Work Text:
Harry knows what day it is. It’s been marked on the calendar on his phone since before he left for tour, never deleted it after it everything. He knows what day it is and it makes his heart feel heavy, makes his chest ache and phantom lips press against his own. He knows where they are, can’t look at anything and not know, can’t not see him because before it all, they were his friends too. Before it all, he wasn’t so alone in this, but he’d agreed with what Nick had said, he’d gone along with the whole thing because he’d been right, after all. Doesn’t make it hurt less though, Harry thinks, seeing him with their friends, his friends, somewhere he’s not invited anymore.
--
It was a stupid idea was what it was. It was remarkable he’d made it through a few days in LA without being spotted by anyone, without having a hoard of people with cameras following after him, and LAX is always the worst place of all. But he’s figured it out, has a place he needs to be, and even if he gets there late, well, he tried, didn’t he? Of course there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his head, he doesn’t want you there and you weren’t invited and he broke up with you remember, all competing with his heart telling him to keep going, to keep his head down and his mouth shut and not get caught leaving the country. He’s got a long day ahead of him.
--
In the end, when he finally gets to the resort they’re at, it’s not been Nick’s birthday for ages. He’s exhausted, spent the better part of sixteen hours flying around the globe on last minute flights to get here, barely even knows what time it is. The sun is setting and christ, he’s missed it by a day entirely, wanting nothing more than to find Nick and tell him everything, more than their stilted texts and awkward conversations trying to still be friends throughout all of this. Because Harry can’t lose him, won’t let him go, no matter if he feels shit whenever the texts stop, whenever he hangs up the phone.
He’s checked into his own room, in case none of this works out, tossed his single bag onto the bed and showered the long day away. He feels better, at least a little bit, more presentable anyway when he’s dressed again and on the lookout for the entire group, hitting the bar first, figuring that’ll be the most obvious place to find them. It’s easy to spot them, laughing loud in a booth with a table full of drinks, and Harry feels every bit of outsider that he never felt with them before, like they’re the people he wants to belong with, but never will, not anymore. They don’t spot him, which seems like a good thing really, although he feels a bit like a creep, making his way to the bar and try and figure out a way to introduce his presence to everyone without feeling like an interloper. He’s got no ideas, not until he feels a gentle stroke of long nails on the back of his neck, turning into Aimee’s hug like it was where he was meant to be all along. He closes his eyes into it, hugs her tighter when she rubs at his back, tries not to cry at how real this all is.
“I shouldn’t have come, should I?” The words are a bit choked, but he’s having a hard time trying to keep everything in check, brightening his face with a smile when he pulls back to look at her, like this isn’t the most painful thing he’s done since that overnight trip down to London when Nick had said they needed to talk back when they were still on the UK leg of the tour.
“Probably not, no.” She laughs though, something unconvincing but it’s sweet really, he knows she means well, that she doesn’t want to make this worse for him than he already did himself. “Do you want me to tell him?” And the thing is Harry loves Aimee, he really does. She was a huge part of his life last year, a huge part of his relationship with Nick, and she’s only looking out for the both of them now. It just takes her for him to realize what a terrible idea this had been, shaking his head sadly before looking over at the table. Nicco’s on Nick’s left, the spot Harry had been for everything before, leaning over to whisper something in his ear that makes them both laugh, makes Nick lean into him to catch his lips in a kiss. Harry feels a bit like he’s going to be sick all over, just forcing up a smile for Aimee and hugging her again.
“It’ll be our secret I was here.”
When he leaves, no one spots him. No one follows him out. No one calls his name and begs him to stay, to remind him he was their friend too. Not that he wanted it, not that he wanted a spectacle, but just... he’s frustrated and sad and it’s a bit overwhelming, breathing hard and letting his feet guide him somewhere else, somewhere not that bar, somewhere he doesn’t feel suffocated by his own feelings.
--
It’s been fully dark for ages when Harry hears the footsteps on the sand, the slight limp in the gait that tells him it’s Nick before either of them say a thing. He’s been cried out for what feels like forever, eyes red and dry, cheeks raw, chest aching, but he’s not had the energy to get up. It was easier to just stay put on the sand, listening to the waves crest at the shore, steadying his breathing and making him feel just that tiny bit less hollow. Even Nick’s arrival doesn’t make him feel anything more than numb, not looking up at him from the spot where he’s got his knees curled into his chest, breathing with the pull of the water.
They don’t talk, not for a few moments anyway. Harry feels his presence more than anything, the heat wafting off Nick, the faint smell of alcohol and foreign cologne and sunscreen making every breath unbearable. The longer they sit the less numb he feels, the more he feels like crying all over again, the lump in his throat growing larger every second. It’s not until Nick’s fingers slide through his hair he feels a bit better, a bit like he belongs there, always has. He doesn’t move though, tips his head just slightly in Nick’s direction, letting him card his fingers through his hair slow and soothing. They keep at it for awhile, how long Harry’s not sure, but long enough to make him feel at odds in his own skin, both manic and soothed in the way that only Nick could ever make him feel.
“Aimee told me.” Nick finally says, and Harry breaks his eye contact with the water to finally look at him, illuminated by moonlight and more handsome than he remembered. His eyes hurt with the tears already shed, with the new ones threatening to form just looking at him, remembering the last time they were face to face, how horribly askew everything had gone. He shouldn’t be here, he knows it now more than ever. He’s sad, Harry knows this, sad he has to do this again, has to remind Harry of all the reasons why they broke up, that neither of them can be what they need each other to be when there’s all the distance and media scrutiny.
“I’m sorry I came.” It’s the first thing he’s said since the bar, voice huskier than normal, more broken than he’d meant to sound. Nick smiles at that, not meeting his eyes but it’s close enough, his laugh doing that simultaneous damage and repair to Harry’s heart that it’d done since March.
“I’m not.” The thing is Harry knows he means it. Nick’s not mad at him for coming, is more than malleable when Harry nearly tackles him down into the sand, face buried in the soft white cotton of his shirt. It doesn’t have to be any more than that and they both know it, just the moonlight and the water, the quiet beating of their hearts. They don’t talk, despite having loads to say, it’s not the time or the place, and maybe, Harry thinks, maybe this right here is something they both need.
“Do you love him?” It’s been ages, he thinks, when he finally asks the question, fingers finding Nick’s and entwining them together, both too long and lean and large. It’s the wrong action for the question but Nick lets him do as he pleases, just a shrug of his shoulders.
“I could.” It’s the wrong question really, Harry knows that. He’s not been gone long enough, not really given him the chance to recover from what they were, the year and odd months they’d had together. This isn’t helping either, never will help being in each others lives like this. There’s a part of Harry that knows he’ll always love Nick, believes a part of Nick will always love him too. And maybe they’ll have a future one day, or maybe Nick will be the one that got away, but at least he had him, at least they had just enough time to really be something special.
“Are you happy?” He finally asks it, pushing off Nick’s chest to look him in the eye, wanting to know this answer more than any other question in his arsenal. Nick’s eyes meet his and his smile is wry, broken, not the kind of smile that anyone should have on a birthday holiday.
“Enough, yeah.” Harry knows what it means, that he is but he doesn’t want to talk about it, not to him, not right now. He feels better about it all really, and yet not at all, but at least it hadn’t turned into some kind of spectacle, the poor deluded ex trying to worm his way back into Nick’s life. Nick knows it too, like he’s always somehow known what Harry needs, pushing himself up off the sand, into a sitting position, looking to Harry expectantly. “Help me up, will you? I’ve got a bum foot and I’m not as young as I used to be. Twenty nine now and all.” Harry laughs for the first time all night, and does as he’s told, a bit surprised when Nick doesn’t let him go when he stands. They stay like that a few seconds, nose to nose, looking at one another with heavy lidded eyes and it’s all still there, everything that’s ever been between them, but Nick breaks it first, presses a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead before stepping away entirely.
“You’ll never heal properly if you don’t wear your boot, you idiot.” His own voice is fond and quiet, but he knows this is their last chance, this is the last memory he’ll have of Nick for quite awhile.
“And have that tan line? Rather have a bad foot.” Nick laughs back and they smile at each other, something more real and it’s entirely more painful. They don’t say goodbye, don’t say anything more to one another. Nick heads back up the beach and Harry stays back, controlling his breathing and pointedly doesn’t cry.
--
Harry doesn’t stay in Mallorca. Once Nick’s been gone - twenty minutes, and hour, Harry’s not sure anymore - he heads back to his room, grabs his bag. The rest of his things are back in LA with the boys that had stayed back, and really it’s a good thing when he can manage a cheap flight back to Manchester from there instead of heading back to London. He calls Gemma beforehand, tells her when to pick him up and they have a relatively quiet reunion, a drive back to Holmes Chapel full of her talking and making him laugh in the way she only ever does when she knows something’s wrong with him. His mum and his step dad are full of hugs when they get home, and blessedly no one asks any questions. It’s home, he thinks, the home untainted with memories that kept him running to Los Angeles, staying in New York. London is full of Nick in everywhere he turns, but here, he knows he can put himself back together, little pieces of his heart falling back into place. He’s not got to run, not anymore.