Archive of Our Own ^beta

niall wakes up with a head-splitting hangover, one of harry’s rings on his thumb, and a paper crumpled up in his hand. he drops the paper, flexing his cramping fingers, and squints against the sunlight.

rolling over onto his back, he bumps into another body beside him.

“uhhh,” the person groans, shoving his face harder into the pillow. harry, then. niall pats him on the shoulder before forcing himself up to a sitting position. the overwhelming urge to piss hits him as soon as he’s mostly vertical, so he stumbles from the bed towards the bathroom.

his legs don’t work right, they’re not listening to the signals his body’s sending, but he makes it somehow.

harry’s ring is still on his thumb, a little tight, but he works it off with some soap under the faucet spray.

“why’ve i got this on?” he grumbles aloud, sticking it onto another finger for safekeeping. his reflection doesn’t offer an answer so he wanders back into the bedroom, intending to lay down until his headache goes away.

harry’s managed to sprawl out over the bed by the time he gets back, hair spread out on the pillow and arms flung out to both sides of the mattress. he doesn’t move when niall picks up his arm and fits himself under it, just lets out a little sigh and curls in closer. niall wrinkles his nose at the smell of sweat but he supposes he probably doesn’t smell any better.

a piece of paper pokes him in the cheek. judging from the wrinkles, it’s the paper he woke up holding. curious, he unfolds it and peers at the writing.

“harry,” niall says, sitting straight up in bed. “harry, wake up.”

“ngguhh,” harry says. niall pushes his shoulder.

“harry, you have to wake up right this instant.”

“why?” harry whines into the pillow. niall tries to stop the fear that’s starting to take residence in his stomach.

“because i think we might’ve gotten married last night.”

harry’s completely still for long enough that niall half-wonders if he’s died from shock. slowly, he pushes himself up on his elbows to stare wide-eyed at niall.

“what did you just say?”

niall shoves the paper--the wedding certificate-- in his face. it’s crumpled but it looks legit, from the official stamp in the corner to their nearly illegible signatures at the bottom. harry’s eyes widen.

“i think we accidentally got married last night.”

“how the fuck did that happen?” harry hisses, snatching the paper out of niall’s hands so fast it nearly tears. “we didn’t drink that much, did we?”

niall thinks back and is met with blackness.

“i don’t remember. i guess we did?” he glances down at his lap and notices the ring on his finger. “oh god, that’s why i’ve got your ring on.”

harry’s brow furrows.

“my ring?”

niall holds up his hand to show off the band, unthinkingly pushed onto his fourth finger. harry stares at it.

“i woke up with it on my thumb.”

“did i get one?” says harry, now staring at his own hands. there’s a simple silver ring on his left hand. “oh fuck, i did. holy fuck, niall. i think we got married.”

“yeah, no shit.”

“are there pictures? were the boys there?”

“i don’t know, harry. why are you asking me?” niall snaps as he reaches for his phone. harry runs a hand through his hair agitatedly.

“because you’re the one who found the certificate? i don’t know. oh god, what are the boys going to say? what is my mum going to say?”

“fuck,” niall breathes. “fuck, we’ve got bigger problems.”

“what?”

niall shows him the phone, a headline pulled up on the screen.

members of boyband one direction get hitched-- to each other!

there are blurry pictures under that of them going to the chapel, tripping all over themselves and giggling. harry’s on the ground at one point and niall’s helping him up, laughing. at the very bottom of the article, there’s a blurry picture of harry kissing niall on the cheek. it’s a selfie.

“shit,” harry spits and dives for his own phone.

“did i post that or did you?” niall says as he frantically tries to get to the instagram app.

“you did,” harry says glumly, showing niall his own phone. “but i did post this one of our hands.”

the caption’s ring by spring!

“harry, it’s october. that’s not spring.”

“don’t judge drunk me for my instagram captions, thank you very much!”

“it’s dumb,” niall says with a pout, but his isn’t much better. he’s captioned his kisses. which he suspects was harry’s idea.

niall’s phone starts to ring just as a pounding at the door sounds. harry gets up to get it as niall hits answer.

“niall fucking horan, you are in so much trouble,” his publicist snarls and he jerks the phone away from his ear. “i can’t believe you went off to vegas and got yourself married. and then you didn’t answer your phone for-fucking-ever, what the hell?”

niall’s literally never heard clara swear like that. she must be stressed. it’s understandable, honestly.

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to?”

“no one means to get drunk married in a vegas chapel, but you did it anyway! and plastered the internet with pictures as well!”

“it was two pictures.”

“you have nearly eighteen million followers on instagram. harry’s got nineteen,” she says pointedly. niall’s brain still isn’t working correctly, he doesn’t think.

“logically, a lot of those people will overlap--”

“would you be quiet and let me finish my lecture? i’ve been working on it for three hours while i was waiting for you to pick up the bloody phone. now, we’ve already figured out a plan with harry’s people and people from management, but we’re having a conference call in two hours. you and the rest of the boys need to be there, got it?”

“got it.”

“talk to you then,” clara says and hangs up. niall stares at it for a moment, slightly shellshocked, and then glances up. liam and louis are leaning against the wall looking a mix of amused and peeved. harry’s trying his best to look calm, but he’s plucking at his lip like he always does when he’s nervous.

“erm, hi boys,” niall says and a grin starts to spread on louis’ face. “good morning?”

“not as good as you two had, i’d reckon,” louis answers. “and an even better night, yeah? congratulations to the newlyweds!”

niall jumps at the word.

“we’re not newlyweds,” harry mutters and louis shakes his head, laughing.

“the news says differently.”

“tommo, stop teasing,” liam says, nudging him in the side. “they’re obviously upset and you’d be too, if you were in their shoes.” he pauses and looks at niall and harry with a thoughtful look. “seriously though, what happened?”

“dunno,” niall says after a moment, when harry makes no move to answer. “i can’t remember; i just woke up with a ring on my finger and that--” he nods at the wedding certificate. “--in my hands.”

louis hums a bit of “single ladies” before liam shoves him again. niall winces.

“we’ve got a skype in two hours,” he tells them, ignoring the faces they make. “to figure out what to do.”

“why are we involved in this?” asks liam and harry and niall shrug together.

“to make sure we’re all on the same page? because it affects all of us? there’s a lot of reasons,” harry supplies.

“smart, styles,” niall murmurs and harry turns around to give him a quick smile. niall smiles back until he notices liam and louis’ expression. “what?”

“nothing,” louis says when liam opens his mouth. “just-- nothing. we’ll go and let you both get ready, yeah?”

“don’t be late,” liam reminds them as they back out of the room. niall waves goodbye, turning back to harry. he’s staring at the king-sized bed with a stricken look.

“harry? what’s wrong?”

harry doesn’t answer, still staring, and niall leans over to take his wrist. harry starts at the touch and twists away. his eyes are wide again, panicked.

“niall,” he says urgently. “niall, did we have sex last night?”

there’s a whole rush of different emotions that go through him, almost too many to process all at once. shock and disgust and terror and a little bit of heartbreak at harry’s tone.

“i don’t know? i don’t think so but i can’t remember.”

“oh. um, okay.”

“why?” niall asks, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s because niall’s niall.

harry smiles at him, but it’s not genuine and niall’s heart sinks a bit more.

“it’s not important. i’m going to go shower, if that’s alright? or do you want it first?”

“you can go,” niall says. there’s an awkwardness between them and niall hates it. harry nods once and snags some clothes from niall’s suitcase. at least, he thinks it’s his suitcase, but niall’s not actually sure whose room they’re in.

he flops down on the bed and listens to harry sing in the shower. he sounds like he’s doing scales, which is probably good for his voice with the steam and all. humming a harmony under his breath, niall closes his eyes and tries not to think.

he must drift off, because he wakes up with a jerk. the shower’s quiet and there’s a hushed rustling over the carpet. harry leans over and grins at him, wet hair dripping onto niall’s face.

“good morning again,” he chirps, in a much better mood now that he’s woken up more. “s’your turn.”

“thanks,” niall mumbles, mouth dry from sleeping with it open. he struggles to sit up and rubs at his eyes, trying to work up the motivation to stand up.

harry’s puttering around the room with just a pair of pants on, absolutely not caring that there’s anyone else in the room. niall’s surprised he’s not naked, actually.

his gaze catches on the stretch of harry’s back and the twisting of his shoulders and then he looks away, carefully keeping his mind blank. five years of being in a band with harry and he’s gotten pretty used to pretending he’s not attracted to him.

not that he’s attracted attracted to harry. he’d just like to kiss him a bit, and maybe lick at his stomach. but that’s it.

he’d tried to explain it to zayn once, when they were both high as fuck on the good weed, lying on zayn’s bed in the early morning. zayn had laughed, bumping their elbows together.

“sounds like you want to shag him, bro,” he mumbled around the joint, and everything niall’s body had tensed.

“i don’t.”

“okay, sure,” zayn said with a snort. niall breathed out smoke and stared at the ceiling, trying to find the words to make zayn understand that he wanted soft touches and softer kisses, but nothing past that.

later, he’d found the word asexual and it had clicked into place in his head. it was like slipping into a warm bath, knowing that he wasn’t just making it all up. there’s a reason. he’s not a prude or homophobic or naive. he’s asexual, and that’s okay.

he hadn’t told zayn; he wouldn’t have understood. he hadn’t told anyone else, really, though he came pretty close to each of them in turn.

he’d almost told liam when they were in the back of the bus, the only two awake and somewhere in the miles of road between california and new york.

he’d almost told louis when they were playing fifa together in louis’ house in london, feet kicking at each other to try and make the other person slip.

he’d almost told harry a million billion times, when they were getting ready together in the mornings, when harry kept him up with a thousand questions at bedtime, when they had slept in bed, noses nearly pressed together, and their breaths slow with sleep.

niall had nearly told harry almost as many times as he’d almost kissed him, but never mustered enough courage to do either.

“niall,” harry says and niall blinks. he’s on his knees in between niall’s legs, looking up at him with a worried expression. “i’ve been trying to call your name for ages. you must be exhausted.”

“sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “i’ve been daydreaming.”

“i noticed,” harry says dryly, wincing when he stands up and his knees crack. “you were staring in one place for, like, five minutes. i yelled your name and you didn’t notice. anyway, do you want a shower?”

“oh. um, yeah, i think i’ll get one.”

“alright. the water pressure’s nice, and it gets pretty hot.”

“two for two. are the towels big?”

harry unwinds his towel from his head and holds it stretched out for niall to see. niall nods.

“this is a nice place, then.”

harry grins and snaps the towel, stopping it an inch from niall’s leg.

“we’re paying enough that it should be. go on, take your shower.”

“how do you know how much we’re paying, styles?” niall calls over his shoulder, bundling up his shirt and throwing it at harry’s face. harry catches it, looking thoughtful.

“am i still harry styles?”

“what the fuck? course you are. the hell, harry?”

“no, no. i mean, like, am i harry styles? or am i harry horan?”

niall winces, shaking his head.

“no.”

“are you niall styles then?”

“christ, that’s even worse. what does the certificate say?”

harry reaches for the wrinkled piece of paper, holding it gingerly with his fingers like it’s gonna burn him. he inspects it for a second.

“officially, it’s styles-horan,” he announces and crumples the certificate up in his fist. “so, i guess drunk us weren’t completely out of our minds.”

“yes, i’m glad we had enough sense of mind not to make our last names ridiculous when we accidentally eloped in vegas after too many drinks,” niall says sarcastically. “that was really smart of us.”

“fuck off and go get ready,” harry tells him, snapping his towel again. niall rolls his eyes and looks through his suitcase. it had been packed neatly when he’d left, but days of harry ransacking it has made it into a complete mess. he has to search to find things, which he’d rather not do, but there’s no point in cleaning it up when it’s going to get wrecked again.

bloody boys and their clothes-stealing tendencies.

niall’d almost forgotten that him and harry getting married is a serious thing until the skype had gone through and he’d noticed the serious expressions on everyone’s face. he hooks a pinky through louis’ and holds on tight. louis squeezes his knee briefly, comforting. louis is good at comforting.

there’s a lot of people on the other side. there’s clara and harry’s publicist, and the band’s publicist, and niall assumes a few lawyers as well. as for them, they’ve got a few members of their security team and all the boys crowded around the table, peering into the laptop.

they don’t actually get to speak much, considering it’s their fault. they get shouted at a bit, harry’s shoulders going up to his ears at every sentence, but it’s mostly all words exchanged over their heads. niall trusts them, he really does. he hates that the decision’s out of their hands, though.

tuning out a little, he rests his head on harry’s shoulder and waits until everyone comes to a decision. he’s really fucking tired, and still a lot hungover, and the constant talking isn’t doing anything for his head. harry keeps twitching but that’s normal for harry.

“alright,” clara says, after what feels like hours, nodding her head with a decisive air. “that’s what we’ll do.”

“what are we gonna do?” harry asks and niall’s really glad he’s not the only one not paying attention.

“you’re gonna live together,” harry’s publicist--niall really needs to learn her name--says patiently.

“what?”

“getting the marriage annulled would be too much trouble to deal with. the media’s already reporting you two as being happily wed, and it would be too negative to say it was just an accident,” says michael, the band’s publicist. niall and louis exchange a look.

“how long are we going to be living together?” niall asks.

“depends on how long it takes to die down,” answers clara.

“three months minimum,” adds harry’s publicist. she looks like an abigail to niall. “but probably more like six to a year.”

“is that even legal?” louis asks and one of the lawyers shrugs.

“they’re already married. what’s the problem?”

“it sounds a lot like lying,” liam says doubtfully and the lawyer frowns at him.

“they’re already married, are they not?”

“i just don’t think--”

“liam,” harry says sharply. niall doesn’t understand his tone. “it’s okay, yeah? if niall’s okay with being married for a while, then i’m alright with it too.”

niall snorts, twisting his fingers together. “won’t be any different than usual, will it?” he says. louis’ hand tightens on his knee. “just living in the same house.”

“and pretending you’re married,” liam insists. niall gives him a look.

“yes, payno, i’m aware.”

“it means pretending you’re in love with each other.”

now that niall hadn’t thought about. neither had harry, if the slightly panicked expression on his face is anything to go by.

niall’s spent so long pretending he wasn’t in love with harry, he’s not sure how to start pretending like he is. or, how to make his love look like pretend. or something.

his head is spinning, and he doesn’t think it’s completely from the hangover.

“look, it’s not going to be that difficult,” louis says roughly, a stark contrast from the gentle grip he’s got on niall’s hands--when did that happen? niall doesn’t remember-- and he’s got a fierce look on his face, the one he gets when he’s in protective mode. “fans see what they want to see, yeah? just keep on being silly with each other, just up the ante a bit. kiss him on the cheek onstage, playfully grab at his dick sometimes, things you do normally but a bit more intentional.” he glances over at harry and exchanges a weighted look. “you did it once and it worked.”

harry’s face is completely blank. he gives a jerky nod and slides his gaze over to niall.

“i’m in if you’re in,” he says quietly, just for them two. niall looks at him for a moment, gathers his resolve.

“let’s do it.”

the first part’s the easy part. they’re still on tour for a few more months, so it just means no getting papped with random girls and getting a king sized bed in their room instead of two queens. harry and niall are told to room together--or at least look like they are--everywhere, and, in clara’s words, “try not to go off just one of you by yourselves.”

they’re also told to post a cutesy couple picture together by the end of the week.

“something to show that you’re happily married,” michael says. “something that says you’re madly in love.”

“no dick pics, though,” louis whispers under his breath. “save that for the leaked photos.” harry leans over to smack him in the dick.

“that was an accident,” harry hisses and louis has to duck out of the skype call to control his laughter.

the meeting ends soon after that, and everyone files out of the room. liam holds a furious whispered conversation with harry first, one that makes both of their faces go sour, and then he smacks harry on the bum.

“chin up, styles. and call your mum,” he says as he leaves. harry turns to niall with a horrified expression.

“fuck, my mum,” he breathes out and scrambles for his phone. niall can kind of relate; he hasn’t even looked at any of the texts from his family, but he’s not as close to them as harry is to his.

turning away to give him some privacy, niall toys with his own phone and thinks about ringing his own mum. hearing her voice would be nice, but he’s not in any mood to get yelled at again.

he dials anyway, comfort winning out, and paces the room as he waits for the line to connect.

“niall james horan,” she says as soon as she picks up and niall’s heart plummets.

“ma--”

“or is it niall james styles now?”

“styles-horan,” he says after a moment, scrubbing at his face with a hand. “it’s niall james styles-horan.”

maura tsks over the phone, but there’s laughter in it.

“god, what a name.”

“i know,” niall replies, glancing over to where harry’s gesticulating wildly on his side of the room. “sort of shit luck for both of us. neither name is decent.”

“it’s a mouthful, but it does have a ring to it,” she says thoughtfully.

“are you mad?” he blurts out, unable to stop himself. “i just-- are you mad at me?”

“a little bit. more that you didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

niall laughs a bit over the phone and hopes it doesn’t sound too choked. “not much of a wedding. we just got married in a little chapel on a whim.”

“never thought you’d be one to elope, niall james. but i suppose you could’ve done worse than harry.”

“yeah.”

“even if he is an englishman,” maura says wryly. “that’s probably what i’m most upset at.”

“what’s da going to say?”

“probably just that.”

“he does love harry an awful amount,” niall mutters, tugging at his hair. “more than me sometimes, i’d reckon.”

“oh hush,” she snaps. he can picture what she’d look like if he was there: a sharp glare, her hands on her hips, and a soft smile tugging at her lips. god, he misses his mum.

“miss you.”

“miss you too, dear. call your da, yeah? i’m sure he’s nearly in bits right now.”

“alright.”

“love you, niall james. tell your husband i send him my love.”

niall jumps at the word husband. it’s going to take some getting used to. his mum hangs up and he stares at his phone for a while, working up the courage. he’s not scared of his da, not at all, but he doesn’t want anyone to be disappointed in him, especially bobby.

“’lo?” bobby says, sounding even more gruff over the phone. niall swallows hard.

“hey, da. it’s me.”

“niall? why’re you calling? is everything alright?”

he gives a strangled little laugh, pulling harder at his hair.

“yeah, everything’s... have you looked at the papers today?”

“don’t look at them,” bobby says in a slightly disgusted tone. “they’re just full of shit about people. you included. why?”

“because, uh. because me and harry got married last night.”

there’s a moment of silence and panic starts to creep in. his hands are shaking so much he nearly drops the phone and he leans against the wall for some support.

glancing over with a frown, harry pulls his phone away.

“nialler, you alright?” he says, only just loud enough to hear.

“i’m. yeah,” niall manages.

“you sure?” harry says. he’s beside niall before niall can make up an excuse, slinging an arm around niall’s shoulders and tugging him into his side. niall breathes, phone still clutched to his ear and bobby on the line, and settles into harry’s embrace.

“da?” he mutters.

“i’m here. just, erm, processing.”

“it’s a lot, i know.”

“fuck, niall,” bobby says with a sigh. “i didn’t even know you fancied him. why didn’t you tell us?”

“it was sort of an accident? we didn’t mean to, but we’re-- it’s the right choice.”

“you’re married and i didn’t know you had a crush on harry. it’s a little fast, innit? can’t they do something, get an annulment or summat?”

“we don’t want it annulled,” niall tells him quietly, not looking at harry. his face is flaming red, he can tell. “we’re... we’re in love.”

harry stiffens but doesn’t say anything.

“it’s all so fast,” says bobby doubtfully. “but i guess, if you’re happy.”

“we are. promise.”

there’s another moment of silence. niall can’t think of anything to say, can dimly feel the panic creeping in again. he focuses on harry’s hands that are playing with his sleeve, absentmindedly fiddling with the hem. it’s distracting enough that the walls don’t close in.

“congratulations to you both,” bobby says. “my boy, married.” he sounds like he’s about to cry and niall nearly drops the phone in shock.

“da--”

“you’ll both have to come to mullingar when you’ve got a moment. we’ll throw you a proper party n’everything. drink the town dry.”

“sounds like the craic,” niall replies. his voice shakes a bit and his eyes are a bit watery. he wipes them on his hand. “can’t wait.”

“nobody does a party like mullingar.”

“i know that, da. i haven’t been gone long enough to forget.”

“feels like it sometimes. well, uh, congratulations again. tell harry to be nice to you, or i’ll come after him.”

“you wouldn’t. harry’s your favourite.”

“i would, if he’s not nice.”

niall chuckles and bobby echoes it, rough with the sound of static.

“bye, da. love you.”

“love you too, nialler.”

niall hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket with trembling fingers, putting his face in his hands and just trying to breathe.

“hey now,” harry murmurs, turning niall so his face is tucked in his shoulder and running a soothing hand down his back. “you’re alright.”

“that was fucking awful,” he says hoarsely, muffled by harry’s shirt. harry hums something encouraging and the vibrations rumble against niall’s chest. it feels nice. he lets himself be held for a few minutes, taking deep breaths that taste vaguely like harry’s washing powder and cologne.

“i hate lying to them.”

harry leans away slightly, sitting back so he can see niall’s face.

“why didn’t you tell them?” he asks, eyes wide.

“we’re not supposed to?” niall answers and tilts his head to the side. “they told us to not tell anyone that it’s a media thing.”

“didn’t realise that applied to our parents,” harry says tightly. “i’ve already told my mum everything. i can’t-- i can’t lie to her.”

“well, um. there’s nothing you can do now, yeah? and she won’t tell anyone.”

harry takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“yeah, she’ll keep it a secret. are you going to tell your parents, then?”

niall thinks about it for a second and shakes his head.

“as much as i hate lying to them, i think i’d rather not say it was because i was a stupid git who drank too much. s’embarrassing, it is.”

“makes sense.”

niall nods, looking down on his hands. harry’s ring is still on, securely on his fourth finger of his left hand. it fits remarkably well, actually, not too tight and not too loose. but it’s not his.

“do you want your ring back?” he asks, already starting to work it off. harry grabs his hand to make him stop, shaking his head.

“nah, you can keep it. it’s our wedding ring, you can’t just leave it off. people will start to wonder.” niall nods again and harry squeezes his hand.

they’ve held hands a million times and it’s always been unthinking and easy, but now, their wedding rings shining next to each other, it feels weighted and weird.

niall tugs his fingers loose.

“wonder where we got that,” he says, waving at harry’s wedding ring. harry frowns and takes it off to inspect.

“dunno. maybe they sell rings at the chapel?” niall’s doubtful, but he doesn’t say so. there’s no point in arguing. “i’m glad we were smart enough to get rings. not very romantic if we hadn’t, don’t you think?”

“again, harry. we were piss-drunk.”

“apparently, i’m still a romantic when i’m wasted.”

“now that i believe. it’s in your blood, it is.”

harry squints at him.

“m’not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” niall shrugs, smirking a bit, and harry rolls his eyes. “whatever. want to get dinner? i’m starved.”

“yeah, sounds good,” niall says. harry’s pulling him out of the room before he’s even finished his sentence.

the first concert they have as the styles-horans is absolutely mental, the crowds going wild whenever niall and harry are anywhere near each other. they play it up like they’re supposed to, teasing each other on stage and acting like the silly children they are.

it’s not until the entire venue starts to chant kiss kiss kiss that niall realises their mistake. harry realises it as the same time and turns to him with a half-apprehensive, half-resigned look on his face.

“they want us to kiss,” he says nervously and niall nods.

“yeah, i can hear that.”

“well, what do you want to do?” harry asks. niall’s never seen him like this; usually harry’s as confident as confident can be. but now, he’s strange and nervous and lost.

“i don’t think we can do anything else,” replies niall and harry gets a gleam in his eye. he takes a breath and suddenly he’s back to the harry niall knows, all charm and ease and sex.

“mr styles, i think they want us to kiss,” harry says into the mic, a playful lilt to his voice. niall makes a face and brings his own mic to his mouth.

“it’s styles-horan, thank you very much. you should remember that cos it’s your name now too.”

“niall and harry styles-horan,” harry sings out and the crowd screams so loud it’s practically deafening. “well, should we give the people what they want?” he’s already tipping closer before he’s done and the crowd really is deafening as he leans in.

niall’s detached for a moment, like he’s stepped away from his body and watching himself on stage. it’s quite strange that his first kiss with harry happens in front of an audience, but it’s also quite fitting. they’ve played out their friendship in front of millions of people, it’s only right they play out their relationship too.

and then harry’s lips meet his and niall can’t quite think of anything else.

it’s everything he’s wanted for five years, even if the circumstances are less than ideal, and his heart’s beating so fast he’s afraid harry can feel it through his shirt. harry kisses like he talks, slow and meandering but intent hidden underneath. his hand’s on niall’s cheek, burning against his skin, and niall’s hands are on harry’s hips, holding on for dear life.

niall forgets everything, forgets he’s on a stage, forgets they’re fake married, forgets that he’s been pining for years, forgets that he’s ace, forgets his own name. everything is just harryharryharry and nothing else matters.

seconds or centuries later, harry pulls back and niall comes back to his senses with a start. it’s overwhelming, all the noise and the smells, and the coldness where harry’s skin was touching him and is now gone. he can still taste harry, however faintly, on his lips, and he’s dizzy from a lack of air.

louis catcalls, loud and sharp and just enough for niall to focus on. he’s distantly aware that he’s red in the face and there’s thousands of cameras capturing this very moment, but he pushes the thought away for later.

“that was quite something,” louis teases.

“this is a family show,” liam says, scandalised and harry flips him off behind niall’s head.

“or is it,” he sings into the mic, winking at the audience.

“if that’s a family show, then i don’t want to know what’s in the just-adults one,” he says, pulling at his shirt and fanning a hand in front of his face. “is anyone else getting hot, or is it just me?”

“s’just you, liam,” louis tells him, still laughing, and liam pulls a face. “alright, if these two can keep it in their pants, i believe the next song’s ‘no control’--”

“fitting,” interrupts liam, waggling his eyebrows. louis doubles over, clutching his stomach and niall’s pretty sure there’s literal tears coming out of his eyes. he sniffs, shaking his head and slinging his guitar over his head.

“alright boys, have a laugh and let’s get on with the show,” he mutters as the music starts. louis and liam collect themselves just in time to sing.

harry’s usually all up on niall during ‘no control’ but he’s even worse this time. he won’t leave niall alone, grinding up on him and dancing wildly. they end with harry’s arms wrapped around niall’s neck, and harry gives him a quick kiss on the cheek as the lights go down.

“sorry for everything,” harry murmurs, low enough that it won’t get picked up by the mics. “i hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“you’re fine,” niall murmurs back and he can feel harry’s lips curl up into a smile. “i get it, yeah?”

harry pecks him again and then untangles himself, brushing his hands against niall’s chest as he goes. he dances away to bother liam for a bit, and as much as niall’s glad for the reprieve, he’s cold as soon as harry’s gone.

they get two encouraging emails from clara and maybe-abigail, and a not-so-encouraging one from michael about the night’s antics. apparently, the kiss was just the right amount of passion to prove they’re in love and far too much for the thirteen year olds watching their show.

“we’ve had some complaints,” michael writes. “please don’t do it again.”

niall groans and throws the laptop down onto the bed, rolling over onto his stomach. harry makes a sympathetic noise from the chair.

“songwriting not going so well?” he asks and niall grunts in agreement.

“i’m so bloody tired,” he says into the pillowcase. “i don’t want to do anything else ever.”

“the tour’s almost done,’ harry says mildly. “we’ve got a few months off then.”

“too long away.”

harry sighs, and then falls silent. niall breathes into the pillow and tries not to fall asleep right there, at two o’clock in the afternoon. it’s one of their rare off days; everything had finished around noon and they’d been allowed to have the evening to themselves. it’d be nice, except niall doesn’t quite know how to fill his time when they’re in a strange city halfway around the world from home.

the bed dips slightly as harry sits, his knees brushing niall’s arm.

“there’s a golf course nearby. do you wanna go?”

niall pushes himself up enough to level a glare at harry.

“is that even a question?”

harry shrugs, fingers flying on his phone as he presumably texts people to let them know. “just making sure. you seemed tired; are you sure you’d not rather have a nap?”

“shut up and get your golfing trousers on,” niall says as he rolls off the bed and goes to his suitcase.

“are you wearing white?”

niall stills, twisting his head to look at harry under his arm.

“dunno. why?”

he’s not sure, but he thinks harry blushes a bit. it’s probably just the light.

“thought we could be that obnoxious couple and match.”

“sounds good,” niall says after a moment. harry ducks his head, smiling, before going to his own bag. staring at him for a moment, niall shakes his head and goes back to rummaging.

the place isn’t too far away; only about a twenty minute drive. harry falls asleep anyway, slouching against niall’s side. niall drapes an arm around his shoulders and leans his own head back on the seat, watching the city go by. he honestly can’t remember where they are-- denver, or maybe dallas, or chicago, or something-- and they all start to blur in his head. he’s not long enough in them to notice the differences, really. they’re in in the morning and out by the next, barely a spare moment to breathe in between. he wouldn’t give it up for anything, but sometimes he’d rather like a second to explore.

“harry,” he whispers as the car pulls to a stop at a country club, shoving at his shoulder. “harry, we’re here.”

harry groans as he wakes up, scrunching his face into a frown and stretching out his legs in front of him.

“changed my mind,” he says sleepily. “i’d rather take a nap.”

“bit too late for that, pet. we’re already here.”

“you can golf. i’ll just stay here and sleep.”

“golfing’s no fun by yourself, and it was your idea,” niall tells him, impatient. “c’mon, if you get out now i’ll let you upload a vague picture to instagram.”

“what a bribe,” harry mutters but he climbs out nevertheless. paddy’s already got the clubs and balls ready, and the course is relatively empty. it’s perfect.

they golf for a while, not really talking to each other but lost in their own heads. it’s soothing, the repetitive motions niall’s come to love. harry hums a little as he watches niall, something niall doesn’t recognize.

“what’re you singing?”

harry peers at him for a second like he doesn’t understand the question, one hand wrapped around his club and the other plucking at his lip.

“nothing,” he mumbles finally. niall narrows his eyes. “it’s a song i’m working on,” amends harry.

“is it any good?”

“don’t know yet. maybe.”

niall thinks about asking if it’s one they’ll end up singing or if it’s one that harry will give away because it’s too personal, but that sounds a bit rude even in his head. he watches harry line up his shot instead, absently admiring the long, lean lines of his body before he tears his gaze away. he might be harry’s husband, but he’s not allowed to do that. not ever allowed to do that.

are the styles-horan newlyweds in trouble already? the headline screams and niall frowns at it, scrolling down the page. there’s pictures from their golf date sprinkled between the gossip. despite going on a cute date, the two barely interacted with each other, and didn’t exchange any loving gestures at all! is their young marriage already rocky?

“why are you reading that shit,” harry grumbles, snatching the phone out of niall’s hands and dropping it on the table. “it’s all lies.”

“because it’s important, if that’s how people are really seeing us,” niall argues. “we have to be believable.”

“and who decides if we’re believable?” harry shoots back, glaring. “fucking tabloids? people who get paid to spy on us? who, niall?”

“i don’t know, but this says that we’re not doing a good job of pretending to be married. and if this is saying that, then who else is as well?”

“they’re shit,” harry repeats sullenly and slouches down in his chair.

“i know they are. it just means we’re going to have to do better. it won’t be hard, yeah?” that’s probably one of the biggest lies niall’s ever told, but harry doesn’t have to know that. he smiles as encouragingly as he can and harry lets out a sigh.

“yeah, you’re right.”

“i’m always right.”

“now that’s debatable,” harry says, pouting at him for a second and then sitting upright. “oh, you never let me post that picture!”

“i can’t believe you’re this excited about posting to instagram. you haven’t put up a picture in ages,” niall says but harry’s not listening, too busy searching through his phone.

“not true, i put up the one of our hands the other night.”

“that one doesn’t count. you were drunk.”

harry waves a dismissive hand, still frowning in concentration. niall watches him until he looks up, triumphant, and gives niall a smirk. “there we go,” he says smugly as the notification lights up niall’s screen.

niall unlocks his phone and opens up instagram. harry’s picture’s at the top of his feed, proudly there in all it’s black and white glory. it’s a shot of niall that niall doesn’t remember being taken, but there’s a wide grin lighting up his face and he’s laughing. harry’s captioned it with “all the love, h.” it’s surprisingly sweet, and something twists in niall’s chest as he looks at it.

“perfect,” he chokes out. “a good picture, too.”

“thanks petal,” harry says, sounding pleased. “glad you like it.”

he likes it a lot, and he screenshots the image before closing out of the app. twitter’s probably going mental and there’s probably an analysis being written on every aspect of the picture, but niall can’t quite bring himself to care.

harry gives a huge sigh and glances over at niall for a second, thinking. without a warning, he gets up and crowds himself into niall’s space, curling up on his lap.

“oh hello there,” niall says, surprised. his hand drops into harry’s hair automatically, carefully petting at it. harry makes a content sort of noise.

“missed you.”

“we’ve been together all day.”

“missed this,” harry says insistently. he gets like this sometimes, when he’s not had enough hugs in a day and he needs a cuddle. niall’s happy to oblige. he checks his mail over harry’s shoulder, one hand still in harry’s hair, and listens to his slow, deep breathing even out. how he could fall asleep like this, niall has no idea, but it’s soft and lovely and warm.

niall’s a little bit more in love.

tour closes out, mostly, and they’re still married. now comes the hard part-- figuring out where they’re going to live, actually living together, making an effort into spending time together. they usually don’t when they’re on break, choosing to have some time apart or out of the limelight. it helps with band relations, niall thinks. they live out of each other’s pockets nine months out of the year; anyone would need a break.

they go to a few award shows dressed in complementary outfits. harry favours outlandish prints and niall finds ways of matching-- a tie with flowers, or a handkerchief poking out of his pocket. it’s subtle enough that it’s not entirely against his fashion sense, but still husband-y enough to make everyone coo.

there’s question after question after question, everywhere niall turns there’s another interviewer with something to ask about niall and harry’s relationship.

“is the sex any good?” one particularly sleazy guy asks and niall can’t help his face flushing.

“oi, what kind of question is that?” louis asks, outraged and curling an arm around niall’s shoulders. niall leans into it gratefully; he’s glad he’s not by himself. “no, i’ll tell you. it’s a shit question and way too invasive. get moving, pal.”

“thanks,” niall tells him quietly and louis shrugs.

“he was disgusting. why do people always want to know about our sex lives?” he says with a sneer and niall remembers the one time he’d ventured into the mentions in louis’ twitter. he doesn’t remember now why he’d done it, only that he had, and how he’d felt vaguely sick when he’d seen the things said. they all get propositions and whatever, but louis’ were particularly nasty, especially after he’d lashed out at that one reporter.

niall wonders what they’re saying about him, if he’s a cover for louis and harry’s relationship or some other bullshit. there’s no rhyme or reason to it, but there’s never been any logic to that side of their fans.

louis steers them back to where liam and harry are standing surrounded by their own crew of interviewers. niall orbits himself around harry automatically; he’s done it in the smallest of ways for five years and now he just doesn’t hide it. they’re always within arm’s reach, usually touching, and everything seems a bit more bearable with harry’s hands constantly brushing against his back.

“should we reenact the ryan gosling and rachel mcadams kiss if we get an award?” harry whispers when they’re in their seats. niall turns toward him with a frown.

“what are you talking about?”

“when they won best movie kiss.”

“you’re absolutely full of shit, harry,” niall mutters, tugging affectionately at one of his curls. “i’m not gonna kiss you onstage in front of all these people.”

“you did it once,” harry grumbles, and something flips in niall’s stomach at the disappointment in his tone.

“that was different.”

“was it really?”

“besides, i don’t think you could hold me up like that,” niall whispers back and harry’s face breaks out in a wide grin.

“so you do know what i’m talking about!”

“don’t.”

“you do, you so do,” he taunts, laughing as niall pushes his face away.

“shhh, the ceremony’s started.”

“the ceremony’s boring. do you think it would cause too many rumours if we skipped out now?”

“they’d probably write we shagged in the toilets. does that count as positive media?”

harry frowns, relaxing in his seat the tiniest amount. “probably not. it’d be a good way to prove how madly in love we are,” he says dryly.

“you’re arguing like you want us to shag in the toilets,” niall points out, ignoring the mix of panic and something else that flashes through him at the words. he’d give a lot to feel harry’s mouth on his skin again, as long as it was just that.

“no, that wasn’t-- i don’t. i was just saying,” harry mutters and maybe there’s pink in his cheeks. niall turns his head forward and focuses on the stage instead of asking what the hell is going on in harry’s mind.

that’s something they hadn’t talked about in all this mess-- the getting off. niall’s fine with not sleeping with anyone for a few months, is glad of the excuse even, but harry’s a different story. they’re going to have to be careful. he slides down in his seat--just a bit, there are always cameras around at events like these--and fidgets with the seam of his trousers.

“you’re going to ruin those,” harry says quietly, catching niall’s hand and folding it into his. “they won’t be happy with you if you do.”

niall shrugs a shoulder but doesn’t pull his hand away. it feels nice, alright, and harry lets him play with his fingers instead of pulling at loose threads.

they win an award. of course they do, they’ve got the best fans in the world, mostly. niall stands on stage, squeezed between harry and liam, his hand still in harry’s, and beams out at the audience. harry drawls out a thank you; it’s usually liam’s job, but he’s handed it over for this one.

niall tunes it out a little because they say nearly the same thing every time, and starts when harry ends it by giving a kiss to niall’s cheek. the audience is too polite to go wild, but there’s some pretty enthusiastic clapping when harry draws back, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

“you’re dreadful,” says niall, mindful of the mic. harry laughs and squeezes his hand.

“just giving the people what they want.”

harry blinks when niall mutters something about hookups and being careful cause they’re married.

“i wasn’t… i knew that. i’m not going to go pick up girls in a bar, niall. i’m not stupid.”

“okay. you can, though. if you want to. i don’t mind,” he says and instantly feels weird about. “i mean, i don’t have any right to mind, seeing as we’re not dating or anything--”

“just married,” harry interrupts with a twitch of his lips and niall shrugs.

“i’m just saying.”

“thanks, nialler. i appreciate it, but i think… i think i’ll be okay, yeah?”

“yeah,” niall says and drops it from his mind forever.

the flight to london stretches long and languid, as flights often do. niall watches film after film, wrapped up in a blanket and trying to find a comfortable way to sit. even first class gets uncomfortable somewhere around hour six. harry’s in the seat next to him yet again, and he’s smushed up in a weird ball. niall’s not exactly sure how he can sleep like that, but harry’s always managed to find a way.

the flight attendant comes through and niall gets a cup of tea. it’s shitty and weak, but warm against his hands, and he sips at it until it gets cold and undrinkable.

liam’s in the chair across the way, his own headphones in and head bobbing to some beat. he’s got a notebook on the table in front of him that he taps at. maybe he’s writing something, working out the kinks in the demo. niall’s too tired to ask, too tired to do anything but watch the scenes of whatever movie is playing flicker by.

they’re let off the flight first, as to not cause a panic or a stampede, and harry tips into niall as they wait to get their passports stamped. his breath is warm against niall’s shoulder, hair tickling his ear, and arm wrapped around his waist for balance.

“tired, petal?” he asks and harry hums. “we’re almost out, and then we can sleep.” the passport control officer gives them an indulgent smile, and niall abruptly remembers they’re supposed to be married. that they are married.

“haven’t changed my name yet,” he says, chewing on a fingernail. “been a bit busy.”

“that’s alright,” the officer says as she stamps the page. “as long as you get it done quickly.” she hands him his and harry’s, and he tucks both passports into his carry-on.

“harry, we have to walk,” he tell his... his husband and starts to awkwardly shuffle to the baggage claim. security’s already got their suitcases out and are waiting for them. harry lets out a groan but lifts his head and steps away so niall can walk unhindered.

“are we going to your house or mine?” he mumbles around a yawn and niall freezes.

“i hadn’t thought of that?”

“oh. well i just thought, because we have to pretend--”

“no, it makes sense. i just hadn’t thought of it. we could go to yours?”

harry fixes him with a sleepy gaze, watching him for a moment. niall shifts his weight restlessly.

“no, it’s fine. my house is too big and too empty. and i was planning on going to grimmy’s, anyway.”

niall blinks. “grimmy?”

“yeah, cos i haven’t seen him in a while.”

“you can still go,” he says tentatively and harry yawns again.

“s’fine. i was just gonna crash in his bed anyway, and i can do that with you.”

“okay,” niall says, shouldering his backpack. “to mine, then.”

they give a tired goodbye to liam and louis and get herded into cars, their baggage already loaded. niall gives the driver his address and they watch london pass in the rain-streaked windows.

niall feels strangely wired, tired and awake at the same time. everything looks like it’s slightly vibrating and blurry around the edges. it might’ve been the coffee he’d chugged a few hours ago finally coming back to haunt him, it might be the idea that harry’s coming to stay in his house.

he doesn’t think harry’s ever stayed in his house before. their paths didn’t really cross in london, except on the odd nights they find themselves in the same restaurant. he hopes his house is clean.

when they pull up to the door, it’s just gone dark enough that they can sleep without fucking up their schedules. they each grab their bags and drag them in, giving a tired nod to the driver and a halfhearted wave as he pulls away. niall unlocks the door with fumbling fingers and shoves it open.

“well,” he says, “this is us.”

“it’s nice.”

“you can just leave your stuff here,” he tells him, gesturing at the entry way. “or you can bring it to your room, i guess. i’ll show you where you can stay.”

harry follows him up through the house, not saying anything and waiting when niall stops by the linen closet to pull out a set of sheets. the guest bedroom is done up in white and blue, something generic that niall had barely glanced at when he’d signed for the house. it’s comfortable enough, but he doesn’t really have guests all that often. except for his da, and his da is happy enough with any sort of bed and a thick quilt.

“sorry, we have to make the bed,” he mutters as harry drops his backpack and toes off his shoes. “dunno when the last time i changed the sheets was.”

“you’re slipping, horan,” harry teases but he helps niall strip off the sheets and replace them with new ones. straightening, niall folds his arms and looks around the room.

“help yourself to anything in the kitchen. there’s extra blankets in the closet if you get cold. don’t wake me up until noon tomorrow or i’ll cut your balls off, yeah?”

“duly noted,” harry says with a wince. “won’t wake you up. goodnight, niall.”

“sweet dreams, styles.”

niall shuts the door on his way out and collapses in his own bed, feeling like his limbs all way a thousand kilos each. he’s so tired, he feels like he could just melt into the mattress and never get back up again, but he feels utterly disgusting. hauling himself up, he stumbles into the shower and lets the hot water wash away the travel dirt until he feels mostly human again. he’s got just enough energy to pull on a pair of pants before he lies down and is out like a light.

he’s woken by a muffled curse. it’s quiet, and he’s not sure why it wakes him but it does. he cracks his eyes open to see the door swing open and harry come padding into the room. he stands at the end of the bed for a second, looking conflicted.

“s’matter, petal?” niall slurs and harry jumps.

“can’t sleep,” he says, a bit desperately. “can i lie in here with you?”

“sure. don’t steal the blankets.”

harry hesitates, fidgeting for a moment until niall lets out a sigh. he sits up and throws off the duvet, reaching forward and yanking harry’s arm. he stumbles and falls onto the bed with a huff, and niall smiles the smallest bit. harry rearranges himself so he’s comfortable and ends up on his side, facing niall. the bed’s big enough that they’re not exactly nose to nose, but there’s not much room between them.

“don’t like sleeping by myself,” harry says in a whisper, breath teasing the ends of niall’s eyelashes. “it’s lonely.”

“can’t have that,” niall mumbles, already halfway to sleep again.

“thank you, nialler. love you.”

niall breathes a response and it’s the last thing he remembers before he’s dead to the world.

he’s falling more and more in love with harry every day. it’s sort of a problem.

harry’s the touchiest person niall knows. objectively, niall knew that already, but it’s a little different living with him all the time. his hands are always everywhere, light brushes against niall’s shoulders, feet tangling with niall’s, tiny little kisses to niall’s hair. niall keeps thinking he’ll get used to it with all the constant exposure, but it surprises him every time.

it’s not that he’s not used to it, but there’s a difference now. it’s not just bandmates and friends being silly; they’re married, even if it’s only on paper.

sometimes niall forgets that they’re married. sometimes it’s all he can remember.

“i’m going to go mental if i’m stuck in here much longer,” harry announces, standing abruptly up from his chair and putting his hands on his hips. niall looks up at him with a lazy grin.

“you’ve not been stuck in here at all.”

“hush, niall,” he mutters, typing at his phone. niall rolls his eyes and goes back to watching his show until harry shoves the screen in his face.

“what the fuck?”

“grimmy’s going out tonight, with pixie and aimee and ian. aimee’s pregnant, did you know that?”

“aimee?”

“yeah, aimee. d’you want to come?”

harry looks so hopeful, dimple peeking out of his cheek and eyes pleading. niall coughs once, just to have something to do with himself, and rubs at his chin.

“nah, i’m fine. but, like, you go with grimmy and have fun.”

“are you sure? they’d love having you around. well, actually, they’d love teasing me about my husband and watching us get all embarrassed.”

niall thinks about how harry was going to go back to nick’s that first night, how he talked so casually about sleeping with him, how much they’re all over each other when they’re together, and his breath catches in his throat. he doesn’t-- he doesn’t want to see that. not when him and harry had been playing newlyweds for so long, long enough for niall to convince himself that harry might half-like him too.

“yeah, m’sure. i think laura’s in town, maybe eoghan too. was gonna call them up, see if they wanted to go out tonight.”

not even harry’s doubtful look can stop him from bouncing on his toes in excitement at seeing his friends.

“if you say so--”

“i do.”

“--then i’m going to go, yeah? there’s this place nick was telling me about that he wants to try, a little ruined bar that’s out of the way enough that maybe we won’t get papped.”

“sounds nice, h.”

harry beams. “it does, doesn’t it?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, concentrated on his texting and niall squashes the tiny flicker of hurt in his chest.

laura’s up for a night out. she always is, and she attacks him with a giant hug when she spots him coming over.

“there’s my favourite member of one direction,” she practically yells in his ear and he flinches, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone’s heard. a few people give him an interested look back but no one’s moved from their seats yet. he counts it as a win.

“hiya, whitmore,” he says and squeezes her around the waist. “how’ve you been?”

“not as good as you have, i’d reckoned. i couldn’t believe my eyes when i’d read you were married, and to harry no less! i did not think he’d be the one you’d settle down with.”

“yeah, well.” he plays with the condensation on his beer, drawing lines in the droplets and then wiping his fingers on his trousers. “he’s funny and nice and sweet and drives me mental, but whatever.”

laura folds her hands and rests her chin on them, cooing at him with a smile.

“aww, you’re really in love with him. that’s so sweet.”

“oh, shut it,” he says, laughing, and throws a balled up napkin at her. it bounces off her nose and unfortunately falls down her blouse, to their delight. her peals of laughter makes everyone in the room turn to stare, but they don’t mind. they’re too busy trying to catch their breath to mind.

he gets home just as the happy drunken feeling fades into maudlin, and it’s made worse by the dark house. harry’s not back then, still out enjoying his friends. bitterness coats niall’s throat and he spits in the sink to get rid of the taste. it doesn’t help, not really, so he cracks open the refrigerator and pulls out a coke.

it’s flat, because that’s just his life, and he contemplates pouring it down the sink but can’t quite muster the care enough to do it. he just keeps drinking the fizz-less soda and lets his eyes wander around the kitchen.

the nutribullet harry gave him as a housewarming present is nearly the only thing on his counters because they’d used it this morning to make breakfast-- strawberry smoothies with half a banana and a handful of spinach blended in. it had tasted pretty good, for being so healthy, and harry had looked pleased when niall told him so.

there’s various cups of tea littered around as well, most of them neatly stacked by the sink. he thinks about washing them or emptying the dishwasher to put them in, but he’s a little too drunk to really care about it.

the booze is making his limbs heavy and the melancholy is making his chest tight, so he leaves his half-drunk coke next to the hob and goes up to bed. he sheds clothes as he goes, leaving his jacket in the closet and his socks in the hamper, his shirt and trousers neatly draped over the armchair to be dealt with in the morning.

vaguely, he recognizes that he should shower but it’s too much effort right now and he just crawls into bed, falling asleep cold and missing harry’s hand wrapped around his hip.

there’s a moment when niall wakes up that he thinks he’s still dreaming. the sunlight is drifting in through the window and it lights up harry’s face, soft in his sleep. his hair’s spread out on the pillow, and there’s some in niall’s mouth, and it just feels like a dream.

harry’d obviously come home sometime last night, and niall feels a little smug that it’s his bed harry chose to sleep in, and not stay over at nick’s.

he’s just about to brush his fingers against harry’s cheek when he realises he’s awake, this isn’t a dream, and he snaps his hand back. rolling out of bed, he goes into the loo so he doesn’t do something rash, rinsing his face with cold water and stretching so his back pops. it’s a saturday, and they’ve not got anything to do, so he climbs back into bed to scroll mindlessly on his phone.

“you smell like the floor of a bar,” harry mumbles, his eyes still firmly closed. niall frowns down at him, surprised.

“how do i always wake up before you even when i’m drunk and you’re not?”

“i drank plenty last night, actually. my head’s killing me.” he cracks open an eye to squint at niall and closes it again. “i’m never going out with them again.”

“you don’t mean that,” niall says, ignoring the smugness that pops up at the thought of having harry all to himself.

“i do,” harry groans and shoves his face into the pillow so his words are half-muffled. “they’re enablers, they are, and i don’t like being hungover in the morning.”

“poor harold,” niall croons, smoothing a hand down harry’s bare back. harry’s skin is soft and sleep-warm, and he squirms when he reaches the ticklish part on his lower back. “he had too much fun partying and now he has to deal with the consequences.”

“shut up.”

niall chuckles and runs his hand back up harry’s spine. he presses his finger into harry shoulders and harry goes boneless into the mattress.

“mmm, that feels good.”

“yeah?”

harry breathes a noise of assent that turns into a sigh when niall digs his thumbs into the muscle, finding a knot and working it out with little circles. he’s got tonnes of them, riddled all up and down his back, and niall massages as many as he can before his fingers start to ache.

“you should go to a masseuse, mate. you’re so tense.”

“i already go to the chiropractor,” harry mumbles and niall snorts.

“s’not the same thing.”

“well, i know that,” says harry, turning his face so he’s not speaking into the pillow anymore. “it just seems a bit posh to go to the chiropractor and the masseuse. like, you should pick one or the other.”

“that’s a bit ridiculous, actually, and you’re already posh so why bother about it?”

“i don’t need one now, do i? not when you’re here to help.”

“that’s what husbands are for,” niall says quietly, so quietly he’s not sure harry hears. but harry gives a sigh and turns on his side so they’re looking at each other, pulling the duvet up his chest as he does.

“do tense backs count as in sickness and in health?”

“i feel like they should.”

“yeah, but. like, officially.”

niall rolls his eyes. “if we say so, then i think it does. besides, it’s not going to matter very much longer. we’re going to get divorced or annulled sometime soon, aren’t we?”

something shutters in harry’s eyes, something niall can’t name, and he rolls over onto his back.

“oh right. forgot about that.” his voice is carefully neutral. niall blinks. “how long do you think we have?”

“few more months, probably. we could probably push for a few weeks, if you want.”

harry tips his head to smile at him, but it’s not as big as it is usually. his dimple’s barely there at all.

“i’m, like, fine with whatever.”

“okay,” niall says quietly and pushes the blanket off his legs. it pulls the blanket down on harry too and he complains as niall gets up. niall ignores it, going to take his shower.

when he’s done, harry’s already up and puttering around the kitchen. it smells like he’s making eggs or something, and niall slides into a chair with a cup of coffee.

“abigail’s emailed,” harry says, not looking up from the pan. niall cocks his head and swallows his sip of coffee.

“abigail?”

“my publicist. she copied you in too, i think.”

niall opens his phone and checks his inbox. of course, there’s an email sitting at the top with urgent! as the subject.

“so,” he says after he’s done reading it, pushing his phone away and staring at harry’s back. “they think we’re slacking.”

“aren’t we?” comments harry and he turns around with a plate in his hand, setting it on the table. niall snags a piece of bacon to munch on and ignores the disapproving look he gets.

“can’t believe we’re fighting because we went to separate parties last night,” niall grumbles. at least, that’s what the tabloids are saying.

“we’re supposed to go on a date.”

“today,” agrees niall. harry sets his chin on his hands and squints at him for a moment. “what do you want to do?”

harry hums as he thinks to himself, something simple and almost too quiet for niall to hear.

“there’s um, an art exhibit? nick told me about it last night and i think it’d be cool.”

“an art exhibit,” he repeats thoughtfully and taps his fingers on the table. “and dinner after?”

“sounds sick. wear something nice.”

“oh, of course, mr styles-horan. i wouldn’t go on a date in anything other but my sunday finest.”

harry rolls his eyes and flicks a bit of egg at him. it lands too close to his coffee cup and niall wipes it away with a napkin.

“your ideal date would involve both of you in jeans and a t-shirt, probably at some festival or summat,” harry argues around his mouthful. “maybe going out to a pub after, getting wasted and probably getting off in the toilets.”

really, harry knows him too well. except for the last part.

“and what’s your ideal date, then? walking around in the park and feeding bread to the ducks?”

“not bread, it hurts their stomachs,” harry tells him absently. niall snorts.

“fine then, sunflower seeds. carrots. whatever you feed ducks, dunno.”

“corn, i think.”

“you’re completely mental, harry. did you know that?” niall asks, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, and harry grins, really grins, for the first time all morning. niall resists the urge to poke at his dimple.

“you’ve told me, once or twice. and besides, you’re just as bad, just in different ways.”

“if you say so, styles.”

“styles-horan. we’ve not gotten a divorce yet.” he says it lightly, but there’s a weird lilt to his voice when he does. niall drains the rest of his coffee and polishes off his breakfast.

“didn’t know you liked my last name so much.”

“it’s alright,” harry tells him with his face screwed up in a grimace. laughing, niall tugs a bit on his hair as he gets up to put his plate in the dishwasher.

“should we leave around six? will you be ready by then?”

“it’s ten in the morning, niall.”

“unbuttoning all those buttons takes a while,” he teases and harry makes an annoyed sound. “so does picking which outlandish print you want to wear.”

“oi, you’re one to talk. remember when you wore the same outfit on stage for three concerts?”

“go pick what sparkly boots you’re going to wear tonight and leave me alone,” niall complains and suddenly, harry’s pressed up against niall’s back, lips at his ear. niall freezes, the faucet still running. he’s right there, and his mouth is so close that niall can feel it pouting against his skin.

“when have you ever wanted me to leave you alone, niall?”

“every bloody day of my life,” niall answers, a bit too weakly for his own comfort. he takes a tiny steadying breath. “especially when you’re being a pest.”

“i’m never a pest,” harry says, “and you love me. admit it, you love me.”

“don’t. not one bit.”

“niall styles-horan,” harry drawls, “don’t lie.”

his breath is hot and his voice is low, rumbling. it makes niall shiver a little bit, chills chasing each other down his spine. he hopes harry doesn’t feel it.

“i love you,” he mutters, mostly so that harry will stop playing whatever game he’s playing and get off of him.

“knew it,” says harry, satisfied. he doesn’t move away, but presses closer instead. he kisses niall’s cheek, right next to his ear.

“you’re a pest,” repeats niall.

“mmm, maybe. but you married me.”

“i was drunk.”

“still counts,” harry says and kisses him again, a quick peck that lands on the corner of niall’s mouth. niall resists the urge to turn his head and catch harry’s lips for a proper snog, to give into the thing he’s carefully been ignoring for years and damn all the consequences.

but harry’s gone before niall does, and niall’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.

“i cooked, so you can do the washing up,” harry calls merrily over his shoulder. niall doesn’t move for a long time, frozen at his spot at the sink with the damn faucet still running.

he’s so in love it’s an ache, flooding him from his head to his toes. every nerve’s alight when harry’s in the room, and it’s almost physically painful.

the sooner they’re not married and not in the same house, the better. niall needs space, is craving it before he does something stupid and sets all of this on fire.

reaching out with shaky fingers, he switches off the water and loads what fits into the dishwasher. everything else he stacks on the counter; it can wait until his head’s not spinning so much and until his chest isn’t tight.

it takes a while.

the art is very modern, very much something harry would like, and very much what niall doesn’t. it’s just too confusing; all the colours are supposed to mean something, but he’s not exactly sure what. but harry’s engrossed so niall holds his hand and ponders at the works, still blinking away the flashes from pap cameras from behind his eyelids.

“fascinating,” harry murmurs after staring way too long at a sculpture that honestly just looks like garbage. “what do you think, niall?”

“hmm? oh, yes. it’s, um. inspired.” he’s pulling words out of his arse but it seems to satisfy harry, who moves on to the next piece.

niall’s bored until they get to a room with neon signs lit up. now this he likes. there’s one in electric blue that he pauses in front of, staring at it for long enough that harry takes notice.

“i don’t know how to love you,” harry reads quietly, curling his fingers into the sleeve of niall’s jacket. they look at it for a few seconds, evaluating. “i like it.”

“me too,” niall replies and then lets himself be swept away to the next one.

they drink champagne at the exhibit and wine at dinner, their feet kicking at each other under the table and pulling faces above it. the food is excellent, the wine is better, and niall can feel himself getting flushed and tipsy. he loosens the knot on his tie, just a bit, and harry pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. he’s leaning forward, buttons gaping, and the silver chains hanging on his chest catch the glint of candlelight when he breathes.

niall tries very hard not to look.

harry’s telling a meandering story about a cat and a bicycle and something else, niall’s not really sure. he’s not paying attention much. harry’s voice is slow and enticing and he can’t quite focus enough on the words.

he can almost convince himself it’s a real date, that harry’s the owner of a gallery and niall’s a businessman and they just happened to meet, happened to fall together. he almost convinces himself that harry will go home with him and they’ll give each other sleepy kisses as they get ready for bed, and then in the morning when they wake up. he almost convinces himself, and then a camera goes off. harry stiffens, just barely, and tilts his body towards the window.

“do you think it’s working?” he murmurs, hardly moving his lips. “are we convincing them?”

niall swallows hard around the words he wants to say-- it’s convincing me, that’s for sure-- and nods.

“i think... i think yeah.” his throat’s all stopped up and he has to clear it a few times before he can answer. harry sits back in his seat and looks pleased, kicking a little bit at niall’s ankle. niall reaches for his wineglass and swallows the rest of it, wishing it was something a lot stronger.

they get dessert, something full of chocolate and probably rum and incredibly too expensive, but it’s not them paying and it wouldn’t matter anyway, not really.

they pay the bill and snap a picture for the waitress; she’d been starstruck through the whole night, but professional enough to try not to show it, and niall leaves her a decent amount of money as a thank you.

the paps are waiting outside of the front door with their large cameras and shouty voices. usually, they’d try to sneak around back when they’re out, but that’s not the point of tonight. they’re trying to be seen.

harry wraps a protective arm around niall’s waist and they wade together through the crowd towards their car. it’s disorienting, even more so with the alcohol in their system, but harry’s a solid presence that he leans into. finally, they’re bundled up into the car with their bodyguard in the front seat and on their way home. harry stays quiet the whole drive, and niall does too, holding hands loosely in between them. niall’s not really sure when that happened, but he’s not very keen on it stopping so he doesn’t say anything.

the driver parks in front of the door and waits for them to get out. it takes a minute, niall’s not really sure how his legs work right now and harry’s tripping over himself like usual.

harry goes straight into the kitchen and grabs a beer out of the fridge. he hands a bottle to niall without asking and then disappears into the lounge. niall shrugs off his jacket and hangs it off a chair, following harry after a second’s hesitation.

harry tucks his feet under niall’s thighs and leans back against the arm of the sofa, lazily drinking from the bottle. the lines of his body are long and clean like this. niall wants. he wants to crawl up harry’s body and settle on top of him, lick the taste of beer out of his mouth and leave love bits littered on his skin.

the ache in his chest is back. his fingers twitch and he holds on tight to his beer so he doesn’t give in.

“do you ever wonder,” harry starts. his voice is quiet and thoughtful, but it still makes niall jump, “what we would’ve been doing if we hadn’t been in the band?”

“um, sometimes.”

“like, i used to be a baker. would i’ve done that for the rest of my life?” he wonders, blinking up at the ceiling and taking another drink. “would we have been friends?”

niall honestly can’t imagine a world where he’s not in love with harry. it’s not possible, he doesn’t think.

“yeah,” he says roughly, settling a hand on harry’s leg. “yeah, i think so.”

harry tilts his head to look at niall, eyes wide and pupils dilated. his gaze is piercing and niall resists the urge to shift in his seat.

“niall. you’re so…” harry whispers.

“so what?”

shaking his head, harry sits up and leans over, fingers sliding against niall’s jaw until he’s cupping his face. there’s a brief second of deja vu, and niall almost checks to see if there’s a crowd watching, before harry’s mouth catches on his own.

it’s different from the first time. it’s not a show, there’s not people watching from every angle to judge if they’re really married or not. this kiss is just for them, sitting in the half-darkness of niall’s living room and no one to please.

harry kisses like he talks, slow and syrupy. his hands are hot on niall’s skin and niall’s got one of own fisted in the material of harry’s shirt, the other sliding into harry’s hair. niall shifts so he’s horizontal on the couch with harry a pleasant weight on top of him, legs twisted together.

he tugs at harry’s hair, just a bit, and harry makes a low noise, somehow pressing closer. his mouth is hot and wet and niall’s mind honestly goes blank when he sucks on his tongue for a second. he scratches his fingernails lightly up harry’s side and harry breaks away with a shiver, panting a laugh against niall’s neck.

niall does it again and harry scrapes his teeth against his collarbone in revenge. he soothes the sting with his tongue and moves up, this time biting at the place where niall’s neck and shoulder meet.

“jesus, harry,” niall says, strangled, and harry laughs again. he presses tiny kisses up niall’s skin and props himself up on his elbows so he’s smiling down at niall.

“hi,” he says.

“hi,” niall replies, carding a hand through the strands of hair tickling his face. harry smiles bigger. this time, niall doesn’t stop himself from brushing his thumb over harry’s cheek. he leaves his fingers there, feeling harry’s smile under the tips. “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

harry’s face changes into something confused but niall doesn’t give him time to process it, pulling him down to kiss him again. harry goes willingly, making a small sound when niall nips on his bottom lip with his teeth.

they lose themselves for a while, kissing against the sofa and it’s been so long since niall’s done that with anyone. harry’s drugging and niall feels heavy and content and electric, like he’s going to disintegrate into tiny pieces of light any minute now.

and then harry’s hands creep down to stroke at his waistband, and niall’s breath catches in his throat. harry doesn’t notice, too intent on getting niall’s belt undone. niall can’t move, can barely breathe, and harry starts unzipping his flies.

“wait, don’t--” niall chokes out when he feels harry’s fingers against his dick. “i don’t want--”

he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, he just needs harry to stop right now. harry pause.

“niall?” he says cautiously. niall’s head is whirling, shame and confusion and regret all running through his mind until he can’t concentrate on anything else.

“i can’t do this,” he says out loud and he knows his voice is thin and strangled. harry sits up, gives him some space but it’s not enough. “i need-- i need you to leave.”

“niall?” harry asks again but niall doesn’t answer, too busy trying to extract himself from underneath harry. finally, after what feels like a decade, he pulls his legs loose and tumbles onto the floor. “niall, what’s wrong?”

“you need to go. please. i can’t... do this.”

harry watches him for a minute, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen, confusion written all across his face.

“okay,” he says finally and he sounds strange, disappointed almost. “okay. i’ll just… go?”

niall nods, getting to his feet.

“i’m sorry, i just. i can’t--” he repeats and then walks as fast as he can out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time to his bathroom and locking the door behind him. he starts the shower, runs it at hot as he can, because he needs something grounding and it’s the only thing he can think of. the water is nearly scalding but it feels good and he barely flinches under the spray.

he’s just been so stupid for thinking he could have everything. harry’s-- harry’s wonderful but he wants sex and niall can’t give him that. and maybe it would work for a while, but harry’d be unhappy. niall’s not going to be the reason harry’s unhappy.

and usually, he doesn’t even, like, care that he’s ace. it’s just a part of him, like he’s irish or has skinny legs or a wonky knee. it’s not a tragedy that he doesn’t want sex, it’s just a fact and he doesn’t care. except, apparently, when it’s harry.

he stands in the shower until it starts to go cold. he’s not sure how long that is, a half hour maybe, but the first spray of cool water shocks him into getting out. he gets dressed methodically, automatically, like it’s not his body.

the house is quiet and dark when he gets out. the sofa is empty, the beer bottles are thrown in the rubbish bin, and harry is nowhere to be seen.

niall sits on a kitchen chair with a thump, running his hands through his wet hair, and tries to breathe around the panic that’s building in his chest. he’s not sure if he’s happy or not that he’s alone, but he is and there’s no changing it.

with stilted movements, he goes up to the bedroom. the bed’s still unmade from this morning; he hadn’t had the chance to make it up. he wonders if harry’s side still smells like him, if he can trick himself into thinking harry will come and join him during the night.

bile rises in his throat and he shakes his head, backing out into the hall. he can’t be in there now, so he settles down on the sofa instead, wrapping himself up in a blanket and turning on the telly because he can’t bear the silence.

he wakes up in the morning, too early, with a crick in his neck from sleeping at a weird angle on the sofa. he felt like he hasn’t slept at all, exhaustion pulling at his bones and in a weird mood. he feels lethargic and stretched too thin.

willie and deo text, asking if he wants to go out tonight, and he says yes because there’s nothing else for him to say.

he tidies his house because it doesn’t feel like his anymore. like harry came and put everything in the wrong place and now niall’s got to set it right again. he puts away the dishes, fingers lingering on the mug harry’d claimed as his own and is tempted to drop it so it shatters into a million pieces. he strips the sheets on his bed and in the guest room, hands feeling like they’re burning and is tempted to rip the sheets to shreds.

clara texts him, attaches a headline her words, congratulating them both on their successful date last night. the picture at the top is of them leaving the restaurant, tucked into each other and giggling. there’s more scattered through the article, at the museum and at dinner. they look in love, niall thinks as he pauses on one. harry’s gesturing and niall’s just watching with a soft smile on his face. they look disgustingly in love and niall doesn’t know how they got to this point.

it’s fucked up that he’s just been married--pretending to be married, really-- for a few months and yet he’s already used to harry’s warm smile and soft weight against his body.

they fit, like harry had said ages ago, and he misses him now, even though it’s his own fault.

after a moment’s thought, he scrolls through his phone and selects one, holding it up to his ear as it starts ringing.

“clara?”

willie and deo are loud when they’re drunk and usually niall would be too, the three of them overlapping and talking over each other. but today, each new drink just makes him more and more morose until he can barely stand the sound of their voices.

he shrinks into the booth and fixes a smile on his face, vaguely hoping no one’s pointing a camera in his direction.

his phone vibrates and he checks it to see liam and louis have both texted. their messages have a mix of concerned and angry, asking him what’s wrong and if he’s alright. he answers them with one hand, typing out a simple i’m ok thanks :) and hoping it’ll do. it won’t, he knows, but he can hope.

louis rings him after about five minutes and niall shuts himself away in a toilet stall to answer the phone.

“yeah?”

“what’s going on, neil?” louis asks gently. he’s got his big brother voice on and niall kind of hates it, hates that he needs it. “what’s up with you and our dear harold?”

“nothing,” he mutters and louis tsks over the line.

“well, that’s bullshit.”

“how’d you know?” he asks.

“just do. also harry deleted his pictures of you off his instagram and now it’s trending on twitter.”

“shit.”

“yeah,” louis says lightly. “it is, a bit. so tell me what’s going on.”

there’s a sticker with a corner coming loose on the door. niall picks at it with a fingernail, watching it curl up as he pulls.

“me n’harry kissed.”

“i know, niall. i was there onstage with you.”

“no, i mean. last night. in private.”

“oh, you mean--”

“yeah.” he goes silent, chewing on his lip.

“what’s wrong with that, then?” louis asks, careful. “you’re both married, after all.”

“i’m in love with him.”

“with harry? since when?”

since always, niall thinks about saying, but that might be a little too strong.

“dunno. a while.”

“before or after you got piss drunk and eloped?”

“before,” niall admits. he’s nearly got half the sticker pulled off now. it’s one of those that says hello my name is and someone’s written totally fucked underneath in scratchy letters. “a lot before.”

“oh, nialler. but-- he kissed you back, yeah? and he married you, even if you were both incapacitated. that must mean something.”

“i’m asexual,” he says suddenly, feeling like it’s going to explode out of him if he doesn’t. louis makes a confused noise and then goes quiet when niall keeps talking. “i’m ace and harry’s… harry. i can’t have sex with him, louis. i can’t.”

“is that what ace means? that you don’t want to have sex?”

“yeah,” he says around a breath. “i know it sounds strange, but--”

“it’s not strange,” louis says, voice sharp, and it loosens a bit of the pressure in niall’s chest. “it’s not strange because you’re feeling it, okay?”

“okay.”

“did you tell him?”

“no,” he says, abandoning the sticker and rubbing at his face instead. “it never came up.”

“so you’re in love with him, and harry probably likes you back--at least enough to kiss you-- and you’re asexual. maybe i’m just being thick, but i don’t understand what the problem is?”

“i can’t be in love with harry. it’ll make him unhappy.”

“did he say that?” louis’ voice is sharp again, protective. niall screws his eyes shut and leans his head against the door. “did he say that to you, niall?”

“no, i just know.”

“i think,” louis tells him and it’s slow like he’s afraid of spooking him, “i think you should talk to him about all this before you make assumptions.”

“you know harry just as well as i do, louis. when have we ever known him to not be suggestive or flirty or--”

“nialler. talk to him, yeah? communication is good.”

“yeah, um, i have to go. deo’s yelling at me and i just have to go. bye, tommo,” he says, standing up and pushing the door open. he feels like he’s going to explode again and he wants to go home where he can sleep in peace. louis says goodbye, not sounding happy about it, and niall hangs up.

willie and deo are right where he left them, only drunker. they cheer when they see him.

“what took so long in the toilet?” willie asks, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. niall’s stomach twists.

“i’m going home. i, uh, feel sick.”

“you’re no fun,” deo complains as niall drops a tenner on the table.

“i’ll go out again later, promise.” the boys salute him with their pints and he shoulders his way out the back door into the blessed silence of the street.

he walks home, it’s not far and he needs to clear his head. a car would be too claustrophobic, too much, and he tips his head back to look at the giant expanse of the sky. there’s not much in view, the light pollution in london washing out the stars he’s used to in mullingar, but it’s still comforting.

there’s someone leaning against his doorway when he gets there. taking a step back, he grips his phone and starts to call security until the person steps into the light. it’s not a fan or a pap. it’s harry.

“clara called,” harry says and he sounds like he’s been crying. “she said that you’d asked for the divorce paperwork.”

“i-- yeah.”

“why?” niall doesn’t answer, just looks at him. harry’s face grows stormy, anger creasing the corners of his mouth and his forehead. “why are you doing this?”

“wasn’t it always the plan? wait a few months and then quietly separate? why are you upset?”

“because,” harry says, taking a deep breath. “because i thought we… had something.”

“what?”

“i like being married to you, niall. fuck, when you pulled out the wedding certificate i thought i was still dreaming.”

“i don’t understand,” niall says stiffly and harry takes another step closer, a wry smile on his lips.

“didn’t the flirting give it away?”

“you’re like that with everyone, though.”

“i don’t kiss everyone like i kissed you,” he says with a snort. “and i don’t think you do, either. why’d you push me away that night?”

“because i don’t want to sleep with you,” he admits and harry’s face falls.

“oh.”

“no, not because--” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, and not looking at harry. “i don’t want to sleep with anyone. i’m, uh, ace. asexual.”

“oh,” harry says again with a strange expression. he sounds like he’s going to laugh. “is that… is that it?”

niall recoils, almost unconsciously, and it feels like someone’s kicked out the world from beneath his feet. rejection floods through him, making him burn, and he needs to get inside now.

“i’ve got to--” he grits out through his teeth, trying to around harry, but harry catches his arm.

“no, wait niall. i didn’t mean it like that, i promise. i was caught off guard and i didn’t mean it.”

“let me go, harry,” niall mutters and harry does after a second, letting him get at the front door.

“would you stop running away and listen to me?” harry shouts, making him flinch, but he doesn’t turn around, still fiddling with the door. “god, niall, stop. you don’t have to-- i’m ace too, alright?”

niall freezes and harry lets out a sigh.

“not that it matters, because it shouldn’t, but i’m ace and i don’t understand why you keep pushing me away.”

“what?” niall asks, finally turning around. harry’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring. “i don’t understand either. but you’re always flirting, and that night…”

harry sighs again.

“i thought that’s what you wanted. that’s what people want, and i don’t particularly like jerking people off, but people usually do and i was trying to be nice. it’s what happens after you make out, yeah? and i didn’t know you didn’t want it, until you told me.”

“how can you be ace? you’re you.”

“yes, and i don’t like sex,” harry tells him, scowling. “you really shouldn’t stereotype people.”

“i didn’t-- i don’t--” he pauses and glances behind him. “do you want to come in?”

harry looks at him for a moment and then nods, following niall in. he takes his shoes off without hesitating, lining them up where he usually does, and marches into the lounge. niall aches a little at the familiarity of it.

“okay,” harry says when he’s settled on the sofa again. “okay.”

“you’re ace. but what about, like-- nick and taylor? kendall?”

“nick and kendall are just friends, they’ve always been just friends despite what everyone else seems to think. and taylor is… taylor.” he glances down at his hands and fiddles with the seam of his jeans. “nick knows. he’s one of the only people that does, besides mum and gemma.”

“knows about?”

“everything. me being ace, me being in love with you. all of it.” niall can’t breathe again suddenly. harry looks at him quickly and then back at his hands. “oh, i’m in love with you, by the way. even after you made me leave that night. i get why you did it, but it still hurt.”

“i’m sorry,” niall tells him earnestly and harry smiles, just a bit. “i, uh, have sort of been in love with you for years? it’s a bit embarrassing really.”

“years?”

“yeah. since the beginning.”

“why didn’t you say something?” harry says and finally looks at niall straight on, frowning.

“why didn’t you? christ, we’re just going to go round in circles.”

“we’re not very good at telling each other things, are we?”

“nope. we’ve got to work on that,” niall says, shifting closer. there’s something like hope building in his chest, a different pressure than before that’s kinder, nicer. harry raises his eyebrows.

“what makes you think we’re going to get practice? i thought you wanted a divorce.” he’s clearly teasing, but it stings all the same. something must show in his face because harry’s gets worried. “no, i was just joking. i know you don’t.”

“do you, though?” he can’t help but ask, needs the validation like he needs air.

“niall,” harry says solemnly, getting down on one knee, “i know it’s been shit and we’re bad at communicating, and that we’ve only just declared our love for each other, but would you do me the honour of staying my husband?”

“you’re a fucking idiot,” niall mutters, shaking his head, and launching himself towards harry. they go tipping backwards and on the floor with an oof. “yeah, i’ll stay your husband.”

harry laughs, and niall can’t help but join in as well, hiding his face in harry’s shoulder. harry wraps his arms around niall’s waist, holding him close and kissing the top of his head.

“for the record, i’m sorry too. we mucked it all up, didn’t we? my first marriage and it was a disaster.”

“excuse me, your first marriage? how many marriages are you going to have?” niall objects, popping his head up to catch harry’s grin.

“probably seven,” muses harry. “that sounds like a good number.”

“well, fuck you too.”

“please don’t. but you can kiss me a little.”

niall does just that, swallowing the little pleased noise harry makes. they’re still on the floor and it’s too late at night and clara’s probably getting the divorce papers right now, but niall’s got his husband and nothing else matters. they’ll get it all sorted in the morning.

“you’re not a bad husband, styles. for the record, i’m glad i married you,” niall says quietly, kissing the tip of harry’s nose.

“i’m glad i married you too,” harry answers and there’s a little blush on his cheekbones. niall runs his fingers over it, just briefly. “and it’s styles-horan. you should know this by now”

“styles-horan,” he repeats and his grin is so wide it feels like it’s splitting his face in half. “how could i forget.”