hi Lola, 

This is going to sound very diva but I think the canteen's not been cooking the eggs properly. I keep getting ill after breakfast and I've had poached eggs for the last-

Hang on. He vommed Tuesday, and Tuesday he had cereal, from Matt's stash in the kitchen. 

He wrinkles his nose. Hmmm. Anyway. 

- for the last week or so. If you could just- 

Nick stops again, fingers stilling on the keyboard. 

He had cereal on Monday, too. And last week he hadn't even had breakfast before he got sick, at home, in the en-suite while Pig looked on and whined helplessly. 

Nick stares at the screen. 

"No," he says, out loud, very calmly. He shakes his head. "Nope." 

The cursor blinks at him steadily, maddeningly. 

"No," Nick repeats. "No, no, no. That's not. No." 

He puts his hands in his lap. 

It's just the flu. He has the flu. He has, like, a morning flu. A breakfast flu. That's a thing, right?

Oh god. That's a thing, and it's called morning sickness, and it means-

"No!" he says to his empty kitchen, voice going high. "No! Absolutely fucking not!" 

Nick takes pills - when he remembers to, at least - and he uses condoms. Nick uses condoms, and so do the men he sleeps with, and he's not an idiot, and he's - he's an idiot, he's such an idiot, oh god, he's such, such a stupid idiot. 

"Okay," he says to himself, voice breathless. "Okay. This is stupid. You're being stupid." 

No one answers him. 

"Oh god," he chokes out, and he shoves his chair back, clatters down the front steps, barely remembering his wallet and car keys. 

Nick waits five minutes for the self-check at Boots, because he's not letting any nosy cashier see what's in his basket. Five pregnancy tests and a giant bottle of orange juice and a pack of gum. With a People magazine over the lot to hide it, which, hilariously, has Harry's fucking face plastered all over the cover. 

Oh god. Nick has to bite down a hysterical kind of laugh, and he shoves his purchases into a plastic bag and gets the fuck out of there as soon as possible. 

Back at the flat, he unloads it all onto the kitchen table, stares at it. 

This is ridiculous. There's absolutely no way Nick is fucking pregnant. There's no way the universe is that cruel.

Nick grabs the orange juice, tosses the cap aside, takes a swig. With his other hand he flips through the People magazine until he gets to the One Direction article, and stares down at a photo of Harry in LA, looking tired, looking harried. His hair is tied back and his mouth is in a tight line. 

"Oh god," Nick says nauseously, and tips the bottle back to his mouth again. 

He drinks it all, and then three glasses of water, and then he pees on five different sticks and sets them on the edge of sink and goes into the kitchen. There's leftover pasta in the fridge from two nights ago, and he peels the top off, forks a massive bite into his mouth. 

His phone's on the tabletop, and when Nick presses it, he has a text from Harry. 

He swipes it open, chewing another bite. 

Tour's off album's off. Officially. Leaving for BVIs tomorrow. Take care of yourself. Xx H 

Nick stares at it, blankly, and then pukes in the sink. 

---

Of course they're all positive. Of fucking course every single test comes up positive. He scrutinizes each one like it's the Holy fucking Grail, and they're all bloody positive. Either modern medicine is a sham, or Nick's actually knocked the fuck up. 

He stares at himself in the mirror. Pale peaky face from being sick all day, eyes watery, hair a complete mess, life a complete mess- 

Daisy answers on the first ring. 

"Yeah, hi, babe," she says, distractedly, and Nick puts his face into his hands, clutching the phone against his sweaty cheek. He's sitting on the closed toilet with the tests still on the sink next to him. 

"I need you to come over," Nick says. "Please." 

"I just put some banana bread in the oven, if you give me a half hour I can bring it," she says, cheerily. "What's up?" 

"I just really need you," Nick says, and his voice cracks. "I really need someone." 

"Babe, you alright?" 

"No," Nick says, swiping his hand over his nose. "No. I'm not alright." 

There's a pause. 

"I'll be right there," Daisy says, and Nick hangs up. 

She lets herself in fifteen minutes later, calls, "Nick?" and Nick yells back, "I'm in the bedroom!" 

He can't move. His legs won't move. He just sits there, and waits until she finds him. 

"God, are you alright?" she says, worriedly. "You sounded awful on the…" 

She trails off when she sees the tests, and she takes a step closer. 

"Oh, love," she breathes, eyes huge. "Oh, god." 

"Five false positives," Nick says, as a joke, but his voice wobbles perilously halfway through. "Weird, huh?" 

---

They make it to the kitchen, where Nick immediately goes for the wine and Daisy has to yank it out of his hands. 

"No," she says firmly, pushing him down into a chair. "I'll make tea." 

"If I drink, like, two bottles of wine, it'll just, like, flush it out of my system, right?" Nick says, shakily. "Like I'll just piss it out." 

Daisy turns to look at him with a withering expression. 

Nick gulps. "Yeah, you're right, that was stupid." 

"How long have you been being sick?" 

"Umm, like, two weeks," Nick says, trying to think. "Or like. Well, I was puking three weeks ago, but I was hungover. I think. Shit, maybe I wasn't. Shit."  

"You haven't seen a doctor?" 

"I didn't - think - it was, like… important?" Nick says, voice wobbly, and Daisy clucks her tongue softly and brings the tea over to Nick.

"Babe," she says. 

"I'm an idiot." Nick puts his hand over his face. "I'm an idiot." 

"Stop it," she says softly, pulling his hand down. "Listen, okay, so let's, let's be positive about this. Positives - it's probably still early enough, you know, if you want to take care of it." 

Nick doesn't look at her. He sips his tea. 

"Other positives," she says. "You're thirty-two. You're financially stable. You've got a house and a job. You'd be a bloody amazing dad." 

"Daize-" 

"Nick." 

He puts his hand over his face again. 

“I can think of the negatives on my own, thanks,” he says, and Daisy clucks at him again - a literal mother hen, she is - and slides into the chair next to him. 

“Listen,” she says. “Make a doctor’s appointment, and we’ll get this all sorted out. I’ll go with you.” 

“Nothing’s gonna be sorted out,” Nick says, semi-hysterically. 

“Doctor’s appointment,” she says, firmly. 

“Not right now-” 

“Yes right now, Nick. You’ll put it off, I know you.” 

Nick pulls his cellphone across the table towards himself with one finger, drawing in a shaky breath. 

“After the appointment can we get- oh my god, I was about to say get drunk.” He moans. “What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?” 

“Just call,” Daisy murmurs. “And I’ll dip back home and get the banana bread. And Monty. We’ll have a proper puppy cuddle time, yeah?” 

Nick nods, pitifully, swiping his phone open, and Daisy gives him a fierce kiss on the cheek and stands up. 

“And Nick,” she says, ruffling his hair. “Don’t you dare bloody touch the wine.” 

---

"Here for your first prenatal, are you?" the nurse says jovially as she swings into the room, grinning, and Nick looks up from where he's biting his fingernails furiously. It's been two days and he still feels a bit like he's just woken up from a nightmare, every time he remembers. 

"No," he says, flushing, tugging his shirt down over his stomach. "No, I- I'm not- I mean, I don't know if I am. I mean, I don't know for sure. That's why I'm- that's why I'm here." 

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," the nurse says, wincing. "Put my foot in it. Sorry about that, love. Oh, yeah, I see here you've just had a urine test done, let me just take a look-" 

She flips busily through the papers on her notepad, and hums something to herself, running her finger down the page. 

"Well," she says. "You're definitely pregnant, Mr. Grimshaw." 

Just like that. 

Nick's throat goes dry.

"Hmm, a good ten weeks along, I'd say," the nurse says, peering at the paper. "Yeah, ten weeks. Quite far! And this is your first time coming in to see a doctor?" 

Nick chokes out a cough, grabbing his arm with his other hand. 

"Are you sure?" he says, ignoring her question. "That's not, like, someone else's file?" 

"Nick?" the nurse says, peering up at him. "Grimshaw?"

Nick nods, frozen. 

"You're - is this - is this not a happy discovery?" the nurse says quietly. "You alright, love?" 

Nick shakes his head, huffs out a hard breath and covers his eyes with his hands. Shakes his head again.

"It says here you've been sick for the last few weeks, especially in the mornings - and you're not on any form of birth control except condoms, your appetite's been on and off..." she says, trailing off, looking helpless. "Love, you wrote here that you took five home pregnancy tests and they all came up positive. I - uh, is this a big surprise?" 

"Yeah," Nick says hoarsely, still feeling numb. It's all a joke, innit? Daisy put her up to this, they're gonna burst out of a closet laughing, everything'll be fine. They rigged the pregnancy tests. They made Nick's wee filled with… sperm. Or however it works. This isn't - real. "Yeah it is, a- a surprise." 

"Well, I'm gonna send you off with some information, alright?" the nurse says, looking down at her clipboard. "About all your options. Are you here with someone?" 

"My friend," Nick says faintly. "She's outside." 

"Well, uh. Maybe I could go grab her-" 

"No," Nick says, sharply. "No, I just want to go, can you give me the - the information, or whatever? I just want to go. I’ll make another appointment, or whatever, but I just. I just need to go." 

She looks at him soft-eyed, chewing her bottom lip. 

"Yeah, alright, love," she says. "Sit tight, let me get you some, uh, some pamphlets. We'll schedule another appointment." 

She ducks out of the room, and Nick digs out his phone, like a reflex, though once it's in his hand he doesn't know who the fuck to text. 

Daisy's sent him a kiss emoji and a bicep, and for some reason that makes Nick let out a shaky sob of a breath. Oh fucking hell. Fucking hell. This is happening. 

He starts to type a response, and he just- can't. He can't. He folds his sweaty hands over the phone. Ducks his head and waits, trying to breathe.

---

"Okay, so, what?" Aimee says, leaning across the table and grabbing a crisp out of Nick's bag. "What'd you have to tell me?" 

Nick swallows hard, eats another crisp to calm his nerves, and hears a faint off-key humming coming from down the hall. Then a soft patter of footsteps. 

"What- is Ian here?" he hisses. "You said we were alone!" 

"We are, it's fine," Aimee says, waving him off. "Ian's doing a dot-to-dot and listening to Mariah Carey, he's dead to the fucking world." 

Nick absorbs this information with as much glee as one might expect. 

"It's his happy place," Aimee says, stirring her coffee, and then she looks up at Nick, eyes widening. "You are not allowed to say that on radio." 

"Oh I won't!" Nick chirps. 

"Nick." 

Nick grins innocently, and she huffs out a defeated breath. 

"Well, other than ruining my marriage, what else did you come here for?" Aimee says, and the grin slips off Nick's face. Shit. 

He eats two more crisps, stalling for time. 

"Nick," Aimee says, tilting her head. "Babe. As incredibly fascinating as it is to watch you eat…"  

"Sorry, yeah, I-" he exhales hard. "I- shit. I need a fucking drink." 

"I have vodka," Aimee says helpfully. "And cran, maybe." 

"No, no, I- I can't," Nick says, and then he stares down at his hands and says, "Because I'm pregnant." 

There's a silence. Nick puts another crisp in his mouth and then doesn't dare crunch down on it. He just holds it there. 

"You're fucking with me," Aimee says flatly into the quiet. "Aren't you?" 

Nick shakes his head. It was a particularly large crisp, and the salt and vinegar flavor is melting off and going down his throat and making his eyes water. 

"Nick," Aimee says, panicky now. "You're fucking with me, right?"

"No," Nick garbles out, blinking back vinegar-induced tears. "Nope. Fully knocked up." 

He chews belatedly on the crisp, gone soggy now, and it suddenly makes him feel like he's going to be sick, so he spits it into a napkin and grabs for his tea, swishes it in his mouth. 

"Nick," Aimee breathes. "You're actually - are you - holy fucking shit. Holy shit." 

"Yeah, I know," Nick says, trying out a smile at her, his face feeling strange and stiff. "Pretty much my reaction." 

"Oh my god," Aimee says quietly. "A kid. You're gonna have a kid. I-okay. Okay." 

"Yeah," Nick manages to say. "It's mad, isn't it?" And then his throat clenches up and he hunches over, lets out a sob. The crying jags creep up on him at the worst times, lately. It's bloody awful.

"Oh god, babe," Aimee says, scooting her chair towards his, putting her arms around him. "Oh god. It's okay. It's gonna be okay." 

Nick can't keep his shoulders from shaking, and he's probably snotting all over Aimee's top, but he just - he just can't. 

"Shhh," Aimee murmurs, rubbing his back. "Oh god. This is - oh god. Shh, Nick, it'll be okay." 

Nick shakes his head where it's buried in her neck, and she shushes him some more, holding him tighter. 

"How long has it been?" she says into his ear, not letting go. 

"Like a week since I found out," he chokes out. "And - and ten weeks, they said. Nearly eleven, I guess, now." 

"Shit, Nick, that's almost three months," Aimee says, voice rising. "That's almost, like, your whole first trimester." 

Nick just snuffles, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand. 

"Babe," Aimee says, petting his hair. "God. This is- really happening. I- okay. You're gonna keep it?" 

Nick pulls away from her, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose hard. 

"I dunno," he says. "I mean, it's so- it's like, I want to be a dad, you know? I want - I want all that, I just, I'm-"

He stops, fumbling for words. His head's starting to throb. 

"I thought I'd do it with someone, eventually," he says, looking up at her. Aimee's eyes are wide and glassy and she's looking at him a bit like he's an alien. 

"Nick," she says softly. "Do you know whose it is?" 

Shit. Nick's so bad at lying to Aimee. 

"Not sure," he says, looking down, taking another crisp out of the bag and then setting it down on the table. 

"You're not sure?" 

"I mean. I dunno. I - I just dunno." 

"Eleven weeks?" Aimee says. "I mean, you weren't even seeing anyone then."  

"Aimee, I said I don't-" 

"Harry was in London then," Aimee says, very slowly, voice hushed. "That weekend in May. You told me you - hooked up. Holy - you told me you didn't use a condom.” 

Nick goes hot all down his neck, wincing. That’s the trouble, with telling Aimee every intimate detail of his sex life since they were both practically teenagers. Never know when she’ll remember some detail and use it against him.

"Holy fucking shit, Nick. Harry Styles knocked you up?" 

Nick looks up at her helplessly. 

"He did what?" they both hear from the doorway, and Nick whirls around to see Ian clutching a dot-to-dot book and looking terrified.

Fucking great. 

"Were you fucking eavesdropping?" Aimee demands, and Ian flushes high on his cheeks. 

"No!" he yelps. "I came to get a cup of tea!" 

"I told you I had to talk to Nick about something-" 

"You didn't say it was important!" Ian glares at them. "You didn't say it was-" 

"Goddamnit, Ian!" 

"You should've bloody told me if you wanted me to stay in the-" 

"Fucking hell!" Nick yells. "Shut up!" 

They both fall silent, staring at him, and he puts his hands on the table. 

"Everyone knows, now," he says, trying to seem calm. "So let's all just fucking shut up and stop fighting." 

"I don't know anything," Ian says, staring at him. "You're - what. You're pregnant?" 

"Yep," Nick says shortly. 

"Holy shit," Ian breathes. "You're absolutely sure?" 

Aimee fixes him with a glare. 

"I'm only asking!" 

"Yes, I'm sure." 

"And it's Harry's?" Ian says, voice going wobbly. "Oh my god. Oh my god. I didn't even know you and Harry were still shagging. I - oh my god. Everyone's going to bloody shit themselves." 

"Everyone's not going to do anything, because neither of you can tell anyone," Nick says sharply. "You get that?" 

"Of course," Aimee says. 

"Yeah," Ian says dazedly. “Yeah. Wait, so. Wait- what? How do you- are you sure it’s his?” 

“You really need to stop asking him if he’s sure about things, babe,” Aimee says, baring her teeth. “It’s really fucking annoying.” 

Nick’s not really interested in whatever marital drama they’re doing this week.

“I’m sure,” he says. “There’s- there’s no one else it could’ve been.”

“Why did you let him fuck you without a condom, Nick?” Aimee asks, voice cracking. "Like, why did that ever enter your mind as an option?"

"I dunno," Nick says pitifully. "Vodka?" 

Ian wrinkles his nose. 

"Like- he was in town, for his - his aunt's funeral or summat, I don't remember who, some family member, and he- he came over, we got pissed, he started crying- Aims, you know I can't deal with crying people." 

"So you thought, oh, I know what'll make him feel better, fucking bareback!" Aimee snaps. 

Nick sniffles, and then sobs, and Aimee's face softens. 

"Shit, sorry," she says, pulling him in again. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Ian, get us some water." 

Nick only manages a few hitching sobs before he's all dried out. He lifts his head again, just as Ian places a glass of water on the table in front of them, eyes darting between Aimee and Nick.

"Hey," Aimee says, quietly, cupping his cheeks with both hands, long fingernails pressing gently against his skin. It always makes Nick feel like a romantic heroine when she does that. "I'm sorry, that was shitty, you don't need that right now. If you're doing this, I'm here for you. Okay?" 

Nick blinks at her, sniffs in again. 

"Me too," Ian says, into the silence. "I mean… Obviously. Sorry. I'll shut up again." 

Aimee's watching him, eyes very steady. 

"Harry can't- I can't, with Harry," Nick says, voice small. "I don't know how to tell him." 

"We'll figure that out, promise."

"He's not- he's on an island, Aims," Nick says desperately. "He's on some private island. He left last Monday. He's gone." 

"An island?" Ian whispers, and Aimee shoots him a withering look. She turns back to Nick. 

"Okay, we'll figure that out too." 

Nick draws in a wobbly breath. "I haven't even told my mum and dad." 

Aimee arches an eyebrow. "Well, that's your next order of business. Tell Eileen and Pete, and the Harry stuff we'll figure out later." 

It feels nice, to have some semblance of a plan. Nick's been living in utter panic for the past week. He nods, and Aimee pets his head. 

"We'll figure it all out," she whispers. "It'll be okay. Promise." 

---

He goes up to his parents' on Friday afternoon, blasts Greg's show and sings along to Lorde and tries to pretend his stomach isn't in knots. 

"Hiiii, family!" he cries, when he comes through the unlocked front door, and his mum calls back from somewhere upstairs, "Hiya, Nicholas!" 

"Nick, come watch telly with me!" a voice says from the sitting room, and Nick peeks his head in to see Liv tucked under a blanket, remote in hand.

"Hi babe," he says, blowing her a kiss, kicking off his boots. "Fun Friday night." 

"Shut up," she says, sticking her tongue out. "I'm poorly." 

"Are you?" 

"I vommed yesterday and I didn't go to work today." She pouts. "Everything is shit. Like literally everything is shit, I couldn't stop shitting either. Pete was horrified." 

"You are such a classy young lady," Nick says, shaking his head, snorting. "Truly." 

"Mum's taught me well," Olive says, just as Jane clatters down the stairs, wraps Nick in a hug. She smells of laundry detergent and perfume, warm and familiar. 

"Hi, Nick!" 

"Janie," Nick says, squeezing her tight. "How's things?" 

"Oh, fine, same," she says. "Liv stayed over here today to get some proper nursing while I was at work." 

"Nan made me chicken soup!" Liv yells. "It was amazing! I feel like I'm twelve!" 

"Honestly, she likes here better than home," Jane says, rolling her eyes. "Can you think of a single time mum made us chicken soup growing up? Anyway, how are you? How's London? I listened to the show last week, that bit with Mark Ruffalo was really good work, babe." 

"Aww, thanks. Where's dad?" 

"Out back doing garden things. Pruning, I think. You know, as you do at five PM on a Friday." 

"Of course." 

"And mum's setting up the spare room for you." 

They hear footsteps, and Nick's mum comes slowly down the steps, balancing a huge stack of folded bath towels. 

"Nick, love!" 

"Hi mum, good to see you," Nick says, trying to hug her around the towels, spreading his arms as wide as possible. She clucks, turns away. 

"Let me set these down. I've got dinner on." 

"Thank god, I'm starved," Nick says, rubbing his stomach, which is quivering nervously. 

"Fancy a drink, babe?" Jane says, leading him into the kitchen. "White wine? Gin and tonic?" 

"I'm alright," Nick says. "Just some water, maybe. Parched, me." 

Jane pulls out a glass, sticks it under the tap. "And here I thought you couldn't handle a weekend up here without a good amount of liquor. Is this maturity, Nicholas?" 

It's - well, it's something. "Ha," Nick says weakly, taking the glass of water. "Guess so." 

---

Dinner's a roast chicken with potatoes and carrots and gravy, and a salad from Jane. Liv drinks two glasses of wine and Jane tells a boring story about work and Pete tells even more boring stories about the garden and they all pretty much ignore Nick, as usual, which is fine. Nick sits and eats and laughs at the right times and tries not to puke it all up, which would probably be a tell, wouldn't it. 

"Hey," he says, once everyone's stuffed and slowly eating leftover icebox cake from a dinner party his parents had during the week. "I've, uh. I've got to tell you all something." 

"Ooooh, is it dramatic," Liv says tipsily. "Ooooh." 

"Shush, Liv," Jane says, laughing. "You're taking chances with your stomach right now, it'll be your own fault if you get sick again." 

"I'm fine, mum," Liv says, waving her off and stealing her wine. 

"What is it, love?" Eileen says, standing up to clear the plates away. 

"Can you, um - can you sit down?" Nick asks, swallowing hard. "You might want to be sitting down." 

They all look at him, then. That is quite a dramatic sentence. Nick suddenly feels a little like he's in a film. 

"What is it?" Pete says, straightening up from where he'd nearly dozed off.

"Is everything okay, Nick?" Jane says in a hushed voice. 

"Oh my god," Liv says tearily. "Oh my god, do you have cancer?" 

"Bloody hell, Liv," Jane says, slapping her arm. 

"I don't have cancer, what the fu - hell," Nick amends. 

"What is it then?" Eileen breathes. 

"Well," Nick says. "The thing is, um. I- I guess, like, I'm, um. I'm pregnant." 

Everyone's silent for a long moment, staring at him like they can't quite tell if it's a prank. 

"Pregnant?" Jane says eventually, sounding dazed. "But you're not- you're not seeing anyone." 

Nick nods, several times. "That's true." 

Liv's staring at him wide-eyed.  

"Pregnant?" his mum whispers. "By who?" 

Ahh, right into that, then. 

"Um, well," Nick says, clenching his hand in his lap. "I'm not entirely sure, actually." 

In the silence, Liv snorts. No one acknowledges it. 

"You're not sure, how could you not be sure?" 

Wow, Nick sort of hates this. This is worse than coming out. 

"Like from a test tube?" Jane asks. "Or, you know what I mean, a sperm bank, whatever-"

"No, god," Nick says, huffing out a breath. "I - no. I would've bloody told you if I were doing that, I - I didn't know this was, uh, going to happen." 

"So then - I don't - who, then?" his mum stammers. 

"He doesn't know, nan," Liv says loudly and slowly. "Because he slept with more than one person." 

"Liv!" 

"Shut up, Liv," Nick says, exhaustedly. 

"What? It's true!" 

Jane gives her a look and pointedly takes her wine glass away. 

"How far along are you?" Eileen says. Pete's just staring. Nick's really, really bloody sorry that he had to remind his dad that he gets fucked up the arse on a regular basis, but oh fucking well. 

"Um, nearly twelve weeks," Nick says, weakly. 

"Twelve weeks!" Jane gasps. "Babe, that's far! You didn't tell us?" 

"I only found out a couple weeks ago, alright?" 

"Only then? That far along and you didn't know?" his mum asks, eyes going round. "Oh, Nick." 

"I- I just didn't, I didn't think it was that," Nick says, voice wobbly. "But it was. It is. Is anyone happy for me, like, at all? This is bloody dismal." 

Jane clucks softly and Liv says, "I am, Nick! New cousin! Babies! Onesies! Cute Halloween costumes! Christmas!" 

"Of course we are, love," Jane says, patting Liv's arm to shut her up. "Just surprised, we're just- you're just surprised, yeah, mum?" 

Eileen nods. Her eyes are suspiciously watery, which is terrifying, cos Nick's mum cries about once a decade. 

"Are you happy about it, Nick?" Jane asks quietly. 

Isn't that the fucking question. Nick looks down. 

"Yeah," he says, voice cracking. "Sure I am." 

"So you haven't got- you know, a - a partner, or anything," Nick's dad says, sounding uncomfortable. "That you're doing all this with." 

Oh, Nick feels a bit like he's going to vomit. He's so sick of that feeling. He swallows hard. 

"Not - not as such, dad," he says. "Just me right now." 

"Well that's alright," Jane says, anxiously sliding her eyes over to Eileen, who still looks unsteady. "That's fine. You've got loads of mates with kids and - and all of your friends, and everything." 

Nick nods, and then says, hoarsely, "I need a wee." 

He locks the door of the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror, and has about a split second to turn the sink on full-blast before he's stumbling over to the toilet to be sick. 

His eyes are streaming by the time he’s done, his nose burning. He spits weakly a few times, grabs some loo roll to wipe his nose, flushes the toilet and turns the water off. 

He stands back up, fumbles for toothpaste in the medicine cabinet and swishes it around in his mouth with a bit of water. The doctor said next week, maybe, the nausea'll slow down a bit. Nick's fucking praying. 

He walks back out to the kitchen, and they all look down at their plates, guiltily. They're sitting in complete silence, which is how Nick knows they could hear him vomming, because his family never sits in complete silence. It's not in their nature. 

"So, like I was saying," Jane says, desperately, not looking as Nick slides back into his chair. "Liv's got a holiday coming up, and we're thinking about-" 

"Don't eat, love," Eileen says suddenly, grabbing Nick's hand with the forkful of chicken he was about to put in his mouth. "Not so soon after being sick, it'll hurt your stomach." 

Nick goes tense, and puts the fork down. 

"So, a holiday," Jane says brightly. "Liv really wants to go to New York but she's only got a week and a half off from work and it's expensive-"

"But I've been saving, mum, and a week and a half is like forever, I can totally do it." 

"What d'you want to go to New York for?" Pete asks. "Bloody twelve hour flight and then you're just in a big city like London. Nothing fun about that." 

Liv sighs long-sufferingly. "New York is not like London, granddad." 

"I was thinking Majorca, but Liv's got her heart set on-" 

"I do not have my heart- I just! I just think it'd be fun, I've never been, which is madness, considering my uncle's best mate is from there-" 

"Oh, we'd have to chat to Aimee before we went- if we go," Jane amends hastily, when Olivia's eyes go starry. "Definitely."

"Yeah," Nick says, forcing a smile, nodding. "She'd love that." 

"Siiiick," Olivia says, grinning. "Nick, will you talk to her?" 

"Nick, don't quite yet," Jane says. 

"Oh my god, mum, it's just talking to her. It's not like I'm booking a flight." 

"But Aimee'll get excited, and I don't need two of you on my case," Jane says. "Three including Nick. We can discuss it tomorrow." 

"Speaking of tomorrow," Nick says weakly. "I think I'm gonna go to bed. Long day at work." 

"You told your brother yet?" Eileen peers at him. "About- about all this?" 

Nick huffs a laugh, rubs his hand over his face. "No, mum, I haven't. I didn't somehow tell Andy in the time after I told you lot. Didn't ring him while puking my guts out in the toilets." 

"Don't get sharp with your mother, Nicholas," Pete says gruffly. 

"I just want to go to bloody bed!" Nick snaps. "I'm tired!" 

"That's no excuse for you to act like a bleeding child!" 

"Go to bed, love," Eileen says, shooting Pete a look. "It's alright." 

Nick shoves his chair back. 

---

He's just crawling into bed when he hears a soft knock on the door, and he turns to see Jane leaning against the doorjamb. 

"Hey," she says. 

"Hey." Nick sits up against the wall, tugs the sheet up over his legs. 

Jane stares at him for a long moment. 

"What, Janie," Nick says sharply. 

"You know whose it is, don't you?" she asks softly. 

Nick forces his face to stay blank. He takes off his glasses, sets them on the nightstand, next to an old Harry Potter book Liv must have been reading last night. 

"I have an idea," he says. 

Jane nods, slowly. 

"And he's, what, no good?" she says, voice low. 

"He just can't," Nick says, firmly, staring at the worn material of the pillow he's holding over his stomach. "He can't do this." 

"Babe," Jane breathes. 

"It's fine, y'know? It's alright. It'll be alright." 

"Who is it, Nick? Someone I know?" 

"Please, Janie, can we not talk about it?" 

Jane nods again, looking chagrined. 

There's a silence. 

"Were you scared?" Nick asks, and his voice goes wobbly. Jane comes into the room, sits down next to him and puts her arm around his shoulder. "With Liv." 

"Bloody terrified," Jane murmurs. 

Nick nods, as she rubs his back gently, back and forth. 

"How'd you, like, get over it?" 

"Oh, I'm still scared," Jane says. "You just realize that you can handle it. Even though it'll be awful sometimes, and hard, and you'll feel like you've got no clue what you're doing. You can do it. Billions of people have." 

"Even you have, and you're mental," Nick says, and she laughs, pinches his side. 

"It'll be okay, Nick. It will." 

"I'm gonna get fat," Nick says sadly, and she laughs again. 

"Yeah, you will." 

"And I've been sick like every day. I'm so fucking tired of vomming." 

She squeezes him hard. "I know, it's shit. It's really shit for a while." 

Nick lets out a long exhale, and she presses her mouth against his temple.

"Promise it's worth it, though," she says quietly. "I don't know who I'd be without Liv." 

Nick nods, his head heavy. 

"This feels so mad," she says, huffing a laugh. "My baby brother got knocked up." 

Nick laughs too, sniffs in hard. 

"I thought I was being sick from undercooked eggs," he says, and she snorts. "And then I remembered I'd had cereal like three days straight and still puked-" 

"Oh my god," she laughs. "Nick." 

"God, Jane, I was so, like. I freaked out." 

"I bet. Poor love." 

“I bought five tests,” Nick says, choking a laugh.

“You didn’t.”

“Did. I waited like ten minutes for a self-check, I was so embarrassed.” 

Jane laughs.

“You going to tell people?” she asks, gently. 

Nick sighs, breath shuddering. “I- I dunno, yet. Maybe not til, like, it gets obvious. I mean my friends, yeah, sure."

“But like, the nation,” Jane says, squeezing his arm. “The world. You’ll maybe hold off on all that for a bit?” 

“Don’t like lying,” Nick says. “But I- shit. I dunno. What if - what if people are awful?” 

Jane pulls him in closer. 

“I’ll come down to London and do some damage,” she says, sounding fully ready to follow through on that promise.

“You’re so mad,” Nick laughs. 

Jane snorts against his cheek. "Promise you it'll be alright." 

Nick's past the age where promises from his big sister mean much. He knows no matter what she says, it's going to be shit. The papers'll be mean, and the rumors will fly, and Harry- Harry's Harry. A mess. 

But he just - lets himself believe it, for a little bit. Just for a bit.  

---

"Hello again, Mr. Grimshaw," the nurse says, shutting the door behind her and smiling at him. It’s a different one from last time, younger, with dark friendly eyes. He looks up from the chair he's sat uncomfortably in, forces a smile. 

"Hiya." 

"How are you?" 

"Good, and you?" he says reflexively. 

"I'm good, thanks," she says, sitting down at the desk across from him. "So. Twelve weeks, eh? That's your first trimester sorted!" 

Nick nods. 

"And how are we feeling?" 

Nick's about to say good again, but she looks at him and smiles and he - oh god, he feels like he's going to cry. Why does he always fucking feel like he's going to cry? 

"I- um," he says, rubbing a palm over his face. "I dunno, I'm sick all the fu- all the time, and I'm always all, all weepy and stroppy and everyone's starting to get sick of me." 

The nurse laughs softly. "All sounds pretty par for the course, love. How often are you sick?" 

"Like nearly every morning?" 

"That'll start to go away this month. Usually doesn't last through the second tri. Nauseous throughout the day?" 

"Uhh, maybe until noon or so. I, um, I get up quite early for work, so it's always worse then-" 

"6:30'll be good practice for the baby, though," the nurse says absently, writing something on her pad, and then she looks up with a wince. "Sorry. I do - I mean. I listen, to. To Radio One." 

Nick nods, huffs a laugh. "Cheers, I guess." 

"I was going to pretend I didn't, but - god. Anyway. Sorry. So you're sick til about noon. Any changes in appetite?" 

"I mean, I'm starving all the bloody time, but I always am, that's nothing new," Nick says long-sufferingly, and she laughs. 

"You're not trying to diet, or anything? At this stage especially it's crucial that the fetus get enough nutrients-" 

"Not dieting. I'm being healthy." Nick pointedly doesn't mention the massive plate of cheese chips he had on Friday (and Saturday). Cheese has nutrients. Like- calcium, or whatever. For your bones. 

"Good." She marks something on the notepad. "Now, twelve weeks is usually when we first listen to the fetal heartbeat. You're alright with doing that, today?" 

Nick nods, mind racing. Bloody heartbeat? He can't imagine it's got much of a heartbeat at this point- 

"Well, I'll get Dr. Sani in here and get you sorted," she says, and then she looks at him, tilting her head. "Before I do, though. Have you made any decisions on termination, because some parents- excuse me, some people don't like to hear the heartbeat if they plan to-" 

"I'm not," Nick says, giving her a tight smile, stomach in knots. "I'm not, uh, terminating. Keeping it." 

He drops his gaze, sticks his fingernail in his mouth. That's it, then. 

"I'll get the doctor, then," she says, patting his knee. "Sit tight." 

---

One week into his second tri, and Nick has a sonogram hidden away in his desk drawer and a letter from Harry that came two days ago that he still hasn't got the guts to open. He doesn't even technically know it's from Harry, except the handwriting is painfully familiar and who else would send Nick a fucking letter? There's no return address, which is also very Harry. Transient little popstar who always needs to have the last word.

It takes about half a pint of ice cream and three hours for Nick to work up the courage. It's a Thursday night, quiet and still and hot outside, and Nick's sitting on his sofa in freezing-cold air conditioning with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the letter clutched in one hand. 

It's written with black pen on unlined journal paper, small off-white pieces like the type in Harry's notebook he carries with him everywhere in case he gets inspired, or whatever. 

Nick, it starts, and Nick reaches for the ice cream, takes a huge bite to fortify himself. It’s a bit cliche, sitting on the sofa alone and eating ice cream and reading a letter from a former lover. A bit dramatic. Oh well. 

I'm on the plane to the British Virgin Islands. I don't know exactly how to write this but I need to write something. 

I think that the way we've been in the past few years has been really bad for both of us. Not that it wasn't fun, or good, and it's not that I don't love you and love spending time with you. But the thing where we have sex for a while and then I leave and then we do it again isn't doing either of us any good. Before I left in March I talked to Aimee and she told me how you get when I'm on tour or in LA. That you've gotten out of relationships because of me and haven't committed to anyone and I don't want to be the reason for that.

Nick's heart is pounding. Fucking Aimee. How fucking dare she. 

It's been four years and we haven't moved forward and I know that's mostly because of me and what I do. I think it's time that we stop doing this. I want you to be able to be with someone who's better for you because I'm really confused right now about what I want and I'm not ready to commit to someone. This was so good when we were both younger but I'm still figuring life out and I know you want more than that. I really, really love you Nick. I've loved you for five years. And I wish that were enough for us to both be happy but I'm hurting you and I hate that I'm hurting you. There's nothing I want less in the world than to hurt you.

Nick stops reading because his eyes are wet and the words are going blurry. 

Fuck. Fuck. He hunches in on himself, crosses his arm over his chest, tries to breathe. It's fine. This is fine. This is totally - oh, god, this is so not fucking fine. 

I'm going to the island because I need to figure myself out. I know it's cliche but it's what I need. The whole industry is basically just trying to separate me from who I am and turn me into someone else. And I think I held out for a pretty long time but I've felt weird and sad and disconnected for the last year or so. We all have. I think we're burned out (cliche again I know). The point is I need to be alone and I need to stop hurting people and that starts with you because you're one of the most important people in my life. I want you to be happy with someone who can actually commit to you. I don't think that person is me and I don't want to make you wait. I don’t know how long it will be before I’m ready to be with someone.

Nick sobs, heavily, and immediately tries to press it down, breathing out hard, scrubbing at his eyes. 

I don't know what will happen in the future but right now this doesn't work for either of us. I love you Nick and I hope you understand this. I left my phone and my laptop in LA and I think it was the right decision. I think it's good for us not to talk to each other for a while. It doesn't mean I don't care about you I promise. Take care of yourself. I want you to be happy.

Love,

HS

He's signed it underneath, like it's a reflex to give his autograph, and Nick stares at it, the well-practiced swoop of Harry's messy handwriting. 

His head hurts. He sets the letter down on the coffee table, staring straight ahead. 

Right then he knows. He can't tell Harry about this. He can't drag him back to London, ruin his life, rope him into a lifelong commitment. He can't. Harry'll die that way, he'll absolutely hate it. 

Or worse, he'll come back, and then he'll leave again. He'll leave Nick alone with this, and Nick will have to pretend he's not bothered, because he knows the rules. He's not allowed to ask for more. No good comes of it.  

Nick exhales shakily. 

There was this time, years ago, when Harry was about to leave for tour. Their goodbyes were always a strange affair, because Nick acted like he didn't care until they were fucking, and then it all came out in this awful helpless rush. He couldn't keep himself from holding on tight, kissing Harry hard, leaving lovebites up his torso until Harry pushed his mouth away, laughing at him tenderly, and said c'mon, not so high up, someone'll see. 

Nick reined it in when they weren't bloody horizontal. Kept it together and shoved it down somewhere inside him and sometimes he even convinced himself that it was fine, that it didn't hurt. They were just mates. Harry was just a big dick and a pretty face. It was just a shag.

This time, though. Harry had just turned twenty-one, done his birthday in LA and then flown to London for a few days before going off to Australia for tour. Nick had this goal. This silly sort of goal, that he wasn't going to let Harry into his bed. Like a New Year's resolution, to stop being so incredibly easy.

Harry came back home, and he came over. He sat on the sofa with his thighs spread in skinny jeans and a mouth stained with red wine, and Nick went to his knees in front of him as soon as Harry looked at him for longer than two seconds. 

Just like that. 

They shagged each other senseless for two days and then Harry left, gave Nick a kiss and a friendly squeeze around the waist and when he was gone, Nick remembered why he wasn't going to let Harry in. 

Nick scrubs at his eyes, slips the letter back into the envelope. 

So that's how it's got to be. Nick'll do this on his own, and it'll be fine. 

---

"You've been avoiding me," Aimee says, as she lets herself into Nick's flat the next afternoon. Nick looks up from his laptop. He's Googling unusual birth stories and taking a sip of ginger tea every time one of the photos makes him gag. Why's he looking at the stories when they make him gag? Well, that's his own bloody business, isn't it. He can gag if he wants to. 

"No I'm not," he says defensively. Everything feels defensive today. He nearly threw his breakfast at Fiona when she made an innocent comment about his quiff. "I'm just - inside my flat. As is my right as a human being. I own this flat and I'm allowed to be inside it." 

"What are you talking about?" 

Nick scrolls by something labeled Breech birth of triplets- afterbirth! and takes a deep gulp of tea, breathes out slowly. "I dunno. Oh, fuck, Aimee, look at this. Look at that baby's head. It's all squashed. Ohh my god, that's so much blood." 

Aimee sits on the sofa next to him and peers at the screen. 

"What the hell are you looking at?" she yelps, slamming the computer shut. "Jesus, Nick!" 

Nick snorts. "S'just a natural part of the human body, Aims-" 

"That's disgusting. Oh god, please let me never get pregnant." 

"Hey," Nick pouts, and she laughs, kicking off her heels and sinking back into the sofa. She grabs Nick's tea, sniffs it and pulls a face. 

"Ew, what's that?" 

"Doctor said it'd make me stop puking." 

"I thought you stopped puking last week." 

"Well sometimes I still bloody puke," Nick says testily. "So get off my fucking back." 

Aimee raises an eyebrow. "What's up your ass?" 

Nick glares at her.

"Speaking of that," she says smoothly. "We need to talk about what's been up your ass. More specifically, who. Even more specifically, Harry Styles." 

"Never heard of 'im," Nick says, sulky, grabbing his phone and opening up Instagram. Aimee snatches it out of his hand. Nick draws in a horrified breath. 

"We're talking about this now," Aimee says firmly. "Because you've been avoiding me." 

"Aimee-" he makes a grab for the phone. 

Aimee throws it at the armchair, and they both wince as it nearly bounces off. 

"If you broke the screen-" 

"I didn't!" Aimee says, slightly contrite. She's laughing, though. "Desperate times, Nick." 

"I'll show you desperate fucking times." 

"You are so pissy today," Aimee says lightly, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Where's my li'l sunshine. Where's my li'l sunshine baby." 

"He is not on radio, so he does not have to pretend to be a bloody sunshine baby when he's bloody tired." 

"He is talking about himself in third person," Aimee says, snorting. She puts her hand in Nick's hair, fingernails scritching gently over his scalp. "And Aimee does not like it. Have you had dinner?" 

Nick shakes his head, helplessly soothed by the touch. 

"Let's do a pizza," Aimee says. "Stahhhhving, me. Here, go get your phone so we can call." 

"You bloody threw it, you can get it." 

Aimee laughs in his ear, and staggers up from the sofa, grabs Nick's phone. 

She drops it in his lap and wanders off to the kitchen. 

"Do you have wine?" 

"Yeah," Nick says sadly. Fun bit of unplanned pregnancy, Nick's flat is filled with booze and he can't have a drop of it. "There's white in the fridge. Maybe a Cab Sav in the back of the liquor cabinet." 

"Thanks!" she yells back, and then- "I want margherita! Oh wait, no, white, that one with the goat cheese and basil."

Nick sighs, and puts the phone to his ear. 

---

"So," Aimee says, an hour later, pouring herself a third glass of wine. "We still need to talk."

Nick's stretched out over the sofa, feet hanging off the end, rubbing his stuffed stomach. He lifts his head and belches, wincing. Bloody dairy. Tastes so right, feels so wrong. "What." 

"Harry." 

"Ugh. I don't want to talk about him. Anything else." 

"Nope, he's the only subject on the agenda. It's been three weeks, Nicholas. And he still doesn't know." 

Nick stares up at the ceiling. 

"I'm thinking about it," he lies. 

"I know he's, like, inaccessible or whatever, but-" 

"Hey," Nick interrupts. "Aims. Go into my room, in my desk. First drawer on the right. There's this white envelope with my name and address on it."

Aimee blinks at him through her glasses, wine halfway to her mouth. Nick turns his head to look at her. 

"It's about Harry," he says, quiet. "Just- go. Look." 

Aimee sets her wine down and stands up, brushing crumbs off her top. 

She comes back into the room two minutes later, staring down at the envelope. Pig's trailing hopefully at her heels, waiting for a bite of pizza. 

"What the hell is this?" she asks, sinking back into the armchair, pulling out the letter.

Nick just waits. 

"Oh, shit," she breathes, and she lapses into silence to read. 

Nick shuts his eyes, and folds his hands over his stomach. 

---

It's a long five minutes before Aimee drops the letter on Nick's chest. Nick opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at her. 

Aimee's face is soft. 

"Aims?" Nick says, not looking at her. "I - I'm not going to tell him. I've decided." 

"Nick..." 

"I'm not going to tell him. It'd be stupid to tell him, when he doesn't even, like- with the way things are now." 

Aimee sits down next to Nick's hip, pushing him over to the back of the sofa. 

"Babe," she says, quietly. "Are you serious about this?" 

Nick blinks hard. His eyes are going hot, and he stares determinedly up at the ceiling. Aimee puts a hand on his chest.

"Yeah, think so," he says, wobbly. 

"It's gonna be hard. Not telling him. Him not finding out. If he comes back-" 

"He's not coming back," Nick says, voice thick. "You read the bloody letter. He's not coming back." 

"He will at some point, Nick. He's just having a quarter-life crisis. You can't read that letter like it's actually what he thinks, he's just talking shit. He's twenty-three, he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about." 

"Harry doesn't say things he doesn't mean," Nick says, sniffing in hard. Aimee pets his hair. "You know that. And he said that we're not - that he's not in love with me, and that I've been stupid, and that we're not right for each other. He said all that. It's right there. It's a fucking break-up letter." 

"He didn't say that." 

"I'm not telling him, Aims." Nick shuts his eyes, tries to laugh. "He'd be a shit dad anyway. He's about twelve years old. He's a popstar." 

"Nick-" 

Nick keeps his eyes closed. 

"You and Ian and Daize are the only ones who know," he says, clenching his jaw. He can't cry, now. He hasn't cried in about thirty-six hours, it's a new record. "Everyone else'll just think I've fucked up and gotten knocked-up by someone random. Do you - do you promise, you won't tell anyone?" 

Aimee's quiet. Nick opens his eyes, struggles upward until he's sitting. 

"Aims. Do you promise." 

"Fuck," Aimee mutters. "This isn't a good idea." 

"Promise, Aimee. Promise me. It's my bloody decision." 

Aimee inhales hard, scrubbing her hand over her face. 

"Please," Nick breathes. "I know it's mental. This is all fucking mental. I just can't do it with him, Aims." 

He puts his face against her shoulder. Oh god, this is awful. Nick hates emotions. And thinking about Harry Styles. The two tend to go hand-in-hand. 

"Please," he mumbles. 

Aimee throws her arms around him, squeezes him so hard it hurts. 

"You're such a fucking idiot," she says fiercely into his ear. "I promise. I won't tell anyone." 

"Ian either-" 

"Ian either. Don't worry about him. He'd literally rather die than have you be angry at him." 

Nick gulps out a laugh. 

"Thanks," he says, pulling away, wiping at his eyes. Aimee's doing the same, and they both politely ignore each other's tears. 

"More pizza?" Aimee asks, brusquely, and Nick nods, reaching out to shove a crust in his mouth. 

---

Nick wakes up well before his alarm on his 33rd birthday. He lies in bed for a little while, until his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chats: Legends

Matt Fincham: Morning bab [sunglasses emoji] 

Matt Fincham: Oh and HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

Fiona Hanlon: Happy birthday nick!!!!

Fiona Hanlon: Now get yer arse up & don't be late 

Nick huffs out a laugh. 

Nick Grimshaw: Morning minions

Nick Grimshaw: Bring me cake or I'm not doing the show 

Matt sends back ten cake emojis, which is good enough for Nick. He rolls out of bed, stumbles into the shower. 

Thirty-three. Holy shit, he's getting old. Last year he still felt ancient, but at least he could drink himself to blackout to forget.

He stares accusingly down at his still-somewhat-flat stomach, and then tips his head back to rinse out his shampoo. 

The show's fine. Ian brings in a cake, and they sing Happy Birthday on air, with the girl they've been playing Showquizness with for the last week. Nick claps and laughs and conducts, and then tucks into the cake. 

"Big plans for tonight, then, Nick?" Matt asks, as an Adele song fades out. "Should I be worried about tomorrow's show?" 

"Might need a rescue crew to fetch you out your bed, huh," Fiona laughs.

"Feed and clothe me, all that," Nick says gamely. "Finchy, you'll do it, won't you? He loves it. He's my little nursey. Ibiza 2013, wasn't it, Fincham, you had to clothe my naked body? I've never forgotten it…"

Matt rolls his eyes. "It's only Monday, Nick, try and save it up til the weekend, for the sake of your long-suffering producer." 

"Oh, you love it, Matt. Plus, a hangover is culturally relevant." 

"Oh, you- maybe after the Brits, Nick. That's your one exception. Not your bloody birthday. It's not actually a national holiday, no matter how much you wish it could be." 

"Anyway, it don't matter, I'm planning on a quiet evening in with a few friends. Full of laughter and witty banter. Red wine and sophisticated conversation." 

Fiona cackles. "Sure you are!" 

"Scuse me, Fi, I'm thirty-three now, I'm not a child." 

Matt sighs. "Nick, you texted us this morning saying you weren't coming in to do the show unless we brought cake." 

Nick snorts. "Alright, I may have said that. Well after today I'll be proper mature, like. Except, like, youthfully mature. This is Radio One, after all." 

He hits Play on the next song and sits back in his seat, making grabby-hands as Ian cuts himself a piece of cake. Ian sighs, hands it to Nick. 

"Thank you, baby," Nick says, around a mouthful of icing. 

Ian just sticks out his tongue. 

Nick takes another bite of his cake. There's one upside of being knocked-up, he can eat as much fucking cake as he wants. Except no one knows about it, so he'll seem like a pig. 

He considers it for a minute, and then puts another piece in his mouth. Oh well. 

---

He does dinner later that night, at a place in Belgravia with a private back room that Emily picked out. His friends get drunk, because none of them are really that mature, and Nick sips sparkling water with lime in a glass and talks and talks to cover up the fact that he's not joining them. He ends up at his, with Aimee and Ian and Daisy, who start passing around a bottle of Nick's wine while Nick talks to his mum on the phone. 

"Yeah- yeah, mum. No, I'm not drunk, I wouldn't bloody drink. C'mon now. Thank you, mum. It was alright, yeah, it was good. I've got to go, my friends are over, I'm being rude. Cheers, speak to you later. Thanks."

He hangs up, wanders into the sitting room, and Daisy pats the sofa next to him and says, "Sit down, babe, we're watching Dirty Dancing." 

Nick sinks onto the couch, lets Daisy wriggle under his arm and sling a hand across his stomach. 

"You alright?" she asks quietly. 

"Next year I'll have a baby," Nick says back. It wasn't what he meant to say, exactly, but it's been on his mind since Miquita showed up at dinner with her eight-month-old and everyone cooed over him for ages. Nick held him on his lap, bounced him til he gurgled with happiness, and felt a sudden wave of dizziness. 

Daisy looks at him, tilting her head, eyes soft. 

"Yeah you will, babe," she says. 

Nick clutches her arm, that same dizziness from before making his head spin. "God, Daize."

Daisy pets his hand. "You want to talk about it, or you want to not think about it?" 

"I want to get twatted," Nick says, voice raw. "Is what I really want." 

"Not on the list of options, Nicholas," Aimee says from the other sofa. Ian keeps quiet. 

"Next year," Daisy says cheerily. "You'll have a baby, and you'll get absolutely smashed. It'll be lovely."

"How responsible!" Nick says, gulping out a hysterical laugh. "Fucking hell. I'm gonna kill it. Do you think I'm gonna kill it?" 

"Can you stop?" Aimee says, voice slurring a little. Her cheeks are red from wine. "You're a fucking responsible mature adult, Nicholas- yes, you are, don't give me that look. You've got a dog and a flat and a job and a car-" 

"What about Puppy, though," Nick says, low, meanly, and Daisy clucks, surprised. Ian looks away uncomfortably.

Aimee sits straight up, glaring at him. "Where the hell did that come from? That wasn't your fault. And it was years ago." 

"I can't bloody take care of things." 

"Yes you can," Daisy says softly. 

"You can too," Aimee snaps. "First of all, a dog's not a fucking kid, no offense to Pig-" 

Pig lifts her head, blinking. 

"- and you can. God, babe, I know you're freaked out, but you have to give yourself a little more credit." 

Nick nods, because he feels like he's going to cry. He swallows hard. 

"Ugh," he manages to say, voice wobbly. "Worst bloody birthday ever. Sorry." 

"Nick," Daisy murmurs, rubbing his arm. 

Aimee arches an eyebrow. "Worse than when you threw up on yourself while in a car with Bob Geldof and he nearly left you on the side of the road?" 

"Worse than when you got shut out of Justin Bieber's party in Ibiza and you had to take a cab back to the hotel by yourself?" Ian offers, snorting. 

"What about two years ago, Nick, you accidentally pissed on your brand new Burberry leather jacket cos you thought you were in the toilet," Daisy says, very obviously trying not to giggle. 

"At least I was bloody drunk all those times," Nick says, but he's laughing. He puts his head against Daisy's shoulder and sighs. "Oh my god, that leather jacket. Rest in peace."

---

On the Friday after his birthday he heads out to a club in SoHo where Annie's DJing. It's not entirely awful, bouncing around with his best mates whilst drinking sparkling water with lime (he's getting pretty bloody sick of it) and listening to Annie play a weird mishmash of Rihanna, U2, and Wu-Tang Clan. 

He's bellying up to the bar to get refills for Daisy and Henry when he feels a hand on his waist. 

"Hey," a voice says. "Grimmy! Good to see you, mate!" 

Nick blinks at him. Oh, shit, this is someone he should remember, cos he's definitely slept with them, once upon a time. James. Josh? 

"John," the bloke says, laughing a little. "Oh my god, you utter bastard, we spent a lovely night together." 

Nick laughs sheepishly, setting his empty glasses on the bartop. "Obviously I knew that, John, my oldest friend, how are you-" 

"Well, we spent a lovely twenty minutes in a toilet together." John grins. "Wouldn't remember your name either if I didn't hear you on my radio every day." 

Nick snorts. "Sorry. You alright?" 

"Good, yeah." John leans against the bar next to him. He's got dark hair, nice warm eyes. A tattoo spiraling out of the deep-V of his t-shirt onto his chest. Nick glances at his mouth, has to fight against an unexpected kick of lust. 

John's saying something. Nick tries to tune back in. 

"- buy you a drink?" he finishes, arching an eyebrow. 

"Uhh, I'm- not, not tonight," Nick stammers, caught off-guard. "I'm just grabbing some drinks for my-" 

"Let me get them," John says, patting him on the back. His hand is warm. Nick feels off-kilter, and he never feels off-kilter when he's on the pull. 

Is he on the pull? Is that even allowed? Oh god, does he have to tell John he's pregnant? Is it like telling someone you've got an STD?

Nick shakes himself, laughs easily. "Mate, you really don't have to."

"No, I insist. What'll you have?" 

Nick huffs a laugh. 

"Erm, Henry's got a vodka-soda and Daisy's is a-" he sniffs it, trying not to gulp at the dregs. "Gin and tonic, smells like." 

"And what about for you?" 

Nick laughs uneasily. "Uhh, sticking with water tonight. Still fighting off a nasty hangover." 

John waves him off. "Hair of the dog, mate!" 

Nick swallows. 

"A vodka, then," he says. "Soda. Whatever."

He'll just give it to Henry. It's not like John will notice, if he's - otherwise occupied, perhaps in the toilets- 

John orders the drinks, and Nick pulls out his phone. Daisy's texted him. 

Henry says hurry up

I say take your time babes. Whos that youre chatting to ?? ;) 

Nick shoves the phone back into his pocket without answering. 

"There you go, mate," John says, sliding his card across the counter. "It's good to see you." 

Nick runs a hand through his quiff. He's sweating, in the thick air of the bar, air-conditioning no match for the summer heat and the press of bodies. 

"Cheers, that's really nice," he says, and then- "What d'you say we drop the drinks off and, uh, find somewhere to talk?" 

John grins at him like the cat that got the cream. 

"I'd like that," he says. Nick nods, pasting on a smile, and takes a drink in each hand. 

---

They end up in a toilet stall - a nice one at least, with walls that go all the way down and a lock that works. John's mouth tastes of whiskey and he's got nice hands, stroking down Nick's sides, cupping the back of his head. 

It's all nice. It's all - perfectly nice, even though they're in a club toilet and John's practically a stranger. It's still nice. Six months ago Nick would've been pleased as punch with this turn of events.

All he feels now, though, is a dull sense of panic. 

He kisses harder to cover it, and John hums, reaching around to grope Nick's arse. Nick shudders and pretends he didn't. 

"I've got a condom," John murmurs, fingers playing with the hem of Nick's jeans, sliding down onto bare skin.

"Rather suck you off," Nick breathes back, pulling John's hand off his arse, and he sinks to his knees. 

Everything's a bit less urgent down there. He exhales shakily, licks his lips, as John unzips his jeans, pulls his cock out. 

Nick stares at it. Up close, dicks are so strange. Just- so, like, red, and wrinkly in weird places, and - 

John coughs, impatiently, and slides a hand into Nick's hair, fucking up his quiff. 

Nick nods, feeling stupid. 

"Sorry," he says, kissing the tip as penance. It's strange, how he doesn't want to do this. He's always liked sucking cock. God, with Harry he used to spend ages down there, kissing every inch of Harry's soft skin, thumbing over the sensitive slit of his dick, hearing him laugh out a moan. 

Nick hunches over, his stomach clenching with self-pity the way it does every time he thinks of Harry. John's fingers tighten in his hair, a gentle reminder, and Nick takes the hint, slides his mouth down over the head. 

By the end he's so bored. John's thrusting forward, gasping quietly, barely audible over the thumping music. Nick has hands in his hair and a dick in his mouth and he's bored. 

"Fuck, god, yeah," John whispers. "M'gonna come. Gonna come." 

Nick pulls off, cups his palm over the head of John's dick as he spurts, doesn't let a drop of it on his face or in his mouth. John groans, pulling at Nick's hair. 

"Jesus," he says, breathlessly. "That's good." 

Well, it's nice to know Nick can still get a compliment when he feels like he'd rather be home in bed watching The Simpsons. 

He fumbles for some loo roll, wiping at his hand. His knees are starting to hurt. 

"Sit on the toilet, I'll blow you," John murmurs, and Nick huffs out a laugh, dropping the wad of loo roll into the toilet. What the fuck is he doing? He's too old for this, to sit on a bloody toilet to get his dick sucked by someone he barely knows. 

"I'm alright," he says, pulling himself to his feet. "I- I have to go, actually." 

"What?" 

"My friend's texting me. Gotten into trouble. I- like, sorry, I'll- see you around, maybe?" 

John's staring at him. 

"Did I do something?" he asks, as Nick fumbles for the door handle. 

"No, mate, no, you were fine," Nick stammers. "I just- I just have to go. Sorry." 

The door opens finally, and Nick stumbles out. There's a bloke washing his hands, and he gives Nick a long look in the mirror. 

Yeah, Nick knows exactly how he looks. 

He grabs another paper towel and keeps wiping at his hands, as he slips out of the toilet. 

His friends are fine, of course. He slips out the back door, because his heart is pounding and he wants a breath of fresh air. 

There's a couple people smoking in the alleyway. 

"Can I bum one?" Nick asks weakly. A girl with curly hair and knee-high leather boots hands one over. 

Nick holds it in his hand for a second, fingers wobbly, and then pulls out his phone. 

He was cute have fun, babe. be careful.Xx, Daisy's sent. 

Nick closes out of the text and googles: smoking one cigarette while pregnant bad? 

He scans through the results. Huh. Other than Yahoo Answers, the consensus seems to be that yes, smoking a single cigarette while pregnant will surely lead your child down a road of pain and misery. 

Well, fuck.

He deletes the search, types in: swallowing come while pregnant bad? 

Not that he did. He didn't, but- oh Jesus, his Google search history  makes him look like the devil. 

He shuts his phone off with a click of his thumb, shoves it in his back pocket. 

The door creaks open next to him, and he startles. 

It's Henry, though. Henry stumbles out into the alley, pulls out his phone.

"Hens?" 

Henry jumps, turns to him with wide eyes. 

"The fuck are you doing out here?" 

"Uhh," Nick says. Belatedly, he realizes he's still holding the fag. Henry's eyes drop down to it, and his face goes narrow. 

"You're fucking smoking?" 

"No!" Nick protests. "I didn't smoke it. I'm just… holding it." 

"You- you can't fucking smoke." Henry snatches the cigarette from Nick's fingers. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Nick."

He's drunk, Nick's realizing. Really drunk. 

"I wasn't-" 

"You're such a- a selfish- fucking- arsehole," Henry chokes out, throwing the fag on the ground. 

"Alright," Nick says, taking his arm. "You're really pissed." 

"I can be pissed if I want to be. Not pregnant, am I." 

"Shut up," Nick hisses, peering at the group of people smoking. None of them seem to be listening. "Stop fucking shouting." 

"Fucking selfish." 

His voice is venomous, and he shakes Nick's hand off, takes two steps forward and says, voice choked, "Oh shit, think m'gonna be sick." 

"Are you serious?" Nick yelps. 

"I- shit." Henry swallows heavily, his face flushed red. "Maybe not." 

"Jesus, Hens. Let's get in a cab." 

"Not going with you," Henry says, flailing around when Nick tries to take his arm again. He's wasted. He doesn't usually get like this. Henry hates losing control. 

"Yes you are, idiot. You leave anything inside?" 

Henry shakes his head, swaying.  He looks ill. Nick hopes he's not really gonna be sick. 

"C'mon, let's get you home, yeah?" Nick asks, and Henry glares at him from behind his glasses, but he lets Nick take his arm, lead him down the alleyway. 

Nick's not even sure why he's angry, but that's Henry for you. It's probably something Nick said six months ago and Henry's only drunk enough to admit it made him mad now. 

They pile into the back of a cab. Henry clutches the door handle, looking green. 

Nick's flat is up first. 

"You gonna be alright?" Nick asks, as he hands the cabbie enough to cover both their trips. 

"I'm fine," Henry says, grabbing at the door handle. "I'm fucking fine." 

"He doesn't look fine, sir," the cabbie says, looking terrified at the prospect of taking Henry any further. 

"I'm fine," Henry says, right before he gags, closes his mouth firmly, waves Nick out of the way and spits on the ground. 

"You're not fine," Nick mutters. "C'mon, get inside." 

Henry follows. He steps inside Nick's flat, balancing himself on the wall, as the cab pulls away. 

"Don't - touch my trousers," he mutters to Pig, who's trying to jump all over him. "Gerroff me, Pig." 

"Pig, c'mon, leave 'im alone." 

"Think I'm gonna be sick," Henry says, voice hoarse. 

"Alright." Nick steers him towards the toilet. God knows Henry's done it for him enough. He's seen Henry more drunk than this, but not by much. "There you are, Hens. Get you some water." 

He sets a towel on the ground for Henry's knees, watches him totter pitifully towards the toilet. 

"Take your glasses off," Nick says. 

Slowly, Henry does. 

When Nick comes back in, Henry's leaning against the wall, still on his knees. 

"Did you sick up?" 

Henry shakes his head. 

"Think you're going to?" 

Another head-shake. 

Nick huffs out a laugh. "Here's some water, then."

Henry takes the glass. 

"I want to go to bed," he mumbles. 

"D'you want to go home, Hens?" 

"No," Henry chokes out. "No. Too drunk." 

"You are pretty bloody drunk." 

"Shurrup," Henry slurs, but he lets Nick help him up. 

Nick sets him up in his bed, a bin by his face. Henry passes out immediately. He always looks strangely vulnerable without his glasses, like a turtle without its shell. 

His phone buzzes on the bed next to him, and Nick picks it up. 

Dave: What time are you getting in? X 

Nick swipes the phone open and tries the latest password he can remember. Shit, Henry changes his password every three seconds, he's so paranoid of people stealing his fashion secrets. 

Nick stares at the phone, and then at Henry's body. 

He picks up Henry's limp hand, carefully presses his thumb to the center button.

Oh, yes. The phone unlocks. Nick grins. He's basically a spy. 

He calls Dave, padding out of the room and shutting the door gently behind him. 

"Hi babe," Dave murmurs, sounding sleepy. 

"Hey, it's Nick." 

"Oh," Dave says. "Hi. Is everything alright?" 

"Everything's fine. Henry's just pissed. Sleeping it off at my place." 

Dave hums. "Is he alright? Was he sick?"

"Not yet. Thought he might be, but well, not yet. He's passed out, though. Don't worry, I'll take good care of him." 

Dave hums again. Nick can't tell what the fuck he means from those hums. They don't sound nice, though. 

"Alright," he says. "Thanks. Tell him to call me tomorrow." 

"Yeah, no probl-" the line goes dead. Nick peers at the phone. Call Ended. 

Weird. The screen opens onto Henry's texts with Dave, and Nick doesn't- he really doesn't mean to look, he really doesn't. It's just, it's right there. And it's his name. 

Henry: nick daisy annie a few others, x you can come out if you like!

Dave: I'm knackered babe 

Dave: Nick huh? good luck with that. x

Nick narrows his eyes, and scrolls up. 

Oh, shit. A week ago, Nick sees his name again, and it's- oh great, glad his mates are all so good at keeping his bloody secrets.

Henry: Nick's pregnant

Dave: What????? What? Are you serious? 

Henry: yeah. aimee just told me. fully fucking pregnant. nearly four months, due in february

Dave: Whose is it ? 

Henry: he doesn't even bloody know 

Henry: someone random. Aims says hes doing it on his own and it wasn't planned.

Dave: Jesus christ 

Dave: Can I call you?? 

Henry: give me ten minutes im just finishing up a few emails. you alright? 

Dave: Idk. No. Just want to hear your voice please 

Henry: i'll call right now i love you 

Nick clicks the phone off with his thumb, quietly pushes open the door. 

Henry's still passed out, clutching at a pillow. Nick got him down to his undershirt and briefs, and he's shivering a little. 

Nick watches him for a minute. 

"Arsehole," he says, quietly. Henry doesn't move. 

Nick tugs a blanket over him, tucking it up to Henry's neck, and then crawls into bed next to him. 

---

"You angry with me?" Nick asks the next morning, peering over at Henry. Henry's crunching down an ice cube, staring at the telly, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He's managed to not be sick - a true feat- but his hangover is preventing any sudden movements. 

"Why would I be angry with you?" 

"Dunno." Nick throws his head back against the couch. "Just, like, last night. You were a bit- belligerent."

"No clue why I'd be angry," Henry says lightly. "Oh, d'you mean because you bloody tripped your way into an accidental pregnancy and Dave and I haven't been able to manage it for two years?" 

There it is. Nick blinks up at the ceiling. 

That's not entirely true. They did manage it, last year, but Dave miscarried three months in. Nick brought over two bottles of vodka and got them absolutely twatted. It didn't really help, but Nick didn't know what else to do. He never knows how to deal with that sort of thing.

"It's not your fault," Henry exhales, after a long minute. 

"You can still be angry. I would be." 

Henry huffs out a breath, puts his head back til they're both staring upwards. 

"Suppose I am, then," he says. 

Nick exhales slowly. 

"I mean, who the fuck gets knocked up off a one night fucking stand?" Henry asks, something tight and sad in his voice. "What are you, a fucking rom-com character?" 

Nick doesn't say anything. 

"And if you're that bloody fertile, how the hell haven't you got knocked up before? Been fucked enough, haven't you?" 

Nick huffs a sour laugh. 

"And now I'm s'posed to feel bad, because you didn't want this. Like it's just some big fucking accident. Oh, whoopsies, I'm fucking pregnant!" 

Henry breaks off, sucks in a breath. 

Nick chews his lip. His eyes are blurry. That's how it is with Henry though. Needs to let the venom out, sometimes. 

"I don't know what you want me to say," Henry says, after a long silence. "Like, d'you want me to pat you on the back and say I'm sorry cos you're having a baby you don't want?" 

Nick shakes his head. 

"I don't- I don't know how to be your friend right now, you know?" Henry whispers. His voice cracks. 

"Yeah," Nick says. He coughs, lifts his head. "I get it." 

"Doesn't mean I'm not." Henry rubs his fingers under his glasses, letting out a gust of breath. "I'm just- it's hard." 

"Yeah." 

Henry leans forward, sets his glass down. 

"Gonna go home, I think." 

"Okay," Nick says. His throat hurts. 

Henry stands up, wincing and rubbing at his temples.

"Hey," Nick says, swallowing hard, thinking of the texts he read. Of someone asking when you'll be home, the warmth of that. "I know you don't- you don't have this, yet, but you have everything else. Alright? You've got everything." 

Henry looks down at him. 

"Fuck you for saying that, Grim," he says, softly.  

"Hens-" 

"That seemed necessary to say? Right now?" 

"All I'm saying is that you've got Dave, alright? You've got-" 

"Oh god, I get it, let's hear it," Henry says in a drawl, his jaw clenching. "You're sooo lonely, right, Nick? Never mind that you've been going through boys like loo roll for years and no one's ever been good enough. Never mind that you've been hung up on a fucking popstar since he was a teenager. But wait, we don't talk about that, right?" 

Nick goes breathless with rage. 

"You constantly fucking break up with people!" Henry snaps. "And you say they weren't bloody right for you like you even gave them a chance! Maybe no one's ever going to be as perfect as Harry, but that doesn't mean-" 

"Don't fucking talk about Harry," Nick snaps, voice shaking. 

"- oh my God, Nick, I'm so tired of tiptoeing around your little secret affair for the past six years. We get it, you fucked a popstar who fancies women. How groundbreaking. Do you not even see how he uses you for his little sexuality experiments?" 

Nick stares up at him blearily. 

"I can't- I can't," Henry stammers, raising his hands. "I honestly can't be around you right this second." 

"Harry didn't use me. Doesn't." 

Henry laughs bitterly. "Sure, Grim, keep telling yourself that." 

"He bloody doesn't," Nick chokes out. "He doesn't. I don't even - we're not like that. Haven't even told him about the baby, so don't fucking tell me he uses me, Hens, you fucking prick, you don't know how we are." 

Henry goes still, where he's scrubbing at his face with both hands. He turns to Nick. 

"Told him about the baby?" he breathes. 

Nick stares back up at him helplessly. 

"The- the- oh god," Henry says faintly. "Oh my god." 

"Henry-" 

Henry swallows hard. "It's Harry's?" 

Nick groans out a breath. "You can't tell anyone." 

"Jesus, Nick. Jesus. What've you bloody done." 

"Stumbled into a fucking pregnancy, haven't you heard," Nick says nastily, dropping his hand and glaring up at Henry. "Cos I'm just so fucking fertile." 

"Harry doesn't know?" Henry says in a small voice. 

Nick shakes his head.  

"You going to tell him?" 

Nick lets out a sour laugh. "Wasn't planning on it." 

"Why not?" Henry asks, low. 

The letter's tucked away in Nick's desk drawer. Nick tries not to think about it.

"You were right," he says. "Harry doesn't want more than a shag, so. Wouldn't be interested in all this." 

"How d'you know that if he doesn't know?" 

"Because I bloody well do." 

Henry looks like he wants to ask more questions. He visibly bites them down, says only, "Who else knows?" 

Nick sighs. 

"Aimee, Ian, Daisy. That's it." 

"Not Gellz?" 

"No. And if you say anything, I'll bloody kill you." 

Henry nods, looking a little mollified. He always did like knowing Nick's secrets before Gillian did. 

"I can't- holy shit, Nick. You're having a secret popstar baby." 

Nick blinks up at him, and then chokes out a rough laugh. "Yeah, guess so." 

"A secret closeted popstar baby. That's like a tabloid wet dream." 

Nick sniffs out another laugh. His throat aches. "Pretty much." 

Henry flicks a piece of hair out of his eyes, his face far-off and distracted. He sits back down on the sofa next to Nick.

"How d'you know it's not someone else's?"

"Use condoms with everyone else," Nick says quickly, and then, quieter, "There hasn't - there hasn't been anyone else." 

Henry raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, in the timeframe of - of the getting knocked up, there wasn't anyone else then," Nick adds, stumbling over his words. "Just - him." 

"Just him, and no condom. What the fuck were you thinking?" 

"We were drunk," Nick mutters. "I barely remember it. He was only in town for a day, like. He was gone when I woke up." 

Something cracks in his voice, shamefully, but Henry ignores it, nods slowly. He leans back on the sofa, carefully slides an arm around Nick's shoulders, like the last twenty minutes didn't even happen. Like he can tell how close Nick is to crying. 

"Well, look on the bright side, Grim," Henry says quietly after a long minute. Nick tips his head against Henry's shoulder, exhales, eyes closing. "At least you know your kid'll be cute." 

Nick laughs brokenly, and Henry squeezes him tightly. 

"Look at what I googled last night," Nick says, digging out his phone. "If you really wanna see that I'm a bloody mess." 

He shows Henry the screen, and Henry peers at it for a minute and then  breaks into laughter. 

"Nick, Jesus Christ. You little slut." 

"I know." Nick's laughing a little. "Honestly, I swear, I didn't even swallow, but I was just curious, I dunno-" 

"You pulled last night? What, that bloke who bought us drinks?" 

Nick nods, putting his head on Henry's shoulder again. 

"Just sucked him off," he says. "Didn't even, like. I dunno. I feel so weird. Didn't even want him to do me." 

Henry rubs his shoulder a little. 

"Dave got a bit weird about it when he was- y'know, last year," he says, voice carefully flat. "Didn't always want to be touched. Think it's normal. Course, it's not like that ended well, so don't take my fucking word for it." 

Nick exhales against Henry's shirt. 

"I'm sorry," he says, muffled. "About, like. What happened, and about - all this." 

Henry sighs. 

"Not your fault, is it." 

"Still." 

"Just don't whinge on about it to Dave, alright? It's still- hard. He took it hard. You're not his favorite person right now." 

"Was I ever?" 

Henry pinches him. "Don't start."

Nick shoves his hand off, rubbing at the skin. "I won't. Go on about it, I mean. Promise." 

Henry turns his head to kiss Nick's temple, and Nick slowly closes his eyes. 

---

He goes out for a production lunch with Matt that Wednesday - a rarity, since they're technically still off til the week after, but Matt's got a vision for autumn, apparently. 

When Nick gets back from the toilet, Matt's checking his phone and there's two bottles of beer on the table. 

Nick slides into his seat, gulps his water, and Matt says without looking up, "Got you a Stella." 

"Yeah, I'm alright," Nick says. "Thanks, though." 

Matt looks up, setting his phone on the table. "C'monn, Nick, be a lad for once," he says, laughing a little. 

"I'm off booze, actually," Nick says, keeping his face very blank. "It's a cleanse. Pix and I have been doing it for a while." 

"Well, I won't tell her if you don't," Matt says, nodding at the beer. "Go on. It's a Friday and it's afternoon, I'm surprised you're not halfway through a pitcher of sangria by now."

"Shut up," Nick says, snorting, and he takes another sip of his water, says, "So, why'd Lizzy text me this morning asking if you were going to have to work over the weekend? Are you goooing somewhere, Matt Fincham? Romantic holiday?" 

Matt rolls his eyes, and then says, "Drink your beer, I feel like an idiot drinking by myself." 

He's weirdly conscious of things like that. Nick drinks by himself all the time. Well, like, by himself when he's with his friends but they aren't drinking. 

God, he used to go out with Sadie when she was knocked up and get plastered. She'd have to drag him home. Practicing that mothering instinct, Nick used to joke.

And now he's the one who's- 

He takes another forceful gulp of water. "It's a cleanse," he whines. "I'm trying to be good." 

Matt looks up at him, eyebrows furrowing. 

"How long's the thing supposed to last, anyway?" he says. "Since when have you been doing it?"

"Ummm, like. Last weekend?" Nick says, peering at his menu. He's sweating a bit, at his temples. 

"Last weekend," Matt says slowly. 

"Yeah, it's a like a long-term-ish thing," Nick says lightly. "Ooh, I want chips. Chips with cheese." 

"You can eat chips on a cleanse?" Matt asks, picking up his menu as well. 

"It's just a booze thing," Nick says hastily. Fucking hell, can Matt just let it alone? 

There's a moment of silence as they peruse their menus, and then Matt puts his down and says, "Tuesday morning you were sick in the toilet and you told me you had a hangover." 

Nick forces himself not to look up from the menu, even as his pulse picks up a notch. He thought Matt wouldn’t give that a second thought. The puking’s been way down in the past month, he thought he was safe.

"Mm," he says loudly. "I fancy a burger, what about you?" 

"You've been hungover a lot," Matt says, slowly. "More than usual. And not just - you've been puking sometimes. Like all the time last month, in the mornings, you’d be sick-" 

"I just had a stomach bug for a bit," Nick says, forcing a laugh. "Christ, can you drop it?" 

“And you're on a cleanse, so why would you-" Matt says, and then his face shudders with shock, and he looks up at Nick with his eyes so wide Nick can't really escape them. Oh, fuck. This is probably it. 

"You- are you-" Matt stammers. "Are you-" 

Nick laughs again, loud and fake. "Jesus, what? Can you put your tongue back in your mouth? We’re in public." 

"Oh my god, I'm such an idiot," Matt murmurs to himself. "I'm such an idiot." 

"Finally he admits it-" 

"You're pregnant," Matt says, staring at him. "Aren't you?" 

Nick attempts a laugh, but it comes out weird and choked. 

"No," he says, breathless. "That's - that's ridiculous." 

"You've been sick in the mornings, you haven't been drinking, you keep having random doctor's appointments in the afternoons, and you've put on weight-" 

"Hey!" 

"Oh my god, ohmygod, oh my god," Matt mumbles, covering his face with his hands. "I- I can't believe this. I can't believe I didn't figure it out sooner." 

Nick feels a little bit like he might cry. Not that he expected Matt to be overjoyed, but like. Matt's acting like he's just heard Nick's got cancer, not a little human inside him. 

"Yeah, well, don't bloody worry about it, alright," Nick says, lifting his menu again to hide his glassy eyes. "It won't fuck up the show." 

"It won't-" Matt repeats, dazedly, and then the menu's being yanked down and Matt's peering at him angrily. "Christ, Nick, is that why you didn't - I'm just surprised, alright? Don't act like I'm mad, I'm not bloody angry with you." 

"I know that," Nick says acidly. "And you wouldn't have a bloody right to be."

"I know," Matt says, watching him. "Shit. I just - shit. You're - you're really pregnant." 

Nick shrugs, sticking a fingernail into his mouth. "That's what they tell me." 

"Jesus," Matt breathes. "How long's it been?" 

"Sixteen weeks," Nick says. "Tomorrow.”

"Four months, and you didn't tell me?" Matt says, and then immediately breathes out slowly. "Shit, sorry. I'm just. I didn't think you'd. I just didn't even know you wanted-" 

"I didn't want it," Nick snaps. "I didn't know it was going to fucking happen." 

"Are you alright?" Matt asks, voice going quieter. "Like, are you alright with this?" 

Nick has to swallow suddenly, a hot lump sitting in his throat. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says, and isn't that a simplification. Fine. Is he fine? He's got no clue how he is, but it's happening, and he'll figure it out. He's got a few months yet. 

"You're going to- I mean, you'll, you know- like, you're gonna-" 

"I'm keeping it, yeah, Matt," Nick says sharply, and a waiter steps up to the table, appearing out of nowhere with a notepad in hand. 

"What can I get you?" he says, grinning sunnily down at them. Matt blinks at him like he's just resurfaced from a scuba dive. 

"Um," he says. "I- burger. Chips. Please." 

"Same for me," Nick says quickly, and the waiter takes their menus and leaves. 

Matt leans in again, and Nick really doesn't feel like dealing with the inevitable question, so he says quickly, "I'm doing it by myself. Just. So you know." 

Matt sits back, chagrined. Takes a sip of his beer. 

"So you can save all the who's-the-father questions," Nick says, not looking at him, fiddling with his napkin. "Alright? He’s not in the picture." 

"Alright," Matt says. "Sorry." 

Nick shrugs with one shoulder, drags his fingernail down the center of the napkin and watches it shred. 

"Anyway," he says. "Let's not talk about it. Boring." 

"We're gonna have to talk about it later," Matt says warningly. "About, you know. Press stuff, what it'll mean for the show. Paternity leave, all that." 

Nick huffs out a sigh. "Yeah, I know, Fincham, but that's like ages away." 

Matt stares at him for a second, considering, and then his mouth curves up at the corner, giddily.

"You're gonna be a dad," he says, grinning. "That's amazing, Nick." 

Nick goes red. 

"It's a bit alright, innit," he says. 

"Little radio baby," Matt says, looking a little misty. "Bring it into studio. Get it little teeny headphones. Fifi'll probably drop it-" 

"Fifi's not coming anywhere near this infant," Nick laughs, and Matt snorts. 

"Yeah, good point. Its first word'll be, like, Heat Magazine. Or Paolo Nutini. Keep that child away." 

---

"What’s Harry Styles up to now?" Matt says on air the week after, laughing, craning across the desk to look at the Heat magazine Nick’s poring over. 

"Same old same old," Nick says. "Island living. Probably sipping from a coconut as we speak." 

The photo of Harry is grainy, far-away, but you can tell it’s him. His tattoos. He’s shirtless, in short yellow shorts, climbing onto a boat. 

"I want to be on an island right now," Fiona says dreamily. 

"With Harry Styles? Wow, Fi." Matt snorts. "Nick, are you passing the torch?" 

"Do you think that joke will ever get old?" Nick says, keeping his voice very light. Harry’s face is too far away to tell, but Nick bets he’s happy. He wonders if Harry’s, like, found himself yet. 

"Probably not," Matt says brightly. "Play a song, Nick, we’re on radio." 

"Oh alright," Nick sighs, reading the last line of the article again - Our source said, “It doesn’t seem like Harry wants to come back anytime soon. He’s having the time of his life away from the cameras and the pressure.” 

He swallows, and hits play on some Disclosure, starts reading the article over again from the beginning, helplessly. 

"I’d just wanna be away from you lot," Fiona says, wrestling a piece of paper away from Matt, laughing, and Nick jumps when Ian puts a hand over the photo, slides the magazine away from him. 

"Hey," Nick whines. 

Ian gives him a look, and picks up the magazine, tosses it to Fiona, who immediately starts flicking through it. 

"Don’t," Ian says into his ear. 

"I’m fine," Nick mutters back, surly. He digs out his phone. 

"That better be off, Nick!" Matt calls. "Harry probably doesn’t have reception on that island, anyway!" 

"Fuck off," Nick snaps, and he means for it to be funny, but it comes out a little too sharp. He looks down at his phone. "Enough with the Harry stuff. It’s old."

He glances up from his phone, and - oh. Shit. Matt’s watching him with his eyes wide, and Nick feels like a deer in headlights. God, he hates that face, when Matt figures something out. He really hates it. And he’s seen it too often lately. 

Matt looks down, his face gone pale, and starts shuffling determinedly through some papers. 

Nick catches Ian’s eye. He looks worried. 

Fiona’s still flipping through Heat, blessedly unaware. 

"My god, look at Ariana Grande’s hair,” she says. “It’s amazing. How does she do that?” She pokes at her own curly hair absently. “Remember when she only wore that high ponytail?” 

"Yeah," Nick says, distracted. "Wait, lemme see this magical hair." 

When the song ends he launches into a link about Ariana Grande’s hair, and doesn’t think about Harry again, or what Matt thinks he knows, or anything. 

---

Matt stops him after the show, of course. 

"I’m in like a massive hurry," Nick says, hastily, buttoning up his jacket. "I’ve got meetings." 

"I know your schedule, you know," Matt says. "Kind of part of being your producer. To, like, know stuff about you-" 

"Matt." 

"Does he know?" Matt says, very quietly. "About- about the baby?"

Nick exhales. “Matt, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.” 

"Am I?" Matt says, low. 

"Yes," Nick laughs. "Don’t be stupid." 

"He doesn’t even know, does he?" Matt whispers. "You haven’t told him." 

"This is not something we’re going to talk about." Nick pushes his arm away when Matt tries to grab his shoulder. "Okay?" 

"Everyone’s going to ask," Matt says. "When you start telling people- you know. Everyone is going to ask you, Nick. It’s the first place they’ll look." 

"They can ask whatever they want," Nick says, forcing a smile. "It’s all just rumors."

"He’ll find out about it."

"That’s the thing, though," Nick says. "He won’t. Because he is conveniently located on a fucking desert island with no phone or Internet." 

"Not forever, Nick-" 

"Enough time." Nick grabs his bag. "He’ll be there long enough." 

"Nick-" 

"I’m not going over this with you," Nick snaps. "See you tomorrow." 

---

A week later he has a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon, the first one he’s gone to on his own. Usually he’d have someone along - Daisy or Collette or Aimee or Pix - but everyone was busy or out of town or working so it’s just him. 

They look at the baby together, Nick and Dr. Sani, and she points out where the feet are, and the hands, and Nick stares at the screen until his eyes blur, gel drying on his stomach. 

"Let me get a print-out for you, Nick," Dr. Sani says, patting his hand. She leaves Nick alone in the room to get dressed again, and Nick doesn’t look at himself in the mirror while he shrugs his shirt on. He can feel it, anyway, the way he’s starting to show. Nearly five months. Thank god it’s all happening as summer slides into autumn and he can wear jumpers without looking mental. That’ll give him another month or so before it starts to get obvious. A month is ages. He’ll figure out how to explain it by then, probably.

He looks up when Dr. Sani knocks and comes back in, hands him the sonogram. 

"Now, at your five-month appointment we’ll be able to determine the gender, if that’s something you want to do," she says, sliding a piece of paper across her desk to him. Nick peers at it, and then looks back at the sonogram. 

"Yeah, I’ve definitely got to find it out," he says. "I’m no good with surprises." 

"I think you’ve been dealing with this one pretty well so far," Dr. Sani says, nodding at his belly, and Nick grins at her. 

"Was that a joke, Dr. Sani?” 

"It was as close as I’ll ever get," she says, squeezing his arm. "Take care of yourself, Nick. Call if you need to get in sooner than two weeks." 

"Yeah, cheers," he says, and she waves him out. In the waiting room there’s a woman leaning against a man’s shoulder, her belly big, her eyes closed. Nick smiles at the man, looks away. 

In the front seat, he looks at the picture for a while more before he starts the car. It’s so mad. It’s so, so mad to look at it. 

Nick keeps all the sonograms in a drawer in his desk, in case someone who doesn’t need to know comes over to his flat. 

Harry would probably put it up on the fridge with a magnet. A baby magnet bought specially for the occasion, with We’re expecting on it. Probably send out copies to his mum and dad. He’d probably cry when Dr. Sani found the heartbeat for the first time. 

He will, someday. With someone else.

Nick huffs a sour laugh at the thought, and carefully tucks the papers aside, turns up the radio to drown out all the woe-is-me thoughts, and takes off. 

---

He can't bloody fall asleep, that night. He's been lying there for forty minutes and he can't fall asleep. He keeps thinking the baby's kicking, even though that's not supposed to happen yet, but it's probably just all the pizza he ingested for tea doing terrible things to his insides. 

He checks the clock, winces. Nearly twelve. He'll have to get up in the morning after five hours sleep - if he ever even sleeps at all. 

The thought makes him shiver, and he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand like a security blanket, swipes it open. 

Harry Harry Harry - no. Nope. No reading their old texts, some of which Nick has taken screenshots of like a mad person. No. 

He calls Aimee instead, because Aimee distracts him best. 

"Hi, babe," Aimee says after two rings. "What's up?" 

"Nothing," Nick says. "Can't sleep." 

"Is this a booty call?" she says, laughing, and he hears a muffled protest in the distance. 

"Ian there?" 

"Yeah. Why can't you sleep, babe? Don't tell me you had too much coffee-" 

"No," Nick sighs. "Lots of dairy though." 

"Ew, I don't need the gory details." 

Nick huffs out a laugh, digs his head back into his pillow. He's lying on his side facing the wall. Pig's snugged up against his back so he really shouldn't feel lonely, and yet. Here he fucking is. 

"I just- I dunno. Just wanted to say good night to someone, I guess." 

Aimee breathes for a second, and Nick squeezes his eyes shut.

"Ugh, don't ever repeat that to anyone." 

"Won't," she says. "It's okay. Love you, you know that?" 

"Yeah," Nick mumbles. 

There's a silence. Nick can hear her breathing.

"Aims?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you think, like. Do you think I'm ever gonna, like, figure something out, with someone?" He's sleepy and the words come out jumbled and it's a bit embarrassing. 

"Figure something out?" she asks, voice quiet. 

"Like, I just, I - I keep thinking about it just being me and the - you know, like forever, like what if it's honestly just me forever and I have to do it all by myself?" 

His voice breaks on the last word, and he puts a hand over his face. 

"Oh god," he says. "Just forget I said that, okay? That was so whiny. I’m being so whiny. I'm going to bed-" 

"Babe," Aimee interrupts. "Babe." 

"I'm going to bed!" 

"Don't fucking hang up the phone, Nicholas." 

Nick stops, chews his bottom lip. 

"You're not going to be by yourself," Aimee says softly. "I promise. Okay? It feels like that right now, because it's late and you're tired, but I promise that's not what it's going to be. Maybe right now but not always." 

"How do you know, though," Nick mumbles. 

"Because I just know. Because I know everything, Nicholas." 

Nick huffs out a laugh. 

"D'you want me to come over?" Aimee asks. 

"No, no, I'm fine." 

"I can if you want." 

"It's fine, Aims. Honestly." 

She sighs. 

"Good night," Nick whispers. 

"Good night," she says back. "Love you." 

"Love you too." 

"Just try to relax and go to sleep, okay?" 

"Yeah." 

"G'night." 

"Night," Nick mumbles, and he hangs up, drops his phone on the nightstand and digs his face into his pillow. 

---

The next morning Ian shows up at 8:30 with a cheese and bacon toastie from Pret, which he places delicately in front of Nick and then awkwardly pats his shoulder. 

"Morning!" he says brightly, before dashing away to the other side of the desk to get in front of a mic.

Nick's face goes red, and he pokes at his toastie. 

"Awww, look at you," Fiona coos. "Lads!" 

"Toastie lads!" Ian says. "Good morning, everybody!" 

"Ian, did you just bring Nick breakfast?" Matt says. 

"You know what, I just thought, Nick doesn't get enough appreciation for waking up at half-five every morning-" 

"Where's my toastie then!" Fiona demands. 

"I'd like a yoghurt, please, Ian-" Matt adds. 

"Hush, all of you," Nick says, authoritatively, and then he grins. "Let me eat my toastie in peace." 

Fiona mutters something threatening, shaking her head. 

Nick intros the next song and then digs in. It really is pretty amazing. Ian's still a little shithead who shouldn't have heard whatever crap Nick was spewing on the phone last night, but he's temporarily forgiven.

"Good?" Ian says, sliding over to him in his office chair. 

Nick shrugs noncommittally, even though he's just taken a massive bite. He swallows, and says, "You know what, I miss the days when I could talk to my best mate without my bloody coworker listening in." 

"S'not my fault!" Ian yelps. "We're married, she's right next to me, I'm not gonna pop in earplugs every time you call."

Nick gives him a look. 

"Codependency is a serious problem, Ian," he says loftily. 

"For Aimee and you, maybe," Ian says right back, and Nick holds his glare for a minute before he breaks and snorts, takes another bite of his toastie and kicks Ian’s chair away. 

---

3.9.17: OH BABY: IS RADIO ONE'S GRIMMY ACTUALLY KNOCKED-UP? 

We're not the type to judge what anyone puts in their mouth. Beach bods or no, we understand the appeal of cheese n' chips as much as the next girl. So of course we were outraged by the latest drivel from professional provocateur Perez Hilton about our beloved Grimmers, Radio One DJ extraordinaire and best mate of MIA Harry Styles. Perez had some nasty words to tweet on Friday… 

"@grimmers is eating himself through the heartbreak of losing @Harry_Styles to an island apparently…" 

"@grimmers Unless you'd like to share some news with us?? Little miracle on the way? #foodbaby [tongue emoji]" 

OK, Perez. Those in glass houses or whatevs… But we have to admit his tweets got us thinking. According to a source who spoke to Heat Mag, ol' Grimmy's actually got a baby on the way. 

"Nick's really excited. He's finally decided to start a family and doesn't want to wait for the right guy anymore." 

"He's been trying for a long time and gone to several sperm banks. This time it took and he's so ready for fatherhood." 

Squee! Can we even IMAGINE the adorableness of a baby Grimmy? The Instagram selfies alone would probably kill us dead. Grimbles hasn't commented on the story, so we'll take it all with a hefty grain of salt, but we at Sugarscape would be totally chuffed. Totally available for babysitting, Nick! If baby-crazy Hazza doesn't get the job first, of course…

What d'ya reckon? Is our favorite DJ "Nick'ed-up" or just getting started early on his winter body? Comments purlease!

---

"Hey Ian," Nick says, setting a copy of Heat magazine down on the desk at ten minutes past nine. There's an unflattering photo of his stomach on page three, but Nick's pointedly ignoring it. "You fancy seeing something?" 

"Yeah," Ian says gamely, sliding over next to him. "What has Justin Bieber done now? Other than become irrelevant?" 

"Shut up, Bieber is eternal," Nick says, and then he opens the magazine, shows Ian the sonogram he's got hidden inside. It feels a bit 16 And Pregnant, showing someone his baby right between an article about Brangelina's kid going off to school and Zac Efron getting back together with his High School Musical girlfriend. 

"Whoa," Ian whispers, reaching out and tugging the photo towards him. 

Nick checks to make sure the cameras are off. 

"Yeah," he says. "Mad, innit?" 

"Yeah." Ian's staring down at it. "When'd you get this?" 

"Doctor's appointment last week," Nick says quietly, squinting at the sonogram. "See, look, that's its arm. Or. Or maybe that's its leg, I can't remember. Looks like a leg. Hard to tell. Just looks a bit blobby, I guess." 

"That's amazing," Ian breathes. "Jesus, Nick. This is actually happening." 

"I know." 

"That's, like, inside you. Like a tiny blob person. Inside you. A tiny blob version of you." 

Nick snorts. "I know." 

"When're you gonna find out if it's a boy or a girl?"

"Next appointment," Nick says, stomach clenching nervously. "Five months." 

Ian grins at him, a secret little grin, eyebrows raising. "What do you think, then? Got a prediction?" 

Nick shakes his head, looks back down at the photo. 

"Got nothing," he says. "No clue." 

"Oh c'mon." 

"I don't!" he laughs. "I don't even know how I'd go about making a guess." 

Ian shakes his head, faux-disappointed. "Nicholas." 

"I don't," Nick repeats, running a hand through his quiff. "All I know is that I'll have to tell people soon. Even the Mail's jumped on it now. Who the fuck came up with me going to some sperm bank?" 

"You look normal, I think," Ian says. "Just a bit, like, puffy?" 

"Oh thanks." 

Ian snorts. "Puffy was a bad choice, I'm sorry. Bit nasty." 

Nick kicks him under the table, and then slides the sonogram and magazine back into his bag. "I dunno. I feel like I look massive. Heat says I've got a definite bump-" 

"Nick, you're back on," Matt calls, mouth full of cereal, huddling safely away from the microphones. 

Nick slides back up to the desk just as Selena Gomez fades out, and says, "Some Selena for you there, and before that some HAIM, the latest off their third record, that was Take Me. It is a Friday morning and I am feeling it, aren't you, Finchy?" 

"Oh yeah," Matt says, wiping his mouth. 

"How about you, little Ian? Had to come in at six-thirty cos Fiona's away doing who knows what. Still feeling alright?" 

"I feel great, actually," Ian says cheerily.

"Don't get too excited, Fiona'll make you switch shifts," Matt says, wagging his finger.

"Yeah, careful, Ian." Nick laughs. "You don't want this life." 

---

He makes it one more week before it gets urgent. He wakes up one morning, stumbles over to the toilet for a piss, and gets caught up staring at the curve of his belly. 

It's not like, awful. He's been bigger. Maybe not since he was about nineteen and very emotionally attached to potatoes, but it's still passable. It's just - it shows, and people won't stop going on about it, and it's not going to go away.

Maybe it's time. 

---

"Wait, no," Aimee says later that night, leaning over to peer at the screen of Nick's phone. "Don't say that bit about how far along you are. People can figure it out." 

"Just say it's due in February, maybe?" Ian suggests, stealing Daisy's drink and taking a gulp. 

"Good lord," Nick mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was all gung-ho about telling people this morning, but he didn't know it'd be such a pain in the arse. "Can't I just tweet - Was an immaculate conception. I am the next coming of Christ. Jesus Beyoncé Grimshaw will appear fully formed at some point next year." 

Aimee snorts. "As amazing as that would be, babe, no, you can't actually say that." 

"What'd your agent say again?" Ian asks. 

"Keep it short, under three tweets, be discreet, don't try and be too funny, don't mention anything about - you know." 

"Harry," Daisy says. "We all know, Grim." 

Nick sighs. Daisy pats his shoulder.

"Alright," he says, opening his Twitter app. “Let’s do this.”

"Wait!" Aimee yelps, pulling his hands off. Nick nearly tweets Awejhjlkasfjd. "Write it in a note first, you'll end up accidentally hitting Post and causing a meltdown with some half-finished tweet you didn't even edit." 

"I don't edit my tweets, Aimee. A free-flowing stream of witticisms, me. Can't be tamed." 

"Last week you literally called me and read one out before you posted it to see if I'd think it was funny," Ian says dryly. “And I said it wasn’t and you posted it anyway.”

"You're editing this one, idiot," Aimee says firmly, pulling up a blank note. 

Nick sighs. "Fine." 

He exhales, types - Guess what?

"What?" Aimee says, horrified. "What? You are not writing guess what." 

"Guess what, tweeps!" Ian chirps, in an awful imitation of Nick's voice. "Knocked up, yo! Siiiick!" 

Nick shoves him, as Daisy giggles. 

"Here," Aimee says bossily, grabbing the phone from him.

Good news everyone! she types. Baby Grimshaw is a go!! Yes, the rumors are true. I'm not just bulking up for the winter. 

"That’s nasty!" Nick protests. Ian snorts. Aimee keeps typing, hitting Enter to start on a new line.

Due February 2018. I expect baby's first album to drop shortly after . Wish me luck in not drinking [skull emoji] and y'know being a Dad or whatever. [baby emoji] [thumbs up emoji]

"That does kind of sound like you, Nick," Ian says, hushed. "Aims, you're a genius." 

"Oh, I could ghost-tweet for Nick with one hand tied behind my back," Aimee says, smugly. 

"What about, like - you know. The dad," Nick says, reading the tweets a few times. He'll admit they're not terrible. An adequate imitation of Nick's natural charm and wit. "People'll start asking." 

"Let them," Aimee says, voice fierce like she'll personally go find anyone who bothers Nick and club them round the head. 

"We'll figure something out," Daisy says from his other side, softly. "Just avoid anyone's questions." 

"They'll ask about Harry," Nick says, forcing out a sour laugh. "I mean, they'll directly ask about him, they already do." 

"Then say no, or no comment, or ignore them," Aimee says. "I dunno, Nina'll be able to figure something out, right?" 

Nick nods, slowly. He copies the first one, opens up Twitter, pastes it into the actual textbox. 

"Well," he says. "Are we doing this?" 

Aimee looks it over again, humming thoughtfully. 

"Maybe three exclamation points after the second sentence?" she says. "And, like, an emoji at the beginning?" 

"Aubergine and okay sign?" Nick asks, innocently. 

Aimee snorts.

"What about the little bells and confetti," Ian suggests. “Festive.”

"Smug moon," Daisy says. 

"Heart eyes smiley face?" Aimee adds. 

Nick studies the screen, painstakingly adds the wide-open-eyes emoji to the very beginning of the tweet, and hits Send. 

"Holy shit," Aimee says. 

"You just, like, went for that." Ian sounds awed. 

"Free-flowing stream of- of witticisms, I told you," Nick says weakly, immediately feeling queasy with a wave of post-tweet regret. He stares at the phone. Bloody fucking hell. This is actually happening. It’s not like he would’ve been able to hide it for too much longer, anyway, but still.

"Quick, do the second one," Aimee says, and Nick hastily opens up the note where Aimee's typed it out, copies it. 

In another ten seconds, that one's sent as well. They're both, like, out there. Nick's notifications keep blinking, too fast to count. 

"Shit," he says. "Shit. Oh god. Everyone knows." 

"Get ready for the storm, babe," Aimee says softly. 

Nick tosses his phone aside, hands shaking. 

"Let's watch telly," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "And, like, do nothing. Someone take my phone away from me. Someone fetch the crisps." 

Ian slips Nick's phone into his pocket, and Daisy helps him up from the chair, Nick's legs gone wobbly. 

They're good about it - set him up on the sofa with all the blankets he’s got, and salt and vinegar crisps and Ribena and chocolate and the remote. Nick eats and gossips about this year's Strictly contestants and tries not to break into hysterical tears. 

What if Harry sees?

He won't. He can't. Harry hasn't tweeted in months. He hasn't posted a photo to Instagram, or texted anyone, or even favorited something. 

Well, he hasn't texted Nick. Nick can't be sure who else he's talking to. 

The point remains - Harry is entirely off the grid. On an island pursuing greater things than wi-fi and celebrity gossip. No time at all to open up Twitter and see that the bloke he fucked without a condom six months ago is now suspiciously knocked-up. Harry’s no Einstein, but he can put two and two together, if he had any inclination to glance at his phone. 

He won’t. Nick just knows he won't. Harry’s gone for good this time. 

Better this way, innit.