Iâm 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 thatâs 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 theyâre not. Theyâre about to roam free for the first time in years. They canât nest in a hotel room. Canât 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 theyâre not hurting from the reality theyâre in. But Harry keeps whispering confessions anyway, deep into the mess of strands on Niallâs head, just when he thinks Niall has drifted to sleep. Keeps murmuring i love yous to the crown of Niallâs head while he squeezes Niall closer to his chest, and Niallâs heart swells a bit every time. Makes him think heâll have trouble preforming the next night, because his lungs canât really fit in his chest anymore with the warmth Harry keeps injecting to it. And heâs scared to answer. Scared to spell out what they already know is real. So he waits for Harryâs 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. Heâs 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 Harryâs tattoos. Picks a new one every time, hiding it in the ink like the semi-secret it is, and canât really fall asleep until he knows that itâs dried up. Until he knows that itâll stick, at least for a day or two. And then heâll add another one, to another tattoo. And eventually heâs 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 itâs just further proof of their upcoming separation, and soon he wonât 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 canât. So he doesnât. He just lies there, losing himself in the feeling of Harryâs 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 Harryâs hand in his, separating Harryâs fingers and leaving his truth along the side of Harryâs fourth finger, just so that itâll be kept a secret in all of Harryâs handshakes tomorrow. And he doesnât hear a word about it, the next morning. Doesnât hear anything at all, actually, and his chest hurts every time Harry walks out of a bathroom, because thereâs another flood of water thatâs been splashed to his words. Another layer of them washed away - and Harry canât 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 Niallâs chest is shrinking. His lungs are useless and his heart is hopeless and heâs wearing himself down, thinking so much. He barely makes it through the evening, barely keeps himself whole in Harryâs 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 Harryâs breathing is an even rise and fall of his chest. He fights so hard - is so desperate to hear the words again, but they donât come. The night grows older, and Niall grows sadder, and he keeps waiting for something to happen, but it doesnât. Harry doesnât even fall asleep like he usually does, they just are. There. In the moment, until Niall finally sighs out his frustration, and Harryâs pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and his hand is coming up to grasp at Niallâs on his chest, and thatâs when Niall finally realizes that there are shadows on the inside of Harryâs 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 theyâre not smooth. Theyâre healing, still. Scabbed over; slowly coming apart to form an everlasting result. And Harry says it, then, loud and clear. And Niall knows that heâll never have to hide it on Harryâs skin again. (donât blame me, blame @missing-headache ok?)
