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The moment Nick steps into his apartment he can tell that something is just slightly off. The kitchen light is on, but he can’t remember if he had just left it like that when he went out or if there’s something more sinister going on. Now that he thinks about it, the deadbolt had already been unlocked when he had put the key in the front door. Although it’s not like he’s never forgotten to lock the top lock when he’s run out of his apartment in the morning, still groggy at 5:50 am when he’s on his way to his fabulous gig hosting the breakfast show.
And yet, Nick feels like someone has been here, which is weird, because if one of his friends had used their key to get into his flat, then Nick would know immediately. Harry would be cooking in the kitchen or Aimee would be blasting music or a whole group of them would be yelling profanities at one another and shrieking with laughter and yelling out “Grimmy!” as if they were living in the bar from Cheers. (Nick’s never seen the show, but he’s heard the jingle about going where everybody knows your name enough times to get the gist of it all.)
The only thing in Nick’s entrance is a multitude of shoes because he cannot be arsed to put them away after toeing them off at the front door. There’s a pair of heels that Nick is almost positive is not his, but he can’t figure out who left a pair of heels here and how that person got home without shoes. He grabs one, thankful that they’re clunky and heavy, and slowly heads down the hallway, feeling a bit stupid as he looks into the kitchen to find nothing out of place. The chairs are just how he left them, there are plates in the sink still and there is nothing amiss that would let Nick know that there’s a killer or obsessive fan or disgruntled one night stand hiding somewhere in his home.
Shoulders relaxing, Nick prepares to chuck the heel back toward the entranceway when he notices his bedroom door is mostly closed, which… No. Nick never pulls his bedroom door closed, even when he’s got people over because all his friends have snooped through his room enough that there’s literally nothing to hide. They’ve seen his porn and his messy floor and even the shrine to Harry Styles. To be fair, Fincham made that shrine as a joke and Nick kept it because a lot of work had been put into it and most of the pictures are of both Nick and Harry, so it mostly looks like a shrine to their friendship. Plus, one of Nick’s favorite pictures of himself is in that shrine and he’s narcissistic enough to want that picture out somewhere he can see it whenever he wants.
Nick pauses outside of the bedroom door, listening intently, but there’s no noise to indicate someone breathing heavily into his pants or something, so he nudges the door open and peeks in. Inside, everything looks just fine. His things haven’t been rummaged through, it’s just as messy as he left it this morning, although… there’s definitely something underneath his sheets, something shaking a little.
That’s when Nick realizes he’s got a teenage pop star crying in his bed.
Nick has a good idea why Harry is crying, and it probably has something to do with that horrible magazine feature that claimed Harry had hooked up with 410 women over the last year. A number that Nick knows cannot be true. One, he’s spent too much time with Harry for the kid to have hooked up with multiple women a day that many times. Two, Harry is a very loyal boyfriend — unfortunately not to Nick, but to Louis Tomlinson. Such is the way of the world that young and pretty pop stars hook up and fall in love with each other and not with their older, messy, scatterbrained DJ friend.
“Hey, Harold,” Nick says gently, placing the heel onto his dresser. Harry curls up a little tighter and Nick can now hear the sniffles and sharp breathes Harry is taking.
They’ve talked about this before, the image that Harry’s management is portraying of him, so Nick doesn’t think there’s anything to be said because it just upsets Harry more. He hates that all these people think he’s not only out partying every night (although, to be fair, he is out partying a fair amount and usually Nick is there encouraging it), but he’s also hooking up with multiple girls each time. He hates it because it’s not true of him — he wouldn’t care if it was true, but that’s not who he is. Harry Styles was not a womanizing horndog, he was a devoted and in love teenager who wanted nothing more than to hold hands with his boyfriend in public and kiss in front of fans and let everyone know just how happy Louis Tomlinson made him.
As someone who didn’t do relationships, Nick found Harry’s devotion just a little nauseating in how sweet it was. And to make it worse, the one time Nick had teased Harry that all he wanted was for Louis to put a ring on it so they could get married and raise little curly-haired troublemakers, Harry had gotten all soft-eyed and smiley before pointing out that was biologically impossible, and Nick had wanted to vomit from it while also falling a little in love with Harry and wishing maybe just a bit that Harry and he could get married and raise little hipsters with curly hair and big smiles and ridiculously long legs (not to mention fantastic taste in music).
“No one believes what the media says about celebrities anyway,” Nick says gently and lays down on top of the sheets, but curls up behind Harry. “Everyone knows it’s all about portraying a specific image for sales.”
Of course, people do believe it. Smart people don’t, but the majority of people in the world are, unfortunately, not smart. Nick has seen the comments on Twitter, the people calling Harry a whore and saying he’s disgusting for hooking up with that many people and all sorts of nasty things that would be hard enough to hear if they were based on facts and things Harry had actually done, but must be even worse considering the fact that it’s all a lie anyway.
“I can’t believe this is the image that will sell the most,” Harry says and flops over, flailing for a moment until he freed himself of the sheets to wrap his arms around Nick’s waist and press his face into Nick’s chest.
“Why are you here and not with Louis?”
“I don’t want him to know,” Harry mumbles into Nick’s chest.
“What do you mean?” As far as Nick knows, Louis knows that Harry hates the image management is pushing on him. As far as Nick knows, everyone who has ever met Harry and spoken to him knows he hates it and isn’t anything like the image splashed about in the media.
“He’s trying so hard with Eleanor just so we can be together. He thought this would be easier, him having a fake girlfriend and me dealing with some rumors. But they’ve gotten so bad these last few months.”
Bad is an understatement, Nick thinks. Harry can barely leave his flat without being linked to half a dozen women. He was clinging to Nick, a male friend that he’d never be linked with even if Nick was pretty openly gay. Harry knew that if he went out and left places with Nick, there was less of a chance of people spreading rumors. And when he wasn’t partying with Nick, Harry was becoming something of a recluse, hiding in his flat, sticking with Niall or Liam at all times. Once Harry had been happy to hang out with Nick’s friends, but now Harry hesitates if he knows Pixie or Alexa is going to be there.
“If he knew,” Harry whispers. “It would kill him. I don’t want him to know.”
This would kill Louis and it was so like the two of them to be so selfless when it came to one another that if they weren’t careful their martyrdom would be what ultimately killed their relationship. And though Nick might have a disgustingly unrequited crush on Harry and didn’t get along all that well with Louis, Nick didn’t know if he could bear it if Harry and Louis broke up. His relationship with Harry was odd in that in his head he acted as if all he wanted was for Harry to love him and he played up his crush in public and in front of Louis as if he’d date Harry in a heartbeat, but Nick doesn’t know what he’d do with Harry if he got him (he’s got some idea); Nick doesn’t know what he’d do with a Harry who wasn’t with his soul mate. It’s all very odd and confusing and Nick thinks it’s probably for the best if Harry and Louis stay happy and together forever.
“Lord knows my bed has been witness to plenty of my sobbing and crying and carrying on, so you’re always welcome to it,” Nick says getting a huff of laughter out of Harry. “Just promise me that you’ll let me know. No sneaking in for a quiet cry alone.”
Harry’s arms around Nick’s waist tighten and he nods his face against Nick’s chest.
“Now, this sort of thing should always have a time limit otherwise is can spiral into an unending depression of crying and binge eating and then you’ll lose your girlish figure and the public will hate you for that. How long you been here now?”
“I got here around 9:30,” Harry says.
“9:30! You’ve been here for well over my time limit of 40 minutes!” Nick exclaims and shakes Harry a little. “You might be too far gone. We might not be able to pull you out at this point,” he says going on until Harry is giggling and red faced from smiling and punching at Nick to get him off.
The two of them eventually flop onto their backs on the bed, out of breath and smiling broadly (and fully clothed much to Nick’s chagrin).
“You know what helps me get out of a bad funk?” Nick asks and Harry turns to him as if Nick is about to impart the secret of life instead of what he says: “Food. So get up and make me some.”
And Harry, bless him, just laughs and clambers out of bed and into the kitchen, happy to have someone tell him what to do and happy to move on. When he hears the clinking of pots and pans and the sound of running water that means Harry’s probably cleaning the plates in Nick’s sink, Nick decides he probably should get in there since this is his place and all.