Work Text:
Tick.
By Niall's count, it's almost eleven fifteen.
He's trying not to count in his head, knows it doesn't make anything better, doesn't magically help him fall asleep, but Maura's just bought a fancy new cat clock that sits on the end table in the hallway and he can hear it from here.
Tock.
He rolls onto his side. Everything about the bed is wrong tonight—it's too hot, but somehow also too cold where his feet stick out the bottom. He's kicked the comforter off twice already. Pulled it back up once. It's in a knot bunched somewhere around his knees now, and he doesn't have the energy to fix it.
Tick.
The cat clock was Maura's idea of whimsy. Big plastic thing, black and white, eyes that shift left-right with every second. Niall had thought it was funny when she pulled it out of the box.
He's not laughing now.
Tock.
Ruben's out cold across the room—has been since maybe nine thirty, the bastard.
Niall is envious of Ruben in a lot of little ways, like the ease with which he can talk to girls, the charm that rolls off of him in waves when he actually cares to let it. Right now, he's most envious of Ruben's ability to drop off to sleep without even a little bit of a fight.
Because it's been the fourth day this week that Niall can't fall asleep.
He'd read somewhere—some article in a magazine or a line in a textbook for social studies maybe—about conditioning. That if you can't fall asleep, you're supposed to get out of bed. Make your brain associate your bed with sleeping, not with lying awake and feeling miserable. Niall has tried this. He read in the dim light of the living room for an hour, came back, and the process had started all over again.
Tick.
He feels exhausted, run down, like he's been wrung out and left to dry, but the second his head hits the pillow, his brain decides it's a good idea to think about all sorts of things. Highers. His dad's death. The weird squeaky hinge on the bathroom door. The way the streetlight outside their window flickers in uneven intervals. The fact that he's never really had a proper girlfriend. The fact that he's probably never going to.
Tock.
He sits up. The bed doesn't make a sound, thankfully, but Ruben still lets out a sigh. Niall freezes, listening. Nothing else.
Slowly, carefully, he slides out of bed. His feet are silent on the floorboards as he makes his way across the room. He doesn't know where he's going, not really. Just away from this bedroom, away from the cat clock's ticking. He's halfway to the door when he stops.
Ruben's on his back, one arm flung out over the side of the bed, the other resting on his stomach. The sheets are pooled around his waist. And in the dim, stripy light from the street, Niall can see the shape of him under the thin sheet.
An idea, so insane it's almost brilliant, pops into his sleep-deprived brain. It's the kind of idea that would have him blushing if he were in a normal state of mind, but right now, he's desperate.
He just needs something to quiet his brain, is the thing. Something to relax him. And right now, asleep as he is, Ruben would never even have to know. Right?
He takes another step closer. And then another. He's at Ruben's bedside now, close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of him. Ruben's breathing is deep, even. He's well and truly out.
Niall sinks to his knees beside the bed. His heart is thudding a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs, and his hand is shaking when he reaches out. He hesitates for a second, then gently pulls the sheet down. Ruben is wearing a pair of loose boxers, and Niall can see the soft shape of him.
He feels a weird sort of detachment, like he's watching himself from a distance as he lowers Ruben's boxers just enough to free him. He also feels a jolt of want—the days he's spent watching Ruben from a distance, the months of sharing a room, the quiet, secret hunger he's never allowed himself to name—it all rushes back. But it's muted, distant, underneath the overwhelming, driving need for relaxation.
He leans in, his breath catching in his throat. He can feel the warmth radiating from Ruben's skin. He's so close he can count the faint freckles scattered across his hipbones.
Then he closes the last inch of space between them, and he takes Ruben into his mouth. He feels Ruben stir, a soft sigh, a slight shift of his hips, and Niall freezes, his whole body going tense. But Ruben doesn't wake, just settles deeper into sleep.
Niall lets out a shaky breath, the motion barely a ripple. Ruben is soft against his tongue, and the weight of him, the warm, clean taste of him is strange. It's so, so strange, but it's also... good. It's right.
He slides further so Ruben's cock is right at the back of his tongue, and lets his head rest on Ruben's thigh, the cotton of his shorts cool against his cheek.
And for the first time in four days, the racing thoughts in Niall's brain begin to slow.
The ticking clock fades into the background. The flickering light outside seems less urgent. He closes his eyes, and he breathes.
And it's quiet.
It's so so quiet. He hadn't realized how much noise was in his head until it was gone. He focuses on the feeling of Ruben in his mouth, the steady warmth, the gentle weight, the rise and fall of Ruben's stomach against the back of his head. He's not thinking about anything. Just... feeling.
He can feel himself starting to drift, the edges of his consciousness blurring. The exhaustion that's been nipping at his heels for days finally catches up to him, a warm, heavy blanket.
He's half-asleep, floating in a hazy, peaceful limbo, when he feels it—a slight shift, a tightening, a twitch against his tongue.
His eyes snap open. He can feel Ruben starting to harden, the cock in his mouth growing firm, heavy, alive. A spike of panic jolts through him. He should move. He should pull back, skitter across the room to his own bed.
But he doesn't. He stays perfectly still, his head resting on Ruben's thigh, his mouth full.
Ruben shifts again, a soft, sleepy groan escaping his lips. His hips give a little roll, an unconscious, instinctual movement. Niall can feel him hardening further, just grazing the back of his throat now. A shiver runs through him.
He wants to do something with his tongue, to explore, to taste, but he's frozen, caught in the space between panic and a dawning, terrifying arousal.
He stays like that for a long, tense moment, waiting for Ruben to wake up, to push him away, to say something. But Ruben doesn't. His breathing is still deep and even, and after a minute, he shifts again, thrusting his now semi hard cock deeper into Niall's mouth.
"Hmm," he breathes, a small smile gracing his lips. And then nothing. He's fast asleep again.
Niall stays there, trembling from head to toe. The quiet is back. He's exhausted and he's hard and he's got Ruben's dick in his mouth and for the first time in days, he feels like he might actually sleep.
The ticking of the clock is a distant, harmless sound. The streetlight outside is just a light. The world has shrunk to this: the bed, the darkness, the warm, heavy weight in his mouth.
He gags a little as he takes it even deeper, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye, but then he relaxes and breathes. In. Out. In. Out. He matches it to the slow, steady rhythm of Ruben's breathing, and drifts off like that, half on the floor, half on the bed, his head pillowed on Ruben's thigh, his cock a warm, heavy anchor in his mouth.
When he wakes up, it's still dark. The cat clock has gone blessedly silent for some reason. Niall's neck is stiff, and his jaw is aching, a dull, persistent throb. Ruben's hand is tangled in his hair, a loose, lazy grip.
Niall glances up and goes rigid.
Ruben's eyes are open, fixed on him, something like confusion and a sort of drowsy amusement in them.
He tries to pull back, but the hand in his hair tightens, holding him in place.
Then, as quickly as it tightened, the grip loosens. Niall blinks, and when he chances another look, Ruben's eyes are closed again.
He could have just as easily imagined it, a trick of the light, a half-waking dream. But the memory of Ruben's eyes, dark and knowing in the dim light, is burned into the back of his mind.
Niall pulls away slowly, licking his dry lips, and then crawls back into his own bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin. His heart is still racing, but despite that, he falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
The smell of coffee wakes him. Sunlight is streaming through the window, and for a second, Niall is disoriented. He doesn't remember the last time he woke up to the sun. He feels rested, truly rested, in a way he hasn't in weeks.
The radio clock on the nightstand says it's just after nine.
Ruben's bed is empty, the sheets thrown back. The cat clock on the end table is ticking again, a cheerful, inane sound.
Niall gets up, stretches, and makes his way to the kitchen. Ruben is there, leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hands. He's wearing those same boxers from last night and a faded t-shirt.
"Mornin', Sleeping Beauty," Ruben says, a grin spreading across his face. "Thought you were going to sleep the day away."
Niall grunts something incoherent, his face flushing. He can't meet Ruben's eyes. "Gimme some of that," he says, reaching for the coffee pot.
Ruben hands him a mug. "Rough night?" he asks, and Niall freezes.
He turns, and Ruben is watching him, his expression unreadable.
"Nah," Niall says, a little too quickly. "Slept fine."
"Good," Ruben says, taking a sip of his coffee. "Glad it helped." He says it so casually, like he's talking about the weather, that Niall almost misses it. His throat clicks as he swallows drily, but before he can retort, Ruben speaks again. "Next time though, mind waking me up so I can properly enjoy it?"
Niall's breathing has gone shallow, but he manages to muster up a weak laugh, almost derisive. "What makes you think there's going to be a next time?" he asks. He's aiming for nonchalance, but it comes out breathless, not quite right.
Ruben just grins at him, a knowing, infuriatingly confident thing.
"Oh, Bambers…" He steps forward, reaching out to tilt Niall's chin up. "There's going to be a next time."