When Niall said he wanted to learn how to make pottery, he didn’t mean at that very moment. But it seems, once again, Harry had misinterpreted that.
So, here they are now, with Harry sitting on a stool with a pottery wheel in between his legs.
(Where and how Harry had obtained the item is beyond Niall’s knowledge, though he doesn’t question it.)
His hands cup the clay as it spins, forming and shaping the moist, brown substance into the shape of some sort of bowel, or vase – Niall can’t tell just yet. Niall continues to watch as Harry’s hands work at the clay, never realizing before how large they are, too large for his lithe little body and big green eyes that are framed with his brown curls. He tears his gaze away, long enough to look up at Harry’s face. His eyebrows are pulled together tightly, creases in his forehead from concentration as his tongue peeks out a bit between his lips. He looks utterly adorable, Niall thinks, and that adorableness amps up a few notches when Harry grunts in annoyance; grumbling about how the clay bowel isn’t round enough to his liking.
“Here, lemme’ help,” Niall chirps, settling himself behind Harry. He slips his arms around Harry’s waist, placing his hands gently around his to work along the clay. He rests his chin on Harry’s shoulders, his hot breath fanning over his skin, and God if that didn’t make Harry’s heart skip a little.
“You aren’t really helping,” Harry mumbles, trying to focus on the clay, but that seems impossible as Niall presses his hips a little harder into his back.
Niall ignores his comment, kissing his neck softly. He nibbles and licks gently at the skin there, piercing dragging along as he trails over to the junction of his shoulder and collarbone. Harry is wearing a loose white shirt – Niall’s loose white shirt, to be exact – that is slightly see-through, showing his flat stomach and faint abdominal lines. Just as Niall is about to sneak his hand – the one he didn’t get clay on – underneath the thin cotton fabric, Harry twists around and connects their lips. Niall’s surprised at first, but soon parting his lips to suck Harry’s bottom one between his own. Harry’s hands reach up subconsciously to grasp Niall’s face, smudging clay on his cheek and jaw with bits in his blonde-dyed hair when Harry curls his fingers into it. They pull away and lean their foreheads together; mouths still only centimeters apart as they both pant in quiet breaths.
“You got clay on me shirt,” Niall groans as he looks down. Harry laughs, a little breathless, and drags his finger through the glob of clay on Niall’s cheek.
“That’s not the only place you should be worried about,” he says, smiling dopily as he swipes some across the tip of his nose. Niall scowls.
“You did that to me at the ice cream shop,” Harry points out.
“Yeah, but with ice cream, not clay.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”
Harry soon caves in after being sucked into the guilt trip Niall gives him. A simple pout and an innocent stare can cause the most irrevocable guilt to set deep inside him. Though, Niall’s the same way, so neither can really judge.
Harry reappears with a damp cloth, wiping away all the clay he could off himself and Niall. As he’s doing so, Niall couldn’t but notice a rectangular instrument case set off in the corner of the room. The lock on it was open, ultimately defeating the purpose of the item’s usage, leaving the case slightly ajar. The glare of the overhead light fixture glints off of something shiny and metal inside. As he strains his neck to look, his eyes catch a tuning peg sticking out, only meaning one thing.
“Is that a guitar in there?” he questions curiously.
Harry barely has to glance over to know what he’s talking about, giving his head a quick nod as he tosses the cloth he just used into the bin that he puts his dirty laundry in. “Yeah, it’s Josh’s.” It’s quiet, so Harry adds, “that’s my roommate’s name, by the way.”
Niall stiffens, inevitably noticeable to Harry. He bends down and pecks his cheek lightly, the gesture seeming to relax Niall.
“D’ya mind if I take a look?”
As if he doesn’t really care what Harry’s response may be, he walks over and picks the guitar up, turning it over in his hands to inspect it. He grins, fingers stretching over the neck of the guitar as they press down above three different frets, the other hand strumming down on the strings to release a melodic sound.
“Do you know how to play?” Harry asks from his bed, his head lying against the palm of his hand.
“Yeah, but it’s been awhile,” Niall mumbles, switching to a different chord. ”Forgot how fun it was, though.”
Niall remembers how to play parts of one of his favorite songs by The Eagles, which is still, and forever will be, one of his favorite bands.
He gives it a go and so far it sounds pretty good, a surge of warmth coiling in his chest when he sees Harry gawk up at him in amazement, tapping his hand to beat on his thigh. A smile makes its way onto Niall’s lips, and now he’s laughing and strutting around the room, a natural cordial glow radiating from him like he’s some sort of ball of sunshine, but really, he is. Or, at least he is in Harry’s eyes.
Harry’s never seen him so happy before, genuinely happy – which is a close second to the happiness Niall usually feels when he’s with Harry.
Now he’s belting out the song lyrics with it, really making Harry’s jaw drop because he can sing, too. His voice is almost angelic, ranging from a gentle softness to a gritty growl that makes Harry want to throw himself at him like a fanatic fangirl.
Imagine that: Niall Horan, punk/rock artist that tours the world, capturing the hearts of girls, and probably boys, as well. And Harry can be the boyfriend that goes on the road with him, always there to support and share a hearty make out session with backstage before Niall has to perform, getting him all riled up with adrenaline pumping through his veins. Then he’ll murmur into Harry’s ear in a raspy tone, his Irish accent thicker than normal, about what he’s going to do to him after the show.
Yeah, Harry really likes the sound of that. Even if none of it is practical.
As if Niall has the impossible ability to read minds, he drops the guitar on the bed and hovers over Harry, babbling and rambling about if he became a music star, and going into almost every little detail Harry had come up with in his own head. His eyes are a bright blue and wide and filled with excitement, like a kid on Christmas.
“This can happen, ya know. Just gotta get some music out, get the attention of a producer—” Niall is stopped midsentence by Harry.
“Hold on, Niall. What’re you getting at? And what about oh, I don’t know, school?”
Niall’s smile falters with a look of apprehensiveness taking over. “Dunno, I mean, if someone’s interested in me, I’ll drop out.”
Harry recoils, hurt dampening his expression. He shakes his head vigorously because there is no way in hell he’ll let Niall do that.
“No, you’re not dropping out. You’re actually getting good grades now, and you’re getting somewhere, and I won’t let you throw all of it away,” Harry snaps.
Niall takes Harry’s face between his hands, trying to get him to face forward, but Harry keeps jerking away.
“Stop it, Niall. You’ll end up working for McDonalds flipping hamburgers if you drop out. How do you expect to live life with only a high school degree?”
“Harry, listen to me,” Niall snarls, yanking him closer. “It won’t be that bad, baby. I don’t need school. If I get a contract made and a good record deal, I’ll get paid from the gigs, and have an amazing job! I’ll make millions and get ta’ travel; we’ll have our lives set for us.”
“We?” Harry laughs bitterly. “I’m not dropping out Niall. You don’t even know if it’ll happen!”
Niall copies the look of hurt Harry had earlier, shrinking away from him, betrayal clouding his eyes.
“Don’t you believe in me?” Niall’s voice is so very soft now, barely above a whisper. “Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I do Niall! Why are you acting like this?” Harry looks around, trying to find his words. “Being a famous musician is what people dream about doing, babe. And that’s all it is, a dream.”
Niall locks his eyes to the ground, not daring to let Harry see the tears spilling over his cheeks. “Yer just like the rest of them. You don’t care about what I want. You care about what you think I need. And this,” – Niall waves his hands around to show emphasis – “is not what I want, or need. ”
Harry stands up, ready to reach out and comfort him, tell him that it’s okay, that it’s okay to cry.
“Don’t,” Niall chokes out, “just . . . just give me some time to think.”
“What do you mean? What do you have to think about?” Harry asks, lower lip trembling.
Niall doesn’t answer, only turning so his back is to Harry, hesitating a couple seconds before storming out. Harry jumps as the door slams shut, leaving him just as confused as Niall is feeling.
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A/N: Hiiii! So here’s chapter nine! A bit angst-y near the end, huh? Feel free to comment; tell me what you think. And make sure to vote! Love you all :) x