anon im obsessed with this being the first prompt ask i received. you're doing the lord's work here, here's some mirry playing chess
read here on ao3
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There are different degrees of tour bus boredom, but Harry is quite sure playing board games is the highest degree. Especially when he’s playing with Michael, who’s as competitive as he is easily distracted.
And yet.
“Go on, take your turn!”
“I don’t know where to go!”
“Just go anywhere, come on, you’re taking forever.”
“This is called strategy, bro,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “Chess is a game of strategy. This is the whole game.”
“Ughhh,” Harry says disagreeably. “No one cares about strategy. Just take your turn.”
Michael sighs melodramatically. “If I lose because you couldn’t wait five seconds for me to actually think about my move, I will…” He shakes his head as if unable to come up with an adequate punishment. “I’ll prank the shit out of you. You’ll never recover.”
“Right,” Harry says, snorting. “Oh no, I’m so scared.” He’s pretty sure he’s immune to life-destroying pranks by now. A natural consequence of having Louis Tomlinson as a recurring character in his life.
“You should be,” Michael says, and moves his knight.
“Thank you,” Harry says. He surveys the board a moment and moves a pawn forward.
“You didn’t even think!”
“I know,” Harry says smugly. “I’m just that good.”
Michael sticks his tongue out. Harry reaches out in an attempt to grab it, and Michael jerks away, laughing. “What the hell, you fucking weirdo! Did you just try to grab my tongue?”
Harry grins innocently. “That would be disgusting.”
“So yes.”
“Stop stalling and take your turn.”
Michael groans and collapses backwards onto the floor of the tour bus lounge. His legs are dangerously close to knocking the board; Harry surreptitiously inches it closer to him, away from the gangly mess of limbs that is Michael Clifford.
“I’m tired of chess,” he declares. “Let’s make out.”
Harry slaps his ankle. “No! Quitter! You’re just scared I’ll beat you even with all your fuckin’ strategy and everything. You aren’t getting out of this that easily.”
Michael props himself up on his elbows and gives Harry a blank stare. “You want to finish the chess game? Instead of make out?”
“Yes,” Harry says seriously. “I’m confident I can win.”
“No the fuck you aren’t!”
“Wanna bet? I’ll bet you I win.”
Michael lights up. “Ooh, interesting. Keep talking.”
Harry laughs. “Okay, fine. If I win, you admit to the whole crowd at the show tonight that I beat you in chess. Dominated. That I dominated you in chess.”
The look on Michael’s face is priceless. “You want me to tell a crowd of mostly young impressionable women that I was dominated by Harry Styles?”
“That’s what I want,” Harry confirms.
Michael laughs. “I mean, okay then. So if I win?”
“You choose.”
“But I want to make out now,” Michael huffs. “‘S no use to me if I win after we’ve already played. I don’t feel like playing anymore.”
“We’re in the middle of the game, Mikey.”
“I know, I know.” Michael grunts and sits up. “Okay. If I win, I get control over your Twitter for a whole day.”
Harry chews his lip. “No Tweeting anything that will get me in big trouble.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Deal.”
“Can we make out a little?” Michael says hopefully, tilting his head to the side like a puppy. He is admittedly endearing. It’s a tempting offer. Harry’s strong, but not that strong.
“One kiss,” he barters. Michael cheers and half-crawls over to Harry’s side, once again narrowly avoiding the board. There’s no way these chess pieces don’t end up scattered across the floor within the hour. If they manage to finish and pack up the game without losing a pawn, Harry will be amazed.
He kisses Michael once and then again, because he’s just that generous. There’s a smile on Michael’s face when they part. He gives Harry’s cheek a gentle pat and says, “You’re pretty cute, you know that?”
“Don’t try to soften me up, you scoundrel,” Harry reproaches him.
Michael’s jaw drops, offended. “How dare you suggest such a thing! I’m supposed to withhold compliments until I inevitably beat you? Excuse me, dominate you?”
“I don’t trust you. You have a devious mind.”
“If anyone’s devious and untrustworthy, it is definitely you, Mr. Styles.” Michael hits him upside the head, just lightly enough not to hurt, and backwards-shuffles back to his side of the board. “Fine. Whose turn is it?”
“Yours.”
“Right.” Michael blinks at the board and sits back on his heels. Adjusts his position. Shifts until he’s cross-legged, and then stretches one leg out.
Harry can’t help it. He leans across the board and presses a kiss to the corner of Michael’s mouth.
Michael looks startled, though pleased. “What was that for?”
Harry shrugs. “You’re pretty cute too.”
Michael narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re up to something. Did you plant something on me? Did you move a piece when you kissed me?”
“No! You were being cute.”
“I’m always cute.”
“You were being particularly cute, stop fishing for compliments and take your bloody turn,” Harry says, shaking his head fondly. “Jesus.”
Michael moves a pawn. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Harry says, rubbing his palms together. “You walked right into my trap.”
“You are so full of shit.”
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
“I’ll see you have your arse handed to you on a silver fuckin’ platter. ‘Cause I’m going to dominate you.”
Harry giggles. “Believe what you want to believe, Cliffo. But there can only be one winner, and it’s going to be me.”
“Dream on,” Michael says as Harry moves his knight. “Dream on, Hazza.”
It’s a close game. Really, it is. Close enough that there’s really no point reporting a winner. The true victory is that they manage to keep the game set together and don’t lose any pieces to chess piece battles or roughhousing or anything of the sort.
(“Get dominated, Styles!” Michael crows. “Check fucking mate, mate!”)
Okay, so Harry doesn’t win. But, well. Making out with Michael as a consolation prize certainly numbs the pain of defeat.
Of all the people Michael might have expected to see at the CALM release party, Harry Styles isn’t one.
yeah i wrote mirry im also surprised about it you can all thank/blame @tigerteeff who put one fucking tag on this post and then i fucking blinked and had a fic. i have no explanation for you. title from cherry by harry styles.
read it on ao3 here
Of all the people Michael might have expected to see at the CALM release party, Harry Styles isn’t one.
It’s not like they hadn’t invited him. They always invite the One Direction boys. Niall and Liam came for Youngblood. But it’s been a good while since Michael’s seen Harry in person, and he can’t help but feel like there’s a rulebook he’s not read.
Harry sees Michael and starts towards him, and Michael just hopes if there is a rulebook, Harry’s not read it either. If they’re going to be on unsteady footing, at least they’ll be there together.
“About fucking time,” Michael hears Calum mutter, just as Harry gets close enough to be in earshot. “Is that Harry fuckin’ Styles? It’s Harry fuckin’ Styles!”
“My friends call me Harry,” Harry says, in that slow, easy drawl, and Michael thinks his heart is going to stop. He should be used to it, should be totally immune to Harry’s charm by now — it’s been so fucking long since anything, and it’s just Harry. It’s just fucking Harry.
And then Harry turns his fucking eyes onto Michael, and they’re still that sea-foam green that makes Michael unsure if he’s swimming or drowning, and Michael knows he’s done for.
“Hey, Michael,” Harry says smoothly.
Michael swallows while Calum claps him on the back. “Hey,” he returns. “Fancy seeing you here. Gotta say, I didn’t expect you to show up.”
“Neither did I,” Harry admits. “But I had to swing by and congratulate you lot, didn’t I? Fuckin’ smashed it with the record.”
Ashton appears out of nowhere, Luke in tow. “Hey, it’s Mr. Styles!”
“Who let this guy in?” Luke crows, and pulls Harry in for a hug. “Shit, mate, it’s been a long time!”
“I know, I know,” Harry says sheepishly. “I get distracted. I’ve got a lot going on.”
“Too right you do,” Calum says, grinning. “Fine Line? Talk about a fuckin’ smash.”
Harry beams, broad and open, the same way he always used to do whenever anyone would compliment him. He’s lost a lot of self-consciousness — a lot — and shed most of his insecurity, but this is the same; Harry’s pressing need to be validated, to be reminded that he’s good at what he does, and that people love him for doing it.
Michael can picture that same smile, seven years younger, shy and happy when Michael says you beat the level, way to go!
This isn’t the same Harry. But then, Michael’s not the same Michael.
“This isn’t my party, though,” Harry says dismissively. “CALM, eh?” He looks around at the four of them. “Promise I won’t be giving any I-knew-them-when speeches, but —”
“Don’t even start,” Ashton threatens, prodding at Harry’s shoulder. He glances over at Michael, then says, “Let’s go socialize, boys. It’s a party.”
Calum squeezes the back of Michael’s neck once and takes the out. Michael doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not, but he watches Calum and Luke trail after Ashton, presumably to go stand in a corner and pretend to socialize while watching Michael out of the corners of their eyes.
Michael shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t fidget. Harry has no such reservations, and starts playing with the hem of his shirt. “I thought you might be cross with me,” Harry confesses. “‘S why I didn’t come to Youngblood. I wanted to. That one was also brilliant.”
Michael shakes his head. “I’d be a hypocrite to be cross.” They’re not exes, not really. Exes implies there had been a start and end date, and there hadn’t officially been. There hadn’t officially been anything, no proper MichaelandHarry era. There’d never been anything for Michael to mourn. “I ended it as much as you did.”
“That’s actually —” Harry glances around, at all the people milling about. “I was hoping I could talk to you, but it’s not really…” He purses his lips. “Is this your place?”
It kind of hurts, actually, that Harry doesn’t know whose house he’s at. “Ashton’s,” Michael says. “But we can use his room. It’s fine.”
Harry gestures, like lead the way, so Michael does. It’s weird doing it like this, because he can call to mind a good few parties from which he and Harry had escaped, hunting around for a vacant bedroom for very different reasons.
(Don’t get your hopes up, Michael thinks furiously to himself, there’s no use getting your hopes up, but it’s too late for that.)
People’s eyes follow them as they leave. Michael’s used to being watched, but it still makes him uncomfortable knowing there are people tracking his every move, wondering who he’s with and what they’re doing. If I knew, I’d tell you, he wants to shout at them.
Ashton’s room is far enough away from the party noise that with the door closed, it’s almost possible to forget there’s anything going on downstairs. Michael leans against the door as it clicks shut and waves a hand around. “This alright?”
“I’m not that high-maintenance, you know,” Harry says wryly.
Michael scoffs, sort of smiling. “I find that hard to believe. Gucci, Harry?”
“I like it,” Harry defends. “I like…I don’t know.” He looks down at himself, so Michael decides it’s okay if he gives Harry a once-over too. If the Harry from 2013 met the Harry from 2020, Michael’s almost positive one of them would run screaming from the encounter, but that’s probably true of Michael, too. Admittedly, Harry has grown into himself in a way that makes Michael almost glow with pride. There’s no hint of the boy who’d been too scared to say how he felt to anyone, no trace left of the kid who’d once cried because he thought he would be judged for wearing nail varnish. It’s obvious that Harry is happier now. Everything about him is more there, and it’s clear in the way he carries himself, the way he smiles like he doesn’t care that people will see him enjoying something, the way he pulls his shoulders back in a flowy white button-up he’d never have dared approach with a ten-foot pole seven years ago.
“I wasn’t saying I didn’t like it,” Michael tells him. “I’m happy for you, you know. Like. I actually am. You seem happier. I can tell you are.”
“You do too,” Harry says. “I like your hair like this.”
Michael runs a hand self-consciously through his hair. It’s natural, has been for some time now. And Harry’s just complimented it, so Michael shouldn’t push, but he’s never been good at restraining himself. “You do?”
Harry shrugs. “It’s just more you, I think. Not, uh, that I’d really, like, know.”
“Well, Calum showed me some compelling research that convinced me not to dye my hair until it fell out,” Michael says lightly. He pauses; Harry’s just watching him, and Michael can’t remember the last time he had Harry’s attention at all, much less undivided like this. “You wanted to talk about something?”
“Right. I did, yeah.” Harry twists the rings on his fingers. Michael drops his gaze to the movement, and is momentarily distracted by Harry’s hands. Stop it, he scolds himself, and with great effort returns his eyes to Harry’s. It’s not much better in terms of not being distracted.
Michael waits, but Harry just shifts on his feet. “So…” Michael says slowly. “Talk?”
“Okay,” Harry says. “I miss you?” He clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. I miss you. Spending time with you and talking to you, and seeing you all the time. And, like. Everything else. Which, like, I know I can’t just show up and say that, or — I’m not expecting anything from you, right. I just, I don’t know. We — we fell apart in a weird way, and,” he shakes his head. “I’ve always felt weird about it. But I’ve missed you a lot lately. Just — you’re one of the only people who never, um, expected anything from me? Or judged me for anything? Or wanted me to be something I wasn’t?”
Harry doesn’t say it, but Michael hears it anyway, that the other four people who used to be that for Harry aren’t exactly in his life anymore. Soon after the break, Michael and Ashton had gotten coffee with Niall, and he’d reassured them the break was as mutual as it could have been and that they’d be back on their feet in no time. As months turned into years, Michael started questioning the truth of that promise.
They’ve grown up, is the thing. They’ve all grown up, all the One Direction boys, and 5SOS too. But while Michael thinks he and his bandmates have grown parallel to each other, it seems more and more like the former lads of One Direction have grown outward, every day further away from each other.
Why don’t you go make up with one of them, then? Michael wants to ask, and he would if he could get his tongue unstuck from the inside of his mouth. They were your brothers.
“Anyway,” Harry says, with a self-conscious chuckle. “That’s all I wanted to say. I miss you, and…and I’m sorry for all the distance. I’d like to —”
“Me too,” Michael says, words tripping out. “To all of it. I miss you. I’ve missed you. I’d like — whatever you were going to say.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I can’t think of anything you would have said that I wouldn’t agree with,” Michael says. “Go on. Finish your sentence.”
Harry huffs a laugh. “I’d like to get to know this version of you.”
“Oh,” Michael says. “Never mind. I don’t want that.” Harry smacks his shoulder. “Oh my God, I’m joking!”
“Would you like to get coffee?” Harry says politely. Michael kicks him in the shins. “Ow! The hell!”
“Stop talking to me like I’m some stranger you’re humoring,” Michael says. “I’ve seen you naked. I’ve gotten you off. I categorically refuse to start from zero.”
Harry doesn’t redden, which is new; old Harry would have blushed and hidden his face in Michael’s shoulder. This Harry just tilts his chin back a little bit and says, “Fine. Come to my place.”
Michael hums appreciatively, anticipation thrumming in spades under his skin. This is new but familiar, like listening to an old song from childhood and finally, for the first time, understanding the lyrics. “Okay,” he says. “Tonight?”
Harry blinks. “If you want.”
“I do,” Michael says. “And as much as I want to stay here all night and talk to you, I should probably go back to my party. For my album. I’ve just released an album, I don’t know if you knew.”
“You’re a shit,” Harry says, grinning. “Go on. I want to catch up with the lads anyway. It really has been a long time.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I know,” Harry says, with a hint of bitterness. “I know. Believe me, I know. I’ve strained every relationship I used to have.”
Harry must be lonely, Michael realizes with a start. It seems impossible, for someone as…well, as Harry as Harry is, but there’s something secretly lost in the way Harry searches Michael’s face. If Michael were in Harry’s shoes, if 5SOS went on a break that sent them all spiraling in different musical directions, if it had been years since he’d spoken to the men he considers brothers now — it has to be lonely. It has to be lonely, knowing that the people who were there when you were learning to grow up don’t know you now that you’ve finally gone and done it.
Michael reaches out and laces his fingers with Harry’s. “Not this one,” he says.
Harry smiles gratefully. They don’t say anything else before rejoining the festivities, but Harry also doesn’t let go of Michael’s hand when they’re amongst people, even when Calum smirks at them.
Before they put the album on to listen, everyone toasts to the band. Quietly, Michael adds, “To new beginnings.”
Harry clinks their glasses together. “To old friends.”
“Or something,” Michael says.
“Or something.” Harry presses a kiss to Michael’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says softly.
Michael feels his cheeks heat up. There’s no way to answer that without sounding too aloof or far too smitten, so he doesn’t. They both down their drinks, and Harry sticks to Michael’s side for the rest of the night, and Michael feels right at home.
