#xf15

“Hey,” Niall answers, laughter in his voice. “Do you still not sleep in planes?” 

“You mean since we flew into London?” Harry asks dryly. “No.” 

Just like always, Niall says, “Mad, that,” under his breath. Then, “How much longer have you got?” 

“About an hour,” Harry says softly. “Did you have a good night?” 

“Good, good,” Niall yawns. “Party was good, and then Sel came over after.” 

Harry says, “And then you had a really good shag.”

“How do you know that?” Niall demands. 

“Because you only call if it was really good,” Harry says dryly. “Like a boxer, you get so hyped up in the ring. Or the sack, as it were.” 

Niall laughs under his breath. “We did good, didn’t we?” he asks, sounding distracted. Harry can hear him pressing buttons on the microwave in the background, the soft clink of a mug against his counter. “The show tonight. I’m still buzzing.’” 

“Everybody was so proud,” Harry observes, remembering Liam bowing down at the end of their set to hug his parents. He’s such a Karen at heart. 

“Shit,” Niall says quietly. Harry fingers the edge of his journal on the tabletop in front of him. “I made tea for Louis,” Niall explains. “He has such shit taste in tea, really.” 

Harry snorts, remembering the smell of it. Louis’s breakfast tea at two o’clock in the afternoon when he was first waking up after a long night of writing. He can see Louis’s scowl across the table in his mind’s eye; Harry had usually been awake for about six hours by the time Louis woke up. “Guess we’ll have to stop doing that,” Harry says. 

He can’t even think of all the things he’ll have to stop doing without the other lads around all the livelong day. No more setting aside a chocolate croissant from the breakfast buffet for Louis, who never managed to straggle down to craft services in time to save his own. No need to bicker with Liam about times when one or the other of them could train with Mark; they’re not sharing him anymore. No more calls from Niall, wondering whether Harry would like to watch the match with him. 

“Mad,” Niall says softly. Then, hesitant, “Looking forward to it, I guess.” 

“Almost always, yes,” Harry agrees with a laugh. He can hear a soft, feminine voice in the background, and he knows his time on this call is almost over. When his plane touches down in LA, his time with the band is over, too - for the time being. “Love you,” Harry says. Just because. 

Not like that’ll change, but it’ll be different. Niall and the other lads, they’re not like one of his limbs - they’re like his senses. His ears are always full of Niall’s voice and he’s always almost but not quite seeing Louis out of the corner of his eye and he can always smell Liam: the deodorant they all steal from him and his familiar musky cologne and his sweaty skin. 

“Love you too,” Niall says easily; his voice is the last thing to go when he’s upset. “Always will.” 

“Have a good night,” Harry says, and Niall makes a soft crowing sound like Harry’s just slagged him off, and Harry snorts, and Niall rings off. 

…

Liam rings the next morning at 6am, which is 2pm UK time. “Did you go for a run this morning?” 

“You got my number to ask if I was going for a run?” Harry laughs. “I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” 

“I did,” Liam says proudly. “And I boxed.” 

Harry rolls his eyes fondly. “Me, too. And I went to yoga.” 

“Ugh, I hate you,” Liam says fondly. “Your plane landed alright, you’ve settled in okay?” 

“Settling in,” Harry acknowledges. His furniture is still not where he most wants it but he’s figuring it out, now that the contractors are all done at his house in LA. Time he started living in it. “It’s good.” 

“Well, alright then,” Liam says easily. “I’ll call tomorrow.” 

He doesn’t, but he calls most mornings. Harry’s usually ready for him. 

…

Harry doesn’t hear from Louis for a long, long time. Then, “I’ve been telling my kid the story of my life, and I can’t well leave you out,” Louis says, sharpish and defensive, like Harry still holds anything against him. 

“Just tell them the good parts,” Harry says, “like how we once got wasted on beer bread.” 

“It was honey whiskey bread,” Louis says, sounding vaguely ill, still, at the memory, “and we threw up. Of course I’m not telling them that.” 

“Might have to let me meet them then,” Harry says mildly. “You know, to set the story straight.” 

“Might do,” Louis says, all the sharpness gone.