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For Niall, tour has become the day-to-day drudge of being constantly on the move broken up by the unbelievable highs of performing. He loves seeing new places, loves meeting new people, but it's tiring, and he misses his bed and his shower and his grill. Timezones constantly skew his internal clock, and he can never remember when it's okay to call home. He's gotten into the habit of texting his friends and family first, just to make sure it's not the middle of the night.
He talks to his dad as often as humanly possible, and Darragh almost as much. Sean texts him at least every other day. Eoghan sends him picture messages of stupid tourists and his pissed friends while he's on holiday in Spain.
Every time Niall gets a text, there's a traitorous little voice in him hoping that this time, it'll be from Bressie. He still hasn't heard from him since they saw each other, and more than enough time has passed for Niall to feel awkward about it. It's not like Niall expressly worries; he's busy and Bressie's busy and that's the life. It's just that now Niall can't stop thinking about it, about that night they hooked up, and every time he does, he gets this urge to tell Bressie everything, to find out if he's thinking the same things.
He's hardly going to try and sext with Bressie, but whenever he pulls up his phone to send a message about the Lions or a gig he got a chance to go to on a day off, he sees his last one just sitting there, unanswered. The stupid history display won't let him forget that the ball is sitting awkwardly in Bressie's court.
So he doesn't text Bressie, and Bressie doesn't text him.
It's not until he's standing in front of a street vendor in Portugal that he finally gives in. He's out shopping with Zayn and Basil, doing more looking than actual buying. They've managed to wander into what looks like a weekend market, faded red and white awnings covering carts stacked with clothes and sunglasses and produce down cobblestone alleys.
Niall's looking through a bunch of novelty t-shirts with screenprints from corny 80s movies on them. He grabs a Weird Science one for Darren, and underneath it is a blue one emblazoned with a screencap of Zod and his flunkies from Superman II. Niall laughs and picks that one up, too—it's got the bird with short-cropped hair that Bressie had tweeted about only a couple days ago on it. Niall's surprised laugh turns into a full-on guffaw. Zayn is sifting through prints in the bin next to him, and he just raises put-upon eyebrows at Niall.
"Ursa," Niall says, hiccuping. He'd never have known her name if he hadn't just googled it.
"I'm sure you had to be there," Zayn says, deadpan, so Niall whips out his phone, undeterred. He thumbs Bressie's number up and snaps a picture.
what d ye think, he types as a caption, ignoring the squirmy feeling in his belly, should i get it ?? or will you be jealous im stealin your girlfriend...hahahaa !
Niall's not really sure what to expect—it's been almost a week since his last text, and Bressie's probably tunnel-vision busy as usual. Although apparently not too busy to tweet about his erotic enjoyment of alien dominatrixes.
It's only about thirty seconds later that Niall's phone buzzes in his pocket. He hasn't even moved on to the next kiosk yet, still looking through piles of ridiculous shirts.
blue's good on you, buy it, Bressie's text says, and Niall feels a happy swoop all the way down to his toes, no matter it's only six words.
He buys the shirt, of course, and there's a niggling hope in the back of his mind that he'll get papped wearing it or that he'll be able to have it on during a Meet and Greet, the pictures eventually ending up on Twitter so Bressie will see them. It's tucked under his arm in a plain white paper bag, and it feels worth a lot more than eleven euros.
He puts it on as soon as they get back to the bus, acknowledging Zayn's skeptical look with a kick to the shin. "Shut up," Niall says, and he can't stop grinning.
"I didn't say anything," Zayn says, sounding long-suffering. "I stopped asking questions ages ago."
Niall plays Uncharted 3 for most of the day on the bus, and tries not to complain too much about how stupidly, blisteringly hot it is. They go straight to the venue for the show, which is even hotter. When they finally get to their hotel, it's late at night and he's still keyed up from being on stage. He races Liam down the hall on their floor without telling him it's a race. Niall wins, unsurprisingly. When he laughs and sticks out his tongue, Liam quirks a half-smile at him and pats Niall indulgently on the shoulder.
Niall's room is blissfully cold, A/C on full blast. It feels shivery on his toasted-pink skin, giving him goosebumps. His bags are already sitting neatly in the corner. He does a belly-flop onto his bed and pulls out his phone, scrolling through his text history with Bressie.
He's got the remnants of butterflies in his stomach from earlier, thrilled that things seem on track towards being normal again, but still there's a twist of doubt. Bressie hadn't replied to the morning-after text. It feels like a thing now, too late to go back to. It curls around Niall, grey and annoying, so even the coup of the Ursa t-shirt can't make it go away.
Niall flips on the telly and surfs a bit until he finds rugby, deciding not to examine his sudden desire to watch that over anything else on the hotel's five-hundred channels. He grabs a beer out of the mini-bar, rolling it over his hot forehead and the back of his neck before cracking it open.
The click of the fridge shutting immediately brings to mind that night two weeks ago, a different but similar hotel room, the smooth taste of Tullamore Dew and the excited energy making Niall's muscles tense and laugh come easy. It feels far longer since he last saw Bressie, like missing him is heavier and more solid than it ever was before.
He misses more of Bressie now, misses the way he smells and the weight of his body and how his hands feel spread over Niall's ribs, his mouth slack and eyes fluttering shut. Niall misses that look on his face, the breadth of his back, his wet panting breaths against Niall's neck.
He knows what Bressie's dick looks like now, what he looks like jacking off, what pained noises he makes when he comes. Niall has thought about it every night since then, has nutted against the shower tiles or into his own hand under the duvet a dozen different times, remembering the flex of Bressie's muscles. He doesn't think the lads know, but mostly just because they're oblivious. He's been touching them more, has craved contact because what he really wants is to be close to Bressie's big body, to have his attention and to talk to him and climb on him.
Niall's half-hard already just from thinking about it, remembering what they did. He squirms a little but can't really muster up the energy to get his dick out, sleepy from sunburn and beer. He drifts off thinking about how nice it would be if Bressie were there to suck him so he could just lie back and relax and not have to exert the effort of getting himself off. He misses Bressie because he wants to be with him, but to be honest, he also misses the prospect of having someone else to take care of his stiffies.
***
Niall wakes up to the sun in his eyes, slanting through the blinds. He grumbles and manages to make it into the shower, giving himself a perfunctory once-over, brushing his teeth, and shuffling back to the bed in his towel. He doesn't mean to doze off again, but tour is grueling and having an actual bed instead of his bunk on the bus is not to be taken for granted.
He's startled awake for the second time by his phone ringing incessantly in his ear from where it's tucked half under his pillow. It's eleven-thirty, not exactly the wee small hours of the morning, but it's still unpleasant—or at least it's unpleasant until he sees Bressie's number flashing on the screen. Niall jerks up in bed and fumbles the phone, not sure how long it's already been ringing and refusing to miss Bressie's call.
He answers and Bressie is already whooping loudly on the other end. "Hole in one, baby!" he yells, and Niall has to pull the phone away from his ear. He smiles at it in his hand when he can still hear Bressie yelling, now tinny and far away. He laughs but waits until Bressie says, "Nialler? You there?" before he brings it back to his face.
"I'm here, what're you on about?"
"I'm at Carton House with Shane and I just shot a fecking hole in one on par three!" He sounds exactly like when they're at Caffreys back in Mullingar and he's kicking Niall's arse at snooker; Niall can practically see the shit-eating grin on his face. "You're a golfing man, you know it's completely mental. That never happens! I've never seen that happen, but it just happened, oh my god."
"Shit, Brez, that's—" Niall tries, but Bressie's shouting again.
"Shane! Shane, tell Nialler I actually did it, tell him what happened." There's the sound of a brief scuffle and more tinny laughter, then Shane Lowry comes on the line.
"Alright, mate?" he says, sounding amused but slightly put-out.
"Yeah, it's all good," Niall says, trying not to laugh. "Seems like your man's having some success on the green."
Niall can hear Bressie in the background, giddy and bright, heckling Shane. "C'mon, enough with the gabbing, just tell him what happened!"
"Bressie wants me to say he's a golden god," Shane starts, and Niall hears something that sounds suspiciously like a punch to the arm, "but he's still having a shit game. Shot a ninety-two. The wind was blowing in his favour and he got lucky, so—" There are several thumps and some muffled cursing, and Bressie's voice comes clear through the line.
"Shane can bugger right off," he says cheerfully, and Niall just laughs.
"Congrats, mate," he says, and Bressie laughs with him.
"It's wicked cold out," Bressie says once he's calmed down. It sounds like he's walking, breaths coming steady between sentences, the wind whistling through the phone. Niall's still caught up in his infectious excitement. "Wasn't even gonna come but I wanted to try out my new clubs, you know the ones. Taylor took care of it and Shane said he'd check them out with me. Obviously I'm well sold on them now, couldn't ask for a better set. I'll have to tell Mike to hook you up, too." He trails off then and the sound of the wind dies down, like maybe he's sitting in the cart. The line falls quiet, and it makes Niall want to curl around the phone just so he can hear Bressie breathing.
"Ah, so what—god, I've just been rambling. Haven't even asked what you're up to. You're probably in the middle of doing something famous-like, yeah?" Bressie says.
"As a matter of fact," Niall says, hand clutching at the fold of his towel, "I was just getting out of the bath, all not-famous-like."
Bressie makes a soft noise, like he's surprised. Niall tries to figure out if it's good-surprise or not, likes the idea of Bressie thinking about him naked. "Well, right," Bressie says, "That's important. Hygiene."
Niall laughs, pleased that Bressie sounds so flustered all of a sudden. "Celebrities: they're just like us."
"Right, I'm an arse," Bressie says, and Niall can hear the smile in his voice. There's a pause, just a beat longer than normal, and it makes something warm curl inside of Niall, a certainty that there's something there, something that Bressie isn't saying but is definitely feeling. That's something Niall can work with. "I'll, uh," Bressie says, clearing his throat. "I'll let you just get back to that then."
Niall cuts him off quick. "Nah, I'm done. Squeaky clean," he says, grinning into the phone. Maybe he's being a little bit of a tease, but that never hurt anyone. He's also not exactly sure how to flirt with Bressie, not even positive Bressie's up for it. He sometimes needs coaxing, a bit of provocation. "Anyway, I like talking to you. Miss you, you know? Been too long," he settles on, honesty being the best policy and all.
It goes quiet between them, just long enough to make Niall feel a bit out of his depth, like he's some dumb kid who's gotten it all wrong. He sits up in bed, clutching tightly at his towel. Bressie clears his throat, and Niall starts to feel bad-funny. "I dunno," Niall mutters. "Maybe that's just me."
"No, I—" Bressie starts, then pauses. Niall can picture him scratching at the back of his neck, caught out. "I've been—" He trails off again, and it gets Niall's hackles up. They've been friends for years, never had anything they couldn't talk about. It shouldn't be any worse now. It should be better.
"Sure," Niall offers, voice flat. "Bet you've been busy. Golfing and such. Probably too busy to think much about your old mate Niall, yeah?"
Bressie coughs, phone held away from his mouth, like maybe he's trying to avoid having this conversation, and that's crap.
"Yeah, no, I completely understand. I don't know what I was thinking, really. Like just because you sucked me off and," he swallows thickly, tongue too big for his mouth all of a sudden, "you said all that—like I was perfect and it was so good you thought you dreamt it. That didn't mean what I thought, I guess." He doesn't usually like to snap, doesn't like to get defensive and sarcastic, but it's always been this way with Bressie. He's always cared enough about Bressie that the fear of him slipping away puts Niall on edge.
His heart is in his throat, and he waits. Waits for Bressie to say anything at all other than what he does, which is just, "Niall," with a sigh. Niall pulls his knees up to his chest and presses his lips together, frustrated. "Listen," Bressie says, voice gone a little rough. "I'm—we're coming up on the clubhouse now. I want to hear all about...that. Your tour and everything."
"My tour?" Niall asks, incredulous. "What the fuck are you on about?"
"All of it," Bressie says. "I want to hear everything, okay? I just—I've gotta run. I'll call you. Later."
Niall blinks, confused. "Are you serious?" When Bressie just sighs again, like he's exasperated, Niall frowns and closes his eyes. "Nah, you know, don't mind me. I'm just. Dumb, I guess. 'Cause I've been thinking, and—but you probably don't even remember any of that. I thought—" He should stop talking, he really should. The only thing worse than realizing that Bressie doesn't want him like Niall thought he did—like Bressie said he did—is humiliating himself further by whinging about it. "Don't know what I thought. Doesn't matter. Congrats on the golf, anyway."
"For fuck's sake, will you listen," Bressie says, voice gone low and urgent. "I will call you later," he says, sounding strained. "Reception's shite out here. I can barely hear you. I will call you. Later. Alright?"
Niall bites his lip and nods, even though Bressie can't see him do it. He wishes he could rewind about six minutes to the moment when the phone rang and he was excited that Bressie was calling. Now everything just sucks.
He hangs up without saying anything else. If Bressie does ring him later, he'll blame it on bad reception when he doesn't answer.
***
The band spends most of the day on the bus again, cramped and fighting over who gets to pick the films to watch, but their next hotel is lush and has a nightclub on the roof, so Niall can't complain.
Harry manages to coax him into checking it out once they've got settled, the slanted greenhouse ceilings and flashing purple strobes almost making Niall forget that sinking pit feeling in his belly. He hates being sad, and he hates being angry, and he's been nothing but both since he hung up on Bressie that morning.
His phone rings twice while they're out, once at ten and once again at midnight. He feels it vibrate in his pocket but he doesn't even look, knows he couldn't help but answer it if it actually were Bressie, and he'd only feel worse if it weren't. Instead he gets another shot of tequila and a Carlsberg to chase it and talks to the cute brunette who's been buzzing around him all night. She's from Finland, in town for her sister's wedding.
Eventually he sidles over to Harry, who has a blonde sitting demurely in his lap and a vodka Red Bull in his hand, and leans in to whisper, "Gonna head downstairs, mate." It's gone one and Niall's tired, knows they can't sleep in too late tomorrow and of course they've got a show to do. Harry pats him sloppily on the back, clearly drunk but smiling pleasantly. "G'night," he enunciates. Niall waves and takes the private lift to their floor.
Inside his room, he shucks off his shoes and sheds his clothes in a messy trail on the way to the bed, too fuzzy and knackered to bother with folding them. He'll do it tomorrow. There's a glass of water on his nightstand and he chugs it, snaps in his retainer, but can't be bothered to clean his teeth or wash his face.
He's setting the alarm on his phone when he sees the two missed call notifications sitting there. They were from Bressie after all, and he's not sure how he feels about that, his chest a confusing jumble of tired and disappointed and tipsy and hopeful.
It's half-one and Niall's about to drift off when the phone rings again, just vibrating this time, rattling against the nightstand. He answers, feeling like he's moving in slow motion.
"Hey, mate," he says, just a murmur but sounding loud in the quiet of the hotel room. There's a rustling on the other end, the sound of Bressie clearing his throat, but then he doesn't say anything. The silence stretches. "Great, well. Nice talking to you, man." Niall clenches the phone tightly, knuckles going white, and takes a deep breath. "Glad we could catch up about my tour at one in the fucking morning. Good chat."
"Wait," Bressie says suddenly, making the line crackle. "I just—want to talk to you. Wanted to today, and every day before today, but—there were people around. Shane was bang next to me in the golf cart, I couldn't say anything. I tried to call you earlier, I know you were probably—" He trails off, and Niall suddenly feels completely sober. "You've got the wrong idea, see, and it's probably my fault, but I need to make sure you understand," he says in a rush, voice rough.
Niall's stomach seizes up, anticipating the blow of what he's sure Bressie's going to tell him: that Niall read too much into it, that it was just pillow talk, that they're mates and Bressie doesn't want to mess with that. He says, "Yeah, go on," anyway, because he wants this, wants Bressie, and if it's not going to happen, he'd rather know right now so he can stop acting the maggot and start trying to get over it.
"Right. Okay. Thing is, I can't be casual—not with you," Bressie says. "You're too," he exhales, and Niall stops breathing altogether, straining to hear everything. "You're too important to me. The most important, really, and I don't want to fuck this up."
Niall closes his eyes. Waits.
"I didn't call that day after I got your text," Bressie continues, voice catching a little in his throat, "because I thought maybe I overdid it, you know?"
"You didn't—" Niall tries, but Bressie cuts him off.
"No, it was too much, leaving that note. I knew it was, but I did it anyway because what if it was my only chance?" He sighs, like he's resigned. "You're seeing the world, doing things that mean you can't—we aren't gonna be able to see each other. And I don't want to mess with that, or complicate your life any more than it already is. Don't want to ask you to think about me when you should just be out there smashing it and having the time of your life. Trouble is, I can't get you out of my head, pet."
Something in Niall twists at the soft way Bressie says pet. He can barely process what he's hearing, but that word, all pained and quiet, stands out.
"Can't think straight, can hardly work. I know you're having this amazing time, and I want that for you. I should be happy for you, I am happy for you, but I just want you with me all the time."
Niall takes a shaky breath, curling up under his duvet, the knots in his stomach loosening even as his heart races. He closes his eyes and presses the phone tighter to his ear, draws his knees up like he could pretend his own body heat is Bressie next to him.
"When you said that today, that maybe I forgot that night, as if I could ever forget about you, I just couldn't—I couldn't believe that I had messed this up so much, so fast." He laughs, quiet and sad, and Niall wants him there so badly it aches.
"Brez," Niall says, softly, "I didn't mean—"
"Please, let me—" Bressie interrupts. Niall goes quiet, biting his lip. "Thing is, I am crazy for you. You need to know that I have never, and I will never, have any memory better than that night with you. No messing," Bressie says, breathing shakily. "If it were my last night alive, I would want to spend it just like that, with you in my arms." He laughs again, just a huff of breath, self-deprecating. "God, I am such a wanker, would you listen to me?"
Niall laughs too, overwhelmed, wraps his arm around his belly and hugs himself to keep the feeling in. "Now see, if you'd just texted me a couple of times you could have kept your dignity."
"Shit," Bressie says. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Niall says, not sure what else to say. "It's better than fine. I'm, you know, glad it's not just me. Feeling like that. Let's not go planning your deathbed scenario just yet, although I am touched."
He goes for the laugh, but Bressie skips right over it. "It's not just you," he says seriously. "You don't know how much I—I wish that night had lasted a week, just so I could've kept touching you. There are so many more things I want to do."
Niall swallows dryly; he's getting hard just from hearing Bressie talk, remembering how Bressie had touched him that night.
"Fuck, it's all I think about. Like I said." He pauses. "Repeatedly and very stupidly."
"No, it's good," Niall says, grinning. He presses the heel of his hand to his dick, willing it down. "You're gushing. I like gushing."
"Yeah, well," Bressie grumbles. "I don't care for it myself, usually. But you seem to bring it out in me."
Niall can't stop smiling. It's probably a good thing that Bressie can't see him right now, although he still wishes Bressie could be here with him. Talking is ace, but he'd like it better if there could also be touching. "Maybe you could channel that into semi-regular communication," he says wryly.
"I think I can probably manage a text or two this time," Bressie says, and Niall can picture his crooked smile. "Maybe even a real live phone call that doesn't involve any Irish Open participants."
"I'll hold you to that." Neither of them say anything for a long moment then, but it's not awkward—just comfortable. Niall listens to Bressie breathing and his whole body is warm, relaxed; he hasn't felt this good in a week. "It's late," he finally murmurs. "Have to get up tomorrow."
Bressie sighs contentedly. "Sleep well, darlin'." His voice is tender, soft. Niall aches with how much he wants a goodnight kiss.
"'Night, Big Face," he says airily instead, and grins into his pillow.
"Ah, go on with you," Bressie says, laughing, and Niall hangs up.
He rolls over, belly to the mattress, wriggling his hips and shoulders with all the restless energy inside him now, bubbling up from that place where he feels so bright and important. He's still got a semi, bobbing heavy and awkward in his underwear.
Niall rolls his body into the bed, rubbing a little, clutching his fingers against the sheets. His dick's fattening up as he moves, insistent. He lets his eyes slide shut and he plays Bressie's voice over again in his head. There are so many more things I want to do.
Niall couldn't have known what it would be like having Bressie's mouth on him, how undone he'd feel, how desperate for more. He pushes his underwear off but spreads them under his hips on the bed, just to keep the sheets from getting messy. He grips his dick with a firm hand, sliding his foreskin back and forth a little with his thumb. He rubs his other hand down between his thighs; thinks about how Bressie had pressed at the skin behind his balls, made Niall's pelvis heavy and tight with arousal just from that. Niall does the same now, holding his breath, and he kneads at it, warm and damp and making his hips flex down against the mattress.
He has to tilt them back up so he can get a rhythm going on his cock, room for his hand between his body and the bed. He can't be arsed to get lube, too lazy and comfortable and turned-on, so he just uses his foreskin, squeezing on the upstroke and smearing around the precome welling in his slit, slicking his skin up hot and slippery.
He thinks about Bressie doing this to him, whines in the back of his throat when he remembers how Bressie's thick finger felt, spit-slick and hot and just painful enough that it made Niall's dick jerk, over-sensitized with every nerve on edge.
He sucks his index finger into his mouth, working up enough spit to get it properly shiny-wet, then trails his hand back down, playing around his hole. He spreads his legs apart, trying to open himself up, knees sliding against the sheets. His back arches and he feels so slutty, arse in the air, fingers poking around between his legs. If Bressie were here to see him like this, it'd be blatant exactly what Niall wants from him. The idea of it, of Bressie knowing how badly Niall's gagging for it, makes him flush with arousal and embarrassment, all at once.
His muscles tense as he pushes his finger in, just the tip at first, the rhythm of his other hand on his dick faltering. He's tight, and the angle isn't very good, but he fucks in and out shallowly at first, working himself up, cock going harder in his hand. He pictures Bressie doing it to him, thinks about how much thicker and longer his fingers are, how fucking huge his cock is and how full Niall would feel. Just thinking about it makes his dick blurt strings of precome and his hips strain to spread his thighs wider.
It feels so intense where his hole is stretched tight, both the raw intrusiveness like he'd felt with Bressie and now the sensation of his body clenching around his finger, too. Wanking like this, thinking of Bressie tucked up inside Niall's arse, heightens everything he's feeling, gives it a concentrated heat. He’s making more noise than he usually does when he’s jerking off, gasping and groaning without meaning to every time he feels it inside, the tiniest movement setting off sensation.
It makes him think about sex like this, getting Bressie's dick inside him. Bressie holding him down, pressing him into the bed with one big hand at the scruff of Niall's neck, body thick and strong and relentless. It's gonna hurt, Niall is under no illusions about that—Bressie's massive everywhere—but it's something he wants, to feel so full, pinned on that big dick. He pushes his own finger farther inside himself, hissing at the stretch and burn of it, but rocking his hips back into it. He jacks his cock faster, groaning into the pillow, voice cracking.
Fuck me, he thinks, and then he's mouthing it into the bed while he presses in harder, goes rougher on himself as he arches his hips and opens up to take it. He whispers it out loud, just to hear how it sounds, and it makes the arches of his feet tingle, makes his stomach jump. He moans it louder when he comes, toes curling awkwardly and thighs strung tight.
He can feel it inside when he shoots, how he bears down on his finger with each pulse of it. He comes harder than he usually does, jerks around each load of jizz as he creams up his underwear. He curls into the duvet as he comes down, body twitching and overwhelmed.
After, Niall shoves his messy boxer-briefs off the bed and onto the floor. He pulls the duvet up over himself, skin still sensitised and buzzing against the sheets as he falls asleep, sated and happy.
At nine in the morning, Niall's phone alarm chirps him awake, a little groggy but blissfully un-hungover. The first thing he does is check his messages, as usual. There are two texts sitting in his inbox, both from Bressie:
Thinking about bein in bed w you right now. holdin you. kissing the back of your neck, that snuffle thing you do when your falling asleep. Miss you.
See I can text when i say I will.. Break a leg at your show tomorow, Chief.
When he hops in the car taking them to the venue there's a twinge in his arse that reminds him of the night before, makes him blush. He doesn't stop smiling all day.
***
It's been a whirlwind couple of days, a different venue each night and barely enough time to sleep, shower and eat, let alone have any heartfelt phone calls home. He and Bressie have been texting instead, Niall snapping pictures to send him out the bus windows and in hotel lobbies.
Finally he has a little time when he's both awake and by himself in his room on a Thursday morning. The hotel gave them fluffy robes, and Niall's obsessed with his—he's wearing it over his briefs and never wants to take it off. He's got a cup of lemon-ginger tea, a ham and cheese omelette sitting on the coffee table, and High Fidelity is on the telly.
Niall turns down the volume and thumbs up Bressie's number in his phone to give him a ring, stretching out on his couch, slippered feet propped up against the arm. Bressie picks up after the first ring. "Hey," he says, sounding pleased. "Wasn't expecting to hear from you."
"Having a rare lazy morning," Niall says, stretching. "Figured you could tell me about that charity album you're working on, maybe. Or discuss your fish-related trauma after swimming training the other day." He laughs, fiddling with the sash on his robe. "I may not have had much time to give you a ring, but I've still been checking Twitter."
"Sounds like you're all caught up on my comings and goings, then," Bressie says. "I'd rather hear about the crazy tour life of a teen pop idol." He's taking the piss, but Niall can hear some sincerity, too. "What've you and the lads been up to? Having the craic per usual?"
Niall laughs again, tucking his head against the back of the couch, bouncing his foot a little. "Always. Had a look at the first cuts of the film. Been training with Mark every day."
"Well done!" Bressie says excitedly, the grin evident in his voice. "Saw some pictures. Looks like you've got some good definition coming up. Feel good?"
Usually he feels pretty shattered, actually, full of aches he specifically avoided his entire life up to this point. But he preens under Bressie's praise, thrilled that he's proud, that he's noticed Niall's body, even if it is just from the grainy pap photos Mark has been retweeting. "Yeah, head," he says, laughing. "Can't get enough of the stabbing pains in my belly and my inability to lift small objects for a week after arm days."
"It's worth it though, right? You'll feel so much better on stage, and your knee—"
"It's worth it, yeah," Niall says, not adding that it feels a lot more worth it now that Bressie's noticed. "I'll have to get Mark to tell me all the theory so we can have a proper conversation about it next time, yeah?"
"You know me, I'm a meathead at heart. Only want to talk about protein powder and leg days." Bressie laughs. "Go on, then, what else?"
"Um, I made friends with Daniel, one of the new security guys. He's sick, got shoes as big as my whole arm, elbow to fingers. Harry's taken to riding with Lou and the band in the crew bus so we've got a bit more space to stretch out on the road—riveting, I know, but good 'cause Perrie's here visiting."
"Oh?" Bressie hasn't met her, but Niall's told him what a great girl she is more than once.
"Pretty much haven't seen Zayn outside of the arenas for near three days now," he says, cheeky, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he's got himself thinking.
"She keeps him busy, eh?" Bressie's always polite, listening intently even when Niall's just blathering on about things he knows Bressie wouldn't usually take interest in. But this is something that Niall's got caught up in his brain, now. That's what couples do, he thinks. "You should order them some room service," Bressie says, still playing along while Niall's quiet. "Make sure they keep their energy up. Pasta would be good to carbo—"
"You should come visit again," Niall blurts out. "Or, like. I guess I'll be getting a break in about a week's time, and I'll be heading back to London."
Bressie pauses, caught off guard. "A week," he says, sounding dazed. "I'll, yeah. I could be there."
"Good," Niall says, running a hand through his hair. "You working?"
"Uh, dunno." Niall can hear rustling noises as Bressie taps through his calendar. "I've got—"
"Can you cancel it?"
Bressie chuckles. "Wait a minute," he says, and Niall can hear his grin. "What've you got up your sleeve?"
Niall squirms on the bed, skin gone warm and flushed. "We should shut in together," Niall says. "Order ourselves some room service."
Bressie clears his throat. It sounds kind of like he choked.
"I mean," Niall says, floundering a bit, not sure if this is something he needs to ask for, or if it's just assumed that they're gonna be together when he's off now that they're—whatever they are. "We're, you know. And we don't get to see each other so much. So we should make the most of it, yeah?"
Bressie laughs, pleased. "Makes sense to me. Alright then, Chief. What would you like to do?"
Niall isn't sure how Bressie intended the question, exactly. "Get fucked? I hadn't planned on much else, if I'm honest." Niall trails a hand down his chest idly, pushing under the terrycloth of his hotel robe, touching lightly at the sensitive skin around his nipple.
This time Bressie definitely, audibly chokes. "Whoa," he says, playing it off like he's laughing, but his voice sticks in his throat. "Did you—say that again?"
"What?" Niall says, confused. "That I want you to fuck me?" He scratches lightly at the sparse hair below his navel and frowns into the empty room. "Did you not want to?" He'd always just assumed that would be the way things went, and it would be a shame if Bressie had got a different impression, especially since it's all Niall's able to think about when he wanks now.
"I—of course, I—" Bressie stutters, and Niall exhales, relieved and happy. "Is that what you want?"
Niall grins, fights down an inexplicable giggle, because he already feels like a little kid most of the time when he talks to Bressie. He wants to at least attempt to play it cool while they're talking about sex. "Yes, please," Niall says, nodding enthusiastically into the phone while he drops a hand down between his legs. He pets at the skin behind his balls, tapping at it with the pads of his fingers, just a tease.
"Ah, god," Bressie groans. "You're gonna be the death of me."
"Pretty sure I'm the one with more to worry about, there," Niall says. "Remember, it'll be my first time getting bummed and you're a fucking monster." He keeps it light, but there's a real twist of nervousness in his belly.
"Am not," Bressie murmurs, voice dipping low and private. "I'm a teddy bear."
"Are so," Niall argues, but he's smiling. "Your cock's like a pint can of Stella. I was just having one the other day and, yeah. It's about the same size. At least." He's giving Bressie a hard time, but the fact that he's not really exaggerating all that much is starting to sink in. Feeling like a virgin again is nerve-wracking, but that it will be Bressie on him, inside him, huge and solid, gets him flushing all the way down to his chest. His voice cracks a bit when he says, "You're going to wreck me." His dick twitches with how much he wants that, and he tugs at it, swallowing thickly.
"Jesus, pet, I'd never hurt you, you know that, right?" Bressie says quickly. His breath is coming a little ragged, and Niall bites his lip to keep from blurting anything else out. "I'd—I'd take such good care of you if we—if you let me—"
"Know you will," Niall says softly, the warmth of his still-new awareness that Bressie wants to treat him like he's precious curling in his belly, turning him on just as much as the thought of Bressie's cock. "I'm just saying, it being my first time and all, and you being a teddy bear with a monster dick, it might take us awhile to get it right. Best to clear your schedule."
Bressie's quiet for a beat. Niall's picturing it now, full days spent in bed, Bressie's fingers in him, stretching him out, wanting to be so good to him—and then Bressie folding him up, knees to his ears, pressing that huge cock into him bit by bit.
"You don't even know what you do to me when you say that," Bressie murmurs. He can hear him breathing, hear how it hitches. "Don't know how much I've thought about having you like that. That night we—you were so tight on my finger, darlin'. Just one finger and you were squeezing me like—like nothing else."
Niall clears his throat. "Yeah, like I said," he says, cheeks burning, "I haven't had much practice. But, like, I've been playing around a little?"
Bressie groans quietly at that. "You've been—? Jesus. Like with your fingers?"
"Yeah," Niall whispers, voice gone a bit hoarse. "When I wank, I'll just—do that."
"Christ, I want to do that for you," Bressie says, bullet-fast. "I can't wait to get inside you. If you want. I'll—take my time with you, open you up real slow and get you ready for me. But we don't have to do that right away. We can just, god, anything."
Niall swallows, overly aware of how he's starting to sweat into his robe. He'd felt so full with Bressie's finger in him, had come harder than ever. He takes the phone with him over to the bed, lies down and pushes his hand back between his legs, down low. With Bressie listening, even just the feel of his own fingers on his hole makes him suck in a shaky, obvious breath. "Anything?" he manages to say.
"Of course, yes, I just," Bressie sputters, incredibly eager. "Anything is fine, great, better than great, sweetheart. You and me, we're gonna—if I have my way, that is—we're gonna have lots of time for that. We don't have to rush into—"
"Perfect," Niall says, cutting Bressie off. "Because I want you to fuck me."
Bressie pulls in a sharp breath. Niall smiles, rubbing with two fingers now, pressing in just a little between his cheeks.
"Jesus," Bressie says, voice hoarse. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can do that, if you're sure. Let's just see what happens. We'll see how you feel and—"
"Will you say it?" Niall asks breathlessly. Maybe it's creepy, but listening to Bressie is making him squirm, stiff prick caught up in the front of his briefs, and he wants to get off. "Please?"
"Say..." Bressie trails off with a strangled groan. There's a noise as the phone jostles, and then he says, "That I'm gonna fuck you?"
His voice is dark and rough and Niall closes his eyes and nods jerkily into the phone. "Yeah, that."
"You like that?" Bressie asks, and he sounds different. Intense. Hot. "You like hearing that I'm going to fuck you?"
Niall makes a weak noise, hoping that Bressie will take it for a yes because he's not sure he can manage speaking and wanking at the same time. Not when it feels this good. He's got the phone squashed against his shoulder, one hand curled around the knob of his cock, and the tips of two fingers still rubbing lightly around his hole.
"Answer me, pet," Bressie says, and Niall groans, pulls his fingers away and grips the phone properly.
"Yeah," Niall says faintly. "Getting me hard."
Bressie breathes out something that sounds like Christ, and Niall flushes, a little embarrassed and a lot turned on. "Is it? Just hearing me say it?"
Niall nods into the phone. His throat clicks, dry, before he rasps out, "Yeah, yeah."
"You got a hand on yourself?" Bressie says, voice hoarse and deep, and it just reminds Niall that Bressie's a fucking man, grown and strong and— "Shit, now that's all I can think about."
Niall licks at his hand and starts working it down his dick, slick noises probably audible on the phone, but he doesn't care how it sounds. "Next time you can watch," he says, panting a little.
"Oh for—" Bressie sighs then, breath shuddery and uneven. "I would give anything to see you, sweetheart. You're making me crazy."
"Same," Niall says, flushing at how his voice shakes in time with his arm, how it's clear from his breathing exactly what he's doing. "Keep talking, okay?"
"Yeah?" Bressie murmurs. "Christ, I can't believe this is even—" He goes quiet for a moment, overwhelmed. "When you were under me, on that hotel bed, and you were kissing me, I—I wanted to spread you open and get in you, just like that. I wanted to fuck you," he breathes out, trailing off for a moment. "I wanted to fuck you on your back, like you were, so I could watch your face. See what you look like when you're feeling me in you. I think about it all the time. My beautiful boy."
Niall shivers, spreading his thighs, pushing his hips down into the mattress. He slows his hand, gives himself a squeeze and says, "I want that. I mean. You could. You can. We're gonna do that."
"You got a finger in you, now?" Bressie asks, voice shaking. "You fucking yourself and wishing it were me?"
"Shit," Niall breathes, letting the phone drop to the bed and then rolling over to rest his face on top of it so that he can hear while he wriggles his fingers around his rim, dipping the tip in while he uses his other hand to wank. He can't talk, can't answer Bressie. All he can do is pant raggedly into the phone and tug at his prick while he listens to Bressie talk about fucking him.
"You are," Bressie murmurs. "I can hear you. God, you want it so bad, I can't even believe it," Bressie says, voice rumbling in Niall's ear. "Gonna give it to you. Fill you right up, just like you want."
Niall moans loudly when he starts to come, followed by weak, staccato cries as his cock swells in his hand and shoots thick blurts of jizz into his fist, onto his belly. He comes so hard he shakes through it, muscles tightening up, and then everything goes lax and he slumps down onto the bed, smearing his messy hand into the sheets. It's so fucking good, how even just hearing about Bressie fucking him gets him off so hard.
"Ah, Christ," Bressie breathes, and Niall can hear how his voice shakes, the tell-tale shuddery rhythm that means Bressie's jerking himself off now, that he'd been stroking his cock while listening to Niall. "You sound so—you're so perfect when you come, pet."
Niall sighs, snugging his hips up into the bedding, not caring that his come is wet and tacky on his skin. "Was a good one," he rasps, voice nothing more than a faint croak.
He can hear Bressie inhale, hear how his breath trembles as he does. "I'm gonna make you come on my cock," Bressie whispers, nearly breathless. "Gonna fuck you full, you beautiful boy. My boy, oh god, the things I'm gonna—"
Niall can barely follow along as Bressie trails off, a quick draw of breath and then nothing, nothing but the shaking sound of his shoulder moving against the phone, jack-rabbit fast. Then Bressie groans, and Niall strains to hear him, hand clenched around the phone. Bressie exhales shakily, whispers, "Fuck," barely audible.
"That was pretty damn sexy," Niall blurts out before he can think better of it.
Bressie laughs, and just the sound of it makes Niall happy, makes him twist his fingers in the blankets and smile. "It was," he agrees. "Can't wait to be able to actually touch you," he says, sweeter now, not much above a murmur.
"It's only a week." Niall curls up in his robe, muscles loose and feeling warm all over still. "That's nothing."
"You gonna spend it, what did you call it? Practicing?" Bressie asks like it's a throwaway question, but Niall can hear the forced nonchalance.
"I dunno," Niall says, and thinks about how he'd only barely managed to get a finger in himself. "Should I?"
"I just—like you said, you've never done this before." Bressie swallows audibly. "A week is real soon. You know I'll take my time with you, open you up, but—I still want you to feel good about it. Want you to know what you like, so you can tell me."
Niall nods before remembering Bressie can't see. "Yeah, yeah okay. But I'm—what should I do, exactly? What's enough—practice?" He laughs at himself, shrugging into the sheets. "I know I'm an eejit, but maybe you could sort of...tell me."
"You're not." Bressie breathes out heavily. "But 'course I can, sweetheart." He clears his throat, sounding steadier, in control. "You should do it every day, every morning when you have a shower. Just get used to two fingers at first, then after a couple times like that, try three. Even if you don't get off. Just don't rush it." He falls quiet for a moment, and Niall's not sure if he should say something—he likes that Bressie's probably thinking about him in the shower, naked and soapy and opening himself up. "You could—tell me about it. Afterwards. If you wanted to. Send me a text, maybe, if it felt good, or if you're changing your mind, or—"
"I'm not gonna change my mind," Niall says. "I will text you, though." He smiles into the phone. "You dirty pervert. Just trying to get me sexting you."
Bressie laughs, a bit muffled like maybe he's rubbing his hand over his lips the way he does when he's embarrassed. "That's me, filthy old fecker. Didn't know what you were in for when you made me promise to keep in touch, did you? Bet you're sorry now."
"Nope," Niall says, still loose-limbed and buzzing. "I'm not sorry at all."