fic; see you when i fall asleep (nick/harry)
part one. 1.8k. pg-13.
nick/harry, with past harry/louis mentions.
based on my interpretation of little talks by of monsters and men. most likely not the original meaning. i absolutely hate this because it always spoils the heart wrenching surprise and everything, but i feel like i have to say it just in case it traumatizes anybody, so warnings on character death. self edited so all mistakes are my own.
please dont hate me.
I don’t like walking around this old and empty house
So hold my hand, I’ll walk with you my dear ~~
Thirty three days since.
It’s colder than usual for September, much colder and wetter and overall more miserable and that fact alone is a big enough indication that Harry should most definitely not leave bed today, or tomorrow, or ever.
Four weeks and in all that time the boys still insist on dropping by one by one, or sometimes in small groups, pairs, threes, until finally all four show up together and try so very hard with all their might to persuade him out of his new-found permanent residence. The shows are on hold, it’s killing them to see him this way, he can’t stay like this forever, and all that. It hurts Harry to see Niall look as though he’s about to burst into tears at the sight of him but the hurt inside Harry is worse, far worse than that. So when Louis finally asks in complete exasperation if what they’re saying is making any difference and Harry shakes his head, he can only close his eyes and pretend not to hear the four sighs tainted with disappointment.
With that they apparently give up for the day, leaving without too many words to let him sleep. Sleep is far more bearable than reality-- well, not entirely; the nightmares are a whole other ball game, the subject matter of which Harry prefers to forget. Drunken sleep is the best, far too heavy for silly dreams, and the various empty bottles littering the room are enough to suggest that many of Harry’s nights have been more alcohol induced comas than normal-person-sleeping.
After the boys have gone, Nick shows up to visit, and it’s the first good thing to happen all week. Nick makes everything better, Harry thinks. Always. He was the first person since Louis to be absolutely everything Harry had ever needed in a person, and that was special. He was special. Is special, still.
He shows up completely unannounced (not that Harry minds) and strides into the bedroom, exuding confidence and that whole shiny happiness thing that never seems to go away when he's present.
“Well you’re in a right state then, young Harold,” he says with a grin, and Harry moans, stuffing his face under a pillow.
“Sleepy,” is all he can manage, and Nick sighs.
“Does Harry Styles need a waking up song?” He asks Harry.
“No. Condescending. Absolutely not.” Harry mumbles in reply.
Too late.
Barely a second later and Harry’s ears are filled with the sound of Pharoahe Monch screaming at him to get the fuck up because this is home and this is the real Nick Grimshaw, not a censored radio show.
“Nothing like a bit of hardcore hiphop in the morning,” Nick’s voice and the same words Harry’s heard on the radio a million times before float across the room from somewhere near the window. Figuring there’s no longer any means of escape and sleep is definitely not an option, he rolls over and removes the pillows from his face.
“Where is that even coming from?” Harry asks, and Nick only smiles.
“You gonna get out of bed then or what?”
Harry pulls a face. “Hey. That’s my line.”
“Not anymore, sleeping idiot,” Nick laughs as he speaks and his smile must be contagious because in the pause between his words Harry can feel it sneaking onto his lips. It’s the first time he’s smiled in ages, which makes it all the more wonderful. “Up then. Breakfast, trust me, you look like you need it more than you think you do. Come on, I’ll help.”
Harry doesn’t protest even though he knows that by ‘help’ Nick means ‘watch and then eat’ and pulls himself out of bed. His legs sway a little under his weight; like sea legs when you step off a boat for the first time in ages, only they’re not sea legs, they’re... bed legs. It’s been a while, other than the odd toilet trip. He grabs his favourite beanie off the chair that sits in the corner next to the door and stuffs his hair into it, because it’s gross and oily and really quite frightful to look at. It sort of feels good to be up and about and for some reason Harry knows he needn’t bother to turn around, because he just knows that Nick is smiling at him and knowing is enough.
Harry makes his way to the kitchen, Nick following a few steps behind. Nick takes a seat in one of the stools pushed underneath the island bench in the middle of the room. Harry opens the fridge, knowing Nick is still watching him, on the hunt for anything slightly decent that isn’t yet out of date. Nick laughs when he starts throwing almost everything into the bin and tells him he needs to get to the shops because relying on other people for food all the time is entirely unfair and really, quite rude. Harry raises his eyebrows in a way that says excuse me but I bring you food when you’re working and cook all of your meals at home. Nick understands, because he always knows what Harry’s looks mean, and sighs.
“You’ve got me there,” he says.
“Good. Now shut up. I’m making pancakes.”
And that’s that. Nick watches intently as Harry throws things into bowls and then into the frying pan. Harry shows off because he can, flinging the pancake up into the air to flip it, positioning the pan exactly right to stop its fall. Nick pretends to be impressed like he always does when Harry shows off in the kitchen, but Harry’s not sure he really is anymore because he watches this happen so often that it can’t possibly be that extraordinary any more. Sunday morning is Pancake Day, and this is always how it goes.
Eventually there’s been enough impressive flipping to provide sufficient pancakes for two, and Harry makes up plates in pairs, each with four pancakes, three strawberries, one scoop of ice cream and on Nick’s, copious amounts of chocolate sauce. Unlike Harry, Nick’s never been one for healthy breakfasts, and is a firm believer in desert foods during the morning time.
“Nick?” Harry questions between bites.
“Yeah mate?”
“We can still do pancake day, right?”
Nick looks thoughtful for a moment. When the words come, they’re much softer than usual. “Only if you want to.”
Nick’s tone takes Harry by surprise, and he glances up from his meal, catching his reflection in the stainless steel of the fridge. His eyes widen at the sight of himself because it’s still there, bright pink as the day they took the stitches out, it’s still there and it’s flaming and obvious and raised and jagged and ugly. The bright pink scar that extends from the middle of his right eyebrow to his hairline, revealed now by the beanie pulling back the mop of his curly hair.
It’s like a punch to the stomach; all the wind going out of him at once. Slowly, he turns to face his left, to the seat in which Nick ought to be sitting.
Except that he’s not.
The chair’s pushed in, still. On the table, however, sits a plate of melted ice cream and soggy pancakes. Uneaten. Untouched.
And Harry feels himself pulling away from the counter and running towards the bathroom, but doesn't quite understand why until he feels himself retching over the toilet bowl, body shuddering through each heave of his stomach, until eventually he’s thrown up all the food he ate and possibly also some of his insides.
The sound of the explosion is ringing in his ears again, and he wonders how mad you have to have gone to be cooking breakfast under the command of a dead man.
-
Some days I don’t know if I am wrong or right
Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear ~~
Thirty three and a half days since.
It’s Niall that finds him eventually, hours later, just dropping by to see if everything is ok and all is what he sings as he lets himself inside. Harry knows that it must have become apparent to Niall within a matter of seconds that everything is, in fact, not ok, because Harry’s guttural screams coming from the bathroom do not imply any sort of okay-ness, not at all.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Niall appear in the doorway. Harry hears the gasp, and it’s fair enough because what else can you do when you walk in on your best friend writing on the floor drenched in their own sweat, screaming out unintelligible nothings?
After a long moment there’s footsteps, and suddenly Harry feels himself being lifted from the bathroom floor. Niall says he’s taking him back to bed, all the way there asking you alright mate? Harry doesn’t quite understand because that morning they were all over trying to get him out of the bed. He rolls back onto the mattress when they arrive, and turns to face Niall, eyes manic.
“Me? Alright?” He asks Niall, who’s still looking at him expectantly, as if a rational answer might still be hiding in there somewhere.
“Harry...” Niall whispers, but Harry's next question stops him.
“You wanna know what I did today, Niall?”
“What, Harry?”
“I cooked breakfast for a dead man.”
The air is so cold between them that for a moment Harry thinks it might snow, if it were possible. Niall’s face has gone a frightful shade of grey, and Harry’s suddenly very aware that he’s scaring the absolute hell out of the boy. Nothing ever scares Niall, and it takes a lot to make him sad, but the way that he’s looking at Harry just screams terror and pity and what the fuck are we going to do with you you’re losing your fucking mind and Harry sighs.
“You should go, Ni.”
“I don’t know that I should, Harry, have you seen yourself?” Niall replies, voice still shaking. Harry rolls over in his bed to face the window, pulling the duvet up over his body.
“Niall, I thought he was here-- he was here and he woke me up and we made breakfast and then he was gone and there was just me and his soggy pancakes I don’t even know if I’m still here, really,” Harry says.
Niall’s silent, and Harry can’t quite be sure of what he’s doing, but then there’s footsteps towards the bed. The duvet lifts and Niall climbs in under the covers, wrapping his arms around Harry from behind.
“You’re real, I promise,” Niall whispers into his ear. “And I’m not leaving. Go to sleep, Harry.”
This time Niall’s voice is all full of authority and calm and Harry can’t help but wonder how he snaps out of being terrified so quickly because he knows that if he walked in on any of the lads in his position he’d probably just freak out and squeal at everybody.
He's awake long enough to hear Niall whisper something about being terribly sorry, but it doesn't make sense because sleep is dragging him under and he doesn't think he wants to hear any more words today. For the first time in weeks, sleep comes particularly easy (most likely due to exhaustion), and instead of nightmares, it’s Nick that greets him on the other side. He holds out a hand, and Harry takes it, striding away from Niall and his home and Liam and Louis and Zayn and everything because Nick’s still alive here and that’s all that matters.
(part two)