*ahem* McFly...
I have a whole piece of Psychology coursework that needs to be handed in today... so instead of desperately racing to get it finished, I'm posting fic. *headdesk*
Title: Beautiful Disaster
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,134
Pairing: PoynterJudd, Tom/Giovanna (aww).
Summary: No one could make him confront the fact that he was, in all honesty, still absolutely terrified of basically everything in this world.
A/N: Um, projection, much? ;D Title from Kelly Clarkson’s gorgeous song, and so much thanks to jess_darkwater for betaing!
Dougie was hiding under the table.
No one knew he was under there: he just sat completely still, curled up with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, breathing slowly and rhythmically. Six chairs surrounded him, blocking anyone’s chance view of the huddled figure and allowing him to peer occasionally out of the wide glass windows, past the maze of wooden legs and off into the garden. He could spy on the multitude of people rushing to and fro, dashing under the large white marquee that had been placed in the middle of the lawn to hide from the lashings of rain.
He couldn’t quite stop himself from silently chuckling at the thought of Tom’s wedding being ruined. ‘Serves them right for getting married in April. The infamous showers, anyone?’
His tiny smile quietly slipped away when he recognised Giovanna standing on the lawn, staring up into the sky and looking very much like she was about to cry. Bugger. He liked her too much to want anything bad to happen on her special day - he saw Tom rush over to her and place a coat lovingly around her shoulders, hurriedly spouting reassuring words. Dougie lip-read, ‘At least we can wait until tomorrow for it to clear up.’ She sighed with a shrug, and lowered her rain-soaked head. ‘It’ll be fine. I promise.’ With a kiss, he led her back into the house.
Dougie folded himself up tighter and concentrated on staring at the polished oak chair legs again. He hoped (prayed, even) that no one would walk through that door across the room and find him quite so pathetically helpless, tucked away as he was under this sculpted wooden haven. He was eighteen. Apparently by that age you’re not allowed to believe in, or be scared of, anything; be it Santa or the bogey monster.
Luckily, it was neither that had him hiding from the world. He’d been under there for at least an hour now, and for once he was glad he was nowhere near the most important person there - it meant no one bothered to come him. Fantastic. He experimented with loosening the grip on his knees and, tentatively, found himself stretching out a little. Well, he could be under there a while. Might as well get comfortable.
As childish as it seemed, being under there made him feel protected, safe, and that there was absolutely nothing expected of him as long as he was encased within his makeshift den. It was a childlike instinct to do so. He could stay there for as long as he liked and no one could make him move, make him pose for yet another picture, make him confront the fact that he was, in all honesty, still absolutely terrified of basically everything in this world and for some reason Tom’s wedding was the place all that came rushing to the surface.
Hence, Dougie being under the table.
He hadn’t been aiming for that particular place, or anything like that; he just… ended up there. In a daze he’d found himself running from his otherwise-occupied friends and came crashing into this thankfully empty room, desperate for somewhere to cover himself, where it didn’t feel like the whole world was staring.
Diving for the only place that looked safe, he had rushed under the table and pulled all the chairs in close once more - so at a glance it would look like no one was there at all. He just had to worry if any small children came wandering in (where the hell were they all coming from? He’d nearly tripped over at least four so far), though from what he could see through the gradually misted windows, they were mostly outside shrieking in the rain.
Moving his gaze away from grey softened world outside, he focused on a slither of pale wallpaper peaking through a gap between the wood and let his mind wander, skipping off to wherever it pleased - the very reason he had wanted to be so definitely alone, as any disturbance right now would be more likely to have him setting up camp there, rather than luring him out. He passed from thought to thought lazily and with little care, from rain to music to London to death, thinking ‘I wonder what the best way to kill myself would be, pills or slitting my wrists? Now the first would be easier, but blood is just so more dramatic, don’t you know?’ - In the same manner that most people would consider ‘I wonder what I’ll do tonight, TV or a movie?’
He certainly was not depressed, nor had he any interest in ending it all at that moment, it was just one of the many topics his mind lapsed into when he was staring into space and had no want to constrain his naturally unusual trains of thought. He had moved on quickly enough in any case, soon, however, coming back to the same old conversation that might have triggered off this whole episode, if only he would let himself hold onto that single thought long enough to consider it.
It had begun with Harry and him, talking casually as he sprawled across his sofa while Harry sat curled up on an armchair opposite, legs curled up beneath him. He was not quite sure how it had started - the conversation flowing so liquidly, as they do - but sure enough they found themselves talking about love, the all encompassing kind that made the sun shine a little brighter and the world smell a little sweeter, the kind that so many people thought they had and only the lucky few ever managed more than once in a lifetime.
It was almost surprising how much Harry believed in it. While Dougie immediately scoffed with the automatic teenage boy rejection of anything serious, Harry lent back and was silent for a moment, a smile slowly creeping into his forcefully calm expression as Dougie took a moment and faltered, his ramblings stuttering to a halt as he realised Harry apparently thought differently. He had - and he did, barely explaining why but nevertheless making Dougie stop and think about it.
And now… now, he was clutching that single thought and letting it grow.
He was beginning to think he was scared of love. Or was that commitment? Love should not be something to afraid of, Harry told him that much. But all lasting love eventually leads to death and heartbreak, if you love just one person for the rest of your life, what happens when they inevitably die? Unless you die first, which is even scarier. Dougie could not imagine dealing with that kind of grief, he did not want to ever have to make such a choice that could dictate his life so strictly; he hated any kind of schedule (though being a popstar that was obviously hard to avoid).
But, maybe there were some things worth having your heart broken for. Love, of course, being the main contender, along with life and experience and happiness, that was all worth it. At least, that was what he’d been told.
His head turned back to the door sharply, ears pricking as he heard movement, feet shuffling, low voices just outside the room. His breath hitched in his chest as the room froze in utter stillness, listening, waiting over the few creeping seconds as floorboards creaked and the footsteps turned, moved away, faded with a softening beat that was almost drowned out by the long sigh Dougie exhaled.
Then the door opened.
‘Dougie, you in here?’
Bugger.
He stopped breathing again, drew up his legs and hugged them tightly to his chest, curled up so timidly that his outline seemed to shrink and blur - anything to make him invisible to the questioning voice as his mind raced with a rhythm of repeated swearwords, chanted with more force than flair.
‘Doug, why are you under the table?’
There was long, awkward pause as Dougie’s inner monologue came to a screeching halt and he grimaced, his solitary confinement having been broken far too soon for his liking. Peering out with two wide eyes, peaking over the top of his folded arms, he could see Harry crouching the other side, beyond the jungle of chair legs, studying him with a look of amused confusion.
‘No reason.’ He mumbled into his knees, looking away so his gaze was fixed on the patch of soft beige carpet, a few inches from the tips of his toes.
‘Do you feel like coming out any time soon? We’re going out in about fifteen, Tom’s bachelor thing at the local. I know you like at least ten minutes to sort out your hair.’ Harry grinned at him; the gesture was not returned.
‘Yes. Right. I’ll be done - out, in a second.’ He straightened his legs and put his hands palm down behind him, his gaze still fixed on that spot, though now he was staring at his canvas-covered knees.
‘Leave you to it then, yeah?’
‘Thanks.’
Harry shot him one last wide smile before standing up and turning to grab the door, walking out with a shake of his head and an audible, affectionate, ‘Weird kid.’
Two minutes later, a chair was gingerly pushed back and Dougie crawled out.
~
‘Christ Dougie, you look like shit.’
He stared at him, bleary eyed, 'To be honest, Danny, I'm too tired to care.'
It was typical exaggeration on Danny’s part, Dougie having only spent a record three minutes on his appearance and so he only looked a little rougher than usual. The tired part, however, was true, despite having done next to nothing all day he felt like he had just repeated the entire tour, walking, barefoot, with the whole show’s equipment strapped to his back. Exhausted and sore, to put it simply.
Still, he traipsed down to the local pub without much complaining, sticking unusually close to Harry in the hope that if he collapsed there would be someone strong to catch him. Or something. Once inside the cosy, oak beamed hall they found themselves a table and squeezed in, six men to a single cove hardly being comfortable but they managed it, Danny being the first to get the drinks as he could easily slip out to the bar.
Dougie then had the immensely clever idea to get very, very, drunk.
It would not be exactly a challenge, the rounds being bought in such a continuous flow that it was amazing that people could still walk to the bar and back. Despite everything now being slightly fuzzy around the edges - and glowing in an unnervingly off-hand way - Dougie was still feeling strange and introspective, the alcohol now only seeming to increase what feelings he had been experiencing before by unbearable amounts. He stared down at his fidgeting hands, looking dangerously like he was about to disappear under the table again (despite the fact he’d be continually kicked and jostled by the army of legs down there). Harry watched him for a long moment and let a small smirk flitter onto his face - Dougie really never was one to think things through.
Slipping off his shoe as unnoticeably as possible, Harry wiggled his toes and then very, very cautiously allowed his foot to creep across the floor beneath the table, hoping it was in the direction of Dougie’s leg and not one of the others (although at least the numerous pints having been consumed would make an excellent cover). Luckily he managed it first time, a sharp head movement from the bassist inclining he had felt it (Harry kept his eyes fixed on his pint, determined not to let their gazes meet), and then Dougie relaxed once again as Harry’s toes flexed with careful accuracy against his shin, rubbing lightly.
He began to drift his foot up Dougie’s lower leg, gently, almost lazily, with absolutely no hurry to get to any currently unknown destination. Dougie felt his cheeks colour, a rush of blood that tingled through his temples, his fingers, his groin. He looked up at Harry, whose gaze was still fixed stubbornly on his drink, and then suddenly clenched his hand as Harry’s foot found its way up past his knee, rubbing so gently along his thigh, getting closer and closer…
Their eyes met with a smirk from Harry and a gasp from Dougie.
~
He had gone silent again. Harry’s foot was back in its shoe and Dougie was still, silent, frozen. One hand was clenched blindly around his half-emptied pint, the other beneath the table clutched over his knees, fingernails digging numbly in. He looked - and felt - perhaps even worse than before, less introspective and more his entire insides has shut down, his mind having grind to sudden halt at the touch of Harry’s toes.
Harry didn’t think he had ever had this effect on anyone before.
‘Doug? Come on, we’re going back to the house.’
He showed absolutely no sign of hearing him for a second, but then he cautiously raised his head and dared himself to look Harry in the eye, suppressing a low urge to flinch. Harry was smiling in a way he hoped was reassuring, nudging Dougie’s leg with the tip of his shoe, then he told the others to move so the pair of them could wiggle out.
They left together, Dougie seeming strangely small and vulnerable compared to the tall strut of Harry. The others remained behind, the twilight only just passing and the bar still far too full for their liking. Harry wrapped an arm around Dougie’s shoulders and pulled him close, Dougie’s head falling to lean against his chest as he led them back up to the mansion.
It seemed so empty when they walked in, even though the hired staff were still rushing around and the house was buzzing with life - Dougie felt cold beneath his fingertips. Without a word Harry took them both up to his own bedroom, his hands finding a rhythm in stroking Dougie’s arms to find some sort of heat within, Dougie just let him without bothering to speak.
Reaching Harry’s door on the first floor corridor, he twisted it open with one hand and pushed Dougie through first with the other, stepping through and closing it behind him quietly. Dougie’s fingers reached up to start rubbing his own arms, almost automatically, the rest of him utterly still until Harry stood in front of him and raised his hands over to slip his fingers over Dougie’s and pull them away, replacing them with his own and continuing. Dougie just stared at him.
‘You’re cold, Doug.’
He shrugged weakly, now turning his head to the side and staring out into the darkness beyond the closed windows. Harry followed his gaze for a moment then looked back at the younger boy in front of him, his eyes searching his face as though clawing for some answer to an unnamed question, lips pursed in an almost silent sigh.
He didn’t know what to do, and he hated that feeling of being lost. Dougie remained silent and unreadable before him, not meeting his gaze, not daring to say another word. Harry had guessed something was wrong when he had found him cowering beneath the dining room table (hardly normal behaviour, even for the quirky one), but this, this blank silence, this unmovable apathy, was beginning to worry him beyond the usual.
He had been in situations vaguely similar to this before, with old friends feeling lonely and confused. Usually female. He would listen to them, comfort them, and hold them tightly until they became so grateful for his company they gave some back. Mature and helpful? Not really. Did it work? Every time. It may not have solved anything (it probably caused more problems, but he chose not to think about it) but he knew how to make them feel good again, and he reasoned he was doing them a favour. There was no such thing as using people.
But then here was Dougie, brooding and confused and yes, probably lonely, and it suddenly felt like he had no tricks left to make him feel better. Cocking his head to one side and slowly pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth, he studied him and found he couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do - like a writer losing his muse, he had nothing and all he could do was watch as Dougie stood there with a numb look across his face.
He couldn’t bear to leave it like that. Rashly he was suddenly diving forward and his hands grabbed onto Dougie’s arms, pulling him close or holding him still, burning lips crashing down against a surprised mouth and in a split second Harry knew he had done the wrong thing. Dougie didn’t scramble backwards, instead not moving at all and making it seem a thousand times worse as Harry pulled back in horror of what he was doing, the bassist so tense beneath his fingers.
‘Harry, please…’ He almost gasped, staring up with wide eyes, pleading no, not yet.
Harry shook his head and took the step back that both needed, saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ over and over again with shaking hands trying to clasp into steadying fists. Dougie gave the smallest of shrugs and a tiny smile, as though it didn’t matter, like he knew it was a brief mistake - the thought was unnerving, the younger boy suddenly, somehow, having grasping onto the upper hand in this scene of disaster and rendering Harry as the shuddering invalid.
That was not supposed to happen, but Dougie was smiling now at thought of having an ounce of control, one tiny aspect he could hold onto; but to him it didn’t feel right. There was that masochistic side of him wanting everyone else to point him in the direction he should be going in, save him the decision. There was that part of him wanting to curl up next to Harry and tell him everything, turn the thoughts into words so he could release them tumbling into the air and let a quiet space in his mind form for once, not numbness but comfort, solitude.
This part found itself winning as Dougie reached out a hand to Harry and led him over to the bed. He sat them both down then lay back, stammering at first as he struggled to form the words but slowly he began to talk - tell him everything as he so wanted to do. He felt like he was watching the pair of them from the other side of the room, couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, admitting to, could see Harry’s nonplussed expression even though his eyes were closed.
He felt tired. The strain of letting everything go, he reckoned, but he knew it could never be this easy. Once off his chest but that would hardly be the end of it all. He was honest about letting go of it all - how could he say one thing without it leading onto a thousand others? He whispered about his fear of love, which lead to the musings of commitment, which lead to the fright of death and eternity… he carried on, his lips moving almost as fast as his thoughts.
Harry did not dare interrupt.
~
Half an hour slipped by and Dougie was beginning to slow down, consider his words, halt his thoughts. There was no worry over whether he had said too much, his mind emptied and he knew he had stumbled over all of it, flowing out into a stuttering river of feelings and phrases and questions, answered or otherwise.
It felt good.
He hoped there was a look in his eye that said, kiss me now, I’m okay, I’ll be alright, but even if there was Harry did not pick up on it. A sudden worry hit Dougie - had he said too much? Scared Harry off? Shown him what an unstable manic he really was? Had there never been any interest, only pity, before? He could hear the sounds of distant laughter far into the darkness, then hands suddenly clenched into fists as Dougie found himself panicking, thinking too fast while his mouth was clamped shut and Harry twisted around to look at him, see why he had fallen so silent; he was greeted with the same tense boy he had been staring at earlier.
‘Fuck.’
Dougie’s eyes shot open to stare Bambi-eyed up at him. Emotionally naked and still he felt like he had something to hide, so small under Harry’s gaze trying to drill right through him. A hand crept softly across the mattress. It began at Dougie’s knee, fingers smoothing over canvas then trailing up, whispers over his thighs and resting at his hip, a brief, almost desperate grab but then Harry was continuing upwards, hauling his whole body up the bed so his hand could move freely.
He paused at the middle of his chest, waiting for the ‘Stop, no, wait,’ but it never came. Dougie was as frozen as before - no, not frozen. Just silent, watching and feeling and waiting as Harry let his fingers carefully explore, holding his breath and his restraint to make sure he didn’t cross the ever moving line, terrified of going too far. But Dougie smiled, the most encouragement he was up to giving, and it was all Harry needed to reach all the way up and kiss him.
There was plenty of passion but there was something else, too, holding them both back into considered, slow kisses that still felt like all they wanted, needed at that precise moment. Or maybe it was just Harry had discovered a new form of comfort that didn’t mean going straight for the sex, and he wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. Make it last and just keep going until you get a better idea.
Dougie was happy enough with that decision, keeping Harry’s lips to his own and his hands to his waist (no lower), respect and enjoyment and god, maybe it was love. Maybe it wasn’t so scary after all.
~
‘Harry…’ He breathed, eyes lidded and a small, sweet smile resting on his lips. A rush of warm air ghosted over his cheek as his eyelids fluttered lazily open, dragging himself out of a smothering sleep, immediately being greeted with two grinning blue eyes staring down into his own. His smile grew wider as Harry lowered himself down and began laying irresistible soft kisses up his neck, trailing up to nibble on his ear and listen to the giggles bubbling up in Dougie’s throat. Stroking one hand down his chest, he pressed their lips together while his other hand cupped Dougie’s head gently and his fingers wove through his hair.
They stayed like that, blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world as it ticked slowly by, leaving them behind with no want to catch up. There was an unnamed comfort that hadn’t been present the night before as they fell asleep, still kissing, barely touching, so innocent. Only the stripes of golden morning light adorning the sheets gave any sense of the passing day - and then Danny was banging on the door and all sense of tranquillity shattered with an ear-splitting crash, both sitting bolt upright at the noise.
‘Harry! Hurry the fuck up, we’re late! And find Dougie, the little bastard’s disappeared! Tom’s going to kill us! Argh!’ They listened in silence, tensed, to the thumps of him thundering back down the hall then both visibly slumped and simultaneously collasped back into the bedclothes.
‘Right then.’ Harry announced. ‘Suppose we better be moving.’
‘Suppose.’
‘Although…’ He shifted onto his side and began trailing one hand up Dougie’s bare chest, an eager look shining in his eyes, ‘We could stay here just a little longer…’
Dougie let his eyelids drift slowly shut for a moment; a lazy smile working it’s way unhurriedly onto his face, until he accidentally thought of Giovanna standing out in the rain again and - hating himself - forced his eyes open. ‘But,’ he entwined his fingers with Harry’s and so lifting his hand away, ‘Sadly, we’ve gotta wedding to attend.’
Harry looked at him with resignation, before nodding with a long sigh. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
Dougie rewarded him with a thankful grin and lifted up the covers so he could slide out of the bed, toes hitting the scratchy carpet then he was picking up his clothes from over the chair where he had carelessly chucked them the night before and slipping out of the room, presumably back to his own so he could get dressed for the ceremony. Harry watched him go silently, waited a moment then slowly got up to do the same.
Fin.
Right, back to the psychology...
Title: Beautiful Disaster
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,134
Pairing: PoynterJudd, Tom/Giovanna (aww).
Summary: No one could make him confront the fact that he was, in all honesty, still absolutely terrified of basically everything in this world.
A/N: Um, projection, much? ;D Title from Kelly Clarkson’s gorgeous song, and so much thanks to jess_darkwater for betaing!
Dougie was hiding under the table.
No one knew he was under there: he just sat completely still, curled up with his knees pulled tightly to his chest, breathing slowly and rhythmically. Six chairs surrounded him, blocking anyone’s chance view of the huddled figure and allowing him to peer occasionally out of the wide glass windows, past the maze of wooden legs and off into the garden. He could spy on the multitude of people rushing to and fro, dashing under the large white marquee that had been placed in the middle of the lawn to hide from the lashings of rain.
He couldn’t quite stop himself from silently chuckling at the thought of Tom’s wedding being ruined. ‘Serves them right for getting married in April. The infamous showers, anyone?’
His tiny smile quietly slipped away when he recognised Giovanna standing on the lawn, staring up into the sky and looking very much like she was about to cry. Bugger. He liked her too much to want anything bad to happen on her special day - he saw Tom rush over to her and place a coat lovingly around her shoulders, hurriedly spouting reassuring words. Dougie lip-read, ‘At least we can wait until tomorrow for it to clear up.’ She sighed with a shrug, and lowered her rain-soaked head. ‘It’ll be fine. I promise.’ With a kiss, he led her back into the house.
Dougie folded himself up tighter and concentrated on staring at the polished oak chair legs again. He hoped (prayed, even) that no one would walk through that door across the room and find him quite so pathetically helpless, tucked away as he was under this sculpted wooden haven. He was eighteen. Apparently by that age you’re not allowed to believe in, or be scared of, anything; be it Santa or the bogey monster.
Luckily, it was neither that had him hiding from the world. He’d been under there for at least an hour now, and for once he was glad he was nowhere near the most important person there - it meant no one bothered to come him. Fantastic. He experimented with loosening the grip on his knees and, tentatively, found himself stretching out a little. Well, he could be under there a while. Might as well get comfortable.
As childish as it seemed, being under there made him feel protected, safe, and that there was absolutely nothing expected of him as long as he was encased within his makeshift den. It was a childlike instinct to do so. He could stay there for as long as he liked and no one could make him move, make him pose for yet another picture, make him confront the fact that he was, in all honesty, still absolutely terrified of basically everything in this world and for some reason Tom’s wedding was the place all that came rushing to the surface.
Hence, Dougie being under the table.
He hadn’t been aiming for that particular place, or anything like that; he just… ended up there. In a daze he’d found himself running from his otherwise-occupied friends and came crashing into this thankfully empty room, desperate for somewhere to cover himself, where it didn’t feel like the whole world was staring.
Diving for the only place that looked safe, he had rushed under the table and pulled all the chairs in close once more - so at a glance it would look like no one was there at all. He just had to worry if any small children came wandering in (where the hell were they all coming from? He’d nearly tripped over at least four so far), though from what he could see through the gradually misted windows, they were mostly outside shrieking in the rain.
Moving his gaze away from grey softened world outside, he focused on a slither of pale wallpaper peaking through a gap between the wood and let his mind wander, skipping off to wherever it pleased - the very reason he had wanted to be so definitely alone, as any disturbance right now would be more likely to have him setting up camp there, rather than luring him out. He passed from thought to thought lazily and with little care, from rain to music to London to death, thinking ‘I wonder what the best way to kill myself would be, pills or slitting my wrists? Now the first would be easier, but blood is just so more dramatic, don’t you know?’ - In the same manner that most people would consider ‘I wonder what I’ll do tonight, TV or a movie?’
He certainly was not depressed, nor had he any interest in ending it all at that moment, it was just one of the many topics his mind lapsed into when he was staring into space and had no want to constrain his naturally unusual trains of thought. He had moved on quickly enough in any case, soon, however, coming back to the same old conversation that might have triggered off this whole episode, if only he would let himself hold onto that single thought long enough to consider it.
It had begun with Harry and him, talking casually as he sprawled across his sofa while Harry sat curled up on an armchair opposite, legs curled up beneath him. He was not quite sure how it had started - the conversation flowing so liquidly, as they do - but sure enough they found themselves talking about love, the all encompassing kind that made the sun shine a little brighter and the world smell a little sweeter, the kind that so many people thought they had and only the lucky few ever managed more than once in a lifetime.
It was almost surprising how much Harry believed in it. While Dougie immediately scoffed with the automatic teenage boy rejection of anything serious, Harry lent back and was silent for a moment, a smile slowly creeping into his forcefully calm expression as Dougie took a moment and faltered, his ramblings stuttering to a halt as he realised Harry apparently thought differently. He had - and he did, barely explaining why but nevertheless making Dougie stop and think about it.
And now… now, he was clutching that single thought and letting it grow.
He was beginning to think he was scared of love. Or was that commitment? Love should not be something to afraid of, Harry told him that much. But all lasting love eventually leads to death and heartbreak, if you love just one person for the rest of your life, what happens when they inevitably die? Unless you die first, which is even scarier. Dougie could not imagine dealing with that kind of grief, he did not want to ever have to make such a choice that could dictate his life so strictly; he hated any kind of schedule (though being a popstar that was obviously hard to avoid).
But, maybe there were some things worth having your heart broken for. Love, of course, being the main contender, along with life and experience and happiness, that was all worth it. At least, that was what he’d been told.
His head turned back to the door sharply, ears pricking as he heard movement, feet shuffling, low voices just outside the room. His breath hitched in his chest as the room froze in utter stillness, listening, waiting over the few creeping seconds as floorboards creaked and the footsteps turned, moved away, faded with a softening beat that was almost drowned out by the long sigh Dougie exhaled.
Then the door opened.
‘Dougie, you in here?’
Bugger.
He stopped breathing again, drew up his legs and hugged them tightly to his chest, curled up so timidly that his outline seemed to shrink and blur - anything to make him invisible to the questioning voice as his mind raced with a rhythm of repeated swearwords, chanted with more force than flair.
‘Doug, why are you under the table?’
There was long, awkward pause as Dougie’s inner monologue came to a screeching halt and he grimaced, his solitary confinement having been broken far too soon for his liking. Peering out with two wide eyes, peaking over the top of his folded arms, he could see Harry crouching the other side, beyond the jungle of chair legs, studying him with a look of amused confusion.
‘No reason.’ He mumbled into his knees, looking away so his gaze was fixed on the patch of soft beige carpet, a few inches from the tips of his toes.
‘Do you feel like coming out any time soon? We’re going out in about fifteen, Tom’s bachelor thing at the local. I know you like at least ten minutes to sort out your hair.’ Harry grinned at him; the gesture was not returned.
‘Yes. Right. I’ll be done - out, in a second.’ He straightened his legs and put his hands palm down behind him, his gaze still fixed on that spot, though now he was staring at his canvas-covered knees.
‘Leave you to it then, yeah?’
‘Thanks.’
Harry shot him one last wide smile before standing up and turning to grab the door, walking out with a shake of his head and an audible, affectionate, ‘Weird kid.’
Two minutes later, a chair was gingerly pushed back and Dougie crawled out.
~
‘Christ Dougie, you look like shit.’
He stared at him, bleary eyed, 'To be honest, Danny, I'm too tired to care.'
It was typical exaggeration on Danny’s part, Dougie having only spent a record three minutes on his appearance and so he only looked a little rougher than usual. The tired part, however, was true, despite having done next to nothing all day he felt like he had just repeated the entire tour, walking, barefoot, with the whole show’s equipment strapped to his back. Exhausted and sore, to put it simply.
Still, he traipsed down to the local pub without much complaining, sticking unusually close to Harry in the hope that if he collapsed there would be someone strong to catch him. Or something. Once inside the cosy, oak beamed hall they found themselves a table and squeezed in, six men to a single cove hardly being comfortable but they managed it, Danny being the first to get the drinks as he could easily slip out to the bar.
Dougie then had the immensely clever idea to get very, very, drunk.
It would not be exactly a challenge, the rounds being bought in such a continuous flow that it was amazing that people could still walk to the bar and back. Despite everything now being slightly fuzzy around the edges - and glowing in an unnervingly off-hand way - Dougie was still feeling strange and introspective, the alcohol now only seeming to increase what feelings he had been experiencing before by unbearable amounts. He stared down at his fidgeting hands, looking dangerously like he was about to disappear under the table again (despite the fact he’d be continually kicked and jostled by the army of legs down there). Harry watched him for a long moment and let a small smirk flitter onto his face - Dougie really never was one to think things through.
Slipping off his shoe as unnoticeably as possible, Harry wiggled his toes and then very, very cautiously allowed his foot to creep across the floor beneath the table, hoping it was in the direction of Dougie’s leg and not one of the others (although at least the numerous pints having been consumed would make an excellent cover). Luckily he managed it first time, a sharp head movement from the bassist inclining he had felt it (Harry kept his eyes fixed on his pint, determined not to let their gazes meet), and then Dougie relaxed once again as Harry’s toes flexed with careful accuracy against his shin, rubbing lightly.
He began to drift his foot up Dougie’s lower leg, gently, almost lazily, with absolutely no hurry to get to any currently unknown destination. Dougie felt his cheeks colour, a rush of blood that tingled through his temples, his fingers, his groin. He looked up at Harry, whose gaze was still fixed stubbornly on his drink, and then suddenly clenched his hand as Harry’s foot found its way up past his knee, rubbing so gently along his thigh, getting closer and closer…
Their eyes met with a smirk from Harry and a gasp from Dougie.
~
He had gone silent again. Harry’s foot was back in its shoe and Dougie was still, silent, frozen. One hand was clenched blindly around his half-emptied pint, the other beneath the table clutched over his knees, fingernails digging numbly in. He looked - and felt - perhaps even worse than before, less introspective and more his entire insides has shut down, his mind having grind to sudden halt at the touch of Harry’s toes.
Harry didn’t think he had ever had this effect on anyone before.
‘Doug? Come on, we’re going back to the house.’
He showed absolutely no sign of hearing him for a second, but then he cautiously raised his head and dared himself to look Harry in the eye, suppressing a low urge to flinch. Harry was smiling in a way he hoped was reassuring, nudging Dougie’s leg with the tip of his shoe, then he told the others to move so the pair of them could wiggle out.
They left together, Dougie seeming strangely small and vulnerable compared to the tall strut of Harry. The others remained behind, the twilight only just passing and the bar still far too full for their liking. Harry wrapped an arm around Dougie’s shoulders and pulled him close, Dougie’s head falling to lean against his chest as he led them back up to the mansion.
It seemed so empty when they walked in, even though the hired staff were still rushing around and the house was buzzing with life - Dougie felt cold beneath his fingertips. Without a word Harry took them both up to his own bedroom, his hands finding a rhythm in stroking Dougie’s arms to find some sort of heat within, Dougie just let him without bothering to speak.
Reaching Harry’s door on the first floor corridor, he twisted it open with one hand and pushed Dougie through first with the other, stepping through and closing it behind him quietly. Dougie’s fingers reached up to start rubbing his own arms, almost automatically, the rest of him utterly still until Harry stood in front of him and raised his hands over to slip his fingers over Dougie’s and pull them away, replacing them with his own and continuing. Dougie just stared at him.
‘You’re cold, Doug.’
He shrugged weakly, now turning his head to the side and staring out into the darkness beyond the closed windows. Harry followed his gaze for a moment then looked back at the younger boy in front of him, his eyes searching his face as though clawing for some answer to an unnamed question, lips pursed in an almost silent sigh.
He didn’t know what to do, and he hated that feeling of being lost. Dougie remained silent and unreadable before him, not meeting his gaze, not daring to say another word. Harry had guessed something was wrong when he had found him cowering beneath the dining room table (hardly normal behaviour, even for the quirky one), but this, this blank silence, this unmovable apathy, was beginning to worry him beyond the usual.
He had been in situations vaguely similar to this before, with old friends feeling lonely and confused. Usually female. He would listen to them, comfort them, and hold them tightly until they became so grateful for his company they gave some back. Mature and helpful? Not really. Did it work? Every time. It may not have solved anything (it probably caused more problems, but he chose not to think about it) but he knew how to make them feel good again, and he reasoned he was doing them a favour. There was no such thing as using people.
But then here was Dougie, brooding and confused and yes, probably lonely, and it suddenly felt like he had no tricks left to make him feel better. Cocking his head to one side and slowly pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth, he studied him and found he couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do - like a writer losing his muse, he had nothing and all he could do was watch as Dougie stood there with a numb look across his face.
He couldn’t bear to leave it like that. Rashly he was suddenly diving forward and his hands grabbed onto Dougie’s arms, pulling him close or holding him still, burning lips crashing down against a surprised mouth and in a split second Harry knew he had done the wrong thing. Dougie didn’t scramble backwards, instead not moving at all and making it seem a thousand times worse as Harry pulled back in horror of what he was doing, the bassist so tense beneath his fingers.
‘Harry, please…’ He almost gasped, staring up with wide eyes, pleading no, not yet.
Harry shook his head and took the step back that both needed, saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ over and over again with shaking hands trying to clasp into steadying fists. Dougie gave the smallest of shrugs and a tiny smile, as though it didn’t matter, like he knew it was a brief mistake - the thought was unnerving, the younger boy suddenly, somehow, having grasping onto the upper hand in this scene of disaster and rendering Harry as the shuddering invalid.
That was not supposed to happen, but Dougie was smiling now at thought of having an ounce of control, one tiny aspect he could hold onto; but to him it didn’t feel right. There was that masochistic side of him wanting everyone else to point him in the direction he should be going in, save him the decision. There was that part of him wanting to curl up next to Harry and tell him everything, turn the thoughts into words so he could release them tumbling into the air and let a quiet space in his mind form for once, not numbness but comfort, solitude.
This part found itself winning as Dougie reached out a hand to Harry and led him over to the bed. He sat them both down then lay back, stammering at first as he struggled to form the words but slowly he began to talk - tell him everything as he so wanted to do. He felt like he was watching the pair of them from the other side of the room, couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, admitting to, could see Harry’s nonplussed expression even though his eyes were closed.
He felt tired. The strain of letting everything go, he reckoned, but he knew it could never be this easy. Once off his chest but that would hardly be the end of it all. He was honest about letting go of it all - how could he say one thing without it leading onto a thousand others? He whispered about his fear of love, which lead to the musings of commitment, which lead to the fright of death and eternity… he carried on, his lips moving almost as fast as his thoughts.
Harry did not dare interrupt.
~
Half an hour slipped by and Dougie was beginning to slow down, consider his words, halt his thoughts. There was no worry over whether he had said too much, his mind emptied and he knew he had stumbled over all of it, flowing out into a stuttering river of feelings and phrases and questions, answered or otherwise.
It felt good.
He hoped there was a look in his eye that said, kiss me now, I’m okay, I’ll be alright, but even if there was Harry did not pick up on it. A sudden worry hit Dougie - had he said too much? Scared Harry off? Shown him what an unstable manic he really was? Had there never been any interest, only pity, before? He could hear the sounds of distant laughter far into the darkness, then hands suddenly clenched into fists as Dougie found himself panicking, thinking too fast while his mouth was clamped shut and Harry twisted around to look at him, see why he had fallen so silent; he was greeted with the same tense boy he had been staring at earlier.
‘Fuck.’
Dougie’s eyes shot open to stare Bambi-eyed up at him. Emotionally naked and still he felt like he had something to hide, so small under Harry’s gaze trying to drill right through him. A hand crept softly across the mattress. It began at Dougie’s knee, fingers smoothing over canvas then trailing up, whispers over his thighs and resting at his hip, a brief, almost desperate grab but then Harry was continuing upwards, hauling his whole body up the bed so his hand could move freely.
He paused at the middle of his chest, waiting for the ‘Stop, no, wait,’ but it never came. Dougie was as frozen as before - no, not frozen. Just silent, watching and feeling and waiting as Harry let his fingers carefully explore, holding his breath and his restraint to make sure he didn’t cross the ever moving line, terrified of going too far. But Dougie smiled, the most encouragement he was up to giving, and it was all Harry needed to reach all the way up and kiss him.
There was plenty of passion but there was something else, too, holding them both back into considered, slow kisses that still felt like all they wanted, needed at that precise moment. Or maybe it was just Harry had discovered a new form of comfort that didn’t mean going straight for the sex, and he wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. Make it last and just keep going until you get a better idea.
Dougie was happy enough with that decision, keeping Harry’s lips to his own and his hands to his waist (no lower), respect and enjoyment and god, maybe it was love. Maybe it wasn’t so scary after all.
~
‘Harry…’ He breathed, eyes lidded and a small, sweet smile resting on his lips. A rush of warm air ghosted over his cheek as his eyelids fluttered lazily open, dragging himself out of a smothering sleep, immediately being greeted with two grinning blue eyes staring down into his own. His smile grew wider as Harry lowered himself down and began laying irresistible soft kisses up his neck, trailing up to nibble on his ear and listen to the giggles bubbling up in Dougie’s throat. Stroking one hand down his chest, he pressed their lips together while his other hand cupped Dougie’s head gently and his fingers wove through his hair.
They stayed like that, blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world as it ticked slowly by, leaving them behind with no want to catch up. There was an unnamed comfort that hadn’t been present the night before as they fell asleep, still kissing, barely touching, so innocent. Only the stripes of golden morning light adorning the sheets gave any sense of the passing day - and then Danny was banging on the door and all sense of tranquillity shattered with an ear-splitting crash, both sitting bolt upright at the noise.
‘Harry! Hurry the fuck up, we’re late! And find Dougie, the little bastard’s disappeared! Tom’s going to kill us! Argh!’ They listened in silence, tensed, to the thumps of him thundering back down the hall then both visibly slumped and simultaneously collasped back into the bedclothes.
‘Right then.’ Harry announced. ‘Suppose we better be moving.’
‘Suppose.’
‘Although…’ He shifted onto his side and began trailing one hand up Dougie’s bare chest, an eager look shining in his eyes, ‘We could stay here just a little longer…’
Dougie let his eyelids drift slowly shut for a moment; a lazy smile working it’s way unhurriedly onto his face, until he accidentally thought of Giovanna standing out in the rain again and - hating himself - forced his eyes open. ‘But,’ he entwined his fingers with Harry’s and so lifting his hand away, ‘Sadly, we’ve gotta wedding to attend.’
Harry looked at him with resignation, before nodding with a long sigh. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
Dougie rewarded him with a thankful grin and lifted up the covers so he could slide out of the bed, toes hitting the scratchy carpet then he was picking up his clothes from over the chair where he had carelessly chucked them the night before and slipping out of the room, presumably back to his own so he could get dressed for the ceremony. Harry watched him go silently, waited a moment then slowly got up to do the same.
Fin.
Right, back to the psychology...