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Nick’s just pouring himself a much-deserved late afternoon glass of wine when his phone vibrates beside him with a tweet.
@Harry_Styles @grimmers I leave you unsupervised for a few weeks and this is what happens??
Nick grins and thumbs over to his contacts. Harry picks up on the first ring.
“Pink, Grimmy? Seriously?”
“I’ll have you know I look very dashing. Girls were swooning.”
“I’m sure they were,” Harry humours him. Nick hears him puttering around wherever he is. Hotel in Manchester, most likely. “Come on skype. I want to see what you’ve done to yourself.”
“There are pictures all over the internet.”
“Spent the day googling yourself again, Grimmy? We talked about this.”
“Oh, fuck you, Styles,” Nick says, but he’s opening up his laptop all the same. There are pictures of Harry all over the internet, too, but that doesn’t mean it’s the same as getting to see him in motion, even if it’s just through the wonders of video calling.
His computer starts ringing the second his connection is established. He ends the call and drops his phone just as Harry’s grinning face appears on his screen.
“Holy fuck. That is really pink.”
“It’s for charity, Harold,” Nick says, sitting primly on the sofa. “You don’t raise money by doing things half-arsed.”
“No, you never do anything half-arsed,” Harry agrees. “Half-drunk on the other hand.”
“Hey!” Nick complains, but without any real feeling. It’s good to see Harry. He’s got a hideous blue beanie pulled down over his curls and some random luxury hotel suite behind him. He looks good. “How was Ireland?”
“Like Niall on crack.”
Nick has no idea what that means, but that’s how he feels about a lot of the stuff that comes out of Harry’s mouth. He’s learned to accept it.
“Give us a little spin, then,” Harry prompts.
Nick’s already sitting down, and he’s certainly not getting back up just so Harry can mock him, but he does turn his head from side to side.
“Very, very pink,” is Harry’s assessment.
Nick rolls his eyes. “Yes. Quite.”
Harry grins, wide and cheeky. “Well, I guess that leaves me with only one question,” he says, his voice dropping into a ridiculous purr. “Does the carpet match the drapes?”
Nick barks out a startled laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Harry smirks at him. “I would, actually. I’ve got this lovely hotel room all to myself, and no plans till later.”
“Oh.” Nick shifts on the sofa. Not the turn he was expecting this call to take. “Right then.”
Harry leans in, quirking an eyebrow at the camera. “What do you say, Grimmy? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”
“I already showed mine to everyone watching this morning,” Nick grumbles, thinking of the way he’d wrenched his shirt open for the Radio One cameras, but he’s already undoing the buttons on his shirt. He has a DJing gig later, but it’s ages away, and all he was planning on doing this afternoon was getting nicely buzzed and trying to forget the less pleasant aspects of that morning.
This will work even better.
“Yeah, I saw that,” Harry complains. “Who gave you permission?”
“Exactly the same person who gives you permission to go flashing yourself to your fans all the time,” Nick laughs.
Harry’s caught with his t-shirt over his face as he whines, “Heeeyyyy. Take that up with Liam and Zayn, not me.”
“I’d rather not.” Nick grins as Harry frees himself from his shirt, revealing the smooth skin and dark ink of his insanely hot popstar torso.
“Come on,” Harry prompts, nodding at the screen. “Let’s see how far down the pink goes.”
“Nothing below the forehead, I’m afraid,” Nick laughs. Harry’s opening his own trousers, and no matter how many times they do this, it’s a sight Nick never tires of. “That bleach burned like a motherfucker.”
Harry laughs, loud, as he shimmies out of his skinnies, tossing them somewhere behind him. Nick thinks it doesn’t matter how many girls—or boys—have posters of Harry on their bedroom ceilings. This is the best view there is: long toned legs, flat stomach, and tight black boxer briefs, framing his half-hard cock. God only knows how much money they would make if they could sell this image.
“You’re falling behind, Grimmy.” Harry leans back against the pillows, positioning the camera with a perfect view up the length of his body. His curls are matted and mussed from being under a beanie all day, looking like sex hair already.
“Yeah, yeah. God, you’d think you were a teenager or something, with how desperate for it you are all the time.” Just the same, Nick wriggles out of his own jeans.
“Yeah, laugh it up,” Harry wrinkles his nose. “You’re going to miss all those jokes in a year.”
Nick’s heart thumps, just like it always does when Harry talks about the future—a future with Nick in it. But all he says is, “Ha! Like I’m still going to be dating you when you’re old at twenty. I’ll have traded in for a new model.”
Harry narrows his eyes at the screen, stroking a hand down his own torso, skating over what Nick knows to be smooth, soft skin, to rest in the crease of his thigh, highlighting the bulge in his boxer briefs. Nick groans. “You want to rethink that statement?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Nick always caves like a house of cards when there’s sex on the table. He’s not ashamed.
“Good boy,” Harry smirks, cupping himself through the fabric, giving his dick a little stroke. “Come on, get your cock out. I want to see.”
“Goddammit, Styles,” Nick groans. If his dick hadn’t been fully hard before, it was now. He leans back on the sofa, getting comfortable, before shoving his boxers down over his hips. Harry licks his lips as Nick strips off, and Nick’s dick gives a twitch at the sight. God, he remember how good those lips feel on him. Fuck world tours.
“Wish you were here,” he groans, curling a hand around himself.
“Yeah? What would you do with me if I was?” Harry’s shoved his boxers down just enough to get himself out, long and thick and pink at the tip—even pinker than Nick’s hair.
“Get you on your knees,” Nick says, giving himself a nice stroke to the image.
“God, you’re so predictable,” Harry complains, but his hand is moving over his dick, his eyes fixed Nick.
“You were born with cocksucking lips, Styles. Deal with it.”
Harry’s right, Nick is predictable. He gets Harry down on his knees whenever possible, shoving himself between those full, red lips. Harry sucks cock like he was born to do it, eyes closed, mouth open, groaning around it. He sucks cock like he loves it.
Nick’s tugging on himself faster now, letting the image of Harry on his screen, propped up against a sea of pillows and stroking himself hard and fast, mingle with the image in his mind, Harry blinking up at him from under long lashes, his full lips parted around Nick’s length.
“How long is this tour again?”
“Long,” Harry pants, canting his hips upward. “You better get used to jizzing all over your computer screen.”
“Disgusting,” Nick chastises, but his voice cracks as Harry shoves his boxers all the way off, spreading his legs for the camera.
“What was that?” Harry teases, trailing his other hand down between his thighs.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Nick can hear the sound of Harry’s hand working over himself, the slip slide of flesh on flesh. He speeds up his own hand, tightening his fingers around himself. He’s wet already, feeling on the verge just from the sight of Harry, just from the sounds he makes.
“Shit,” Harry groans, rubbing a finger teasingly around his entrance. “The hair is really hot.”
Nick’s so caught up in the feel of his hand on his dick that it takes a second for Harry’s words to register. “What? Really?”
“Yes,” Harry grits out, working just the tip of a finger inside himself. “Makes you look like some filthy hipster club boy. Oh, wait.”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he groans. “You want to pick me up on the dance floor and take me into the bathroom?”
“Ugh. Yes.” Harry’s hand is flying over his dick now, his eyes tracking between Nick’s sweaty pink hair and his flushed pink cock. “I’d take you into one of the stalls and get down on my knees for you right there.”
“Yeah? Would you let me fuck you, right there in that tiny cubicle, people pissing just outside the door?”
“I’d let you push me up against the door and shove it in,” Harry tells him, his finger curling deeper inside. It looks so good Nick isn’t sure how he hasn’t come yet. “Fuck me so hard the whole club would know what we were doing.”
“God,” Nick groans and that’s it, he’s coming over his belly, the image of Harry pressed up against a cubicle door, his cheek smushed against the cool metal as he moans on Nick’s dick burned into his mind.
“Yeah,” Harry grunts. “That looks so good.”
“You look so good.” Nick tells him, panting as he comes down. “Gonna fuck you so hard in two weeks, you’ll barely be able to walk around the stage. Gonna fuck you so hard everyone will know.”
That’s all it takes to push Harry over, his hips arching up as he spills over his fist. He pants, blinking lazily at the computer screen. “Excited for us to get back to London, then?”
“Eh,” Nick says, wiping himself off with his discarded boxers. “Could take it or leave it, really.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry props himself up on his elbows, doing nothing about the mess on his stomach. “I really do like the hair, though.”
“Yeah?” Nick smiles, tugging a hand through his wilting quiff a bit self-consciously. “Guess I’ll have to keep it until April, then.”
The grin on Harry’s face is more than enough to make up for the way Greg had laughed at him that morning.
Nick glances at the clock. “I better go shower for like the twentieth time today,” he tells Harry with a rueful grin.
“Okay. Thanks for…” Harry gestures down at the come glistening on his body with a cheeky grin.
“Any time,” Nick laughs. “Love you, popstar.”
“Love you too, pinkie,” Harry giggles before ending the call.
“Well, that better not become a thing,” Nick groans.