Narry One Shots

32. Now touch me, babe

"So," begins Niall, "we're stuck here?"

"Yeah apparently," confirms Harry. "According to that text, no one is allowed to leave the house unless you're going grocery shopping or to work."

"Shit," the Irishman takes a rushed sip out of his pint. "And you don't mind if I stay here, do you?"

"Well I can't kick you out now, can I?" is Harry's response. He sits down on the other end of the couch, turning up the volume on the telly.

They're in Harry's newly bought mansion on the French Riviera. He couldn't resist the urge to share charms of the possession with his mate immediately after purchase. So here they are. Stuck on the Mediterranean coast of southeastern France that has seduced many people, and never ceases to lure other generations of lovers into its sweet embrace. Romanticised it becomes a muse to artists drawn here in hopes of conveying its divine beauty. It's leading the blind with invitations to the picturesque beaches and unearthly amusements of the warm nights by the sea. Like numerous admirers before, Harry's taken his humble voice to write his name in the carts of history: "I've been there." And maybe he won't fail to preserve a piece of his soul in the French soil. Or maybe it will blend with lost and abandoned memoirs of forgotten children of the Earth. Time may be the judge.

They're lost here. In that little world of theirs, they're cut off from the rest of the society. Every town is the home of ghosts now. The course of life has been stopped. It's time to worry. The epidemic has invaded the modern world. Something so unexpected, seemingly extinct, closed in between the pages of history books that no one bothers to read anymore. It's caught everyone off guard. In the media one can only see politicians throwing up their hands, promising all will be well. Will it though? How can they be so sure? Have they grown to become gods?

"What do you wanna do?" Harry asks.

"I dunno," Niall shrugs, "there ain't much we can do."

"Well," Harry licks his lips, his gaze intensely following Niall's every move, "wanna play some snooker with me?"

"Snooker?" repeats the Irishman, his eyes questioning his friend.

"It's like pool," Harry clarifies, "kinda."

"Okay."

Harry gets up, signalling Niall to follow him. They go down to the basement, a silence accompanying them on the way. They've drifted apart over those years, now struggling to find a mutual voice.

"Nice," Niall comments in awe once the room is brought to life with one flip of a switch. The light illuminates red bricks on the walls, their uneven shape introduces a mystical feel to the air. On dark wooden shelves arranged is the best assortment of French wine and other refined alcohols.

"We won't die of thirst at least," laughs Harry, rejoicing in Niall's reaction.

When Niall's excitement subsides slightly, the Englishman indicates him into the hallway on the other side of the room that offers entrance to another few rooms. They enter the first one on the left. In the middle, a big snooker table is standing proudly. Its wooden legs have flowery ornaments craved into them while smooth as silk green baize imitates the freshness of young grass. Leather armchairs surround a little round table near the wall, offering some rest and refreshment to the players.

"I hope you can play some pool," Harry says, placing the snooker balls on the table. "Since you're good at golf you shall have some head start on that ground at least."

"Yeah maybe," Niall agrees, curiously following Harry's gracious movements. "I've played some pool before too."

"Well, this will be much harder than pool though," informs the Englishman much to Niall's horror. "It's fine, I'll give you a hand with that," reassures Harry, noticing how tense his friend's become. After all, wasn't snooker his clever idea to be able to touch Niall?