a bridge too close

Can we talk about how I’m gonna fuck you up and how you’re not gonna see it coming and how even now my destructive tendencies are coming into play and
that’s why I told you what you said when you were drunk and
that’s why i snapchatted your best friend and
that’s why i told you about that other guy because
i am only good at burning bridges and this is getting too serious too close too much like something good something I don’t deserve so
i’m hitting the ground running, you know?
you won’t even see it coming.
—  god I’m so sorry for letting you think I was something good– lily rain
how i hope the fire escape scene would’ve gone if it continued

(i have 2 assignments due tomorrow that i’ve barely started but i still wrote this to procrastinate so pls don’t make this a complete waste of time lmao ty)

because freeform’s promo team were idiots, they ruined this scene, so i wanted to extend it a little.
what happened after this conversation?

Originally posted by bane-woods


“Alexander,” said Magnus in a soft tone. It was a gentle call that let Alec know he was safe. “At least come inside…” suggested Magnus, opening the door to his loft with one hand and extending the other to Alec.

Alec nodded. “Okay.” Climbing over the fire escape, Alec stopped in front of Magnus. Sighing, he placed his wounded hand in Magnus’ who curled his fingers around the boy’s. Magnus glanced down at Alec’s bleeding hands and his heart clenched.

Magnus sat Alec down on the sofa. “Do you want some tea?” he asked, barely louder than a whisper. He swallowed, looking down at a broken Alec hunched over.

Alec nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured, picking at his hand and avoiding Magnus’ gaze. The first place Alec had even considered going to after leaving the Institute was Magnus’. He didn’t need anything from him, just some peace from this constant god damn war.

Magnus turned around and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He could’ve just magicked a mug for the boy but something in Alec’s eyes compelled Magnus to make it himself. Alec didn’t need anything quickly, he just needed everything to slow down. Magnus thought that maybe making the tea himself would show Alec how much he cared. That he wasn’t just anyone who Magnus would be itching to get rid of, but someone who his doors were always open to.

Magnus kept a careful eye on Alec as he waited for the kettle to boil when his phone rang. His breath hitched when he saw that it was Clary. Poor girl, she had just lost her mother. But Magnus couldn’t help but feel a certain level of annoyance thinking about her initial reaction to finding Jocelyn… and Alec. Magnus sighed, nobody deserved this, not even Jocelyn. “Hey,” Magnus said, answering the call.

“Magnus, hey. Is Alec there? Jace said he ran off,” she stated, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah, he’s here. He’s fine.” Or at least Magnus hoped.

“Can I talk to him? I’ve been trying to reach him for the past half hour but he left his phone and stele here,” explained Clary, hoping that she could comfort Alec in any way.

Magnus paused and glanced at the boy who continued to pick at his hand. Alec didn’t even want to tempt himself by bringing his stele. The boy was suffering and he was punishing himself. Sure, the world made everybody suffer in some way, but it didn’t mean that even an ounce of that suffering should be brought on by yourself. “Biscuit… I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Magnus had to admit that it did make his heart flutter that this was the first place Alec had come. He felt safe here and safety was all Magnus could’ve hoped to offer Alec right now.

Magnus heard the static noise of a defeated sigh. “Okay… Can you please let him know that I’m not mad at him?”

“Yeah.”

“And just…” Clary sighed again but this time it wasn’t frustration. It was worry and on the brink of a sob. “Please make sure that he doesn’t do anything stupid,” she pleaded.

Magnus felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “Yes, of course.” Clary thanked the man and hung up and Magnus felt an empty feeling in his chest. The sound of the kettle turning off startled Magnus. He hastily finished making the tea and brought it over to Alec.

Alec reached out to take the mug and Magnus noticed his blood smear on the handle. Before Alec could drink it, a sob escaped his clenched teeth and he turned away from Magnus. The man’s brows furrowed and his heart broke. Alec placed the tea on the coffee table and buried his head in his hands. His cries were quiet but painful and Magnus froze, not wanting his touch to upset Alec any more.

“I’m sorry, no, I just…” Alec’s unnecessary apology trailed off as he sniffed and wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Magnus comforted, quietly but firmly. “Come here…” He placed a hand on the boy’s back and Alec immediately turned to him. Magnus held the boy’s head and pressed it into his chest, cradling him as his sobs racked through every inch of his body. Alec didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care in this moment how weak he looked, he just wanted someone to hold him. And right now, he wanted Magnus to hold him. “Can I…?” Magnus asked, holding Alec’s bloody hand. Alec nodded.

Magnus cleared his throat and slowly let a warm flame of blue glide over Alec’s fingers, cuts and bruises. He had never been the best at healing magic, but he could handle this. Hell, he could handle anything for Alec. When he was done, Magnus had to hold back from bringing the hand to his lips and kissing it, a reassurance that it was okay now. That he would be okay now. But instead, he let go and looked away.

After a few moments, Alec sniffed and looked up at Magnus. His hazel eyes glistened and sparkled with tears as his eyes searched Magnus’ face. “How do you do it?” he asked in a whisper and a sore throat.

Magnus frowned. “Do what?”

“Live,” Alec said simply and Magnus’ heart rate quickened. “How do you live for so long and not go insane? I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

Magnus looked down at Alec’s now healed hand and took it into his own, squeezing it tightly and shaking his head. “It’s not easy by any means,” Magnus said. “I just have to remind myself that grief is a part of life.” Magnus swallowed and Alec looked at him with so much sadness but a twinkle in his eyes that suggested hope. “And it reminds me that I have a heart… That beats every minute of every day. Trust me, Alexander. I’ve found myself teetering too close to the edge of too many bridges before.”

Alec looked at Magnus but it felt kind of like he wasn’t there anymore. Not next to him, but lost in a memory that he couldn’t shake. “Camille,” said Alec, understanding the reason that Magnus was able to sit here and tell him all of this.

Magnus snapped his eyes back to Alec and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” said Alec. No matter how many times the Clave’s rules had been broken by Camille, no matter how many times Magnus’ heart had been broken by Camille, she still meant a whole deal to him. And Alec realised just how hard it was for him to do what he did.

Magnus shook his head. “It reminds me that I’m still half human. Despite the immortality and all the magical-” Magnus paused. “-abilities, I’m still half human, you’re still half human. We deserve another chance.”

Alec swallowed, unsure of what to say next. “Can I stay here?” he asked, hoping Magnus would say yes. He really couldn’t bare to go back to the Institute right now. “For a while, at least,” he confirmed.

Magnus gave Alec a look that the boy had only ever seen once before; only moments before they had gone to wake up Jocelyn. Alec’s heart only clenched more at the thought of her. “Yes, of course, Alexander.”

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands. Instead, they cradled each other and indulged in the blanket of warmth and comfort that enveloped them.


i hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think! if you have any prompts or scenarios for me, please head over to my ask box.

in the meantime, the evolution of magnus sitting on alec’s lap.

I just want to live in a little cottage by the sea in ireland, with hyazinths and sunflowers on every shelf am i really asking too much

That's How You Know

So, happy late bday, Kim, like, a milenial late, but ey, better late than ever, imma right? eeeeey. I love you, tiny. I really really really hope you like this and I don’t break your heart like your first gift…..yeh.

Anyways, Shallura centric with mentions of Klance and Hunay and broganes.

Ps. Sorry for typos, bad grammar or stuff, ya know. Also, Allura and Shiro being awkard af bc I’m all for that shit. 

Ps.2 Read under the cut.

EDIT: i didn’t even tagged you wtf, honestly, @coralreefskim

Disclaimer: Voltron doesn’t belong to me. 


As far as Shiro is concerned: he’s an only child,

Because he’s going to kill his little brother.

Shiro stomps hard against the hall’s floor as he heads towards the last door on the right. He has walked down this hall a lot of times over the last four years, being the place where his squad and him came to have their weekly movie night.

Lance’s apartment has always been their meeting point, but, for half a year now, it had become Lance and Keith’s, seeing how much time his little brother spent at his boyfriend’s apartment rather than their own.

Which is exactly why he’s marching down to Lance’s apartment, because he knows the lil’shit he has of a brother will be there and he’s going to regret deleting the last season of Game of Thrones before Shiro had a chance to see it just to record his crappy 90’s conspiracy theories.

As soon as the familiar mahogany door is in front of him, Shiro holds up his prosthetic and knocks, maybe with a little too much force than usual, and taps his foot against the floor in impatience, grumbling under his breath as he waits for an answer.

He hears the door lock click and as soon as there’s enough space in between, Shiro is quick to raise his hand, finger pointed in accusation at the person behind the door, mouth wide open ready for a screaming match -

“Um?”

When he realizes that it’s neither Lance or Keith who is behind the door and it’s an entirely different person who he’s currently trespassing on their personal bubble, his finger a little too close to the bridge of their nose.

Bright deep blue eyes meet his own gray ones and suddenly Shiro forgets why he came here. Brother? What brother? Game of Thrones? Whatever, everyone dies anyways.

All he can focus on is those big eyes that are staring at him…with a hint of indignation and annoyance, yep, right, okay then, time to apologize.

“Um!” That’s not how one should start with when attempting to apologize, but he’s trying, “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry, I thought you were Klance - I mean! Keith! Or Lance! I thought you were one of them, and I was looking for my brother, but you’re not my brother because, of course, you don’t have a - Oh kay then, yes, so , um, you’re not them, and I’m really sorry about that abrupted …scene I guess? I don’t usually do that, but you see, it was Game of Thrones so he had to pay -”

Shiro has chill, he swears to God he’s the chilled one in his family, but no one can blame him when he loses said chill because there’s suddenly a Goddess in front of him, okay?

How about if he runs? Would that make this less awkward?

He doesn’t have time to decide because suddenly, the gorgeous stranger in front of him gasps and he swears her eyes sparkle as they focus on his arm prosthetic.

“Is that a prosthetic? That’s a stupid question, of course it is! Oh, my! Look at this detail, this is amazing! I have never seen technology so advanced except in our laboratory, how did you managed to get this prototype? How was the physical therapy sessions? This is quite outstanding.”

Shiro blinks, face still flushed and mouth dry.

“Uh…” he lets out dumbly and it’s enough to make the woman jump in realization, her blue eyes widening.

“Oh, oh my gosh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t meant to uh, I just - I’m really sorry! I just - I’m a Doctor and I just started to make a new prototype for a mechanic prosthetic along with my father back at the hospital and - not that I’m excused just for that fact but uh - I just wanted to assured you I’m not a creep or a morbid person and - Oh, quiznak,  I’m - Uh…”

She trails off unsure, lower lip getting caught between her teeth and - Ok, Shiro should really look away now.

…Ok, so, he stares a little bit more.

He doesn’t mind in the least the topic revolving around his prosthetic; it’s been a couple of years since his accident and he has healed and grow since then. His past and disability doesn’t define him, he has learn that, and he lived by that.

But it’s not like he’s about to tell her that; his awkwardness had to be shared, okay? He has rights as a human being and letting other people to share the awkwardness was part of those rights.

The silence expands itself and Shiro’s starting to think that this is a good time for space cats to try and invade Earth just so he could get out of this mess.

But then the dark skinned goddess princess in front of him - because, honestly, what else could she be - claps her hands with determination before she moves around him, careful to not touch skin and somehow they end up switching places; Shiro blinks in confusion as his feet hit the wooden floor of the apartment and stares as the still unknown woman shifts on her feet outside the apartment.

“Yeah, ok, so, um, just stay there and - uh, hang on -” She says hurriedly, grabbing the handle of the door to close it carefully before she closes it entirely, leaving Shiro behind with an empty apartment.

Not two seconds later and then there’s a knock on the door. Shiro immediately opens it and then there’s the woman, smiling bright and wide at him and holding out her hand.

“Hi, I’m Allura Altea, I’m Lance’s cousin and I promise not to make this awkward again.”

That’s all it takes for Shiro to think she’s the one.


Their first date took place two weeks later right after Shiro finally got the courage to ask Allura out.

Shiro wants to emphasize that by ‘courage’ he means that his little brother quite literally kicked him in the butt towards Allura during one of Lance’s parties and shouted loud enough about how Shiro wanted to woo Allura with his charm like he wrote in his diary.

It’s a fucking journal, Keith, learn the difference.

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Some Dialogue Prompts From My Old Blog
  • “I sacrifice myself to keep you alive and THIS is how you repay me!?”
  • “Can you explain why there is a dragon in my bedroom?”
  • “You are a sociopath!” // “Meh, not really. Sociopaths don’t care. And I care about you, however unfortunate it may be.”
  • “There a knife-” // “Yes.” // “In your CHEST!” // “Yes.” // “Oh my God-” // “Oh please, I’m the one who is supposed to go into shock, not you!”
  • “Did we really just jump off the Eiffel Tower?” // “Quite fun wasn’t it?”
  • “Uhm… I haven’t called in like… forever and- I’m sorry, okay? But… Uhm… I need a place to stay. I might have burned the house down making pizza rolls…”
  • “My skin is purple, doctor and you can look me in the eye and say I’m fine!?”
  • “I’m sending you to rehab.” // “You can’t!” // “You’ll find I can.” // “This is just another one of your pathetic attempts at controlling me.”
  • “I jumped off the bridge!” // “I know. I saw you.” // “I should be dead.” // “Do your research, kid. The bridge is too close to the water to kill you. You should be in a stinking hospital, but- I prefer to keep the idiots around.”
  • “You can breathe underwater? That’s cool and all, but I mean, that means you’ve seen fish, right? How do they pee?”
  • “Your eyes are so faded…” // “That’s what happens.” // “Geesh… How badly did they hurt you?’
  • “You’ll find a nice man someday-” // “Oh yes mother, and I did. And he threw me off a bridge.”
  • “Quit being sarcastic!” // “Sarcasm is my spiritual gift!”
8

Musical Theater Aesthetics - Lin-Manuel Miranda

Good morning. You are perfectly cast in your life. I can’t imagine anyone but you in the role. Go play.

kidge

I’m really loving season 3 so far. Too bad they had to split it into season 4. Anyway, this can be seen as romantic or platonic- I prefer the former, but it’s up to the reader I think. At least, that’s how I tried to write it. 

Keith & Pidge vs Lotor ahead… 

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Diana : RQ & WW

She’s tired, annoyed, and angry.

Diana Farley pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. There’s too much work that’s never done. Fix one issue, and in comes a wave of countless more. Sighing, she directs her attention to one of the only good things left in the world. Her precious little—

She realizes then that her precious little starlight is gone, and her whole world shatters.

She’s not inside their bedroom, so she quickly sprints outside. There are too many people. Too many, and none of them are her daughter. She runs, and runs, and asks people if they’ve seen her. They haven’t.

Turn after turn, she’s beginning to feel dizzy. Until finally, she spots her.

And her little girl is not alone.

Clara is next to a woman crouching before her so that they can address each other eye-to-eye. Farley lets out a heavy sigh of relief before approaching the pair.

Then suddenly, she freezes. A familiar face looks up at her. A face with deep, dark eyes and dark hair framing her face.

“Diana.” She says breathlessly, giving her a smile.

The other woman smiles back, and gives her a nod. “Diana.” She pauses, looking at the little girl by her feet. “So much has changed… You have to tell me about everything.”

Farley’s smile grows to form a grin. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Keep reading

 “The first time I ever knew her was when I saw her in a portrait. It was above a desk in an old house, made open to the public by some heritage trust. I think it’s obvious what first made me curious about her.”

“She wasn’t a beautiful lady, quite far from it. The face was sharp and stern, too much so to be considered sweet or pretty. The bridge of her nose was too narrow, the eyes too close together, the mouth too harsh, and yet… there was something about the painting that made her look special. I wanted to know who she was, and who had had the skill to paint such a woman and still make her seem desirable. And I wanted to know the history behind that face, and the sort of life it led.”

“I found, however, that no such history existed. No matter who I asked, or how expert they were supposed to be, I only ever got one piece of information. The name of the lady was Abigail Kirkland. Nothing else was known. No one even knew if she’d lived in this house. The woman did not exist, essentially. To me, it only made the challenge more gratifying, To unravel something with only a name and a face to go on- good God, I felt like a detective. And so I dedicated my time into unravelling the mystery of the life of Lady Abigail Kirkland.”
- Alice Ollerton.


((GUESS WHO ACTUALLY CAME UP WITH A STORY AND A PLAN FOR ONCE))

Where would the 100 be without Raven?

No seriously, I’ve been thinking about this and it’s not a good picture

Abby getting the idea that the hundred aren’t dying but actually taking their wrist bands off and thus deciding to go down to earth to check?

Raven

Building a ship that will actually survive a trip down to earth?

Raven

Clarke having a radio (a fixed radio) to use to contact her Mum to ask how to treat Finn?

Raven

The people on the Ark learning that earth is survivable and that they don’t have to keep killing people off for oxygen?

Raven

Realizing that the crash site of the ark ship is actually really dangerous and that they need to get off it (Clarke you were getting a little bit too close there!)?

Raven

Blowing up the bridge so the grounders don’t massacre them while they’re all sick?

Raven

Getting the dropship open to save Bellamy from Murphy?

Raven

Surviving the attack from the grounders by using the dropship to burn them in a ring of fire?

Raven

Clarke knowing where to find Camp Jaha by seeing the floating balloon? 

Raven

Using the radio communicate with those stuck inside Mount Weather (and eventually Bellamy)?

Raven

Turning off the Acid Fog? 

Raven

Getting the door open to Mount Weather?

Raven

Also, Jasper would never have gotten his goggles back and that would have just been sad

I think we can all  assume that if Raven ever dies the sky people will quite literally fucked 

Plus what would the world be without this golden line?

External image

This Is A Song About Fucking. 5SOS OT4, rated explicit. 15,438 words. Luke’s really ready to lose his virginity, and who better to help than the three boys he loves most in the world? (This is actually a song about boyfriends.) Also on AO3

Going to bed at ten last night was probably not Luke’s brightest idea, but he’s not hating the fresh morning air and chance to swim alone. This early Los Angeles looks as tired as Luke feels, like it’s just waking up same as he is. It’s nice out here in the quiet, cool water lapping around him as he stares out over the city. He likes being alone, knowing the guys are close.

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late-night realizations [IwaOi]

“Iwa-chan.”

“Iwa-chan!”

“Iwa-chanI”

Hajime stirs, his lips pursing. He blinks slowly, the darkness of their bedroom surrounding him. It’s late – even with the curtains drawn, he can’t see even the tiniest sliver of light peeking through. As his eyes adjust he can see the clock adjacent to him, which reads 3:36 am.

“What?” His voice is sharp, raspy from disuse and thick with sleep. It comes out harsher than he intends. He isn’t sure what the hell Tooru wants, but he really hopes it’s worth rousing him from his best hours of REM sleep.

He’s got a lecture early in the morning and he knows Tooru has the morning shift at his part-time job, so he figures this must be important.

“I… I… I just…” Tooru is curled up next to him, babbling incoherently. Hajime frowns as he shuffles in the bed, turning over to face Tooru.

The brunet is buried in the blankets, his naked body obstructed from view, save for a pale leg poking out one side of the blankets to keep his body from overheating. His fists are curled up tightly in their blue bed sheets, his face pressed against the pillow. Hajime can see he’s shaking, albeit only slightly.

“Iwa-chan, I… I had this dream…”

“Yeah?” Hajime lets a hand run through Tooru’s hair, rubbing softly at his temples, just the way that he knows Tooru likes it. “Bad dream?”

Tooru shakes his head, “No, not a bad dream. It was from when we were kids. You remember in the fourth grade, when I first got my glasses?”

Hajime chuckles lowly, “Yeah. They were way too big for your face.”

“I know,” Tooru begins, “They were huge and that dumb bitch in the fifth grade kept calling me names. Going on about how they made me look like a bug.”

Hajime hums. He remembers that very well. Mostly he remembers how cute Tooru looked, always pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, squinting when Hajime got too close or when he was starting to get a headache from wearing them for so long.

“My dream was that time when she snapped my glasses on the playground. Stole them right off my face, dropped them at the bottom of the slide and slid down to smash them.” Tooru uncurls his hands that were fisted in the sheets to press his palms against Hajime’s bare chest. His fingers feel cold against Hajime’s incessant heat.

“I remember that,” Hajime says softly. “Didn’t I give her a black eye?”

“You did.” Tooru lifts his head, and even in the dark Hajime can see how deeply he is gazing at him. His eyes blown wide like he just discovered the meaning of life, or just how they managed to put cheese in an aerosol can.

“What of it?” Hajime asks, his voice slurred as he rubs an eye. He’s tired, he wants to sleep, but as always he indulges Tooru. Because he’s Tooru.His Tooru.

“I remember thinking, wow, Iwa-chan is the greatest. I love him.” Tooru’s eyes meet his and he can’t bear to break their eye contact.

“Okay…” Hajime blinks slowly, “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“I think… I think I’ve always loved you. I mean, that’s just one of the few childhood memories I can remember. All the stories I still know… are ones with you in them.” Tooru breathes heavily as if learning this has lifted some sort of weight.

“I know,” Hajime whispers, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “I’ve always known.”

“Can you read my mind, Iwa-chan?”

“Yes,” Hajime indulges him, “Now go back to sleep.”

Give me a reason: not to hang up

This is that second story I mentioned yesterday that’s kind of/sort of a companion piece to Give me a reason: not to leave.


X

Niall lets the call go to voicemail the day it happens. He isn’t in the mood to talk, isn’t in the frame of mind to deal with it and listen to excuses so he ignores the Happily ringtone. He does listen to the message: a deep, strained voice asking Niall to call him back – but he ignores that too. 

He avoids answering the phone for that specific number several times over the course of the following four days and ignores the text messages that follow when he doesn’t answer, knowing full well that his “read receipt” will give him away. He also ignores the “just call him back"s the other lads give him because, well, he can. And in his opinion he has every right to; it’s not their heart on the line anyway.

On the sixth day, Niall has a half a mind to answer; thinks he should probably put an end to his boyfriend’s misery – is a boyfriend still considered a boyfriend if they’re playing the role of someone else’s boyfriend though? At the very least he should pick up just to give said boyfriend a piece of his mind. 

He decides against it, however, because he’s supposed to be enjoying a night out with the LIC before he flies out to Colorado for his knee surgery. Instead he puts his phone on silent and tucks it back into the pocket of his jacket before ordering another a pint. 

Later, when he’s alone in the solitude of his own home, sitting on the sofa in the living room whilst nursing a bottle of water to alleviate the hangover in the morning, he finds himself flipping his phone over and over in his free hand. He balances it on his thigh and watches it fall – once, twice, three times-

And then it bursts into song, having turned the sound back on the second he left the pub. Happily blares through the speakers at him and Harry’s name and face – a picture taken months ago in Australia in the wee hours of the morning, the sun filtering through the curtains of the hotel room window – and he stares at it. The ringtone finishes a whole loop and a half before he slides his thumb across the screen and lifts the phone to his ear. 

He doesn’t say anything, just lets the noisy silence and Harry’s loud breathing filter through the speaker. 

"N-Niall?” Harry’s voice is soft, timid and a bit uncertain. He lets out a shaky breath. “Niall-”

“Gimme a reason not to hang up,” Niall slurs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It’s almost like he’s pleading, like he’s looking for a reason for it not to be over. 

Harry sighs on the other end. “I just…I just want to talk to you, Ni.”

Niall shakes his head. “’s not good enough…” He pulls the phone away from ear but Harry’s yelp on the other end stops him, draws the phone back in place.

“Niall, please,” Harry breathes. “You’ve been avoiding my calls and ignoring my texts all week. I know you’re hurt and I know you’re angry and that kills me, okay? Just…talk to me. Let me explain.” So you’ll stop hurting is left unsaid, mostly because he probably won’t stop hurting. 

Niall pauses, pushing a hand through his hair. He has a half a mind to hang up anyway but the desperation in Harry’s voice gets to him. Besides, it’s been over a week since he’s last heard Harry’s voice and, in his opinion, that’s been far too long. “Explain what? How you went skiing with her and her family – or how you let me find out on fucking Twitter?” he spits, because even though he does want to hear Harry’s voice, he’s still drunk and angry. Hurt. (Just as Harry said he was.)

“I wanted to call, Niall. But it was a last minute thing and all kinds of people were around and I couldn’t just-”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“Couldn’t,” Harry insists. “I was hoping I could get to you before you saw it on Twitter but then you wouldn’t answer your phone and…”

“A text message would’ve sufficed, Harry.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over text message.”

“Oh, but potentially letting me find out over social media by complete fucking strangers is okay,” Niall snaps, falling back against the back of the couch.

“I-I know,” Harry mutters guiltily. 

“I would’ve taken a simple text message warning me over going online and seeing pictures of you and her acting all close and buddy-buddy splashed all over my timeline.”

“I know. I’ll know that next time.”

A sharp pain hits Niall in the chest and squeezes at his heart. “Next time? That’s great, Harry. That’s so fucking great-”

“C'mon, you know it’s not like that-”

“Do I?”

Harry gasps, speechless for a moment – and Niall can practically see the disappointment in his eyes. “Y-you should,” he murmurs, his voice shaking slightly. “You know this is just a PR thing. You know it’s just promo, Niall. Right?”

Niall sighs and closes his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. “Yeah, I know. I know,” he finds himself assuring his boyfriend. 

“Then you know I’m not necessarily calling all the shots,” Harry explains. “I mean, I have control on the song writing and hanging out with Cal and Jeff but everything with her is just…it’s just PR. I mean we’re friends, sort of, but it’s not – it’s nothing, Niall. And it’ll be over in a few weeks.”

“Will it, though?” Niall asks softly.

“Of course it will be. Promo will end in a few weeks, the new tour starts in a couple months and everything will go back to normal.”

Niall can’t help the snort that escapes his throat. “Funny how normal for us is completely abnormal for everyone else.”

“I meant for us, Niall. Normal for us.”

“Yeah,” the blond mutters, pushing himself back, falling against the back of the couch, “until the next time promo starts up and they’re setting you up with another Hollywood Starlet.”

“Who knows, maybe next time it’ll be you,” Harry jokes light-heartedly. 

Niall can practically see the quirky, cheeky little grin in Harry’s voice. He knows that Harry’s just trying to diffuse the tension, to make things lighter. Yet he still can’t bring himself to even crack a smile.

“Niall, I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you,” Harry murmurs. “I’ll call you next time, no matter who’s around.”

Tears sting the backs of his eyes and he squeezes them shut. “I dunno how many more next times I can take, Haz,” Niall murmurs. “This so hard…”

“W-what are you saying?” his boyfriend asks him, voice shaking anxiously. “Niall?”

“’m here,” Niall breathes reassuringly. 

Harry takes a long, trembling breath. “You – you’re not breaking up with me, are you? This isn’t – you-”

“No, Haz – Jesus, no,” Niall says quickly. He pushes himself forward again, winces when his head spins because he’s still a bit drunk and now a bit dizzy too. He closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose again. “I just…it’s so hard knowing that you’re a whole ocean and another country away and I can’t see you every day and I can’t talk to you every day. I can’t kiss you, I can’t touch you, I can’t be with you-”

“Niall-”

“No, lemme finish,” the blond pleads, moving his hand from his face to run it through his hair. He’s finally ready – or at least drunk enough – to admit what’s been on his mind (and in his heart) for the last few months – for a couple years now, if he’s honest, every time they wind up doing promo for a new album. “You don’t have any idea how hard this is on me, Harry. And, that’s great, yeah…like, it’s fine – and I would never wish it on you. You can say you get it and you can say that it’s hard for you too and I’d believe that because I know not seeing each other is just as hard on you as it is on me but you don’t have to watch you with someone else. You don’t go on Twitter and have to see photos of the two of you splashed across the Internet. You don’t have to deal with rumors and shit you know is fake but still can’t help but wonder if maybe-”

“You wonder?” Harry asks, interrupting him helplessly. His voice is soft and a bit worried. Confused. “What have you wondered about?”

“Nothing – it’s not important-”

“Listen to yourself, of course it’s important.”

“It’s not, Harry,” Niall insists – and in all honesty it really isn’t important. It’s still and it’s irrational and- “It’s just…jealousy. And jealousy just makes every insecurity hurt even more.”

“You have nothing to be jealous of, Niall,” Harry says, his voice a bit stronger now, like he’s got a point to prove. He wants Niall to believe it. “There’s absolutely no reason to be insecure about anything. Not with me; not with us.”

Niall sighs. “’t doesn’t make it any easier to see you with her; with them,” he mutters – and he hates the sound of his own voice. It’s rough and scratchy due to the alcohol he’d consumed earlier and it’s weak and shaky like he’s about to lose it.

Harry doesn’t say anything but Niall can hear the sharp intake of air through the phone, can picture Harry looking down at the floor and running a hand through his messy hair. He can practically see Harry racking his brain for something to say, something to do that will make it all better; can read the disappointment in Harry’s eyes when he comes up empty.

Niall lets out a shaky breath, a sigh, “I just…fuck, Haz, I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Harry croaks, his voice thick.

And that’s it; that’s the end. This is the moment when it no longer matters how angry and hurt Niall’s felt all week. This is the moment when Niall realizes he’s glad that he was drunk enough to answer the phone – and that Harry was desperate enough to keep him on the line. 

“You’re gonna come see me, yeah? After my surgery?” Niall asks softly.

“Yeah, Cal’s got everything arranged for me to fly up there. Nobody’s gonna know.”

Niall smirks, using one hand to help swing his legs on to the couch so he can spread his whole body across it. He stares up at the ceiling and imagines Harry doing the same. “I’m holding you t’ that, Styles.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t need a real nurse the entire time I’m there; you’ll get sick o’ me,” Harry teases.

“I would never.”

“I’ll have to come back here after though, like when you fly home, to finish up a few things before I can come back home. And then you’ll really be sick of me.”
“I dunno, man. I kinda love the sound of Nurse Haz, don’t you?”

“You’re burnt, babe,” Harry laughs. “You should get some sleep.”

“Noo,” Niall moans in protest. “Jus’ wanna hear your voice. Sing me somethin’. Sing me one of them songs you’ve been writin’ out there,” he pleads. He feels like a lovesick teenager, like one-half of that high school couple that talks on the phone for hours and then bickers about who’s going to hang up first. And he’s totally okay with that.

Harry tsks playfully. “That’s an awful selfish thing to request, Niall, considering they’re all about you.”

“Not selfish, just…curious as to what I’m missing out on.”

“Fine – but only because I love you,” Harry says fondly, relenting easily. 

Niall smiles, feels his hear stutter in his chest as he closes his eyes and hums for Harry to carry on. And as Harry’s voice filters softly and serenely through the phone, albeit a bit muffled, it’s like Niall can’t even remember why he’d been avoiding Harry all week long in the first place.