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Nick’s phone is ringing. The name on the screen is ‘Lewis’. He couldn’t swear to it, but he thinks this is unprecedented. Maybe there was a time when he was so drunk, and it was so late, and it was so loud wherever he was, that he forgot who rang who. Maybe there might have been that time one Christmas, but he can’t really remember.
But now it’s two in the afternoon, he’s stone-cold sober and if he answers, he will be sober on the phone to Louis. He knows for a fact that is unprecedented. He pushes his thumb against ‘Accept’ and raises the phone to his ear.
‘Hello?’ he says after a second or two.
‘Hiiiiiiiii.’
Louis lands on the ‘h’ like he's about to belt out Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday' and gives it six times the usual number of ‘i’s. Drunk then. At two in the afternoon. Wonderful. The role reversal is complete. Nick supposes he should be flattered but somehow he's not, he's just tired.
‘Y’all right?’
‘Naaaah.’ There’s a puff that sounds to Nick like a small laugh.
‘What’s up?’
‘Boooored.’
He’s not bored. Calling Nick pissed after a show is one thing, but this is the middle of the day and they’re in the same country.
‘Are you on your own?’
‘W’sit to you?’
‘Just wondering. Where are you?’
‘’M tired.’
This isn’t good. Nick doesn’t know how he knows it but he does.
‘Lou, maybe you should - ’
‘Do me.’
‘Lou.’
‘Come on, Nick. Do me. It’ll only take five minutes.’
He’s right, if Nick pitches his voice right and says the right things, it’ll actually take less than five. He loves bringing Louis off with just his voice. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a coffee?’ he says instead.
‘Hate coffee. Nick, come on.’ There’s a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. ‘Please. I need…’ He breaks off and there’s a sobbing noise.
Jesus. Nick hates it that his instincts were right.
‘Lou,’ he says softly again. ‘Mate.’
Not ‘babes’. He’s not drunk, and they’re not having sex. ‘Mate’ is as close as he can get to a term of endearment when he’s got his wits about him. There’s another snuffle and a shaky exhale. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m just so fuckin’ bored of havin’ to say my ‘leb’ity crush is Emma Watson.’
Ok. Not what he expected. 'Did you have an interview by any chance?'
‘Smornin.’ And before Nick can say anything else, Louis is off again. ‘Just one day,’ he says. ‘I wanna say “Actually you know what, it’s Robert Downey Jr and not in a cute, metrosexual, man-crush sort of way, but in a I want him to nail me to the mattress with his actual dick sort of way.’
Louis never talks about this stuff. Nick’s pretty sure it tears him up inside in a fairly unhealthy way on a fairly regular basis but he never, ever talks about it. Nick’s shit with this sort of thing, but he knows Louis’ only got him for it, no-one else. He's standing and staring blindly out of his living room window, one hand in his pocket, the denim edge digging into his knuckles, the phone clamped in his other hand so hard it’s making red indents in his palm.
‘Robert Downey Jr eh?' he says lightly. 'Bit old for you isn’t he?’
There’s no comeback to that, just a sigh and the sound of liquid rising and falling in a bottle.
‘What are you drinking?’ Nick says. ‘Advocaat?’
‘’ck off, Grimshaw. You’re not funny.’
This is reassuringly normal.
‘Baileys? Aftershock?’
‘Bottle of vodka I found in the back of the fridge.’
‘Lovely.’
'Plus had some beers earlier.'
'Even better.'
They’re bickering and Louis hasn’t put the phone down on him. Nick starts breathing again. There’s a clunk and some rustling and when Louis speaks again it sounds like it’s through a mouthful of duvet.
‘’M jus’ tired, Grim.’
Nick knows he doesn’t mean he’s a bit wiped from touring. He means it in a bigger way. Nick has the worrying urge to climb through the phone and cover Louis with his body, hug him tight and tell him it’ll be ok, but the only thing he can do is be normal with him. ‘Mmm, the popstar life. World travel. Luxury hotels. All that cash. Must be awful.’
‘Shut up,’ Louis says quietly. Then Nick hears a muffled sentence that ends in a question mark. Something like, ‘Wo’wozzit lye ‘noo c’mout?’
Nick pictures a mound in the middle of the bed with only Louis’ nose and eyes showing, and maybe a wisp of hair. He imagines Louis hoping that the duvet combined with the drunkenness will be enough to muffle what he is saying so that Nick will miss it. Nick’s pretty sure he heard right though.
‘Did you just ask me,’ he starts softly, not wanting to spook Louis. ‘What it was like when I came out?’
He fully expects Louis to go into denial mode, but it's worse than that.
‘What do I do, Nick?’
Nick doesn’t know what to say. What’s normal for this? There’s no precedent.
‘Tell me what to do.’ His voice is the tiniest Nick’s ever heard it. Loud Louis. Obnoxious Louis. Look-At-Me Louis.
Nick’s the last person to ask. He was never really in, and when he ‘came out’ nobody gave a shit. But Louis doesn’t have anyone else, not for this. Nick’s the nearest to an expert (or, god help him, a mentor) Louis’ got right now and Nick has to step up, if he wants… .
If nothing. This has nothing to do with him. Nick has to step up.
‘If it’s making you this unhappy not to be out, then you should do it.’
‘Everyone’ll go apeshit.’
In another universe, Nick might say ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ or ‘I’ll support you all the way’, but it’s this universe and he doesn’t. ‘Talk to your PR bods,’ he says instead. ‘They can help. Talk to your boys. They love you.’
‘What about the papers and that. The fans. Jesus. The fans. Think of the trending topics. Hashtag fag direction. Hashtag poofy tomlinson.’
Nick’s anger ambushes him. ‘They’re not you’re fans then,’ he says sharply. ‘Don’t you ever listen to them. They’re just fuckwits on the internet. Since when do you care what people say about you anyway? Isn’t that Harry’s job? Fuck ‘em, Lou. I mean it.’
‘Ooh, so masterful defending my honour, Grimshaw.’ There’s a wobbly smile in Louis’ voice that breaks Nick’s heart. ‘I feel quite swoony.’
Nick’s fury devolves into a giggle. ‘Shut up. I mean it. In the end all of that stuff isn’t anything to do with you. It’s bullshit. This is about your happiness. And that’s no-one’s business but your own. You should be free to be who you are.’
Nick hears himself and thinks he sounds like he’s pushing too hard. Like this is for him. ‘You’ll be able to go out with anyone you like. In public. Find a nice boy.’ He swallows. ‘A proper, um… boyfriend.’
‘You’re a nice boy,’ Louis returns without hesitation.
‘Am I?’ Nick says stupidly.
‘Would you be my nice boy?’
He says it in a wistful, curious sort of way that takes away any remaining breath Nick had. He’s drunk, Nick thinks around his inability to catch a breath. He’s incredibly fucking pissed and will not remember any of this in a few hours.
‘Urgh,’ Louis says, as if to confirm this. ‘Think I need the loo.’ There’s a sudden loud crackle like something brushing directly up against the phone-mic. ‘Hope I make it to the show tonight,’ Nick hears distantly.
‘The what?’
‘Go’ a show,’ echoes far away followed by worrying gurgling noises.
Nick takes his phone away from his ear, shouts ‘Don’t go anywhere!’ nonsensically into it before pressing ‘end call’ and scrolling rapidly through his favourites.
‘Addison Lee,’ the woman says.
‘How fast can you get a car to Primrose Hill?’
~
When he’s halfway there, his phone pings.
Where did you go? it says accusingly.
Nick’s thumbs work. I’m coming round.
You can’t come round.
You’re not the boss of me, tomlinson. I’m coming over, like it or not.
Dickhead, he gets back.
He settles back into the seat of the cab and wills it to go faster.
~
Louis opens the door looking like an angry drunk kitten in tracksuit bottoms and socks. He’s swaying slightly on his feet. ‘’M all right. Didn’t need to…’ He tips forward against Nick, arms hanging down. His nose and chin poke bonily against Nick’s sternum.
‘What time’s your car?’ Nick says into the top of Louis’ head.
‘Dunno. Six thirty?’
There are puffs of hot breath against Nick’s chest. ‘It’s three now,’ he says, taking hold of Louis’ shoulders. ‘That’ll give you a couple of hours kip. Come on, let’s get you to bed.’
Nick starts steering Louis towards the stairs.
‘Ooh, Grimshaw. Are you trying to seduce me?’
‘No.’ Nick gives Louis a gentle shove. ‘Drunk people are shit in bed. Go on, Tomlinson, up the stairs.’
They get to the bedroom and Louis sinks down on the edge of the bed, his eyes at half mast and Nick kneels down in front of him to start tugging off his socks. He notices the empty vodka bottle on its side by the bedside table.
‘Don’t need to. Can just go sleep like this.’
‘You’ll be comfier.’ Nick gives the tracksuit bottoms a tweak. ‘These too.’
Louis sighs and hauls them under his arse and Nick pulls them all the way off and chucks them in the corner. Louis swings his legs up onto the bed, and Nick pulls the covers down over him before toeing off his own shoes and hopping over Louis.
As he lies on top of the covers, spooning himself in behind Louis, he realises this is the gentlest they’ve ever been with each other and he realises that maybe he understands what the word ‘intimacy’ means now. Not fucking, not even quiet on the phone in the dead of night, thousands of miles away from each other, but this: teasing tenderness, going to bed with no prospect of sex, Louis half-drunk and half-asleep in his socks and trackies. It feels like a revelation as big – and about as terrifying – as when he realised how stupid he was over Louis six months or so ago.
‘You don’t have to stay,’ Louis says over his shoulder, pulling the covers properly over himself.
‘Just keeping you company. Nowt else to do.’
Louis’ soft snort turns into a sigh and then a deep breath in and out. A few minutes pass and Nick thinks he’s gone to sleep. Then Louis’ small voice sounds out into the shaded daylight of the bedroom.
‘If I did it, would you… would…’ He’s quiet but lucid – all traces of drunkenness gone from his voice.
Nick’s forearm is tucked against Louis’ belly, his hand getting pins-and-needles under Louis side. He squeezes harder, so his hand is fully squashed under Louis’ body. ‘I’m right here,’ he says. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
~
He’d meant it metaphorically and was going to go once Louis was safely asleep, but the next thing he knows is Louis’ phone going off at five-thirty.
‘Thought you were going home,’ Louis twists his head to look down at Nick, who’s blinking up at the ceiling.
‘I was. Must have been more tired than I thought.’
‘Chuh,’ Louis half-laughs, and then raises his hand to his forehead. ‘Ugh. I feel awful.’
‘That’ll teach you to have sexuality crises in the middle of the afternoon.’
‘It wasn’t a sexuality crisis. I know who I am,’ he snaps and shuffles down the bed to get up. ‘Gonna shower.’
Nick closes his eyes. He should go. He shouldn’t have stayed in the first place, but he’s weak.
‘Make us some tea, would you?’ Louis calls from the ensuite and then there’s a slam and the noise of the shower is muffled. Ok, maybe not just yet.
~
Louis comes down, looking respectable in t-shirt and skinnies, hair damp. He’s young enough to shake off the signs of an afternoon bender. Little git, Nick thinks, fond and jealous and confused. He hands Louis a steaming mug.
‘Ah mate, ta.’ Louis lowers his face over the cup and breathes in. He hitches himself up onto the kitchen table, resting his feet on a chair. He takes a sip and makes a face and they drink in silence for a bit.
Nick looks out of the window at Louis’ nondescript, landscaped garden. Mostly patio slabs and gravel and hardy plants that’ll take a lot of neglect. A popstar’s garden. He still doesn’t know if everything Louis said earlier was just some drunken spew of nonsense.
‘I’m gonna talk to Simon,’ Louis says, making Nick turn to look at him. ‘See what he says. Get him to come up with a plan.’
Simon’s their PR, same firm as Nick’s, natch. ‘I thought it was the drink talking.’ He thinks he manages to keep the relief out of his voice.
Louis looks into the mug between his hands. ‘Did you mean it,’ he says after a minute. ‘Last night.' He shakes his head. 'Not last night, I mean, earli - ’
‘I meant it,’ Nick says.
‘Ok,’ says Louis looking up. ‘Thanks.’
They don’t do anything for a beat or two, just look at each other, Nick leaning against the counter, Louis sitting on the table. Can I trust you? it feels like Louis’ saying. Are you for real? Nick keeps very still and returns Louis’ gaze steadily. Then he puts his cup on the counter and says ‘C’mere.’ He lifts his arm towards Louis and Louis slips off the table and comes over, puts himself under Nick's arm and his mug next to Nick’s on the counter. Then he reaches up to kiss Nick, his mouth warm and tasting of school staff-rooms, Nick’s worst thing. But Nick doesn’t care because Louis is pressing in, closed-lipped but intent and his hands are either side of Nick’s face, holding him like he’s about to fuck off somewhere. He’s not. He’s not and he doesn’t know how to say it except by not letting go.
‘Hey,’ he says, pulling back after a bit. ‘I’ve just noticed something.’
‘What?’ Louis looks soft, sleepy.
‘We’re not drunk.’
Louis opens his eyes a bit at that and considers it for a second or two. ‘And we’re not on the phone either.’
They kiss till the car comes.