narry storan one shots.

"i believe you dropped this."

"Boston," he hears himself saying. Can remember the hard wood of a stool beneath him in a hotel kitchen at midnight – hair damp from an after-show shower. The two of them alone, trusted with appliances and space in yet another city that simply slept through their adventures.

Harry's smiling at him, soft and blurred by the same memory. "You almost fell asleep. Had imprints of your nails on your cheek because you were leaning so heavily on it, on your elbow."

"It was the middle of the night," Niall defends. Revels in the heat of the box against his palm – in the fact that Harry must have warmed it somewhere in the building, thought of everything and come prepared with cutlery and beer. "And it took forever!"

"You liked it, though," Harry defends. Remembers. Sounds like he's clinging to it, a little, as though he's trying not to doubt his choice to repeat the meal today, years and miles later.

Niall takes a fork. Brings the food closer, and takes a bite. Half of him is still left in their reverie, the rest is sinking into the explosion of flavours upon his tongue – shaken by the taste of it, the comfort it brings as he chews. "I still do."

It makes Harry grin again, just like the pet name did before. Makes him busy himself with his own container and fork; with the process of fitting feet to the edge of the table and leaning back on the sofa, comfortable in the room, in the company and in himself.

Niall watches him; drinks in the combination of food and person and past – the absolute ease it brings to his flesh and bone while Harry's contours become familiar in his line of sight once more. The hair is another memory – something older and well-worn in his mind and fingertips, because they used to feel those strands all the time. Used to card through curls and waves and lengths and got used to each style, eventually, but they're not used to this denial, this withdrawal from something that is right there.

He curls his hand tighter around his fork. Tries not to inhale the food or the guy, the piece of him that's been away. Asks, "So. How was Jamaica?"

"Great," Harry grins. "I've said, right – that it was great? Like late-night cooking sessions in hotel kitchens, only longer, and without you. A lot of freedom. No restraints."

"Yeah," Niall breathes. Shakes all parts of himself into place again, just before some splinter off and away and grasp for other memories; "Seen some footage. White trunks. Surfboards. You looked happy."

"I was," Harry confesses. He's blinking slowly again, oozing contemplation where he's sunken into the back cushions. His fork is hovering, his expression's thoughtful. "I always am, when I'm writing. You know that more than anyone, I think. And it felt good after the movie, to just... be. Without the attention. Without the schedules."

He pauses. Niall does, too, in the aftermath of those words, those honest conclusions and the way he doesn't keep them from Niall at all. It's good to hear; good to see how it's the same Harry that's always been there, evolving without uprooting completely.

"Saw a seahorse," Harry's adding, then, licking sauce from his bottom lip. "Did you know that they hold tails, sometimes?"

Niall tilts his head. "A courtship ritual, right?"

It makes Harry look at him – zone back in properly again, with a smile slowly curling the corners of his mouth in the most private way. A private joke to light his whole face up as he shakes his head and mumbles, "Of course you know."

Niall leans back next to him – stabs an elbow against Harry's side and his fork into another bit of pasta. "I watch a lot of documentaries."

"I know you do," Harry murmurs. Leans his knee against Niall's for another point of contact. "It was always a comforting thing to fall asleep to."