Best Snog Ever (Larry Stylinson)

Best Snog Ever

Harry rounds the final landing, the last flight of stairs rising up before him and he pauses, sucking in a lungful of air. He's not too out of breath, not really, but having to trudge up five fucking flights means there will at least be a well-earned pint at the top. Or maybe a gin and tonic with fresh lime. Or even a shot of Tequila.

The building housing the pub is old and the creaking floorboards that are hidden beneath the tatty, royal blue carpet are a testament to that. It's a weirdly narrow establishment, six stories high, from the cellar at the bottom, to the somewhat secret rooftop terrace. Somewhat secret because of the effort it takes to get up there and the number of snobby people who don't want to set foot in the place. But the jokes on them because it's an oasis in the otherwise bustling metropolis of Sydney, Australia.

The view alone is worth the trek; it's not positioned well enough to be able to see the Harbour or Opera House, but the cityscape is enough of a reward for the journey.

There are plenty of trendier places to go to after work of course, but there's just something about this tired old girl that appeals to Harry. That, and the fact that it's directly across the road from where he works, and also has a McDonalds conveniently located on the ground floor, makes it too good to dismiss.

But the best part about this place is the people who come here. Or one person in particular.

Harry's been in Sydney for a little over a year, working at the bank on a massive project to implement a new software system. It's hard work, but he loves it and is so grateful for the opportunity to be able to travel for his job. He's a data analyst by day and a bit of a party animal by night, and at twenty-six, he feels like he's on top of the world, even though he's in the land Down Under.

He chuckles at his own joke as he reaches the rooftop terrace, his footsteps echoing on the raised wooden flooring. It's not a big area, only enough space for around fifty people if they cram in at high-top tables with moulded plastic stools in bright orange, and another twenty or so people in a small enclosed room off to one side.

He spies his workmates in their usual Friday night spot down at the end away from the hubbub of the bar. Giving them a quick nod in greeting, he heads straight for the bar and finds his favourite bartender, Niall, serving another customer.

The bar is like a weird little cave as it's at the original floor level before the exterior terrace was added a couple of feet higher. It's a cramped set-up, only really enough room for one bartender, or two at a pinch, with four standard beers on a single group of taps and a few glass-fronted fridges with bottled beer and wine, spirits lined up on the shelves above.

He'd met Niall at the end of his first week in Sydney. Harry had been settling in well enough and had tried out a few bars in the area, none of which were to his liking, but when he happened upon The Royal Harbour pub, he knew he'd found his home away from home.

He'd started on one of the lower levels but had been intrigued when he'd seen a sign stuck on the wall pointing up the stairs announcing the rooftop terrace, so he'd dutifully followed along.

When he made it to the rooftop, Niall had welcomed him with a broad smile and cold beer, an Irishman who moved to Australia five years ago for the love of a woman who has since moved on, and then stayed when he fell in love with the country instead. He's sinewy but strong, the kind of physique that comes from hard work rather than lifting weights, a short back-and-sides hair cut which rises up to a mop of thick brown hair on top, piercing blue eyes, and a mischievous sparkle to his smile.

Harry has spent many an evening whiling away the hours after closing time with Niall, along with a few other select guests and staff, and those nights have honestly been some of the best times of his life.