“Come home with me.” narry please?
A little bit of artistic license with dates and stuff. Vaguely safe for work.
New York, Niall has come to realise, is just the same as any other city in the dark. The buildings are tall, dark and solid, with little squares of yellow where people are having a night in, or are stuck working late in the office. It’s still loud and busy, with people talking and laughing outside on the street, walking straight past their town-cars, waiting in traffic, and not even knowing they’re inside. The pavements are still concrete, still echo with footsteps in the same way the pavements do in London, LA, Sydney, Amsterdam, Milan … Niall’s been to a lot of cities this year, and he’s had a lot of fun. And he’s always been the one with the figures and facts, has always been the one who can remember every place they’ve ever performed, can name the street they did a gig on in Glasgow when he was eighteen years old with only a moment’s hesitation. But he’s never wanted to be that guy, so busy and successful and famous, that the cities all blur into one and he starts to resent his job, just a little. The way he knows they do for Harry and Zayn, and Louis a bit, too. He’s never wanted that, but right now, staring out of the car window with tired eyes and a rotten cold and a horribly familiar throb in his knee, he’s starting to feel that way. This is just another city, and he’s so desperate for some time off.