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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

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The Nearness of You - A Harry Styles One Shot

A friends to lovers one shot feat. birthdays, pining and stolen purses.

Hello, please enjoy this fever dream fic that came to me a week ago and is now somehow 13.5k and gracing your eyeballs. I’ve never written a one-shot of this nature before and it was quite a refreshing distraction from my usual, long-form fics. Thank you to Anne @oh-honey-styles for the encouragement (bullying) and for posting the pic that inspired it all. To everyone else, read on x katey *Because this is quite lengthy, I’d recommend opening in a browser because the Tumblr app can be glitchy*

My masterlist Chat to me here

“When you're in my arms And I feel you so close to me All my wildest dreams came true” The Nearness of You, Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong

You love the cold.

London in February isn't everybody's cup of tea, but you feel positively giddy walking down the icy Soho street in your new & Other Stories snow boots. The hard, black leather is already making your toes ache, and they're rubbing against the heel of your left foot, but they'll stretch to size, and you can tell these are going to be Your Signature Boots. The wind whips against your cheeks, red flushing them as you cross the laneway and push open the door to the chic little restaurant you've followed on Instagram for years but never had an excuse to try. Figures Harry chose it for tonight. Sometimes you wondered if the coincidences were a little too … Coincidental.

"Hi," you smile brightly to the maître d', "I'm uh … I'm here for the birthday? For Harry?"

Do I need to say his surname? You think to yourself.

"Can I have your name, please?" The suited man pulls a piece of paper out of the reservations book and waits for you to identify yourself. Your chest is rattling from the cold and the flurry of nerves you're all too familiar with ignoring.

"Y/N," you say your full name, taking in the dark floor of the restaurant, the flickering candles on the tables and lining the bar that takes up the entire left side of the room. The whole place is beautiful, just like you've double-tapped online; all deep reds and burgundies, vintage posters, and mismatched, dark wooden furniture. A jazz record plays just loudly enough to fuse the conversations at all the tables into one comfortable sound. It would make for a sexy place for a date, you decide, stolen touches under the table would feel thrilling and seductive.

The maître d' nods, you're on the list, "Back in the private dining room," he says, "Follow me this way."

You push your evening bag further up your shoulder and walk half the length of the bar, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. You catch the bartender watching you as you go, he's cute, and you give him an awkward little wave before calling out ahead of you.

"Sorry, excuse me," you get the attention of the man leading you through, "Can you point me to where I need to go? I'm going to get a drink to take in first if that's okay?"

"Just there," he points to the doorway at the back, next to the kitchen pass, "The curtain on the right."

Thanking him, you watch as he walks back to his station by the front door. You turn to the bar and rest your hands on the cool wood. They've stuck the pages together of old Little Golden Books for the drink menus, but you'll be ordering what you always get on birthdays, so don't take in the beverage options as you flip through The Tawny Scrawny Lion. You remember it from when you were a kid.

The bartender moves to stand in front of you, a gleam in his eyes and flirtatious smirk on his face, "Pretty good read, that one. You have to order a drink though, this isn't a library."

You laugh, he's laying it on a bit thick but probably just after the tip, "I was more a The Poky Little Puppy sort of girl."

He gives you a grin of approval, flipping a napkin up onto the bar in front of you, "What can I make for you?"

"I'll have two Old Fashioneds, please," you lean forward onto your elbows to give your feet a rest as he pulls up a second napkin and then two crystal, lowball glasses. "They're pretty," you comment without thinking.

"It's all about the glass," he confirms quickly, dropping brown sugar cubes into each one and then shaking bitters on top. Your eyes focus on the way the squares dissolve and fall in on themselves as he speaks again, "I'm Jack."

"Y/N," you give your name for the second time, throwing a brief smile his way, "I've never actually watched someone make these before."

Jack pauses and gives you a teasing look, "Do you want me to stop so you can get something to write this all down?"

You laugh and roll your eyes at him as he goes back to making the drinks. You're stalling. You know when you go through the curtain in the back there'll be a dozen people who're all dressed nicer than you, with more impressive jobs than you, who have funnier, more outrageous stories about the birthday boy than you. You'll need to stand awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments too long before Harry notices you, and then your greeting will be watched by all his cool, London friends.

You know better than to let any of that dull your shine—you really do—but you've had a rough few months, and if you're honest, you'd like your first time seeing Harry since the summer to be a little more low-key than this. So that's why you're wearing the new boots that hurt and might not suit the dress code because they're new and you feel good wearing them with this outfit. It feels a little special to be out celebrating Harry's (belated) birthday in a semi-new ensemble. You managed to fluke getting your hair and makeup just right, and yes, your legs do look pretty fantastic in these tights with the short, roll neck, knit dress, thank you very much.

"Here you go," Jack brings your attention back to him, you can smell the citrus twist in front of you, and the crystal glass deflects the light from the candles, "Can I put this on a tab for you? You're with the birthday?"

"I'll pay," you tell him, already digging for your card and holding it out to him.

"Oi!" You hear a very familiar voice call out from the far end of the bar, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you shiver, "What're you payin' for? What's she—don't take her money!"

You keep your arm out steadily to Jack and raise your eyebrows at him, "Take it," you urge him quickly, feeling him pluck it from your fingers just as you turn towards the voice you know so well.

That familiar Tom Ford cologne hits your nose just as Harry hurries up and deposits himself heavily against the bar, right up in your personal space. His broad frame blocks out the room to you, and he's lit softly in the dim light and looking radiant from within, as per usual. He's got his crazy eyes out—accusing you—and his eyebrows are pinched together slightly, but he looks good. Happy. Rested. Pleased to see you.

Harry's always pleased to see everyone, you tell yourself, Hold it together.

He pulls you into his chest for a hug. Your cheek presses just below his pecs, and you feel the way he's grown more defined since you last saw him. The material of his t-shirt is soft and smells clean. It's a tight squeeze he gives you, one that you resist reading into. Was it healthy for there to be so much comfort in a simple hug? Was your whole body allowed to tingle and fizz from the embrace of a friend? Was it pathetic to have been carrying around in your ribcage the same crush from when you were thirteen?

Affirmative. Without a doubt. Yes.

You haven't seen Harry since mid-September, the last time he was in London. Well, the last time he was in London and had time to see you. You're sure there were probably business trips, Christmas definitely. And going off Instagram, you think he might've flown into Manchester and spent a long weekend with Anne back in October, but if it was any of your business, it would've been your business. You needed to be grateful simply for what you got; intermittent texts about books he'd read or maybe a happy drunk voicemail if he thought of you at the right time. He sent an email at Christmas with a charitable contribution in your name instead of a gift.

"It's so good to see you," Harry says as he pulls away, all crinkled eyes and broad smiles. You don't know your grin has launched his heart into space and that despite having just gone to the bathroom, Harry feels due for a nervous wee. He thinks you look fucking gorgeous tonight. Knowing you've done your hair, and eyeliner, and picked that dress to come out and celebrate his birthday … It sends a jolt of desire straight to his groin—beauty blooms in front of his eyes in you.

Tell her, you idiot. Twenty-seven could be the year.

"Hi," you chirp at him happily and pick up one of the glasses in front of you, "I got you a drink."

Harry watches you fondly and then dramatically looks off to the side, lets out a little huff, "Typical Y/N, buying her own drink … You really think I wouldn't have one here for you?"

Nevertheless, he says a quiet thank you, takes the glass from you and deliberately sniffs it as if he's not sure what's inside or if he'll like it. You smack his arm lightly at the show and pick up your own glass, chinking it to the side of his and watching him over the rim as you both take your first sips. The familiar taste and view fill your tummy with gurgling happiness that sits high in your chest. He's dressed almost exactly how you expected him to be—smart, high-waisted dress pants and a printed t-shirt. You're glad you didn't go too formal, the restaurant is nice, but it's not Hatted or anything, not like the place he took you in LA that time, where you felt like the biggest idiot in the world for not realising beforehand, was properly fancy.

"Fuckin' delicious," he rumbles slowly, bringing you back to the cocktail, "A classic."

"Happy birthday," you tell Harry sweetly, thankful for what's likely to be your only quiet moment with him all night, "Sorry I couldn't make it to the LA party."

"Ah," Harry waves you off, "Your job's much too important here."

He means it. Harry's beyond proud of you. He's always telling people you work for the NHS, saving lives and keeping the country going. The party in LA was thrown together by some people at the last minute, and even though most of the friends he left in the backroom when he went to find the bathrooms a few moments ago were able to fly across for it, Harry's not the least bit put out by you not being able to. Would've been a big trip for you to do on your own and he knew there's no way you'd miss his London celebration. And you sent over a gift, which shouldn't have surprised him. His actual birthday was spent in LA, and that morning a parcel arrived from you—two new notebooks and a novel Harry read the back of and instantly knew he would love. It's what he read on the flight home to the UK.

Trust you to want him to have the gift on his birthday—go to all that trouble of packaging it and sending it over—when you were going to see him in London ten days later anyway. Harry could do worse than a friend like you.

"I just need a bit more notice than four da—

—Please," Harry's shaking his head at you, hating watching you apologise for something he really doesn't care about. "I'm glad you're here tonight," he tells you genuinely, fingers reaching out to brush your bangs away from your eyebrow briefly and—did the room just spin around you?—get a glimpse of the bronze sheen over your eyelids, "I haven't seen your new hair in person, looks lovely."

Lovely? he scolds himself, Lovely is a nice jam scone, lovely is a hug from mum …

"Oh," you coo, automatically sending your own fingers up to where Harry's had just been to reposition your newish bangs, "Thanks, still getting used to it, wanted to do it forever but wasn't brave enough to I guess."

"I like your natural hair colour, too," he continues slowly, eyes running over your whole head, "I mean, I loved how it used to be … But I like this a lot."

Shit, Harry's already failing to adhere to the strict series of pep talks he's given himself over the last couple of days. He's babbling, and he's probably just made you think he's not liked how you've had your hair for the previous twelve years. Is he buzzed from the cocktail or from the way your cheeks have gone a little pink since he touched you? His compliment made you squirm, and Harry wants to do it again and again until what he's feeling makes sense.

"Just, you know, feels like a throwback to the old days," he mumbles through another sip of the cocktail you both love, a glint appears in his eyes as he continues, "When you had Barbie overalls and would spend half a day plaiting your whole head in those tiny little rat tails."

Your mouth opens into a horrified O, and you let out a single laugh, "Rat tails? They were cool. And I was eleven when we met, I'd definitely already outgrown the Barbie overalls."

"Whatever you say," Harry smirks at you, signature dimples appearing on his cheeks, "I just remember those little beads from the ends of them ending up all over the bottom of the pool."

You smile at the memory. You remember duck diving with Gemma to collect all the beads so they could be put back into your hair the next day. Nearly drowning from laughing so hard at Harry and the other boys trying to stand on your backs in the water. Summers with Harry were always spent laughing. The local pool and skate park saw all your adventures. When Harry's dad moved in next door to your family after his parent's divorce, you and your brother hung off the fence, peering into the backyard to see if any toys or a trampoline might appear signally new kids next door. They didn't, and it wasn't until the summer when Harry and Gemma arrived for their holidays that you jumped the fence with ice lollies and offered yourself up as a new friend.

"Simpler times," you muse to yourself, looking up and catching the perplexed look Harry was giving you, "Spaced out a bit, sorry."

"I've missed my little weirdo," he grins at you affectionately, angling a little closer and levelling his head down to yours as he bit his lip and frowned, "Are you doing alright though?"

You let out a little sigh and avert your eyes to where Jack, the bartender, is busy making trays of drinks for different tables. Harry observes you carefully, a twinge of guilt forms for causing the sad look that's come over your face, but also for not having asked the question weeks ago. Gemma told him at Christmas, an off-handed comment about you being newly single. When he heard the evil gremlin in him was fucking relieved, just like he always was.

"I'm fine," you try a smile out and pull your lips up higher when you don't think Harry buys it, "Better. Had my crisis haircut and drank myself to tears with my work friends. Just a normal break up, really. M'getting used to them at this point."

A small, white lie.

Each breakup bruises you deeply. Talking about it afterwards fills you with a shame that makes you feel naked, like everyone else can see what's wrong with you but you. As though it's obvious why nobody's picked you yet. You don't ever want to talk about it afterwards, (especially not with Harry) don't want to draw attention to it. Prefer to let the disappointment and loneliness pool in your tummy and sit there heavily, weighing you down, waiting for the One Day someone spectacular might come along and be buoyant enough to float away with you.

You're looking for your forever. You want the cheesy romance, and the love, and marriage, and kids, and the whole stupid thing. You want to be wanted and loved and cherished. That's what you're ready for. You just can't find anyone who's ready for that with you. So, you date, have mediocre boyfriends who rarely make it to the first anniversary, then pick up the pieces and try again.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

"Well," Harry swallows, reaches out for your arm to make sure you look at him, "You look beautiful tonight. And it's his loss, he's clearly a monumental idiot."

You give Harry a noncommittal hum in response. Just as you're about to say something you shouldn't—get into details you bet Harry really isn't that interested in knowing—you catch the movement of someone appearing from the doorway behind Harry and then approaching you both.

"Harry, mate," you don't know the guy who's recognised Harry's back and is calling out for his attention now, "Thought you might've fallen in."

Harry snaps around quickly to the voice, blocking your view. You take another sip of your drink and pull in a deep breath. Not fitting into any of Harry' groups socially has its downfalls. If his sister wasn't around, you tended to have to make friends at anything Harry invites you to. You're not part of his Holmes Chapel crew or his LA friends, and you definitely don't fit into the London group. Over the years there have been faces you've come to find familiar, but you're still the singular, hanger-on friend from Harry's second childhood home.

Peering around Harry's shoulder, you catch the end of a look between the two guys you think alludes to this new friend gauging whether Harry needs rescuing from you. You briefly wish the ground would open and swallow you whole. You know that look well.

"Aiden, this is Y/N," Harry raises his arm and angles to pull you around in front of him.

You hold up your drink, awkwardly, "Hi."

Aiden gives you a hesitant smile, "Hello," then he raises his eyebrows at Harry, "Harry, you coming back in, mate?"

Harry bites his lip and chuckles, reading the look on his friend's face, "You're a prick, I don't need saving. Known Y/N since I was twelve, we were just catching up."

You feel yourself go bright red, and you're thankful for the forgiving lighting. This isn't the first time this exact scenario has happened to you. You've been on the receiving end of that uneasy look before—his friends checking if the girl who isn't there with anyone else is supposed to be there at all. Backstage at the O2, a member of Harry's security once hauled you to the tour manager's office to check your VIP credentials were legitimate. You'll take that story with you to the grave.

Aiden deflates slightly and waves a hand your way, "Shit, sorry, thought he'd been cornered by a fan again … I mean, a pretty fan to say the least but …" he coughs into his hand when Harry gives him a glare you don't see, "Great to meet you."

"No worries," you wave it off like it's nothing. The truth is your brain has short-circuited at Harry's palm resting on the small of your back, he's not moved it from when he first brought you forward. Friendly touches weren't strange between you, but this lingering, comforting hand is burning a hole in you tonight. You haven't been out and had anyone touch you since your breakup, and Harry is setting off all you nerve endings. You tilt your weight onto your other foot to pull back from him slightly, but Harry's hand travels with you. "We should go back, I might use the loo first though, is it that way?"

Harry watches you point in the direction of the bathroom, you're flustered and he really wishes he could tell Aiden to buzz off so he could just take another few minutes with you. Brief you on who was in the room you were about to go into. You wouldn't know any of them, and Harry always appreciated that you came to things on your own, particularly when you wouldn't know anyone aside from him once you got there. He should have invited his sister so you'd have a buddy. Or told you to bring a friend. Not a boyfriend, though.

He watches you take the final drag from your drink and put the glass down on top of the bar, "Thanks Jack, t' was dee-lish," you catch the attention of the bartender, throwing him a beaming grin. And Harry watches the way the guy's features light up at being called on by you. Envy rumbles in Harry's gut, he recognises the dumb smile and dopey nod of Barman Jack's head. Has felt it a hundred times himself when he's been on the receiving end of your quirky humour.

You walk away, and Harry feels Aiden watching him, "She's fit," he comments, trying to get a rise out of Harry, reading the room perfectly.

"Fuck you," Harry grunts at him.

Harry sits opposite you at the long table in the private dining room.

You nurse a glass of rosé and eat the food slowly, savouring it. You deliberated over the menu for a long time before settling on what to order, you've seen photos of most of the dishes online, but there were several new ones too. Harry goes off your recommendations but spends a lot of the dinner talking to the people sitting beside him. He knows if he tried talking to you right now, he'd just get lost in you, which is both rude for a birthday party and bound to be too conspicuous.

You insert yourself into a conversation with the girls sitting next to you and pretend you're good at making friends. They spend most of the meal talking about something that was on the telly the night before. You were on shift so missed it, but pretend to be interested or like you might've seen it—anything to not stick out like a sore thumb.

Harry watches you out the corner of his eye the whole time. You've shrugged off your jacket, and he recognises the gold necklace you've got around the collar of your dress, sitting over the black fabric on your chest. He's pretty sure it was a gift from Gemma a few years ago, you wear it all the time. Harry makes a note to get you something that compliments it for your birthday coming up. You're chatting to one of his mate's girlfriends and Lisa who's been on his publicity team for years. Those would've been the two he'd have introduced you to first as well. He can't stop watching the way your lips turn up every time something funny is said, or one of the girls makes eye contact with you. Watching you try with his other friends always makes Harry feel warm and giddy for some reason.

Fuck, he's missed you. And he berates himself for the fact he never seems to remember that until he sees you again. (It's strategic usually, his heart doesn't take your company well when he knows you're going home to someone else) You're so engaging and kind and unintentionally charming, and you always have time for him. Harry knows he's not an easy human to be friends with; he constantly ducks in and out and is never around for the big things, let alone being available to call on a random day to just hang out with. The friendship is always on his terms, and he knows it makes him a selfish prick. You definitely could've done with a call a couple of months back when you had your heart broken. Like always, he missed it, and by the time he was sending you a message about an episode of Midsomer Murders, he felt as though the moment to console you had passed, and Harry didn't want to draw attention to the fact he wasn't around for it.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" His head snaps back around to the person next to him, thoughts still on you across the table. He agrees with whatever was said and does his best to catch up.

Harry's got to stop thinking about how you're single at the moment. He really does.

A few hours later, it's the girl sitting to your left, Lisa, who first mentions the idea of kicking on.

It's after dessert—after everyone sang happy birthday to Harry over a round of espresso martinis—and you're starting to think that if you leave now, you'll be home before midnight, which means the tube won't be too deserted to feel safe. You're also at a comfortable place to wake up without a hangover in the morning. Two cocktails and a glass of wine over dinner, because any more and you're scared you could say something stupid to the wrong (right) person.

Harry's face lights up, and he looks around the room, eager at the idea of going to a bar or two for more drinks. He's not been out in London for the longest time, and he's happily buzzed enough to not be too worried about running into people. Feels like this group of friends have gelled well together. How often does he get to have a night like this in London? Hardly ever.

"Yeah, let me sort out the tab and then we're good to go," Harry says, pushing his seat back from the table and standing up, his hands hunting his pockets for his wallet and phone, "I'll be right back."

When he goes, you decide now's as good a time as any to split. You pull your coat on and say goodbye to the friends you made over the meal. Lisa gives you her business cards as if speaking to you had been part of her job, you slip it straight into your coat pocket and can already picture it at the bottom of the garbage in your kitchen. You revisit the bathrooms, and when you come back out into the main restaurant area, Harry's still leaning against the front desk, chatting to the maître d' from earlier.

He feels your small hand land on his back and jolts upright at the contact, your gentle voice calling his name softly, "Harry, I'm going to head home."

He spins around, and you catch the fall of his face, "What? No … No. You're the one I want to hang out with the most," his bottom lip juts out and his brows furrow. "Y/N."

"Thanks a fuckin' lot, mate," you hear a male voice laugh at your back, they slip behind you and out into the chilly air, and Harry flips them the bird. You were pushed closer into his chest as they jostled past and he steadied you with his arms latched onto your forearms. Still watching outside, you see a cigarette lighter flare-up on the footpath and the end of an orange butt glow spectacularly in the night. When you glance back at Harry, he's not looking happy.

"Don't pout," you tell him lightly, you reach up and press the skin taut between his eyes smooth again, "Can't wrinkle that rockstar face of yours."

His face lights up, and his skin heats where you made contact, "You can't go yet."

"Harry," your features tangle into something like a grimace, "You'll have a better time without me. Everyone seems to be pretty tight—"

—Y/N," he gives you a final, pleading look, "Please come."

You make out like you're stomping your foot in defiance, "Fine."

"Score!" Harry cheers under his breath, shrugging his jacket up over his shoulders and saying a final round of thank yous to the staff. When you're out on the street at Harry's side somebody mentions the name of the next place and points the direction of it, Harry places a hand on your shoulder as you start to walk and leans down to your ear, "I just have one condition for you coming."

You pull back and look at him, "I don't think you get conditions when you've begged me to be here."

"A birthday condition then," he edits, pressing his lips together and smiling at you with his eyes, "You have to promise to do what I say before I ask it."

You narrow your eyes at him, "I suppose you only turn twenty-seven once. You can have a single wish from me."

Harry laughs and slips his fingers under the strap of your evening bag, "Give me this."

You think briefly he means to carry it for you, which is a strange thing for Harry to request. But then he unzips it in front of you and starts rifling around inside it, slipping your phone under his arm so he can move around the lipstick and tissues and emergency Galaxy bar to eventually pull out your small purse.

"Harry! What are you—

—Ah, ah!" He holds it all away from you and reminds you of the promise. "This is mine for the night," he says, slipping your purse into his coat pocket. "Otherwise you'll end up buying too many rounds."

You try to sneak your hand into the pocket after your wallet, "Don't be stupid. It's your birthday, I'll buy every round if I need to."

"Exactly my point," he steps away from you down the street, and you skip to be back at his side. He's stolen your money and your chocolate bar.

"Harry, give it back."

"Nope," he pops the 'p' and hands you back the bag, the Galaxy bar hanging from between his teeth, still in the packet, "You promised. Now hurry up and walk, and I might give you a bite of this. 'm freezing my balls off, we are not in LA anymore."

So that's how you end up in the next bar, your handbag a little lighter, squished into Harry's side with a pleasantly sour cocktail he paid for between your fingers. The booth is so far into the back wall you're not even really sure which direction the front door is anymore. Somehow, you've managed to sit ten people around a booth probably designed for six, but nobody seems to be bothered.

Your whole right side is on fire, though.

You can feel Harry from the top of your shoulder all the way to your ankle. His hip sits neatly next to yours, Harry's left elbow rests just above your right thigh, and your knees press together every time he gets excited when he speaks and unintentionally opens his legs up. If Harry's bothered by it there's no way you'd know, he's hardly looked at you since you all sat down, much less uttered a word of discomfort about the seating arrangements. Makes no sense really, when he seemed so desperate for you to stay out with them.

(Next to you Harry's felt like he was high most of the time, he's flashing in and out of the conversations around him. Because he can smell your perfume—Stella by Stella McCartney, he'd know that fragrance anywhere, you've been wearing it since you were seventeen—and you're warm and snug beside him. He feels completely insane. But he also feels inflated with a heart-crushing joy at having you so close. He's trying his best not to draw attention to it or to you because what he's always liked most about your friendship is that you're just his. God, he needs to do better at seeing you more often, talking more, being more. Each breath as he's touching you is like a crack of electricity through his chest that aches beautifully. Nobody else feels like this. Even when he's dated, what he's felt with them can't hold a candle to his boyhood crush on you.)

You sip your drink and laugh at the embarrassing story that's being told about Harry, oblivious to his torment. Oblivious to how Harry feels your forearm brush his leg and has the overwhelming desire to deposit his palm on your thigh and keep it there, probably forever.

It strikes you that the last time you saw Harry was before the current anecdote about him in Italy happened, and at the table, it's being spoken about as though it was ancient history. You wonder what historic classification your memory of thirteen-year-old Harry would get, that time he attempted to bleach his hair with lemon juice. He ended up with second-degree burns on his forehead from the acid reacting with the sun.

Or the time Gemma stayed in Holmes Chapel for the summer because she had her first boyfriend, and so you spent six weeks learning that maybe you'd been wrong about who your favourite Styles child was. Maybe the boy who, when you were eleven, didn't impress you much, suddenly at thirteen, demanded all your attention. Made that summer become the first where you considered your outfits and whether your mum sending you next door with homemade snacks made you look lame.

"… And of course, Harry can't walk away from a dance floor when he's on the tequila …" everyone around the table laughs. Harry peeks at you to make sure you are too, but he's not very good at it because you notice, a smile flares on your lips.

You're used to long periods of not seeing each other, it's how it's always been. Harry and Gemma spent the summers with their dad and then returned to Holmes Chapel for real life. Sometimes that's what it still felt like, as though each time you saw either of them you were acutely aware there was a foreign Real Life they would go back to without you.

Harry in particular. You were used to not seeing him for months on end, usually the whole school year. Just a few messages over MySpace and birthday cards, and then, when you were out of school, invites to parties Harry couldn't come to anymore—'I'm in Australia, how insane is that? Sorry, I'll miss your 18th …' or 'I can only stay until the 8th, could you maybe graduate a week earlier? ;)'—and emails every other month with a new mobile number for you to overwrite his contact in your phone with. You're not saying you feel hard done by in your friendship, you don't. It's just always very take-what-you-can-get with Harry.

"You've got your thinky eyes on," he's pivoted his whole body towards you, hips twisted in an entirely uncomfortable looking position. Harry's got his resting elbow on the table right next to where your hand holds your drink, and he's looking down at you with careful eyes, "Where are you?"

"The pool a dozen summers ago," you answer easily, pursing your lips together and running a knuckle along your hairline, "Thinking about your ah, burn incident."

Harry's face explodes in a grin, and his eyes roll up to the ceiling and then capture yours again, "For fuck's sake, you're never going to stop bringing that up, are you?"

"You were a horrible blonde," you remark quickly, "If you ever so much as blink in the direction of a packet of bleach you have to call me, okay? I'll have no issue telling you, categorically, you should never dye your hair."

"Categorically," Harry mimics you childishly, "Alright, I get it, you went to uni. No need to use words with fifty syllables to make me feel stupid."

You bring your glass up to your lips, "Come off it, Harry, you're ten times smarter than me."

His forehead raises, "You're the cleverest person I know. Don't make me call Gem to confirm it."

"Don't bring your sister into this, Harry," you deadpan.

He goes to reply but holds back, something unnamable travelling across his eyes as he watches you lick your lips after taking another sip of your drink. Harry's leaning a little closer than he might usually, and despite the fact he's a few drinks in he still smells only of Tom Ford and clean clothes. He's just about to ask you what you're doing the next day when he gets hit in the side of the head with a coaster.

"Hey," he cries out, pulling back from you and frowning around at the group trying to figure out who the culprit is," 'M the fucking birthday boy, watch it."

Lisa is the girl directly across from Harry and yourself, and she's is the one who threw it. She's giving Harry a coy smile and holds up her empty glass to him, a not so subtle request makes the drink in your hand feel like a concrete brick. Something dirty you don't like having. She's got captivating blue eyes and straight blonde hair—exactly Harry's usual type. Your heart sinks as he slides out of the booth next to you, laughing at her flirtatious request and taking a tally of who else wants a new drink.

"Y/N?" Your name is delicate on his lips, and it makes you want to cry. Why is it so easy for you to make things feel like they mean more with him?

You direct your smile his way, "I'm good, thanks."

His head tilts to one side, "You sure?"

"Positive," you nod, feeling your cheeks burn as everyone watches the exchange.

"Okay," Harry taps the table with the corner of his phone, "I'll be right back."

After a few moments, you sneak off to the bathroom, happy to see Harry's beaten you back from the bar when you return. He's sitting in your spot, deep in conversation with the person beside him who you recognise from the radio. Tentatively, you slip in next to him, careful not to touch him this time. Harry's got his hand casually resting on the table, turning your glass forty-five degrees one way and then back the other way as he speaks. You think about reaching over and pulling it out of his hand gently (you're losing your buzz, and Little Miss Bombshell across the table has made you feel silly and juvenile) but it looks to be an almost serious conversation, so you don't. With a smile plastered on your face, you look around the table, resisting the urge to pull out your phone to check if either of your flatmates has text you to meet up with them somewhere.

It's a delicious whiff of your perfume behind him that turns Harry's head. You're back from the bathroom, although nobody was able to confirm that's where you went when he got back from the bar and asked after you. Harry pushes your drink over and gives you a smile, taking note of the fresh layer of lipstick and messy oomph to your hair that perfectly shows off the new style and bangs.

Golden, he thinks, As always,

"Your new hair really does look beautiful," Harry tells you, the bar stilling around you as his face becomes all the world is for you at that moment, "Next time, don't wait for a dickhead to break your heart before doing something to make yourself feel good."

You swallow down the thickness in your throat, "Thanks, Harry."

Walking to the next bar, Harry can't stop himself from asking.

"What happened?"

You kick your foot out as you wait at a set of traffic lights, half the group ran to cross, but you, Harry and a couple of others were too slow, "What happened with what?"

Harry watches his breath fan out in front of his face, "With your ex, with …"

"Tim."

"Tim, yeah," he turns to look down at you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, "What happened with Tim?"

"Nothing really," you start strong, then shrug one shoulder as you think about it. It's safe to cross so you wait until you're stepping up over the gutter and onto the opposite footpath before you continue, "Probably a lot of little things but … Always felt like he thought I was asking for a bit too much. I guess in the end he just didn't like me all that much."

The way your voice drops kills Harry, he's not detecting self-deprecation but something far worse. He's detecting acceptance or acknowledgement or like you're confessing some truth that should have been obvious.

"Y/N," he stops walking and halts you as well, lets Adrian and Lisa walk around and out in front of you, "If he didn't like you very much then he's got some kind of chemical imbalance. I mean it, this guy's not worth a second of your heartache."

It's not like Harry's a dickhead about it, not like he thinks you should date people with more money or status or who are more impressive. A person isn't their job or what car they drive, he knows that. Harry's not about judging anyone, but you really do seem to date guys not worthy of you. He hasn't met many of them, but Harry knows this to be true because if they were worthy, you simply wouldn't be single right now. If you dated someone half-decent, there wouldn't be a chance in hell they'd let you go. You're beautiful and thoughtful and intelligent and funny—so funny—which means Harry knows without a doubt that this Tim guy was an absolute fuckwit.

"It's not necessarily about the guy," you start and Harry can hear the thick emotion in your voice, "Is it? It's about the idea. The disappointment is more about not getting the fairytale, not finding my person. Not getting the whole package everyone else seems to have found. I know Tim wasn't right—truth be told I didn't end up liking him very much either—doesn't stop me from being sad that I still haven't found it."

"'It'… That's what you're looking for?" Harry asks, eyes out front where the rest of the group are all stopped waiting at another set of traffic lights.

They're laughing and chatting loudly to other people on nights out, and hanging off street poles to get funny pictures. He doesn't want to catch up to them, not when the two of you are in the middle of this conversation that's making his heart race and his hands sweat. He starts taking smaller steps.

"Yeah," you breathe out, almost sounding ashamed of yourself, "Don't seem to be looking in the right places."

Look over here, Harry thinks.

"But I mean, each breakup I end up getting something out of it," you've flicked your positivity switch, "This time I got these boots and bangs," you kick out your foot and watch Harry take note of your footwear, "Last break up I got four houseplants and a new watch … It's not all bad. What about you?" you turn it back on Harry, "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"

It's hard to tell with Harry. You either find out from his sister or sometimes, social media. Although that's all usually trash. Generally, when Harry's seeing someone, you'll hear it confirmed from Gemma, and the next time you see Harry, it'll be something you're assumed to know. You haven't seen Gemma since Christmas time though, for your annual festive get together, and she didn't mention anything. Tim had ended things with you a few days before, so that was the main topic of conversation.

"No," Harry confirms what you'd already deduced—and hoped—in your head, "Not for a while now."

"Got your eye on anyone?" You quiz faux cheekily, your smile a little too wide.

Yes, you, he says to himself as he looks at the side of your face.

You hope he's not got some girl in LA he's into. Just like you'd hoped his answer to the previous question. But the hope was silly, something that bloomed in your chest each time you saw him and died again before you were home in your bed, alone.

"I'll let you know," he says aloud.

You think you see something else there in his expression, but you know you can't have. Your mind is swirling, and you're feeling a tingling sensation all over that you know you shouldn't. It'll only leave you disappointed when you part ways tonight and don't see him for another few months. The tiny bits of maybe mores and perhaps are dangerous to things to cling on to now, they'll all turn into Nothings very quickly.

Someone steals his attention away from you when you get to the next street corner. Most of the group are gathered there, and you're not sure whether to believe it when Lisa says they missed the green man to cross the road because they were talking. She sides up to Harry and starts waving her hands around in an animated story about something or other. Harry crosses the street with her, and you give him up for the night.

But he's acutely aware of what's happened. Harry's not stupid—he's emotionally intelligent, and spent enough time with Lisa on nights out before—and he can see that she's deliberately pulled him aside. He likes her, quite a bit, but she doesn't make his insides flip, or his toes curl. She's firmly Just A Friend. Harry hasn't spent countless hours over the years thinking about her, lying to himself about how he's completely fine when she starts dating someone new. He's never thought about an alternative life, one where he stayed at school and went to uni and got a regular job and maybe (definitely) ended up with her.

He's imagined that life with you—more than once. More than a dozen times, if he's honest. For years now, Harry's bitten his tongue and smiled through the pain of not being able to have you. And sure, most of the time it's a dull ache, deep in the recess of his mind, that needs to be called on or conjured to really be felt, but it's always been there. He's always had an (Astronomical) Soft Spot For You. Ever since that summer you broke your arm falling off the back of the ramp at the skate park, and he first saw you cry. At fifteen he didn't know what the hollow but sharp pain through his heart was as he rushed to your side, but now he knows that was the first sign he didn't see you as just a mate. Would never again see you as just a mate.

And now, hearing you use the word 'it'. You say you're out there dating idiots trying to find it and Harry's just unwaveringly sure he that could be him. He wants to be it for you.

You've pulled out your phone and fallen behind, face pulled down as you type away furiously. Harry watches you out of the corner of his eye, half just to watch you and half to make sure you don't get separated entirely from the safety of the group.

"Y/N," he calls out, unable to keep up with Lisa's story and unwilling to try to tune back into it. She stops short, and annoyance flits across her face, but Harry still turns to you, still crosses his arms over his chest and gives you his best scolding look, "It's the oldest trick in the book," he goads you. Lisa sighs behind him, and he ignores it.

Your head slowly comes up and takes in Harry (and Lisa sulking behind him), "What is?"

"Fallin' behind so you can peek at my bum."

You point at the long coat Harry's wearing that goes to his knees, "Can't see half of you under that thing."

"Ah, ha!" He calls out, his pointer finger floating in the air right in front of your face, "So you've tried."

You shove his shoulder and step around him, trying like anything to act neutrally. You're aware Lisa is still watching on, and you're not used to your friendship with Harry being quite so carefully observed. You know your face has gone red and you're really not going to involve yourself in a pissing contest with her. It's not classy and certainly not your vibe.

As you walk away, boots clip up behind you, and Harry heavily drapes his arm right across your shoulders, pulls you into his side, "Was just teasin', love."

"I know," you respond quietly, not upset, not really.

"Though I might've made you sad," Harry continues solemnly, "Know you get embarrassed in front of people."

Your face cracks into a smile, "Opposite of you, hey, you're practically an exhibitionist."

He should flirt because you've led him to a pretty easy window into a dirty joke, but something has Harry hanging onto his regret, "I mean it, shouldn't tease you …Should be old enough to use my words, tell you what I think."

You've got no idea what he's on about, "Harry, the teasing was fine. Where's this bloody bar though?"

Up ahead, everyone's standing on the footpath in a clump. Harry can feel the next words on his lips but has to hold them in when his mates turn and see he's finally caught up. They're waiting a few minutes for a table, someone explains, then they'll be able to go in. Harry thinks how little he feels like another drink at another bar. A few people walk away from the group to share cigarettes. You're standing a little bit away, under the sign for the butcher next-door and kick your foot back against the wall like the slight movement might warm you up.

As he steps up to you, Harry watches you get distracted by the group of people spilling out of the bar you're all about to go into. He doesn't want to take advantage of knowing you're newly single also doesn't want to let this opportunity pass. You're always dating someone, or he is, or there's some other reason not to. There's always a reason to hold back from you and Harry refuses to believe it's the drinks he's had nudging him into this. Neither of you is drunk, he wouldn't even say he's tipsy anymore. Just warm and contemplative and less inhibited than usual.

"C' mere," he calls softly, the tips of his boots landing right in front of yours, your bodies a hands' width apart. He wants you closer.

"Harry—

He opens up his coat to you and when you don't move—your brain is busy short-circuiting—he acts for you and winds his arm around your shoulder to encase you in the warmth, "Get in," Harry says, "You're shivering."

You're shocked by the contact, at him being so close and inviting you in and then just taking you in his jacket. He's wrapped the lapels around both your bodies and forced you against his chest. He hums against you, but you're feeling incredibly awkward with your arms hitched up against your chest and pressed rigidly into his shoulders. You've not been in a hold like this before and certainly not with Harry.

He pulls back and digs around for your wrists, "You've gotta put them around me," he stretches his arms behind his back, taking yours with them and instructing you to really settle against him. "There, that's better," he wraps the jacket back around you, and the two of you stand like that—hearts pressed together, scents converging and your whole frame shaking against his—for what seems like far too long for it mean nothing. Right? Your thoughts ricocheted around inside his jacket and go nowhere, solve nothing in your mind.

Over your shoulder, he sees the rest of the group have gone into the bar. He's not surprised none of them called out, Harry's angled you both away from the door and with his head ducked down against yours they probably (hopefully) missed you both there.

It's Harry's twenty-seventh birthday, and maybe that's made him sullen or introspective. Made him think about the passage of time and how another year has passed him by, yet here he stands in the same place as ever—wanting you. Wishing for more, or waiting for a moment that feels right, or hoping something will happen. With growing older comes a sense of regret and an acceptance that twenty-six has happened and anything he wanted to achieve by that age but didn't he never will. There's only the future. Only the things he can do. And the mix of all that with the cocktails has Harry feeling as though he has to act on this. Every birthday he thinks maybe by the next one the Somethings or the Maybes might have happened, and you won't be standing in front of him as just his friend.

"Always had a thing for you," Harry says, his chin resting against the crown of your head while his arms link around low on your back, holding you against him, "I've always liked you more than I should."

Oh god, you think, your chest freezing in place, I'm hallucinating.

"What?" Now your heart is really racing. Or maybe it's completely stopped, seized up and fallen out of your chest onto the salt-covered footpath.

His voice comes out evenly as he repeats himself, "Feels bigger than a crush, but I guess that's what it is … Since we were kids."

(Oh, how those words have been his best-kept secret for all these years but now, in less than two seconds, he's let go of them more easily than almost anything else he's ever done)

"Y/N?"

Harry thought he'd be scared. Thought this would be a moment of panic. Every time he's imagined this he's thought 'and I'd be absolutely shitting myself because what if she doesn't feel the same way?' but now that he's said it he's almost completely calm. The only reason he's worried is that he can feel how hard your heart is beating—even through the layers of clothing—and surely that quickly can't be good for your health.

You're speechless, and he leans back so he can see your face and, oh your eyes. Why on earth didn't he say it to your face, so he could be looking in your eyes? Watch his words project across your expression and settle into your mind.

You look worried, and Harry's transported back to that time he had you on FaceTime when he was somewhere on tour with One Direction. He was telling you about how management was going to let them fly friends out on tour, bring a little bit of home along and give the boys some needed space from each other. You were nodding along and so excited for him but sure Harry was talking about someone else, that this was just news and he'd called up to tell you how he was inviting the boys he went to school with in Cheshire or people he met through X-Factor. Of course I'm bringing out you and Gem, you idiot, he'd told you when you were surprised to get an invite, Who else did you think I was talking about?

He kind of loves watching the look on your face right now, the cogs turning in your head and wheels spinning, furiously trying to figure out what Harry means.

Why isn't he terrified of what you're about to say?

"Why … but you've… and I've…"

Your hands have moved to his hips so you can see him properly, and Harry's encouraged by the fact you haven't pulled away or pushed him off you. You're watching him with a puzzled look on your face and a burning heat across your cheeks.

He brings his forearms up to rest on your shoulders and smiles at you, "I wasn't brave enough to act on it … Guess I didn't want to fuck it up. Didn't want it to not work out. Couldn't stand you becoming an ex."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Right." You don't seem capable of more than one word at a time.

"You feel bad for yelling at me about the chocolate bar now, don't you?" Harry's narrowed his eyes playfully.

That does it.

Your eyes snap back up to his face from being fixated on staring at his neck, "Chocolate bar … No, what the fuck, Harry."

He laughs. A real laugh that comes from the base of his tummy and squeezes his eyes shut and crinkles his nose. His head falls back, and it's a deep, uninhibited laugh, "Don't stomp your new boots at me," he eventually says, crooking his head down to be almost pressing his forehead against yours. "You've been my favourite girl for years, I've always been a pansy idiot who didn't want to wreck the friendship."

"Oh, and now you don't mind wrecking it?" You bark back sarcastically, unsure why you're angry at him but you are.

"No," Harry says softly, moving through your emotional responses seamlessly, "I don't think it's going to wreck it, do you? Think twenty-seven has finally given me the balls to pursue it. To tell you how I feel. How I've always felt."

Your eyes instantly ball with hot tears you weren't prepared for, "You're an idiot."

"I am," he agrees readily, fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

"Why have you told me this now," your voice is small, unsure.

Harry frowns, now he's starting to panic, "Do you … Do you not feel the same? Or do you not think maybe you could?"

Oh, if only he could have been in your head every time you saw him these last few years. Heard you talk yourself down and away from anything more than platonic, from any thoughts that might elevate you in his eyes. You've spent all this time trying to convince yourself to believe you were nothing more than a friend to him, and now this.

"Harry, are you sure you—

—I'm sure," he insists quickly.

"I just—

—I'm sure."

You're suddenly very embarrassed by the conversation the two of you had earlier about your ex. The conversation where you basically told Harry you're incredibly desperate to settle down and find The One. He's so achingly cool, and you feel like a little tinned tomato, thin-skinned and persistently flustered.

Tinned tomato? Really? You berate yourself, Case in bloody point.

"Y/N"

You scratch roughly at your forehead and grimace at whatever thoughts are going through your mind, "I'm just …"

Harry brings one hand up to fix your bangs, carefully sweeping the hair back across your forehead evenly, letting the pads of his fingers dust over your skin, "I think if you didn't feel the same you'd have said No by now."

His words steal the air from your lungs, "Harry, you've just always …"

"I've always?"

"I never thought …"

The smile comes up over his face gently, "It's me, Y/N, please finish a sentence. I'd really like to kiss you, but you haven't yet said anything to imply you'd be open to that …"

You pull your lips together like a reflex you can't help, you've rarely let yourself fall that deep into imaging things with Harry, but your body reacts to his words in an instant, "Promise you're not kidding …"

"I promise I'm not kidding," Harry said sincerely. "I'd never kid around about this, Y/N."

You believe him, and ten seconds of bravery comes over you, "I was thirteen."

His eyes narrow slightly, trying to figure out what you mean, "Thirteen?"

"My thing for you," you continue quietly, heart racing as adrenaline swamps your legs, "Started the summer I turned thirteen."

Harry hears the slight shaking to your voice and almost misses what you've said. Then it hits him.

"Oh yeah?" He squints at you and pulls up his nose with a smile, a secret little smile that will never belong to anyone but the two of you. The Smile that happened just before Harry leant down and kissed you for the first time, pressed his warm lips against your cold ones and really breathed you in.

He holds it like that for a moment, your lips touching but not moving. Then his hands come up to cup your face, and Harry moves his mouth to one side, just a touch. You open up to him, and he has the brief thought that this is probably the Most Important Kiss Of His Life. His insides curl in on themselves as he gets completely lost in you. Completely lost in how perfect this moment feels and how much finally kissing you feels like a relief.

You can't believe this is happening. You're still tucked into Harry's coat—warm and safe—but now you're joined at the mouth, and Harry's a really really good kisser. He's got his thumbs pressed into your cheeks and his fingers laced through the hair around your ears. When his tongue first licks your bottom lip and then goes searching for yours, you don't think you've felt yourself flicker On so quickly. A soft moan escapes your lips, and Harry's kiss somehow becomes harder, his nose bumping yours where he'd been good at keeping things smooth until then. As quickly as it intensifies, Harry takes a slight step back and drags his mouth away from yours.

"Y/N," he breaths out your name, sealing your lips with one of his thumbs as he pulls back. Harry's taking stock of your face (hopefully) getting used to being this close to you. Noting the way your eyelashes kink out at an odd angle right at the corner of your eye, and the freckle that's so close to the edge of your mouth he's never noticed it before. Harry's can feel your heart has slowed down, and the expression on your face right now is content, but curious. He's also sure he can see fear under it all.

"Well," your voice shakes, because Harry's looking at you like you've only dreamed and now that you're here you're not really sure what happens next. You kissed Harry.

He clears his throat lightly and his hands both fall to hold either side of your neck, "There's no way I'm going back to not being able to do that whenever I want."

Then, he kisses you again. You feel yourself melt against him as Harry's chest presses back against yours. You link your arms around his waist, clutching the back of his shirt between your fingers as Harry leads the kiss with a hand on your neck and the other holding your chin carefully. You've picked up right where the last one let off, hungry and exploring and a little bit desperate (perhaps a lot desperate) to have more of each other.

But then his phone rings in his trousers pocket, right against your hip, and you jump away in surprise.

"Shit," Harry mutters, pulling the stupid machine out, cursing the universe, "Sorry … It's Aiden," he tells you with an eye-roll.

And then you're back to reality. Your drinks have all worn off, your feet ache, your ears are freezing, and you've just made out with one of your oldest, best friends. Shit.

"Oh," you take a hearty step back, hands slipping out from Harry's coat and your body bracing the full brunt of the cold night, "Yeah … That's—

—Aiden," Harry barks the name of his mate down the phone while at the same time hooking his free arm around the back of your neck and pulling you close again. He's not giving up touching you that easily, and he doesn't care, quite frankly, about giving you any room to start internalising or retreating from him, "No, we've gone to get some food … I'll see you during the week sometime. Tell everyone thanks for—Yes, I'm serious … I don't care, saw all you lot last week … I'm hanging up now. Bye."

You listened in on the conversation because it was really all you could do. Aiden was obviously inside the bar, and they were all wondering where Harry got to. We've gone to get some food, Harry told him, so they'd know he was with you. (You supposed he was hardly going to say, 'oh yeah we've been out the front making out') Bits and pieces of the other end of the conversation, you were able to pick up on, but not enough to truly know what was said. By the end of the call, Harry was smiling though, you could hear it in his voice.

His nose found the shell of your ear and Harry leant into you, "Come back to mine, or we can go to yours … Watch a movie, play Scrabble, anything … Just wanna be with you."

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Harry," you murmur, your mind struggling to make sense of what's just happened. You're outside a club in Soho held against Harry's chest with lips that know what he tastes like and a body that's on fire.

"I'm not tired," he shoots back, "Are you?"

"Well, no but—

—Great," Harry turns towards the road, takes a few steps to the curb (you trot along with him under his arm), as he flags down a black cab. "Mine or yours?"

His question is simple, he prompts you to answer by calling your name as he opens the door for you and gestures for you to hurry up and get in.

"Yours," you say.

Harry doesn't speak much in the cab, you figure it's about privacy. You hope it's about privacy. The thirty-minute drive out of the city and to his place feels much longer. Halfway through he reaches over for your hand and gives you a reassuring smile across the back seat. You thought the journey might make you sleepy, the sitting down in a warm car would bring the haze over your eyes and bring the long day to a close in your mind. But you could never feel sleepy with Harry's fingers playing with yours, or when he leans over and kisses your cheek for no reason at all.

At his house, Harry tells you to make yourself at home while he turns on the kettle for a cuppa. You kick your boots off in the hallway, and your feet start throbbing in relief as you follow his retreating form. It's certainly not the lusty, hurried entry you imagined you might have. Which only plants doubts in your mind about what's actually going on between the two of you.

"I'm just going to use the bathroom," you call out ahead of you, turning back to the stairs and taking yourself up to Harry's second storey.

Upstairs you don't take long. You're looking a little worse for wear—who wouldn't at 3am—but you're not really in the mood to try to fix yourself. Even if you did Harry would notice, and that felt like something you wanted to avoid. As you walk back to the landing, you wriggle your toes in your socks and happen to look back down the upstairs hallway. You've been in this house dozens of times before but this time feels different. It feels quiet and intimate somehow. Just as you're about to go down the first step, you see Harry's bedroom door is open on the opposite side of the stairs to the bathroom, and you notice something that makes you stop.

The book you got him for Christmas is sitting on his bedside table.

You're standing over it before you realise that your legs have started moving, looking at a picture of Anne, Gemma and Harry, a bottle of water and the book. You pick it up, the cover a little bent and the spine cracked to where he's read. Harry's using the birthday card you send along with the gift as a bookmark. The top of the familiar design sticking out the top of the pages, you can't even really remember what you wrote inside. Something generic probably. Platonic.

Happy birthday, old man! Have a wonderful day, sorry I can't be there in person. Love, Y/N.

The floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks and you turn around to Harry looking surprised to see you standing over his bed. He's got two cups of tea and a family-sized Dairy Milk bar under his arm. Something churns inside you, this was Harry as you'd always known him. Except now you looked at his lips and wondered why the hell you weren't kissing him.

"Oh, yeah, I've been reading that," Harry sees the book in your hands and walks towards you, "It's excellent, unsurprisingly."

A smile starts on your face, "You doubted my selection ability?"

"Never," he returns quickly and then raises his eyebrows at you, "Looking for anything else?"

You feel your cheeks heat and you drop the book back into its place, "No, sorry, I was coming down the stairs and saw … I'm sorry."

Harry passes you a tea, "It was really kind of you to send something over. Was fun having something to unwrap on the day."

"I'm glad," you smile and take a sip of the tea. It's sweet, and you screw up your face, "This is yours."

Harry watches you with a strange expression on his face as the two of you swap mugs. He's worrying his bottom lip, obviously weighing something up in his mind. You see it when he decides what he' going to do about it.

"I've got something I want to show you," he tells you finally, tilting his head back to the door. "Wanna come see?"

"What is it?" You ask automatically, but Harry's already walking out the door, and you have to hurry to catch up.

He leads you into his study, and you hover in the doorway as Harry sets his tea and the chocolate down on the desk. He pulls Bananagrams out of the draw and places it next to the mug.

"We're actually going to play Bananagrams?" You ask.

He looks back at you, "You'd prefer actual Scrabble?"

"I didn't know what you meant by—I guess I …"

Realisation dawns on his face, and he widens his eyes, "Oh, you thought it was a euphemism."

"No!" You snap back quickly, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks (for the record, yes, you thought 'a movie or Scrabble' was a thinly veiled way of Harry suggesting … something else), "No, I just … I just don't think I'll be able to spell words right now."

"I didn't think you were still tipsy" Harry states, shit-stirring.

"I'm not!" You squawk at him. "I'm… I' m—You kissed me!"

He grins, loving the fact he's driven you a little crazy, "Yeah. Want me to do it again?"

Harry's playing with you. He's teasing. And you know it but what you don't know is how he's so confidently jumped to it. Not when you feel like you've been left on the street outside the bar trying to figure out what the hell this means, and what's going to happen tomorrow when he stops looking at you like that. You don't like to think this whole night could've been him playing with you, you don't know Harry to be that cruel. But there's a tripwire in your mind you keep getting snared on.

It's Harry.

"C' mere," he reaches his hand down across the room between you both, "C' mere and kiss me again. You don't seem to be getting it."

"Getting it?" You're cut off by Harry taking two big steps toward you and then planting his lips on yours again.

His palms find your hips, and you hold him in the same spot. It takes a moment for the two of you to find a rhythm, and even then, you're too in your head. You're struggling to remember what little Harry's said about this whole thing. You know he said he had a crush on you and you've gotten the distinct impression he wasn't too fond of your ex. But for all you know Harry's been kissing his mates like this for years but just never gotten around to kissing you. You might've been next on the list. He's a friendly guy. Maybe a crush isn't what it used to be. Or maybe—

He pulls back from your lips with a huffy expression on his face, "Y/N," he says quietly, "I'm a man with an incredibly fragile ego, whatever you're worrying about is really getting in the way of kissing you."

"I'm just—

—Let me show you what I brought you in here for," he interrupts you, takes your hand and tugs you towards the window. Then, he puts a hand on each of your shoulders and directs your attention to the wall.

It's lined with record sale plaques for singles and albums over the years—double Platinums and Gold-Somethings. Harry watches you eyes run over them all, a proud but unsure look in your eye. You're not sure why he's showing them to you, he knows that. He hopes you're not intimidated by them, he's certainly not showing you to try to score any points. There's a sweeter gesture behind it. He points to one leaning against the wall, not hanging. He's got it resting on the bubble wrap it was sent over in.

Stepping up closer behind you, Harry rests his chin on your shoulder, "That one's for you."

"What?"

"I want you to have it, been saving it for you … If I ever got brave enough."

The question falls from your lips before you really think about it, "Why would you want me to have it …"

Harry waits to see if you'll let on you've figured it out, he thought it was pretty obvious really, but you've never been one to elevate yourself or assume, and Harry knows that about you. So, when you don't keep talking, he confirms it for you, "That song is about you."

You just blink, eyes on the framed plaque taking in the name of the song and hearing it in your head.

It's about me? You think you want to hear it, you need to Google the lyrics and make sure you have them right in your head. Harry wrote a song about you. Harry wrote that song about you.

"When … When did you write it?"

"You mean why?" Harry raises his head and steps to stand next to you, he observes your face carefully.

"No, I mean when." You're starring at it like the plaque might answer the question, "When did you write it?"

Harry runs a hand over his head as he thinks, "A few years back, after that time you came out to LA … Didn't record it until this year though …"

Harry watches your face expand in surprise and then crumple back down to confusion. You really don't get it. He's not sure how to make you in one night. He supposes he can't. So he trails his hand up the back of your arm and then around your back, tilting his head down and waiting to see if you'll pull away. When you don't, he kisses the corner of your mouth and then opens his wider to take you lips in his properly.

It's different to the kisses outside the bar, now that you're both out of your outer layers Harry can feel your body against his in ways he's only dreamed, and it's sending everything straight between his legs. Harry's hands explore your back and the curve of your hips, thumbs almost reaching the underside of your breasts but not quite. It's a little awkward when he senses you've felt him hardening between you. Usually, lust clouds that moment, and Harry doesn't mind intimate partners being acutely aware of how they're affecting him. But with you he's a little hesitant, he senses the awkwardness on your side. Friends don't feel those body parts on each other, friends don't… He almost groans when your mouth leaves his without warning.

You think he'll probably change his mind about all this.

"Have you changed your mind?" You ask, not able to stop it.

Confusion colours his features, and his lips smack together, like he's savouring tasting you, "Wha—

"About wanting to be kissing me," you clarify.

"What? No." Harry's eyebrows have shot up, and he's shaking his head, "I barely even started! Didn't I just say I wrote that song about you—why the hell would I—want to do more than just kiss you—You think I'm gonna change my mind?"

You shrug, "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well," he stands up straighter and pins you with his stare, "I'm not. I promise I'm not going to change my mind. And I promise I'll never make you feel like you're asking for too much. Ever."

"Now you're trying to make me cry," you say, hearing him repeat back to you the insecurity leftover from your conversation about your ex. You're half kidding with your words but also not. You believe him. You trust him.

Harry grimaces, sways your bodies together gently, "I really hate seeing you cry, could you not? I had other plans."

You sniff through a laugh as Harry wraps his arms around your middle tighter," What plans are those?"

"Well, I literally thought Scrabble," he tells you through a smile, trying his best to make you laugh, "But I'm open to whatever dirty things you were thinking as well."

"You'll win Scrabble."

So, Harry instructs you to bring your tea and your sore feet back into his bedroom. He gets you a fluffy pair of hiking socks and tells you to take yours off, and your tights, and get comfortable on the bed with him and the block of chocolate. You've polished off a family size together before, the sugar going straight to your heads and always leading to a giggly night of reminiscing and Almosts.

This time though, you only get halfway through the tea and Harry pushes the chocolate off the bed onto the floor in favour of you straddling his hips. It started with a stolen kiss against your temple, and then another on your cheek, and one close to your lips, and then you captured his face in your hands and really kissed him. Within a few moments, Harry was dragging you over to him. His hands settle on the swell of your backside as it sits against his thighs and your lips trace the line of his jaw. This was really happening. You'd really let him peel off your dress and flick off your bra. His shirt was somewhere with the forgotten snacks, and you seemed extremely eager to keep feeling his hardness pressed between your legs.

"I swear to god, I never dreamed this would happen," he murmurs, hissing when your hips pressed into his at a different angle, "Was sure I'd be going to your wedding one day, completely miserable and probably end up drunk and causing a scene. Embarrass you so badly you'd never want to see me again, and you'd just run away with your stupid husband."

You pull back and watch Harry ramble, your bare chest rising and falling against his, "You're a real glass half full kinda guy, aren't you?" you smile at him.

"I just," his eyes drop to your chest, nipples puckered for him, and he scrunches them shut then drops his forehead onto your sternum with a big sigh, "This is fucking unreal, and my brain is just struggling to comprehend—you're breathtaking, and I feel like my chest is gonna explode."

"It's also 4am, so there's always the potential your brain is just plain tired," your index finger is drawing circles on the back of his shoulder as Harry leans against you, you pause and run your hand over the back of his head, "Maybe we should sleep for a little … I'll be here when you wake up," you say in response to Harry squeezing his arms around your waist tightly as if you were going to disappear. Or worse, leave.

His indescribable green eyes find yours in the light from the bedroom lamps, "Will you let me hold you while you sleep?"

"Yeah," you nod, although somehow that question seems more intimate than the lack of clothes between you at the moment. You're distinctly less dressed than Harry, who's still got his trousers on, you're only covered by your underwear.

"We don't have to rush this, right? Got all the time in the world now," still, as he speaks his palms trail up your back and then down again, skimming the sides of your breasts, "Just don't wanna miss anything is all."

"I promise I'm incredibly boring in my sleep, won't miss anything," you tease, "Might be the only time you get any peace."

Harry tightens his forearms around your back and finds the soft skin below your ear with his lips—once, twice, three little kisses—"I feel pretty at peace right now, just having you here. Feels like I'm living a dream."

You don't reply for a moment, but you let your body rest against Harry's in a comfortable hug, your voice is quiet, "You really wrote me a song?"

"I did."

"I've always loved that song."

“Well, it's been yours all along."

"Nobody's ever written a song about me."

"I should hope not."

"Are you going to write another one?"

"Without a doubt."

Chat to me here

#OOOO SHIT what have i done #well #1dff #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles X reader #harry styles stories #harry styles imagines #harry fic

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blindbatalex · 3 years

Text

here, have this carraville drabble no one asked for. ♥

What is your favourite game at Old Trafford?, they ask him. Easy. March 2009. United take the lead with a penalty from R.onaldo; we score four—to hear our away supporters sing like that, with all they have got, as the home crowd plunges into a stunned silence- it’s not something I could ever put into words.

Stretford End boos him every time he touches the ball, but playfully, the way you give a new in-law schtick. “I’m not going because of that,” Jamie gestures at Gary with his head, laughing, hand on his hip. “They will all be drunk at the end, singing ‘glory glory Man United.’” Gary shakes his head but playfully, the way you shake your head at a friend in fond exasperation. “They will all be drunk at the end singing Man United songs. I wish them a good night.”

“God, he used to terrorise hotel staff.” Ed is drunk and also there somehow, at post-MNF drinks never mind he hasn’t been a part of MNF in ages. “Demanding breakfast at 5am every time he was in London.” No, he didn’t, Jamie thinks, because Gary was always there, across a sea of white table cloth and white porcelain at 7.30am, laughing. He knows how much Gary loves food and how ridiculously early he wakes up but he never put two and two together and realised how late that must have been for Gary and how he materialised there, at that table, one day three months into their acquaintance when Jamie never saw him at breakfast before then.

Three months.

“It will be okay, we have just gotta apply pressure,” Gary is saying, an ocean trench already formed between his furrowed brow, pressing a stack of napkins onto the base of Jamie’s thumb as if both of their lives depend on it. Over the edge of the napkins, his fingers brush against Jamie’s palm, warm and slick with sweat and blood, and Jamie might be dumb enough to slip, fall and cut his hand on a now-broken beer glass in a pub but he is not a complete idiot. “This is not the first time I cut myself, Christ,” he huffs, yanking his injured hand away.

Gary looks terrified. But mingled with fear there is hope too, in those brown-green eyes of his, so much of it that Jamie has to look away. “I think you should do it,” he says and marvels at how confident his voice sounds. An assistant coach position at Lyon—a rope back into management thrown at Gary when they least expected it, and this time with training wheels, this time with a chance to climb his way up, slowly and with care. A chance at redemption. A do-over, and Jamie knows better than anyone how deeply Valencia hurt him.

“James.”

Gary catches up to him outside the locker rooms, showered now and dressed in jeans and a blazer. “You could still come, you know.” They aren’t even drunk yet and behind him, the United dressing room is already singing Glory Glory Man United at the top of their lungs. Gary is leaning on his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes are soft here, in the dim light of the hallway, his smile old, familiar.

Jamie feels the loss of those fingers pressing into his palm much deeper than the cut itself. For a moment, he thinks he will break, that he will tell Gary, beg Gary, not to go, not again. He will tell Gary to take his hand and tenderly cradle it in his own again. How could it have taken Gary only three months to choose Jamie over breakfast? Three months and it’s breakfast they are talking about, Gary’s favourite meal of the day. He will tell Gary that yes, alright, he is coming after all, to whichever Manchester pub they choose. He will ask Gary to stay.

If he was only given another chance.

#carraville #football rpf #my fic #i listened to too much s.ezen aksu and here we are #also you guys all know what gifset i have in mind re *they will all be drunk* quote right?#4 years later and im still thinking abt that...man

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hstyleshoney · 4 years

Text

Stay With Me - part two

AU friends with benefits but things get complicated, like they always do

word count: around 8.5 K // angst, alcohol consumption, language, hints of sexual content

A/N: Wooow, I’m honestly soooo overwhelmed from the response on part one!! like thank you all so much!!!! I’m very nervous to post part 2 because I struggled with this part a lot more and I’ve edited over and over and I just don’t know.. I’m terrible at endings so I hope no one gets disappointed!! You’ve all been so nice so I really hope and want you enjoy part two as well! Happy reading! And pls do let me know what you thought about it bc I’m even more nervous this time around. Please be nice hehe

Enjoy! <3

PART 1 ♡

She never replied to Harry’s messages and nothing else really happened after that. The next few weeks went by in a bit of a haze and she didn’t see Harry except for one time when she stopped by Tom’s place with Louisa to pick up Lou’s purse that she had accidentally left there. They didn’t speak. She could barely look at him where he sat in the red armchair but when their eyes met for just a split second the evening of him kissing Cleo came flashing back to her. It was uncomfortable for everyone there and they didn't stay longer than necessary.

Then they were all just busy with exams and final projects and before anyone knew it was Christmas. She was going back home to Norwich and Harry was heading back home to Manchester. It was a nice pause from all the drama. Most of her Christmas break was spent playing cluedo with her brothers, helping her mother out in the kitchen and running away from her younger cousins. It was nice. It was fun. It was relaxing.

She didn’t think about Harry.

Not until she was on the coach back to London and she realized how badly she wanted to tell him about her neighbour's new puppy and how badly she wanted to tell him about the shitty movie she had watched with her dad because she knew he’d probably enjoy it.

And she realized that she did in fact miss him.

Then she got annoyed again. Because everything was fine between them and he just had to go on a date. A date with stupid Cleo who was so stupidly perfect and nice it was impossible to hate her.

Louisa kept trying to persuade her to talk to him because; “he’ll never know how you feel unless you say anything.”

But what was the point of telling him about her feelings when he had Cleo? If everyone else could see she was head over heels in love with him then why couldn't he see it himself? Why couldn’t he see the mess she turned into any time he was around? She refused to talk to him. She had made a mess of herself enough as it was already.

Besides, she hadn’t heard from him either so he had clearly made his choice and she wasn’t it.

Once back in London and back in her house with Lou, Beth and Aliyah she kind of forgot about him again. The girls all told her about their breaks and it was familiar and so calming. She felt just as much at home with them as she did going home to her actual family.

And no one asked about Harry so that was just a bonus.

On Friday the whole gang decided to meet up down at their favorite pub and once again she spent hours in front of her mirror preparing to see Harry again and trying to think of what to say if he was to come up to her. She was nervous. Almost as nervous as she was on her first day of uni and Louisa spent 30 minutes trying to calm her down.

It didn’t work.

The pub was packed when they arrived and they all ran into people they knew from their courses and caught up swiftly with everyone as they made their way through, trying to find the boys. Jax was the first one to spot them and leapt up to give them all a hug, spilling beer all over the floor as he moved.

Harry wasn’t with them though.

Not yet.

Him and Isaac were on their way Tom told them and her stomach was in knots as she sat there. She was waiting for him and she hated it. It frustrated her that he still had that effect on her despite everything that had happened the past few weeks. She knew the rest of them could see how much she was fidgeting in her seat but no one mentioned anything or asked her about it and for that she was thankful. It was embarrassing how everyone else seemed to know how she felt; everyone except Harry that is.

After a while the nerves got the better of her and she excused herself from the table. She wasn’t sure where she was going or what she was going to do; she just knew she couldn’t sit around waiting for Harry to show up.

So she walked over to the bar and sat down on her own for a while to collect her thoughts.

Around her the pub was loud. Everyone was laughing and having a good time catching up with their friends, sharing stories from their time off. The spirits were high but she was as low as ever. Having learned her lesson from the last time she drank while upset she decided to just order a coke and sipped at it slowly as she watched the people around the bar.

Time passed and slowly she felt a little bit better; almost ready to face the boy with curly hair who made her heart beat twice as fast. But someone approached her at the bar before she had the chance to move.

“What’s a pretty little lady like you doing all alone on a night like this?”

It was a guy. He winked at her as looked up at him and she had to stop herself from wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re way too gorgeous to be sitting all alone,” he said and leant against the countertop with a small smirk. “Someone ought to keep you company.”

“I’m good thanks,” she replied and gave him a sarcastic smile.

“Aw, c’mon,” the guy continued. He was dressed in a white t-shirt that was way too tight for him and some gray jeans equally as tight; not a look she’d rate very high. He also smelled too much of what she guessed was his aftershave and he obviously had a few too many beers because even though he was standing a few feet away from her she could tell his breath stank from it. “I promise I’m great company. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I’m sure you are,” she told him and rolled her eyes at him. “But I’m fine on my own.”

“Sassy, I like it,” he said as he took a step closer to her. She frowned at him as he did. “If you let me buy you a drink I can assure you you’re gonna have the night of your life.”

“Like I said, I’m not interested.”

“C’mooon, it’ll be fun! Just one drink and I can show you-”

“She’s not interested.”

A warm, strong hand was suddenly on her waist and her whole body froze at his familiar touch.

The guy took a slight step back as he saw Harry behind her. He was standing close to her. His chest pressed into her side. It was almost too close and she was too scared to turn around and look at him. But she knew it was him. She’d never mistake that voice or that touch.

“And who are you?” the guy asked and crossed his arms across his chest and she was sure his t-shirt was about to burst at the seams from how tight it looked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry replied firmly, his fingers digging into her waist slightly as he spoke. “She’s not interested, so back off.”

“Look, I dunno who you think you are-”

“Mate, just fuck off,” Harry interrupted him, already fed up. His voice was loud across the bar and it captured the interest of a few bystanders who turned their heads to look at the three of them. She blushed as they did but Harry didn't move. He stayed close to her, hand firm on her waist. The guy in front of her muttered something under his breath before finally leaving.

Then it was just the two of them. “You okay?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It looked like he was bothering you so... “ Harry said awkwardly and moved so he was standing in the same spot the guy was in just moments ago. She still couldn’t find it in her to look at him and kept her gaze on the drink in front of her. For some reason she was annoyed and it was hard to pinpoint exactly what was triggering her but one thing was certain; her emotions were running wild. She hadn’t seen him for weeks and then there he was. Just like that.

“Yeah, well, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he replied quickly and tilted his head to get a better look of her. “I just wanted to help. I care about you.”

“You care about me?” she scoffed. “Sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey,” he said and reached out to touch her arm. “Can you look at me?”

And she couldn’t. She really couldn’t. It was just too much. It felt like her head was about to explode from everything she was feeling. She was happy to be near him again. She was upset. She was angry. She was nervous.

And mostly she was so aware of his hand on her arm. It was burning almost.

“Why?” was all she managed to say.

“Because I’d quite like to look at you when I’m talking to you” he revealed and gently squeezed her arm. “You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”

It was at that moment something inside her shifted. She turned to look at him and pushed his hand off her simultaneously. Harry frowned.

“Are you being serious?” she hissed. She felt dizzy for a moment and all she wanted to do was to scream out in frustration. How could he be so dumb? How did everyone else figure out why she was upset besides him?

“I- yeah. Are you mad at me?”

She had to close her eyes for a second and took a deep breath to stop herself from losing it completely. All she wanted to do was to tell him that she was in fact mad. Fuming even. But there were people around the bar, around them, still watching and she did not want to give them more of a show than they already had. Harry kept his eyes on her though and didn't seem to care that they were in the middle of a full packed pub and she couldn't help but notice how tired he looked. He had dark circles under his eyes and his curls were dull and fell flat around his face and he also had a stubble longer than she had ever seen him with before.

And if she hadn't been so annoyed with him she would’ve worried something had happened and she certainly never would’ve said what she said next.

“Fuck you Harry.”

She didn’t stay around long enough though to find out how he reacted. Instead she turned her back to him and jumped off the barstol and marched right out of the pub without looking back. It was unclear exactly what had made her speak to him like that. It wasn’t like her to tell people to fuck themselves. Especially Harry.

It was far from what she had rehearsed in her mirror before they went out.

And it wasn’t until a strong hand grabbed her and she was face to face with him again that she realized he had followed her.

“What the fuck was that?”

She pulled her hand out of his grip and crossed her arms over her chest. It was colder outside than she remembered and in her hurry to leave the pub her coat and scarf was left behind. She felt stupid standing there infront of him only in her blouse and ripped jeans, but she couldn’t really think straight and all she wanted to do was to get away from him; which was a first.

Harry on the other hand didn’t look like he was freezing one bit in his much thicker jumper. Instead he looked quite irritated with her as well; which was also a first.

“What?” she snapped and Harry exhaled deeply.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked and she had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. The logical part of her knew she was being dramatic but something inside her had sparked. Something she wasn’t used to feeling when it came to Harry but it was too late to stop it all from coming out now. The way he was acting so inconsiderate about everything that was going on, like he had no idea as to why she could possibly be upset with him, stirred an anger in her that she had held back for too long now. How could he not know by now?

“What’s wrong with me?” she snickered. “No Harry, what’s wrong with you?”

Harry’s eyes widened and he faltered slightly as he stood before her. It just made her blood boil even more; because he really had no idea why she was upset with him. A part of her wanted to march off again but another part of her remembered Louisa's words to just tell him how she felt.

So she stayed.

“Are you mad at me?” Harry asked again. This time he was more hesitant as he spoke, almost as if he didn't want to find out the answer. And now she didn't even try to stop herself and rolled her eyes at him. What a stupid question. He looked at her with careful eyes and had this been any other time she would’ve swooned over how perfectly the green in his eyes matched his lilac jumper. But now she was just too worked up to care. She didn’t even pay attention to the people going in and out of the pub who looked over at the two of them with curious eyes.

“Yes!” She practically screamed at him.

It wasn’t like her to behave like this; to argue and shout at someone. She felt stupid almost for how good it felt to finally say it outloud and to admit it not only to herself but to Harry as well. She was in fact, underneath all of the sadness, actually angry and it was nice to finally have an outlet for all her feelings. It had all been locked up inside her for too long now. Harry looked at her with narrowed eyes.

Perhaps she was being unreasonable; having an argument with him in the middle of the street, in front of a pub of all places, but she couldn’t help it. She’d most likely regret it in the morning, because she was usually avoided conflicts as much as she could since it gave her a lot of anxiety just thinking about it, but at that moment it felt too good to stop. It was liberating.

“Is this about Cleo?”

Her heart almost stopped beating then; hearing the name leave his lips made her completely lose her train of thought and suddenly, in just seconds, the sadness in her chest was so present again and the anger faltered for just a moment. It hurt to hear her name. Cleo. The girl who was everything she wasn’t. It took everything in her to stop herself from falling apart right there and then. Especially with the way he looked at her. His eyes pierced right through her soul.

But she couldn’t turn back now, so she took a breath to gather herself again.

“Yeah, it is,” she admitted.

Harry breathed in deeply and his jaw tightened as he looked up at the dark sky, collecting his own thoughts.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

She laughed and dragged a hand through her hair in frustration.

“What was I supposed to say Harry? Tell you to not go on a date!?”

“If that’s how you felt, then yeah, you should’ve,” he responded and his voice matched hers. Harsh and taut. It was obvious her attitude had sparked something in him as well now. “Instead of biting my head off.”

“Oh, well at least I’m not the one who literally jumped from one girl’s bed to another!” It was a low shot and she knew it. A small part of her regretted it straight away but an even bigger part of her felt relieved. Relieved to finally be able to put into words everything she had felt for weeks.

“Wow, really?” Harry replied and scowled. She nodded. “You told me it was okay.”

“Yeah well,” she started and had to take her eyes off him for a second. It was overwhelming confessing to him how she actually felt about him dating someone else. Overwhelming to see him so tense and worked up. Overwhelming having an actual argument with him. Everything she felt was overwhelming; but there really was no going back now. “I guess I lied.”

“You lied?”

“Yeah.”

“You should’ve told me that and I wouldn’t ha-”

“You wouldn’t what?” she cut him off. “You left me behind like I meant nothing Harry! How do you think that makes me feel? You obviously didn’t feel the same way about it so what was I supposed to do? You wanted to go on a date and I had no right to stop you, that’s fine, whatever, it is what it is. But you didn’t have to be a dick about it.”

“When was I a fucking dick about it?”

“You literally forgot I existed after you met her.”

“I never forgot about you. I’ve tried to talk you. You’re the one who didn’t want to see me when I came over!”

She raised her hand and pointed directly at him, ready to give him another piece of her mind. Her body was shaking with emotions while her chest tightened and cheeks flushed red in anger. Her tears were dangerously close to falling at any second and she opened her mouth to speak.

Only to have nothing come out; because he was right.

He had tried.

And she didn’t know how to respond to that.

She was at a loss for words and slowly the feeling of shame and regret washed over her. She felt stupid and the way Harry looked at her now made her want to disappear. Harry dating Cleo had affected her in more ways than she ever thought it would. It hurt. It hurt so much.

It did however not give her the right to behave like this and tell him to go fuck himself. They were always just friends.They were never even close to being exclusive. She had no excuses. He didn’t owe her anything. She was never his type. She always knew that. Harry was never truly hers.

And she was lucky, because in the very same moment her tears rolled down her cheeks the door to the pub opened.

It was Louisa; who very hesitantly stepped outside to join them, and as Harry looked over at their new company she used those few seconds to quickly wipe away the small tears before he could see she was crying.

“Is everything alright out here?” Louisa wondered and looked between the two of them slowly; as if she knew exactly what was happening.

“Actually-”

“Yeah, everything is fine!” She interrupted him quickly once more before he got the chance to say anything about it and flashed Louisa a fake smile which she knew Louisa saw right through. Harry turned his attention back to her, jaw clenched shut with a look in his eyes she couldn’t really figure out. “I’m just heading home. I don’t feel too well.”

“You left your coat,” Louisa said and gestured to the beige coat in her arms.

“Oh, did I? Silly me.” She tried to laugh it off but more tears were dangerously close to falling and all she wanted to do was to get away from Harry before they did.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Louisa asked and looked at her knowingly. All she could do was nod because she didn’t trust her own voice to carry her anymore. She was too close to breaking.

And just like that Louisa linked her arms beneath hers, whispered a soft goodbye to Harry and they were on their way back home. She on the other hand didn’t say a single thing as they left and kept her eyes on the ground. She didn’t dare to look at him and her tears spilled over the second her back was turned to him and she leaned into Louisa. Her body felt so heavy and with every step she took she worried she might just fall over from how much her heart ached.

It took them a little awhile to get home but once they did Louisa made her a cup of tea and they sat down together in the living room. She felt empty. Everything she had felt earlier; the nervousness, the anger, the frustration, the sadness... it was all gone now. There was just nothing.

Louisa tried to talk to her a few times, but quickly figured that it was better to just leave her be for the time being. They sat together though and watched whatever random show it was that was on the television in stillness. She couldn’t take anything in. Nothing was registering in her head. Her mind was blank, with one exception. Harry.

She had never intended to get in a fight with him. She couldn’t stop replaying the fight in her head. Everything she had told him was how she felt, there was no denying that, but she wished she could’ve said it a bit nicer and not been so hostile towards him. Because it didn’t help the situation. Nothing was going to get better by shouting at each other. It was just so pointless the whole thing. She had exploded and she wasn’t proud of it. It was far from how she had imagined seeing Harry again would go.

Sure there wasn’t a version in her head that ended up with him wanting her again but never did she think she’d end up storming off the way she had. She had at least hoped that she would be able to be in the same room as him again after tonight but now she wasn’t so sure she ever would be.

She was incredibly grateful Louisa had come out when she did and stopped the argument before it turned uglier. She never would’ve made it home without her help.

But there was one thing that did in fact alarm her about Louisa's disruption and that was the fact that Louisa was ready to leave the second she stepped outside.

Which could only mean one thing - they had all witnessed the fight from the inside.

The fact that all their friends had seen and knew that something had happened between the two of them was more embarrassing to her than all the strangers that had seen and passed them on the street. Their friends had all seen her lose control over her emotions and it made her incredibly uncomfortable knowing they had. She didn’t know how she would ever be able to face them all again without wanting to sink through the floor.

It didn’t take very long until she had to see two of them though. Beth and Aliyah came home barely an hour after her and Louisa. They didn’t say anything about the argument at first. They just got themselves a cup of tea and joined them on the sofa.

It was Beth who eventually broke the silence when the end credits of the show they were watching came on.

“How are you?” she asked.

She didn’t reply at first. There were no words good enough to describe how she was feeling and she wasn’t even sure exactly what she was feeling; so she stayed silent and kept her eyes on the television.

“You can talk to us, you know that right?” Louisa said softly. “We’re here for you.”

“Yeah, Harry is the one being a twat,” Aliyah chimed in.

“Aliyah” Beth groaned.

“What? It’s true!”

It was exactly at that moment she broke her silence and let out a laugh. A laugh that little by little turned into a sob. Her three friends were all quick to her side and embraced her in the best way they could.

And then she told them everything.

About how Harry had first ended up in her bed, how she first thought she had her feelings under control, how he always left jumpers out for her to wear in the morning, how much it hurt her when he told her about the date with Cleo, how much she had missed him during Christmas, how he had stepped in during her encounter with the guy at the bar, how she had told him to go fuck himself and everything else that was said between them before Louisa exited the pub.

“One thing I don’t understand is how Harry missed all of this,” Beth said when she was finished and handed her a new fresh tissue to wipe her tears away. “He’s always so observant about everything that's going on around him and considerate, like I just don’t get it. We all thought he liked you.”

“He’s a fuckboy in disguise, that’s why,” Aliyah fumed and got another dirty look from Beth. “Ugh, c’mon, he is. It’s a shitty thing to do to.”

“He did look quite miserable when he came back inside.”

“Has he even apologized?”

“I don’t blame him,” she spoke quietly and interrupted her two friends. “Cleo is gorgeous.”

“So are you.”

“Not like her,” she sighed and looked down at her hands.

After Harry had stayed over at her place for the first time she couldn’t believe a guy like him even wanted to be with a girl like her. She thought he was just being friendly before that because they were in the same group of friends. But every time she woke up next to him it became more and more real to her. Every time they went home together kept her daydreaming about a future she knew would never exist. She got addicted to his touch and a losing game of love.

Now she couldn’t help but feel like a fool for ever thinking he could be hers. She hurt herself more than anything for putting herself in that situation to begin with. Maybe if she had just stopped thinking about what it would’ve been like to introduce Harry to her mother she could’ve saved herself from this heartbreak.

Or maybe if she had listened to Louisa in the first place none of this would’ve happened and Harry would’ve just been a simple one-night stand. But she got lost in him as soon as she saw him even though she was nothing more than a friend to him.

She was simply put defenceless against him.

“Stop it. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. You’re amazing.”

“Yeah, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

Aliyah gasped.

“You should get back on Tinder!” she exclaimed excitedly with wide eyes. “Go on a date with some hottie and forget all about stupid Harold.”

“I don’t know if I’m really ready for that yet,” she replied sadly.

“That’s okay,” Louisa smiled. “There's no rush. You’ve got all the time in the world to meet someone.”

She tried to give her a weak smile in return but it was near impossible. She felt completely drained after the evening she’d had.

And yet when she crawled into bed later on she was wide awake. With every breath she took she felt her anxiety grow. She couldn’t relax. It was impossible to think about something else. Her mind kept wandering to Harry no matter how much she tried to stop it. Did he ever think of her? Had he ever imagined it was her when he was laying next to Cleo? Did he miss her? Or was she just someone to keep him company during the cold dark nights?

The girls had all told her the aching in her chest would get better but she didn’t want to wait for things to change. She wanted things to be like how they used to. She wanted her sheets to smell like him again. She wanted to feel him run his fingers down her back and have him curled up next to her. If anyone told her she could get anything she wanted in the world; her only answer would be him.

And then there was a soft gentle knock on her door that brought her back from the dark hole she was making for herself. Aliyah peaked in carefully.

“You asleep?”

“No. ”

“Can I come in?”

“Mhm” She nodded and Aliyah stepped in and closed the door behind her before coming over to her bed and sat down.

“Look, I kinda just wanted to apologize if I sounded harsh earlier. I didn’t mean to. It’s just…” Aliyah fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves and sighed. “I hate seeing my friends upset, you know? Especially over some stupid boy. I just want you to be happy because you deserve it more than most people I know and I’m sorry if I pushed the Tinder thing. I know I can come off as quite unsympathetic sometimes but I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I understand that it might be a bit too early. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you’re unsympathetic Aliyah,” she told her and for the first time that evening she managed to crack a small genuine smile. “I’m really glad I have you in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you and I wish I could just put myself out there... I just don’t know how to.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually.”

“What if I don’t want to figure it out?”

“Well,” Aliyah started and scooted over to lay next to her. “No matter what happens or what you decide, you’ll always have us.”

Aliyah stayed in her room for the rest of the night and they talked about everything that didn’t involve Harry.

And with the help of her friend her mind got a small distraction and she eventually dozed off into a dreamworld where Harry had never gone on a date and still made her breakfast in the morning.

A week later she got tired of being so exhausted from going to sleep with such a heavy heart and decided it was time to stop feeling so sorry for herself. She had spent most of her week at home studying, throwing herself into her books more than ever before. She only left her house to go to her lectures and decided to not join the others down at the pub for quiz night.

She didn’t want to risk running into Harry.

However when her roommates came back home they told her Harry hadn’t showed up either and she could only think of one reason he hadn’t; he was with Cleo.

So with the help from her friends she set up a new profile on Tinder and started swiping. If he could move on then so could she. They spent the whole night reading and going through different guys profiles, swiping left and right. When her phone notified her later that she had a new message she threw her phone at Aliyah in panic who took over and stepped in without hesitation.

And that was how she ended up on a date.

His name was James.

She nearly had a nervous breakdown while she waited for him to show up; only for him to walk in looking like a model fresh off the runway. Her jaw almost dropped and she was a sweaty mess when he approached her and kissed her on her cheek. He was handsome. Almost too handsome; and he knew it.

But he was nice.

He was actually very nice, and polite. They had lots of things in common and there was never an awkward moment of silence between them. They talked all night about everything from what their favorite film was to silly stories about their childhood. She told him about how her brothers used to cover her in bubble wrap and use her as a human punch bag and how they were always punished for the mischief she got up to because their parents thought she was just too innocent and pure. Perks of being the youngest child and only girl she used to call it. She made him laugh and she felt proud. Confident even. He also made her laugh. He made her blush and he made her feel comfortable. The date was nice and it was exactly what she needed after everything that had happened.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with James. He didn’t have a single flaw.

... he just wasn’t Harry.

No matter how badly she wanted to like James her heart wouldn’t let her.

On the bus back home she felt guilty because James was such a nice guy and she had spent their whole date thinking about someone else. Harry was still so present in her heart and mind. She had compared the two of them all night. She couldn’t help herself. James didn’t have a single tattoo. He had shorter hair. It wasn’t curly. Not even wavy. He had a beard. Bright blue eyes. A different parfyme. A different accent. He didn’t wear any rings.

And all of it just made her realize how badly she wished it had been Harry. It was frustrating how easy he had just replaced her with Cleo while she couldn’t even go on one date with a perfectly good boy like James without thinking about his pretty curls and beautiful green eyes.

She was completely head over heels for Harry.

She sighed and leaned her head against the window of the bus and watched the small drops of water run down the glass. There was a light drizzle outside and it matched her mood quite nicely she thought and chuckled. Her life was just a big stupid cliche. If only she hadn’t been so scared from the start. If only she hadn’t suppressed her feelings for him for so long. If only she could’ve admitted how she felt earlier. Then maybe none of this would've happened. Maybe she would’ve had a chance.

She missed him.

That was the worst part. She missed being close to him; missed feeling his skin on hers.

But most of all she missed just talking to him.

Now they hadn’t spoken in months, except for the fight and she didn’t want to count that because it made her sick just thinking about it. The fight had made things worse and it was so stupid. If it wasn’t for the fight and the fact that she had a habit of avoiding her problems when it became too much they could’ve talked things through and at least had a chance to keep their original friendship. It would’ve hurt seeing him with Cleo but she was starting to feel like it was a lot worse not having him in her life at all.

And maybe it was the three pints of beer she had consumed during her date or the fact that James had made her feel a bit confident or maybe it was just the simple fact that she missed Harry that made her decide to go face her problems.

So instead of getting off the bus at her usual stop she waited three more before getting off.

And she ended up outside Harry’s building.

It wasn’t until after she had knocked on his door that she realized what a terrible idea this probably was. She didn’t even know if he was home. What if Cleo was there? What was she even supposed to say? She had no idea. Harry might not even want to see her.

Her head was spinning but it was nothing compared to how she felt when the door opened and Harry was standing in front of her.

“Hi” she breathed out. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw her.

“Hey?” he replied and she felt a little bit awkward standing there as he stared at her with a puzzled look across his face.

“Um, is this a bad time?” She felt light-headed and her heart was beating so hard inside her chest it almost hurt. She was scared; because if he shut her out now she might just pass out on the floor right in front of him.

“No, no of course not,” he answered quickly and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to flatten the wild curls on his head. He stepped a little to the side. “Do you wanna come inside?”

“Sure,” she nodded in relief. A tiny bit of hope sparked in her as he invited her inside; hope of what exactly she didn’t know but at least he hadn’t slammed the door in her face and that was always something. She followed him and felt her knees weaken as his familiar scent washed over her.

Isaac sat on the sofa and looked over at her in surprise as they passed. She nodded a shy ‘hello’ towards him and he greeted her back with a small wave. It wasn’t as hard as she had imagined it to be to see Isaac again after everything and it made her somewhat relaxed for what was to come.

Harry led her to his bedroom to get some privacy and she just couldn’t stop looking at him. She had spent all night wishing James was Harry and now here she was; standing right infront of him. He looked just as perfect as he always did. It took all of her willpower to stop herself from throwing herself over him. She wanted to feel his arms around her more than anything but she couldn’t and she had to stop imaging it because she was only making it harder for herself.

“What are you doing here?” He was the first one to break the silence. Her first instinct was to make up some story about how she was just randomly in the neighbourhood and lie about her reasons for knocking on his door so late. But lying wouldn’t make anything better and she had, for probably the first time ever, pushed herself to go face her troubles instead of going the other way.

She had simply come too far to lie now.

“I eh... ” she swallowed the big lump in her throat and took another deep breath, trying to calm herself down. “I came to apologize for how I behaved the other weekend.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry said softly.

“I want to,” she insisted. They were both still standing, neither of them taking their eyes off the other. It was awkward and she had no idea what to say next. She hadn’t really thought it through. All she knew was that she didn’t want this to end in tears. She didn’t want to shout and storm off. She wanted closure.

Harry nodded slowly and waited for her to continue. He had the yellow jumper on. The one she had borrowed so many times before. It made her heart skip a beat. “It was unnecessary of me. It was just hard to come to terms with everything I suppose. I don’t know... It felt like you kinda just forgot about me.”

“I didn’t,” Harry assured her and took a step forward to come closer to her but stopped himself before he could reach her, uncertainty written all across his face. “I could never forget about you. I’m really sorry I made you feel like I did.”

“Do you like her?”

“What?”

“Cleo. Do you like her?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, taking in every inch of her and she felt her blood rush to her cheeks. Time was frozen and it was so quiet between the two of them. She could hear cars passing by on the street below them and how the light drizzle had shifted and was now pouring down. It was hard to breathe with him right there because she couldn't figure out whether he was happy to see her again or not.

And when Harry still didn’t say anything the panic inside her started rising and she felt like the biggest idiot in London for even asking such a thing. “I mean,” she started and had to clear her throat before continuing. Her voice was shaky as she spoke and she didn’t know where to look; because looking at Harry just wasn’t an option anymore. He made her too anxious. What a stupid idea. “I totally understand if you do. She’s obviously so beautiful and you two look really good together and like I always knew you didn’t like me in that way and that’s okay, because I’m not like Cleo. I know that she’s prettier than me. I just miss you, and us. I don’t know. This is weird I shouldn’t have come I’m sorry I should g-”

She never got the chance to finish her nervous rambling.

Because within a matter of seconds Harry had moved from where he was standing, cupped her face and pressed his lips to hers. It all happened so fast her mind didn’t get the chance to understand what had happened at first. She just stood there in shock.

But as she realized Harry was indeed kissing her she melted right into him. His lips were warm and rough against hers. Everything else faded away the second their lips met. She didn’t have time to think about whether she should even be kissing him or not. It just felt so familiar she could cry. Her hands quickly found his hips and pulled him even closer, wanting him as close to her as physically possible. Kissing Harry again was so arousing and she needed it. She needed all of it.

It started out as a small and innocent kiss but when neither of them made an attempt to pull away from each other it deepened. His lips moved with hers with eagerness and she couldn’t get enough. She wanted all of him and despite having kissed him many times before it was like nothing she had ever experienced. She had spent weeks dreaming about kissing him again but it was nothing compared to the real thing; to actually be kissing him again.

Harry pulled back for a second to breath but she pulled him back in just as fast. He laughed lightly as she did but she didn’t care if she came off as desperate. She was. She couldn’t get enough of him. Lust had taken over her completely.

Harry’s fingers slipped through her hair and he deepened the kiss further, and her stomach fluttered when he swiped his tongue across her lower lip. She inhaled sharply as their tongues met. Her whole body was on fire. Harry groaned into her mouth and moved his hand down to her hips. He had a tight grip on her as he pushed her backwards towards his bed.

She fell back and landed on the bed with a gasp. Harry stood before her breathing heavily. His lips damp and begging to be kissed again. She reached out to pull him down to join her, already missing his touch, but he stopped her.

“Are you okay with this?” he panted and looked down at her with concerned eyes. The tension around the room was high and hot. She couldn’t really think. She could hardly breathe. Everything felt like a dream. It was hard to grasp what was actually going on and how they had gotten to this point, but she was okay.

“Yeah,” she whispered and extended her hand towards him. Both of them were breathing heavily while staring at each other. Nothing else mattered in that moment. She forgot about everything that had happened as she tugged at his arm, wanting him to join her. “I just want you to stay with me” she whispered and it was the most vulnerable she had ever felt.

His body was warm on top of hers as he joined her on the bed. He gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face and leaned down and placed a light kiss on her cheek. Then her other cheek. A kiss on her forehead. On her nose. Her jaw. Her neck.

Before he reached her lips he pushed himself up and looked down at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed.

Then he reconnected their lips.

She sighed happily into him and let her hands explore his body. He kissed her gently and slowly, but she didn’t want him to be gentle, not now; not after missing his touch for so long. She rolled her hips against his and he groaned again. She felt high. Every touch from him gave her goosebumps. It had been too long.

Her fingers finally found their way in under his jumper and Harry’s kisses became more urgent and hot. His skin was so smooth under her fingertips and it was almost intimidating touching him again, yet it felt so right.

It was Harry’s top that came off first.

Then hers.

And then they were naked; moving together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Skin to skin. Pressed tightly together. His hair tickled the side of her face as he moved over her and she left kisses anywhere she could reach. Desperate to feel all of him. A low moan came from him as she raised her hips to meet his.

And when her body later exploded in pleasure he held her close while she buried her face into his neck to muffle her cries.

They laid in silence after that. She rested her head on his bare chest as he stroked her back lightly. He pressed a lingering kiss on the top of her head and she didn’t really know what to say next. She had gone there hoping that they could move past everything and at least be friends. She never expected them to sleep together and now she didn't really know what to think of it.

Regret was slowly building up inside her because what if it didn’t mean anything to him? What if he still wanted Cleo? Maybe he still just saw her as a friend and just slept with her because he felt sorry for her.

But laying in Harry’s arms again felt like a dream and if it was the last time she got to do so she didn’t want to ruin it. She didn’t want to risk them arguing again; didn’t want him to tell her it was all a mistake. Not yet.

Instead she kept quiet, despite being even more confused about their situation than before. She was just too scared of what his answer to everything might be.

So she laid awake all night trying to come up with what to say to him once they woke up the next day and had yet another sleepless night, even with Harry right next to her.

Harry was gone when she woke up and her heart sunk a little when she noticed. She had managed to eventually get a few hours of sleep but she felt far from well rested, and it was disheartening to wake up and not find Harry next to her. She’s not sure what she expected. She had woken up alone in his bed many times before. Harry was an early riser and she just wasn’t. But now it just made the regret in her grow. She should’ve just gone home. It felt more and more like a mistake for every minute she stayed in his bed, and it was hard to find the motivation to get up and face reality.

His yellow jumper was folded and sat neatly at the end of the bed, almost like it was waiting for her. She couldn’t stop staring at it. She wanted to put it on more than anything and feel the soft fabric on her skin again; relish in his scent. It was so tempting, but she couldn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate.

She forced herself out of his bed and took a deep breath, trying to remember what her mom had taught her about mindfulness. She really should’ve read more of the books she had been given.

Her own clothes felt cold and stiff when she put them on. The warmth of the yellow jumper taunted her from it was sat and she tried to ignore the thought of just putting it on for a second.

Just breathe.

Harry was sat on the sofa when she found the courage to leave the safety of his bedroom. The flat was quiet and if she hadn’t seen him as soon as she stepped out she would’ve worried she was all alone. She tried to see if Isaac was anywhere near but couldn’t see him. It was just Harry, and he was too invested in the book he had in his lap to notice that she was approaching him.

It wasn’t until she sat down in the armchair opposite him that he realized she had actually gotten up and joined him.

“Oh, good morning,” Harry said and sat up a little straighter as soon as he saw her. He brushed off a few crumbs that was stuck on the front of his hoodie from breakfast in an attempt to look more presentable and put his book away.

A heavy silence settled over them almost straight away.

“Morning,” she replied quietly; wanting the awkwardness between the two of them to fade away. She nervously tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and tried to ignore the nausea that clawed at her throat.

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asked and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He couldn’t really look at her as he spoke and it didn’t help her feel better about the situation.

“Not really,” she admitted. Harry frowned a little and her stomach was in knots as they just sat there. It was their first morning together that was so awkward, not even their first morning together had been this uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right.

“Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

They both knew they needed to talk. The tension in the room said it all. It was obvious. She just didn’t know where to start and she was still too afraid to learn about the reasons he kissed her. He could’ve just kissed her because he wanted their old arrangement again. Friends with benefits. Maybe that was all she was to him.

Her heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

Then out of nowhere she remembered Cleo. Harry was with Cleo. She had forgotten all about the stunning girl with perfekt skin as Harry kissed her last night. It made her feel sick now, sick and dirty. She also felt a little angry again because it wasn’t fair of Harry to kiss her and sleep with her when he had Cleo. “You never answered my question last night,” she said flatly.

“Huh?”

“You never answered my question,” she said again and this time she looked right into his eyes as she spoke. The confident that made her come over in first place sparked a little inside her again. She didn’t want Harry to be with her if he had someone else. It wasn’t the type of relationship she wanted with him.“Do you like Cleo?”

Harry looked up and met her eyes after that and she held her breath waiting for his answer. She didn’t know what she would to do if he said yes.

Harry took a deep breath and licked his lips.

“No. I don’t.” His eyes never left hers. “I haven’t seen her since before Christmas.”

“Oh.”

She could feel her heart in her throat. He hadn’t seen Cleo since before Christmas. That meant he wasn’t seeing her when they fought which also meant this mess could’ve been sorted weeks ago if she hadn’t lost her control. How fucking stupid. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me. You seemed like you wanted some space, wasn't gonna force you to.” Harry was calm as he explained. His voice was still a little raspy from sleep and he looked so warm and soft were he sat opposite her in his hoodie and matching sweatpants. Her head was spinning.

There were so many things she wanted to bring up and now when she kew that he wasn’t with Cleo anymore everything changed. Harry didn’t have anyone and he had kissed her last night; he had done more things than just kiss her and it was scary to think that maybe he had just done it because he was lonely and wanted some company. Maybe he had just been with her because he wanted to continue their friends with benefits thing until he found a new Cleo.

Maybe he would leave her again.

And it was scary to think about losing him to someone else. She couldn’t go through that again.“I heard you went on a date yesterday,” Harry acknowledged and cleared his throat to get her attention. It snapped her out of her thoughts. “How was it?”

“It was good,” she confessed.

Harry’s jaw tightened and he nodded slowly, a sour expression on his face, and she was a little taken aback by it. Was he jealous? It was something she had never thought about before; Harry being jealous about her dating someone else.

She couldn’t help but feel a little pleased at how he reacted hearing about her date as he took a deep long breath through his nose. It was about time he got to hear about her dates rather than the other way around. But she also decided to not leave out the most important thing. “He wasn’t for me though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed and watched as Harry struggled to hold back a smile. It made her heart flutter and for once she didn’t feel so insecure about the situation she was in. “So, how come you broke things off with Cleo?”

She was still nervous though. The knots in her stomach were still there, along with a bunch of butterflies, and her fingers ached to reach out and touch him. It was close to impossible to not think ahead at this point but she tried her best, because she didn’t want to be left disappointed.

“She wasn’t for me,” he said. His eyes twinkled as he spoke and she noticed him shift in his seat again. This time she was the one who could’t hold back her smile.

Silence fell between them again but it was nowhere near as tense and uncomfortable as before. She knew her cheeks were flushed; she felt hot and light-headed. All she really wanted to do was scream out that she wanted him to be hers. She was tired of dancing around the subject and she wanted, needed, to know if he wanted her too. “I never should’ve dated Cleo,” Harry said and swallowed hard. She sat on the edge of her seat. “It was stupid, and the fact that you thought I forgot about you kills me. I could never forget about you. You’re too special to be forgotten"

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was it stupid to date Cleo?”

“Doesn’t really seem fair to her when I’m in love with someone else.”

“Who?”

She had to ask. Her whole body trembled in anticipation and she was terrified despite having no real reason to be anymore. At least she hoped she didn’t. She didn’t want to be wrong.

“It’s you.”

And that was all it took for her to literally jump to her feet and throw herself over him. She accidentally knocked her nose into his going in for a kiss and it was sloppy and it was clumsy but she didn’t care. Not even a little. Neither did Harry.

Because at that moment nothing else mattered. Harry was in love with her. He wasn’t with Cleo; she wasn’t for him. He had told her so himself.

He was hers.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry #harry styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles x you #hs #writing #harry fic #Harry Styles fic #stay with me #SWM

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thousandfourhundreddays · 4 years

Note

Can you write a modern Michael smut ?

IT’S TIME.

Michael Gray x Reader

A/n I LOOOVE writing anything modern so I love this request. Hope you enjoy!!

You’d first met Michael on a night out in Manchester. A drunken night out. A very drunken night out.

You’d never believed in love at first sight but from that night on, you couldn’t help but succumb to the idea.

You caught his eye the moment you walked in, the light filtering in, framing you perfectly, reflecting off your dewy skin, illuminating your ocean tinted eyes. The world stilled around him as he fell in love.

Now, a year and a half later, you were still together. Things were perfect, somehow still in the honeymoon phase and there was a part of you which though that it’d never fade.

However, one thing you hated was the distance. Michael in Birmingham and you down in London. The mear 130 miles between you felt like millions as you lay in bed at night. You understood that work was a priority. If you ever wanted to be able to build the future that the two of you had discussed so many times, the two of you had to be patient. The beautiful house, expensive cars, holidays, falling asleep in each other’s arms every single night, waking up to the boy you loved with your whole heart was so close, only just a little further until your could grasp it.

But for now, you were lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling, wishing that the cold space beside you was taken up by him.

Rolling over with a frustrated huff, reaching for your phone which you had lazily strewn on your bedside table, the blue light flooding the darkness, revealing the time. Through squinted eyes, you strained to focus on the numbers. 01:14am.

Carelessly you threw your phone down beside you, the sheets rustling as you soothingly rubbed your eyes.

A yawn escaped your lips as your eyes flicked between your phone and the darkness. You lay there for a few minutes, the cogs of your mind whirring behind your eyes.

“Fuck it” you whispered to yourself, abruptly sitting up, grabbing you phone and opening your contacts, scrolling down about half way, finding Michaels name and calling him before you could talk yourself out of it.

Raising it to your ear, you knees tucked up against your chest, biting your lip impatiently as you heard the pained sounds of the dial...

“Y/n? What’s up? You ok?” A string of questions fell from his lips, worry woven through his croaky voice, most likey from sleep.

“Michael” you spoke through a content sigh, collapsing back down onto the bed at the sound of his voice

“Y/n what’s wrong?” His voice a little desperate

“Nothing, no nothings wrong, sorry” you giggled

You were met with silence, Michael now totally lost as to why you were calling so late, not that he was complaining. Your voice was just as much of a comfort to him as his was to you.

“Come see me.” You stated bluntly. Your fingers crossed as they rested by your side.

“Y/n, babe, I can’t-... well I don’t... hang on” you could hear his smile radiate through his voice as he nearerd the end of his sentence.

Searching through his mental calendar, he silently begged for tomorrow to contain nothing but paperwork and accounting.

His lips curled up into an even bigger grin as he remembered that tomorrow was in fact Saturday, a catch up day for him and the boys in the office. Deciding that the paperwork can wait, he finally put you out of your misery...

“Ok” you now both lay there in bed, contentidley beaming to yourselves.

“Really?” Slightly shocked at his spontaneity, but then again, maybe you were the spontaneous one, knowing full well he could never say no to you.

“Yeah.. yeah I’m on my way, love” you heard him rustling around, stumbling out of bed and haistily packing a bag.

“Thank you” you said excitedly

“The pleasures all mine, darlin. I won’t be long” he giggled

“I love you”

“Love you, try and get some sleep though, yeah? It’s late”

“Ok, ok”

“Bye” you spoke in unison, your soft voices blending in the still night air. Relaxing into the matteres as you heard the line cut off.

Too much excitement flowed through your body for sleep to ever arrive, not helped by the constant checking of your phone, wishing for the time to tick by quicker. It was the longest two hours of your life but here you were, stumbling out of bed after hearing a gentle knock at the door.

You silently ran towards the door, feet absentmindedly carrying you over the cold wood floor, standing on your tip toes to peak through the peep hole in your door. Your body wrapped in one of Michaels shirts pressed up against the cool wood.

Gently swinging the door open, you took in the sight of him, the boy you loved standing at your door at three o’clock in the morning, a smile gracing his face, lighting up the room as you mirrored him.

All but throwing yourself at him, he took you in his arms, holding you tighter than he ever had before. Muttering small I love you’s into your ear.

“Iv missed you”

He simply smiled, taking your face in his hands, kissing you gently. Moving his hands to your waist to steady you, he guided you backwards into your appartment. Dropping his bag by the door he pulled back,

“Iv missed you too” a cheeky smirk plastered on his face

Moving your hand to the nape of his neck, you pulled him in once again, deepening the kiss, humming with pleasure.

It was now your turn to lead him away, pulling him towards your bedroom, you kicked the door shut as you went.

“You didn’t just bring me all this way for a shag did you?” He asked playfully

Biting your lip, your words were muffled by his lips “Maybe I did, are you complaining?”

“Not at all” speaking through kisses he was placing down your neck.

You giggled as he made his way back up to your lips, his tongue slipping between your soft lips as he placed his hand on the small of your back, lowering you down onto the bed.

Resting your legs around his waist, you pulled him closer, his callous hands brushing the thin skin of your thighs. A soft moan filling the air as he traced small circles on the inside of your leg.

Holding you by the waist, he kissed your skin through the delicate material that lay between you making his way down to your core. Voicing a accepting groan as he appreciated your choice of underwear, he placed a small kiss over the black lace thong that you wore, he pulled them off you painfully slowly, doscarding them on your bedroom floor.

You chuckled at the sight before being cut off by a moan that slipped up your throat as Michael plunged his tongue into your wetness, spreading your juices over your lips.

“So fucking wet” he murmured, entranced by the taste of you.

You started to beg as he dipped his tongue into your core once again, craving for a release. “Ok baby, ok” he spoke, his lips vibrating against your wetness as he dipped a finger into you.

“Mi- Michael!”

“What’d you want baby, tell me what you want” his voice was deep and seductive.

“More” you begged. “I want more” now breathless you reached down, in twining your fingers in his hair, pushing his lips deeper between your legs. The sight alone was enough to bring you close to the edge

Your vision blurred as he sped up, adding another finger. His tonge flicking against your clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves, teasing you, bringing you to the edge.

“I’m close” you whined “I’m close” you repeated breathlessly.

“Let go for me y/n, cum for me” he purred, bringing you to your peak, his fingers carrying you through your orgasm as your legs began to shake as he sucked gently on your clit. Your head resting on the pillow, your lips hanging wide as you came on his fingers.

Licking up your cum, he continued to stroke your core as he made his way back to you, kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips.

Removing his fingers from between your legs, he licked them clean before placing one in your mouth, “that’s my girl” he whispered, kissing your lips softly once you were done.

Moving his lips down to your neck, he sucked slowly, leaving small purple bruises on your tanned skin. His fingers making quick work of the buttons on your shirt, leaving it to hang open, he took in the sight, eyes wide, licking his lips as you followed his lead, pulling off his hoodie and moving down to his joggers. Carelessley throwing them to one side, you began to pull at his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck, silently telling him how badly you wanted him.

Taking the hint, he slowly lowered himself back down to you, biting your lip, drawing a sensual moan from you as he pulled off his boxers. Once again, using your legs to pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

He took himself in his hand, pumping down once or twice before lining himself up with your entrance.

“Please, please baby, I need you” you purred into his mouth. And with your beg, he pushed into you slowly, allowing you time to adjust, both of you revelling in the pleasure of him streatching you. After a few seconds, a slight nod from you encouraged him to draw his hips back before pushing into your again. Swallowing each other’s moans between kisses, a slight sheen of sweat began to glimmour over your bodies.

Setting a pace, he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, nibbling into your ear lobe as he went.

“So good, so good, so fucking tight.” He chanted, entranced by the feeling on you clamping down on his cock.

The lewd sound of your wetness echoed through the walls of your apartment, fusing with your filthy moans as you left scratches down his back, a reminder of the pleasure he fed you.

You were both reaching your peak, his thrusts becoming clumsy as he twitched wildly inside of you.

“Michael, I’m gonna cum, I’m close baby, I’m close” your sentence broken up by your irregular breathing.

“Let go, go on” he moved, his hand down to your clit, your body becoming overstimulated as he pushes you over the edge, tears forming in your eyes.

You vision once again become blurry as he fucked you through your orgasm, releasing himself deep inside of you with a low groan.

Both of you basked in your post orgasm haze, regaining your breath as you kissed his damp skin, drownin in each other’s moans. Slowly, he lowered himself to lie next to you, taking you in his arms, holding you close.

“Fuck, I love you” he spoke, releasing a deep breath.

“I love you” placing a light peck to his chest “so much”

Placing his hand on your cheek bringing your eyes up to face him, he naturally brushed your skin with his thumb.

“Its time y/n” and with those simple words, everything fell into place.

A/n ok so this was loooooong, but I hope you enjoyd!!🖤

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#michael gray imagine #michael gray x reader #michael gray fanfic #michael gray #michael gray smut #modern peaky blinders #modern michael gray #peaky blinders fluff #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders smut #isaiah jesus x reader #tommy shelby x reader #john shelby imagine #john shelby smut #john shelby x reader #tommy shelby x sister reader #john shelby x sister reader #peaky blinders imagine

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hs-devote · 4 years

Text

5. T H E S T Y L E S

Moodboard // Content // Masterlist

Disclaimer:

All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows.

Previous chapter :

Harry was accustomed to returning to a house that was always dark, and empty. There was only him, or Suzanne - if she was having work to do . Until that night, Harry was confused when his house did not feel as quiet as usual.

5. THE STYLES

His head tilted to the voice, finding someone who he hadn't met in months, his mother, in his dining room, eating whatever it was with a glass of red wine next to her plate. Harry blinked his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating. No way his mother was in here, travelling all the way from Manchester. She would tell him if she wanted to visit.

“Mum?” He mumbled, much more like to himself while his feet taking him closer. Anne just smiled, raising her glass. “Why come home so late? It's 11.00 pm already.”

The first thing Harry did; hug his mother tightly, feeling so miss her. “What are you doing here? Why you didn't tell me you're here?”

“I just miss my dear son so much. I didn't want to bother you if I called you. Think a surprise would do something, did it?” Anne ruffled Harry's hair. Harry chuckled, letting his arms go. “Definitely.”

Anne took a good look over her son, she hadn't seen him in a few months, but it felt like years. In fact, she could have often to visit Harry, but she knew Harry would spend more time with his work. Harry wasn't someone who prioritize work over his family, no, he was just happy to work hard to make his family proud.

“I met Suzanne earlier and she cooked these delicious meals. Lucky I didn't wait for you in starving. It surprised me that she cooked the recipe that I gave.”

“Oh! No wonder Suzanne knew my favourite food. They were your original recipes, weren't they?”

“I just want to make sure my son always remembers his mother with those cooking recipes!”

Both of them laughed out loud, exchange stories here and there. His mother was a place where he could tell his story without having to care about people's judgement – of course, he wouldn't say something that makes Anne sad or worry. The last thing he wanted in the world was to see the sadness on his mother's face.

“I didn't see Clementia, where is she? Is she coming with you?” Harry asked, his eyes looking around his dining room. But he didn't see anyone but his mother.

“She had fallen asleep in the second room.” Anne shrugged, sipping her wine. “She's in her college break and came home since she was getting bored in Milan. So, I took her here.”

Harry was not the only child in the Styles family. He had a younger sister, Clementia, or used to be he called her Cece. She was a fashion design student in one of the best fashion schools in Italy. Thanks to Harry for successfully persuaded Anne to let her study abroad.

“If she wasn't lazy enough, she could explore the south-west. Really, really beautiful place.”

“She just missed her older brother so much, Harry.” Anne swatted her son's arm playfully. “Are you hungry? I think there are still leftovers for you.”

Harry shook his head, telling her he wanted to take a shower and go straight to sleep afterwards. After bidding her good night, Harry headed to his room.

The sun shone brightly this morning, replacing the moon in the sky. His feet soles froze when stepping on the cold bedroom floor. Harry slowly rose up from the bed, walking out from his room with the sleeping robe that was not perfectly tied, showing a little amount of his chest hair and his swallow tattoos. This morning felt more alive than usual. His mother was cooking while chatting with Suzanne, who helped her for breakfast. Then he found Clementia who was busy capturing the morning view of London from the living room.

He stunned in his spot for a short time, smiling over the nice ambience he rarely felt while living alone in London. This was rare, or almost never, his morning felt warm like this. Harry was accustomed to having breakfast alone, or at least with Suzanne – yet she cleaned the kitchen more often than accompanied him to having breakfast together.

“Why girls love to show off on Instagram like that?” His deep morning voice startled Clementia. Making her yelped in surprise. The girl threw her brand new phone, she tackled her brother in a big hug.

“I miss you so much, H!”

“Miss you too darling.” He hummed, rubbing her back. Anne just smiled, watching the interaction of her children.

“How did you know I was recording it for Instagram?” Clementia asked, releasing his body from her. She dropped her body to the couch, grabbing her phone.

“Because you're now posting in that Instagram story thingy.” He teased, glancing slightly to her screen – which displays Instagram feeds. He could see her icon now circled by pinkish colour.

“I'm amazed by the view! Your living room is insane. I mean, you can see the whole of London clearly as possible through this big glass. Hell, almost all of your living room's walls are glass.” She answered in awe.

“Enjoy while you're in London then.”

“Breakfast kids!” Anne shouted, placing her freshly cooked foods. Pulling his chair, Harry sat at the end of the marble table, his smile wide due to having companies for this morning's breakfast. He muttered small thank you when Anne got his plate.

“Hey, H. Any recommendations place for me today? The weather outside is nice for sightseeing.” Clementia asked while chewing her pancakes. Harry stopped, his pink lips pursed as if he was thinking hard. “If you enjoy some foods, try Maltby Street Market, or walking down the street in Camden or Soho?”

The siblings talked a lot to each other. Harry was the brother who always asks how her sister at school and what she learned while living abroad. While Clementia was a talkative little sister with her enormous curiosity. Anne just listened to them, sometimes talked to Suzanne about Harry's daily life.

After finishing his food, Harry put his plate in the dishwasher and getting ready to the office. Thirty minutes later, he appeared in his work suit. His unbuttoned red shirt clad his fit body, with a black suit jacket hanging on his arm. “I have to go, bye mum, Suzanne, and.. Cece.”

“Hey, how many times I have to tell you don't call me Cece!” Clementia yelled from her seat, making Anne pinch her arm playfully. She shook her head, watching her son closed the door while Cece still ranting.

“Mum, do you think I can pay him a visit in his office?” Clementia mumbled, asking Anne. Her mother just shrugged, “As long as you don't bother him.”

. . . .

Black boots stomped on the floor, eyes fixated straight as she walked into the building. The way she dressed up in a fancy Italian ready-to-wear brand catching every eye. Almost everyone in the room guessing the lady was a model for the way she walked and her clothing taste.

“Hi, I want to see Harry, please.” Her voice made Madeleine snapped her head on her desk. Looking at her from head to toe, not in a rude way. Standing in front of her, a female teenager who looked no more than seventeen years old. What did this little lady want to do with her boss?

“Err, Mr. Styles?” Madeleine asked in uncertainty. Even though this girl knew Harry, Harry might be not knowing her. She could be his stalker. Young people, these days could do whatever they want.

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Do you have an appointment? Can I have your name, Miss?” Madeleine flipped her book, eyes looking up and down her screen. Looking out if Harry had an appointment today.

“Tell him Clementia wants to see him.”

“Please wait. I’ll confirm with him.”

Meanwhile, Harry had Y/N over his office. Both of them were not really working. She made dumplings back at home before she went to the office and she thought it would be nice if she brought Harry her home-made food for lunch.

“You should bring me more homemade meals, you know? I could save my lunch break and do anything while chewing my lunch.” Harry said while clamping the dumpling with chopsticks.

“I think I could do that, something more simple than dumplings.”

“Mhm, this is very delicious.” He chewed, his tongue felt every taste that exploded on his mouth.

“Thank you, Harry.” Y/N nodded, happy that Harry liked her food. She only stared at him while he was eating, he looked really enjoy it.

Incoming call: 628 – Madeleine Brown

“Harry, Madeleine's calling you.” Y/N looked at his ringing office phone, Harry just nodded –gesturing her to pick up the phone, “Just pick up, please.”

“May I? Wouldn't she be wondering?”

“No need to worry, just pick up already.” Slowly, Y/N pick up the phone, saying hello before Madeleine told her someone outside his office wanted to see Harry. The person was waiting while they both talk.

“Harry, someone's want to see you. Madeleine said her name is.. Clementia?” She asked slowly, her eyes looking at him curiously. Hearing Clementia's name made him choke on his food, made Y/N bring his drink to his mouth, hands rubbing his back. She started to suspicious after seeing Harry's reaction. He looked so surprised. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's fine, send her in.”

Y/N told Madeleine to let this Clementia girl in. In thirty seconds, his door burst open. A young girl was no more than twenty years old standing confidently, her eyes squinting at the two of them. Y/N must admit this girl looked so stunning, and rich. Who was this girl? - her inner goddess folded her arms. Her insecurities began to lock her up. Was this his girlfriend?

“I don't know you have a companion, Harry.” She asked, eyes looking at Y/N cautiously. Harry rolled his eyes, “I don't know you're coming either, C.”

“I was going to take you out if you weren't busy, seems I was wrong.” She answered, pulling the vacant seat in front of them. “You don't want to introduce me to her?”

From the way Clementia asked, Y/N could sense a tease there. But she wasn't sure. She just sat next to Harry, didn't know what to do. Harry gathered up his lunch box, whispering thanks while rubbing Y/N's waist. Clementia chuckled, seeing that small – soft gesture her brother gives to this female next to him.

“C, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Clementia – the little sister.” Y/N offered her smile yet relieved smile, Clementia just waved her hand.

“I don't know you have a sister, Harry.”

Clementia widened her eyes, putting her hand on her chest – in disbelief. “You never told her about me? What a shame, Harry.”

“No, never. I just found out now.” Y/N beamed, looking at Harry and Clementia. Her eyes scanned her figure. While Harry has green eyes, she has bright hazel eyes. If she didn't know they are siblings, she would think they were not related.

“From all your dates – intimate time together, or even light conversation, he never talked about me? So sad.” She sighed, leaning back in her seat.

“Your sister looks sad, H.” Y/N mumbled, giving her an apologetic smile.

“I guess.. when you were on a date, I think it would be better to enjoy time together than talked about other people, wouldn't it?”

His sister just smirked right away, just intending to lure him to talk who was the woman in front of her. Clementia always admits her brother's type in women, but this woman seemed different. If usually she saw Harry with famous women. Y/N looked nothing to them. Not in a bad way, of course. She looked professional in her business attire, while she stared at her eyes, she could feel this woman so wonderfully smart – her gaze was soft but firm. When she opened his office door, she expected a girl sat on his lap like usual since his receptionist took a long time in the call. She guessed her brother was busy with someone.

She got her answer. And she liked Y/N already.

“Okay, I'll leave you two.” Y/N took his lunch box before she turned her heels, she threw a warm smile to Harry's sister. “Nice to meet you, Clementia.”

“You too, sist.”

“Oh, Y/N. I forget to return your clothes. Remind me tomorrow morning, yeah?” Harry said before Y/N opening his door.

“Why you don't just come to Harry's home tonight, Y/N? Mum would love to meet you.” Clementia spoke out of nowhere, “We will have dinner and you H, can return her clothes.”

Y/N stopped in her track while Harry was thinking. He would love the idea of Y/N meet his mother. Well, they've dated a few times, sharing kisses here and there. But...

“Sounds lovely. What do you think, Y/N?” He asked Y/N who was staring at the siblings dumbfounded. Meeting his mother? A woman who gave birth to this beautiful creature?

“I don't take a no. I'll let mum knows. Maybe I can take her shopping for dinner. Any food request? Do you have any special allergies, Y/N?” Clementia asked while typing in her phone, Y/N assumed that she's texting with their mother. “Thank you for the invitation, I would love to. But, I don't have any allergies.”

“Perfect then!” Clementia smiled, winking at her. Y/N nodded her head before heading out.

“So, tell me brother. How long have you been dating her? And why you didn't tell me first, at least?” Clementia asked him right away after Y/N closed his door.

“Why do you want to know?”

Clementia rolled her eyes, “It's not like I will threaten her or what. I just being overprotective to you, H. I know you're an adult. But, you were a kid when it's come from a relationships matter.”

“A kid?” Harry frowned, didn't expect himself being taught with a little girl in front of him. But, he was touched when Clementia admitted that she was protective to him.

“Looking back at your relationship history, you were the most heartbroken and disappointed one. I know you don't want to admit it. Just don't make the same mistake.” She said softly, “Okay, back to the question. Tell me about her! I have my own first impression of her but I want to hear from your perspective.”

“She's my assistant, honestly. Her office is next to me if you want to pay a visit.” Harry began, “I knew her for a few months because she's new here. If you really realise, she's the first normal woman I date. She's really nice, and kind. A smart young woman, and very independent of her own. She's beautiful, inside and out.”

Clementia nodded, watching her brother who was smiling himself. Sometimes chuckled on his own.

“What makes her attractive in your eyes. I know she's beautiful and smart, and.. polite.” She asked, “Honestly I was surprised to see her just sat casually beside you. Not trying to be seductive or sexy sitting on your.. thighs.”

“She respects me, and our jobs. She treats me as an ordinary person. She's hard to please, not easy to get.” He smiled, “I remembered one day I took her to have an ice cream date. Well, not really a date because I just told her so after that. The second time I wanted to ask her out, she told me to earn her before she said yes.”

“I was a little surprised because before she was really looking forward to our second date.” He added, shaking his head.

“And what you should earn?” Clementia asked in curiosity. Interested in his story.

“That part was a secret.” Harry grinned, make Clementia let out loud sigh. She didn't like her brother being too mysterious like that, yet she respects their privacy.

“I mean when you really like someone, yet you're confused about how to describe your feelings. Because, there are many things that make it hard for you to explain. Only you and your heart know those feeling.”

His sister nodded, didn't utter any words. But then she laughed when she saw Harry was smiling like an idiot. “I know you're happy, brother. But please don't smile like that.”

“I'm also confused why I can be this happy.” He shook his head, straighten up a bit.

“I guess because you haven't felt this way for a long time.” She hummed, “But I'm glad you're happy now. Just keep that happiness, H.”

Clementia went back to his penthouse after spending two hours in Harry's office. Harry was waiting in Y/N's office as she was getting ready to go. Madeleine has returned home so he didn't worry if anyone was suspicious of them, there was only the two of them here.

“I like your sister, she's such a goofball. But, I never saw her when I came to your home.” She said while stepping out of the lift, Harry's hand around her waist while her hand on his back. They know it was a bit risky if anyone saw them, but since they take the private exit, that was not that matter.

Yes, she was in his penthouse a few times, but she never saw Clementia. Was she busy admiring the luxury of his home? Every time she set foot in there, there was something always catches her attention. She even didn't remember if Harry had some pictures of his family.

“She's currently living in Milan for her study. That girl loves fashion design, so I kinda sent her there. Mum lives in Manchester, so I live alone here in London. It's always me or Suzanne.”

The parking lot was empty. His shiny black Porsche parked in his usual place, the one Y/N never seen in his private lot.

“Get in, darling.” Harry opened the passenger door, letting her climb in first. She grinned while thanking him, and let the door close. She pulled the safety belt over her when Harry climbed into the driver seat, ready to take her home.

The long drive to his home, Harry took Y/N her hands in his while another one stayed on the wheel. Sometimes he squeezed them to searching a comfort, or when he pissed with the traffic. Meanwhile, Y/N was having a thought about their relationship. It had been a few weeks, they constantly got out together if they had time –not always on the weekend. They talked, they laughed, they were holding hands, they hug, they kissed, but Harry hadn't dropped the question she was waiting for.

The car stopped when they reach the underground parking. He parked his car next to his other cars.

“Y/N, wait.” Harry put his hand over her clothed thigh, safety belt still wrapped their torso.

“Yes, Harry?” Her concerned eyes made his stomach churn. Actually, during the ride home, he thought to make their relationship official. Harry really, really liked her – all of her. The dates they'd had made him sure to take the next level. He just hoped that she also felt what he was feeling towards her right now.

Every time he looked at her, he could imagine someday he woke up next to her. Having breakfast together, or making dinner together. Everything above could happen if.. if she would say yes.

“I know we've been going on dates in the past few weeks.” He stopped for a while, made her mind flying everywhere. Did he not want to continue this after tonight? Did he realise that she wasn't what he wanted all the time?

If she wanted to be honest, one day Y/N tried to search his name on Google and it didn’t surprise her there were many articles about Harry. What made her insecure was he dated or even hook up with a few popular models and A-list celebrities.

“This may sound a bit cliché, but it's hard to find the right words.” He chuckled, “I know we only knew each other not too long. Yet, every time I spend with you, every single second we have together – you make me more human, and alive than before. I'm better human when I'm with you. I really love that feeling.” Harry scratched his neck, look nervous than before. His voice deeper in each word. His hand squeezing her thighs, he looked her right in the eyes. “I really, really like you. And I love the idea you're being my girlfriend. I'm excited about what futures may hold. I don't ask you just because we want to meet my mum, no. I think this is the right time for me to be honest with you. It's been weeks and I can't hold any longer.” He let out a relieved sigh, “And I'm mean it.”

After the sentences were spoken, Y/N didn't wait any more to grab his face and kissed him softly. Harry's hand wilding to her jaw, kissed her back tenderly.

“I love the idea of being your girlfriend too, Harry.” She whispered in his ear, making his skin itching in happiness. He smiled, “Good, now you're stuck with me.” and kissed her again. Their kissed getting more intense, Harry's hand eager to unlock her safety belt, feeling that thing held them back.

“Harry, Harry. Your mum and sister waiting for us.” She laughed while pushing Harry's torso softly. He just hummed an okay. She turned the dome light on, looking at her messy appearance in the rear-view mirror. She dug into her bag, finding her lipstick. Harry's hand stopped her when she wanted to apply to her lips.

“Let me.” He picked it and carefully applying the colour on his girlfriend's lips. Whoa, he liked the sound of it. His girlfriend...

Y/N waited patiently, while her eyes stole a glance at Harry. Her man looked so handsome when he was focused on something, but her attention was diverted to his nails that painted with pink glitter.

“That's pretty.” Harry muttered, placing the lipstick back to her palms. Y/N took a look at the mirror, shocking Harry did the job well. No wonder his nails always covered in colours neatly, “Thank you.”

“Mhm, c'mon darling.”

Harry climbed out first before opening the door for her. A small gesture that always made her smile. His hand led her in. The doorman bid them welcome with a warm smile.

“Your hands are shaking.” Harry said while the lift took them up, his right hand wrapped on Y/N's left, tucked them in his pocket. “Don't be nervous, it's just casual dinner.”

“And we're meeting your mum.” She muttered, waiting anxiously to lift stopped. Harry just smirked while squeezing her hand, “She doesn't bite, darling. Just breath.. nice and easy.”

Meanwhile, Clementia and Anne were preparing dinner. Yes, Clementia wasn't really good at cooking, but she could help Anne a little bit. And she was so excited. She didn't stop blabbering while helping her mother.

“You know, mum? I never expect Harry would go for his assistant.”

Anne frowned, wiping her wet hands. “And why about it?”

“No offence. But I kinda happy that he's no longer dating those boring models, you know? Yes, I love to talk about fashion and things but.. it would be more fun if you have a conversation with an educated woman.” She shrugged, picking a grape from its stems and bite it.

“And now you're saying your brother's ex-girlfriends aren't educated?” Anne stared at his daughter with squinting eyes, “Clementia you can't –”

“Mum!” She cried, “It's not what I mean. I secretly searched for her profile on the internet. Not much I got, sure since she's not famous, but what's surprising is.. she was representative of King College for United Nation Youth Forum! Imagine how smart she is.”

“At least you now have motivation for your studies.” Anne laughed, “But, that's creepy you were stalking her profile.”

“I know.” She sighed, “But it's not for bad things, I promise.”

Anne bit her lip, “But does he look happy?”

“I've never seen Harry so happy before. Have you ever seen Harry was smiling alone like a fool?”

“No.”

“Exactly!” Clementia snapped her fingers, looking at Anne. “We will see.”

Y/N never imagined she would be panicking like this, she tried to calm herself down, but she couldn't. Sure meeting your boyfriend's parent was something nerve-wrecker, let alone the relationship just started. What she would think of you? Did you worthily enough for him? Did you fit enough in his life? Y/N thought she would pass out right away if she thought too much about it. She didn't realise they were standing in front of his door already.

“Here they are!” Clementia squealed while she opened the door for them and quickly gave Y/N a hug.

“You must be cooked something special. Its smell delicious from here.” Y/N said warmly.

“Mum made Curry, Shepherd’s Pie, and something still in the cooking.” Clementia answered while winking at Harry. She closed the door as Harry led his girlfriend to the kitchen, finding her mum stirring the pot.

“Hey, mum.” Harry kissed Anne's cheek, “Where's Suzanne?”

“Hi, sweetheart. I let her go home early because I was the one who cooking tonight.” She pinched Harry's cheek playfully, making him groan in annoyed. Y/N just smile watching both of them, reminded her of her mother.

“Hi, dear! I'm Anne, Harry's mother. You must be, Y/N?” She never expected Harry's mother would hug her like they had known each other for a long time. She happily embraces Anne into her arm, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Styles.”

“Oh, shush! Call me Anne.” She smiled gently, “Take a seat. Dinner is ready.”

As usual, Harry took his seat on the edge. Y/N sat next to Clementia since she assumed Anne would take the seat next to her son. But, being the cheeky she was, Clementia shooed her away and said that Anne bored enough sitting next to her brother.

“Clementia said she met you at Harry's office, Y/N.” Anne started the conversation when she saw everyone enjoy her cooking.

“Mhm, I work for Harry – just moved from Swansea office.”

“She's my assistant, mum. The smartest one I've ever had if I may say.” Harry added, bobbing his head. Anne just nodded, “That's surprising.”

That one made Y/N's stomach twist. Was that negative? Or the opposite? She knew that an employee dating their boss was.. weird, and breaking the company rules. Seemed not unprofessional at all. But, when they were at work, they work like usual.. a boss and employee, nothing romance included. They were careful enough when they were together. Her inner goddess told Y/N she should have asked Harry about that thing.

“Not in a bad way, of course.” Anne said when she saw Y/N's face turned slightly uncomfortable. “Tell me, how's work with Harry? He's didn't put you on stress, no?

“Harry is nice. Help me a lot, and a perfectly hard worker. Sometimes we had to stay late in the office, but he made sure that I didn't overwork. We have a lot of work to be done in 24 hours, we help each other to finish on time.”

“She always patient with me. I think her days in college taught her extra patience.” Harry smiled, his hand sneaking down the table, rubbing her thigh in assurance. He could feel her hand on top him. Within a few inches, Anne saw them smiling at each other. Their own eyes speak reassurance. She clearly saw from her son eye's, he was clearly adoring the girl next to her. Something that she hadn't seen for a while.

“Whoa, you were a college girl? Tell me, how did you survive? I just start my semester, but I feel like I just wanna run away.” Clementia asked in awe, maybe Y/N could encourage her sometimes lazy mind to fight with her course. Y/N laughed, definitely understand with her frustration, there were times when she cried all day because she feels overwhelmed over her assignments. “That time I just thought.. don't waste my full scholarship, I was struggling enough to get into Kings' College. My parents are waiting for me to come back home with that degree.”

“King's College? so... she's smart.. smart.” Clementia beamed. Anne playfully jabs her side, “Take a note from her, don't disappoint your brother.”

“I heard you're studying in Milan? How's it there? I really want to visit Italy one day.” She asked softly, staring at Clementia who was grinning widely, “Italy is.. something else. Italy is more romantic than France, no offence! Florence and Positano are my top picks, and Sicily too.”

“Maybe we could visit you someday, C. And having a family holiday.” Harry said as he faced down his cutlery, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Anne nodded in agreement, they haven't spent time together outside for a long time, “You should take a schedule off, dear. Before you visit Clementia, try to visit your mother, bring Y/N too. Manchester is not so far from London.”

“Oh, mum..” Harry chuckled, his eyes stared lovingly to his mother. “Don't make me feel bad.”

“Hey, Y/N. Could you do me a favour to persuade him to visit me often? I believe he would hear you over me.” She winked, ignoring Harry's pleading eyes.

“I'll try my best.” Y/N smiled, giving Harry side-eye.

Dinner was fun. They most likely talked about each other life. Y/N just learnt that Anne had Harry when she was twenty-two, and Clementia is eighteen now. Their father, Igor Styles, sadly passed away two day after Harry's master graduation ceremony due to heart attack – leaving them with growing companies to take care of. Since then, Harry took over his father's companies and work his ass off.

Harry was smiling so hard when his favourites women, his mum, his girlfriend, his sister, could get along quickly. Clementia made him surprised because the girl was so welcome to Y/N. She was usually quite hard to warm to his girlfriends before.

The way her son hold his lady, Anne knew that he was so smitten. She understood that Harry wanted to spend time alone with Y/N because from what she had heard, they often had to rearrange their date because of sudden upcoming work.

She wouldn't be mad because right now Harry prefers to cuddle with other women than her, because Anne would always have Harry by her side no matter what. She just hoped his son would find his final lover soon.

This new Harry was not the same as the old Harry. Anne was used to be met two different women in his arms in a span of three months. And that made her worry.

Harry was an adult, he made his choice and Anne couldn’t do much. She just gave him her advice here and there, especially for settling down.

In Y/N, she believed – but not too much.

From the way she talked, the way she laughed over unfunny jokes that Harry made, the way she’s spoken out about her perspective – her vision. Anne could trusted her.

Earlier simple gestured that the girl showed, she collected all dirty plates and cutlery not worrying about dirty and wet food waste – some women Harry used to date found it gross and refused to cleanse– well all of them were spoiled brat rich people – Anne called. At least she knew Y/N was familiar with housework. Not to forget she was smart enough from the way she responded about the current happening global issues.

She wanted her son to find a modest woman and not using him for their personal advantage. She preferred Harry with someone who was regular than the famous one yet she couldn’t do anything but waste his money.

Anne clearly heard their loud laughter even they were in the balcony. Not knowing what they laughed about. She just prayed she could always hear that from both of them.

“Harry looks happy.” Clementia leaned on the countertop, watching his brother tickling Y/N. “I don’t know this could turn into their date.”

“Let them be, C. I barely see your brother laughing out load.” Anne snickered, “Have you taken her clothes? Harry was asking you, wasn’t he?”

“Haven’t yet, I don’t know where he put it in his room. I wanted to ask, but I don’t want to bother them.”

“Let me dig his wardrobe then.”

Anne opens his son's bedroom – looking at all grey-brown theme. His bedroom smells like Tonka bean and Cedarwood. She could identify Y/N's folded clothes on his bed, who else if it's not hers. Anne grinned when she found a photograph of her family in his wall. She spotted a few medicine bottles on the nightstand. Her curiosity mind pushed her to take it, reading every label carefully. Harry didn't tell her he was on medication.

Prozac.

She was not familiar with the names. Might be common vitamins. So, she didn't take it seriously.

“Here's your clothes, Y/N. Don't be surprised if it smells like Harry.” Anne handed Y/N's clothes in a paper bag, giving Harry a wink.

“Thank you.” Y/N beamed, “I should go home now. Thank you for your delicious meals, Anne. Maybe one day I will ask you some food recipes if you don't mind of course.”

“I just one phone call away, dear.” She nodded, “Why don't you just stay the night, Y/N? It's already late, and tomorrow it's Saturday.”

“Oh, I don't want to bother you guys. I'm fine.” Y/N politely declined, didn't want to overstay her welcome. After all, she didn't want to bother their family time.

“That's a good idea, honestly. We don't have any urgent tasks to be done over the weekend. You can stay here until Sunday too if you want.” Harry agreed, the idea of his girlfriend stayed the night was quite exciting to him.

“Oh no, really. I'm fine– ”

“This time I don't take a no. I'll show your room, yeah? Harry squeaked, taking her hand. “Or, do you wanna sleep with me in my bedroom?” He asked cheekily.

Y/N widened her eyes, “Harry! I didn’t even bring any stuff to stay overnight.”

“We insist, darling. Besides, I think we have spare toiletries. You can wear Clementia's clothes. ” Anne chuckled, “If you want to stay with Harry, just don't make loud noises in the middle night.” She winked, leaving them both. “Oh! I'll bring you her sleepwear.”

“Oh my god.” Y/N grimaced, squinting her eyes. She was sure her cheeks getting red now.

“Hey, don't listen to her. She's joking.” Harry took her to his embrace, kissing her shoulder. “I'll take you to your room.”

Her room for the night no less spectacular than the other room she ever saw, the space was even almost equal to her whole apartment. While Anne and Clementia took rooms in the hall facing the Thames, her room, which next to Harry was in the other hall facing skyscraper building.

“I don't know if you want to stay with me or not, but I give you your own space. If you need anything, just knock on my door.” He said softly.

“Okay, thank you for letting me stay, H.” She smiled. Before she got the chance to bid him good night, he brought her face closer, kissing her lips dearly. She giggled, tangling his curls in her fingers.

“Good night, sleep well sweetheart.” Harry poked her nose softly, and disappear behind his door.

. . . .

His chest ache, while his body wet with sweat. The air conditioner apparently didn't succeed in making him cool, he kept moving in his sleep.

“Y/N.” He moaned, eyes squinting in pleasure and.. pain. His panting breath filled his room, “Oh my god, fuck.”

“Y/N –darling, baby.” Harry groaned, face dripping with sweat. In split seconds, his eyes shot open. Looking around his room, his hand patted the vacant side next to him. He sighed when he didn't find Y/N laying there. Rubbing his face, he chuckled in to realise that was just his fantasy. In his dream, they were having sex somewhere in Italy. He pounded hard into her while sun setting behind them.

He laughed, how the hell he had a wet dream about his one day girlfriend?

Looking at the clock, it was past two in the night. He decided to clean his self, taking a glass of water, and go back to bed.

His sleepiness disappeared after he washed his face, but how shocked he was when he saw Marcel in his bathroom mirror. Grinning evilly.

“How fun to dream about your girlfriend, well she managed to make you orgasm like that.”

“What do you want, Marcel? I have my family and her over, don't make a scene.”

“I was wondering.. did she hear you? She's sleeping in the next room, isn't she?” He scoffed, “I could just sneak into her room and have sex with her, you know?”

“Don't, Marcel.” Harry gritted his teeth, hands balled.

“How's she feels? Bet she's sweet, dripping like honey. Just imagine, she screams my name instead of you.”

Harry couldn't contain it anymore, his fist punched the mirror making a loud noise along with broken pieces fell to the floor. Marcel disappeared, with his blood pouring from his fist. Little did he know, Anne jolted from her sleep when the sound of broken glass ringing through her ear.

Harry rushed out of his room, then opened Y/N's door – relieved to find that she was still deep asleep, surely not hearing that sounds. Yet, Anne standing in the hall made him frowned. His bloody fist tucked behind his back.

“Mum? Why are you up?” He asked warily.

“I heard something shattered. What happened, Harry?” She asked him back curiously. Her son shook his head, but the way blood dripping to the floor made her sprint towards him. She gasped when looking at Harry's knuckles. “What are you doing? What happened? Why is your hand bleeding like this?”

“I accidentally broke a glass because.. I was half asleep when I went to the bathroom, and.. my reflection made me shock.” Harry scratched his neck with his clean hand, no matter how badly he wanted to lie, Harry could never lie to his mother.

“You clumsy little thing, making me worry.” Anne sighed, “Let me clean your hand.”

“I'm sorry to wake you up.” He mumbled, slightly grimace as Anne patting his knuckles with antiseptic.

“No need to be sorry, darling. It's okay.”

Harry whispered small thank you after his mother bandaged his wounds. Anne smiled sadly, sometimes forgot that her son had grown up, blaming that time flies so fast. Even his physique changes –blossoming into a beautiful man– he was still her baby.

“Harry?”

“Mhm?”

Before she asked him something that bothered her, was it appropriate to ask him? That was his privacy, but she was his mother after all. “I see some medicinal bottles in your room, the names aren't common for vitamins. Are you currently on a particular medication?”

He was speechless, didn't know how to react. He hadn't thought that he was so careless to put the medicines. What should he do? . . Please excuse some errors.

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hattin1 · 4 years

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runswith · 5 years

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Travel notes: England,. Entry 2 - December 18, 2003

A week ago, Thursday morning -- the plane lifted off in Madrid off, sun beginning to poke its way into view in the eastern sky. We headed north, were greeted in London by gray skies, cold temperatures, rain. Weather that remains pretty much the case for the next three days. Bugger.

Sunday morning -- I drag myself out of bed early to catch a train north to Stoke-on-Trent. The clouds are gone, leaving blue sky and brightening sunlight As it's Sunday morning, most sane British humans are home in bed, few trains are running. Those of us foolish enough to attempt travel in a northerly direction get herded onto buses which take us from London to Northampton, where further transport awaits. From there, I find myself on a beautiful, sleek train moving through towns with names like Rugby, Nuneaton, Tarworth. One other traveler shares that coach with me, tranquility reigns. As we move north, clouds creep into view. The sunlight dims, then disappears. Showers start up. We pull into Stoke-on-Trent to find gray skies, cold temperatures, rain.

But. Next morning: clouds give way to sunshine, and that's how the rest of my time in Stoke goes. Clear skies. So nice. Cold, yes -- people bundled up, cheeks red, the mornings revealing ground and cars covered with thick, heavy frost -- but with plenty of sunshine.

My mate D. took me to an old pub/restaurant not far from Stoke for a satisfying meat ‘n' potatoes style lunch, the place filled with young couples and groups of old folks. And one 30ish Japanese couple with a mighty active young child, a boy -- happy, curious, providing loads of entertainment.

We spent Sunday afternoon in Stoke's ceramics museum -- an interesting place, way more interesting, it turned out, than the term ‘ceramics museum' might indicate.

Dinner with five of D.'s friends happened at an Indian restaurant whose decorative scheme featured framed prints of Salvador Dalí paintings, along with other, more typically English, scenes (as the in-house sound system pumped out Indian techno-pop). We were a high-spirited bunch, too rambunctious for our waiter, whose low opinion of us was confirmed when we spent half an hour at meal's end playing a game in which everyone wrote the name of a well-known personality on a piece of paper, stuck it on the forehead of the person sitting next to them (so everyone but the person wearing the name knew who they are), who then asked yes/no questions of the rest of the group until each figured out the name on their forehead. Funnier (and more frustrating) than it sounds. Two 20-something Brit males who arrived to dine went a bit wild upon spotting us paper-foreheaded types, trying to paste cloth napkins to their foreheads in mocking imitation. When it became clear their commentary had no effect on us, they turned their attention elsewhere. The waiter's low opinion of us never seemed to waiver.

Next day brought a field trip to Manchester, an hour north. The city: a blend of industrial and modern post-industrial. Lots of energy & interesting scenery. Pretty good fish and chips. Clouds and rain traded off with periods of sunlight.

The day of the return to London began with an 8 a.m. train to London., a two-hour train featuring a slow transition from darkness to light, rolling countryside and towns whizzing past (flashes of church steeples, dark rows of tired looking homes), daylight slowly revealing a dramatic mid-December morning, turbulent skies looming over fields blanched with frost.

And then London -- packed Underground trains, streets and stations filled with rivers of people striding intently on to their day. The loudest sounds: the fast-moving footsteps of many, many people, voices talking into cellphones, discussing meetings, deals, papers that will or won't be signed.

Stashed my luggage, hoovered down a plate of pretty good breakfast food at a greasy spoon near the station, gravitated to the South Bank. Checked out an overhyped Dalí exhibition ( “The one thing of which the world will never have enough is exaggeration.” - Salvador Dali), passed the rest of the afternoon wandering about, watching people, activity.

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marlahey · 5 years

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we stumbled in the dark: part fourteen sneak peek

...hi.

so I know it’s been about 84 years, but the good news is that part 14 of wsitd is still going (slowly but surely) and the last scene of this chapter is still as vivid in my head as it was last year when I first envisioned the fic. it’s coming, I promise. it was my ride or die shawn bff @bluerroses‘ birthday on the 30th and I gifted her an extra scene from wstid, one that isn’t included in the original fic. @mendesftoakley also asked for a jetlag!shawn thing the other week which I’d wanted to write and then got totally distracted – all that’s to say, here’s a deleted scene that ended up being so massive it’ll probably stay, set in the middle of the night post-part 13. to everyone who reached out to me after my minor rage freak out re: shawn and the state of his fandom and wsitd, much love. every time I think my love for this boy’s faded to something reasonable, he comes out with tour videos that make my chest ache cause he moves me so damn much. happy belated, to both grace and my darling one. I love you. new york; now It’s 2:24 am. You’re wide awake. Shawn, of course, is fast asleep. His fingers are still curled into the edges of your t-shirt and the part of you that isn’t annoyed at his peaceful slumber aches a little at the innocence of the gesture. Just a boy. You toy with the idea of just laying here a while longer, but now that you’ve thought about it a trip to the bathroom is in order and it’s not as if you’re going to fall back asleep anytime soon. Stupid jetlag.

So you get up. You reach for Shawn’s Harvard hoodie tossed to the end of the bed (because it’s closer than yours, obviously, not because it smells like him) and pad as softly as you can to the door. From the bathroom you head down the stairs, following a wash of light into the kitchen. Taylor whirls around from the open freezer, holding a pint of ice cream and looking guilty. “Oh god, I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.”

“No,” you reply quickly. “I was already up, you’re fine.” Her shoulders relax and Taylor grins a little sheepishly, as though this isn’t her house and she’d be caught doing something illicit.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “I don’t get how he’s just...out like a light. So annoying.”The unspoken intimacy is already out before you can even think to take it back, but she just laughs lightly. “His body’s used to it.” Taylor reaches into a drawer for a spoon. “Want some? Mint chocolate chip.”

It’s probably a bad idea, but you shrug and accept the utensil as Taylor gathers another spoon, two shallow bowls and an ice cream scoop. “How was your party?”

Taylor scoops you just enough for a couple bites and you smile gratefully. “It was fine. I mean, good. But I haven’t been out in a while and it’s kinda draining being really social for a long time, you know?” You think of all the times Shawn’s opted to sit in companionable silence with you instead of a last round or a second after party. “Yeah, sure.” “I’ll make you a warm turmeric milk,” Taylor offers. Even the way she twists her wrist to pick up ice cream seems graceful. “Worse case, I have melatonin somewhere.” “You’re not tired?” “Not yet. Takes me a while to wind down. How was your night? You guys have fun?” It’s an innocent question, but a flush crawls up your neck all the same. You shove a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth and “Mhmm!” Taylor’s smille crinkles around her eyes; she doesn’t press you. “Tell me about tour,” she says instead. “What’s been your favourite place? Your favourite show?” It takes a moment of consideration. You tell her about Paris and its glittering lights and birthday sparklers and candles. You tell her about Manchester and Youth. You tell her about Morgan on the barricade in London. You hardly mention Shawn by name and yet he’s there, lingering at the edges of all your sentences and inside your pauses. Taylor makes you a warm golden milk with turmeric and you drink while you talk. When you yawn, surprising somehow like you’d forgotten how, she presses melatonin into your hand. “Get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” So up you go. Equally surprising is the strip of light at the bottom of Taylor’s guest bedroom door. Shawn’s slouched against the headboard, the blue light of his phone illuminating his face while the bedside lamp casts a long, warm veil over the rest of the room. “Hey,” you say softly, closing the door behind you. “Did I wake you?” He shakes his head. “Woke up and you were gone.” Something about the edge of sleep still in his voice makes it sound oddly vulnerable. “You okay? Is Taylor back? I thought I could hear you talking.” “Yeah, I am. And she is. I couldn’t sleep and she was getting ice cream.” He’s staring a little as you put down the mug of warm milk on the bedside table. “What?” Shawn blinks. “Nothing.” His eyes linger on the place where his hoodie meets your shorts and you flush. “Sorry,” you blurt, suddenly self-conscious. “It was just closer, I–” “El.” He drags your gaze back up. “I don’t mind. It looks good on you.” Shawn’s smile is tilted in that familiar, teasing way; you roll your eyes, but you let him reach across the bed and pull you closer to him until you sit up facing each other. You let him help you tug the sweater over your head and you let his eyes catch on your stomach, your ribs, the shadowed curve of your breast before your t-shirt falls back down. You turn out the light. Shawn presses his face into the slope of your neck and breathes deeply. “Loonie for your thoughts,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, kneading gently over his neck with your fingertips until he groans. Shawn’s so quiet at first that you think he may have fallen back asleep sitting up. “Can I ask you something?” In the moonlight he’s more pale than ever. You hum in reply. The hand pressing tiny circles against the small of your back goes still. “About Hannah?” You don’t mean to flinch; Shawn’s grip tightens, just a little. You swallow and speak before he can take it back. “What about her?” Shawn straightens to look you in the eye, equal parts calm and unsure. “You get this look on your face when you talk to her, or about her. Even way back in Ottawa.” The realization that Shawn’s apparently been looking at you since the night you met is disarming, to put it mildly. It’s suddenly hard to focus on the conversation. “I know you guys haven’t–” he pauses– “talked in a while, but...” Shawn reaches forward with his free hand and thumbs gently at an unconscious furrow between your eyebrows. “I still see that look.” Something like shame burns in your throat. You look down at the bedspread. Shawn waits patiently as you pick up his swallow hand, tracing the lines of its wings. “I don’t have that big of an ego to think this is all about me,” he continues wryly. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I just...” You’re expecting him to tilt your chin up, to force you to look at him, but Shawn ducks his head a little and doesn’t look hurt when you can barely meet his gaze. “I was just wondering where you go when you look so far away.” You’re genuinely stunned into silence. A response, as much as you want to give him one, refuses to surface. And Shawn seems to be able to see the blank panic in your expression, because he just leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Never mind,” he says gently. “Just forget I asked.” You can feel him about to lean back, to give you space, to seek silent permission before he tugs you back beneath the covers so you can actually try to sleep. No disappoint, no malice, no distrust. You think, I am truly and deeply in love with you. You say, “She gave me a marker.” Shawn doesn’t say anything. He folds his hand around yours. “When my parents died the therapist said that routines were good, so I went back to school but everyone was like, weird, you know? And then one day we were supposed to make Mother’s Day gifts but I didn’t know what to do. My teacher said I could make something for my sister, but I’d left my colours at home.” You haven’t thought about that day in a long time. Shawn’s left hand touches your wrist; you follow the lines of his right palm. Comfort; comforted. “Hannah gave me her marker. And then everyone just stopped looking at me and we all coloured flowers. The next day I helped her learn long division and we’ve been best friends ever since.” You try to smile but you’re fairly certain the curve isn’t quite right. Shawn brushes your hair back as it falls forward. The gesture is so familiar now that it feels strange to remember he hasn’t always been doing it, that his touch hasn’t always been a tender, thrilling reminder: you’re here. this is real. you’re alive. His own smile is a little better formed, encouraging instead of patronizing. “Sometimes she’s awful,” you continue. “She can get petty and jealous.” You don’t mean to say what comes out next. “The week before Ava brought me to Ottawa we’d gone to a party and she made out with my one and only real ex boyfriend.” Shawn’s eyes widen, but still he stays quiet. It’s the only way you’re able to keep talking. “She was drunk, and she says she doesn’t even remember. He says she tried to take his clothes off, but he’s also a piece of shit, so…” You let out a tiny, bitter laugh. “And I forgave her, because what else was I supposed to do? And then Ava sent those tickets and you–“ Shawn’s fingers freeze, just for a breath, behind your ear. You try to smile again and it’s like lifting a weight you can only just barely get off the floor. “You were so wonderful and part of me was still so mad at her.” That earlier shame presses a knot in your throat. “And I knew I had to keep the secret but part of me was awful, too. I wanted to. It was something that was just mine, that I never had to share or have her judge or want for herself.” “I don’t think that’s awful,” he says softly. You shrug. Tears slide past your nose. He thumbs them away but doesn’t otherwise move. “I know she didn’t leak the news about us.” Now that you’ve gotten this far you’re determined to finish. “But I don’t know if I can forgive her for the way she made me feel about it. Or if I can forgive myself for letting her make me feel that way.” Shawn’s edges are a little blurry when you finally lift your chin. “I still love her, isn’t that fucked up? What kind of person does that make me?” He doesn’t speak for a long time. You have no idea how one drags themselves out of the emotional hole you’ve dug. Before you can let Shawn off the hook, or apologize for dumping seven years of emotional baggage onto him, he pulls you forward and folds you into his arms. “Do you want me to say something,” he asks, pressing his chin against the top of your head. “Or do you just want this?” The weight of this confession is so heavy that no longer having to carry it alone pulls you off balance. You slip your hand underneath his collar to pull Saint Christopher out. When you can speak without a sob swallowing your words, you let go of the chain. “You can say something.” Shawn kisses the crown of your hair. “You can feel however you want, whenever you want. You shouldn’t have to hide it. And you don’t have to, not from me. Okay?” You can’t reply. You just sniff into the collar of his t-shirt. His hand smooths up and down your spine. “I don’t think that forgiveness is a bad thing, El. Especially for yourself.” You’re shuddering with the effort of breathing normally instead of hiccuping. Shawn just gathers you closer. He doesn’t shush you, but just murmurs softly in your ear, “It’s okay. I’m here. I got you.” You’re still clinging to him when you fall asleep.

#shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes #shawn mendes writing #wsitd #mine: fic #wsitd is back from war sorry

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felixoffelicis · 6 years

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Intro to Bite (HPfic)<pending>

A/N Im posting this here cause its not letting me send it to my friend through PM. This is just the intro of what im currently working on, and if I end up posting it ill do so on my wp account @Falling_Snow.

The event that changed everything for me had been simple and unimportant, something that I'd forgotten about a couple days after it happened. It wasn't violent or fear-inducing. There was no struggle or cry for help, and the act itself had only taken a split-second of my time when it happened. However, that one event would create a personalised hell that I'd never be able to escape no matter how hard I tried or how hard I tried to kill myself. An innocent action that spawned the blessing I considered to be the curse of Death himself.

Looking at the beetle that was the size of my closed fist, it was hard to think that the thing could ever hurt me, despite my father's strong statement that I shouldn't play with anything he brought home from his work at the Ministry. Not heeding his warnings, I had done so anyway. I was only ten, and of all the things my father brought home to work on, a beetle seemed like an innocent thing to inspect.

I'd been naive when I'd thought that the beetle was completely harmless, and when it had bitten my arm I had simply been annoyed rather than in pain or anything of the sort. I'd just put the beetle back in its cage as retaliation and gone on with my life, forgetting it had ever even happened.

There'd been no sudden fever or burst of unimaginable pain, no superpowers like the muggle comics, no evidence that anything had changed. It left no mark to my skin despite breaking the surface, and my child-self was content with putting a plaster over it and forgetting the whole thing.

I grew up.

I finished my magical education at Durmstrang and made lots of friends before my family decided it was best to move to Muggle London for my father's job at the Department of Mysteries. I met a muggle girl there named Kristen and pretty soon I found myself telling her about the magic world, asking her to marry me only a few days later when she accepted me wholeheartedly.

I became an Auror at the Ministry of Magic and after finding a natural talent for the detective work behind Magical crime I was promoted to Detective, and soon after that, Head Detective. All the while, Kristen cared for our two children, Rosealine May Skokvist and William Quinn Skokvist, one of muggle blood and one of wizard blood, both loved dearly despite their differences.

I solved crimes at the Ministry and watched my children grow into kind and talented adults. I walked my daughter down the aisle when she married a muggle tailor in London, and I was there when my son became a Potions Master and received his certification at the Ministry. I was infinitely proud of them both and cried when I held my grandson for the first time in a muggle hospital room.

However, it wasn't long after that I returned to that same hospital with Kristen, where a doctor told us she was very sick and wouldn't last for much longer.

I took her to every Healer at St. Mungos I could, but they could do nothing for her. I was holding her hand firmly in my grasp when she passed, becoming numb to my surroundings as the funeral was planned by my son and daughter, both of which who constantly were at my side through everything.

I buried myself in my work then, choosing to be productive rather than wallow in my sorrow. Kristen wouldn't have wanted me to stop my life just because she was gone and I was determined to live the best life I could for her until I could see her again in the afterlife.

Yet, I became reckless and flippant with my life after that, taking on more dangerous cases that my coworkers advised me not to pursue. Which is how I ended up in a duel in an alleyway in Manchester, swapping spells with a much younger and stronger wizard than myself. No matter how much I trained to become an Auror, there was still nothing I could do when I saw a green spell flying towards me in what felt like slow motion.

I thought of my kids and how they were going to take the news of my death. I thought of my 6-year-old grandson whose birthday was coming up in 3 months. I thought of Kristen holding my hand that night she left. I thought of all the things I'd never gotten to do and the people I'd never made amends with. I thought of how incomplete I was leaving things.

But that killing curse never hit me.

Instead, time itself seemed to stop completely and I was left staring at the curse that was inches from my chest.

Then, slowly, time resumed, but it didn't resume forwards. As images flashed in front of my face at a speed that I couldn't even register, I began to realise that this was it, this was what death was like.

This was my life flashing before my eyes, and soon there'd be a white light that would lead to the afterlife or maybe even just a void of nothing, whatever was there I was about to find out.

The white light came soon enough, exactly as how it was described in books and muggle films, blinding me to a point where I had to blink a few times to adjust my eyes. But when I opened my eyes and registered the image I was seeing, I couldn't quite comprehend what was in front of me. It seemed completely impossible.

I was on the back porch of my childhood home in Sweden, with a light summer breeze gently brushing my semi-long hair away from my face in a way that baffled me even further. I hadn't had my hair this long since I was a child, and with my current surroundings, I wasn't sure what to expect next.

Was this the afterlife?

As I took in my surroundings once more and registered what was in front of me, I felt my breath catch in my throat, because there, on my hand, it's tiny little fangs having just left my skin, was that beetle that had bitten me so many years ago.

The golden pattern on it's back shimmered in the sunlight of the early afternoon, exactly the way I remembered it to when I'd been a kid.

I sat there for a moment, not noticing or caring as the beetle scuttled off beneath the old boards of the porch, leaving me in stunned silence.

Here I was, a ten-year-old boy again and there were no signs of Death lurking around the corner, come to take me to the afterlife I was supposed to be at right now. Was this really the afterlife? Was I dead? It all felt real, and as my mother called me to come inside for lunch I wasn't sure what my next step should be.

The beetle I'd been bitten by was a scarabaeus tempus, a beetle used in the creation of time turners once they were crushed up, and a beetle I knew shouldn't have done anything to me with a bite. I'd heard my father talk about the beetles countless times for his work, and never once had he mentioned the possibility of what I was currently experiencing; albeit, nobody would know until it came to their death. But even then-- I should have died, there should've been-- Why was I here? Why--? None of this made any sense.

I looked down at the small barely visible mark that the beetle had caused, the wound hardly bleeding at all and easily explained as a simple bug bite once I'd wiped away the blood. I knew I still had to be in some form of shock, wondering if this was Death's idea of a joke, and if it was then I wanted him to know I didn't find it funny.

Somehow, I was stuck in a giant time loop.

I'd lost my life, my kids were gone, my job was probably still occupied by that bigot Riley Morris who had it before me, and there was the possibility that even if I killed myself right now I'd just return right back to the moment after I'd been bitten by that beetle.

After a few minutes of truly processing this, I realised I was crying, and even when I noticed it I didn't stop. I had just lost and gained my entire world, and now I didn't know what to do with it.

It was all gone.

My life had completely been swept clean and given back to me anew.

My parents were alive here, my wife was out there somewhere, and I was easily the most skilled Detective the Ministry had ever had and it would be easy to retake my position.

But did I want to?

Kristen wouldn't know who I was, I'd already solved every case that would now be presented to me, and the children I might have with Kristen in this life might be completely different than Rosaline and William. Could I live with myself, knowing that I knew everything about them and they knew nothing of me? If I went to go find my wife 10 years from now would she call me a stalker for knowing so much?

What was I supposed to do now?

Did I continue living what I had before all over again, or did I live something else?

I hadn't even gotten my Durmstrang letter yet, and I wasn't even entirely sure I wanted to receive it after already knowing so much magic. I'd be light years ahead of any first-year student.

My second run through the loop, I disappeared.

Using ageing potions to make myself appear older than I was, I immigrated to France, working small jobs and reading up on anything and everything to do with time magic. Eventually, I became well-known in my field under a pen name where I published much of my research, still not coming close to the reason why I was here.

I still mourned the children that were never born in this time loop, but I stayed away from Kristen, only ever finding her a year before I knew her cancer would grow worse and giving her a letter stripped of anything that authorities could trace back to me. I knew I wouldn't have the strength to face her myself. After all, in a life where she never met me, she already had another at her side when I set the letter on her doorstep.

At first, it hurt to know that the Kristen of this time had someone else, but I had to remind myself that this wouldn't be my Kristen, and she never would be. It was lonely, but I spent that time doing things I'd always wanted to do instead of wallowing in self-pity for myself.

I invested in muggle products I knew would get big in the future thanks to my knowledge of it and spent a lot of my time in muggle casinos and fancy hotels, not ever truly enjoying the cash when I knew all it took was one trip down the stairs to take it away and set me back to where I was on that porch. Yet, there was still that conflicted hopefulness in whether or not I'd die or not.

As the years dragged on and my 77th birthday passed by without a killing curse aimed at my chest, I began to seek more purpose, investing myself to politics and working my way through position after position until I was elected into being France's Minister of Magic at 79.

I carried the position with pride and found real purpose in it, doing everything in my power to bring the French magical community times of peace and valuable change for the better. I tore down prejudiced laws and allowed my people more freedom, doing my best to form a personal connection with those who I led.

However, I retired soon after my 90th birthday, spending the rest of my life in a forest cottage in the French hills, taking up a hobby for woodcraft and constructing furniture before I "died" at 128, my body going through the reversal process again as my second life in the time loop flashed before my eyes.

Once again I was on that back porch.

The third life I knew what I was doing and didn't waste time. I went directly to my father and told him what had happened to me, forcing him to understand just how dire this situation was, and he listened, even though his ten-year-old son seemed to have just lost his mind.

We worked day and night on trying to understand what was wrong with me, the prior knowledge I had from my second run through the loop still cemented in my brain even though I hadn't been able to take it with me. I didn't have any of my notes or research, but I still had enough new information for my father to patch together things in his own research at the Department of Mysteries.

But no answer made itself known.

I began to study genetic magic, making groundbreaking discoveries at the age of 14 that I kept to myself to avoid major outrage. The Muggles were close enough to making designer babies, I didn't need witches and wizards getting their hands on the same ideas.

The only answers I could find in my new field of study led to more and more questions, seeing as whatever the beetle had done to me must've changed not my magic, but the codons of my DNA in a way that I wasn't even sure was fixable.

I experimented on mice, and other creatures before trying to remove the gene from my body and was met with excruciating pain that felt like how I'd imagine a crucio felt, my hearting feeling as though it stopped in my chest.

And then time reversed itself and I was opening my eyes to the view from my back porch, the distant lake and trees of the Swedish landscape greeting me back from my 4-year trip.

I tried again.

And again.

I tried so many times I lost count, restarting over and over again until I eventually threw a bombarda directly beneath my feet, effectively blowing everything up for about half a second before I was once again reversed in the loop, staring at the beetle there with frustrated tears in my eyes.

It was difficult, and I spent a long time lying on that porch trying to accept the situation I was in, but I told myself I was okay with this, and that I could make this a gift.

It was only a curse if I let it be.

Life after life I kept pushing through, knowing I'd only end up back on the back porch if I gave up, and I was really starting to hate that place despite its beautiful scenery.

I avoided those I met in past lives.

I set goals for myself at the beginning of each life.

I experimented in blood magic and made myself a time-free home inside a trunk, similar to that of Newt Scamander's briefcase. Although, mine was a bit bigger.

I ruled countries, magic and muggle.

I raced cars on Japan's mountain roads.

I owned all of Canada at one point.

I invented an unimaginable amount of useless kitchen tools.

I invented spells people couldn't even dream of.

I trained dragons in Romania.

But I still couldn't escape.

However, the 12th loop through time I found myself attending a magic school in Africa as a transfer student, revelling in the home away from home feeling that these old buildings seemed to give off. I became the Headmaster by 43 and started my new quest of wanting to be the Headmaster of every magic school, with my eyes set on Hogwarts the next time the time loop reversed itself and deposited me on the back porch once more.

Little did I know that the 13th loop in time was where my story would truly begin anew.

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meetmeonthediningtable-blog · 5 years

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“I just hate this part”

Description: It’s the time again where Harry is about to leave for tour, emotions are high, and it ends up in a big fluffy mess.

Word Count: 1074 Notes: Lol this is my first ever post, and my first ever Harry fanfic... I hope ya’ll like it :)

Harry stuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I love you, you know that?”

His eyes connected with hers, they were longing, longing to pull her out of her perpetual sadness; Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but his green eyes didn’t move their gaze from her damp brown ones.

Those days were always for the worst for Y/N, and she dreaded them more than any other day. The day that Harry had to leave for tour. She hated how she couldn’t wake up with him every morning, with the sun shining over their sleepy bodies entwined in perfect embrace. How she would stop hearing him singing in the shower, or in the car, or when he’d be cooking tea for the both of them. That the coffee dates, walks in the park, the sitting and watching reruns of The Office would all stop.

Y/N loved the entirely normal life she had built with one of the most abnormal people on the planet. She just hated this part.

His thumbs graced her cheeks, carefully wiping away the tears, “I hate to see you like this Y/N.”

She sniffled, wrapping her arms around his broad torso and resting her head within the crook of his neck, “I know, m’ sorry, I just hate this part.”

She also hated how lousy she’d make him feel for leaving her. She knew that she had no right to make him feel that way, this was his job and all… although she’d hate to also admit that part of her was exited for him to leave, being a Harry Styles fangirl herself.

Y/N was already obsessing over what Gucci outfit he’d be wearing (even if she had been to the studio with him on their mini break to Italy to pick out the fabrics), which fan banners in the crowd he’d choose to have a bit of a conversation about (making her own was her to do list, she’d already scoured the house for the black sharpies and glitter) and if he’d treat the audience to any secret songs that he’d been working on during his break from touring (even if she had heard a few in one of her and Harry’s intimate bedroom gigs).

He rested his head against hers, quietly taking a moment to enjoy the intimacy that he knew that he’d be leaving behind.

Harry hated these moments as much as Y/N did. He hated the fact that he had to leave her and his normal life to pretend to be a rockstar for a few months.

He hated the fact that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep every night within her arms. That he wouldn’t be able to catch her dancing along to his Fleetwood Mac records and see her cheeks illuminate into a bight rose colour when she spotted him watching her, that she wouldn’t be able to convince him into joining her mini dance party. It was the silly romantic things that he’d miss the most, they were what kept him grounded, amongst the big flashing lights and screaming fans.

It’s just that she’d always be the first one to get upset, and he knew that he’d have to be strong for her otherwise he’d never be able to leave. They’d both end up a puddle of emotions on the living room floor.

“It’s only a week til my Manchester date. Homecoming gig. We can go and try and find the best flat white in the northern quarter…”

Her eyes perked up, “can we trail through the record stores too?”

He chucked, “of course. Could we really head up that way and not do that?”

“Well no, and I also wouldn’t let you.” She pulled away from her slouched position, so that she could look him straight in the eyes. She smiled, and he replied with a lopsided grin.

A comforting warmness spread through her chest, easing the anxiety that had been slowly destroying her. He always had the right words for her.

“I love you Harry Styles.”

And she always had the right words for him.

She leant forward, lips falling carefully against his, he moved forward gently adding pressure. Their eyelids fluttered shut in unison, as her hands landed upon his cheeks, fingers carefully tracing along the remnants of stubble. His fingers laced within her hair, making sure for that moment that they wouldn’t be brought apart.

Then the doorbell rang.

Harry’s heart sank knowing that it was his time to leave.

Ignoring the bell, he deepened the kiss, trying to take note of every sense he was currently feeling. Her soft breath blowing against his cheeks, the warm tingling sensation crossing his lips, the messy knots of her hair, The Velvet Underground song playing quietly in the background.

He pulled back, eyes flickering open to meet hers again. “Time to go” he said with ironic enthusiasm.

“Yeah” she replied with a deflating sorrow.

He stood up grabbing his bag off the floor, taking a minute to compose himself. She stood up, grabbing his free hand.

“You’re going to kill it.”

He smiled, “just wished I had my partner in crime by my side.”

“I’ll always be there, well I should always be here” she said placing her palm on his chest.

“In my lungs?”

She snorted, “Such a romantic.”

They walked each other to the front door, Harry opening it to reveal the black taxi waiting on the street ready to take him to the airport.

“I was kinda hoping that it’d be a prank knock,” he laughed, eyes moving from the taxi to her, their hands still glued together.

She glared at him in a knowing way, she didn’t want to let him go.

His eyes glistened with emotion, as he pulled a forced smile “I’d better be off.” He let go of her hand so that he could bring it close to her face, leaning in for one last kiss.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He started to make his way down the steps, towards the taxi.

“I’ll call you as soon as I land”

“You’d better”

He pulled open the taxi door, throwing his bag on the seat before getting in himself.

They exchanged one last wave before the taxi pulled down the quiet London street.

They were left quietly sobbing to themselves, messing with the engagement rings wrapped around their fingers.

“Only a week til Manchester” they both whispered in unison.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles angst #angst #fluff #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #fanfic #let me know if you want a part two

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lirlovesfic · 6 years

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The Choice

A Doctor Who fanfic

Summary: After GitF, the TARDIS brings the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey back to the estate to solve a problem involving the TARDIS herself. But when they see a familiar face, the face of someone who should not exist, they realize the problem is deeper than they thought and could endanger the Doctor’s very existence. Primary characters: Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Jackie Tyler. Genres: Romance, mystery, adventure, drama, character study, HN AU, fobbed!Nine, sick TARDIS. Pairings: Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose Rating: Adult

Warning: none for this chaper

a/n: I am currently working on editing this chapter-by-chapter, with the hopes of completing a chapter a day until I catch up with myself. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m doing it to try to get back into the swing of writing and to build some momentum in order to finish this. Also, there have been some tiny things nagging at me for a while (grammar, punctuation, etc.) so I’ll be correcting as many of them as I can find as I go. The story will not change. In fact, most of the changes are going to be so minor that I doubt anyone (besides myself) will notice. But to keep myself on target, I’ll be posting it all here as I go, with links to the other websites it’s on. I hope you enjoy it.

Catch up: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

This chapter: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

Chapter Twenty-One—the Titanic dock, Southampton, 10 April, 1912

Mickey cut through the crowd and entered the large White Star terminal building. The lobby was only slightly less crowded than the dock. People, mostly from first class, wandered about or stood in groups chatting with others also waiting to board. Off to one side of the room was a large doorway labeled "First Class Lounge" while on the far side of the room was some sort of reception desk, behind which stood a number of men in the uniforms of the White Star Line. Like everywhere else, there was a long queue in front of it.

He shook his head. "I don't have time for this." He crossed the lobby to the desk, bypassing the queue, and spoke to the nearest staff member who had just finished helping an elderly couple. "Hey, did you see a tall man with really short hair walk through here? He's wearing a black suit and was with a couple with two kids."

The man shot Mickey a look. "Are you kidding? Do you know how many people I've seen today?" He turned away from him to face the queue. "Next."

With a huff of frustration, Mickey turned back to the crowded room. "Where the hell is he?" he muttered. "He just came in here. Where did he go?" He scanned the room, finally spotting him leading the Richardson family through a narrow door opposite the lounge. "Ha! Got him!"

He rushed across the lobby, but once outside the door he stopped and stared at it.

"Now what?" he said aloud. He felt a bit like a kitten who had been chasing a mouse but didn't quite know what to do with it when he caught it.

The door was slightly ajar, and the voice of Edwin Robertson filtered through the crack. "What's all this about then?"

Mickey carefully pushed on the door to widen the crack a tiny bit, allowing him to hear the conversation more clearly, and then leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. To all appearances he was just waiting to board the ship like everyone else in the room.

"Mr and Mrs Robertson," the Doctor began, "My name is John Smith, and for the last ten years I have served as the solicitor to Mrs Robertson's distant uncle, Gerald Pollard."

"I don't remember having—" Rachel Robertson began.

The Doctor continued as if she hadn't spoken, effectively cutting her off. "I regret to inform you that Mr Pollard recently passed."

"You came all this way, pulled us out of the queue to tell us her uncle died, an uncle she's never even heard of?" Edwin demanded incredulously.

"If you would allow me to continue," the Doctor said haughtily. Mickey snorted. It was the same tone of voice that Doctor had used to call him "Mickey the Idiot", but this time he wasn't on the receiving end of it. "Mr Pollard had a large estate east of Manchester that Mrs Robertson visited several times as a young child. He had fond memories of her and chose to remember her in his will."

Mickey heard Mrs Robertson gasp dramatically. He snickered. "This is better than an episode of EastEnders," he said under his breath.

"When you say he remembered her in his will," Edwin said, "how… well… did he remember her?"

"It's just a small sum," the Doctor answered. "£5,000."

There was dead silence. You could have heard a pin drop in the room, Mickey thought. Even he knew that was an enormous amount of money to someone in the early twentieth century. Hell, on the Estate it wasn't anything to sneeze at in 2007.

After a moment he heard some papers rustling, and the Doctor explained that there were some papers to sign and that the funds would then be at their disposal. He named a prominent bank in London.

"You will, however, have to appear in person as soon as possible to complete the paperwork at the bank itself in order to withdraw the funds. It would, of course, prevent you from sailing today..."

As the Doctor continued to give them instructions—the Robertsons were silent, probably due to shock—Mickey glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had already passed. Nothing unusual had happened, unless you counted the fact that the Doctor was masquerading as a solicitor and basically handing out money, something he had never ever expected the Doctor to do.

And then he suddenly realized what his Doctor had been doing on the dock. When he'd been talking to that couple, he must have been buying their tickets off them. His mouth twisted into a grin. Usually the Doctor went for flash, saving history, saving planets… Saving that family was the most compassionate, most domestic thing he'd ever seen the alien do. And he began to see what Rose saw in him.

The conversation in the room began to die off, and he heard the sounds of chairs moving, as if they were getting ready to leave. If he didn't leave immediately he risked being seen.

"That's my cue," Mickey said under his breath. He headed out of the building and made his way back to the TARDIS.

~oOo~

The Doctor let himself into his former self's TARDIS. To his relief, the TARDIS hadn't shocked him, and the key had turned easily in the lock.

He pushed open the door and made his way inside, noting the minute differences between this console room and his own. If he hadn't known it was his previous self's TARDIS already, merely entering the cavernous space would have told him immediately it wasn't his. Some of the controls on the console were different, and others were in different places. There were fewer post-it notes. The jump seat was in a slightly, almost imperceptibly different spot—shifted approximately a centimeter and a half to the left—and one of the rips on the seat was smaller. Even the ambient light was at a different wavelength, although no one but a Time Lord would notice.

Even more telling, the coat thrown over the branching coral strut wasn't his long brown coat but the heavy leather jacket he used to wear in his last body.

The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver. As the tip lit up and it softly whirred, he slowly circled the room, scanning everything—console, walls, floors, even the jump seat—for evidence of damage of any kind at all. He frowned as he looked at the results. There wasn't any sign of damage per se, but the readings weren't clear either. It was almost like there was an echo of damage rather than damage itself.

Weird.

He scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully as he crossed to the console monitor. The CCTV record was clear but unhelpful. At this point in the TARDIS's linear time, if there was such a thing, he had left the Powell Estate and had made two stops before this one: to Dallas in 1963, and to the planet Anaranjado in the Redalian sector. Nothing had happened in Dallas, not to cause these problems at any rate. He was certain of it. It was possible that something had happened on Anaranjado, he thought, but extremely unlikely. It was a peaceful, agricultural planet and one of his favorite spots for replenishing foodstuffs. If something had happened there, however, there should be a record of it in the temporal neural net.

A trigger of the CCTV of the exterior of the TARDIS while on Anaranjado told him nothing. The ship had landed in the center of an orchard, and the Doctor watched his younger self leave the TARDIS. After fast-forwarding a bit, he saw him return carrying a large sack. Switching to an interior view showed him leaving the console room and entering the galley where he unloaded bananas, oranges, apples, and assorted tea bags from the sack and stowed them away.

Definitely a dead end.

It appeared that whatever had happened hadn't happened yet.

But then again there had been that weird echo he had picked up with his sonic.

The Doctor scanned the TARDIS again, this time with the TARDIS's own self-diagnostic programs. A series of interlocking geometric shapes rotated on the monitor and a speaker built into one of the control panels let out a quiet ping ping ping as the TARDIS searched for any problems. Three minutes in—two minutes and forty-seven seconds before the scan should have been finished—the pinging stopped. The screen froze.

The Doctor frowned.

"Well, that shouldn't happen," he said. Pulling out his glasses and peering into the screen, he rapidly flipped a switch next to the monitor. The display began to rotate again. But it was a millisecond off compared to relative time.

Searching for the source of the glitch, he climbed under the console and opened a panel on the underside of the control panel. A variety of interconnected glowing pear-shaped and spherical items—memory pods and ganglionic circuits—fell out of the gaping hole and almost hit him in the face. They hung from the open panel by tubes pulsing in the same blue-green as the Time Rotor. He scanned everything with his screwdriver: pods, temporal circuits, even the main memory core. There was a tiny blip in the temporal relay, one the TARDIS herself didn't acknowledge even existed. And it didn't appear to have a cause.

Troubled, he climbed back out from his spot under the console. He was running out of time. If he stayed any longer, he risked running into himself, and even if he stayed longer there was no guarantee that he'd find anything new. He downloaded everything he'd discovered into his screwdriver for further analysis in his own TARDIS. He just hoped his own ship was up to it.

Later, back at his own TARDIS the Doctor found Mickey sitting on the ground, arms crossed and with his back leaning against the door. The younger man scowled at him.

"How long have you been waiting for me?" the Doctor asked.

"An hour," Mickey said crossly as he stood up. "I've been sittin' here an hour. After you told me to meet you in a half an hour. That was an hour and a half ago!" He shook his head. "For a Time Lord you sure have a lousy sense of time."

The Doctor ignored the comment and unlocked the door.

Inside, the hum of the TARDIS's engines was quieter than normal, the glowing roundels dimmer, particularly compared to the TARDIS he had just left. After first tossing his overcoat on one of the struts—the same place his earlier self's leather jacket had been in the other TARDIS—he crossed to the console and plugged his sonic screwdriver into a small hole that appeared on one of the panels. He put on his glasses and stared into the monitor.

Mickey joined him at the console. "So, did you figure out what's goin' on?"

Shushing him, the Doctor waved him off. As he studied the display in front of him, he ran his hands through his hair, causing it to stand straight up, and let out a frustrated groan. He backed up and sank down on the jump seat.

"What is it?" Mickey asked in a low voice.

"I think the TARDIS has been poisoned," the Doctor told him quietly.

"What!" Mickey looked around himself, as if he was expecting something to attack them. "Should we even be in here?"

"You aren't in any danger," the Doctor said. "Me on the other hand…" He sighed. "It's a poison that only affects Time sensitive creatures, like the TARDIS. And Time Lords." He rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

"So…" Mickey said tentatively. "What do we do now? How do we fix it? Is there some sort of an antidote?"

"I don't know. Depends on what caused it, what the source was, and when it happened." He sat up. After pulling off his glasses and sticking them in his pocket, he rubbed his left eye, a move that expanded into massaging his forehead. "His TARDIS has a temporal glitch. But at the same time it doesn't. It's echoing back from the future. His future, not ours," he clarified. At the blank expression on Mickey's face, the Doctor continued. "Something happened, I don't know what, but whatever it was is creating ripples backwards and forwards in time."

"Like a pebble in a pond," Mickey said.

"Exactly. At some point in his future and my past he and the TARDIS were poisoned, probably accidentally. I'm guessing it happened so gradually that he didn't realize it was happening at all. But eventually the TARDIS became so ill that she needed to shut down in order to slow the damage."

"So why'd she turn you human?"

"Humans aren't Time sensitive. By turning him human, she saved his life. Then she tried to contact us, call us back to the Powell Estate to help: to fix her and to cure him." He jumped up and began to pace back and forth in front of the console. "But somehow, probably because she was sick, the message arrived late. Too late. By the time it arrived, the damage had managed to spread to our TARDIS."

"Can't we just go and warn, you know, the other you?"

"Not without creating a nasty paradox. And even if we could, what do we say? That something's going to happen sometime that will poison both you and the TARDIS, but we don't know what it is or when it happens and you won't know either until it's too late?" He stopped in his tracks. "The Time Lords would have been able to fix this, heal the TARDIS, heal me, prevent a paradox, just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Piece of cake, home in time for tea. But the Time Lords are gone."

"Hold on," Mickey said. "If this, whatever it is, is going forwards and backwards in Time, isn't that going to start affecting the other one of you who's here?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No. The TARDIS won't let it. She won't allow herself to be at the center of a paradox. She'd rather die first, and if I can't somehow figure out how to fix this, that's exactly what's going to happen."

He stepped in front of the controls and began flipping switches. "It's time to get you home." He spun a dial on the other side of the console and then raised a large lever. A loud groan filled the room, but the Time Rotor didn't move. "Come on, come on, come on," he said under his breath. He pushed the lever back down. His fingers flew across a colorful key pad, then he spun the dial and raised the lever again.

The groan was louder this time. The room shook.

The Doctor slammed his hand down on the console and then repeated his movements. Switches. Key pad. Dial. Lever.

The shaking grew stronger.

Switches. Key pad. Dial. Lever.

As the groaning continued, the Doctor moved faster and faster.

Switches. Key pad. Dial. Lever.

After one last jolt, the shaking stopped. The lights dimmed, and an unnatural quiet fell over the room. Even the ever-present hum of the engines was gone.

Motionless, the Doctor stared at the console.

After several long moments, Mickey broke the silence. "We're stuck here, yeah?"

The Doctor didn't answer immediately. He wanted to yell, to kick something, to punch someone. He wanted to rage against the universe.

But he couldn't. Someone was depending on him.

He turned to face Mickey. "No," he said, his voice filled with determination and resolve. He tugged down on his jacket, straightening it. "No. I won't let you get stuck here. There are two other me's out there. One of them might be able to take you home."

"I thought you didn't want them to see me."

"Can't be helped now. I don't want to trap you here if there's another option." He turned away and began to fiddle with the controls. "Maybe if I contact my Eighth self…" he said thoughtfully. "No, that wouldn't work. He ends up on the Titanic…"

"Eighth?" Mickey asked. His eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. "Blimey, how many of you have there been?"

The Doctor ignored the question as he continued his own train of thought. "But if I told him Charley's family gets saved by his future self, he and Charley wouldn't get on the Titanic at all. It would cause a minor ripple in time, but it wouldn't cause a paradox." He nodded slowly. "He could take you home and then force himself to forget you. And me. That version of me had memory problems anyway. He won't think twice about not remembering an hour or two."

"Which one is the Eighth?" Mickey asked.

The Doctor turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "The one you described as 'a refugee from a Jane Austin novel'."

"Still think it fits," Mickey answered. "So if he's the Eighth, which one are you?"

"Does it really matter?" the Doctor asked in disbelief.

"Probably not, but I still want to know."

The Doctor let out a huff of exasperation. "Oh, all right. I'm the Tenth Doctor. Satisfied? Now be quiet and let me think for a minute."

"Tenth?" Mickey asked. "Wow. Does Rose know?"

"Get some perspective here, Mickey!" the Doctor said sharply. "The TARDIS is dying, you are currently stuck in 1912, and I'm trying to figure out a way to get you home without causing a massive paradox. Now just shut up for a minute!"

"All right," Mickey answered. "Right after you answer one more thing. If the TARDIS isn't working and you're sending me home, what're you gonna do?"

"I'm going to stay here and see if I can figure out a way of healing the TARDIS."

"I thought you couldn't do that without knowing what caused the poisoning."

"I'm very clever," the Doctor responded. "Given enough time, I should be able to figure out something."

"If that's true, then why are you sendin' me home?" Mickey asked pointedly.

"Because it would be easier on you," the Doctor snapped. "Having one of me take you home would be easier on you than having you here when…"

"When what?" Mickey snapped back.

"When I disappear!" he exploded. He stalked to the other side of the console and laid his hands on it. He closed his eyes. Despite her weakened state, he felt the warmth of her presence in his hands and in his mind. He let it wash over him, helping him calm himself.

After a moment, he took a deep breath and looked up at the younger man. "You were right before. Before we came here, you were right about what would happen. If I can't solve this, if I can't figure out a way of getting rid of the Time toxins in the TARDIS, Rose will never be able to get to the watch and the human me will stay human, will never change back. And if he never changes back…"

"You won't regenerate into… you," Mickey finished.

"Yeah," the Doctor said quietly. "This timeline will cease to exist. And if that happens, it will be easier on you mentally to be on the Estate."

"Easier than what? Being trapped in 1912?"

"That's one possibility, but the far more likely possibility is that none of this will have ever happened and you'll just wake up on the Estate one morning with two sets of memories for the last two years. Due to the ricochet nature of Time, it will be easier on you to cope both mentally and physically with it if you're already there."

Mickey was silent for a moment, taking it in. "What about Rose?" he said. "Will she have two sets of memories?"

"Yes," the Doctor answered. "Jackie too. Since the three of you know me, this me, you three are at ground zero in all this. You'll remember, but no one else will."

"But what about…" He took a deep breath before continuing. "What about all the things you've done... like protectin' us from aliens and things? Like when the Sycorax came, or the bat things with Sarah Jane? You know, all the 'it is defended' stuff?"

"You humans are brilliant. You would have managed to save yourselves. Mind you, it might have taken a little longer, but you would have done it eventually." The Doctor's mouth twisted into a grin. "Besides, I'll still be there. Even as a human, I'd still be a genius. After all," he said with a wink. "It wouldn't be the first time an auto mechanic helped save the world."

A small smile crossed Mickey's face and then quickly faded. He shook his head. "No. It's not fair. Rose was right. You saved the planet so many times… There must be something else we could do."

"There isn't. Whatever poisoned the TARDIS isn't here, and with the TARDIS unable to take off, we can't search anywhere else. Unless…" The Doctor's voice trailed off.

"Unless what?"

"It most likely wouldn't work…" he muttered.

"What wouldn't work?" Mickey asked.

"I could link my TARDIS to his and allow his to tow mine to wherever he goes. Then I could search for sources of the Time toxin everywhere he goes in the universe. It would have to be done very, very carefully of course so he doesn't notice," he said thoughtfully. "And of course there's always the possibility that the stress of being pulled into the Time Vortex instead of entering it under her own power could rip my TARDIS apart, ripping me apart at the same time." He grimaced. "Not a pleasant way to go. On the other hand, it could work… And considering the alternative is ceasing to exist due to being part of an aborted timeline, it's definitely worth a shot." He nodded decisively. "But first we need to get my previous self to take you home. Don't want you to be ripped apart in the Time Vortex."

"Yeah," Mickey said quietly. "Don't want that."

The Doctor popped his sonic screwdriver out of the hole in the console and stuck it in his pocket before grabbing his coat and heading for the door. He turned back when he realized Mickey wasn't following him. "Let's go. We need to catch my other self before he leaves. You don't want to miss your ride."

Mickey nodded and took a step towards the door before stopping again. "If I go with you instead of with him, what happens to me if it doesn't work?"

"You would be painfully ripped apart along with me."

"And then?"

"And then you would probably wake up in your own bed on the Powell Estate with memories of an excruciating death, a death that would haunt your dreams for the rest of your life, but I can't guarantee it. That's the best-case scenario. The Time Vortex is a tricky thing. Not even the Time Lords understood it completely. You could just die outright, without coming back. It's even possible that you dying in the Time Vortex could totally wipe you from existence, prevent you from ever being born in the first place." He jerked his head towards the door. "So let's go. I need to send you off before I start connecting the two TARDISes, so there's no time to waste."

"No," Mickey said slowly. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm stayin' with you. Rose asked me to watch out for you, and that's what I'm gonna do." The Doctor started to protest, but Mickey interrupted him. "You're gonna need my help. Don't bother tryin' to deny it. Rose'd never forgive me if I coulda helped you but didn't. And frankly… I'd never forgive myself either. So I don't care what you say. I'm stayin'."

#the choice #ficandchips #ninth doctor #tenth doctor #mickey smith #revised chapter

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Be Cruel to Me, Because I'm a Fool For You (Vatya) 1/? - Honey

A/N: Katya and Violet are friends with benefits, until Violet starts acting weird.

Yeah so I wrote another Vatya fic that takes place in one of their beds. Shocking. This is kinda angsty and I’m going to write more, maybe one or two chapters more but idk. Props if you know where the title’s from. I wrote this in two hours so be gentle. Like, reblog, comment, subscribe, rate, and all that jazz.

Brooklyn, New York

“Can you leave now? Not to be rude, but I’m kinda tired. Gotta get up early tomorrow for a fitting.” Violet didn’t look at Katya when she said this. She kept her face pressed against the pillow, laying on her side with her back turned towards him.

“Okay, Violet.” Katya sat up in her bed and stretched. He took a minute to survey her dimly lit bedroom and locate his clothes, which were scattered across the carpet. He sighed and looked over at Violet, who didn’t move at all. He was getting used to this though.

Katya attempted to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship with Violet turned weird. They had agreed, about a year and a half ago, that whenever they happened to be in the same city, they would hook up. The arrangement had worked so well at the beginning. After all, it was difficult to always have to find trade on the road. Violet and Katya already knew they were sexually compatible, thanks to the few late-night trysts Violet had drunkenly initiated on various stops of the BOTS tour two years ago. “It’s like friends with benefits! And these are really good benefits,” Katya had explained, and Violet had agreed, and then they had proceeded to have mind-blowing intercourse for three hours in a hotel in Chicago. Since that day, without fail, Katya and Violet had met up for sex every single time they were in the same city. The first four times had been wonderful. Katya left a hickey on Violet’s ass cheek in Seattle that she wished she could get tattooed on, Violet did things with her mouth in Houston that Katya didn’t even know were possible, Katya tied Violet’s wrists to the hotel bed in Manchester and had her yelping his name so loud that the people in the room next door were banging on the walls to get her to shut up. They had laughed about that last one the next morning, and then kissed goodbye, Violet going to London and Katya flying back to LA.

If Katya had to pick a day where things changed, he would have to say it was when they met in Boston, weeks later. After Boston, Violet would not let Katya spend the night with her anymore. There was no more cuddling, no more post-sex banter, no more waking up in each other’s arms. In Portland, Violet had left Katya’s hotel room immediately after sex, even though Katya had been really rough, the way Violet liked it, and she was visibly fatigued. In Dublin, Violet wouldn’t let Katya kiss her goodbye, even though they had just been making out for the past hour. In Miami, Violet left Katya’s hotel at 2 am in the pouring rain, even though he had begged her not to go out and catch a cold. It had to be Boston, Katya thought, it just had to be. But what happened in Boston?

Katya suddenly realized that he was still sitting naked in Violet’s bed. He immediately got up, collected his clothes and hurriedly got dressed. He almost walked out of Violet’s room without another word, but something stopped him. She was the one who called him here, to her own apartment. Obviously she still enjoyed his company, otherwise she could have just called someone else, seeing as they were in her home city and she must know some local trade. Katya decided he was going to play her game. Walking over to the other side of the bed, the side Violet was facing, he crouched down until he was eye level with her. She was staring straight ahead, but met his eyes when he grabbed her chin and rubbed her bottom lip with her thumb.

“Violet, this was great, now give me a kiss goodbye.” He leaned in without letting her get a word out. Pressing his lips to hers, he expected at least some form of effort, but got nothing. Violet closed her eyes and let him kiss her, but did not move her lips at all. This wouldn’t do, Katya thought. Pulling back, he stared at her face. Her eyes remained closed, until Katya grabbed her shoulders and gently pushed her until she was lying on her back. She opened her eyes and stared up at him.

“I’m not leaving until you give me a kiss.” This was a bluff. If she really told him to leave, he would leave. Katya would do anything Violet asked, in that moment and any moment.

“I just did!” Violet protested.

“A real kiss.” Katya tried to read Violet’s emotions, but she was stone faced as she just stared up at him. He took her lack of a retort as permission. Climbing on the bed, he straddled her hips over the covers. He leaned down, his hands on either side of her head, and pressed his lips to hers once again. This time, she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue into Katya’s immediately. Katya was surprised, but he allowed it. The kiss was even more passionate than he had expected or planned, not that he was complaining. He let it go on for a few seconds longer, and then slowly pulled back. Both were out of breath, and Katya could see the quick rising and falling of Violet’s bare chest.

“See, now that wasn’t so bad, was it Princess?” Katya used the nickname for Violet that he hadn’t used since Manchester. He was trying to get a reaction out of her, but Violet just held eye contact with him and remained straight faced. Whatever, Katya thought. He would get to the bottom of her behavior sooner or later. He rolled off of Violet and left her apartment without another word.

#katya zamolodchikova #violet chachki #vatya #angst #honey #rpdr fanfiction #bctm #canon compliant

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paradoxically-deranged-poet · 5 years

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He Who Wanders

I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia. How it pours sunlight onto your face, toying with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and milling around hair. I missed the smell of the valley and that ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze.

From up here, I can see the house where I grew up. I see white chapels tucked into grape orchards like pawns scattered on a chess board. I can see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road hailing from the old town through dappled rocks, then waning behind the horizon with erratic headlights of beat-up trucks cruising along.

One of the pit stops along Ed Jardinito, where truck drivers stop to relieve themselves, marks the starting point to this wavy trail. All covered in blotches of spindly grass stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, no one even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a blitz-leak care to check on a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is how I got up here, to the top of this hill, where I am standing now. I’ve climbed all the way up here, so I can finally end it all – all these years of vagrancy and fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to come to an end.

But for now, I am enjoying the view of the valley unfolding below. I am sipping the air of what could be my final memories.

He will show up soon. He always does. Like a shadow, he’s been following me right on my footsteps, always there, behind me. And there he is!

His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El Jardinito. He looks up and he sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his breath and leans on his cane, as if assessing the remaining trajectory for this final stretch, then resumes his walk. Or should I say, “resumes his agonizing trudging”. Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. No wonder. How long has he been chasing me? Ten, twenty, thirty years?

He is slow. Methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him. This sharp Swiss knife blade I am holding in my hand will soon lance right through his neck bone. Yes, that’s what I am going to do.

This ends here, at the dead end of this sandy trail atop the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards.

Funny. After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I always called him what master Borges called him

“He who wanders”.

He who wanders, listen. I will kill you.

* * * * * *

Borges. The Borges. I idolized him when I was in college. Many did, but I was different. It was 1961. I was an average lazy learner at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, floating around from one semester to another with barely passable grades. I had very few friends and almost no interests. One can say that I had an early form of an identity crisis.

Besides chugging Anisado, my only other passion was Literature. Latin American Literature. Borges and Neruda were at the forefront. One could only imagine my excitement when I saw a pamphlet hanging on the wall of the Literature faculty.

Spaces were limited. But who cared? It was the man himself, Jorge Luis Borges, coming to give us a lecture followed by an open panel of questions. Like a maniac, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the lecture. I was the first in line and when the doors opened, I got the front row seat. The auditorium was packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, awaiting the arrival of the great one.

And there he was, the blind Lord of Literature, walking upright onto the stage with a cane and his loyal assistant right by his side. Standing ovation. He nodded and made a “thank you, please be seated” gesture.

Then he began. The lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers, I cannot distinctly recall if it was Cervantes or De Vega. It truly made no difference. Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three hours, and remember nothing. He talked slowly and methodically, pouring honey into our ears like Segovia’s guitar, with his absent eyesight affixed on the ceiling.

And then it happened. Something that caught me completely off guard.

Before closing the day, Borges was about to take questions from the audience. Of course, I raised my hand and so did about hundreds of other students. One of Borges’ assistants whispered something into his ear, which made him smile.

“It is an honor for me to be in front of an audience of young people, but our time is not infinite,” he said with blind eyes still pinned on the far corner of the hall. “For that reason, I will randomly pick questions from five of you.”

I have never won any prizes or lotteries in my life. When I played poker or blackjack, I lost far more than I won. I knew my limitations and that turned me into an average apathetic person, rarely trying to outdo oneself. And so, sitting still with little ambition – I got used to that.

Until that moment. When I saw Borges pointing his finger in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock.

“Me?”

“Yes, young man. Senor Borges picked you. Step forward and introduce yourself,” said his assistant.

I did not know what to ask. So, I quietly mumbled my full name.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro”

Borges shifted his gray-shaded pupils in my direction as if reacting to a sudden buzzing of a fruit fly.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro. Navaro. Haven’t I met you once before, young man?” he asked.

“No, senor Borges. I never had the honor.”

“But you will. We will meet again, Senor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for right now, what is your question?”

The rest of the day was foggy. I don’t even remember what question I asked, it must have been about him winning the Prix International, not sure. And maybe not important. No, not important at all.

The greatest writer in the history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre unreal thing he said about us meeting again. When?

* * * * * *

Nine years later. In 1970.

And there I was – a somewhat-promising journalist in one of London’s somewhat-scandalous tabloid newspapers. Every week my name was featured on the second page alongside with celebrity chronicles and vile rumors. My paycheck was decent enough for a small studio flat by Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by directionless studies, you could say I became something more than an average. Or at least that is what I believed.

That day (it was early October, arguably the best season in London) began as usual. I ate my chic breakfast consisting of two scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and dark roast coffee at Barrymore’s Diner and was ready for a pleasant walk to the office. It was shortly after 8 am, and I was in no hurry.

Report Ad My route was the same as it was every day: pass the square, right turn on George Street, left turn on Thayer, another right on Marylebone. My thoughts that morning were all preoccupied with the piece I was working on, so I was slowly making my way through the square when something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to anybody else who idled at the square that morning. Hippy rascals with soiled hair playing guitar on every corner was a common theme in those days, and London town was certainly no exception. So here was another one of those misunderstood love proclaimers, sitting right behind the gated area of the square. Striped worn out jacket, heavy cap, sandals with clots of woolen socks sticking out. A common hippy bum as anyone may have thought. I thought so too except this one had something that made my intestines churn. I didn’t know what it was, but once I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him again.

The way he looked at me, that gloomy frown that made me think of a line from Oscar Wilde, “that fellow’s got to swing.” There certainly was something outer worldly about that “fellow.”

His eyes, as if carved from a rock below his forehead were mercilessly drilling thousands of tiny holes through me. I added pace. As I turned back one last time, I noticed him slowly walking towards me. Past the gates of the square, onto the street, paying no attention to screeching tires of honking cars. Walking right towards me.

He’s just a bum. No, he is not.

Just another one of those unwashed hippies. No, no, run run run!

George Street was empty like in post-war bombed quarters. I could hear my brisk footsteps. Or was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? He was catching up.

Run? Don’t be silly. Yes, run. First slowly as if you’re trying to not show your chaser that you’re scared. No, not scared, more like in a hurry.

Why am I running? I can take him out with one punch.

But it really wasn’t about that. It was my first experience of that feeling, which I can only describe as some sort of primordial sense of fear. Panic. Dread. Unexplained sense of looming doom arching above you like a dark figure with a scythe.

I ran. I ran faster than my feet could move. As I turned the corner on Thayer, I paused and looked back, fearing to see him right behind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee were about to make their way back up through my esophagus.

Wiping the sweat off my palms onto my pants, I bent forward in a protective position and looked around. Empty windows of George Street were checking me out like a toddler witnessing parent in a cowardly act.

Whoever that man was that incensed me into this uncontrollable panic, he was now gone. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin, I repeated to myself while making futile attempts to enthrall palpitation to subside. Shame on you. I mumbled repeating that word. Mumbling turned into whistling that song by “Magic Lanterns”. Shame, shame. I whistled, acting calm and self-composed. I sang without knowing words only to convert my mind to something else. I sang so others wouldn’t notice me shaking.

I climbed the stairs of my office building. Three at a time. Third floor. The familiar smell of typography oils calmed me down. Safe heaven. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin Navaro.

* * * * * *

Even now I question myself whether my journey to madness began on that day or was it underway for many years. Madness that creeps in and recedes in tidal waves. Is that how it usually happens?

All I know is that an hour later I was laughing at my little moment of weaknesses.

Preposterous and rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang spoke to me. The idea of being fully checked out by a specialist did cross my mind, and I immediately thought of Doctor Patel in Camden Town. He’d give me a comfortable medical diagnosis like a panic attack and prescribe some white pills, I thought.

Little did I know that the day had more surprises in store. The unnerving script development continued in a more eerie fashion when my boss marched to my desk with a pack of printed paper.

No, Navaro you are not going to see Doctor Patel in Camden Town who will make a judgment call on your insanity. Instead, you are going to do an article on Jorge Luis Borges’ new book. He is making his presentation today at London Public Library and blah, blah, blah.

I forgot about the panic attack. The thrill of seeing Master Borges again, nine years later, was surreal. Moments later I was sitting in a cab on my way to the London Public Library, scribbling all possible questions I should be asking him. El Informe de Brodie? Other books? Forget it! I knew very well what I would ask.

I paid the cab and galloped up the marble stairs leading to the hallway, where the Master was about to hold his new book presentation. I elbowed myself through the crowd of journalists to occupy the coveted front-row spot. Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack along with the omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four more minutes.

Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget Dr. Patel. Collect yourself, Fernandez Augustin

* * * * * *

“Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Senor Borges. But how do you..?”

“Nine years ago, in Cordoba. I told you we would meet again. Do you remember?”

I nodded rapidly completely forgetting he couldn’t see me. Stupid.

“Perhaps,” continued Borges, “it would be more prudent for us to speak privately after the conference. I invite you to have coffee with me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro? I shall see you precisely at 6 o’clock at the address that my assistant will provide.”

His blind eyes were still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested sharp-penciled critics and arduous followers of his divine writing. The attention was now all on me, as revealed by hundreds of photo flashes from behind. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his illegitimate son?

Back then I did not know.

Answers came later.

* * * * * *

Memory is a tricky animal. As I gaze over the valley and satiate my lungs with familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. Vague and elusive memories of my childhood home. And these orchards, these white chapels and the old town itself – nothing but an incomprehensible sensation somewhere down there, below the chest cage.

I close my eyes and let the sun twirl around with tinted specks of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. I’ve been robbed of my memory. You!

I cast my eyes at the trail again. He is closing in. It’s hard for him to walk upward, and yet I see that determination in his eyes, in his tight grip of that wobbly walking stick, in the way he periodically stops to catch his breath and eyeball the remaining distance. I am not going anywhere. Five? Ten more minutes? Come and take me, old man. If you can.

I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced frontal lobe. It’s a grin. It’s an expression that says, “We shall see.”

* * * * * *

Once I read an interview in “The Morning Times”. In it, Borges was portrayed as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the same rack, so he could find them easily.

In another article, dated 1966, I read that when Borges travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a whole rack of books along, some of which may not even be read.

When I entered his hotel room, that very book-rack was the first thing that caught my eye. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open, and there he was entering through the doorway with a leisurely swinging cane.

“Ah, Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit this old man!”

I took a step towards him and produced some gibberish like “pleasure is all but mine”. He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair.

“I know you will quite enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast.”

Borges sat down and leaned slightly backwards, without releasing his cane.

“Do you know the biggest advantage of being blind?” he asked and answered immediately. “Blind don’t need light, so my utility bills are way lower.”

He laughed at his own joke only to be interrupted by his assistant carrying a tray of aromatic coffee poured in two small porcelain cups. Amazing how the very idea of drinking coffee instantly changes your mood before you even take your first sip.

As I was readying to go on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honor, Borges jumped right into the action.

“I will get right to it, Senor Navaro. About you being here and about me remembering you. I know you have many questions. I will attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will still be some questions that you will have to find answers to. On your own.”

He gently picked his cup of coffee and with hand somewhat shaking, took an artistic sip. Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes were buzzing in bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in the room with one of the greatest writers, who happened to mysteriously know my name and

“Have you by any chance read my ‘The Book of Imaginary Beings?’” asked Borges.

I have. Many times. I read it in Spanish, when it just came out. Very recently I bought the English translation in some shabby bookstore off Oxford Circus. I read that book far too many times, but never in its entirety, mostly starting on a random page. Just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers.

“You see, Senor Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress as human imagination has no boundaries. I have included what I had researched over ten years ago, then recently expanded and republished with more figments of collective human imagination. But the book is merely a small subset. In a way, the book writes itself. In some form, it’s a labyrinth, an endless one, a living one, where every corridor and every room is never the same. What I had always wanted is the book to reflect the labyrinth in our collective subconsciousness, the force that drives our minds to craft. For that reason, all the creatures in my book are strictly fictional. Mythical. Am I not boring you?”

“Not at all. I understand, Senor Borges.”

He nodded and wiped a coffee grind off his nose.

“That book, as its title implies, is all about imaginary beings. Tales, legends, folklore. But one thing that no one knows is that I had originally intended this book to include one more being. A being that goes by its Latin name Quietus Est. It appeared and disappeared across many cultures, sometimes centuries apart. Very little is known of it, but what I found was indeed astonishing. First, this being is physically no different than an ordinary human. You may say, it is human in many ways. As I studied this entity, I became more and more agitated. I could not stop. Like a madman, I was trying to learn more and more, but very soon the excitement turned into another feeling. Fear.”

“Fear of what, Senor Borges?”

Borges eyesight shifted from the corner of the room straight on me, as if he could perfectly see me.

“Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is not a myth at all.”

He attempted to take another sip, but his hands started shaking, so he had to put the cup down, spilling some of it on the saucer and around the table.

“Pardon me, young man, I am trying to maintain composure. But you have not tried the coffee”, he said wiping his mouth and forehead with a knitted handkerchief.

I raised the small cup and took a sip, disregarding the aromatic fumes of Colombian beans drifting down my internal gorges.

“Pardon me sir, but you are saying that the imaginary being called Quietus Est was not imaginary. Is that why you decided not to include him in your book of imaginary beings?”

“Only in part. Fear came from the realization of what it would mean for mankind to know about its existence. You see

it’s no secret that we are all well aware of our eventual demise. We all die. But imagine what would happen if we all stared right into the face of death every single day of our lives and knew the time that was left for us in this world. Death not as a vague concept portrayed by middle-aged artists, not as a folklore tale of a grim reaper. But as a real living entity that stalks you and walks around showing you a ticking clock counting down minutes and seconds. Getting closer to you with every second, trying to grab your hand. Running from death is worse than death itself.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“But I shall talk no more. Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago. These are unedited in their raw format, so please pardon the poor language. It’s right there, in the drawer. You will find a folder with a yellow piece of paper. Read it aloud, while my ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.”

I opened the drawer, as he instructed, and found a yellow piece of cursive handwritings carved in Spanish with some Latin phrases. The scribbles were short, less than a page long with marks and scratches, but most of this was very much decipherable. He must have written this himself half-blind, I thought. What caused him to do that and not dictate to his assistant? I unfolded the paper and began reading.

Quietus Est

It is said that one shall not know about its own ways and times of demise. The imminent passing is only felt by those that are either terminally ill, and even so, they don’t possess the knowledge of when and where, or by death row inmates awaiting the exact day and time of their execution. Lack of such knowledge coerces us to exist. Sumerians believed in a certain deity (the word “deity” was scratched and replaced with “demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones”, which again was scratched and replaced with “entity”), whose sole role was to stalk its victims and inform them of how much time they have left to live. Per the ancient “Book of Dead”, which was discovered as a set of clay tablets, typically buried in corpses, only those that are “luminous” can see the deity (again crossed out twice, replaced with “demon”, then with “entity”). The “luminous” ones are thought to be either people with high spiritual powers or vice versa, the cursed ones, condemned by priests. The reference briefly reappears in some Egyptian manuscripts, but in later writings is replaced by Anubis or – in rare occurrences – by Horus. The writings again depict this unnamed being as an eternal human who never sleeps, but always wanders. What’s strange is that neither Sumerians nor Egyptians ever gave the entity a discrete name. However, the latter rare findings during Dark Ages refer to him as Quietus Est. The only depiction of Quietus Est was that of an ordinary human standing next to a sun clock, which was used to measure the time that the chosen one had left to live. From time to time Quietus Est stalks the chosen one and, when cornered, moves hands of the clock forward to shorten the lifetime. If the chosen one cannot escape, then his time eventually runs out.

The very last reference was found in

“Enough, Mr. Navaro. You understand the idea. Now on to the main question. Why are you here?”

He drew closer, and a dull shadow from a lamp cut right through his elongated forehead.

“Quietus Est is an eternal wanderer who is always with us, the timekeeper who sits at the edge of the stage with a ticking watch on his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is its inability to see him. When I lost sight, I thought blindness was a blessing in disguise. But one does not require eyes to see the wanderer. What eyes cannot see, ears can hear and skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him. You are here, Mr. Navaro because you and I are the luminous ones…”

Borges paused and asked me with a trembling voice: “Mr. Navaro, you saw him too, didn’t you?”

Cold shivers that have been accumulating in my lower back rushed up my spinal cord in millions of explosions. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed words out.

“I saw him today.”

* * * * * *

How do you get used to the notion of being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that. We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we sip, in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears. And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle “Shame Shame”, deceiving our own self-cognizance. And that, as Senor Borges called it, is the true blessing. Those who possess the name of the divine being are doomed. Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is nonexistent. Knowledge of death is worse than death.

We sat in his hotel room until early morning, the two luminous and doomed souls. Our casual exchange of words was amplified by the ticking of the clock. It was dawn when I noticed Borges nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane and his pupils were shuffling behind shut eyelids.

Borges was dreaming.

So must have I.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like witches around the fire.

I was looking around, hoping to not see him.

He wasn’t there. But he was. I felt his presence not very far from me.

* * * * * *

Muscat orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from one object to another, but my nomad memory is lost in endless labyrinths. You took my memories away from me, didn’t you?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can see how the long uphill walk is wearing him out. But what are pain and tiredness when you’re crossing the finish line?

As Borges warned me, “Do not ever come close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. His watch will be ticking. If he attempts to catch on, run. But he will forever follow. In a way, he will be like a shadow of you.”

And I ran. And he wandered. I evaded. He followed.

He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second day after my long night in Borges’ quarters. The fool in me still thought that escaping from him would be as easy as moving into a new flat. Or checking into a hotel. So I did just that. It was some shabby hotel minutes from my work where I decided to spend a few nights just to think things through.

That evening, and I remember every minute of it, was my first face to face encounter with him. My room, B6, was on the basement level. As I stumbled through the dark hotel corridor, trying to find the key to my room, I felt his presence, but my ignorant foolishness dismissed all mental warnings and turned the keys. As the door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the hotel room. A street-level window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the floor carpet. I smelled dust and spider webs.

He was in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a shroud around a statue. I stood in a stupor like a paralyzed insect. An avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. With hand twisted behind my back, I was feverishly trying to twist the doorknob. He got up from the bed with a groan. He took a step towards me.

Hand too sweaty to turn the knob. Open it. Open!

He grabbed my wrist.

Open! Run!

The stretched corridor of the hotel basement flashed like random shots of a silent movie. Run! B5. B2. B1. Run! Staircase. Up! Exit! Run!

“Your time is coming, Fernandez Augustin Navaro!” a whisper crawled into my ears. “Coming, coming!” hissed the wind.

I ran until my legs gave in. I fell down somewhere in the outskirts of the town, passing out in an alley amidst rubbish until sunup.

My madness has begun.

In the days following my first face-to-face encounter with Quietus Est, I’ve moved out of my London flat. I had some savings, enough to tramp town to town, continent to continent, doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets. He was right behind me.

Even if I didn’t see him for a month, I knew he would soon catch on. It would be only a matter of time for him to pop up somewhere

on the opposite side of the street, in the next car over on the subway, or madly prying through shutters of windows in the house across.

My attempts to speak to Borges were futile. How does the blind master live with this curse, I wondered. How does he manage to evade his sinister follower?

I had questions. Far more than I had anticipated. But Senor Borges was already on the other side of the globe. I wrote him letters. He never replied. I tried calling hotels where he stayed. Unavailable.

The books that he wrote, I bought all of them in attempts to find hidden meanings. What if he had secret messages for me inside his writings? The Book of Sand, Dr. Brodie’s Report

I even searched his earlier writings, analyzed every word. Pointless. Futile.

Until 1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory.” His final book, as it turned out to be.

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I bought the book. Immediately I began my scrupulous study. Letter by letter, page by page, analyzing every space and every punctuation sign.

And that’s when I found it. The answer.

The answer was the story itself. The story that did not require much study or decryption. All I had to do was read it. I knew I had to come face to face with Quietus Est like Borges did, but not before having to go through the life of an exile. That’s what Borges had intended me to do. Such was his final and only message to me embodied within his last story. A story written for the public, but intended for my eyes only.

The story was that the protagonist receives memories of Shakespeare. Memories that overwhelm him, overpowering his own. He forgets modern day cars and engines, instead remembering faces and names from some distant past, memories he has never known. Memories that belonged to another man.

“In a way, he will be like a shadow of you,” Borges told me that night. Slowly but surely, my shadow was becoming me. That’s why I can only vaguely remember you, my childhood home. Him or me, no more running. It ends here.

* * * * * *

Few more minutes, I say to myself as I look at the watch. There he is. He is out of breath. Beaten, tired and bent by the weight of his own arid body. One last push, old man, and we will meet.

I am hiding behind the rock. His footsteps on gravel and sand, I can tell them from any other footsteps in the world. His breathing, wheezing and crackling. I am counting to five.

He knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that last step. Let me take that step for you.

I am staring at his face, wrinkled like leaves of an ancient scroll.

“Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I am telling him.

He is not fighting back, and my Swiss blade finds a comfy spot below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish him now.

Popping sounds are coming out from his flabby throat. What are you trying to tell me, old man? Let me hear your last words. I am easing the pressure to let him talk. But the sounds that come out not words, but laughter.

“You, you are confused,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me, let me help you understand.”

I am letting him sit up. He is coughing blood. One wrong move and he’s dead. He wipes the blood off his lips and nods in understanding.

“All my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly. “It’s a miracle I have come this far and lived this long. Ever since I left Cordoba, I was a ticking time bomb. I was diagnosed as suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapies, specialists, prescription, yoga – I have tried them all. Some helped for a while, and the disease subsided, but then trolled back with a new stronger wave. It’s this disease that nests here” – and he points to his head – “forcing me to look for a way to end my own life. It all began in London, on that morning when I was sitting on the bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing on my brain. My first attempt was in that hotel, room B6. I sat on the bed in that dark room for hours with a rope in my hand and a blanket over my head. Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I wanted my pain to end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to live on. Ever since that day, it was a cat and a mouse game between us. I chased death, and death would always slip away. Until now.”

He pauses, rubbing his flabby neck, then points his finger down the valley and continues: “I was born in that house. I remember every moment of my childhood. My parents, my toys, my school. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins in Muscat gardens and dosing off to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs being washed on the street and the smell of grapes. My name is Fernandez August Navaro. And you, you have no true name, but they call you Quietus Est. The one who wanders.”

Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The fire sets off inside my eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and trickling down my body.

“Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar.

“Look at me,” he says, “I am an old man. And you? Still young and strong as you will always be. You have not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean memories of random sounds and smells are all you have gained from me. Master Borges knew who you were. He cracked you, and then he tricked you. He made you think you were me. That was his way of evading you – by not revealing you the truth until his final breath, final book, final story. You are the one who wanders. And those memories you have – those are my memories. And now that I have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.”

I have heard enough of his fibs. I am throwing my knife away. I shall not require any blades to finish him. With hands clenched around his thin neck, I am strangling him. I hear him squeal as the grip tightens. I feel the crackling of neck bones between my thumbs. I see him gulping the air in warm convulsions. He looks peaceful.

I sit on his chest and watch his last breath picked up by the wind, carried down the valley to the gardens, passing by the white chapel and the house where he grew up.

The scorching wind of Andalusia is pouring sunlight onto his face, toying with eyelashes, pounding on cheeks and gyring through hair. He must have missed the smell of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the air.

I am rewinding my wristwatch and walking downhill along the wavy trail, my thumbs still sore from killing.

I am taking small step sideways. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will hop on the first bus, and from there I will travel west. Or north. Destination will never matter.

Anywhere is where the roads take me.

#time #death #depression #suicide #confusion #knowledge #mystery #monster #perplexed #dark #scar

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