Work Text:
all i know... is you're the nicest thing.
It’s hard being second best.
Having this person that he loves the most, loves best in his life that only treats him like he’s everything when everyone else has disappeared into the background. It’s difficult when he wants to reach out and touch and take and take but he can’t. He can’t because it’s not wanted, not needed - and when he is needed he doesn’t even have the right then because it’s his turn to take and take from Niall.
He’s the best and the worst thing in Niall’s life.
And he wants it to be more. Wishes that it were different. Hate’s himself because it’s not.
But he can’t change it. Won’t change it.
And that’s probably what hurts the most.
. 1 .
It’s nice this. Breakfast at Harry’s, morning after slouched in an old pair of Harry’s sweatpants and Harry sitting beside him, scrolling through whatever on his phone. It’s nice. It’s quiet apart from the sound of the clock ticking - some ridiculous hipster owl thing on the wall beside the window that looks out on Harry’s little garden. The morning light makes everything seem white and new - his stupid little terracotta pots of herbs on the sill only add to the whole scene looking like it should be a photo straight from Jamie Oliver’s recipe book. Not that Harry owns any of those - it’s all Nigella and some older stuff that he’s found at second hand stores and that one great bible of a thing that Louis sent him over from his and Liam’s trip to Australia.
It’s quiet and it’s nice to just sit here and have Harry’s elbow bump into his when he shifts to pick up his mug of tea. It’s nice to sit here and be able to lean his head on Harry’s shoulder once he’s finished his toast and there’s nothing else to do but be still. Harry’s arm lifts and Niall snuggles in underneath it, closing his eyes and breathing the sleep warm scent of Harry’s shirt and Harry’s skin as he nuzzles into Harry’s neck. It’s nice that he sighs happily and Harry just leans his head to the side, brushing his curls against Niall’s head. It should be enough.
It should be plenty that Harry’s letting him stay and not finding some excuse to send him out like he usually does when Niall spends the night in Harry’s bed. It should be enough to just soak this up like it’s normal. Everyday. But it’s not.
“This is nice,” he says and he knows he shouldn’t have said a word because he can already feel Harry pulling away.
Harry nods and shifts a little - but he hasn’t moved completely out of Niall’s reach yet. It stupidly gives Niall hope.
“Harry, do you ever think we could-” he starts but Harry’s already up and pushing Niall back onto his own stool and he’s carrying Niall’s plate to the sink.
Niall hates the ache it leaves in his chest. Harry’s only a few footsteps away and it feels like a forever distance between them. Harry’s got his back to him, washing off the crumbs for far longer than is necessary - the plate was nearly clean when it was sat in front of Niall.
“Don’t, Niall.” Harry says with a tired tone, “You gonna shower before you go?” Harry asks, neutral and without any warmth.
Niall swallows down the hurt that forms a lump so big in his throat, an ache so hard in his chest and manages to get out an answer.
“No.”
Harry nods and has his phone in his hand again, the buzz of a text or something coming through as he walks past Niall - not even looking up. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out.”
Niall listens to Harry’s footsteps disappearing down the hall and hates that he opened his mouth at all. He knows the rules. These unspoken points that sum up his not so relationship with Harry. No talk after the fact. No mentioning of feelings or anything of the sort. Just friends who fuck and that’s all.
Harry isn’t one for relationships. Life is too short, who knows when someone could take your interest next and why deprive yourself of something that could be amazing? So why not do what you could when you could and be happy with that? Harry is full of great intentions. Great ideas and Niall agreed to it. In the beginning.
But that was before a handful of times every week turned into months and now it’s been two years and nobody knows.
Still. He gets up and grabs his keys from where he left them on the coffee table when he just came over “to watch the match.” Then the football had ended and Derby had lost and Niall’s clothes were all over the floor and Harry’s curls were soft against Niall’s thighs. He picks up his things, shoves his feet into his high tops and locks the door on his way out.
It’s the only thing Harry had asked him for.
. 2 .
It’s early in the day but Niall knows Liam is at work at the bar now and it’s a Thursiday and Niall has no other plans so he drops by. It’s mostly empty and Niall grabs a stool toward the back and Liam serves him up a pint of his favorite with a smile. They talk about this and that and Niall is in the middle of this story about a concert he went to with Harry when he notices the pinched look on Liam’s face.
“What?” He asks, because Liam is usually a happy fellow - all smiles and crinkly eyed laughter and adoring hearts in his eyes looks when Louis is around.
“Nothing,” he shrugs and Niall isn’t going to leave it at that.
“Liam.”
Liam sighs and rubs at the hair that’s getting long again on top of his head. He cut it short when he and Louis went surfing in Australia but that was a few months back and it’s finally starting to grow out.
“Harry was in here with a bird last night,”
“So?” Niall forces out, teeth grinding at something he shouldn’t be worried about. Harry is nothing to him after all.
“And another one before that,”
NIall shrugs and looks at the ring of moisture his untended pint glass is leaving on the little cardboard mat.
“And that radio mate of his on Sunday. They didn’t look anything ‘mate’ like when I spotted them in the corner all pressed close,”
Niall picks up his glass for something to do and downs the lot. “Good for Haz, can I’ve another, Li?” he asks, not looking up. Not looking into Liam’s brown eyes that could give a basset hound a run for its money when it comes to the sad puppy look. He can’t acknowledge what Liam’s confessions are doing to his insides.
Friends. That’s all he is with Harry. No claim on what Harry does. No right to it hurting as much as it does when he hears about Harry’s latest conquests.
“Niall,” Liam starts again and it feels like pity and concern.
“It’s fine, Li. We’re just-” and Niall leaves it there because they’re what? They’re a secret that Niall’s kept for too long. An addiction he can’t help but go back for because it’s Harry and he’s just so. . . .
“Zayn asked for you.”
It’s such a change in subject that Niall does look up then, and Liam’s looking at him like he should understand what Liam means by those four cryptic words.
“Did he?”
Liam nods, “Always asks about you when you’re not around. Always wants to know how you are, what you’re getting up to.”
“He works with Harry, he could just ask,”
Liam frowns, “Harry’s a model and Zayn is one of many that take calls at that office Harry works for,” he stops like he realised he’s gone off on a tangent - which Niall was hoping for - and shakes his head. “Zayn always asks about you, Niall. Harry hardly mentions your name.”
“Right,” Niall says because there’s that lump in his throat again. The one that makes it hard to swallow and speak.
”Niall-” Liam presses and Niall is up and off his seat, throwing money on the counter and telling Liam to say hi to Louis for him as he walks out of the bar, Liam’s voice calling his name at his back.
He pulls his hood up over his head, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jumper and heads down the street. His mind is full of what Liam’s said - the reasons why Zayn asks about him are nothing new for Niall to know about. He’s seen the way Zayn looks at him sometimes. He knows that Zayn could possibly want something but Niall has nothing to give. Not while his heart is in Harry’s unknowing hands.
. 3 .
Niall’s never really cared about the way he dressed.
It wasn’t really that an important of a factor when he lived in his small town back in Ireland. It was hats to keep the sun off his face, shoes that he could run in and clothes that kept the chill out. He hasn’t changed all that much since coming to London for Uni and staying for a multitude of reasons (or just one). He still wears his hats - but they’re a little nicer, a little newer and hardly ever get properly worn in. His shoes are updated - helps that his friend Justin runs the store that stocks the brand Niall loves (that Harry commented on) so he gets them discounted. He still wears clothes that are functional - but sometimes they’re purposefully vintage - not ones that he’s just owned forever.
It’s Harry’s birthday and he’s having it at this trendy club in East London and all his hipster, semi-famous friends will be there and he asked Niall to come. Well, not exactly asked. Niall was there when Harry dropped by the bar that Liam was working at and Niall and Louis were sat drinking pints waiting for Zayn to come around with the car to take them all home. Louis going was a given - he’d known Harry the longest - was his best friend for a while then Liam came along and well, no one really knew what happened there but they weren’t as close now. Liam would go because Louis would make him and Zayn worked with Harry a lot at the studio so he’d be there too. It was only Niall that was a little left out. Niall who’d met Louis at a party his first week at Uni and who he’d met Harry through later.
Niall who worked hard for his money. Days at the little music store where he got to fool around with guitars and dream about owning a Fender without having to beg the boss to put it aside so he could pay it off. Nights where he filled shelves at Tesco or occasionally helped Liam out at the bar when he didn’t. Niall who only worked a second job so he could look the part - keep up with these friends who didn’t have to worry so much about where every dollar was spent. Friends who had bank accounts tended to by parents and grandparents and who worked clever jobs with clever paypackets. Or Harry who just looked into a camera and smiled or pouted and made hundreds of pounds an hour and even more so when he walked in a straight line and twirled at the end.
Niall spends days figuring out what to wear to Harry’s special night. He asks Zayn and Zayn rolls his eyes and tells him he’ll look fine in whatever. It isn’t the answer he wants. He doesn’t want to embarrass Harry - not in front of his friends who are Radio 1 Dj’s and socialites who are famous because of their fathers and tv show hosts and a multitude of hangers-on that all threw clothes on that made them look like stars. Effortless and catwalk worthy. Like Harry.
Louis takes him out eventually. Finds him things that aren’t out of his price range and that still make him feel comfortable. Apart from the shirt. The collar is too stiff and his arms feel sort of claustrophobic from where their buttoned double at the wrist. He looks for Harry once he’s made it past security out the front - Paul’s met him a hundred different times but still wants to look at Niall’s ID. He finds him and he’s about to wave when Harry’s face lights up. His dimples are deep, smile wide and Niall can see it in his green eyes how happy Harry is. Niall’s face breaks into a grin and Harry walks up and then past him, arms outstretched and he’s hugging Louis and Liam looks put out but still manages to smile through it.
“My favourite boy is here!” Harry says, loud and slurred with whatever alcohol he’s been consuming before they got here. He pulls back and Louis is smiling too - not noticing the way Liam’s blinking a little fast, lips shaking a little at the corners.
“Love that smile,” Harry says, brushing his thumb over Louis’ cheek and they’re looking at each other in a way that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. It’s like a knife in Niall’s chest and he’s not even anything with Harry - not like Louis is with Liam. If it hurts like this for Niall, this ball of hurt that weighs heavy in his stomach - then what does it feel like for Liam?
Harry pulls back and he blinks - like he’s noticing the others are there and then he’s got an arm wrapped around Liam and he’s moving on to clasp Zayn’s shoulder and then he looks over it to Niall, brows raised. It’s almost as if he’s surprised to see him. He did ask Niall to come.
“Looking good, Nialler,” is all he says before he gets pulled away by some bird with bright yellow hair and the only reason Niall doesn’t turn around and walk back out is Zayn’s hand in his squeezing tight.
“Let’s get a drink, yeah?” Zayn’s voice is soft in Niall’s ear and Niall nods. Lets Zayn lead him in and he drinks and watches as Harry works the room. He kisses girls and boys and when the party is winding down and there’s not many left he finds Niall’s eyes and he nods to the door. Niall’s been in this situation enough times before to know what that means. He tips his head in return, finishes his drink and it’s only when Zayn’s hand is on his elbow that he stops short. Zayn’s dark eyes are wide and questioning, concern criss crossed in lines across his forehead.
“Stay,” Zayn says and Niall just shakes him off, hugs his friend tight as he can what with Zayn sitting and Niall on his feet.
“I have to go.” Is all he says and he’s out the door, getting a cab to Harry’s. He waits on the cold step, knowing that it won’t be too long and Harry will be here and he’ll be warming his frozen fingers on Harry’s hot body and it’ll be fine. It’ll be worth all that came before.
. 4 .
Harry’s been off on a photoshoot in some tropical place for most of the summer.
Niall’s hardly stopped.
He works. Takes on extra shifts and tells himself it’s so he can buy that new Fender that Dan’s got in store. He begs Liam for hours at the bar and he works himself and works himself but he still lies awake in bed, unable to sleep. He forgets to eat sometimes (all the time) and nearly passes out while packing tins of beans on the shelves so his boss sends him home with a bunch of weird nearly off vegetables which Niall throws once he’s out of sight. He feels like shit. Can’t eat, can’t drink because his throat feels like a cat’s got in there and scratched at his skin until it’s raw. He’s sick and it sucks because he’s got an empty flat and he’s all alone.
He messages Harry, i hate being sick :( :( but doesn’t get anything back.
Hasn’t got anything back the last three times he texted - or the one time he called. Niall refuses to look needy.
He shuffles his way into the living room, curls up on the sofa with his duvet and puts the telly on before he realises he’s got no tissues. He makes the slow trip back to his bathroom for a bog roll and then collapses on the sofa, shivering with cold and sweating all the same. He manages to fire two more texts off to Dan and Simon at the bar about being poorly and not coming in. He slides down in his duvet then, the last thing he remembers is dropping his phone to the ground, his eyes sliding shut.
He dreams of a cool hand on his brow and soft words spoken as he sips through a straw at water that hurts his throat but feels good all the same. He dreams of Harry’s green eyes and Harry’s smile and he tells himself it’s the fever because Harry can’t be here. Harry’s gone.
Hours or minutes later he comes to to the sound of someone shifting about in his kitchenette. Niall’s flat is so small there’s not much space between the front door, the kitchen, table for dining and the sofa with the telly. The only thing marking the difference between one room and the other being the vinyl in the kitchen area that looks like it doubled for a checkered pattern in some sort of Happy Days era diner.
“‘lo?” he calls out, his voice rough from sleep and aching with each swallow.
“You’re awake again?”
“Zayn?” he calls back in reply because - it’s not who he was expecting. Not that he’d been expecting anyone. Or any one in particular.
Zayn appears in front of him, bowl of something steaming and smelling like a bunch of herbs and spices that make Niall think of warmth and comfort. Zayn smiles shyly, hesitantly and holds the bowl out to Niall.
“Think you can sit up and feed yourself this time?”
“This time?” Niall questions in return, dragging his body upright with his back against the arm of the sofa, cushion squishing into his spine.
Zayn must see his look of annoyance, he puts down the bowl on the coffee table and pushes at Niall’s shoulder enough to shove the cushion in question around. Niall lays back when Zayn’s touch nudges him and he smiles in thanks.
“You look a lot better, eyes are clearer than before,” Zayn says, his hand cool on Niall’s cheek which means he must still have a touch of fever. “How d’you feel?”
Niall swallows and it hurts but not as much as before he passed out, he tells Zayn this. Gives him a rundown on what he feels which is awful really. A touch of a headache and his eyes are gritty and dry and his nose is most definitely blocked - which is probably a good sign considering how it was running like a tap before he went to sleep.
The first time, if what Zayn’s hinting at is true.
“How long have I been asleep?” He asks as Zayn kneels beside him, hand on Niall’s forehead.
“All up, three days in and out of it,” Zayn murmurs, tucking a thermometer he pulls from somewhere under Niall’s tongue.
Zayn’s very close and he’s staring at Niall with these big eyes filled with concern. Niall can’t help but look back. Take in Zayn’s angular features - the cheekbones you could cut yourself on, lips red and full and then there’s his eyes. Niall stares at Zayn’s eyelashes, the sooty sweep of them so dark and so thick it’s impossible not to. It’s not as if Niall hasn’t noticed Zayn before. He works for a modelling agency on the wrong side of the lens, really. But he likes what he does - organises the pretty people, designs the website and helps out with other pretty things when others are out. Photographs the lesser known as he works his way up to where he wants to be which is taking photos of Harry that aren’t candids at parties and each others homes.
“You’re really pretty,” Niall says around the plastic in his mouth without meaning to, notes the pink stain to Zayns cheeks. Zayn grabs at the thermometer, pulls back but Niall’s got his hand on Zayn’s wrist, halting his movement once it’s out of his mouth. “I mean, thanks, for-”
He stalls but Zayn shrugs, and his face lights up with a grin that he bites hard on his lip to stop spreading. “You were sick,” he says as if that’s reason enough to come over and make Niall soup.
“Did Harry tell you I was?” Niall asks when Zayn hasn’t moved apart from to put the thermometer back in his pocket and Niall hasn’t let him go and the quiet between them is getting awkward.
Zayn pulls out of Niall’s grip and stands up. “Simon told Liam and Liam had an extra key,” he answers and there’s a change to his tone that Niall can’t help but notice. “Seeing as you’re awake properly now, I’ll be off. There’s more soup on the stove and there’s actual food in your fridge and pantry. You don’t have to be back at work for a couple of days, I’ll get Liam to pop around later, maybe Lou if he finishes at the station in time.”
Zayn says all of this as he’s picking up his coat, wallet and keys and he’s backing out toward the door, avoiding Niall’s eyes like the plague and Niall hasn’t a clue what he did wrong.
“Bye.” Is the last thing Zayn says before closing the door and Niall’s left alone with a steaming bowl of soup and he sneezes, wondering just what went on when he was too sick to notice.
. 5 .
“Do you remember,” Niall whispers in his ear, bent close from where Harry’s head is in his lap, Niall’s fingertips stilled from the circuit they were performing running through Harry’s curls. They’re a bit shorter now, he’d had them cut for the shoot in the Bahama’s and his skin is golden and tanned. Niall can’t stop touching it now they’re alone. “You were wearing the same shirt you are today when we first met. You had your black jeans on though - the ones you threw away later when you got that tear in the arse climbing over the fence when we all went out to the bungalow that time and you were chased by that bull?”
Harry makes a noise that could be a yes or a no - could just be him sleeping. Niall doesn’t pause,just continues on because Harry’s head is in his lap and Harry rarely falls asleep before they do anything when Niall comes over. They hadn’t even kissed before Harry was sliding down on his italian leather sofa, nuzzling his head on Niall’s lap, fingertips clutching soft on Niall’s knee. Niall had started playing with his hair sometime at the beginning of David Attenborough talking about Africa and by the time the first commercial break came in Harry was blinking slow and Niall was quiet, watching as Harry fell into sleep.
It feels safe talking to Harry now. Knowing that Harry’s someplace close to dreaming but not quite there yet. He can probably hear Niall talking about the first time they met, the clothes Harry was wearing and the way Harry looked at Niall that made his heart stop then speed up and think oh. Like Niall had finally witnessed what he’d heard about in stupid romance novels and watched people do in movies that had happily ever afters. Harry’s not really listening - so Niall can say all the things he wants to and not expect an answer or for Harry to find some excuse to leave.
“I bet you can’t even remember what I was wearing. How my hair wasn’t blond that day - I’d had it cut and not bothered dying it back so only the very tips were white still. You were the nicest thing I’d ever seen - ever have seen. Even now with your drool on my jeans and you with your stupid mis-matching socks on. You mean so much to me Harry and you’ll never -” Niall sighs because it’s useless and it’s hard even to talk to Harry like this when he knows Harry isn’t listening.
“I wish you’d let us try. I wish. . .” he pauses and watches one of Harry’s curls ping back into place from where Niall’s been brushing them back. “I just wish you loved me like I love you.”
Harry snorts and shakes a bit when the silence of the house is broken by an elephant trumpeting on screen. He licks at his lips and Niall’s heart is racing. He sits up a little, rolls in toward Niall’s body so when he blinks his eyes open slowly, green coming on show through lashes all raven black.
“Did I fall asleep on you?” Harry asks and that place in Niall’s chest that usually aches because of all that he and Harry aren’t flares and sends its icy spikes through his veins, twisting all of Niall’s insides.
He brushes a few curls from Harry’s forehead, tucks them behind his ear. “A little.”
Harry’s cheeks pink up and he grabs at Niall’s hand where he’s still pushing Harry’s curls off his face. Niall stiffens, thinking this is the part where Harry tells him to leave or whatever near tender moment they’re having breaks because Harry doesn’t do that. It’s a surprise then, when Harry’s lips press in the centre of Niall’s hand.
“Thanks,” Harry says, his voice this sleep slow husky thing that Niall knows from when they’ve woken up together or when Harry’s taken him deep and Niall’s fucked his throat. It’s a voice he wants to wake up to every morning. But Harry won’t let him.
Niall shrugs and it’s all he can do to blink back the tears that sting at his eyes from all he said and all he’ll never get in return.
Harry rolls back over, tugging at Niall’s hand until Niall has to shift, gets his body behind Harry’s on his wide sofa. He presses his face into Harry’s hair as Harry lets Niall’s hand go, leaves it on his hip. Harry’s hair is so thick, he won’t notice the tears that stain the back of his head. Niall sobs quietly as Harry breathes and the sound of Africa’s birds fills the air between them.
. 6 .
He knows it’s stupid, but he does it anyway. He doesn’t know if it’s the right place to go (probably not), but he ends up on Harry’s doorstep and it’s raining and he walked so he’s shivering with cold. He shoves his hands under his arms after pressing the doorbell and hears two sets of voices that have him muttering, fuck before Harry opens the door.
Harry opens it with a wide smile on his face, laughter still hanging in the air when he stops, taking in Niall’s hunched form on the step.
“Niall?” He says and there’s this question to how he says Niall’s name - not a question of why are you here but it feels more like a “who are you?”
Niall presses forward, never been one to be pushy with Harry but he needs him. Needs Harry right now with how much it all hurts. He’s crying again - maybe he didn’t stop in his walk over but he only notices because Harry’s wiping a thumb across his cheek and asking what’s wrong.
“Me Mam,’ Niall says, accent thick and strong like it is when he’s really tired or in this case, gutted from the inside out, “Me Mam’s heart,” is all he can get out before he’s falling forward into Harry and willing Harry to make it alright.
Harry’s hands are warm on his back, patting at the soaked material of Niall’s grey hoodie but it’s not enough. It’s nothing to how Niall is clawing at Harry’s chest. Hands fisted in the thin material of Harry’s button down and pulling his face into Harry like he wants to bury himself there. He does, he wants Harry’s warmth and he wants Harry’s hands on his body so he can forget. He needs to forget a phone call, forget a voice that he didn’t know and forget words like “heart attack” and “sudden” and “so sorry, love,” like she’d known him and his mum and how awful this was.
“Come on, Niall,” Harry says, pushing Niall back and Niall is so overcome, all the things he wouldn’t let himself feel until he knew he was at Harry’s starts coming out in full force. He’s sobbing now, grief settling into his bones as he falls to the floor and he can’t breathe for tears.
“Niall, Nialler,” Harry calls from above but Niall can do nothing but shake his head and clutch at the bones of Harry’s ankles where he’s barefoot.
“Zayn!” Niall hears, Harry’s bending down now and Niall can’t let go of Harry. Can’t and won’t because he needs to feel like Harry’s there - green eyes wide - but then Harry’s not.
He’s gone and Niall feels it like a punch to the chest and it’s Zayn who’s crouched down beside him. Zayn who’s brushing Niall’s hair from his forehead and grabbing at Niall’s hands, holding them still in his own. It’s Zayn who’s shushing him with soothing sounds. Zayn who lies down on the floor in the bloody entrance way to Harry’s house and Zayn who pulls and tugs until Niall is curled into Zayn’s embrace, Zayn’s arms tight around Niall’s chest, holding him together while Niall falls apart.
And it hurts more. Hurts that he’s lying here in Harry’s house and it’s Zayn that’s got him. That Harry is here somewhere - but couldn’t be here for Niall. Niall pushes it to the side and cries and cries because his mum’s gone and he hasn’t seen her in over a year and he’ll never get to hear her laugh again. Never get to see her smile when he talks about Harry and not see her frown a little when he tells her it’s not serious. Not like that. And it’s not. It’s really not but Niall’s never been one to give in lightly. To give up when the going gets tough.
So he clings to Zayn through the night. Let’s Zayn guide him to a bed that Niall knows is the guest room because it doesn’t smell like Harry. He let’s Zayn hold him while he sleeps and he lets Zayn whisper words of comfort into the skin of his neck because even if it’s not Harry - it’s Harrys house. Harry’s never been good with emotions. Locked himself away for a week when his grandfather died and didn’t see anyone - not even Louis or his mum.
He knows Zayn is awake behind him when he finally blinks open his tear swollen eyes, the sun shining too bright through the gap in the closed curtains.
“I read the text from your brother, I’m so sorry, Niall,” Zayn says, his lips pressed to the nape of Niall’s neck and Niall squeezes his eyes shut. Wishes that he didn’t have to acknowledge what Zayn’s apology was for.
They lay there silently and Zayn’s hold doesn’t lessen and it’s warm. He’s warm and he’s not in the clothes he was in last night - a shirt that fits too big but the pants fit okay so they must still be his. He lets his head drop, the tip of his nose dipping into the wide collar and he smells Harry and it spikes pain in his chest.
He sighs and he can feel Zayn hold him tighter.
“Why’d you come here, why’d you come to him?” Zayn whispers, and Niall isn’t sure if he’s meant to hear it - answer it even.
He brushes his teeth over with the tip of his tongue, mouth tasting horrible from a night with it left open and his skin feels raw and tight. “He was the first person I thought of,”
“But you know what he’s like. He doesn’t do emotional shit. He’s not like that.”
“He let me in didn’t he?” Niall says all sharp and biting like he feels Zayn’s words - an honest truth he doesn’t like to think about.
“Let you in and left you there,” Zayn says and he sounds colder than before, “Left me to fix you up like I always-”
“Always what?” Niall says, pulling out of Zayn’s grasp and sitting up, rubbing at his hair where he can feel it all spiked up in different directions. Zayn isn’t making sense or is making too much sense and it’s not. It’s not what Niall needs to hear right now.
“It doesn’t matter,” Zayn says, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes.
“Yes it does, why would you say something like that if it didn’t.”
“Because - “ Zayn starts and stops and then he’s sitting up too and looking at Niall with his amber eyes all wide and serious and Niall is taken aback by the clarity in his gaze. “because it’s what I always do. I look out for you every time he pushes you away and you keep going back to him even though he doesn’t love you, can’t love you the way-”
“The way you do,” Niall finishes because it’s what Liam’s hinted at and it’s what he’s ignored in the way Zayn’s touches sometimes last too long or the way Zayn looks at him sometimes when it’s just them and they’re doing something normal like getting lunch on a Tuesday because it’s the one day they both seem to always have off.
“Yes!” Zayn blurts out and his eyes widen as he says the word - like he didn’t actually mean to.
But it’s out there now and both of their chests are heaving from this conversation that shouldn’t have been occurring and the knock at the door is possibly the best thing Niall’s ever heard.
“I’ve made tea?” Harry calls through the wood and Niall breaks his stare from Zayn. Pushes Zayn and his truths to the side and pulls the sweat pants that someone - he doesn’t like to think who - left on the bedside table and he leaves the room without looking back at Zayn at all. He thanks Harry for the tea and says he’ll get his things later and it’s the first time in a long time that Niall’s left Harry’s because he couldn’t spend another second there.
It should be telling.
. 7 .
He avoids everyone for the next few days. Louis’ texts and Liam’s phone calls and even a bunch of fucking flowers that Harry sends to his mother’s house. He stayed there once, when they were first all getting to know each other Harry’d gone to Niall’s with him for the a summer break just as this thing between them had started. He’d slept in the bed Niall’s sleeping in now. He ate at the kitchen table and laughed so loud it echoed around the room when Niall’s mum regaled him with tales of Niall’s misspent youth.
Even now with the house quiet, not even the radio his mum always kept on playing - Niall imagines he can hear Harry’s voice. Harry’s laugh. But when he listens, truly listens, there isn’t a sound.
The day before the funeral arrives and with it Louis and Liam with apologies from Harry and Zayn. They had something big going on at the office and couldn’t get out of it and Niall nods his understanding. It wasn’t like he expected any of them to come really. Harry’s the only one to have ever met Niall’s family and maybe it’s a good thing that neither of them are here. Niall’s got enough on his plate with organising the last minute things before the funeral - Greg’s a mess and even though he’s older - can barely function at the moment. Thank goodness for his wife Eileen who becomes Niall’s right hand when it comes to sorting out his mother’s affairs.
The funeral is simple and held at the church Niall was baptised in and that he first discovered how much he liked playing music and singing in. The walk through town to the cemetry is sombre and the streets are quiet, everyone coming out to say goodbye to his mum and Niall is rocked by just how much he misses this. Misses the comfort of home, of being known and being accepted and being loved.
The service is simple and he doesn’t cry as he throws his flower in, a deep orange rose that his mother favoured. He can’t cry anymore - it’s all he did for a week and he’s sad enough to - but there’s just nothing left. He stands at the graveside with a crowd of people all around and Niall’s never felt more alone. He knows these faces - grew up with most of them but it’s not the same. His mum is lying there in a box, not breathing - never to breath anymore. Niall hates the air that fills his lungs, hates the breeze at his back that ruffles his hair and worst of all he hates that Greg has Eileen on his arm.
It’s not that he hates either of them - on the contrary, he loves Eileen. Loves his brother. It’s jealousy that turns his stomach and makes it hard to look at them together now, her arm wrapped around his waist as he leans on her - this big bear of a man leaning on this tiny woman who is nothing but a tower of strength and Niall hates it because who does he have? Liam and Louis are behind him somewhere, he can hear Louis’ sniffling and the noise from Liam blowing his nose.
Harry couldn’t even hold him when he showed up at his house and Zayn’s been avoiding him since the morning after.
Niall has no one and he’s burying his mum when he’s only twenty-six and no one should have to do that alone and yet here he is. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Turns them from fist to flat over again because he’s frozen to the spot while the priest goes on. He’s saying the final parts now, someone moving to the little hidden handle that will take his mother down into the earth and god, he can’t do this. He can’t. He’s shaking and biting hard at his lip when he feels it. This hand gripping his tight and Niall looks up and it’s Zayn. Zayn looking straight forward but his hold on Niall is this tangible thing that Niall focuses on. He closes his eyes and that’s when he feels an arm around his shoulder, pulling him to the opposite side. He breathes in and it’s expensive cologne and winter and all the things he associates with Harry.
Zayn doesn’t let go and Harry just holds him upright as the coffin disappears and the crowd disperses and they keep their hold on Niall until the men quietly move in with shovels, waiting for Niall to leave so they can finish their job. Niall blinks and it feels like the first time he’s done so in forever. He doesn’t know which way to turn.
“We should go,” Harry says, voice soft to his right.
“Liam and Lou have a car waiting,” Zayn says to his left after clearing his throat.
And it feels like Niall needs to make more of a choice here than just when to leave. Whichever way he turns he’s making a decision and it’s not fair that he has to do this now. Not fair that he’s got two reasons for him even being upright right now holding onto him like he’s a rope in a game of tug-o-war.
He shakes free of them both, turns on his heel and makes his way down the hill. He doesn’t look back.
. 8 .
The wake is as eventful as any irish life celebration. There’s drinking and laughter and memories that have everyone in happy tears and songs sung that Niall ends up having to get his old guitar out to have an impromptu singalong. It’s nice really, lovely to hear stories he knows and those he doesn’t about his mum and the life she lead. It eases the pain in his heart some and he thinks that maybe it’s going to be alright.
Then he’ll catch Harry’s eye or Zayn staring at him from across the room and a different pain blooms in his chest.
He avoids them all night. Slips by when Harry catches him in the hall just coming out of the loo. Talks to some long lost cousin on his right when Zayn approaches on his left. He ignores the stares Liam is giving him and manages to have a conversation with Louis that doesn’t touch on any of the drama unfolding around them. He sleeps like a log and wakes up early - house silent and eerie yet sort of comforting because it’s a sound Niall is used to by now.
He makes his way down to the kitchen, steps over his great uncle Ed passed out on the bottom stair. He throws some wood in the agar and sets a full kettle on the warmer, knowing that once he starts making a cuppa, those left in the house will all want one. He sits at the little round table and lays his head on his hands and breathes.
“Morning,” Niall freezes at the sound of Zayn’s voice.
“You’re up early,” Niall says - more of a question really because Zayn is a notorious late sleeper - worse than Harry when he doesn’t have a shoot.
There’s no sound so he imagines Zayn shrugging as he settles in the chair across from Niall. His feet brushing up against where Niall has his legs stretched out. He pulls them back and that’s when Harry walks in, yawning loudly.
Niall’s stomach turns and he really shouldn’t have drunk as much as he did. It was his mother’s wake after all so the beer and the scotch and whatever else were plentiful and it felt good at the time. Not now though. Not with Harry and Zayn both sitting across from him and not saying anything to each other and not saying anything to Niall, either.
The sound of the kettle whistling breaks the tension - has Niall sitting up fast in his chair and both boys getting up with a shout of, “I’ll get it!”
Harry gets there first, is sitting closest and Zayn settles back in his chair with a sigh. Niall watches his fingers follow the lines that he and Greg have carved into the wood over the years and decidedly doesn’t look up at where he can feel Zayn staring at him. He listens as Harry finds the mugs and locates the tea - he doesn’t ask Niall where it is, and it makes Niall wonder just how much Harry remembers from visiting here so many years before. Then again, Niall’s mother was a creature of habit, nothing has changed in the layout of the whole house since Niall can remember.
“Milk for Malik and two sugars and a dash of white for Nialler,” Harry says, setting the mugs down on the table in front of them both.
“Three,” Zayn says, not looking up from where Harry has placed his mug.
Harry frowns, looks a little confused as his gaze shifts from where he was smiling at Niall to Zayn. “No, he’s always had two.”
“Three,” Zayn says again with a little more force and he looks up, straight at Niall and Niall feels - he feels a lot.
Harry chuckles and it’s this nervous thing - nothing like his usual guffaw and Niall swallows hard.
“It’s three. He always says two but when he makes it he puts in three.”
“I’ve watched him make tea for years, Zayn. I think I know how my boyfriend takes his tea,” and Niall flinches because -
“Boyfriend?” Zayn says for him, shock colouring his tone as his eyebrows ride high into his hairline, usual quiff missing with his hair all soft and free from product, sweeping across his forehead in an inky mess.
“We have been fucking for the past two years, Zayn,” Harry says and Christ, this is all Niall’s ever wanted to hear from Harry but not like this. Not like saying it is claiming ownership on something he never really seemed to want. Never seemed to care about at all.
“It’s three,” is what Niall mumbles because he can’t really find his voice. “It’s always been three when I make it myself but Louis’ always given me so much shit for ruining tea that I tell people two.”
They’re all silent and there’s the sound of the garbage truck outside and a dog barking and it’s the worst kind of silence Niall’s ever been in.
“Well I guess Zayn knows you better then,” Harry says softly and then there’s the sound of the back door and Niall knows without looking that Harry is gone.
Tension is thick in the air again and Niall hates it. He feels like he’s the last doll on the shelf that two children are fighting over and it’s awful.
“I buried my mum yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I buried my mum and I shouldn’t - “ Niall leads off, shaking his head and pushing up from his chair. “I’m going back to bed. I think you should both leave.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll. . . we’ll talk when I get home.”
“Okay.”
Niall leaves the room. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t turn around. His head hits his pillow and he hopes for their sakes they’re gone when he wakes up once more.
. 9 .
It takes him three weeks to see either of them. Three weeks of thinking and putting his life into perspective and three weeks of avoiding Liam and Louis because they know and he doesn’t - he can’t have anyone’s help with this.
The sky is a bright blue when he walks up to a familiar door. It’s a perfect day really - sun’s been out and shining and the rest of London is soaking up the good fortune of a clear sky.
Niall’s not been able to take it in much though. His head too full and his heart heavy with what he knows he finally has to do. Decisions have been made and sleepless nights too many to count have been lived through.
He takes a deep breath before knocking on the door. The blue reminds him as always of The Tardis and it’s true a little - the inside is a lot bigger than the unassuming outside implies. The door opens and Niall holds his hand up in front of the other boys face before he can even say hello.
“I have a lot to say and I need to say it properly so I don’t forget,” Niall starts, the other boy nods and Niall licks his lips, gets himself settled and ready to begin.
“I always wanted to be loved. Wanted to have that person that noticed when I was down and knew exactly how to pick me up. I’ve always wanted someone nice, someone that was all the things I wasn’t or made me better just by being there. I wanted someone to know me, want to get to know me,” he pauses and looks up into the eyes he hasn’t stopped thinking about since he left Ireland. Maybe before.
“Then I fell into this thing that felt a little like love - but mostly not. I thought if I wanted enough, was there enough that it would be enough. It wasn’t. It was easy and then it got hard when I fell more in what I thought was love. I wished it was love. Wished for it to be something it wasn’t - wasn’t ever going to be until you made it seem like it was otherwise,”
“I’m not sorry,”
“I know you’re not. I don’t want you to be.” Niall breathes in and steps closer. “You know that’s the first time he ever called me anything but his friend? The first time he ever claimed to know anything about me - I didn’t even know that he knew I drank tea. He always ordered me coffee when we were out,”
Zayn’s shakes his head but there’s this smile playing at the corner of his lips, “You don’t drink coffee unless it’s got whiskey in it,”
Niall laughs because he’s right. Of course he’s right.
“You don’t drink coffee and you take three sugars in your tea, a dash of milk. You blink more with your right eye when you're concentrating on something, like pouring a pint and you always smile when you get a good head on top.” He reaches out, fingers sliding over Niall’s shoulder so light it’s like he’s wary of spooking Niall.
“You have a mole right here,” Niall shivers as Zayn presses into this spot under Niall’s jaw and right near his ear. “I don’t think anyone else knows it’s there - it’s small but you can see it when you really laugh, when you tip your head back and you snort, too.”
“I do not!” Niall squawks and Zayn’s closer now, he’s got his other hand on Niall’s cheek and Niall blinks rapidly looking into Zayn’s eyes, warm and clear from the sunlight above.
“You do,” Zayn says softly, his other hand sliding up so he’s got Niall’s face in his hands now, his breath playing on Niall’s face and everything that was weighing Niall down stops, stills and releases the moment Zayn’s lips brush his.
He grips at Zayn’s hips, thumbs fitting over Zayn’s hip bones that he can feel even through Zayn’s ridiculously died tee shirt and he hums as Zayn’s tongue presses against the seam of Niall’s lips. He breathes out through his nose in a rush as his lips open and Zayn tilts their heads a little, fitting their mouths together. Zayn kisses slow and sweet - like he has all the time in the world and Niall kisses him back just the same. He squeezes Zayn’s hips with his hands when he wants to shift a certain way and Zayn’s fingers slide into Niall’s hair, holding him in place.
They kiss and they kiss and Niall’s not certain about where this is leading - only knows that Zayn wants him enough to kiss him in the street, to hold his hand in public and how he has his tea and it’s an ending of sorts, but it’s also a start.
-fin-