“You’re looking ever so slightly less sunny than usual, Neil,” Louis says, ruffling Niall’s fringe as he walks past him to the bus fridge.
“Y’alright, Nialler?” Zayn hands Louis a Coke before he asks for it, sifting past the fleet of Pepsi cans. “Missing home?”
Niall shrugs. “Bressie can’t come out after all,” he says. He can still feel the frustrated pang of it. “Work stuff, I guess. I’ll see him in a few weeks, anyway, and all the rest of ‘em.” This was supposed to be his taste of home, though, and not a few other tastes, besides.
Harry, curled up on the counter—Niall still hasn’t figured out how Harry fits his limbs into such tiny spaces—beckons him in, and Niall tucks himself between Harry’s thighs and lets Harry rub his belly, stroke his hair. The others pile in, calling Liam from the back, and Niall can’t help but giggle when they start squishing him, hugging the breath from his lungs.
“Danger to my health, you are,” he mutters, but it’s happy, and he knows they’re pleased with themselves for cheering him. Niall likes about himself that he’s easily cheered; he hates anyone else feeling bad on his account. Which reminds him that he’d better send Bressie a more effusive text now he’s calmed down a bit.
“Alright, lads, give a man some breathing room,” he says, and they pile off him again, tripping over each other and landing some pinches as they go. He stays pressed into Harry, though, pulls out his phone to text Bressie with Harry still scritching at Niall’s scalp. “Ah, that’s nice, love, cheers,” Niall murmurs, not even sure Harry can hear him. Harry keeps it up, either way.
Maybe it’s not surprising, then, that Harry’s the one to notice Niall’s attitude isn’t completely fixed. Group hugs are a joy and a laugh, but they don’t actually fix things, usually, at least not things that aren’t about band dynamics or petty arguments. “You could fly your mum in, maybe?” Harry asks, in the quiet of Niall’s hotel room; Harry’s own is empty, but they might switch over to it if they get too many crumbs in this bed.
“She’s helping with the baby,” Niall says. “And it’s not really—wouldn’t help, y’know.”
“No?” Harry asks, and turns away from the window to study Niall’s face. “Can’t go out on the town, I guess.”
Niall rolls his eyes, because Harry’s just winding him up now, he can tell. Harry’s got a wretched poker face. “Subtle you aren’t, mate.”
Harry grins. “We could go pick you up someone, yeah? Someone all big and strong like you like ‘em. You’re not exclusive, right?”
Niall snorts. “Not hardly. But it’s not—I mean, imagine the newspaper headlines if I get caught. That’d be—” He rethinks his wording; Harry’s weirdly sensitive about some of Niall’s favourite words. “That’d be a bad idea.”
“Who do we know who’s big and Irish?” Harry muses, half to himself. “Or just big?” He twists his lips. “If we weren’t in Australia I could hook you up for sure. Nick’s got more available men in his contacts than I’ve got nipples.”
“So, five,” Niall says, as deadpan as he can manage it, and Harry sticks his tongue out. “Look, it’s fine. It’s less than a month, I think I can handle going without.”
Harry looks out the window again, the city glimmering beneath them. “I could, if you like.” He shrugs, and Niall fancies he can see the trace of a blush on his cheekbones. “Not the biggest in the world, but—”
“Sure,” Niall says, and it’s a surprise to him as much as Harry when it comes out of his mouth. “But—”
“No being weird because of the band?” Harry interrupts, and Niall makes a face at him.
“I know you wouldn’t do that,” he says. “No, I was gonna say—you gotta do it hard, yeah? None of your lazy romantic crap, that won’t be any kind of fill-in for Bressie.”
Harry raises one eyebrow, and then both together. “Didn’t think you’d want more’n a handjob, if I’d thought about it.”
“Well—do you not want to, then?” Niall asks, trying to hide his disappointment. Fuck, he’s hard as anything already. Harry can probably tell from where he’s sitting.
Harry gets up and walks over to the bed. “Oh, I definitely want to,” he says. “Get me your lube and get your clothes off, Horan.”
Niall laughs. “Sir, yes, sir.” He fakes a salute and drops his trousers, shirt long gone already. “Think I’ve got something slick in my bag, hang on.”
He can hear Harry taking off his pants—all he’d been wearing since about three seconds after they got inside the hotel room—behind him, and it kills his dexterity, makes his attempts to rifle through the bag clumsy. “Where the fuck are you—”
“Lemme help,” Harry says, dropping down behind him and pressing up against Niall’s back, the whole long length of him. Jesus. His arms come around Niall to help fiddle with the bag, and this, really, explains so much about Harry’s renowned seduction abilities. Even if he almost never uses them, he’s definitely got moves.
“Think I’ve got it,” Niall says, hearing his own voice fall breathy and wanting. It’s a very good thing he trusts Harry not to take the piss out of him later for this. He tugs the tube out, triumphant, and pushes it into the hand Harry’s settled on Niall’s thigh. “C’mon, then.”
Niall expects Harry to get up and guide them to the bed—not to shove Niall forward over the bag and grab his arse with both hands. “Hard, yeah?” Harry says, and pushes a finger into Niall, sliding in easy with the cool of the lube. Niall hadn’t even heard him snick open the cap of it.
“... yeah,” Niall agrees, belatedly. He’s got his elbows on the carpet and the bag under his belly, and he should probably shove it out of the way at some point, but right now it’s hard to care. He hasn’t been fingered in fucking ages—well, in at least a week and a half—and it’s just exactly fucking right.
“I can do hard,” Harry says, his voice low and soothing. “But you’ve got to be nice and slick and open for me first, so I can shove into you just right.”
That seems logical to Niall. To be fair, though, at this moment Harry could probably say something about winged dogs or the importance of weed killer for proper hair maintenance and Niall would agree with him. He settles lower on his elbows and hopes Harry isn’t planning to tease him for too long first, and maybe hopes a little that he is.
Harry pulls the bag away himself around the time he’s pushing a third finger into Niall, and Niall settles gratefully onto his stomach, just his arse in the air now. “Y’need a pillow?” Harry asks, and Niall lifts his head enough to shake it.
“I’ll come up higher when you start,” he says. “I’m conserving energy.” It’s hard to talk, a bit, over the feel of Harry’s fingers opening him up; it’s hard to do anything except just enjoy it, and maybe groan a bit.
“Mm-hmm.” Niall can hear the smirk. “Saving up energy to fuck back against me? Gonna try to ride me from underneath?”
Niall shivers, shoving back onto Harry’s fingers. “You gotta put it in me if you’re gonna talk like that, mate. ‘S just cruel like this.”
Harry reaches around Niall and runs his fist down the length of Niall’s cock, just once, too-loose and a complete bloody tease. “I hate you a lot right now,” Niall says, and devotes what’s left of his brain to finding the box of condoms he picked up at the airport. “Just fucking fuck me, yeah?”
“Yeah, ‘spose I could do that,” Harry murmurs. Niall hears the crinkle, the tear of the plastic, and then Harry’s lining up against him, fingers slipping out. “Hard, I think you said?”
“Use those fucking muscles, Styles,” Niall says, and he only just gets the sentence out before Harry’s shoving into him. Not all the way, but more than enough to make him gasp and rise up to hands and knees.
Harry fucks back and forth in tiny increments at first, building up the slide he needs. “You love it, yeah?” he asks, and Niall groans, digs his fingers into the carpet. “You love getting fucked.”
“Feel bad for anyone that doesn’t,” Niall mutters, and shoves back against him, because he can feel himself opening around Harry, really ready for him now. “Put your back into it or I’ll have to go find someone else, you—”
Harry’s next thrust cuts him off, which is probably for the best because of Harry’s sensitivity over completely normal and reasonable word choices. “Holy fucking hell, mate,” Niall manages once he gets his breath back, but it’s gone again a second later, Harry shoving back into him and starting to get into rhythm.
Niall can’t keep still, under it; the sharp shocks of pleasure make him want to move, need to move, writhing under Harry’s hands. “Ah, fuck,” Niall says, one particular gyration making Harry’s cock lose its place in him. “Sorry—”
“Stay here,” Harry tells him, yanking him close by the hips. His fingers are vise-tight, digging into Niall, and Niall spreads his knees a bit more and shivers in place instead, because he has no desire at all to interfere with the way Harry’s pounding him. He can picture it, how they must look right now, his own bum in the air and Harry’s big cock splitting it, Harry’s thighs flexing and his abs, probably, and the long muscles of his back. Next time, Niall is definitely going to have to be facing him.
They’re sliding across the carpet, now, and they’re both going to have rubbed-raw knees but only Niall’s going to have the satiated ache in his arse. Only Niall’s going to be able to run a fingertip over it tomorrow and almost come on the spot, remembering Harry’s hips going double-time as he started to get close.
Niall shoves an elbow under himself and frees one hand for his cock, desperate to come now he can feel Harry starting to shake, barely holding himself together. He’s making ridiculous noises, but Harry probably can’t hear them over his own panting, anyway, and besides that he’ll be done in a minute if Harry can just keep—keep—
They both keep more or less upright, thankfully, because rug burn on his knees and palms is all right, but Niall has experienced dickburn and he’s not keen to try it again. Harry pulls out before Niall’s quite ready for him to go, and Niall stifles a disappointed groan against his wrist, even though Harry’s right to do it before Niall gets too sore.
“We gotta do that again, yeah?” Niall asks, too fucked-out to overthink it.
“Give me half an hour at least, mate,” Harry says, wrapping Niall up in his arms and pulling him back against his chest. “Insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I meant—” Niall starts, but lets it lapse. Going again in half an hour sounds pretty good, actually. “Shall we get some food in the meanwhile, then?”
“Aces,” Harry agrees, and they detangle long enough to find the room-service menu.
By the time they finish the lava cake, pressed tight together and letting their hands stray, Niall’s pretty sure he can wait until London to see everyone again, no problem. He’s got plenty to distract him on this tour.