Work Text:
When people say genius they think of Albert Einstein and quantum physics and glasses and facts that have them saying “english please!” in obnoxious voices. They don’t really expect a six foot tall seventeen year old suffering from insomnia and OCD who likes to keep his head down and who washes his hands about ten times a day until the skin begins to peel. People don’t expect Harry Styles.
Nothing about his ripped jeans and his gangly limbs scream genius. Until someone takes a look at his test scores, until they listen to him speak about the String Theory as if he was the one who came up with it. So yeah Harry Styles is a genius and he writes on his hand with permanent marker and he counts the amount of steps he takes from his english class to his math and he can’t go to sleep with the door unlocked and when his mom brings cans of soup they are piled in his closet depending on color.
The darker colors go on the bottom, the lighter ones on top.
Harry takes physics courses at the local community college and he’s the top of the class… amongst eighteen through twenty year olds. People expect him to do great things; he on the other hand doesn’t know what he’s going to do yet. And that’s part of his insomnia, part of the reason he doesn’t go to sleep at night and he spends his time roaming around his house and rearranging everything in reach.
He’s never late to his physics class. He’s always there at three thirty sharp, sitting in the third row with his blue physics notebook on the left side of the table and his black pen on the right. His mind is never ever silent. He’s always hearing numbers and formulas and every time he sees someone he thinks about what they were just doing and when they touch his table even if accidently he thinks about all the germs that will be crawling under his skin by the end of the class and it sends tremors through his body.
As soon as class ends he always, always rushes to the bathroom and he scrubs his hands thirty times hard until they are red and peeling.
That’s how he meets Niall Horan.
It’s after physics and his books are neatly on the counter next to him and he’s scrubbing his hands with vigor and tears are brimming because every time he scrubs he can… he can feel the germs. He can feel them living there and he starts to cry, little tears slipping out of the corner of his eyes and he’s sniffling. His desk partner had the flu, she had an endless supply of tissues but Harry knows the facts. The spit from her endless amounts of sneezing could be festering inside of him right now.
“Hey.” A voice says from behind him and he doesn’t even stop. He hears it of course but he doesn’t… doesn’t want to turn around or stop just in case his hands become a raging war field for germs. “Are you alright?” The voice asks again and Harry’s not even looking up at the dirty mirror to find out who is bothering him or anything, it’s him and the running water.
Until it isn’t. Until someone shuts off the water and Harry lets out a small whimper that is akin to a small wounded animal. Harry looks up at the person, his eyes brimming with tears and he just… stops.
~
All of it stops.
~
Harry’s obsessive. His mind is obsessive, his nose is obsessive, his hair is obsessive, hell his whole being is obsessive. His mind is wired he thinks to want or need something and focus on it. His mind he thinks never shuts up.
But he sees a blonde with mind numbing blue eyes and that’s exactly it… his mind is numb. And uneasily silent and it doesn’t feel broken inside of his head anymore, like any moment he might collapse. It is so silent it doesn’t remind him of anything he has ever known. He knows how to connect to loudness; it is the only thing he knows. His mind doesn’t shut up, the world doesn’t shut up. The boy though who is now looking at him with a small smile on his face is shutting it all up.
“Now that I have your attention,” The boy begins slow and careful with eyes focused on Harry. Harry’s eyes dart down and he watches the way his mouth moves. His words are so beautiful… Harry feels so dirty. He steps back, the boy steps closer. “Are you okay?”
No, Harry’s mind screams (it is no longer numb or slowed down. Harry is brought down to earth in a heart smashing collision that begins with his brain and ends with his heart and the synapses inside of him are coming in in all the wrong places. Harry’s mind is now on hyperactive mode. He hears the boy tapping his fingers on the counter top; he thinks he can hear the boy’s eyelashes fanning his pale bony cheeks. He is thinking but it is not of germs or physics…).
“Yes.” Harry’s voice says. And it sounds so shaky because Harry doesn’t use his voice much. Sometimes he mistakes the thoughts flying and floating through his cranium for a voice but they aren’t.
“Good. You seemed pretty shaken.” The boy says softly. Harry’s eyes follow the faint freckles that dot his nose and face. Harry wants to reach over and he wants to touch them… anything. He does not move.
“Sorry.” He finally says.
“Don’t apologize… I’m Niall.” The boy adds his name as a last minute idea and he sticks his hands out and he smiles at Harry again. But then a group of guys steps into the bathroom and Harry flees without so much as acknowledging Niall’s hand.
It is only when he is safely in his car with the doors locked and the windows pulled up that he realizes he left his books in the bathroom. This is when he begins to think of germs but he does not even stop thinking of Niall. He thinks of Niall biting his lip, he thinks of Niall’s freckles, he thinks of Niall’s hands shutting off the faucet.
He has never thought of a person so much until that day. He realizes nobody has ever effectively gotten his attention like that.
~
Just by existing.
~
He cannot do his homework that night. He feels uneasy and he doesn’t feel calm and he knows his mom worries but he writes her a note and he sneaks out of the house. He feels like he is suffocating because his whole routine is out of whack, just because his bag is inside of a bathroom swimming in germs. And the scent of Niall Horan.
~
He walks. And he thinks. And most of it is about Niall Horan.
~
All of it.
~
Harry walks into Starbucks and he counts thirteen steps until he is in front of the barista whose name tag reads Liam. He takes Harry’s order and his name and when he hands Harry his change Harry ducks into his bathroom and he begins to wash his hands.
~
Niall steps out of one of the stalls. His mind never stops escaping him.
~
“We meet again.” Niall Horan is grinning when he says it, as he washes his hands too and their eyes catch in the dirty bathroom mirror. Harry tries to smile like Niall (like it’s easy) but his face hurts and his head does also because he’s reeling from the force of smelling Niall Horan and actually seeing him again in a time span of less than twenty four hours.
“We do.” Harry says. His voice aches and it is scratchy and it is nothing like Niall’s, because Niall’s is thick and it laughs. His voice laughs and Harry thinks he has perfected the art of keeping Harry’s mind hostage.
“I never got your name.”
“It’s Harry.”
“Cool. I don’t know if you remember mine?” Niall says it like a question and Harry actually wants to laugh because… god how could he forget? It’s been spinning his mind like a top all afternoon long and the only thing he’s been able to properly focus on is Niall. His name is an 808 drum on repeat.
“I do.”
“Good! Oh, did you know that you left your bag in the bathroom? It’s in my apartment but I could totally bring it to you tomorrow.” Harry’s mind begins to conjure up ideas of how Niall’s apartment could look like and he wonders if maybe Niall’s messy or maybe he’s impeccably neat and maybe somehow Harry’s bag fits into his apartment. Maybe it looks like it belongs there. Harry pictures himself inside of Niall’s apartment.
He pictures them kissing. He pictures them kissing. He pictures… them… kissing.
And he’s never ever pictured himself kissing someone before.
“Okay.” Harry says.
“Cool! Where should I meet you in the school tomorrow?”
~
There is this saying.
He wishes he could remember it. He thinks it relates to Niall. But nowadays everything is Niall.
~
They become friends.
And it’s odd because Harry doesn’t have friends. Doesn’t have people who hang around and listen to him and he doesn’t have people who’ll allow him to listen to them. Niall tells him he’s studying to become a photographer. Harry watches Niall with wide eyes, eyes that scream awe.
He has never met someone like that. Two weeks after they meet Niall says,
“I want you to meet my friends.” Harry starts to panic, starts to feel faint at the knees. He’s never been a good socializer, it doesn’t really fit into his neurotic brain that speaking and actually pitching ideas is something that is relevant in leading a normal life. Niall touches him softly (Niall always touches him softly… Harry’s never felt like porcelain before),
“You’ll be fine.”
“I… can’t.” Harry stutters the words out harshly and his throat feels dry like he ate a bunch of chocolate and forgot to drink milk. He looks down at Niall’s hand intertwined with his and Harry has never not wanted to wash his hands until Niall began to touch him.
It’s weird and it’s twisted and Harry would love to live under Niall’s skin. Under his thoughts. But he thinks he’s rotten, he thinks instead of planting flowers (like he wants, like Niall deserves) he would plant grenades. It would be unintentional. All of his mistakes usually are.
But wanting Niall… loving him. It doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It just feels tragic.
~
Harry meets Niall’s friends. Harry doesn’t touch any of them.
There is Liam who is nice and a bit foul mouthed with a shaved head (he is also the barista at the Starbucks that one time). And then there’s Louis who is bubbly and bouncing off the walls and Harry feels nervous around him, like he should be on guard all the time. Niall though adores Louis, laughs at every one of his jokes that Harry doesn’t find funny.
There is Zayn.
And Harry sees it. The way Niall looks at Zayn, the way he sits next to him and touches his arm softly.
Niall is in love with Zayn.
It is one of the darkest tragedies of all.
~
Harry’s in love.
~
Somebody should’ve warned him.
~
Harry doesn’t bring Zayn up in conversation and neither does Niall. Niall takes pictures of him in his apartment and he says, “You have the loveliest presence, Haz. Really.” And it should feel good, should feel like warm blankets fresh out of the washer but it feels like death and it feels like burning. And his tongue tastes of smoke and his brain is not correlating with his heart and he thinks of Niall.
And he wonders if Niall loves Zayn like Harry loves Niall. He wonders if Niall doesn’t get enough sleep because he’s thinking of Zayn locking his doors and brushing his teeth and watching his favorite TV shows.
Harry wonders if Niall thinks of Zayn loving him.
And realizing that thinking is not enough and he is slowing killing himself.
~
Niall is drunk and he is crying and Harry is sober and he is dying.
Niall says. “I love you, Harry. But I am in love with Zayn.” And he never stops crying and Harry wishes that he could shut his brain off for just one night. But it does not work that way.
~
That is how they deteriorate.
~
Harry no longer goes over to Niall’s apartment and he still does not sleep and he writes about fifty thousand formulas and none of them tell him how to get Niall to be in love with him. He wonders why it is not enough.
And it’s funny. But not really that Harry thought he was going to be the one planting the grenades when it was Niall all along. It was Niall the first time in the bathroom and it was Niall the last time in the apartment.
Harry never wanted a last time with Niall.
~
He has never been written a letter before. But he finds one in his mailbox. And it just says Harry in Niall’s handwriting (the one that Harry has memorized and he’s sure he could forge if he wanted to).
~
You know it never occurred to me that you had OCD. I thought you were just shy. This is not a way to start an apology letter.
I want to start it with a quote. One that means something. But no quote could properly describe what I am feeling without you. I am sorry that I have made you feel like pent up anger amidst a room full of people that have done you wrong. I am sorry that I have become one of those people.
I am in love with you. I am in love with a lot of things. But you are the first. I am sorry that I made you feel like the last. I am in love with Zayn. I am in love with a lot of things. He is not the first.
Niall.
~
Harry wants to write one back. He does not. He pins the letter to his wall and he stares at it until his eyes fall shut and he dreams about it. He wonders if Niall cried when he wrote it, he wonders if he laughed. He wonders if he researched OCD. He wonders and he wonders. He is a wondering lost soul in an abyss of wondering found ones.
~
Niall meets him after physics class. Harry does not breathe and he tries his hardest not to think. (His hardest does not work). Niall’s hair is becoming brunette on the sides, he is holding his camera. Harry is holding his tears. They feel like they are just dying to slip out of him, like they are sloshing inside of his veins and his blood stream like expired milk.
Niall reaches out and Harry thinks about Niall’s words that drunken night and his words on paper. Harry has always believed in thoughts. He realizes that Niall’s made all of his routines become void. He has not organized the cans of soup anymore, he has not washed his hands every single day after class, and he does not count his steps. His mind has never been sane.
So he reaches out too.
And Niall steps closer and their foreheads are pressed together and while Niall closes his eyes Harry does not. He does not want to stop looking and studying and realizing that they are one. Niall says,
“Please forgive me.”
Harry has his first kiss that day.
~
He could give you the coordinates if you asked.
~
But do not ask him what he was thinking. He has stopped knowing.