1.9k of sleepover sappiness (x) (x)
Niall’s keys clink in the dish beside the door when he drops them in. He stops for a moment to toe out of his boots and leave them lined up against the wall neatly with three other pairs and to key the security system code in, and then he goes into his house.
Home. His home. That’s what he’s always called it whenever an interviewer asked; “oh, I’m just going home for a bit, watch the telly, go down to the pub,” and it’s always been true. But now, it’s just. It’s home proper, in the sense he might come back to the same place for more than three straight days to sleep. It shouldn’t make his stomach twist up tight, but it does.
Harry’s right where Niall expected him to be, still swaddled in his coat with his face in Niall’s fridge. “Niall,” he drawls, “why haven’t you got any bottled water?”
“Because bottled water is bullshit, it’s all the same,” Niall explains patiently. They’ve had this discussion about two hundred times. It’s not likely to stop happening anytime soon.
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