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3 days into their…situation, which Niall still can't (or maybe doesn't want to) put a label on, he abandons the big bed in the back of the tour bus he usually shares with Harry and starts sleeping—or attempting to sleep—on one of the sofas in the front. The first night in the not-bed, he spends ages staring at the glossy black ceiling and trying to come up with some suitable excuse if someone asked why the hell he was picking a stiff, hard mockery of a sofa over the fluffy king size bed at the back of the bus.
But the simple, bitter truth is that it only took 3 days for the scent of Harry to fade from the pillow that used to be his, and even less than that for Niall to realize that no amount of blankets piled on top of him would make the bed seem less cold or empty without a second person in it. At least on the not-bed, he can make himself a blanket cocoon, punch his pillow until his arm is tired and it's a better kind of lumpy, and pretend he's sleeping. Sure, it's like sleeping on planks and his knee is very unhappy with his decision, but it's better for his sanity than trying to sleep in the actual bed. Louis called him out on his exhaustion yesterday morning when Niall didn't even realize he was pouring orange juice into his coffee. Niall had joked about it being a new concoction to try, mentally wished he had something to make an Irish coffee instead, and studiously avoided Harry's stare in the far corner of the room.
He supposes that all of this is why they say never get involved with your coworkers (or your best friends). He tells himself that nobody can see on stage that anything's different between him and Harry. He tells himself that the reason he's so emotionally drained all day is because he's saving up all his energy for the shows so nobody can even question whether he’s okay. He tells himself that trying to avoid Harry at all costs is for the good of the band, not just for the sake of his head and heart. He tells himself that the songs he's been writing are about a fictional breakup rather than the very real fears bubbling in his mind.
Niall's not even sure if he can tell the truth anymore, to himself or anyone else.
It’s just…he and Harry never argue, not like they did the other night. Sometimes they have little spats just like anyone else, couple or otherwise, but it’s never as bad as it was the other night. He’s never felt torn open like he does right now, in this blurry, wobbly in between where he and Harry aren’t speaking. They didn’t end things (Niall thinks) but they sure as shit didn’t fix things either. If it was any of the other lads, Niall knows that he would’ve worked it out by now but he can’t even look at Harry without feeling like he’s going to throw up. So it’s a situation with no answers.
As they step off stage, he grabs the sweat towel helpfully handed to him by someone on their crew and wipes his face. He used to get even more wired after a good show—and technically, tonight's show was great. The crowd was loud and energetic, and they had no technical issues or anything to bog them down. But the lights are gone now, the sound of celebratory pyrotechnics already fading as they hustle through the maze of hallways at the back of the arena, and the energy is draining more and more from Niall's bones with every step he takes.
He wants to lay down in bed (or not-bed, in this case), curl up underneath the blankets, and hope that he'll re-emerge into a world where everything makes sense again. "You alright, Nialler?" Liam's voice sounds miles away and Niall realizes that he's walked straight past their dressing room.
"I—yeah. Sorry, wasn't watching where I was going," he mumbles, keeping his glance at Liam short so he doesn't have to take in the concern on his friend's face. Regardless of Liam's status as the band dad, Niall has no desire to involve anyone else in his situation with Harry more than is strictly necessary. They've all been accommodating so far, but that still only goes so far. Niall doesn't want to push it. Everybody is running on fumes already, barely halfway through this impossibly long tour, and the last thing Niall wants is for his situation with Harry to make it worse for anyone else when he can just suffer in exhausted, terrified, lonely silence. Things were tense enough with their overcrowded schedule before everything else went to hell.
He snorts under his breath. Hell is a good way to put it. It had felt like he was in Heaven up until the point where his angel yanked the clouds out from under him and he crashed straight down. He silently packs up his backpack, does a brief check around the room to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything (as though he could find his sanity or his heart underneath the snack table), and then heads for the buses without another word to anyone. He's just tired, that's all, and it has nothing to do with that green-eyed stare burning on the back of his neck again.
///
Niall jerks awake so violently that he topples off the not-bed, crashing to the bus floor with an unceremonious grunt. His head spins as he tries to re-orient himself, his vision finally landing on a pair of feet in front of him. "Why the actual fuck are you sleeping on a sofa?" Louis asks, looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow, “These things are shit, mate.”
"Yeah, I know. I’m just sleeping here because…reasons," Niall says, slowly sitting up with his blanket cocoon still wrapped around his shoulders, "Was I supposed to be in an interview or something?" Their schedules are such a blur lately that even without everything else going on, Niall thinks he'd be struggling to keep track of what he had to do on a given day. Quite frankly, he's not even entirely sure what day it is. Time just sort of drags on when he doesn’t have Harry around to keep him steady. His usual routine is about 60% Harry and without that, it’s a lot of dead space for his head to fuck off and lose track of what he’s supposed to be doing.
Louis shakes his head, sitting down on the opposite sofa, "No, you and I are free from press this morning. But you were supposed to grab breakfast with me half an hour ago."
"Shit, sorry," Niall drags himself onto the not-bed and rubs his face, "What time is it?"
"Ten. What time did you get to bed?"
Niall frowns, "I dunno, maybe 2 or 3. Couldn't fall asleep."
That's the vague answer. The truth is that it was 3am at the earliest, and he'd laid on the not-bed for 3 hours before that staring blankly at the ceiling because he'd been digging through old photos on his phone and had found one that he'd taken outside that hotel in Kansas City where everything started. He'd spent those hours trying to figure out a way to crawl back in time to that hotel room to shake himself by the shoulders and insist that saying no to Harry was the better choice because it would save future him a hell of a lot of issues.
It would've prevented him from having a lot of good times too, but even all those have such a big asterisk over them now that he keeps second guessing himself. How good can something really be if every second of it is conducted in utter secrecy?
'If it wasn't good, you wouldn't hurt like this, you big eejit,' his brain unhelpfully points out.
"Maybe the two of you should just talk it out," Louis offers.
Niall blinks at him, "I--what?"
"You look like a dead man walking, Nialler, and Haz's way too quiet lately. Why don't you two just…talk about things?" Louis says, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.
"'s not that simple," Niall says, looking at his lap, "and I'm not entirely sure I could explain why either right now." He's certainly spent enough time lately dissecting every word, pause, and punctuation in that late night hotel argument they had, and he can still barely process it. He's not sure he wants to either, not when it makes their future just look...bleak. Niall's replayed Harry spitting out that bit about practicing interview questions being "a better use of my fucking time than this bullshit" about a billion times. Rationally, he knows that Harry was really talking about their argument but in the middle of the night, when his heart is breaking all over again, he wonders if Harry thinks that all of it was a waste of his time. If Niall's just been taking up the space of someone more acceptable and holding up the line. If he matters at all in the grand scheme of who Harry Styles is now, much less One Direction.
There's a thick moment of silence before Louis sighs, "Alright, alright. God knows I've never wanted to get involved in what goes on between the two of you more than I already am due to the Larry nonsense. But I'll say that I'd much rather have my best mates shagging and happy than just…distant and miserable. The five of us are stuck together for a while, you know. We're not even halfway through the tour."
"Yeah," Niall croaks, "Believe me, I know." If they weren't stuck together, Niall could actually get some goddamn space to remember how to breathe and not feel like he's just drowning the whole time, choking on sea water while watching Harry stand on shore, life saver in hand but refusing to throw it. Niall knows that he used to be able to swim through water this rough, but it doesn't feel like he can anymore and the waves are just getting higher. Louis' eyes soften into a look of almost pity that Niall wants to hide from. He clears his throat forcefully, "Give me fifteen to get ready and then we can go out, yeah? I'm hungry." He's not, really, but he should probably get moving anyway.
"Alright, I'll let security know and they can get us a car," Louis stands and slips off the bus, leaving Niall alone. He swallows, blinking back a sudden swell of tears, before standing up and trudging to his suitcase. He tugs a tank top and jeans on, uses his sunglasses to hide the dark circles under his eyes, and steps off the bus.
///
Niall should've known that the promise of a VIP section with comped alcohol would not override the looming inevitable regret about going out. The club is booming with some pop song he's sure he'd recognize if the speakers weren't blown to shit. He stares at the crowd, squinting through the fake fog and flashing lights at the writhing mass of sweaty dancers. He's never been much for this whole atmosphere. Give him a homey, grimy pub any day, where he can watch a football game and talk to his mates over a few pints. Clubs are all fake veneers and slick atmospheres that make the lack of actual character worse rather than hiding it. His hatred for clubs is only more prevalent right now, when his head and chest are competing to see which can ache worse. Because of course Harry is here, floating somewhere in the crowd but just his presence alone is adding to the weight on Niall's shoulders.
Usually on nights like this, they'd be at least sitting close enough to talk. They'd do their shitty, best possible attempt at flirting via occasional touches that linger maybe a bit too long and whispers that are a little too close to be casual. Instead, they rode here in separate cars, Niall unable to be in such close quarters with him even for the 20-minute drive here, and Harry had almost instantly vanished into the crowd.
Niall watches a pair of men weave their way hand-in-hand onto the dance floor, both grinning wide with cheeks flushed, and hates the way his stomach churns. At this rate, that's something that he never would've had with Harry and realizing that loss is enough to make his eyes water. He knew what he was getting into when this started, he knew that it was going to be a secret for a long time (if not always), but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Maybe if it hadn't been a secret, he and Harry wouldn't have fallen apart so easily.
He takes another long sip of whiskey to try and mask the burn or at least give it a better excuse for existing. It's been a week since everything happened and instead of getting better, everything seems to be slipping further down this uneven slope. Every night after the show, Niall returns alone to the empty tour bus and his increasingly uncomfortable not-bed. He plays guitar until his fingers bleed and writes half-assed songs that he'll never show to any of the boys. He'd told Taylor that he looked forward to her album of break-up songs written "about" Harry, but now he's dreading them. The ones he's writing are bad enough. And he chokes on more imaginary sea water, trying desperately to keep swimming through crashing waves that are only coming more quickly now.
"You alright, Nialler?" Louis shouts, appearing at Niall's side with glazed eyes that imply something more than an alcohol buzz. Niall nods, holding his glass up. Maybe it's the high or maybe Louis just doesn't have the energy to deal with Niall's mopey bullshit, as all he does is give him a rough hair ruffle and grab three more bottles of beer off the table before vanishing again.
Niall shouldn't have come out in the first place, but now he's really over it. He looks down at the deep amber liquid in his glass, swirling it around the one large ice cube in the center, and then takes a swig long enough to drain the cup. Standing, he cracks his sore back and then checks to make sure his phone and wallet are in his pockets before walking to the VIP rope and bouncer. "Can you get me a car?" he yells in the guard's ear. The man nods once before touching his earpiece. After a few minutes, a member of their security team arrives and the bouncer unclasps the velvet rope to let Niall pass. They weave through the crowd, staying as close to the edge as they can and hugging the shadows whenever possible. People know they’re at this club judging by the amount of photos Niall’s seen people take of him in his sad little one-man VIP party and he’d rather not have anyone come up looking for an autograph or something right now.
It's some form of horrible, twisted chance that makes Niall look up at just the right moment to see Harry in the crowd with some girl's arms wrapped around his shoulders, his fingers in her blonde hair, and their lips locked. Niall's steps falter, his breath turning to ice in his throat. Harry's head turns just a bit and his eyes open, as if he knew Niall had seen him. Something flickers in Harry's eyes; he pulls away from the girl but Niall's already rushing to catch up to the guard, unable to hear the music anymore over the rushing blood in his head. He has no idea if Harry's coming after him. Probably not, since that would certainly cause the kind of scene Harry so studiously avoids, and maybe that stings even more. Maybe Niall wants the romance movie drama, where Harry rushes out of the club and drops to his knees to try and explain.
But there’s only a waiting black SUV that their security bundles Niall into without a word. He barely processes the ride back to the buses. He stares blankly out the window but all he sees is Harry tangled with that girl, their kiss playing over and over again in his mind as if it's trying to erase every memory of any of the times Harry's kissed him. Niall presses the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle whatever noise, whether it's a scream or sob, from emerging.
How did this get so fucked up so quickly? How did Harry go from being the one steady thing in this frantic life to being an absolute stranger kissing girls in clubs? And how the absolute fuck is Niall supposed to handle this? How is he supposed to look Harry in the eye during an interview or on stage and not just see that kiss again? He's not even sure he wants to look at his own reflection right now because he knows he'll be comparing shades of blonde.
On the bus, he changes into pajamas that don't smell like booze and smoke and then stares at the bed, still unmade from the last time he attempted to sleep in it. Somehow, it looks even emptier right now, like it's the representation of the huge hole in Niall's chest. His phone buzzes in his hand. Niall stares at the texts from Harry, the first he's gotten in days, his throat getting tight all over again.
Niall
Not what it looked like
Promise
Dunno how it could look like anything else
It looked like Niall losing Harry, whatever he had left of him at least, like trying to catch dandelion puffs scattering on the summer wind back home. If he wasn't there, if he hadn't seen, what would've happened?
It was a mistake
Would they have found some darkened back room, maybe the same place that Louis and Zayn were, and kept going?
Didn't mean anything
Would Harry have pinned her against the wall, his lips insistent and intoxicating, and murmured one of those sweet nothings he's so good at, his voice all low and needy?
I swear
Would she have gotten down on her knees, let him tangle his hands in her blonde hair, and made him come?
I forgot you were there
Niall blinks, rereading those five little words until they’re ringing in his head in an uncanny copy of Harry's voice. He's not sure if he's stopped breathing entirely or is breathing too fast but either way, his head is spinning. 'I forgot you were there,' like Niall is already some stranger to be brushed aside. 'I forgot you were there,' like Niall really has just been a waste of time. 'I forgot you were there,' like Harry's whispering in his ear with a mocking confirmation of all Niall's worst fears. Before his shaking thumbs can work out how to type some answer—his brain's currently veering wildly between "go fuck yourself" and "please no"—another flurry of messages come.
Wait
No
Not what I meant I swear
She kissed me and I didn't stop it but it's what I'm supposed to do
Right
Of course it fucking is, because Harry's the big heartthrob front man, stunning models on his arm and kissing girls in clubs, and there was never any room for Niall in that picture from the start. He was a fucking fool to think, to dream, to hope otherwise. Harry's supposed to kiss pretty girls in clubs and Niall's supposed to shut up and smile and play guitar.
Fuck I'm making a mess of things
Dunno if there's anything left to make a mess of at this point
Niall looks from the words on the screen to his fingers that just typed them out and waits for it to sink in. Whatever they had, whatever was left—he thinks he might have just ended it. Silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity, a great gaping lack of anything that stretches around him in all directions until the cramped bus hallway is a barren wasteland cracking under his feet.
Don't say that
Niall
Please
Enjoy your night H
Niall closes the text, puts his phone on silent, and turns his back on that vacant, unmade bed. Instead, he sinks lifelessly onto the not-bed, slowly tugging the blankets up around his shoulders and burying his face in his pillow until he has a more reasonable excuse for being unable to breathe. He shudders all over once, twice, three times—and then breaks.
The waves crash over him and pull him under.
///
It's a damn good thing that the next day is an off day. Niall wakes up to no more texts, but 6 missed calls from Harry and 3 from Louis. He ignores them all, choosing instead to text Paul and ask to be excused from any plans today because he's not feeling well. It's not a lie, not when he alternated between crying himself to sleep and waking up due to too vivid dreams about the club all night, but he still feels that little twinge of guilt over it. Paul probably had some sort of off day planned for them, maybe sightseeing or something in whatever city they're currently in, and Niall's too fucking depressed to want to get out of this bullshit not-bed. He rolls over, trying to find some semblance of a comfortable position, but finds nothing. His knee's screaming at him more and more every day, but it's just another source of pain he's going to have to deal with for now. What else is new, really.
For an hour, he does nothing but scroll through his tags and mentions on twitter, liking random tweets just because he knows that it'll make some fan somewhere ecstatic, and someone should be happy right now. He ignores 2 texts from Liam and 3 from Louis after that in lieu of switching his like spree to Instagram instead.
By lunch time, his finger hurts from scrolling, his stomach is rumbling, and the reality he's trying not to think about is becoming harder to ignore. He hears voices outside the bus and sits up enough to press his face against the window, squinting through the dark tint. Louis and Harry are standing outside, Louis holding two coffees and what looks like a pastry bag between his fingers. "Obviously you made a proper fucking hash of it last night, Styles. I'm not letting you make it worse," Louis snaps, his voice slightly muffled through the glass.
"I don't want to make it worse, I want to apologize," Harry protests, his voice strained.
"Well, now's not the bloody time for it," Louis says before taking a sip from one of the coffee cups.
"You—you didn't see his message last night, Louis. I think I'm running out of time," Niall's stomach churns at the way Harry's voice cracks. For a moment, Louis almost looks like he's going to break. Niall's not sure whether that would be a good thing or not.
But then Louis shakes his head, "Look, mate, let me do some investigation, yeah? Because quite frankly, if the two of you just get into another row, someone will have to get management involved to start shaking contracts at Niall to scare him into staying. I doubt that's what you want." Niall chews on his lip. He wouldn't just abandon the band over this but…well, a short break doesn't sound so bad after last night. Maybe a week off, a way he could cry severe stomach flu or something just to not have to fake happiness on stage for a few nights.
Of course, he's been performing for months on an increasingly dodgy knee, so he should know better than to even think he'd be given that sort of privilege.
"Of course that's not what I want, but—" Harry runs a hand through his hair, the action more anxious than charming, and Niall fists his hand in the blankets to fight back the urge to do that himself. He could play with Harry's hair forever, twisting his fingers through those curls like they could tie him to Harry even now when things have never felt so distant. "Fine," Harry finally mutters, "Just—please, please tell him that I want—that I need to talk to him. Tell him I'll beg if I have to."
"As funny as I'd find it to watch that, it'll be up to Niall," Louis replies, before turning and moving to the door. Harry looks up at the bus for a moment, his gaze focusing on the end where the bed is. Niall wants to beat his fists against the glass, scream that the bed's been untouched and he's been breaking his bones on this damn not-bed just to avoid the emptiness between those sheets, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches as Harry stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stalks away, his shoulders hunched. That guilt trickles back into Niall's stomach, battling valiantly with the ever-present image of Harry kissing that girl last night at the club in an endless war between hating to see him hurt and needing to see him hurt.
Niall's shaken from his thoughts by the sound of Louis banging on the bus door, "Oi, Horan, open up! I know you're awake, you're trending on twitter." Niall rubs his swollen eyes, musses with his hair, and drags himself to his feet. "Well, shit," Louis says as soon as Niall opens the door, "No offense, mate, but you look horrendous."
"Feel horrendous," Niall croaks. He hadn't expected his voice to be so rough but, well, he did do a lot of crying last night. He stands back to let Louis in; his friend puts the coffee cups and bag on the counter, takes one look at the blanket knot on the sofa, and sighs.
"You're going to break your back on that damn sofa."
"Probably," Niall agrees, sinking back onto it anyway.
Louis shakes his head, shoving one coffee cup and the bag into Niall's lap, "Come on then, we can't have you wasting away. You're supposed to be the chipper one." Niall dutifully opens the pastry bag, pulling a chocolate scone out and nibbling on the end. Louis waits, hovering like Niall's mum did when he was sick as a kid, until half the scone's gone before he sits down opposite Niall, "Look, I don't know…everything that went on last night, but I can only guess it wasn't good. You vanished and then Harry found us and I was honestly too high to process anything other than his panic and—well, honestly, the lipstick on his face."
Niall pauses mid-chew, trying to judge whether the onslaught of nausea is from that news or something else. He didn't drink much at all last night, so he doubts it's a late onset hangover. He doesn't remember the girl having lipstick on but then again, he doesn’t think he really saw her mouth anyway. "Then we had to get a car because Harry was in a right strop since you weren't answering your phone. Took us ages to convince him to just go to sleep and deal with it this morning because he was going mad," Louis takes a long sip of his coffee, surveying Niall over the rim, "So do you wanna fill me in on the rest?"
Niall swallows both the bite of scone and the nausea, "Not much else to say. I didn't want to be at the club anymore and saw Harry—saw Harry finding another reason to stay." Louis raises an eyebrow. Unwilling to keep talking quite yet, Niall unlocks his phone, brings up the messages from last night, and tosses it into Louis' lap.
Louis lets out a long whistle as he reads, "Well, I can see why he was panicking so much last night. Quite the sign off text from you." Niall grunts, closing his eyes to ward off any more tears. If he was going out at all today, he's sure Lou would have a heart attack trying to fix everything going on with his eyes. "Gonna guess that you saw him wrapped around the lipstick donor?" Niall nods, gritting his teeth until he can swallow back the sob threatening to rise in his throat. He did enough of that last night and doesn't need to be repeating it again for an audience. Louis whistles again.
After a long moment where he dredges up every possible inch of emotional strength he can, Niall whispers, "Look, it's—I dunno. Things aren't the same as they were last year. Management wants to create a whole persona for him now and he's going along with it even though I know he doesn't like it. But I don't think I fit in there as anything other than 'the Irish bandmate who plays the guitar,'" he takes another slow bite of his scone, "and maybe I just…can't figure out that balance anymore. Don't even know if I want to try. Hard to be in a relationship that feels safe when you're conducting it in total secrecy and watching one half go on arranged dates and outings for PR." He pulls the stopper out of the coffee lid and takes a tiny sip, "I'm getting tired of being 'the Irish one' and suddenly it feels like he's been doing more with his new 'rock star heartthrob' persona than he has as a…boyfriend. It just stings, I guess. I dunno."
"I get it," Louis murmurs, "You and I both know we weren't brought into the band to be the big stars. I get told to be more of a prankster, add spice to the group, and you—"
"Every boy band needs a blonde," Niall says dully, "and the girls love an Irish accent. Bottle blonde and Irish, that's the extent of who I am." He remembers hearing that sort of stuff from their initial marketing team on the X-Factor, boiling down the entirety of who he is to his fucking unnatural hair color and homeland, combined with the mutters about his "weaker voice" meaning he was meant for a backing role. At the time, he'd tried to brush it off, figuring that this was just how the music world worked and this was such a big opportunity, he just needed to roll with the punches. Now he wishes he'd tried to say something more, because the punches are starting to leave bruises he can't cover up as easily. Louis switches to sit next to him instead, pressed hip to hip, and Niall realizes that it's more non-scripted human contact than he's had in days. "Sometimes, it sort of felt like maybe Haz was the only one who saw me as just Niall, rather than anything else—no offense to the rest of you, obviously, it's just…different with him. But now it doesn't feel like that and half the time, I'm not sure whether I'm looking at Harry Styles or—or Haz," he could say his Harry, but that seems a little much.
Louis squeezes his shoulder, the gesture enough to make Niall's chest swell, "Kinda been getting the same feeling, though probably with different implications. But for what it's worth, from where I stand, he still looks at you like you're just Niall. And lately that look is getting concerned enough to put my mum to shame." Niall eats the last bite of scone and grabs an éclair out of the bag. "He's pretty desperate to talk to you after last night, you know," Niall nods, remembering the anxiety in Harry's voice.
He clears his throat, "I just—I don't know if I'm ready to talk to him right now. Not even counting everything last night, the argument we had was…bad." Right now, he'd be as likely to start yelling again as he would to simply beg Harry to hold him. He doubts that's the best mental place to be in to have a good discussion.
"I don't blame you; you've got a lot on your mind and we heard enough of that argument to know it was nasty. I can fend him off for at least another day or two on the condition that you eat better and maybe not sleep on this fucking sofa."
"Can't sleep in the bed," Niall says, probably with too much heat, "It's just—I can't." The bed looms like a silent monster lurking at the back of the bus, taunting him with its promise of physical comfort and emotional torture.
"Fine, fine. I'll let that bit go, but the eating bit stays, yeah? You've been picking at your food for the past week and when you’re not eating, I know it’s bad," Niall nods, perfectly willing to force himself to eat if it means avoiding the bed. Louis squeezes his shoulder again, "It'll work itself out one way or the other, Niall. I'm rooting for the two of you."
At least someone is.
///
Show time is in an hour and a half. The rest of the boys went to play football in the parking garage with some of the crew, but Niall had pled out due to his knee bothering him more than usual (likely due to the nights with not-bed). After a long period of thought, he had decided against attempting to nap (this time on the dressing room sofa rather than the not-bed, which probably wouldn't be much better for his knee either). He doesn't want to be any more off than he already is for the crowd. So instead, he'd grabbed his acoustic guitar and fucked around with writing half-assed music to accompany his half-assed lyrics lately in the goal of making a few whole-ass songs that he can proceed to never show anyone else.
It's been three days since his conversation with Louis and their deal seems to have worked out. Niall's been forcing himself to eat at least two meals a day (three if their schedule allows room for lunch), and Louis has been holding Harry back. But it hasn't made things better. Niall's tried to pre-plan some sort of discussion with Harry but usually ends up staring blankly into space and wondering how he's supposed to feel anything other than empty inside. And Harry…
Well, Niall's been doing his best to avoid everyone else because now Harry's stares are getting almost desperate. He seems like he's always on edge, snapping at people for smaller and smaller reasons. Which makes Niall feel guilty, of course, because he knows that Harry's only frantic because Niall won't talk to him, but that just leads right back around to Niall trying to find a way over that empty feeling so they can talk and have the conversation be worth something. It's going to be their make-or-break moment, he knows that, and he doesn't want to half-ass it.
When he's tired of writing depressing ballads, he plucks out the tune to a Miley Cyrus song, stopping only when he hears a tentative knock on the door frame to the dressing room. He looks over his shoulder to see Harry standing there in the doorway and wishes he would've shut the door, turned off the lights, and napped just to avoid this. There's nobody to hide behind and nowhere to run. "Hi," Harry says after they've been staring silently at each other for what feels like an eternity.
"Hi," Niall replies, keeping his voice as even as he possibly can, "Thought you were with the rest of the boys."
"I was," Harry takes another stilted step into the dressing room, igniting Niall's fight or flight reflex. It was never supposed to be like this. Harry was always the one who was supposed to put him at ease even in the worst of situations. He tightens his grip on the neck of his guitar, letting the strings dig into his fingers. It doesn't feel right to see Harry, eternally composed and always "on" Harry, look this nervous. Harry clears his throat, "Niall, I want—"
Seeing what's coming, Niall shakes his head, "Don't, Harry, not—not now. Not before the show." If their discussion goes poorly, whatever time remains before they're due on stage won't be enough time for Niall to pull himself together. Not to mention they're at the venue, in a dressing room that anyone could walk by at any time, and Niall doubts that they'd have an easy time making up some generic explanation for what people would walk in on.
"After the show then?" Harry pushes, taking yet another step. It's like he's trying to physically cross the gigantic chasm that's opened between them and Niall's not quite sure he's built his defenses up enough for that yet. Niall chews on his lip, looking away from Harry to the muted TV in front of him. "Please, Ni," Harry's croak brings Niall's attention swinging back, "I need to talk to you after the show." There's that desperation again, even more potent when it's in his voice as well as his eyes.
Niall swallows, "I—yeah, okay. After the show. We're in a hotel tonight, aren't we?" Their first…everythings have been in hotels. Niall's not sure if he's prepared for the possibility that their relationship ends for good in a hotel too. That might just doom him to an eternity of not-beds.
Harry nods, already looking more hopeful, "It's the Hilton, I think. I'll come to your room, yeah? And then we can finally talk." Another step closer and now Niall swears he can smell Harry's cologne in the air. He takes the subtlest deep breath he can and holds it as if the scent alone could make him feel warm again. "I—you don't know how much—" whatever Harry was going to say is cut off by the sound of laughter and footsteps approaching. Niall watches that new, obnoxious mask slip over Harry's face. He presses his lips together, turning back to his guitar. They both wait as the group passes in the hall, thankfully not coming in. Niall's almost expecting Harry to drop it, but once the hallway's gone silent again, he finishes, "—how much I've missed you, Ni," in a voice so soft it makes Niall want to curl up in a little ball with those words wrapped around him. He bites his tongue, knowing that if he says anything, the deal of talking after the show will fly out the window.
Luckily, Harry doesn't seem to expect a response. He takes two more brief steps forward, reaching around to squeeze Niall's shoulder, whispering, "After the show." Niall nods, strumming the guitar with shaking fingers and fighting the intense desire to turn around and cling to Harry's hand.
This is possibly going to be the longest show ever.
///
He was right. Niall's quite positive that the show lasts at least a million years. His voice is dead, he's been nauseous since the moment they stepped off stage, and every time Harry even looked at him on stage, he was drowning all over again. They end up in separate cars on the way to the hotel and, to Niall's surprise, Harry doesn't immediately follow him to the door of his room once they arrive. Maybe he's trying to give Niall some space before they talk or maybe he's just as eager for a shower. It was a hot one tonight and Niall would rather not let this sweat sit on his body for too long.
Still, his nerves won't let him take a nice, long shower, and within 10 minutes he's redressed and hanging his towel back up on the rack. He'll let his hair air dry tonight, mainly because he's too nervous to focus on anything else at this point.
It takes exactly 17 excruciating minutes spent pacing a canyon in the ugly carpet before someone knocks on the hotel room door. Niall sucks in the deepest breath he can manage, straightens his shirt, and opens the door. "Hey," Harry says, "Can I come in?" He's got his suitcases with him, but Niall doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.
"Yeah," Niall steps back to let Harry in and takes his time locking the hotel room door only to give him something to focus on for just a few seconds. When he turns back to face Harry, the room feels like it gets ten times bigger.
"I'm sorry, Niall," Harry starts. Niall's not quite sure whether it's a good or bad sorry going off Harry's tentative expression. "I took a shower before I came in here hoping it would clear my head enough that I'd be able to say everything just right but now I'm looking at you and I just—I'm sorry. For everything, not just what happened at the club," Harry leans against the edge of the small dinner table, "I hate seeing you hurting like this, and I hate even more that it's my fault."
Niall sinks down onto the foot of the nearest bed, "Is that all?" He knows it's not enough for him, even though he really wishes it could be.
"Of course not. There's been so much going on lately and I know I've been an arse but I'm trying to figure out how to—how to fit in this whole role and—"
"Why do you fucking have to?" Niall snaps, "Act like some cocky star on stage or in an interview, I don't give a shit, but why are you trying to be that with the rest of us? With me?" Harry's mouth is still half-open, frozen on whatever he was about to say, but Niall's words are spilling without barriers now, "Maybe I'm just being fucking selfish, but I don't want you to act like that around me. I don't want to be at a fucking club and see you kissing some girl when I want you to be kissing me, just because kissing girls is what you're supposed to do according to management. I know the only thing I am to the band at this point is the blond Irish one with the guitar, but I tried to be something else to you because you're something else to me."
"That's not all you are to this band, Niall. If I hadn't been so angry and so…high on my own ego, I would've told you that before. You glue us all together. You glue me together."
"Sure didn't seem like saying anything like that was on your mind then when you were 'wasting your time on this bullshit,'" Harry outright flinches, his shoulders drooping, and it drives a knife straight into Niall's chest.
He watches Harry's hands flex on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white for just a moment before he croaks, "I'm sorry, Ni. I was pissed and just…talking out of my ass. And that's not an excuse, not when what I said was honestly unforgiveable, but I'm gonna stand here and try to beg forgiveness for it anyway. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it."
As much as he's wanted to hear Harry apologizing this openly, there's still too much hurt bubbling in Niall's stomach to just let it go. He forces himself to swallow, trying to keep the sob in his throat at bay for just a little longer, "You know how much I think about all that stuff with me and the roles they want from us, Haz. You knew and you still threw that back in my fucking face."
"I know, Niall, and—"
"I've been trying to convince myself that I fucking matter at all lately, to the band or our management or you but now all I've been thinking about is that maybe I just don't," Niall pauses only because his voice cracks.
Harry pushes himself off the table, "Don't you dare tell me you don't matter, Niall Horan. Don't you fucking dare."
"Do I though?"
"Yes!" Harry's hiss is loud enough to make Niall jump, "I don't fucking care what you think about anyone else, but you matter to me, Niall."
"As what, Harry? Friend? Bandmate? Hotel room shag?" Niall yells as he stands up, clenching his fists at his sides, "Because from where I'm standing lately, it feels like that's all I can bloody well be. I'm not trying to be your fucking red carpet date, but I’d like to at least be someone that you don't treat like some random bloke you meet at one of them industry parties you’re always going to."
"You’re—"
"I'm what, Harry? Fucking enlighten me," it's never good for Niall to shout this much after a show. His throat is already raw and this is just making it worse.
"You're the boy I'm in love with!" Harry shouts back. The room goes dead silent, the change so abrupt that Niall's ears almost ring. He blinks back at Harry, whose cheeks have flushed rose pink. "That was…less romantic than I had planned," Harry mumbles, scratching the back of his neck, "but I guess it's out there." Their eyes meet, blue against green, and Niall's knees wobble so hard that he collapses back onto the bed.
He forces himself to swallow, "You—what?"
"I love you, Ni. I have for ages, just been too much of a cowardly little shit to actually say it. But the past week and a half has done a fantastic job of pointing out to me how much of an idiot I am and how much I need you and how much I'd hate everything about this if I lost you," perhaps taking advantage of the fact that Niall's so dumbstruck that he can't move, Harry walks forward to sit next to Niall, "You were right. I've been…struggling with how to manage what everyone wants from me lately and what—who I am. And it was honestly just…fucked of me to take that out on the one person that actually makes me feel like me. And I'm so fucking sorry. And I love you, Niall."
Niall might be dying. Or floating, he's not sure. But everything is spinning and his heart is pounding wildly against his ribcage. But then Harry grabs his hand, threading their fingers together, and that simple little motion brings everything to a perfect, settled standstill. He's vaguely aware that Harry's still talking, saying something about "you don't have to say it yet" and "I just needed you to know."
He's even less prepared for the sound of his own voice whispering, "I love you too, Harry." But it's the truth. Niall does know that much. Harry is a prat and an attention whore and a shameless flirt. He's also one of the only people who will sit there and actually listen to Niall talk about space or go golfing with him or just hold his hand late at night when they're sharing whispers in the dark. And Niall loves him with every inch of his existence.
He chances a glance over at Harry, whose jade eyes are wide. Then Harry grins, brighter than the summer sun, and Niall might be floating again. Suddenly, the waves are gone and he's not drowning anymore.
Harry squeezes Niall's hand, "I'll probably be an absolute idiot at least a few more times in this life, but I'll try not to aim it at you. You're the one person that keeps me sane with all this bullshit, Ni. And I promise you that you matter to me."
"Good," Niall croaks while trying desperately to blink tears back, "Y-you're the one that matters most anyway."
"If you don't let me hug you, Niall Horan, I think I'm physically going to explode," the way Niall flings himself into Harry's arms would honestly put any fan girl to shame, but Harry hugs him tight enough that he doesn't feel quite so embarrassed.
"Missed you," Niall whispers, "Missed you so damn much, Harry." With his nose pressed to Harry's collarbone, he breathes in deep and feels like he's actually breathing for the first time in days. He'd feel a bit like a watering pot with how teary he is if it wasn't for the way Harry's shoulders shudder when he presses his face into Niall's hair.
"Missed you even more, Ni. I knew I needed you but I didn't know just how much until it felt like you were a million miles away," Harry's voice cracks and he holds Niall just a little tighter. "When that girl kissed me—hey, I know, but listen," Harry says when Niall goes stiff, "when she kissed me, I had this drunk moment of…just knowing that this is what people expect from me so I should just do it. But all I could think about was how she wasn't you. Her hair wasn't the right kind of blonde and she didn't taste the same and—she honestly kissed like a slug, really. She wasn't you. And then I looked over and saw you looking at me and it drove it all home, I guess. I can only play into what they want from me so much. In the end, there's only one thing—one person—I want."
Well, that's…nice to hear. Nice is probably a shitty word for it, but Niall's so overloaded right now that he can't think of something more accurate. "I—thanks, H," he whispers, unable to stop himself from smiling, "You're the only person I want too."
Harry hums, "Don't thank me, not when it was my fault everything happened in the first place. Never have deserved you, Niall, and I doubt I ever will but I'm going to try to." Harry kisses his temple, his warm lips lingering there for just a moment before he tugs them both down onto the bed.
Niall's blissful groan is probably far from subtle, "Oh, I've missed beds." It feels fucking amazing to be lying down on something that's actually soft and squishy in all the right places.
"What are you talking about?"
Well, there goes any half-conceived plans to eliminate the evidence of not-bed before Harry could see it. "Uh," Niall starts, "I may have been…sleeping on the sofa lately…possibly."
Harry pulls back just enough to frown at Niall, "Niall, that can't be good for your knee!"
"Well, no, I wouldn't say it's been great," Niall mumbles, resisting the urge to reach down and rub his knee.
Harry sighs, tugging Niall back into another tight hug, "Utterly, simply impossible, that's what you are. And fucking hell, I love you so much."
Niall's not sure how long they lay there, tangled together and talked in increasingly hushed voices until he falls asleep in Harry's arms, the little spoon for once. He wakes up in the morning feeling better than he has in days. Judging by Harry's hand under his shirt, tracing soft circles on his back, he's a little late on waking up. "G'morning," he says through a loud, long yawn.
"Same to you, sleepy head," Harry whispers back amidst a kiss to Niall's forehead.
"How long have you been awake?"
When Harry hums, Niall feels the vibration run through his whole body, "Not for too long. I've been enjoying being in a bed that's not moving and watching you sleep. How's your knee?"
Niall bends his leg, "Definitely better." It hurts, but it's less flaming knives and more generally sore.
"Good, because if I ever learn that you've been sleeping on a sofa again and it's my fault, I give you full permission to smack me," Niall would say that he could survive solely off these forehead kisses, but then Harry leans in to actually kiss him and he realizes that nothing else could compare. Especially not when Harry whispers another soft "Love you, Ni," into his mouth and Niall turns into a bloody mush pile on the bed.
///
"Looks like all's right in the world again, eh?" Louis asks, flopping down next to Niall on the dressing room sofa.
Niall can't help the smile that immediately spreads over his face, "Yeah, you could say that."
"No more sleeping on that sofa?"
Niall snorts, playing the first few chords of Little Things as a warm-up, "No, I think me and my not-bed have come to the end of our unhealthy relationship."
Thank fucking god.