Archive of Our Own

It’s a pale grey day when Harry first spends the morning in a studio bathroom, chucking up his guts into a porcelain toilet. They’re due for an interview in less than half an hour, and he’s supposed to be getting his hair and make-up sorted right now, but instead he’s found himself here, miserable and ill and really wishing he’d never gotten out of bed this morning.

There’s a knock on the door and Harry groans, resting his head against the cold tiles next to the loo. It was only a matter of time before one of the boys tracked him down.

“You alright, Harry?” and it’s Liam’s voice, Daddy Direction, of course it is. Harry shuts his eyes briefly, sighs, wipes his mouth and flushes the loo.

“Yeah, sorry,” he calls back, washing his mouth and hands thoroughly and pushing down threatening nausea. “I’m just coming out.”

“Lou’s getting impatient,” Liam says, and there’s a definite smile in his voice. “She’s cursing you and your bad timing fairly loudly.”

“I’m coming,” and Harry laughs, because nothing much changes, even when his day is already shite at the ripe time of nine-thirty in the morning and he’s thrown up in a strange bathroom on his hands and knees. He opens the door, smiles at Liam who is lounging against the opposite wall, and walks towards the room he knows Lou has set up camp in.

“Urgent, were we?” Liam asks, raising his eyebrows with a grin, and Harry whacks him in the shoulder, going along with the story. Telling the guys he was throwing up will get him nothing but irritating concern all day, and he is planning on going out this evening still.

He apologises to Lou and slouches down in the chair she presses him in to.

“You look ill,” she tuts at him, running a finger along the blue-black circles under his eyes. “Always have to make it hard for me, don’t you, Harry?”

“Haven’t been sleeping well.” He shrugs. Louis is snickering next to him and Lou swats at him with her free hand as she manhandles Harry’s face.

“Child,” Lou hisses, and Harry grins too, but it is weaker than normal, the nausea returning to his stomach. No, he tells it. Not now.

He makes it through the interview with a poorly disguised grimace on his face, and spends the ten minutes after it back in the bathroom, renewing his friendship with the toilet.

It’s exactly how he wants to be spending his morning.

He knocks on Nick’s door at eight that night, the nausea finally gone and a smile on his face. He hasn’t been papped on the way and he’s hoping that luck will last the night.

Nick opens the door with a grin and shoves a glass of something alcoholic – wine? – in his hand. He doesn’t even say hello, just turns around, yelling at Harry over his shoulder.

“Blame Aimee for the bloody wine, someone gave it to her and she didn’t want it so passed it onto me!”

Harry shrugs, downing the glass and shutting the door behind him. “Free alcohol, isn’t it?”

Nick spins, fakes a gasp, and says, “Where did my poor sensible Harry go?”

Harry ignores the warm feeling in the chest at the word ‘my’ – or maybe he doesn’t, because his next action is to smack his lips onto Nick’s with a gratifying sound. Nick hums, responds, and wraps the arm not holding a glass around Harry.

They break apart quickly enough. “Missed you,” Harry says honestly, and Nick shakes his head at him, a small smile playing around his lips.

“Think about me, Haz, you’ve been jetting around the world whilst I’ve been stuck here, getting bullied by Ian,” he pouts, and Harry laughs, heading through to the kitchen.

“You’ll survive,” he responds, saying hello to Aimee who is sitting on the sofa, feet underneath her and clutching a beer.

“Hey,” Aimee greets, not moving from her spot. “Up for tonight?”

“Course,”

“He’s not,” Nick joins in, grabbing Harry around the waist. “Look at those poor sleepy eyes. Popstar’s tired.”

“Am not,” Harry denies, sticking his tongue out and filling up his glass with more wine. It’s a bit crappy, as wine’s go, but seeing as the sole aim of the evening is to have fun and get drunk he’s not too fussed. “Where are we going again?”

Nick shrugs. “Some club, I don’t know. Aimee’s in control tonight; I lost a bet.”

Harry rolls his eyes whilst Aimee smirks. “Told you not to bet against me, Grimmy, haven’t I?”

“Do I even want to know?” Harry asks, plonking down on top of Aimee on the sofa. She yelps, shoves at him, and he allows himself to be pushed off the sofa. “You’re no fun,” he tells her, whilst Nick fusses around in the attached kitchen.

“Considering it involved you, probably not,” Aimee says laughing, ignoring his last words.

Harry glares at her, then Nick, then back at her. “What did you bet on?” he demands, trying to keep an angry face.

“Aw, kitten, don’t get upset,” Nick drawls, leaving the kitchen and running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not a bloody kitten!” he protests, but the other two are laughing too hard to reply. He sticks his tongue out, grabs his phone, and delights in snap-chatting the most unattractive photo he can get of Nick to Louis.

“Bastards, the both of you,” he declares.

He spends the night at Nick’s, unsurprisingly, having become far too drunk to even contemplate remembering where he lived last night. He’d been on an almost non-stop tour followed by press conferences, his film premiere, American guest appearances and so much other crap and it had been far too long since he’d been able to properly relax. The last time he’d been home – which, okay, was only a couple of weeks ago – he and Nick had vetoed going out in favour of breaking in a new mattress, so yeah, getting drunk this time had seemed like a good idea.

He regrets it in the morning though, waking up at the unholy hour of nine o’clock, and legging it into Nick’s bathroom, where he yet again chucks up everything he’d consumed in the last day or two. It’s strangely reminiscent of the morning before, but at least he can blame this one on alcohol.

“Alright, Popstar?” Nick asks roughly, following him into the bathroom. He looks like crap, but then Harry can’t talk, considering he’s now retching into the toilet.

“Do I look alright?” Harry retorts, when he can breathe again. Nick shrugs, bleary eyed and tired. He wanders out of the bathroom again, presumably to go back to bed.

Harry moans, resting his head on the wall and wondering why in hell he thought drinking was a good idea. He pulls himself together, cleans himself and the toilet up, and traipses into the kitchen where he plans to raid Nick’s cupboards until he can find a couple of fucking painkillers. His head is killing him, and his mouth feels like something’s died in it.

He’s caught by surprise when he sees Nick slouched against the breakfast bar, two mugs of tea in front of him, and a packet of paracetamol resting next to them.

“Oh god,” Harry moans in delight, filling a glass of water and taking two of the painkillers. “You’re amazing, have I told you that?” he says to Nick, who attempts a smile, obviously still waiting for the drugs to kick in too.

“Don’t even think about kissing me until you’ve brushed your teeth,” the older man says wearily. “For someone so young, you’re awful with hangovers.”

“Heeeyyy,” Harry complains, leaning against him and sighing.

Nick presses a kiss into his forehead, and this, this, is the Nick that Harry loves more than anything else. He’s funny and lovely and sarcastic and beautiful all the time, but it is the sleepy Nick, the kind, thoughtful, loving Nick that only Harry ever gets to see.

“Come back to bed?” Nick murmurs, and Harry can feel the vibration of his words against his chest and smiles helplessly to himself.

“Course,” he agrees, and neither emerges from bed until much, much later (and several condoms later, too, but neither talks about that).

The throwing up doesn’t stop, though, and one week later Harry is yet again in a strange bathroom on his knees, wishing he’d stayed in bed. They’re in Italy, ready to perform live for the X Factor in the evening, but it is still only ten o’clock and they’re relaxing in the hotel. There are fans outside, and none of them feels like leaving the safety of the hotel, so they’re in Niall’s room at the moment. Well, Harry was, until the nausea hit hard and fast. He’s fairly certain the lads can hear what he’s doing, and he braces himself for an interrogation when he leaves the toilet.

He shuffles out once he’s cleaned himself up, rubbing his forehead and urging the headache that’s been a fairly permanent addition for the last few weeks to truly fuck off. It doesn’t, and he grabs some water out of the mini bar before slouching back onto Niall’s bed where the rest of them are.

“Are you ill?” Louis demands immediately, peering at him closely. Harry shakes his head.

“I’m alright,” he says, but it is an empty reassurance and he knows it.

“You were throwing up,” Louis says, as if he didn’t know. The rest of the band seems perfectly happy to let Louis do the inquisition today. He closes his eyes, leans against Liam and lets it happen.

“I know,” he replies quietly. “It’s been happening a fair bit recently.” Because it has, and Harry’s suspecting that something isn’t right. After the drinking, fine, throwing up was expected, but vomiting most mornings and some evenings and feeling too ill to contemplate eating some days is not normal for him, in the slightest.

“You should go to the Doctor,” Zayn says, his dark eyes concerned. Louis touches his forehead, and Harry opens his eyes to glare at him slightly.

“I’m alright,” he repeats to Louis, who ignores him.

“You’re not hot,” the boy-man-child says, studying him. Liam checks his forehead too, agreeing with Louis.

“It’s not flu, then,” Liam decides. “Food poisoning?”

“Nah,” says Niall. “That goes away once you chuck up everything you ate.”

They look at him, and he says “What?”, putting his arms up in surrender.

“Only you,” mumbles Zayn. Harry lets the conversation wash over him. He’s been tired lately, unable to sleep properly and waking up feeling as if he hasn’t slept at all. He figures he’s missing Nick, although it’s only been a day or so.

“How long has this been going on?” Liam asks, getting the conversation back on track.

Harry sighs. “A couple of weeks,” he says.

Louis frowns at him. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks. Harry shrugs.

“Didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. It doesn’t affect my performing.”

Niall hugs him then, and Harry cocks his head. “We don’t care about the performing, idiot, we care about you,” Niall says, his accent thick and voice laden with concern.

“You should have told us,” Zayn agrees. “Does Nick know?”

“No,” Harry says, and it’s true. They’ve had so little time together, and most mornings if he’s ill then he can pass it off as a hangover, even if he didn’t drink that much the night before. They don’t actually live together, anyway, even if most people act like they do.

“You should tell him, Haz,” Louis says. “And we’ll book you a doctor’s appointment as soon as we’re back in London, yeah?”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, and that seems to settle it. The lads check with him throughout the day that he’s okay to perform, and he is, but he sort of likes it that they fuss over him so much. He doesn’t throw up again that day, but the nausea does stop him enjoying the meal arranged for them before they’re due on the X Factor.

The performance is incredible, and Harry thinks after that he can live with anything as long as he can keep this.

Perhaps it’s karma, then, that the news from the doctor threatens his life in the band. He’s alone at the clinic and he sits in the waiting room after his appointment with his head between his knees, the words from the doctor circling around his head. Nick’s at work, the boys are visiting friends and family, and only Louis knows he’s here, anyway. He’ll be getting a phone call soon enough, he knows, but he’ll put off telling anyone until he sorts it out in the head first.

“Are you alright?” someone asks him, and it’s a kind looking nurse. She displays no recognition when he lifts his head, so either he’s lucky and she doesn’t follow celebs, or she’s very good at remaining professional.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replies, getting slowly to his feet. “Actually,” he says suddenly, and she smiles at him, “I think I need to book another appointment? Can I do that now?”

“Of course,” she tells him, leading him towards the reception desk. “Do you know the name of your doctor, please?”

“Dr Shining,” Harry informs her, glad he clung on to that bit of information when everything else is going in and out of focus in his mind. “He said to think it through for a bit and then book an appointment for next week? Is Tuesday okay?”

“Tuesday fits in lovely,” the nurse says, flicking around on the computer in front of her. “Can I have your name, please?”

“Harry Styles,” he says, feeling awkward. He so rarely has to introduce himself, and he hopes she doesn’t now recognise him.

“Yes, Dr Shining has written a small note to that effect on here. He is free from eight to ten o’clock on Tuesday, but there are no evening appointments as it’s Christmas Eve. What time is best?”

It’s Louis’ birthday then, but there’s nothing planned until the evening so it’s fine. “As early as possible, please,” he says anyway, because he’s not sure what else he’s doing that day.

“I’ll pencil you in for eight o’clock, then,” the nurse tells him, looking up and smiling. “If there’s a problem with that time or anything changes, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, and he really is grateful because she’s been so kind. She merely says goodbye, and carries on with her work. He wanders out of the clinic, jumping straight into his car and thanking whoever for the absence of paps or fans that day. He is blank now, just a little, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Home, is all he can think of.

He draws up at Nick’s flat ten minutes later and wonders when things started to change so much.

Louis calls an hour later, from home in Doncaster. He’d gone back early this morning, straight after performing on the X Factor in London, whilst Harry had hung around and booked a doctor’s appointment.

“Hello?” Harry answers, and smiles to himself when he hears Louis’ voice yelling at one of his sisters. Fame hadn’t changed Louis at all, and Harry loved him for it. Harry himself feels like more and more of who he is is being chipped away with every slanderous newspaper article and every time someone congratulates him on his womanising ways.

“Haz, how’d it go?” Louis says eventually, obviously succeeding in getting rid of his sister. “What did he say? Are you alright?”

Harry chokes for a second. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m not alright, Boo.”

Louis is quiet, worry hanging in the air. “What’s wrong?” he breathes, and Harry doesn’t think he’s heard Louis this serious for a long time.

Harry bites his lip, wonders if it is right to tell Louis first, then decides, fuck it, he needs Louis right now, his best friend in the world. “I’m pregnant, Lou,” he says, and his voice catches in the middle. “I’m fucking pregnant.”

“Oh my God,” Louis says blankly. “Harry . . .”

“What do I do?” Harry asks, tears beginning to fall for the first time. “Louis, I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you told Nick?” is all Louis says, and Harry hates him, hates him, because of course he fucking hasn’t and he’s so lost. This could break up the band. This could break up him and Nick.

“No,” he says in between sobs. “I don’t even know if I’m going to keep it.”

“Oh god, Harry,” Louis repeats. “Look, come down to Doncaster for a few days, yeah? You need to get away, and you know my mum would love to have you.”

Harry nearly says no, then thinks about it. He can’t tell Nick yet, doesn’t know how to break the news that he is one of the few men that can conceive and that one of the rare times they had sex without a condom has resulted in this. Nick doesn’t want children; he knows that. Nick struggles enough with the idea of commitment.

“Okay,” Harry agrees after a pause. He is calming slightly, his tears drying on his face. “I’ll, I’ll get the train down or drive or something, I don’t know-”

“I’ll come get you,” Louis interrupts softly. “I don’t think you’re fit to drive right now, Haz.”

“I’m pregnant, not dying,” Harry retorts, then sucks in a breath because how could he joke about this? This could be the end of everything.

Louis must sense the impending breakdown, because he speaks up again. “I’m getting my car keys, okay? Wait at home for me, call Nick or one of the lads, or go see Lou or something, Haz, please? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Louis,” is all Harry says, another tear leaking out. “I didn’t want this to happen,” he murmurs, but Louis catches it.

“It’ll be okay, Harry, I promise you. You’ll always have me and the lads, yeah? Just breathe for me.”

Harry can hear Louis muttering to his mum quickly before a door slams shut. “I’m getting in the car now, okay? I’m going to have to hang up, but I’ll call as soon as I can. I won’t be long, I promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says quietly. “I’ll wait for you at my flat.”

“Good, Harry,” Louis says, and it’s not even patronising, just caring. An engine starts. “I’ll see you soon, Haz, I promise. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Harry says, before the phone call cuts off. He stares at it for a short time, until the time registers. He needs to leave if he doesn’t want to see Nick and have to explain why he’s crying. He grabs his shoes and coat, scribbling a quick note that he’s gone to see Louis for a couple of days, not to worry, and he’ll text soon. It won’t satisfy Nick, of course it won’t. They had plans for tonight and now Harry’s backing out without an explanation but he can’t do this, can’t face Nick right now.

He’s a coward, but he can’t change it.

He goes to see Gemma instead, knowing she’ll let him be and not question him. She opens the door in pyjamas, hair ruffled and looking like she just crawled out of bed. The sight makes him smile despite himself, helped by the fact that Doncaster is less than a three hour drive and Louis is on his way. With any luck, they’ll be halfway to Louis’ home before Nick gets home and sees his note. Inevitably, Nick will ring and check what the problem is. Disappearing is Nick’s thing, not Harry’s, and he’ll be worried.

“Hey Harry,” Gemma says in surprise. “What’s up, babe?” She lets him in, shuts the door behind her, and Harry tries to hang on to sanity. It’s surprisingly hard.

“A bad day,” he says, making his way to the sofa without saying another word. “Can we just watch a film or something?”

“Yeah, of course,” Gem says, turning on the TV. Her worried eyes don’t leave Harry though, and he feels guilty for making her concerned and not explaining himself. He’ll cry if he tries, and he knows it.

“Tea?” Gemma asks, and Harry nods before tugging down a blanket hanging over the top of the sofa and curling up in it. He kicks off his shoes and jacket, clinging onto his phone so he’ll know when Louis is near and can go home to get some clothes. He takes off his jeans too without a moment’s thought, just needing to be comfortable and safe – and here, with Gemma, is about as safe as he can manage right now.

“You alright?” Gemma asks, handing him the cup of tea and he startles, not realising she was done. He sits up so Gem can have a seat and shakes his head.

“Not really,” he admits. “But I-” he looks away, and Gemma draws him in close. “I need to sort it out myself, first, you know. Louis is picking me up, I’m going up to Doncaster for a few days.”

“Is it Nick?” Gemma questions with a frown, and Harry bites his lip.

“No,” he says initially, then, “well, sort of, kind of like, well, not really, I guess. Maybe.”

“That cleared things up,” Gemma says with a faint smirk. “Alright, I’ll leave it. You can tell me anything, though, yeah?”

“I know,” Harry smiles at her, feeling the iron grip on his heart relax a little.

“So, Iron Man or Mean Girls mood?” Gem says, changing the subject.

“Mean Girls,” Harry replies immediately. “It’s a classic.”

“Mean Girls it is then,” she says, flicking through the films on the TV until she selects the one she wants. “Yell if you want popcorn.”

Harry doesn’t, and they settle down to watch the chick-flick.

The hours whittle past this way, until Harry’s phone is ringing loudly in his hand and he sees that it is Louis.

“Hey, I’m just getting off the motorway, I won’t be long,” Louis says as soon as he picks up. “Can’t really talk, but I’ll be there soon, alright? Hold on.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “See you soon.”

They hang up, and Harry stands, pulling on his jeans, jacket and shoes and grabbing his keys. He feels calmer now, more centred, and smiles gratefully at Gemma.

“I’ve got to go,” he says apologetically. “Louis’ nearly here and I’ve got to go back to my flat to grab some stuff first.”

She hugs him, and they walk towards the door. “Okay,” she replies. “You’ll be alright, then?”

He has the feeling she isn’t talking about his journey home. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and he is beginning to think that maybe he will be. The doctor’s words are fading in his head now, no longer ringing obnoxiously and sending him spiralling into a panic. He’ll have Gemma forever, and his mum, and Louis, and the other lads too. “I’ll ring you when I get to Louis’, okay?”

“Good,” she says. “Do. And ring mum too, she’s annoying me because you don’t speak to her enough.”

Harry laughs a little, hugs her again, and says goodbye with a promise to take the heat off her from their mum. “I love you,” he says as he leaves.

Harry stumbles into his flat, cursing his body’s sense of timing and running straight to the bathroom. He throws up into the toilet with little ceremony. Whoever named it morning sickness should be bloody shot, he thinks, and then panics because wow, morning sickness.

That’s two words he didn’t think he’d ever be saying.

He’s lying on the floor of his bathroom, cradling the toilet when there’s a quick knock and the sound of keys in the door. It must be Louis; Nick would still be at work, and no one else has his keys.

“Harry?” Louis calls, and Harry smiles, trying to pull himself up before being hit by another bolt of nausea and retching into the toilet again.

At least Louis didn’t have to ask where he was, and he appears at the bathroom door a moment later. “Oh, Haz,” he says, grabbing a flannel and wetting it before cleaning off Harry’s mouth and face when he slumps back against the wall. All of Harry’s earlier optimism has disappeared with the contents of his stomach, and he clutches at Louis’ wrist.

“What am I going to do?” he asks roughly, his throat sore. Louis looks at him worriedly, before becoming firm.

“We’re going to pack you some clothes and drive back to Doncaster. You’ll stay with me for a few days, get your footing, and relax away from London and the paps. You’ll call your mum and explain the situation to her, and then you’ll make a decision. Sound good?”

Harry looks at him gratefully, feeling his throat close up. “When did you get so mature?” he chokes out.

Louis laughs. “How dare you?” he gasps. “I’ve never been mature in my life.”

Harry laughs slightly with him, and allows Louis to push him up. He rinses out his mouth and washes his hands, then lets himself be led to the bedroom where Louis pushes him onto the bed.

“Have you told anyone else?” Louis asks, whilst he is grabbing a couple of t-shirts and some underwear from Harry’s drawers.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to tell people until I decide whether to keep it.”

“Fair enough,” says Louis. There’s blissful silence for a while. “How far along are you?”

“I have no idea,” Harry says, a note of hysteria in his voice. “I don’t think I heard anything the doctor said after the word ‘pregnant’.”

Louis grabs his wrist. “Breathe,” he instructs, and Harry does. “Okay, when’s your next appointment?”

“Tuesday,” Harry says. “In the morning.”

“I’ll come with you then, and we’ll sort this out properly, okay? If you’re not going to tell Nick yet then you need someone with you.” Louis’ voice is firm and determined, but Harry objects.

“It’s your birthday! You can’t come back down to London just to come with me. I’ll be fine,” he promises, knowing the words are empty.

“Nope, I’m coming,” Louis says stubbornly, and pulls Harry to his feet. He has a sports bag in one hand and his other in Harry’s, and he leads Harry out of the flat. “Now, come on, we’ve got a long ride back to Doncaster.”

Louis draws up outside his mum’s house in Doncaster three and a half hours later. There’d been a brief stop at a service station along the way when Nick had rung Harry on his phone and Harry had nearly hyperventilated in panic. Louis had drawn into the next stop, taken the phone out of Harry’s hand, switched it off, and said “later, okay?” before dragging Harry in to get a coffee.

Louis is seriously a life saver – and possibly a mind reader too, if his next words are anything to go by.

“My Mum loves you, and she’s really looking forward to seeing you,” he says, parking the car and switching off the engine. Harry doesn’t move for a moment. Here he is, having a personal crisis and invading Louis’ free time at home, away from the band, with his issues.

“Seriously,” Louis continues, “I’ve told her not to ask you any questions, and the girls know too, so you can relax here, alright?”

“Has she worked with male pregnancies before?” Harry asks quietly, and Louis looks at him, obviously judging if he is about to flip out. He’s not. Hopefully.

“A few, I think,” Louis answers carefully. “It’s not that common, really.”

Harry nods. He knows. It’s part of the reason he lost it when he found out; it had never occurred to him he would be one of the exceptions to the female pregnancy rule.

“Do you want to talk to her about it?” Louis asks slowly. “She’ll be able to give you some information on it, I think.”

Harry is silent, thinking it over. He doesn’t want to talk about it, or think, or anything – but he has to have made a decision about keeping the baby by his appointment next week really, and how can he do that if he doesn’t know the consequences?

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “Maybe.”

Louis nods. “Okay,” he says, climbing out of the car and waiting patiently for Harry to haul himself out too. Oh god, he’s going to get fat if he keeps it. And be tired all the time, and keep throwing up, and he’s going to have to come out because it’ll be obvious soon enough, and he’ll have to tell Nick and hope that he doesn’t hate him, and then tell the rest of the band-

“Harry, breathe,” Louis reminds him, clutching his shoulder firmly. Harry sucks in air, pushes the thoughts aside, and smiles at his best friend.

“I’m okay,” he says, and Louis shakes his head at him, with a smile playing about his lips.

“You’re a mess,” Louis tells him, but it isn’t serious. He fumbles for his keys and Harry lets himself be led inside the house and into the kitchen. Louis puts on the kettle and Harry sits down at the table.

Jay bustles in shortly, smiling gently at Harry and giving him a hug. “Harry, how are you, love?”

Harry smiles. “I’m okay,” he says. “Thanks for having me here, really.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jay tells him as she adds an extra mug to the side as a subtle hint for Louis to make her a cup of tea. “Was it those paps again, giving you a hard time?”

Harry shrugs. “Part of it,” he says, because it’s not a lie, really. The paps are always so much more interested in him than the other guys. He gets followed around a lot – too much, if he’s honest.

“I heard you’ve took out a court order to stop a couple of them, has that helped?” Jay asks, sitting next to him. Louis is looking at him carefully, obviously concerned about his state of mind.

“It was four of them,” Harry says with a sigh. “They’d camp outside, chase me with motorbikes, stuff like that. It was impossible to go anywhere.”

“It’s horrible,” Jay says sympathetically, and Louis hums in agreement. He gets some attention when he goes out with Eleanor, but not as much as Harry does.

“Are they gone now?” Louis asks, bringing him the cup of tea over and sitting opposite him.

Harry nods. “For the moment,” he replies. “It only lasts until January and then it’s got to be reviewed again.”

“But your lawyer’s dealing with that, yes?” Jay checks. “It’s not left to you to sort out?”

“Yeah, he does it all,” Harry confirms. “He’s there today, actually, I think. He updates me every so often. I trust him.”

“Good,” Jay nods firmly, and the subject is dropped as she quizzes Louis over the journey to London and back again and the state of the roads. Lottie wanders down to say hello, obviously surprised to see Harry but nice enough. The twins are far more enthusiastic, and Harry gets dragged off to play with them for a bit. He doesn’t envy Jay, having to look after this lot whilst preparing for another two to join them.

It occurs to him later that he and Jay could be giving birth at around the same time. Fuck. He doesn’t even know how it works for men. He’s nineteen for God’s sake. Nineteen and pregnant. Popstar and pregnant. It would make a good TV show.

He wills himself to calm down as his thoughts grow increasingly more panicky. Louis still has his phone, and he’s grateful for that. He’ll contact people tomorrow, ring Nick and either explain or lie, he hasn’t decided, and ask Jay for advice.

For now, he’s going to bed.

It’s Louis who wakes him up the next morning, climbing out of bed and stepping over Harry who is sleeping on a mattress on the floor. He’d been offered a proper bed or the sofa, but he’d wanted this, needed the comfort of not being alone during the night.

“Morning,” Harry says, his voice rough.

Louis looks at him, smiles, and says “morning to you too, sleepyhead.”

“Can I have my phone back?” Harry asks, hauling himself out of bed and willing his brain to get into gear. Yesterday’s dramas have faded a bit. I’m pregnant is no longer sending him spiralling into panic; it’s cementing in his mind.

“Yeah, course,” Louis says immediately. “Are you going to ring Nick?”

Harry hesitates, then shakes his head. “I’ll text him,” he compromises when Louis raises his eyebrows at him.

“He’s worried,” Louis tells him, uncharacteristically serious. “He even called me yesterday. I said you were tired and would call him tomorrow.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I just- I can’t, yet. I don’t know what to tell him.”

Louis nods reluctantly. “Okay,” he agrees. “But talk to him soon, okay? I don’t like having him calling me, it’s disturbing.”

There’s laughter at the end of the sentence, and Harry smiles back. “I’m going to call my mum,” he says. “Then I think- is your mum home?”

“Yeah, do you want to talk to her?” Louis asks quickly. “I think it’s a good idea, Haz.”

Harry nods. “Once I’ve told my mum, yeah, I will.”

“Good,” Louis grins. “I’m going to make tea and some scrambled eggs. Do you want some?”

“You’re making eggs?” Harry checks, sceptical.

Louis shrugs. “Or Lottie, who knows.”

“Not a chance!” Harry hears Lottie yell and he laughs.

“I’ll have them if you don’t make them,” he bargains, feeling better for the normalcy of the conversation.

“How rude,” Louis pouts. “I can see how much you love me.”

He flounces out of the room, with Harry laughing at his back. Harry quickly finds his mum’s number in his contact list and rings her, nerves weirdly twisting his insides. He sits on Louis’ bed, and waits.

“Hello?” comes Robin’s voice, and Harry lets out a breath.

“Hey, Robin,” he says. “Is mum there?”

“Hi Harry,” the man greets. “Yeah she is, I’ll just grab her for you. Hold on a sec.”

Harry holds his breath, then slowly exhales when his mum’s voice comes on the line.

“Hello?” she says, and Harry feels overwhelmed suddenly, desperately wishing he was fifteen again and living at home with his mum and Gemma, where life was nothing more than school and mates and fun.

“Hey, Mum,” he says, his voice thick.

“Are you okay?” she asks in concern, and he closes his eyes.

“No, Mum, I need to tell you something,” he hesitates. It seems so blunt down the phone.

“You know you can tell me anything,” she says, and Harry feels like in any other situation he’d be teasing Gemma later that she’s turning into mum, since they keep saying the same things. It’s not a funny situation though, and he’s chewing his lip in worry.

“Mum, I’m pregnant,” he chokes out, and hears dead silence on the other end.

An hour later, after a minor breakdown on the phone to his mum and receiving her unconditional support no matter what he decides, he is ready for another hard discussion. Louis has told his mum that Harry would like to talk to her, but not what it’s about. The girls are upstairs, with Louis keeping them in line. The kitchen is as close to private as they’re going to get.

“What’s this about, Harry?” Jay asks gently. “Is it to do with why my son went running out of the house yesterday to pick you up from London?”

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says, blowing out his breath nervously. “I’m- I’m pregnant,” he admits, feeling the words hang in the air. “I kind of freaked out on the phone to Louis, and he told me to come and stay here for a while.”

“Congratulations,” Jay says warmly, before looking at him closely. “Are you going to keep it?”

“I don’t know,” Harry confesses, knowing the battle that is raging in his heart is showing on his face. It’s an innocent life, and he’s always thought that abortions should be a last resort, but then he doesn’t know what to do with a baby. It could ruin everything he’s worked for these last few years. Putting it up for adoption would be even worse – the backlash from that would be indescribable. He’d be painted as heartless, a fame monger, a bastard not mature enough to keep his own kid.

“What do you want?” Jay asks. “If you weren’t part of One Direction, if it wasn’t going to clash with your tour schedule, what would you do?”

Harry sits, and thinks, and eventually says, “I would keep it.” He loves children. He’s always wanted his own, and the thought of getting rid of this one because its timing is a little off . . . It upsets him.

“Do you still want that?” she continues, holding his hand on the table. “If you want to, you could make it work.”

Harry lets out a breath and squeezes her hand. “I think I want it.”

“Then keep it,” she says firmly. “Do what you want, love. You matter more than a band, okay?”

Harry nods, slowly, unconvinced but grateful. “I- I don’t know anything about male pregnancy,” he admits a second later.

“Would you like for me to run it through with you?” Jay asks, and Harry nods.

“Well, I don’t know a lot about the mechanics behind it; I’ve worked with very few cases before. You’ll get similar symptoms to women though, such as morning sickness and general tiredness, but I think it’s often worse.”

Harry grimaces, recognising the truth in those words.

“You’ve experienced that, then?” Jay asks with a laugh.

“Yeah, that’s why I went to the doctors,” Harry confirms. “I kept throwing up.”

“Bit of a surprise when you got the diagnosis?” Jay suggests wryly, and Harry nods.

“Something like that,” he agrees.

“So, anyway, you’ll get bigger similar to women and your baby will grow the same way. You’ll need to take hormone treatments I think. Women have a system in place automatically that prevents their body rejecting the new baby, but men often seem to struggle with this. That’s why it’s only appeared relatively recently; most men before found their body rejecting their baby and miscarrying before reaching term.” Jay says, stopping for a moment when Harry frowns in concern.

“It’s alright, the hormone treatments now are very good. They take over where a man’s body fails and help keep the baby healthy. You’ll need a C Section, too, when the time comes, but that’s a few months away.”

“I don’t know how far along I am,” Harry says quietly. “I was so out of it at my appointment.”

“Have you got another one scheduled?” Jay asks, and Harry nods.

“Next Tuesday,” he confirms. “I’ll listen this time,” he smiles tiredly.

Jay smiles sympathetically. “I imagine it was pretty overwhelming,” she says.

“It is,” Harry agrees, but having said that, he’s feeling calmer now. He’s not sure if he’ll keep it or not, but he’s no longer in the dark about what pregnancy holds, nor is he alone anymore with the news.

“If you’ve ever got any questions, love, you can always come to me, okay?” Jay tells him, standing up and opening the fridge. “If I don’t know the answer I can enquire around. No one will find out who I’m asking for, I promise.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, feeling so absolutely grateful for this woman, who is looking after four children, plus Louis, and is waiting on another two, and who works and cooks and is so stressed all the time, surely. Yet she makes time to sit down with her son’s friend and talk about pregnancy and offer confidential help.

“And thanks for having me here, too,” he says sincerely. “I needed to get out of London.”

“You’re always welcome here, Harry,” she says, coming over to hug him and kiss his forehead. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Harry watches Jay glow that night as her fiancé kisses her hello, holding his hand on her abdomen. They laugh together, love each other – and love their unborn children, too.

He makes a decision there and then, and heads back to London the next morning.

He stands outside Nick’s flat, nervous as hell. He has sent one text to Nick since running off to Doncaster, simply saying he was fine, he was sorry, and he’d be back shortly. Nick has every right to be angry and he worries that he won’t even get a chance to explain.

He takes a breath, gathers his courage, and knocks. It feels wrong to use the key in a time like this, so he stands outside with baited breath.

Nick answers the door slowly, dressed in comfy jeans and a t shirt. He looks good, and Harry’s stomach tightens when he sees him.

“Hey,” Harry says slowly. “Can I come in?”

Nick raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. “Hello to you too, Harold,” he drawls. “Have a fun jolly off to Doncaster, did we?”

Harry doesn’t rise to the bait. Nick and Louis have always been jealous of each other; petty fights only stopping when both united in concern over Harry. “No, I didn’t,” Harry says calmly. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

Nick frowns at him, then steps aside. There’s no hello kisses today, no declarations of missing each other. Nick is annoyed, angry, upset – one of them, anyway. Harry is nervous and on the verge of yet another break down.

They stand awkwardly in the kitchen. Nick starts making two cups of tea, and Harry fidgets on the spot.

“What did you want to talk about?” Nick asks eventually, staring at Harry with unfathomable eyes. “Changed your mind about us? Decided to cut your hair off? Run away with Tomlinson?”

Harry sighs, recognising the insecurity behind the questions that Nick always tries to hide with joking. “No,” he says, refusing to laugh as Nick wanted. “I love you,” he tells him honestly.

Nick looks at him. “I love you too,” he says quietly. “Why did you disappear?”

“I’m pregnant,” he blurts out, immediately breaking away from Nick’s gaze. The determination of last night is fading. He doesn’t know if he and Nick will ever look like Jay and Daniel, or if Nick will even still want to be with him. If Nick doesn’t want the child . . . Well, Harry’s not giving it up for him. Not now. Not when he’s decided he wants it.

“What?” Nick says, obviously wondering if it’s a joke.

“I’m not kidding,” Harry tells him. “I went to the doctors. I’m pregnant with our child.”

“You’re joking,” Nick denies, raising his eyebrows. This isn’t going well.

“No,” Harry replies calmly. “I’m not joking.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Nick asks, his voice rising.

“Well, when two people love each other-”

“Harry,” Nick snaps, and Harry stops and sighs.

“Look, if you don’t want this, then I’ll do it alone,” he tells Nick, pretending the thought isn’t breaking his heart. His voice cracks a little. “I’d understand, you know.”

Nick looks away in frustration. Harry holds his breath, waiting for the answer. When none seems forthcoming, Harry breathes out, tears beginning to sting his eyes.

“Okay,” he says into the quiet that has settled over the room. “I’ll see you around, Nick.”

He walks out briskly, trying to keep it together. Nick isn’t saying anything, and Harry doesn’t want to think about how right he was when he said Nick feared anything to do with commitment – and a baby was perhaps the biggest commitment of all. He climbs into his car, puts on his seatbelt, and promptly bursts into tears.

Fuck.

“He doesn’t want it,” Harry tells Louis later, when he has pulled himself together enough to drive home and collapse onto his bed. Louis sucks in a breath on the other end of the line.

“He said that?” Louis questions, his voice surprised. For all that they pretend to hate each other, he and Nick are not that hostile in reality.

“He meant it,” Harry says, trying to pretend he isn’t crying into his pyjamas.

“Oh, Haz,” Louis says. “Do you want me to come down? Or you can come here again?”

“No,” Harry replies quickly. “It’s alright, I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” Louis checks. “It would be no trouble.”

“No, no,” Harry says. “I think you’ve got the right idea, actually. I’m going home for a few days.”

“Back to Holmes Chapel?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms, the idea becoming more and more appealing as he speaks. “I need a break, and my mum knows, so, yeah, I’m going home.”

“Ring me if you need anything, okay?” Louis says. “And I’ll see you on the 24^th for that appointment.”

“You don’t need to-” Harry protests again, feeling guilty at taking up so much of Louis’ time.

“I want to,” Louis tells him firmly. “I love you, and I will love this child, and I want to come and help, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. “Thanks,” his voice is choked up again, and it must be pregnancy hormones or something because he is so bloody emotional all the time.

“I’ll see you soon,” Louis says. “Ring me.” And that’s an order, not a request. Harry smiles.

“Love you,” he says. “Bye.”

The days in Holmes Chapel pass in a blur of tears and hugs. He’s mourning his old life, and he’s mourning his relationship with Nick, and he’s panicking over what to do as a single 19 year old pop star dad. His mum supplies him with love and comfort and food, and Harry pretends for the days he’s there – as he always does – that he’s just Harry still, not Harry Styles of One Direction. It’s not blissful; the days are bloody painful and he’s heartbroken, but he feels more human by the time the 23^rd rolls around and he’s heading back to London.

“I love you,” his mum tells him fiercely as he’s leaving. “I will always love you, sweetheart.” She kisses him on the forehead, and he hugs her tight.

“I love you too,” he says. “I’ll call you after my appointment tomorrow.”

“You do that,” she agrees, waving him off.

He loves her. He hopes his child loves him.

Louis charges into his flat at seven thirty the next morning, energetic and cheerful and completely the opposite of Harry, who has dressed dark today to match his mood.

“Come on then, Hazza,” Louis coaches. “Places to be, people to meet.”

“Fuck off,” Harry mumbles with his head in his arms. “Do we have to go?”

“Yep!” Louis says, and Harry curses him again. Louis drags him to his feet, shoves a jacket in his arms, and grabs Harry’s keys off the side. “Let’s move it.”

He pushes Harry out of the door and locks up behind him. Harry is sullen today, missing Nick and feeling like crap after having thrown up twice before Louis had arrived. The morning sickness wasn’t abating, nor was the tiredness.

The appointment passes in a blur. Louis asks the questions – and answers a few, too, when Harry makes no effort to respond. The main thing he does say, however, is that he wants the baby. He’s keeping it, and he makes sure the doctor knows there is no other option.

He blames it on hanging around Louis too much. He gets stubborn when he’s made a decision.

Afterwards, Louis persuades him to go out to lunch. Harry knows management will not be impressed, but quite frankly they’re going to have bigger things to worry about soon enough.

Harry spends most of the time in the café throwing up in their bathroom. It’s a lovely way to spend Louis’ birthday.

“It should stop in another month or so, the doctor reckons,” Louis tells him on their way home. Harry is leaning against the car door, his face pressed against the blacked out windows. He’s exhausted and fed up and constantly close to either tears or anger.

“What should?” Harry asks, because he thinks he missed a bit of the conversation.

“The morning sickness,” Louis says, and frowns at him. “Did you listen to the doctor at all, Haz?”

“No,” Harry admits unashamedly.

Louis sighs. “You’re just under two months along, I think. The morning sickness should stop by week 12.”

“Look, my own personal midwife,” Harry says sarcastically.

“Haz,” Louis begins, his voice growing louder.

“Sorry,” Harry says, seeing off the explosion. “That was unnecessary.”

Louis grunts but subsides. The car ride is silent and Harry doesn’t go to Louis’ party that night, claiming sickness, which okay, was true.

Harry spends Christmas at home missing Nick and wishing the morning sickness would fuck off already. He swallows what feels like a hundred tablets a day, injects hormones into his stomach, and spends half the day in the toilet despite the antiemetics the doctor had given him when he’d confessed the extent of his sickness.

His mum’s worried. She keeps saying she never got sick like that and that he’s wasting away. He throws up what he eats most days, and isn’t hungry on the others. He’s tired and headachey and wonders why his baby hates him so fucking much.

Louis calls, as do the other lads, to wish him happy Christmas. Nick doesn’t.

Harry wishes savagely that the man has drowned in his own arse.

He goes back to London three days after Christmas and hangs around with a few of his friends there. He refuses offers to go out at night, knowing that he can’t drink and that he gets tired. He has regular appointments with a male pregnancy specialist that Dr Shining set him up with, and he takes his tablets like a good little boy. Some days he copes fine. Other days he cycles between anger and heartbreak, and curls up on Gemma’s sofa all day, who’s now been told the situation by his mum.

He’s nineteen and single and pregnant. Fuck his life.

He tells the other lads during the first week of January, when they all collect back in London ready for the start of tour rehearsals. They gather together at Louis’ flat, as is tradition, and watch crappy films and play Fifa. When they finish a game and there’s a lull in conversation, he drops the news.

“I’m pregnant,” he says suddenly, and watches as Louis glances at him in surprise, unaware that he’d been planning on telling people, and the other boys alternate between laughing (Niall) and frowning at him (Liam).

“I’m not joking,” he tells them calmly, and Louis confirms it. “I’m about nine weeks along.”

“Seriously?” Zayn asks, looking at him. “Was that why you were ill?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I get pretty bad morning sickness.”

“Try any-time-of-day sickness,” Louis grumbles with a smile in Harry’s direction. Harry directs a middle finger at him.

“You knew?” Liam asks Louis.

“I kind of freaked out when I was told,” Harry admits. “I rang Louis and he persuaded me to go home with him.”

Liam nods. Niall looks a bit shell shocked. Zayn is as unflappable as ever.

“Is it Nick’s?” Zayn asks, and Harry flinches a little. Louis glares at Zayn until Harry shakes his head at him.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “But he doesn’t want it.”

“Harry,” Liam breathes, and Harry blinks away the tears, looking away from them.

“It’s alright,” he says uselessly.

“No it’s not,” Louis says harshly. “He’s an arsehole. You were together for a year, Harry, and went through so much shit for each other. Now he can’t even give you the time of day?”

“He doesn’t like commitment,” Harry tries to explain, unsure why he’s defending the arsehole.

“Well, face it, he was already committed. This wouldn’t have changed anything about your relationship.” Louis argues.

“This will change everything,” Harry says loudly, and Louis stops fuming. “I need to tell management,” he continues, quieter.

“Why?” Niall asks, frowning.

“I get tired, and sick, and have headaches and need regular check-ups. I won’t be able to perform the same way soon enough.” Harry explains, grateful the topic is no longer Nick.

“When are you due?” Zayn asks, and Harry can see him thinking it over in his head.

“Beginning of August, I think,” Harry says, seeing the realisation in their eyes. “But I won’t be able to perform for a little while before that, according to my doctor.”

“We’re in Europe,” Liam says warily. “We’ve got a show nearly every night.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, and is almost immediately pounced upon by Louis.

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis tells him. “We love you more than the band. We’ll work it out.”

Harry lets himself be wrapped in a hug of limbs, feeling connected to every boy around him, and feeling loved. Nick didn’t want him, fine. He has the band, and he has his family. He doesn’t need a lover too.

They tell management together, and Harry even gets his specialist to come with them to explain what Harry will and won’t be able to do as the months go on. It’s a boring meeting once the initial shock wears off, and the band spends the time making stupid faces at each other across the room and practising lip reading. Paul is the most supportive and offers help dealing with any symptoms Harry has.

The only thing they don’t agree with is how to deal with the public. Harry doesn’t even want to contemplate telling the world he’s pregnant, not so soon after he’s made the decision to keep it. It still feels a little unreal, like it’s happening to someone else.

“The sooner this comes out, the better,” one member of management argues. “We aren’t going to be able to hide it soon and we need to go public on our own terms.”

“And if we’re in the UK we can manage it much better. We don’t want it out when you lot are on tour,” another one agrees. Harry looks down, frustrated and scared.

“I don’t want to tell people,” he says helplessly, feeling Louis squeeze his hand.

“It’s Harry’s decision, isn’t it?” Liam supports. “It’s his body.”

“Look, Harry,” a man says, ignoring Liam, “it’s not going to be long before you’re showing. You don’t have a choice about this anymore; it’s a matter for the PR team.” He gestures to a couple of people around the table, who nod.

“When will you start showing?” Zayn asks curiously, looking at Harry. Harry tilts his head at his doctor, asking him silently to take over.

“For most first time mums, it’s between 12 and 16 weeks,” the doctor says. “With men, it’s likely to be a little earlier, because your bodies aren’t built to hide it so well. You have to take into account, though, that strong stomach muscles can disguise it, so the younger you are, the later you show, in general. It’s hard to tell.” The doctor shrugs.

“So, any time now,” Harry concludes.  

“And with those skinny jeans you were and tight t shirts everyone will know immediately,” Niall teases, reaching across to pat Harry’s abdomen.

“We need to decide how we’re presenting this,” a PR man interrupts with a glare at Niall for messing around. “It’ll look better if we can show it as an act of love, between two men in a long-term relationship, not a drunken fumble.”

Harry stays silent. He and Nick weren’t drunk, but neither are they in a long-term relationship anymore.

“Harry, what’s the situation with the father?” a woman asks invasively, leaning in to look at him closely.

“How is this any of your business?” Louis demands angrily, wrapping an arm around Harry. “Can’t you just announce the pregnancy, say he’s keeping it, and not allow questions on the father?”

“The father is not in the picture,” Harry says quietly.

“Right then,” the woman says, leaning back after a glare from Louis.

“How about we release a statement about it, organise an interview for the five of you about the world tour, and allow just a couple of questions about the pregnancy?” someone suggests. “We’ll ban anything about the father and how it’ll affect the tour until we reach a firm decision.”

Another man nods firmly. “That’s a good start,” he agrees. “We’ll do that.”

“We’ll get in contact, boys,” a woman concludes. “Don’t tell anyone else until after the press release, and we’ll arrange another meeting where we discuss exactly what we’re going to do about the tour.”

Harry nods, feeling nausea rise up again and cursing his body for its timing.

“What about Lou Teasdale?” Louis asks. “We should tell her before everyone knows.”

Harry doesn’t hear the answer, pressing his head into his hands and willing his body to shut up. It’s no good, though, and he shakes off Niall’s comforting hand. He mumbles “sorry” to everyone, and legs it out of the room, desperate to find the toilets. He makes it just in time to throw up into the toilet bowl, yet again on his hands and knees.

He fucking hates Nick for doing this to him. He hates himself for ever thinking keeping the sodding child was a good idea.

“Again?” comes Zayn’s voice form behind him, and Harry nods, not daring to move and risk upsetting his stomach again. He’s grateful it’s Zayn that’s come. He can trust him to be calm and chilled and helpful without being overbearing.

Zayn crouches down next to him and places a hand on his back. “When will this stop?” he asks gently.

Harry shakes his head, feels tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t know,” he rasps. “For most people, it’s after 12 weeks, but for men it’s often worse.”

Zayn tilts his head. “Because of the hormones?” he guesses.

Harry nods. “Bodies aren’t used to it,” he says, before chucking up in the loo again. He wipes a hand across his mouth, feeling disgusting and broken and upset. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s alright,” Zayn tells him. His hand is rubbing Harry’s back now, and Harry closes his eyes.

“This sucks,” Harry says roughly, hating that his voice is slightly choked. “This is such fucking shit.”

“It’ll get better, won’t it?” Zayn offers.

“No,” Harry moans, feeling the weight of what he’s doing crashing down on him. “I’ll get ill and fat and disgusting and then I’ll have the fucking thing and I’ll have a bloody baby throwing up on me and crying all times of day and night and I won’t be able to sleep or perform or-”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupts, gathering him against his chest tightly and letting Harry cry. “You won’t be alone, alright?” he says strongly. “We’re not going to leave you by yourself. We’ll help you cope.”

“How am I going to do this?” Harry asks desperately. “What the fuck do I know about raising a child? I am a child.”

“Tell me why you want this baby,” Zayn demands, and this is why Harry loves him, because Zayn won’t take any shit from him.

Harry thinks, and calms himself, and whispers, “because it’s mine, and I love it already. Because how can I not give it a chance just because it’s not good timing?”

Zayn nods and squeezes Harry tight. “That’s how we’re going to do this,” Zayn says. “We’re going to tell it that it’s wanted and loved and neither of you will be alone, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs after a pause, letting himself relax into Zayn. “Thanks.”

“We love both of you,” the dark-haired boy tells him firmly. “That’s not going to change.”

Tour rehearsals are hard work. Harry still sleeps badly and he’s tired all the time. But it’s easier in a way, because the lads all know now, and so does the team, and anytime Harry feels he really can’t keep going or when he has to leg it to the toilets again, they understand. He misses afternoon rehearsals every so often for doctor’s appointments that seem never ending, and continues to swallow down tablets and inject himself with hormones every day.

It’s difficult, and it’s lonely at night when he curls up by himself in his bed. He starts to talk to his baby in the dead hours, just to hear a voice, and hopes his baby likes it. He tells it that he loves it and the boys love it, and that he wants it even if it wasn’t planned. He doesn’t tell his baby about Nick, because even if it can’t hear yet, he doesn’t want that sort of negativity around his child. He hasn’t heard from the man, and he refuses to turn on Radio 1 in the mornings now, because he doesn’t think he can listen to his boyfriend’s – ex-boyfriend – voice without getting either angry or upset.

His bump is growing slightly; unnoticeable to everyone but him. He doesn’t want to be vain, and he’s not, normally, but he is aware of how much pressure he will be under to keep his shape before and after his baby is born. The boys tell him not to worry, that all pregnant men get fat, that no one expects him to be perfect all the time, but it doesn’t help.

He’s never wanted to care about what people say, but he can’t stop himself. He’s a mess.

He gets a phone call from Aimee the day before the press release, when they’re lounging around after rehearsals, having not worked up the energy to leave yet. Niall and Paul are joking around in the corner. Lou has dropped in with Lux to say hello, and Louis has joined them in a competition over who can be more immature. Liam and Zayn are sprawled together on the sofa. Harry thinks Zayn has fallen asleep again. Harry’s curled up in a corner with a kindle, pretending he’s not reading a pregnancy book, when his phone vibrates and he looks at the caller.

He stares at it for a long moment, heart in his mouth. He’d lost most of his friends when he split from Nick, and he hasn’t spoken to Aimee for weeks now. He doesn’t know how much she knows, but he picks up anyway.

“Hello,” he mutters lowly into the phone. Liam glances at him, but the others are preoccupied, and Harry is grateful for that.

“Harry?” comes Aimee’s voice, and it’s nice to hear again. “Congrats are in order, I hear.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, wondering why she’s ringing now, when surely Nick told her what was going on weeks ago, when they first stopped speaking to each other.

“Look,” Aimee says, her tone changing to impatient, “will you just ring Nick? He’s driving me round the bend with all this moping.”

Harry frowns, debates whether to hang up as anger floods through his veins. “That’s not my fault,” he says, and his voice is sharp.

“No, I know,” Aimee agrees. “He’s a fucking idiot and I’m ready to push him off a bridge, but he won’t work up the courage to call you. He thinks you hate him.”

“He’s not far off,” Harry points out, though he knows the words are a lie. He loves Nick, has done for over a year, and he didn’t really expect Nick to react any different. It had hurt him, though, and he’s still angry with the man for being a prat.

Aimee is quiet. “Look,” she says, “I don’t know exactly what happened, Nick won’t tell me, but he loves you, and if I know you at all, Harry, you love him too.”

“Why the fuck does that matter?” Harry demands. “It’s not just me anymore, and I can’t do this to my child.”

Liam is definitely looking at him now, and Harry stands up, striding out of the room to find some privacy.

“It’s his child too,” Aimee says. “Isn’t it?”

“Not if he doesn’t want it, it’s not,” Harry snaps. “I’ve got the lads to help me raise it.”

“I don’t know what’s going on in Nick’s head,” Aimee tells him. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t want to. But he misses you, and I really think the two of you should talk. You’ve both always been bad at communication.”

“No,” Harry says, certain and set. “I’m not calling him first. I don’t need the stress, it wasn’t my fault, and if he wants to talk to me then he can make the effort.”

It hurts, and Harry feels tears pricking his eyes and he wipes them away angrily. But what he said is true. He can’t do this to himself. He’s not going to apologise, and he’s not going to reach out first when he’s only just beginning to pull himself together.

“Harry,” Aimee tries again.

“No,” he interrupts. “I get that you want to help him and that you’re his friend, but I can’t do this.”

“I’m your friend too,” Aimee tries, but Harry chokes out a laugh.

“Then where have you been?” Harry demands. There’s a pause. “Bye, Aimee,” he says at last, and hangs up.

The news breaks the next day while they’re rehearsing. The initial reaction seems to be a mix of shock and disbelief. Some are immediately calling Harry a slut, faggot, liar. Some are saying he’s doing it for attention, to drum up sales in preparation for the tour.

Louis takes his phone off him an hour after the news breaks, when Harry reads another article on the internet dropping subtle hints at his promiscuity and inability to ‘keep it under wraps’. The comments are worse, and Harry’s been cycling between screaming anger and choking tears all morning.

“Give it here,” Louis demands, holding his hand out for the phone. Harry looks at him, judging the seriousness of the threat. The other boys are standing behind Louis and not one of them is smiling. Harry hands it over with a sigh. Niall wraps him in a hug.

“It’ll be okay,” the Irish lad says. Harry shakes his head.

“People hate me,” he says, with an honesty that seems to shake them all.

“They don’t know you,” Louis says fiercely. “We do. We love you.”

Harry hides at Louis’ for a few days whilst paps camp outside his flat for him. He went home the first evening, and had to fight his way through. They yelled insults at him, provocative comments and swamped him until he felt he couldn’t breathe. He collapsed inside when he got home and called Louis. He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t, but Louis made him stay at his anyway.

It’s quieter, until the paps work out where he is. He moves again, stays at Gemma’s this time as most don’t know where she lives exactly.

The interview makes it worse.

“So, Harry,” the interviewer, a young pretty woman called Melina, says halfway through the interview. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Harry smiles. He’s been briefed on this. He knows he has to appear happy, settled, and at ease with the change. The lads have to be supportive and cheerful. It’s an act they all have to play.

“That’s right, yeah,” he says. Louis is at the opposite end of the sofa, but smiles at him. The Larry Stylinson rumours have risen dramatically since the press release, fed by their refusal to name the father. Harry and Louis have been ordered to stay apart, and Louis makes the effort to go out with Eleanor more.

“Was this a pleasant surprise, then?” Melina checks, offering him a sympathetic grin.

“Definitely a surprise,” Harry says, laughing. “But no, I’m really happy about it. I love children.”

“He does,” Niall pipes up. “He’s so good with them.”

“Ah, yes, I remember, 1D Day, wasn’t it?” Melina says, looking at them for confirmation.

“1D Day, yeah,” Louis agrees.

“I think every girl’s ovaries were working overtime, Harry, when you looked so happy about hearing a baby.” Melina laughs. “Look, we even have the clip, here.”

She shows the clip of Harry hearing Piers’ baby girl cry, and the delight on his face. Harry flushes, and the other lads all laugh.

“So, that’ll be your own child then soon,” the interviewer continues when the clip is over. “How far along are you?”

“Nearly three months, now,” Harry confirms, placing a hand almost unconsciously on his stomach where he can feel a swelling if he presses slightly.

“Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s very exciting news,” Melina tells him, and she looks genuinely happy for him. He smiles again, says thanks as sincerely as possible.

“Now, your world tour is starting soon, isn’t it?” she asks, changing the topic.

“In April, yeah,” Zayn informs her. “Another few months, still.”

“Of course, sorry,” Melina says with a laugh. “So what are you doing at the moment then?”

“Rehearsing and recording, mostly,” Louis takes over. “And it’s nice to have a break and see our friends and families.”

“And gives Harry a chance to adjust to the changes to his body?” Melina asks, cocking her head.

Niall and Louis laugh. “Yeah,” Niall says. “We just can’t wait for him to get fat.”

Harry reaches across to whack him on the arm with fake outrage. The interview descends into semi-chaos. It’s normal, and Harry loves it.

The morning sickness begins to fade. He can start keeping meals down, and his doctor takes him off the antiemetic drugs. He moves back to his flat as the furore begins to die down. The tiredness doesn’t go away, but he learns to deal with it better, and he feels more human as the weeks go on.

The Brits dawn halfway through February, when he’s about fourteen weeks along. There’s a small bump on his tummy now, and it’s not just him that’s noticed. His body is changing in so many ways, even if the sickness is mostly gone. He calls Louis the morning of the Brits in tears.

“Hello?” Louis says, and his voice is tired. They were rehearsing for the performance this evening all yesterday, and were lucky enough to get a bit of a lie in today, but Harry’s been up since the crack of dawn.

“Lou,” Harry says, voice thick. “I don’t want to go tonight.”

“What?” asks Louis, sounding more awake at this. “Harry, it’s the Brits! It’s going to be amazing.”

“I’m fat,” Harry says pathetically. He’s such a disaster. “And I’m growing fucking boobs, Louis. I’m ugly and disgusting and I can’t perform tonight.”

“Harry, you’re pregnant,” Louis tells him, and there’s definite laughter in his voice. “You’re not fat, and you knew your nipples would enlarge a little, it’s the hormones.”

“Fuck off, Tomlinson,” Harry mumbles, feeling like a failure. “I hate this.”

“I know you do,” Louis says, soothingly now. “But it’ll get better, and you’ll get a beautiful kid out of this, who will be just as awesome as his godfather.”

“True,” Harry says, a little happier. “Liam will make a great godparent.”

Louis gasps theatrically. “How dare you?” he shouts. “I have been here for this child since it was the size of my fingernail. I have loved it and put up with its hormonal father for it, and I will be the godfather, Harry, mark my words.”

Harry laughs. “Maybe I should ask Paul. Or Simon.”

“So rude,” Louis huffs. “And you can’t ask Simon, he turned all of us down for godparents, and it’s just insulting, it is.”

“Fair point,” Harry agrees. “Though I could set my kid up for playdates with Simon’s baby. What’s it called, again?”

“God knows,” Louis says, and Harry can picture him rolling his eyes. “Eric, I think. So boring.”

“It’s a nice name,” Harry disagrees.

“You’ll probably end up naming yours Tom or something,” Louis muses. “I reckon we should go with something exotic. Merde, for example.”

“Doesn’t that mean shit in Spanish?” Harry asks with a laugh. It’s the first time he’s discussed the baby as a living thing, not just an effect on him, and panic is swirling a little in his gut.

“Meh, it won’t work that out until it’s much older,” Louis shrugs it off.

“You’re mental,” Harry declares. “And what’s this we? I have sole control over name.”

It hits him, then, that he should be having this discussion with Nick, and this time it would be ‘we’. They’d be arguing over names and godparents and discussing whose parents are important enough to get the middle name. They’d be lying in bed, and Nick would be talking to his baby, loving it and loving him. Nick would be there to comfort him when he gets ‘slut’ or ‘faggot’ yelled at him in the street, and he’d be there to pose in stupid photos with him when he meets fans who still profess their love for him. They’d be out by now and able to walk down the street holding hands.

“Louis, I miss him,” Harry says quietly, the conversation serious again. Louis doesn’t need to ask who he means.

“I know,” he says, voice gentle. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“No,” Harry confesses. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“I think you should call him, clear the air a little,” Louis says hesitantly. “You’ll need to sort out custody rights and stuff like that.”

“He doesn’t want it,” Harry tells Louis, and his heart still breaks every time he utters the words.

“Now he doesn’t,” Louis says, “but he might later. You need to make sure he can’t challenge your parental rights.”

“Oh god,” Harry murmurs, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

“Just think about calling him, yeah?” Louis is still soft, as if Harry might shatter.

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He won’t. But he’ll call his lawyer instead tomorrow, and get him to sort it out.

“I’ll see you later,” Louis tells him, hanging up the phone.

The Brits are amazing. His life is still a little shit.

He gets woken up the day after the Brits by his blaring ringtone. He’s not hung over, of course not, but he’d still been out late the night before. He doesn’t even look at who’s ringing, presuming it’s his mum or another friend, congratulating him.

“Hello?” he mumbles, slowly sitting up in bed and yawning.

“Harry?” comes a voice on the other end, and Harry’s simultaneously far too awake and far too asleep for this. He wants to hide under his duvet and pretend it’s not happening.

He can’t.

“Hey, Nick,” he says instead, willing himself to stay calm.

“Well done last night,” Nick says, and he sounds awkward and uncertain. Harry hopes viciously he is.

“Thanks.” He’s not going to make it easy. It’s been nearly three months, for fuck’s sake.

“Look, I was wondering if I could talk to you, maybe?” Nick asks hesitantly.

“We’re talking now,” Harry says rudely.

“Like, face to face, I mean.”

Harry sighs and thinks it over. He’s been told a lot recently to talk to Nick. He should, he knows that. But at the same time, he doesn’t know if he has the strength.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly. “When?”

“Are you free today?” Nick says, and there is definite relief in his voice.

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. They’ve been given the day off after the Brits. The other lads would be nowhere near prepared to rehearse or record today – or probably tomorrow, either.

“Do you want to come over? This afternoon maybe?”

“Okay,” Harry says. He’s answering in monosyllables. It doesn’t suit him, but he doesn’t want to really let loose at Nick over the phone.

“Okay,” Nick agrees. “I’ll see you then?”

Harry is silent.

“And Harry?” Nick says, when he doesn’t get a reply. “I’m sorry.”

Harry hangs up and throws his phone against the wall. He doesn’t cry.

He’s outside Nick’s door by three o’clock, dressed in a baggy jumper and loose jeans. He looks like shit and feels like it too, but pregnancy has taken away any sense of pride in his appearance he might have had. He rings the doorbell with shaking hands, and thanks everything for the absence of nausea.

“Hey,” Nick says when he opens the door. He looks tired, too, and Harry is glad he’s not the only one who’s a mess. “Come in.”

Harry follows him in. It’s a scene that’s occurred a million hundred times. They were together for a year, friends for long before that. Walking into Nick’s flat has never felt awkward before now.

“Tea?” Nick offers, not meeting Harry’s eyes and gesturing to the kettle. Harry shakes his head.

“Not allowed caffeine,” he says, staring at Nick and daring him to freak out again. He doesn’t, and Harry doesn’t know whether to be relieved.

“Right,” Nick says, putting the kettle on anyway. “Um, how have you been?”

Harry sighs. “Why am I here, Nick?” he demands.

Nick fiddles with the kettle and mug for a few seconds, before turning to look at him. “I missed you,” he says.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“No,” Nick fumbles. “I love you, and I hated not having you in my life.”

“Well tough luck, Nick,” Harry says, his voice low, “because it’s not just me anymore.”

“I know that,” Nick says quickly. “And I think I’d love the baby too.”

“Well, great, thanks for letting me know,” Harry snaps, and maybe he’s being unfair, but this has been bubbling for months now.

“Harry-”

“No, Nick,” Harry interrupts. “I can’t do this. I won’t let you do this. You don’t want this baby, fine. You don’t want me, fine. But you can’t mess with it like this. I won’t have you care for my child one day and then run off in a panic the next. It needs stability, and love, and commitment, and you suck at all three of them!”

Nick is silent. Harry breathes heavily, feeling slightly faint. He takes a seat on a bar stool and rests his head in his palms.

“I don’t know what you want, Nick,” Harry says, quieter. “I don’t think you do either.”

“Harry,” Nick says, and his voice is firm. “I want you. I want this baby. I’m sorry for how I acted, and I’m sorry I left you to deal with it alone, but I know what I want now. I won’t leave again.”

Harry doesn’t look up. “And how the fuck do I believe that, Nick?”

“I don’t know how to prove it to you,” the older man admits, and his hand slowly comes to rest on Harry’s shoulder. “But I’ll do whatever you ask for as long as you want. I love you.”

Harry barks a laugh. “Yeah,” he says tiredly. “You’ve really acted that way.”

“I was in shock!” Nick exclaims. “You dropped this bombshell on me, issued an ultimatum, and walked out. What the fuck did you want me to say?”

“How about what you just said?” Harry snaps. “How about I love you? Or that we’ll sort it out together? How about anything but silence?”

There’s a pause. “I’m sorry,” Nick says. “I fucked up, I get that. I panicked and then didn’t know how to tell you that I wanted this after all. I thought you hated me and wouldn’t want me around to help. You seemed to have Louis and the other lads and be sorted out-”

“I got called a faggot by every pap outside my house for days,” Harry hisses, interrupting him. “They yelled slut at me when that didn’t work. I spent more time in tears than anything else, and I was throwing up two or three times a day. I am not alright, you absolute wanker.”

“Sorry,” Nick offers, looking a little shocked. It’s a bit comical, but Harry is too close to tears to be able to laugh.

“What do you want from me?” Harry asks wearily.

“Whatever you’ll give,” Nick says, but it’s not an answer.

“No, Nick,” Harry says. “What do you want? Do you want this child?”

“Yes,” he answers firmly. “I fucked up, and I’m sorry. But I want our relationship back, and I want to bring this child up, and I want it to know that it’s loved by both parents.”

“And you’re not going to change your mind?” Harry asks sharply. He brings his head out of his hands and glares at Nick. “I won’t go through this again.”

“No,” Nick declares, and his voice is more determined than Harry has ever heard. “I want this. I’ll always want this.”

“Even when I’m hormonal and screaming and fat? Even when the baby keeps you up all night and you get called a paedophile or slut in the streets?”

“Yes,” Nick answers, looking slightly desperate. “I want this family, Harry. I love you.”

“Okay,” Harry says. His head is swimming. It’s not what he expected when he arrived here today, and he’s completely overwhelmed. “I need to- I think I have to think about this, Nick.”

Nick takes a step back and nods. “Yeah, course,” he agrees. “Can I- Can we talk later? Let me know when you decide?”

Harry looks at him, sees the bags under his eyes and the uncertainty in his expression and feels love more than anger, for the first time in weeks. It’s a change, and a good one. His love for Nick has never gone away, but it’s been drowned under so many other emotions.

“Yeah,” Harry says, before leaning forward to peck Nick on the lips. “I love you, you know?” he tells the man. “I just don’t know whether I trust you.”

It’s a harsh thing to say, and Nick’s expression shutters. Harry wants to take it back, but he can’t, he needs some distance now. “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” he says instead.

Nick nods. “Bye, Popstar,” he murmurs. Harry smiles slightly at the nickname, and leaves.

He drives straight to Gemma’s when he leaves Nick’s. His eyes are dry but he’s strangely numb right now. It’s reminiscent of how he was after finding out about his pregnancy, and he hopes he’s not on the verge of a similar breakdown.

Gemma lets him in immediately, sits him down on the sofa and gets him a cup of decaf tea.

“Explain,” she demands when they’re both curled up next to each other. Harry blows onto his tea and sighs.

“I spoke to Nick,” he says.

Gemma looks at him, her expression unreadable. She’s not soft, Gem. In fact she can be bolshy and stroppy and downright rude, but they love each other. If he wanted coddling, he would have gone to Louis. “And?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he tells her, and his voice cracks. He draws his knees up. “He said he loves me.”

“And you love him,” Gemma says, and it’s not a question. “Does he want to get back together?”

Harry nods.

“Are you going to?” Gem questions, her tone gentling. She wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “I want to, but it’s not just me anymore, is it? I’m not the only one who will get hurt if he bails on us again.”

“He won’t live to see another day if he tries this again,” Gemma says darkly, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Gem.”

“Sorry,” she apologises. “Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know,” Harry repeats. “How the fuck am I supposed to trust anything he says?”

Gemma makes a sympathetic noise and pulls him in for a hug. “I don’t know Nick well enough,” she tells him, speaking into his hair. “But I don’t see how he could ever let you go again.”

“He did before,” Harry points out, voice muffled by her shoulder. He feels warm like this, safe.

“He panicked before,” Gem says softly. “He didn’t know how to tell you he’d changed his mind.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks quietly.

Gemma fidgets slightly, and Harry draws away to look at her. “Aimee rang me,” she admits, and Harry glares.

“You’ve been talking behind my back?”

“Not about you, about Nick,” Gemma corrects him, and Harry just sighs. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry currently.

“I don’t know, Gem,” he says tiredly.

“That’s alright,” she says. “You’re twenty. You’re not supposed to have everything sorted out. Give yourself some time.”

He rings Nick that evening, tells him what Gemma said. He’s twenty now and it’s not just him anymore, but he’s still the same person he was before and he just doesn’t know. He wants to try, though, and he stresses to Nick that he loves him. Nick is quiet, gentle, and agrees to give it a go again, just taking it slowly.

He hangs up, unsatisfied.  

They meet up for lunch two days later. There are a couple of paps, of course, but it never used to be unusual for them to meet up regularly, so there’s no big deal made. The meal is quiet and a little awkward, and towards the end Harry just loses it. His emotional control is worsening as the pregnancy goes on, and he blames the outburst on hormones.

“I don’t want this,” Harry says suddenly, loudly. Nick looks at him, and there seems to be panic in his eyes. “This isn’t us,” Harry continues. “When was the last time we couldn’t fucking talk to each other?”

“Sorry,” Nick says, and Harry glares.

“Stop apologising,” Harry demands. “I want to be us again. We’re not working like this.”

“What do you want me to do?” Nick asks, tilting his head.

“I want you to stop asking me what I want and be yourself again,” Harry says, his voice quieter. “I want to go back to normal. I don’t want some grand love affair. We’ve skipped the making love and the baby part already.”

“I want to prove to you that you can trust me,” Nick tells him, and his voice is so painfully honest and so not Nick that Harry growls.

“I trust you,” he says. “I was stupid to say I didn’t. I don’t believe you won’t run again, but I never knew that before Nick.”

Nick tries to interrupt.

“No,” Harry says. “I didn’t know, and I liked that. I liked that we weren’t normal, and that you had to be up at the crack of dawn and I flew around the world. I liked that whilst my friends were talking about marriage we were sending each other the stupidest lyrics we could find.”

“It’s not the same anymore,” Nick tells him, his voice soft. “We have to change.”

“We have a child, not a fucking alien,” Harry says. “It means it’ll be harder, sure, but I’m not asking for marriage or a fairy tale, Nick. I want us again.”

Nick nods.

“And stop being so bloody passive,” Harry says, then regrets his harsh words. His head-mouth filter is slowly disappearing with the weeks too.

Nick looks at him, smirks, and says, “like this?”

He leans forward to kiss Harry. Harry laughs, meets him halfway, and both ignore the camera flashes.

It’s not perfect. They argue and Harry hides every so often, his head berating him for being foolish whilst his heart pounds with love still. Nick doesn’t know anything about pregnancy and hasn’t had the weeks the others have had to get used to Harry’s mood swings and cravings and the soft swell of the stomach. Harry has to deal with the anger of management when the newspapers print the photos of him and Nick kissing, and they have to do another interview so that Harry can slip in that Nick is the father and they’re very happy together.

Considering they’re not even sure if they’re in a relationship yet, it’s a bit weird.

Things get better as Harry gets bigger. The days shift into March and start to warm, and Harry is spending several nights a week at Nick’s. He’s inevitably papped more frequently, and Nick gets harassed on Radio 1 by callers wanting to talk about their relationship, but by this point they’re fairly certain that’s what they’re doing. The lads are supportive, even if Louis hit him and called him an idiot when he first found out he was back with Nick. They’ve even, apparently, had a threatening talk with him whilst Harry was at a doctor’s appointment. It was either terrifyingly hilarious, according to Nick, or just a ‘casual chat’. Harry’s had his first scan by now, and heard his baby’s heartbeat. He still denies the tears but Louis will tell everyone that he came out with red rimmed eyes.

Louis’ become his own personal chauffeur, as his doctor has vetoed him driving anywhere when he starts getting dizzy and light headed. He’s added iron tablets to his daily routine to combat anaemia, and his mum is concerned with the number of problems he seems to be having.

“It’s normal for men to have it worse,” the doctor assures him. “Our bodies aren’t built for it, which is why we’re keeping a much closer eye on you than most pregnancies.”

Management are now formulating a plan for the tour. He’ll perform as normal for the first two months, although a chair will be available for him to take breaks, and he’ll be allowed to sit off stage for a song or two if he needs. His doctor is in touch, along with management, with obstetricians across the globe to make sure he can keep up with regular appointments whilst travelling. Harry has his own personal number in case he has any concerns, and it has been agreed that anytime he has significant time off he will be flying back to the UK to meet with his main doctor. Once it’s June, and he hits thirty weeks, it will be on a case by case basis. The fans will be warned that he won’t be performing at all shows, and that he may miss some of the songs for the ones he is at. The tour finishes when he’s at thirty six weeks, which is far too close to his due date for his mum’s liking, but he’ll head straight home the day after and in theory, be in London with the specialists for the birth.

If all goes to plan, he’ll be fine.

His doctor worries that, as it’s his first and his body doesn’t seem to be taking to pregnancy well, he’ll get labour pains early and need an emergency C Section, instead of the one planned during the first week of August. He won’t be able to fly home if he goes into labour and he’s abroad, so it’ll be up to foreign doctors who won’t have his medical history.

There’s a compromise. The London specialists who have been looking after him and planning the operation will be on call. At any sign of labour, they’ll be flown out to meet him and work with the foreign doctors. It shouldn’t be before they’re in Europe so it’ll be a two or three hour wait at the most. It should comfort him, the amount of planning they’re putting into this, but it only serves to remind him of the dangers he’s facing.

It’s during rehearsals, typically, that his baby first moves. He’s felt little butterflies in his stomach a couple of times before, which his doctor said was probably the baby, but nothing definite.

This, though, this was certain. He clutches his stomach in shock, half way through a song, and slides to the floor. It is the most real thing he has ever felt, and it terrifies him. There’s a baby in there, for fuck’s sake. He’s carrying a child, and it has never felt properly alive before now.

“Harry?” Liam asks in concern. He’s the first one to reach him, and he crouches down to check he’s alright.

“I’m okay,” Harry says breathlessly.

“You don’t look it,” Zayn frowns, coming up behind him.

“No, I am,” Harry reassures him, feeling his baby move again. “Oh,” he breathes.

“What’s up?”

“The baby’s moving,” Harry says, wonder filling his voice. “It’s alive.”

“It’s been alive for the past four months, Haz,” Louis laughs at him, but sits down next to him. The music has stopped now, and people are giving them space.

“Shut up,” Harry pouts. “It feels real now.”

“I’m glad,” Louis says, rolling his eyes.

“Are you alright to carry on?” Liam asks, whilst Niall pulls him to his feet.

“Yeah,” Harry says initially, then changes his mind. “Actually,” he says, “I think I need to sit down for a bit.”

The boys nod. Louis eyes him suspiciously, but lets him go. Harry walks off quickly, sits down, and calls Nick.

It’s important, alright?

Harry is torn with indecision over whether to find out the sex of the baby. Nick wants to know, he thinks, although the man has offered support for whichever he decides. He’s dragging Nick along to this appointment as he’s been promised an ultrasound. At nineteen weeks, the doctors think he should be able to see the gender, and they need to check for ‘abnormalities’. Harry has firmly pushed that part out of his mind, and is instead focusing on the dilemma of secrecy or not.

“Harry, just choose,” Nick says, when driving them to the clinic. The older man rolls his eyes. “We’ll be there soon, and you can’t just um and ah about it.”

“Yes I can,” Harry says sullenly. Nick reaches out to pat his arm, not taking his eyes of the road.

“No you really can’t,” he says patronisingly, and Harry is stuck by gratefulness that they’ve returned to this easy teasing and open love. Nick apologises nearly every day, has stuck his head in book after book detailing pregnancy, and has even met up with Harry’s doctors, without Harry, to check what he should be doing or looking for. It’s sweet.

Louis thinks it’s weird. He would.

“Twat,” Harry returns, but he knows he waited a little too long. Nick’s smile turns soft.

“Do what you want,” Nick tells him. “Don’t worry about other people. Just tell them to fuck off if they ask for the sex.”

Harry sticks his tongue out. “Somehow I don’t think management will be impressed if I do that in interviews.”

Nick laughs. “Seriously though, Popstar, stop panicking over other people. Do you want to know or not?”

Harry thinks for a moment and rubs his swelling bump. “Yes,” he says eventually. Then, “no.”

“Oh my god, the books didn’t mention indecision as a side effect,” Nick says loudly. “This is ridiculous.”

They pull into the car park and Nick stops the car, flicking it into neutral and turning off the engine. He turns to Harry and Harry looks back, pouting slightly.

“Choose,” Nick orders.

“No,” Harry returns stubbornly. “You choose.”

“It’s your child!” Nick says in exasperation. “I’m not choosing.”

“Our child,” Harry says seriously, his voice quiet. Nick looks at him, then smiles and nods.

“Our child,” he agrees, placing a kiss on Harry’s forehead.

“So?” Harry says, looking at him expectantly.

“We find out today,” Nick decides, then looks at Harry to check.

He smiles. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’m happy with that.”

Nick grumbles when Harry pulls out his phone, smiling widely, as soon as they walk out of the clinic. They’ve had their celebration and, as much as Nick complains, Harry knows Louis deserves to be the first to know. He doesn’t dare bitch too much, either, as Harry can shut him up quite effectively when he points out that Louis was there through all his crises while Nick fucked off and pretended pregnancy – and Harry – didn’t exist.

“So?” Louis asks excitedly, without even bothering with a hello. Harry smiles, plays around a little.

“So what?” he asks. “I was calling to see what time we were meeting tomorrow.”

Nick hits him lightly, tells him to stop being mean. Harry grins, plants a kiss on his lips and listens to Louis splutter.

“Harry, tell me!” he demands.

Harry hums. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I should tell my mum first-”

“You tell me right now or-”

“It’s a boy,” Harry announces, cutting Louis off completely. There’s dead silence. “Louis?”

“Oh my god,” Louis says loudly. “You’re having a baby boy!”

There’s an excited squeal from down the phone line, and Louis swears. “Sorry,” he says, a moment later. “I may have just outed you to a restaurant.”

Harry sighs. “Seriously?” he asks. “Where are you?”

“Some place on the South Bank,” Louis sounds distracted now. “Eleanor’s here, she says congrats and not to torture the poor kid too much – oh wait, apparently that was directed at me.”

“Oh god, Louis,” Harry says, rolling his eyes at Nick who’s mouthing ‘what’s happening?’ at him.

“And first contact by fans in three, two, one,” Louis mutters, and Harry grins even if he can’t see him.

“Hello?” comes Eleanor’s voice.

“Hi El,” Harry greets. “Is Louis trying to back out of his statement or announcing the sex of my child to the world?”

Nick groans next to him, obviously having figured out the situation. Harry links their fingers as Nick starts the car.

“I haven’t quite worked out his tactic yet,” Eleanor says, sounding amused. “I think he’s going for distraction.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, feeling guilty for ruining their lunch date.

“Nah, it’s alright,” El says. “I’m amusing myself by trying to watch Louis wriggle out of their questions. Just wait until they figure out I’m still on the phone to you.”

“That’s my cue to hang up, I feel,” Harry declares. “It was lovely talking to you, El, and let Louis know he’s dead when I next see him.”

“Will do,” Eleanor replies with a laugh. “And congrats again. Pass that on to Nick, yeah?”

“Course I will,” Harry says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yep,” Eleanor agrees cheerfully. “Bye, Harry.”

He hangs up and looks at Nick, who has his eyebrows raised even as he drives.

“Louis will never learn subtlety, will he?” Nick asks rhetorically.

“Nope,” Harry tells him cheerfully. “You learn to love it.”

“I try to avoid seeing him often enough to learn anything about Tomlinson,” Nick informs him, quite seriously. Harry grins.

“That could be a problem since Louis is definitely the godfather.”

Nick pulls over quickly and turns to glare at him. “What happened to our child?” he demands. “Do I get no say in this?”

“Not in the slightest,” Harry tells him, sitting back in the seat and laughing. “You love him really.”

“I love you,” Nick says, and Harry feels his heart warm.

“Sap,” he teases, and leans forward to kiss him firmly. “Love you,” he mumbles against his lips. Nick’s hand comes down to sit on the swell of Harry’s abdomen, and they just breathe against each other for a moment.

“Love our baby boy, as well,” Nick says.

“Who doesn’t?”

The official announcement of the gender garners more attention to Harry and Nick than ever. The fading spotlight is bright again, and they cannot go anywhere together without being followed and photographed. It’s a nightmare, and it’s stressful, and Harry spends his days getting told off by the doctors for overdoing it, when he really can’t help having to fight his way through crowds of paps or fans wherever he goes.

It brings up the fact that there are plenty of people in this world who doesn’t love his child, and many who wish both he and the baby dead. Harry receives post after post on Twitter and Instagram and anywhere else they think they can reach him, telling him he and his baby are unnatural, that he and Nick are wrong and evil and against God. He gets death threats and hate mail, gets yelled at in the street by paps looking for a reaction to sell to a newspaper.

But then, he gets a teenage boy approaching him on the rare occasion where he’s alone and saying thank you, for coming out and being brave and daring not to be what other people want him to be. Harry wants to say that it wasn’t his choice, doesn’t know if he would ever have come out if he hadn’t gotten pregnant, but the gratefulness in the boy’s eyes just makes him choke up.

And then he buys some food and a packet of condoms in the supermarket and avoids looking at the server, until she says, right as he’s about to leave, that she’s happy for him and wishes his baby every luck in the world.

And he curls up with Nick every night now, feeling tired and sore and overwhelmed, and is held against his body and he listens as Nick whispers to him and the baby that he loves him, will care for them forever, and that he cannot wait to meet him properly. He feels safe and loved and at peace.

It’s not perfect. It’s not a fairy tale. But it’s good enough.

Harry gets bigger and bigger as the weeks go on. The nausea is completely gone, but he’s definitely got a bump now and his ankles and feet are swelling. His back kills him most days, far worse than the normal pain he’s lived with for several years now, and his doctors have roped in a physiotherapist who works with him most evenings. They’re trying to set up a routine for him to carry on during the tour, which is fast approaching. He’ll be twenty four weeks at the start, nearly in to his third trimester. He can take paracetamol when necessary, and he’s allowed ibuprofen only when the pain gets really bad, but he’ll have to stop taking that before he hits twenty eight weeks.

It sucks, and he’s concerned about his ability to perform on tour when he’s struggling with pain now, and he’s only put on a few kilograms. His management is in near constant talks with his doctors, but there’s not a lot they can decide beforehand. Pregnancy isn’t set. The pain may get better as his body adjusts, or stay the same, or get worse. He may start feeling more tired and be unable to move a lot, or he may have the advantage of his youth.

He doesn’t know, and it’s frustrating.

The thought of going on tour panics him. He’s got a support network here of his mum and doctors and physio and Nick and Gemma. On tour, he’ll have the band and Lou and Paul and whatever doctors his team has set up for him, but it’s not what he’s used to. The symptoms will get worse, he knows that.

Nick is worried too, and he clings to Harry as he finishes his packing the morning of their flight to South America. Nick’s taken the day off work to see him off, but he can’t take any more time off to accompany Harry on tour, as much as he wants to. Harry knows it, but he does wish that Nick could come anyway.

“Call me as soon as you get there?” Nick says, and Harry nods. “And listen to your doctors. Don’t go outside unnecessarily and watch what you eat and drink.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I know, Nick,” he says. “I won’t get malaria or typhoid or anything like that. Trust me; Louis will coddle me to within an inch of my life.”

“Good,” Nick says, because being overprotective of Harry is the only thing the two of them will ever agree on.

“I’ll miss you,” Harry says, because he will, even if he spent months not talking to Nick before. “I’ll call when I can.”

“Do,” Nick says, kissing him lightly. He looks uncertain for a moment before pulling Harry in close. “And remember, you’re more important than the tour, yeah? Don’t push yourself. If you don’t feel up to performing, don’t.”

Harry blinks away the tears that gather in his eyes. “I won’t,” he promises, his voice choked. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Nick tells him honestly. He bends down, kisses Harry’s bump, and says, “I love you as well, baby boy.”

Harry’s phone rings then. Zayn, to let him know the car is outside as agreed. There are paps there; somehow they’ve found out the band is leaving today, and they’ve been camping outside all morning.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry says quietly, drawing Nick up to kiss him goodbye properly.

Nick nods, face serious. “I’ll see you in May before you go to Ireland, yeah?” he confirms, and Harry nods. “Good luck, ring me, and I love you both.”

“Love you too,” Harry says again, shouldering his bags and opening the door. He darts back, kisses Nick once more, and turns to deal with the paps. There’s a member of security making his way towards him, and Harry is grateful. The man takes his bags and clears a path for Harry to go through. He’s aware of Nick shutting the door behind him but he’s mostly numb, now. He’s scared and feels alone for the first time since he got Nick back.

He makes it into the car eventually, but not before he’s been blinded and sworn at and had people making rude gestures to him. He crawls in, sits beside Zayn, and rests his head in his hands. Zayn wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close.

“Alright?” the boy asks him, and Harry nods.

“Scared,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want something to go wrong.”

Zayn nods. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he offers, but it is an empty gesture and Harry knows it. Management would have kicked up a massive fuss if he pulled out altogether.

Harry gathers his strength, sits up, and smiles. “I want to,” he says, and it is honest, even if it’s not the whole truth. “Are we picking up anyone else?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Louis and Liam are in another car, and Niall’s flying straight from Ireland to Heathrow, so he’s meeting us there.”

“He’s going to be knackered,” Harry says sympathetically. Niall had only gone home a few days before, but he’d wanted to visit his family on the few days they had off before the tour started. They were in South America for over two weeks, and then they had a week or two off before the Irish leg. They had the first few days to themselves before they had to meet in Dublin for rehearsals again. Harry was flying straight back to London, as per the doctors’ agreement, and to see Nick again. Most of the others were going directly to Ireland and staying with Niall, he believed, as they decided it wasn’t worth the effort to fly home completely.

Zayn shrugged. “It was his choice,” he says, and silence falls as Harry nods and leans back in his seat, shutting his eyes. Twenty four weeks, and he’s exhausted. He’s not looking forward to the flight either. He’s been briefed on what to do to ensure minimal discomfort for him and the baby, and Louis has already taken the piss out of the compression socks he’s bought in preparation.

“You ready?” Zayn asks some time later, nudging him in the shoulder. Harry blinks open his eyes, not having realised he’d fallen asleep, and sits up straight, wincing at the pain in his back.

“We here?” he asks tiredly, and Zayn nods. Harry rubs his back carefully, feeling the soreness and knowing he really needs to do some of the exercises his physio prescribed him, and get hold of a heat pack. He can’t do either now, though, so he’ll have to fight his way through paps tired and in pain.

“Back hurting?” Zayn asks sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “This is going to be fun.”

“We’ve got security,” Zayn says in comfort. “They’ll get us straight through and into a private lounge.”

“Okay,” Harry says, taking of his seatbelt and pulling his jacket across his noticeable bump. “Let’s do this.”

Zayn opens the door and they’re hit by a wall of noise. They have no idea if Liam and Louis have arrived yet, but they can’t concentrate on anything but fighting through and ignoring the yells of the paps as their security men guide their way.

“Harry, show us your bump!”

“Faggot, look this way!”

“Zayn, does Harry take it from you as well?”

Zayn’s face is growing darker and darker, and Harry remembers that Zayn doesn’t deal with this kind of reception every day. The paps are fascinated by him and Nick, and leave the other boys alone for the most part.

“Just keep going,” Harry tells Zayn, and they do. They enter the airport and are immediately shuffled through a side door, and led into blissful silence – an empty VIP lounge. Harry collapses on a chair and wills his body to calm down. He’s yelled at enough for stress; he knows the importance of keeping his heart rate and blood pressure down.

Zayn paces in front of him. “Is it always like that for you?” he demands. Harry doesn’t look up.

“Most of the time, yeah,” Harry confesses. “Since they found out about me and Nick, and then when we announced the gender and everything.”

“Fuck,” Zayn says. “What they say . . .”

“You get used to it,” Harry says, closing his eyes. Louis and Liam are yet to arrive, and he’s not sure if Niall even has much of an overlap between the two flights.

“You shouldn’t be used to it!” Zayn snaps, and Harry looks at him. Zayn is normally pretty chilled; it’s a surprise to see him worked up. “What right do they have to say stuff like that?”

“They want a reaction, Zayn,” Harry explains, tugging on his arm to get him to sit down.

“It’s horrible,” the Bradford boy says, wrapping an arm around him. “Does Nick get it too?”

Harry nods. “A fair bit,” he admits. “They wait for him outside Radio 1 sometimes. He’s taken to varying what time he leaves.”

Zayn is quiet, but his arm is tight around Harry and Harry shuts his eyes again, leaning on Zayn.

“It’ll be better abroad,” Harry says, his voice muffled by Zayn’s jacket.

“I hope so,” Zayn murmurs. “You don’t deserve this.”

Not long after the other lads arrive, they’re led onto the plane. Harry grabs an aisle seat and pulls on his stupid socks while Louis pisses himself laughing. He scowls. He’s fat and pregnant and aching and he’s knows the socks aren’t attractive but neither’s the rest of him, so Louis can fuck right off.

He says that to Louis, and the boy comes to hug him, still giggling. Liam rolls his eyes at him from across the aisle.

“We love you really, Haz,” Louis reassures him. “Even when you’re six months pregnant and a right cow.”

Harry whacks him, pushes him off, and sulks in his chair while Louis continues to laugh.

“My back hurts and I need to pee and I am so fucking fat right now Louis Tomlinson that I will fucking sit on you if you piss me off anymore,” Harry snaps, and now Niall is laughing at him as well.

“And you can tell Nick I am never speaking to him ever again,” he adds, and Liam makes his way earlier to sit next to him.

“Alright, Harry?” Liam asks, and Harry glares at him.

“Do I look alright?” he demands.

“This is going to be a great plane journey,” Zayn mutters in front of him, and Niall cracks up.

Zayn’s right. It’s the plane journey from hell.

Harry spends half the time in the toilet, his baby having found his bladder today and taking great pleasure with kicking it. He has to get up and walk around regularly anyway to stop himself getting stiff and aching, and to reduce the chance of thrombosis. His back continues to kill him, and he gives in and swallows paracetamol half an hour in. Louis redeems himself by persuading the air crew to get him a heat pack, and Harry ends up bursting into tears two hours in when his screen won’t fucking show him the film he wants to see.

Damn pregnancy. Damn the fucking hormones. And damn whoever decided an eleven hour flight was a good idea for someone six months pregnant.

They get to Colombia tired and ratty and to be honest ready to kill each other. Harry is craving a bed and never wants to see anyone else ever, after Niall yet again laughed at him for a break down over his inability to work out how to put the tray down and Louis cracked up about the physio exercises he started doing on the floor of the plane.

They’re barely talking when they get the keys to their rooms, but Louis does take the time to remind Harry to only drink out of sealed bottles. Harry glares and stalks off to his room. He’s not a child; he has a child. He can hear Paul yelling about rehearsal and make-up times tomorrow morning, but he ignores him.

“Night, Harry,” Liam calls down the corridor, and he lifts a hand in acknowledgement as he slams his door shut.

The next day isn’t much better. Their first performance isn’t for a couple of days, but they have to rehearse, see the venue, and do a couple of interviews before that. They’re all jetlagged and irritable, and Harry is still suffering after eleven hours of sitting, even if he did get up and move around when he could.

Then the tour properly starts, and the adrenaline rush hits them. This is what they love, what they live for, and Harry doesn’t care how much he aches after and that he embarrasses himself by running off stage to use the toilet every hour or so. He sits in every song that it’s possible to, and follows the boys around more sedately when they sing active tracks.

It’s worth it though, when he sees signs in the audience that say ‘we love you Harry!’ or ‘Congrats Harry’ or even ‘We love Baby Direction’. He rings Nick nearly every night, and tells him about the signs he’s seen today or how much the baby has moved or what potentially dangerous substance Louis has ‘rescued’ him from. Nick in return tells him about the Breakfast Show and what he and Aimee have done or how much Ian is bullying him. It’s easy. It’s a relief after the rush of the day to be able to sit down, breathe, and chat to the one man in the world he loves more than anything.

He calls his mum, too, and his doctor, and figures out that he may not be in the same country anymore, but he hasn’t lost his support network.

They finish the South American leg in Brazil, and Harry is relieved. He loves tours and he loves performing, but he’s about to hit his third trimester and he really just wants to be home. He’s fed up with invasive interviewers asking to touch his bump or questioning him on morning sickness and heart burn and yes, he’s experienced most pregnancy symptoms and no, male pregnancy doesn’t differ that much from its female equivalent. He wants Nick and his mum. He wants familiar doctors that speak his language without a heavy accent, and who know that he has been having back pain for weeks now, it’s not a new thing.

The lads fly back to Ireland as planned, while Harry boards another flight back to the UK with Lou Teasdale, who has been a star throughout Harry’s pregnancy, giving him advice and tips and teasing him gently when he gets a bit moody. She’s been through it recently, and she tells Harry honestly about dealing with stretch marks and about getting so pissed off she’d yelled at both her husband and then her unborn child. She makes him feel better.

She’s amazing during the flight, joining him in his exercises so he doesn’t feel totally embarrassed, and sorting out his screen for him so it plays exactly the film he wants. She persuades him to sleep for a while and promises he won’t develop thrombosis if he shuts his eyes for a bit, then she wakes him up after three hours to walk around and stretch his legs.

“I love you,” he tells her honestly when they disembark from the plane back in London. She laughs, pats his cheek, and says she charges by the hour.

He sticks his tongue out and persuades his security to drive him straight to Nick’s instead of home.

He spends the week in the UK alternating between sleeping curled up with Nick and meeting with various doctors. His mum comes down to London and he stays with her at his flat for a day or so, before she tells him gently to get back to Nick. It’s exactly the rest he needs, and he feels so much better for it when he flies to Ireland to meet the lads in Dublin.

Life goes on, even when pregnant. He starts sitting down more during the shows, and in Edinburgh, when he’s over seven months pregnant, he misses out the first half of the show. He’s lying backstage with a combination of heart burn and back ache, on the phone to his doctor who assures him it’s perfectly normal to feel like shite and he just has to ride it out. He pulls himself together enough to join the lads later to the cheers of the crowds, but he feels like it’s the beginning of the end.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis tells him later, hugging him tightly. “People don’t mind, Haz.”

Harry nods, but he feels fucking pathetic about it, and he calls Nick that night in tears.

“Come home, Popstar,” Nick says. He sounds worried and tired and Harry hates himself for concerning Nick like this.

“I can’t,” Harry says, his voice small. “I’m alright, Nick.”

He knows the older man can hear the wobble in his voice, but all Nick says is, “I love you so much, yeah?”

“I know,” Harry answers, clutching the phone like a life line. “One more month, and I’m home properly.”

“And I’ll see you in three days when you perform at Wembley, won’t I?” Nick adds, his voice reassuring. “We can do this, Haz. And if you can’t, then forget everyone else and come home to me.”

Harry laughs. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t even know what he’s apologising for, really. For getting pregnant, maybe. For prioritising the band over his life with Nick. For putting his health at risk by travelling and working heavily pregnant. For worrying his boyfriend.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Nick says softly. “I love you, I love this child, and we’ll all be fine, okay?”

The time in the UK flies by, and soon Nick is kissing Harry goodbye again as he flies off to Sweden, with yet more instructions from doctors. This could be the last time he’s pregnant in the UK if his baby comes early. He’s worried and freaking out, and he’s thirty two weeks pregnant and he shows it. Lou struggles with paternity clothes for him as he keeps growing, and his body gets more and more sore as time goes on. He has his own chair, now, that he moves around stage depending on where he wants to be, although he makes the effort to get up and leap around a little during every show. He sleeps badly, and Louis and Liam take turns to share a room with him, in case he has problems during the night. He finds it harder to move around as his bump grows massive, and he gets short of breath very easily. It makes singing hard, and the other lads are always ready to take on one of his solos if he can’t continue.

It’s frustrating. He comforts himself with the knowledge that the tour ends on the 13^th July, only one month away.

It’s July 7^th, and they arrived in Spain the day before from Switzerland. He’s thirty five weeks pregnant and so utterly fed up with it all.

Louis wakes him up early, telling him they have an interview today and he better get ready because Paul was on the rampage. He rolls out of bed slowly, makes his way into the shower and feels like shit. His body is heavy and slow, and it feels like the baby doesn’t stop kicking. He doesn’t want to eat or move, but he drags himself into the car with the other boys and falls asleep on Louis’ shoulder.

He’s woken up when a sharp pain stabs through his abdomen, and he clutches his stomach.

“Alright?” Louis asks, frowning down at him.

Harry shakes off the pain, and concludes, “Baby whacked me.”

Louis laughs quietly, and lets Harry settle down.

The pains don’t stop and by the time they reach the studio where the interview is, Harry thinks there’s something definitely wrong. He remembers his doctor’s words to call him when he started getting contractions, and he thinks this may be it. But the interview is half an hour long, and the people are expecting them . . . He’s torn.

The decision is taken out of his hands when a sudden pain, worse than the others, takes him by surprise when they’re walking down a corridor. He gasps, clutches his bump and doubles over, riding out the pain of the contraction.

“Harry?” Louis asks immediately, and he can hear other people shut up and turn towards him.

“I’m alright,” he says breathlessly, but he can’t straighten up yet.

“Tell me honestly, Haz,” Louis demands, and someone’s hand – Liam’s, he thinks – settles on his back.

“I think I’m getting contractions,” he admits through gritted teeth as another wave of pain shoots through him.

There’s an immediate reaction. Hands guide him to a room with a sofa, which he sinks into gratefully. Liam is yelling for Paul, who arrives quickly and takes charge at once. A glass of water is pressed into his hand, the only thing he’s allowed in case he gets rushed into surgery, and someone is already talking about getting him to the nearest hospital. Paul is on the phone to Harry’s doctors, by the sounds of it, and presumably they’re preparing to fly out.

He gasps again as another wave of pain shoots through him. He knows this is bad. Men aren’t designed for labour. The muscles contract and push the foetus, but there’s nowhere for it to go. He needs a caesarean, and he needs his doctors here for that.

“Louis,” he gets out, and Louis is rapidly taking his hand and reassuring him he’s there. “Lou,” he says again. “Call Nick and my mum,” he tells him. Louis guides him onto his back and says he’s right on it.

It goes quickly after that. Harry is helped up and driven to hospital, along with Paul and Louis, who had demanded to be taken along as well. His mum and Nick have been contacted, and both have been booked on the first flight to Spain, hopefully arriving not long after his doctors who are on a private flight. He gets given oral medication for the pain, but not much else.

Paul and Louis are explaining the situation to the doctors at the local hospital, whilst another member of his management team is on the phone to the obstetrician he was referred to in Spain. It’s chaos, and he’s still in pain and panicking. He wants his mum.

Two hours later, he’s spoken to his mum who has reassured him she’s with Nick and Gemma and they’re all on their way, and will be there when he wakes up. She sounds worried out of her mind though, and he’s not very comforted. Louis is sitting next to him on the bed, gripping his hand tightly. The other lads are apparently trying to get through the interviews they had booked today whilst not giving away exactly what is happening.

Harry’s shit scared, and the contractions are getting worse.

Barely ten minutes after, a nurse informs him in thick English that he’s being put under. His doctors have arrived, it seems, and the time has come. Harry’s panicking and Louis’ trying to calm him, but it’s not working. He feels alone and scared and he’s petrified that something will go wrong and he doesn’t want to lose his baby, he loves his baby-

Waking up is difficult. Everything is blurry and his head feels thick. He can’t summon the energy to open his eyes even as he feels someone poking around with his arm. He drifts back under, unable to shake the feeling that something is missing.

It’s a little easier this time, and he makes it as far as opening his eyes blurrily before fading back into darkness.

It takes him maybe two more tries before he fully understands what’s going on. There’s a nurse smiling above him, telling him to stay awake this time, and he can be moved back onto a ward. There’s no pain and he’s a little groggy still, but he nods in response. There’s an IV in his arm and a blood pressure cuff on his other bicep that the nurse is fiddling with.

His throat feels dry, but he croaks out, “my baby?”

The nurse withdraws the cuff and smiles at him. “Your baby’s fine,” she confirms. “Keep improving and we’ll move you back onto the ward where you can say hello.”

“Nick?” he gets out before darkness threatens.

“Your family is all waiting for you, Mr Styles.”

When he wakes up the next time, there’s a hand gripping his, and an excited yell when he opens his eyes. Louis is next to him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Harry,” he says in delight. “You’re awake.”

Harry nods, the blurriness fading but pain starting to thrum in his abdomen. Louis hands him water and he drinks steadily. “My baby?” he asks.

Louis smiles wide enough to split his face. “He’s beautiful,” Louis confirms. “A little small, but he was a few weeks early, so,” he shrugs.

“Can I see him?” Harry asks roughly.

“I’ll get the nurse for you,” Louis tells him. “Your mum and Nick are with him now.”

Harry feels jealously coursing through him. He wants his child. Needs it. He doesn’t trust Louis completely, doesn’t believe a baby at thirty five weeks can be healthy.

A few seconds later, there’s chaos in his room as the other four lads squeeze in, all saying congratulations and checking on his health. Harry feels stiff and sore and old, but all he wants is his baby boy.

And then, there he is.

Nick’s carrying him carefully, swaddled in blankets and his face a weird purple colour, all squashed and wrinkly. Harry doesn’t think he’s beautiful, he couldn’t care less. He’s Harry’s now; he belongs to him.

He barely registers Nick’s kiss on his forehead, just holds his arms out and allows Liam to help shift him into a better sitting position. His baby is placed into his arms eventually and all he can think is

Welcome to the world, my little baby boy.