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Nick shuffled up to the door of his flat, surprised to find the door locked. Either Aimee had already left the apartment for the day or she was still asleep. Probably the latter considering she had woken him at half one when she got in the night before.
He shoved his hand into his pocket to dig around for his keys, freezing for a second when he heard the clatter of pots and pans coming from behind the door. He swore to God, if Thurston had gotten into the cupboards again – but he opened the door to a decidedly different sight.
In fact, the Dachshund was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the dozens of grocery bags littering the entryway and the dining room table had something to do with that.
He rounded the corner to find Thurston lazily stretched out on the good couch, as usual. For the better part of a year, the couch had acted as a decoration. He had spent far too much on it, and couldn’t even dream of letting a guest – perhaps with the exception of Beyoncé – near it. But this mutt had been in the apartment just a few weeks before setting up camp there. Nick was basically resigned to it at this point.
Nick tossed his keys and wallet onto the coffee table, and began his cautious approach to the kitchen, tentatively calling out, “Aimee?”
He didn’t think he’d ever seen Aimee touch a piece of kitchen equipment other than the kettle in the entire time they’d been living together, so he was preparing for the worst.
The island was cluttered with even more grocery bags, but the mop of curly brown hair that emerged from behind them definitely did not belong to Aimee.
“No, I sent her out ages ago. I’ve got Pix keeping her busy until I’m finished,” Harry said before quickly disappearing behind the pile of groceries again.
“Finished with what exactly?” Nick asked, peering into the grocery bags for a hint. Cinnamon, nutmeg (which he already had in his kitchen from the infamous spinach feta pie, he noted proudly), a bunch of celery, and a bag of marshmallows.
“Thanksgiving, of course,” Harry said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for an eighteen year old British boy to be spending his only day off for weeks cooking up a storm to celebrate an American holiday.
Nick’s confusion must have been apparent on his face because Harry continued, “You’re so oblivious, Grimmy. Aimee’s been a bit sad about not being home for the holiday, so I thought we could, ya know, have our own.”
Nick was suddenly filled with an overwhelming fondness for the popstar, a feeling he usually didn’t welcome. But he moved to the other side of the counter, grabbed Harry by the shoulders, and placed a quick kiss on his forehead. “You absolute prince! …Have you got flour in your hair?”
“Yeah, maybe. I was trying to make a pie crust,” Harry replied, ruffling his hair, and creating a little cloud of flour in the process.
“Leave the pies to me, popstar.”
“Maybe you should just go pick up some wine,” Harry suggested, pushing his hair out of his eyes again.
“Nonsense, I know tons about Thanksgiving cooking. For example, did you know that the marshmallows don’t actually go on the turkey? They go on yams.”
Grimmy was actually glowing with pride at his recent discovery, so Harry couldn’t help but wrap him in a quick hug. “You’re getting the wine. Don’t fight it.”
“Oi, first you mess up my kitchen and get my jumper all floury.” He gestured to his black sweater, which had a distinctly Harry shaped splatter of flour across the front. “And now you kick me out. Can you believe it, Thurston?”
Thurston let out a slight bark from the living room, but remained firmly planted on the couch.
“Fine, fine, I can take a hint,” Grimmy said, scooping up his wallet and keys and leaving the apartment yet again.
“Get flowers too!” Harry called out from the kitchen.
When Grimmy returned, a very pregnant Fearne was waddling around the corner from the kitchen, two trays in hand. “Would you be a dear and ask one of your neighbors if we can use their oven? With the turkey in yours, there’s not room for much else.”
Grimmy generally made it a rule to never speak to his neighbors, but by the end of the day, he’d been in three strangers’ kitchens, carrying trays of stuffing and potatoes and three different kinds of pies. He had no idea how Harry put all of this together so quickly, he was normally painfully slow at completing tasks.
By four, the table was set and everything was cooked. Harry had sent the text to Pix telling her to bring Aimee back. He promptly received a text reading, “Thank god, you’ve no idea how difficult it was to convince her not to eat everything in sight to make up for missing Thanksgiving.” And a few seconds later, his phone rang again with a text, “And I’ll kill you if you tell her I said that.”
The atmosphere wasn’t unlike that of a surprise party. Harry had invited Fincham, Fiona, and LMC to come too. (Unsurprisingly the last member of the list had turned down the invitation in favor of a trendier Thursday night.) And everyone was standing around Nick’s apartment waiting for Aimee to return.
Harry placed an anxious hand on top of Nick’s as he heard Aimee’s key in the lock. Nick turned and again looked affectionately upon his young friend. Harry had the biggest grin Nick had ever seen plastered across his face.
Their relationship wasn’t one that was easy to define, which was, generally speaking, fine for both of them. But unlike Harry, who tended to go into everything in life whole-heartedly and unabashedly, Nick was constantly conflicted. He was acutely aware of their age difference and what it would do to Harry’s career if they were ever found out. There were times when he got so caught up in all of the obstacles that he was almost ready to call the whole thing off – whatever the whole thing eve was.
But then there were days like this, days where no one interfered, and Harry was in his element. And however foolish or selfish or illogical it was, on days like these, Nick realized he could never deny himself someone who made him so perfectly, genuinely happy. Even if he wasn’t ready to say anything out loud about it and even if thinking about it for too long put uncomfortable knots in his stomach.
“Oh my god, you perfect bastards!” Aimee shouted from the dining room, pulling Nick out of his thoughts. She’d already pieced together that Harry had had something to do with it as it was unlike Nick to make grand gestures of his own accord.
They heard her shoes clicking toward the kitchen, and before Aimee could demand all of the attention – typical American that she was – Grimmy brought Harry’s hand to his mouth and gave it a quick kiss. “Ya done good, Styles.”