"So," begins Niall, "we're stuck here?"

"Yeah apparently," confirms Harry. "According to that text, no one is allowed to leave the house unless you're going grocery shopping or to work."

"Shit," the Irishman takes a rushed sip out of his pint. "And you don't mind if I stay here, do you?"

"Well I can't kick you out now, can I?" is Harry's response. He sits down on the other end of the couch, turning up the volume on the telly.

They're in Harry's newly bought mansion on the French Riviera. He couldn't resist the urge to share charms of the possession with his mate immediately after purchase. So here they are. Stuck on the Mediterranean coast of southeastern France that has seduced many people, and never ceases to lure other generations of lovers into its sweet embrace. Romanticised it becomes a muse to artists drawn here in hopes of conveying its divine beauty. It's leading the blind with invitations to the picturesque beaches and unearthly amusements of the warm nights by the sea. Like numerous admirers before, Harry's taken his humble voice to write his name in the carts of history: "I've been there." And maybe he won't fail to preserve a piece of his soul in the French soil. Or maybe it will blend with lost and abandoned memoirs of forgotten children of the Earth. Time may be the judge.

They're lost here. In that little world of theirs, they're cut off from the rest of the society. Every town is the home of ghosts now. The course of life has been stopped. It's time to worry. The epidemic has invaded the modern world. Something so unexpected, seemingly extinct, closed in between the pages of history books that no one bothers to read anymore. It's caught everyone off guard. In the media one can only see politicians throwing up their hands, promising all will be well. Will it though? How can they be so sure? Have they grown to become gods?

"What do you wanna do?" Harry asks.

"I dunno," Niall shrugs, "there ain't much we can do."

"Well," Harry licks his lips, his gaze intensely following Niall's every move, "wanna play some snooker with me?"

"Snooker?" repeats the Irishman, his eyes questioning his friend.

"It's like pool," Harry clarifies, "kinda."

"Okay."

Harry gets up, signalling Niall to follow him. They go down to the basement, a silence accompanying them on the way. They've drifted apart over those years, now struggling to find a mutual voice.

"Nice," Niall comments in awe once the room is brought to life with one flip of a switch. The light illuminates red bricks on the walls, their uneven shape introduces a mystical feel to the air. On dark wooden shelves arranged is the best assortment of French wine and other refined alcohols.

"We won't die of thirst at least," laughs Harry, rejoicing in Niall's reaction.

When Niall's excitement subsides slightly, the Englishman indicates him into the hallway on the other side of the room that offers entrance to another few rooms. They enter the first one on the left. In the middle, a big snooker table is standing proudly. Its wooden legs have flowery ornaments craved into them while smooth as silk green baize imitates the freshness of young grass. Leather armchairs surround a little round table near the wall, offering some rest and refreshment to the players.

"I hope you can play some pool," Harry says, placing the snooker balls on the table. "Since you're good at golf you shall have some head start on that ground at least."

"Yeah maybe," Niall agrees, curiously following Harry's gracious movements. "I've played some pool before too."

"Well, this will be much harder than pool though," informs the Englishman much to Niall's horror. "It's fine, I'll give you a hand with that," reassures Harry, noticing how tense his friend's become. After all, wasn't snooker his clever idea to be able to touch Niall?

"Thanks, but what if I beat you huh?"

"Then I'll suck you off," Harry says without a thought. Niall's eyes grow wide in disbelief. "Oh come on, you know that's not gonna happen." Well, it was worth a try. Harry would go easy on Niall then.

"Oh yeah," Niall nods, avoiding Harry's rich emerald green eyes. "Let's just start the game?"

"Sure." The Englishman grabs two cue sticks, offering one to his friend. "Let me break and then we'll follow everything as it goes."

Down the table, there's a triangle created with fifteen red balls whose base is parallel to the shorter cushion. A pink ball is attached to the top of the pyramid. A black ball is located below the base of the triangle in the middle, there's also another single blue ball right in the middle of the whole table. At the top of the table in the D-zone, there's another parallel to the shorter cushion line made of three balls: yellow, brown and green, all separated by an equal empty space in between.

Niall bites his lip as he observes Harry place the white cue ball in between brown and yellow balls, bending to break. The end of his stick is supported on his left hand's fingers, pointing at the cue ball, the right hand holding it firmly. Harry places his chin on the stick to judge with his eyes where to send the cue ball. Licking his lips, he finally breaks. The cue ball delicately tickles the red ball, hardly altering the pyramid's order. The cue ball meanwhile comes back up lazily, stopping near the upper cushion.

"Now Niall," Harry says, "you have to do basically the same thing, just touch the red ball, trying not to break the pyramid so that I don't have a nice position to pot."

"Okay," Niall nods. Seems easy enough. He bends down.

"You can't move your stick vertically, it should go horizontally in one direction," Harry says.

"Like this?" Niall asks, correcting his movements.

"Almost, just keep your elbow a little higher," is the Englishman's advice, but it doesn't effect in any improvement. "Stay still I'll show you."

Harry moves to stand behind the man, placing his hand next to Niall's on the stick. His chest presses into Niall's back, as he supports his weight by placing his right hand on the table, surrounding the older man.

"You have to hold it firmly like this," Harry says, brushing Niall's hair with his words, and he guides their hands on the stick in perfect unison. "Ready?" And they both send the cue ball ahead.

"You got this now?" Harry inquires once the cue ball comes to a halt after touching the red ball.

"Yeah." Niall smiles, his face flushed. "Thanks."

"Sure thing, darling."

Many pots (mostly Harry's) and many fails (mostly Niall's) later, and Niall slowly starts to grasp the rules. First, you have to pot the red ball that earns you one point, then pot the coloured one. But once you pot the colour, you have to place it on its spot on the table back again. The colour ones also (to make it all even crazier) have different points assigned to them. Namely, yellow - two, green - three, brown - four, blue - five, pink - six, black - seven. That's why Harry likes to position himself mostly on the black one. And so it goes; Harry pots like a pro, consecutively making the red and coloured balls disappear, occasionally when he fails, Niall is allowed to come to the table to fail himself, or pot a single lucky red ball.

The table's almost cleared off by Harry. Just a single black ball remains. Harry bends. Two warm arms wrap themselves around his waist causing him to miss the pot. Catching him by a surprise Niall's chest sends jolts of electricity down Harry's spine, and the younger man shudders.

"I think I might've preferred to win you know," Niall's lips tickle Harry's left ear. The raspy low voice of his friend's leaving the Englishman speechless. "But since you're the champion here, maybe I could do a little something for you." Niall's hands come down Harry's waist, squeezing the flesh delicately. Long fingers glaze over the skin, and Harry curses the tight material of his pants for guarding his naked body against that sensual touch.

"What do you have in mind?" Harry asks, his voice comes out uncertain and squeaky. He has to bite his tongue to prevent a moan that's threatening to escape his lustful mouth. Niall's fingers gently play with the zipper of his pants, slightly pulling at it. He's teasing him.

"I could cook something for you," Niall offers, his hands withdrawing from Harry's skin, "and then we'll see if you're still hungry for something more."

He leaves. Walking out of the doors, taking the younger man's mind and heart. And Harry's left panting over the table, his skin itching at the lost contact.

It takes Harry some time to collect himself, to quiet his racing heart and get some fresh air into his lungs that's been only breathing in Niall's sweet smell before. He washes his face with cool water to bring himself back to reality from the haze. It's as though Niall's cast a spell on him.

He takes the lift upstairs, his legs still weak at the knees. He's lost his support without Niall's presence next to his. Upstairs, he's quickly guided to the kitchen as the sound draws him there. The music is playing, Niall's hips swaying to the beat, as he sings under his breath. Harry stands at the entrance, observing his friend preparing in the sink what looks like shrimps. The ugly act of ripping off the animals' heads seems mechanical to the Irishman.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on
Now touch me, babe
Can't you see that I'm not afraid?
What was that promise that you made?" Niall sings unbothered, and Harry recognises The Doors' song immediately, smiling to himself. A few years ago he was the one to introduce Niall to Jim Morrison and his band's music.

Waiting for the right line, Harry comes into the kitchen dancing, accompanying both Jim and Niall.

"Now, I'm going to love you
Till the heavens stop the rain"

And Niall turns around startled. He looks at Harry who just smiles at his friend still singing.

"I'm going to love you
Till the stars fall from the sky for you and I"

Harry's eyes catch the blue irises that could leave the sea ashamed with their depth of colour. Approaching Niall with music gracefully moving his body, Harry takes the Irishman's hand without asking for permission. They dance on the kitchen floor, guiding one another in a loose embrace. They're jumping, their feet fleeting off the ground, moving swiftly in the air. Their heads are held high with pride, but not once do they lose each other's eyes. So they become one.

Once the song ends they both are left standing in the middle of the kitchen, heavy breathing and all shaken up. It's Bruce Springsteen's turn and his voice coming from the speakers reminds them that their dance of glory is over. But they refuse to come back to reality for a few brief seconds, holding onto each other tenderly yet desperately.

"I've shrimps to attend to," Niall's the first one to wake up, freeing his hands from Harry's hold. With a quick glance into Harry's emerald eyes, he's excusing himself. And Harry just nods, looking around to find some occupation before he finds himself at Niall's feet begging for more. He catches the sight of a wine bottle on the counter. Yes, that could help. He goes on to pour himself a glass.

"Hey," Niall takes the bottle from his hand, "it's for the shrimps!"

"Oh yeah?" Harry looks down on Niall. "And didn't you take it from my barroom downstairs?"

"Maybe." Niall blinks innocently.

So Harry pours the golden liquor into his glass, a rich smell inviting him to take a sip.

"Come on, Harry," Niall whines, "you want your shrimps or not?"

"There's still enough of the wine left so you can get to work."

"Be nicer to your cook," Niall warns, pointing a knife at Harry, "or I'll poison your food."

"Okay, missus," with those words the Englishman surrenders the kitchen to his Irish friend.

"Harry!" Niall's voice rips through the still air of the silent house. "Dinner's ready!"

"Coming!" announces the man led to the kitchen by the delicate and rich smell of his Irish friend's cuisine. It enhances Harry's senses, inviting and luring him to the set table. In the middle on a big hand-painted plate, shrimps are laid out spiced up with slices of chilli and garlic, shining from a bath in olive oil and spreading the sweet aroma of the burgundy white wine.

"Please take your seat," Niall asks, pulling up the chair for him.

"It looks amazing," compliments Harry adjusting in his seat.

"Wait till you try it," grins Niall, taking a shrimp from the table. He removes the shell and legs skilfully, humming pleasantly as he tastes his own dish. Harry follows his companion's actions, mostly not to appear too freakish as he'd love to continue observing Niall as he savours the meal. Harry's not as skilled with his fingers though, and he thinks to himself that shrimps are definitely not a dish to order on a date. Maybe he doesn't know the drill, but the whole procedure is getting dirty and is as far from romantic as one can imagine.

"Oh wow," Harry lets the words slip out as he finally takes the first bite, the taste of shrimps complemented and enriched by wine is brought out fully in his mouth.

"I told you," Niall proudly smiles.

"It's so good," Harry can't help himself from delivering the well-deserved praise to his friend. "How did you do it?"

"It's a secret recipe," Niall laughs.

"Come on, chef, I won't share it with anyone."

"Well, if we can still get some fresh shrimps around here, I can teach you how to prepare them," offers the Irishman, excusing himself from the table afterwards, and disappearing in the kitchen.

He returns within a moment with a bottle of wine, "fancy some of that now?" asks Niall, filling his own glass with the golden liquor.

"Sure."

"Cheers!" Niall raises his glass slightly, taking a sip gracefully.

"Cheers," Harry repeats. To what? That he'll have to find out.

The evening carries on announcing another presence, morphing into the young night that sends the men in different directions. It's blue and lonesome. The sheets of Harry's bed wrap him tightly offering no warmth and comfort. He craves human touch, a meaningful trace of a finger, a caring rub, an embrace binding two beings into one. Niall's on the other side of the mansion, the distance vile and uninviting, a labyrinth of hallways, corridors and rooms separating both men.

"Yes I'm lonely wanna die
Yes I'm lonely wanna die
If I ain't dead already," John Lennon's voice rings in Harry's ears. He closes his eyes to fully absorb the lyrics, letting his body loose to the sway of the music. It's the live version from 1968 performed by the Dirty Mac as a one-time act. And Harry's always preferred that version to the original by the Beatles. The rawness of Lennon's voice, intensifying the honesty and cruelty of these words. They sound vile, ugly, disgusting. Albeit they grasp at his heart, moving him to experience this awful loneliness too vividly.

"Harry?" a voice calls him from the outside. It doesn't belong to the sound of Lennon's little symphony. It's like a helping hand sinking underwater to rescue the drowning man, and it brings Harry back above the surface. Upon opening the emerald gems of his shining eyes, Niall materialises himself in the room, his shirtless body on full display for Harry's curious gaze.

"Niall," his voice is deep, letting a tone of heated excitement slip into the open.

"Can we be lonely together?" asks the Irishman, his hand grazing Harry's knee. It's gentle yet decided and confident, claiming control over the situation. A nod is enough. It's an invitation, a silent sign to go on for Niall. He can continue his expedition.

Their lips crash lustfully. A collision of two universes. They're merging into one wholesome being. Unsatisfied hands hold onto each other desperately. Niall's fingers firmly press into Harry's hips. The weight of the older man creating heated pressure on the Englishman's body. Tension surrounds the foreign air around them. A promise is hanging in the room. It's guiding their actions, ordering both men to press further, to exhaust the given supply. They expose themselves, left completely naked and vulnerable for the other to admire and to use for their own satisfaction. It's an exchange, trading all they own for the other's everything.

So they meet halfway in their desire. Hidden in the coat of the night, protected by the secrecy of darkness, they can be more than intimate with one another, invading one another's privacy, testing the limits, seeing how far they can go. They both are walking on unsteady ground, exploring a foreign territory. It excites them, that dose of uncertainty and freshness. It's a new experience, and it ignites a light that's been out for ages. A spark that they put to rest is flickering anew, shying away from the daylight and responsibility, it only dictates the present. It's all about the moment.

They crumble down as the force of the climax explodes inside of their bodies. Rocking and shivering, exhausted limbs loosely cling to the other for support and unity. The rush departs, replaced by stillness. The clock on the wall stops ticking, only the heartbeats serve as a measure of motion, reminding both men that they're alive. Harry's lips gently press a tender peck to Niall's sweaty collarbone, his heavy breaths cooling down the pulsating skin.

They spend the night together, afraid to break that fragile bond. It's too weak to support anything greater, and they can't depart, clinging onto the other for a little dose of more. With the sunlight it'll become transformed, the words growing hostile, the actions of the night ridiculed and mocked. The shelter they've formed is only temporary, serving its purpose bravely away from the clearness of the day. The last thing they wish for is for that kingdom to crumble down, as they might not raise again to pick it up. It can be sensed in that firm hold Niall has around Harry's chest. Anxiously they doze off to sleep, afraid of what will tomorrow bring once the realisation settles down. But right now they are together in another land - in the land where all is possible, and that puts their minds at ease; somehow, it has to be alright in the end.

Finished another piece yay. Might write part 2 to that one but idk.

Love,
Jade