Chapter Text
How well do you know your own ceiling?
Someone had asked him that once, before pushing him back on his bed and climbing on top of him. Harry can’t remember his face exactly, but he remembers being in awe of his grace – the way he held herself, the way he moved. He remembers thinking he could spend the rest of his life with him, given half a chance. But then again, he falls in love so easily when he’s drunk.
He thinks about him every now and then. Well, about his question. It saddens him sometimes that he doesn’t know his ceiling at all, that he’s never slept more than three days in a row in his own house, but he knows others – the ceiling above his bunk on the tour bus, above Ben and Meredith’s attic, above Ed’s couch in his flat, above Nick’s bed with its unnecessary amount of throw pillows. He knows that last one very well.
So as he lies in his suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt, surrounded by impersonal cream-colored sheets and carefully chosen, neutral decorations, he thinks of all the ceilings he knows and how and why he still likes Nick’s best. It’s probably the sheer amount of time he’s spent looking at it over the last two years. Missionary was never better than with Nick Grimshaw.
Gemma finds him like that, lying in bed and staring morosely at the ceiling. Whatever has happened to put her little doughnut in a mood, she hopes Lux will help. They’re on babysitting duty for the afternoon.
“You’ve been ignoring your calls,” she accuses once Harry looks over to where she’s standing at the door of his room.
Harry looks more chastised than the reason calls for. “Sorry. Was on silent.” He sits up, then holds his arms out for Lux who abandons her plans of sticking to Gemma’s legs like a barnacle in favor of jumping onto Harry’s lap.
When they’ve tired Lux out with everything in their combined arsenal of iPhone games and satellite TV, Gemma thinks it safe to ask, “So what’s wrong with you then?”
“Nothing’s wrong exactly. Just missing home.”
“Missing Grim?”
Harry looks at her mulishly, “Maybe.”
“Well, no more brooding now. You’ll be on a flight to the ol’ Queen by the end of the week and you can mope all the way to Heathrow then.”
Harry flops back on the bed and covers his face with both of his hands. “Don’t know why I’m moping really,” he says through his fingers.
Gemma curls her fingers around his wrists and pulls them gently away from his face. “You miss him. It’s all right,” she reassures him.
Harry nods. “I’m a bit nervous to go back if I’m honest.”
“Harry –” Gemma starts to tell him that’s silly, but is interrupted.
“No, it’s all right. I know I’m being…” Harry waves his hand around to indicate whatever he thinks he’s being, but Gemma gets it. They haven’t seen each other in a long time and Harry has been avoiding Nick's calls for weeks now.
Gemma takes his hands in hers and squeezes. “It’ll be all right. He’ll understand, Haz; he always does.”
Harry nods. “That’s what makes it hard, I think. To be such a dick to him."
"Why are you being a dick then? Why are you blowing him off?"
Harry is silent for a moment. "Because it seems easier?" he says uncertainly.
Gemma rolls her eyes. "You're only hurting him. And yourself."
"Yeah, well, I've not exactly been the perfect not-boyfriend since tour started, why try now?"
Gemma reaches up to slide her hands through his hair soothingly. When Harry closes his eyes with a pleased sigh, she grips his hair hard and yanks his face closer to hers.
"Ow!"
"Listen, we've all had enough of your moods. You're going to take a shower, then you're going to call Nick and apologize."
Harry's eyes are watering, though she doesn't know if it's due to the difficulty of what he's being told to do or the tight grip she still has on his hair.
He pulls away from her grip and she lets him go. "Yeah, all right." He looks sad.
The change has come gradually, Gemma has noticed. Harry has always been a happy boy; the sundry ups and downs of life rarely keep him down for long. But there is a perpetual gloom to Harry’s face now beneath his smiling exterior. It’s hardly noticeable; Gemma doubts even Zayn has realized, perceptive as he is. But Gemma has seen that sadness before. On Anne’s face, just before the divorce, whenever she thought no one was looking. Harry was too young to remember, but it’s not an image Gemma can ever erase from memory.
She hugs Harry then - bad cop, good cop - and gently pushes him towards the bathroom. She watches him walk away, waits until she hears the toilet door shut to flop back down on the bed and pull Lux away from the fort she's built by bunching up the comforter and pillows and onto her chest. Lux looks around at her, affronted, then squirms out of her grasp. Gemma dives for her, growling playfully. Lux giggles and quickly slides down to the floor, taking half the bedding with her. There's a heavy thudding sound as something slides down the comforter and off the bed. She leans over the edge of the bed and sees Harry's banana yellow phone on the floor, face down. Lux looks up at Gemma, eyes wide in apology. Gemma sighs.
"That's all right, love. Give it here."
Lux climbs up on Gemma's lap and holds out Harry's phone like it's an olive branch. Gemma gladly accepts. She's inspecting it for damages when it vibrates in her hand. She doesn't mean to look at the incoming text, but it flashes on to the dark screen.
Don't forget our deal, Harry. I want to see you tonight before I see you at the studio tomorrow.
It’s from someone in Harry’s phone set as Producer Vig.
Gemma's heart turns over in her chest. She thinks for a moment that it can't possibly be what she's thinking; Des always says she has a flair for the dramatics – runs in the family, she fires back cheekily every time. But “see you tonight” – well, what else is she supposed to think?
The bathroom door opens and she drops the phone like it's suddenly scalding hot. She quickly puts it face down on the side table before tugging her own phone out of Lux's hands and opening up the first app she sees, looking busy.
Harry comes in to the room wearing only shorts and a tank. He goes straight for the side table when he spots his phone there. It takes a moment, but a small wrinkle appears between his brows and his mouth turns down into a frown when he reads the message.
When he looks up from the screen at her, Gemma pats her lap invitingly. He hands her the towel he's holding and lies down with his head in her lap, frown still firmly in place. She ignores the water from his hair seeping into her jeans, just rubs his hair dry.
It's a comfortable sort of silence and she hates to break it, but she needs to ask. "Was thinking of going out tonight. Just to a few shops, maybe. There's a gallery opening, Lou was saying. You up for it?"
"No, I was planning to go around to Cal's for the night." His voice doesn’t waver with the lie.
Gemma looks down at Harry and nods like she doesn't know where he's really going. She wants to bring it up, ask him why he's sleeping with his producer when it's clear he doesn't want to be, ask him what could possibly be worth giving himself away like that, but he closes his eyes and hums contentedly when she resumes drying his hair, so she lets it go.
-//-
That night, Harry goes off in his vintage white Mercedes with Cal in the passanger's seat. Gemma wants to believe that Cal knows nothing of the arrangement and that Harry is really going to his house, but it's more likely that Cal is his willing alibi. She thinks of all the times she's seen Harry off somewhere with Cal in her short time in L.A. on tour with the boys, and she wants to drag him from the car and yell at him for letting her little brother do this, for facilitating their meetings. There's a sour taste in her mouth just from thinking the word.
She makes it a point not to meddle in Harry's life or badger him about any of his decisions - her brother is smart and shrewd and can handle himself well on his own - but Harry comes back the next day looking more tired than he has all week; he has bags around his eyes like he hasn't slept all night, his shoulders are hunched around his ears, and he winces sometimes when the boys get rough in their play, and Gemma can't keep the fury from her face.
She feels helpless in the face of this. She doesn't know if the other boys know, though she can’t imagine they would be okay with Harry doing this. She doesn’t know the protocol, doesn't know if she should confront Harry or let this play out. She can only think of one person to go to, but she has a feeling Harry won't appreciate her interference there. She should stay well away from this. She should let Harry work this out for himself. It's none of her business, but it's her little brother, and Harry's tired face and sad eyes haunt her at night.
She makes her excuses and books a flight to London the next day.
-//-
She stands on Nick's doorstep with her luggage, having come here straight from the airport. She feels a bit foolish because she's calculated the time difference wrong and Nick won't be home from work for a while, but she can’t go home before she tells Nick. She needs to do this before she loses resolve. So she sits on the front steps and waits for Nick to come back from work.
He's home in another half hour. He looks happy to see her, though she suspects that won't be the case for long. She makes them both tea and pulls him by the arm to his sofa. When they're settled, he turns to her.
"How was the popstar life? Still driving schoolgirls mad with jealousy?"
Gemma rolls her eyes, "Well, the tour wasn't quite the charmed life Harry made it seem. Traveling on the bus was a bitch."
Nick feigns shock, "Really now?"
Gemma smacks his chest, "Be nice to me. I'm horribly jet lagged."
Nick throws an arm round her shoulders and pulls them both back against the sofa cushions. He's oddly quiet, and Gemma sees the question coming.
"How is Harry?" The question is asked casually enough for it to feel anything but casual.
Gemma doesn't know what to say. So she shrugs and they leave it at that until Nick breaks the stillness by reaching for his cup of tea.
"He's... well enough, under the circumstances," she says slowly.
Nick stares at her for a bit. She carefully avoids his gaze.
"What are the circumstances?" he asks finally.
"He's doing something that's making him unhappy."
"I'm sure he has his reasons. He's a big boy," Nick says. Gemma can tell Nick is stifling his concern.
She shrugs, "I don't much like his reasons."
"So you know what they are." It's not a question.
Gemma finally looks Nick in the eye, "I can guess."
He sits up straight then. "Are you going to tell me what he's doing and why?"
She considers it one last time, then nods, "I think so."
"Would he want you to tell me?"
"I don't think he'd want me telling anyone. He doesn't know that I know. Or, well, that I've guessed."
Nick swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "You shouldn't tell me then."
Gemma shakes her head, "I know, I know! But I can't just not tell anyone. I don't know how to stop him or what to say or – or anything."
"And he absolutely needs to stop this?"
"He's tired and unhappy and – and hurting," she says, quick to assure him of that.
Nick picks at the afghan on their laps. "You think I can get him to stop? That he'll listen to me, when I haven't heard from him in weeks?"
Gemma grasps his arm, desperate. "He's coming home in two days. He's been miserable; he thinks you're angry with him –"
"I am angry with him," Nick says quietly.
She sighs. "He knows. But if anyone can stop him, it's you."
"Okay, okay. Tell me." Nick takes a deep breath, steels himself for the worst – another round of public outings – turning his private life into a circus again – or drugs – coke or… or heroin, Jesus Christ. Nick can think of a million things, but what Gemma says next has him so startled that he nearly drops his tea.
"I think – I think maybe Harry is sleeping with his producer so he'll work with the band."
-//-
Harry can’t live with himself sometimes. He’s fine when he’s with the lads – and Lou and Lux and Michael and Paul. His fans. The smiles come easy and his heart is light. But it’s hard to hold on to that feeling when he’s alone, when he has time to really think about what he’s doing.
They’re recording during the tour so Vig is with them more often than not, which means a lot of sneaking around for Harry when they’re not in L.A. He waits until everyone is settled in their rooms before sneaking out of his. Most nights, he runs into Paul who patrols the corridors until midnight in case of errant fans; they’ve learned to buy out one entire floor of the hotel, but Paul is fiercely vigilant. He’s also very suspicious. He watches Harry letting himself into Vig’s room every night with a frown. Harry thinks Paul must know by now – maybe not the how and why of it, but he’s probably guessed that Harry doesn’t go to Vig’s room to watch viral Youtube videos and play iPhone Scrabble.
Paul pulls him aside one night, away from their cluster of rooms, and asks him straight out what he does with Vig when the boys are asleep or out. They’re working on songs, Harry lies.
Paul pulls a People’s Eyebrow that would put even the Rock to shame, so Harry flashes a smile and hugs him around the middle. Paul sighs but squeezes Harry with his arms, briefly lifts him off the floor, and Harry revels in the feeling; when Harry was younger – it’s been three years now and isn’t that something – Paul used to throw him over his shoulder and carry him out of the room whenever Harry made to follow one of Louis “ideas”, muttering under his breath about their shenanigans.
Paul knows him as well as any of the lads now when it comes to the bare bones of it and Harry can feel Paul’s eyes on his back as he fumbles with the key card to Vig’s room.
-//-
Harry likes recording and Vig is brilliant – they’ve never sounded better – but Harry is happiest on the days when Vig goes back to L.A. He sleeps with Liam on those nights because Liam misses Sophia and Harry likes waking up to a familiar face. It’s a shame Liam can’t be persuaded to wank together anymore; it was almost soothing, that first year on tour after the X Factor. They laugh about it now sometimes, but Harry wishes he could go back. He loves the fame and all that comes with it, but life was much simpler when he got to see his mum a few times a month and didn’t have his producer’s dick in his mouth during lunch breaks.