walk my days on a wire (sexswap niall sequel)

[saysthemagpie]

hiiii here's more sexswap Niall! this is the night before they hook up again.

"He kept asking for you," Paul says. "Sorry to wake you."

 

"Did he just get in?" Niall stifles a yawn.

Paul shakes his head.

 

"Hasn't been out," he says. "Thought I'd better drop him here myself, make sure he didn't wander off somewhere. We can look after him, if you want."

"It's all right," Niall says. "Just leave his key, yeah? In case he wants it later."

 

In the bedroom Harry's standing in the middle of the room, swaying ever so slightly, like he'd forgotten where he was going. Niall clears the clothes strewn over the loveseat for him. It's more of a mess than he usually makes, but they're booked for three nights here instead of one, and after the gig he'd been too wiped out to do much more than collapse into bed. Then, of course, he'd been too wired to sleep, and had lain awake with the television on, the volume turned down low, till he'd heard the knock on the door.

 

"You could've texted," he says. "If you needed something."

 

"Wanted to see you," Harry says, then hiccups. It seems to surprise him. "Didn't want to be - 'lone."

 

Niall doesn't know what to do with that.

 

"I'll get you some water," he says, retreating nto the ensuite.

 

The hotel's posh; there's no harsh fluorescent overhead, only a soft, flattering light emanating from the glazed wall sconces placed round the mirror. Even so, Niall doesn't glance at his reflection as he stands at the sink, filling first a glass of water, then the electric kettle. He knows how worn he must look, a face on him like a shirt that's been too many times through the wash: the colors fading, the fabric stretched too thin.

 

When he comes back out Harry's sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, struggling to unlace his boots.

 

"Are you staying, then?"

 

Harry's fingers still on his laces. "I can go if you want." He sounds rather more sober than he had a moment ago. Niall, replaying his words back, realizes how they must've sounded.

"It's fine," he says, and busies himself with arranging the mugs and teabags, to give himself something to do with his hands. He doesn't know why he feels so off-balance all of a sudden, awkward and too formal. It's only Harry. Just -- they don't really do this kind of thing anymore, turning up in each other's rooms in the middle of the night wanting company