Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6404278.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band), BBC_Radio_1_RPF
  Relationship:
      Niall_Horan/Louis_Tomlinson, Nick_Grimshaw/Harry_Styles
  Character:
      Harry_Styles, Nick_Grimshaw, Niall_Horan, Louis_Tomlinson, Liam_Payne,
      Zayn_Malik, Niall_Breslin, Eoghan_McDermott
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Recreational_Drug_Use, Teen_Angst, Age
      Difference, Established_Relationship, Plans_For_The_Future, University
      Applications, Discussion_of_Depression
  Collections:
      One_Direction_Big_Bang:_Round_Four
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-29 Words: 27256
****** All the lifts home and all the mixed feelings ******
by beckaandzac_(becka)
Summary
     Harry wants the fit bloke who teaches with his mum to fall in love
     with him. Nick wants to trade his teaching job for a real job in
     radio. Niall wants a place at a good university studying sound
     engineering. And Louis wants to be good enough for Niall. A sixth
     form AU.
     Warnings: contains recreational drug use, underage drinking, sex
     between a 16/17 year old and a 26 year old (NOT teacher/student),
     discussion of mental health issues and medication
Notes
     Written for One Direction Big Bang: Round Four. A wonderful mix for
     by spankmeniall can be found here. <33
     My deepest thanks go to Lucy for the beta and Lydia for the detailed
     advice about British schooling and university applications. Thanks
     also to everyone who helped me untangle my plot problems and listened
     to me whine about this story across all social media for eight
     thousand years. Any remaining mistakes are my own. <333
     Please feel free to ask for additional information about anything in
     the tags and warnings.
     Title from "Kathleen" by Catfish and the Bottlemen.
See the end of the work for more notes
Autumn
“Waiting for someone?” says a voice, and Harry looks up from his phone to find
a tall man with a very unteacherly quiff looking at him.
“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding at the staff room door beside him. “My mum. She’s a
teacher here. She’s giving me and my mate a lift. We go to University Academy.”
The man looks up and down the corridor and then back at Harry, eyebrows raised.
He’s got good eyebrows. “Is your mate invisible?”
“Nah. He’s in the loo. Probably fixing his hair. He’s very particular about his
hair.” In fact what Zayn’s doing in the loo is selling weed to half the sixth
form, but the man is almost certainly a teacher or administrator of some kind
and doesn’t need to know that. “I’m Harry, by the way.”
He holds out his hand, forgetting that he’s still sat on the floor, but the man
bends to shake it, folding lovely, long fingers around Harry’s. “I think you
should call me Mr Grimshaw.” He has a wide, smirky mouth and broad Mancunian
accent in addition to the quiff and the eyebrows and the hands, and Harry’s
slightly smitten. “Who’s your mum then?”
“Anne Cox,” says Harry.
Mr Grimshaw pulls a face. “Is your name Harry Cox then? That sounds a bit like
child abuse.”
Harry gives a startled laugh. “No, she, uh, kept her maiden name. Mine’s
Styles. Harry Styles.”
“Ooh, much better. Harry Styles. Lovely. Sounds like you ought to be on the
telly or summat.”
“I thought about trying out for X Factor last year, but they upped the age to
sixteen, so I couldn’t.” He sees Mr Grimshaw reassessing him and curses his own
honesty. “And then I couldn’t go this year at all, but still. Next year could
be my year.”
“Then best of luck to you, young Harold.”
“Oh, it’s not Harold. Just Harry. Like Harry Potter.”
Mr Grimshaw shrugs. “I like Harold better. See you around then.” He ducks into
the staff room and closes the door behind him before Harry can say anything
else. Harry realises he probably could have gone in and started on the puppy
dog eyes with his mum so she’d agree to let Zayn stay over tonight. And maybe
he could have spoken to Mr Grimshaw a bit more as well. But he’s lost his
chance now, so he just takes out his phone again and waits for Zayn to finish
his business in the toilets. As it were.
 
Niall slips out into the car park with a bit of Zayn’s finest in his pocket. He
scans for Louis’s ancient Mercedes, which sticks out like a sore thumb among
the shiny, sensible teachers’ cars. He fingers the plastic bag in his pocket
and hopes Louis has rolling papers.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Louis calls, elbowing out the car window as Niall comes
near. He’s wearing a beanie and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder, and
Niall kisses him on the cheek.
“Got you a present,” Niall says, poking a finger into the hole in Louis’s
shirt.
“Is it green?”
“Of course. What do you take me for?”
“You’re a good lad, Niall Horan. Now get your arse in the car.”
Niall grins and hurries to the passenger door, jiggling it open with a creak.
“Where are we going?”
“Dunno yet,” replies Louis.
It’s sunny and warm, and there are lots of places they can get high and fuck
without anyone bothering them. Which is all Niall wants right now because it’s
Friday and it’s nice out and he has a gorgeous boyfriend and enough weed to
keep them both stoned all weekend. They buy some crisps at Tesco and Louis take
the M56 out of town, picking quieter roads to turn down until they hit fields
and livestock. Louis keeps putting his hand on Niall’s thigh and squeezing.
Louis stops the car on a little flat patch of dirt at the side of the road, and
Niall looks round, but it’s just as deserted as the last several miles have
been. “Anything special about this piece of dirt rather than the others?” Niall
asks.
Louis shrugs and cuts the engine. “Sheep rather than cows,” he replies
cheerily. “Smaller poos to step in. Come on, Nialler. Let’s go.” They make a
proper picnic of it with the crisps and a blanket from the boot, although they
leave the rolling papers in the glove box and Niall has to go running back for
them across a length of short, stubby grass, where the only things that can
thrive are the sheep. And the signs of their presence are everywhere.
“I’ve got so much sheep poo on my trainers right now,” Niall says, scraping his
feet against the grass as something bleats in the distance.
“Still better than cows,” says Louis. He’s settled on the blanket with his
knees tucked up in front of him, and he eyes Niall’s shoes as Niall settles
down beside him, but he’s already laid the blanket out on who knows how much
more sheep poo, so swings and roundabouts.
Louis holds out his hand for the packet of papers, and Niall watches him pinch
off some of the weed and roll a tight joint with small, quick fingers. He
doesn’t say how much he likes Louis’s hands because Louis would just laugh at
him, but he does, the clever efficiency of Louis’s movements. Last year they’d
sneak into the music room at school and Louis would play piano so Niall could
sing, cuddled up close to him on the bench. And all Niall had wanted then was
to get a little closer, touch him a little more because Louis lit him up inside
like no one else. And now he can touch all he wants. He settles a hand against
Louis’s thigh, fingers dragging along the inseam of his jeans.
"Shotgun?" says Louis, holding the joint up between finger and thumb as Niall
fishes his lighter out of his pocket. Niall obediently slings a leg over
Louis's lap, settles against his thighs as Louis presses the joint between his
own lips. Shotgunning is just an excuse to combine smoking and kissing more
directly, but since those are both in Niall’s top five favourite activities,
he’s in no position to complain. He leans in to light the joint in Louis’s
mouth, watching it smoulder as Louis takes a deep drag in, holding the smoke
until he can blow it out against Niall’s lips. Niall takes a breath of it, the
sticky taste of the weed lingering before he kisses Louis deeply and with
purpose.
“Not yet,” whispers Louis, leaning back on one elbow and putting the joint to
his lips again. “Don’t want to waste this.”
“Yeah,” says Niall, still staring at Louis’s mouth. “Give it here.” He takes a
long drag before handing it back. There are a few curious sheep trotting closer
to them across the grass, although they keep their distance. “We’ve got some
new friends coming.”
“Tell them they’ll have to get their own,” says Louis.
“I don’t speak Sheep,” replies Niall.
“Didn’t you see Babe? Ba-ram-ewe!”
“Dunno what you’re on about.”
“It’s the secret code word all sheep respond to. I can’t see; are they perking
up their ears or anything?”
Niall steals back the joint, and sucks at the end, wet with Louis’s spit.
“They’re still just looking.”
When they've smoked the blunt down to nothing, Louis lies back and pulls Niall
half on top of him, guiding Niall's face into the crook of his shoulder. He
smells sweaty, and the collar of his old denim jacket is musty, but Niall
nuzzles into him anyway, sucking a bruise at the base of Louis's throat. Louis
slides a hand down Niall's back, tucks his fingertips under the waist of
Niall's loose jeans. "Wanna fuck you," Louis tells him, and suddenly Niall
wants that too, the thick heat of Louis's cock inside him. It's been nearly a
week since the last time, which was also the first time, when Louis opened
Niall up on his tongue and made him come before he even got inside. They'd done
it the other way loads over the summer, but Louis had been weirdly hesitant
about fucking Niall, even though Niall wanted it. But just now they’re in a
field heavily dotted with sheep poo, and he can’t imagine Louis’s hands are
anything like clean at the moment, doesn’t really want them stroking his bare
skin, pressed inside him.
“When we get home, yeah?” asks Niall, breathing heavy against Louis’s mouth.
“When we get home, will you fuck me? Is that okay?” Louis moves to play with
Niall’s hair, and Niall should maybe tell him to stop because his hands aren’t
any farther from sheep shit now than they were a minute ago. But he likes how
it feels, Louis’s quick, clever fingers in his hair, rubbing against his scalp.
He must sound desperate, because Louis is trying to soothe him. “Of course,
love.” His tongue slips into Niall’s mouth next moment, and everything is hot
and wet and slow between them. Niall grinds his hips down, and Louis’s knees
come up, squeezing at him, getting them all lined up until Niall knows he’s
going to come like this, go back home with a wet spot on his uniform trousers,
smuggle Louis into the flat and hope Bressie doesn’t see or smell him on his
way through the door. Bressie seems to like Louis, in a tentative, distrustful
way, and Niall knows it’s because Bressie’s looking out for him, but he doesn’t
want to jeopardize all of this. He can’t go back to Mullingar now, can’t go
back to the way things were back home. He gasps into Louis’s mouth as he starts
to shoot, and Louis nuzzles at the corner of his mouth, whispering, “That’s
good, babe. You’re so good.” He kisses Niall for a long time after, and Niall’s
mesmerized by the feel of Louis’s body against his, the softness of his hair
beneath his beanie, the slightly rough pads of Louis’s fingers dragging up his
back under his shirt.
They still both reek of weed by the time they tramp back to the car, the soiled
blanket slung over Louis’s shoulder, but Niall doesn’t take the suggestion that
they roll in the field to disguise the scent seriously. Louis hesitates in the
carpark outside their block of flats, but Bressie’s car isn’t even there. “Come
up,” Niall says. “If he’s still at work, we’ve got plenty of time.”
Louis grins. “Plenty of time for what, Niall?”
And now that Niall’s blood isn’t buzzing from the weed, he’s a little more
reticent. “Fuck off,” he says, cheeks going pink.
“Well, if you like,” says Louis, putting his hand on the gear-lever like he’s
about to drive off.
“Come up,” Niall says again. His school trousers are crusted with come, dirt
and grass ground into the bottom hem. “We can put our clothes in the wash. You
know yours could use it.”
Louis wrinkles his nose and scratches at a smudge of something on his jeans.
“Just trying to get me naked, Horan.”
“Not trying to be subtle about that plan, Tommo.”
Louis parks in the narrow spot at the end of the row and has to wriggle out
between his car and the next. Niall watches him pull himself free with one
eyebrow raised. “I like a bit of a tight fit,” Louis says, giving Niall’s arse
a friendly grope. The back of Niall’s neck prickles with embarrassment, but he
likes it, when Louis teases him.
The flat is silent and dim when they arrive, Niall dropping his school stuff
and calling for Bressie just in case. When there’s no answer, he goes for
Louis’s clothes immediately, undressing him in the kitchen beside the washing
machine. He chucks Louis’s jeans and t-shirt in, then follows with his own
school polo and trousers, strips off his come-crusted pants and muddy socks and
throws them in as well before turning the machine on. He watches Louis’s dirty
toes curl against the tile, settles a hand on the curve of his hip to draw him
in close. His grey boxers sit snug over the swell of his arse, and Niall can
see he’s already half hard, the shape of his cock jutting beneath the thin
fabric. Niall wants to put his mouth on it.
“Fancy a shower?” Louis asks. He presses his lips to the side of Niall’s
throat, bites gently over his pulse point. Niall moans before he can help
himself.
They stumble into the hall, already kissing, and Niall guides Louis into the
bathroom with one hand fisted in the waistband of his boxers. The electric
shower spits and then starts up a steady stream of hot water, and they clamber
into the tub, upsetting a couple of mostly empty shampoo bottles and grinning
into each other’s mouths. Niall fumbles out a bar of soap and lathers his hands
with it, slicks them down Louis’s chest, tickling through the sparse hair
there. There’s no part of Louis he doesn’t want to put his hands on, his mouth,
and he scrubs his palms over the slight softness at Louis’s waist, gripping him
tight.
Louis takes the soap from him, runs the bar down Niall’s back, then slips it
down the crack of Niall’s arse, making him shiver. “You like that, yeah?” Louis
says.
“Yeah,” says Niall. “Told you, didn’t I?”
Louis presses a wet kiss to his mouth. “Here?” He flicks a soapy fingertip
against Niall’s arsehole, gives it a slow rub.
Niall wriggles back, bending his head to nose at Louis’s shoulder. “Anywhere
you like. Want you.”
Louis touches his chin, tilts him up for a kiss. “Want you too, love.” He’s not
messing about, and Niall’s stomach twists with a surge of feeling, the sweet
certainty that Louis loves him more than words.
There’s no lube in the bathroom, so they make do with cheap hand cream, three
of Louis’s slim fingers pressed into his arse before he even notices the burn
of it, and by then he’s so hard he’s aching, fisting his hands against the wall
of the shower as Louis leans into him. “All right?” says Louis, his voice
cracking like it’s hardly up to the task.
Niall nods, breathes out a “yeah” as the pressure of Louis’s fingers inside him
changes, and he’s spread just that last little bit wider around them.
“Have you got a condom?” Louis asks, and Niall’s barely even up to answering,
squirming on Louis’s hand, gripping tight on his slick knuckles.
“We don’t have to,” he whispers, and his dick twitches just thinking about
Louis inside him bare, fucking him hard and fast, marking him inside with his
come.
“We do though,” Louis says sternly. “Else I can just keep doing you like this.
Bet I could make you come, Niall. Just on my fingers.”
And it’s good, the stretch of them inside him, the way Louis moves his wrist
that makes Niall’s knees go weak. But it’s not as good as Louis’s cock would
be. “There are condoms in the drawer under the sink,” he admits. “But they’re
not mine. You have to pretend you weren’t even in there, or Bressie’ll be
wearing my bollocks for earrings.”
“I’m very sneaky,” says Louis. “Practically a criminal mastermind.” When he
slides his fingers out of Niall’s arse, the sudden emptiness is disorienting,
makes Niall’s slick hole flutter and clench. He leans into the hot spray of the
shower and waits while Louis rattles open the drawer and hunts through.
“He’s not really picky about the layout of this, is he?” Louis asks from the
other side of the shower curtain.
The answer is yes, because Bressie’s picky about his stuff. But Niall wants
Louis in his arse more than he wants Louis sorting Bressie’s drawer properly.
“No. Get back in here before I die,” Niall says, and Louis’s laugh echoes off
the tile as he steps back into the bath.
“You won’t die,” Louis says, nuzzling at the back of Niall’s neck, biting
gently at the muscle of his shoulder. He steps back again to roll on the
condom, and Niall reaches behind himself, hitting Louis’s hip and grasping at
it.
It burns as Louis presses into him, enough that Niall’s breath becomes a
stutter, and Louis stops long enough to ask if he’s all right. And Niall is
aching and too full and his balls are knotted up tight with how much he wants
more of this. “Fucking hell,” he whispers, working himself deeper on Louis’s
cock.
Louis’s hands stroke down his sides. “You’re so tight,” Louis says, kissing the
back of his neck. “This is what you wanted, yeah?”
“Feels so good,” Niall tells him, and after that he doesn’t have to say
anything at all, letting Louis fuck into him, open him up with steady, slick
thrusts. He tips his head back, water catching in his eyelashes and his
drooping fringe, and Louis’s mouth settles against his throat, teeth grazing
the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.
Niall’s cock slaps against his belly, poking up stiff between his legs, and as
Louis fucks him faster, Niall gets a hand around it, trying to relieve the
pressure. He can’t help the way he groans, feeling so much, the movement of
Louis inside him and his own clumsy wanking.
There’s a sound outside, and too slowly Niall’s brain processes that it’s the
door to the flat, that Bressie’s calling his name. But he’s too close, can’t
stop now, chasing his orgasm and catching it, Louis’s cock hitting deep inside
him as he sprays over his belly.
Louis starts to pull out, but Niall grabs for him, fingernails scraping his
slippery skin. “Don’t stop,” he whispers frantically. “Come in me. Please.”
Distantly he can hear Bressie moving around, another door opening, the creak of
the floorboards. But it doesn’t matter. Louis muffles a sharp, plaintive sound
at Niall’s nape and fucks into him a few more times before his hips go still.
Niall leans against the wall, weak-kneed and shaky as Louis pulls out of him,
chucking the condom and coming back to rinse them both off. Their mouths find
each other in lazy kisses, and Niall loves the ache of Louis inside him, wants
to hold onto that vague throb of sensation for as long as he can.
He manages to put Bressie out of his head as they stumble out of the tub, still
dripping water on the bathroom floor. But immediately he sees a problem. All
their clothes except Louis’s pants are in the washing machine. “Fuck,” says
Niall, glancing round helplessly.
Louis rubs a hand across his eyes. “As if he didn’t already hate me for
defiling you. Don’t need him seeing me with my cock out too.”
“He doesn’t hate you. Get your pants back on. You can borrow something of mine.
Reckon we didn’t think this through.”
“Reckon we were stoned,” Louis points out.
“Yeah,” Niall agrees. “Reckon it was worth it too.”
Louis grins and kisses him against the bathroom door before opening it up,
releasing a burst of steam into the rest of the flat. Niall’s room is just
across the hall, and they slip in without catching sight of Bressie. Niall
chucks some trackies and an old t-shirt at Louis, throws on something similar
himself. There’s no hiding their wet hair or the fact they were in the fucking
bathroom together to start with, but Bressie wasn’t a teenager that long ago.
The living room door is open when they step back into the hallway, and the
telly is blaring faintly. Niall can see Louis wondering if he should duck out
like he was never there, but then Bressie calls, “Evening, lads!” and they’re
obliged to make an appearance.
Niall accepts that there’s no way to make it less than obvious that they’ve
been in the shower together, but it’s all he can do not to keep clenching the
cheeks of his arse with every step. Bressie’s cool with a lot, but he
definitely doesn’t need to know everything. Niall pokes his wet head into the
living room and says, “Hiya, Bres. Home a bit early today, aren’t you?” Louis’s
lurking like a shadow behind him, shoving damp feet into his dirty Toms and
reaching for his rucksack.
“It’s after six,” says Bressie. “Not too bad.”
Niall looks at his pruned fingers and realizes he has no idea how long they
were in the shower and even less idea how long they were lain out in the field
smoking up. “Not too bad.”
“Evening, Louis,” says Bressie, nodding towards the doorway, even though he
can’t possibly see Louis stood awkwardly in the hall.
“All right?” calls Louis, not taking a single step closer. Niall has to admit
that Bressie’s a little bit physically intimidating if you don’t know that he’s
a giant teddy bear, or if you’re worried you’ve done something that’ll make him
act less like a teddy bear and more like a crazed, protective father figure.
“All right,” says Bressie. “Am I right in thinking you’ll be joining us for
dinner, Louis?”
Louis looks at Niall, stalled and uncertain, and Niall gives him a little nod.
“Sure he will,” Niall says decisively. “We’ll go start the pasta right now.”
“Thanks, lads,” says Bressie. “I’m knackered.” And he looks it too, like he
does at the end of every week of stupid office work. On weekends and some
evenings he gives music lessons, voice and guitar, and the flat fills up with
his joy at playing music and teaching someone how to love what he loves. But
often as not during the week he comes home from managing whatever it is that a
branch manager manages looking tired and frustrated. And on those nights Niall
orders pizza and plays ‘80s stadium rock and does air guitar on the coffee
table until Bressie smiles again. They’re good for each other that way.
Niall puts a pot of water on the range and Louis nuzzles at his shoulder from
behind. It makes Niall think about the shower, makes him want all over again,
but instead he angles Louis into a brief kiss and says, “There’s an aubergine
on the counter over there. Want to chop it for me?”
“If I chop it though, you’ll probably want me to eat it afterward.”
“Nah. I’ll want to cook it first.” Niall winks at him. “You can start with the
onion if you’d rather. But it’s all going in eventually.”
“I’m sure it is,” Louis says, with a lewd grin. But he goes ahead and chops
vegetables without any more complaints while Niall finds a tin of tomatoes and
some garlic salt. He’s not a cook by any stretch, but even he can boil water
and fry stuff up in a pan. He puts some leftover chicken in the sauce and keeps
stirring while Louis watches him, unreadable smile on his face.
“What’s got you smirking, Tommo?” Niall asks.
“Just wondering if this is a young Jamie Oliver at work I’m witnessing. Such
style.”
Niall ducks his head, sheepish. “It’s just pasta.”
“You’re making your own sauce. I get all bollixed up just using the microwave.”
Niall’s seen Louis cook for his family some nights, amidst all the normal
catastrophes and particular excitements of having four little girls underfoot,
and he knows this isn’t true. Louis’s sisters are still young enough to want
simple things, but Louis does them well, stirring up pots of macaroni cheese,
frying sausages, and mashing potatoes, all while his mum is still working down
at the hospital.
“So modest,” says Niall, flicking his hip with a tea towel. “But you’re quite
the favourite among the littler Tomlinsons.”
“Little sisters have no taste,” says Louis dismissively, but he nuzzles a thank
you into Niall’s shoulder nonetheless. Niall doesn’t understand why Louis can’t
take compliments any more than he can understand why Louis didn’t want to fuck
him for three months. But he leans into Louis anyway, closing his eyes and
imagining the two of them cooking in their own flat together, night after night
just like this, only with no prying sisters or unlocked doors or suspicious
guardians.
 
On an unexpectedly hot day in late September, Nick turns the corner to find
Harry Styles sat on the floor outside the staff room once again. He seems to
loiter in the corridors every other day now, and Nick can’t seem to stop
himself striking up conversations, finding ways to make Harry flash that
dimpled grin of his. Usually he’s in his school shirt and trousers, one button
open at his collar, but today he’s wearing honest-to-god jean shorts and a top
that shows off the artful sweep of his collarbones. Harry is bobbing his head
along to something on the iPod in his lap, cooling his bare thighs on the
smooth tile, and Nick lets himself stare for a moment while Harry isn't looking
before he strides down the corridor and kicks gently at one of Harry's spindly
knees.
Harry looks up, a smile spreading across his face. He pauses the iPod and yanks
out his earbuds. "Hi, Mr Grimshaw!" he says, drawing out the "Hi" in that slow
way of his.
"Doesn't your school have a dress code, Harry Styles?" he asks cheerfully.
"Course," says Harry. "And this definitely doesn't meet it. Nice of you to
worry about me distracting other students with my clothes though." He pulls
down the deep V of his t-shirt to reveal another inch of hairless chest. "We
had an early dismissal today, so I went home and changed. Too fucking hot for
nearly October." The swear slips off his tongue easily, like the sharp sound of
it is nothing to him.
"Just guessing, but you're probably not to say 'fucking' to your teachers
either."
"Yeah, but you're not my teacher, are you?"
Nick can't help but grin at his shamelessness. "See you later, Harold." He
slips into the staff room still smiling, and when he hustles Matt out of there
fifteen minutes later, Harry is still sat on the floor outside, his legs in an
untidy sprawl, a sociology textbook cradled between them. He’s sucking on the
end of his pen in a way that should probably be banned. “Your mum’s not in
there,” Nick tells him helpfully.
Harry’s brow furrows, then smoothes. “Okay, cheers.” He goes back to sucking on
his pen, and Nick glances over his shoulder in spite of himself to watch for a
few seconds longer.
Matt pinches his arm, and not gently. “Don’t,” he says warningly.
“Don’t what, Finchy? Don’t allow you to physically abuse me? Bit late now.”
“You know what I mean, Nick.”
“You’re using that voice you use when you’re offended by the student radio
station playing explicit versions of Eminem. I assume that means you secretly
like this, too.” There is no “this,” really, not at all, but winding Matt up is
one of Nick’s favourite pastimes. And besides, he’s doing nothing wrong:
flirting a bit with a charming boy he has no authority over, teasing himself
with a little “what if” sometimes. He has mates ten years older than he is; if
Harry were only a year or two older, it wouldn’t even be an issue.
“He is a student,” says Matt sternly.
“He doesn’t even go to school here.”
“That doesn’t change it. He’s a student, and a child. Do you even know how old
he is? Fifteen? Fourteen?”
“Fourteen!” exclaims Nick. “Matt Fincham, how can you teach secondary school
and have no idea what fourteen year olds look like? They’re tiny. He’s sixteen.
He told me so.”
Matt stops short just outside the doors to the car park. “You asked him? God,
Nick why would you do that?”
“I didn’t ask him,” Nick says, ruffling a hand through his drooping quiff. The
sun is sloping oppressively at them, and he has to squint against it to see
Matt’s face. “He told me he was too young to go out for X Factor last year, and
this year he wasn’t. That makes him sixteen.”
“So sixteen then,” says Matt with a resigned sigh. “And you’re twenty-six. And
a teacher.”
“I’m not having it off with Harry bloody Styles, Finchy. He doesn’t know how to
talk without flirting. What am I supposed to do?”
“You could start by not flirting back.”
Nick throws his hands up in a dramatic gesture that is rather ruined when he
remembers that Matt is his ride home while his car’s at the garage. There’s no
harm in flirting. That’s a motto Nick lives by.
 
Niall likes the quality of the silence in the radio studio after classes have
ended for the day. With no students rushing up and down the corridor outside,
its soundproofing seems complete, even in the tiny control room, like he’s
insulated from the world outside. He can play with the soundboard to his
heart’s content, edit together beds and sound effects on the new computer he’d
helped Mr Grimshaw set up on the first day of school. This year he’s got a key
to the studio all his own, and while he’s not the only one, he knows he’s the
one who spends the most time here.
Niall always thought he wanted to make music, and maybe he still will, but he
wants to help other people make music as well. He loves listening to the radio
and figuring out how the songs work, even the ones he hates, and it’s always
more complicated than he first expects, the layers of rhythm and melody and
harmony that make up your average pop song.
He can’t do much with his knowledge yet. He helps record school concerts, but
the equipment is basic, and it’s not like getting someone in the studio and
layering together a proper pop production. Sometimes he thinks about what would
happen if he asked Bressie to let him record one of his songs, the ones Niall
hears through the thin walls of their flat on weekend mornings. Bressie had a
little band back in Ireland, and the kind of small following you get in local
pubs, but all of that was before Niall knew him, and Niall isn’t sure if
Bressie would want his help to start it up again. Still, he might ask, one of
these days. He needs to get the practice somehow.
 
Louis’s in the drama room, fiddling about with the props for exercises, a
motley assortment of ugly hats, small—probably broken—personal electronics and
kitchen gadgets, and a bunch of other objects so far removed from their
usefulness that Louis can’t help but smile. He feels at least a little
responsible for the contents of this room in a way he doesn’t and couldn’t for
any other part of the school.
“Student or interloper?” says an Irish voice, and Louis turns towards the door
with a feather boa in his hands. A man Louis assumes is the new drama teacher
is leaning in the doorway with a satchel slung over his shoulder. He’s much
younger and scruffier than Miss Humphries had been, although Louis misses the
scent of Chanel No. 5 that used to linger in the room when he was at school.
“Interloper,” replies Louis, twirling the boa around his neck. “And former
student.” He misses drama, itches with the desire to perform sometimes, to get
up in front of people and make them feel something.
The teacher looks thoughtfully at him. “You’re not Niall’s Louis then, are
you?”
Louis’s never been called that before, and it warms him up inside to hear it,
to think that he and Niall go together. “Yeah, I am, actually. How do you know
my Niall? I didn’t even think he was taking drama.”
“He’s not. But the Irish have always stuck together in foreign lands. I’m Mr
McDermott, but you can call me Eoghan, as long as you don’t do it here.”
Louis nods, tries to remember if Niall’s ever talked about befriending the new
drama teacher. Especially given that he doesn’t take drama. He shakes Eoghan’s
hand, a firm, grown-up squeeze, and Eoghan leans against the desk looking
nonchalant. “Niall talks about you,” he says, and Louis wonders where this is
going, but Eoghan doesn’t look like the sort of bloke who could fuck you up if
you messed with a fellow Irishman; he’s tall, but probably only half the width
of Bressie.
“Does he now?” says Louis, and he can’t keep the smile off his face.
“Surely he does. He’s head over heels, I’d say, goes all red and fluttery about
you.”
“He’s naturally pale. Doesn’t take much to make him go red.”
Eoghan nods. “Ah, and there’s that self-deprecating charm. So what do you do,
Niall’s Louis, interloper and former student?”
Louis laughs. “Not much at the moment. Work at my uncle’s garage some, doing
the filing because he hates it. Look after my sisters. Float through life
directionless.” He gestures broadly with the boa.
“Uni not for you then?”
“Have to pass your exams for that, I reckon. Didn’t do so well at that. One A-
level.”
“In Drama?”
Louis tosses the boa around his neck again. “How ever did you guess?”
“I always know a kindred spirit. Did you want to act?”
Louis wobbles his head a bit. “Thought I might. But mostly I thought I’d be all
right at your job.”
“You know you can sit your exams again. Plenty of people don’t go to uni
straight out of school. Even really clever people.”
Something goes tight and unhappy in Louis’s chest. “If you’re going to tell me
an inspirational story about how your gap year changed your life, I’d like you
better if you didn’t.”
Eoghan holds his hands up, placating. “No stories then. But if you ever need
any help, any friend of Niall’s is a friend of mine. And he really does think
the world of you, mate.” He steps around the desk and takes a thick stack of
papers out of his bag. “Now if you don’t mind pissing off, I’ve got marking to
do.”
“Are you allowed to say ‘piss off’ to students?”
“Certainly not. But I can say anything I like to interlopers.” He winks at
Louis, and Louis puts the boa back and makes for the door. He thinks of saying
‘thank you’, but then he doesn’t, slipping out of the room without a word. He’s
never been much for accepting help.
 
Zayn's got the whole basement to himself, and a lock on the door to keep out
intruding sisters. Harry doesn't understand how no one in Zayn's family ever
got suspicious of his keen interest in botany that requires special lighting
for the room off his bedroom, but as long as their obliviousness continues,
Harry's happy to keep coming here to smoke up.
"I think he's into me," he's saying, curled into Liam's side with Zayn in a
lazy sprawl on the beanbag in front of him.
"He's old," says Zayn. "The fuck does it matter that he's into you? Everyone
with eyes is into you."
Harry reaches out a bare foot to kick him in the side. Zayn grabs his ankle and
holds on, tickling his thumb across the arch of Harry's foot until Harry flails
away. "He's not like, old old though. And he's well fit. And his hands, christ,
what I wouldn't give for his hands on me."
"He's a teacher though," says Liam, getting to the root of the problem. "You
can't get off with a teacher, Harry."
"Exactly," agrees Zayn. "We'll all be on Jeremy Kyle in a month discussing
forbidden love."
"Nah," says Harry. "Not unless I'm up the duff or summat." And the thought of
being pregnant is so hilarious he has to stifle a giggle in Liam's neck. He
takes a deep breath of Liam's cologne. "You smell nice." He nuzzles there for a
moment before tilting his head away.
Zayn drapes his head over the edge of the beanbag. "Christ, I can't even send
you home like this." He chucks his mobile in Harry's direction, and Liam
catches it with baffling dexterity. "Ring your mum and ask if you can stay."
Harry's time sense is fuzzy. He's warm and happy and a bit horny just thinking
about Mr Grimshaw and his long, elegant fingers, all the things he could do to
Harry with them. Liam pushes the phone into Harry's hand. "It's nearly
dinnertime, Haz. If you're going to stay, you'd best ring home now." Times like
this, Harry hates living outside of town and needing rides everywhere. He’s
always a bother to someone, not like Liam who can just glide off on a bus
whenever he likes.
"Are you staying?" Harry asks. Liam's body is the most comfortable pillow he
can imagine, Liam's arm around his waist keeping him from sinking deeper into
the quicksand of the sofa.
"Nah, mate, I've got to get back. Mum'll be off work soon, and I told her I'd
be there for dinner."
"That's terrible," says Harry feelingly.
Liam pats his shoulder and pulls away. "I know. But Zayn'll take good care of
you, mate."
“Will he?” asks Harry.
Zayn tugs on his ankle again, and Harry can feel the press of each of his
fingers with strange specificity. “Mum’s making samosas.”
Harry’s stomach rumbles. “Sick.” He fumbles the phone from his lap and dials
his mum, trying to pitch his voice normally as he tells her he’ll be at Zayn’s
for dinner, and asks if she could pick him up at the bus stop nearest their
house later. Liam takes the opportunity to slip off the sofa and start
gathering his things. Harry flumps over on his side on the sofa, and Zayn moves
to tickling the sole of his foot.
“Is this laced with something?” Harry asks, rubbing his face on the arm of the
sofa. “I feel, like, really high.”
“Oh, god,” says Liam. “Good luck, lads.” Zayn waves lazily as Liam makes for
the stairs.
“It’s a new strain I got from Ant who got it from some bloke in Manchester, but
it’s just weed. And Liam and I are obviously fine. Think you’re just a
lightweight, Haz. Or so lovestruck it’s fucking up your brain.”
Harry sets his chin on the arm of the sofa so he can look Zayn in the eye.
“That might be it,” he says solemnly. His vision is blurry, and he blinks a
couple of times. He and Zayn used to mess around sometimes in the summer, and
although Harry still recognises that Zayn is gorgeous, the pull towards him is
faded. Zayn’s hand on his foot doesn’t make him tingly like Mr Grimshaw looking
at his bare legs did. “I don’t know what to do, Z.”
“Are you sure you need to do something?”
Harry tugs at his lower lip. “Yeah. I think I do.”
 
Louis hates it when anyone he knows comes into the garage, but it’s worst when
it’s teachers, adults who theoretically prepared him for academic and life
success, and instead he fucked up his exams and probably won’t ever do anything
worthwhile. At least he never had a proper class with Mr Grimshaw, just working
on the radio in his free periods, concocting reasons to talk to Niall when he
wasn’t talking rubbish on air. But when Grimshaw comes to retrieve his car, he
brings Mr Fincham, the English teacher, who gives Louis a disappointed onceover
as Grimshaw reviews the charges for the car.
“If you’ve got any technical questions, I can get my uncle in, but otherwise
I’ll just ring you up,” Louis says, with his sweetest smile.
“It’s going to be, like, okay for a while now, isn’t it?” says Grimshaw.
“Nothing else turned up in the inspection?”
“That’s what it says here,” says Louis, tapping his pen on the itemised list of
charges. “I’m happy to call in my uncle if you like though.”
“Nah, I trust you,” says Grimshaw, handing over his card.
“So Louis, are you here full time now?” asks Fincham.
Louis keeps his eyes on the card reader as he answers. “Just part time. The
rest is all chasing around my little sisters. There are four of them, so it
takes a lot to keep them out of trouble.”
“Have you thought about university for next year? Or maybe an apprenticeship?”
Fincham continues, and Louis gives him a cool look as he holds the reader up
for Grimshaw to enter his PIN.
“Early days yet,” he says. “I’ll work it out.”
“Of course you will,” says Grimshaw cheerfully. “And it sounds like you’re
helping out your family, which is important as well. You don’t need to rush
into anything else.” He smiles at Louis as Louis hands him his keys back, and
Louis is grateful that that’s the end of it, any other pressing questions
Fincham might have about his life plans cut off. He hides behind the desk for a
while after they’ve gone though, slumped low in his chair staring at the dusty
calendar on the wall, which marks off all the days he’s spent not knowing what
the fuck to do. If he just keeps waiting for his life to sort itself out, how
long before Niall starts looking for someone to keep pace with him?
 
“I don’t like him,” says Bressie sullenly, shifting his bottle between his
hands. The pub is quiet, and he and Eoghan are sat at a table by the front
window, watching the early evening bustle of the high street. “I’m really
trying, for the sake of domestic harmony, but I don’t.”
Eoghan rolls his eyes. “You are the most unnecessarily parental guardian the
world has ever seen. What the hell is there not to like?”
Bressie thinks about the sounds he heard when he came home the other week,
wonders if Niall has any bloody clue how thin the walls are, wonders how he
could be expected to care when he’s moaning like that. It’s not that he really
thinks he’s being reasonable, but fuck, he can’t help it, the surge of worry
and suspicion in his heart when he looks at Louis Tomlinson. Niall’s been
through so much the last few years, and Bressie took him in as a favour to a
family friend, but fuck if he knows how to set appropriate boundaries for
teenagers. “They’re having sex,” he says gravely.
Eoghan presses a hand to his chest. “They never were! Teenagers! Having sex!
What is the world coming to?”
“They nicked one of my condoms last week.”
“And put it to better use than you would have, I’m sure. Isn’t it good they’re
being safe?”
Bressie frowns, remembering Niall moaning, the guilty look on his face after.
“Of course it is,” he says, tamping down the images. “Of course.” He runs his
thumbnail along a scratch in the varnish of the table. “But he’s so young.”
“He’s seventeen. How old were you your first time?”
Bressie shrugs. “Sixteen. But I wasn’t… troubled.” He never wants to speak out
of turn about Niall’s issues. He knows Eoghan has a general idea of what
happened back in Ireland—fights with his brother, time out of school—he doesn’t
need more than that.
“He doesn’t look troubled these days. And that’s what he’s with you for, isn’t
it? To have a chance to be a normal kid with a boyfriend who’s over the moon
for him?”
Bressie sighs, but he doesn’t have a response to that. Niall could be doing a
lot worse. “Another round?”
 
In a restless fit of self-improvement at the start of the school year, Nick
made a list of things that would improve his life and hung it on the fridge.
They included: spirituality, a real radio job, a boyfriend, an exercise regimen
he doesn’t hate, an unconditionally loving pet. He joined a gym in September,
which proved to be a total failure, and he sent in two job applications to
deafening silence, so between boyfriend, God, and pet, he takes the easiest one
and goes to an adoption fair at a local animal shelter in October.
Obviously the person overseeing a room full of kittens is his favourite after-
school loiterer. “Harry Styles,” says Nick, and Harry breaks into a grin. Matt
Fincham isn’t around to tell him not to smile back.
“Hiya, Mr Grimshaw. Can I interest you in a furry friend?” He’s got a fluffy
grey cloud of a cat clinging to his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to mind the
claws.
“Allergic to cats, sadly.”
“Dogs are across the hall, rabbits that way.” He tilts his head to the left. “I
think there’s a snake somewhere, too.”
“I hope not near the rabbits.”
“Yeah, I think that’s a mistake you only make once.” He strokes the cat as it
nuzzles at his chin.
Nick almost says Come here often?, but he stifles it. “I wasn’t expecting to
see you here.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you either. But I guess everyone needs a little
companionship.”
“My thoughts exactly. You seem to have a good friend here.”
Harry’s fingers twirl between the cat’s ears. “I’m going to give her back at
the end of the day. I did work experience here last year. You get used to,
like…”
“Being surrounded by pussycats?”
Harry’s eyelashes flutter down, and he bites back a smile. “I like pussycats,”
Harry says. “But I like other things too.”
Nick feels out of his depth suddenly. “Like puppies?”
“Yeah,” agrees Harry. “Like puppies. Do you want a puppy?”
“I thought maybe older dog. Something a bit lower maintenance.”
“Did you want me to maybe show you some of the dogs?”
“I’m not sure how your little friend would feel about that.”
“Oh, Tinkerbell won’t mind.” He peels the cat from the front of his jumper, and
she gives the tiniest, squeakiest meow Nick’s ever heard.
He follows Harry into the room across the hall, which is full of barking and
tail wagging. “I’ve never had a dog,” Harry tells him. “I like them though. We
were just always a cat family.”
“Mine too.”
“Even though you’re allergic?”
“They didn’t know I was allergic, to be fair. Until I went off to uni and
stopped feeling like I had hayfever all year round. I just hold my breath when
I go home to see them now.”
“Practical,” says Harry.
“Yeah. I’ve invested in some scuba gear as well.”
Harry introduces him to several dogs, and Nick holds a hand out for each of
them to sniff, trying to imagine them in his flat or trotting around his
neighbourhood with him. For all that Harry says he’s only an occasional
volunteer at the shelter now, he seems to know all sorts of things about the
dogs: where they came from, their medical history, their temperament with other
dogs.
“It’s really important to think about how much time you have for a dog. Some of
them just want to lay around all day, but some of them need loads of exercise
or looking after, and when people can’t give them that, they bring them here
like there’s something wrong with them, even though it’s not the dog’s fault at
all.”
Nick nods. He’s already reconsidering how much time he’d have for a dog,
working in walks between school and his gigs on weekends. He wouldn’t ever want
to be on the receiving end of Harry’s sad, disappointed voice. “Do you want to
be a vet or summat? You seem very knowledgeable.”
Harry shakes his head. “I just did work experience here because I like animals.
I don’t really think it’ll be a career or anything. But it’s always nice to
feel as though you’re helping. Have you seen anyone you like?”
“Not sure. Thinking it over, I’m not sure I’ll have the time I’d like for a
dog. I can’t usually get home during the day.”
“And you don’t have a partner or anything at home?”
“Not even a flatmate anymore.”
“That’s too bad.” Belatedly Nick realises Harry may not be asking innocuous
questions.
“Not too bad,” says Nick with a shrug. “It just means I either need a really
chill dog or a new job.”
“If you got a new job, I wouldn’t see you anymore.”
“Unless you just happen to be hanging round pet adoption events. Which seems
like it could happen. Somehow.”
Harry laughs. He’s lovely when he laughs.
 
Louis is sat in the back row of the drama classroom draped in a red velvet
cloak when Eoghan appears with a stack of papers under one arm and a mug in the
other hand. He raises his eyebrows, and Louis stands and sweeps the cloak
closed around him.
"Just came in to steal school property, did you?" Eoghan says. "Few days late
for Halloween, I'm afraid."
"I'm starting early for next year." He twists his hands together under the
cloak. It's easier to hide his nerves when he's covered top to toe in red
velvet. "I need to know, hypothetically, what someone who's a bit of an idiot
could do if he'd royally fucked up his A levels and still wanted to go to uni."
Eoghan's smile softens, and Louis holds his shoulders square, just making
himself stay still and not rush out of the room in shame. He can't handle pity.
It's taken all he has just to come here and ask for help. "Can you stay for a
bit today? I've got all this marking to get through, but I've got a few
thoughts on your hypothetical."
Louis glances at the clock above the door. "I'm supposed to meet Niall at half-
past. But I could come some other day."
"That sounds ideal." Eoghan dumps the papers on his desk and gets out his
phone. "How's Thursday for you?"
"Fine. Same time?"
"I'll put you on my calendar."
Louis shrugs out of the cloak and lays it over the back of a chair instead of
putting it away in the wardrobe. He hesitates over the word "Thanks," but
Eoghan nods at him over his marking.
"No worries."
 
There are always loads of fliers for university events up in the coffee shop
near college. Usually Harry doesn’t care much about the lectures, but sometimes
they get proper good bands on campus, and that’s always worth the risk of using
his fake ID. He peruses the board as he looks for space for an advert for the
Young Botanists’ annual bulb sale, and it takes him a second to realise there’s
a neon pink page that isn’t for a band at all, it’s for a social at the student
union on Friday with drinks specials and music from DJ Grimmy. Even from the
grainy photo underneath, Harry recognises that face.
“That’s Mr Grimshaw,” says Harry excitedly, turning to Zayn who’s already
rolling his eyes. “I guess he’s a DJ.”
Liam looks like Harry’s already asked him to do something immoral, maybe even
more immoral than supporting Zayn’s illegal business ventures. “Can’t you just
find another girlfriend, mate? Or even the same one again? Anna’s single and
already put up with your jokes for four months last year.”
Harry sighs. Anna’s lovely, and they’d had fun together in the spring, but
she’s off at uni in Liverpool now, and Harry wouldn’t want to date her again.
Especially not when he’s set his sights elsewhere.
So Zayn agrees to go because he’s still trying to break into the uni market
with his botanical pursuits, and Liam claims he’s going to meet older women,
but Harry’s fairly sure it’s actually to keep an eye on him.
“If he’s interested in you, it probably means there’s something wrong with
him,” Liam says, after
“He’s not my teacher,” Harry said, looking round to make sure no one they knew
was in the café with them while they waited for their coffees. “And I’m old
enough to sleep with whoever I like.”
“And he’s old enough to find someone his own bloody age.”
“But I want him to find me instead. Or at least I want to give him the chance.”
Liam sighed. “I hope he’s smart enough not to take it. What would your mum
say?”
And nearly a week later, Harry still doesn’t have a good answer to that one. So
his mum thinks he’s safely tucked in at Zayn’s while they’re slipping out the
basement window and heading for the bus stop. He doesn’t lie to his mum about
much except the cottage industry in Zayn’s bedroom, and he’s never hesitated to
say when he was going to a party among people his own age. It only reinforces
the tingling thought that maybe Liam’s right, and Harry shouldn’t pursue this.
Still a party’s a party, and there will be plenty of other people there looking
for a snog in a dark corner.
Harry’s wearing his tightest jeans, a vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt he stole
from his mum, and a denim jacket worn thin at the elbows. He’d been freezing at
the bus stop, but he’s quite sure he looks more like an artsy uni student than
an awkward sixth former, and at least the bus is warmer. “Are you going to talk
to him tonight?” Zayn asks, as the bus rumbles towards the university.
“Dunno,” says Harry. “I don’t want to look desperate, or like I came out just
to see him.”
“Even though you did,” points out Liam.
Harry ignores him. “Think I’ll treat tonight as, like, a reconnaissance
mission, just so I see what he’s like on a night out, and then I’ll decide what
to do. Maybe talk. Maybe leave him alone. There’s time.”
There’s a sign outside the student union saying IDs will be checked, no
exceptions, but the three of them just waltz right in with barely a glance at
their fakes, past a disinterested bouncer and into a dark room already humid
with sweat. If there’s one thing Harry’s learned in the last couple of years,
it’s that if you look like you know what you’re doing everyone else will
believe it. Inside the music’s already going, and Harry’s eyes jump to the
front, but he can’t see anything except swirling lights.
Harry’s entire strategy at parties is to spot a group of fit girls and dance
conspicuously near them until they accept him into their fold, and it seems uni
girls are no different than school ones. He finds himself doing the robot
between a pair of girls taller than he is, both of them laughing and urging him
on. It’s nice, the attention, but he can’t help glancing towards the front of
the room, towards Mr Grimshaw presumably.
Zayn pushes a beer into Harry’s hand after the next song, and Harry grinds on
him a little before Zayn rolls his eyes and fades back into the crowd. Next
Harry looks around until he spots Liam, who actually can dance as opposed to
doing dramatic flailing like Harry’s. He’s got his hands on the hips of a
curly-haired girl in an electric blue dress, and their faces are awfully close
together. Leave it to quiet, sensible Liam to actually pull at a uni social.
Harry slips away from his new dance partners and angles his way through the
crowd. The bass is vibrating the floor beneath his feet, one song fading into
another, and Harry doesn’t know anything about DJing, but he thinks Mr Grimshaw
most be quite good at it. Each song seems to come along neatly on the heels of
the last, the beats merging and then expanding. Most of them are things in the
chart, but there are remixes he hasn’t heard, like Mr Grimshaw has dug up new
sounds just for this.
When he gets close enough to see the DJ booth, such as it is, he slips off to
the side of the room, leans against the wall with his beer and watches Mr
Grimshaw’s long fingers flying over a laptop keyboard. His quiff is high and
bobbing to the music, and he looks younger in his t-shirt and skinny jeans than
he ever does at school, buttoned up and respectable. Someone comes up to make a
request, and Mr Grimshaw leans over the table, headphones draped around his
neck, as the girl gestures out a song title. He grins and nods. If Harry were
braver, that’s exactly what he’d do, go up and request a song, something cool
and slightly obscure, but also something he loves for real in case Mr Grimshaw
wanted to talk about it. Harry starts to feel as though his greatest advantage
in this situation—that they’ve already had several brief but lovely
conversations—is also his greatest disadvantage—because Mr Grimshaw knows
Harry’s mum and exactly how young Harry is. He can’t start fresh now.
“Is that him?” Liam says, appearing at Harry’s side and practically shouting to
be heard over the music.
Harry nods. He glances quickly at Liam’s face, but Liam is looking thoughtful,
like he’s given up on lecturing and is looking for a new angle. He can’t quite
imagine what Mr Grimshaw looks like through someone else’s eyes, especially
someone as thoroughly heterosexual as Liam Payne.
“Are you going to speak to him?” Liam asks.
“Dunno. It’s not a place it’s easy to talk.” Harry gestures broadly to
demonstrate. It’s loud and dark, and Harry wouldn’t be able to explain
anything, even if he wanted to. If Mr Grimshaw asks how he got in here, he
wouldn’t have a good answer. “I may just dance a bit.”
Liam lets Harry twirl him around into the thick of the crowd, and after Harry
loses track of him, there are plenty of other people to lose himself in.
Fifteen minutes later, he finds himself pushed into a dark corner of the room,
snogging a girl whose name he thinks is Sara, or possibly Claire. It’s been a
while since he’s been so well and thoroughly kissed, but he can’t stop thinking
about Mr Grimshaw, and when Sara (or Claire) says, “My flat’s not far, if you
want to get out of here,” Harry turns her down.
He finds Zayn at the bar looking aloof and gorgeous, and Harry drapes himself
across his back and nuzzles the side of his neck. Zayn reaches a hand back to
pat his bum. “No luck, eh?”
Harry shakes his head. “Not the luck I wanted. What are you staring at?”
“Liam,” says Zayn with a smirk, and Harry squints and recognizes Liam and the
girl in the blue dress snogging in the centre of the dance floor. He’s got his
hands on her hips and he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Wow,” says Harry.
“Yeah,” agrees Zayn. “Payne’s got game. Who knew?”
“Who says ‘got game’ anymore?” Harry replies. Zayn pinches his side and makes
him jump. “Isn’t this a bit creepy? Just, like, staring at him getting off with
a girl?”
“Yeah,” agrees Zayn, but they both keep watching. It’s just more material to
tease him with on the bus back to Zayn’s.
Liam doesn’t seem to care. “Laugh all you like, lads,” he says, leaning his
head against the bus window and grinning. “I got a fit girl’s number. What did
you get?”
Harry thinks of Mr Grimshaw and frowns. Next time he’ll need to be bolder.
 
Winter
 
“How’s the old car then?” Louis asks, sidling into the radio station without a
hello or a by-your-leave. Eoghan had told him he needed to do this, to get a
reference from someone who’d actually known him as a student, and he’s seen
Grimshaw out and about at gigs and things so it’s less scary to ask him than to
ask anyone else, but he still has to lock his knees to stop them shaking.
“Still running, thanks,” says Grimshaw, shutting his laptop. “I wasn’t
expecting personalised follow-up though. New service? Or were you looking for
your boyfriend?”
Niall is working on a group project in the library, which is why Louis had to
do this today, no telling when there’d be another chance before the UCAS
deadline. “Neither, actually.” He steps farther into the small room and shuts
the door behind him. “I needed to ask you a favour.”
“What sort of favour?” Grimshaw replies, looking suspicious enough that Louis
regrets about a quarter of the pranks he pulled on the radio the last two
years.
“I’m applying to university, and I need a reference. I also need to re-sit my
exams because no one wants a drama student with an A and two E’s, but I’ve got
a bit more time for that.”
Grimshaw’s eyebrows lift. “Me?”
“Miss Humphries retired, and I reckon no one else who taught me likes me enough
to do it.” Louis leans casually against the doorframe and shoves his hands
deeper into his jacket pockets.
“Finchy would if you grovelled,” Grimshaw offers cheerfully. Louis gives him a
stony look. “No, of course you’re not the grovelling type. I’d be happy to do
you a reference. Can you give me the weekend for it?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you applying for drama? I want to make sure I’m highlighting the right
qualities of your academic life.”
“When I went for careers advice last year, dramatic was definitely a word they
used. Or melodramatic, dunno. But I thought, play to me strengths.”
Grimshaw smiles, kind enough that Louis itches with the urge to fling open the
door and run. “You’ll be brilliant. Come by Monday and I’ll make sure I’ve got
what you need. And let me know if there’s anything else I can do, alright?”
“Yeah,” says Louis, hand on the door handle already turning it. “Cheers.”
“I had to go through clearing meself,” says Grimshaw. “It’s not as awful as
people say, but if you can avoid it, it’s better to know.”
Louis hesitates. “If you have to go through clearing, is there any way to just,
like, say you want to be in a certain part of the country? Not any specific
place, but just, not too far.”
Grimshaw shakes his head. “I wound up at Liverpool, even though I would have
sold a kidney to go to London. But you can discuss your options, if there’s
someone you want to be near. Hypothetically.”
“Don’t tell him, alright?” Louis says. “He doesn’t know I’m even applying. I
just want to sort it before I get his hopes up.” Niall’s been gradually
narrowing his list of schools, worrying over his options since there are plenty
of places he can do sound engineering, but fewer with good student radio
programs he could get involved in, and most of those seem devastatingly far
away.
Grimshaw mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “He won’t hear it
from me.”
“Thanks.”
 
Going to a house party to watch Mr Grimshaw DJ feels even riskier than going to
a department social at the university, but Harry does it anyway. Zayn’s meant
to do a presentation on a book he hasn’t read yet for Monday, and he’d begged
off from Harry’s plan at the last minute, which means the only person he even
vaguely knows here is Gemma’s school friend Kate, whose Facebook RSVP he’d seen
whilst trying to figure out exactly where the party was. Kate may not even
remember him if she sees him, and that’s probably better, given Gemma’s
tendency to act like a good big sister and tattle when Harry’s not where he’s
supposed to be. Harry grabs a cup of some kind of foul punch and sips it as he
makes a circuit of the ground floor, keeping Mr Grimshaw and his wall of
speakers in his sights at first.
It’s not long before a boy with a scruffy ginger goatee slings an arm around
Harry’s shoulders and starts talking to him about some lecture he’s sure
they’re in together, and Harry goes along with it, despite knowing precisely
nothing about ethnomusicology, and eventually they get onto other topics, which
makes it nearly alright that the boy keeps introducing Harry as Nigel to
everyone they meet.
Party conversations are drifting and distracting, spinning him through the
house, and Harry doesn’t realise how close they’ve got to Mr Grimshaw until the
bassline rumbling through his internal organs makes him turn. Mr Grimshaw is
watching him, inscrutable, and Harry looks away, flustered, only to find his
new friend has vanished. He feels untethered for a moment, but there are people
dancing beside him, loose limbed and probably not sober, so Harry downs the
rest of his cup of punch and starts dancing too. Mr Grimshaw is playing the
same sort of stuff he did at the social last month, and Harry has sought out
some of these songs to listen to on his own, although some are easier to get
hold of than others, and there are remixes he may never track down without Mr
Grimshaw’s help. For all Harry knows they’re his own remixes, and the only
place they exist is his laptop.
He shimmies closer to Mr Grimshaw, makes fleeting eye contact and then looks
away again. His stomach is squirming with nerves. He’s a flirt, and mostly a
successful one, but the stakes feel so much higher here. He doesn’t want to go
snog someone else in a corner this time, not when Mr Grimshaw’s eyes keep
dipping down the length of his body, and Harry feels so close to getting what
he really wants. He can practically imagine those big hands on his body,
holding his waist, stroking down between his thighs. He turns his back to Mr
Grimshaw, rolling his hips and showing off the curve of his bum in his jeans.
There’s a new boy in front of him, eying him hungrily, and Harry slips his arms
around the boy’s neck, grinding into him just to see what Mr Grimshaw will do.
He’s thinking about kissing him, just to see what happens, when he feels a hand
on his shoulder, and a familiar voice says, “I wasn’t expecting to see you
here.” Just like at the adoption fair, but warmer, more intimate.
Harry pulls away from the stranger in front of him, turns towards Mr Grimshaw,
who’s so close Harry can smell his leather jacket. “I’d be lying if I said I
wasn’t expecting to see you this time.”
Mr Grimshaw shakes his head, a smile creeping over his face. “What are doing
here, Harry?”
Harry licks his lips. “Just nice to get out of the house sometimes. And I heard
this guy I fancy would be here.”
“You’re ridiculous.” But he touches Harry’s cheek, and Harry takes a small step
closer, tipping his chin up.
“Do you need to be picking songs or something?” he asks.
Mr Grimshaw studies him, his eyes warm and interested. “I’ve queued a few up.”
Harry licks his lips. “For how long?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes. More like eighteen since it’s a really long Lady Gaga
remix.”
Harry’s heart feels like it might explode out of his chest, it’s beating so
fast suddenly. He feels drunker than he has any right to. This is his chance.
“So we could maybe go someplace more private?”
“Yeah,” says Mr Grimshaw. “Maybe we could.”
 
“Please,” Harry gasps, tearing his mouth away as Nick shoves him hard against
the bathroom wall. “Tell me your name. I can’t call you Mr Grimshaw when you’re
fucking me.”
Nick groans, and his dick gives a traitorous twitch in his trousers. “I’m not
fucking you,” he says, bending to kiss Harry again, dragging his hand through
the mess of Harry’s hair. “I’m not.”
“Not yet,” murmurs Harry, wrapping his arms around Nick’s neck and pulling
himself up to rut against him, grinding their hips together. Nick grabs for his
arse then, can’t help himself.
“It’s Nick,” he says, giving in and rocking against Harry, making him moan. And
fuck, his name sounds good when Harry spills it out like that, all breathless
and wanting, his stiff dick pressing into the angle of Nick’s hip. Nick gets a
hand down the front of Harry’s tight jeans, feeling at him through his pants.
He’s already dripping, fabric slick over the head of his dick. So Nick gets
Harry’s flies undone, licking his palm before diving back in, stroking up the
heavy length of Harry’s dick. And Harry is big, unfairly big for sixteen,
fucking up into Nick’s grip and making delicious little noises into Nick’s
mouth.
He comes without warning, spattering Nick’s fingers and his own t-shirt. “I
wanna suck you,” Harry says breathlessly, still pulsing in Nick’s hand. “Can I?
I want you in my mouth.” It’s artlessly hot, and Nick swears and kisses Harry
again.
“Go on then,” Nick says, and Harry sinks straight to his knees. The way he
gives head is as messy and enthusiastic as everything else about him, stuffing
himself with Nick’s dick, slurping at it and curling his hand around what he
can’t get in his mouth. Spit is dripping down his chin, and Nick feels him
swallowing before going back down, taking little breaths through his nose. Nick
wants to take hold of Harry’s hair and fuck his pretty mouth until he comes,
but it’s already too much. He cards a hand through Harry’s curls and says, “I’m
close, love.”
Harry pulls back enough to not choke, but keeps his mouth on the head of Nick’s
cock, lapping at him, working his tongue into the slit as Nick starts to shoot.
Harry’s flushed, and his mouth is red and swollen when he looks up from between
Nick’s legs, still sucking gently. He is fucking obscene. And still,
unfortunately, sixteen years old. Nick is completely screwed.
Harry follows him out of the bathroom, practically glowing with satisfaction,
and he spends the rest of the night at Nick’s side, making surprisingly good
song requests and taking any excuse to bump their elbows or hips together.
Nick’s head is throbbing to the rhythm of “this is a horrible mistake,” but
it’s hard not to like Harry’s boldness, the guileless enthusiasm that keeps
Nick from drowning in his own guilt. When Harry ducks out at half twelve with a
kiss to Nick’s cheek, Nick misses him a little.
 
Louis’s sprawled on Niall’s bed watching him pack, one of Niall’s English books
propped on his chest, legs spread invitingly like Niall is just meant to fit in
that space. But he can’t yet.
“You’re not leaving for another three days,” Louis says. “It’s daft packing
this early.”
Niall rolls his eyes and rolls a jumper into a tight corner of his suitcase. “I
always pack when I’ve just done laundry. Otherwise I might accidentally wear
something I want to take with me, and I haven’t got time to wash things again.
Besides, saves the stress at the last second.” Niall gets anxious about
traveling in what he thinks is a fairly normal way, checking the time on his
ticket again and again on the day, worrying over whether he’s got enough pants
to last the trip. But the mention of stress makes Louis’s eyes soften, and
Niall turns to the last thing on his packing list, counting out little tablets
into his pill organizer for the two weeks at home.
He remembers the first time Louis stayed over, when Bressie still believed they
were just going to watch a film and sleep top to toe in Niall’s bed, before he
realised they weren’t just mates and took to walking past Niall’s room and
loudly clearing his throat at random. Niall had rolled out of Louis’s arms in
the morning, shaken out his pill and gulped it down with the water on his
bedside table. “You feel alright?” Louis asked sleepily, and Niall jumped and
nearly dropped the bottle.
Niall climbed back into bed beside him, tucking his head under Louis’s chin and
letting Louis’s hand settle at the small of his back. “I’m good.” One part of
him didn’t want to explain that his brain was all fucked up and needed drugs to
put it right, but another part of him just wanted Louis to know.
“Prescription thing then?”
“Yeah,” Niall told him. “Antidepressants.”
Louis’s fingers kept right on stroking up and down his spine, only hesitating a
moment. “But you’re okay?” he said, and Niall decided he wanted to tell the
truth.
“I’ve got depression. Things got pretty bad back home, in my head. I wasn’t
really me for a while, I don’t think. I guess that’s what it does to you. And
then I got help, got the pills, came here. And it’s better. Genuinely better.”
Louis kissed the top of his head. “I’m glad.” And they haven’t talked about it
again unless Niall brings it up. He lets Louis look out for him when he gets
anxious, and Niall trusts him, probably more than he’s ever trusted anybody.
“It’ll be weird not having you here,” Louis says, putting the book aside and
stretching his arms over his head, jumper riding up over the softest part of
his belly. Niall gets distracted looking at him and has to start his count
over.
“It’ll be weird not being here,” Niall replies.
“You and your dad are good though? It’ll be, like, okay for you?”
Niall hesitates, checking his counts and shutting the lids on his pill
organizer. “Yeah, my dad’s great. I wasn’t always so great to him, but I wasn’t
so great to anyone back home for a while.”
Louis holds out a hand, beckoning Niall to him, and Niall nuzzles into his
arms, settling on top of him. “You weren’t yourself,” Louis reassures him,
sliding a hand up under his top and pressing cool fingers to the dip of his
spine.
 
Harry’s mum drives his nan into Manchester on Sunday to go shopping, and Harry
and Gemma tag along. Zayn and Liam are off at some sort of intensely boring-
sounding lecture with the Young Botanists, and Harry is a bit lost without
their company, though not enough to listen to some professor bang on about
orchids all afternoon. They’ve been in and out of shops for an hour already,
and although Harry has fondled a few pretty silk scarves, the sort of shops
that sell dresses for old ladies don’t have much in his size.
They step out onto the pavement again, and Harry’s about to beg off and head
for the Starbucks on the corner when his mum waves down the road and calls,
“Nick!”
Harry’s stomach clenches at the sound of the name, and it’s like his body knows
what he’s going to see before he turns. Mr Grimshaw—Nick—is just a few paces
away, and their eyes catch for a moment before Nick flashes a grin at Harry’s
mum. Harry’s always known they were colleagues, but he’s never actually seen
them interact.
“Hello, darling,” Harry’s mum says. “Out shopping?”
“Hiya, Anne,” says Nick. “Yeah, just picking up a few things. How about you?
Looks as though you’ve got the whole family along today.”
He doesn’t look at Harry as Harry’s mum makes introductions, finishing with,
“And I think you’ve met my son, Harry.”
“Oh, yes, the one who’s always lurking around the school.”
“I don’t lurk,” says Harry. His mum ruffles his hair.
“You know, Nick, I don’t mean to impose, but do you think you might take Harry
with you for a while? He’s getting a bit bored with us ladies, I think.”
Nick doesn’t even hesitate, smiles smoothly at Harry and says, “Lads afternoon,
eh? What do you say, Harold?”
Harry tries to control his grin. “Sounds all right.”
“Fabulous,” says Harry’s mum. “Cheers, Nick. You have your phone, don’t you,
sweetheart?”
Harry nods and tries not to fidget. He doesn’t know how he got this lucky, and
he can hardly wait until the rest of his family disappears around the corner
before he says, “I had a great time on Friday.”
Nick puts a hand over his eyes. “Harry, this is a really bad idea.”
“Is that up for debate?”
“Not in the middle of the street.” Nick bypasses the Starbucks, pulls Harry
into a café off the high street and sets his bag down under a table in the back
corner. “Tea?”
“Yes, please. Just milk.”
Nick comes back from the counter with an almond croissant as well, sets it in
the centre of the small table to share.
“Thanks,” says Harry. They stare at each other, and Harry wants to kiss him so
much, has been remembering the feel of his mouth every second for two days.
“I’m sixteen.”
“I’m afraid you’re trying to call that a positive,” Nick sighs. He rips off the
end of the croissant and pops it into his mouth.
“I’m over the age of consent. And I like you, Nick. I like you a lot.”
Harry can see Nick hesitate on the denial this time, can see the moment he
decides not to protest, and it’s a small but important victory. “I like you
too,” Nick says finally, but he sounds regretful. “I could also lose my job.”
“Could you?” Harry frowns.
“Well, probably. Surely my contract has some sort of morality clause in that
prohibits this sort of thing.” He gestures between the two of them, and Harry
tries not to focus uselessly on the graceful arc of his hand.
“I’m of age. Like, no one worries about university professors on second
marriages with women the age of their graduate students.”
Nick sighs and picks off another bit of croissant. “Actually that’s the
foundation of most office gossip. So people surely worry.”
“But they can’t do anything about it. I mean, check out your morality clauses
and all, but…” Harry shrugs. There’s no point in being over the age of consent
if he can’t sleep with who he likes.
“Right. I’ll just do that.” Nick points at the croissant. “Eat some of that. I
don’t fancy being fat in addition to a paedophile.”
Harry laughs and takes a bite of croissant. “If I eat the rest of this, will
you let me get you off in the toilet?”
Nick swipes a hand over his eyes. “I’m trying so hard to be sensible, Harold.
You cannot bargain me out of my pastry and my sanity at the same time. No one
could be that cruel.”
“Think I could.”
“How did you know those songs on Friday?” Nick asks, changing the subject as
Harry licks pastry crumbs from his lips. “That Lily Allen remix?”
“You played it before. I remember.”
“In October or summat.” Harry watches realisation dawn on Nick’s face. “You
came to see me DJ that long ago?”
Harry is slightly embarrassed by his own keenness. “Soon as I found out what
name you DJed under. You’re really sexy up there.”
Nick’s smile goes soft and unguarded. “But you didn’t come up grinding with
your mates in front of the booth back in October.”
“Dunno. Guess I was a bit shy.” Harry remembers the feeling, that he was
outclassed and unprepared in the face of the cool teacher from his mum’s school
being an even cooler DJ. So different to now.
“Well, you’ve got over that, I guess,” says Nick lightly. “I think I bruised my
elbow getting shoved into that wall on Friday.”
“I’m not sorry,” Harry says, more intensely than he means to.
“No,” agrees Nick. “I reckon you wouldn’t be.” They look at each other across
the remains of the croissant, and Harry’s heart is caroming wildly in his chest
because he might be about to get everything he wants. If Nick will only give
him a chance.
“That guy wasn’t my mate either,” Harry adds. “If you thought it was, like, a
thing. I didn’t know him.”
“That’s a shame for him.”
Harry peels apart a bit of croissant, eats the soft sweet inner layers and
leaves the rest. “Are you sorry?” God, he sounds so young.
Nick fidgets with the handle of his coffee cup. “I’m not sure. I should be, I
think.”
 
When Niall goes back to Mullingar for Christmas, he and Louis are reduced to
scheduling instant message dates, since neither of them have international
texting, and the wifi at Niall’s dad’s is too slow for video chat. Not that
Louis thinks he could bear video chatting with Niall and not wanking by the end
of it. The problem with having regular sex, he’s discovered, is that when your
source dries up for two weeks, it feels like the end of the fucking world.
I feel so shit about missing your birthday, Niall says on 22 December. Louis’s
curled up in bed, laptop resting on his folded up knees, the fan starting to
race in the way that means he’ll need to put it back on the desk soon before it
overheats.
you’ve got all the time to make it up to me love, Louis replies. It’s probably
a lie, with Niall heading for uni next year, but it’s a lie they’ve told each
other consistently, as long as they’ve been together.
Niall’s typing for a long while after that, or else his dad’s spotty internet
is playing tricks on them. how do you think I should make it up to you?
Louis’s stomach twists with sudden heat. He doesn’t know if he can give Niall
what he’s looking for, but he can certainly try. you could start with your
mouth…
yeah where?
Louis can think of a whole list of places, a nearly infinite number of places
Niall could touch him, but for now he says, you could suck my dick.
I like that, says Niall. I like that a lot.
Niall always gives head with sloppy enthusiasm, although his gag reflex is so
intense he can’t get Louis’s cock all the way into his mouth, makes up the
length with his hand. Louis loves watching the softness of his open mouth, the
rush of pink that clouds his cheeks as he takes Louis as deep as he can without
gagging, and then a little deeper, testing his own limits. Louis’s had his dick
sucked by a handful of people, and some of them were more practiced, but no
one’s been better than Niall. I wish you were here doing it right now, Louis
says honestly.
me too. They let that sit for a long time, and Louis wishes he could see
Niall’s face, hear the sound of his breath, the way it catches when he’s turned
on.
and then kiss me after, Louis says. He’s almost embarrassed by it, seeing the
things he wants laid out in the chat window, even though the words barely start
to cover it.
kiss you always, Niall replies.
The first time Niall kissed him, they were stoned in Louis’s bedroom, a rolled-
up hoodie blocking the crack under the door, the windows open to let out the
smoke. Louis wanted to ask Niall to stay the night, but he wanted to ask for so
much more than that too. Louis’s single bed isn’t big enough for two people to
be in without touching, and so their elbows jostled as they breathed, shoulders
tight together against the headboard. Niall hadn’t said anything first, hadn’t
tried to pass it off as anything but what it was. He’d set Louis’s spent pipe
on the bedside table, cupped one hand around Louis’s jaw, and kissed him. And
obviously Louis had kissed back, sliding his tongue into the lush heat of
Niall’s mouth, calm with inevitability until Niall pulled back, grinning. No
one’s ever been as happy to kiss Louis as Niall has these last seven months.
The spaces between messages start to get longer, and Louis wonders if Niall’s
thinking the same sort of thing he is, equal parts sexy and soppy. I miss you,
he types and lets it sit in the window for a long time before sending. Once he
says it, he feels as though it’s all he wants to say, over and over. He’s never
had the type of relationship where there was anything to miss.
 
Harry doesn’t see Nick again until Boxing Day, when he and his dad are at the
Man U match, and Harry sees a familiar quiff in the next section over. His
heartbeat kicks up because in a stadium full of tens of thousands of people,
what are the odds? But it’s definitely, definitely Nick.
Harry slides his phone out of his pocket and pulls off one of his gloves to
text. Not to be creepy but I think I’m looking at you at Old Trafford. Turn
right and wave?
He sees the quiff bob as Nick checks his phone, and then his head comes up,
peering right. He doesn’t wave, but Harry does, grinning and only hoping Nick
will smile back. And when Nick does, Harry doesn’t think anything could be
better. Nick would have been well within his rights to ignore Harry altogether.
Their eyes hold for a long moment, and then Harry turns back to his phone. Want
to meet up after? It’s bold, bolder than waving, bolder than chatting in the
street, but there’s only five minutes left of the match and Sunderland is
trailing by two. Surely they could go for a celebratory drink. It’s not so
weird that Harry knows someone his mum works with.
With me dad. Won’t subject you to footie chat. Harry frowns at the screen,
trying to come up with a persuasive but not desperate counterargument. But his
phone buzzes again. Maybe later this week though?
It’s more than he could have hoped for. He makes himself wait for another two
minutes, watching the pitch with unseeing eyes, before he says, Great I’ll be
around!.
He wonders if maybe he’ll actually get to see where Nick lives, if they’ll go
out like a proper date and snog on Nick’s sofa afterwards. But he’s getting
ahead of himself. A week ago, he thought it was enough of a victory getting
Nick’s phone number.
“Who you talking to, H?” his dad says, nudging Harry with his elbow. Play is
paused for a time-out down below. “Who’s got you smiling like that then?”
Harry turns off his phone and shoves it into his coat pocket. “Liam just texted
me something funny.”
Harry’s dad smiles like he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Glad your mates
are keeping you amused.”
Harry feels the buzz of another text, but he’s going to save it to read once
the match ends, his hand cupped warmly around the phone. He can’t stop smiling,
and he pretends it’s because their side has won, and everyone else is yelling
and singing as they trail out of the stadium. He looks round for Nick, but
there are so many people in the corridor that he’s not sure what he’d do if he
did see him. And his dad has an arm around his shoulders, just like every year
since he was small, keeping him close, and that’s important too.
They go to dinner in Manchester before his dad drops him off at his mum’s, and
Harry doesn’t think to look at his phone until they’re nearly home. Nick’s last
text is more than two hours old now, but it says, I’ve got an appointment in
Liverpool on Tuesday afternoon. Could you get there? I can meet you at the
University.
Harry knows without Nick saying it that it’s better if they meet somewhere
farther away, somewhere they won’t see anyone they know. And it makes him feel
a little bit bad that he’s putting Nick in that position, that he’s making Nick
take risks for him. He remembers Liam saying, “If he’s interested in you, that
probably means there’s something wrong with him,” way back near the beginning
of the school year, and he feels a little twist of guilt. But that doesn’t stop
him googling buses to Liverpool, counting out the cash for it, and wheedling
Gemma for a ride into town.
 
Niall hasn’t told his dad about Louis, even though he comes out of his room
grinning after they talk every time. He doesn’t know quite why, but he thinks
there’s a part of him that goes straight back to how it was last time he lived
here, when everything was dark and numb and he closed up so tight against any
strong feeling because mostly all of them were bad. It’s not his dad’s fault;
none of it was ever his dad’s fault. But Niall’s brain wasn’t right when he
lived here, things he can name as anxiety and depression now trapping him so
tightly. It took the hospital and the meds and eventually a whole other country
to get him feeling all right, and there’s nothing he can say to stop his dad
remembering that when he’s here.
“What do you do up there on your computer all the time?” Dad asks at dinner one
night. He asks so few questions, lets Niall share what he wants, and it makes
Niall want to be honest.
“I’ve got a friend I talk to, in Cheshire.”
His dad nods sagely. “A special friend maybe? A girlfriend?”
Niall smashes a bit of potato with his fork and doesn’t look up. “A boyfriend.
I have a boyfriend.”
His dad gives a little “hmm,” and Niall thinks that might be all he gets. But
then he says, “What’s the lad like then? Is he good to you?”
Niall smiles, thinking of all the ways Louis’s good to him, all the ways
they’re good for each other. He doesn’t have a word big enough for it. “He’s
brilliant. He makes me laugh, and he looks out for me, and I don’t think. I
don’t think there’s anyone better in the world.”
“That’s quite a thing to find when you’re seventeen. What’s his name?”
“Louis. Louis Tomlinson. We worked on the radio together last year.”
His dad smiles at him, no hint of disappointment in it. “Is he one of the DJs,
or more a behind-the-scenes man like you?”
“He was a DJ. He could just chat, do stupid games, and everyone loved it. He
just draws people in.”
“Sounds a bit like you, when you were little. Always singing and carrying on,
making people laugh, making me and your mum laugh.”
Niall ducks his head. He’s thinking about when that started to change, the
downward spiral he couldn’t seem to stop between the bullies at school and his
brother at home making him feel even smaller and stupider. He’s had so many
people tell him it’s not his fault he needed help, not a flaw to be ashamed of,
but he still feels guilty for leaving his dad behind.
“It’s so good to see you happy again, son,” Dad says quietly. “That’s all I’ve
wanted these past two years.”
“Thanks,” Niall replies. “Thanks for giving me the chance.”
 
Nick thinks of what Matt Fincham would have to say about this, and then he has
to stop himself before he’s actually sick all over his nice shoes. He’s always
been a little bit terrible at being an adult, too impulsive and easily
distracted, but meeting a sixteen year old for coffee in a different city after
shagging him at a party is a new low. Especially since he’s not at all sure he
won’t do it again. Harry is clever and charming and funny, and Nick can’t seem
to stop thinking about him.
When he appears at the door and his face lights up, Nick feels his answering
smile bloom involuntarily. He pulls Harry into a hug, and Harry hangs on for
just a moment after Nick lets go. “I didn’t know if I would see you,” Harry
says, sliding into the chair across from Nick’s and fumbling in his rucksack.
“See me when?” asks Nick.
Harry pulls out a flat, neatly wrapped package, dancing snowmen all over the
paper. “Over Christmas. I didn’t know if I would get to give that to you.”
Nick turns the package between his hands, flustered. “I didn’t get you
anything.”
“Oh, I think you know what I want.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows, and Nick sighs.
“That’s not a present, you twit.”
“It is if you put a bow on it.”
Nick digs out his wallet, hands Harry a fiver. “Get yourself a really
extravagant coffee, at least.”
Harry grins and heads for the counter. It’s obvious the gift is a CD—Nick’s
been getting Christmas gifts exactly this size and shape for longer than
Harry’s been alive—but he doesn’t know what Harry thinks he needs in his music
collection. When Harry comes back with a cup heavy with cream and dotted with
sprinkles, Nick tears the paper open immediately.
It’s a mix, obviously, with a folded piece of A4 tucked in the front, a load of
swirls and doodles framing the title “17 Really Cool Songs For Playing At DJ
Gigs And Engaging The Youth”. Harry’s handwriting is neat, almost feminine, and
Nick opens the case to look at the track listing. “If this is just ‘Never Gonna
Give You Up’ seventeen times, I’m going to make you pay for your own coffee
next time.”
Harry pouts. “It’s only on there once.”
The entire thing is stupid novelty songs and ironic eighties “classics”. Nick
isn’t sure he gets it.
“I thought that I’d like to give you something to do with music, but then I
realised your taste is about a thousand times cooler than mine, so I thought,
like, I’d just give you the least cool mix possible instead.”
“Did you actually pay 99p for each of these?”
“Some of them my mum already had the CDs of. Or the library. I found ‘Milky
Milky’ as a single at a charity shop though. That’s one’s not even on iTunes, I
don’t think.”
It’s obvious Harry’s put work into this dotty little mix CD, and the result is
so ridiculous that every time Nick looks at the track listing, he starts
chuckling all over again. “No one’s ever given me anything this intentionally
stupid before,” he says. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Harry.”
“You’re welcome.”
They drink their coffees, and Nick waits for Harry to ask what he’s doing in
Liverpool, but he doesn’t. It’s probably better; Nick wouldn’t want to jinx it
anyway.
 
Louis asks if he can come along to collect Niall from the airport, and Bressie
can’t find it in himself to say no. He knows his dislike of the lad is
unfounded, and he had the balls to ring up and say, “Are you fetching Niall
from the airport today? Could I join you?” Which is more than Bressie would
have done in his position.
Louis comes by the flat and waits outside, looking a little scared in just the
way that warms Bressie’s heart most, and Bressie tries to give him a reassuring
look. “Let’s go get your lad from the airport,” he says, and Louis ducks his
head in a smile.
They’re near silent on the drive, letting the radio do the talking. Bressie
keeps it on Radio 2 like an old fart, doesn’t ask if a bit of ELO bothers
Louis. And Louis for his part folds his hands in his lap and stares at them all
the way to the motorway. “I suppose you’ve missed him,” Bressie says, giving
him an opening if he wants it.
“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “You get used to having him around. He gets under your
skin, our Niall.”
Our Niall might rub Bressie wrong under other circumstances, but it’s clear
Louis’s trying, his feet jogging together nervously in the foot well. “He takes
up a lot of space for a little lad,” Bressie says. “He’s got that way about
him.”
Louis nods. “I’m really trying to be good to him,” he adds softly, boldly. “I’m
not trying to, like, lead him astray or anything. He’s a good lad.”
“I know he is. And I know you are. But when you’re responsible for someone as
precious as our Niall, you worry a bit. You want to check up on his mates, make
sure he’s not getting away with too much with his boyfriend.” He can’t imagine
he’s ever had cause to refer to Louis as Niall’s boyfriend before, and it rolls
strangely off his tongue. But it’s the right word nonetheless. He can tell by
Louis’s sheepish little smile.
“Can’t say it’ll keep me from trying.”
Bressie laughs, surprised. “Teenagers, pushing boundaries. Heard that was
normal though. Less normal to steal another man’s Durex, but I’ll try to
forgive that.”
Louis’s cheeks go pink. “He swore you wouldn’t notice.”
Bressie still can’t think about them fucking without a little flame of totally
inappropriate jealousy sparking in his chest. But he’d need to think about it
less if they’d stop nicking his fucking condoms. “You’re a working man. I’d
think you could afford your own.”
“I do. I have. Just not always when and where the need arises.” He’s going from
pink to splotchy red, but luckily they’ve hit the turning for the airport.
Bressie’s phone buzzes in the cupholder. “That’ll be Niall then. I told him to
text when they landed.”
Louis’s phone goes a second later. “Me too.” He cradles it between his hands,
looking at the message and smiling. Bressie wonders if Bobby Horan knows just
how very real a thing his son is into here.
Niall’s in baggage claim by the time they park, and Niall hugs Bressie first,
rumpled and smelling like airplane, before he fairly flings himself into
Louis’s arms. Louis’s hands lock at his lower back, and he shuts his eyes,
planting a kiss on Niall’s cheek.
“Hiya, love,” Louis murmurs, and Bressie busies himself with Niall’s suitcase,
not wanting to meddle.
Niall squeezes Louis’s hand before letting him go completely, but the way they
lean into each other is more than clear. Bressie puts Niall in the front seat
on the drive home, nods along as he chats about the health of the hometown crew
in Mullingar, but he doesn’t miss the fact that Niall and Louis have got their
hands tucked together on the other side of the seat.
“Can Louis stay for a bit?” Niall asks as he turns into their street.
Bressie doesn’t think a crowbar could shove them apart anyway. “Of course. Long
as he likes.”
When they disappear into Niall’s room, he tries not to think about what they’re
going to do next. But he goes for a run and leaves them to it.
 
Harry can feel Nick’s eyes on the big black under-18 X on his hand, and he
shoves it in his pocket and smiles. The Cellar is still filling up slowly, half
an hour before the first opener, and it’s quiet enough to talk at normal
volume. “Thanks for inviting me,” Harry says.
Nick smiles. “Don’t thank me until you’ve heard them. But I’m glad you could
come. I usually have to go to Manchester or Liverpool for gigs. Do you want a
drink or anything?” He nods towards the bar.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Harry replies.
“Two diet cokes coming up then.” Nick drifts off toward the bar, and Harry
looks round. There are a few people his age here, and he fleetingly wonders if
he’ll see someone from school, or if Nick will, for that matter. He’d told his
mum he’d be staying at Liam’s tonight after the show, since he lives closer to
the club than any of Harry’s other friends, but he’d managed to make it sound
like Liam was going to the gig with him and Nick as well. And while Liam
certainly could have done so, Harry had subtly discouraged him. So now it’s
just him and a teacher, hanging out in plain sight.
Nick hands him a cup, and their fingers brush, which should be nothing except
that Harry hasn’t had more than a peck on the cheek off Nick since they met
over Christmas. Every touch makes him feel electric.
“Haz, I think maybe we should talk,” Nick says.
Harry sighs, trying not to panic. He doesn’t want to have to plead his case
again. But this time he’s saved from doing it by someone behind him saying,
“Hey Mr Grimshaw!”
Nick smiles easily and says, “Hiya Niall. Y’alright?”
“Good, yeah,” says Niall, who’s a faintly familiar looking bleach blond with an
Irish accent. He turns to Harry. “You’re Zayn’s mate, aren’t you?”
Harry realises Niall’s one of Zayn’s clients at Nick’s school, and he has to
catch himself before he says something stupid. He doesn’t think of himself as
someone with a lot of secrets, but he sure is being proven wrong tonight.
“Yeah, I’m Harry. My mum teaches at your school.”
“Right, I think Zayn mentioned that.” Niall holds out his hand. “I’m Niall.
This is my boyfriend Louis.”
Harry shakes hands with Niall and Louis, who’s stood behind him, one finger
hooked possessively through Niall’s beltloop.
“Car alright?” Louis asks Nick.
Nick shrugs. “Still good. Garage alright?”
Louis gives a little twitch of a smile. “Good as can be expected.”
“Louis left school last year,” Nick explains for Harry’s benefit. “He was one
of my best student DJs. And Niall’s the one who makes all the promos and the
beds the DJs talk over. He almost makes me sound like I know what I’m doing.”
Niall ducks his head. “That’s going a little far.”
“I didn’t put it in your recommendation in quite those terms.”
“Think I would have had a better chance at a uni place that way?” Harry sees
Louis’s grip on Niall’s hip tighten.
“Our Niall’s always too modest,” Louis says.
“No worries,” Nick says. “I only write recommendations for really brilliant
students.”
Niall changes the subject. “I wasn’t expecting so many people to be here for
the opener. Did Eoghan—sorry, Mr McDermott—tell you to come?”
Nick shakes his head. “Is Eoghan in the band or summat?”
“Nah, but my, uh, my guardian’s opening for them. Bressie. He hasn’t done a gig
in years, so I’ve never seen him play. But he’ll be great.”
“Always good for people to give time to the things they’re passionate about, if
they can,” says Nick, but he’s looking at Louis. There’s a lot going straight
over Harry’s head still.
Unfortunately, he can’t ask Nick about any of it because Niall and Louis are
joined by Eoghan, Mr McDermott, who’s apparently a drama teacher, and they
spend the next few minutes getting a boisterous version of Bressie’s life
story. And then the lights go down for the show to start, and Niall and Eoghan
cheer loud enough for a roomful of people.
Bressie is large and handsome and cracks bad jokes between songs, which is
everything Harry could ask of someone on-stage, and Nick lets him press close
as the crowd thickens around them. He wonders if Niall et al will duck out
before the main act, an Irish rock band called Ham Sandwich, but they stay put.
Harry notices Louis’s hand tucked into Niall’s back pocket halfway through the
set, and the spark of jealousy that lights in him is both immediate and
unreasonable. He wants Nick to touch him casually and intimately in public, and
he knows the reasons that can’t happen, especially here, but it doesn’t help.
He focuses on the stage and tries to lose himself in the music.
Afterwards, Eoghan invites them out for food, but Nick declines for them both.
“Anne’ll have my balls if I keep Harold here out too late.”
Harry hates how young that makes him sound, but he keeps his instinctive pout
at bay, afraid of looking even younger. The walk back to Nick’s car seems
longer and colder than the walk to the club had, and Harry pulls the collar of
his coat tight against the wind that’s picking up. “Bit chilly, isn’t it?” says
Nick, unwinding his own scarf and handing it to Harry, warm and smelling of his
cologne, and Harry hesitates only a second out of politeness before putting it
on.
“Thanks.” He buries his nose in the scarf because he can’t bury his nose in the
side of Nick’s neck. “Do you want to talk now?”
“What?”
“Before every Irish person in Cheshire showed up, you said we should talk. You
might as well get it over with.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound so dire. Or bloody cliché.” He stops beside the car
and looks at Harry over the roof before he unlocks it and Harry yanks the door
open to get out of the wind. Nick turns the engine on and waits for it to heat
up, leaving a heavy rumbling silence. “I like you a lot, Harry. We have fun
together. But I feel sick when I think about sleeping with you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s not because I don’t want to. I think it’s clear that I do want to. But
you’re so young. I look at my students every day, and I think about being with
you, and whether they’d feel safe with me knowing I was with you. And I’m not
sure they would. I’m not sure I would if I were them.”
Harry looks at his hands. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of predator,
like you might hurt a kid or something. But you wouldn’t hurt me, I know you
wouldn’t. And I know you won’t hurt anyone else.” He couldn’t stand for Nick to
think of himself like that, like he was taking advantage.
“Yeah? And how is anyone else supposed to know that? Because from the outside,
it doesn’t look good.”
“Then why does anyone have to know?”
“Secrets don’t stay sexy. They may seem that way at first, but then they’re
just horrible and make everyone keeping them feel bad. I don’t want it to be
like that with you. I want to go to gigs and have coffee and talk about music
and not feel as though I have something to hide.”
“So we’d be friends,” says Harry, trying not to sound sad or incredulous, which
is how he feels.
“Yeah,” says Nick. “That’s exactly what we’d be. At least until I figure out a
way for us to be something else.”
“Can I help you figure it out?” Harry asks.
“Not yet. But maybe. It’s just too much right now. It’s tough to know the right
thing to do. And I do want to do the right thing. For you and for me and for
everyone else we care about.”
Harry nods. “And we can still do things? Going to gigs and stuff? That doesn’t
have to change, right? Even if we’re not sleeping together.”
“Anything you’re willing to tell your mum about, we can go out and do. We
could, like, make that a rule.”
Harry hadn’t bothered to tell Nick his mum thinks he’s with Liam, and he feels
a bit guilty about it, but there’s nothing he can do for it now. He’ll be at
Liam’s soon enough.
 
“Lou?” says Niall, with that edge to his voice that says he’s been worrying
over something for a while.
Louis curls his arm tighter around Niall’s waist. “What’s up, love?” It’s too
dark to see Niall’s face, even with the streetlight outside Niall’s bedroom
window washing pale light across their bodies.
“Is something wrong?”
Louis is feeling sleepy and sated, ears still ringing from the concert, and he
can’t imagine anything could be wrong. “What do you mean?”
“You just seem distracted lately. And I wondered if I could do something.”
Louis shakes his head and presses his lips to the top of Niall’s head, the
easiest bit of him to reach. It’s stupid that he hasn’t told Niall about the
exams. He’s going to take them at their school, and at least one of them
they’ll probably have to sit together, so it’s not like the secret can last the
whole summer. But the bone-deep fear of failure shuts his mouth every time he
thinks to say it. How would he live with the look on Niall’s face if he fucked
it up? He can picture the kind, endless pity so clearly.
“You’re perfect, love. I’m just trying to sort stuff out for when you go off to
uni, and I’m,” he sighs, “I’m not ready to talk about it quite yet.”
“Okay,” says Niall, chin colliding with Louis’s collarbone as he tries to
settle in Louis’s arms again. “Tell me when you are though, alright?”
“Yeah,” Louis agrees. Niall’s never once said, I could just not go to uni or
Maybe I’ll take a gap year and think a bit, and Louis loves him for it,
respects the way he won’t let Louis drag him down. Niall knows more than he
should about bending his life around other people’s bad choices, and Louis
would never want to ask for that. But it’s a little bit awful too, knowing
Niall would never drop everything for him, except maybe in cases of mortal
peril, and he hasn’t tested that yet.
“Love you,” Niall says, the words prodding against the anxious funk of Louis’s
brain.
“Love you too,” Louis replies, holding him tighter now because he’ll probably
still have to give him up later.
 
Harry phones just before midnight, and Liam tiptoes down the stairs to let him
in. His parents know Harry’s coming, but they’ll frown if they wake up and see
the time now. They might even ask questions, and Liam’s not up to concocting an
alternative to “Harry’s been on a date with a teacher from his mum’s school.”
So he opens the door very, very quietly, expecting Harry to look ecstatic and
thoroughly debauched. But he doesn’t. He looks tired and a little sad, one hand
fidgeting with the strap of his rucksack, and he gives Liam a sheepish little
nod and a “thanks.”
Liam puts a finger to his lips, but Harry knows the drill, and Liam gets into
bed while Harry cleans his teeth and changes into his pyjamas. When they were
younger, Liam’s double bed seemed big around the two of them, and though it’s a
tighter fit now, Harry crawls in next to him anyway, minty breath on Liam’s
face in the dark.
“So how was it?” Liam asks quietly, when it’s obvious Harry won’t go straight
to sleep.
“The gig was fun. Met another of the teachers from Nick’s school, a couple of
the students as well.”
Liam grimaces in horror. “Did they know? Did you tell them you were out with
him?”
Harry sighs. “I wasn’t out with him, not like that. He’s just… my friend.”
“Your friend you had sex with at a party once.”
“Liam, that’s not even shocking.”
“Your friend who teaches with your mum though.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and Liam can’t see him in the dark, but he sounds sad
again. Liam can hear him taking deep, purposeful breaths. “I don’t know what to
do. I’m not sure I’ve ever liked someone this much. And he won’t, like, do
anything about it. Because he’s a teacher and mates with my mum and he doesn’t
think it would be right.”
For once Liam can’t help but agree with Mr Grimshaw. “It’s not quite right, is
it though?” They’ve been through it before, and Harry always tells Liam he
doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what it’s like. But now he’s feeling soft
and sad and maybe suggestible. Liam doesn’t think it can hurt to try again.
Harry’s shoulder tenses, close enough that Liam can feel the shift, and then he
shakes his head, relaxing again. “I don’t know. I thought after a while it
would be different. But maybe it’ll never be right. Maybe I’ll never be old
enough.”
Liam doesn’t know what to say to that. He has enough trouble impressing girls a
year or two older than he is, let alone trying to figure out how to deal with a
relationship with a proper grownup. “I’m sure it’ll work out, mate, one way or
another.” He gives Harry’s shoulder an awkward pat.
“Thanks, Liam,” says Harry. “You’re a good pal.” He doesn’t sound quite like he
means it, but he snuggles closer into Liam’s side, and Liam lets him.
 
“Have you ever been to Birmingham?” Niall asks, dropping his rucksack beside
Louis’s bed. It’s freezing and wet outside, and Niall’s cheeks are pink from
it, the zip on his hoodie pulled up as high as it’ll go.
Louis shakes his head. He’d carefully applied to the same universities Niall
had, as far as he could, so he knows why Niall is asking, but he tries to keep
his face neutral. “I assume you’ve booked us a dirty weekend out there?”
Niall shrugs a bit, cheeks going even pinker. “Birmingham City Uni’s asked if I
can come for an interview, and I thought maybe we could go together, make a
weekend of it, dirty as you like.”
Louis thinks about the cost of train fare, holds back a second too long.
“Bressie said he’d go with me, but he’s swamped at work, so it’s hard. But I
reckon he’d pay your petrol if you drove, or buy you a train ticket to come
with me.”
“He wouldn’t have to do that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t let you pay your own way just to keep me from freaking
out. It’s not charity or anything, just practical. Or I guess it’s charity for
me, because he thinks I need looking after.”
Louis frowns. “Applying to uni is fucking terrifying. Who would ever want to do
it on their own? That’s not looking after, or charity.”
“So you’d go?”
“When’s the interview?”
“Monday after next.”
Enough time to sweet talk his way out of office work at the garage. It only
stings a bit that he hasn’t been invited for an interview of his own, that they
don’t even want him enough to speak to him. Louis pushes that feeling down hard
as he can. “Yeah, I’d go.”
“Road trip or train journey?”
Louis thinks about his car, which is fine for getting around town but might
balk if confronted with actual motorways. “How long is it on the train?”
“Hour and a half, about, if we get a ride into Chester, and I’m sure Bressie’d
be up for that. I’ve been looking up, like, youth hostels and things, but there
isn’t much. I suppose Birmingham isn’t a great destination for a gap year. But
I was thinking,” he picks nervously at the skin around his thumbnail as he
looks away, “I missed your birthday, but maybe I could, like, get us a proper
hotel room, celebrate now? Sort of like your birthday and Christmas and
Valentine’s all rolled up together.”
It doesn’t take even a second’s thought before Louis shakes his head. “That’s
too much.”
“Is it? I just want to be with you for once and no one’s listening or
interrupting or making a fuss. That doesn’t seem like it should be too much to
ask, does it?”
It sounds so nice. “Hotels are expensive, love. I just don’t want you laying
down that kind of cash for me. You’ve got uni to pay for next year.”
“Do you think you’re not worth it, Lou?” Niall asks gently. He nudges his knee
against Louis’s. “Because you are worth it. You’re worth everything.”
“It’s not about worth,” says Louis, even though it is, a little bit. “I just
don’t want to put you in that position.”
“Can I look at least? Maybe there’ll be something cheap. We can just go for
Sunday night if the weekend is too much.”
“Okay,” says Louis. “You can look, and then we’ll talk about what to do.” He
puts his hand out for Niall to take, and Niall squeezes tightly.
“I’ve got an essay I should probably work on,” Niall says. “But maybe we could
cuddle a bit first?”
“I’ve got to pick up the twins from ballet in 45 minutes. But until then?
Assuming Lottie and Fiz aren’t setting fire to the house out there.”
Niall kicks off his trainers, hesitates with a glance at the door before taking
down his rain-spattered uniform trousers as well. “It is awfully quiet out
there,” he says. “Definitely suspicious.”
“We’ll smell smoke or hear screaming or something, I’m sure.” Louis lies down
and lets Niall settle into his arms before bringing the duvet up over their
heads, cocooning them inside. Niall nuzzles at Louis’s cheek, coaxing him to
turn for a kiss, and Louis lets himself imagine the luxury of a hotel room as
his eyes flutter shut. If all this will be over in the summer—and it will be if
Louis doesn’t get an offer from the same place Niall does—they may never have
another chance to be properly alone. There are too many people in Louis’s
house, and the one person in Niall’s house definitely has their number.
They kiss for a while, breaking apart as the TV comes blaring on loudly in the
lounge downstairs. Lottie’s nearly thirteen, which is older than Louis was when
he started watching the girls after school, and if he goes away next year,
she’ll have to do it even more. He’d sworn his mum to secrecy about his
application, but she probably won’t keep quiet forever, and if it actually
happens, there’ll be layers upon layers of plans to make.
Niall makes a plaintive little noise, and Louis kisses him harder in the humid
darkness under the duvet. He doesn’t know how to feel as though this is enough
anymore.
 
Harry has an essay that he absolutely positively no-question should be working
on, but instead he’s stood in the midst of another uni party at half-twelve on
a Saturday night, watching Nick play records and hold his headphones on with
the same hand that’s holding his beer. He still seems so competent, so at ease
with his decks and this room full of strangers requesting pop hits of the
eighties. Nick’s wearing his leather jacket and his hair is towering high, and
when his face catches the light, Harry’s pretty sure he’s wearing smudgy
eyeliner as well. It seems like a good enough excuse to ignore his coursework.
Harry’s always been a responsible student, perfectly able to talk himself out
of trouble with a smile, but also timely with his actual work. He’s supposed to
spend all day tomorrow volunteering at the animal shelter and there’s no way
around all that to write 2500 compelling words about functionalism if he
doesn’t sleep tonight. But 1800 mediocre words will probably do it. And he’s
exactly where he wants to be right now, watching Nick do this thing he
obviously loves. He doesn’t get a handjob in a toilet for his trouble this
time, but when Nick spots him and beckons him over for a hug, that’s almost
enough.
And it just makes it that much more awful when Nick looks stern and sad the
next time Harry sees him, while he’s sat outside the staff room on Tuesday
waiting for Zayn to finish hawking his wares in the boys’ loos. “Harry, can we
chat a second?” he says tiredly, and Harry scrambles to his feet, matching
Nick’s frown.
“What’s going on?”
“Your mum was telling me how you went to spend the night at a mate’s on
Saturday night when you had some important schoolwork to do, and when you got
home in the morning, you were cagey about what you got up to, and then you
slept half the day and skived off charity work with puppies.”
Harry is mortified. “Did you ask my mum about me?”
“Your mum is worried about her clever, studious child suddenly blowing off his
coursework. I didn’t have to ask her anything.”
“I missed one afternoon at the animal shelter to finish my essay, and I phoned
them to make sure the puppies didn’t need me. It was fine. I can’t believe
she’d tell you something so stupid.”
“She’s afraid you’re not telling her things. She’s afraid you’ll get yourself
into trouble, and she’s talking to me as her friend and colleague. And I can’t
say anything to help because I fucking know where you were, and I don’t want to
be in that position. I will go grey prematurely from stress, and also we’ll
have to stop hanging out. And I don’t want that. And I don’t think you do. But
I can’t get between you and your mum, and I need you not to ask me to.”
“Okay,” says Harry quietly, feeling so very young. Too young to even be Nick’s
friend. “I’m sorry.”
 
On a scrap of paper in his pocket, Louis has the name of the person he’s
supposed to meet, and the name of a building, and a time, and he wants to take
it out and stare at it on the train, but he can’t because Niall is there and
Niall doesn’t know yet. Louis had got a call about an interview the day after
Niall booked the hotel, late, but not impossibly late. “I’ll actually be in
Birmingham next Monday,” he’d said, trying to sound very responsible and mature
while his mum stared at him across the kitchen table. “Would it be possible to
have it then?”
It doesn’t mean I’ll get an offer, he’d said to her. He’s been repeating it
like a mantra ever since. He jogs his leg and fidgets with a loose bit of
thread on his rucksack, and he can feel Niall winding tighter next to him, but
he can’t seem to bloody make himself stop.
Finally Niall puts a hand on his knee, firm, and says, “Lou, I really need a
bit of calm this weekend. I can tell there’s something going on with you, and I
don’t want to tell you how to handle it, but if you keep moving your fucking
leg, I may go actually insane.”
Louis takes a breath and holds his knee still with a conscious effort that
shouldn’t be required. “Sorry, love.” He keeps picking at the seam of his
rucksack, and Niall goes back to his book, but after a minute Louis can tell
he’s just traded one annoying thing for another. “I want to tell you,” Louis
says, not looking up. “But I can’t, like, I don’t think I can handle it if you
make a big deal of it, or start acting like it’s real. It’s not real. Not yet.
Maybe not at all.” He’s losing his nerve again, and Niall’s looking at him
carefully, reaching out for his hand. “I’m going to re-sit a couple of my exams
in the spring, and I applied to uni, and I’ve got an interview in Birmingham on
Monday as well, so if I don’t fuck it up again I might go with you.”
Niall bites his lip to hold back what’s obviously a smile, and Louis can’t bear
it, the weight of Niall’s happiness. “Can I say just one thing?” he asks.
Louis gives him a helpless little shrug.
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Lou, and if we get to go together I can’t imagine
anything better in the world.”
“That was two things,” says Louis meekly. Niall kisses him square on the lips
in the middle of the train.
Spring
Harry feels a bit weird standing in Nick's flat, finally, like he's still doing
something illicit, even though his mum gave her blessing. It's very clean,
cleaner than Harry expected given the backseat of Nick's car. There are loads
of photos and art on the walls in the hallway and the lounge, and Harry wants
to stop and look, but Nick's already bustling into the kitchen, dropping his
things, asking if Harry wants tea.
"Yeah, thanks," says Harry. "Your flat's nice."
"Thanks. It's done well by me. Do you want anything besides tea? I'm not sure
I've actually got any food. But I could probably get you toast."
It's weird, all the ways in which Nick is a very responsible adult and all the
ways in which he isn't. Harry smiles. “I’m alright.” He fidgets, and Nick
fidgets, and Harry wants to kiss him. He thinks about kissing Nick all the time
anyway, and it’s worse now, in his actual flat, even though he knows he’s here
to watch a film. They’re going to sit on the sofa and drink their tea and maybe
not even touch, as much as Harry wants it.
And they do for that. For two hours, they sit on Nick’s sofa with their eyes on
the telly, and every once in a while, Nick will sigh and apologise for the lack
of popcorn. He’d warned Harry he was terrible at watching films, but that
mostly seems to mean he can’t stop playing with his phone, putting it down and
picking it up again, holding it between his long, distracting fingers. He talks
back to the film a bit as well, which makes Harry feel better for doing it too.
Gemma nearly skinned him alive for so much as an idle question when they used
to watch things at home, but Nick just laughs warmly at his jokes.
When they finally make it to the credits, Nick stretches his arms over his head
and says, “Do you need to go home?”
Harry shakes his head. “My mum knows I’m safe with you.”
Nick grimaces. “I didn’t think there was still anything you could say to make
me feel worse.”
“Sorry.” Harry doesn’t feel sorry, but he does feel sad, stuck in this weird,
endless limbo with Nick, waiting for something to change, but he’s not even
sure what.
Nick looks at him a second longer before he shrugs. “It’s just how it is for
now.”
Harry wants to say it doesn’t have to be, wants to think he could talk his mum
and the whole school into accepting him and Nick together, but he knows it
wouldn’t work. They’re sat right next to each other on the sofa, but the
distance is uncrossable. Over time, Harry’s memory of the feeling of Nick’s
mouth, Nick’s hands is fading, and Harry can’t know when he’ll get to refresh
it. He finds his eyes lingering on Nick’s lips.
“Sorry,” he says again, and Nick’s eyes soften. “I wish it hadn’t happened like
this.”
“Which part?”
“The hard parts.”
Nick raises his eyebrows.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Nick puts a hand out for Harry’s, squeezes his knuckles. “I’m sorry
about that too.” He keeps his hand around Harry’s, fingers warm and dry.
Harry shuts his eyes, and the words just spill out. “I want to kiss you so
much. I can’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t think last time would be the
only time. I would have appreciated it more.”
Nick’s fingers tense in his. “I can’t. Your mum thinks you’re safe with me. I
need to be able to look her in the eye again, especially if anything’s ever
going to happen in the future.” He presses his lips to the curve of Harry’s
cheek, pulling away too quickly for Harry to even open his eyes. Harry’s never
said he’ll wait for Nick, but in the back of his mind, that’s exactly what he’s
doing, flirting with people at school and knowing it won’t go anywhere. He
doesn’t want to be with anyone but Nick.
 
Niall just keeps looking at his laptop, reading the page over and over, biting
back a smile. Bressie’s got a lesson tonight, so he’s not going to be home for
another few hours, and Louis’s at the garage until six, but Niall chances it
and phones anyway.
“Poulston Auto Body,” says Louis, sounding both business-like and bored.
Normally Niall would put on an accent and make up a story about his exhaust
pipe, but he’s too excited. “Lou.”
“Hey, babe, y’alright?” Niall hears the blare of the radio die behind him, and
it just makes it harder not to smile.
“Lou, I got my offer from Birmingham. I was scared shitless in the interview
and I didn’t even know if they’d take me, but they just want me to maintain
what I got on my exams last year and I’ll be in. I’ll really get to go.”
Louis whoops down the phone. “Go on, lad! I knew. I fucking knew they’d be
idiots not to want you.”
“Well, they might have wanted me with better grades.” Niall is grinning now,
letting himself be happy, even though it could all still go wrong. “But I think
I’m alright. I think I can do what I did on my AS levels.”
“Of course you can, love. You’re brilliant.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“Should we do something to celebrate? I could… buy you a pint maybe?” The
hesitation tells Niall that Louis’s skint this week and he’d have to dip into
the sock full of emergency cash under his bed. Niall’s seen him do it before,
but he doesn’t want that.
“It’s just an offer. I’m not actually in yet. But you could come round and we
could have a bit of a private celebration, if you know what I mean.”
“Filthy mind you’ve got, calling me at work and talking like that. I’ll come
round soon as I’m done here.”
“Good.” He ends the call and goes back to staring at the message, the next
phase of his life written out plainly. The relief won’t be complete until exam
results come back in the summer, but he’s made a start. Next step, he supposes,
is waiting for Louis’s offer to come in too. Niall can be patient, at least as
patient as Louis’s been for him the last few months, but it’s only getting more
difficult not knowing as the time gets closer.
By the time Louis arrives at the flat, Niall is fizzing with nervous energy
again. Louis stands in the doorway grinning at him for a long moment before
folding him into a hug. “You’ll hear soon,” Niall tells him, and Louis sighs.
“Even if I don’t, I’m happy for you. I want you to have everything you want.”
I want you to get an offer from Birmingham City, he thinks, but he only kisses
Louis’s cheek and holds him tighter.
 
Nick’s fingers go numb, and he trips over his, “Yes, thank you. I’ll see you
Tuesday.” When the BBC didn’t give him a second interview for a job in January,
he didn’t really expect a job offer in April. It’s good that he’s alone in his
flat, but it means that he has no one to tell immediately. And he needs to tell
someone. His mum might be a good first choice, but there’s a guilty part of him
that wants to text Harry immediately, tell him Nick is finally going to have a
job where he’s not responsible for any children at all. He hasn’t been entirely
celibate the last six months, but every time he looks at Harry, he knows what
they’re doing now can’t continue indefinitely. At some point the tension is
going to spill over again. This time he might be able to let it. That’s
possibly even scarier than the alternative.
He phones his mum, like a good and dutiful son, and although she doesn’t have
much understanding of what he does when it involves radio, the name BBC carries
some weight, even if it’s just BBC Radio Merseyside and not fancy old London.
Nick’s not certain what the balance of his new job will be between on-air and
production tasks, but the upshot is he’ll be doing things for a real radio
station that might lead to national exposure over time, and as that sinks in it
seems to please her.
“Congratulations, love,” she says before they hang up. “It’s good to see you
happy.”
He texts Gillian and Henry, the only ones among his friend group he’d told
about the job, and then he stares at his phone for about a year before texting
Harry, Got some good news I think you’ll be interested in xx. Almost
immediately Harry sends back a string of question marks. Nick asks if he can
meet after school the next day, even though it still feels clandestine and not
quite right. He’ll have to put in notice that he won’t renew his contract, and
everyone in the school will know in two seconds flat, and he doesn’t want Anne
to tell Harry first.
So he finds Harry loitering outside the staff room again the next day, school
shirt open at the neck, hair a wild halo around his head. “Windy, is it?” asks
Nick.
Harry scrubs at his hair and grins. “A bit, yeah.” He’s obviously waiting for
Nick to say something.
“Let’s walk a bit.” He leads Harry down the corridor and into the radio studio.
Niall’s there, but he’s packing up, waving as he passes.
“Congratulate your boyfriend for me,” Nick calls after him. “I hear
Birmingham’s lovely, some of the time.”
Niall grins back over his shoulder.
“Very involved in the lives of your students, aren’t you?” says Harry.
Nick gives him a quelling look. “Have a seat, Harry.”
There are two crumbling office chairs in the control room, and Harry looks
genuinely afraid as he sinks into one of them. “Are you ill? Are you moving to
America? Are you involved in an international crime ring?”
Nick takes the other chair. “None of the above. I said good news, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know. Maybe you really want to move to America. Or you like
crime.”
“I got a new job. Working on the actual radio. In Liverpool.”
Harry nearly overturns his chair throwing his arms around Nick’s neck. “That’s
brilliant. That’s like. You’ll be so great.”
“I also won’t be teaching anymore,” Nick adds hesitantly, pulling back until
Harry sits down again. “Or working at a school.”
“Oh.” Harry twists his hands together in his lap. “You mean, like, if you liked
someone younger, you wouldn’t feel bad seeing them. Romantically. Not that
they’d need it to be romantic.”
Fondness and anxiety war in Nick’s chest. Harry is so young, even if Nick’s not
teaching. He’s getting ready for his AS Levels, and Nick’s many years beyond
exams now. “I wouldn’t feel as bad, no. In your hypothetical.”
“When do you start?”
“They want me as soon as term finishes.”
“Does everyone here know? Like my mum and the other teachers? Or your
students?”
Nick feels a bit weird admitting, “No, I wanted to tell you early, so you’d
hear it from me and not your mum.”
“Oh,” says Harry, and Nick can tell he’s struggling not to smile. “That was
nice of you.”
 
It’s the third week in April when Louis gets his offer from Birmingham City
Uni, and although what they’re asking for is a serious improvement in his
English mark from last year, it’s not out of reach. His mum gets teary over it,
and Louis pretends to shrug it off.
“It doesn’t mean I’ll go there,” he tells her, shutting the laptop so he
doesn’t have to look at the message anymore. His future seems closer and also
farther away than ever. “It doesn’t even mean they’ll want me after exams. I
might screw it all up again.”
She shakes her head, rubbing her hand between his shoulder blades like she used
to when his footie team lost a match and he was sure it was his fault. “You’re
working so hard, and I know you don’t want anyone to see, but I do. You’re so
smart, and I think now you’ve got a goal, you’ll do whatever you can to meet
it. If not for yourself then for Niall.”
“Niall doesn’t need me to do anything,” Louis says. Niall’s got two other
offers, neither at a university with a drama program with a place for Louis. If
Niall chooses not to go to Birmingham, Louis will likely lose him forever.
“Of course he doesn’t,” she says. “But I know you’ve pushed yourself harder
this year than you did last, doing all that revising while your sisters are
watching telly. And I know having someone who cares for you makes it easier to
care about yourself.”
“I’ve always had someone who cares for me. I’ve always had you.”
“Sometimes it has to be someone besides your mum.”
Louis leans into her, resting his head on her shoulder and letting her stroke
his hair. She’s not wrong.
 
“Mr Grimshaw’s leaving teaching,” Harry’s mum tells him while he’s sautéing
stir fry. “He’s got a job on the radio, so he’ll be leaving at the end of
term.”
It’s lucky Harry’s back is to her, so she can’t see him swallow down his first
response, which is I’ve known for two days because he wanted to tell me early.
“That’s cool,” says Harry very nonchalantly, prying up a bit of broccoli that’s
starting to stick. “I’ve always thought he’d be good on the radio.”
His mum hums in response. “You won’t miss seeing him when you come to see me?
Or will you come to see your old mum at all?”
Harry blushes, still doesn’t turn to look at her. “I’ll always come to see
you.”
She leans into his eye line and raises her eyebrows. “It’ll be different
though, won’t it? Without Nick there?”
Harry fidgets uselessly, moving bits of chicken around in the pan. “I think
we’ll probably still hang out. I think… I think we’ve got to be quite good
friends this year.”
She smiles. “He told you, didn’t he?”
Harry nods because he can’t lie straight to her face. “Yeah, he texted. He said
he wanted to tell me himself, instead of me hearing from someplace else.”
“He’s been a good friend to you this year. It’s been lovely to watch.” She
squeezes his shoulder, and Harry ducks to look at the stir-fry. Nick is still
teaching; Harry’s not allowed to feel all these things yet.
“I like him a lot,” says Harry honestly.
“I know you do, sweetheart. He’s a nice man.” He can tell she’s going to say
more, and he tenses, his heartbeat kicking up a notch. “I just wonder sometimes
if you expect too much from him.”
“He’s my friend.”
“I get the feeling you sometimes wish he were more than that. And I understand
that. But you’re so young.”
“He doesn’t treat me like I’m young. He doesn’t treat me like I’m any different
to him. And it’s not as though he’s my teacher.” Harry knows he needs to dial
it back, the defensive pitch to his voice, but he can’t.
“He is much older than you though. I just don’t want to see you get your heart
broken.”
“I won’t,” says Harry. He already has had his heart broken—or at least somewhat
bruised--by the last six months of knowing Nick and wanting him and not being
allowed to do anything about it. But he doesn’t tell his mum that. “He’s always
really nice to me, and, like, respectful. But sometimes I think I would like
to…” he makes himself take a deep breath, “try for something more. When he’s
not teaching.”
She doesn’t react like Liam did, doesn’t look disgusted and try to make out
like there’s some flaw in Nick that makes Harry want him. But she sighs and
rubs his shoulders. “I know you’re only going to love who you love. And I want
you have people in your life who give that back to you, and love you as much as
your big heart deserves. But I don’t know if Nick is the right person to do
that.”
Harry does know. Harry is only getting more and more sure the longer he knows
Nick, the more time they spend together. “But if I, like, wanted to try it,
would you let me?” The broccoli is starting to burn in the pan, and Harry
rushes to stir it up and turn down the heat.
“I don’t think I’d want to try and stop you. You’re quite a strong-minded boy.”
Harry smiles in spite of himself. “That’s all I want.”
 
Louis isn’t ready to have a serious conversation while he’s got Niall’s cock
all the way up his arse, but then Niall gasps into the back of his own hand and
whispers, “Imagine if we had our own place and never had to be quiet.”
Louis hovers over him, knees spread around Niall’s slim hips, one hand pressing
on the hairless stretch of Niall’s chest. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s
never lived in a world where his space wasn’t limited by other people, by thin
walls and doors with no locks. He realises he’s staring at Niall’s face, and
Niall’s staring right back, and it’s devastating to let Niall see how much he
wants it, how much he wants a real life with Niall. His dick starts to wilt,
and he can’t seem to say anything.
“Was that too much?” Niall asks. He’s flushed with sex, and he’s got one hand
cupped around Louis’s hip, thumb tracing over the join of his thigh. Louis
ducks his head, breaks the spell of eye contact.
“Yeah,” he says shortly, starting to rock his hips again, pleasure sparking up
his spine as Niall’s dick hits right inside him. “But maybe too much isn’t a
bad thing.”
Niall bites his lip and nods, and Louis doesn’t think he gets it, but now is
not the time to explain. All his plans are still up in the air, depending on so
many things completely out of his fucking control. And Louis used to not mind
things he couldn’t control, used to shrug everything off as though it didn’t
matter, but he can’t do that anymore, now that he’s admitted just how much
Niall means to him. He closes his eyes and rides Niall’s dick with long rolls
of his hips, trying not to shift Niall’s bed against the wall lest Bressie go
into another coughing fit in the hallway and spoil the mood again.
Louis bends to kiss Niall’s mouth, lets Niall slip almost all the way out of
him as he does, Niall’s hand moving to spread against the small of his back.
“Love you,” Niall murmurs, lips soft against his.
Louis smiles, lets Niall feel it before he says it back.
 
Summer
 
“Am I waiting for you, or are you waiting for me?” Harry asks. They’re eating
ice cream in the park by Nick’s former school, on something that is very nearly
a date. Harry is alternating little bites of his Flake with licks of mint ice
cream, and Nick can’t help watching his mouth.
“Dunno,” says Nick. “What do you think?” The swirl of Harry’s tongue is nearly
obscene, the way his lips fit around the top of his cone.
“I think I never wanted to wait at all. I still don’t want to. If you would let
me, I would do anything. Right now.” Nick sees a world of filth blooming behind
Harry’s eyes. He feels unprepared.
“I still don’t want to get arrested though, love. I think public indecency this
close to a play park is frowned upon. And I’d like to be more careful than we
were last time.”
“We could go back to yours.”
“We could,” agrees Nick. “I’ll be honest though; if we run into any of my
former students or colleagues, I might still call the whole thing off.”
Harry crunches into his ice cream cone. “I don’t want you to feel bad. If you’d
feel bad, we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t do anything.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just not simple. But I don’t think it’s fair to
wait until it’s simple. That might never happen.”
“I’ll get older. It’ll be simple when I’m older.” But they both know that’s not
true. The last eight months have felt like an age, and anything more will be
worse. Harry is just staring at the remains of his ice cream, watching a single
melting drop fall onto his thumb as he waits for Nick to say something.
“Have you had sex before?” Nick asks after an aching pause. It’s not quite the
question he means, but he’s never known where Harry’s flirting ends with anyone
besides him.
“What? You mean besides with you?”
“Right. Obviously besides with me. Sorry. That was just. It might have been out
of character.”
“It was what I wanted,” says Harry. “But it wasn’t my first time. I wouldn’t
have gone down on a bloke in a bathroom if it were my first time. But there are
probably also, like, things you’ve done that I haven’t.” He doesn’t specify and
Nick doesn’t ask.
“Screw it,” says Nick, chucking the rest of his ice cream as they pass a bin
and reaching out for Harry’s hand. “Come home with me.”
Harry folds his hand around Nick’s, and the tips of his fingers are cold from
the ice cream, but his palm is warm. There are butterflies in Nick’s stomach
caroming around, and he wants to be mature and responsible, but his heart is
beating out, Finally. He knows how hard it’s been for Harry, but it’s been hard
for him too.
Nick only stays holding his hand for about thirty seconds, but he keeps walking
close by, his arm brushing Harry’s, all the way to the bus stop. The bus isn’t
crowded, but Harry shoves into the seat next to Nick anyway. They’ve been out
together so often, and this time is no different in a lot of ways. Harry
follows Nick up the stairs to his flat and waits for him to jiggle the key in
the sticky lock.
“This is a real date, isn’t it?” Harry asks softly, and Nick pauses. “Are we
dating?”
“Would you like if we were?” Harry’s so close behind him that Nick can smell
him—cheap shampoo and clean sweat—and he wants to press Harry up against the
wall and kiss him breathless.
“I’d like it a lot,” says Harry. The lock clicks open, and Nick pushes into the
narrow entry to his flat. It’s stuffy inside, like the afternoon sun has filled
it up with heat, and Nick feels sweat gathering under his arms and down his
back.
Harry shuts the door, and Nick turns, standing close and leaning in, just a
bit, just enough that Harry takes the hint and looks up. Nick’s mouth presses
gently to his, and Harry makes a helpless little noise as his lips part, so
eager. Nick curls a hand into his hair, his thumb sliding across Harry’s
temple, fingers tangling in his curls, and Harry goes up on the balls of his
feet, kissing him more deeply. He grabs at Nick’s shirt, pulling him in closer,
and Nick opens his mouth for Harry’s tongue. The last time Harry kissed him
felt reckless and pushy, laced with vodka and adrenaline. This time it’s
purposeful, steady, Nick sucking at his lower lip, licking into his mouth,
Harry’s breath coming in distracted little bursts.
Nick breaks away after so long and not long enough, and Harry sways a little on
his feet, coming undone from just a kiss. He licks his lips and Nick watches
him do it. “Not bad, eh?” Nick says, and doesn’t smile until Harry laughs.
“Not bad,” Harry agrees. “Worth waiting for, even. We should do it again.”
“Do you want to maybe not stand in the hallway for the next one? I’ve got a
perfectly nice sofa in the lounge.”
“I hope you’ve got a perfectly nice bed as well.”
Nick’s smile flickers. “Not to be a cliché, but could we hold off on that a bit
longer?”
“Okay,” Harry says.
“Just okay? Not even a fight?”
“I just want it to be right.” He wraps his arms around Nick’s waist, settles
his face against Nick’s shoulder.
Nick kisses the top of his head. “Me too.”
They snog on the sofa until Harry’s trembling, hips working in a frustrated
grind against Nick’s thigh. Nick’s cheeks are flushed, and his hair is wilting
over his forehead. His hands keep straying to the perfect curve of Harry’s
arse. Harry nuzzles at the side of his face, and Nick can’t make himself stop
smiling.
“Do you need to be home?” Nick asks blearily, eyes still fixed on Harry’s
mouth. “Does your mum know where you are?”
“She knows. I told her we were going out today, and I might be gone until
dinner.” He sucks at the swollen pink of his lower lip. “I said I wanted to try
things with you, if you’d have me.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“I think I’m wearing you down.”
Nick fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket, barely avoiding the hard line of
Harry’s cock. “It’s getting late. I should run you home.”
Harry sighs but lets him. Nick doesn’t give him so much as a kiss on the cheek
as he gets out of the car, although Anne’s not stupid and the big, stupid grin
on his face will give him away as soon as he gets inside. “Text me?” Harry
says.
Nick gives him a thumbs up before he drives off.
 
The garage is stiflingly hot in the summer, hotter than outside, the little
office sweltering in petrol fumes and pine air freshener. It’s both a literal
and figurative breath of fresh air when Niall opens the door, pink cheeked and
grinning. Louis grins back. In three and a half weeks, he’ll be free of filing
work orders for spluttering Ford Fiestas and answering angry phone calls about
transmission problems.
“Morning,” Niall calls, dropping his rucksack on the counter.
“Hullo, love,” says Louis, pushing up out of his chair to kiss Niall’s cheek.
“Got a car that needs sorting? Undercarriage you’d like checked?”
“You can check my undercarriage any time, but I also brought you a sausage
roll. It’s nearly noon, and I thought maybe you’d have a break.”
Louis scratches around the neck of his work shirt. “I’d usually just eat at the
desk, but seeing as you came all this way, I could step out for a bit.”
They walk up to the park and sit on a bench in the sun. “Any reason for the
sausage roll? Apart from my general charm?”
“Bressie was talking about renting a van to take us down to Birmingham. I
didn’t know how much stuff you were planning to take.”
“Hmm. I was thinking enough pants to last through Christmas, some books, a
couple of extra-large dildos, the basics.”
“How large are the dildos? I’m just trying to judge the space.”
“I think you’ll have space for them.” Louis holds up his sausage roll and
raises his eyebrows.
Niall laughs. “God, Lou, it’s gonna be so good. Uni. Student pubs. Living in
halls without a single parent or guardian in a hundred miles to hear whatever
you’re going to do with those dildos.”
“It’s going to be fucking brilliant,” Louis agrees. “We’re going to be fucking
brilliant.”
 
Harry goes to Nick’s house on Saturday afternoon with the express purpose of
having sex. Proper buggery, not just rubbing off on each other like they’ve
been doing, half-clothed and still a bit furtive. He buys a new package of
condoms and a bottle of lube, and Nick’s probably expecting to take him
somewhere nice like the cinema or the park, but today Harry’s having none of
it. “I may stay over at Nick’s,” he’d said to his mum as she’d dropped him in
town before she went off to do her errands.
She’d squeezed his hand and said, “Phone me before you go to sleep then,
darling. Don’t forget, or I might have to call you, alright? And be safe.”
“Thanks, mum.” Harry hugged his rucksack full of condoms to his chest. He knew
she didn’t mean that specifically—after one very blunt conversation and a book
full of anatomically correct cartoons when he was thirteen, they hadn’t
discussed sex again directly—but she also wasn’t blind enough not to be
thinking it.
He texts Nick to say he’s outside and waits for Nick to buzz him up. “You’re
early,” says Nick, opening the door to his flat in bare feet and glasses, his
hair adorably mussed. “I was going to make lunch before you got here.”
Harry grins. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Don’t get so excited, love. It’s just sandwiches.”
Harry kisses him on the cheek and holds up the rucksack. “Let’s say I’ve
brought dessert then.”
Nick’s eyes widen. “I don’t suppose there’s a Victoria sponge in there.”
“Better,” says Harry.
It’s obvious Nick knows what he means because he goes all flustered and starts
talking about sandwiches again. Harry sets his rucksack carefully down in the
hall and follows him into the kitchen. “I bought an avocado because I thought
that was posh,” Nick’s saying.
“I hate avocado,” replies Harry, and Nick looks so aghast that he nearly
recants on the spot.
“How can you hate avocado, Harold?”
“It’s just slimy and gross and doesn’t taste of anything. It’s a waste of good
sandwich filling.”
“That’s insane. Cheese and avocado is practically the perfect sandwich. And
poached eggs and avocado of a morning. How can I date you when you don’t
appreciate avocado?”
“The same way you date me now, just keeping all the avocado for yourself.”
Nick’s mouth twists thoughtfully. “I guess everyone has their faults.”
“Some people like putting slimy fruits on their sandwiches.”
“Is it a fruit?” Nick is actually holding up an avocado between his thumb and
finger, examining it.
“Isn’t it?”
“I always thought it was a vegetable, but then I always forget that about
tomatoes as well. Are tomatoes all right with you, by the way?”
“Yeah, they’re all right.”
“And chicken’s all right?”
Harry grins. “Not as a fruit.”
“Shut up.”
They make their sandwiches and eat them at the kitchen table, but all Harry can
think
“The intense staring is a little weird, I have to say,” Nick tells him, and
Harry blinks out of his contemplation of Nick’s hands.
“Sorry, I was just… thinking about dessert.”
“Ah,” says Nick. He sets the rest of his sandwich down on the plate, looking a
bit lost.
“Nick, do you not want to have dessert with me?”
“Say ‘sex’, Harry. Otherwise I just think of eating chocolate buttons off your
willy.”
“That’s both dessert and sex though.”
Nick wrinkles his nose. “I’m not into it.” He nudges Harry’s foot with his
under the table. “I do want to have sex with you though. Any sort of sex you
like. As long as it doesn’t involve chocolate buttons. Just give me a bit of
time to digest first. It’s like swimming, I wouldn’t want to get a cramp.”
Harry laughs. Maybe it can just be this easy between them. He puts out a hand
for Nick’s on the table, and Nick squeezes his fingers. “I want you to fuck
me,” says Harry quietly, just so it’s out there. “I got, like, stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“You know, condoms, lube, Batman mask.”
“Is the Batman mask the sort with elastic on the back, or the sort that goes
over your whole head? Because my head is enormous. I can’t even wear hats.”
“How do you know the mask isn’t for me?”
“I like your face too much,” says Nick with a smile. “I’d mutiny if you wanted
to cover it.”
“I like your face too,” Harry replies, feeling his cheeks flush.
Nick pats his hand and then stands to start clearing up the plates. “Save the
superheroes for some other setting.”
Harry watches him, his chest tight with nerves suddenly. He’s had a fair amount
of sex for someone his age, much more than Liam or Zayn, who are his most
honest points of comparison. But he’s had most of it with girls, almost all of
it that wasn’t just hasty getting off, and he wants so much from Nick in
comparison. Maybe too much. He wants proper soppy lovemaking and he also wants
to be pounded until he screams, and there’s no way to reconcile those things.
Not in one afternoon. So mostly he wants to not be so terrible at it that Nick
will never want him again.
Nick sets the plates in the sink and tidies all the sandwich things away, and
then he comes and stands in front of Harry, his intentions clear on his face.
“Dessert?” asks Nick with a grin, and Harry tilts his face up for a kiss.
It’s a kiss on its own terms, slow and warm and already enough to get Harry’s
heart beating too fast. Nick traces over the line of his jaw with his thumb,
feeling out Harry’s pulse. “Harry Styles, you may actually be more nervous than
I am.”
Harry kisses the inside of his wrist. “What have you got to be nervous about?”
“Only making a mess and being awful and us winding up in opposite halves of the
bed not speaking. Only the usual.”
“It won’t be awful,” says Harry. “It’ll be nice.”
“I want it to be.” Nick leads him into the bedroom and lays him out on the bed,
and this much at least they’ve done before, Nick’s hands wandering under
Harry’s t-shirt, tickling up his sides as they kiss. Harry tangles his fingers
in Nick’s hair, and when Nick slides one leg between his, Harry moans tensely,
already hard.
“How long can you stay today?” Nick asks, teeth tugging at Harry’s earlobe.
“Until you get sick of me. I told my mum I might spend the night. If you wanted
me to.”
“Depends. How are you at cooking breakfast?”
“Depends how you are at having food in your house.”
Nick hums thoughtfully. “We’ll go on a romantic date to Tesco’s later.” He
kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Is this only the first round then?”
Harry nods, rocking his hips against Nick’s, teasing himself with the weight of
Nick’s cock. “I’m good for a lot of rounds in a day.”
“Then I want to do this first.” Nick sits back on his heels, fingers trailing
down to the button on Harry’s shorts. Harry wants to ask him what he plans to
do, but the words catch in his throat as Nick leans down to press a kiss low on
his belly. Harry holds his breath as Nick undoes his flies and pushes his
clothes out of the way to get at his cock. He’s so hard he can barely keep
still, his hips bucking up the moment Nick rubs his thumb along the underside.
He wraps one long-fingered hand around the shaft, and Harry watches
breathlessly as he parts his lips around the plump head.
Nick sucks at the very tip of his cock, tonguing the slit before gliding his
hand downwards and taking more of it in, his lips a tight seal against Harry’s
sensitive flesh. Harry stares until he has to blink, every muscle in his body
gone taut as Nick sucks him. He’s waited so long. He’s waited so, so long for
exactly this. Harry pants out Nick’s name, breath catching on the K, pleasure
creeping up from the soles of his feet to the pit of his stomach and then
straight up to the top of his head. “I’m close,” he whispers, holding himself
at the edge of orgasm.
Nick pulls back and wanks him through it, and Harry’s come spatters across his
cheek and the slick pink of his mouth. He licks it away, and Harry moans, his
dick still twitching as he watches the swirl of Nick’s tongue.
“Good start,” Nick says.
“We’re still dressed,” Harry replies.
They take care of that next, and Harry drinks in the whole length of Nick’s
body, every part of him as long and slim as the fingers he winds into Harry’s
hair. “Should I get the stuff from my bag?” Harry asks.
Nick presses a kiss to the slope of his collarbone. “No need for the Batman
mask. And I’ve got my own condoms. We’ll use yours if mine run out.”
“Okay,” says Harry. He finds Nick’s mouth with his, kisses him for a long
moment.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks. The tips of their noses brush, and Harry goes nearly
cross-eyed looking at him.
“Yeah. Nervous. But I want you. I want you in me.” It turns him on all over
again, saying it.
“I want that too, love.”
Nick teases though, kissing Harry’s mouth and the sensitive spot under his jaw,
biting gently his nipples, stroking his fingers along the insides of Harry’s
parted thighs. “Is this still round one?” Harry asks shakily, as Nick’s lips
settle on his belly.
“One and a half, maybe. It’s all relative,” Nick replies philosophically. Harry
watches him squeeze the lube onto his fingertips, rubbing it warm between the
cheeks of Harry’s arse. His arsehole opens for Nick’s first finger, and Harry
arches into it, more than ready for the slight stretch of it.
“I’ve done this part before,” Harry tells him, spreading his legs wider.
“On your own?”
“Yeah. Thinking of you, you know. Late at night under the covers.”
“Hush,” says Nick, slipping a second finger into him without warning. It aches
a little, but Harry breathes through it, lets Nick fuck him like that until
it’s easy, until he wells up with want and can’t help the way he whimpers into
Nick’s mouth.
“I knew it would be nice,” Harry says dreamily when Nick starts to work three
fingers in and out of him in a slick, easy motion. Nick’s fingertips curl
against his prostate, and Harry’s dick twitches, leaking thin precome.
Nick kisses the corner of his mouth. “I think it can be nicer.”
Harry agrees, but only with a nod. He’s so ready for the new weight of Nick’s
hips against his, the steady push of Nick’s cock inside him. He slides one leg
around Nick’s waist, and somehow it gets even better. They move together,
finding a rhythm, and it’s everything Harry hoped it would be. The first time
he comes with Nick inside him, it’s so good he nearly forgets how to breathe.
Nick says his name on a startled breath, and then he’s coming too, his hips
shivering against Harry’s.
Harry tips his head back against the pillow, lets his shaky legs fall open as
Nick pulls out of him. He feels cored out, and he reaches down to touch the
place Nick’s just been, rubbing his fingers against the slick opening of his
arsehole. He’s sore, but it’s good, pressing with his fingertips, feeling out
the edges of that ache.
Nick drops a wet flannel on his belly, and Harry looks up. Nick’s smile echoes
back the bone-deep contentment Harry feels. And that was only round one.
They’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of them, the whole evening, the whole
night. Harry holds out his hand, and Nick settles against his side. It’s
already been more than worth the wait.
End Notes
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