Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2286962.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band), Radio_1_RPF
  Relationship:
      Nick_Grimshaw/Harry_Styles, Liam_Payne/Louis_Tomlinson
  Character:
      Nick_Grimshaw, Harry_Styles, Louis_Tomlinson, Liam_Payne, Niall_Horan,
      Zayn_Malik
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Time_Travel, 13_Going_on_30_AU, Inspired_by_a_Movie,
      Angst, Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-10 Words: 21488
****** Slow Down, You're Doing Fine ******
by greedy_dancer
Summary
     “Darling,” she sighed. “These things seem so important at your age,
     but it’s only one fight, alright? I know it feels like there’s a big
     gap between you and Nick now, but when you’re older no one will even
     notice. No one will care when you’re 30 and he’s what, 34? That’s
     nothing.”
     “I want to be 30 now, then. I hate this, it’s rubbish.”
     “Oh love, you don’t, really,” she said, but he really, really did.
     A 13 Going on 30 AU. Underage warning as Harry is 16 for a portion of
     this (see notes).
Notes
     This is for ciel_vert, I really hope you enjoy this! Sorry I'm so
     late posting >.>
     Thanks to fiddleyoumust for making this happen, to goingmissing for
     the outstanding beta and cheerleading and to annemaris, tilda,
     fuluoliang and waspabi for the brain-storming, consulting, script-
     doctoring, audiencing, encouragement, and general not murdering me
     for incessantly babbling about this for weeks.
     Canon ages and locations have been futzed a little bit to make the
     premise possible. Title from Billy Joel's Vienna, which features on
     the movie OST.
     Underage warning note: Harry is not 13, but 16, which is the British
     age of consent. No intercourse happens when he's that age. Check the
     end notes if you require more detail.
See the end of the work for more notes
April 2024:
“I’ll be fine! I’m fine, Nicholas, really I am, these are just- they’re happy
tears.”
They really, really weren’t, but Nick was looking at Harry with such emotion in
his eyes, sadness and pity and regret and god knows what else mixed in. Harry
had never been embarrassed by crying before, but nothing about the past few
weeks of his life had been typical.
“I want you to be so happy, Nick, alright? I love you so, so much. You’re my
best friend.”
Harry reached up to wipe at his face, nearly blinding himself with the corner
of the damn binder he was still clutching.
Part of him wanted to stay and argue and explain about how this was all a
terrible mistake, but it was just too late now.
His mum had been wrong. Some mistakes just couldn’t be fixed.
And even through his heart breaking, he really did hope Nick would be happy. He
deserved so, so much happiness. He really did want to keep being Nick’s friend
– he’d only just found him again, and he was one of the very few things that
made this life bearable.
He just needed time until he could be in the same room with Nick again without
feeling like his chest was tearing itself apart, was all.
He took one last look at Nick, standing there in his beautiful suit, nervously
playing with the loose ends of the bow tie as he was getting ready to marry
someone else; then he turned around and started towards the door.
“Harry. You know I’ve always loved you.”
Nick’s voice was faint, a choked whisper at best, but Harry heard and he nodded
frantically, fresh tears springing to his eyes as he blindly reached for the
door. e needed to get out of Nick’s bedroom before he really broke down and
made things even harder for them both.
It was just like Nick said that day. Perfect didn’t exist. Life never turned
out the way you thought it would.
It was time Harry grew up for real, and accepted that, and moved on. He needed
to take responsibility for his actions, even if he couldn’t remember any of
them.
Even if it hadn’t really been him.
This was not at all how things were supposed to go.
***
April 2010:
The party was going to be brilliant.
Harry had Saturday off from working at the bakery, on account of his and Louis’
auditions on Sunday, but they’d both managed to convince their mums that a
“Good Luck Getting on X Factor” party on Friday evening was just the thing they
needed to de-stress before the big day.
Harry would have been happy just watching a few movies and playing stupid games
with Louis and Gemma and Nick, but Louis had pulled a face and said it was well
boring, and insisted on inviting everyone they knew from school and having a
real party, with loads of girls and everything.
“It’ll be good practice for when we’re famous, Hazza!” he’d said, ruffling
Harry’s hair, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.
Eventually Harry had just gone along with it. He’d even convinced his mum and
Robin to go out that night so they could have the house.
“Why do you always do that?” Gemma had asked. “Just because Louis’ older than
you doesn’t mean he should just get his way all the time.”
Gemma didn’t really get it though. It wasn’t like Louis was just walking around
making Harry do stuff he didn’t want to do. It was more like - Louis acted all
big and bossy and tough, but somehow he didn’t seem very happy, a lot of the
time. Harry didn’t know what was wrong with him, exactly; Louis never talked
about it. School things or family things, he supposed.
In any case, Harry had found that it always cheered Louis up when Harry agreed
with him, and Harry didn’t mind one way or the other, usually. He just liked
making his friends happy. He didn’t see what was so wrong with that.
And anyway, having more people there meant hopefully Harry wouldn’t have to
spend the night refereeing Nick and Louis. It was probably better that way.
So the plan was for Louis to stay over after the party so they could practice
together on Saturday, and on Sunday they would drive to the Convention Centre,
Harry and Louis and their mums and Gemma. Nick was going to come, too.
It would be the start of something big, Harry could tell.
*
urgh i hate trains on fridays you’re lucky i like you styles
this better be worth it. i could be partying with fit boys all weeknd!!!
jk im well excited its going to be awesome. see u soon. xxx
Harry put down his Blackberry with a smile.
He and Nick had been BBM-ing about this weekend for weeks, and now it was
finally here he couldn’t quite believe it was actually happening.
Nick had been the first person he told about his plan to go audition: before
Gemma, before his mum, and well before he mustered the courage to tell Louis.
He’d thought Louis would take the piss, for sure. Instead he’d found out Louis
was considering the same thing, and they’d decided to go together.
Harry never thought Nick would take the piss, because Nick knew all about big
dreams and unrealistic ambitions.
Harry didn’t have a plan exactly, beyond getting on stage in front of Simon
Cowell and finding out if he really was any good at singing. He had vague ideas
of success and fortune and moving to London and being famous the world over,
but Nick actually had a plan: he would be the new Sara Cox and host the Radio 1
Breakfast Show.
Harry thought it was the coolest thing he’d ever heard. Nick was the coolest
person he knew, which was why it was so weird that he and Louis couldn’t get
along.
When Louis had started at Harry’s school the year before and they’d become
friends, Harry had been so sure they would have the best time, all three of
them. He couldn’t think of any reason why Nick and Louis wouldn’t get along.
But when Harry had introduced them one weekend when Louis was over and Nick was
home from Uni, Louis had taken an instant dislike to Nick. Nick had reacted in
kind, and now it was like they kept the animosity going on principle.
Louis had Opinions, and for some reason he’d decided it was Strange and Creepy
that Harry’s best mate – “One of your best mates,” he would correct if he heard
him – was 19 when Harry had only been 15.
It wasn’t at all, though. Harry had known Nick most of his life, ever since
Harry’s family moved in with Robin. The Grimshaws lived next door, and Nick did
a short-lived stint as Harry and Gemma’s baby-sitter before Harry’s mum decided
she couldn’t take the mess in her kitchen whenever Nick and Harry were left to
their own devices in the house.
They kept hanging out after that. Harry was slower making friends at school
than Gemma was, and Nick’s brother and sister were so much older he was like an
only child, really.
It had started with little things; Harry would go over after school and they’d
watch The Simpsons and music videos and critique what everyone was wearing in
Heat and Nick would play Harry all the cool CDs he heard about from his
brother.
Harry would talk about school and make stupid jokes that Nick always thought
were hilarious, in a good way. Sometimes when Harry’s other friends laughed, he
couldn’t tell if it was with him or at him.
Nick would ask Harry for comments on his new outfits, even though Harry didn’t
always get Nick’s style. It still meant a lot that Nick wanted to know Harry’s
opinions, because Nick worked very hard at acting like he didn’t care what
people thought about him, even though Harry knew he wished he looked a bit more
like the guys in the magazines.
Harry didn’t think Nick was fat or had a weird face, or stupid teeth. He
thought it was awesome that Nick looked different from anyone else he knew. He
looked interesting.
They talked a lot about serious stuff, too. Nick had told Harry right away he
was 90% sure he liked boys, but was still happy to listen to Harry’s girl
stories. In fact Harry found it easier to have a good conversation about the
girls he liked with Nick than with Louis, whose comments sometimes made him
feel uncomfortable.
After Nick left to go to Uni in Liverpool they exchanged hundreds of messages;
Nick was there when Harry’s first girlfriend broke up with him, and in turn
Harry tried to cheer Nick up when he seemed down about his business classes,
and when he was worried Pete was disappointed in him, and even that time he
slept with a girl and didn’t quite know how to feel about it.
Then one weekend when Nick was back, he’d sworn Harry to secrecy and shown him
the stories he sometimes wrote.
“It’s called visualisation,” Nick had said, handing Harry a notebook. “Jane
read it in a magazine and then she told me all about it. It’s meant to help
make your dreams come true, see?”
Harry didn’t really understand how writing fake Sun articles about you partying
with David Beckham and the Gallagher brothers in London would help you get
hired by the BBC, but that didn’t matter. It was still brilliant.
Nick wasn’t like anyone Harry knew, and every time they hung out he couldn’t
help but feel a thrill that, out of all the people he could have chosen, Nick
had picked him to be his friend.
The way Nick’s face had lit up, how he’d exclaimed “Oh my god, Harold! That’s
so great!” when Harry first showed him the X Factor registration website still
made Harry’s chest fill with warmth. Somewhere along the way it had become very
important that Nick approve of him.
“I can see it already,” Nick had said. “You’ll be the famous popstar and I’ll
interview you on my radio show, and then we’ll go out on the town and our faces
will be all over the tabloids. We’ll be well rich, designer clothes and
everything, but you have to promise to start drinking or smoking or summat,
'cause you’re going to look so much better than me all the time!”
Nick face-palmed dramatically. “Oh god, I take it back, it’s going to be a
bloody nightmare!”
“Don’t be stupid,” Harry had muttered, but he’d been so, so pleased.
It would never happen, obviously, but Harry still loved thinking about it. He
and Nick – and Louis, of course; they would have so much fun together.
*
Harry’s phone beeped with another message from Nick as he was pondering which
polo shirt to wear for the party.
honey i’m home wanna see your surprise now?
Yeeeessssss, Harry sent back immediately. Come now no one’s here yet.
Nick had been talking about the surprise for weeks, and in unusual fashion,
hadn’t actually told Harry anything about it, even though he was really
terrible at keeping secrets from Harry.
He was standing in Harry’s doorway not five minutes later – one of the best
things about being best mates with the neighbours’ kid – grinning his
ridiculous toothy grin, hands behind his back.
“Hey! You know it’s not my birthday, don’t you?” Harry asked.
He was pretty sure Nick did know, because he’d gotten him a birthday gift back
in February – a small guide to London, with a note attached that said: START
READING UP!! xxx
“Duh,” Nick said. “It’s just a small thing, anyway. It’s not, like… Urgh, here,
just take it.”
He shoved something into Harry’s hands.
It was a plastic binder, like the ones Nick had in his room for his uni work.
The transparent cover showed what appeared to be a newspaper clipping.
Harry stared at it for a few seconds, confused.
“Well, read it, you idiot!” Nick urged, plopping himself down on Harry’s bed.
Harry opened the folder.
The piece of paper looked like the front page of the Sun, but it was normal
printer paper, and the headline read:
HARRY STYLES AND NICK GRIMSHAW OUT FOR A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
The famous friends were spotted last night tearing up the town. Grimshaw, the
famous Radio 1 Breakfast Show host, and his best friend Styles, runner-up of
the 2010 X Factor season -
“Hey, why am I runner-up?” Harry asked, going for indignant but knowing he
couldn’t keep a straight face. “You get your dream job but I don’t even make it
in the stories you invent? Thanks for the vote of confidence!”
Nick tssk-ed dismissively.
“Who would you rather be, Olly Murs or Joe McElderry? The winners never
actually get the coolest careers, everyone knows that.”
Well, Harry wanted to argue, there was Leona Lewis, but Nick did have a point.
“This is so brilliant, Nick, I can’t believe you even made it look all proper
and everything! It’s awesome, thanks.”
“Now we can both visualise, yeah? Double the power or whatever,” Nick replied.
“And here, if it’s not enough,” he trailed off, taking something out of his
pocket and throwing it to Harry. Or rather, in Harry’s vague direction.
Harry picked it up. It was a small plastic bag labelled “Wishing Dust” and it
appeared to be full of –
“Is this purple glitter?” he chuckled.
“No, of course it’s not glitter!” Nick corrected huffily, even though it
clearly was. “It’s wishing dust, young Styles, can’t you bloody read? Real
magical powers and everything. Bought it in a proper shop.”
Harry examined it thoughtfully, until Nick chucked a random sock that had been
tangled in Harry’s bedcovers at him.
“Just bloody go with it, you wanker,” he sighed.
“Alright, alright, sorry. So, what do I do with it?”
“Well, you sprinkle it on top and make a wish, don’t you?”
Harry proceeded to rip open the packet, spreading rather more than a sprinkle
over the page, and his floor, and himself, probably.
“Okay,” he said awkwardly, shutting his eyes tight and clutching the binder to
his chest. “Please, please, make it happen? Pretty please?”
He waited for a couple of seconds, but obviously… nothing.
He opened his eyes to find Nick staring at him, all pink in the face. Harry had
a sudden urge to go and hug him again, but then Nick got up from Harry’s bed
and coughed a bit, and it faded.
“Good, good,” Nick said. “Not that you need magic, obviously, ‘cause you’ll be
great. Simon Cowell’s going to take one look at your face and fall madly in
love with you, so.”
“Hopefully he likes my voice, too. And Lou’s!”
He and Louis would be going to the judges’ houses together. That was the plan.
Nick rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, bloody Tomlinson too. Hey, so I promised my mum I’d go back and
help with the shopping before the party, but I’ll be back in a bit, yeah? I
just wanted to give this to you now, before anyone else got here.”
“’Course!” Harry said.
He put the folder down on his desk to finish reading later, and finally
launched himself at Nick for that hug.
“We’re going to have so much fun together in London.”
Nick laughed, patting Harry on the head. “Hold your horses, it’s not happened
yet, Styles.”
“But it will, I believe it now,” Harry nodded fervently. “You’ll see.”
“Alright, popstar,” Nick huffed. “See you in a bit!”
*
Harry was engrossed in his fourth re-read of Nick’s article – it was so good,
with so many details, everything they daydreamed about together – when Louis
barged into his room, throwing himself into Harry’s desk chair, sending it
rolling into the bed.
“Hazza! Are you ready to part-y? Why aren’t you downstairs yet? Where’s Gemma?
Our guests will be here soon!”
“Sorry, what?”
“Party? You know, the one we’re throwing tonight, to celebrate the start of our
rise to fame and- Bloody hell, Haz, is that glitter all over your floor? What
have you been doing in here? Oh, wait, no, I don’t think I want to know!”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, was just a bit distracted,” he said, sending even more glitter flying
around as he held the folder up for Louis to see.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. Louis’ eyes narrowed in that way that meant
trouble, and he plucked the folder from Harry, making a big production of
settling back into the chair to read it.
“What do we have here, then? Do you have a secret girlfriend who made you a
glitter scrapbook, or what?”
“No, it’s a good luck gift from Nick,” Harry started.
“Same difference!”
Harry ignored the jab. “Isn’t it brilliant though?”
Louis looked at him like he was an idiot. “No Harry. It’s not brilliant; it’s
weird and creepy, and probably illegal.”
“Shut up, it is not! That doesn’t even make sense!”
“He’s got such a crush on you, it’s pathetic! And he’s 19. God knows how long
he’s been trying to get into your pants.”
Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Why was Louis always such an arsehole where
Nick was concerned?
“Why would you even say something like that? He’s my best mate, and so are you!
You guys are so alike-”
“I don’t bloody think so,” Louis sneered, his face going bright red, but Harry
kept going.
“Just because he might be gay doesn’t mean he wants to shag me. Come on Lou,
don't say that stuff, I know you don't even believe that.”
But Louis didn’t calm down; in fact, he was getting more and more agitated, and
Harry had no idea how to get him to settle down. He didn’t even know how they’d
gotten here.
“Yeah? How many 19 year old uni students do you know who spend their weekends
home hanging out with someone in Year 11 rather than going out? Huh? How many
write them creepy stories about them basically moving to London together?
Everyone can fucking tell he’s after your arse, Harry, you’re the only one who
won’t admit it! Why is that, huh?”
Harry drew in a breath to protest some more, but then his brain went blank, his
mind flooding with images of Nick.
Nick, who looked at him so fondly when Harry told a joke, even when it was not
funny. Who kept blushing when Harry complimented him. Who went a bit pink in
the face every time Harry hugged him.
Bloody hell. Could Louis actually be right?
He was currently looking at Harry with raised eyebrows, leaning back into the
chair. He didn’t even need to say “I told you so” out loud for Harry to hear
it.
“Just. Shut up for a bit, okay?” Harry asked, and thankfully, Louis went with
it.
Harry didn’t know how to feel.
Nick was his best mate, and Harry had known he was gay for years. It never
seemed strange to Harry at all – it was just another thing that made Nick who
he was.
If Nick had a crush on him… When had it started? Why would Nick keep talking
about the blokes he fancied, at school and in Liverpool? Why hadn’t Harry
noticed?
And what did it mean for their friendship? Were they actually best friends, if
Nick had really lied about wanting to kiss Harry all this time?
He looked over at Louis.
"Bloody hell, Louis," he started.
“Fucking finally!” Louis crowed. “I’ve been telling you for ages there was
something off about him.”
Louis was still missing the point entirely, and Harry was about to tell him but
Gemma pushed the door open, poking her head in.
“Why was I almost thrown off the stairs by Nick Grimshaw basically running out
of here?”
Oh. Oh no.
*
Harry ran down the stairs and out of the house so fast, it was a miracle he
didn’t fall and break his neck.
There were girls walking up to his door – god, the party, he’d totally
forgotten about it. He went right past them, apologising when he bumped into
one of them as he ran.
“Sorry, sorry!” he panted. Louis and Gemma would have to deal with guests. Nick
was almost back inside his house.
“Nick! Nick, shit, wait! Listen!”
He had no idea what he wanted to say to Nick then, but Nick didn’t let him talk
anyway.
“You know what, Harry? You can go back to Tomlinson and tell him he’s right,
for once. I’m past the age when I should be hanging out with someone who’s
still in school. I really don’t know what I expected.”
He sounded furious, but his face was sad, and Harry wanted nothing more than to
say the right thing to make him happy again, to draw out the smile that
crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“And you know what, maybe I am pathetic,” Nick went on, “but your friend is a
bloody dickhead and you shouldn’t be spending time with him, either.”
“No, listen, Louis doesn’t mean it, alright? He’s just-”
Nick scoffed. “What? A homophobic prick? I’m not letting a schoolboy treat me
like this; I got enough of that when I was still in bloody school, alright? I
don’t give a damn what his issues are-“
“He’s just jealous that you’re my best mate,” Harry pleaded. This conversation
wasn’t going at all like he needed it to; why was he defending Louis when there
were so many more important things to talk about?
“Listen, Nick, please come back to the house and we’ll sort it out, okay? He’ll
apologise. He’s not a bad person, I swear.”
But Nick was shaking his head determinedly, backing away from Harry and towards
his front door.
“No, Harry. I don’t think so. This is not- I'm not doing this anymore. You both
have a nice time at your party, and good luck at your audition. I’ll see you
around.”
*
There was no party, in the end.
Nick closed the door in Harry’s face, and didn't open it again even after Harry
rang the bell a few times.
Harry humiliatingly cried a little bit right there, and then he went home and
exploded at Louis, which ended in Louis storming off, shouting some really mean
things, and Harry going up to his room and slamming the door shut, leaving
Gemma to deal with the guests.
Harry had lost his two best mates in the space of a few minutes, and everything
was just awful.
Harry’s heart kept jumping in his chest every time the doorbell rang, hoping it
was Nick, or Louis, and that it would all get sorted out. But it was just an
endless stream of random people Gemma had to lie to about Harry and Louis
catching a bad stomach bug, until finally potential party guests stopped
arriving and Harry was left in the silence, which was even worse.
Eventually there was a knock on his door.
“Harry? Are you alright?” Gemma called.
“Please leave me alone,” he sniffed.
“Do you want me to call mum and tell them to come back early?”
Harry really did, but it was too embarrassing to admit it, so he didn't answer.
Gemma sighed.
“Okay, little bro. Just tell me if you need anything, yeah? It's going to be
okay!”
That just made Harry cry harder.
*
The bed dipped, and he woke up with a start. It was his Mum, he knew right away
by her perfume. He scrambled to turn around so he could hide his face in her
lap.
“Oh, Harry, love, what happened?”
“Everything’s ruined,” he rasped. He didn’t want to start crying again. His
head hurt.
She pushed a hand into his hair, stroking gently.
“I’m sure it isn’t, love. Do you want to tell me about it now?”
Harry didn’t particularly care to relive the afternoon’s events, but he
summarised them as best he could, his breath hitching all the while.
He left out the part where he thought Nick wanted to kiss him, though. It was
enough that his best friends hated each other, and now him, too.
“Oh darling,” she sighed. “These things seem so important at your age, but it’s
only one fight, alright? I know it feels like there’s a big gap between you and
Nick right now, but when you’re older no one will even notice. No one will care
when you’re 30 and he’s what, 34? That’s nothing.”
“I want to be 30 now, then. I hate this, it’s rubbish.”
“Oh love, you don’t, really,” she said, but he really, really did.
It was awful, this feeling – it was like all the most stressful things in his
life were happening all at once, and he was handling all of them wrong, and it
was all compounding into one big, awful mess. His mum sounded so sure but how
could she be sure?
He would have given anything in that moment to know that everything would be
resolved, to know how his audition would go, whether he and Louis would make
up, and what was going to happen with Nick. He wanted nothing more than to just
wake up and find that he’d gone through it already, that everything was fine,
that he knew how everything turned out.
He was already half-asleep again when his mum left with one last stroke of his
hair and some reassuring words.
“Don’t worry, love, alright? Try and get some rest. It’ll work itself out, in
time.”
“Want it to be fine now,” Harry mumbled. “Want everything to be fine now.”
“I know, Harry, but some things just can’t be rushed, you know?”
She bent down to pick something up from the floor, placing it on the bedside
table, on top of Harry’s journal.
It was Nick’s gift. Harry reached for it, dislodging some more glitter when he
clutched it in his hand.
Please…
He passed out, sad and exhausted, before he could even finish formulating the
thought.    
***                                                                             
“Rise and shine!”
Harry woke with a start, and immediately fell to the floor, banging his head.
“Mum? Gem? Is that you?”
“Come on, get your ass up and in the shower while I get you some aspirin. We
have to be at the label in… 37 minutes. In this traffic? Awesome.”
The voice was American. Harry didn’t know any Americans, especially not any
who’d barge into his bedroom and yell at him about… labels?
God, his head was pounding. He had to still be dreaming, but then why did his
head hurt so much?
“Oh god, and please put that away.”
He lifted his head from the thick carpet – weird – and found himself squinting
up at a woman who was definitely not his mum or his sister.
“What?”
The woman sighed in frustration and nodded towards Harry’s legs.
A glance down confirmed that this was definitely a dream because first, he
wasn’t wearing the clothes he’d passed out in the night before; two, he could
see loads of tattoos on his belly and hips, and third, his dick was totally
hanging out, the tight jeans he seemed to be wearing shoved past his bum.
“Oh my god,” he cried, and went to cover himself as best he could.
The woman – she was a redhead, he saw – rolled her eyes, but she seemed
mollified, for a second at least. She was still standing over him with an
expectant look on her face though.
“Well?” she asked.
Harry stared at her some more, hands still covering his dick. If this was a sex
dream, it was one of the weirdest he’d ever had. He definitely had to try and
remember this one when he woke up, to tell Nick all about it.
“Come on, we don’t have time for this. Where is she?” The redhead pressed on.
“Where’s who?”
She sighed and left, heels clicking across the floors as she banged doors open
and shut.
When she came back to the – this wasn’t a bedroom, it was a lounge, Harry
realised, she was clutching a bundle of clothes. Behind her was someone – oh
god, okay, a completely wet, mostly-naked girl. Woman. Harry only looked for a
second but this was a definitely a woman.
Was that where the dream was going, then?
Except then the redhead produced a sheaf of papers from somewhere.
“I’m really sorry but if you don’t mind Mr. Styles would appreciate it if you
signed this,” she said, voice curt. “Nothing personal of course, we’re just
trying to crack down. I’m sure you understand.”
The blonde woman threw a glare of utter contempt towards Harry, but she took
the pen she was being handed, signed, and then started getting dressed.
The redhead crossed the room back to Harry to put the papers away in a drawer.
“Whole lotta good it’s gonna do us, it’s probably already online,” she muttered
in his direction.
Harry nodded dumbly, and then watched as she bent over to pick up something
from a coffee table, which was covered in empty bottles. A ring?
She ran back out of the room on her high heels, yelling after the blonde woman.
“Ms. Cyrus! Wait!”
Harry let his head thunk back down on the carpet.
*
Something very strange was happening, in that Harry kept not waking up.
He didn’t wake up when the redhead prodded him until he got up, or when she
made him swallow a glass of water and three white tablets, or during the
extremely cold shower she pushed into, which he spent mostly looking down at
himself, curiously trying to catalogue all the tattoos he had until the woman
opened the massive glass door – no respect for privacy, that one! – and shoved
a towel at him, then a bunch of clothes.
The jeans were so tight they couldn’t actually be his size. There was a sort of
bandana there that he didn’t know what to do with. He left it on the side of
the sink with a shrug.
He didn’t wake up when she herded him through blinding sunlight – were those
palm trees? – into the backseat of a massive black car and watched him like a
hawk as he dutifully gulped down the enormous cup of coffee she handed him –
black, blech – or when she slapped his chest with a stack of magazines.
It stung a little, and the magazines felt glossy and sharp under his hand. This
was definitely the most vivid dream he’d ever had.
“Look,” she intoned.
He looked.
On the front page of the first magazine, a man with long hair hiding most of
his face was giving the camera the finger.
The second magazine showed an increasingly blurry series of shots, starting
with the one he’d just seen and ending with the man raising his fist towards
the camera.
The third magazine wasn’t actually one – it was a… sheet of transparent
plastic? But when Harry poked it with his finger, it came to life, the blurry
punching picture appearing out of nowhere like on a computer screen, which was
pretty cool.
Maybe Harry’s subconscious was trying to tell him to buy one of those iPads
everyone was getting so excited about.
Harry didn’t get to examine the dream technology in more detail though.
In the corner of the screen was a small picture of him. No, not a picture, a
gif.
And not him from the dream, with the tattoos, but him, Harry, the one he’d seen
in his mum’s wardrobe mirror when he was getting ready for the party the day
before.
He was wearing the outfit Nick had helped him pick for his X Factor audition, a
number pinned across his stomach, smiling coyly at the camera.
A banner of text was blinking obnoxiously across the screen:
FROM CUTIE TO MEANIE? WHERE DID OUR SWEET HARRY GO?
“There’s one more,” the woman continued, flicking the screen to bring up what
looked like the front page of The Mirror. “You’re not going to like it.”
HAZZA COME HOME, it read in that massive white-on-black print, and then in
smaller letters underneath:
STYLES IS SPIRALLING IN LA, SAYS FORMER BEST MATE TOMLINSON
“Louis?” Harry muttered, confused.
“I know, I know,” the woman said like he’d asked her a question. “He keeps
denying the quotes but obviously there’s no way to know for sure. And I mean,
really, after everything? I’d hate your ass too, no offence.”
Everything? God, this was the most confusing dream ever.
“Holy fuck, you’re so out of it, what did you even take last night? Anyway,”
she continued, grabbing the whole pile from Harry’s lap and shoving it back
into her giant purse. “We’re here. Think you can make it through the meeting
without passing out? I think they want to talk to you about that Kanye collab
you’re after.”
*
Everyone in this dream was American.
“Why is everyone American?” Harry asked at one point, but none of the twelve
people around the massive glass table answered.
They just threw him looks ranging from the mildly amused to the frankly
exasperated, then went right back to discussing… Whatever it was they were all
ignoring him for.
“We really need to redefine our target market,” a bald guy was saying. “Hey
Harry, you want to try making an actual productive contribution to this
meeting?”
Harry looked up, startled.
“What?”
“No, of course you don’t. Don’t know why I even asked.”
The guy turned his back to Harry again and nattered on about figures and
statistics.
Harry really wanted to wake up now.
This dream was terrible. In fact, despite the absence of weeping angels or
surprise math tests, it was definitely a nightmare: he was bored to tears;
everyone seemed to simultaneously ignore him and want something from him,
except he didn’t know how to please them; they all kept looking at him like
they were disappointed even though he had no idea what he’d done wrong.
He felt incredibly lonely, too. He didn’t recognise anyone. Usually his dreams,
no matter how weird they were, featured his mum or Gemma or Louis or at least
someone from school. Even Nick was nowhere to be seen.
He started pinching his own arm, gently at first, then digging his nails in
until he couldn’t help but let out a sharp yelp.
The droning voices of the meeting came to a sudden halt, all eyes coming to
rest on him once more.
“Harry, dear, why don’t you go and…” a white-haired woman started, waving her
hand around. “Just, you know. Do whatever it is you do on a day like this. Just
remember the car is picking you up at 10 tomorrow morning for the merch shoot.”
Harry gratefully clambered out of his chair, retreating out of the meeting room
to a cry of, “Please be sober!”
*
Harry finished drying his hands on his jeans and took a good look at himself in
the mirror for the first time since everything had gone weird that morning.
He’d come to the conclusion that he definitely wasn’t dreaming.
First of all, the dream had been going on for way too long by now, and pinching
had no effect.
Also, he’d actually just peed – that never happened in dreams, he always woke
up in a rush to get to the loo before any actual peeing happened in the dream.
And there was just too much detail – too many little sensations that were way
too realistic for his mind to make them up. The subtle throb behind his eyes;
the annoying, constant brush of his hair against his neck; that weird tickle in
his nose that kept making him sniffle involuntarily.
But if this wasn’t a dream, if this was real… What the hell was going on?
He really, really wanted to talk to his mum. If this was the real world, then
he could call her, right?
She would worry, though, if he called her in the middle of the day not knowing
where or who or when he was. And Gemma could never be trusted not to tattle to
her.
He took out the phone the redhead – and if this was real life, he really needed
to find out her name – had put into his hands, back in the car.
The lock screen was on, and it wasn’t a Blackberry, which gave him a moment’s
pause, but he needn’t have worried. As soon as he put his index finger on the
screen, his fingerprint went all blue and it unlocked itself.
Harry sighed a little in relief. He didn’t know if he had the patience to try
and hack into his own phone right then.
In a few lucky swipes and taps, he was scrolling through his phonebook, looking
for Nick’s contact.
It wasn’t there.
Harry scrolled up and down a few times to make sure, but the list went from
Newton straight to Nicole. No Nick. No Nicholas.
There was one Grimshaw but it belonged to someone called Aiden.
Maybe he’d saved Nick under a different name, an in-joke he’d since forgotten
about?
But there was nothing in his recent conversations, or his most-used contacts,
and he found himself jabbing at the phone with increased violence until finally
he had to put it down or risk breaking it.
He took a few deep breaths, then picked up the phone again, finding his mum’s
number and holding his breath while it rang.
“You have reached the voicemail of-“
Harry growled, but he waited until the end of the message.
“Mum?” He had to take a second to clear his throat. “Mum, it’s me. Can you call
me as soon as you get this, please? Thanks. Love you, bye.”
He left a similar message on Gemma’s phone, which also went straight to
voicemail, and then he found Louis’ contact and tried him, too.
He didn’t care about the fight from the previous day. Or the… Whenever it was,
in relation to this weird moment Harry was in.
He really needed to find out what the date was.
Louis’ phone rang, and rang, and rang, and Harry held his breath until his face
felt hot and his eyes were watering.
“’Lo?”
It felt so good to hear a familiar voice that Harry almost started crying for
real.
“Louis? God, Lou, is that you?”
A pause, then: “Harry?”
“Oh thank God, Louis, listen, there’s something-” Harry started, but Louis
interrupted. He sounded cross.
“Listen, you know I didn’t give them the bloody quotes-”
“Louis, wait-”
“-told your people already, I’m never going to apologise, so you can-”
“Louis!”
“-calling in the middle of the night when normal human-”
“Louis, listen to me, please!”
He wasn’t too proud of the crack in his voice then, but it got Louis to stop
talking. Harry took a shuddering breath, then another.
“What then?”
“Listen, this is going to sound really weird, but I. I think- Okay, I woke up
this morning and I don’t remember, like, how I got here.”
“What, like a blackout? Were you on a bender?”
“A what? No, of course not. It’s like, I don’t know. Like amnesia, I think.
Maybe. I don’t know, and my mum isn’t answering her phone and I can’t find
Nick’s number, and-”
“Nick? You mean Grimmy?”
“No, not his brother. Nick. You wouldn’t have it, would you?”
“Nick is Grim- Never mind. I don’t have his number, and even if I did he
probably wouldn’t appreciate you waking him with your little freak-out when
he’s got to be on in a few hours.”
“What do you mean, waking him up?” Harry looked at the phone. The clock at the
top read 6:29. Surely Nick would never be asleep this early.
“Harry, for fuck’s sake, did you forget the LA-England time difference again?
It’s bloody 1am here.”
“The- I’m in LA?”
Well, that would explain all the Americans. And the palm trees.
Louis sighed down the line, and Harry could picture him pinching the bridge of
his nose like he did when he was getting frustrated.
“Listen, mate. I don’t know what you’re on, or what kind of game you think
you’re playing right now. I don’t have Grimshaw’s number, but if you’re so
desperate to talk to him you can always text into the show in about… five
hours. Christ. I’m going to be knackered in the morning.”
Harry wanted to apologise, but Louis was clearly on a roll.
“You’re the most famous person in the world; surely one of your people can find
you the BBC Radio 1 phone number. Or perhaps you can get a private jet and land
it on Regent Street and just go knock on their door, but now please, I need to
go back to sleep.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised reflexively.
Louis sighed again.
“Listen. Can you just- just promise me you’ll call someone to come get you,
alright? If they find you dead in a pool of your own sick I’m sure I’ll get the
blame for it somehow.”
“I- Yeah, okay,” Harry agreed dumbly. Louis was making no sense.
“Right. Good. Now please can you put the phone down? Some of us have work in
the morning.”
“Sure, of course. Sorry.”
Louis scoffed. “Yeah, now you’ll apologise. Whatever. Bye, Harry. Don’t call
again, mate.”
Harry stared at the phone as the screen went back to its home page, displaying
the date.
The year was 2024.
*
It had taken a couple of days, but Harry felt better now.
After hanging up with Louis he’d had a little (okay, a major) crisis in the
bathroom of the label’s building – his label, where he had a team and a record
deal – and someone had knocked on the door asking if he was okay, and he’d kind
of shouted at them that no, he definitely wasn’t okay, because he was in the
future and he couldn’t remember anything and he wanted to go home.
That had caused quite a bit of commotion in the office.
But he was better and calmer now that there was a plan.
Possibly the fact that Meagan – that was the redhead’s name, he knew her name
now and also that she was his personal assistant, whatever that entailed – had
pushed a bunch of pills into his hand that morning before his flight helped
with that, too. His head was swimming quite a bit, but in a nice, floaty way,
not in a frantic whirlwind like it had back in the toilets.
He leaned back into the plush seat of the plane and closed his eyes.
The plan was – and it was a very simple plan, really, which was why it was
genius and would fix everything – the plan was to go home.
Home to England, of course, not the big house Meagan had taken him back to, the
first time he’d asked.
That place was very nice, for sure. It was huge, for one, and it had an indoor
pool, and it was filled with what had to be Harry’s things: clothes (that
looked ridiculous) and art (that he didn’t understand) and beautiful guitars
(could he play guitar?). In the garage there were three shiny cars and two
motorcycles (he could drive?).
He also had a recording studio in the basement, where the walls were covered in
platinum records for albums he’d apparently made, and also pictures of Harry
with some famous people – some of whom he recognised (he knew Mick Jagger!) and
many more that he didn’t.
So that house was pretty amazing.
But as amazing as it was, as thrilling it was to think that perhaps he did own
all those things and had all that money and had done all those things, he
couldn’t actually enjoy it. Something about it just wasn’t right. It wasn’t a
home. It didn’t look like anyone really lived there, let alone himself.
Where was the mess? His mum was always getting on at him to pick up after
himself. Where was the food? The massive fridge was empty except for wasabi,
some kind of cream that looked like one of his mum's products and three bottles
of vodka in the freezer.
He’d had a tin of biscuits for dinner that first evening.
Half the rooms were cold and dark and obviously unused. There were no pictures
of Harry’s real friends or his family anywhere around the house.
It couldn’t be his home. He would never have picked any of the things there,
not even at thirty – which according to the date, was how old he was now.
And what a mind fuck that had been.
It had been easier to accept once Harry had spent a good hour by himself in
front of a mirror, though.
He was obviously still him, he recognised his face, but it was like looking at
a relative – a long-lost older cousin, maybe. Someone with his eyes and his
nose and his mouth, but with faint lines across his forehead, a bit of stubble,
and gaunt cheeks where Harry’s used to be round.
Someone with hair down to his shoulders and a lot of tattoos he definitely
didn’t remember getting. (He was quite sad about those, actually. He was been
planning on getting some, as soon as his mum would let him, but now all the
prime spots were already taken and he was just covered in designs that made no
sense to him.)
In a way this body was like the house: when he thought about it, he could tell
that it was his. It just didn’t feel like it was. If this was really amnesia -
which was the answer that made the most sense to him - he must have taken a
serious knock to the head.
And if it wasn't, then... Harry tried not to think about it, because all the
other options were too confusing and scary.
Whatever it was, it hadn’t gone away when Harry went to sleep that first night,
and he’d spent his second day in a haze, clinging to Meagan all day like a lost
puppy, incredibly grateful for her half-whispered instructions. He’d also made
quite a few frantic calls to his parents and Gem, but they were all still
unavailable.
It was probably amnesia, and so the best course of action was surely to wait
for things to go back to normal, right? Just like in the Disney version of
Alice in Wonderland that he and Nick had watched once. Stay where you are until
someone finds you.
Or in his particular case, until he found himself, he supposed.
In truth, if that second day was any indication, it wouldn’t be that hard to
float through things until he figured it out.
This life seemed to require very little decision-making on his part: it was all
a matter of showing up wherever he was meant to be more or less on time, and
then just doing what people told him to do. Meagan handled all of his phone
calls, and sometimes she handed him things to sign, and most of the time no one
batted an eyelash if he seemed confused or did something they found weird.
He'd thought he could probably fake it for a while, if he needed to. Lay low
and wait it out, that had been the initial plan.
It didn’t last very long, though.
On the second night, once he was back in the house, settled on the too-hard
couch with the burger and milkshake he’d gotten Meagan to buy on the way home,
he found a tablet just like the one from the car. It, too, powered up as soon
as he touched his finger to it, bringing up an opened internet window.
He typed his name into the Google search bar.
About 189,000,000 results
A nervous giggle escaped him. Bloody hell, he really was massive. He had an
inkling, what with the house and some of the things people said to him, but
seeing his name repeated over and over again on dozens of pages of results was
something else completely.
The top links all looked like social media accounts, though few of the websites
were familiar.
He also had a dedicated Wikipedia page, and one on the Mirror, and TMZ, and
Perez Hilton. There was also a News for Harry Styles section, which he clicked
on, biting his knuckle as he started skimming down.
The first hit had the same pictures Meagan had shown him the first day:
Harry Styles Loses It on Paparazzi Again – Full Video on TMZ.com
There were thirty-seven related articles.
He scrolled past with a grimace and read on, the feeling of dread intensifying
with each new headline.
Harry Styles DUI charges dropped after British star plea …
Harry Styles spotted partying with married Miley last …
The Highs and Lows of Harry Styles: What the Former 'X Factor ...
Is Harry Styles Mania Finally Over? Disappointing Album Sales …
Simon Cowell on Harry Styles: “He fell in with the wrong …
Harry Styles and Bieber in Twitter spat after alleged drugs …
Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson ‘weed’ video drove wedge …
That night involved very little sleep and quite a few bitter tears.
Part of him really wanted to make use of the vodka he’d seen in the kitchen,
but it passed around the fifth article referencing his “alleged” drinking and
drugs problem.
It wasn’t all negative, thank god. The further back he went, the more articles
were likely to focus on his music, his fans, his success. There were a few
about how good he looked, too, with close-ups and everything. He didn’t quite
know how to feel about those, but at least they didn’t make him want to curl up
into a ball.
By the time morning came he was exhausted, his eyes felt gritty and he had a
splitting headache. But he’d had a revelation.
He wouldn’t – couldn’t – go about his life pretending everything was normal,
trying not to fuck things up until he regained his memory, like he was
housesitting his own body.
In fact, it was the opposite. Clearly, somewhere along the way adult Harry
Styles had fucked up the life Harry wanted for himself. He’d gotten all the
opportunities Harry wanted, and all of the success, and twisted his dreams into
something ugly and scary and lonely and sad.
But now Harry had a chance to make things right again, and so he had to try.
He’d found Meagan’s number in his phone and called, telling her he needed to
get back to England as soon as possible.
“What? How long? Do you know how fucking busy you’re supposed to be in the
coming days?”
She didn’t seem to buy his story about a family emergency at first, but after a
bit of pleading, she agreed to do her best to clear the next couple weeks for
him.
“Thanks, Meg, you’re the best,” he enthused. “I just don’t know what I’d do
without you.”
“What? No, I, er, it’s okay. I mean. It’s my job? You’re welcome.”
She sounded a bit flustered then, for such an efficient, professional woman.
“Hey, listen, while I’ve got you here… you wouldn’t happen to know where my
passport is, please?”
*
The flight was uneventful, mostly.
He discovered the joys of paparazzi when he arrived at the airport, but he just
tried to remain as polite as he could, wishing them a good day as he walked
past.
There were a few girls there too, girls who wanted his signature – well, no,
they wanted his autograph – and pictures with him, and to grab his hand.
That was much weirder.
One of them slipped something into his hand as she shook it, and he could feel
his cheeks heat up as he read the message next to the phone number.
“That’s quite a rude thing to say to a stranger, you know!” he told her, but
she just winked and made the ‘call me’ gesture.
He didn’t really know what to do, so he just smiled and went on his way,
chucking the paper in the first bin he found.
He was on his way through security when it hit him: that girl – woman –
probably would have shagged him. She’d been gorgeous and all, and still it
hadn’t even crossed his mind to keep the number. It was all quite strange. A
week ago he and Louis had been daydreaming about how easy it would be to pull
girls once they were on the X Factor. Now he had the opportunity, he found
himself basically running away.
On the plane, one of the stewards kept walking past and smiling at him and
asking if there was anything else, anything at all, that he could do for him.
“I’m really fine, thank you though,” he repeated for the fourth time, fumbling
with his tablet, hoping it would make him look busy. It was time he snooped a
bit deeper into his own life.
His Gmail inbox was shockingly empty. He thought maybe there was another
account he used for his personal stuff, but there were some messages from Gemma
in there.
He went through the conversation, gathering information in bits and pieces.
She’d moved into a new flat in London and she loved her job. She missed him a
lot. She kept asking when he would be home, if he was coming from Christmas, if
he’d talked to their mum recently.
Reading the replies from his address – his own replies, he supposed – made his
chest go tight. There were so few of them, and they were so curt. It was easy
to see how Gemma’s messages got more and more spaced out, until the last
message just went: at least answer mum’s calls you prick, she’s worried. It was
dated a few weeks back; it was unanswered.
He swallowed against the knot in his throat, swiping out of the thread.
Apart from Gemma it seemed like everything was about business. He found regular
emails from Meagan telling him to show up places, and from other people telling
him to sign things.
In the trash, he found a huge unread conversation, Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:Re:New HS
Album, that involved eleven different people and on which he was only cc’ed.
In the drafts, there was an empty response to Re:Re:new songs, in which someone
was telling him it just wasn’t the time for sad guitar music anymore.
It all felt terribly, terribly sad, and Harry couldn’t stand reading any
longer.
*
The clipboard the driver was holding had a fake name on it, just like Meagan
had said.
“You should be fine with the paps, what with the new laws, and there’s always
your injunction,” she’d said. “But you can never be too careful, right?”
Harry just made noises like he knew what that meant.
“Do you need a car to take you to Manchester right away? Or should I book you a
room at the Ritz?” she’d asked then. He’d said no to all of that, but now he
was at the last address Gemma had mentioned, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
The girl who answered the door was not Gemma.
“Yes?” she said, doing a double-take. A lot of people seemed to do that.
“Holy shit, it’s the infamous Harry Styles, finally on my doorstep. Never
thought I’d see the day.”
“Hi?” Harry ventured, not sure if he should shake her hand. He made an aborted
attempt, but she didn’t budge. He dropped his hand, feeling like an idiot.
“Is Gemma here?” he asked, finally.
“Nope. She just left for that cruise, you know? I’m Clare, her flatmate.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Yes, of course. I forgot.”
Well, now he regretted not driving straight up to his parents’ house.
“Can I come in while I call my mum?” he asked.
Clare looked at him like he was stupid. “They won’t pick up,” she said. “On the
plane too, aren’t they?”
“They all went on holiday without me?” Harry exclaimed, indignant.
She burst into laughter like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
*
Gemma and his mum would be away for a week, Clare said, and either Gemma really
didn’t have keys to their parents’ house, or her flatmate didn’t trust Harry
enough to give them to him.
That gave him a whole week here on his own.
“Meg?” he greeted. “Could you get me someone’s address?”
*
Nick was fit.
That was the first thought through Harry’s mind, when Nick opened the door.
Nick always complained about his looks, how ugly and fat and weird he looked,
which Harry thought was absolutely ridiculous. Anyone who didn’t see that Nick
was brilliant was an idiot who clearly didn’t deserve Nick’s time and attention
in the first place.
This Nick, though. This Nick was proper fit, like GQ fit. He had wicked hair
and stubble, and he was clearly older but he had the same slouch and the same
freckles and the same eyes and he was the first thing Harry actually recognised
since this whole crazy thing had started.
He launched himself at Nick, making him stagger a little. It felt so good he
couldn’t help but squeeze Nick tight, the way he knew Nick hated.
That was okay. Nick would help him. Nick would know what to do.
Nick wasn’t hugging him back, though.
“Um, can I help you?”
“Nick, it’s me, Harry!” Harry let go, taking a step back. A horrible thought
crossed his mind. “You recognise me, right?”
Nick had clearly spent the past dozen years perfecting his sarcastic eyebrow
raise. “Is this a wind-up? Of course I know who Harry bleeding Styles is!”
He sounded just like Pete. He would probably hate it if Harry pointed it out,
though, so he didn’t.
“Well? You’re going to tell me what the hell you’re doing on my doorstep then,
Harry Styles?”
“Oh god, this is going to sound pretty insane, alright, but you’ve got to
believe me ‘cause it’s true, okay? I’m not like, drunk or anything, I swear, I
just need to talk to you because everything went really weird, Nick, and.”
Harry tried to calm down and a take a breath. “Can I just come in? Please?”
It was only a second of awkward silence before Nick stepped back from the door
with a small sigh, nodding Harry in, but it was enough. Harry could tell this
was yet another thing that would not go the way he’d hoped it would.
*
Nick was puttering around in the kitchen, making coffee for himself and putting
the kettle on for Harry – he’d offered right away, and Harry wanted to take the
piss because it was such a grown-up thing to do.
But Nick was grown-up. He had a grown-up flat with pictures on the wall in
actual frames, and thick carpets on the floor and a lot of pretty cushions on
the sofa and big art books on the coffee table.
Harry let his fingers brush against all of the knick-knacks on Nick’s shelves,
picking things up and putting them back down, managing not to knock anything
over, which was pretty hard because his hands were shaking a little bit.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat and took a deep breath.
It wasn’t Nick’s fault Harry felt like shit. Nick was doing a great job of
making Harry comfortable, but that was just it: Harry could tell Nick was
working at it.
They’d never had to work at being around each other, not since the first five
minutes they’d spent together, until Harry had asked: “Do you want to watch The
Kardashians?” and Nick had beamed at him, exclaiming, “Young Styles, I think
you and I are going to be great friends!”
It wasn’t like Harry had expected to pick things up where he and Nick left them
off – actually, he’d very much hoped that wouldn’t happen, considering the last
image he had of Nick was of him slamming his parents’ door in Harry’s face.
He also knew that if he couldn’t find Nick in his phone it probably meant Nick
wasn’t his best friend anymore. But he’d hoped for- something different.
Last time Harry had seen Nick, he’d been angry and hurt and lashing out, and
Harry had thought that was the worst he could ever feel about Nick.
It turned out this polite and distant Nick was even worse.
“Here we are,” Nick said, startling Harry out of his daze as he set down two
mugs on the coffee table. “It was milk, two sugars, right?”
“Yeah,” Harry breathed. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Thanks, Nick.”
“Welcome,” Nick replied. He tucked himself right into a corner of the sofa.
Harry chucked his shoes and climbed on the other end, sitting cross-legged. He
cradled his mug, blowing on it.
God, he’d missed tea, too. He took his time blowing on it, until the silence
got too awkward to ignore and he knew he had to say something.
“So, what brings-“
“What happened with us, Nick?”
Nick chuckled a little.
“Good small talk skills there, Styles.”
“Yeah, no, you’re right, it’s just-“ Harry started backtracking, but Nick waved
him silent.
“No, you’re right. No use pretending, is there? Is this why you’re here then?”
A pause, then he added, suspicious: “This isn’t part of, like, a programme or
something, is it? Steps? Reconnecting with old friends?”
“What? No, I just-“ God, this was so tricky. How much could he tell Nick,
really?
“I guess I’m just… Going through something? It’s like I woke up one day and I
didn’t really know who I was, or how I got there. You know?”
Nick was nodding thoughtfully, his eyes trained on Harry.
Harry continued, carefully picking his words.
“I mean, we used to be best friends and now I can’t even remember the last time
we saw each other.”
“Well, I interviewed you on the radio, didn’t I,” Nick answered immediately.
“You did?”
Nick looked up sharply.
“No, I mean, of course you did, I totally remember that,” Harry rushed to
correct. “And that was in…”
“Second year of the Breakfast Show, wasn’t it, so I guess… 2019? This is the
kind of thing Matt would know. Still rubbish at dates, me.”
Alright, so that meant he and Nick hadn’t seen each other in... 5 years. That
was a lot, but it wasn’t too horrible, right? Surely people drifted off and
then reconnected 5 years later all the time?
“Of course,” Nick continued, “We weren’t really close by then, were we. Not
really since… Well. Not since that party of yours, I suppose.”
Oh. That was so, so much worse than Harry expected.
“We weren’t?”
“You found out I had that ridiculous crush and then you and that Tomlinson git
had a good laugh about it, so of course that bruised my ego a bit. And then you
went off to the X Factor and never really came back, and I moved down here and
things just got busy.”
Nick shrugged, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“Who stays mates with the neighbours’ kid, really? People grow apart, Harry,
it’s fine.”
Harry just couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he didn’t try to make
things better with Nick, not with the way he felt then – still felt – about
that fight.
“I wouldn’t have done that,” he said, almost to himself. “I would have tried to
fix things.”
Maybe it hadn’t been him, then. Maybe…
“Did you not want to be my friend anymore?” His voice sounded terrible to his
own ears, small and trembling.
Harry had never heard Nick make the noise he made then, that great sharp bark
of laughter that didn’t sound like laughter at all.
“Are you really going to try and blame this one on me?” he scoffed, increduous.
“Do you not remember what you told me, that time I invited you out after that
fashion dinner? ‘Sorry Nick, management isn’t too keen on us being papped
together.’ That’s what you said. But it was just while you were making a name
for yourself, you said. And I went with it, because I was such a bloody idiot
for you still, and I thought it would be best for your career. I thought
eventually you’d have the guts to tell them to sod off.”
“No,” Harry whispered.
“No, you never did, did you?” Nick continued. “First you picked Tomlinson over
me, and then your bloody fame, over and over, and then you moved to LA and
found better friends, apparently, and I stopped hearing from you completely. So
don’t you dare say it was my fault, darling.”
“No,” Harry repeated with more force. Nick was lying. He had to be, because it
couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t.
“Stop playing dumb! We were both there! Why are you being so bloody weird about
this?”
Harry winced.
Nick sighed. He seemed to deflate like all of the anger had gone out of him
with that breath.
“Listen, Harry, we’re both adults; we don’t have to do this. Seen it a million
times, haven’t I? You can market to gays but you can’t look gay, blah blah, I’m
in the industry, I get it. Can’t say I expected it from you, but I’m over it
now. Should thank you for the life lesson, really.”
Harry shook his head, once, and then twice, and his hands were shaking too,
lukewarm tea sloshing out of the mug.
His brain was stuck on no, no, no and he couldn’t stop thinking for long enough
to get a proper breath in.
“I wouldn’t,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t, Nick, that’s not me, you know I wouldn’t,
I didn’t, it’s not fair, I didn’t-“
He couldn’t get enough air and his hands were wet with more tea, and he was
going to start crying if he wasn’t already.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he heard, and then Nick was close, taking the mug away and
kneeling in front of him.
“Breathe, Harry,” he said. “Take a deep breath for me, please. Do you still
have a puff-puff? Do you need me to get mine?”
Nick’s voice was warm, as warm as his hand on the nape of Harry’s neck as he
guided him forward, until Harry was bent in half with his head in between his
knees.
“Just breathe for me, darling, that’s right, you’re alright,” Nick repeated.
“You’ll be alright.”
*
Nick didn’t need to fetch his inhaler, in the end.
“Sorry about that,” Harry said, sheepish.
“Nah, don’t worry,” Nick replied. He patted the sofa, which was slightly wet
with tea. “Not going to keep this old thing anyway.”
“Still,” Harry insisted. He was slightly embarrassed that he’d made such a
scene with Nick, but at least it seemed to have broken the tension between them
a little bit.
Nick rolled his eyes a little.
Then he said: “Do you want me to call your driver so you can go get some rest?
Where are you staying?”
Ah. Harry hadn’t really planned that far ahead.
“Can I maybe stay with you?” he tried. “I don’t really have anywhere to stay.”
Nick laughed. “Come on, Harry. You’re rich as hell. Get yourself a room at the
Ritz or summat.”
“Please Nick. I’m sorry about everything. Please don’t make me go.”
He tried to keep his tone light but he must not have done a very good job of
it, because Nick’s face went all soft.
He shook his head a little, then said, “Fine. It’s been a while since I had a
popstar crash on my couch, actually.”
“Thanks, Nick, I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Nick laughed. “See how you feel at 5am when I’m up to go
do the radio.”
Harry bit his lip to contain his smile.
“I still can’t believe you’re really on the radio. The Breakfast Show? That’s
so brilliant, Nick, I knew you would make it.”
Nick pulled a face, but Harry could tell he was pleased.
“Alright, weirdo,” he chuckled. “I guess you’re joining me on my exciting
evening of take out and Bake Off, then! Not the same without Mary Berry though,
is it?”
Harry nodded absently. “What’s Bake Off?”
*
It was dark and quiet when Harry woke up. He couldn’t remember falling asleep,
just that Nick had moved him at some point, replacing his shoulder under
Harry’s cheek with a pillow, and covering him with a blanket.
He had made some progress, today. Being here, with Nick, felt good; it felt
like this was finally where he was supposed to be.
Some of the things Nick had said gave him hope, too. Maybe after he figured the
whole thing out, he could try and… Figure Nick out, too.
He closed his eyes, smiling, and went right back to sleep.
*
When Harry had woken up properly it was much later, too late to listen to Nick
on the radio, which he’d been quite disappointed about.
Then he’d walked around the flat a bit, peering into Nick’s bedroom curiously –
it looked like something out of his mum’s magazines, just like the rest of the
flat, but it was less neat, which Harry liked.
Nick’s sheets were rumpled, and that made Harry’s face go warm, though he
couldn’t quite tell why.
He’d found the bathroom then and borrowed Nick’s shower, and some of his
million products, and a towel, and then he’d sat on the couch, wet hair
dripping down his neck, and busied himself on his tablet until he heard Nick’s
key in the door, and now they were standing over Nick’s kitchen counter, eating
sandwiches.
“So, are you ever going to tell me what you’re hiding from?” Nick asked,
spraying crumbs around.
Harry coughed and almost choked on his mouthful.
“I’m not hiding!” Harry protested. He had turned off his phone, but Nick didn’t
need to know that. “I’m just… taking some time to myself? I guess?”
“Your producers don’t mind?”
Harry looked up, surprised.
“I read the press,” Nick shrugged. “’Harry Styles recording another wanky- I
mean. Another album.”
“Wanky album,” Harry repeated. “It’s alright. You can say it, it’s fine.”
“Sorry,” Nick grinned. “Never did learn to lie about my mates’ music.”
Mates! Harry thought.
“It’s fine, just not my thing,” Nick continued. “Guess it doesn’t-” He paused.
Harry nodded encouragingly. “Yes?”
“I guess it doesn’t sound like the Harry I knew. ‘Ooh, it’s so hard to be
famous! Ooh, I’m so bored of shagging all those groupies!’ Sorry, that sounds
awful. Don’t mind me, I think I’m just getting too old for pop music!”
“No you’re not,” Harry shot back automatically, but the thing was, Nick was
right.
Not about the old thing, of course. But about the songs.
Harry had finally worked up the courage to open iTunes and queue up his albums
today, and he couldn’t make up his mind about what he’d heard.
He loved his voice. That was a bit weird to say, maybe, but he really did. It
was deep and smooth and he couldn’t quite believe it was his. That had been a
shock, but a pleasant one.
As for the songs… They weren’t bad. They just didn’t do anything for him.
That was bad, right? That he didn’t feel anything when he listened to the songs
that had apparently made him so rich and famous?
Nick was brushing crumbs from his face, still looking at Harry.
“I don’t think they sound like me either,” Harry sighed.
“Then why did you make them?” Nick asked, and Harry really, really wished he
had an answer.
There was something else he’d found that day, though.
“Can I show you something? Be right back,” he said, and went to fetch the
tablet from the coffee table.
He brought up the “vocals” folder he’d found, hidden inside a folder named
“aaa” inside a folder named “pics.” That was exactly where Harry put the things
he didn’t want other people to find on the house computer, too.
There were three files, named something great, happily and just a little bit
etc.
He clicked on the first one, looking at Nick intently as it filled the room,
just some guitar and his voice.
Nick listened silently until the last chord was played, then gave a low
whistle.
“Well,” he said. “That was different.”
“Different how?” Harry pressed. “Good, or?”
“Yes, of course good! Are you joking? That was actually really good, Harry, is
this for your album?”
Harry thought about the label’s messages sitting in his inbox. “I don’t think
so. The label isn’t too keen on them.”
“Sod the bloody label, then!” Nick exclaimed. “This is your career. If you like
the songs then put them out. You’re the talent, aren’t you? Don’t tell me the
great Harry Styles can’t do whatever he bloody wants.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Well then, I don’t know,” Nick continued. “Talk to your manager. Coordinate
with your team, get some meetings set up. Find another label that’ll let you do
the things that make you happy, you know? What’s the bloody point, otherwise?”
“Are you happy?”
Nick thought about it, running his fingers into his hair. “I guess so, yeah. I
have my dream job, from when I was a kid. How many people can say that, you
know?”
“Sometimes the dream doesn’t turn out so great,” Harry sighed.
“Alright, you moody millionaire popstar,” Nick laughed.
His face went serious again. “You don’t have to just take it, you know? If the
dream is rubbish, wake yourself up. Oh god, listen to me go on, what a load of
rubbish. You’re making me sentimental, young Styles!”
*
Harry woke up on Nick’s couch again the next day, feeling rested and determined
and really, really horny.
It was the first time it happened, in this new body. Was that normal? Morning
wood had just been a fact of life, before things went wonky, but maybe it was
different at 30.
He checked the time on his phone, ignoring all the missed calls and text
alerts. It was 9:48am, which meant that Nick was still at the radio, and Harry
had the place to himself for a little while longer.
He stretched on the couch, kicking the blanket down until he was just lying
there in his underwear. He didn’t quite dare sleep naked in Nick’s living room.
It was a little strange, still, how he felt inside this body. Like it was him
but not quite. It was so much broader and thicker, with all these muscles, but
it also did all of the things he remembered doing before.
He’d never done this with this body before, though, and now he had the
opportunity, he couldn’t wait to find out how it would feel. He rubbed his hand
across his belly, tracing the tattoos there, and then further down.
The lack of hair was still jarring, not that he was super hairy before or
anything, but the smooth skin felt strange. Did he have to get someone to wax
it for him? He couldn’t really see himself going down to the salon like his mum
did. Maybe he did it himself.
It was good, though, sending little shivers up and down his stomach and thighs,
making him even harder.
It felt nice to touch his cock, warm and familiar even though the grip was
different. He thought maybe his cock had grown more than his hands had, which
was pretty awesome.
He sighed a little, moving his hand all light and slow. He rarely did it like
this, mostly because there wasn’t time before school but also because the urge
to get off as fast as possible was too strong to resist. He never really needed
much.
He could probably last much longer now.
He tightened his hand, rubbing across the tip with his thumb. It was almost
dry, which was also new. Harry was so messy, leaking so much it made everything
slick and slippery.
He wished he had something he could use, something slick-
His eyes fell on the hand lotion on Nick’s coffee table, and he grabbed for it,
squeezing some directly on top of himself.
The cold made him yelp, but his cock didn’t mind; it was still hard and eager,
and his balls felt heavy and his legs started to twitch when he took himself
back in hand, rubbing quick and tight just the way he needed to.
It was so much better like this. He spread his legs to get more leverage and
brought his other hand up to pinch at his nipples. Fuck, it was so good like
this.
He was being quite loud, he realised; there was the slick-slide of his hand in
the lotion but also his own noises, louder than he’d ever been at home or with
the girls he’d gotten blowjobs and handies from.
It felt good to let the noises escape though, so he kept going.
He was getting so close, the sensation creeping its way up from the bottom of
his feet and down from his scalp.
He dug his head back into the pillow, rubbing his cheek against the rough
fabric of the sofa, and it was so shameless, wanking himself off like this, in
broad daylight on Nick’s sofa, gasping and groaning when Nick would be coming
home soon, and the whole room probably smelled like Nick’s expensive hand
cream, sharp and sweet and Nick, and Nick would take one sniff and know, he’d
know what Harry had being doing, how Harry had been jerking his cock right
there on Nick’s couch, and Nick would, he would, maybe he would-
The noise Harry made when he started coming was the loudest of all, and he
didn’t catch his breath for a long time, after.
*
Harry had felt weirdly nervous, waiting for Nick to come home.
He’d showered and dressed and folded up the blanket and aired out the room
before Nick came back from his meetings with sandwiches for them to share.
“Don’t know why you being here is making me crave bread,” he joked, “but my
trainer’s going to want words with you if this keeps on. Gone right off my
diet, me.”
Harry couldn’t stop staring at Nick, all through the story about his boring
guest that morning, some American actress Harry had never heard of who wouldn’t
laugh at any of Nick’s jokes, and then Nick had gone to make some phone calls,
and Harry had turned on the telly.
Apparently The Kardashians were still on, but Harry couldn’t even pay enough
attention to follow along.
Nick, his brain kept going. Nick.
He couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Nick when he came back and sat down on the
sofa next to Harry, nudging the hand lotion with his feet when he propped them
up on the table.
His shirt was open halfway down his chest.
“What?” Nick asked after the third time he caught Harry looking at him. “Is
there summat in my teeth?”
“No!” Harry rushed out. Then, “You have a lot of chest hair.”
He almost reached over, to part the sides of Nick’s shirt and see how far down
it went, but he stopped himself.
Nick rolled his eyes at him. “You are so bloody weird,” he said, but he was
smiling a little. It was exactly the same smile Harry remembered, and it was
making his heart race.
How had he never realised?
He forced himself to look at the screen.
They were both silent for the rest of the episode, and then Nick said, “Someone
might come over in a bit.”
He frowned. “Actually, listen, there’s something I didn’t get to mention.”
“Yeah? What is it?” Harry asked, his heart speeding up.
Just as Nick opened his mouth to answer, though, the doorbell went off.
“Well,” Nick said, getting off the couch. “Just wait here.”
Harry got up, too. His palms felt sweaty all of a sudden. He hadn’t met any of
Nick’s friends.
He wanted to make a good impression. He wanted Nick to think Harry fit into his
life, so he would want him to stay.
He wiped his hands on his jeans then carded them through his hair, looking down
at his shirt to make sure it was okay. He’d stolen it from Nick’s dresser. He’d
only taken two with him to England.
Nick and his guest were talking in low voices in the foyer, and then a tall,
handsome guy walked in, Nick on his heels.
“Yep, that’s him,” the man said, looking at Harry. “I knew, but it’s still a
bit of a shock. Don’t be rude, Nick, introduce us.”
“You don’t need me to introduce him, shut up,” Nick said, elbowing his guest in
the side. “Harry, this is Mehdi.”
“Hi,” Harry said, waving a little. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Mehdi looked down at Harry’s shirt,
then over his shoulder at Nick, then back at Harry.
Harry tried to give his most charming smile. From the way Mehdi was still
looking at him, not saying anything, he didn’t think it was terribly effective.
The awkward silence stretched on for a bit longer, and then Mehdi said, “Right,
well, I don’t actually have time for a cup of tea, Nick, thanks for offering. I
just wanted to see if you’d made your mind about the invitations.”
“Are you guys having a party?” Harry blurted out. “I love parties.”
He immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut. How uncool.
Mehdi scowled at Nick. “We said no last-minute additions, didn’t we? The
wedding’s in two months!”
Nick was replying but Harry couldn’t hear, because there was loud buzzing noise
in his head all of a sudden.
He thought maybe he should sit down.
“Are you getting married?” he asked, and then stupidly, “Together?”
“This summer in Ibiza,” Mehdi said. “Took long enough, didn’t it? Had to
propose to him myself in the end.”
“An actual wedding?” Harry repeated.
Mehdi had laced his fingers with Nick’s. Harry couldn’t stop staring.
“Is there a problem?” Mehdi asked, voice sharp, cutting through the buzz.
Harry was still staring at their joined hands, he realised.
“No! No, no, of course not,” he rushed out. “I just didn’t know you- could do
that. Now. I mean, I forgot it was allowed.”
He swallowed. Nick was looking at him, lines of concern across his forehead.
“That’s really amazing,” Harry repeated. “Really, really amazing. I’m so
pleased for you. Both. Congratulations!”
That was what you said in those cases, right? It was like he’d forgotten
everything. He probably sounded mental.
He sneaked another glance at Nick. His face looked… Complicated.
“Well, I guess he could-” Mehdi started saying, but Nick interrupted.
“Harry won’t be around for the wedding, love. Right, Harry? Aren’t you going
back to LA soon?”
“Yeah, no, of course, I need to go back, so.” Harry said, even though he had no
idea. He hadn’t booked a return flight. “Might be going up North first, to see
my mum and Gemma. They’ll be back soon.”
“Oh!” Mehdi exclaimed. “Please tell your mum and Robin thank you for their
lovely RSVP.”
“My parents are going? You invited my parents?”
‘And not me,’ he didn’t add, but he didn’t need to.
“Not to Ibiza,” Mehdi corrected, and then he said something about having a
separate party for families, up north.
Harry nodded like he was paying attention, but really it was taking all of his
concentration not to stare at Nick.
“We weren’t exactly on speaking terms, Harry,” Nick reasoned. “You wouldn’t
have come anyway.”
“I,” Harry started, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to
argue that of course, he would have come to Nick’s wedding, because Nick was
his best mate.
But Nick was right.
Would the other Harry have cared that Nick had a boyfriend, or that he was
getting married?
Harry was just finding Nick again. He was just starting to realise exactly how
much Nick meant to him.
But it came too late. What was he to Nick, except an old acquaintance who’d
freaked out on his sofa?
God, the sofa, where Harry had come all over himself thinking about Nick just
that morning. How mortifying.
He excused himself to the loo, leaving Nick and his fiancé to discuss their
wedding plans, and spent a long time sitting on the closed lid of the toilet,
taking deep breaths and trying to keep the tears from falling.
*
By the time Harry felt like he could face them again, Mehdi was nowhere to be
found. Nick was puttering around in the kitchen, putting away the clean dishes
from the dishwasher.
Harry hovered at the door, biting at his finger, feeling suddenly shy.
“Y’alright?” Nick asked when he spotted him. “You were gone for a while.”
“Sorry.”
Nick raised one eyebrow but he didn’t press Harry further.
“So… How long have you been together?” Harry asked awkwardly.
“A couple years,” Nick replied. “On and off.”
“But you don’t live together?”
That was weird, wasn’t it? Harry had been staying with Nick for a couple of
days and he’d not seen Mehdi before. He’d not even heard of him.
“He doesn’t live in London,” Nick said.
“He doesn’t?”
“No, he’s a fashion photographer. Well famous, got a studio in Paris and
everything. But he’s always gone somewhere for shoots. He’s off to Milan
today.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“Course not,” Nick shrugged. “We’re both busy, it’s fine. I prefer it that way,
to be honest.”
Harry couldn’t imagine not minding that, being apart from someone you loved so
much that you wanted to marry them. It sounded awful.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” he whispered.
“I know, right?” Nick said. “Who’d have thought! My parents still can’t believe
it. It was his idea, to be fair. But why not, you know? No reason not to.”
“That’s a crappy reason to get married, though,” Harry said.
Nick shrugged. “As good as any. I spent my twenties working and getting off
with my friends, and that was fun, but it’s time to make something real out of
my life. Buy a house, get a couple dogs. Start thinking about children for
real. I’ve always wanted a baby.” “
“Me, too,” Harry said. He thought he’d be a really good dad.
Nick quirked an eyebrow. “Really? That’s not what the tabloids are saying.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” Harry said.
Nick nodded thoughtfully.
“He’s your dream person, then,” Harry said.
He probably should have let it go, but he couldn’t. He just needed to make sure
Nick was happy. He would be okay with this, he thought, as long as he was sure
Nick was happy.
“As close as it gets, I reckon,” Nick said, which wasn’t exactly a yes. “I
stopped believing in Prince Charming a long time ago, Harry.”
“But you believe in dreams, right? You have your dream job.”
“Yeah, and what were the odds of that happening? I failed my statistics at
module at Uni but I know they were pretty low. Probably not going to happen
again, right?”
Probably higher than the odds of waking up at 30 when you’d been 16 the night
before, Harry thought, but for once he managed to keep his mouth shut.
*
He’d known he couldn’t hide at Nick’s forever, obviously, but after meeting
Mehdi he started feeling like he really needed to go. Nick was busy anyway,
with work, and wedding things. Harry had taken up enough of his time.
So Harry had picked up his phone and given Meagan a call, asking her to arrange
a car for to take him to Manchester as soon as possible.
“I’ll text you when I’m back in London,” Harry had told Nick after they
exchanged numbers.
“Good,” Nick had said and ruffled Harry’s hair. “Whatever this was, it was good
seeing you. Don’t disappear again, alright?”
“I won’t,” Harry said.
Nick looked sad, just for a second before he smiled again, but Harry caught it.
“I promise, Nick,” he insisted earnestly, and then he hugged Nick tight,
letting himself really feel it, and ran up Nick’s stairs into the street so he
wouldn’t embarrass himself.
The drive had seemed endless.
He listened to his own albums on repeat, and then to the songs from the
“vocals” folder, and tried not to think about Nick too much.
He fell asleep and dreamt he was going to a wedding with all of his family and
friends, but no one knew who he was, even though the vicar kept calling his
name, and when he saw his reflection in a window he found that he had no face.
He woke up with a start, feeling cold and nauseous.
“Mr. Styles? We’re almost here, Mr Styles,” the driver was saying.
“Thanks,” Harry croaked, shivering.
*
The house was still there, next door to the Grimshaws’, with its blue door and
its neatly-kept front garden and when Harry got out of the car he almost
started crying right there and then.
He didn’t make it much longer. The doorbell chimed its familiar tune and his
mum opened the door, and Harry didn’t give her even one second to ask who it
was before he was lunging for her.
“Mum, oh god, Mum, it’s all gone wrong,” he choked.
She opened her arms instantly.
“Oh, love, shhh, shhh. It’s okay, it’s fine, I’ve got you, you’re here now,”
she soothed, rocking him back and forth, and he was so much broader than she
was now but she could still make him feel small and warm and cared for, and he
let the tears fall, crying for all the things he had missed, all the years he
wanted back, all the mistakes it was too late to fix.
*
The tears didn’t stop for a while, and he sniffed through his reunion with
Gemma, and Robin, and the trip up the stairs to his room, which was cluttered
like it hadn’t been used in years.
Which, of course, was precisely what had happened.
His bed was still there, though, under a pile of boxes, and as soon as he moved
them he collapsed gratefully, not caring that his feet were hanging off the end
before he passed out.
*
“Mum,” Harry asked, mouth full of fruit toast. “If you could change one thing
in your life, what would it be?”
She turned around, spatula held aloft, considering her answer carefully.
Her face was all lined, with grey going through her hair. Harry had missed her
so much.
“You know, love, I don’t think I would change anything,” she said finally.
“Really?” Harry asked, sceptical. “You don’t regret anything? Anything at all?”
“Well, of course I regret things. We all makes mistakes, don’t we. But your
mistakes make you who you are. If you never make any, then you can never learn
how to make things right?”
Harry thought about it.
“No matter how bad things look, you can always make things right,” she added.
“How?”
“Remember what and who you love. Find what it is you want, and then work to
make it happen, one day at a time, I suppose,” she said, like it was the
easiest thing in the world.
And, Harry realised, perhaps it was.
“Now, do you want some more toast or shall I turn off the grill?”
*
The diary was in his bedside table, just where he’d left it, with its cover all
scribbled out.
Harry looked at it for a while, running his thumb over the stain from that time
he spilled tea on it, and then he opened it, looking for the last page he
remembered writing.
It was just before the party.
There were only a few pages that had been used after that, and Harry left them
alone, working his way backwards instead. He wasn’t interested in reading
ahead, anymore.
It was like he was two people at once: he remembered writing those pages so
vividly and yet it felt like an eternity had passed since he’d been that
person. He saw himself with new eyes, cringing at how naïve he sounded, how
innocent, how blindly optimistic.
He’d gotten everything he wanted, and then he hadn’t been strong enough to stop
it from going all wrong.
Well. He hadn’t gotten everything.
“Remember who and what you love,” his mum had said, and here, in the pages, it
was so painfully obvious.
His mum was all over the pages, along with Gemma and Robin and the rest of the
family. Louis was there too, causing delight and puzzlement in turns.
But most of all, it was Nick, on every page, like he’d been on Harry’s mind at
all times – a funny remark Nick had made, wondering what Nick would think about
a song he’d heard, wanting to tell Nick about something, plans for what they
would do together after Harry made it, because of course they would still be
together.
How could Harry have been so blind?
The pain in his chest cut his breath short, and he closed the journal, dropping
his head, trying to breathe through it. Surely he couldn’t cry again?
He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually the sharp pangs turned into a
dull ache, and it felt safe to open his eyes again.
Right, he thought, unclenching his fingers from around the journal.
Maybe the dream had started out wrong. Maybe he couldn’t have Nick exactly the
way he wanted him.
But it wasn’t too late for everything.
*
“Hi,” the blonde guy said, extending his hand for Harry to shake. “I’m Niall.”
“Hi, Niall,” Harry grinned, shaking his hand. “I’m Harry.”
“Are you now?” Niall laughed, and Harry knew instantly this was going to go
well.
Meagan had managed to stealthily book him some time in a studio in London – he
had to remember to find out how much she was paid and, like, double it or
something – as well as a sound guy, and a session musician.
Harry had been so nervous about it. He’d never set foot in a studio, after all,
and surely everyone would be able to tell that right off the bat and uncover
what an imposter he was.
But one of the perks of being rich and famous, he was beginning to learn, was
that no matter how strange you acted, people tended to just go with it.
“How do you want to do this, then,” the sound guy – Liam – had asked, and he
hadn’t said anything when Harry stammered, “Um, I’m not, um, sure? How do you
usually do things?”
So Harry, Liam and Niall were sitting in the sound booth, listening to the
songs on Harry’s tablet.
“Decent, that,” Niall nodded, after they were done. “Doesn’t need much, I don’t
think. Bit of guitar… You’re keeping it acoustic, yes?”
Harry nodded.
“Maybe some additional vocals, if you’d like,” Liam suggested. “We have someone
we could call right now; he’d be absolutely perfect for this, mate.”
*
That was how Harry found himself a couple of nights later, celebrating
finishing his new song – his first song, not that anyone would know that – by
getting absolutely smashed with Niall, Liam and their friend Zayn with the
amazing voice.
“Your voice is amazing,” Harry told him, as he already had perhaps three times
or ten.
Zayn nodded amiably.
“No, it really is,” Harry insisted.
“Haha, wouldn’t have pegged you for such a lightweight,” Niall exclaimed,
slapping Harry hard on the back.
“Am not,” Harry protested. “I’ve only had, um. Two. Things.” He gestured with
his glass. Luckily it was almost empty. Again. Oops.
“You really, really are, sorry mate,” Liam said. “Good thing this place is
discreet. Here, drink this for me, alright?”
He slid a glass of water towards Harry, who gulped it down gratefully.
“You’re very sober, Liam,” Harry said. “How come you’re so sober?”
“Remember when I said my boyfriend’s joining us later? Let’s just say I don’t
think I should drink tonight. But you’re having fun, mate, and that’s good
enough for me.”
“I really am,” Harry sighed. “You’re great. I wish I’d met you guys before.
Everything would be different right now.”
Liam and Niall exchanged a long glance.
“What?” Harry asked. “Tell me.”
“Well,” Niall said, “Obviously you don’t remember, but we’ve met before.”
“Oh god, no, was I an arsehole to you? Niall, I’m so, so sorry, whatever it
was-“
“No, no!” Niall hurried to stop him. He was laughing so it couldn’t have been
too bad.
“It’s just that I was on the X Factor, the year you were on!” Niall said. “Only
for, like, a minute, and we were never formally introduced.
“I bet you were great,” Harry nodded earnestly.
Liam seemed to agree. “You know the funniest thing, mate,” he said. “All us
lads could have met there. Zaynie here was signed up, right, but then at the
last minute he didn’t get out of bed. And I’d been on one of the previous
seasons, and I was supposed to come back that year, but in the end I just
didn’t. Mad, innit, how things could have gone?”
It was mad, Harry thought, but no madder than what was already happening to
him.
“Trust me, you never know,” Harry intoned. “Things might be worse.”
“Words of wisdom right there,” Liam agreed, and then his face lit up as he
waved someone over.
“Over here!”
Harry saw a figure make his way through the crowd of people, until the guy was
throwing his arm around Liam’s shoulders, kissing the side of his head.
“So, am I finally going to meet your secret-“ he started. Then he took a look
at Harry and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Liam, for fuck’s sake,” Louis sighed.
*
There was a lot of information to process at once, and some of it made sense,
and some of it made Harry’s head hurt.
Louis was Liam’s boyfriend.
Louis liked guys.
That had boggled Harry’s mind for about thirty seconds, because Louis had been
so loud about girls, and he’d made fun of Nick constantly; he hated being seen
with Nick because of how flamboyant Nick had been-
Oh yeah. Maybe it wasn’t such a plot twist, after all.
And Liam was great. Harry loved Liam, and it was pretty obvious Liam loved
Louis, and Louis loved him back, even if they were currently having a furiously
whispered conversation in the furthest corner of the room from Harry.
Because Louis was here.
“Niall, Louis’ here,” Harry said. “No one told me Louis would be here. Why did
no one tell me?”
“Don’t ask me, mate. Liam thought it would be better to keep it secret, and I’m
paid to do what he says.”
“But why did Liam bring him here if he was going to ignore me,” Harry whined.
“Yeah, well, he got hurt quite badly, didn’t he,” Niall said, matter-of-fact.
Ah, yes. It was that leaked video business; the one with the drugs, Harry
recalled.
Somebody had explained, or maybe he’d read it somewhere, he couldn’t remember,
what with the masses of new information he’d been trying to soak up.
There had been drugs, and a video, and Harry’s team had blamed everything on
Louis, and Louis had gone home and since then Louis was ignoring Harry.
“He’s going to hate me for telling you this,” Niall said, “but it meant a lot,
when you took him on tour with you. You were his best mate, you know? He
doesn’t talk about it, but you can tell. So when you sent him away and made him
out to be the bad guy, well…”
Harry rubbed at his eye.
“You’re really not like he said you were, though,” Niall concluded.
“I’m not,” Harry nodded earnestly, wiping his eyes. “I’m not the person he knew
at all, Niall. I have a secret, you know.”
He beckoned Niall closer.
“Do you now?”
Harry nodded, which made the room move a lot. He stilled his head, but the room
kept moving.
“I’m not me, see,” he whispered. “There’s been a mistake. I’m like Russian
Dolls. A small Harry Styles inside a big Harry Styles, and no one can tell I’m
not really an adult and I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll drink to that, mate,” Niall said, clinking his glass against Harry and
downing it.
But Harry didn’t think Niall understood, really.
*
Harry was quite drunk, after all.
“I’m sorry, Lou, please, you have to forgive me,” Harry begged, refusing to let
go of Louis’ jacket.
“Alright, mate, calm down. Where are you staying? Oh, fuck. Liam babe, can you
get his phone?”
“You have to promise, Lou, 'cause it’s all fucked up now. I don’t mind that you
hurt Nick, you know. I get it now. But you’re not my friend anymore and I need
you to be my friend again. Nick’s my friend again.”
“Alright, calm down,” Louis had relented. “I’ll give it a try, how’s that? I’ll
give you a call tomorrow, yeah? Now please have a little sit down until we can
get you a cab, yeah?”
Harry sighed.
“Why is it so hard to stay mad at you,” Louis muttered, and then Liam came back
– where had he gone? – and said something about Nick, and Harry had to get up
and climb into a car and sit still until the door opened.
“Oh bloody hell, Young Styles. What are we going to do with you?”
Harry fell into Nick’s arms gratefully, clinging to his neck, and tried not to
stumble too much as Nick guided him down his stairs and inside the flat.
“Here we go,” Nick said, depositing Harry onto his couch. “I’ll fetch you some
water and your blanket. Are you going to be sick?”
“No,” Harry assured him.
Then he called after Nick: “Can I sleep in your bed instead?”
“What? Harry, no, I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
He set a glass of water in front of Harry, along with a couple of pills.
“I won’t be sick, I promise.”
“That’s not-“
Harry drained the glass of water, swallowing the tablets, then looked at Nick
with his best pleading look.
“Please? Just once. Let me have this just this once, I swear, Nick.”
Nick’s shoulders slumped, and Harry knew he had won.
He followed Nick into his bedroom, only walking into the walls once or twice on
his way.
Nick was changing his shirt for bed. He had freckles everywhere, Harry noted.
“I put a bin by the side of the bed, try to aim for that if you need to,” Nick
said. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
Harry didn’t, but he still said yes, because he was drunk, and he knew he would
never have Nick properly but his heart still felt tender, and he wanted to
pretend, just this once, that his life wasn’t so unfair.
*
“Hey, Nick,” Harry whispered, just on the brink of sleep.
“Hmm?”
“It happened. We’re in London. Together.”
“Oh god, go to sleep.”
Harry did.
*
“So our friend Tomlinson wasn’t so straight after all,” Nick mused. “I thought
that’s what it might be. Still can’t believe they put him in charge of a
classroom, though.”
Harry moaned pitifully, pulling one of the couch cushions over his face to try
and block the light while he waited for the paracetamol to take effect.
Then he registered what Nick had just said.
“Wait, what? You knew about Louis?”
“Brash, troubled football player takes instant dislike to flamboyant gay boy
next door? Textbook, that!”
Harry gaped at him.
“Don’t worry,” Nick continued, “it took me a few years to put two and two
together. I’m glad he’s sorted things out.”
“Me too,” Harry said, as softly as he could. It still sounded too loud inside
his brain. “I’m sorry he was such a dick to you. I should have done something
to stop him.”
“You were just a kid,” Nick shrugged. “So was he. We all were. God, can you
remember being that young? What a bloody nightmare that was. Wouldn’t go back
for the world.”
“Yeah.” Harry swallowed. “Me neither.”
*
“Hey, Nick,” Harry called later, when Nick had fed him tea and greasy bacon
sarnies and the hangover was subsiding. “Can I play you something?”
“Not another song, Harry. Why do my friends always do this to me?”
“It’s not another song!” Harry promised. “Well, not really. You’ve heard it
before? It’s just, a better version.”
Nick nodded, and Harry pulled up SomethingGreat.mp3 on his phone.
“Wait, send it to my speakers,” Nick said, tapping a button on Harry’s screen,
and then Harry and Zayn’s voices filled the room, along with Niall’s jangly
guitar.
Harry had heard the song a lot in the past few days, but the way Zayn’s
harmonies came in on the chorus still sent a shiver down his spine.
Sitting there listening with Nick, though, it was like the song was taking on
its full meaning. Harry kept his eyes carefully away from Nick’s until the last
note.
Their eyes met for a second when Harry looked back, before Nick glanced away.
“Wow. Alright, Harry. You already know it’s great. Where are you going with
this?”
“I was hoping maybe you could help me get it played.”
Nick frowned. “Isn’t that what your giant label is for?”
“They’ll never go for it. They hate my own songs.”
“Then pop it up on YouTube, if you’re that keen on getting around your
contract. You don’t need me, Harold. You have a huge fan base, they’ll lap it
up.”
“I don’t want to leak it! I want it to be legit. I want to hear it on the
radio. I want you to play it, Nick. Please.”
“Are you sure? It’s a big move, going behind your label’s back like this. I get
that you’ve been having some kind of weird third-life crisis, but don’t do
anything you’re going to regret.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? They won’t let me make the music I want to make so
now I need to prove to them that it can work.”
Nick rubbed his hand across his face. “You realise if this doesn’t work, you’ll
be out on your arse, don’t you? No more contract. Probably out millions in
lawsuits.”
“I don’t care about the money, or the fame. If I can’t make music I love, then
what’s the point? You have your dream job, Nick. Help me get mine back.”
Harry knew he’d won, then.
“Alright. Let me run it past my producers on Monday.”
*
Getting the song on radio proved a much harder process than Harry thought it
would be.
“It’s not really standard procedure,” Nick explained, apologetic.
They were having lunch near Gemma’s, where Harry was staying. He’d taken
advantage of Nick’s hospitality enough.
“Can’t you play the songs you like?”
Nick laughed. “What have your team been teaching you about media savvy, Haz?
It’ll be fine, I’ll use one of my free plays or summat. Now stop frowning so
much or you’ll be well wrinkled by the time you’re my age.”
*
we’re a go for tomorrow. my producer’s a bond fan cldn’t resist a secret
mission
Oh My God. You did it. Thank you! .xx, Harry texted back.
lol it’s like you’ve never had a song on radio before
want me to sneak you into the building tomorrow? xxx
Can we all go out after to celebrate?
Nick sent back a flurry of elaborate little smileys: a bunch of music notes,
some fireworks, a cake, a cocktail glass and some… were those nails?
I’ll take that as a yes .xx
*
“Listen to this one!” Niall called out, loud and happy. “Everybody, shut up and
listen!”
The chattering around the room barely quietened, but he started reading loudly
anyway, squinting at his phone and slurring only a little. Harry was glad Nick
had suggested booking a private venue for this.
“Harry Styles is ready for something great – and so are we.
Remember 2010? Janelle Monae had just released The ArchAndroid, Kanye West was
at the top of his game, and no one had ever heard of Chestnut Café, thank
Nicki. Oh, and the world was rooting for a sweet-cheeked Brit who only ended up
breaking our hearts, like so many pop wonders before him. Well, never say
never! The new Harry Styles song is raw, emotional and unpolished, a galaxy
away from the over-produced, soulless soup the keepers of the Harry Styles
brand have been flogging us – or trying to – for the past… honestly, we’ve lost
count. Who knew Hazza had it in him anymore? Certainly not us.”
Niall seemed to realise what he was saying just then and paused, looking at
Harry with a grimace and a shrug.
Harry waved him on, laughing happily. Tonight was his moment to enjoy; he
refused to spoil it by worrying what other people used to think of him. Not-
him. The other him.
“With this surprise release, it sounds like Styles has finally found his
missing piece again. Kudos must be given to the previously unknown production
outfit-“ a cheer from Louis, who was tucked against Liam in a corner, “-and to
his team for finally letting him out of his box. We never thought we would
write this, but for the first time in a decade, we are excited to hear from
Harry Styles again.”
Harry closed his eyes and let the hoots wash over him and the laughter fill his
head. He’d done it.
It had been a gamble, but judging by the Twitter trends and reviews that
followed, it was clear that the song was an instant hit. And now it had been
played on Radio 1, his label had no choice but to stand behind him.
That had been one nerve-wracking phone call, but Harry had held his own, and
eventually they’d caved, promising to let him start the album over, to let him
pick his team, to do it all from London even, if he wanted.
“I’ll think about it,” Harry had told them. “My assistant will be in touch.”
“Told you they wouldn’t kill the golden goose just yet,” Nick had said when
Harry disconnected the call, shaky, barely daring to believe what he’d just
done. “Are you going to stay with them?”
“Who knows what the future holds?” Harry had answered, and Nick had shaken his
head, grabbing Harry into a headlock and ruffling his hair.
Harry looked for Nick in the crowd now, but he couldn’t see him.
“He’s gone out the back for a smoke,” Nick’s colleague Fiona said, pointing
towards the door when Harry walked past.
“Thanks,” Harry smiled, and went to find him, wondering how Fiona had even
known what he was looking for.
*
There was a brief moment of panic when Harry couldn’t see Nick on the deserted
street – he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, right? – but then he
heard the familiar voice.
“What a bloody idiot,” Nick was muttering, down where he was kneeling
awkwardly, empty pint glass next to him, scrambling after his scattered
cigarettes. He sounded so disgruntled that Harry couldn’t help but laugh a
little.
“Don’t just laugh at me, you berk! Help!” Nick accused, and Harry joined him on
the wet pavement.
Together they salvaged what they could of Nick’s cigarettes and Nick got up
with a groan, holding his hand out to help Harry do the same.
It probably hadn’t been the wisest choice, Harry thought, when he found himself
pressed along Nick’s front, their faces mere inches apart.
Nick was still holding onto his hand. Harry glanced down where they were
clutching each other and then back up to Nick’s face.
They were both breathing hard, staring at each other for a few seconds, and
then neither of them were as Nick surged forward, pressing his his lips to
Harry’s.
It was so, so gentle that Harry didn’t dare move in case the moment burst like
a bubble, but then Nick sighed against his lips and Harry pushed forward,
opening his mouth and grabbing Nick’s shirt, whimpering at the flick of Nick’s
tongue against his.
It felt like forever and no time at all. It was like the best and worst thing
Harry had ever done. It was everything.
They parted eventually.
Harry wanted, more than anything, to keep going.
He and Nick were meant to be together, he knew it. He could feel it in his
whole body.
But he wasn’t 16 anymore. If he wanted to learn from his mistakes and lead a
life he could be proud of from now on… he just couldn’t do this to Nick.
“Nick,” he breathed.
Harry’s hand was still on Nick’s ribcage. He could feel how hard Nick’s heart
was beating.
He dropped his hand and took a step back.
“Shit,” Nick said, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, Haz.”
Harry shook his head wordlessly, because he didn’t trust what he would say if
he tried to talk.
Nick reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear, then gave a small,
sad chuckle.
“Fifteen years ago… I would have given a lot for this to happen. Quite
pathetic, I was. But I guess it wasn’t the right time then, and now it’s...
God. Terrible timing, us.”
“’S alright,” Harry rasped, even though it really, really wasn’t. “We can still
be mates, right?”
“’Course,” Nick nodded.
“Best mates?” Harry pressed on.
“You might have to fight Aimee for the title.”
“Maybe we can work out an arrangement,” Harry said. Then, “This won’t make
things weird, right? I only just found you again.”
“I’ve kissed all of my mates at least once so you were due, really. Just making
up for lost time, aren’t we.”
Nick offered a tentative smile, and Harry couldn’t help mirroring it.
*
Back inside, Niall was perched on a chair, gesturing wildly as he told a story,
Liam beaming up at him from his perch on Louis’ lap. Zayn and Fiona were
rolling their eyes like they’d heard it all before, and Matt was looking on
with something like awe in his eyes.
Liam looked up as Nick and Harry approached, a massive grin on his face still,
and Louis gave them a little wave.
I can work with this, Harry thought, and went to get everyone another round.
*
Harry rang Nick’s doorbell the next day at noon to pick him up for lunch, like
they’d planned the night before.
The door opened, but instead of Nick it was Mehdi standing there, looking at
Harry blankly, blocking the way with his body.
Harry’s heart sped up but he did his best to school his face into an innocent
smile.
“Hiya,” he said, as friendly as he could be. “Are you coming out to lunch with
us?”
“Nick’s not here,” was the curt answer Harry received.
“Oh, is he not back yet? That’s okay, I can wait!”
“He’s in a meeting at the BBC. Getting chewed out by his bosses.”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
“Is it my fault? But everyone thought the song was brilliant!”
“Who gives a fuck about your song?” Mehdi snarled. “Oh, here he is, the selfish
Harry Styles we all know and- Well, I was going to say ‘love’ but that’s a bit
of a stretch at this point, isn’t it. I don’t care how well your little ploy
worked out for your career. Nick knowingly went behind a major label’s back for
a personal favour. How long do you think he’ll have a job if Syco decide to
boycott the station?”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Harry said, but the truth was, he had no idea how
things worked.
“I’ll talk to them, let them know it was my idea,” he started, but Mehdi
interrupted.
“I think you’ve done quite enough, don’t you?”
He pulled out his phone, swiping at the screen, and then turning it towards
Harry.
IS NO ONE SAFE FROM HARRY STYLES? was flashing slowly over a blurry picture.
Oh god. No.
The picture was blurry and dark, but it was still obviously him and Nick
outside the pub the night before. They were standing so close, and Harry’s hand
was splayed wide on Nick’s side, and both their eyes were closed. They might
have well have been kissing.
Harry felt cold, all of a sudden, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
He wanted to deny it, to tell Mehdi that it wasn’t what it seemed, but – it
was. It had been exactly what it looked like.
Mehdi was right. Harry was fucking up everything good in Nick’s life. And for
what? So he could feel better about his own mistakes?
“I’m going to,” he started, gesturing vaguely towards the street, and Mehdi
nodded.
“You do that.”
Harry swallowed thickly, and then he gritted out, “Will you please tell Nick
I’m sorry? I’ll call later- to, like, apologise and stuff. If that’s okay.”
He started up the stairs, hoping he would be able to keep from crying until he
found a cab.
“Harry,” Mehdi called. “He won’t be available later.”
There was a sort of softness to his voice now, a pitying look in his eyes that
made Harry feel even worse than he had before, when Mehdi had looked angry.
“We’re driving up North as soon as he comes back. Tomorrow’s our first wedding
party, remember.”
“Oh,” Harry said, nodding blindly. “Right. Of course, yeah. Good luck, I mean,
um, congratulations, or. Yeah, okay.”
“Goodbye, Harry Styles,” Mehdi called after him, much more gently than Harry
deserved.
*
There were some fans waiting in front of Gemma’s building, wanting to ask about
the new song, but he kept his head down and hurried past them. He really
couldn’t face having to smile for pictures.
Thankfully the flat was empty when Harry let himself in. He leant against the
door and slid to the floor until he could put his face in his hands.
In the car, he’d found the article Mehdi had waved in his face earlier, and a
few others. The ones calling him a home wrecker who’d used an old friend to get
his song played were bad enough, but they were nothing new, at least.
Then there had been all the gossip about Nick. All the blog posts and tweets
accusing Nick of seducing him, of turning him somehow, of demanding sexual
favours in exchange for airtime.  
Harry felt sick to his stomach.
He stayed on the floor for a long time, until his back hurt from being on the
floor so long, and his stomach was rumbling. Then he picked up his phone to
call Meagan.
There were arrangements to be made.
*
There were so many cars on Harry’s old street, and for a second he couldn’t
remember why. Then he saw the people milling about on the Grimshaws’ lawn,
carrying chairs and flowers and trays, and he kicked himself mentally.
He’d wanted nothing more than to fly back to LA – flee back, really, desperate
to put as much distance as possible between himself and the reminder of how
thoroughly he had messed things up.
He’d told Nick he wanted to be mates and he would have tried his best; he would
have worked at being happy for Nick and Mehdi. But how could he do that now?
The best thing to do was to go back to America and wait for his memories to
come back to him, and only then could he decide what to do with the rest of his
life.
He just couldn’t go without seeing his mum again, though, and so he was back
here, in front of his old house, just as Nick’s family and friends were
preparing to celebrate his wedding.
“Alright there, mate?” the driver asked and Harry realised he’d been bumping
his head against the car window.
“Yes, sorry,” he replied, shoving a bunch of notes into the guy’s hand.
Of course, there was no one home. His mum would never be late to anything, but
especially not a party.
He kept his head down on his way inside the house, sunglasses firmly on, but
there was such a bustle inside that no one looked at him twice.
The house smelled the same, despite all the flowers. That was what struck Harry
first. A lot had changed, but the smell was the same, a smell of childhood and
happiness.
Suddenly he knew he couldn’t leave the country without talking to Nick one last
time.
He jogged up the stairs and found Nick’s bedroom, slipping inside and closing
the door behind him.
“Harry?”
Nick was standing there, halfway into a beautiful suit. He looked so good,
despite the dark shadows under his eyes.
His hair was all messed up and his bracelets peeked out from under his open
sleeves, and Harry loved him so much he couldn’t bear it.
“I’m so sorry, Nick. So, so sorry. You don’t believe them, right? You know
that’s not why-“
“I know, Harry. Don’t worry, it’ll be alright,” Nick said.
Harry didn’t get how he could be so calm. “How can you say that?”
“It’s only the papers,” Nick shrugged. “Comes with the territory, right?”
His was looking straight into Harry’s eyes. Gently, so very gently, he asked,
“Harry, what are you doing here?”
“I needed to-“ Harry started. He stopped.
There were so many things he thought he wanted to tell Nick, but in this moment
only one remained.
“It should be me,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Harry,” Nick warned.
“Nick, are you sure-“
“You can’t do this, Harry,” Nick said, slow like he was explaining something to
a child. “You disappeared for years. You stopped talking to me.”
“But you kissed me,” Harry countered.
“I know, and I’m sorry. These past few weeks… It started feeling just like it
used to.” Nick laughed a little.
“Mad, innit? Years to get over you, my bloody teenage crush, and one day you
waltz back in and I feel 18 again. But that’s not how real life works, Harry.
This,” he said, gesturing down at himself, “is the choice I made. For once in
my life, I’m going to do the rational thing. Do you understand?”
Harry couldn’t answer. All he could do was stand there, rooted in his spot as
he felt his heart break for what seemed like the millionth time that week.
“Please, don’t cry,” Nick said, stepping forward.
Harry took a step back, wiping at the tears he didn’t even realise were on his
cheeks. He couldn’t bear it if Nick touched him right now.
“I’ll be fine!” he sniffed. “I’m fine, Nicholas, really I am, these are just-
they’re happy tears.”
“Here,” Nick said, walking towards his old desk and taking something out of a
drawer before handing it to Harry.
It was the binder, the yellowed paper of Nick’s article visible through the
plastic cover.
Harry stared at Nick uncomprehendingly.
“You left it at home, when you went on X Factor,” Nick explained. “Your mum
asked if I wanted it back.”
Harry looked at the words - HARRY STYLES AND NICK GRIMSHAW OUT FOR A NIGHT ON
THE TOWN – and his eyes welled up again with how cruel it all was – the words
taking on a twisted meaning in light of the previous days’ events.
“Can I keep this?”
It was a masochistic impulse - he would take it with him to LA and put it up
where he could see it every day, so he could never forget how much he had
fucked up. So he remembered to do better.
He didn’t know how he kept it together through the next few minute, or through
Nick telling him that he loved him. He felt numb, like he had finally reached
the limit of how much pain he could handle.
All Harry could do was clutch the binder as he found his way out of Nick’s
room, out of Nick’s house and back to his mum’s.
He leaned against the closed front door, wiping at his wet face with fingers
that shimmered with purple glitter, desperately wishing for a way to turn back
time.
***
Gemma poked her head in the door.
“Why was I almost thrown off the stairs by Nick Grimshaw basically running out
of here?”
Harry gaped at her for a second – wasn’t she in London? – and then he
registered what she’d just said.
Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit!
He bolted out of his bedroom, pushing a bewildered Louis out of the way and ran
down the stairs.
He kept tripping over his feet, and his heart was beating faster than it ever
had before, and he couldn’t stop smiling.
“Sorry, sorry!” he yelled manically at the girls who were walking up to the
house.
Nick was almost back at his house.
“Nick! Nick, wait!”
Nick stopped, turning back towards Harry wearily.
Oh god, Harry had missed this face, Nick’s round, freckly face with its wonky
teeth and its flat hair.
“What,” he started, but Harry didn’t give him a chance to go further.
He threw his arms around Nick’s neck and kissed him.
It lasted only a second, and it wasn’t a very good kiss; Nick was caught
unaware and Harry was still smiling wide – he didn’t think he’d ever be able to
stop.
Jut the press of their lips was enough for Harry’s whole body to light up, a
tingle running up his spine, down to in his fingertips, against his lips,
making him want to do it again immediately, to never stop doing it.
First things first, though: Nick looked utterly bewildered.
“What?” he repeated dumbly. God, Harry loved him so much.
“You fancy me, don’t you?” Harry said, but it wasn’t a question. He knew.
Nick had gone bright red, but he wasn’t saying anything.
“Nick, it’s okay,” Harry said. Giggled, rather. “I do too. I fancy you so
hard.”
“No you don’t,” Nick argued.
“I really, really do,” Harry insisted. “But it’s fine if you don’t believe me
yet.”
Before he could say anything else, a voice called out across the laws. “Harry?
Where did you run off to, mate?”
Louis who was stood in Harry’s doorway, Gemma and a few girls peering curiously
over his shoulder.
“I’ll be right there,” Harry called out to them. “I just need to talk Nick into
being my boyfriend!”
“Boyfriend?” Louis and Nick squeaked in stereo, and Harry started laughing
uncontrollably.
It was the funniest thing he had ever heard.
This party was going to be brilliant.
***
Epilogue:
 
Time went by.
It took years before Nick was fully convinced Harry wanted him, really wanted
him.
“But this is so sudden, are you sure?” he asked Harry that night at the party.
“You might think you want me now but this will change everything,” he said, the
day after Harry and Louis’ successful auditions.
“I’m way too old for you,” he told Harry as they sat around the fire, with
Louis, Liam, Zayn and Niall asleep in the bungalow.
youre going to get bored of my old decrepit face and leave me and break my
heart, he texted, when Harry was settled on the tour bus, on his way to
Amsterdam.
“I won’t,” Harry repeated, over and over, with infinite patience, because he
didn’t think “I feel like I’ve loved you for an eternity because I’ve seen the
future and I know what you look like in 15 years and I love you then, too”
sounded totally sane.
Harry repeated it, and tried to prove it when he could, and time kept going by,
sometimes in a flash – moving to London, touring, the few hours he got with
Nick in between busy days.
Sometimes it just trickled by. The seconds before a third place announcement
felt like hours; the first time he finally got Nick naked spread like oil,
thick and sluggish and dense.
Through it all, Harry luxuriated in time.
Boredom was enjoyed and impatience welcome. Every second he got to miss Nick
felt like a torturous blessing.
Time kept stretching, thin and twisted like a piece of gum, but it never
snapped again. The wheel kept turning, the absurd giving way to the mundane,
from screaming fans to Nick’s loud snores in Harry’s ears, and then round and
round again.
And then one day, Harry and Nick tucked the blurry black and white square of an
ultrasound picture into the corner of a yellowing fake article’s frame, and as
he rested back into Nick’s arms, he found himself wishing time would speed up,
just the slightest, slightest bit.
The end.
End Notes
     Underage Warning details: the story contains one scene where 16-year-
     old-Harry-in-30-year-old-Harry's-body jerks off. He and 34-year old
     Nick share one kiss (but Nick doesn't know Harry is not actually 30.)
     Anything else that happens is totally above board. If you are
     familiar with the movie, know that ages here have actually been
     modified to make things less weird than in canon.
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