Chapter Text
“Thought I’d be seeing you this week, Harold.”
Harry rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Nick sounds nonchalant and though it’s hard to tell over the phone, Harry knows he’s angry with him - disgruntled at the very least.
“Going home for three days only makes it harder to come back.”
It’s not a lie. Going home is all well and good, but Harry doesn’t relish the idea of being mobbed at the airport, only to have a day each to spend with Nick and his mum and Gemma.
“The other lads managed,” Nick laughs to cover the hurt. His laugh would sound hollow even if the phone reception didn’t make his voice sound so tinny.
Harry swallows the lump in his throat and schools his voice back to some semblance of normality. “’M sorry, Grimm. We have a break in a few weeks, a longer one. I’ll spend the whole week with you then.”
Harry knows he shouldn’t say this; they’d agreed not to, but he can’t help the “I miss you, you know” that tumbles out of his mouth next.
There’s a long silence at the other end of the line. Harry can hear Nick starting to say something, but he takes a quick look back at the doorway to the bedroom of the hotel suite and there’s a tall shadow looming between the arch, face hidden against the light coming from inside the room; he can see the figure taking slow, leisurely steps towards him.
Harry lowers his voice even more. “I have to – I have to go,” he says, rushed. “I’ll call. I’ll call, I promise.”
He fumbles to end the call before he’s dragged back into the room by his elbow. He turns to face the other man once he’s in. He sets a smile on his face, resigned, and pulls the man in for a kiss.
-//-
It starts when the song Harry wrote with Sam is leaked. Well, they say leak, but it was a calculated release. The boys want to branch out, re-brand their music and the song’s meant to test the fans’ reaction to a different sound without stamping the One Direction label on it. The reaction is explosive – positive on all accounts. The boys have never been ashamed of their songs, chinny chin chins aside, but their audience has grown with them over the years and maybe it’s time to try something different. The label – and Simon – agrees.
Now, they’re sprawled around the tour bus lounge while it rumbles along the highway to God knows what city, and discussing the possibilities.
“A Grammy…” Liam says in wonder, an awed, dreamy look on his face.
Zayn snorts, not looking up from where he’s fiddling with his laptop’s cracked screen, “Dream big, Li. We need an invite first.”
Taylor’s dig at last year’s Grammys had hurt.
“The Jonas Brothers were nominated for one,” Harry says fairly. "It’s not that much of a stretch, is it?"
Harry looks down at his lap at Louis, who tells them it’s no use yearning for the Grammys before they’ve even finished the album.
As if taking a consensus, Liam turns to Niall, “Ni?”
Niall spares a quick glance back at them from the game screen and shrugs, “Louis’s right.” And that’s all he has to say about that.
Liam huffs and snatches the laptop away from Zayn. “Give me that.”
-//-
They first approach Simon with this a month before the tour. Simon hems and haws over it, but finally agrees to entertain the idea. They dive into writing and persuade Simon to release Harry and Sam’s song. When that is received well by the majority of their fans, Simon gives them the go-ahead to continue writing.
Only problem is, the producer they’d like for this album refuses to work with them, citing “artistic differences”. He’s a big influence in the industry; artists under his direction churn out album after album of lauded material. He’s just who they need.
On their fourth meeting with said producer, Harry is asked to stay back after the boys leave. He does, puzzled. Steve from the label sees the boys out and closes the door to the conference room.
Harry grins, “What have I done now, Steve?” Of all the people in their American label, he likes Steve best.
Steve smiles back, though it looks strained. “You’ve caught Vig’s eye.”
Harry perks up, surprised. “How come?”
“He likes your song with that Sam kid. He thinks you’ve got more potential, band or not.”
Harry sits back against his chair and shrugs, “Don’t really wanna go solo now, mate.”
“He’s not asking you to,” Steve soothes. “He wants to take you guys on.”
Harry’s eyes widen. “But he just said –!”
“He wants you to –” Steve starts, but Harry interrupts him.
“We’ll work hard. We won’t goof off in the studios – or – or waste his time.” Harry’s excited. Months and months of planning and pleading and arse–kissing have gone into this.
Steve shakes his head. “That’s great; he’ll appreciate that. But he wants something from you.”
“S’not something like Taylor again, is it?” Harry asks warily. Taylor was nice enough, but that was a fiasco from the start.
Steve looks nervous, “Not – not exactly like Taylor. He wants to… hang out with you.”
“Hang out with us?” It makes sense. They can’t work together if they’re not comfortable with each other.
But Steve says, “Just you.”
Harry can't help but be a little cross. “Told you I’m not going off on my own to make an album.”
“You misunderstand. He just wants to, er, get to know you.”
“Just me?” Harry asks.
Steve nods, takes a deep breath and, with the air of a man forcing himself to rip off a very large Band-Aid, says, “He’ll work with you guys, but you need to, uh, spend time with him.”
“Me? Spend time with him?” Harry repeats slowly.
Steve nods, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. “Kind of like – kind of like you and Taylor, but – but more,” Steve finishes lamely.
“More...” Harry trails off. It takes a few seconds for his brain to register the word and another few to process the meaning. His eyes widen.
Steve has the decency to look ashamed.
It would be comical, the way he’d delivered the request if Harry wasn’t so disgusted by the idea.
“People do this all the time, you know,” Steve says hastily. “You’re not the first and definitely not the last... It’s not so bad; you get some fun out of it too.”
Steve looks like every word he’s saying is physically paining him.
Harry feels the same. He chooses his words with great care, “This… It’s not the same as being seen around town a few times with Taylor. However you word it, it’s not. We didn’t,” to Harry’s great embarrassment, he feels his throat tightening. “We didn’t sleep together.”
“I know,” Steve says quietly.
They sit in silence for a while, then Steve pats Harry’s knee as he gets up. “Just - think about it. Talk to Vig. He’ll be in the city until tomorrow night, so you have plenty of time to decide. Here’s his card.”
Harry sits in the room for a long time after Steve leaves.
-//-
Harry doesn’t sleep that night. They’ve chosen to stay in the tour bus instead of going in to a hotel, so it’s harder to get time alone. Maybe that’s a blessing because if he thinks about what’s being asked of him, his stomach churns and he feels sick. When it’s acceptably late, he claims exhaustion and excuses himself from the bus lounge. On the way to the door, he passes through an obstacle course of limbs, all trying to tug him back down. Usually Harry would relent, even if he were exhausted, but he doesn’t feel much like roughhousing or even cuddling tonight. He shoves his way through them all, annoyed at the wall-to-wall cushioned seating of the room – whose idea was that anyway – and stumbles to the bed area. He brushes his teeth mechanically, strips off his shirt, and climbs into his bunk, snapping the curtains shut against all light.
By the dim light of his phone screen, he reads the card Steve had given him earlier that day. He’s not sure why he keeps rereading it, but it’s the only concrete evidence of what he’s been asked to do. It seems like a dream still, something morbid his tired brain has cooked up in its sleep.
He tosses and turns all night, trying to find a comfortable position. The gentle rolling of the bus as it drives to the stadium they’re playing the next night does nothing to help, only increases his nausea. He gives up on sleep around half four when dawn starts to break. He plays around with his phone until he hears the others stir in their beds. He gets out of bed when everyone else does and quietly eats breakfast at the fold-up table in the main area of their bus. He’s trying to be as inconspicuous as possible and doesn’t realize Zayn’s talking to him until Liam rubs his shoulders.
“Harry?” Liam looks concerned.
Harry jerks out of his thoughts at Liam’s touch, a bit disoriented. “Hmm?”
“Deep thoughts?” Louis asks.
Harry shakes his head, cracks a smile. “Nah, just lost track for a bit. Tired.”
Louis narrows his eyes; Harry is terrible at lying. He opens his mouth to ask again, but Niall nudges him and shakes his head.
Harry is eternally grateful.
Zayn, having silently listened to the conversation, says, “Was just asking you ‘bout your plans today. Tommo and I might go out.”
Only Zayn would say the grammatically correct “Tommo and I” instead of the casual “me and Tommo”.
Pretentious little shit.
Zayn cards a hand through Harry's curls soothingly and Harry is immediately sorry for the thought. He shakes his head, “Might go shopping with Cal for a bit. Steve’s asked me to go in again.” Steve has set up a lunch meeting for him with Vig.
Louis is still looking at him like he’s suspicious, “Why’s ‘at?”
“Taylor’s said something about me in an interview or something,” Harry invents wildly. He has a brief, childish urge to cross his fingers behind his back for the lie.
Louis nods skeptically, “Riiiight… Well, if you’re up for it after, text.”
Harry nods, though he plans to do nothing of that sort; he’ll come back to Niall. He feels like he’ll need a cuddle after lunch and Niall’s are the best.
-//-
Harry stands in front of the lobby lifts of the hotel where the producer – Vig – is staying, trying to pluck up the courage to press the button to call a lift. In the end, the decision’s taken out of his hands; a woman in a summer dress calls for the lift. She sends a quick smile his way and he smiles back. Her husband comes up behind her with two little boys in tow. She’s beautiful and he wishes for a brief moment that it was him taking her soft, caramel hand in his, that he was the man teasingly tugging the tight, short curls of her hair to make her laugh. His eyes burn and he looks away.
When they’re all in the elevator, he stands in one corner and pretends to scroll through something on his phone. He reaches his floor and follows the hall signs to room 914. He thought he would have to force himself to knock on the door, but his traitorous hand does it before he has the chance to steel himself.
-//-
Lunch goes… well. Vig shows him out of the suite with a lascivious smile on his face and a squeeze to his hip. His fingers brush Harry’s skin under his shirt; Harry does everything to hold back his repulsed shiver, but fails.
They set up a dinner for two days after, when the boys will be near L.A. Harry enters Vig’s personal number in his phone and swallows to stop the bile threatening to come up his throat.
-//-
The lads are ecstatic when Vig calls them personally to tell them he’s looking forward to recording with them. He tells them he’s arranged for seven courtside seats to a Lakers game. That night, Cal picks up their tickets from will call and a VIP host shows them into the court. Cal and Paul take seats on either side of them, protective as ever. The lads have never been this close to the action and it’s thrilling, the feel of the ground shaking under their feet as Kobe Bryant runs past them.
Harry supposes there are advantages to sleeping with the most sought-after producer in the industry.
-//-
A day later, Harry tells the boys and Lou he’s spending the next two nights at Cal’s. Cal drives him to Vig’s house, keeping up a steady stream of you don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do this, Harry. Just give me the word and I’ll call it all off. I’ll call him myself, you don’t have to do this. Harry’s patience breaks halfway through the drive and he angrily tells Cal to please just drive before he loses his nerve. Thirty minutes later, he finds himself waiting to be let in through the wrought iron gates of a sprawling villa on the L.A. hills. There’s a spectacular view of the city below, but Harry couldn’t be less interested in scenery.
But he pretends to care as Vig shows him around the house. It’s enormous and tastefully decorated and Harry would appreciate it under normal circumstances, but all he can feel now is his heart beating fast with the feeling of impending doom.
They have a few drinks in the sitting room, chatting about the Lakers game and L.A. itself. Harry forces himself to pay attention to Vig’s words, not his hands and not how they’ll be touching him soon. He has two drinks more than strictly needed. His hands shake as Vig pulls him close by his waist and presses their lips together.
He stiffens, can’t bring himself to kiss the man back, but Vig strokes his jaw in what he thinks must be a soothing gesture and Harry realizes there’s no use resisting. He’s agreed to do this thing and it’s only for a few months anyway. They kiss on the sofa for a while before Vig leads him to the lavishly decorated master bedroom.
Vig pushes Harry down on the king-sized bed. It’s meant to be gentle, but Harry’s caught off guard and he stumbles, landing gracelessly on his elbows and arse. Vig crawls over him, pinning his hips down. He curls a gentle hand around Harry’s neck, fingers in his hair, and pushes him down until Harry’s shoulders are flush with the bed. Vig sits back on his knees and strips off his shirt, getting off Harry to remove his jeans. He’s fit. He doesn’t have abs or rippling muscles, but his stomach is firm and his biceps have strong definition. Harry breathes a sigh of relief.
Vig’s looking at Harry expectantly now, so he hastens to get his kit off too, leaving only his briefs – he’d like to keep them on as long as possible. Vig pushes him down again with a smile and a murmur of so hot, you’re so fucking hot. Harry lets him kiss his lips and plant kisses all the way down to his collarbones. Vig starts to suck on the wing tip of one of the swallows, but Harry pushes him away.
“Not there,” Harry shakes his head. “Please.” He rubs the spot to remove the feel of Vig’s teeth because the last person who touched him there was Nick.
Vig shrugs, “‘Kay.” He presses his lips to the top of his left pec instead, sucking with his teeth, flicking his nipple with a nail.
Harry gasps, arches his back, and bites his lips prettily, but it’s all for Vig’s benefit. He’s never been less aroused in his life.
Vig rubs against Harry’s thigh and continues flicking his nipples. His hands roam all over Harry’s chest, but it’s doing nothing for Harry, so he surreptitiously reaches down and gives his own cock a firm tug, rubs the head just how he likes it. He feels himself start to get hard, so he moves his hand back up to Vig’s shoulders. Vig’s tugging at the waistband of Harry’s shorts now.
“Get this off, yeah?” He growls while he works his own boxers down his legs and off.
Harry lifts his arse and tugs his briefs down, freeing his cock to the cool air of the room and Vig’s eager gaze. Harry is not sure what Vig will do at this point, but the man actually licks his lips before stripping off his own boxers and leaning back over Harry’s body, coming to a rest when they’re nose to nose. He bends down for a kiss and Harry gives in to him. He thinks the kiss would be soft and slow and tender under any other circumstances, but the only thing he can feel now are his hands shaking as they slip into Vig’s short hair.
Vig breaks off the kiss to say, “Mind blowing me, babe? I’ll do you after.”
I mind very much, Harry wants to say, but he just nods and slips out from under Vig to push the man back on the bed. Vig parts his legs for Harry to settle between them. Harry’s on his stomach and his shoulders are touching the inside of Vig’s thighs, but he pushes down the distressed sound climbing up his throat and resolves to make this the best blowjob anyone can give under the circumstances. The ink’s not on the contract yet and Vig’s well within his rights to withdraw his offer if he’s not, well, satisfied.
Harry licks his hand and pumps his fist down Vig’s cock once to ease the passage, then sucks his cock in as much as he can take in one go. He’s got Vig halfway down his throat when he starts to feel him harden even more inside his mouth. He pulls off before he starts retching and sucks the tip, working his tongue slowly down the underside of his dick, then back up, then down again from the top. He flicks his tongue at random spots in between and takes a perverse sort of pleasure in hearing Vig’s breath hitch and feeling his hand tighten in Harry’s curls.
“Gonna come if you keep that up,” Vig mumbles.
Harry shapes his mouth into a tight O and drags his lips up Vig’s dick, slipping it out of his mouth with an obscene pop.
He lifts his head – his practiced, cheeky grin in place – and says, “Fuck me instead?”
He just wants this over with, really.
Vig laughs, “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”
Harry shrugs in response as if to say, I am, now do something about it.
Harry’s good at this – the banter, the cheeky back-and-forth. A few more days of this and he might fool even himself into thinking he enjoys the sex.
Vig sits up and motions for Harry to come closer. Harry does, kneels between Vig’s legs, and Vig kisses him, slow and tender again; Harry wants to throw up. It’s not that the kiss is unpleasant, but when he thinks of who is kissing him and why, he can’t breathe under the pressure crushing his lungs.
Vig cups Harry’s dick, strokes him gently and Harry tries hard not to flinch. He doesn’t quite manage it and Vig pulls back to look at his face, his eyes questioning. Harry tries to feel better that Vig isn’t taking his consent for granted, but can’t quite manage that either.
Vig must not find anything concerning in Harry’s expression because he kisses him again, rougher this time and tells him to turn over.
“Hands ‘n knees, Harry,” he breathes into his ear, biting his earlobe and pulling the skin between his teeth. Harry refrains from telling him that it hurt, that he doesn’t like being bitten in tender places like that.
He gets on his hands and knees instead. Vig taps his thigh to get him to set his legs wider, but with Vig growling “wider” in his ear, it feels more like a sharp slap than anything else. He sees Vig pull out a bottle of lube and a string of condoms from under a pillow at the head of the bed, and feels sick that Vig has stashed them within arm’s reach.
Vig works him open with slow strokes and a lot of lube and Harry is grateful enough to push back against his fingers. Harry folds his arms on the bed to push his arse higher so Vig has easier access. He tries not to think about how much of a whore he must seem like to Vig, who huffs out a laugh when Harry moans into the pillow clutched in his arms.
“Don’t make much noise, do ya?”
Harry shakes his head, makes a note to make his moans more believable, and says, “Not much, no. Feels really good though.” It does, a bit; Vig’s just hit his prostate. He probably doesn’t realize it since he doesn’t search for the spot again, just moves his fingers in and out aimlessly.
When Vig deems Harry prepared enough, he slides in slowly, hand on the small of Harry’s back. Harry moans for real this time; Vig’s dick has considerable girth and it stretches him in a way Harry has always liked. The first few thrusts are slow, but as soon as Vig’s hands move from the small of Harry’s back to grip his hips, Vig thrusts harder and faster until Harry can actually hear the thwack thwack thwack of Vig’s thighs hitting the back of his. Harry’s dick swells in spite of himself and he resigns himself to a good fuck.
But Vig is not quite satisfied with the angle it seems because he leans over Harry, his chest flush to Harry’s back, and kisses the back of his neck until Harry drops his head onto his folded arms, which raises his arse even higher in the air. Vig fucks into him in earnest then, a litany of fuck fuck fuck falling from his lips. His nails dig into Harry’s hips as he puts his whole weight behind his thrusts and Harry bites his forearm to keep from groaning in pain. Vig curls his hand around Harry’s dick and pumps a few times. He doesn’t seem to care that Harry’s dick isn’t wet enough and that his hand chafes around his dick.
Vig comes after a particularly rough thrust that catches Harry’s prostate dead-on, and Harry damn near comes himself at the feel of Vig’s dick throbbing inside him and the tip of the condom expanding with his come. Vig pulls out, none too gently, but Harry’s dick doesn’t get any softer. He tells himself that it’s a natural reaction, that it doesn’t mean he enjoyed this or wanted it in any way, but there’s a niggling thought in the back of his mind reminding him that he came here tonight of his own volition, no matter the reason.
He’s brought out of his reverie by a slap to his bum - Harry flinches - and Vig’s teeth sinking into his right earlobe. “Roll over.”
Harry obediently turns over onto his back, and Vig kisses the spot he’d slapped moments earlier, murmuring an apology. “Got carried away, sorry.”
Harry waves his hand airily, “S’nothing. You gonna suck me off or what?”
Vig laughs fondly, “Yeah, yeah.” He leans down to take Harry’s dick in his mouth.
He wants to pretend it's Nick, but it doesn’t feel anything like Nick’s mouth, so Harry squeezes his eyes shut and pretends Vig is some random he picked up in a bar and not a man nearly thirty years his senior. Harry lets Vig know when he’s close and Vig takes his dick out of his mouth to jerk Harry off on his belly. Harry comes in three short spurts and the tight feeling constricting his heart pours out of him with his orgasm. Vig settles beside Harry and cradles Harry’s jaw with one hand before kissing him softly. Harry can practically feel the silent thank you against his lips.
Harry feels obligated to cup Vig’s cheek too and they kiss for a moment more. When Harry pulls away, Vig lets him go with a kiss to his wrist.
If he notices the deep, crescent-shaped bite mark Harry has left on his own arm near his Things I can’t tattoo, he doesn’t mention it.
Vig nods sleepily when Harry asks if he can use the shower, then watches as Harry wraps the bed sheet from the top of the comforter around his waist and pads across the hardwood floor to the ensuite bathroom.
Harry closes the door softly. He turns on the light and is careful to turn on the bathroom fan to mask all noise, before rushing to the toilet and throwing up his dinner. The wine burns his throat on the way up, but Harry retches again and again until there’s nothing left in his stomach and no more tears welling in his eyes.
He swills water around his mouth and looks around the bathroom.
He picks out a loofah from a gift basket of bathroom products and steps into the shower. He turns on the water as hot as he can stand, soaps up the loofah, and rubs his skin raw until he can feel nothing but the roughness of the sponge against his skin and the hot water beating painfully onto his back.