Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry never remembers that nice restaurants are all closed on Mondays. It is the bane of his existence.

He gets it, logically! Chefs need a day of rest like anyone else, and you can’t waste the weekend crowd by taking a normal day off. But nice restaurants are the only kind around the hotel—even the golf club was too nice to be open on this wet Monday afternoon—so Harry’s only option is room service and—he realizes what a little turd he sounds like saying this but—after twenty years of eating it, room service has gotten really old and he’ll avoid it at all cost. He’ll get in a car and drive somewhere if he absolutely has to, but it’s raining now, the kind of torrential downpour typical of spring in southern California, that comes out of nowhere and lasts long enough that Harry just really wants this restaurant to let him in and give him a burger and a beer or something. Nothing fancy! He’s not picky. He’s dry under this awning, but he’ll be soaked if he goes anywhere else, and he’s hungry.

And there’s someone inside! It’s a young guy—pale, blond, in a too-big, wrinkled white dress shirt—sitting at the host stand and reading a magazine.

Harry knocks on the glass door, bending down until he has a chance of meeting the blond’s gaze in between the wooden blinds, turned partway up. He knocks again and this time the blond glances over at the sound. Harry grins and waves at him.

“We’re closed,” the blond calls, muffled but perfectly clear through the door. “Our apologies for the inconvenience!”

“What?” Harry calls back.

“We—are—” The blond enunciates each word. “—closed!”

“Come here!” Harry stands up straight, so the blond will have to come closer to look him in the eyes again.

For a few moments it seems like the blond might just ignore him, but finally he gets to his feet and stomps toward the entrance. Victory! Harry can work his charm on all the irritation in the world if it only comes through an open door.

Harry steps forward and claps the blond on the arm as soon as he’s within reach. “You’re my savior! I’m starving.”

“‘Fraid I’m not. We’re closed, mate,” the blond says, immediately moving to close the door again.

He’s got an Irish accent which is so rare and wonderful to hear that it makes Harry take a closer look at him. He’s not a natural blond, and doesn’t keep up his bleach job very well, either, but the dark roots look good on him. The ugly shirt looks good on him. The top few buttons are undone—on second look, one of those buttons is missing completely, just some loose thread left behind—displaying pale skin and a little chest hair. The ripped up skinny jeans look very good on him. Top to bottom, he is fit as hell. Harry would have been happy that anyone answered the door, but that it was this guy? He hit the jackpot.

“You’re Irish!” Harry says.

“Yeah, that—doesn’t make us any less closed,” he says, then, as an afterthought: “Our apologies for the inconvenience.”

“I’m English!”

“Yes, I—you know I can hear you speaking right now? We’re still closed.”

“I mean, I mostly grew up here, but I was born in Cheshire and my parents sent me to school—”

“I don’t care, mate.”

Well, that hurts Harry’s feelings. They’re strangers, sure, but they’re both human beings, too, aren’t they? He can’t help but pout and the blond rolls his eyes at him and huffs out a sigh. “I mean, it’s nice to meet another foreigner, even if you are a fucking Brit, but, like—I’m seriously the only person in this building. I can’t feed you.”

“You don’t have any food?”

“Of course there’s food! But I don’t have any chefs qualified to make it or servers qualified to serve it to you.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’m a day host. I’m not even qualified to seat people after six o’clock. Mostly I sign for deliveries and answer the phone.” As if on cue, the phone rings. “Bye now.”

He starts to close the door again and Harry steps forward to block the way.

“You’re really going to send me back into this torrential—”

“Scared of a spot of rain and you call yourself English?”

“This is not a spot of rain.” He points at the sheet of water coming down from bright white sky. “England would never do this to a person.”

As the phone continues to ring, the blond walks backward to the host stand without pushing him out the door and Harry accepts that as another victory. As the blond picks up the phone, Harry walks inside and locks the door behind him.

“Thank you for calling Toast,” the blond tells his caller. “This is Niall. What can I do for you?”

Niall. That’s a lovely name, isn’t it? Harry admires the little triangle of tummy that’s exposed as Niall lifts his arms up and stretches his back. Lovely, every bit of him.

Harry’s sure he’s been to this restaurant before. He’s been to all the restaurants around the hotel—Robin’s always the landlord and sometimes an investor, and the whole family goes to openings and special events to show support—but this one didn’t make an impression. It’s very hip, with tall ceilings, unfinished concrete floors, bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling on bright yellow cords, dark wood furnishings. Giant marquee letters direct people to EAT above window to the kitchen, WASH above the toilets, and DRINK above a long bar running perpendicular from the front door.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Harry murmurs and heads behind the bar.

He doesn’t want to get Niall in trouble for swiping alcohol, though, so he just uses a bar gun to pour two glasses of Coke, and pulls out maraschino cherries and green olives from a mini-fridge. He figures those aren’t well inventoried.

Niall glares at him even as he says, “Thank you,” and Harry sets down his drink.

“You’re very welcome,” Harry says, just to annoy him.

Niall surprises him by laughing. Harry considers himself pretty funny, but not many people catch on to that, especially with Lou always at his side. Quick, he thinks, what else is funny? He drops a cherry into Niall’s drink so it splashes, which is not very funny, but Niall laughs for him again anyway.

It’s nice being smiled at like that, shockingly nice. Harry basks under his gaze, feeling like a cat in a sunbeam.

The phone rings. “It’s like no one’s heard of OpenTable,” Niall mutters as he picks up the phone.

“It’s like you’ve never heard yourself speak,” Harry says. Niall raises his eyebrows at him. “OpenTable doesn’t have an Irish accent.”

Niall clears his throat and brings the phone to his face. “Thanks for calling Toast,” he says with a solid LA accent, flat and nasally. “This is Brody. What can—Niall? Oh, no, Niall’s fine. He’s just, like, really busy right now. What can I—oh, yeah? Well, if you’re sure. Have a good day!” He hangs up the phone and starts talking normally again. “They’re going to call back later.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet they are. Concerned for the Irishman’s health, were they?”

Niall ignores him in favor of shaking out his magazine and staring down at it. Harry goes back to the bar, sits down on one of the tall stools, and watches him for a minute.

“I’m starving.” Harry pops an olive in his mouth.

“You mentioned that.”

“When’s your lunch break?”

“Twelve thirty.”

“That’s in ten minutes.”

Niall turns a page. “Is it really?”

“Who mans the phones while you’re eating?”

“I do, just—in between bites.”

“And what do you eat?”

“Food,” Niall says, “generally.”

“What about specifically?”

“Are you angling for me to share my lunch with you?”

Harry sucks a cherry off its stem. “Oh, I would never be so presumptuous.”

“I just met you and I can say already that is a baldfaced lie, sir.”

“God, don’t call me that. Call me Harry.”

“I don’t think I need to call you anything.”

“Call me Harry, won’t you, please, Niall?”

“Okay.” Niall uncrosses his leg and crosses over the other one. He doesn’t look away from his magazine. “Harry.”

Harry grins. “I reckon you can’t leave to get food if you have to be here to answer the phones.”

“Nope.”

“So did you bring your lunch from home?”

“I—” Niall glances at the still-pouring rain through the windows and sighs. “No, they let me scavenge through the kitchen.”

“Big restaurant like this—probably wouldn’t make much of a difference if I scavenged with you, hmm?” Harry strides back over to the host stand and bends down until he’s at Niall’s eye line, focused determinedly down at his magazine. “Hmm?”

Harry catches Niall’s gaze for barely a second, but Niall’s smiling as folds the cover of the magazine around, and Harry already knows this is another victory. “No, it probably wouldn’t.”

A few minutes later Niall stands and walks toward the EAT sign and Harry follows him without a word. Niall goes straight to the giant stainless steel door of a walk-in refrigerator and pulls it open. Inside there’s a brown box of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheese, and brown paper-wrapped packages he can only guess hold raw meat. Niall squats down and sorts through it

“Is that what they give you to work with?” Harry finds the idea pretty intimidating. He hasn’t seen much unprepared food in his life, to be honest.

“No, they let me take this stuff home. It’s all going to spoil soon. It’s sort of to make up for not getting a real break on Mondays, encourage me not to sue them, let them avoid hiring someone to cover me.”

“Good deal,” Harry says, but he can tell he doesn’t sound very convinced.

“It really is, actually." He holds up some cheese. "This is about fifty dollars worth of brie.”

Is that a lot? Harry’s smart enough not to voice that question aloud.

“What are you going to make for lunch, then?”

“Hmm—macaroni and cheese? How’s that sound?”

Harry had been prepared to whine quite a lot to share whatever Niall made with him, so being asked his opinion is a delightful surprise. “Sounds great!”

Niall nods and starts pulling things off the shelves, tucking some into the shelf of his folded arm and handing some to Harry.

“Think you can use a cheese grater?”

“Sure.” It can’t be very hard, can it?

Niall points at a stool next to a big island counter in the center of the kitchen and Harry dutifully sits down. Niall lines up supplies in front of him: a cutting board, a big metal grater, a square of cheddar cheese, a chunk of parmesan, and a something, pre-sliced and individually wrapped in plastic.

“Is this cheese?”

“Ha ha,” Niall says, like Harry’s just razzing him. “Just trust me.”

“No, seriously, what is this?”

“It’s—” Niall’s eyes bulge when he realizes that Harry’s not kidding. “Have you truly never seen American cheese before?”

“American?”

“It’s a processed cheese. It’s—well, it’s disgusting, really, but it’s got a mild, sweet flavor that makes it taste more like the Stouffer’s frozen stuff, or Kraft out of a box, you know? Comfort food. Trust me?” Harry has no idea what he’s talking about, but he does, despite having known him for less than an hour, trust this boy completely. He nods. “Just unwrap them and rip them into smaller pieces, please.”

“I can do that,” Harry says, picking up one of the slices.

Niall sets a big pot of water on a burner and starts chopping up half an onion into tiny pieces. Harry is amazed watching the rapid-fire way he handles the giant knife, and very grateful Niall didn’t try to give him that job.

“Are you a chef?” Harry says. “I mean, I know you’re the day host, but do you want to be a chef eventually? Is this you starting at the bottom?”

“No!” Niall laughs. “I’m working here for money. I want to—” He stops smiling, hiking up his shoulder to rub at his cheeks as he turns red.

“What?” Harry says, delighted. “What do you want to do?”

Niall is saved by the phone ringing and he jumps at it. “Thank you for calling Toast,” he says, walking away.

Harry puts that topic in his back pocket, cuts a slice of cheddar cheese for himself and then gets to grating. It’s pretty easy work! He’s nearly done when he finds out the hard way that it’s just as easy to grate his knuckles.

Niall is just finishing his phone call and coming back into the kitchen as Harry hisses and pulls his hand back so he doesn’t get any blood on the neatly grated cheese. “Cheers, miss, have a great day. Careful!” Tossing the phone on the counter, he rushes to Harry. He takes Harry’s hand in both of his and brings it so close to his face Harry thinks, for a moment, that he’ll kiss it.

He doesn’t, though, just rubs his thumb over the unwounded back of his hand, and tsks at him. “Run your hand under cold water. I’ll be right back with Neosporin and some plasters.”

Harry goes to the massive stainless sink and turns on the faucet. There’s a colander sitting in the sink and he moves it to the counter to save it from being contaminated. It’s not a deep scrape, but it couldn’t be bleeding more if he’d cut his fingers right off.

“Such thin skin,” Niall mutters as he comes up behind him.

“Sorry,” Harry says.

“No!” Niall says. “What?” Harry might be imagining things due to blood loss, but he’s pretty sure Niall does kiss him then, on the shoulder. “It happens, bro, those things are mega sharp. Here—” He pulls Harry’s hand from the flow of water and wraps it in a paper towel. With the same efficiency as he chopped the onion, Niall dries his skin, applies antibiotic cream, and wraps a plaster around each of his fingers.

And then he finally, undoubtedly, kisses Harry’s hand, a quick one on top of each plaster. He shoots Harry a little smile. “It’s necessary to the healing process.”

Harry nods. “Absolutely.”

“Thanks for grating the cheese, but how about you just stir the pasta now?”

He pours a box of elbow macaroni into the pot of boiling water, throws a big handful of salt in after it, sets a timer for ten minutes, and hands Harry a wooden spoon.

So Harry stirs the pasta while Niall sautés the onions in butter, mixes in flour so it becomes weird goop, and then pours in some milk straight from the bottle.

“You don’t need to measure it?” Harry says. He’s never cooked before, but he’s watched Giada De Laurentiis bend over in a kitchen enough to know measuring cups and spoons are usually involved.

Niall shrugs. “It’s cheese sauce. You can’t really fuck it up.”

Harry watches as Niall adds a bay leaf to the milk, salt and pepper out of giant grinders, mustard powder, and nutmeg by scraping a whole nut against a tiny grater. Then he stirs the sauce until gets really thick.

“Does milk just do that when it gets hot?”

“No!” Niall cackles at him as he starts to stir in the cheese. “It’s because of the roux—this is just a béchamel sauce.”

He is literally speaking another language now. “Are you sure you’re not a chef?”

“Very sure. This is—are you sure you’ve ever been in a kitchen before?”

Well—Harry’s suite has a reasonable kitchen, but the only things Harry’s sure to have in the fridge are olives and vodka. The pasta’s timer goes off, saving him from properly responding. He turns off the burner and takes the pot to the sink where he saw the colander. Niall doesn’t need to tell him what to do for this!

He takes up the colander with one hand and pours the pot’s contents into it. “Ah!” he says, fumbling to drop the colander into the sink without spilling the pasta. It turns out metal can get very hot and the steam billowing off the pasta is scalding.

“Okay?” Niall says.

“Fine!” It’s embarrassing to have to rinse his hand in cold water again, but his skin has gone alarmingly pink. The plasters seem to be waterproof, at least. Nice as it was to have Niall play nursemaid, the next time he does it Harry’s planning on faking sick so he can fully enjoy it.

Next time?

He’s planning next time?

Harry doesn’t plan on seeing boys again, as a rule, even ones who have pressed their mouths over a lot more of his body than his fingers.

Niall comes over to him and squeezes in between Harry and the sink to take the colander. He presses his arse directly against Harry’s cock as he does it, and all but grinds against him as he shakes the excess water out of the macaroni. An accident, maybe, except for how he looks back at Harry and smirks at him.

“How’s that feel?” he says, gesturing, a few beats late, to Harry’s hand.

“Feels pretty good,” Harry gasps.

“Hmm,” Niall says. “First we eat. Then we’ll see if we can make you feel any better, yeah?”

“Uh—” Before Harry can say anything coherent, Niall reaches back and squeezes Harry’s hip, one finger creeping up under his shirt to brush against bare skin, and then he shimmies back to the stove. “Yeah!” Harry says finally as he watches him go.

Fuck yeah he’s planning next time.

Niall mixes the noodles into the sauce and then pours it all into a baking dish. Breadcrumbs—literally crumbs from a dried out loaf of French bread, it looks like—go on top and then it all goes into the oven. Niall sets another ten minute timer and Harry realizes he’s just been staring with the water running over just the tips of his fingers. He turns off the tap.

Standing several feet from each other, Harry and Niall size each other up. Niall grabs a dish towel off the counter and tosses it at Harry. Harry dries his hands. Niall raises one eyebrow at him. Harry takes a step toward him, and another. He's going to kiss him. He should probably wait until after lunch, in case he’s reading these signals wrong—he really doesn’t want to be kicked out of here without a plate of the macaroni and cheese—but he just can’t.

The phone rings.

Niall all but growls at the handset as he snatches it up. He strides over to Harry and squeezes his arm. “Hold that thought. Promise you’ll hold it?”

Harry nods.

“Thank you for calling Toast,” he starts, turning and walking out of the kitchen again.

Harry’s full of nervous energy now, with nowhere to put it. He bounces on his feet and pulls out his phone, glancing through texts he doesn’t care about, and then pulling up Instagram. He finds the oven light and snaps it on, kneeling down and waddling backwards until he gets a lot of the cool, industrial oven in frame while keeping it clear what’s inside. Home cooking, he captions, and posts it.

In under fifteen seconds, Louis texts him, what the actual fuck harold, which Harry ignores. A few seconds later, Louis again: where are you?????? And then, just as quickly: ???????????

Harry cackles and puts his phone in his back pocket. Louis likes to call himself Harry’s keeper, “Not because I want to be, but because you’d end up dead without me,” and nothing, not even actually spending time with his best friend, delights Harry more than evading his oversight.

“What's so funny?” Niall says as he walks back toward Harry.

“This whole afternoon. I’m so glad you let me in.”

“Are you?” Niall grins at him. “I wish I’d let you drown.”

“You just want to see me all wet, don’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“That can be arranged.” Harry takes a step toward Niall when the moment is ruined again, this time by Niall’s stomach growling. Harry laughs and reaches out to rub his belly like the Buddha. “But first we eat.”

“I’ll add it to the list.” They just smile at each other for a few seconds, the longest Niall seems able to keep still. “Do you want something to drink? You can have something from the draught.”

“Whichever beer you prefer is great,” Harry says, “Thanks.”

Niall nods. “Be right back.”

The timer dings while Niall’s gone. Harry pulls a massive pair of oven mitts on, grateful that they reach all the way to his elbows, and pulls the baking dish out. It looks and smells amazing, the cheese browned and bubbling. Harry is amazed he contributed to this, that Niall was able to produce this masterpiece without even looking at a book.

Niall comes back in as Harry’s setting it on the counter.

“Killer,” Niall says, coming up next to him and snapping the heat off on the oven. “I set a table out there. You good to carry that out?” Niall blinks at him. “What?”

Harry’s just staring because Niall’s so fucking beautiful. Harry hangs around a lot of beautiful people, but there’s something about this afternoon—being true strangers, no history or reputations between them, doing something he’s never done, in a space he’s never occupied, that he’s not supposed to occupy. There’s also something about Niall’s beauty itself. It’s natural and uncultured. When he goes for a cup of coffee in the morning, he’s never had to worry about how he’ll look on TMZ that afternoon.

Harry leans forward and kisses him, eyes falling closed. Niall lets out a deep breath, warm air releasing on Harry’s cheek, and kisses him back, slow and warm and gentle. “Mmm,” he says, pulling back.

“Sorry,” Harry breathes against his mouth.

Niall laughs. “Really?”

“No, um—I just hope you’re not.”

“I’m not—” Niall surges forward to kiss him again. “—at all—”

The phone rings. This time it’s Harry’s cell, his ringtone for Louis who somehow managed to make it so he can never be silenced, even when all of Harry’s other notifications are off. Harry shakes off one of the oven mitts and pulls his phone from his pocket to ignore the call.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Niall says, stepping away from him as he looks at Harry’s phone. It’s a fair question. Louis’ contact picture is of Harry sitting in Louis’ lap. They’re both of them in swim trunks, but the photo’s framed so they look naked.

“No,” he starts, but the restaurant phone interrupts him and Niall walks out of the kitchen to answer.

He gets another text from Louis: pulled up Find My iPhone on your computer, I’m going to show up at Toast Modern Bistro in ten minutes if you don’t call me back.

Harry calls him. “Leave me the fuck alone, Lou.”

“He lives!”

“I’m fine. I’m—great, actually, I’m—turning off my phone. See you tonight.”

“Use protection!”

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, “I’ve got oven mitts on.”

Harry takes the macaroni and cheese out to the dining room. Niall set a table in the back complete with tall glasses of dark beer, silverware folded into cloth napkins, a mason jar filled with slightly wilted pink peonies, and a metal pizza stand to keep the hot dish off the table. Harry sets it down.

Niall’s at the front of the restaurant, laughing with whoever is on the phone. Harry drops down onto a chair and watches him mousing around the little monitor at the host stand. He sits up straight as Niall ends the call and walks back toward him.

“I promise that wasn’t my boyfriend who called before. That was just Louis. He’s my best mate. I’ve known him for ages and we can be a bit affectionate, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

Niall sits down across from him. “A bit affectionate like you snog each other when you’re drunk?”

“Um—sometimes?”

Niall laughs, which is a relief to hear. “Yeah, I’ve got those mates, too.”

That, unexpectedly, is not a relief. Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Anyone going to be jealous you’re—sharing your macaroni with me?”

“Careful. Any more puns like that and I might not share it with you.” After a beat Niall grins and stands to scoop some pasta onto Harry’s plate. “No, no one’s going to be jealous.”

Harry hides his smile around a bite of food. Warm cheesy goodness overwhelms his senses and he groans. “Niall—how is this so good? You just made this.”

“Well, that’s cooking for you.” Niall laughs. “But thanks. I have to agree, we did good. You want to take some home?” Harry just nods as he chews a big bite. “I'll box that right up for you, sir.”

Neither of them even tries to make conversation while they eat. Harry is blissfully unaware of anything beyond his noodles and cheese sauce. The beer Niall gave him is very good, too, both in its own right, and with the food. After years of hearing the word, Harry understands what pairing means for the first time .

When Harry’s about halfway through his plate there’s a knock at the door. Niall hops up and lets in a young guy wielding a dolly stacked with boxes of soda cans. He drops them off behind the bar and hands Niall a clipboard and a pen. They talk for a minute, the delivery guy leaning toward Niall and clapping him on the shoulder. “Who’s that?” is the first thing Harry can hear him say clearly.

Niall looks back to smile at him and says, “My friend,” which, inexplicably, makes Harry’s face heat up. “He’s keeping me company today.”

The phone rings and the delivery guy waves goodbye as Niall answers the call. He looks back at Harry as he backs out the door with his dolly and Harry raises his eyebrows at him. Bye now, he’s trying to say, Niall doesn’t need your company today.

Harry’s scraping his plate with the side of his fork, getting the last of the cheese sauce, when Niall comes back.

“More?” Niall says.

“My mouth says yes, but my trainer says no.”

“Oh—” Niall spoons some more onto his plate. “I think we can work it off.”

Well, now Harry really doesn’t want to eat, but he supposes he needs something to do while Niall finishes his own meal. Harry stretches his legs out and finds Niall’s under the table. Niall pulls his feet back, but only to take off his shoes, Vans flying out from under the tablecloth and hitting the wall beside them. Harry toes off his own boots and then his socks, because he hates the feeling of them damp on his bare feet.  

Niall’s feet are waiting for him when Harry extends his legs again. He visibly shivers when Harry runs his big toe over the arch of his foot. Harry grins, can’t stop grinning.

Eventually Niall wipes his face and drops his napkin on top of his plate, drains his beer, and says to Harry, “So . . .”

Harry stands and squeezes his wallet out of his back pocket. At any given time he has either a decent few bills or none at all. Luck is with him and he pulls out three crisp hundreds. “This is for the meal,” Harry says as he comes around the table and offers Niall the money. Niall frowns as he takes it, only frowning more as he realizes how much it is. “And a tip for your excellent service. All right? I’m paying for that now because that part of the afternoon is finished.”

“Are you worried I’m an undercover cop or something? I promise no one’s going to bust you for soliciting sex.”

“No! I—I mean, I’m just trying to make it clear to you.” Niall squints at him. The concrete floor is cold against Harry’s bare feet now that he’s not rubbing them all over Niall’s. “I want to give you a big tip for letting me in here today and making me lunch and laughing at all my stupid jokes—I’d want to do give anyone a big tip for that. But I want to have sex because—well because of all of that, still, but also, you know—you’re really hot and I like you. You aren’t doing me a service now. Or—you are—or you would be, if you want to—but I’ll repay you with services, like—”

“Like sex? Like consensual sex, yeah—I’m familiar with the practice.”

“So . . .” Harry starts. Niall leans back and raises one eyebrow at him. “Do you want to?”

“I’m still on the clock, you know.”

“Well, maybe not right now . . .”

“No?” Niall spreads his legs and squeezes his hands around his thighs. That’s an invitation if Harry’s ever seen one and he accepts it gladly. He steps close and throws a leg across Niall, slowing squatting down until he’s sitting in Niall’s lap. Niall crosses his arms around Harry’s waist loosely, like this is all he needs to do to keep Harry in place.

“Are you sure?” Harry says quietly. “Right in the middle of your work day, like—it’s very unprofessional. ”

Niall hums. “Very. The restaurant manager stops in sometimes. There’s another delivery scheduled. Blinds aren’t even drawn. Stupid of me to let you in at all.”

Harry’s never had much of an exhibitionism kink, but the implication of being so easily caught leaves Harry breathless with want. From the way his cock is hardening against his own, through their jeans, it’s not turning Niall off, either.

“Whatever could be making you act so stupid?”

“Ah, could be—your mouth.”

Harry runs his tongue over his bottom lip and Niall sits up, bringing their faces close, and follows Harry’s tongue with his own. Harry winds his arms around Niall’s neck and lets Niall lick at him until he can’t keep from kissing him back. They both taste a bit like cheese at first, but it isn’t long until all Harry can taste is skin and heat and Niall.

Too soon, Niall pulls back and gasps, “Could be this fucking shirt,” pulling at Harry’s collar in his fist.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a fucking paradox, Harry.” Niall runs his finger down Harry’s chest, and back up, following the open V of the shirt. “It doesn’t cover enough while it covers way—” He pops one button free, wrenches Harry to his feet, and presses his open mouth over the newly exposed skin. “—too—” Another’s freed, Niall dipping into Harry’s belly button with his tongue. “—much.”

He undoes the last button and runs his teeth over Harry’s happy trail and along the waistband of his jeans. Niall pulls Harry down into his lap again and leans back. He pushes Harry’s his shirt off his shoulders and twists it to lock Harry’s arms behind his back. After taking stock of Harry held at his mercy, Niall outlines the butterfly with his free hand. People love to touch his tattoos and Harry can’t deny that’s part of why he keeps getting them, but he’s impatient today.

“I want to touch you,” he says. Niall hums, bends forward to kiss the butterfly now, lightly, teasing. “Please, Niall, please—”

Niall releases him and pushes him off his legs until Harry stumbles to support his own weight on his feet. “Strip,” Niall says. “Get naked.”

Niall stands and obeys his own command, unbuttoning his shirt and showing Harry his chest for the first time. He’s really skinny, but as he stretches to pull his shirt off his arms, Harry can see some decent definition hidden under his smooth pale skin. It’s like a secret.

“You’re slow at this.”

At that, Harry realizes he’s frozen with his jeans and pants halfway down his hips. “Sorry. You’re a bit distracting.”

“Really?” Niall runs his thumb over Harry’s cock just barely still trapped under white cotton.  “Let’s see how distracting I can—”

The phone rings. Harry hooks his fingers into Niall’s belt loops and holds him in place. “Don’t you dare.”

“Got to,” Niall says and jogs to the front of the restaurant to get the phone.

Harry huffs out a sigh, but he refuses to be derailed, and takes off the rest of his clothes. When Niall glances back, Harry’s stroking his cock, nice and slow, looking back at him. Niall walks slowly back across the restaurant, phone still at his ear, and sits down in his chair. Harry reckons he’s asking for a show, but Harry decides to have a little more fun.

“Yes,” Niall’s saying as Harry drops to his knees. “Of course we're prepared to accommodate a VIP tomorrow night. Tell me about your requirements.”

Harry tugs at Niall’s jeans and, even as he glares at Harry, he lifts his hips so he can pull the tight fabric down his legs. He leaves them around his ankles—see how Niall likes being tied up. Harry leans down, ducks his head between Niall’s legs, and settles Niall’s knees over his shoulders.

“We don’t have private rooms—” Niall lays his hand on Harry’s head and scratches his fingers through his hair. “But we can create a separate, elevated space, and cameras can be discouraged, or encouraged, as you prefer.”

Niall’s cock is beautiful, long and slim and pink, darker peeking through his foreskin, throbbing against his belly with his heartbeat. Harry lifts it forward and takes that flushed cock head into his mouth, sucking it hard, swallowing a burst of precome and moaning helplessly at the taste. Niall squeezes Harry’s curls in his fist.

“In terms of food, we cater to whatever you—”

Oh, he is still far too articulate. Harry takes Niall down his throat in one smooth motion, until his bottom lip pouts against Niall’s balls. Niall extends his arm to hold the phone as far from his face as possible and lets out a groan that reverberates into Harry’s bones. Harry swallows, and swallows, again and again, loving the feeling of his throat suctioning around Niall’s cock, and then grips the base of Niall’s cock tight as he pulls back to keep him from coming.

Harry looks up at him and smiles. Niall looks like he’s going to pass out. Harry slips out from in between his legs. “Going to get a glass of water.” His voice is wrecked. He coughs, delicately, and wipes his mouth.

Niall brings the phone back to his face and says, “Sir? Are you there?” goggling at Harry as he walks backwards to the bar. He’s a little out of breath, but impressively normal-sounding. “Oh good—think I lost you for a moment! So I think I was saying about the food—”

Harry walks naked to the bar and pours two glasses of seltzer. He takes a drink and watches Niall, still talking on the phone. His free hand is gripping his thigh, decidedly ignoring his cock—like a good boy, waiting for Harry. He walks slowly back to the table with the waters.

“Eight o’clock,” Niall’s saying. “Snow White. Party of ten. We’ll be expecting you.”

“Snow White?” Harry holds out the water glass and Niall shakes his head. Harry sets it on the table.

“We get a lot of reservations for princesses—” Niall starts as Harry wraps his fist around his own cock. “—actually, um—” Harry keeps his strokes tight and slow, throwing his head back, closing his eyes, and groaning. “Jesus, you are a little shit.”

Harry grins. “Shall I continue sucking you off, or—?”

Niall stands and tries to rush at Harry, but his pants are still around his ankles and he falls forward instead. Harry jumps to catch him and Niall lands in his arms, their collarbones colliding a bit painfully, but the pleasure of Niall’s cock pressing up along Harry’s more than makes up for it. They laugh into each others’ mouths and Harry wraps his hand around both of their cocks together. Niall firms up his hold on Harry’s shoulders and bites Harry’s bottom lip.

The phone rings. Harry moves his hand to the back of Niall’s neck and squeezes. “Please—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Niall says.

“Do you have—”

“Condoms? Lube?” Harry nods. “Nope. Don’t usually carry that stuff around with me.”

Harry does keep a condom in his wallet, actually, but fucking Louis used it as a water balloon last weekend and Harry still hadn’t replaced it. He sighs.

“This is pretty great.” Niall wraps his hand around their cocks from the other side, fingers overlapping with Harry’s. “Just this.”

Harry agrees it really is surprisingly great, just jerking them off together. Maybe being in public is adding something, or maybe it’s just Niall.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Let’s party like we’re twelve-year-olds on a camping trip.”

“Not going to last much longer than a twelve-year-old.”

“Hey, that’s fine, that’s good,” Harry says, comforting him to cover that he’s not far from coming himself. “We’ve got all day.”

“I’m on the clock—”

The phone rings. Harry pulls Niall’s face in and kisses him. True to his word, it’s only a minute or so before Niall comes and the feel of him splattered between them makes Harry follow him over the edge. Niall all but collapses, throwing his arms over Harry’s shoulders, loose as cooked spaghetti. Harry keeps stroking them together, slowly, to squeeze out the last of their orgasms, until their cocks are twitching in his hand. Niall pulls back and Harry whimpers helplessly, not ready to let go of him yet

“C’mon,” Niall says, kneeling and pulling Harry down to the floor with him. “Lie down with me for a bit.”

The floor is cold, but it feels good against his sweaty, overheated skin. They’re both a bit disgusting with come splattered all over them and Harry wants to cuddle without gluing them together. He takes up his shirt and moves to clean off Niall first.

“You don’t need—!” Niall grabs Harry’s wrist and stops him before his shirt can make contact. “Hang on.” Niall hops to his feet, grabs his briefs off the ground and pulls them on as he hurries into the kitchen. Harry sits up against the wall while he waits, hunts down his own briefs in the trail of their clothes, and pulls them on. Niall comes back with an armful of white towels and drops them on Harry’s legs. One is warm and damp and Niall uses it to wipe Harry down, teasing his nipples and following the towel with his mouth.

“Are these nipples, too?” Niall runs his thumb over Harry's extras.

“Yep, I’ve got four.”

“Even that’s fucking cute,” Niall mutters, like he doesn’t expect Harry to hear him, then louder: “Are they sensitive?” He thumbs over one of them again, scratching a little and sending a shock of pleasure to Harry’s oversensitized cock. Niall grins at whatever he sees on Harry’s face. “Too much?”

Harry grabs the damp towel out of Niall’s hand and smacks it across Niall’s chest. Laughing, Niall sits on the floor with Harry, leans against a table leg across from him, stretching his legs out so he can press his feet flat on the wall Harry’s leaning against. Harry wraps his hand around Niall’s shin and squeezes, grinning at him. Niall grins back.

The phone rings for the fourth time since Niall started ignoring it. Niall stretches his arm out until it trembles with the effort, as if he’s trying to will the handset into his hand. “Too far,” he says. “I am so fired.”

“I’ll get you another job.”

“Do you have a lot of jobs at your disposal?”

About six thousand in the greater Los Angeles area, Harry reckons, not that Niall’s qualified for a lot of them, and not that he’d ask Robin to fire someone just to so Niall could have the job. There have to be at least a few available, though, that Niall would be good at and that would be better than answering phones and waiting for packages in an empty restaurant.

“So what do you want to do?”

“Hmm?” Niall goes bright pink all over, just like he did earlier, and brings his hand to his mouth and starts biting at his pinky nail.

“Don’t play dumb. You don’t want to be a chef, despite your obvious talent, so what do you want to do that makes you get so red?”

Niall rests his hand on his chin, not letting his poor nails stray far from his teeth. “Am I being smart or am I being brave?” he says softly.

“I bet it wasn’t the smart one making you blush.” Niall only gets redder at Harry’s teasing. “Or do you moonlight as a stripper and the tips are so good you know fulfilling your dream of being an accountant will slash your salary?”

“No, um—” Niall’s just mumbling around his fingers now.

“Sorry.” Harry reaches out and takes hold of Niall’s wrist. Niall lets him pull his hand away from his mouth and thread their fingers together. “What’s the smart thing to do?”

“Teach. I haven’t declared a major yet—”

“Where do you go?”

“USC. I’m a sophomore. They’ve got a Music Education major, which lets you get your teaching credential your senior year, so—” He trails off, apparently unable to explain why that’s a good thing.

“That does sound smart. Very efficient.” Niall lets out a deep breath through his nose, nodding, as if Harry’s the one explaining this to him. “And what if you’re brave?”

“Actually work in the industry. I major in Performance, and get a Music Industry focus and—you know, try to make a career in music.”

Harry scoffs. “No offense, Niall, but that still sounds pretty smart.”

“Or I could drop out of school, sing on street corners by day, stalk label execs by night, trying to slip my demo in their briefcases. Is that what you were expecting?”

“You’re a singer?” Niall nods. “Well, that does sound brave.”

“Sounds stupid, you mean.”

“Stupid’s fun.”

Niall sighs. “Spoken like someone with a very cushy safety net.”

That hits him like a punch to the stomach. Harry lets go of Niall’s hand and sits up straight.

“Have you known who I am this whole time?”

“Who you—no, Harry. I have no idea who you are,” Niall says, all but glaring at him, “except a cute bloke who’s used to getting what he wants. But I can read the Saint Laurent label on the shirt you tried to use as a come rag just fine. That smacks of someone who doesn’t even go to the dry cleaners themselves.”

Harry didn’t, in fact, even leave his laundry in the hallway like the guests had to. Housekeeping gathers the dirty clothes scattered around his room for him every day, and has it back in his closet within a few hours.

“I’m really sorry. I’m Harry Styles, my—”

“Your dad owns the Bel Air.” Niall gapes at him.

Harry nods, even though it’s technically his step dad who owns a dozen hotels in England and Los Angeles.

Niall's expression settles and he reaches out for Harry's hand again. “Do people fuck you for your name a lot?”

“Of course,” Harry says, knitting their fingers together. “That’s just part of the deal. I don’t mind it, usually, but—I didn’t think you had.”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t have, actually, so I—I’m glad I didn’t know. I would have missed out on a good time.”

“Why wouldn’t you have?”

“Rich kids usually aren’t very nice in the end. I’ve learned that lesson before.”

“Who?” Harry demands.

“USC’s packed with them.”

“Who?”

“What, you going to take a hit out on the bollocks who left me in Tahoe?”

“He did what?”

“He—” Niall shakes his head. “I was so stupid. I don’t want to—”

“Please tell me.”

“He invited me up to Tahoe for a long weekend—we took a private jet and we had this massive chalet all to ourselves—it was amazing, at least for the first couple days." Niall pulls his knees up to his chest. "And then I woke up on Sunday morning and he was gone. Didn’t leave a note, didn’t even leave any coffee. His Instagram informed me he was en route to Manhattan. I terrified his caretaker when she came by to close the place back up again. She ended up being very sweet, and gave me a ride to the Amtrak station. Ten hours, five transfers, and a hundred dollars later, I was back in LA. Only had to miss one class. A few months after that he showed up at my dorm at three AM, called me Neil, and asked if I wanted to hook up.”

“Who?”

“I’m sure he’s not your friend.”

“I don’t want to delete his number from my phone, Niall. I want to destroy his life.”

“All the more reason not to tell you. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it, I promise you.”

Harry wants to say, He could have kept you from hooking up with me. Destroying his life would be a public service!

I’m not like that, he wants to say, but the truth is, he kind of is the not very nice rich kid Niall’s afraid of. Harry would never abandon someone five hundred miles from home, but he regularly has to stop seeing people who have gotten the wrong idea about his intentions. “Time to break up,” Louis will tell him, and it’s frustrating, because they were never together in Harry’s mind, not even close, but he knows how to be kind about it now, kind and firm.

“I can’t believe I offered you a box of mac and cheese to take home,” Niall says, throwing his head back against the table leg.

“Hey, I accepted a box of mac and cheese. I’m not leaving here without it.”

“I should do that now, actually, before the cheese gets too hard to wash off the pan.” Niall lifts himself to his feet and stumbles a little as one of his legs seems to give out on him.

“Are you okay?” Harry says, scrambling up to help him.

“No problem,” says Niall. “Just got a wonky knee. I’ll  need surgery sooner or later.”

Harry kneels down and kisses the back of the knee in question, comes around to kiss the front, and the little hollow above his calf. “Necessary to the healing process, right?”

Niall smiles down at him, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Then he takes off to the kitchen with the pasta dish in his hands. Harry pulls on the rest of his clothes and looks at his phone. He’s expected at a party tonight and he wants to shower and nap before that, so—“I should go,” he tells Niall as he walks into the kitchen, carrying a stack of their dirty plates, cups, and silverware, as well as the rest of Niall’s clothes.

“You’re leaving me with all the dishes?”

“Oh! I can—”

“I don’t think you can, actually, rich boy. You should go.”

Niall grins at him and Harry really has no choice but to kiss him again. He works his way across Niall’s jaw and down his throat when, “I want to see you again!” seems to burst right out of Niall’s chest. Harry pulls back and looks at him. “I like you and I want to see you again,” Niall repeats. “I just couldn’t let you walk out of here without saying that.”

“I like you, too,” Harry says, “but I don’t do boyfriends.”

“Okay?”

“I know, you’re asking for a second date—first date,” he corrects, at Niall’s look. “—not a marriage proposal. I just—especially knowing about that Tahoe git—I don’t want to mislead you. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want to be someone’s boyfriend. But I do want to see you again.”

“Huh. I need to think about that for a minute.” He pulls his clothes back on, frowning and nodding as he considers Harry’s proposition. Finally, as he’s stepping back into his shoes he says, “All right. I’ve got a few rules.”

“Okay?”

“One: we make plans. I’ve got a full course load, and two jobs, and other people in my life. I won't be available any time you’re bored and want someone else to touch your penis. Acceptable?”

“Fine. How about tonight?”

“I’m busy. We’ll come back to that. Two: if we make plans, and you can’t follow through—you’re stuck in traffic, or you got a better offer, or whatever, I don’t care why—I just want you to tell me as soon as you can. Excuses after the fact won’t cut it.”

“That’s just common decency.”

“Good. Three: when you’re with me, you’re with me. I’m not your boyfriend, fine. But when we’re together, I’m as good as. I’m sure everyone’s jaw drops for your big, glistening—penthouse, but I’m not interested in competing. You want someone else, or you’re not sure who you want, leave me out of it.”

That won’t be a problem. He doesn’t feel the need to share this information, but Harry’s pretty sure he won’t be able to see anyone else when Niall’s in the room. He gets like this sometimes. It’s a feeling he thinks inspires most people to want to commit, change their status on Facebook, tell their mom, make a copy of their key, hold hands at parties, but Harry despises the feeling obligation that inevitably outlasts this giddiness—and it always does. By being clear from the get go he’s saving them a lot of detangling later.

“How about tomorrow night, are you free then?”

“No.”

“Wednesday?”

“No.”

“Thursday! I need a date to a movie premiere.” He can tell Niall’s intrigued. “And there’ll be some hot after parties, too!”

“The movie premiere sounds sick, let’s do that. But afterwards we’ll go somewhere low-key and chill out with people we actually like, yeah?”

“If you insist. Maybe somewhere with an open mic?”

“You want to—” Niall grins, ducking his head and exuding embarrassment, surprise and complete delight all at once. “Yeah, okay. And for future reference, Thursday and Friday nights I’m usually free.”

“How about this Friday, then?”

“What if you’re sick of me by Friday?”

“I want to make plans. If it turns out that I don’t want to follow through, I’ll promptly let you know.”

Niall grins. “It’s my mate’s birthday. He’s English, too, actually. Want to come to a party at my residence hall?”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately, even though he’s picturing a night of terrible beer in red Solo cups—and on second thought, that might be more glamorous than he should expect. “Can I bring, um—” a DJ, a caterer, some decent weed— “a gift?”

“Bring whatever you want.”

Huh. Harry’s going to have to think about that one.

They exchange numbers and arrange a time to meet on Thursday and make out against the sink for a little while longer. The phone rings, seeming to signal the real end to their afternoon together. Niall hands him his to-go box of macaroni and cheese. Sunshine is streaming in to greet them as they walk to the front of the restaurant and Niall picks up the phone.

“Thank you for calling Toast. This is Niall. Would you hold, please? Harry,” he calls, catching him halfway out the door. “One more thing. I like having a boyfriend. I like being someone’s boyfriend. So one day you’re going to call me and I’m going to say no.”

That catches in Harry’s chest, but it’s a good thing, he reminds himself. If luck is with them, Niall will find a proper boyfriend just as Harry’s getting bored. “Noted,” he says.

Niall grins. “See you on Thursday.”