Narry Musings

You ever like...do something stupid and spend minutes and hours and days and weeks and months thinking about that stupid thing that you did and then also...think about how much you wanna do it again?

Three hours ago, every fibre of Niall’s being was telling him to turn the car around. Three hours ago, every logical voice, every well-meaning thought — every red flag was telling him to just go home. But he didn’t- He didn’t listen to the logical, well-meaning thoughts. He didn’t pay much attention to the red flags, ones that beamed at him in the glare of his headlights along side the highway signs on the way to his destination.

He didn’t go home, like he should have.

And now here he is: sitting on a bed that isn’t his, tangled up in sheets that don’t belong to him alongside a man that doesn’t really want him there. Ignoring him. Unable to speak. Only barely able to recognize the mistake he’s just made; totally unable to recognize the feel of his own skin. (Knows that he probably won’t recognize the boy that will look back at him in the mirror later.)

He feels his hand at the base of his spine, feels his fingertips stroking his skin. His touch is gentle. Soothing, despite the confession he’s just made.

“You’re mad now,” Harry mutters. His voice is rough because he’s tired — and also a little bit drunk.

A breath catches in Niall’s throat for a moment. “Yeah,” he whispers, when the moment passes. “Yeah. I’m mad.”

Part of him thinks he shouldn’t be. Or, well, in a way he knows he should be. He got played, is the thing. They both played him. So- He gets to be mad about that. It’s just- It’s a painful reminder that while he’s allowed to be mad, he can’t really be mad at him. It hurts — so much more than he ever wants to admit to anyone — but a month-long fling (and several months more of drama) isn’t grounds to be mad at him. Her, though-

“Well- That’s your friend,” Harry says.

“How long?” Niall asks. Deep down, he knows the answer: he’s always known the answer — just like he always knew the truth, even before he finally said it.

“Six months.”

Her stomach flips over. “So- While we were sleeping together..?”

“No.”

His mouth feels like sandpaper. “You two took a break?”

“Yeah.”

He feels sick. Hot, with rage. He feels...so many things he doesn’t even know how to label them — or where to even start trying. The ache in his chest? The heaviness in his stomach? The dull numbness of, well, everything else?

He wants to leave, but he’s had too much to drink — however sobering his confession just was. He wants to leave, but he also...doesn’t, for some weird, fucked up and truly twisted reason he doesn’t even want to try to unravel.

“Come here,” Harry whispers. Niall flinches when Harry’s hand curls around the crook of his arm. His touch feels foreign now. “C’mon.”

“No,” Niall whispers back, trying in vain to pull his arm back.

“Just cuddle with me,” he says softly.

Niall tells himself that the only reason he lets Harry win — lets himself be pulled into Harry’s arms, arms that have never felt safe, if he’s being honest, is because he’s tired. Because he doesn’t have it in him to fight. But, deep down, he knows it’s not true. The lack of fight in him is not the reason he lets Harry hold him.

It’s because he needs it.

He lets Harry told him — lets him stroke his hair and kiss his shoulder — because it’s the only other thing he’s been craving from Harry for months.

Silence falls over them, but it’s not in a comfortable way. In fact, it’s anything but. It’s- It’s awkward and it’s painful and it’s horrible. How did this happen? Why did this happen?

“Nobody cares,” Harry whispers suddenly, breaking the silence.

And- Niall has heard that before. In fact, he’s heard it from Harry’s very own lips just yesterday — in reference to her. Because she didn’t care.

“I cared,” Niall finds himself saying. “I cared. But you didn’t.”

He doesn’t respond. Just- Breathes. Niall isn’t even sure if he heard, if his voice was loud enough to carry. He thinks, for a moment, that make Harry fell asleep; and remember how much time has passed between what Harry has said and how he’d answered.

But then his arms around her tighten — and it doesn’t matter if it’s to comfort her or if it’s to make himself feel better about himself, and it doesn’t matter that Niall still doesn’t feel safe, because it feels like him.