Affection (H.S.)

one.

It was the migraine that tipped him off, not the fact that he sneezed. It wasn't unusual, Harry supposed he was a bit sneezier than your average 23-year-old (allergies were a bitch, and so was hay fever), but he considered that his fatal flaw. Which, like, in the grand scheme of things, wasn't bad at all.

He was a man of sensitivity (perhaps this was something he was less aware of). Spicy food made his eyes stream, he had to let at least a few tears fall every time he watched The Notebook, and each time he experienced a breakup, he'd need to spend a couple days curled up on the couch of his and Niall's apartment, using half melted cookie dough ice cream and sappy rom-coms as a balm for his mushy heart. ("I don't understand, mate," Niall had declared perplexedly over Harry's crumpled body, following the event of his most recent breakup, "she was an absolute pest. Would yell at you for not texting her back. Chewed her food like a fuckin' camel. You broke up with her. Why the hell are we moping?" Harry'd only given a melancholy sigh, picking at the pilled material of the couch beneath his cheek. "We spent time together, Niall. She wasn't all bad anyway, s'just... got used to her coming around and stuff.")

He'd been concentrating hard, bent over his paint can, hair tied back in a crude bun so it wouldn't fall in his face or get paint all in it. His back was aching, but he was simply too concentrated to straighten up and stretch it. But when an unexpected sneeze almost made his face go splat into the open can of Juneberry, he of course ended up breaking his focus, finally straightening and staring blankly at the half-painted wall before him, wrinkling his nose to alleviate the itch.

Harry was stressed. See, he and Niall had only moved in last week and considering Niall was, well, Niall, it had been Harry doing most of the work to get them settled in. Organizing, cleaning, decorating, and organizing some more. It was all so overwhelming; Harry thought his head was about to explode from paint fumes and fingers fall off from having to assemble that damn kitchen table. And who knew it was so hard to haul an armchair across the room? All in all, Harry was exhausted and frankly, not in the best of moods. He didn't have time to take a break though because this room had to be painted now because it needed two whole days to dry and the mattress was coming in two days and there'd be no room elsewhere to store it, so he didn't even have a couple hours to spare.  (And he really didn't appreciate it when Niall made housewife jokes. For the record.)

And now, to top it all off, he had a raging and throbbing pressure in his temples that made him want to curl up in a ball and sob.

The one thing he was happy about at the moment was that their door was right across from the laundry room, which made laundry days super easy. It was also good because Niall tended to be messy, so they'd be doing laundry more than average.

Harry's temples gave a sudden resounding throb, and he cursed under his breath. He strode for the door with the intentions of fetching a glass of water and some Advil. It had to be the paint fumes. He'd been in that room for a while. Another sudden sneeze propelled him forward and nearly drove his forehead smack into the doorframe, but he braced himself, grunting and running a hand through his hair before remembering it was in a bun and he'd just properly messed it up.

"Bless you."

Harry would not be ashamed to admit (okay, he would, but only to Niall) that the noise that came out of his mouth was a very unmanly screech. Because, first of all, Niall wasn't supposed to be home until much later. He'd gone golfing only an hour ago (his new hobby, instead of helping Harry around the house), and he always spent at least four hours on the green. And second of all, that voice wasn't Niall's. It was smooth and feminine and it came from his couch and holy fuck there was a random girl just sitting on his fucking couch.

"Shit, sorry I didn't mean to scare you! God, I don't know why I—you're probably wondering what I'm doing in your house and first let me just say that your front door was open just a crack and I didn't break and enter, for what it's worth. I'm sure it's not worth much, considering I'm a stran-"