Chapter Text
It is common knowledge at 30 St Mary Axe in London that Niall Horan cannot stand Harry Styles.
It is even more well-known that that simple fact has only given him ammunition for the past several years.
High at the top of the marvel of the one building so distinctive in the city relatively boring skyline, are the London HQ of the renowned music management company Full Stop, that music mogul Irving Azoff has founded and runs, where it just happens that proud Irish man Niall Horan sits across from what could only be considered the one and only nemesis he’s ever had — their desks separated by a short distance of a little less than six feet, and placed at a ninety degree angle to each other in front of the silver-tinted all glass walls that border their office. He has absolutely no idea what he did to deserve sharing an office with the most aggravating man he has possibly ever had the displeasure to meet, but he thinks it has to be something he did in a past life, because nothing, he decides — absolutely nothing he has done in the relatively short twenty-seven years of his present life could warrant the hand he was dealt when he was assigned to spend his tedious workdays with him.
Along the wall of glass that separates their coffin-like workspace from the rest of the firm, are white roll-down shades that can cover the entire wall of windows from floor to ceiling if either of them pleases — not that they ever do go down. Harry’s kept them open every single day since the Friday he made Niall mad enough that he threw a white rubber at his head while the blinds were conveniently down. He’d stopped talking like the air had been sucked from his lungs and Niall had gasped, covering his mouth with both hands, almost more surprised than Harry at his unusual reaction, mentally already prepared to take whatever punishment came with assaulting his coworker with an eraser. He didn’t have to go through with any sort of punishment though, because as soon as the shock wore out of Harry’s system, he’d started howling, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, and leant so far back in his chair that he’d almost fallen off. He had let his hands slowly fall from his face and resisted the very strong urge he had to throw something much heavier at him, resorting to dramatically rolling his eyes and glaring at him sharply instead. He used to think that if he were ever made into a video game character, those two actions would be his signature move.
Niall doesn’t know what it is that makes him hate Harry: maybe it’s the fact that he can’t go five full minutes without humming some tune, or that he can’t walk through the main area without instantly charming everyone he passes, or that he’s the most shameless flirt he’s ever seen. It could be the fact that he’s an utter asshole. Even Niall's flatmate hates him; he’s known as “that jerk you work with” to her after multiple wine fuelled nights of hour-long rants. He just absolutely, completely, wholeheartedly cannot stand the man.
It’s not that he’s jealous of him either — he can honestly say that with a clear conscience — because really, he isn’t. They’re the firm’s top booking agents, competing for a position as a full time manager in the main Los Angeles office that their direct boss, Jeff, never fails to dangle under their noses every time he’s in town. Him and Harry are both evenly matched, with Niall having the upper hand occasionally for his clear head and level thinking where Harry gets frustrated quicker than him. It never results in outbursts, though, just Harry leaving the room, his shoulders tense, his hands running nervously through his curly hair, or half-heartedly kicking over the trash can usually full to the brim with chewed chewing gums wrapped in pieces of post its, banana peels, and scraps of paper with god-knows-what written on them, that sits by his desk.
Niall reckons Harry was easier to upset when he was younger; a lot of the newly hired kids who walk through the doors remind him of how he used to be. He remembers starting out on the cover bands team, and watching him from across the room as he stared at his iMac, a crease between his eyes as he typed, sending emails and making calls overseas way past his paid shifts, furrowing his brows when he leaned back in his chair and let out loud sighs followed by annoyed groans before throwing another one of his scribbled and crumpled pieces of paper across the empty room. He remembers somehow always knowing — almost sensing, exactly where he was in a room in relation to him. Maybe that’s his sixth sense.
He thinks it’s most likely the fact that they’ve been highly competitive since the very beginning. Starting out low and fighting for a top spot at a high-profile, well-paying agency meant years of loathing and seething, trying to find the best opportunity to rise higher. If he thinks hard about it, it was really all for nothing since they have the same position and work in the same office and essentially do the same job now. Sometimes he feels as though if he knew what misfortune his future held, he would have worked a little less intensely as an intern, and allowed himself to have some sort of semblance of a private life.
The instinctual suspicion and dislike remains even now, because in the back of his mind he still imagines him as someone he has to beat, even if he knows he really has no interest in uprooting his life again and move to LA, even if that means giving up on a highly coveted job. There’s still a set of tally marks in his head, a clearer indicator of this than the slew of his passive-aggressive post-it notes he has saved in his side drawer.
The feud is technically over for him, at least the career-related one, but he still hates him. A lingering sense of dislike that seems to be inescapable after so long. He just can’t stand him, is repulsed by most things concerning him. Especially his terrible taste in music, which says a lot since he works for a company whose entire purpose is recognising good music, his stupid signed ManU jersey Harry’s convinced him to let hang on the one solid wall they have, and his affinity for covering all his post-it notes in lame aphorisms probably scribbled by some instagram poet after one too many drinks, and most of all, the annoyingly attractive crooked smile he seems to have reserved just for him.
He doesn’t realise he’s actually glaring at him until Harry breaks the silence in the room.
“Take a picture Ni, it’ll last longer,” he says, curt and clipped, clicking his mouse six times to open what he guesses is Google. Either because he knows it annoys him or because he genuinely thinks he needs to click six times, every single time — the reason the man sitting across from him does are still a mystery to him. It might be the one true unanswered question in his life, the case he never will solve. At this point he’s not sure it matters anymore.
He ignores the nickname he’s begun to call him even though he’s reminded him multiple times that he does in fact, have a full name, and brings his hands to his temples, sighing with an undocumented level of annoyance.
“How many times do I have to tell you that you only have to click the icon once, just once?” He thinks it would be realistic for his right pointer finger to have the strength of one thousand men at this point with all the clicking he does.
It’s a little known fact to those who don’t work in close proximity to the man himself, but their office is plagued by his incessant clicking at all hours of the day. If he’s really so clueless about anything with a screen, it truly is a marvel to Niall that the other man has made it to the top of the firm while still barely being able to work a computer but he knows how to use AdobeAudition, and Gmail, and Google, and Audacity and he supposes that's all he really needs anyway. Not that he couldn’t benefit from learning a thing or two.
“I’m making sure it knows I mean business; I’m not trying to give Mr. YouTube the wrong impression when I look up new acts typing in the most random keywords now, am I?” he asks in a monotone voice and he snorts at that even though he doesn’t mean to. It might be a game between them at this point, how many rounds they can go before he actually says something not completely inhumane.
The real reason he laughs is because his YouTube searches are equally as odd, his suggested page ranging from the odd a cappella eagles cover band to some blaspheme mash ups of christian rock and hardcore rap. Last week he found himself forty minutes deep in a YouTube rabbit hole after unsuccessfully trying to find the name of the young woman with a soulful voice he had heard passing by a craft pub on his way home, and didn’t realise until Harry asked if he was thinking of taking up making his own beer, that he had somehow ended up watching home brewing tutorials.
“What are you looking up, Harold?” he asks, only a bit out of genuine curiosity but mostly because he likes keeping tabs on what he’s doing.
Harry scrunches his nose at him with an impressive amount of distaste (that deep down he’s proud to have caused) out of hatred for his nickname for him, possibly more than Niall hates his one syllable one, but doesn’t comment further on it.
“New boy band Sony signed. Fresh faced guys, a bit rough around the edges, but lots of potential. Was considering booking them to open for Charlotte’s UK leg of the tour,” he says around the tail end of a ballpoint pen, turning his screen so that Niall can look at a small group of skinny boys dressed fashionably, with hair styled better than he’s ever had the time for, singing a cover of Forever Young on a small stage in the middle of a mall. He tries to concentrate on the screen and how well the boys harmonise, however, in that moment he finds himself unexpectedly very caught up in Harry’s lips and the way his jaw contracts as he works his mouth on the pen, and forgets how to form words until he removes the pen from his mouth and impatiently taps once on the screen with it.
He has a nice mouth, he registers somewhere in the locked vault in his brain that stores all of his thoughts about Harry. Right beside the fact that he has strong looking shoulders and parallel to his musing about his rather expressive eyes. It would be very helpful if he were hideous, impossible to look at. Unfortunately for him, that's not the case in the slightest.
“Right here,” he says, hovering over the screen with the pen, and stopping the video. “I don't know, look at how messily they move on a stage that small… I don’t know if they have enough experience. But their voices, their charisma… they’re great performers. Whatcha think? I might have to book them for some smaller gigs and see how they do before I pitch them to Jeff…” he trails off, shrugging, and Niall realises that he must think he’s going to shut him down by the way he isn’t speaking. He stares at him a bit expectantly, looking slightly regretful to have asked for advice in the first place, and deep down, even though he would never admit it, he almost feels bad about it for about a millisecond.
He thinks the only moments when they do get along are when they’re bouncing ideas off of one another and working out problems. He doesn’t give him clipped answers when he asks for a second opinion, can put up with him as a working professional, less so as an over-enthusiastic sports fan, or really any other part of his personality.
“I would bring them out to that summer festival in the park, maybe? I think there’s still a bunch of early afternoon slots available,” he says, cocking his head slightly. “Have Paul work with them for a bit and have him teach them how to move on stage without looking like rabid kangaroos… and what’s the name of the guy who did the vocal coaching for that Scottish lad? The one with blue tips.”
Harry nods, considering, then types something on his phone and scribbles something down on his fancy leather daily planner. When he’s done, he flashes Niall a smile that floors him a bit, the orange light of golden hour coming from the floor to ceiling windows framing his face like some sort of halo.
“Thanks, Ni. That wasn’t too bad of advice,” he then says, a stray curl of hair falling onto his forehead as he tilts his head mirroring him.
He got his hair cut short last week when, in an attempt to be civil, he had said his hair looked nice long as a casual sort of compliment, which prompted him to chop all the curls off until they only covered the top of his head. He thinks it’s a shame; he looked like a fairytale prince, or a boy band's lead vocalist. Not that he cares, because he definitely doesn’t.
Niall swivels back in his chair to face his computer screen and counts to ten silently in his head before returning to his work, almost managing the mammoth task of building an invisible wall between their two desks. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture it, a tall slab of pure titanium separating them so that he doesn’t have to hear him ever again. He’s sure he’s halfway to making it actually materialise when Harry stops his clicking to roll his chair over to Niall's desk, begrudgingly sticking a yellow sticky note to his monitor.
He grumbles his name before snatching it off the screen, smoothing it out between his fingers to find only a small note written there.
Niall: 1
It’s in a messy handwriting that he can hardly read in the first place but he grins in triumph, smiling sweetly at Harry as he sinks lower in his chair.
Niall thinks one of Harry’s most annoying qualities is the need to always be quicker than him. Quicker to finish lunch, to send in reports, to reply to labels, to meet artists for quarterly reviews. He thinks if Harry were just a little more competitive he probably wouldn’t think twice before trampling him in effort of getting to the elevator before him at the end of every day.
It might stem from years of trying to be as efficient and well-oiled as possible when they were interns. He would listen for the finality of the clack of the enter key on his keyboard like it was a warning bell. Being second to him in any way seemed intolerable, a failure. Back in those days, the reassurance that he was easily distracted, was Niall’s only saving grace. As long as he didn’t look up from his computer screen, he was safe. Watching Harry in his peripheral vision was the only risk he ever took.
He makes coffee with the Keurig as slowly as possible that day, just to spite him. Loading in the pod and closing the lid and refilling the water tank like he has all the time in the world, chatting cheerily with someone he would barely talk to on a normal day just to waste his time, even if it’s technically wasting his too. He can hear the tap of his pointy boot on the floor, can sense him looking down at his watch every few seconds and huffing behind him like an irritated bull, can feel his breath on the back of his neck.
Whatever new intern he’s talking to— Sophie? Sophia?— eyes him warily a few times, noticing how clearly annoyed Harry is and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. The taut line running between them that gets pulled just a bit tighter every day isn’t an unknown thing. They’re something of a legend in the firm, the two people who hate each other most sitting 6 feet away from one another. It’s a cruel sort of joke. Normally people avert their eyes and whisper behind computer monitors; some think it’s an act, the disdain they have for each other, but the blinds that remain fully drawn all day long stop the rumours for the most part. Sometimes Niall feels like an animal in a zoo, like everyone on the outside is watching, waiting for something to happen.
When he sees that the long hand on the clock has moved at least 8 spaces, he moves aside with a mug of coffee in one hand and notices that Harry’s expression is almost humorous; his eyebrows are raised so high they’ve nearly disappeared and his mouth is set into such a fine line it looks as if it’s been drawn on. What catches his eye though is the way his tie is sitting askew, half of it stuck to one side of his shirt.
“Your tie is crooked,” he says impulsively — always the perfectionist, frowning, turning to place his coffee on the counter before using both hands to straighten out Harry’s tie and smooth it down against his chest.
“There!” he says with a feeling of accomplishment as he flicks his eyes up to curly haired man, only to see all the colour has drained from his face. Somewhere in his subconscious he registers that the intern he has been talking to has stopped speaking too. It’s the same moment he realises how close he is to his nemesis, the way his hands are still touching the fabric of his shirt and how he can feel his racing heartbeat through the thin crisp cotton. Harry breathes out and he feels it on the tip of his nose.
Somewhere an alarm in Niall’s brain goes off and once he regains the use of his legs, he makes sure to back up until he hits the counter. With how close Harry had been standing behind him in line, it really doesn’t put much space between them.
Niall looks up at him with wide eyes, his surprise meeting the shock in his own, blindly searching for his coffee cup with one hand and sliding out of the tiny bit of space he’d managed to make between him and the counter once he finds it, his shoulder brushing the other man’s as he walks past. He has to resist the urge to scream as he makes his way back to their office, his shoes clacking on the linoleum floor louder than he’s ever noticed, not even cracking a smile when he hears Harry’s groan from across the room when he realises he’s run an empty brew cycle for the purpose of “cleaning” it even though he knows that Adam from PR did it the earlier in the day.
He shuts the door behind him with a shaking hand, taking a second to lean against it and breathe deeply before sitting down at his desk. He figures that even though he did the most awkward thing he could have possibly done, he can add a tally to his total for the day just for inconveniencing his annoying coworker. Every time he thinks about the moment they locked eyes though, his entire body tenses, contracts until he feels like he’s not far from cracking the mug due to sheer embarrassment. It’s then that he lets his head fall onto the desk with a soft thud. Working with him all day has taught Niall more than anything that it’s the little things that hit hard.
In some ways, Niall thinks that he’d rather barely tolerate Harry forever than attend another agency party. The one upside is that with how big the crowd usually is at this event, and with how much ass kissing they’re usually required to do, chances his and Harry’s paths will cross are very slim. He hates these kind of functions, always feeling a bit too awkward, a bit too irish, a bit still too boyish looking, even if he’s really filled out in the past two years or so, his slim limbs finally managing to hold on to some muscle and fat. He rests his right hand on his flatmate’s waist, a pint in the other, and glasses low on his nose. He smiles at people as he walks through the room, stopping to to make small talk with clients and partners, and being introduced to their plus ones.
He feels Harry’s presence before he even sees him, the room suddenly buzzing a little louder over whatever mix the DJ’s playing. He turns around just as his arch nemesis hugs Lizzo as if they’re old friends, and then proceeds to introduce her to the woman holding on to his arm. Niall is sure he’s seen her somewhere; probably in the one Taylor Swift’s video with all of her model friends or maybe that one Victoria’s Secret fashion show he attended because his client was booked to play. Leave it to Harry to date a supermodel, he thinks as he scowls and takes a large sip of beer.
Niall’s a little taken aback when Harry’s eyes meet his across the room, and then raises his hand, giving him a small wave, confidently making his way through the crowd with his date, heading in his direction. Niall looks behind him, thinking Harry must be heading towards someone else, not him and his tipsy flatmate, who he can tell is trying hard to hide a smirk but failing spectacularly.
“Hello Nialler,” Harry grins stopping right in front of them, a glass with clear liquid in his hand.
“This is my colleague, Niall,” he says turning towards his date and then towards him and his flatmate. “This is Camille, my girlfriend.”
The blonde woman kisses their cheeks delighted as Harry gives his flatmate a questioning look. Niall clears his throat, suddenly remembering his manners, feeling a faint blush creeping up his neck. “This is Laura,” he says simply and he’s glad she doesn’t add any details on the nature of their relationship. He notices the other man pursing his lips in a fine line, but shrugs it off, scanning the room to desperately find someone else to talk to. He’s so relieved when Scott, one of the senior managers, taps him on the shoulder and guides him towards the bar to introduce him to some young artist he’s only heard the name of in passing. He tries to focus on what the lad’s saying, but all he can think of is how he can still feel Harry’s piercing gaze on him.
He assumes he must get a few tally marks for that.
Niall: 3? 4? 5?
The black shirt Harry’s wearing hugs his frame like a glove, white buttons all up the front and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He looks up when he walks in, gaze staying on him as he hangs his coat on the hanger he keeps in his corner. It’s gold with swirls along the top and a firm base that doesn’t tip even on the days he snatches his coat off the hanger to get away from him as quickly as possible. He sees Harry glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, looking for just a second longer than usual before turning his full attention to the screen again. Harry’s square corner of property within the room is a desk full of music and sports memorabilia, several rolls of paper towels, a single piece of raw cobalt, and, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a gym bag. Two Brit awards and an AMA sit neatly on the shelf closer to the window and a few photos with various artists and footballers adorn the lower shelf. A small fruit bowl with a few bananas sits on the edge of his desk, along with a large pack of chewing gums. The paper towels are for the bullet coffee he knocks over far too often, spilling over the surface of his desk and accompanied by a curse word of some sort. Niall told him once sweetly as he’d mopped up the oily liquid, that he should buy something with a lid and he’d rolled his eyes at him. The gym bag is filled with gloves and some other boxing equipment he was never brave enough to examine too closely. He hasn’t quite figured out the piece of cobalt yet, a small slab of stone that sits beside his computer monitor and doesn’t move, ever. He realises as he looks down at the crisp shirt he’s wearing today that he matches it, both of them donning deep blues like the Irish sky in a rare cloudless summer day.
His designated workspace is the opposite of Harry’s, except for the same amount of awards they both have on display. His corner is soft and almost sterile by comparison. A small cactus on the middle shelf next to a bonsai and a coffee table photobook his first ever client gave him as a gift after his first world tour. A marble pen holder and a photo of him and his dad sit next to his iMac, and a white mat is placed on the surface of his desk so that it doesn’t scratch, his sleek stainless steel travel mug where he carries his coffee, always resting on a mosaic coaster he got from Italy a few years back at the edge of the desk along with a tiny guitar made of glass he got on the same trip.
Niall sighs as he sits down in his chair, and starts his computer. It’s tedious work. Replying to labels, going over contracts specifications, setting up times to check out venues. He likes days on his feet where he can escape the cell-like prison that is the four walls they’re confined to. Sometimes he wonders what Harry does when he’s gone. Probably poisons his plants with whatever he used that one day he slicked his hair back to the extent that it shined as much as the floor did.
It’s not long before the familiar red symbol at the bottom of his screen pops up along with the name ‘Harry Styles.’ He sighs again, rubs his eyes once, and opens the personal messaging tab they’ve figured out how to use and which, due to some marvel of space and time itself, is not company monitored.
“I need help,” is the message that pops up. Bait. Fishing line sitting in empty water just waiting for him to bite the worm. He flexes his fingers once over the keyboard before typing something short and pressing send. He’s half bored to death anyways.
“Yes, I think being chronically annoying might be a disease, but I can verify that no problem if you were looking for a second opinion,” he types back idly. Three dots pop up on the screen in succession before disappearing again. He flicks back to his inbox and starts a new reply before the little red icon pops up once more.
“Ha! How funny, Nini,” he types, and Niall readies himself for whatever’s coming “But let's see... "Theoretically, if I were looking to take a guitar class, where would I go?”
Niall freezes and can feel a breath of air escape his lips like his lungs are trying to empty themselves. He considers faking a telephone call, or escaping to the bathroom, or even fainting but all of those are merely a temporary out so he types out another response as quickly as he can and presses send.
“I wouldn’t know, but I don’t think they’d take you anyways. Brooding probably isn’t in the syllabus.”
He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye and can see his mouth twitch slightly, his eyebrows raising to his hairline as he hits the keyboard.
“That’s so interesting,” is the first message that makes it through, and even though he knows it’s coming it still makes Niall visibly flinch back in his chair when the message sends, “because I found the most riveting video the other day.” Accompanying the blue message bubble full of text is a link. He knows he shouldn’t click it because he can already see “The Westmeath Examiner” separated by dashes and slashes, but he does anyways, sees Harry smirk from the other side of the room as he swivels around in his chair to face him.
The title of the article is in big bolder text “Mullingar Singer and Songwriter Signed To Warner Music” and just below it is a picture of his 17 year old self. You can tell even if the photo is in black and white that the tips of his hair were platinum blond, his teeth were still crooked but he was grinning widely anyways, an acoustic guitar strapped across his body. He looks at himself as a teenager, not remembering ever being quite that skinny and dorky, but definitely remembering the day him and his father drove to Dublin to record his first demo, and how nervous he was. Below the photo is a caption reading: “Niall Horan (17) of Mullingar, Westmeath. He is one of the three young artists who were signed to Warner Music UK, owned by WMG, after a talent search across Britain and Ireland.” There’s an embedded video right underneath the photo, and he can see himself sitting on stage with a guitar on his lap in the preview. He doesn’t dare clicking on it.
He can feel a pressure in his throat and a shaking feeling moving throughout his body. He thinks he might throw up, or pass out, but both of those would mean Harry’s won so he exits out of the article and smooths out his pants with clammy hands, getting back to his list of emails with trembling hands.
“I didn’t know you were a musician, Nialler,” Harry exclaims with mock enthusiasm, gesturing to the small glass guitar Niall bought in Murano. “I thought that was just the kind of perfunctory decoration someone working on the boring side of the music business has on his desk, or some sort of… I don’t know, missed life experience,” he isn't a stranger to his love of music.
He doesn’t respond, but instead breathes deeply a few times, a hand pressed to his chest, but he can’t stop the stinging in his eyes. He hates looking weak in front of him, hates Harry knowing that he’s gotten the best of him. He’s so focused on calming his shaking hands that he barely feels the tear running down his left cheek that he doesn’t catch in time. He sees Harry’s face shift to concern out of the corner of his eye, watches as he cranes his neck to see his face, furrowing his eyebrows when he realises he’s crying.
He misses those days so much. The excitement, the purpose, the joy of feeling his dream so close, so within reach he could almost touch it. His dad being so proud of him, working every extra shift just so he could buy him a better guitar and get him some studio time… He swallows, trying to control his breathing. Niall is not unhappy in his life; he’s learned to settle, do something he’s okay at. His job doesn’t make his heart soar or hands shake with excitement, but it’s enough. He’s learned to be pragmatic, and yet can’t stop the annoying voice in his head, that coincidentally sounds a lot like Harry’s, that keeps nagging him, reminding him about everything he’s lost. Crooked teeth and bottle blond hair he’s since dyed back to his original colour, and his broken heart. He sniffles a bit and turns his chair so that Harry can’t see his face, focuses on his breathing until it isn’t so jagged and forced.
Harry’s voice is much softer the next time he speaks. “Hey, Niall, I didn’t—” he starts but Niall cuts him off.
“Just— leave me,” is what comes out, curt and final and he hopes he’s happy. He’s won today after all, emerged victorious while he has to pick up all the pieces and put himself back together again.
Harry: 1
Niall: -1000
He can already picture his messily written recording of their current tally standings scrawled on a sticky note and pressed to his monitor; it wouldn’t be a stretch. Due to some miracle Harry doesn’t bother him for the rest of the day, keeps his head down and works in silence. In some ways it’s a blessing because he can honestly say he’s never been so productive or focused on his tasks but it’s also extraordinarily mundane. He doesn’t speak much except to ask him if he wants a coffee from the kitchen when he gets up to make one, or a piece of banana bread some intern over in finance made. He says no to both because he knows it’s merely damage control but also because he doesn’t think he can stomach anything food-related after their earlier conversation.
He doesn’t know why Harry bothers with public transport at all; figures that maybe his car is so ancient and hideous that he’s too ashamed to park it in the fancy underground employee parking spot they’re both given. If he had a car he wouldn’t bother with the windy overground or the cluttered rush hour tube, but the way people drive in London has always freaked him out too much to bother getting one. It’s cars piled on top of cars and honking horns and u-turns where there most definitely should not be u-turns. So he takes the subway, and so does Harry. Eyes flitting to one another, sometimes across a car full of people only to look away quickly.
Overtime hating.
He thinks he should get paid for it; thirty minutes tacked onto the end of his paycheque as collateral for the extra time he has to spend in his presence each day.
So it comes as a shock to him when much later, while they’re riding that subway home to be exact, Harry brings the issue up again. They’re both holding onto the handle loops because all the seats are taken and he can feel his shoulder jostle Harry’s every once in a while when the car makes a sharp turn. He’s never wanted to avoid him more but today some stranger made it their mission to walk as close as possible to him and he would rather subject himself to his presence for a bit longer than being groped by a man twice his size throughout his commute home.
He looks like he’s about to say something a few times, opening his mouth and closing it like a fish but he doesn’t speak until they’re four stops away from his own. It comes out soft and careful, more subdued than anything he’s ever heard him say.
“Why didn’t you become a musician?” is what he manages to string together, not meeting his eyes, his hand fidgeting with the left pocket of his pants.
He doesn’t respond for a bit, but rather takes a moment to think of memories he hadn't let himself remember in a long time. He thinks of his first time in London, carrying his guitar while being jostled around the crowded train, wearing his beat up Supras and skinny jeans, looking at his dad to make sure they didn’t miss their stop. He remembers being sent to small pubs in the outskirt of London, and to small sporting events to play gigs, getting about a hundred quids plus transport fare. He remembers being given songs written by someone else for someone else, learning them on the guitar at night in the small hotel room the label got for him and his dad, and then heading to his vocal coach early in the morning, nothing but a hot tea and an apple in his stomach. He remembers finally turning 18, and his father having to head back to Ireland. And then the beginning of the end.
“Sometimes things don’t work out,” is what he settles on, rocking on the sides of his feet and staring holes into the floor. “I — my family is not well off or anything,” he whispers trailing off. He shakes his head once, then clears his throat before pushing through. “I started getting a few jobs and I was set to get paid once my first single dropped, but then… My dad — he’s a butcher, you know… He was working like 15 hours a day to support me and my dream, picking up every shift he could… And London is expensive, and the label wasn’t gonna just payout before I proved I was worth something, so the first months were pretty rough,” he breathes out and swallows. He doesn’t know why he’s telling his life story to Harry of all people, but now that he started, he can’t stop.
“He had an accident why he was working. My dad,” he whispers. “Huge piece of machinery fell right on his leg. He was so tired, he didn’t make sure the tray was set before leaving it there, so you know, insurance didn’t want to pay, and my brother was in and out of a job, so… I went back to Ireland and started bartending at a pub to help out paying for my dad’s rehab and then I decided to put myself through university so I could maybe get a decent job… And when I graduated I did this internship at a management company, and this guy I helped out with some sound software problems introduced me to Irving. Must have made an impression, because he asked me if I wanted to do a paid internship for him here in London, and the money was pretty good and as you know I kept getting promoted, so I figured it wasn’t so bad. I mean, I still have a flatmate at 27 years old, but I can afford to pay for my dad’s outpatient care at a private facility back in Ireland and a part time nurse, and still live a kinda comfortable life here, so I guess that’s as good as it gets,” he winces and laughs a bit sadly. He takes another breath, fights against the tightness in his throat and pushes on. “Everything was on track until it just…wasn't,” he finishes, looking at Harry for the first time since that morning.
There’s empty silence for a bit, only the eerie sounds of the car running on the tracks and gentle murmuring filling in the spaces between their words. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for anyone to look halfway decent in the fluorescent lights of public transportation but Harry looks good as ever. His tanned skin still glowing and his muscled forearms taut as he grips the strap of his bag in one hand. He thinks he must look pale and sickly; he burns and freckles while Harry turns golden brown.
“I’m sorry about before,” Harry says cautiously, looking down at Niall. “For what is worth, I think you were really good. More talented than most artists I’ve scouted.” His face falls a bit, and Niall can tell his still chastising himself for being an asshole. He looks at him, as he scuffs his toe into the ground. “You know, I wanted to be a singer, too growing up,” he confesses. “When I was 16 I auditioned for the X Factor.”
Niall laughs, shaking his head. “No you didn’t.”
“Swear to God,” Harry nods, grinning back. “I wasn’t nearly as good as I thought I was, though. Got kicked out right after bootcamp. And I definitely couldn’t play the guitar like you did.” Niall looks at him, and gives him a soft smile. He’s finding it hard to keep his usual level of hatred towards Harry up.
“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, “I didn’t mean to—” he starts before the car lurches to the side and Niall falls into him. He catches him around the waist, his forearm on his lower back as his hand grips Niall right above his belt. His fingers dig in as he straightens him out, his hand lingering a bit before he lets go of him.
Niall can’t help the hitch in his breath or the colour that starts to rise in his cheeks, only grabs onto the strap of his bag a bit tighter and steadies himself “Thanks,” he breathes, looking up into his eyes. They’re so clear in the bright, artificial light of the underground, the usual green irises now looking almost blue. “And it’s okay, really,” he tacks on as he walks backwards towards the doors.
Harry nods once, looking like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders as Niall steps off the train onto the platform, looking behind him once at him as the doors close.
Niall’s never heard Harry speak so carefully or softly, has never really thought of him as anyone other than the bothersome coworker he’s forced to put up with on a daily basis. It hits him then that he might never hear him speak that way again, certainly not in the office, and a small part of him is deflated by the thought. He’s so different when he lets his guard down, like he’s pulling off pieces of armour and setting them down at his feet, not worrying about what he might look like underneath.
Niall doesn’t know why he thought things would be different, that maybe it could be civil between them after all. He had essentially laid his heart on a platter for him, presented it finely like a delicacy, yet as he walks back into their office the next morning to be met by an eye roll over the top of his monitor he accepts they’re back to hating each other.
He doesn’t know how Harry manages to get to work so early every morning. He suspects he doesn’t sleep and rides the subway line all the way back to the firm after he gets off just to stand in front of the doors and wait for the earliest possible moment to enter so that he can claim his quadrant of territory in their office. The remaining half by the door is no man's land and nothing resides there except for a small table with a few knick knacks scattered on top for decoration.
“Would it kill you to get here on time?” is what Harry asks, tilting his head like he’s got all the time in the world to bicker with him.
“I am on time Harry, I can’t help the fact that I have a busy life outside of this office. Not all of us can set up camp in the break room,” he says evenly, wrinkling his nose at him as he walks to his own desk.
“A busy life of—let me guess, just bouncing around ideas here — Niall’s evening for five hundred, what is sitting in silence and burning salad.”
Niall doesn’t use the microwave in the kitchen anymore, not since the time he almost set the whole office on fire trying to make popcorn. They had to open every single door they could find as window were designed specifically not to open, and run fans on full blast to subdue the smell of burning food.
“You can’t burn salad,” Niall retorts in a know-it-all voice, shooting the other man a dirty look. Harry just rests his chin on his hand, smiling sweetly at him.
“I’m sure you could make it work, Ni,” he winks, clicking a record of ten times on the chrome icon.
He rolls his eyes at him, deciding to abandon work for the morning in favour of arguing with him.
“You’re insufferable; you know that, right?” he asks, eyes narrowing, and he smirks in response.
“Glad we have similar views of each other; having corresponding ideas between coworkers is always good for collaboration and creating a united workspace,” he states, a pencil in his hand like he’s teaching a class. “There was a point to this whole conversation though,” he says casually, lining the pencil up with the side of his keyboard and she sighs.
“Get on with it,” Niall grumbles, watching as he folds his hands and sits tall on his chair.
“I need you to take my 11AM meeting with Jeff while I go check what’s the deal with the new stage for Nicki, before the guys sign on it.”
Niall laughs, the sound of it manufactured and tight.
“That sounds like a you problem,” he informs Harry, logging into his computer and pulling up an excel tab with a venue’s pricing list.
“Please, Horan. I’d do it for you,” he says with what Niall thinks it’s an attempt at a pleading voice.
“I don’t think so,” he replies, putting a finger to his lips like he’s deep in thought.
“What do I have to do?” he says, irritated, “Grovel at your feet? Pay for your coffee?”
He swivels his chair around to face him, steel in his eyes and fire on his tongue.
“You insulted me as a way to introduce the topic of wanting me to take your stupid meeting, so excuse me if I’m not following the logic there,” he fumes.
He opens his mouth like he’s ready to argue back just as an intern knocks on the glass of the door nervously like they’re about to enter a dragon’s den. Judging by how furious Niall thinks he must look, he doesn’t think she’s too far off with that assumption. He smooths down his suit jacket as the young woman opens the door to their room.
“Hi Jen, what can we help you with?” he asks calmly, like he isn’t seconds away from tearing his coworker to shreds.
“Mr. Azoff wants to see you both in his office,” she says squeamishly, only half her body leaning past the door frame.
Niall's first thought is they’re both being fired. He said something or someone heard something else or their personal messaging tab is extremely company mandated and they’re both getting sent to HR hell for slandering the company name with inappropriate work conversations.
He whips his body around to glare at Harry “What did you do?” he seems to say to him through the air, to find him telepathically asking the same question, his eyebrows furrowing as Niall shakes his head in disbelief. He can ask him a multitude of questions through only his eyes, he thinks it’s something they’ve developed over the years of quietly seething in their corners.
They both get out of their chairs to meet in No Man's Land, not breaking eye contact as they stand parallel to each other at the invisible line that separates them, their chests nearly touching as they stand in a silent face off.
“Ladies first,” he says, gesturing with his hand to do the door and he walks past him with a laugh that sounds the opposite of humorous.
“What did you say?” Harry hisses at Niall the front right side of his chest nearly pressed against the blond man’s back as they walk. People look up as they pass, whispering amongst themselves. Some of them duck down in fear, pretending to focus on blank word documents while others shake their heads.
“Nothing!” he whisper-shouts, clearly exasperated. Harry glares at him and he lowers his voice again. “I haven’t reported you in weeks!” he seethes. “This is your fault!”
“My fault?” he says in a disbelieving tone, like the mere thought of it is impossible. “Our office is seventy five percent glass windows! You’re the reason we can’t put down the shutters anymore!”
Niall logs this in his mind as a moment he is seriously considering tripping him and playing it off like it’s an accident but he’s not sure that would help their case.
“You demanded we keep them open!”
“You threw something at me!”
“A tiny rubber eraser, Harry!” he sighs, rubbing his temples. Harry feels so warm against his back, if he stopped walking his entire front would be pressed to his and Niall isn’t completely opposed to the idea.
Before they know it, they’re at the door and Jen is poking her head in to let Mr. Azoff know they’re both there. Niall elbows Harry in the side for good luck and he reacts only slightly before elbowing him right back. He then straightens out the collar of his shirt before walking in.
Mr. Azoff, whose first name is Irvin, is the head of Full Stop Management, which he usually runs from the Los Angeles headquarters. He has short white hair, and a very plain face. There’s nothing extravagant about him. Niall sometimes marvels at how someone who’s consider one of the top people in the music business could seem so normal, if not boring. The older man gestures at the three open seats that both reside opposite of him, Niall and Harry sitting down cautiously like they’re afraid the chairs might explode, and Louis, the head partner of the London Full Stop’s HQ sits in the third one, just as cautiously.
“Glad to see we’re all in one piece today,” Irving says with a questioning smile, and Niall gives him an understanding one back. Yes, them and their silly feud that’s become so well known it apparently reached the ears of their bosses’s boss. “I am told you two bump heads occasionally but I’m glad to see you’ve been working well together lately,” he remarks, and Niall keeps the pleasant smile plastered to his face even though one million different questions are racing through his head.
In the past few days alone Harry’s made him cry, see red, laugh like a crazed man and nearly tear his hair out. He’s not sure how any of it amounts to “working well together” but he’ll take that as opposed to being reprimanded.
“Harry says you helped him with some decision making about that new band Sony just signed…” he continues, and Niall looks sideways at him, receiving a sheepish grin and a shrug in his part before returning his attention to Azoff.
He didn’t think Harry would give him credit for that; he helps out with small things for his own projects on a weekly basis.
“I’d like to see you working together more; that band you booked for the summer festival… what’s its name,” he says going through a few papers on his desk “No Direction? Yeah, them,” he confirms finding a photo of the young lads Niall’s watched singing on Harry’s computer just a week before. “Louis here was telling me he’d like to have them sign with us, but he has his hands full with a few other acts, so we thought it’d be good if you two could take them on. I think it would be an excellent experience for you both if you’d want to take it, and it’d surely help Jeff decide which one of you to send to LA.” He smiles, resting his hands on the top of his desk, while Niall uses all his remaining power of will to keep a pleasant look plastered to his face.
Before he can formulate any sort of response Harry speaks up from beside him in a tone he’s heard maybe once from him in all the years they’ve worked together.
“We would love to,” he says brightly. “That would be incredible,” he confirms, looking at Niall with his eyebrows raised.
Say something, his face seems to indicate and he snaps back into reality.
“Yes!” Niall finds himself agreeing, the words leaving his mouth before he even registers he’s saying them. “That sounds excellent,” he says in a tone identical to Harry’s, smiling.
“I love how much better things have become between the two of you,” interrupts Louis from the chair next to his, and Niall gulps. “I’ll make sure to send all the info to each of you, and have you meet with the band first thing on Monday morning. They’re pretty raucous, but they’re hard working lads. They’re really set to make an impression and opening for Charlotte next January,” he informs them, flipping through papers on his lap.
“Harry, I know you managed Little Mix’s first UK tour a few years ago, so I trust your opinions on what an emerging band would need to get going, and Niall your organising skills are marvelous. I expect great things from this, now shoo and get working. I’ll call the two of you in again after you discuss the project a bit on your own,” he smiles at them as if they’re his children, ushering them out of Irving’s office, and closing the door once they’re out.
The walk back is silent and several people watching shake their heads. Niall hears a “they had it coming,” and a “it was only a matter of time” and he assumes by the grave look on their faces that the general consensus is that they've been fired and are to vacate the premises immediately. Once they’re both back in the room he gently closes the door and Harry doesn’t even oppose the gradual shutting of each and every blind that opens the room up into the rest of the floor. Only when they’re completely boxed in and the wandering eyes have lost interest does he sit down at his desk and drop his head into his hands.
“What did we just agree to?” he asks weakly, raising his head enough to see Harry merely shaking his head and slumping back into his chair.
Niall: -100 000
Harry: -100 000
Niall walks back into the office the next day in a daze, feet dragging against the hard floor like they’re being held down by weights. The shocked faces of everyone along the way are no less baffled at his presence than he is. Two interns nudge each other with their elbows, someone peers over to check for a cardboard box in his arms, he hears a whispered, “How can they still be working together?” And he can’t help but also wonder about the answer to that same question. The shades remain drawn, a white blanket that separates them from any outside contact, and as he closes the door behind him the feeling of a jail cell has never been more evident. Harry’s sitting there already, as usual, and Niall doesn’t even bother looking over as he forces his legs to move all the way to his corner of the room. He can see a charcoal grey shirt in his peripheral vision and prepares himself for day one of their sentences.
It comes as a shock to Niall, but over the weeks they slowly adapt, with the first big change that occurs in their small treetop office being the desk situation. He thought it would be a good idea for them to push their desks together until they faced each other to make it easier to talk and work together, and also leave more room for a large couch to be brought in to accommodate the five members of the band they’re currently co-managing, but that has only prompted a series of almost-but-not-quite staring competitions. Niall will glance over the top of his monitor only to see Harry’s green eyes already watching him, which will then send them both into a silent competition of who will back down first. Harry never does. Ever. Niall thinks maybe he doesn’t blink in the first place, so he watches him carefully, from the corner of his eyes, as he works only to discover that he does in fact, blink, and starts on a new hypothesis for the unanswered question of why Harry Styles wins every not-staring-competition they have.
He thinks that for the first time in his entire career at Full Stop Management, they actually use the personal messaging system as it’s intended. Harry’s constantly sending him links to different things that catch his attention; YouTube videos of known or less known bands, quirky flyers, interestingly phrased promotional tweets, cool ideas for photoshoots and even colourful pieces of artwork that he thinks would make good stage background designs. He sent Niall a link to a rather odd looking tea kettle he thought would make a quirky album cover once and Niall had sent back an article on the effects of brain damage on a person due to boxing related trauma. He’d laughed at that, clear and light like a bell, and Niall’d smiled a bit in return. Hidden by the screen of his monitor, of course.
Predictably, what doesn’t change is their dedication to the cause of hating one another. Strong as ever, the piece of barbed wire keeping them loosely wound together hasn’t lessened in the slightest. It’s his secretive nature that bugs Niall the most, the locked desk drawers and the hidden forms he’s typing on that he’ll never see. The shared Google document that they thought would be a good idea for quickly throwing together ideas has turned into a battlefield of copy paste lines, yellow highlighter, and snarky comments that are gradually getting closer to the brink of too far. The day Niall had typed a whole page of ideas with annotations and inserted pictures only to find it completely gone from the document after he left for lunch is a day he would not like to repeat. Harry had only said that it didn’t mesh properly with the style he thought the band should go for and Niall had seriously considered throwing his computer out the glass window to his left.
“Harry,” he murmurs, peering closely at budget specifications on his screen. “Harry? Hey, Harry?” he says a bit louder when the other man ignores him in favour of writing something out on a sheet of paper.
“Horan,” he responds evenly, flicking his eyes up to Niall’s like the breath he took to respond to him wasn’t worth the turmoil his lungs had to go through to produce it.
“I think we should have the boys perform at ULU Live, you know the concert series at Student Central, in June before they do the summer series,” he suggests, “would make transitioning into a larger crowd a bit better, I think. Stereophonics cancelled last last week and Ben told me the date’s still open if we want it. Their label gave us the go.”
Harry frowns at him. “That’s coming up in just a few weeks,” he says. “Do you reckon they’d be ready by then?” Niall doesn’t like his frowns; they turn his lips tight and pinch his eyebrows. Change him from a mellowed out artist to an agitated overtime worker.
“I think it’s worth the shot,” he notes lightly, withholding his urge to grab Harry by the shoulders and shake him until his face relaxes again, choosing instead to look over his calendar. “Only way to see if they can withstand the pressure. I mean, venue capacity it’s only… what?” he quickly googles to check the stat, “about a thousand people. But they’d be headlining.”
Harry sighs, pushes away from the desk, then leans back in his chair until it creaks, covering his face with his hands and groaning. “I don’t want to overwork these lads,” he says with sigh. “I know they’re young and eager to perform, but I feel like between radio interviews, recording their first album, and all of these promo appearance and meet and greets they might end up jaded before they even really start,” he tells Niall seriously, dropping his hands to the arms of his chair.
“Oh,” Niall pauses, suddenly realising the other man’s reluctance is not due to him not wanting to deal with the paperwork or admitting Niall’s suggestion is a solid one after all, but to him actually caring about these boys. He considers his words, and thinks about how different his experience as a performing musician could have been if he only had someone in his corner, someone in the business who actually cared about him as a person, not just as an act. Maybe then his dad wouldn’t have had to be his keeper, constantly forced to save every penny he earned so he could check on him every fortnight, looking for the cheapest flights from Dublin to London and back.
“I guess we could cancel a few meet and greets in favour of this gig,” Harry suggests after thinking about it for a few beats. “I think they might enjoy this more, and it would be good for them, get a feel for a larger stage.”
Harry beams at him from across their desks, and Niall is glad he’s sitting down, because he knows that’s the kinda smile that makes people go weak at the knees.
“Ni,” he calls, walking leisurely into their office like he’s the sole owner of it, hands in both pockets and jaw set. Niall glances at him out of the corner of his eye and stands a binder up on its side so he’s blocked from his line of sight.
“Incorrect usage of company provided materials,” Harry states, flicking Niall’s barrier down and causing it to knock a mini stapler off his desk. He grumbles in annoyance and bends down in his chair to retrieve it. When he sits back up, Harry’s leant against the top of the desk, the bottom of his tie draped over the dark material. Niall pushes down the strong urge to staple it to the desk.
“Can you just tell me what you need so I can get back to working?” he finally asks in a cold voice, punching the keys on his keyboard a bit harder than usual. Harry’s been about a ten on the scale all day, throwing bits of paper his way and clicking his mouse like his life depended on it. Niall might treat himself and scream into his pillow until his voice is hoarse later, or until his flatmate has him committed.
“Suddenly I’ve forgotten what it was,” Harry says artificially. “I’ll just stand here and see if my memory returns,” he informs him, poking at a tin of paperclips. He picks up the tiny glass guitar from Niall’s desk, examining against the light coming from the windows, then puts it down and proceeds to snoop inside the marble pencil holder, for god knows what.
“Stop touching my desk,” Niall says with a flat tone.
“I’m touching the things on your desk,” Harry corrects, putting down the pencil he was playing with and picking up a stack of papers on the corner. He does all of it with an air of superiority, like he’s got nothing better to do than pester him.
“Technicalities,” he mumbles.
“Technicalities are important in a field like this; someone at your level should be familiar with that, NiNi,” he says as he flips through the stack of papers, eyeing each one curiously.
“If you mix those up I will personally arrange your funeral,” Niall threatens him, swivelling in his seat to stare him down.
“I’m sure it would be a lovely affair: dollar store plastic flowers and vanilla scented candles galore. I can hardly wait,” he says in a monotone voice, staring right back at him. Niall quirks his left eyebrow and he does the same, tilts his head to the side and Harry mirrors his movement, he stands up from his chair and Harry straightens. He’s playing with him, poking the bear, seeing how close he can get before he strikes.
He decides he won’t be losing today and gets up from his desk only to sit down at Harry’s, smoothing his hands over his mat and flipping through his leather planner. Two can play at this game.
“What are you doing? Get off my chair,” Harry says, clearly confused, and Niall looks at him innocently.
“It is company property and therefore neither mine nor yours so I’m free to sit wherever I please in this office.”
“Be my guest,” he says, shrugging coolly and sitting down at Niall's own desk, leaning back in the chair and crossing an ankle over his knee. He picks up the piece of raw cobalt and sees Harry’s jaw clenching, the side of his mouth twitching downwards. He smirks, holds it up to his eye and looks through the clear bit, searching for a secret message or pin code. The day he underestimates Harry Styles will surely be the day he dies. When he puts it back on the desk the other man visibly relaxes and Niall frowns, it’s weird enough that he has crystal on his desk but the fact that he’s so protective of it is suspicious.
“Harry” he says, eyes locking onto his.
“Yes, Niall James,” he replies easily, with an air of impatience, opening one of the side drawers in Niall’s desk, and grabbing a tube of fancy golf balls, pulling the cap off and twisting it all the way to the top before twisting it down again, popping the cap back on and putting it back in the drawer.
It’s odd to look at Harry from the other side of the desk; he’s usually always in shadow, the light from the windows hitting his back and creating a faint glow around his silhouette. Now the light shines directly on him, illuminating his hair and skin and making the bright green and blue in his eyes pop. Niall’s almost relieved he sits on the side he does; he would spend all day staring at him otherwise and in no way would that be productive.
In retaliation, Niall opens one of Harry’s drawers and finds a picture of what must be him and his sister as children, in fancy outfits — probably after attending a wedding or maybe a christening, he thinks, standing in front of a white establishment, housing what looks to be a nice pub with a large courtyard on the lower floor.
“Nice bow tie,” he comments with a smirk, under Harry’s neutral gaze. “Were you at a wedding?”
“My mom’s,” harry replies with a nod.
Niall runs his fingertips on the pristine glass of the frame, ignoring the soft prints he leaves. He studies Harry’s huge, childish grin, his dimples deep, and his short spikey hair a few shades lighter than it is now.
“Thought your mom got married four or so years ago,” he says, cocking his head to the side.
“Yeah,” Harry clears his throat and nods once again. “The one in the photo — that was her second one. Wedding, that is. Hmm, that’s where we used to live... Upstairs, on top of the pub my step dad owned.”
“Wasn’t it loud?” Niall asks, curious.
“Got used to it quickly,” he says. “They had a few bands coming in to play every week, and they had an open mic night. That’s how I got into music, actually. Used to sing every now and then with my step dad. Mostly oldies. Some classic British rock. You know, the good stuff.”
Niall rolls his eyes, and using every bit of strength he has, just barely keeps himself from asking further questions not to seem too nosy, and places the frame back in the drawer.
He remembers a few year before, Harry coming straight to work from a funeral, a grim expression hiding his usual grin, and a three day stubble on his face. He remembers someone whispering to him in the small break room that the other man’s step father had passed away, and he remembers not knowing what to tell him other than a shy ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ to which he had gotten a polite nod as a reply. He glances up at Harry, just to double check he’s okay and that his snooping isn’t crossing the line, and he’s relieved when he sees the other man with both hands braced behind his head, staring calmly at him.
He’s unsettled by his gaze, and with shaky hands opens the drawer below the first, finding a post it note he himself had scribbled on less three weeks before and left on Harry’s desk — something about scheduling a photoshoot with a professional photographer for the band, and four leather notebooks, their covers full of doodles and words, and dozens of bookmarks sticking out from in between the pages. He catches a sentence written in black ink on the brown leather cover. "She doesn't deserve his heart." He desperately wants to know more about such a simple yet somehow cryptic sentence. He wants to know who it's about, and whose heart it is. He wants to open all the notebooks and voraciously read through them, just to have a peak inside the mystery that is the brain of Harry Styles. His hands almost shake with the effort he puts into not doing just that. Far in the back of his mind there’s a voice of reason that knows he should stop because it’s a major invasion of Harry’s privacy but he can’t make himself get up from the chair. He closes the drawer with a sigh, runs his hands down the side of the armrests on his chair and clicks his mouse a few times.
Harry watches him with an unwavering gaze, cool and focused and neutral the whole time, like he’s unaffected by the way Niall’s so blatantly invading his space. Niall, however, can feel every nerve in his body tingling, each hair on his head staring straight out from his scalp. He’s searching for clues like they might lead him to a hidden treasure, like there’s something here that might crack Harry’s exterior. He notices a locked drawer and has half a mind to pull a bobby pin out of Irving assistant’s hair and pick the lock right there. The anticipation of what might be in that drawer makes his mouth water.
He comes to the conclusion right there that Harry Styles has turned him insane.