#mirry

“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.