Archive of Our Own ^beta

EDIT, OCT. 9 2019: I wrote this 6 years ago, and I've grown/learned since then. If I have the time/energy, I will edit the story, but just so you know, I do not support Woody Allen.

*

There’s four minutes left until his 1:00 class and Harry has yet to leave his apartment.

It’s the second time this week that he’s running late and, frankly, he can’t understand why. He’s only been late twice in his entire career, or, rather, his string of jobs, and he so happens to be tardy those two times within seven days.

It’s strange to finally get here in this part of his life, though. The part where he may have a steady income for once. After graduating from Chapel Hill, Harry had decided that staying in North Carolina was probably his best bet against running off to LA without a clear plan about what he wanted to do. He’s gone through more than his share of shaky experiences since then, the hardest of which was having his audition rejected from a televised competition, but that didn’t devastate him as much as it did others. It only made him realize that he’ll be staying in his hometown for the time being, which isn’t so bad.

However, college was particularly challenging, but not for the reasons Harry was expecting back when he was filling out application forms. It occurred to him while drinking his third cup of coffee at two in the morning that he was a mess, and particularly more so than most of his colleagues.

The aftershocks of Harry’s stubborn memories were persistent, and on especially tough days they would haunt him for hours and even bring him to his knees, making him double over in anguish, too weak to get up. He channeled this pain through dance, but years later without proper treatment, these things still shook him—from the waist up in spine shivering waves—and so he finally compromised his ambitions, found a new therapist, and settled into a b-list style of an apartment with nothing but two suitcases and a Bachelor’s degree in dance.

Only recently did he finally make enough money from his past jobs to land the down payment for his own dance studio eight months ago. Harry thought it’ll anchor him a bit; let him settle down after graduation until he moves up in occupation. Become a choreographer even. It’s hard enough as it is to handle a number of things on his own all the while balancing them with teaching ballet, but he tries to remind himself as frequently as he can that he actually loves what he does. It gets him through most days, and that’s enough.

Harry huffs out a harsh bit of air, strong enough that it lifts the ends of his bangs, and checks his watch as he marches out his door. His phone starts ringing, but none of his hands are free.

He ends up wiggling his arm through the straps of the gym bag, and slinging them over his shoulder, he reaches for his phone before the last ring. “Linda?”

“You’re late.”

Harry rolls his eyes, “Hadn’t noticed.”

He hears her laugh on the other end, which eases him a bit, “Hurry up then. With legs as long as yours you should be here in, like, four steps.”

“Well, I’ve already taken about fifty and I’m still ten minutes away,” he groans. Checking both his left and right side for any oncoming traffic, he crosses the street. “Distract the kids for me until I get there, will you?”

“Why do you insist on walking? Can’t you take a cab once in a while?”

“If I had spare change once in a while, maybe,” Harry retorts. He sighs heavily before Linda could reply, “I hope their parents don’t think I’m irresponsible or anything. God forbid they think I’m unprofessional.”

“Oh, calm down. They love you. Just show up with a smile and try not to seem so exhausted even before class begins. I can hear you breathing, you know.”

“Ahhh,” Harry grumbles, “I’m almost there anyway. See you in a few.” He hears a quick sound of agreement when he pulls the phone away from his ear.

Harry hurries down the block, making sure not to use too much of his energy to turn the corner, and soon enough, he spots the studio from where he’s standing across the street. Just as he jogs towards the intersection he bumps into someone right at the edge of the crosswalk.

“Sorry,” Harry hastily apologizes—he nearly pushed the guy over!—but all he hears is a fluttering laugh. It’s when Harry looks up to see who it is that his mouth goes dry. To his agony and unpreparedness, it happens to be the ballroom teacher from the studio down the street. They had met only three times before, nearly all by the very same situation. By the third time though, Harry commits to memory about how hard it is to keep from staring too long.

Harry clears his throat, “Oh, hi Niall.”

“Hello,” Niall smiles, his eyes and nose scrunching up with it.

Harry turns away shyly and tries to look at something else, but when he turns around to look at Niall again, he finds that he’s still smiling at him.

“You’re still smiling at me,” Harry absently repeats his thoughts.

“Well, yeah,” was all Niall could say before the sign on the other side of the road blinked walk. Harry distracts himself by staring at the sky and singing a random tune, trying to get through the next four seconds as they cross the road together. He can’t really hear himself, but he can hear Niall joining in.

“Sorry,” Niall chuckles when Harry glances at him again.

Harry quickly curves up the corners of his lips. A rather pathetic excuse for a smile, but he’ll try again later.

“You’ve got a class at 1:00, too?” Harry speaks up.

“1:30, but I like coming in early,” Niall answers, then he mumbles, “Early dancer catches the worm, I guess,” under his breath, but he instantly shakes his head and looks away with blushing cheeks. Harry steals a glimpse at him and notices the frustrated look that he makes as he squints up at the clouds. Even embarrassed he’s endearingly cute.

“It seems like it gets a degree colder each day we get closer to December,” Harry mutters once they stop at the other side of the street. Niall hesitantly averts his eyes from the sky as if he’d rather not tear his sight from it.

“I’ll say,” Niall tucks his hands in his pockets and fixes his eyes on Harry’s face, “From the looks of things, I really ought to invest in some coats because my jackets never suffice. Been living in North Carolina for six years and I’m still unable to anticipate the weather.”

Harry shrugs, “There’s not much to it. When it gets cold, it’s really cold.”

“I’m from the southern part of Georgia, I’m not used to snow,” Niall laughs, biting his bottom lip when he smiles.

They reach the door to Harry’s studio, and after Niall nods a goodbye, Harry clears his throat, “I’ll see you later then?”

Niall scratches at his hair under his worn-out baseball cap and nods, “Sure thing. Have a good one, Harry.”

“Good what?” He asks, stepping up to the door handle.

Niall looks at him with a raised eyebrow, a laugh playing on his lips.

“Day?” Niall clarifies; quite amused by Harry’s eccentricity. He turns around and heads down the road to his own studio.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and whispers, “Right.”

He tips his head forward until he’s slumping against the glass, completely ashamed of his lack of social skills. After recuperating, he walks inside. The kids, having been hopping around and singing to themselves, stop the instant Harry walks in, greeting them with a small smile. He drops his bag to the floor and kicks it to the side. They all crowd around him in a chorus of high-pitched hellos.

“Honey, I’m home,” Harry muses, seeing Linda.

“About time,” she says, “I saw that you were talking to someone?”

Harry hums absently in response, unable to hear the question over the laughing and babbling children. Daisy asks him how his morning’s been, to which he gives another smile.

“Isn’t that the instructor down the road?” Linda asks.

Harry lifts up his head and pushes his bangs back with his thumb, “Yeah.”

She eyes him suspiciously, but playfully all the same, and giggles, “What’s his name? I haven’t gotten to meet him yet.”

Harry goes to answer, but then he thinks of the first time he met him.

Oddly, it was exactly how it was a few minutes ago on the crosswalk, except it was after both of their lessons one day when the class times had intercepted. It was raining, so Harry had taken out his red umbrella to pop it open, but out the corner of his eye he caught Niall walking towards the crosswalk; collars up, eyes down, hair soaking wet.

He felt bad for him—afraid that he might get sick once he got home—so he walked up to Niall and held the umbrella above his head. The sudden desistance of rain made Niall glance up, and he looked at Harry with those same, smiling eyes.

“Thanks man.” He ran a hand through his hair, shook it around, and Harry felt the little droplets of rain splash onto his chin.

Harry gladly smiled back, “No problem. Headed anywhere?”

“To the bus stop. Going near there—?” Niall hinted for a name.

“—Harry.”

“Harry,” he repeated after him, “Niall.”

“No, I like to walk home, but I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” Harry offered, “I don’t mind.”

Niall knitted his eyebrows together, “Are you sure? You’re not in any hurry are you?”

“Not really,” Harry sighed, and then pressed his lips together. He tried on a smile and somehow it made Niall return it.

Neither of them said anything more since the light on the other side of the road blinked walk, just as it did today, and Harry remembers it exactly; the way Niall walked next to him with his hands in his pockets as Harry held the umbrella between them.

He blinks out of his thoughts, “Niall.”

“Niall?” Linda repeats.

Harry nods and she sees a dimple crease his cheek when he turns around to hide a smile. She puts a finger to her lips and hums contently, hoping that he wasn’t just smiling because of the kids.

Harry nudges his students aside and does a few half-assed attempts at stretches, earning a few boos from the little ones. He soaks it up though, all the happiness in the room and the eagerness that each of them have. So for the next two hours, Harry and Linda co-teach the children a few basic dance techniques, leaving them all pretty exhausted by 3:00. Parents begin filing in during the last fifteen minutes, and Harry has already lost some of the kids' attention. They're all too excited for whatever snack their mothers have brought them. Dutifully approaching each parent and apologizing for showing up late, Harry's more than glad that they don't see it as a big problem. Though, he still promises them he'll be on time from that day on.

“Lock up today, Lin? I’ve to hurry off to the book store today,” Harry says once everyone has left.

“Yeah, no problem,” she responds from the other side of the room as she checks for any forgotten things like shoes or bows.

“You’re the best,” Harry shouts over his shoulder, bolting out of the door with his bag in hand.

Harry knows that he’s living a rather precarious lifestyle. He’s working two jobs, one that pays well once a month, and another one that pays slim to none at the end of every week. It’s a family owned store, so he works around it. He gives up a few luxuries from time to time like going to the movies or eating at restaurants, but he’s okay with how things have turned out for him for the most part.

He hums to the same tune he started earlier that day, the one where Niall had joined in as a harmony, and suddenly remembers where he knows the song from. It was a joyful melody that his grandma used to sing to him as a lullaby whenever she and his granddad came to visit. Harry knows that thinking about his grandparents might not be the best idea for him at the moment, but now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop.

He reaches the shop by a quarter past three, and greeting the only other employee, he settles in behind the counter. It’s not a big place by any means; just a relatively small book store with enough customers drifting in and out a month to keep it afloat. Harry knows that it won't be long before he has to let it go, and he certainly knows that he won’t have anyone to pass it down to, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.

“How are you, Ben?” Harry greets the younger employee. He’s only nineteen and a student at a local community college. He’s a good kid, and Harry likes him for what he’s done with the shop.

“Pretty good, sir.” Ben says.

Harry snorts, “Sir? Come on, I’m only twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one?”

“Alright, maybe I’m a little older.”

That makes the boy laugh and Harry smiles to himself as he bends down to grab his journal from his bag. He sticks out a tongue, not knowing where the bloody hell he put it, but then his fingers brush over a spiral edge and he whips it out with a satisfied grin.

“Eh, twenty-three actually,” Harry says to him, swiftly crossing his heart.

A few seconds go by until Ben speaks up again, “Can I take my break? I haven’t been able to grab lunch yet.”

Harry nods reassuringly and waves him off. He opens his journal and flicks through about twenty pages before finding the next blank one. He marks down the date. November 14th. He pauses and furrows his eyebrows with an empty look in his eyes. Eighteen years now… to the day. A pause. I miss them. Harry gulps really hard and rubs his hands all over his face. He groans into his palms and feels the pen slip from his fingers and everything just feels like it’s collapsing on top of him, suffocating him; drowning him.

“Calm down, calm down, calm down,” he repeats to himself.

He hears that song again—it whistles in his ears and he sees swirls of color dancing in the pulsing darkness of his closed eyes. He can see his grandma smiling at him and tucking him into bed. He hears his granddad knocking on his bedroom door and breaking out in a laugh because of how badly he’s humming along to the song.

It’s a splendid memory at first, but in spite of his better judgment, Harry allows himself to remember the sight of grandmother in the hospital bed, cold and unmoving. He whips his gaze towards his granddad kneeling next to her who is just as pale and deathly frightened as Harry is.

He hears a rumbling noise; a low, baritone roll of thunder and Harry’s shot back to his twenties before he could even exhale. He’s suddenly petrified of everything around him again. He’s alone and untouchable, with the hidden face of a blackened figure cloaking his vision.

Harry shuts his journal, hears the slam of it closing under his hands, and he just sits there. He brings his hands up to his ears and he tries to push away any sounds other than his breathing. He grips at his hair and yanks the ends of it in frustration and it’s like he’s back in the principal’s office; his heart racing.

He sits there and concentrates on what his guidance counselor used to tell him.

“Think of all the good things in your life,” he had said, “let them fill you up and help you as the flashback subsides.”

“Okay,” sixteen year old Harry had replied. And so Harry loosens his hold on his hair and takes a deep breath. He thinks of the kids and their bright smiles and giggles. He thinks of Linda and how supportive she was all throughout university and their preparation for their dance program. He thinks of the moment he walked across the stage at graduation, accepting his diploma with a glowing smile on his face. He thinks of everything that he could possibly conjure up at the moment, and to his surprise, he even thinks of Niall.

That gets him to blink his eyes open.

It’s new—strange and new, to have Niall come up. It’s only because Harry had spoken with him today and had laughed when Niall shied away from him. It shouldn’t mean anything, not at this point at least, but Harry comes to like the idea that he has that memory to keep.

Moments later, he picks himself up and paces around the room as a final touch to his counselor’s method, and waits for any customers to show up.

Back at home, he focuses on anything but the thought of his grandparents. He walks around the living room, the kitchen, his bedroom, trying to make use of himself by cleaning or cooking. Later though, he finds himself staring idly at the television screen with his journal open on his lap to nothing more than a blank page.

*

Harry wakes up the next morning feeling groggy and disoriented. He realizes that he fell asleep on the couch again, which is murder on his back. So, he spends the next twenty minutes doing warm up exercises and stretches. He eats his breakfast—if he could even call dry cereal in a bowl, a banana, and a juice box as breakfast—and hurries through brushing his teeth so he could get a fresh start that day.

Harry walks outside with the purpose in mind that he’s going to reinvent his methods. He plans on taking morning walks around the neighborhood, then down to the park so that he could get his mind off of everything and anything that seem to dampen his thoughts.

He has another class today with a different set of students, but it’s at 11:00 and lasts only an hour. It’s his older group of kids, around thirteen to fifteen years old, and he trains them a bit more rigorously than the younger ones. He’s choreographed a routine for them to practice for their recital, but he hasn’t run through it in a while.

Finding a vacant bench, he sits down and notices his nose starting to sting from the cold, but then as he turns to sit, he spots a dog sniffing around the base of a tree. Harry wonders what he could be doing. He certainly wouldn’t find anything to eat. Harry gets up from the bench and makes his way over to it, just as curiously as the dog. He does his best to squat down in his jeans, shoos the dog away (as politely as he can since his owner was standing nearby), and revels at the small discovery he made.

A little bird—a magpie, he believes—with its unkempt and frayed feathers sits motionlessly at the base of the tree. Harry gasps at the sight of it, his eyes widening. What was once such a light green color immediately turns an icy grey as his heart wrenches. He cups his hands and gently scoops the helpless bird into his palms.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers, hearing himself sniffle, “I’ve got you.” Fighting away any troublesome thoughts, Harry focuses on keeping the bird warm. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, and dials Linda.

“Hey,” he says as soon as she answers.

“Harry?”

He rests his phone between his ear and shoulder, trying his best to keep the bird sheltered in his hands, “What if I told you I was going to be late again?”

“Harry!”

“Alright, alright,” he says, trying to keep his voice low. He tucks the bird in the crease of his elbow, suddenly wary of the germs on it, but he keeps his movements steady. “Look, I’ll explain what happened later, but could you please check if we have any spare cardboard boxes at the studio? Or a first aid kit? Are you there already?” He groans when she tells him she isn’t, “Well, could you please call me once you get there? I have to rush back home real quick, but I’ll try to make it there on time.”

“Where are you anyway?”

“The park,” Harry picks up his pace on the sidewalk, “but I’m leaving as we speak. Just—make sure there’s a cardboard box somewhere ‘cause I don’t think I have one at home.” He hangs up, and walks even faster.

*

He doesn’t have a cardboard box, but he figures that an empty shoe box would work even better. He strips it of the wrappers inside and he scurries to find a washcloth or a small blanket to place inside. He’s put the bird on the carpet, frantically hurrying to build him a bed of sorts since he knows the floor is probably not where you should leave an injured bird unattended. He yelps when he finds what he’s looking for and scrambles to fix up the shoe box. His phone rings again, and his head shoots up from where he's crouched on the floor.

Scrambling to put his phone to his ear, he breathes out, “So?”

“We do have a first aid kit, but not any cardboard boxes. Sorry, Harry.”

“It’s alright. I decided to use a shoe box.”

“What are you even doing?” Linda's waiting on the other end, hearing nothing but phone static.

“Can’t explain right now. I’ll be there on time. Promise.” He hangs up.

Picking up the tiny bird again, he nestles it inside of its new home. He adds more Kleenex, and pours a little water into a small bowl that he places inside of the blanketed box. Harry checks his watch and is thankful to see that he still has thirty minutes. So, moving carefully, he closes the box and heads out the door.

“What’ve you got there?” Linda asks, helping him through the door.

Harry’s eyes are rimmed with red as he hands the shoe box over to Linda and watches her tip the lid up so she could peek inside. She sees the little bird resting against a clump of the Kleenex with its eyes closed; sleeping soundly.

“Lin, this bird is dying.” Harry swallows hard, his words coming out in a rushed, quiet tone, “I saw it at the park. I think one of its wings is broken and it hasn’t made a sound since I picked it up. Its heart is still beating though and I can still see its chest moving so I know it’s breathing. But I’m scared for it Lin, I don’t want it to die. It seems like it’s still young and I’m guessing it fell from its nest and—”

“—It’s going to be alright, Harry,” she places a comforting hand on his back.

“I can’t let it die.”

He drops to the floor and stares at his knees. He starts wincing, an invisible pain beginning to form within him. Linda's immediately on her knees, an arm going around his shoulders as she kneels next to him. She rocks with him, waiting until he’s calm enough that he could breathe properly.

“Are you going to name it?” she asks.

Harry stays silent.

“Hey, why don’t you go fix yourself up before the kids come? We wouldn’t want them to see you like this, right?”

Harry groans, “I’m sorry. I can’t help it—”

“Don’t be sorry. The bird’ll be fine. You did a good thing.”

He waits a moment and then swipes at his cheeks, frustrated, and picks himself up from the floor, helping Linda up as well.

“No, I’m not going to name it,” he finally says.

She nods in understanding and studies him as he walks towards the end of the room to the bathroom. It’s always hard seeing him like this, she thinks, but he’s gotten better. When Harry returns, his eyes still heavy, Linda tends to the bird and wraps its wing with gauze from the first aid kit while he sits watchfully.

The students arrive shortly after they both tucked the box away in the corner and out of sight. After Harry jumps back into the bathroom to change out of his jeans and into some black sweatpants, he's more than ready to start his day over. He greets the parents with a smile and lightning quick small talk, soon ushering the students to the middle of the studio for warm-up.

The lesson seems to go by faster than usual, and while Harry's directing their synchronized grand jeté, he glances over by the window just as Niall walks by.

Niall stops in his tracks to peer inside the wide, sunlit studio. His eyes land on Harry, and with a smile he gives him a small wave. It's enough to make Harry freeze and tense up, as if eyes could do such a thing, but Linda catches them and makes her way over.

“Hey, I’ll take over for a while. Why don’t you invite him in?” She suggests, making Harry turn to her with his mouth agape.

She urges him with pursed lips and a little push on the back until he’s moving. He opens the door—hears the sudden noise of cars and wind from outside—and asks Niall if he’d like to join them.

“Your students are really good,” he tells Harry, taking off his cap. His smile is easy and genuine, and Harry basks in it.

“Thank you. They work really hard.”

Niall watches them a little longer; fascinated by each of their talent. He shakes his head, impressed, and looks back at Harry who, in spite of himself, is staring directly at him.

“They must love you,” Niall says.

Harry shrugs, “You’d have to ask them about that.” He pauses, letting his eyes wander from Niall's profile down to his shoes. Linda clears her throat, startling Harry, and forcing his eyes back up. She's still carrying on the lesson from the other side of the room, but there's a smirk on her face and color tinted on her cheeks.

“So, uh,” Harry begins, “do you have a class today?”

“Hm?” Niall answers inattentively before he thinks of a proper response, “Me?—no, not today. I was just passing by when I saw that you’re holding a lesson. I just wanted to say hello. I didn’t actually think you’d let me visit.”

“You can stop by any time, if you’d like,” Harry proposes, and then motions a hand towards Linda, “By the way, that’s Linda. She’s my partner slash co-teacher.”

“Partner?” Niall asks, waving to one of Harry’s students who's greeted him with a smile.

“Oh, no, not in that sense,” Harry’s words impede before he can finish his point.

“No worries, I get it,” Niall smiles coolly. “Is this all your students? They seem like a good bunch; hearts made out for dancing.”

Harry surprisingly brightens up at that, “I have another class of ten, so I think twenty in all. How many students do you have?” He presses.

Niall sniffs and tries on a meek smile, “Five, I think.”

“Really?”

Niall nods and tips his chin up to meet Harry’s eyes again. Harry's taken aback by how much taller he is than Niall—something he's never noticed before.

“What can I do, you know?” Niall shrugs. “Advertising’s not really my thing, or in my budget,” he smiles playfully. “But, I don’t know how else I could get people to know I’m here.” He holds a hand up to Harry’s class, “And it’s not like I’m offering to teach ballet. Every other child wants to do ballet. How many older kids or teenagers do you know that want to dance the tango or the Viennese waltz?”

Harry doesn’t have an answer. He stands quietly, feeling bad for letting the questions hang in the air. It's an honest observation and Harry wishes he could reply. He thinks too hard and sometimes he hates that about himself. People can probably see it on his face—the way he wrinkles his forehead in the middle of conversation; the way he won’t reply to a series of questions until he’s got an answer to the first one. He nearly always ends up saying something inappropriate, a question or a statement that doesn't quite match the topic at hand.

Anxiously, as he watches the light in Niall’s eyes fade, Harry spits out the best thing he came up with. “I rescued a bird today,” and he lets go of the breath he’s been holding.

He catches the way Niall’s mouth quirks up as he looks at him like he can't believe him, “No kidding, huh?”

He nods, “Would you like to see it?”

“What? You have it here in the studio?”

Harry nods again, biting his lip. He motions towards the farthest corner in the room and he walks with Niall around his students who are still pirouetting in sequences. They reach the other end of the room and Niall spots the shoe box right away. Kneeling down to it, curious and endeared, he looks back up at Harry.

Harry crouches down next to him, feels his shoulder brush against Niall’s and his breath hitches. His eyes flicker to Niall as he picks up the box, lifts up the lid, and peers inside. There’s a flitting feeling that erupts in Harry’s stomach in that moment, the second he notices Niall’s lips drop in awe and his eyes blink with wonder, and it becomes irrepressible.

Niall whips his head up to look at him then, startling Harry because he feels like he was staring again and he blinks, shying away.

“Hey, so—”

“What's in there?” Comes a soft, high-pitched voice. Niall, with his mouth opened around unspoken words, lets the sentence die in his throat as more children begin to notice the shoe box. More come rushing forward, huddling around Niall's shoulders to get a good look at the little magpie. There’s a chorus of awww’s amongst the group and Niall laughs admiringly. He tilts his head to the side gesturing Harry to get up on his feet with him. They stand there letting the girls have their look at the bird and ask questions.

“What’s its name?”

“Is it a girl?”

“If it is, you should name it after me!”

Harry shakes his head at every question because he just doesn’t know, but somehow, just by the fond look in Harry’s eyes, Niall understands.

“I’m sure you all would’ve thought of great names for it, whether it's a boy or girl, but we can’t let ourselves get attached,” Niall begins, “Harry’s just here to help it recover and then let it free once it’s healed.”

“So you’re taking care of it just to take care of it?” The oldest in the bunch turns to Harry.

He nods. There's not much else he can say.

Niall continues, “We can’t all explain why we do the things we do. Maybe he just wants to ensure the bird a second chance, you know, since nature sure wasn’t going to let it.”

Harry looks at him, inspecting his face and trying to deduce how he could’ve known that, but his quiet “That’s exactly it,” is drowned out by the ten other voices in the room.

Shortly after, parents arrive. Some sit in chairs, waiting patiently for their children to settle down. Others have blushing smiles on their faces as they come over to meet Harry. Linda has always found it entertaining to see the mothers light up whenever they get there early enough to watch Harry teach. She introduces herself, pointedly motioning for Niall to look at one mom in particular who has the biggest set of heart eyes for Harry. Niall laughs, grabbing Harry's attention until he finally notices the soundless parents in the room. He marks this as the end of lesson.

“I’m staying after a bit,” He tells Linda once the room is cleared. He wipes a towel behind his neck.

“Alright, just lock up when you leave. I know you forget sometimes whenever you’re here alone.”

He gives her a thumbs-up and then begins to stretch again, sitting down with one leg out so he can reach his heel. Linda looks toward the bathroom door and says, “Niall's still here.” Harry grins against his knee as she begins to whistle. He doesn't have to look at her to know she's smiling.

She gives him a small wave goodbye as she leaves, and it's almost as if Niall knows they're alone, for the bathroom door creaks open within the same instant, and Harry's up and on his feet, meeting Niall in the middle of the room.

“Hey, thanks for having me. I’ll be going now. I’m absolutely starving,” Niall chuckles and places a hand on his stomach.

“Alright,” Harry replies quietly.

“Want to join me?” Niall offers, pointing a thumb towards the window, “I’m just going down by the McDonald’s around the corner.”

Harry smirks, “Healthy choice, but I don’t think I can today. I’ll see you later though?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Niall responds lightly. He looks a bit crestfallen, like it had taken some time for him to muster up the courage to ask him, but Harry is rather first-rate at speculation, so that could all just be in his head.

The two of them nod goodbye and Harry watches him walk out the studio with his hands in his jacket pockets again, and for a moment he looks just like how Harry remembers him from the day they met.

He’s alone now—nothing but the sounds of his bare feet on the wooden floor. He plays the track in his stereo box and waits for the build of the crescendo as he relaxes his arms at his sides.

Harry reaches out a hand in front of him, feels the leftover energy in him flow through his arms and out his fingertips, and he sighs, pulling himself to continue. He twists his body, curves his back in such graceful lines, and he feels a boundless sense of freedom in his chest as he jumps in the air; his legs long in a seamless diagonal.

He pirouettes, his eyes not leaving his reflection in the mirror, and lets the music surround him and his fleeting thoughts.

Outside, Niall had gotten across the street when he remembers that he had left his baseball cap behind. He feels around atop his head and then digs into his pockets to see if he’s stuffed it in there. He huffs, looking up at the light-grey sky and predicting it might rain, he decides to go back to get it.

He reaches the studio window and is about to knock on the door when he catches Harry inside.

He’s dancing in a way that Niall hasn’t seen in a very long time; a way that captures the attention of an on-looking passerby and makes them wait in voiceless anticipation—like making eye-contact with the dancer is a long beheld treasure.

Then Harry sees him.

Their eyes stumble to meet each other’s and the second Harry stops dancing, Niall realizes that he’s got a hand on the window. He sees that Harry’s breathless and his skin is flushed, the way his cheeks are red from exertion and his bangs look damp across his forehead. He lingers in his spot, waiting for him to move, but Harry stays in his place; he just stares at Niall’s face with bated breath as he removes his hand from the glass.

Niall contemplates whether he should still walk in and grab his cap, ruin whatever amount of time that was spent in amazed silence, but then he decides against it. Niall leaves knowing that he could just come back and get it another time; that he can just run home if it starts to rain on his head; that it would give him an excuse to see Harry again.

*

November begins to fade, hinting at the first signs of winter ahead, and Harry’s starting to feel this nagging itch in the back of his head. He always gets it; a sort of headache, but in the emotional sense of the word. He thinks a lot more during this time of year and he knows that about himself, but all he does is try to ignore it and that doesn’t always work.

Thoughts, regrets, memories, they all jumble up in his brain and he could feel the compressing squeeze of their presence in the back of his head.

It’s been a few days, or a couple of weeks (Harry can’t remember), since he’s picked up the bird, and the responsibility of caring for it has begun to take its toll on him. He cleans its feathers and gives it seeds to eat and water to drink, but he can never control the images that come back to him.

It occurred to him one morning after he had refilled the bird’s seed bowl when he was reminded of his late friend. Seizing him like an unanticipated stampede, Harry squeezed his eyes tightly enough until all he saw was a blinding white light.

*

“Harry, I want you to tell me what went through your head when it happened. I’d like to know so I can help you. Will you let me do that?” His therapist had asked him.

Dr. Bridgeham was the second person who had tried to help Harry after his school guidance counselor couldn’t. Getting Harry to talk was a strenuous matter and it demanded patience, which, thankfully, he had.

“No.”

“Harry—”

“No.” Harry sat up in the leather chair.

“Did it frighten you?”

“Did what frighten me?”

“The gun.”

Harry’s stolidity was unfazed, “Of course it did.”

“Did you think of jumping in front of it?”

Harry paused, “No.”

“Did you try and negotiate with the man with the gun?”

“No.”

“Did you do anything to help the situation?”

He shook his head.

“What about your friend?”

That’s when he fell silent. Harry felt his eyes burn and a lump form in the back of his throat. “Yeah, he tried.”

He thought of how helpless he was in their time of desperation; his friend had done so much more than Harry could have hoped for in a brave soul, yet he couldn’t return the favor. It gnawed on his mind, ate away at him, because he knew that he could have saved both of them if he had just tried.

“Do you miss him?” Mr. Bridgeham precariously asked.

Harry sniffed. He looked down at his trembling hands and saw a tear drop to his thumb, “Yeah, a lot.”

*

Harry spills the bowl of seeds that he was refilling and he growls into his hands. Pulling at his hair again, he desperately tries to forget everything as he storms out his apartment.

The chilly wind slices against his cheeks and he curses under his breath for only wearing a long-sleeved top, but he can’t go back inside. There’s a persistent voice in his head that’s reminding him to keep his breathing leveled, to not get too lightheaded or he’ll faint. The whistle of the air shoots up his spine and he could feel the sting of it through the stitches of his thin sweater.

Harry walks so far that he reaches the park again—where he found the bird, and upon seeing the same bench he sat on before, he decides to sit down with his elbows on his knees and his hands on the back of his head.

All he hears are the scattered voices of the children already at the park; the squeak of the swing set and the reverberant giggling in the air. Before long, the meager background noise drowns out and everything sounds like thick honey, as if everyone but Harry had been pulled into slow motion.

“Harry?”

He hears someone take the spot on the bench next to him, but he doesn’t look up. It’s probably just another voice in his head.

“Is that you?”

The voice sounds familiar and Harry prays to God that he isn’t hallucinating now, hoping that he’s correctly identified who it could possibly be.

Harry inhales through his nose and mumbles hazily down at his feet, “Niall?”

He feels an arm go around his shoulders and a warm hand rest atop his own. It’s a sudden warmth—one that seeps into the skin of his hands. Harry lifts up his head then, feels around with his fingers in his hair to see if Niall’s hand is still holding on, and sits up to look at him with his arms now at his side; Niall’s pinkie still touching Harry’s.

“Hey.” There's concern mixed with the confusion in Niall’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

Harry doesn’t reply automatically.

“You’re not wearing a jacket,” Niall observes, staring at how Harry’s lips are beginning to chap and lose its color, “and you’re shaking.”

Harry wonders how he got there and how he saw him. He wonders how he’s always running into him when he least expects it. It’s fortuitous, if Harry looks at it in a positive way, but right now he’s looking at Niall and his mind’s going blank and his words are trapped at the tip of his tongue.

“I’m not shaking because I’m cold,” Harry finally says.

He stills when Niall’s arms wrap around his side and tucks his body underneath Harry’s arm in a hug, making Harry feel overwhelmed with this unfamiliar sense of security. Niall carries his weight in his arms and he knows right then that he must be upset about something.

“Whatever’s bugging you, just know that there’s always something that you could think about that’ll make you smile again,” Niall tries. He's being ridiculously sweet for no apparent reason, just here to be the weight that Harry needs without really asking for one, and it sends Harry's head spinning.

“Think of the best thing in your life, think of it ten thousand fold, think of it as if you could hold it in your hands and keep it with you wherever you go. That’s if you feel like you’re stuck in a void; that’s if you feel like you have nowhere else to go.”

Harry peeks under his arm. It’s when he can evidently see the sincerity in his big, blue eyes that he arrives at a revelation.

There’s a soft glow that surrounds him, Harry notices, something that he hasn’t seen in someone in so long, and it’s jarring to think about how it affects him; how it makes his chest tighten and his breath quicken.

“That’s exactly what my—” Harry stops himself. That’s exactly what my therapist used to tell me, is what he means to say.

There’s a few seconds that go by.

“Would you like to grab lunch with me?” Niall asks encouragingly, “We’ll get some soup at the bistro near here, yeah? Cheer you right up, hopefully.”

Harry agrees inaudibly, his voice still lost in his throat, and gets up to walk with him.

*

“So, how was your Thanksgiving?” Niall asks, handing Harry the other straw he picked up when he went to get some extra napkins.

He hums happily at the sight of the warm soup in front of him as he slides into the booth with Harry. He could’ve sat in front of him, but he decided to sit next to him instead, and that makes Harry clear his throat, blushing.

“It was quiet,” he says honestly.

Niall slurps on his tomato soup and turns his head to smile at him, “Oh? Had any family over for dinner at least?”

Harry shakes his head and breaks off a piece of his sourdough bread to dip into his soup.

Niall knits his eyebrows, “You really do mean quiet then.”

“What about you?” Harry continues, eyeing at the red spot of tomato soup at the corner of Niall’s lips. He watches, intrigued somehow, until Niall’s tongue flicks out to wipe it.

“My parents flew in and stayed at my place for a week. It was great seeing them, but they left on Friday to meet my brother up in New York. It gets hectic for them, trying to see my brother and me, especially since we’re living in two different regions, but it always nice to see them when they visit.”

“Why don’t you guys plan on meeting at one place?” Harry suggests, “I’m sure you’d all like to be together.”

Niall nods, he’s obviously had taken that into consideration, but he sips a bit of his water before saying, “’Course. It’s just that Greg, my brother, is way too busy working up in Wall Street to really take any time off for vacation. So my parents just drop in for a few days and then leave their blessings.”

“Wall Street, huh?” Harry whistles.

“Yeah, I know,” Niall snorts, and then shrugs as he gestures to himself, “struggling Latin ballroom dance teacher.”

Harry laughs out loud and immediately hunches his shoulders in embarrassment when the people at the tables near them turn around. Niall snickers alongside him just as loudly, evidently brushing off the scrutinizing eyes.

“What about your parents? Didn’t they come to see you—you go to see them?” Niall idly wonders through another bite of his own bread.

Harry’s smile flickers, “No, ah, no not really. They’re not—with me anymore.” He fights the trigger with almost every ounce of control he has, but it compromises his composure and Niall watches resentfully at how Harry’s hands are fumbling in his lap, how uncomfortable he looks.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Niall spits out, reaching a hand over to touch Harry’s.

“No, I’m fine,” Harry weakly responds, gripping his hand and feeling comforted.

Niall still has a fretful look on his face—still unsure whether or not it was okay for Harry to pretend to drop it just like that—but they return to their lunch in silence, with Harry picking at his bread and dipping it into his soup to the sound of Niall scooping up spoonfuls of his own.

“You’re a brilliant dancer you know,” Niall utters, breaking the silence.

Harry glimpses at him and is surprised when Niall doesn’t have a smile on his face, instead, his expression is a lot more genuine; sincerity found in the glint in his eyes.

“Really?” Harry completely beams, smiling wide enough that it almost makes him laugh. “I mean, thanks,” he coughs.

Niall's face contorts into a sort of fondness that's evident in the way he basks in Harry’s delight.

“Dancing must mean more than just jumping around to you, doesn’t it?” Niall asks, carefully choosing his words. “I saw it in every step you took. I think I saw what dance has to be for you.”

Harry zeroes in on Niall’s face. He pores over Niall’s nearly unreadable expression for any possible hint of doubt or untruth. It was as if Niall had known him all his life; everything he has said to him—from the bird to the way his advice echoes his own doctor—it's as if Niall completely understands him, as if he always has. It's a bit bothersome for Harry, to find someone who can figure him out so easily, when no one had ever tried before.

So when Harry finds nothing fallaciously intended—in his eyes or in his voice—he thinks, perhaps, that their chance meeting on that rainy afternoon by the crosswalk was something he should have expected.

They switch discussion topics as they finish their lunch, bouncing between school matters and their favorite television shows. It's nice, Harry thinks. It's almost unreal.

*

Morning after snowy morning, December’s joyful promenade approaches the pinnacle of the month. Christmas cheers are constantly being exchanged and Harry thinks that it’s high time that he participates. So when Harry’s not teaching his classes or running the shop, he’s out buying presents for everyone.

He usually isn’t the shopping type, but he figures that everyone takes on that role around this time of year, and Christmas Eve is only a week and a half away. At the mall, he ends up buying Linda a nice pearl necklace—simple jewelry is her absolute favorite—and he gets miscellaneous trinkets and stuffed animals and dolls for his younger students, while his older students also get necklaces, but ones with their first initial on them.

Harry even gets Niall a gift, sort of a “we work down the street from each other so I’m glad we’re friends” present, and he leaves the mall with an irrepressible skip in his step.

When he gets home, he checks up on the bird, eats a bit of yogurt, and calls up every parent to tell them that there won’t be practices on the weeks before and after Christmas, just so everyone can take a well deserved break. Their last practice is tomorrow so they’ll be able to receive their gifts then.

“Liiiiin,” he chirps on the phone after he’s called everyone, “Are you doing anything for Christmas?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’. I’m flying down to Florida to spend Christmas there with my family.”

“So you’re just going to leave me here alone?” Harry questions worryingly.

“Oh don’t say it like that, that’s going to make me feel worse about it! I know we usually go ice skating together every year and be each other's not-so-secret Santa, but I’m leaving in a few days. I was going to tell you sooner but I’ve been so busy packing at home.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t feel bad about anything.”

“Please, I can sense that you’re pouting right now. I have your present here if you want to come by and get it.”

“It’s alright, it’s not the present,” Harry chuckles. “Don’t worry about it until after your vacation. I’m just going to miss having someone around. I hope you have a nice holiday, and stay safe.”

“Thanks, Harry. You too,” There’s a pause at the end of the line before, “I mean it, Harry. I want you safe while I’m gone. Don’t do anything crazy okay?”

“I promise, mom.”

She growls when Harry laughs.

“Hey, I know we never talk about this, but your medicine’s in the cabinet above your coffee maker just in case you ever need it, alright?” She earnestly adds.

Harry soaks up how soothing her voice sounds, but something still restrains him from feeling completely consoled.

“Yes, Lin,” he exhales.

They share a few more goodbyes before Harry hangs up the phone.

*

“Hey, Harry!” Niall eagerly greets him when he props open his studio’s door, inviting Harry inside.

After his call with Linda the other day, Harry decided that he should visit Niall. He’s been feeling a lot better lately to his surprise, so why not actually spread his joy while it lasts? Besides, he’s just finished his last lesson with his students before Christmas and they put him in a good mood. They really liked his gifts and one of them couldn’t stop thanking him. She grabbed his leg and didn’t let go until he tickled her.

“Hi Niall, how’ve you been?” Harry fixes his bangs, getting some snow in them.

“Good, good. Just finished the last lesson I have before I can take a break for Christmas weekend,” he looks out of breath and flushed from his cheeks to his neck. Harry can’t help the way his eyes follow the length of Niall’s body; the way they seem to trip over themselves when they glance over his bare chest beneath his white collared top.

“What about you?” Niall asks not a heartbeat later.

With a laugh playing on his lips, Harry breaks out in an uncontrollable smile, and for some reason, there seems to be a newer, stronger feeling that’s surging up from the crevices of his ribcage and through Harry’s body like a stampede.

He beams like the sun as he runs up to Niall, his hands dropping to Niall’s hips, and Harry picks him up with no preamble, shocking both of them. Niall yelps in surprise, laughing when Harry laughs, and they looked like two stars had come together, swimming in their shared light.

Niall grips onto Harry’s forearms and stares down at him with the biggest smile on his face; laughing and calling out his name.

“I’m fantastic! Thanks for asking,” Harry giggles wildly.

Harry’s been trained to do lifts since he was eighteen, but even so, Niall is incredibly light. He spins around once, concentrating only on the look on Niall’s face and how his cheeks turn an apple red and his eyes squint as his laugh dies down.

This must be what music would look like, Harry thinks.

The room slows around them until Harry’s peripherals blur together and shift out of focus. His vision narrows, and any noise sounds weak; thick like molasses in Harry’s ears. Then for that strand of time where they felt suspended in space, Harry thinks about how lovers come to be. When they’re together, nothing else really matters but the person right in front of them, but somehow, everything else just matters a little bit more when Niall’s with him.

“Hi,” Niall says quietly, barely even a squeak.

Harry exhales through his nose, smiling as if it was his first time in a long time. He gently brings him back down and Niall clears his throat before he perks up again, “Well, that was fun.”

“Yeah,” Harry says with more meaning than he can tell from his own voice.

“You do lots of lifts? Can’t imagine they’d be hard for you. Right?”

“Nope, I used to take ballet courses over the summer when I was still in college. It helps with the leg muscles as well as the arm. It’s just a good way to strengthen my whole body.”

Niall looks at him, fondly and off guard, “You know, you’re great at what you do. If it means anything, I’d tell you that every day.”

“Of course it means something,” Harry blurts out unexpectedly, then retracts. “Why do you say that?”

A more serious expression washes over Niall’s face, “It must be rude of me—to be secretly taking notes about someone I barely know. It’s intrusive and inconsiderate of your feelings, or anyone’s feelings for that matter.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry tilts his head. He can sense the uneasiness between them; almost tangible in the air.

“Harry, I know you’ve been through a lot. I sort of got that when I saw you sitting on that bench alone a few weeks ago. Even though I had only known you for a short amount of time it felt like I had a duty to cheer you up. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea why, but you just looked so—defeated, if I can say so. Then, everything kind of made sense after that. The way you danced, the way you reacted to me bringing up your parents, everything, and I’m so sorry that I assumed all of this without your permission.”

“My permission?”

“Aren’t I shit for basically assuming something’s wrong with you?” Niall’s eyes blow wide with regret and he shakes his hands in the air, “Not that anything’s wrong with you, ah—fuck, I’m sorry, I can really be ineloquent sometimes and I don’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Niall. You’re right, and you aren’t some jerk if you noticed,” Harry explains, almost laughing at how jittery Niall is being, but he can still feel his heart racing, “It’s just that I thought I was better at hiding it nowadays.”

There's a pause.

“You ought to know that you’re incredible because of it, though. I can see that you’re passionate about dance. It’s admirable,” Niall’s voice softens to a whisper, “I wish I was the same way.”

“Messed up?”

“No,” Niall immediately laughs at that and Harry blushes. “Passionate. And hey, you’re not messed up, alright? We all have our problems and pasts.”

Harry’s cheeks flush and he runs a hand through his hair. He didn’t expect to have this conversation with Niall, he never wanted for him to be able to sense a difference in him, but Harry feels like he can breathe easier because of it.

Groaning and scrunching up his nose, Niall covers his face with his hands in mortification, “I’m still really sorry about what I just said. I’m a dick and it’s alright if you say so.”

“It’s fine, I promise,” Harry’s almost giggling at his discomfort; at Niall fidgeting as if Harry doesn’t think he’s the most adorable thing, “Most people notice sooner or later. Linda worries about it sometimes—how I’m not exactly discreet.” Harry doesn’t exactly come out and say that he’s still figuring out how to handle his indecipherable condition on his own yet. He can’t really tell Niall that he’s kind of a “work in progress,” but really, he is. He just doesn’t want to scare him away.

“You must be great at what you love to do, too,” Harry encourages, breaking the silence he’s caused, “I’m sure you are.”

“Loving what I do doesn’t necessarily mean I’m all that good.”

“You don’t think you are?”

“Oh, you know what I’m trying to say. It’s just that—from my perspective, and from a few others, I can see why I might have to close down my studio.” Niall looks down at his shoes and then off the side where he eyes himself in the mirror.

“What?” Harry meets his gaze through their reflections, but Niall determinedly turns away again.

“Nothing, forget I said that—”

“No, wait.” Harry walks over to where Niall had turned away and he places his hands on his shoulders, “Look, you don’t have to say goodbye to this place, not any time soon at least. I’ll—I’ll help out with getting your name around. Besides, it probably only takes one lesson for people to realize you’re a lot better than what little you’re credited for.”

And even more than that, Harry almost says aloud.

Smiling, Niall thanks Harry for what he’s said. They both feel rather shaken by their sudden exchange of thoughts, but the earth didn’t explode and dams didn’t collapse, so it was all okay. Niall takes a few steps back, a smug grin on his face, and throws his towel aside.

“You’ve never even seen me dance before,” Niall states.

“Will you show me some dance steps then?”

Niall knowingly smirks, “Ballroom—?”

“I don’t know, you decide,” Harry shyly replies. He takes off his denim jacket and tosses it aside.

Niall fixes his eyes on him before he turns back around. He puckers his lips in thought, humming to himself as he walks over to his CD player in the corner, “How about the rumba?”

He snickers when the Spanish music fills the room, bouncing off the mirror, and he looks at Harry. Even when he isn’t smiling, his eyes take up his whole expression, and it’s endearing—it weakens Harry to think that Niall looks at him differently sometimes, something more than an easy smile.

“The thing about the rumba is that both dancers must be fluid in their movements,” he starts, walking over to Harry with slow, pointed feet, “let the music set your tempo, let the beat become the only rhythm your body knows how to follow.”

His arms stretch out and smoothly curl back towards his body as he spins once, rolling his hips.

“The rumba is slow,” Niall continues, getting closer to Harry. “Its dancers languid and flexible; melded into one when the partners move together.”

Niall walks into Harry’s space, leaves him breathing heavily when he snakes a hand up his shoulder, “While the tango is fire, the rumba is the slow burn.”

He slides his hand down the length of Harry’s arm and steps out from him in a grand gesture. Holding his arm out, he broadens his chest with a single breath of air through his nose. Harry watches, mesmerized, as he lets Niall take him wherever he goes.

“Hips are an important factor to this form of Latin dance,” Niall’s voice falls to a low purr, moving to circle around Harry, “Their purpose is to not only match the music’s fluidity, but to represent the attraction between the two dancers.”

He becomes the music itself, built up by the strum of the guitar, and it’s hard for Harry to focus on anything but the fact that Niall hasn’t left his eyes for a moment. It’s when he takes his hands again that Harry notices how close they were. Niall’s chest is puffed out in his striking bravado and it’s dizzying to try and take it in all at once.

Harry’s breathing turns into short, quiet gulps of air, and with Niall humming to the music, it urges them to move together as a pair.

“Just like that. Follow my feet,” Niall murmurs comfortingly, putting a hand on Harry’s waist, “and don’t be afraid of loosening the control on your hips. Feel them sway to the music until they match mine.”

Harry’s breath hitches at that. He complies with Niall’s words, shudders when the music finally takes over his body, letting go of all the control in his mind and all the control he’s had on himself the past three years and it fills him up; gives him new air to breathe.

The song ends shortly after though, leaving Harry quietly upset with himself because of how long it took him to finally find the courage to dance, but Niall suddenly feels a force pushing their faces closer together and it knocks the wind out of him. Their foreheads clash against each other and their lips brush dangerously close, leaving Harry gasping for it.

“I have to go,” Harry closes his eyes and tips his head up, chasing Niall’s lips, “I have to go.”

“Okay,” Niall shivers, left in the emptiness of the moment.

They warily retract from each other and the awkwardness steals the moment from them. Feeling the dryness in his throat, Harry immediately resents his cowardice. It fights him and it wins every time, no matter if Harry brandishes his breastplate, it always seems to scorch him with something much bigger than he can handle.

“I’ll see you later?” He asks throatily, almost wincing with it. Harry prays in his head until Niall nods. He realizes that he’s still holding Niall’s hand, so he gets brave enough to feel them slip apart.

“Okay.”

“If I don’t, then I hope you have a nice Christmas,” Harry stares at him, longingly, hoping that he does.

“You have a nice Christmas, too, Harry.”

Niall doesn’t move from where he’s standing, but his small smile reassures Harry that everything’s alright between them. Except, as Harry picks up his jacket and heads out of Niall’s studio, he finds himself wondering if things are more than just alright, if things between them are meant to be more than just so.

Stepping outside, the howling wind makes everything so cold that Harry has to cling to his jacket, salvage whatever warmth he has, but no matter what he does, his eyes stay frozen to the sidewalk. The solitary gloom that accompanies him on the way home only gives him time to mull over how he’s got more than a simple shadow following him. It’s something that seeks for re-entrance and acknowledgment, but Harry won’t let it get to him.

Once he gets home, he kneels down to the open shoe box and smiles at the small magpie. He tickles its underside to get it to wake up and drink some of its untouched water, but he raises an eyebrow when it doesn’t bat a wing.

“Hey,” he whispers, a little concerned now, “Hey pal, it’s time to eat.”

Harry tries to stay calm, but he’s stroking the bird’s neck a little faster now to nuzzle it awake, but it just won’t move. His breathing quickens to sharp, erratic gasps and his head begins to feel like it’s about to collapse on itself. He starts making choking noises at the back of his throat and it’s scaring him. He’s scaring himself and he needs to get out of there; he needs fresh air again.

Harry throws his denim jacket back on as he bolts out the door and curses under his breath, swimming in the brisk air. He forces his hands to stay in his pockets, because he knows that he has to learn how to calm himself down without needing someone to walk him through it.

It’s hard enough as it is—to hear voices in his head and to see black splotches in place of faces—but Harry still tries to train himself to soldier through it all. He’s twenty-fucking-three and he still can’t keep a lid on his overemotional outbursts. He starts to think he’s a failure and it’s actually beginning to get under his skin; the thought nipping and gnawing at his flesh like parasites.

He starts to run, bringing his hands out to his sides to help with his balance as he jogs down the sleet covered sidewalk. He runs until his heart’s caught up with him and he has nothing more to think about but his breathing.

He stops suddenly when he reaches a lamppost and grabs onto the pole for support. He feels lightheaded, dizzy as though he’s going to throw up if he completely loses his vision. It’s then that he crouches down helplessly and buries his head in his arms on his knees. He’s sucked back into his nightmarish flashbacks; unable to pull himself out in time.

*

“Have you been taking your medicine?” Dr. Rothkowitz, his newest doctor, asked twenty-two year old Harry.

“No.”

“Why not? We give them to you to help you.”

“They make me sleepy.”

“Then take a nap.”

“All I do is dance.”

“Well, take your medicine after you dance,” he insisted.

“No.”

“Look Harry,” he sighed, “Your previous therapist had told me that you are a bit incompetent when it comes to accepting advice.”

“It’s just hard for me.”

“What’s hard for you?”

“Hard to think about how I’m alone and nobody tries to help me unless I pay them.”

“You know I really want to help you, regardless of the fact that you’re paying for your sessions.”

“Nobody is here with me; none of my family is here. My parents are dead. My grandparents are dead, too—both sides of them.”

“How did your parents die?” Dr. Rothkowitz asked even though he already knew the answer. He had read it in his files. He persisted so that he can hear Harry say so himself instead of just reading Dr. Bridgeham’s reports.

“Fire,” Harry breathed out harshly, “Lightning struck a tree in the forest behind our home. My sister and I were out the house at the time, buying groceries, I think. But, I remember my mom cooking dinner before we left. I also remember my dad just coming home, kissing her on the forehead when I looked at them over my shoulder. Didn’t think that’d be the last time I see them. Gemma, my sister, and I came back from the store to find the back of our house burning. There was black smoke everywhere.”

Harry averted his gaze and kept his eyes focused on the stray stack of books on the desk in the room. “I was so confused. I was so angry. I kept worrying if they were okay, if they realized in time before the forest fire reached our home, but the ambulances near our driveway told me otherwise. I saw them, my parents, being rolled out on stretchers with their faces black with soot. They died a few days later from damaged lungs.”

Dr. Rothkowitz paused to let that sink in. Harry sat back in his chair, “Gem and I were sent to a caretaker shortly after, because none of our relatives lived close enough that they could’ve taken us in; not like any of them were willing to anyway. Very distant, they were, and still are. I was only fifteen.”

He nodded, taking note, “And your friend?”

Harry’s eyes looked dark and electrified with anger.

“Murder. Not even a year after my parents. The trial didn’t even help that much. I’m more than relieved to know that the bastard is behind bars but I still have no one,” he spat out bitterly, “I have no one except my older sister who is now in California and as broke as I am.”

“Then who is that young woman out there in the lounge waiting for you?”

“Her name’s Linda. She’s a very good friend that I met while I was in college. She helps me through everything. I don’t need pills when I have her.”

“You need the medicine, Harry.”

“What I need—” Harry clenches his jaw, “—is my family back with me.”

Dr. Rothkowitz knew that Harry went through a lot of death in his life—Dr. Bridgeham had written Harry’s reports and warned that he had been through so much more than a sixteen year old should ever face. He was an unstable character, but Dr. Bridgeham knew that he was capable of succeeding through college without a therapist if he just took his medicine, but he rarely did.

“Why won’t you take your medicine?” Dr. Rothkowitz tried to stay patient.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and it creased his forehead until his frown grew into something uncontrollable; something that seized his mind and voice altogether.

“Why would I help myself?” Harry yelled, “Why would I try to help myself now after everything’s already turned to dust? I watched my friend die in front of me because I was too much of a fucking fragile piece of shit to do anything to help. I couldn’t save my parents either because I wasn’t even at home. I’m never where I should be and I’m worthless without any of them. I can’t bring myself to do so much as pop a pill in my mouth to help me because then I’d have it easy—when they didn’t.”

“You think it’s your fault that your friend died—?”

“—him, my parents, and even my grandparents.”

“It’s not, Harry,” his therapist assured him, “What makes you think that?”

“I was hiding,” Harry explained, “my friend told me to. I didn’t even think twice about whether he would be safe, I just automatically ran and hid. I was hiding between two large garbage bins, the kinds that are outside a restaurant to catch all the thrown food, and I was scared. I remember feeling scared, even though I wasn’t the one who was in point blank range,” he shuddered.

“Then I watched his body fall in front of me and I felt my heart drop as if an anchor had weighed down my entire being, and I couldn’t move. The worst part was that the man didn’t even think to check if we even had any money. He just…” he pauses, and inhales deeply. “Even with what happened to my parents. I was out getting groceries with my sister, and we just came back too late. Taking medication reminds me of how scared I was in those few seconds. If I am as mad as you think I am, I want to face it like I should have done when I had the chance to save them. But I’m still scared—” Harry exhaled, “—terrified, really. Of everything.”

Dr. Rothkowitz nodded. He thought for a minute, letting Harry simmer down, and then addressed him again. “Do you love Linda?”

“She’s a good person, a best friend—”

“Don’t you love her?”

“Of course, but platonically,” Harry sat up again, “What? Do you think I’m just moping because I’m lonely? Because I lost people I loved and now I’m just looking for someone to fill some bullshit void?”

“I do not think that, no,” his therapist calmly responded, “but I do think that opening yourself up to people will be the first step to something greater; something that could ultimately help you. No, you cannot change the past, we’d all love to do that, but you cannot change what you did, nor will stalling yourself from recovery help either just because you resent your inactions. What you can do, however, is cherish the good things in your life right at this very moment. We cannot stop death, but we can simply love, give love, and be loved until the time comes.”

Dr. Rothkowitz made his way over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember, none of that was your fault. You have to accept that within you and then pick yourself up.”

Harry looked up at him as if he had finally broken through his barricade.

“Until you feel comfortable doing that, take your medication.”

*

Harry chokes out a breath and whips his head up from where he had buried his face in his hands. He looks around him, confused by where he is, but then recognizes the street he’s on. His mind begins to clear up and he thinks of something then—something out of his reach, yet there in his hand at the same time—and he smiles.

He picks himself up and runs the way back to his apartment. He thinks of Niall and everything they’ve done in the short amount of time they’ve known each other. He thinks of all the things that Niall’s been for him—a friend, a shoulder to lean on, a fresh face in a sea of restlessness and solitude—and he thinks of what each of his words had meant to him.

Harry thinks of all the things he should have said to Niall and lets them become the driving force propelling his feet to move and his heart to beat—but then he thinks of the bird, and when he gets back home he looks past the couch and sees the shoe box still on the floor.

Before he’s had any dinner, he goes out for the third time that day and heads for the park. There he spends the next hour digging a hole with a shovel he picked up at the Home Depot six blocks down, and finds a way to say goodbye before he buries the bird inside.

*

It’s Christmas Eve and Harry has been at the bookstore only two hours but he’s already considering closing it for the day. Not a soul has stepped through the door that evening. Maybe he should’ve expected this and not even come in to work today. He sighs; looking at the meaningless scribbles he had started drawing on blank pages.

The bell at the front of the store jingles and Harry’s eyes shoot up to see who it could possibly be.

“Niall? What’re you doing here?” Harry slams his journal closed and straightens up behind the counter.

“Can’t a man go into a book shop without having his intentions questioned?” Niall laughs easily.

Harry laughs with him, still shocked to find him here, but he’s walking around the counter to greet him properly with a handshake and Niall surprises him with a hug.

“Linda told me that you work evenings here sometimes.”

“Linda?” Harry squawks, “She told you? When? Why?”

“It was just part of our small talk that day I visited your class,” Niall beckons as he takes another walk around the front of the store, “I was looking for you! I was careless enough to not ask about which days you worked here, so I came by yesterday thinking I’d catch you, but Ben told me that you don’t really work designated shifts. You kind of just float in and out whenever.”

Harry amusingly smirks at that. He leans against his desk behind him and feels its edge dig into the small of his back.

“I only work nights when I can,” Harry says slightly distracted. Niall's words are still swirling around his head like a tornado. He's been looking for me. “But, I usually work the shifts after 3:00 on weekdays.”

“Well, I was remembering how much of a stiff you were when we had lunch, so I was thinking that I should bring you to this party I was invited to.” Niall couldn’t restrain the chuckle that was pushing against his devious little smirk, so he let it out once Harry finally finds his voice,

“M’not a stiff,” he defends, also verging on cackling, “I’m a quiet and sensitive contemporary dancer with many problems, you knob.”

“Too right you are, which is exactly why I’m taking you to this cool place downtown for my friend’s birthday.”

“If I agreed, which I’m not confirming that I am just yet, when would this supposed party take place?”

Niall laughs even harder, “If I said tonight, would that hinder your answer?”

“Tonight?” Harry almost yells.

“Tonight!” Niall’s eyes rake over Harry’s body, taking his hands, “Come on, you can go in those clothes.”

“Wait,” Harry’s starting to feel dizzy, “I don’t know if I want to go now. It’s so sudden. I don’t think I can do it. A club? Christ, I—”

By then, Niall has led him outside the book store and he’s still being pulled out into the middle of the street. The moon, still in the highest point of the night sky, shining on the pavement like a vaporous sea, hangs overhead, and it illuminates Niall like Harry’s never thought about. It makes him stop to look at him as he jumps and spins around.

His hair is nearly white; ablaze like his striking blue eyes. He looks… otherworldly… like he had pulled Harry into an icy fortress unknown to anyone else but the two of them, and it's captivating; he is captivating.

“Harry,” he says, looking at him seriously now, “sometimes you have to succumb to spontaneity. Let life throw unexpected curveballs at you. If one hits you, big deal. Walk it off, bandage the bruise, get a cast; it all heals.”

Harry softens his face. Niall used a baseball reference. Except he isn’t wearing his signature cap at the moment, he's wearing a black sweater underneath a snug coat, but the notion still makes Harry break out into an unchecked smile.

“We aren’t sure of most of the things that’ll happen to us in our life, whether it’ll be good or bad,” Niall continues, reciprocating Harry’s smile, “but we’re only certain of one thing, one finite concept that no one can run away from. It eventually happens to everyone, but I intend on stalling it until I’m ready, until I’ve really lived.”

Niall holds out a hand and Harry looks at it as if he’s got the universe in his palm.

“Fine,” he excitedly agrees.

*

Getting into the club is easy enough. The bouncer knows Niall through a friend of his and has seen him enough times to recognize him. It’s exhilarating to think that just half an hour ago Harry had been meandering about the tiny book store contemplating on whether or not he should be jumping off a bridge, and now he’s here with Niall.

“What now?” Harry raises his voice in hopes of Niall hearing him. He doesn’t, so Harry leans in and touches his mouth to his ear instead. “What do we do now?” He lets his lips linger there for a second, drags it across the sensitive skin and pulls away, surprising himself by what he did.

Niall tips his head over to the bar, “Get a drink? Dance a bit? You’re going to have to do a lot of proving yourself for me to think you’re that great of a dancer,” he teases. “You’re a good technician, but can you really lose yourself? Forget technique for one night?”

Harry scoffs at his interrogations. He laughs when Niall laughs and it feels so easy being with him, accompanying him everywhere he goes. They get drinks together and greet the birthday celebrant (“Happy 26th birthday, Lou!” Niall says, and Harry basks in the man’s smile).

It doesn't feel like he's intruding on anything. Harry fit right in, just like how Niall fit rightly with him.

That gets him to thinking though, right in the middle of the dance floor. No matter how hard he tries, he still finds himself processing information like it’s an examination. He wills himself to just feel the bass and how it rattles his bones and passes through his chest like a lightning storm, but he just can’t let go.

He focuses on Niall. He focuses on his body in front of him, moving and languid; seeming as if he’d long lost his conscious and is simply riding the music.

Harry gulps.

Their thighs are touching and Niall’s stomach brushes against his in a rhythm that he can’t match exactly, but it feels good. Harry blinks only to see that Niall's still there; solid and real and in front of him.

He lets the music override his judgments; lets it take him over, his entire body, just like he does when he’s about to perform. But tonight isn’t about dancing. It’s about moving, it’s about feeling, and it's also something much simpler than all of that. Just being.

He opens his eyes again and he meets Niall’s own wide, curious ones. Harry almost gasps when he sees how differently they look despite the fact that nothing but strobe lights illuminated the floor. They look dark and inviting, and it's when he tips his chin up in a smirk as if he knows exactly what he’s doing—and he probably does—that Harry finally surrenders to the music.

He loses himself then. Everything he knows about the world except the image of Niall evades him; the beat of whatever song pounding in his ears. He slides a hand through Niall’s hair and watches as it makes him crane his neck like he had been waiting for it.

Harry licks his lips unknowingly, bravely, and seeing the corner of Niall’s lips curve up for the slightest second in response is enough to shoot sparks up Harry’s spine. He allows the alcohol to lead his movements, allows the heat between his and Niall’s bodies to be the only warmth he knows, and he presses their foreheads together, his fingers still tangled in the hair at the nape of Niall’s neck, and it's good; all of this is so good.

The unthinkable occurs to him, and right at the bridge of the song, he pushes their faces together. Their lips crash into each other and for a moment Harry blinks back to reality—the taste of Niall’s tongue so vivid it stuns him—until he finally melts into it.

The drag of their tongues numbs Harry’s every sense but touch, the savor of Niall’s lips suddenly fading. He can only feel their sweat-dampened bangs brush against each other and the tightened grip Niall has on the front of Harry’s shoulders. They part to catch their breaths and that’s when Niall stills; the sound of their gasps falling heavily between their open mouths as Harry waits for the moment to pass. He dares to look at Niall and—to his staggered disbelief—he's staring back; cautiously and attentively.

“This is okay, right, Harry?” Niall’s voice comes out breathless and frantic.

Harry nods; he nods like he’s offended him and he wants nothing but to put a smile back on his face. He’s forgotten what ‘okay’ means, but it doesn't really matter when every one of his senses are heightened like this. For once in his life he’s aware and present and here; he’s here and taking everything in as it comes to him. The thought alone is enough to scare him, but he leans forward anyway and kisses Niall another time.

*

Harry wakes up in a daze. The musky stench of the interior of a grimy automobile suddenly jerks him awake. He thinks about getting up, because he feels his head resting on something and his shoulder pressing up against a support, but when he turns his face he’s welcomed by the image of Niall sleeping soundly next to him.

He straightens up a little and peeks out the car window. He's in a taxi and they're on a road that's familiar to him. Relief washes over his face, and he leans back again. Harry’s eyes start to feel heavy, still feeling groggy and intoxicated, so he closes them and nestles his head in the crook of Niall’s shoulder, falling asleep with him.

When they arrive back at the bookstore at three in the morning, it takes a while for Harry to register where they were. He soon understands that Niall had given the driver his store’s address so he could drop him off here since he doesn’t know where he actually lives.

“S’this my stop?” Harry mumbles.

Niall nods, nudging lightly at his shoulders so he’d get up.

He groans when he feels an ache in his head, he knows it’s the beer he had since he hasn’t had it in weeks, but he feels a pair of lips on his neck before he even reaches for the door.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” Niall whispers, his breath tickling Harry’s skin, sending goose bumps down his spine.

He thinks of turning around, thinks of sitting on his lap and kissing him until they get kicked out of the cab, but a jolt of memory hits him before he can do anything. He grabs Niall’s hand, earning a grunt from the sleepy blonde, and pulls him out of the cab with him.

Confused, Niall stands on the sidewalk behind him while Harry pulls out his wallet to pay the driver and to tell him to wait for Niall.

“I have a gift for you,” Harry says, turning to smile at him before he dashes into the bookstore.

Harry had taken Niall’s gift from his shopping bags a week ago and put it in the denim jacket he was wearing the last time they saw each other. He’d forgotten to give it to him that day, but he’s glad that he can give it to him now.

He comes back out in under a minute. The cold night air blows out of their mouths like fog and the snow that falls above them makes the scene feel like one of the films Harry remembers watching years ago.

“Merry Christmas, Niall.” In his hands lies a silver link bracelet woven together by a dark blue thread. “I have one, too,” He smiles, tilting his head as Niall looks up at him, gazing with awe.

“Wow, thank you, Harry.” Niall pushes up the left sleeve of his jacket and Harry slips it on for him. “It’s so nice,” he whispers, touching it gently, “but wait, I didn’t get you a present.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I feel bad now. You didn’t have to get me this, really, you didn’t. I think what surprises me the most is that you even thought of getting something for me in the first place.”

Harry shrugs and Niall shakes his head, not buying Harry’s humbleness.

Niall stares up at him for a while. Snowflakes drift down and land in his hair, his eyelashes, and Harry feels an overwhelming sense of affection. It’s like a pushing sensation in the middle of his chest. It’s akin to the ocean’s tide, but it rises and falls quicker than the water, and it’s stronger than just a heartbeat.

“It’s a gift. I don’t expect anything in return,” he finally says.

Niall hesitates for another few moments before he gets up on his tiptoes and throws his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry hugs back as ardently as he means to, holds Niall as closely as he can to his body, because this must be what his Dr. Rothkowitz had advised him to do. He’s letting himself be loved.

And as Niall steps back he quickly plants his lips onto Harry’s, hears him squeak in surprise, and utters a quick, “Goodnight.”

Harry’s left standing there watching Niall get in the taxi and waits until the vehicle drives off, and that’s when he walks into the bookstore. Lazily shuffling to his desk, he passes out with Niall in mind.

*

Half of Christmas day is spent in bed. Harry, having woken up to the sound of a car's engine outside of the bookstore, blinks his eyes drowsily. He stares at the shelves of untouched books, and listens to the white noise of the silence around him. He half hopes that Niall will come bursting through his door again to take him out on a white Christmas adventure where they'd roll around in the snow, or start a snowball fight, or even ice skate since Harry couldn't go with Linda this year. Except, they don't even have each other's phone numbers.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek and cringes; he doesn’t even have Niall’s number.

He lets that sink in until his stomach diverts his attention with its low grumble. Thinking of the nearest fast food joint, Harry picks up his jacket and heads out to eat breakfast at the McDonald’s near his studio. It’s a short walk, barely even three blocks, and almost immediately after he takes his first sip of the coffee he orders, he regrets sleeping over at the bookstore. He can’t even remember how he passed out but he did; sitting in his chair and slumped over his desk, cheek pressed against the mahogany.

Harry wraps himself up in his jacket and leaves the place a half hour later with his head down and chin tucked into his scarf. He heads home, with no better place to be, and freshens up. He showers, brushes his teeth, cuts up a few fruits to place in a bowl (bananas, kiwis, strawberries, and the last of the grapes he has), and ends up sitting in silence on his small couch next to the window.

As the snow falls outside it looks soft and unscathed by any disturbances, and such a calm morning makes Harry think of his eighth Christmas. Joyful and memorable and full of smiles from day in to day out, and as Harry pokes the last grape around in his bowl, he decides that he’ll try to make the best of today.

After a little bit more of rummaging around his home, he goes out wearing a grey sweater, one that has sleeves a little bit too long for his arms, and randomly chooses a sidewalk in his neighborhood to follow. He doesn’t know where it’ll take him, but he’ll walk there and walk back.

Six minutes of silent self-rejuvenation goes by until Harry half-hears someone calling out to him.

“Morning, stranger!” The voice breaks Harry’s train of thought, causing him to look up.

Harry’s voice gets caught in his throat when he sees that it’s Niall, all smiley and bundled up in a green jacket walking alongside him, and he nearly gasps.

“Hey, Harry, how was your—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because Harry’s scooping him up in his arms and holding him like he hasn’t seen him in years. The hug stuns Niall, but he quickly returns the embrace and throws his arms over Harry’s shoulders, nuzzling his nose into his hair, and he smells like coffee and shampoo. It’s almost too charming for Niall to handle, because he’s sinking deeper into the hug, and they stand there long enough that a jogger passes them with a grunt, but Harry doesn’t care at all, he only cares about how his mind is chanting Niall’s name as if his entire life has led up to this moment.

He pulls away and lifts a hand to touch the side of Niall’s jaw, hesitant at first, but his thumb runs along his cold skin, ghosting over the hidden dimple on the side of Niall’s cheek. Harry leans in and shivers from the feeling of his lips hovering over Niall’s, but he kisses him, peppering little touches to his mouth until Harry feels a hand on his chest pushing him away.

“Harry,” Niall mumbles unsurely, turning his head to the side.

Harry stares at him, breathing shallowly, “Sorry.”

But Niall looks so beautiful in morning light, Harry thinks, and he wishes he could watch him wake up one day—wishes that he could see him every day like this, bathed in sunlight and speckled with snowflakes—but Harry’s scared of thoughts like those, because they come out of nowhere, and it reads on Harry’s face like trepidation.

“Hey,” Niall suddenly smiles at him sweetly, making him look up, “How was your morning?”

Harry already feels too embarrassed to even answer, but Niall snorts and asks, “Quiet?”

That gets Harry laughing and Niall is beaming at himself. It’s like he’s the reason for snowfall; the reason some people woke up that morning. So Harry—feeling better already—pulls at his sleeves until they’re covering his palms as he reaches up to fix the front of his hair.

“Well, I hope it was nice, too. Merry Christmas… again,” Niall gives him a charmingly bright smile, one that glinted against the light.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks lightly, finally speaking.

Niall blinks, “Hm? I live here. My street’s down that-a-way.” He points a thumb over his shoulder.

“I live here, too,” Harry lets out an astonished little sound. “Two stop signs down. Wow, small world.”

“What bad timing, though. If I had known last night I wouldn’t have made our cab driver drop you off at your book store.” Niall giggles, and if it wasn’t for the wind blowing through the bare branches of the tree next to them, Harry would’ve melted from the sound.

“Oh, by the way, guess what?”

Harry asks dazedly, “What?”

“I entered a competition!”

“Did you really?”

“Yeah! The Annual Dance Competition at the Biltmore Hotel downtown. There’ll be loads of dancers there from all over and it’ll be held at the hotel’s gala. I’ve always wanted to try and see how well I’d do if I entered one of those things, so I said ‘hey, why not?’ and I signed up yesterday.”

“Oh, that sounds great, Niall. You have to have a partner for those dance things?”

“Mhm, so I asked my best student if she’d like to do it with me. She’s turning nineteen the same month the competition’s being held, and she’s fantastic. I think if we danced as best as we can we’d have a good shot at not losing. I heard those judges are major sticklers for technique and finesse and whatnot. And you know what the best part is?” Niall persists.

“What?” Harry replies with the biggest smile on his face because Niall’s happiness is just as contagious as his laugh.

“It’s going to be really good for my studio. If my student, Anya, and I place in the top three, it’d be really good publicity. One of the big news stations in the county is covering the event and I really hope I’ll get my name out there.”

Harry is standing in silent excitement with his mouth open, trying to wrap his head around Niall’s giddiness. At this point, Niall’s attempting to catch his breath between sentences since he’s smiling too hard. He licks his lips after they’d gone dry and continues.

“I’m just—so glad I have this chance,” Niall’s voice comes out shaky, “I don’t know how long I would’ve lasted without this opportunity.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, his own voice low.

Niall's smile evaporates from his face, and his brow knits together as if he's struggling with a stubborn thought. “I’m—I’m about to go bankrupt, Harry.” The look on Niall’s face makes Harry’s heart drop to his stomach.

“My studio’s sinking. I’m not too sure if I can balance my apartment’s rent along with my studio anymore. I know dance is my life but,” Niall pauses, huffing out a breath, “I’m not really cut out for roughing it under bridges, you know?”

“Hey now, I’m more than positive that you and your student will do brilliantly,” Harry assures with a small smile.

“You’re just saying that,” Niall rolls his eyes and snickers into his sleeves, sniffling, “Honestly though, I hope we are.”

“You’re gonna kill it, don’t worry. I’ll be here supporting you the whole time to make sure you don’t break a leg or something.” Niall bursts out laughing and it takes Harry a few seconds to see why it seemed so funny.

“Shouldn’t you wish for me to break a leg? You know, for good luck? It’s theater talk.”

“Exactly. We’re in dance, not theater. So don’t break your leg,” Harry turns his face, blushing, to hide his dimpled smile.

Niall walks with Harry until they reach a two-way street. Niall pulls up his green hood, which had a red plaid pattern on the inside, and waves before he takes a step down his way.

“My place,” Niall says vaguely as if it’s part of Harry’s common knowledge. Harry takes it a bit more dramatically than he’d hope.

“Hey, Niall, wait!” Harry calls out. He catches up to him in a small jog, “Can I, uh, get your number?”

Niall smiles brightly at the question, surprising Harry by his reaction. His teeth bite into his bottom lip.

“We’ve kind of just been bumping into each other,” Harry shrugs.

Niall laughs aloud at the true statement, and Harry falls easily with his laugh, his cheeks turning pink and rosy from the lively wind rustling past them.

Harry pulls out his phone and sets it up so that Niall can just punch in the numbers.

“There. You can call or text me any time, alright?” Niall responds lightly. “I’ll see you soon, Harry!”

Harry presses his lips into a giddy smile as he stares at Niall crossing the road and heading down his street.

*

Once to his apartment, Harry scurries to his bed and flops on top of the mess of sheets and blankets without bothering to take off his shoes.

“Linda?” he calls into his phone, worrying his bottom lip. It's really just natural that he's called her before anyone else.

“Hey, Harry.”

“I think I like Niall.”

“Well, of course you do. I know that. What makes you—”

“Linda, I really, really like Niall,” Harry slows down his breathing enough so there’s an instance of absolute silence between each exhale.

“Aw, Harry! That’s so sweet.”

Harry flips over onto his back. Staring up at the ceiling, he weighs the options at hand and mulls over the best way to explain this to her.

“I kissed him,” Harry says abruptly, wincing when Linda gasps. She starts firing questions at him, and he smiles at her eagerness, but he’s really trying to keep the conversation levelheaded.

“Well, when you left for Florida—how is it, by the way? Did you get there safely?—Niall stopped by at the bookstore, which I had no idea he knew about until he said that you told him I work there—”

“—just helping the man out is all. We were chatting that one afternoon he was at the studio and he asked if you had lessons every day. You don’t, but I told him about the bookstore and that you work nights there sometimes.”

“Wait, why would he ask if I have lessons every day?”

“I’ve no idea, but if intuition serves me right I’m guessing he just wanted to know when he can see you and where to find you.”

“That’s—” Harry pauses, “—really cute, wait, why couldn’t he have asked me himself? He wondered if I could grab lunch with him that day, too, but he didn’t seem shy about that.”

“I don’t know, Harry, I’m not the cute blonde you’re so hot for. Why don’t you ask him about it? And get on with the story, my mom’s calling me downstairs.”

“Right, um, well since he knew where to look, he caught me at the bookstore on Christmas Eve—”

“—you were working on Christmas Eve?”

“You tell me to get on with it but look who keeps interrupting,” Harry snaps, and then laughs at her pouty voice. “Yes, I was working, because I had nothing better to do until Niall showed up and asked me if I wanted to go to his friend’s birthday party. It was at a club downtown, which you and I both know is really not my scene, but he took me there anyway and we basically ended up kissing, like, the whole night.”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “Well, that’s great, I’m definitely not knocking it, but is that why you really like him though? Because you two kissed?”

Harry throws an arm over his eyes, blacking out his vision, “No. I haven’t even gotten to the worst part. It’s really so much more than just that. I don’t know if you want to hear it though.”

“Of course I do,” she comfortingly replies, “I’ve waited four years to hear something like this to come from you.”

Harry smiles, lets out a puff of air through his nose, “Finally, right? It’s been so long since—um—”

“I know,” she whispers.

Harry lifts up his arm and takes a moment to readjust his eyes to the light streaming through the blinds on the window. He looks at the infinite cluster of dust floating in the air where sunbeams stretched to his bed in long, straight lines.

“One morning, I had… I had to leave my apartment to get some fresh air. It was one of the worst ones I’ve had, and so I sat on a bench in the park to try to calm myself down but then Niall appeared out of nowhere. He cheered me up, except not in the way that people other than you have tried. He sounded a lot like my old doctor; as if he knew how to handle it. Then he took me out to lunch. He said that he saw me dancing alone in the studio that day when he visited, and you know what he said to me?”

Linda whispers, “What?”

“He said I was brilliant, but not only that. He said he knows what dance has to be for me. You know how dance means everything to me, right, Lin? It’s helped me through so much.” Harry's finding it harder to keep from grinning, “Every time I see him he always lightens up my perspective of the world. He told me that life is full of curveballs and that everybody tries to run away from death, but he said that he isn’t running from it. He’s just accepted it, but in the best of ways. He lives for living’s sake.”

He goes quiet, his breathing even. “What more can a person even strive to do?” he utters, not even asking Linda directly, but just glancing over his ceiling as if it were a map of the world.

“He knows.”

“Knows what?” Linda’s voice lifts up.

“Knows that I’m not normal—”

“—Harry, you’re every bit normal—”

“You know what I mean,” he sighs, “and he does, too. He gets that everyone has their problems and that we do our best to keep them hidden because we’re always too scared of what people will think of us when they find out. You know what he told me today?”

“What?”

“His business is failing. He’s not making enough to support himself and I felt as scared as he was. He’s entered this dance contest in hopes of increasing public relations and I’m going to be there for him every step of the way. Dr. Rothkowitz has always told me to learn to love because that’s what’ll save me in the end, so I’m giving it a try.”

“Harry, are you saying you’re—”

“—in love with Niall?” Harry stares at the bleak, unpainted wall of his room and isn’t surprised to see Niall’s smiling face and bright eyes fill up his vision. “Maybe.”

He takes a deep breath before he carries on, “Linda, so much happened to me at a very young age. I knew nothing about the world and believed in nothing except the finite perception of our lives ending one day. The years leading up to college were gruesome, but thanks to you I’ve been feeling a lot better. The world seems a little smaller, more manageable. But, Niall,” he bites his lips. “At the club, and even before then, when I visited him at his studio, when I picked him up with my arms, all of that went away. Everything I knew and everything I was terrified of—it all just blew away. It’s like reality finally hit me in the face and clarity struck me for the first time in my life. What’s bigger than the dread of finality, Lin? Making everything else worth your while. Right?”

He doesn't give her a chance to reply. “He matters a lot to me now,” Harry flips over to bury his face in his pillow, “always has, actually. From the moment I noticed him in the rain.”

There was a breath of silence.

“Have you told him any of this?” Linda asks.

“No.”

“Do you plan to?

“I don’t know—” Harry eyes his journal just a few feet from his bed where he had thrown it after he wrote in it the night before.

“Linda, I’ll call you later? I have to get going. Have a lovely day, and Merry Christmas.”

“You too, love. Oh and, um, good luck.”

“Bye, Lin,” Harry says, then adds before hanging up, “and thanks.”

He throws his phone in the mass of blankets on the bed and stares at his journal lying on the floor. He picks it up and thumbs through the pages until he reaches a blank page. He writes for ten minutes, only jotting down two short sentences in that time, so he thinks for another twenty.

He thinks as hard as he can to finally put what he’s feeling on paper, writing all of his thoughts down.

That same watchful, ghostly presence strikes him and he loses his concentration, so he ends up flying through the page without another care, letting the words leave the pen in grand loops and devout sincerity. The age-old three words that have always been written together, in poems and novels and plays, swirl in his mind like a soundless mantra—the mere repetition of their vowels lost in a whirlwind like a sunken ship in the sea. It’s always been there, it just needs to be found.

Reading through it, he decides to tear the pages out and fold them. Grabbing his phone, he heads out the door for the second time that day.

Once outside, he looks at the small, slightly wrinkled sheets in his hands and ponders if he should actually give it to Niall.

Harry stops in his tracks on the sidewalk and thinks for a minute. He doesn’t want Niall to think that he’s jumping across rivers to chase after these words; they’ve been tucked away somewhere close this whole time, but Harry rationalizes that maybe, in time, he’ll be able to tell Niall himself.

He starts walking again, feeling the cool push of the breeze whip past his face refreshingly. He walks until his mind begins to wander to the latest episode of So You Think You Can Dance, tries to recall if he recorded the episode or not, but his thoughts nearly screech to a halt when his eyes catch a hearse driving slowly down the street.

“What?” He mumbles.

Harry waits until the hearse drives slowly up the street and he can see a funeral procession of people walking behind it. They follow the long, black vehicle in a lamentable crawl; their entire group dressed in the darkest of blacks. There aren’t any children, so the mass of adults and teenagers are eerily silent.

At any other point of his life, Harry would’ve taken off by now. He would have never wanted to see another funeral procession for the rest of his life, but for some reason, right as they pass him, he follows them with his eyes curiously; watchfully. He’s had revelations before but none quite like this one.

Harry tilts his head and imagines what it would be like to have known the person in that hearse, and the most unusual part of doing so is that Harry doesn’t feel a thing.

He doesn’t… feel anything.

He widens his eyes and bites his lips in a smile as he continues on his way down the street and around the corner until he reaches the park.

Finding the exact bench he was looking for, he sits on it with a smile already on his face. He looks up at the clouds, gazes at the way the light from the sun outlines their organic, formless shapes, and inspects the space next to him before deciding to lay down.

With his feet dangling off the end of the bench, Harry squints up at the sky.

“So please don’t come to me on my dying day, just let me go in peace,” Harry sings quietly, gaping at the wide sky that seems to flood his entire vision with the color of Niall’s eyes. “With all the things I forgot to say, racing through my mind.”

He pulls out his phone, scrolls through his list of contacts until he finds Niall, and sends a text saying: Hiiiiii Harry here

Harry tucks his phone back into his pocket and throws an arm over his eyes again, grinning. He sticks his tongue out, hoping that he’ll catch a few stray snowflakes. Not a minute later, his phone vibrates with Niall’s reply:

Hey Harry ! You caught me at a good time, im waiting for my three minute noodles to cook. whats up?

Harry asks him if he’s doing anything for New Year’s, wonders if they’d be able to spend it together. Niall replies with a smile, of course, telling Harry that he’ll be downtown again with his friends to catch the fireworks event. He invites Harry to come along and, flippantly enough, Harry accepts with a ‘sounds fun, i’ll see you there!’

*

Incidentally, a week later, after Linda comes back from vacation, Harry is anxiously pulling her along by the arm as they step out of their cab at 11:00 and plunge into the frivolous nightlife. It’s crowded and everywhere they look there are bustling people, moving and dancing and swaying with red cups of beer in their hands. They’re all in such high spirits it's hard for Harry to stay uncomfortable for long.

“Live a little, you old geezer,” she pokes at his side.

“I’m trying!” Harry retaliates with a pinch on her hips as he slinks an arm behind her. Somehow it’s not as freezing cold downtown, but that’s probably because of the number of people here full of laughter and beet-red with energy. “It’s late and I’m freezing.”

“Where’s Niall?” Linda wonders aloud, cutting off Harry’s complaint and smiling at a little girl who's passing by with a sparkler in her hand.

“I’ve texted him about three times asking where we could meet up, but he hasn’t replied yet.”

The two of them meander around the crowds and end up in a relatively open clearing in the middle of it all.

“I think that’s where they’ll launch the fireworks,” Linda points towards the other side of the landing. It’s at the end of this plaza of sorts, kind of a wide area that’s been roped off so people won't venture too close.

“Harry! Linda!”

They turn around to the sound of their names and Harry is instantly stricken by Niall walking towards him. He’s wearing a dark brown coat and he’s even sporting a grey knitted scarf. His face is shining with bubbling liveliness and he’s all smiles.

“I see you’ve finally invested in a coat,” Harry observes, rather lucidly, and Niall cracks up like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. As always, it's a sound lovelier than larks singing in the morning, and not even ten seconds later, Harry’s smiling for the first time that night.

“Yep, I finally heeded winter’s demands. I saved enough money for a good one, too,” Niall smirks.

“Enough heart eyes, bro. Introduce us,” the man to Niall’s left says, nudging his way closer to them with his own charmingly bright smile.

Niall punches his arm for the ‘heart eyes’ jab and nods his head towards him, still looking at Harry with an idyllic sort of grin on his face, “This is Louis. A riot, he is. Be nice to him, he’s a bit of a sod off.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Louis giggles and nods at Harry and Linda, “Nice to meet you.”

“Louis,” Harry repeats, “I was at your birthday party, wasn’t I?”

Harry meets Niall’s eyes for confirmation and is thankful when Niall concurs.

“Honestly can’t remember, sorry, man. Thanks for coming though, I appreciate it. I was delighted by the turnout; didn’t expect an amount more than my old age to show up.”

“Oh shut up, Louis,” the man wearing the glasses next to him says, “Hi Harry, Linda, I’m Zayn, Louis’s babysitter. He’s twenty-six and incapable of most things, like making good first impressions.”

Louis rolls his eyes and Niall laughs in spite of him. He moves closer to Harry and places a hand on his shoulder. It’s a comforting touch, the way he’d squeeze a little to show Harry that he’s glad he could make it.

“So, Harry, Linda, this is Liam,” Niall gestures to him on the other side of Zayn, “Don’t let the soft brown eyes fool you. He’s a bit of a committed partier like Louis.”

“I’ve corrupted him a bit,” Louis shrugs.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Liam heartily smiles at Harry and Linda, almost as if he gives his all in everything he does. It’s endearingly honest and welcoming, so Harry goes along with it and smiles back.

“Well, Niall, dearest, try not to get too hot in your scarf,” Louis pats Niall on the bicep and winks at Harry, but Niall clears his throat and shoves him off. “I’ve had my eye on that woman over there selling those boxes of sparklers; figured we six need some.”

After dashing off, the five that’s left start talking a bit more and getting used to each other while the night is young (well, for a New Year’s night at least.) Louis comes back with more than enough sparklers and urges the lot of them to hold theirs out together so he can light them up all at once.

“Damn lighter,” Louis curses when it won't spark up. He tries a few more times and once it’s ablaze he’s able to ignite all six of the sparklers.

“Two minutes till midnight!” Liam yells out loud and Zayn’s hollering next to him. Louis’s got his arms around them and they’re loud and boisterous and just being happy company.

Niall’s standing next to Harry while Linda’s off to the side drawing her name in the air.

“Anything wrong?” Niall furrows his eyebrows as he looks at him. Harry’s spirits drop when he looks around them, and sees everyone with sparklers. It’s bright and harsh and blinding, and he looks down at the one in his hand and drops it without much thought.

“Why’d you do that?” Niall questions and Harry retracts like he’s hit him.

“Just not a big fan of fire,” Harry whispers, trying to shrug like it’s no big deal, but he feels bad about it, so he stamps out the flickering spark.

Niall stares at him. He stares with the intent of trying to understand, trying to see if he can come up with something to make him smile again, or at least look at things differently. So he gently slips his hand in Harry’s and guides it up to his own sparkler.

He nudges the metal end between Harry’s fingers so he’d hold it while Niall’s hand cups Harry’s knuckles. The light from it dances across Harry’s face and Niall can see it’s reflection in his glassy eyes.

“Harry, you don’t have to think of it as fire, just light.” Niall smiles up at him as he softly strokes Harry’s hand with his thumb.

Harry peeks behind him and gazes at the expanse of light that each person in the crowd is holding up in the air, and it’s like a sea of stars; glimmering and radiant as if they all mirror the night sky. Then, everyone’s voices join together in the countdown, but Harry keeps his eyes trained on Niall’s face just before the sparkler dies out.

“It’s just light,” Niall continues with just five seconds left, “Like the tango.”

The sparkler goes out and the crowd erupts in ravenous cheers loud enough that they could shake the buildings around them. The fireworks start and the first one explodes high above them in a spectrum of blues and reds, knocking Harry and Niall out of their trance, but that doesn’t completely tear Harry away from the thought that light was the tango, and soon enough, he notices that they're left with their hands still together after the sparkler died out. Oh, Harry thinks, the slow burn.

“Happy New Year, Harry!” Niall shouts over the chorus of voices. With the fireworks show beginning, Harry can only make out Niall’s face every few seconds, for the light keeps fading and reigniting like a candle.

“Cheers to the future,” Harry responds, his face glowing with happiness.

After the initial midnight celebrations, the fireworks light up the night for another twenty minutes. The percussion of the booms followed up by an explosion of lights is enough to reverberate in each person’s chest. The bass of the blasts replace individual heartbeats and it’s as if for those few minutes everyone has the same pulse, beating loudly and matching the tempo of the fireworks.

The rest of the night is just as fun. Harry's promptly offered a bottle of beer swiped from a stand’s cooler—courtesy of Louis—and the six of them have the time of their lives. They dance, as dancers must, and sing along to the music that ripples through the atmosphere as everybody jumps in time to the beat.

Everything was just right. Niall slipping his hand in Harry’s as they danced to a new song was even more so.

*

January passes by much sooner than Harry anticipates, and before long he finds that his birthday's coming up. He and Linda have spent all month training the students for their recital in June, and it never really crossed his mind that he's nearly twenty-four (on the 1st, to be exact).

Snow falls every other day, making the sidewalks slick with sleet and ice, but Harry still goes on his morning walks; Linda tagging along one morning. Just as they pass the park on their way to the town center, Harry figures that he should tell her about how the bird passed away before Christmas. He thinks it was an infection in its wing that he didn’t notice, but Linda links her arm through his and assures him that it's not his fault.

“We aren’t all veterinarians,” she coos, “You did a great job with it regardless. Good intentions never really fail anyone, because they were given wholeheartedly.”

She pats his elbow and they walked until their stomachs begin to growl.

“So, what should we do for your birthday?”

Harry hums, “I already have plans.”

She pulls away to give him an incredulous look, making Harry laugh, “Oh really now? Look at you, my darling son’s got plans without his momma.”

Her soft, southern accent sounds thick as she enunciates each syllable. Harry tries to suppress his loud giggling as they enter the part of town with all the little shops and botiques. He doesn't need anyone giving him funny glances.

“You’re remarkable, you know that, Lin? Believe it or not, Niall asked if I was doing something this week—he was wondering because we haven’t hung out in a while—and when I said it was my birthday on Friday, he suggested that we go to the square dance at the community center.”

“Square dance?” She squawked.

Harry snorted, “Um, yeah.”

“Can I come?” She waits to see Harry react defensively; ready to think of nice ways to keep her from wanting to go and make her believe it was her idea. When he begins to stammer, she laughs out loud, eyes crinkling in amusement as she shoves him, “I’m kidding.”

She had pointed towards the fountain in the middle of the square that they ambled in, and led them to sit on the edge.

“But—” she starts, looking over at Harry staring at the pennies in the water, “—you don’t know how to square dance.”

“Does it matter?” He replies happily, “He probably doesn’t either, but it’ll be fun just to try it out.”

“How’s his thing going, by the way?”

“The dance thing?”

“Yeah,” she touches the water, “and the studio thing.”

“It’s going well, he says. It’s just that it’s taking up a lot of his time, and a lot of his student’s time, too. They practice every day for three hours so they can nail the dance they have to learn by the end of May.”

A minute goes by.

“He’s doing fine with the studio thing, too,” Harry adds.

They kick their feet around in the air, letting the background noise of other people fill any quiet gaps in their conversation.

“You’re a contemporary dancer,” Linda states.

“I am.”

“And he’s a Latin Ballroom dancer—”

“He is.”

“—who dances with partners.”

“Wanna get to the point any time soon?” Harry chortles and Linda mocks the face he makes.

“I was just going to ask you if you’ve ever danced with him before. You certainly have never had much experience in partnering. So taking on a square dance is something I’d want to hear about with lofty enthusiasm, understand?”

Harry agrees, and gives the other statement a bit more thought, “Kind of.”

“Define ‘kind of’ while I look for a place for us to eat, I’m starving.”

“Well, um,” Harry muttered, getting up from the fountain’s ledge, “He tried to dance with me when I visited him at his studio a week before Christmas. He was showing me how to do the rumba, but I didn’t know what to do. I sort of just stood there like a dumbstruck pole,” his eyes blow wide with bemusement. “That’s exactly it, though! Danced on me like a pole, except, it was the rumba.”

“The show was free, I imagine?” She winks, tugging Harry over to Panera.

“And sexy,” Harry coughs, making her wiggle her eyebrows, intrigued. They walk inside the restaurant and immediately smell the wafting scent of bread in the busy atmosphere. And that’s the last time Harry sees Linda before his birthday. Five days later, Harry’s finding himself starting to feel nauseous by the very plans he told her about.

It’s the 1st of February and Harry loafs about all day until 5:00, which is when he eventually starts getting anxious as he prepares for his night out. Tripping over his own feet as he tries to put on his jeans, he reaches for his phone to call Linda for help.

“I just noticed I have an extreme lack of cowboy boots in my possession.”

“Idiot, you should’ve asked me to get you some last Saturday.”

Harry sprawls, defeated, on the ground with his face in the carpet and his jeans halfway up his legs.

“You think if I wore my brown Beatle boots it wouldn’t matter?”

“Those could work, but you’d still stick out like city folk at a square dance.”

“Neither funny nor creative,” he snaps, hearing her laugh through the phone, “I’ll send you a picture once I’m finished getting ready.”

After hanging up, he chucks his phone onto his bed from the floor and hoists himself up, being very careful not to trip over his jeans. He pulls them up and takes the plaid flannel he's picked out and buttons it up halfway. He throws on a brown belt and stands back in the mirror to get a full body reflection.

He takes a picture and sends it to Linda, then rushes to fix his hair. He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about how he looks tonight. He’s gone with Niall on his impromptu invitation to his friend’s birthday before and he wasn’t as close to being obsessed with his appearance until now.

Then again, Harry doesn’t know whether it’ll be a completely platonic outing to a square dance for his birthday or something that ends the way most people hope for their birthday to end.

Harry’s been staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for about fifteen minutes when he growls, “I think too much.” Harry breathes harshly and mewls when his bangs won’t stay in place.

His phone vibrates with Linda’s reply. You look fine. Y’all have fun now ya hear! Also, Happy Birthday you twit. You’re finally as old as I am.

He laughs at her usual banter. It even calms him down enough to feel like he’s finally ready to leave. He grabs a jacket and heads out the door, making it to the bus stop just in time.

*

Harry hops off the bus stop half a mile away from the community center. He ends up walking the rest of the way. When he reaches the entrance, he’s astounded by how authentically decorated the façade of the building is. There are stacks of hay on the sides of the door and straws of it sprawling across the ground as guests walk in, which, to Harry’s astonishment, come in large numbers. He’s half relieved and half incredibly anxious that so many people are here, but then he hears a familiar voice calling out his name,

“Harry!” Niall strides up to Harry with a little jump to his step, and Harry almost gets knocked backwards from the impact of his hug.

It’s when Niall takes a few steps back to examine his outfit that Harry finally notices what he’s wearing. Niall has a pair of faded jeans on and a baby blue colored flannel underneath his jacket. He’s even wearing a beige colored cowboy hat. Harry wants to think that he looks a bit ridiculous—he’s even got a pair of actual boots on, with the spurs and everything—but then Harry would be committing a sin trying to deny the fact that he actually thinks Niall looks more than attractive in his ensemble.

“Happy birthday, partner,” Niall says charmingly, stressing a soft southern accent.

“Thanks,” Harry blinks, blushing.

Niall tilts his head when he sees it—sees the way Harry won’t look into his eyes—and he takes his hand.

“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been to a square dance in ages. Probably since I was like, oh, sixteen?”

“You used to square dance?”

“I guess. Whenever I visited my cousins down in Texas we used to always throw a huge get-together, inviting everyone in their close knit town to join. It was loads of fun, but I think I’ve forgotten all the moves.”

“Don’t worry, you’re already light-years ahead of me,” Harry smiles brightly. He walks with Niall into the building with their hands still linked together. Niall’s tugging at him enthusiastically, and Harry has to deal with his nervous excitement without Niall noticing.

Since it’s a community led event, the ticket booth is just to the left of the entrance and Niall happily pays for both his and Harry’s tickets, which includes the food and drinks they can have. They walk past the drinks table first and, unlacing their fingers, Niall takes two glasses of homemade peach tea and gives one to Harry.

“To your—” Niall gestures for a number.

“Twenty-fourth.”

“—your twenty-fourth year as the brilliance you are,” Niall winks, tipping up the front of his hat, and clinks his glass with Harry’s. “Hey, we’re the same age now.”

They gulp down nearly half of the glass and the band at the other end of the dance hall starts playing music. Niall finds a small table with two chairs and motions for Harry to sit down with him.

“I got another job,” Niall tells Harry after sipping more of his tea.

“Really? When did that happen?”

“About a week ago,” Niall continues, setting his glass to the side, “I’ve been looking ever since I entered the competition and I finally got one at the Cinema near our neighborhood.”

Harry sits quietly and lets Niall go at his own pace. He’s indolently tracing the swirling lines of the wooden table and pressing his lips together in thought, almost as if he’s drawing out a game plan, but what hurts Harry to think is that he’s probably still worried about everything that’s happening.

“How’s practice going?” Harry wonders, trying to uplift him.

Niall gives him an earnest smile, showing off all his teeth, “Great. I think we have a shot.”

“Of course you do,” Harry replies, and it doesn’t sound half-hearted or forced.

He glances over at Niall’s eyes staring at the fingerprints he left in the condensation on his glass. Harry nibbles on his bottom lip. Niall has always been this bright shaft of light that floods every room that he's in with his bubbly smiles and boisterous laughs, but what’s dragging the knife down Harry’s side is the thought that Niall’s light, and the very essence of who he is, is dimming.

“I mean, it’s a bit difficult right now because I’m still working on choreographing the routine, and reworking it when something doesn’t work out or Anya comes up with something better. It’s a work in progress,” Niall smiles softly.

“So, do you work during the day and dance at night?”

“Yeah,” he replies, looking at Harry with a tilted head as if he’s exhausted just by the notion, “I work from 10:00 to 4:00, and then I get less than an hour to relax before I have to practice from 5:00 to 8:00.”

“That must be murder on your feet,” Harry pointedly says, then regrets even saying it because it might’ve come off as rude. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. These damn boots aren’t really helping though.” He hikes up his leg for a second and plops it on the floor with a loud thump of his heel.

“At least those are real cowboy boots,” Harry giggles, clearing his throat. Niall scrunches up his nose and looks at him rather affectionately; so much so that his soul perches behind his eyes and looks out at Harry, too.

“You look nice, by the way,” Harry continues, “Where’d you get a cowboy hat?”

“It’s mine. I’ve had it since I was fourteen when my uncle gave it to me. It looks worn out, doesn’t it? But I can’t seem to let it go,” Niall snorts, and then raises an eyebrow as his eyes rake over Harry’s clothes. “You look nice, too.”

“Thank you. I tried my best,” Harry glances down at his attire and huffs. “Oh, and, Niall? Thanks for doing this—my birthday, I mean—for me…” He doesn’t mean to stutter but it rolls out his mouth like he can’t fabricate proper sentences, but the look on Niall’s face tells him that he’s fine.

“No problem, Harry. Anything for you.”

The music stops and the lively crowd of people cheers when the MC takes the stage and welcomes everybody to the event. They huddle close together on the floor waiting for the fervently eager man in the beard and ten gallon hat to announce the first round of the dance.

“Come on!” Niall giggles, yanking Harry’s hand.

They find a spot in the middle of the floor. Harry can already feel his palms starting to sweat, which is embarrassing since Niall has his fingers entwined with his for some unfathomable reason, and his throat’s starting to feel a bit clammy as well.

“You okay?” Niall asks.

Harry furrows his eyebrows as he looks all around him and suddenly feels enclosed in a small room. He winces and Niall immediately places a hand on the side of his face; his thumb caressing his cheek.

“Hey, don’t be nervous, Harry,” Niall coaxes, “It’s just me—just us, alright?”

Harry gulps, suddenly enflamed by affection and it hurts; it aches like it’s been eating away at him for a while, and then he thinks, yeah, maybe it has.

The Caller instructs the first steps of the dance and the people around them start to move and laugh to the music. It takes Harry a few seconds to adjust to the music, as he always does, and then he takes Niall’s hand and they try the Dosado.

At first, the two of them try to participate in the synchronization of the dance, but they soon fall nearly two steps behind the rest of the dancers and Niall laughs at the hilarity of their attempts. The Caller calls out the Partner Trade and that’s when Niall stops laughing.

“Harry!” Niall beckons over the loud music, “I think we actually have to trade partners for this move!”

“Wait, what? I can’t—I don’t know who—” Harry stutters but then Niall lets go of his hands and moves to the left to join the woman next to him.

Harry stops dancing until another woman jumps in front of him and ushers him to do the next few moves. It’s all a blur because Harry’s staring at Niall who has moved to the other side of the crowd as the dance progresses and Harry can’t help but want to call out to him.

“Niall,” he tries, and his distraction begins to annoy his new partner.

Niall looks up from where he is and sees Harry at the far end of the dance floor. He raises an eyebrow as if to ask, what's wrong?

Before Harry can signal his answer, the Caller announces the Promenade and everyone gets into place and walks in a circle with Harry stumbling alongside his partner and being a proper burden. After a few turns, Harry feels a tap on his shoulder and almost yelps when he sees that it’s Niall. He and Harry both know that they’re pretty useless in following along with the Caller, so they excuse themselves to the edge of the whole crowd.

“I suck at this,” Harry sighs.

“Yeah, I was never any good anyway,” Niall snickers and then hooks a finger under Harry’s chin, smiling at him.

Niall takes his hands and twirls him around a couple times to the sound of the live music, making Harry lose his voice in laughter because he’s considerably taller than him, which makes the twirling a bit awkward, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s intoxicated with laughter and the fullness of air in his lungs. They finish the song by spinning around with their hands together until they wobble from dizziness, but even then, Harry finds relieving complacency at Niall’s side, feeling like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

*

Sooner than Harry realizes, the months sneak past him on quick, silent feet, but they were some of the happiest he’s ever gone through since he gets to see his kids. He sees them every week, and he even gets to spend time with his best friend who he thanks everyday for being a part of his life.

“Why are you being such a sap?” Linda asks him one afternoon.

“What? I’m just appreciating all the things you do for me,” Harry snickers. “And being thankful that you didn’t shoo me away when I tried to hit on you sophomore year in college.”

“Ah, if I had known that day was going to mark the beginning of our—” she pauses, pinching his cheek, “—strenuous partnership, I would’ve kicked you to the curb.”

The snow has long since melted and spring is finally gracing its flowery touch on Asheville. It's a spectacular time of the year for the town because every branch is blooming with blossoms; all the trees ranging in a band of colors.

It's a new beginning, even for Harry.

*

“This looks delicious,” Niall says, his eyes smiling in the soft yellow light above Harry’s small dining table.

Harry invited Niall over for dinner as a sort of bond-strengthener—the term coined by Linda—which made Harry laugh. It's mid April, the days remaining are now part of a countdown to the competition, and Niall's beginning to unravel.

He’s working six hours at the Cinema—sweeping floors, breaking tickets—and three hours of dance every weekday. It’s a lot to demand on someone, and despite the added pocket change, Niall finds it harder and harder to pay the studio’s rent each month. He tells Harry this with an indifferent look on his face during dinner as if he’s finally accepted it.

“Tomato soup,” Niall sniffs feebly. “My favorite.”

“Anything for my guests,” Harry responds; his voice woven with fondness.

Later that night, he and Niall take up the space on the couch and muse on out-of-reach propositions about how they could end all their problems. They each have a glass of the red wine Harry had bought for them earlier that afternoon.

“Maybe I should rob a bank,” Niall snickers, setting his glass on the coffee table in front of them.

“You’d end up worse off than you are now,” Harry laughs. He throws up his hand as if to pretend like he didn’t mean it.

Rolling his eyes, Niall throws his arms behind him over the couch for leverage as he stretches his back. “Maybe I should just marry someone rich.”

Niall has a hand behind his back and under his shirt, trying to knead into his skin to get rid of the knots there, but without avail, while Harry takes another gulp of his wine and smacks his lips. “I’m not exactly rich, though,” he says, and the words are leaving his mouth before either of them can catch on, and Harry’s eyes are bulging in realization as his cheeks turn a bright red. Clearing his throat, he turns to Niall to explain himself but Niall ends up laughing.

“Tell me, then, how many more hundreds of stale popcorn should I sweep before I’m financially secure?” Niall chuckles, a bit uneasily, but Harry thinks it’s because he’s having a hard time trying to ease the muscles on his back.

“Want me to help you?” Harry gestures to Niall’s fingers massaging his shoulders.

“Will you?”

At first, Harry thinks he’s just doing something nice because Niall obviously can’t reach the knots between his shoulder blades, but when Niall sits up at the edge of the couch to slip off his shirt, Harry’s throat goes dry and he’s suddenly rethinking his offer.

Niall hunches over, his elbows on his knees propping him up, and Harry is left reveling at his smooth, freckled skin. He can see the outline of his spine running down his back and it’s dotted with brown moles; the shape of his body throwing Harry off since Niall’s sides slope down from his wide shoulders, muscled ribs, and to his small waist.

Harry blinks out of it and moves up closer to his body, his legs almost wrapped around him. He starts massaging the tense muscles between his shoulders and neck, and after a while it all gets to be a little less intimidating.

“Don’t worry,” Harry tells him, rubbing his skin gently enough that it doesn’t hurt but it still gets the knots out, “My shoulder’s always here if you ever need a cry.” Harry chuckles softly, but what he can’t see is Niall staring glumly at his feet. His toes pinch at the carpet and his face is ruddy from wanting not to cry, but a tear falls anyway and it lands on his foot.

“Harry?” Niall whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Have you always lived here? North Carolina, I mean,” Niall asks idly.

Harry’s hands knead between Niall’s shoulder blades as he answers, “Yeah. My grandparents lived here, too. My parents met, fell in love, and got married in Charlotte, then raised my sister and me down the road from where my grandma grew up. I even befriended my dad’s childhood friend’s son. It was crazy, but it was home. It’s a deeply rooted generation thing, I guess.”

Harry exhales, his hands losing pressure as he is stolen by thought, “I miss them so much.”

“What happened?” Niall wonders, whispering softly and turning his head slightly to see a bit of Harry’s face. Niall wipes his cheek, and all he feels on his back is the deadweight of Harry’s fingertips.

“Sorry,” Harry tells him, “I haven’t really told anyone except Linda and my doctor.” Harry breathes harshly at what he's said. He never meant for Niall to know that he’s seeing a therapist, but it just came out of him like it was time for Niall to know. The thoughts building up inside his head suddenly become irrepressible and Harry’s incapacitated by the impulsive urge to tell him everything like he’s the pages of his journal. And thinking of Niall’s back as another wordless, blank entry makes it a little easier.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Niall says sweetly, shifting his weight to fully turn around. Harry’s hands slip from his skin as Niall moves to sit beside him.

He shakes his head, “No, I want to. It’s just been a while since I’ve said a word about it out loud, but it's never left my mind.”

Niall looks at him with bated breath, eyes searching Harry’s face, and then he hooks his hand around Harry’s neck to pull him in for a kiss. The apartment fills up with a stark stillness that mimics the wine in their glasses, and all is hushed save for the sound of Harry shaking through his breaths. It’s not like other kisses where it’s sweet and full of promise and delicate touches. Everything Harry wants to tell him is left on his lips for Niall to lick up into his mouth despite the trembling in his bones.

Harry grips his waist as Niall shifts his leg over his lap to fix the angle they’re in. It’s an unfamiliar rapture, the kind that’s laced with sorrow and veiled secrets; the kind that burns. There’s a tear that glides between their lips and Niall immediately pulls away from tasting it on Harry’s tongue.

“Harry, don’t cry,” he comforts him. His fingers keep petting the nape of his neck and smoothing out his curls. “You don’t have to tell me,” Niall kisses him again, softer this time, and holds his face with both of his hands so Harry has no choice but to look up at him. His eyes are half-lidded and lined with tears and Harry wishes he could leave and never have to deal with this, but Niall’s weight on his lap anchors him in his place.

“Everyone’s gone, they were taken away,” Harry’s pushes through Niall’s cradling hands and hides his face in his chest. “Don’t leave me.”

“Harry, I’m right here, see?” Niall murmurs into his hair, holding onto him so tightly that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever let go. “See, Harry? Just look at me, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

They stay like that for as long as their eyes can stay open, with Niall draped over Harry like a comforting blanket of snow and Harry’s arms wrapped around his middle, clinging onto him like the last day of winter.

“You’ll be great,” Harry mumbles into Niall’s neck, kissing him there.

Niall strokes the back of his head and nudges his cheek against his shoulder. “Thanks for being my parachute.”

Another minute passes them by. The light in the living room is dim, the wine in their glasses is now stale, and the clock above Harry’s television reads an hour ahead of where they think they still are.

“I have to go home now, Harry.”

“No, please, don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving. I’m just going home.”

Harry fans his fingers out on Niall’s skin, “You’re home here.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Niall hooks a finger under Harry’s chin and tips his face up to kiss him again. Then, Niall climbs off of him and picks up his shirt from the floor. Harry opens the door for him and if the liquid courage of the wine is still numbing his better judgment, he might even be brave enough to tell him—tell him everything, all in three words—but he doesn’t. The opportune moment passes and Niall is out the door.

Harry spends an hour cleaning up. He washes their glasses and plates, scrubs the pots and pans until their crystal clean; he wipes down the counter, ridding it of crumbs and tomato soup stains; he fixes up the couch and rearranges the throw pillows. Afterwards, he strips down, clad only by the goose bumps on his skin, and hides away under the blankets of his bed.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, not remembering how he fell asleep. He calls Linda.

“Harry, this had better be good, because it’s 3:30 in the morning and I was sleeping—”

“I love him.”

Linda falls silent and listens in on how heavy Harry is breathing. The seconds that pass are wound with anticipation.

“Knew it,” she says, sounding giddy.

“What do I do?” Harry kicks his comforter out of the way and sprawls out across his bed. The cold air in his room washes over him and he feels it on every inch of his body. He doesn’t pay any thought to it, though, because he’s looking up at his ceiling again like he always does.

“Just tell him,” she says, coaxing Harry with the optimism in her voice. “Tell him the best way you know how.”

“Which is?”

“You show him.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Of course you can,” she reassures him and yawns, “I’d love to help you sort all this out but I’m exhausted. Can I go back to sleep?”

“Yeah of course, but I wish I can do the same.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You’ll figure it out.”

Harry whispers, “Goodnight,” and hangs up. He lies there, thinking, and wonders if he’ll always be some voiceless wimp who will never get what he wants because he’s too afraid to want it.

He closes his eyes and finds himself thinking back to one of the last sessions he had with his doctor.

“We cannot stop death, no, but we can simply love, give love, and be loved until the time comes,” the voice echoes in his head. “Remember, none of that was your fault. You have to accept that within you and then pick yourself up. Until you feel comfortable doing that, take your medication.”

*

He leaned on the armrest and smiled at Harry, even though the young man was particularly adamant that day. Harry only stared up at him trying to process the advice that was given to him, and Dr. Rothkowitz saw a small flicker of light in his eyes, but just as quickly as he caught it, it burned out.

“‘All men fear death. It’s a natural fear that consumes us all,’” Dr. Rothkowitz told him, disrupting the unnerving silence that befell them for a while.

“You know who said that?”

Harry gave him a callous scowl and shrugged, “Hemingway?”

“Close, actually,” he chuckled. “Woody Allen. Hemingway was a character in of one of his films.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Well, you know what else Allen said?” And after Harry shook his head, Dr. Rothkowitz put a forefinger to his lips as he tried to remember the rest of the quote, “He said, ‘I believe that love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well, which is the same thing’…”

Harry eyed him tentatively but leans in to hear the rest.

“…‘and when a man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face—it is because they love with sufficient passion, to push death out of their minds until it returns, as it does, to all men.’”

Harry had been holding his breath and Dr. Rothkowitz took a moment to pause, let him exhale, before he continued.

“‘Death no longer lingers in the mind. Fear no longer clouds your heart. Only passion for living, and for loving, becomes your sole reality.’ Just give in to love, Harry. You will feel happier and renewed. Don’t let your fear of the past blind you from looking forward to the future.”

“What if I can’t?”

Dr. Rothkowitz sighed, “Then you have already died of your own accord.”

Harry didn’t realize it before, but he's shaking his head slowly, completely unnerved by the statement.

He keeps shaking his head. He’s unable to accept that he might have already failed himself. Opening his eyes, he notices how heavily he’s breathing as he looks around the room to see where he is. A few seconds later, he drifts back to sleep.

*

It’s the day before the competition and although Harry’s been meandering about in his apartment—making fruit salads, vacuuming, watching mind-numbing daytime television—he’s also been thinking about whether or not Niall is still practicing; getting some last minute rehearsals done before the big night. Harry checks his wall clock above the dining table and sees that it is 7:47, which means that Niall’s practice is almost over.

He crashes on the couch and, rubbing his thumb and index finger on the bridge of his nose, he pulls out his phone. Harry’s been thinking about texting Niall the whole day, but he hasn’t gotten as far as actually holding the phone in his hand. He rolls it around in his palm, staring at it as if it held the answer to all the world’s secrets, then quickly decides to do it before he changes his mind.

Hey Niall (: done with practice?

There’s a hallow satisfaction that lingers in his stomach once he hits send. He waits not even five minutes before he gets his reply.

Yeah just about ! kind of worried i might be stranded here tho.. clouds look nasty right now

He looks back at the window behind him, gawks at the roll of dark clouds hovering above his neighborhood, and sighs at the feeling of his stomach doing somersaults again.

Saw them, yeah they look bad. Didn’t even think of checking the weather this morning. How are you going to get home then ?

Less than a minute later, Harry’s phone vibrates.

make a run for it i guess hahah

Harry stares wide eyed at his text. Niall can’t do that. What if he gets sick before the competition? In all reality, getting a little wet from the rain won’t do much damage to someone’s health overnight, but Harry’s running out of logic to sift through since he’s busy scouting around his living room to find his umbrella.

Finding the large red umbrella hidden in the crevice behind the couch, he rushes over to his room to snatch up his black raincoat—he has two—but he grabs the bright yellow one that Linda got him as a birthday present three years ago instead and hurries out the door. He nearly shrieks as he stuffs his phone in his back pocket when he realizes which coat he got. He’s never actually worn this one because it was “too yellow, Lin, I’m not a yellow kind of person.”

“Quit pouting, you look really nice in yellow. Makes you look a whole lot happier,” she had told him when he grumbled after opening her gift.

Harry makes it out on the street before the rain and hopes that he reaches the studio before then, too. Usually it takes him ten minutes to get there, but he's picked up his pace in a tremulous race against the sky and, running out of breath, he gets there in six.

As Harry walks up to the crosswalk, the first droplets of rain fall to the ground in front of him and he instantly pops open the umbrella. He turns his head towards the studio and Niall's already standing at the other end.

He blinks a number of times before he can really grasp that Harry's actually there.

“I didn’t see you coming,” Harry calls out. The street is bare save for the only car that drives past them at that instant, splashing a bit of water onto Harry’s side of the road.

“I think I’m the one who should be saying that,” Niall replies. Even from across the street, Harry finds himself captured in Niall’s gleaming smile. His face is red from dancing for a couple of hours, ruddy and winded with his hair plastered to his forehead, but Harry still thinks he might be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“I brought you an umbrella,” Harry says, tipping it to show him as if Niall can’t already see.

“You—” Niall’s voice falters, “You came all this way to save me from the rain?”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. He didn’t really think of it that way. He just wanted to make sure that Niall didn’t have to walk alone soaking wet, but now that Niall’s there in front of him, there’s an unearthly memory attached to it all.

Harry shrugs a shoulder, “Like the first time we met.”

Smiling, Niall holds Harry’s gaze until the sign blinks walk. He buries his fists in his jacket pocket and tucks his chin into his collar as he walks across the road and under Harry’s umbrella. There’s a sudden warmth that follows Niall’s presence and Harry can feel it once he’s right beside him. He smells of rain and hours of dance and cologne that’s lingered on his clothes for days, and Harry bites his lip in a smile when Niall tips his head up to look at him.

“Yellow raincoat and red umbrella,” Niall giggles, eyes falling to his feet, getting shy. “If it wasn’t for your very noble, knightly act of rescue, I’d say you look cute.”

The color in Harry’s cheeks turn to a blushing red and he accidentally lets out an unchecked noise of appreciation. Embarrassed by it, he clears his throat and motions to the direction they’ll be walking.

“Did Anya leave before you did?” Harry asks him about his student.

“Yeah, her mother picked her up ten minutes before I could leave.”

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“More than ready,” Niall says with an excited lift in his voice, “I’m very excited to see how we’ll do. I told her that even being a part of the competition was great; that we should just have fun with it, you know?”

Harry hums in agreement, catching the look of Niall’s face with his peripherals when he looks at him.

Silence befalls them as it usually does, but after all the times that it has happened, Harry finally recognizes the difference between an awkward silence and what is simply a pause between bated thoughts.

Harry listens to the heavy drops of rain splatter above them, the tapping of their feet against the pavement, and the city noise of Asheville as their backdrop. It’s an orchestra of day to day sounds, normal to any passerby, but to Harry, they’re all details of this memory he wants to keep.

“Hey, Niall?”

He hums in reply.

They’ve been walking a few blocks without saying a word, their hands brushing lightly together at their sides, and the only sound they hear is the scraping of their shoes as they scuff the pavement.

Harry stares out at the road ahead of him, “You’re always so nice to me.”

“Should I not be?” Niall raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, every time I see you, you say I’m great and talented, and of course I appreciate every word, especially since it’s coming from you, but why? Even on my birthday, when you gave the toast, you said,” Harry mumbles, his voice fading, “you said I was brilliant. You didn’t have to, but you just...did.”

Niall sighs, “I mean it when I say that—”

“I know,” Harry whispers almost too quietly for Niall to hear.

“—so I don’t know how to answer your question,” Niall mumbles, kicking his foot, “I like reminding you because I like seeing you smile.”

Harry scoffs, “Come on, that’s not it.”

“You think I’m kidding?” Niall chuckles, “You’re the one who’s been helping me along each month. Do you know how often I smile because I’m thinking of you? You’re a wonderful person. Sometimes it saddens me to remember that you don’t really believe that about yourself. Or do you?”

“It’s—hard for me to think of myself that way.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” Niall stops walking, halting Harry as well, “I know that someone like you—someone who deserves the praise he gets—should be reminded every day of his life that he’s amazing.”

Harry touches Niall’s wrist to console him, show him that he isn’t upset, that he’s just confused.

“Look, I don’t know how to explain it.”

Harry moves in front of him, grasping his shoulders to look him in the eye. Niall stands motionless under their locked gaze; the moon and stars being their only source of light.

“I didn’t get it when I was younger, alright,” Niall exhales, giving in. “I was never commended for what I did. I danced ever since I can remember jumping to my favorite nursery rhyme, but as I got older, nobody really had any time to support me. My parents paid for my lessons, but when it came to recitals or competitions, they couldn’t make it. They said ‘keep it up, Niall’ but I always took that as sort of a constructive critique. It was when I earned a scholarship to UNC that I realized I was actually kind of good.” Niall starts walking away, even out under the rain, until he feels Harry’s hand on his shoulder again.

“Harry,” Niall says as he turns around to face him again, “Time after time I received disinterested replies when I told anybody about how proud I was for learning a new dance. Nobody was really there for me; nobody was really there to make me feel like I made the right decisions. So I tell you that you’re amazing, I tell you that you’re fantastic, and I will tell you every day since no one did it for me, but I also want to do it for you because you’re a lot more gifted than I can ever be.” Niall’s hands are gripping Harry’s forearm for emphasis, but after a short pause, he lets go thinking that he’s said too much.

“No, I’m not,” Harry says suddenly, sliding his hand down to Niall’s waist to bring him closer, “Please don’t think you’re obligated to do anything for me.” Niall looks up at him with his eyes and closes them when he feels Harry push their foreheads together. “You alone are enough,” he whispers.

Niall swallows thickly and he blinks up at him through his eyelashes.

“I need you to remember that you are great in your own sense, as you say I am in mine, because my reason for dance is much different from yours, yet they are equally as important since their outcomes are the people we are now,” Harry continues, his lips brushing over Niall’s and planting a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“So, in respect to you, and—if it makes you feel better—in respect to all great people with unspeakable pasts and incomparable differences, you are incredible, too.” Harry kisses his nose and he feels Niall’s warm breath on his neck.

His hand snakes up Niall’s chest and his fingers slip into his hair as he kisses Niall’s cheek, “and I thank you for teaching me that, even if you don’t realize it.” Then, echoing Niall’s own words, he leaves a kiss on the corner of his eye, “If it means anything, you’re the reason I’m so brave now.”

The kiss lingers while he moves down to Niall’s jaw and he nips the skin there. Niall drops his hands to grasp the back of Harry’s yellow coat; his eyes fluttering from the feeling of him kissing his neck.

“Hey—” Niall shudders, tightening his hold. He weaves his fingers into Harry’s hair and tugs lightly so that he looks up at him. Niall sees how red Harry’s cheeks are, how his lips appear kiss-swollen already, and everything seems to take him over. His senses heighten and his heart pounds against his ribcage. Everything that he knows starts to abandon him until he’s left with nothing but the fiery warmth in his chest.

Harry watches him closely. He follows Niall’s eyes with his own and he thinks for a second that he’s going to pass out, but he opens his mouth to speak instead.

“Hi,” Harry peeps through is bangs; his thumb quivering as it brushes over Niall’s bottom lip.

It was a silly thing to say in such an opportune moment like that, and Harry half expects Niall to laugh and break away from his arms, but a sound gets stuck in the back of Niall’s throat as he jumps on his tiptoes to kiss him. They stand there, motionless, only moved by their hearts taking flight.

It lasts a minute—seems to last forever—until Niall pulls away, sighing against Harry’s mouth. Niall has a hand lying limply on Harry’s chest, still gasping with his lips on his jaw, only prolonging this untouched minute.

There’s a hushed atmosphere in the empty street behind them, nothing but the rustles of the trees making a sound, and Harry and Niall stand to look at each other a little longer; each suddenly wanting nothing more than to stay enfolded in each other’s presence. Niall nestles his head on Harry’s shoulder, letting the fluttering beats of his heart transform into music.

Even under the yellowing light of the streetlamp above them and the faint, milky glow from the moon; even in a vacant street in a bustling city and the entire span of states farther than the hills’ green border; even under the rain, Harry thinks Niall is the most wonderful person he’s ever met—the very ‘you’ in his journal.

“Niall, I—” Harry feels his only breath escape him as Niall finally pulls away. He steps backwards down the sidewalk and into the middle of the street; the rain falling like spirited leaves.

“Dance with me,” Niall says quietly, reaching for him.

Harry blinks up at the shapeless fleet of grey clouds, “Under the rain?”

There’s a moment of hesitation—a moment of thinking that takes up the two seconds that Harry stares wordlessly back at Niall, but then that instinctual sense of liberation befalls him, like a man seeing the prison doors open up for him to depart for good.

Harry nods unknowingly and lowers the umbrella until it’s propped up on its side at the edge of the sidewalk. The first thing he feels is the wet splash of individual raindrops sinking into his hair, and he smiles. He walks up to Niall with snail-like steps, so Niall takes the last three and slides his fingers between Harry’s.

“So much for staying dry,” Harry chuckles.

Within a few moments, Niall makes the first move and steps to the side, looking up at Harry with glassy eyes so he’d follow him. He mirrors his step and Niall keeps it going; their hands never separating. It’s when Harry lifts up his arm to twirl Niall around that they both burst out in elated giggles and glowing smiles; smiles so bright that the stars seem to disappear. He twirls him again and Niall curls into his chest like he’s meant to fit in the space between Harry’s shoulders, like everything in Harry’s world matters a little bit more when all he has to do is look down in his arms and find that completing piece.

It’s a tender moment filled with this sweet undertone of just simply being; being together, being human. It’s unlike any of Harry’s sessions and unlike any of the advice he’s been given because the searing burn that stings his skin whenever Niall’s hands rake up the side of his face to hold him there, framing his head gently as if he’s another bird with a broken wing, tells him that he’ll be fine. They both will.

Everything feels easy from that point on. The way they move within the gaps of the rain until they become the rain itself, gentle and endless. They dance under the light of the moon, for the boundless expanse of stars is their audience. They dance until their hair is dripping wet and their shoes are soaked; dance until the fire on their skin is dampened by the trickling raindrops down their arms that seep between their fingers.

When all that is unsaid is done, Harry brings Niall close to his body again, hugging him tightly and close, and whispers, “We have to go home now.”

He walks Niall home and, before Harry leaves, they kiss again, leaving nothing for the owls to see or the moon to overhear.

*

The morning of the competition, Harry finds himself ambling about in his kitchen looking for something to eat that isn’t cereal, but despite his grit, he ends up settling for a bowl of honey bunches and oats. He cuts a few slices of banana to add in after his milk and he takes up the seat on his petite dining table near the window.

After spending the whole morning in silence—without the television on or the radio playing idly in the background—he calls Linda to see if he can join her on her run to pick up their dry cleaning.

“I’m nervous,” Harry mumbles under his breath once the two of them make it to their local dry cleaner’s.

He eyes the black suit and bowtie ensemble, touching the hem of the jacket thoughtfully, and ponders over the length of the pants.

“What’ve you got to be nervous for?” Linda asks nonchalantly as she picks up her own dress to look at it, but her concern is woven into the words she says.

“Just—nervous—about nothing I can explain,” Harry replies just as meekly as before.

“He’ll do fine, you know.”

“I know he will,” Harry smiles fondly off to the side. “It’s just, there’s something else about today that’s different, but I don’t know.”

Linda inspects the look on his face and decides that she shouldn’t delve further into the conversation. She knows all too well that she won’t get anywhere with Harry if he’s uncooperative from the start, so she only pats him on the shoulder and moves them along.

Later that evening when Harry is all dressed up—bowtie fixed, shoes shined, hair styled—he looks outside his window again and, upon seeing Orion’s belt, thinks that maybe things will align soon; things will turn out fine. He looks at the journal on his bed and the torn pages of his letter next to it. Picking it up, he leafs through the pages and reads it for the umpteenth time and decides to stow it away in his jacket pocket.

He doesn’t know why, but he does, and he feels better about it.

Once Harry’s at the hotel, with Linda’s arms hooked in his for comfort, the two walk around the large gala hall until they find Niall standing alone next to a table.

“Can’t find your date?” Linda playfully asks him. Niall chuckles when he turns around to see them and gives her a kiss on the cheek when they hug.

“I’m just waiting for Anya to get here. We’re the third ones up, so I want to make sure she has time to relax before she’s all nerves again.” Niall tilts his head to the side as his eyes land on Harry beside her, and they immediately seem to soften when they take him in. “Hi, Harry,” he greets sweetly, stepping up on his toes to hug him.

Harry’s taken by surprise when Niall kisses him as well, but it’s a familiar surprise; a feeling he can trust that he knows isn’t anything less than honest. “Is that the bracelet I gave you?” Harry gasps when he sees it on his wrist.

“Of course it is,” Niall smiles. “For good luck. I’ve worn it to every practice.”

Harry gapes at him, stunned, but he shakes it off when Niall mentions that it’s time for him to go.

He leaves to greet Anya and her parents when she arrives through the hotel’s main doors, so Harry and Linda make their way to their reserved seats, which so happen to be seated at Zayn, Liam, and Louis’s table.

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, boys. It’s the lovely dance duo,” Louis beams, patting the seat next to him so Harry will sit there. The rest of them greet Linda with smiles too wide for their faces as she takes the seat between Harry and Liam, and they immediately fire up conversation.

Zayn, who is sitting across from Harry, grabs his attention with a little ‘pssst.’

“You excited about tonight?” he asks.

Harry nods, “Yeah, I can’t wait. I didn’t know you guys were coming. Glad you can make it!”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Zayn coolly answers, “I mean, we all met Niall in college, but I knew him first, and I remember my first impression of him. ‘Fuck, this kid’s talented. Of course he’s here on scholarship.’ He’s nothing short of deserving. I hope the judges see that.”

“He told you about—?”

“Mhm,” Zayn gives him a look that reads like he hates how he can’t do anything about it. Harry knows that feeling all too well.

“He’ll do fine,” Harry assures him, and Zayn smiles because of course he will. They both know that.

It takes all of ten minutes for the leisurely chatters to die down before the host of the night announces the beginning of the dances. It’s a bracing anticipation until the first two dancers take the floor, and the lights dim until the audience sees nothing but the golden skin of the woman posing. Off in the shadows taking her hand, is her partner dressed in black and striking a similar pose.

The music starts and it reminds Harry of the only fiesta he’s ever attended back when he was fourteen years old. It’s lively and entertaining; exciting the crowd enough to clap their hands to the beat.

“They’re really good, Lin,” Harry leans over to whisper in her ear.

“I know,” she says with a baffled expression on her face. “Look at her legs.”

Harry looks back at the dancers and indeed, her legs are captivatingly long. Her caramel colored skin is beautiful in the light and her flowing red dress compliments her stunning green eyes.
“She’s obviously done this all her life,” Harry adds.

When the dance is done, the whole room claps for them and the party of people on the other side of the room must’ve been supporting family or friends, because they’re on their feet and cheering them on the loudest.

“I wonder what the judges have to say. They set the bar pretty high, don’t you think?” Linda continues.

The claps quiet down so the host can say a few last words about the first two participants and then it’s on to the judges’ scores. There’s a moment of debate between two of them, but shortly after there’s a consensus and the host makes his way over to deliver the points.

“7.6, 7.7, 7.3, 8.1, and 7.9,” he calls out, “which averages out to a remarkable 7.72, a fantastic start to the competition! Well done to our first two dancers!”

Harry and Linda share a look of bewilderment between them. Harry mouths ‘remarkable 7.72?’ and Linda exaggerates her shrug of incomprehension. Apparently Niall wasn’t kidding about how tough the judges were going to be. Golden Legs was spectacular yet she and her partner only scored unreasonably mediocre (“On a scale of 1 to godly excellence,” Harry scoffs).

The applause continues as the next two dancers take their positions on the floor. The music is just as energetic as the last one, and both the woman and man move as if they hadn’t a bone in their bodies. Their languid limbs produce astonishingly sharp lines and they execute their dance with grace, which again impresses Harry and Linda as well as the entire crowd. The judges, on the other hand, averaged out to be a mere 7.49.

“How do they even determine one tenth of a point from another anyway?” Linda asks him with quirked confusion in her voice, but then she’s hushed when the host announces the next two dancers.

“Niall’s on,” Harry taps Linda on her knee as if she didn’t know. His hand lingers there, gripping nervously at her kneecap, so she takes his hand in hers and squeezes comfortingly.

Within moments, Niall takes the floor with his beautiful partner, Anya, and the music begins. To everyone’s amusement, the music is much slower and a lot sultrier than the first two. It’s entrancing to watch them move as if they’re walking gracefully on water; their hands soft and arms lengthened in elegant lines. It’s in the middle of their dance that Harry realizes that it’s the rumba—the way Niall’s hips move to the honey-like rhythm of the song—and he’s leaning forward in his seat, completely immersed in Niall’s polished finesse.

But then there’s an instant when Niall dips Anya low to the floor and he looks at her like he’s supposed to see her as the most precious thing he knows, except anybody who’s been paying close attention—like Harry—will notice his eyebrows furrowing confusedly before he tips his face up to look at the audience. And as if by some fateful chance, the earth seemed to stop rotating when he meets Harry’s eyes, but the moment passed just as quickly as it happened. Anya pulls Niall’s attention back to the dance at hand.

Their routine finishes smoothly and the crowd erupts in another big applause.

“He did so wonderfully!” Linda rejoices, astounded, and turns to Harry to see his reaction, but his eyes appear to be frozen in one place, “Harry?” She shakes him a little, snapping him out of his trance, and asks if anything’s wrong.

“Nothing,” Harry tries to explain, “It’s just that Niall—he—”

He’s cut short when the host announces their scores from the judges.

“7.8, 7.9, 7.8, 8.0, and 8.3,” he pauses, the crowd on their toes, “Averaging out to an incredible 7.96!”

Harry and Linda look at each other with a wide set of eyes before jumping to their feet and cheering as loudly as they can. They clap the loudest as Niall spins Anya around in a thrilled hug.

The two of them take their seats again when the host introduces the next couple and the competition continues. There’s seven dances remaining and by the time the last pair finishes their routine, everyone joins together in a final round of applause for all twenty dancers.

There’s an intermission given to the participants while the judges finalize their scores, so they all scatter around the room finding their awaiting families. Bouquets of flowers are received and hearty pats on the backs as well big group hugs.

Harry searches the room to find Niall and he sees him with Anya and her family. He’s smiling with his arm around her and shaking everyone’s hands, and the sight somehow intimidates Harry as he walks up to them. He doesn’t exactly make it to their group; he sort of just stands near one of the columns supporting the roof as he waits for Niall to finish.

“Hey,” Harry greets him when he turns around and separates himself from the crowd.
Without thinking, he runs into Niall’s front and throws his arms over his shoulders like they’re used to. It’s something they can do—this; what they’re doing right now. It’s comfortable and easy and Harry gets drunk from the feeling of being a part of a whole.

“I’m so proud of you,” Harry tells the side of Niall’s neck.

“Thank you, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here for me,” he replies; his lips pressed against Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll always be here, you know that,” Harry reassures him, pulling away to brush their foreheads together. He nudges his nose against Niall’s and gently cups the back of his head with his hands. He relishes the moment until Niall lightly pushes him away to say, “I have to get back to Anya for the ‘curtain call’ of the evening, alright Harry?”

“Okay,” is all he can say.

“I’ll come and talk to you again later,” Niall promises, but his eyes flicker from left to right before he gets on his tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a quick, ephemeral kiss that happens for a blink of a second and then he’s gone.

Harry goes back to his seat where Linda has started chatting up two of the other guests that shared their table. He begrudgingly sits back down, nods at the couple who greets him, and sits quietly with his hands folded on his lap.

His eyes lift up to scour the room again and he spots Niall talking to a whole new group of people. Harry can almost hear his laugh from the other side of the room and he looks so happy, so full of life and insurmountable joy.

He must be what music would look like, Harry thinks again.

He feels his tongue swell up in his mouth and lump form in his throat and then he can’t breathe. His fingers clench on his thighs and he’s blinking rapidly to wipe out the blinding lights; flashing until their colors dilute and his vision gets blurry.

He suddenly remembers why tonight is more important than any of the others leading up to right now.

“Linda,” his voice breaks.

She casually faces him after she excuses herself from the conversation, but then seeing Harry’s discomfort immediately alerts her.

“What’s wrong, Harry? Tell me what’s wrong,” she coaxes, rubbing her hands on his knuckles. “I don’t—the medicine isn’t with me right now.”

“No, I’m okay, Lin,” Harry breathes harshly through his nose as he gets up from his seat. “I just need fresh air.”

He doesn’t wait for her response because he feels like he’s going to throw up, but not the last meal he ate, rather, the tremulous mush of his brains or the incessant butterflies in his stomach. Harry sneaks outside and basks in the cool night air. He feels the refreshing breeze glide past his face and through his hair and it instantly relaxes him.

After some time, he doesn’t know how long he’s been out there; he only knows that he’s been out there long enough that the nearest traffic light changed from red to green about fifteen times. He’s been leaning against one of the walls of the buildings just thinking about how childishly he handled his panic attack.

Meanwhile inside, the judges have just finished announcing the first, second, and third place winners of the competition and everyone's jumped to their feet to celebrate in whooping cheers.

“We got second place! Can you believe it?” Niall enthusiastically celebrates with Anya’s excited family.

Once most of the excitement dies down, Niall walks over to Linda and thanks her for coming. He asks her about Harry and the fretful look on his face when she tells him that Harry's outside nearly takes her breath away.

When Niall bursts through the front doors of the hotel, he looks around frantically before finding Harry off to the side. His hands are behind his head and he was mumbling things again.

“Calm down, calm down, calm down—”

“Harry,” Niall suddenly interrupts his spoken thoughts.

Harry swivels around on the balls of his heels; on edge, and quickly turns back around, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Harry, what’s wrong? Why are you out here?” Niall asks him worriedly. He comes up behind Harry and wraps his arms around his middle trying to console him, but Harry only falls limp to the touch and doesn’t speak.

“Hey, you know you can tell me anything, right?” Niall tries to assure him. Turning Harry around, Niall gives him a warm smile and rubs the side of his arms.

“I’m sorry I left before they announced the winners. I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Harry drops his head onto Niall’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Harry, you don’t. All I need to know is that you showed up tonight, and that you’re proud of me.” Resting his cheek on his head, Niall sighs. “You were proud of me long before tonight, and that’s all I’ve ever needed from anyone,” Niall whispers in his hair, rubbing circles on his back.

Harry raises his head and looks at him then. There’s a ghostly aura about him, the way the moon’s light mixes with the green of his eyes. He swallows thickly, but his breathing comes out unsteady and shallow.

“You know what’s more terrifying than death?” Harry looks for an answer on Niall’s face, but he continues with as much fervor in his hands as his voice. “You know what steals the hours away from me every night? It’s the fact that I’ve been too scared to tell you that I love you, and that it’s taken me a year to realize it.”

Harry stops breathing once the words finally roll off his tongue and he gawks at Niall’s unmoving expression and wide, blue eyes.

“I love you, Niall,” he repeats. “And today actually marks twelve months after the first time those words crossed my mind when I shared my umbrella with you.”

Harry inches closer to him, his eyes never leaving Niall’s sweet face; fingers dancing lightly along Niall’s wrist like the ghostly figure he is. He takes his hand and holds it up between them, kisses his knuckles, and then digs in his pockets to pull out the letter.

“A year?” Niall says bewilderedly, but his voice is soft and unsure.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, slipping the pages into Niall’s hand.

“I wrote this for you. I usually keep what I write to myself because I know I’m no good and these are just thoughts hastily put together, but if I die tomorrow, I’ll at least die knowing that I gave this to you.”

Harry summons the last of his energy to stand a bit longer to watch Niall take the letter in his hands and hear the dry crackle of the papers as they brush against each other. Sighing, he timidly mutters a quick, “Goodnight,” and takes a step off to the side to walk home. Niall instinctively shoots a hand out to grab Harry’s elbow.

“Where are you going?” Niall asks, sudden silence sweeping across the vacant parking lot; suspending the question.

“I’m not sure,” Harry shrugs, and his face scrunches up in pain as if saying anything more would hurt. It’s the kind of pain that aches for a long time afterward. “I just have to go.”

Niall steps in closer to him, his voice feeble, “Why?”

Harry’s eyes fall downcast and he stares at his feet as if he doesn't know why. He doesn’t really. But he lifts his hand up to his head anyway, signaling that he has a headache, and shrugs.

“I’m not feeling well,” he lies. Or maybe he doesn’t, it’s just another excuse to run away from something important.

Niall presses his lips together in reluctance, but even so, Harry nods kindly towards him before turning around to leave. Niall’s left there to stand alone at the front of the hotel and watch Harry’s silhouette disappear.

Niall walks back inside after a while. The joyous atmosphere of the people in the room feels none like home, and he wishes it did. He aimlessly wanders through the huddled crowds of people, thanking them if they greeted him. He runs into Anya near a waiter with a platter of wine glasses.

“Oh, hello again, darling,” Niall says to her, and then nods his head towards the waiter. “Care for a drink?”

“I’m only nineteen, remember?” She smiles and hands him one of the flowers in the bouquet her mother got her, “Here, I want you to have this one since you’re the greatest teacher I know.”

It's a sunflower, and if Niall knew any better, he would’ve just smiled, but instead he feels his throat clog up and the rim of his eyes begin to burn. He hides it well enough that she doesn’t catch it, but there’s a crack in his voice when he replies with an earnest, “Thank you. You’re a wonderful student, too.”

He says goodbye, waves to her parents, and goes to find Linda. After telling her about Harry—and only what Harry wanted him to tell her—he calls it a night and decides to leave early. There’s a vacuous feeling in his chest, right in the middle where his ribcage parts into two, and it stings like something’s been ripped apart from him.

Catching a cab home, Niall stares out the window and stays silent. He takes out the folded pages from his jacket pocket and lays them out on his lap; the flickering lights from passing streetlamps isn’t enough for him to read it properly, but it’s not like he was planning to anyway. Not in the cab at least.

He puts them aside and looks away again, but from time to time he finds himself peeking over his shoulder, pondering. When he gets home, he gingerly folds the papers and places them back in his pocket before paying the driver. Then, the already long night begins to wane; the stars slowly fading from the sky as Niall spends it in solemnity.

He doesn’t undress from his suit or undo his tie; instead he tosses his jacket aside along with the sunflower, heads for the kitchen, and pulls out a case of beer. He yanks one out and pops the cap, taking a long sip. His tongue swipes across his top lip and tastes the white foam from the beer. Placing both hands on the counter, Niall drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut as firmly as he can.

I love you, Niall…

When he straightens up again he takes another sip of his beer, and the first thing his eyes land on is his jacket. Ambling towards it, he whips out Harry's letter and crashes bodily on the couch.

Upon seeing Harry’s messy handwriting—tilted, and every ‘y’ and ‘g’ looped—Niall is so surprised that he smiles. The letter isn’t even addressed to him; it looked as if Harry just dove right in without foreword or intent, just sparked inspiration.

December 25th

Do you remember… that rather fateful day after class half a year ago? Fateful because I don’t know how else I could describe the very second I saw you when I looked out from under my umbrella. It had been raining all morning and afternoon, and I thought it was just going to be like any other humid, uneventful, insignificant day. But it wasn’t.

Ever since then you’ve just been one of the nicest people I know. I love being around you. I love that you always know what to say.

I know I can’t change what’s done. I know I can’t go back in time and save my parents from the fire. I know I can’t wish to relive that evening when my friend was shot so that I could take his place. I know there isn’t much that I can do except look towards the future, so I’m doing just that and hoping you’ll be a part of it.

I remember my therapist always telling me to give in to love. I didn’t get it at first. It took me a while to even want to understand. Why would I ever feel happy when I know so much of me, so much of my home, is gone? When would I ever feel like things will be okay? Who would I ever feel for?

Well somehow in between the seconds you smiled at me under the rain so long ago and the seconds you smiled at me under the snow just this morning, I knew.

You’re the company I have when I eat breakfast alone each morning. You’re the bodiless friend who walks alongside me when I go to the park or to the grocery store or to the studio.

You remind me of clouds and blue skies. You remind me of dandelions on sidewalks and flocks of birds flying together; the sound of laughter shared between people, and the unguarded smiles on sad, lonely evenings.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. So many things remind me of you. I cannot name them all because I don’t think there is enough ink in my pen. In short, I think of you almost all the time.

Anyway, I wish you all the luck in the world as you practice for your competition. I know you will do magnificently. I wish you all the luck that I can borrow from those who have had more than I ever did. I know your studio will survive. Don’t you worry, because I do enough of that. Do your best, give it your heart like you always do, and you’ll be set. Things will be alright.

Finally, I just want you to know that you’re the reason I’m so brave now. Thank you. I love you. I love you more than I am able to write. I’m no poet. I’m not Keats or Blake or Rossetti, or any of the writers that I see in my book shop, but I do love you.

Maybe someday you’ll love me too, and then we’ll both be alright.

Niall reads and rereads Harry’s letter again and again, trying to see if any of it isn't sincerely written; something that Niall could point out and tell himself that Harry isn’t in love with him so he can stop overreacting to the events that unfolded that night. It’s a lost cause when Niall reads it for the fifth time and comes to face the music; Harry really means all of it. He thinks about it a bit more and of course he means it. Writing this letter is enough to say that. Feeling it is enough.

Niall reflects on their friendship—thinks of the day he visited Harry’s class, thinks of the morning he found Harry alone on the park bench, thinks of Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve and dinner at Harry’s and their dance in the rain—then arrives at the conclusion that maybe all this time he’s reciprocated those feelings.

Maybe those fleeting seconds in Harry’s arms as he picked him up in his studio weren’t just the winded feeling in his lungs. Maybe that’s when he—even for a few moments—lived on the moment when his entire being felt sustained with a new kind of energy; the kind that being with a certain person can supply. Maybe it was the defining mark of their palpable attraction; something tangible and real and unmistakable yet overlooked by the very two people who are a part of it.

Niall doesn’t finish his beer, instead he folds up the pages again to stuff them in his pockets and undergoes a new vigor filling him up and propelling him to move. Ditching his jacket, he grabs the sunflower and heads out the door.

He walks down his street until he makes it onto the main road of his neighborhood and counts down two stop signs before making it to Phoenix St.

Niall takes a deep breath, gripping the stem of the sunflower tightly as he walks down the sidewalk until he reaches Harry’s apartment. He rings the doorbell once, but after a few seconds, Niall starts knocking on the door. There’s an inexplicable wave of need that’s coursing through his body, like every vein is expanding with the overt awareness as if nothing matters to him but to see Harry, and soon.

“Harry, it’s me!” Niall calls out, stopping his hand when the door suddenly whips open and Harry materializes before his eyes.

He’s wearing his usual black jeans, the ones that Niall had always noticed made his legs look as long as they are, and an oversized grey sweater. Why would he be wearing a sweater? It’s the end of May and summer is almost here, but Niall guesses that it’s things like this that make him so charming. So Harry.

Niall’s eyes wander over his clothes before he fixes them on Harry’s face. Neither of them has said a word until now.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Hey,” Harry smiles softly. He tilts his head when he says it and there goes that yanking feeling in Niall’s gut again.

Niall looks at his feet and swallows thickly, lifting his head up to look at him again, “I miss you.”

He watches with painful anticipation as Harry raises an eyebrow, but not out of arrogance. He’s a little confused.

“Really?”

They were just together a few hours ago and Niall only now realizes it. It just seems like so long ago, like a fading, distant memory.

“So, what—what’re doing?” Niall asks nervously. He hopes he hasn’t been crying or anything dreary like that.

Harry shrugs and says, “Eating fruit,” and the light material of the sweater ripples along with his movements. All Niall hears in his head is Harry telling him “I love you, Niall,” and it repeats itself again and again until it becomes unbearable. The gentle little smile on Harry’s face makes his throat tighten, and everything around him—from the rustle of the trees to the faint sound of crickets—turns to dust.

Niall’s voice cracks when he says something along the lines of, “Come here,” and steps inside to throw himself into Harry’s arms. Their lips latch onto each other as Harry stumbles backwards as Niall kicks the door shut. Harry’s hands are roaming around his hips, pulling him closer to his body, and Niall uses the hand he has that’s cradling the back of his head to push their faces closer just the same.

Every intake of air feels like their last and the second Harry trips on his socks, they topple over on the couch in an entanglement of limbs. Harry tries to hold Niall’s hand and entwine their fingers as he wraps his legs around his waist, frantic to keep their bodies together as if they should never be apart, but Niall is still holding the sunflower, making Harry pull away from their kiss to see what’s in his hand.

“It’s for you,” Niall pants, still trying to catch his breath. He brings up the sunflower to Harry’s face and presses the petals onto his cheek. The way Harry’s eye squints from being tickled sends Niall’s heart gasping for the same air, like they've just made it to the surface of the ocean in time to breathe.

“Why are you here?” Harry wonders.

Niall searchingly scans his face, sees his cheeks pink with exertion and his lips glistening from being kissed, and inwardly scolds himself for not chasing after this sooner.

“I just wanted to tell you that I won,” Niall gleams almost as brightly as Harry’s eyes from the light of his reading lamp. “Second place, though.”

“That’s incredible,” he replies heartily and full of pride in his voice. “I knew you could do it.”

Niall smiles so affectionately, he can see how Harry’s own smile falls to revel in it. Niall moves the sunflower up the side of Harry’s face so that it'll touch his bangs, tangling the bright yellow petals with the strands of his hair.

“You know what else?” Niall asks him, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

With Niall splayed over Harry’s body, much like the last time they were together on this couch, he can sense the overwhelming warmth that’s radiating from Harry’s chest and seeping into his own. Niall lowers his head so that his cheek is pressed against his temple and his lips are hovering over his ear.

“I love you, too,” Niall murmurs as if to imprint the words on Harry’s skin.

As soon as he says it, he can feel Harry inhale through his mouth like he can’t believe it. His chest rises from the expanding warmth enclosed in his ribcage and Niall giggles from being lifted up by it. He brings his head up to look at Harry again and gazes at his wide, glassy eyes.

“You do?” Harry asks.

Niall nods with all the fondness he has for him. “I read your letter,” he says, leaning down to kiss him again.

Tears form in the rim of Harry’s eyes and Niall shakes his head gently to tell him he can’t do that or else he’ll start crying, too. He kisses him another time, and then trails his mouth up to kiss the corner of his eye, tasting the sea salt on his lips.

“You’re the person I think about when I’m sweeping up after a movie. You’re who my thoughts wander off to in between dances. You’ve kept me going all this time and I never would have thought that I could ever be something like that for you.”

“You’ve always been.”

“I know that now,” Niall laughs tenderly, nudging their noses together. “I also want to thank you, because you trust me enough to explain the reason why you dance.”

Harry only has to tip his chin up a little bit until they’re kissing again. “You’re my angel.”

It’s a sweet, loving instance where they both finally accept that neither of them would be where they are without the other, and it lasts as long as their lungs can take, but then Niall’s breath catches when Harry lifts up his hips, grinding into him.

Harry bites into Niall’s bottom lip and pulls on it in time to their hips moving against each other. They follow a slow, sluggish tempo, but it sends Niall’s head spinning. He grips Harry’s shoulder for leverage as he licks into his mouth, and when their tongues meet, he sighs heavily with Harry’s name on his lips.

Niall drops the sunflower and his hand lies limp on Harry’s cheek. Harry shakily unbuttons Niall’s dress shirt while he braces his legs on either side of him. Niall kisses him roughly on his chin, missing his mouth before he decides to sit up to help Harry with his top.

“Come here, Harry.” He surprises himself by how rasped and broken his voice sounds, but the astonishment passes when Harry sits up as well, mewling quietly as he tries to take off his sweater.

Niall helps him, grabbing the hem and lifting it over his head, and then notices that he isn't wearing anything underneath it. He rolls his eyes and it makes Harry laugh because of the way that Niall can’t help but look bemused.

“You’re so silly,” he giggles into Harry’s neck, pushing them back down on the couch.

There’s a new, blazing fire that sears between them once their skin touch. Harry’s mouth hangs open, his eyes closed, when Niall licks up the length of his neck. It’s electrifying, stroking his hands up Niall’s sides and feeling the dips and hills of his ribs. He slips his fingers into Niall’s hair and tugs lightly so he’d lift up his head, crashing their mouths together again after what seems like forever.

They keep on like this for a while. They lose track of time and the setting they’re in, the traces of the past or the thread of the future. It’s like it’s been years since they last saw each other and they’re now reuniting in the middle of an airport; bags dropped at their sides before they run up to each other and the dust that has settled in their arms blow away.

There’s a light sheen of sweat in the middle of their chests and on their foreheads. Their bangs are dripping with sweat as well; a haze gathering from the warmth of their breaths landing on their faces. Harry turns them over so that Niall's pressed into the back of the couch, but their legs are still zippered together. Niall digs his nails into the soft skin of Harry’s shoulder blades, and gives open mouthed kisses along his jaw.

His neck and cheeks are now red from the effort to keep up with Harry as his hand slips under his thigh to hoist him up higher. Touching Harry’s lips with his fingers, almost groaning when his tongue peeks out to lick him, Niall’s other hand finds the zipper on Harry’s jeans. He’s shaking so hard that he can’t think clearly. Dizzy from the sight of Harry’s lips wrapped around his fingers, he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes their foreheads together.

“Harry,” he moans, slipping his fingers out of his mouth and dragging them down his chin. “Not here. Not—not on the couch.”

Nodding quickly, Harry pries himself away from Niall to get up from the couch. There’s an emptiness that befalls him that feels rather awry before he pulls Niall up by his hands, like those two seconds would have been lethal if his and Niall’s bodies were separated for too long, even after a year of being just that.

They spend the rest of the night in their own undisturbed world. Much like the evening when Niall invited him out on the darkened street outside the bookstore, the seclusion of being a part of an otherworldly place—whether it’s an empty road or in Harry’s bed—is what keeps them wanting more and more, keeps them chasing endlessly after each other, until they’re thrown into space, into their own universe.

But in the confines of the earth’s atmosphere, in the gates of their neighborhood, he’s finally alright. He’s with Niall, and he’s alright.

*

Niall wakes up the next morning dazed and perplexed by his surroundings. He’s in a white room, abandoned papers on the floor as well as clothes, and underneath a disheveled clump of blankets. It hits him pretty hard when he remembers all that had happened last night and it knocks him back to lie on the pillows. His eyes are wide and his mouth agape, pulled apart by exorbitant shock, but he’s blissful all the same.

He sits up again, throws his legs over the edge of the bed, and looks around for his shorts. He pulls them on and then his suit pants. After washing up in the bathroom, he spots a clean looking shirt of Harry’s and slips it on. Humming, he wonders where Harry could be.

Niall looks to his left and sees the sunflower atop a folded piece of paper on the nightstand next to the bed. His heart does a little flip when he sees it, and when he holds the flower up to read the note with the other hand, he can’t suppress the grin spreading across his face any longer.

I finished the milk last night. I’m going out to get more. I hope you slept well. Wait for me. Love you. Harry.

Slipping the note into his pocket, Niall ambles out to the kitchen and is surprised when he sees Harry sitting at the small dining table already and flicking through a book. He looks so into it—absorbed by every word—until he peers up to check the clock above the stove and sees Niall out the corner of his eyes.

“Good morning,” Harry beams, vibrant and bursting with elation.

“Hi,” Niall shyly greets, checking over his shoulder to glance at the fridge. “Thought you were going out to get milk?”

“I did. You were still asleep when I came back,” Harry gets up from his seat and walks up to Niall to hug him.

“I have my 11:00 class today,” Harry whispers into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne on the shirt Niall’s wearing.

Niall hums, “I’ll come with you, but first I need breakfast. I barely ate dinner last night.”

“You think cereal will be enough? It’s all I have, and it’s 10:00 already so I can’t cook you anything I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Niall smiles, giving Harry a peck on the cheek and leaving to make a bowl of honey bunches and oats.

Later, after eating—or, rather, Harry staring at Niall while he eats and Niall making funny faces when he catches him—they both take a quick shower together and then get dressed. Niall borrows one of Harry’s t-shirts again and a pair of his jeans, but he complains about it more than he thanks him for the spare clothes (“Jesus Christ, Harry, how do you even fit in these?” Niall groans, finally buttoning it. “You have nice legs,” Harry replies distractedly).

While Harry locks his door, Niall slips his hand in his and rests his head on his shoulder. They walk hand-in-hand like that until they reach Harry’s studio. Linda’s already there, chatting up the students, and when she sees them outside the window, she waves, prompting the others to do the same.

“Hi guys,” Harry greets his students, unlinking his hand from Niall’s and holding out his arms to bring them all in a group hug. “Three more classes before our recital in June.”

He receives wholehearted replies from all of them about how excited they are about the upcoming event.

“Oh, oh, oh, I almost forgot,” Linda interrupts, patting Harry on the back and ushering Niall to step into their side conversation away from the students. “Did you listen to the radio this morning? The big radio show hosts mentioned the competition and announced all the contestants that placed, meaning Niall got his name out there!”

Niall’s mouth drops and Harry stares at him with a cheer ready on his lips. Niall runs a hand through his hair, too excited for words, and then he says, “No, I must’ve missed it! What time did it air?”

“9:00 this morning.”

“Oh, well, Harry and I were probably still asleep then—”

Linda almost chokes and Niall bites back his words. Harry runs over to brace her shoulders in case she falls, but he’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

“What’s wrong with Miss Linda?” One of the thirteen year olds asks.

“Nothing, darling,” she responds immediately, composing herself before making them take their positions in the middle of the floor.

“You did it!” Harry mouths at Niall as he walks away from him and towards the group. Niall gives him an open mouth smile from the other end of the room, taking a seat on one of the chairs set up for the parents.

The lesson goes by smoothly, with Harry stealing quick glimpses of Niall in between instructions, and the hour is up before any of them realizes. Throughout the class, Niall takes note of how talented each child is. They’re nailing each grand jeté and it looks effortless. Within a few weeks, their performance in the recital is just as magnificent, if not more so. Each dance is seamlessly choreographed and each movement is skillfully graceful, it’s almost too hard for anyone to think these are all students who are younger than sixteen.

Harry throws both of his classes a little party at the park, a total of thirty students plus Linda and Niall. Most of their parents arrive as well, making sure to congratulate Harry himself. They finally get to celebrate the first anniversary of the studio and the first year the kids have had Harry as their dance teacher. They couldn't find time to do it two months ago, but that's the last thing on Harry’s mind. He’s simply inundated with all the happy faces around him; all the thankful greetings from everyone.

Even Niall gets some best wishes. Since the competition back in May and the radio announcement to the whole town, he’s been getting more and more people to sign up for his classes. He still works at the Cinema, but Harry’s always there to give him foot rubs whenever he needs one.

“How’re you feeling, Sweetheart?” Harry asks as he pats the seat next to him on the bench; the very same one that has become his sanctuary throughout the year.

The party is still going on behind them on the field, but they're able to sneak away.

“Good,” Niall replies quietly. He sits down and wraps his arms around Harry’s middle, nestling his head on his shoulder with Harry’s arm around him.

“What about you?”

Harry kisses the top of his head, “Better than I’ve ever felt in a long, long time.”

*
*

One mid-morning in late autumn, Niall is pushed by an indeterminable force; some kind of phantom-like hand leading him to his and Harry’s room. It's the beginning of the last day before their big move, and the first thing he takes in when he steps into the bedroom is the sheer emptiness of it. They aren’t moving too far, just to another neighborhood, a nicer one, and into the new house they bought together.

There are still a few more things for him to pack, but other than that, the looming white-washed walls almost radiate a distant memory; a particular branch of time coming to an end.

He walks over to the dresser at the far end of the room, and picks up another empty cardboard box to pack up their leftover things. He tucks away the bottles of cologne, combs, lotion, and other things that he finds in the drawers. It’s when he pulls out the stash of long-kept letters from Harry in the bottom drawer that Niall stops to stare.

Niall places the box next to him and tenderly picks up the stack of papers in both of his hands. Some are sticky notes, some are carelessly ripped papers from Harry’s journal, but every one of them puts a smile on Niall’s face. Reading through some of them again, he can’t help but react the very same way.

10/28

Why do you get to be Bugs and I have to be Lola? Anyway I’m out getting Halloween candy to leave by our door. By the way, I still think it’s stupid how we’re going as bunnies to the party. How old are we?

12/13

I’m sorry I got carried away. I didn’t mean to laugh when I told you that you talk in your sleep sometimes. I like our conversations. Honest. Please kiss me again :(

2/14

Hey. I have a surprise for you. Come to the room.

Niall laughs a little too hard at the last one. Harry tried really hard that night to make everything special, but after a few minutes of simply laughing at each other, Niall resorted to turning up the rugged, bass-heavy Black Keys song that popped up on shuffle, and everything after that finally clicked.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of the remembrance of how great that all was as he finally flips to the very last letter in the pile, which happens to be the very first letter he’s ever gotten from Harry. Bringing his fingers up to his lips, he nibbles on his blunt nails and reads through the crisp, yellowed pages of this Billet-doux. He’s long memorized every word of it, but somehow, reading it again renews each of their meanings.

Niall gathers himself and then properly stows away the letters in a folder he grabs off of Harry’s desk. He picks up where he left off in rummaging through the dresser for anything he's missed, and once he’s finished, he finally moves to grab the two dusty, framed pictures propped up in front of the mirror.

One of them is from their most recent anniversary. They were on the beach—Harry’s idea—and Niall stole a rather awkward, off guard self photo of himself right before he smiled, while Harry was standing behind him and pouting at the camera. Niall forgets why he was making that face, why either of them made those faces, but he loves this picture all the more because of it. It’s basically them in a nutshell.

The second picture was a little more serious. With nimble fingers, Niall touches its frame—fading from its once polished, dark brown color—and the dusty glass and marvels at the very age of the photo; how long ago this one was taken. He remembers the day so clearly, and he even remembers who took the picture.

Linda had happily volunteered to take the shot and, frankly, the task was a struggle itself. They were on some steps outside a very small building and Zayn, Louis, and Liam were in the photo as well, standing on either side of Niall and Harry. In the picture, Niall has an all too eager face and a wide, open mouthed smile; his right hand wild and blurred from waving at the camera while his left hand is holding Harry’s by his side. Harry, on the other hand, looks as meek as ever, with only a small smile on his face and watery eyes.

It had taken quite some time for Linda to urge Harry to pry his eyes off Niall and look her way so she could take the picture, so that’s what this is; the second Harry decided to look away for even a moment. And that’s the thing that Niall loves about this picture, about that entire day. On top of that, they all looked really nice in their black and white suits.

Suddenly, Niall hears Harry walk in. “Hey, babe, I’m about to start lunch. The apartment’s cleaned out so we don’t really have much of a selection. Whatever, though. What’re you hungry for?”

Niall takes in a deep breath as he stares at Harry leaning against the door frame. Pausing for a moment before answering him, Niall glimpses at the gold band on Harry’s finger and it puts a smile on his face.

“I love you, Harry,” he says, completely ignoring his question. He walks straight across the room and over to where the bed used to be, slinging his arms around Harry once he gets to him.

“I love you, too. Always,” Harry chuckles into Niall’s hair, hugging him back. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being very lovey-dovey today.”

Niall rolls his eyes and laughs into the kiss he gives him, but it’s true. It’s been some time since they stopped for a moment just to absorb each other in, so their smiles keep them from properly kissing. They couldn't care less, though. Harry has Niall right where he’s always wanted him to be, where he was meant to be, and that feeling alone is enough to push up against the bones of his ribcage; a feeling so insistent that it reminds him of who he used to be so many years ago.

The sun is leaking through the half opened blinds, striping the room with light, and Niall suddenly feels drowsy. Maybe later they could take a nap together on the floor; let the sunbeams become their blanket.

He drops his head into Harry’s chest and mumbles something. Harry can’t really hear him so he dips his head to rest against Niall’s, and he plants his lips on his cheek.

“Mm—what?” Harry purrs, his words coming out muffled.

Niall laughs—the sound of it getting lost in the cotton of Harry’s shirt—before he leaves a kiss on Harry’s collarbones and lifts up his head again. “Tomato soup. Let’s have tomato soup.”

*