Harry brings a bottle of wine over for Christmas. “Did your mum buy that for you?” Nick asks, taking it and ushering Harry in.
“Yep,” Harry says, beaming and unashamed. He takes Nick’s guiding him in as an invitation for a hug, and then Nick’s got a bottle of what looks like excellent pinot grigio (thanks Anne) in one hand, a handful of Christmas crackers that he’d been taking to the dining room in the other, and a warm, bundled up popstar wrapped around his middle. Harry’s just tall enough that his cold nose presses against the base of Nick’s throat, and he huffs out a happy little sigh, like he hasn’t seen Nick in ages instead of three days.
“Cheers, then,” Nick says faintly, awkwardly returning the hug.
“You look nice,” Harry says, pulling back and giving Nick a once-over. Nick looks down at himself, at the dark green jumper his mum got for him and his worn jeans. It’s not anything special, but Harry’s a big giver of compliments and Nick’s learned to accept it.
“Thanks, so do you,” Nick says, because why not, Harry’s all pink-cheeked cheer and it’s pleasant to see, his curls sticking out from his winter cap. “Come in, come in, cold out there.”
Harry shuts the door behind him and shucks his coat, hangs it in the coat closet like the familiar creature he is, visited once and now he’s practically ready for Nick’s parents to adopt him. “What can I do?” Harry asks. “Are there vegetables to chop? Something I can braise?” he says hopefully.
“There’s a sack of potatoes with your name all over them,” Nick says. “Dad’s got a scalloped potato dish he thought you would like, he’s raring to teach you the recipe.”
“Ooh,” says Harry, delighted. He claps his hands together as he follows Nick into the kitchen, pausing to help Nick spread the crackers over the dinner table.
In the kitchen they meet Nick’s mum. She immediately pulls Harry into a hug. “You’ve gotten taller!” she says.
“He was here three weeks ago,” Nick points out.
“I might have gotten taller,” Harry says. He stands up straight, which does in fact make him look taller than his usual slouch.
“You look very handsome,” she tells him. “Doesn’t he look handsome, Nick?” She turns Harry around by his shoulders so he’s facing Nick again, so Nick can get a good look and properly assess the handsomeness of Harry Styles.
Nick looks Harry up and down, squinting a bit like he’s really thinking about it. He lets it go just long enough for a tiny frown line to appear between Harry’s eyebrows, then grins. “He’s alright I suppose,” Nick says.
“You ought to be nice to people on Christmas,” Harry informs him with a huffy look. He follows that up with a markedly not nice punch to Nick’s arm.
“He’s right,” Nick’s mum says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “Be nice, Nicholas.”
“Oh for god’s sake,” says Nick.
Nick’s actually shooed out of the kitchen, lest he get in the way of the gastronomic whirlwind his father and Harry are creating. He’s shunted off to the living room to stir at the punch he put together for dinner, so he adds more whiskey in vengeance and then pours himself a cup and settles onto the couch in front of the fire to read and stay unobtrusive. He’s not very deep into his book before Harry pads over in his stocking feet and sits next to Nick on the couch, taking one of Nick’s hands off his book and then nudging up close and settling Nick’s arm around his shoulder. Then he reaches over and steals Nick’s cup, taking a long sip.
“I’ve just made the best potatoes ever,” Harry announces, keeping Nick’s cup and settling in for a cuddle. Nick sighs and sets his book down.
“You wrangling to take my place here, Styles?” Nick asks. “Cooking with my dad, fawned over by my mum. You’ll just slip right in and they’ll forget they ever had a black sheep of a radio host in the family.”
“Not much use if you’re not here, though,” Harry says, looking up at Nick with those awfully big green eyes, his cheeks already flushed red from the heat of the fire and likely a bit from the punch he’s swigged. He looks away too quickly, closing his eyes and nuzzling his face into Nick’s sweater. He’s an odd little creature, Harry, and it’s a strange thing that Nick even knows that - that he managed to go from an inappropriate crush on this curly-haired dimple-cheeked popstar in the making to actually having Harry on his couch, his parents’ couch even, round for Christmas per Nick’s mum’s invitation. “Besides, your dad still slipped and called me Henry once. I don’t think I’m quite in the family yet.”
“Yet,” Nick repeats darkly.
“Shh,” says Harry, punctuating that by pressing his fingers over Nick’s mouth like that’ll keep him from speaking further. It only lasts a second before he drags his fingertips over and then pats Nick’s cheek. “Your mum told me to have you call your brother and tell him to stop and pick up some more whiskey for the punch.”
“Call,” Nick scoffs, getting his phone out of his pocket carefully so as not to jostle Harry from his place, as god forbid he disturb a sleeping pet or a cuddly popstar. He sends on a text and waits for the reply. Harry’s polished off Nick’s cup of punch and appears to be going in for a nap.
Nick lets him. It’ll be a long evening.
So long. The longest evening. By the time supper’s gone Harry’s practically on Nick’s lap, leaning against him at their places at the table, growing increasingly joyful every time someone compliments his potatoes until he’s burying his blushing face in Nick’s shoulder and gripping tightly onto his arm like he needs Nick to anchor him in place so he won’t flutter straight up to heaven. Nick is trying not to find it enchanting, oh how he is trying, but everyone else in his family seems to have given in to the Styles charm so why bother, really? Nick’s caught up in the spirit of merriment and the whole party’s on the second bowl of punch, the conversation as loud and sparkling as the gaily decorated dining room. ’Tis the goddamned season, if you ask Nick. He has an extra helping of pudding and doesn’t even think about the terrible exercise things his trainer will force him to do as penance.
The party moves on to the living room and of course Harry hangs back to help clean up the table. Nick’s half-tempted to just laze about and appreciate the seventeen-year-old manservant (boyservant?) realness that Harry’s bringing, but instead he deigns to help if only to get them back to the living room more quickly, where they can settle somewhere comfortable and enjoy themselves.
Nick’s caught up enough in the clatter of dishes and strangely soothing rhythms of putting away leftovers that he neglects to take his usual careful way around the mistletoe that his mischievous Christmas elf of a sister always manages to stick up in the kitchen doorframe. He’s going back to the dining room as Harry’s coming out of it with a pleased, “The table’s all cleared! Let’s have more punch,” and then there they are, Harry’s gaze drawn up by the way Nick’s staring at the dastardly parasitic love weed dangling above their heads. “Oh,” says Harry, his voice coloured with something Nick can’t quite identify.
“You don’t have to -“ Nick starts, but then Harry leans up on his tiptoes, his palms warm on Nick’s chest, and gives Nick a kiss. It feels like a Christmas present, warm and unexpected and full of happy things, and so Nick accepts it, letting his eyes slip shut, taking the soft press of Harry’s lips for what it is. It lasts longer than he expects and is still over in just a moment, and then Harry pulls back with a startled look, his back bumping against the doorframe.
Harry’s eyes are wide and barely green at all, his pupils are so dilated; for a moment Nick’s scared that he might have taken advantage of a drunk teenager somehow, but Harry kissed him and he just sort of stood there, and anyway damn his sister for always putting up stupid mistletoe. The strange shock on Harry’s face vanishes in a moment, though, and then he’s grinning at Nick again, ducking his head and giggling a little. “Merry Christmas to you too, Harry,” Nick says, otherwise at a loss. “Shall we join the others?”
“I think so, yes,” says Harry, and leads the charge with a first stop at the side table so he can pour them some more punch.
Everyone filters out like the last drops of coffee in the pot until it’s late, just gone eleven o’clock. Nick’s parents retire to bed, leaving Nick and Harry still on the furry rug in front of the fire, lounging and soaking up the last bits of warmth from the embers. They could move up to the couch, Nick supposes, but it’s nice here, curled up with their legs crossed, half-empty cups of warm mulled wine sat on the brick hearth, lit by nothing but dying firelight and the fairy lights strung up around the corners of the room, colored ones blinking around the Christmas tree.
“We’re basically a Norman Rockwell painting right now, you realize that,” Nick says, low and amused.
“Mmm,” says Harry. He squints at the fire for a second and then, casual as anything, pulls his jumper off over his head and sprawls out shirtless on his stomach, rubbing up a little against the rug. “’S hot,” Harry says, which Nick had gathered.
“Less of a Rockwell look now,” Nick says faintly.
“Always been more of a Dali man myself,” says Harry, shrugging. Nick watches his shoulders move with the action. He could reach out and touch Harry right now, set his palm between Harry’s shoulder blades and drag his hand down the winter-paled line of his spine.
“I could see how a surrealist view of the world would appeal to someone with a life like yours,” Nick says, keeping his hands to himself even though Harry’s somehow managing to radiate, through his posture alone, a desire to be petted. Nick’s very pleasantly intoxicated, a warmth that hasn’t progressed to drunkenness, only perhaps a need to sprawl. He doesn’t give into that urge either, since Harry’s taking up most of the rug, his head of curls a bare inch from Nick’s knee, like a new pet too timid to go for the lap.
“Yeah,” says Harry, a trifle reflectively. He digs his fingers into the fur rug, arches up a bit in a nice stretch. “I mean I can’t believe I’m here lying about with Grimmy off Radio 1. It’s mad. Clocks’ll be melting soon.” He flutters his eyelashes at Nick, rubs his cheek against Nick’s knee just briefly.
“You’re a beast,” Nick tells him, and punctuates it with a ruffle of his curls, which is allowable now that Harry’s teasing him.
Harry scrunches his face up happily, leaning into Nick’s fingers in his hair. “No, I’m serious. You’re really cool. D’you know you were the first famous guy I ever fancied?”
Nick’s fingers still in his hair, matching the halt of his heartbeat. “You fancied me?”
“For ages,” Harry says. “Back when you were on T4. I thought you were so cool, you know.” He leans up on his elbows, looking Nick straight in the eye. Nick finds that he can’t look away.
“What do you think now, then?” Nick asks. “The thrill is gone, is it? You’ve realized I’m not very cool after all?”
“Nick,” Harry says softly, and puts his hand on Nick’s thigh.
It’s been three months since they’ve started hanging out and he sees Harry all the time. It just seems that Harry’s always there, always wanting to get together; he’s ended up coming along with Nick to so many things, parties, gigs he’s DJing, coming round when his family’s in town and going out to dinner with Nick and his parents. And Nick kept waiting - for Harry to get bored, or to get bored himself like he does with people sometimes, the shine rubbing off and leaving a person with annoying quirks who demands too much of his attention.
But it’s been different with Harry, who slotted himself into Nick’s life like a piece Nick hadn’t known was missing. It’s been easy, and Nick’s done a fine enough job of ignoring how damnably good-looking Harry is, still as oddly magnetic as Nick found him when he was just a kid on X Factor with curls and charm to spare. It was a silly crush Nick had on him then. He doesn’t know what he has on Harry now, what to call it, but he puts his hand over Harry’s on his thigh, and it isn’t to push him away.
“Do I need to go linger around the dining room some more so I can get you under the mistletoe again?” Harry asks. He leans up slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook Nick, like Nick’s the one who should be nervous here. “Should I take off another bit of clothing?” he asks, that cheeky grin edging up, quirking the corners of his mouth.
“Good god,” Nick says, maybe breathlessly. “How long has this been a seduction? What’ve I missed?”
Harry doesn’t answer, just ducks his head, laughs a little. Nick touches a fingertip to his chin, tilts his face back up, and there’s still the faintest twinge of fear in his heart that Harry might be winding him up, but he doesn’t let it stop him from leaning in and kissing Harry.
Harry kisses back, tentatively like he means it this time and wants Nick to be impressed, letting Nick lead. And honestly Nick’s not sure that’s the way this should go - it’s all clicking together in his head now, the moments he’s brushed aside, the looks Harry’s given him, a hundred tiny things that he’s ignored because Harry couldn’t possibly - there was just no way. It’s not like Nick’s ever had difficulty pulling a teenager, or even a closeted popstar, but even when he’d had a drunk Harry falling asleep on his shoulder in a cab after a night at the pub, or very shirtlessly making him breakfast after bunking up in Nick’s guestroom on one of said evenings, Harry had still seemed out of reach. God knows Nick would have given it a shot if he hadn’t.
Nick lets the kiss go on, gives into what he’s wanted and lets Harry have what he needs in turn, going with it when Harry curls his fist in Nick’s jumper and drags him downward so that Nick’s poised over him. Nick has to blink a few times before he can properly take it in: Harry on his back on the fur rug, warm bared skin and green eyes dark, his lips pinker even than usual. Christ, he’s coming over all nervous now. Usually Nick’s the one in control, he goes after what he wants if he thinks he can get it, and then he leads from there. Nick doesn’t hook up much so when he does it makes sense to get it as good as he can before he’s sending another pretty boy out the door with cab fare and a thank you kiss.
But this is Harry. “You ought to tell me what you want,” Nick says, and rubs his thumb over Harry’s soft cheek, cups his face. Harry leans into the touch, reaches for Nick and squeezes his forearm, a gentle point of contact.
Harry swallows. “I want whatever you want,” he says. He pets at Nick’s sweater, grips his elbow like he needs it to ground him, like he’s grateful for any touch he can have. Nick lets his own hand slip downward, around the curve of Harry’s neck, his shoulder. His skin is so hot, from what they’re doing and from the fire, perhaps still from the mulled wine and the punch before. Harry seems sober enough, though. He seems scared. “I mean I want - I know you don’t really do, like, relationships. So I’m not asking you for that. And it’s not like we could be,” Harry shakes his head, looking pained, and Nick’s heart hurts a little, for him, “be a thing, you know, publicly. Because of the band. At least not right now. But I like you,” he says, sitting up a bit. “I really like you, Nick.”
Nick closes his eyes, has to so he can gather his bearings. Nothing quite like asking a boy what he wants you to do with his body and having him answer with what you might do with his heart. It makes Nick want to run, it makes Nick want to kiss Harry and not stop. There’s no happy medium there, but Nick supposes Harry’s had enough of in-betweens. “I really like you too,” Nick says, because Harry deserves that, at least.
Harry smiles, a bright, brilliant grin that Nick just can’t look at for too long before he has to kiss Harry again. So he does, and Harry makes a pleased sound against his mouth, sliding his fingers into Nick’s hair, kissing Nick a little more aggressively than before, a little more sure of himself now. That’s great, though Nick can’t say the same; he feels spun, off-kilter, trying to adjust to living in this world where Harry Styles wants him back. He likes it here, but it is new.
Harry pulls back a bit, strokes his thumb over the top of Nick’s spine, says Nick’s name as he leans their foreheads together, and Nick’s going to lose it, he is. This is too much. Harry’s too warm, too close, and Nick’s heart is pounding like he hasn’t felt it do in years. “Can we,” Harry starts, but then the fire crackles, a bit of kindling falling with a pop, and Harry jumps back with a yelp.
“All right?” Nick asks, alarmed, as Harry twists to look at his back, reaching up to feel at it.
“Bit of ash got me, or something,” Harry says, frowning. Nick takes his shoulder, leans in to look at the small red mark over his shoulder blade. Harry’s shirtless in Nick’s childhood home, he’s just been kissing Nick and already there are injuries. Nick laughs, a little hysterically, and Harry frowns at him. “Oh, laugh at my pain then.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Nick says, though it’s really more of a gasp because there are more giggles rising in his throat and he refuses to let them out. He pulls Harry closer to him, brushes a gentle thumb over the tiny mark and then leaves a kiss there, a soft one that makes Harry swallow audibly and lean in closer to him. “Do you think you’ll live?” Nick asks, close enough that he can feel how warm Harry is, hot all over.
“Yeah,” Harry says, exhales. “We should go up to your room. Shouldn’t we?”
Yes, of course Nick should take a seventeen-year-old popstar up to his childhood bedroom and lie down with him. Of course he should sleep with a boy who’s become one of his closest friends in a bracingly short span of months. Harry reaches for Nick’s hand, tugs until Nick lets him twine their fingers together, and then that’s what they do.
Nick’s aware of every sound, the creak in the third stair, Harry’s muffled curse when he bumps into the corner of the wall. He keeps hold of Harry’s hand until they’re in his room, moonlight streaming through the windows. Harry bumps into his back when Nick stops walking, and easy as anything he winds his arms around Nick’s waist, rubs his face against the curve of Nick’s shoulder. “What do you want to do?” Harry mumbles. Nick turns his head and only catches Harry’s eye for a second before Harry hides his face, kisses the back of Nick’s neck where it just meets his sweater.
Keep you, Nick thinks. He curls his hands into fists, digs his nails into his palms. He wants Harry around, he wants Harry along with him when he goes places, Harry leaning against the wall and smiling at him while he DJs, coming with him to parties and charming all his friends, lounging around next to him on the couches at Shoreditch House and drinking Nick’s drinks and stealing Nick’s jacket when he gets cold. He wants Harry at his house at Christmas and in his bed at night, and all of those things, Nick supposes, he can have. Has had already, most of them. It’s worrying just how easy it is to picture a future with Harry in it.
“I haven’t done much with a guy,” Harry says. He rubs his cheek against Nick’s shoulder, and Nick swallows, turns around in the warm cage of his arms and kisses Harry again. Harry’s eager for it, pressing himself against Nick and getting his hands up underneath Nick’s sweater. It feels good enough that Nick stops thinking for a minute, just lets himself be there - kissing Harry, feeling Harry against him. He fists his hand against Harry’s spine and drags it downward, and Harry makes a desperate sound against his mouth, pulls Nick close and then closer, guiding him back until they hit Nick’s bed and Harry sits down on it, looking up at Nick.
Nick opens his mouth to say something, but then Harry goes for his belt and Nick loses track of words. “Take your shirt off,” says Harry. He keeps his eyes on Nick as he unbuckles Nick’s belt, thumbs open the button of his jeans and takes down the zip, no fumbling at all like he’s practiced at this. Nick feels like a fucking virgin. He gets his jumper off and worries about the state of his hair and then he’s got Harry Styles looking up at him from his childhood bed like some fantasy out of Nick’s school years, when he was awkward-looking and gone on the blue-eyed brunet from the boys’ choir in Year 11. Nick’s got a type, maybe, that he likes to fuck, but he can’t say there’s anything he looks for particularly in a boyfriend because he never really has those. Harry’s got boyfriend written all over him, his eyelashes fluttering pleas for love, and Nick isn’t ready for this and he still isn’t going to stop. He pulled the choir boy the summer before college anyway, let it not be said that Nick doesn’t know how to handle himself in the bedroom. In this bedroom, actually. For god’s sake.
Nick pushes Harry back a bit, and Harry lets it happen, crawls properly onto the bed and stretches out, shucking his trousers and leaving him in nothing but his pants, stretched tight across his cock as he reaches for Nick. Nick licks his lips, meaning to ease Harry into this but Harry spreads his legs, pulls Nick on top of him and arches up for a kiss, and that’s it then, Nick’s gone. He gets a hand under Harry’s shoulders and pulls Harry up against him, their bodies pressed close as they kiss. Harry arches into him, moaning when Nick gets a hand around his thigh and pulls him in so they can thrust against each other better. Harry’s so warm. Nick’s drunk on the feel of him, the way he fits so perfectly under Nick.
When Nick pulls away it’s only to gasp for breath, a sharp inhale that stutters when he sees Harry’s face, his flushed cheeks and pink, kissed mouth. Harry blinks at him through half-lidded eyes and then says Nick’s name, so low it’s almost a moan. He’s moving under Nick with some urgency, but when Nick lets him up a bit Harry doesn’t try to struggle free, just pushes at their pants, trying to get them naked at the same time. It’s a clumsy effort, his first, and Nick’s pleased about it, pleased to see Harry desperate and thrown a bit off kilter. He reaches down to help work their shorts down their thighs, and then they’re bare enough that Nick almost forgets to kick his pants the rest of the way off in favor of taking both their cocks in his hand. Harry moans loud and then covers his mouth with his hand to stop anymore sounds escaping, his eyes wide as he looks down between them, at Nick’s big hand around their cocks.
Nick knows on an intellectual level that what’s come before this is a fair indicator that this isn’t his only shot with Harry; he could get them both off like this, come across the trembling muscles of Harry’s stomach and then pull him close to sleep, save more for the next time they do this, and the next. But what if. What if this is it, a Christmas lark, some mistletoe mania, what if Harry’s just confused and thinks he wants Nick but doesn’t, what if he realizes he’s young and teetering on the edge of what’s likely to be a ridiculous level of fame that will let him get any young gorgeous girl or boy that he wants, that he could do better than a gadabout on the wrong side of twenty-five like Nick.
“I’m going to suck you off,” Nick tells him, and moves down Harry’s body, one hand on Harry’s hip so he can feel how Harry bucks up at that.
“Yeah, please,” gasps Harry. Nick never could resist a polite boy. He moves his hands to Harry’s thighs, pushes them into a wider spread so he can lie between, and then gets his hand on Harry’s cock, angles it into his mouth.
Harry’s had to have gotten blowjobs before, but Nick might not know it from the needy little cry that Harry lets out, like he’s never felt something so fine, like Nick’s mouth on him is a revelation. When Nick glances up Harry’s staring down at him, and Harry reaches to touch him, his hand on Nick’s cheek not to guide him, but just to touch. It’s painfully charming, and it makes Nick want to please him. Fucking popstars and their fucking charisma. Nick ought to be made of sterner stuff than this, have some resistance built up by now, but even if such a thing could be bottled it probably still wouldn’t change the way he feels about Harry. Harry keeps staring so Nick doesn’t look away, taking Harry’s cock in deep, showing off a bit.
Nick’s good at this, he knows what boys like. He pays attention to what makes Harry moan, what makes him gasp and brush his thumb softly over Nick’s cheekbone, what makes his hand fist in the sheets. Harry shifts his hips, gets one knee up and arches toward Nick, a curious move like - like’s presenting himself, fuck, offering himself up. Nick pulls off Harry’s cock, moves one hand to Harry’s arse cheek, letting his little finger drag over the very base of his spine.
“You can,” Harry says, swallows. “You should fuck me. I want you to.” He looks down at Nick, unblinking, the very picture of certainty except for a wobble in his lower lip, just seen. Nick strokes a finger down the crack of Harry’s arse, presses his fingertip to Harry’s hole, and Harry shudders. “Please,” he says. “It’s Christmas, you should give me what I want.”
Nick glances at the bedside clock, a little amused. “It’s Boxing Day now, Styles.”
“I don’t care,” Harry says, and slams a petulant fist down onto the bedcovers. “Do you want me to beg you?”
Nick doesn’t not want that, but he feels reasonably certain that if Harry does beg him, that he won’t really last long enough to give Harry the fucking he wants - needs, maybe, and Nick will take that one to bed later, the thought of Harry needing him. It’s odd that Harry wants to rush like this, but Nick’s not going to point that out lest he be seen presuming that this is more than it is. Whatever it is, Nick wants it. If this is all he can have, it’ll have to be enough.
There’s lube and condoms in the bedside table still from the last time he brought a fuckbuddy around, and Harry bites his lip as he watches Nick grab for them. His eyes are almost all pupil when Nick looks back at him, green almost swallowed up, his cheeks ruddy and the flush creeping down his chest. Nick feels silly for staring, and then not silly at all - he can, can’t he? He can stare, he’s allowed. But then once he’s looking at Harry’s face it’s not enough, and he has to look at Harry’s body too, the rise and fall of his chest, his hard nipples, the little outlines of his abs. His slim thighs, parted to let Nick between, and his cock so hard it looks like it hurts. Nick slicks his fingers up, presses them to his hole and then slides one right in, and that looks good too, his finger sunk deep in Harry, the helpless twitch of Harry’s hips and the look on his face as he tries to swallow a moan.
“More,” Harry gasps, so that’s what Nick gives him, nudging another finger slowly and surely in, opening Harry up for his cock. Harry’s squirming already, like he’s trying to get closer and then trying to get away until he’s simply working his arse on Nick’s fingers, thrusting back onto them like Nick isn’t moving quickly enough. It seems pointless to ask if he’s alright so Nick doesn’t, just licks his lips and eases a third finger into Harry, all three tucked almost painfully close in the tight heat of him.
Nick can be remarkably patient when it suits him but it doesn’t suit him now, not one bit; his cock aches at the thought of being inside Harry. God, he wants Harry so badly he’s near to doing something drastic, like telling him that.
“Nick,” Harry groans, sounding young and desperate, flushed with the shock of a new pleasure. He reaches for Nick and Nick goes to take his hand before he realizes that Harry’s trying to reach for Nick’s cock and he gasps out a little laugh at what a sight it is, Harry gone enough to have lost words, left physically grasping for what he needs. “Come on,” Harry says, apparently finding a few words to pair with his huffy little frown. Nick withdraws his fingers and Harry goes a bit frantic, his eyes wide and a, “No, please,” escaping his lips, like he thinks Nick’s going to deny him entirely, like he thinks Nick ever could -
“Steady on, I’ll give you what you need,” Nick says, sliding a hand down Harry’s soft thigh, and Harry nods gratefully, scooting a bit closer like he needs to get Nick’s cock in him that half-second sooner. He watches greedily as Nick rolls the condom on and slicks up his cock, but then once Nick’s moving in, fisting his cock into position Harry just lies back, his head on the pillow, looking up at Nick. He looks calm, trusting, awfully serene for someone who’s about to be with someone for the first time. Something tiny and foolish crawls up in Nick, some spark of jealousy at anyone who’s been here before him, anyone else Harry’s looked at this way - but that’s of no consequence, it can’t be. Harry’s here with Nick. That’s what’s important.
Nick doesn’t wait any longer. Harry shifts another inch closer, spread and wet for Nick, and Nick rubs the head of his cock over Harry’s hole, then leans forward, pushes in. He expects Harry to tense up, but he doesn’t, instead his mouth drops open in a little sigh. His fingers curl in the sheets but the rest of his body relaxes into it, and Nick’s able to push all the way in with one steady thrust into the tight heat of Harry’s arse, stretching him open on his cock until there’s no further he can go, pausing there buried in Harry’s body, watching Harry’s chest shudder in a rise and fall.
“Alright?” Nick asks, his voice cracking a bit on the final syllable, unavoidable. Something in him had to break for Harry, he figures. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder, a small comfort.
Harry nods, looking stricken and blissful at once. “Could you kiss me?” he asks, his voice small, and Nick leans in and does it, doesn’t thrust again until his mouth is sealed with Harry’s, licking in as he pulls out halfway and then thrusts back into Harry’s body. He mirrors the movement with his tongue, and Harry sucks on it, eagerly like he needs something in his mouth just as badly as he needs Nick’s cock in his arse. Nick gets his arms under Harry, lifts him up close and bends him nearly in half so he can fuck him more easily. Harry curls his legs obligingly around Nick’s waist, gasps against Nick’s mouth and wraps his arms around Nick’s shoulders, holding on just as tightly.
Nick wants to say something further, affirm that Harry’s okay, but when he pulls back for the breath to do it Harry just looks at him like his heart’s in his throat and he can’t speak past the presence of it, so Nick chokes back any words that might have been rising in him. Better to keep quiet than accidentally say too much; Nick’s made a career on words, he knows damned well by now when he should and shouldn’t speak.
So he focuses, gets a hand beneath Harry’s arse to angle him right so he can fuck Harry how he wants, hard and steady, each rough push in pulling helpless little cries from Harry’s throat. Nick reaches further down and touches the base of Harry’s spine, then lower between his cheeks, feeling where he’s stretched around Nick’s cock, and Harry shakes beneath him, digs his fingertips into Nick’s shoulders and arches his hips up so his cock brushes hard and needy against Nick’s stomach. Nick expects him to give up soon enough, reach down and take himself in hand, but instead Harry bites his lip in fierce concentration, rubs his cock against Nick’s torso when Nick thrusts in deep and clenches down around him when Nick drags out like he’s trying to keep Nick inside.
It feels fucking amazing, and of course it figures that Harry would be spectacular at this, even though Nick has the sneaking suspicion that Harry’s learning as they go along. Fair enough though, who isn’t? Nick leans in and kisses Harry because he can, biting Harry’s lip himself, and Harry slides his hands down Nick’s back to his arse, grabbing on like he’s trying to pull Nick in even deeper. Nick is once again fucking charmed. God help him.
Of course Harry knows what he’s doing, knows how to get himself off far better than Nick did at age seventeen. Harry gets a tight grip on Nick’s arse and practically holds him in place, grinding himself back on Nick’s cock, using him to get off in a way that should be far more frustrating than it is. Harry stills for a long moment, gasping with Nick all the way inside him, and comes looking Nick in the eye. His lower lip trembles a bit and there’s a flush high in his cheeks but Nick would barely know he’s coming other than the obvious physical indications between them.
Nick’s got some remark on the tip of his tongue but Harry swallows it in a kiss, pulling Nick insistently down and only letting him up to groan, “Please, I want to see you come,” as if he thinks Nick means to leave already. Nick sure as hell doesn’t, and if Harry’s going to hand out requests than he supposes he ought to fulfill them. He tangles a hand in Harry’s curls and tugs his head back, Harry’s lips parted and tongue still licking out, holds him there so he can focus on fucking Harry, pounding in now.
Harry just stares up at Nick through glazed eyes. Nick could fucking eat him up, greedy for everything Harry will allow him in a way that he hasn’t been for anyone in years. Harry reaches up and just touches Nick’s face, that’s all, and Nick’s gone, holding tightly to Harry’s hip and coming deep inside him. It feels like his orgasm lasts for ages, and through it all Harry keeps touching him, hand soft and stroking Nick’s face like he’s fascinated by the feel of his skin.
Nick’s sorry to have to pull out of him, but of course he does, kissing Harry in apology when he winces. He gets rid of the condom and lies down beside Harry, and Harry immediately curls up against him, resting his head against Nick’s chest, his fist over Nick’s heart. “Happy Christmas,” Harry mumbles. Nick laughs a little, rubs Harry’s shoulder and pulls him in to snuggle closer.
“Happy Christmas to you too, Harry,” Nick says softly, and with Harry in his arms he falls asleep.
Nick wakes up naked and covered in teenager in his childhood bed. He thanks whatever non-judgmental god might be paying attention that he’s gotten his parents out of the habit of trying to wake him up in the morning ever, because Harry might have been secretly riding the son-in-law track this whole time apparently but Nick’s not really interested in explaining his intentions toward this youngster to his mother before he’s had his first three hundred cups of coffee. Harry makes a disgruntled sound at his stirring and Nick is hatefully delighted by it. It’s far too warm under all the blankets and all the Harry, and the sunshine streaming in the windows seems to imply that it’s at least gone eight. Nick could use coffee one of three hundred about now.
He shifts up to check the clock and then there are definitely, definitely teeth in his collarbone, not a hard bite but not one he feels the need to encourage. “Alright then, you tell me what time it is,” Nick says to the cranky cannibal at his throat. Harry lets him go, licking over where he bit, and Nick gives into it, settles back. He runs a hesitant hand up Harry’s bare back and it seems to please him. Nick has officially tried to get up and slink out to let Harry alone if that’s what he wants, and Harry has cuddled him insistently back into place. Further action depends on the teenager now, because haha, Nick’s love life.
“Time to go back to sleep, it’s early,” Harry mumbles. Nick can feel his lips move, his breath warm on his throat. It’s awfully pleasant. Nick doesn’t wake up with people much. He shouldn’t ought to start, either. But do popstars really count as people? These are the questions Nick asks himself.
“Could be breakfast on,” says Nick. “My dad makes a great omelet, just stunning really. Mushrooms and all that. And Mum’s very adept at mimosas, we could have a few of those to welcome the morning.”
“Are you suggesting I get you drunk again so it'll be easier to convince you to have sex with me?” Harry mutters, and it’s said so casually that it takes Nick a moment to process it. His heart trips for half a terrible beat and then Harry laughs, low and positively evil. Popstars are definitely not people. They are devils, the lot of them. Nick is sure of it.
Nick flicks his fingers against Harry’s lower back in punishment, and Harry makes an appreciative little noise, which was not what Nick was going for but okay. “You’re a wretched child,” he says to Harry.
“That’s not what you said last night,” Harry tells him, eyelashes aflutter.
“Dear christ,” says Nick.
It’s a valiant fight to convince Harry to put on his own damn clothes rather than snuggling into Nick’s jumper or, horror of horrors, rifling through the remains of his childhood closet and wearing one of his old school shirts. Harry’s mild huffiness over being denied the right to wear Nick’s clothes like a badge of honor doesn’t mitigate his clinginess at all as they head downstairs. He grabs for Nick’s hand and Nick doesn’t have the heart or the will or even the desire to pull away, so here they are, tromping down the stairs like cozy boyfriends or, or whatever the term is when people fancy each other and also have sex and also hold hands in one of their parents’ house oh god, oh god.
Harry’s got him in an iron grip as they walk into the kitchen. Nick’s mum is settled at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the Arts page while his dad’s stood over the cooker nudging at some eggs with a spatula.
“Morning,” Nick says a tad shrilly. Harry’s fingers are so entangled with Nick’s that he might never escape. So, this is what they’re doing.
His mum peers at them, lowering her reading glasses past her nose and focusing hawklike on their joined hands. “Good morning, boys,” she says. “Nicholas, is there something you’d like to tell us?”
Nick’s dad looks over too, and when Nick glances at Harry for help, Harry’s also looking up at him with big sparkling expectant eyes, because Harry is a dick. “Well, Harry is very handsome,” Nick begins, because saying the other thing seems like it would be poor form.
“Ah,” says Nick’s dad. “Is this why you were asking me about Nick’s past boyfriends yesterday, Harold? Declaring your intentions?”
“Really,” Nick says, interested. “Your intentions?”
“I did have intentions,” Harry says gravely. “Your dad told me you used to talk about me a lot when the guys and I were on X Factor. He said it was quite weird.”
Nick looks back at his father with a frown, but of course his editorializing conspirator of a parent has already gone back to his cooking. “First omelet’s up,” his dad announces, sliding it onto a plate.
“Mine, thanks,” says his mum, raising her hand. “Well, darling, you’ve done worse. Harry’s a lovely boy, don’t break his heart.”
“I’ve never broken anyone’s heart,” Nick protests. He turns to Harry. “Really, I haven’t. No one’s ever given me a heart to break.”
“Well,” says Harry. He looks down at their joined hands, raises them up and kisses Nick’s knuckles. There’s a flush creeping up his face, and Nick thinks that it might be as good a declaration of intentions as any. Harry holds on for a long moment, and then he bumps his nose against Nick’s collarbone, tilts his face up for a kiss. Nick gives it to him, brief and close-mouthed but in front of his parents, for god’s sake. Harry pulls back and laughs a little. “I call next omelet,” Harry says loudly.
“Damn it, Styles, I’m hungry,” Nick says, but then Harry gives him a merry grin, pulls away to take the omelet his dad’s just plated for him. He carries it triumphantly back to the table and sits down next to Nick’s mum, digging in.
“Too slow, son,” his father says. “You can have the next one. Why don’t you make your boyfriend a cup of tea?”
“Yeah,” echoes Harry, “why don’t you make your boyfriend a cup of tea?” He grins widely, then takes a bite of his omelet, managing to involve his tongue enough to make it look obscene.
“I’d like a cup of tea as well,” his mum adds.
Nick sighs at his life, but does it. And Harry fits in, like he has along.