I’m too lazy to type this out in a text, but. Like. Imagine a parallel universe in which Niall and Harry are a hundred times sappier, where the blatant flirting on stage has spiralled down to the two of them on a mattress, spinning with the force of their fall, making them twist and turn until the sheets are as tied around them as their thoughts are. Imagine hushed, languid kissing and feverish touches on skin that’s barely cooled down after the shows, and choked back words that could tie them down and pin them under the feet of the bed if they were allowed to settle down, now. But they’re not. They’re about to roam free for the first time in years. They can’t nest in a hotel room. Can’t put titles on their desires. Can just breathe each other in, over and over and over again and make jokes the morning after because it makes it easier to pretend that they’re not hurting from the reality they’re in. But Harry keeps whispering confessions anyway, deep into the mess of strands on Niall’s head, just when he thinks Niall has drifted to sleep. Keeps murmuring i love yous to the crown of Niall’s head while he squeezes Niall closer to his chest, and Niall’s heart swells a bit every time. Makes him think he’ll have trouble preforming the next night, because his lungs can’t really fit in his chest anymore with the warmth Harry keeps injecting to it. And he’s scared to answer. Scared to spell out what they already know is real. So he waits for Harry’s arms to loosen just a bit, and for his breathing to even out, and for his heart to beat a steady lullaby as he sleeps, and then he gets up. All reluctant, but still with a goal in mind. He’s determined as he grabs the sharpie he always keeps in a pocket, and he uncaps it, and during every night they get to spend together he writes a neat scribble of i love you too over one of Harry’s tattoos. Picks a new one every time, hiding it in the ink like the semi-secret it is, and can’t really fall asleep until he knows that it’s dried up. Until he knows that it’ll stick, at least for a day or two. And then he’ll add another one, to another tattoo. And eventually he’s gone through them all. All the big ones that will hold his sentiment have been dotted with his letters, and he finds himself tearing up, because it’s just further proof of their upcoming separation, and soon he won’t be allowed to write on Harry even if there are new tattoos added to the artwork. So he wakes harry up with frantic kisses, begs for more, for another stifled confession spilled into the night, and once Harry tells his hair that he loves him for the second time that night Niall is so close to saying it back, but he can’t. So he doesn’t. He just lies there, losing himself in the feeling of Harry’s skin against his, wishing for the first time that the break was a bit further away. And he grabs his sharpie again - takes it from the nightstand and grasps Harry’s hand in his, separating Harry’s fingers and leaving his truth along the side of Harry’s fourth finger, just so that it’ll be kept a secret in all of Harry’s handshakes tomorrow. And he doesn’t hear a word about it, the next morning. Doesn’t hear anything at all, actually, and his chest hurts every time Harry walks out of a bathroom, because there’s another flood of water that’s been splashed to his words. Another layer of them washed away - and Harry can’t have seen it, or else he would have said something. So they part quietly. Come apart for a few days and meet up again at the next stop in the world, and Niall’s chest is shrinking. His lungs are useless and his heart is hopeless and he’s wearing himself down, thinking so much. He barely makes it through the evening, barely keeps himself whole in Harry’s arms, knowing that the tattoos are too few for all the things he has to say to Harry, knowing that his last attempt was useless. And he barely keeps his eyes open this time, after the air has cooled down around them and Harry’s breathing is an even rise and fall of his chest. He fights so hard - is so desperate to hear the words again, but they don’t come. The night grows older, and Niall grows sadder, and he keeps waiting for something to happen, but it doesn’t. Harry doesn’t even fall asleep like he usually does, they just are. There. In the moment, until Niall finally sighs out his frustration, and Harry’s pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and his hand is coming up to grasp at Niall’s on his chest, and that’s when Niall finally realizes that there are shadows on the inside of Harry’s finger; ghosts of the words Niall left there days ago. And he snatches it closer, squinting through the darkness and dragging the pad of a finger over the letters, and they’re not smooth. They’re healing, still. Scabbed over; slowly coming apart to form an everlasting result. And Harry says it, then, loud and clear. And Niall knows that he’ll never have to hide it on Harry’s skin again. (don’t blame me, blame @missing-headache ok?)
