How about a 3+1 thing temporarily named the three times they pretended to be newly-weds… set in an au where Niall and Harry thought it was a brilliant idea to go travelling the world together during the break.
1: Paris. Niall wants to do everything he’s done there before, but without the pressure of getting it done before the plane jets off to another city on another tour. Like go to the Eiffel tower in the middle of the night, he tells Harry with the widest, brightest eyes Harry’s ever drowned in, and Harry just agrees. Says something about baguettes and using his beret that makes Niall laugh way too hysterically. Louis asks them all about the plans when they come to visit little Freddie before they take off and Harry’s too busy cooing at the baby to catch on to the mischievous glint in Louis’ eye, so he just has a vague memory of seeing it when they arrive to their hotel in Paris and are told that their suite is ready for them. That there’s champagne waiting for them. That the staff wishes them the best of luck with their marriage. Niall laughs hysterically again, bent over with his hands on his knees, going breathless. Harry can’t look away. There’s flushed cheeks and tears forming at the corners of Niall’s crinkled eyes, and he can’t look away and he can’t remember to be anything but amused by it all. It’s late when they’ve stopped chuckling, but there’s restless energy thrumming in their veins and they skip dinner in favour of filling their empty stomachs with expensive champagne, bringing a bottle with them as they follow Niall’s old footsteps through the city, brushing up against each other because it seems idiotic to move apart. There’s a badly aimed kiss somewhere in the night, tasting of alcohol and excitement, making them giddy because they’re out in public, badly covered by the night air. There’s more precision to Harry’s mouth on Niall’s dick, though, even later in the night, when giddiness and excitement has turned into a breathless kind of need to ruck up the sheets of their bed, because they owe that to it.
2; Bali, because Niall obviously wanted to go there. There may be some greasy breakfast before they get on a plane, and there may be some hangover-induced groaning as they’re sitting in the first class lounge, waiting to board the plane. Harry scoffs eventually. Mutters something about how Friends lied – how there’s never any bowls of oranges waiting for the first class passengers to dive into. Niall laughs despite his headache, feels a bit warm in his clothes, as if there’s a layer of Harry stuck to his skin, still; a phantom pressure that pulsates every time Harry does something particularly Harry-like. And it’s a bit of a joke, really, that he saunters up to the middle-aged man behind the reception desk and tells him, ‘I think we’re set for a suite with multiple rooms, but, see, we’ve just gotten married, and I was wondering –‘ only to be interrupted by a string of wide smiles and congratulations, an ‘oh, of course, of course, the honeymoon suite’s free’ and then Niall obviously asks to get a bowl of oranges sent up to the suite, along with strawberries, and more champagne even though he doesn’t like it at all. And they don’t get out of the room that first night. They stay in, watching the episode where Monica and Chandler go off on their honeymoon, and drink too much champagne while they discuss the measures they should take to get as much out of their travels as they can. Before they leave a week later, Harry’s had Niall spread on the bed, three fingers deep, chasing moans out of him that he never quite thought he could produce. It’s what the bed wants from them.
3; There’s a special honeymoon villa at the resort in The Maldives, fancy-looking even in their experienced eyes, built at the end of a wooden dock leading from the beach. Harry kisses Niall before the woman who showed them there has left, earning them a soft noise and a set of scoffs from the unfortunate men that have been trailing along around the planet to keep them safe. They don’t stop kissing when everyone’s left. Don’t quite stop until Harry’s gone breathless and whispers out a, ‘Called ahead. Told them to leave us beer instead of champagne’ to which, maybe, Niall kisses him again. And their sunburns are getting better, and their muscles are relaxed, and they’ve seen more of the sky during these past weeks than they seemed to do over a year back when they were on tour, so they’re happy. Happy to be together, having a laugh, messing about. Happy to get serious at times, too, because Harry’s learned that it’s one thing to get Niall to laugh, but an entirely different thing to get him to show a sadder tone. That you have to earn that trust, which is something Harry seems to have done over the years without really trying. He thinks maybe they do fit. That maybe they don’t need a bed to slot against each other, because they’ve been aligned for years, before it ever got physical. And they’re not drunk this time, and they’re not in bed. They’re sober, outside on their little deck where there’s a pool and a ladder down to the ocean, and the lounger isn’t asking them for sex. Doesn’t know that it’s a part of a fake marriage, but it lets them sleep together on it anyway. Muffles Harry’s moans, lets the moon latch on to exposed skin, leaves them breathless for far too long after.
1; LAS VEGAS OF COURSE. DO I EVEN NEED TO EXPLAIN? I will, anyway. Niall and Harry waking up, sore in the best way possible, perhaps kissing themselves awake because that’s what their lives have become, now. It would feel strange not to do it. And the hotel’s a bit run-down, and the honeymoon suite isn’t really a suite at all, but they don’t care, because there’s a breakfast buffet downstairs that promises pancakes and they walk down there while their security snort in tandem and they don’t quite get it, but they don’t mind. But then Louis and Liam are downstairs, sipping on beer even though it’s only just passed noon, joining the choir of snorts as Niall and Harry sit down, and they ask what’s going on – what they’re doing here – to which Louis says, ‘Weren’t about to miss our best mates’ wedding, were we?’ and it’s a good joke. Hilarious. It sits well with them for an hour or so before Niall’s hangover’s settled enough to let him notice the ring on his fourth finger, and maybe he pats his hand along the mattress next to him until he finds Harry’s, stirring Harry from his nap, inspecting his fingers until he finds a matching silver band, and then he laughs, because it’s still kind of hilarious, only in a strangely heart-warming kind of way, because once Harry’s blinked the confusion out of his eyes and they’ve tried to remember the events of last night there’s nothing left on Harry’s face but the softest little smile, and Niall can’t stop himself from kissing it, and… well. They don’t exactly get divorced, do they?