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Not a Bear in a Balloon

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Harry pulls up at Nick’s on Saturday morning, right in the middle of breakfast.

“Glad you finally deigned to check in on me, popstar,” Nick says, and gets Harry a plate and some orange juice.

“Well,” Harry says, spearing a sausage. “At least you had that movie date with Fiona to keep you warm on Valentine’s. Too bad Laura stood you up.”

“Valentines dates with two separate ladies. That’s lads.” Nick grins, and Harry raises an eyebrow. “What? I can be laddy.”

Harry’s lip-twist isn’t exactly supportive. “Sure you can, love. That bear in a balloon wish, that’s as butch as it gets.”

“Just because I know how the nation likes to be entertained, Harold, doesn’t mean I can’t play the role if I so choose.”

Harry smirks like he’s won something. “Prove it,” he says. “Come in the hallway and show me your best straight man.”

Nick has, apparently, lost all control of this conversation. He squints over at Harry. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Harry turns and starts walking out of the kitchen. “Come show me what you’ve got.”

Nick stares after him for one long moment before he’s shoving his chair back. Whatever this is, Nick wants in on it, not least because he’s almost entirely sure it’s sex-related.

“Hey, there,” Harry says when Nick comes out of the kitchen. “Haven’t seen you around these parts before.” He’s leaning against the hallway wall, hip cocked out, looking—something. Confident, but that’s not enough to tell Nick where he’s going with this.

Nick shrugs. It’s easy to be noncommittal when he doesn’t know his part. “New, I guess.” Harry raises an eyebrow at him, inviting a follow-up. “And you, you’re not new? What’s a regular do for fun around here?” Nick asks. He leans up against the other side of the hallway, even though he’s pretty sure this won’t work if they’re both trying to be the cool one. Whatever. Nick’s way cooler than Harry. Well—he’s more attached to being cool, anyway.

Harry licks his lips, eyes dipping down to Nick’s zipper before they pop back up. It’s about as subtle as an explosion. “I just hang around,” Harry says. “You know.”

“Uh-huh.” Nick watches Harry’s throat move, and then Harry’s stepping over to him, shoulder against the wall, a little too close for a stranger.

“You, though,” Harry says, “Can’t think why a man like you’d be out on the docks, this time of night.”

The docks, honestly. Nick gets it now, the unsubtle leering and his own straight role. Harry, the posh little git, probably got his whole concept of trade from reading Forster. Nick can roll with it, though. “Maybe a man gets … lonely, sometimes, waiting for—”

“Marriage?” Harry prompts. Nick shrugs, not quite an agreement. He doubts he’d have waited for marriage even in a different century and a different sexuality. “There’s options for that.” He tips his chin down the hall, down the alleyway they aren’t standing in. “Madam—”

“Diseases,” Nick says. He doesn’t really want a sales pitch about prostitution from Harry right now; he wants to get to the good part of this fantasy. “Anyway, you trying to turn me away? Kind of thought you lot were up for it, maybe I heard wrong.”

That’s clear enough to make Harry lean in, lips parting. “All right,” he says. “Come ‘round the back, yeah? I’ll take care of you.” He doesn’t watch to see if Nick’s following him to the bedroom, just saunters off. His shoulder blades are outlined under his thin t-shirt, and Nick aches to touch them. After this, because Nick suspects there’s going to be very little touching in this scenario.

Nick settles his back against the bedroom wall when he gets in, and Harry slides in close to him, mouth by Nick’s ear. “Just close your eyes and picture some nice bird,” he says. “A mouth is a mouth, you won’t feel any difference. Promise.”

“Different for you, though,” Nick says, as Harry pulls his jeans open. “No way to pretend for you.”

Harry looks up at him, wraps his hand around Nick’s cock. “Yeah,” he says. “But this is exactly what I want.” He gives up on the banter, then, and just gets his mouth on Nick.

He skips all his usual preliminaries, and Nick would attribute that to just the alleyway rush of it all, except that it’s more than that. Harry’s going down on him with a fervor, like all their talking has just been him masking his desperation, and he can’t hold it back now.

Most of the time, Harry’s pretty lazy in bed. Thoughtful, definitely, but he doesn’t go in much for physical exertion. He likes slow fucks and pillows and letting Nick move him around. This is—this is Harry’s moan echoing halfway across the flat, his head tilting on every bob, his whole body getting into it. His thighs are moving as much as his shoulders are, rising and falling into every suck.

“God, you—you really want it,” Nick says. He keeps his hands on the wall, even though he wants to grab on. “They talk about boys like you, but you’re really—” Harry groans, vibrating Nick’s cock, and Nick thinks, yeah, okay. “You’re really a cocksucker, aren’t you? On your knees in an alley, fuck, I’m not even paying you, you’re just that desperate for a cock in your mouth.”

Harry’s hand drops into his own lap, fighting to get his jeans open. He manages it more by brute force than anything, arm shaking. His rhythm falters, just enough to give Nick some breathing room, a plateau that’ll let him keep talking.

“You—you don’t even care that I’m pretending you’re a girl, you don’t care about anything but sucking me off.” He pauses, because Harry’s noises are making it hard to manage complete sentences.

Harry pulls off him, gasping, hand picking up the rhythm. “Keep—in case you’re worried I don’t—please keep talking, please, I—”

“Cocksucker,” Nick says, and Harry’s whole body jerks, hips pushing into his hand. He catches Nick’s eye for one long moment and then he’s sucking him again, cheeks hollowing. “Can’t get enough of it, you—fuck—you’ll come down to the docks and suck anyone off, just to feel their fat cocks in your mouth.” His knees are shaking, now, too close, and he presses himself into the wall and fights to stay standing.

Harry’s hand is whipping on his own cock, almost a cartoon blur of movement, and Nick wants him to come like this, on his knees moaning because he’s got Nick halfway down his throat. “Gonna come just from this, just from getting on your knees for a stranger, just—” Harry’s whole body rises, back curving, and Nick stares down at the picture he makes.

He’s too gorgeous like this, come dripping over his knuckles, eyes squeezed shut. Nick—Nick can’t pretend to be straight, can’t pretend the sight of Harry doesn’t make him just as desperate. “God, you’re—beautiful, so—I need—”

It’s over in a few long moments, Nick’s brain whiting out as his head conks back into the wall hard enough that he’s glad for the padding of wallpaper and plasterboard. He lets himself sink down, knees folding, until he’s tucked up in front of Harry.

“Christ, Harold,” Nick says, and draws Harry’s forehead to his shoulder, gets his hands, finally, in Harry’s hair. “You really got into it.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice is muffled, but he’s turning his face into Nick, not away, pressing it into Nick’s neck.

They’re both still dressed, except for their softening cocks sticking out, and if someone were watching, Nick can’t imagine it’s a particularly attractive sight. But it’s just them, and Nick’s pretty damned attracted to everything Harry does, even the appalling way he eats whole onions like they’re apples.

It's long minutes before their breathing evens out, and Nick's legs are starting to ache by the time Harry finally sighs and raises his head off Nick's shoulder.

“If we’re going to cuddle, we could do it on the bed,” Harry says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nick tells him, but he knows that’s not very convincing. Fine, they’re cuddling. Nick can be the big man who admits it, he supposes.

They struggle to their feet and stumble over, stripping as they go, and Harry climbs under the duvet and holds it up for Nick.

“I don’t cuddle with men,” Nick says, as laddy as he can manage. Harry just snickers, waiting, and Nick sighs and climbs in with him.

“Finchy’d be proud.” Harry’s like a limpet, wrapped all around Nick, but Nick has to admit that isn’t really a complaint. “You were very butch.”

“I don’t think a lot of straight men go around dirty-talking their trade, Styles. If I’d been doing it properly, I’d have been staring at my eyelids and silently pretending you weren’t there.”

“Mmm. Well, I like your methods better.” Harry shifts a little against him, runs a hand over his hip. “Who needs verisimilitude?”

“Posh,” Nick tells him, and puts his nose into Harry’s hair. “So terribly posh, you. It’s a good thing for you I’m into your ridiculous, posh, cock-having ways.”

Harry huffs a laugh into Nick’s skin. “I’m grateful for it every day,” he says, and Nick resists the urge to diffuse it with a joke. It’s possibly he’s growing as a person or something.

“Me, too, popstar,” he says, instead. “Happy Valentine’s, then.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” he says back, and it’s a stupid holiday and he rejects it utterly, but this morning, it’s hard to care about that. “I’ll want a bear in a balloon next year, though.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry says, and kisses him.