Nick spends Saturday with Aimee, lying about on the sofa with curtains drawn and the telly on low. Aimee's grossly hungover, and to be honest Nick's feeling a bit that way himself, though he'd only had the one glass of wine the night before. He has a horrible suspicion that his headache and the queasiness in his chest are because of Feelings. What a fucking disaster. Caroline had literally said, when he'd asked why me, "Because I know I don't have to worry about you thinking it's anything other than a bit of fun."
Still, Nick’s an adult, and if he wants to ignore the mess he's making of his life in favour of watching old episodes of Neighbours, then that's what he's going to do. He resolutely doesn't think about Caroline or a certain curly haired popstar, consumes his own body weight in tea, and makes about a hundred trips to the toilet. He's had worse Saturdays.
Aimee goes to bed around nine, and Nick must drift off himself not long afterwards, because wakes on the sofa at midnight with a crick in his neck to the sound of his phone going off. Unknown number, the display says.
He gets to it just before it rings out. "Hello?"
"Hi. Nick? It's Harry. Styles."
As if he could forget. Nick's suddenly, abruptly, wide awake. He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and plants them on the floor. Casual, be casual. Probably Harry's just ringing to be polite, like, hey, thanks for the sex. Seems like the sort of thing he might do.
Nick clears his throat. "Hiya, Harry Styles. You alright?"
"Yeah." There's another pause, and then Harry says, sounding uncertain, "Is it alright that I rang? I, uh, got your number off the note you left."
"'Course it is." Nick's actually a bit surprised that Caroline had passed the note on; he'd half expected her to just chuck it in the bin. He shouldn't have left it in the first place, he knows, but he hadn't been able to help himself. "What can I do for you?"
"You said, like, I could ring if I wanted to talk?"
Definitely shouldn't have left it. Fuckity fucksticks. "Of course," he says. He’s just got to remember that Harry's Caroline's boyfriend. He can do this. "What's up?"
"Um. Actually, I - I was hoping maybe we could talk in person. Could I, like, come over there?"
Oh, God. "Now?" It's past twelve at night. Nick's unshaven and unshowered, in a pair of tracksuit pants that have seen better days. He is in no way prepared to deal with Harry Styles. To be honest, Nick's probably never going to be prepared to deal with Harry Styles, or Harry's hair or Harry’s face or Harry’s hands or Harry’s - other bits. Bits that Nick's not thinking about, because Harry is with Caroline. "Like, tonight?"
"Yeah. Sorry, is it too late? I figured you'd still be up, you know, Saturday night and all."
Nick's not going to admit that he's been napping on the sofa like an old man. He clears his throat. "No, it's - it's fine. If you'd like. Or maybe you could pop round tomorrow afternoon?"
"Can't," Harry says. "I'm going to Sweden with the boys for work."
Of course he is. "What about when you get back, then?" As if a few days'll be enough time for Nick to get over this - whatever this is. Inappropriate attachment to a teenaged popstar.
"Won't be back for a couple of weeks," Harry says. "But - that's okay. Never mind. It was - don't worry about it."
He sounds genuinely upset, and Nick suddenly realises: Harry's probably freaking out about having slept with a man, and here's Nick refusing to talk to him because he's a self absorbed twat. Shit. "No, no, hang on," he says quickly. "We can - tonight's alright, really, if it's important?"
"Really?" The relief in Harry's voice is clear. "That would be brilliant. I really - I didn't want to leave without talking to you about this."
Definitely a sexuality crisis, then. That's okay. Nick's rubbish at life advice generally, but he reckons he can do the sexuality crisis talk well enough. "Alright, then, popstar, tonight it is. I'm not far from Caroline's; I'll text you the address."
"Thanks, Nick. Honestly."
"No worries," Nick manages. "I'll see you in a bit?"
"Yeah. I'll have to call a car, but I shouldn't be more than half an hour. Thanks again for this."
He rings off.
Feeling slightly dazed, Nick lowers his phone from his ear and just sits there staring at the lock screen. What's he just agreed to? Also, he's now got actual Harry Styles' actual number in his actual phone. He's just made himself a mugging target for literally millions of teenaged girls. Not to mention all the other crap Nick's watched Caroline go through for hanging out with this particular popstar.
What the fuck is Nick getting himself into?
One minor nervous breakdown later, Nick manages to text Harry his address. Then he brushes his teeth and has a quick shower and changes his clothes, because he'd eaten baba ganoush straight from the tub for dinner, and it's rude to have someone round when you smell like sweat and eggplant. Not because there's going to be any funny business, because there isn't.
Harry's knock comes only twenty five minutes after he'd rung off, and it's so quiet Nick would have missed it, if he weren't lurking by the door waiting, cool as a cucumber. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, runs his tongue over his minty teeth, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
"Hey, Nick." Harry's slouched on his doorstep in a grey t-shirt, collar a bit stretched, and dark jeans with the crotch somewhere around mid-thigh. It's such a teenaged look that Nick feels weird for having him round at one o'clock in the morning, but then he remembers that Harry'd invited himself, and also that Harry deals with fame and stuff that Nick can't even imagine, on, like, a daily basis. He's not a kid, hasn't been for awhile.
"Hiya, Harry. You alright?" Harry's got a professional sort of bricking-it-but-trying-not-to-show-it smile on his face, and a spot next to his nose, and yet he's still ridiculously attractive. Not that Nick's noticing anything like that, because he’s just here to be a supportive pal. "Come in, don't hang about on the doorstep."
Nick's such a tactile person normally that it's weird not to give Harry a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, or something, as they pass. He's trying to be careful, though, let Harry be the one to initiate any contact until he can establish exactly what's going on.
"Sorry to, like, barge in on you like this," Harry says, once the door's shut.
"Hey, you rang first, didn't you?" Nick says, trying to keep his tone light. "So no barging involved."
Harry ducks his head quickly, then looks up again and has to push his fringe out of his eyes. "Yeah, but still. Thanks."
Nick's feeling flustered already and they’re barely in the door. "You're welcome, but you've got to stop being so polite, popstar. That's about the fifth time you've thanked me, and I've not even done anything."
For some reason that makes Harry blush. It takes Nick a minute, and then he realises. Ah. Yes. He'd called Harry polite last night, too, when he'd been balls-deep in Harry's arse. Right. He clears his throat. "Anyway, come on through. My flatmate's asleep but we should be right unless you're wanting to do karaoke or something."
"Nah, not tonight," Harry says, pushing at his fringe again. He really ought to stop doing that or Nick won't be held responsible for his actions.
Time for a strategic retreat to the kitchen. "Come on. Want a cuppa?" Nick asks over his shoulder as he leads the way. He'd really rather a proper drink, but he's just made a resolution not to ingest any potentially judgement clouding substances around Harry Styles.
Harry doesn't say anything other than, "Milk please, no sugar," whilst Nick makes the tea, but Nick can feel Harry's eyes on him. He keeps his own firmly on the mugs, the kettle and the teabags, and makes a bit of a song and dance about trying to find a packet of biscuits in the black hole that is the kitchen cupboard, but eventually the tea is made and there's nothing for it but to take Harry through to the living room. They've got two sofas, and Nick tries desperately not to read anything into the fact that Harry chooses to sit next to Nick rather than on his own.
"So," Nick says, after a long moment where Harry doesn't say anything. Nick's rubbish at silence, and it's eerily quiet in the flat at this hour. "You wanted to talk? What's troubling you, young Harold?"
"Yeah, um." Harry taps his fingers against his mug, opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then subsides again.
"Come on," Nick says, encouragingly. "Whatever it is can't be that bad."
"Yeah, okay.” Harry takes a deep breath. “It's - so, like, I've broken it off with Caroline."
"Oh." Nick's heart does a little leapy twisty thing in his chest, like one of those moves Olympic gymnasts do on the vault. "That’s. Are you - are you alright?" Surely Harry wouldn't come to Nick - Caroline's friend, however shit a job he's making of it right at this minute - for consolation? Also, he'd better not be going to get weepy. Nick's a bit useless when people get weepy on him.
"Yeah, I'm okay," Harry shrugs. "I mean, It was sort of my decision, and we're gonna stay friends. I hope."
"Good. Not - I don't mean good that you've broken up," although the fluttery feeling in Nick's chest says differently, fuck it, he's got to get himself under control, "but, like, good about the friends part?”
"Yeah." Harry's staring into his tea like it contains the secrets of the universe. "But, um. I wanted to tell you, because it was. Sort of because of last night?"
Shit. Nick's such an awful person, he should be feeling bad for Caroline, and he does, but he’s a selfish bastard as well. "Er, d'you mean, because." He doesn't know how to finish his sentence. Because of me, is what he really wants to ask, but he can't just come out and say it.
"Just, you know." Harry does a one-shouldered shrug. "Because it wouldn't have been right to stay with her, after that."
"Not right," Nick repeats. What does Harry mean? Nick's not fooling himself that Harry's suddenly decided he's gay, or anything. Nick saw him say pussy on national television, just like everyone else. Nick saw him go down on Caroline last night.
"Yeah," Harry says, as if everything's perfectly clear. "I really hate that I hurt her, like, I never wanted to, but I didn't want to lie to her either, you know? And it would've been lying, to stay."
God, Nick can't take this. "Lying how?"
"About how I felt. About, like, you and me." Harry's put his tea down and he's messing with his fringe again, like he's nervous.
"Harry," Nick says. His heart’s thundering away and he’s feeling a bit sick again. "What - "
"I came round ‘cause I wanted to ask you - " Harry interrupts in a rush, then drops his head. "Fuck. Listen. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a slag, but. I've had quite a lot of sex, and it's never been like that?"
Christ. "Harry - "
"I don't just mean, like, good." He looks up, hair in his eyes. "It was good, though, right?"
Pretty fucking amazing. Nick hasn't had a fuck like that in years, if he's honest. Actually, maybe never. He doesn't know what he's meant to say, though - he's got a vague idea that he shouldn't be encouraging Harry - so he settles on a sort of nod-shrug.
Harry seems to take it as agreement. "Yeah. So, you should tell me if I'm wrong, but, like. I kinda felt like there was more going on than just sex?"
Oh, Christ. Nick can't, he just can't. He's not a good enough person to deal with this. He blurts out the first vaguely adult-sounding thing that comes to him. "It was your first time, though, Haz. I told you it can mess with your head."
Harry shakes his head. "I really don't think that's it." He's starting to get a stubborn set to his jaw, which Nick remembers from last night - Harry'd looked a bit like this whilst insisting that Nick come in him, and thanks for that, brain, very helpful recollection there, just what he needs right now.
"Or - " he tries, "I mean, it could just be that you really like getting fucked? It might always feel that good for you, you don't know."
Harry shrugs. "I mean, I guess if you insist, I can see if I can find another bloke to fuck me - "
"No." Nick says it so loudly he freezes for a second afterwards, worried he'll have woken Aimee and then she'll want to know why there's a popstar in their living room at half twelve in the morning. There's no sound from her bedroom, so he goes on, more quietly, "No, don't do that. Definitely don't do that." Fuck, the thought of Harry with someone else is so viscerally wrong he feels ill.
"I don't want to."
Harry's watching Nick steadily, now, whatever nervousness he'd been feeling before apparently gone, and replaced with a self-possession that Nick doesn't think he's ever managed to develop despite being nearly a decade older than Harry. It's quite clear that Nick's no longer in control of this situation. He puts his tea down and spreads his hands over his knees, palms up. "What do you want, then?"
"You," Harry says, like it's that simple.
Jesus fucking Christ. Nick shakes his head. "Harry. We can't just - "
"Can I?" Harry interrupts. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he’s looking at Nick’s mouth, and his intent’s obvious.
This is the stupidest thing Nick’s done in his life. No, second stupidest: saying yes to Caroline about last night was clearly number one. Still, he nods.
Harry's hand on his jaw is warm and a bit sweaty. He's careful, eyes on Nick’s as he leans in, before he closes them at the last moment and presses his mouth to Nick’s.
It’s just lips. That’s it. Lips, and a hand on his face. It shouldn’t make Nick want to snatch Harry up and run away with him, somewhere they don’t have to worry about how this could fuck everything up so badly.
He doesn’t want to run from this, though. Nick lifts his own hand to Harry’s neck, threading his fingers through the errant curls, thumb resting on the angle of Harry’s jaw. Harry makes a little noise and shifts into him, mouth opening, and that's it, Nick's gone. The way Harry just gives, fuck. Nick thinks the kissing is probably what'd gotten him in over his head last night.
Ah, who is he kidding. He'd been fucked from the moment Harry'd walked into Caroline's kitchen, nervous and charming and utterly, utterly beautiful.
He really doesn't mean to let it go any further, but Harry's got his hands on Nick's shoulders and he keeps tugging Nick down until Nick's lying over him. Nick tries to keep his weight off Harry, keep a bit of space between them, but Harry's mouth is quite distracting and all of a sudden Nick's elbows give out and he collapses down with an oomph. Harry doesn't seem to mind being squashed: there's a glorious solidity to him, a thickness through his middle that Nick loves already.
There's another part of him that's quite thick, too. Nick can feel the hard length of Harry's cock pressing against him. He'd hardly started to get acquainted with it last night, but he remembers how fat and eager it was, how much he'd wanted to get his mouth on it, how much he'd wanted to feel it inside him.
"Okay?" Harry mumbles against Nick's lips, or at least that's what Nick thinks he says. Nick's a bit distracted.
"Yeah," he says back anyway. God, Harry's mouth. It's even better than he remembers, or maybe it's just that there's no Caroline here tonight, no constant distracting presence to remind Nick not to get too carried away.
It takes Nick a minute to realise that Harry's started rolling his hips up, rubbing his cock against Nick's belly. The sensible thing to do at this point would be to stop and pull back, which is obviously why Nick finds himself squirming a hand between them. Harry's jeans are loose enough that Nick can get a hand in with just the top button undone.
"Please," Harry gasps into Nick's mouth, when Nick's fingertips brush against the head of Harry's cock through the thin layer of his underpants.
He shouldn't, but he can't help himself. He gets his hand under the elastic and wraps his fingers around Harry's cock. He only manages three or four awkward strokes before Harry makes a little choked-off noise and his hips stutter up into Nick's hand, and then - oh God - he's coming, spilling warm and wet over Nick's fist.
When Nick sits back, they're both breathing hard.
"Sorry," Harry says. There's a hectic flush to his cheeks. "Fuck. I didn’t mean to - "
Nick shakes his head. "I - " he starts, then trails off, distracted. Harry's a mess: T-shirt rucked up around his tummy, flies open, the tip of his cock - still mostly hard, Nick notices - poking out from his messy underwear.
Nick's hand's a mess, too. He reaches blindly over his shoulder for the box of tissues he knows is on the coffee table and then there's a heavy clunk.
"Oh shit," Harry says, propping himself up on his elbows. "I didn't finish - "
"Your tea," Nick says. There's a big puddle of it, dripping off the coffee table onto the floor. At least it's missed the rug.
"Sorry," Harry says again, and he looks so ridiculous, lying there like the worst kind of sin and apologising for spilt tea, that Nick can't help but laugh, breaking some of the tension.
"S'alright, s'my fault. I probably should have been looking at what I was doing."
"Have you got, like, a mop or a towel or something?" Harry asks.
Nick does, but he'd have to move to get it, and that's going to be awkward right now. On the other hand, he's managed to go from being determined to keep this platonic to wanking Harry off in the space of about ten minutes, so perhaps a moment to get himself under control is a good idea.
"Yeah, hang on. Back in a tic."
Nick spends longer than strictly necessary in front of the airing cupboard, willing his semi to go away and trying to work out what the hell he's doing. He's fairly sure he hadn't meant to have sex with Harry Styles tonight. But then, he hadn't meant to get all feelings-y last night, either, and look how that'd ended up.
The problem, really, is that Nick's never been the best at self-denial. Maybe he could have just about managed it if Harry hadn't split with Caroline; Nick's not that bad a friend. Or if Harry was attractive but awful, instead of attractive and nice, and earnest, and stupidly brave.
He is, though. All of those things. And for some incomprehensible reason, he seems to want Nick. He's also, as Nick learnt last night, really hard to say no to. What’d Harry said to him, then? That he should stop trying?
Well, self-denial’s clearly not working. Maybe he should give Harry’s advice a go.
When Nick comes back into the living room Harry's shucked his jeans and is standing there in his T-shirt and undies. The room smells like Earl Grey and come, which is an unusual but oddly inoffensive combination.
"So, uh," Harry says, as Nick drops the towel over the word of the spill and starts mopping up with his foot. "Before the tea went everywhere, I was going to ask you if I could, like, blow you."
It's not Nick's fault that he goes from sort of in control to a gibbering mess in about five seconds. Nick would defy anyone alive to hear Harry Styles say blow you and not get turned on. It's just not humanly possible.
Well. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly. He's clearly already utterly fucked, metaphorically speaking. He might as well make it literally, too. "You could do that," he says, when he's moderately certain he remembers the English language. "Or, I was thinking, maybe - "
Harry's biting his lip. "Yeah?"
Here goes. "Or you could fuck me, if you'd like?"
Harry's eyes go gratifyingly wide. "Really? I mean - fuck, yes. Please. Let's do that. Now?"
Nick lets out his breath. He’s got a living room covered in tea, and Aimee’s going to have a fit in the morning, but bugger it. "Come on, then. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it properly."
Harry follows him to his bedroom in silence. It's an odd echo of the night before, when Harry'd followed him up to Caroline's room, Nick having to remind himself every five seconds not to get carried away. Clearly they're well past worrying about that tonight.
Nick's left his bedroom door open. He darts into flick the bedside light on and sweep his discarded tracksuit pants and T-shirt from earlier off the bed before turning back to Harry. "Sorry, I wasn't, like, expecting this to hap - oh."
Harry's already naked. Fuck, he's quick. Although Nick can't blame him, really, his pants must've been disgusting, but - fucking hell. Nick's eyes skip over Harry's collarbones to the softness of his hips, his belly, his cock, hard again, jutting out from between his thighs.
"Nick?" Harry says. He sounds uncertain. "Should I - um." His hands twitch abortively as though he's thinking of covering himself, which, no.
"No." Nick strips his own T-shirt off and goes to Harry, cups Harry's chin in his hand and tilts it up. He really hasn't got the words for this - Grim, speechless? Never, he hears Henry say sarcastically, but fuck off, Henry, Nick'd like to see him do better faced with a naked Harry Styles, only not really, because Nick doesn't actually want anyone else to see this - or at least not unless they're simultaneously being informed quite clearly that no one except Nick is allowed to touch, Nick’s not above wanting to make the entire world jealous -
"Nick? Are you okay?" Harry asks, and fair enough, too, because Nick's just standing there like an idiot.
"Not really," Nick says, honestly, and leans down to kiss Harry.
The kissing doesn't help, because Harry takes it for an invitation to plaster himself against Nick, one arm curled around Nick's lower back, the other hand resting on Nick's shoulder. He's all knobbly joints and warm soft skin under Nick's hands. His cock's bumping eagerly against Nick's belly, and that's about the only reason Nick can think of not to just keep kissing him forever. That, and the fact that Nick's still got his jeans on, and things are starting to get uncomfortable.
Harry makes a disappointed noise when Nick presses one last kiss to his mouth and steps away, but he seems to recover quickly enough when he realises Nick's just getting his jeans and pants off. Then Nick turns to grab the lube and condoms out of the drawer, and when he turns back Harry's blatantly staring at him, biting his lip and absentmindedly fisting his cock.
"Alright there?" Nick asks.
"Yeah. I - " Is it Nick's imagination, or is Harry's voice even deeper than before? "So I know you said, like, I could fuck you, but I was thinking."
"Yeah?" If he's changed his mind, Nick will cope. Probably. He might have a little cry in the privacy of his own head, but no one needs to know about that.
"I thought instead, like, maybe you could do me again?"
Not that the idea's not tempting, but, "Didn't you say you were flying to Sweden today?"
"Yeah, like, lunchtime?"
Nick shakes his head. "Trust me, love, you don't want to get fucked twice in a row and then sit on a plane. Been there, done that. Not fun."
"Oh. Yeah, okay." Harry looks disappointed. Maybe he's just not keen on topping.
Nick drops the stuff on the bed. "Look, you don't have to fuck me if you don't want to, popstar. It's not for everyone. We can do something else."
"No, I do. I just - I don't want it to be, like,” he gestures vaguely, “bad for you or whatever."
Ah, that's easy. "Don't worry about that. I've got a plan."
"Nick Grimshaw, the man with a plan?" Harry says, a hint of a smile coming back. "I like the sound of that."
"You'll like this even better. Go on, get on the bed for me, on your back."
Nick follows him up, and when Harry's settled Nick straddles him, knees wide over Harry's hips, then slicks a couple of fingers up and reaches behind himself. It's not the best angle on his wrist, but Nick's got long fingers and he knows how to use them.
"Oh." Harry's voice is strangled. "Are you - shouldn't I do that for you?"
"Maybe next time," Nick says, without thinking very much, and then realises he's just implied they'll be doing this again, though they haven't talked about that, because they haven't talked about anything. Nick Grimshaw's guide to adulthood: how not to do it.
But Harry just nods. "Yeah, okay."
Nick doesn't spend long opening himself up. Unlike certain popstars, he's not got any aeroplanes to sit on later today, so he doesn't mind if Harry leaves him a bit sore. Likes it, in fact.
"You could get that on," he tells Harry as he pulls his fingers out, nodding to the condom on the bed. "And a bit of slick, go on."
Harry fumbles a bit getting the condom on, but Nick pretends he doesn't notice. There's plenty to distract him, anyway: Harry's stupidly beautiful in the yellow glow of Nick's bedside light. Harry's lips in particular, Nick feels, shouldn't be allowed to exist.
"Okay?" Harry asks, when he's got the condom on. "Do you want me to, like - "
Nick shakes his head and shuffles forward. "Stay right where you are, popstar. Think of this like a special introductory fuck where you don't have to do any work."
"Do I get free postage if I call now?" Harry asks, and Nick snorts out a laugh.
"Free orgasms, maybe."
It's hard to look sexy whilst trying to get a cock lined up behind you, and Harry's gone a bit overboard on the lube, so everything's extra slippery. Nick's done this once or twice before, though, so at least he doesn't have to fumble about much before he's got Harry where he wants him, and he can start to sink down.
"Oh," Harry breathes, when Nick's barely got started. "Oh, shit, that's - "
"Good, isn't it?" Christ, but Harry's big. No wonder he likes to parade around naked all the time. Nick has to work himself down slowly with little rolls of his hips, breathing through it.
Harry's expression makes it worth it, though: he's looking up at Nick like Nick's hung the moon and the stars and possibly one or two of the smaller planets as well. Never mind that Nick hasn't has a drink tonight, it's intoxicating.
"Oh my god," Harry says, when Nick's taken him all in. His fists are clenched at his sides like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch. "Are you - Nick. Can I?"
"Yeah, go on." Nick's down to half-mast, but he plumps up again with Harry's hand on him, tentative at first but quickly becoming sure. It's distracting enough that Nick lifts up a bit and sinks back down, the hint of too-much already settling and giving way to pure pleasure. God, Nick loves being fucked. He doesn't do it enough, really, and somehow he manages to forget, in between times, how much he loves the heavy, grounding fullness of a cock in his arse.
"Is it okay?" Harry asks. His teeth are digging into his lower lip again.
Nick nods. "Yeah, s'good." He's going to be sore tomorrow, but fuck, it'll be worth it. He props himself forward over Harry and goes to work in earnest, lifting himself up and dropping back down.
It's more effort than Nick generally goes in for, riding someone, but three or four strokes in Harry bends his knees and starts fucking up into Nick like a pro, none of the usual off-rhythm awkwardness Nick expects with a new partner. Clearly it's not enough for Harry to be a devastatingly charming popstar, he's got to be some sort of big-dicked teenaged sex prodigy as well.
Except that suddenly Harry's free hand goes to Nick's hip, gripping tight and holding him still. "Fuck, stop, I can't."
A teenaged sex prodigy with a hair trigger. At least there's some justice in the world. "Really?" Nick asks. "Didn't you already get off once tonight?" He's half-teasing, half serious.
"Sorry. Sorry. You just feel, like, really good."
"Best arse in Great Britain, me," Nick says, and does a little shimmy, because he can. Harry doesn't say anything, so Nick pokes him in one of his spare nipples. "Oi, popstar, you're meant to agree with me."
Harry shrugs. "Sorry, can't. Got nothing to compare you to, remember?"
If Harry's goal had been to get Nick as worked up as he is, too, he's succeeded. Fuck but that's a heady thought, being the only one Harry's done this with. "Keep it that way, yeah?" Nick asks, leaning down to suck Harry's lower lip into his mouth.
"Planning on it," Harry answers, when Nick breaks the kiss. Nick's still hunched over him, and it's fucking murder on his back, but he doesn't want to move. This close, he can see Harry's pores, the juicy pimple off to the side of his nose. Seventeen, a little voice in the back of Nick's head pipes up, and fuck it, he tells it, because honestly, when's the last time Nick felt like this about someone? Never, that's when. Besides, he's near-constantly surprised to discover that he's the grand old age of twenty seven himself. He doesn't feel it.
"Okay," Harry says, abruptly dragging Nick's attention back to the task at hand. "I think you can move now."
Can he, though? Nick's actually not sure. Anyway, he doesn't want to. Maybe he'll just spend the rest of his days here, right here in his bed with Harry Styles' cock in his arse. It doesn't seem such an unreasonable dream.
"Nick." Harry's hands are on his hips urging him up. "C'mon."
"Maybe I don't want to move anymore," Nick says. He clenches a bit around Harry's cock. "Maybe I like it here."
Harry's frowning up at him. "So you're not gonna move."
Nick shakes his head. "Nope, don't think I will."
"Nick. Seriously. Please move?"
Harry’s working on his pout. "You're really annoying, did you know that?"
"Take that back, popstar. I am utterly charming in every way."
"An utterly charming dick."
"Yes, it is lovely, isn't it?" Nick says, giving it a gentle stroke. "I'm quite fond of it."
Harry rolls his eyes. "Oh, my god, Nick. Move your arse, or I'll - "
"Or you'll what? Make me? Not with those spaghetti arms - oh, fuck." Nick's bedroom spins around him as Harry flips him and he lands on his back on the bed.
"You were saying?" Harry looks a bit ridiculous, actually, kneeling over Nick with his cock waving about. Still, Nick's impressed that Harry managed to flip him at all; he's no lightweight, as he well knows.
He hides it behind a patronising pat to Harry’s flank. "Full marks for effort, there, popstar, but now you're going to have to do the work."
"I think I'll cope." Harry shifts out of the way and pushes Nick's knees up to his chest. "Like this, yeah?"
"If you like," Nick says, faintly. He's not nearly as flexible as Harry, but he can manage for a little while. "Just - that's it, fuck." Harry's pushing back in slow and steady. "Keep going, just like that."
"You're so tight, fuck." Harry's hunched over, collarbones standing out as he pulls back and rocks back in.
"And you’re so big, oh baby, oh baby," Nick says, because whilst they're going for the bad porn dialogue they might as well go all out.
Harry pinches his side. "Shut up."
"Make me," Nick says, which Harry appropriately takes as an invitation to kiss him, tongue fucking deep, distracting enough that Nick hardly notices the stretch in his thighs.
"Fuck," Harry gasps when they break apart. "Okay. So I'm just gonna - " He pulls out and shoves back in, hard enough to rock the bed on its creaky frame. "Yeah?"
Nick gets a hand around his cock and starts stroking. "Yeah."
Harry drops his head and goes for it, arms straining. The angle's not perfect but Nick honestly couldn't give a fuck: this, right here, this is enough; Harry fucking him deep and hard, breathing gone erratic with the effort of it, red-faced and starting to sweat, Nick stretched wide around the beautiful fat length of him.
"Fuck me, c'mon," Nick demands, when Harry pauses mid-stroke, still obviously trying to hold off. "Keep going."
Harry tosses his head back like he's trying to get his fringe out of his eyes. "Can't, I'll come."
"I know, I wanna see it." Nick's so close himself, it won't take much. He drops his free hand down to trace around his slick, stretched hole. He doesn't expect Harry to be able to feel it through the condom, but he must, because he shudders.
"God, Nick, you - " His hips stutter forwards, then he takes a deep breath and starts slamming in, hard and fast. "Fuck, I'm gonna - gonna come."
"Yeah, do it." Nick wanks himself faster, tight and perfect just under the head, and spills over his own fist just as Harry fucks in deep and screws his face up and comes.
Actually, it's nice to know not even Harry Styles looks good when he has an orgasm. Perhaps he's only human after all.
"Oh my god," Harry mumbles. He's slumped over Nick, unmoving, and Nick can feel his heartbeat rabbiting away through his chest wall. It's very sweet, except for the way he's already started to go soft and half slip out of Nick.
"Harold. Condom," Nick reminds him.
"Mmph. Don't wanna."
"Come on, love." He pushes at Harry's shoulders. "Get rid of it and we can have a proper cuddle." They'd not had one, last night, with all the awkwardness, and Nick plans to make up for it now.
"Fuck. Yeah, okay." Harry fumbles around and pulls the rest of the way out, one hand holding the condom in place as he sits back on his heels.
"There's a bin in the toilet," Nick says, pointing at the door, when it looks dangerously like Harry might be intending to drop the condom on the floor.
"Oh, fine." Harry heaves himself off the bed and stumbles into the loo. He comes back a minute later with one of Nick's hand towels, which Nick supposes is his own fault for not telling Harry where the flannels are kept. He keeps forgetting this is Harry's first time in Nick's flat.
"Here," Harry says, passing the towel over. "Thought you might want to clean up." There's a bit of pink in his cheeks which might be a blush, but then he's just come, too, so who knows. The messier parts of gay sex had had Nick feeling awkward well into his twenties, so Harry's doing pretty well, really, considering this only is his second go around ever.
Nick gives himself a cursory wipe, then drops the towel on the floor. Disgusting, but his flat, his rules. "Come on, then, come and have a cuddle."
Harry clambers back onto the bed with all the grace of a newborn antelope, which is to say, none at all. He does an excellent line in snuggling, though, tucking himself under Nick's arm and resting his head on Nick's shoulder before tugging the duvet over them both.
"That was alright, wasn't it?" he ask, when he’s settled.
It’s probably safest if Nick doesn’t let Harry in on the mess that is the inside of his head just yet. "What do you think?" he asks instead.
"Pretty good, I reckon. Fuck, I’m tired, though." He yawns hugely, and Nick curls an arm around his shoulders.
"You're staying, then?"
Harry's good: Nick only notices him tense up because he's watching for it. "I thought - if it's alright?"
"Course it is, I want you to."
The relaxation is just as subtle. "Good." Then he pokes Nick in the side. "I don't promise not to put your pillow over your face if you start snoring, though."
"Excuse me, I don't snore."
Harry pokes him again. "Trust me, you do. I was awake for a bit last night 'cause I was thinking about some things, but I couldn't have slept through your racket anyway. Caroline had to, like, push you on your side so you'd stop."
Nick's not stupid: he doesn't miss the way Harry's voice wobbles on Caroline. He tightens his arm around Harry. "Harry. Are you okay with all this? Really?"
"Yeah.” He says it quietly, but it sounds like he means it. “Or, like, I will be. I’m getting there.”
"Mm." Before last night, Nick had honestly thought Caroline was a bit mad, to put up with all the rubbish she'd been getting for going out with Harry Styles. But Nick gets it, now. He'd put up with a lot worse, if it meant he could have Harry in his arms like this. He takes a deep breath, makes himself ask: "So. We're doing this, then? You and me?"
"Yeah, I kind of - I think we have to," Harry says, in the same quiet, steady tone. "Don't you?"
There approximately eight billion reasons why this is not a good idea, starting with the fact that Harry's just broken things off with one of Nick's good friends, taking a side trip via Harry being seventeen, and finishing with him being an international pop sensation. But Nick still wants it. “Yeah. I think we do.”