(no subject)
feels like the first time
pairing: harry styles/niall horan, hints of louis tomlinson/zayn malik
disclaimer: this isn't real anywhere but my head
word count 1700
summary: harry has a pretty mouth, and maybe niall notices
notes fluff
title from paperweight by schuyler fisk and joshua radin
It’s not like Niall woke up one morning suddenly wanting to kiss Harry. In fact, when he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he’s always wanted to kiss all of his bandmates. They’re quite kissable, each of them, and Niall likes kissing people he loves, and it turns out Niall loves them all a lot. It’s also not like anyone in this band is immune to bizarre impulses (for example, there’s the time Louis inexplicably dunked Zayn’s tie into his tea a half hour before they were meant to be performing for the queen, or Harry’s penchant for licking anyone, anywhere in the middle of a nice snuggle, like he just can’t help himself). But when Niall catches himself for the seventh time in as many minutes fixated on the unnatural gloss of Harry’s lips and wondering if they taste as much like raspberry candies as they look like they should, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he should be paying attention to whatever’s unfolding inside him. He doesn’t think about it for long, though, because he’s just been asked which three foods he’d choose to live on for the rest of his life and Liam’s already snickering behind his hands. As if Niall could answer that.
-
They’re currently in the middle of the United States, somewhere with big stores and bigger food and where even the sun shines in a loud, harsh American accent. Niall had known exactly where a few hours ago, before Paul had consented to let them drink in the hotel room, but now the whole tour has been simmered down to a pleasant haze of flat, corn-filled expanses and screaming girls and the constant smell of Zayn’s cigarettes and Louis’ favorite hair wax like his own personal atmosphere.
They’ve ended up in a familiar beer-addled pile on Harry’s bed, Niall and Liam propped against each other and the headboard like two very giggly rag dolls, Zayn and Louis on their stomachs, heads on their fists and feet in the air, a pair of absurdly pretty seventh graders at a sleepover. They’re riveted to the movie (and each other, mostly, as they are nearly always these days, like they’re members of an exclusive club whose members have absurdly long eyelashes and like pranking certain boys named Liam on a far too frequent basis). They haven’t shut themselves away though; Harry’s feet are trapped, one each under their thighs, and he’s leaned back into Niall’s chest, connecting them all in a starfish of drunk, sleepy bodies. “Doggypile Direction,” as Paul calls it, having found them this way too many times to count. It’s nice.
In the most sober of times, Harry touches like he talks: slow, insistent, unapologetic. But drunk, he’s downright boneless, his weight pressed up against Niall like he’s trying to sink into his skin. Niall doesn’t mind at all, hardly notices when Harry begins drawing patterns around his kneecap, fingers wandering up the inner seam of his jeans like he might find secrets sewn into the soft denim. Harry’s curls are against Niall’s neck and smell so much like coconut and home that Niall doesn’t think, doesn’t pause, just tilts his head the tiniest bit and kisses the warm crown of Harry’s head. Nothing happens, no one turns to look at him, no spotlight shines down on him, and Niall does it again, and then three more times until Harry’s fingers have stilled against his leg and are just pressed there, steady. Niall realizes he’s breathing fast, and when he turns his head, Liam’s eyes are doing that thing where they know something Niall hasn’t quite figured out for himself yet.
Later, after Zayn and Louis stumble back to their own room like they’re the only contestants in a secret three legged race, and Niall’s tweeted a photo of Liam sleep-sprawled across Harry’s bed (“america u make liam a tired boy !”), Niall turns around to find Harry in his bed, eyelids closing and lips bright and distracting in his pale face. He rolls a bit, looks up at Niall, holds open the covers until Niall climbs in and allows Harry to koala around him, not so drunk anymore but still boneless and comfortable and soft. It’s hot under the covers, and Niall hates sleeping hot, but of course Harry’s an exception. Niall has a sneaking suspicion that Harry’s pretty much always going to be the exception.
-
They’re on the road the next day, heading West for the second leg of their tour, and Liam’s insisted on trying to figure out if each of them were an American city, which one they’d be. They’ve already agreed that Harry’s San Francisco, because duh.
“My hair would never survive the climate” he’s moaning, and Zayn snorts out a laugh.
“Rain’s supposed to make things grow, right mate? Maybe you’ll hit proper giant status after all,” and Harry throws a pretzel halfheartedly in Zayn’s direction.
“Where would I be?” Liam asks. There’s a moment of silence, rare with the five of them, and Niall offers, “Savannah? Isn’t that a city in Georgia?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Louis agrees. None of them have ever actually been to Savannah, or even Georgia at that, but Louis begins fanning himself and saying “I do declare” and the rest of them are laughing at the image of Liam, with a parasol and sweating glass of iced tea, some kind of modern day Blanche Dubois. “Well, I think it’s safe to say that Niall’d be somewhere in Southern California. A real surfer boy, yeah?” Liam says, distracting Louis from his pantomime.
“I like that,” Harry murmurs, closer than Niall had realized. “Right next to me.”
-
After that, Niall’s pretty sure that there is something going on. Like, inside his body. He’s never been particularly introspective, or invested in self analysis, because life just isn’t really that complicated. He likes playing the guitar, and the band, and doing stupid shit, and sandwiches with avocado and bacon. And usually girls. And maybe Harry? Probably Harry. And Harry’s lips, which seem to feature prominently in his thoughts.
“Niall,” Harry says, suddenly. They’re on the couch together, Zayn and Liam on the floor playing FIFA and Louis whimpering about when it’s going to be his turn. They’ve stopped letting him play; he wins every time anyway. And he’s an insufferable winner, although none of them can begrudge him. Sometimes it’s just nice not to be slaughtered every time. “Niall,” Harry says again, catching him under the chin with the side of his curled finger. “’S there something on my face? You keep looking at me like I’ve got leftover chocolate all over it."
Yeah, there’s definitely something going on. Niall flushes a little, shakes his head.
-
It’s not an unpleasant surprise to wake up to Harry crawling into his bed, even at a godawful time like 4:45 am.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Niall mumbles, shivering as Harry tucks his cold toes against Niall’s bare legs. Harry doesn’t respond for a minute, wriggling his way into the shell of Niall’s body and breathing hot against his neck, and the cold toes don’t matter so much anymore.
“Niall,” Harry says, so quietly Niall almost misses it. “I’m not very patient, you know?”
“Ok,” Niall laughs, because, ok. Harry can speak nonsense sometimes and probably pass it off as poetry. His entire twitter is evidence of this.
“Then why are you making me wait?” Harry tries, a little louder, and Niall just huffs out a breath. If he doesn’t answer, Harry will explain himself eventually, and he really has no idea what’s going on.
There’s a pause, maybe Harry won’t explain, Niall’s about to fall back asleep. And then Harry’s moving, slowly, carefully, looming over him in the dark, and there’s a broad hand on his neck and a thumb on his cheek and oh, yeah, ok.
Niall meets him halfway, surprising himself and a laugh from Harry, and the first moment Niall feels Harry’s lips on his they’re stretched into a smile. Even though it’s dark Niall can see it, has every line of it memorized, etched into a little hollow behind his collarbones. It’s sweet, it’s slow, little pecks, Harry moving to kiss his eyelids, his temple, his nose, which Niall can’t help but wrinkle in satisfaction with a little shiver of happiness. And then Harry is back to his mouth, running his tongue along Niall’s bottom lip, asking for permission. As if Niall could deny him anything.
Harry’s tongue slips into Niall’s mouth, like he’s delivering something precious, and Niall sucks on it lightly, hearing Harry groan deep in the back of his throat. It’s nice, it’s so nice, and Niall feels taken care of and safe and there’s a flash of something else, heat racing down his spine line a power cord, sparking and arching him up into the lithe lines of Harry’s body. He runs his tongue against Harry’s gums, nips his bottom lip, feels Harry’s leg nudge between his and slides a hand against the flushed skin of Harry’s back. He pulls himself into the cage of Harry’s body, kissing and licking and laughing. He tilts his head, kisses across the unholy jut of Harry’s jaw, find his pulse and sucks a kiss into it, relishing the feeling, memorizing his heartbeat and the feel of Harry smiling under the pads of Niall’s fingers. Harry ducks his head a little, his face split with happiness, and Niall wants to burst out of his skin, wants to exist only in Harry’s space, kiss his dimples so many times he smooths them away with wear, like shiny-soft pebbles on the beach.
Niall wakes up grinning the next morning, tucked under Harry’s chin like a secret, the faint taste of raspberry candies in his mouth.