more than a drabble, not quite a fic

[mushroom]

I'm in the mood for getting together fic, so I kinda wrote some. New characters are too much effort right now so I'm just sticking with my boys ♥


my problem is you make me melt
dougie/harry; pg; 546 words

They're in Harry's kitchen, each a couple of bottles down and not drunk but lighter, smiling easier. They've been on the bus for nearly two months and it feels almost strange to be able to spread out, to walk to the fridge without feeling the hum of an engine beneath their feet. The two of them fill the space and it's just different, a change from the continuous presence of at least three other people and Dougie doesn't know which is worse.

There's an unspoken rule of don't talk about it, ignore it and pretend it's not even there until you can't anymore. It's obvious enough to be a constant between them, a tick at the back of their mind when one stares for a moment too long or simple joking talk turns scratchy and personal. They fight more and they laugh more and the snap seems quite unremarkable, Harry on one side of the room and Dougie on the other with his back to him, cracking open the top of his third bottle and --

"Half the time I don't even like you," he whines, letting the counter take his weight and not looking back at him at all. It's true, though -- Dougie's sure he's never met anyone who irritated him half as much or as often as Harry does, and it's starting to get to him. Harry doesn't sound as nearly as offended as Dougie expects when he simply asks,

"What about the rest of it?"

Dougie turns his head to glare at him over his shoulder, eyebrows raised and eyes challenging. His hands flatten against the cold granite and he's sure that it's enough of an answer, that Harry must get it but, apparently not. Harry just smirks, folds his arms and waits.

"Oh, come on," Dougie says, a note of desperation in his voice as he turns around completely and takes half a step towards him - Harry matches it and suddenly they're far too close, Harry's arm as close to his own chest as it is to Dougie's. Whatever Dougie was going to say next sticks in his throat as he looks up and Harry knows, the smug bastard, Dougie can see it in his eyes and every moment that Dougie's had to dig his fingernails into his palm to stop himself rushing forward and burying his face in his neck comes flooding back.

He doesn't quite think about it - his hands are on either side of Harry's face and his fingertips are brushing into the bristles of his hair, stubble under his palms and he pushes himself onto the balls of his feet and there's a flicker in Harry's smirk, an uncertainty that Dougie catches and clings to. He leans close enough to feel Harry's warm breath on his bottom lip, damp from where he was worrying at it with his teeth and Harry hasn't done anything other than unfolding his arms and letting them hang by his side, no space between them and the only contact is Dougie's hands on Harry's cheeks. Dougie looks up from his lips to his eyes and they're wide and impossibly blue and maybe just as messed up about this as Dougie is.

Dougie leans in a little closer, and kisses him.