“I am so, so sorry, dude,” was maybe on the list of Dylan’s opening lines for when he finally met Harry Styles, but honestly it was way at the bottom, and part of a meet-cute scenario that went better in Dylan’s head, and didn’t actually involve a cup full of hot tea spilled all over Harry’s shirt as they literally ran into each other when turning a corner. So this has already gone badly. “Hi,” Dylan says weakly, sort of ineffectually dabbing his napkin over Harry’s t-shirt as Harry gasps in pain over the whole Dylan-giving-him-third-degree-burns-via-Earl-Grey situation.
“It’s fine, it’s alright,” Harry says, taking Dylan’s hands in his and carefully pushing them away. He blinks down at his shirt, pulling it away from his body. Then he takes it off.
Dylan’s teacup is lying on the ground already, which is good because his fingers no longer seem to work. The muscles in Harry’s back ripple with movement. Harry’s wearing Calvin Klein underwear. There’s a red flush to his chest, where Dylan’s tea disagreed with his skin.
“Hey, my eyes are up here, you know,” Harry says. He’s grinning a bit when Dylan snaps his head up to look at his face. Dylan stares at his face instead. “Dylan, right?”
“Yeah,” Dylan says. He swallows. “Yeah, that’s me, Dylan is me. Sorry for,” he starts, but he can’t really choose what he’s the sorriest for, so, “this,” he finishes, gesturing to Harry’s chest, Harry’s shirt balled up in his hand, the teacup on the floor, his own body, his own face. It’s all bad. It all was a mistake.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Harry, and slings an arm around Dylan’s shoulders like that’s a thing you do to someone you’ve just met when you’re not wearing a shirt. “Walk with me back to wardrobe so I can get a replacement.”
“Fuck…you?” Dylan offers.
“Were you trying to get me naked?” Harry asks Dylan. “Was that why you spilled tea on me?”
“Crystal and Holland did it to Liam already,” Colton says. “They used water, though. Tea?” he says, shaking his head at Dylan. “Bad strategy. Should have consulted with the girls first.”
“It was very hot,” Harry says. He flashes a grin at Dylan, pats him on the shoulder. “The tea, I mean.” He goes off to consult with the wardrobe people over acquiring another shirt.
“Did you have to make it so obvious?” Dylan hisses at Colton. “You are very, very mean.”
“I don’t think there’s a member of this cast or crew who hasn’t already taken the chance to let him know about your enormous mancrush,” Colton says. His expression slides into Bambi-eyed sincerity. “We just want you to have nice things.”
Harry comes back over, pulling on another shirt. “Told me about his enormous what?” he asks.
“No but listen, Niall and Zayn are coming over later to,” Posey pauses, looking around as if anyone gives a shit, which no one does, “you know, smoke,” he says into Dylan’s ear, “I could totally invite Harry too? No big deal bro, it’s just casual or whatever.” He waggles his eyebrows.
Dylan puts his fist to his mouth, sinks his teeth into his knuckles. “Are you seriously trying to corrupt One Direction?” he asks.
“Dude, it was Zayn’s idea,” Posey says, not even bothering to look offended. “He’s got good shit, apparently.”
“What are we whispering about?” Harry says, sliding into the empty seat on Dylan’s other side and then dragging the chair over even closer to Dylan and then leaning whoa hey, way into Dylan’s space, what’s up. “Is there a secret?” Harry whispers, one hand on Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan goes still, or maybe paralyzed or catatonic would be a better descriptor for the whole body feeling of what: I can’t that takes over as Harry whispers into - totally not Dylan’s ear, even, because he’s definitely feeling Harry’s lips brush the hollow of his cheek when he says, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“Party later,” Posey says, leaning across the husk of human feeling that used to be Dylan, “you in?”
“Absolutely,” Harry says, squeezing Dylan’s shoulder. He settles back into his chair and looks at his script.
Across the table, Crystal and Holland catch Dylan’s eye from where they’re bookending Liam close enough to brush his really pretty impressive for an eighteen-year-old shoulders. They give him a team thumbs up. Dylan gives them an approximation of a smile back and returns the thumbs up. Harry catches the movement and sets his fist on the table, sticking his thumb up as well.
Like a bunch of creepy cult members, even though they’re scattered around the table, Liam and Niall, then Zayn, and finally Louis also set their fists on the table and put their thumbs up.
Everything in the world is weird.
“So, you don’t drink,” Niall says, frowning first at Dylan, then at his beer, then back at Dylan. “Because you’re,” he licks his lips, like he’s really trying to prepare his mouth for the rest of this sentence, “too young to do it? In this country?”
“Yeah,” Dylan says. He takes a sip of his fruit punch.
“But.” Niall frowns again. “You do other things? Are you going to smoke with us later?”
“Probably not,” Dylan says. It’s hard to feel too judged though, because Niall’s pretty much cuddled up to him on the couch in the living room, so close in fact that it’s making Dylan doubt the possible inklings of returned feelings that he’s gotten from Harry. Because apparently in Europe, friendship just comes with a lap dance.
Zayn tilts his head up from where he’s sprawled all over Niall, one of his legs slung over Niall’s lap. “You have sex though, right?” Zayn asks. “It’s not like, a religious thing. Not that it would be bad if it were.”
“Sex,” Niall echoes. He reaches up and rubs his thumb vaguely along the stubble on Zayn’s jaw.
“I do have sex,” Dylan confirms to Niall Horan, nineteen-year-old member of the world’s biggest boyband. Niall nods, still looking thoughtful. Dylan wonders if there’s ever an appropriate time to tell a guy he’s your second favorite member of One Direction. It’s totally a compliment, right? It’s like, the runner-up to a compliment. Dylan decides not to say anything, except, “I like your hair,” he tells Niall, because it feels wrong to leave the guy uncomplimented. He’s so freaking cute.
“Thanks!” says Niall. He raises his bottle of beer, clinks it against Dylan’s glass of fruit punch.
In the corner, Louis and Hoechlin are sitting in armchairs talking about sports or something that Hoechlin finds funny. Hoechlin finds most things pretty funny though, so probably it is sports. Crystal and Harry are in the kitchen, fixing drinks and having an animated discussion about something. Dylan can’t hear them, but he’s going to assume it’s about how both of them are very attractive. That’s what good-looking people do, right, just talk about how great it is to be a babe? Not in a bad way. Frankly Dylan’s having a hard time not also congratulating Zayn on having a totally amazing face. He might later. Get more fruit punch in him and this party could get craaaaaaazy.
“Dudes?” Posey says to Zayn and Niall, emerging from his bedroom with his very favorite pipe.
“Oh sweet,” Holland says, looking up from where she and Colton had sort of - well trapped maybe isn’t the nicest word, but Liam does look kind of like a scared baby bunny - cornered Liam. Dylan wants to feel more sympathy for the poor guy, but mostly he’s just pretty glad that Crystal and Holland selected Liam as their favorite and roped Colton into wingman duties on that front, because he can’t compete with that shit. If they’d gone after Harry, he would have just conceded the battle to better women than he.
“Who’s in?” Posey asks, settling onto the floor like a kid at a crowded high school party. Niall and Zayn sort of slither off the couch, leaving Dylan’s side cold and sad without all the warm Irish boy pressed against it. Holland and Crystal join them, creating a beautiful little stoner circle. In the corner, Colton seems to have switched to a conversation topic that Liam finds less unnerving. It’s probably a trick. Holland and Crystal have game that reaches levels Dylan could never understand.
Harry saunters over, catching Dylan in the laser beam of his eyes and smiling like it’s super normal to just have a face that looks like that. “You’ve been abandoned,” Harry notes.
“I kept him warm for you,” Niall says, patting Harry’s knee as he passes. Harry reaches down and gives Niall’s hand an appreciative squeeze. “He doesn’t smoke or drink, but he does have sex,” Niall tells Harry, reciting these facts like a list of trivia from a teen magazine. Then he smiles at Dylan.
“Sex is good,” Harry says, fixing the laser beam back on Dylan, who tries and fails to become one with the couch.
“He’s good at it, too!” Posey contributes. “I mean I haven’t tested that for myself. But no one ever seems to have left unsatisfied.”
“Is this why people drink?” Dylan asks in awe. “Is everyone at some point just driven to it?” Maybe he could somehow work out a deal with Holland to trade wingmen. He could take Colton, and Holland could have everyone else in this house. Forever. No take-backs.
“It just makes you feel good, that’s all,” Harry says, joining Dylan on the couch in an invasion of personal space that Dylan’s just coming to understand is a 1D thing, basically. It’s cool, really; Dylan’s a snuggler, he’s down for a cuddle party. Harry slings an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and a leg over Dylan’s thigh.
Dylan’s cool with this, he’s so totally super cool with this, and his heart is so not racing at all, nor is a blush stealing over his cheek, so Posey can stop giving him that broad-grinned ‘get it, bro’ look any second now. Actually, Holland and Crystal can stop giving him that look as well. Dylan’s trying to send all the world’s ‘it’s cool, I’m so chill, literally no one’s ever been so chill it’s actually really amazing?’ vibes in their direction but it’s probably not working at all.
“You all right?” Harry whispers into the curve of Dylan’s neck, at which point Dylan realizes he’s tenser than - well actually about as tense as he usually is when in very close proximity to someone he’d like badly to kiss on the mouth. Dylan nods, lets out a shaky breath and relaxes against Harry’s side. Harry makes a pleased noise, squeezes his shoulder.
Dylan doesn’t smoke but he doesn’t really mind it, not even the little bit of a contact high he’s getting from the pipe being passed around. It’s nice, really, an actual haze to drift in, smoke dimming the room, making it less of a brightly-lit movie set dream where he’s a protagonist in a romantic comedy starring Harry Styles as the love interest. Because that would be insane, right? And this isn’t insane, it’s just a party, and Harry’s just let his hand slip down Dylan’s shoulder to stroke at his side, and it’s nice, being petted. Dylan lets his hand rest against Harry’s thigh, because they’re all friends here, and anyway, everyone on the floor is making a concerted effort to set that Friend Things That Friends Do bar ever higher.
It was probably Holland and Crystal that started it, because they tend to make out sometimes at parties when Crystal’s between boyfriends or Holland just wants to, so he’s going to assume that they were the first to shotgun off each other. Or hell, maybe it was Niall, who’s switching back and forth between Posey and Zayn now, except his way of shotgunning seems to involve more tongue than Dylan really thought was necessary when sharing smoke. He watches, absently licking his own lips. Harry’s so warm, he’s perfect to snuggle against. This is a good party.
“Looks like everyone’s getting pretty friendly,” Harry says, low and close. “All quite flexible it seems.” He gestures to Crystal blowing smoke into Posey’s open mouth. Crystal bites his lip, and he pulls away, giggling. “Are you flexible too?”
Dylan blinks at Harry, at his big green eyes and flushed pink cheeks, close enough that Dylan could stick his tongue out and lick the end of Harry’s nose. Man, Dylan needs to reign in these sexy thoughts. “I flunked gym,” Dylan says, swallowing against the dry, smoked-out air. “I could hardly even touch my toes.” Harry laughs a little. Dylan watches his adam’s apple move.
From somewhere in the background, Liam asks, “Is this usually how these parties go?”
“Kind of, yeah,” Hoechlin confirms.
“Very good,” says Louis, sounding impressed.
Dylan stares into Harry’s eyes, caught. “You’re my favorite member of One Direction,” he confesses, quiet and rushed.
“You’re my favorite member of One Direction,” Harry says, adorably, a beautiful grin crossing his perfect face. OMG, Dylan thinks.
“Can I show you my,” Dylan starts before the thought drifts away from him - show him what? Something in his bedroom, but not his bedroom because that would be obvious even though how could this not be obvious - oh god why didn’t he plan this better? He’s blanking, he literally can’t think of anything in his room or on the planet that he wants to show Harry other than things way too personal to say aloud in mixed company. Fuck? Fuck. “Uh,” Dylan starts again. “Want to go to my room?”
Posey applauds. “Nice, bro.”
“Straightforward,” Niall says appreciatively. He tips his head back against Zayn’s collarbone. Zayn kisses him on the neck.
Crystal and Holland are making out pretty intensely, but they give him a thumbs up anyway. Bros all around, which Dylan appreciates, except can he please not have an audience right now, sweet jesus wow.
“Sure,” Harry says, flashing that handsome movie star grin at him. Dylan swallows a giggle and stands, offering Harry a hand up.
“So, this is my room,” Dylan says, once they’ve got the door shut, very nearly drowning out the catcalls from outside. Dylan thinks of it as helpful cheerleading because that’s nicer than thinking about how he’ll have to kill them all later. “What do you think?” When he turns to Harry, Harry’s closer than he expected. It’s like putting a pin-up in Teen Beat magazine right up close to your face and pretending the person is about to make out with you, not that he’s ever done that.
“Bed looks nice,” Harry says, his voice all low and seduce-y.
“It’s a Tempurpedic mattress,” Dylan says faintly.
Harry laughs a little, and kisses him.
Dylan’s not gonna lie, it’s rad. Harry’s like, really good at it, aggressive but in a gentle way like he just - really likes Dylan a lot, which, swoon. Harry gets his hands up underneath Dylan’s shirt, and Dylan lets himself be guided toward the bed, because if Harry Styles is trying to get in his pants then he’s uh, way up for it? Way up for it, yeah, in the sense that his dick is hard. Dylan’s not that complex a person, at the heart of things, and it’s Harry, holy fuck, Harry who’s handsome and actually super nice and sweet and seems to be into Dylan too, which, rad. Yeah, rad.
“So you actually like me?” Dylan says, once they’re nice and horizontal, legs tangled together. Harry’s all flush-cheeked from the kissing, and not that Dylan’s gonna die, but seriously, he might die because wow.
Harry looks down, smiling a bit shyly like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing to Dylan’s soul right now. “Louis and I watched all the seasons in like two days, I couldn’t look away from you. You make me laugh,” Harry says.
“Cool,” Dylan says, mouth gone dry. “I like your, uh. Face. And your voice. Really all of this is,” he gestured to Harry, “good, it’s all pretty good.”
“Thanks,” Harry says. He shifts closer, so their hips touch. He’s hard too.
“I also like your personality,” Dylan says belatedly, but he’s looking down at where their bodies meet so it’s sort of like he’s addressing Harry’s dick.
Harry spurns responding in favor of kissing him. Maybe that is the response; Dylan will take it, anyway, because Harry’s a good kisser, and Dylan wasn’t exactly wowing at conversational skills. Dylan doesn’t have any particular urge to pin Harry to the bed, though he likes the idea in theory, and Harry’s not so much leading either. It’s nice, the back and forth of it, warm and easy and still thrilling for all that. Dylan feels like he’s in high school again, trying to be quiet in his bedroom with a boy, the slow ramping up of need until he’s got his hands slipped up under Harry’s shirt and Harry’s gripping his hips, pulling him in so they can better rub against each other. Through the closed door he can hear a few of them laughing, Louis and Hoechlin the loudest, and he and Harry both smell a bit of weed smoke, brought in from the living room. Harry kisses him like they have all the time in the world, moves against him like that doesn’t matter because he wants Dylan right now.
“Do you want,” Harry says, his voice gone a bit husky. He cups the outline of Dylan’s cock in his jeans and Dylan’s heart trips in his chest from pretty much everything.
“I want,” Dylan says, moving into Harry’s grip. “All the things,” he finishes breathlessly.
Harry’s flushed face dimples into a grin. “Let’s start with this,” he offers, getting Dylan’s jeans undone and reaching into his underwear. Harry curls a hand around his cock and Dylan feels like he’s in high school once again, because this may as well be the first time anyone’s touched his dick for how soul-implodingly amazing it feels. The mere prospect of a handjob from Harry Styles, boyband member of Dylan’s dreams and also super cool dude, is enough to have Dylan’s hips twitching. Then he realizes that he gets to touch Harry’s dick too, and oh christ, maybe he should have begged his peers to pressure him into taking a hit off the pipe because everything in Dylan needs to slow the fuck down so he can properly enjoy this.
“I’m,” Dylan swallows, trying to locate words, “a little overwhelmed, so if I, like,” he tries, but the words choke off when Harry gets a really good grip on him and starts to stroke.
“I’m here for the whole week,” Harry says. He leans in, giving Dylan a pretty fantastic kiss while still keeping up the rhythm, because of course Harry Perfect Human Styles is good at everything, all at once, forever. He licks at Dylan’s lower lip, murmurs, “We can do this again, you know.”
“Awesome,” Dylan gasps, and curls his fists in Harry’s t-shirt, and comes. Harry works him through it, mouthing little kisses at Dylan’s jaw, his cheek, until Dylan’s got enough presence of mind to catch Harry’s mouth, giving back as good as he’s getting. Harry moves against him, more insistently now, and Dylan’s reminded of the fact that Harry’s still hard by the way that he feels it against his hip.
No big deal, just touching Harry Styles’ dick, just your run of the mill Friday. Dylan’s not freaking out at all. It’s a torturous journey, his hand traveling from Harry’s chest to the waist of his pants, but once Dylan gets there his mind seems to recognize that that erection is actually for him, so it’s a pretty good indicator that Harry’s having a good time, and he wants Dylan’s hand to be there, with the option of returning in the future as well, so that’s a good sign. Harry hides his face against Dylan’s shoulder, shifts his hips forward to get more of Dylan’s hand on him, and mumbles, “God, Dylan,” and Dylan’s only worry becomes how fast he can get Harry’s zipper down.
Of course Harry has a nice cock, thick and long, big by anyone’s estimation. Dylan gets his fingers around it, starts to stroke him, and then Harry’s basically clinging to him, letting out the most gorgeous helpless needy sounds, like he can’t quite believe this is happening either. “Dude, you’re so,” Dylan starts, but then he blanks out, overwhelmed by a surfeit of appropriately flattering adjectives. Harry doesn’t seem to mind his loss for words, he just presses himself as close as he can, thrusting into Dylan’s grip on him, nuzzling at Dylan’s jaw before pressing their mouths together in another biting kiss. He only pulls away from it to inhale a sharp breath, biting his own lip as he comes over Dylan’s fist, and Dylan stares unabashedly at him while he does it, shakes apart against Dylan’s body. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to make any stupid faces, just looks like a gay porn angel the entire time, eyelashes fluttering and all that. Dylan kisses him again, because it seems stupid not to.
They separate after a little while, settling onto the pillows. Dylan grabs a few tissues to clean them up. Harry zips himself back up, so Dylan follows his lead. “I’m so what?” Harry asks, after a moment. He bumps his knuckles against Dylan’s chest, so Dylan takes his hand.
“I don’t know,” Dylan says. “I think I was going to go with hot.”
Harry smiles, softer now, less predatory than before when Dylan hadn’t yet given in to his wily charms. “Hot’s good. Next time we should get naked.”
“Agreed,” Dylan says fervently.
When they leave Dylan’s room he almost expects them to be greeted with applause. They aren’t, but Niall grins and pumps his fist in the air when he sees them, with Zayn lazily echoing the motion from where he’s sprawled in Niall’s lap. Then Posey does it too, from where he’s draped across Zayn’s lap, a beautiful human chain of stoned bros. Everyone else is distracted by whatever they’ve got going on: Holland and Crystal have Liam between them on the couch, and Louis, Colton, and Hoechlin appear to be playing some kind of drinking game. It seems like only Dylan who’s been utterly thunderstruck by a boyband member, which is - okay, fine, because when he looks over at Harry, Harry’s already smiling at him, a bit shyly like he’s ever had anything to be shy about before and he’s rather enjoying the feeling.
“Fix me another drink,” Harry says. He reaches for Dylan’s hand, rubs his thumb over Dylan’s knuckles. Dylan feels like a swoon volcano ready to erupt, but he pushes that feeling down.
He’s not really very good about making drinks, but it doesn’t matter anyway. He and Harry just make out for awhile in the kitchen. They head back to living room afterward, Harry holding the drink he made for himself, Dylan with a few new hickies for the makeup team to be irritable about.
They are greeted with some applause this time.
“Did you not like the third degree burns yesterday?” Dylan asks, taking a sip. It’s loaded with milk and sugar, which isn’t usually how he takes it, but Harry’s British and hot as fuck so he decides it’s okay. “I thought they looked nice. Really brought out your eyes.”
“Shh,” Harry says. Dylan shushes, letting Harry take the tea away again, then letting Harry push him down onto the couch. “Crystal and Holland pulled Liam last night, he showed up wrecked with them this morning. I think Colton might have drove in with them too? They were all together.” Harry straddles his lap. Dylan tries super hard to care about what Harry’s saying. “When’re you gonna take me home, then?” Harry asks. He punctuates it with an non-conducive to conversation grind of his hips.
“Tonight,” says Dylan. “Soon. Now. What’s a job, anyway?”
“I dunno,” Harry says. He scrapes his teeth over Dylan’s throat. “It’s good though. I get to turn into a werewolf and attack you later.”
“It is good,” Dylan says, loving said job. “Why wait, though?” he asks, and Harry bites down.