This Static Gets Old (smut)(Larry)

Part Two

Harry doesn’t think there’s anyone left on this edge of town to make friends with, really. He’d sorted that out, for a change, by the age of eight. He’s got no one to impress, no one to obtain and no one to please. Maybe that’s a good thing.

And he obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it’s nearly seven in the morning (though the clocks around here never seem to really be on time) and he’s on a train to Norwich like he was destined to end up here, his hands gripped tightly around the bar with his body nuzzled into the chair.

He falls asleep with his cheek pressed to the window, the dust digging into his pores, when the train rolls to a stop. He pulls his muscles taut to fell the pull of lost sleep and-

And here he is.

There’s rain coating the ground like a lost promise and the buildings look soaked in the consequences. It doesn’t look like a dream getaway, but that’s what his vacation home was manufactured to be, and he doesn’t think that worked out how it was supposed to. There’s a bird somewhere, and it’s loud and demanding and wantingwantingwanting for something no one can give him, and Harry wishes he could see his feathers. He wishes he could see how badly the bird wants. And maybe this town wasn’t what he was expecting, but it’s-

It’s a place, that’s what it is, and it’s new. It’s fresh and entertaining and a way to escape stubby noses and pools and vacation homes and beer bottles. He’s been craving this. Not beer, though his head did ache to spin, but adventure. Or something. He doesn’t know.

So he’s in a pub now, ordering “whatever doesn’t sell” and the man walks back with a small glass of something dark and deep brown, and he thinks if he looked close enough he’d be able to see what was going on in the back of his own head. But he doesn’t look closely, because he can’t at this point, and downs the drink quickly. The drink doesn’t sell well, so it’s no surprise he gags afterward, but that’s alright. Expected at this point, almost.

But now there’s a boy taking the seat next to him, his eyes wide and blue and shallow like those fond memories Harry never quite got a grasp on, and he’s slurring out, “I’ll have what he had.”, giggling like he’s lost in his last drink’s carbonation. He’s turning to Harry with excitement and he’s bouncing to a tune no one else cares to hear and Harry wonders why the bartender hasn’t thrown the guy out. But then he’s shaking Harry’s hand like there’s nothing more important to do, and Harry finds the boy endearing, suddenly. So he lets the boy stay, watching him chug “what he had” and then grimace, turning to Harry with a squeak of, “Why would you drink that?”

And, well, “No one else wanted it.”

The boy tosses the thought from hand to hand, watches how it shines through the dull taste of beer in his throat before slipping it into his pocket, “Good point.” And, on a second thought, “I’m Niall.”

“I’m Harry.”

Harry watches his lips, because this boy with porcelain emotions and soft eyes and steel skin seems eager, and Harry doesn’t know how to respond. But he shakes his head and smiles, Niall brightening up until he’s turned back to the bartender to order another drink.

And Harry hasn’t met a boy so loud before. His voice shakes the air surrounding them and fills up the remainder of the guests’ drinks, his eyes piercing through anything standing and his hair catching the attention of what’s scattered on the floor. But here he is, hand in the air for another drink and Harry- Harry doesn’t know what to do. His head is spinning with the words fighting for dominance, his eyes blinking with the weight of worry and his mouth tingling with confusion.

But he knows Niall shouldn’t drink anymore.

Yes, he knows that.

“Hey, Niall?” Niall’s got his hand up, waving down the bartender again, his fingers sharp in the sober air.