saysthemagpie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saysthemagpie) wrote2017-10-25 01:11 am
saysthemagpie) wrote2017-10-25 01:11 am
Entry tags:
- abo,
- gryles,
- gryles abo,
- my fic,
- wips
the heat where you lay WIP (gryles a/b/o except nick doesn't know harry's an omega)
a tiny excerpt from my unfinished grimmy appreciation fest fic, where nick's an alpha and harry's an omega who's secretly passing for beta and at some point harry forgets his suppressants and goes a little bit feral for nick. nick's slow on the uptake, but also it's not that weird, harry hanging round his flat every single day, spending most nights too, never wanting to leave nick's side. it does start to get a bit weird when harry starts stealing nick's clothes and making a secret little nest of them in the spare closet.
*
“We should go out,” Nick announces at dinner.
He’s ordered them both Chinese takeaway. Far too much of it, really, but he had wanted to have some of all Harry’s favorites. He’s even served it up on the good plates, to make it feel like a proper meal. It hasn’t gone as planned. Harry’s picked at his, taken a few bites when Nick’s looking to be polite, but mostly he’s just pushed what Nick’s served him around on his plate. His face is pale and pinched-looking, and the bemusement Nick had felt earlier when he’d discovered Harry’s little closet hideout is starting to morph into something like real worry.
Harry looks up. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s got a headache. “Do you want to go out?”
Nick doesn’t, actually. He’s tired, and feels cranky for no reason he can pinpoint, and all he really wants to do is lie on the sofa with Harry curled up next to him under the blanket, eating ice cream and watching the first half of Titanic. But they’ve been doing some version of that most nights for weeks now, and that can’t be doing much to help Harry’s fragile mental state.
“It’s a Saturday night, popstar,” he says as brightly as he can manage. “Shouldn’t be wasting your youth, locked away in this old flat.”
“I like it here, though,” Harry says. “Can’t we just stay in?”
“Well, I can’t be wasting my youth, then. I’ve got precious little of it left, Hazza, you know that.”
“Okay,” Harry says, sounding dubious. “If you want, I guess.”
Nick keeps up a steady stream of chatter the whole time they’re getting ready. Harry sit on the toilet seat while Nick’s in the shower, listening patiently as Nick chatters on and on about some inane trivia segment they’re planning for the show next week. Normally he’d be asking Harry questions too, about rehearsals, tour preparations, that kind of thing, but he’s worried it’s trouble with the band that’s got Harry in such a funk. That, or girl troubles, and Nick doesn’t really feel qualified to advise Harry on either. Anyway, the solution’s the same regardless: get Harry out of the house, get a few drinks in him, and point him in the direction of a nice girl who’ll take his mind off it for the night.
It’ll be fine. Nick might find someone too, if Harry winds up going home with someone else. It’s been ages since he’s brought anyone back to his—it’s not often he’s got an empty flat these days, what with Harry crashing in the spare room more nights than not. A good one-off’ll make them both feel better: Harry’ll get out of his funk, and Nick—well, it’ll mean Nick will have to think about something that isn’t Harry for a little while, and that might be a relief, honestly.
*
Going out is a terrible mistake.
The second the car pulls up to the kerb outside the club, they’re swarmed by a horde of paparazzi. Harry looks out the window and shrinks closer to Nick’s side, his fingers curled around the lapel of Nick’s coat. Nick feels a sudden impulse to tear his coat off and bundle Harry up tight in it, spirit him away somewhere safe and quiet, but he tamps the feeling firmly down, reaching for the door handle. “Ready?” he says, and Harry, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, nods, uncurling his fingers, straightening up.
Inside is almost worse. The club’s packed and noisy, the music too loud to speak over. Brightly colored strobe lights cut broad swathes across the crowded dance floor, illuminating flashes of sweaty, gyrating bodies. Harry still looks dazed from the flashbulbs outside, blinking around him. When someone brushes past, jostling him, Nick steps closer, resting a hand lightly in the small of Harry’s back.
“All right?” he shouts in Harry’s ear, over the pounding bass. Harry nods, leaning back into the touch. .
*
“We should go out,” Nick announces at dinner.
He’s ordered them both Chinese takeaway. Far too much of it, really, but he had wanted to have some of all Harry’s favorites. He’s even served it up on the good plates, to make it feel like a proper meal. It hasn’t gone as planned. Harry’s picked at his, taken a few bites when Nick’s looking to be polite, but mostly he’s just pushed what Nick’s served him around on his plate. His face is pale and pinched-looking, and the bemusement Nick had felt earlier when he’d discovered Harry’s little closet hideout is starting to morph into something like real worry.
Harry looks up. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s got a headache. “Do you want to go out?”
Nick doesn’t, actually. He’s tired, and feels cranky for no reason he can pinpoint, and all he really wants to do is lie on the sofa with Harry curled up next to him under the blanket, eating ice cream and watching the first half of Titanic. But they’ve been doing some version of that most nights for weeks now, and that can’t be doing much to help Harry’s fragile mental state.
“It’s a Saturday night, popstar,” he says as brightly as he can manage. “Shouldn’t be wasting your youth, locked away in this old flat.”
“I like it here, though,” Harry says. “Can’t we just stay in?”
“Well, I can’t be wasting my youth, then. I’ve got precious little of it left, Hazza, you know that.”
“Okay,” Harry says, sounding dubious. “If you want, I guess.”
Nick keeps up a steady stream of chatter the whole time they’re getting ready. Harry sit on the toilet seat while Nick’s in the shower, listening patiently as Nick chatters on and on about some inane trivia segment they’re planning for the show next week. Normally he’d be asking Harry questions too, about rehearsals, tour preparations, that kind of thing, but he’s worried it’s trouble with the band that’s got Harry in such a funk. That, or girl troubles, and Nick doesn’t really feel qualified to advise Harry on either. Anyway, the solution’s the same regardless: get Harry out of the house, get a few drinks in him, and point him in the direction of a nice girl who’ll take his mind off it for the night.
It’ll be fine. Nick might find someone too, if Harry winds up going home with someone else. It’s been ages since he’s brought anyone back to his—it’s not often he’s got an empty flat these days, what with Harry crashing in the spare room more nights than not. A good one-off’ll make them both feel better: Harry’ll get out of his funk, and Nick—well, it’ll mean Nick will have to think about something that isn’t Harry for a little while, and that might be a relief, honestly.
*
Going out is a terrible mistake.
The second the car pulls up to the kerb outside the club, they’re swarmed by a horde of paparazzi. Harry looks out the window and shrinks closer to Nick’s side, his fingers curled around the lapel of Nick’s coat. Nick feels a sudden impulse to tear his coat off and bundle Harry up tight in it, spirit him away somewhere safe and quiet, but he tamps the feeling firmly down, reaching for the door handle. “Ready?” he says, and Harry, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, nods, uncurling his fingers, straightening up.
Inside is almost worse. The club’s packed and noisy, the music too loud to speak over. Brightly colored strobe lights cut broad swathes across the crowded dance floor, illuminating flashes of sweaty, gyrating bodies. Harry still looks dazed from the flashbulbs outside, blinking around him. When someone brushes past, jostling him, Nick steps closer, resting a hand lightly in the small of Harry’s back.
“All right?” he shouts in Harry’s ear, over the pounding bass. Harry nods, leaning back into the touch. .
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"There's a popstar in my closet," Nick whispers urgently into the phone.
"Is he afraid to come out, do you think?" Aimee asks, then starts cackling.
"Ha, ha, very funny," Nick says, annoyed. "Aims, I'm serious. He's just - he's made himself a little bed, sort of? And he's curled up in it asleep, and I don't know what to do. Should I wake him up?"
"What do you mean, he's made a bed?"
"Out of jumpers," Nick says. "And scarves and socks and things - I dunno, it looks like he's got half my wardrobe in there. I wondered why half the wash was missing."
Aimee stops laughing. "Nick," she says. "Are you serious?"
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