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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

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Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

MY MASTERLIST.

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but … I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?” you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

My inbox is here

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zanniscaramouche · 3 years

Photo

Singing Harmonies In Neverland’s Embrace

lights up and they know who you are d o y o u k n o w w h o y o u a r e ?

Two minutes and seventeen seconds.

That’s all it took. Liam wasn’t there, he’s only read the reports. He doesn’t know if Harry’s heart sounded the same as it does now, rapid and high strung. If Harry had frozen at the scent of Zayn’s blood. If Harry had screamed, or gasped, or cried. Liam wasn’t there, and he’s determined to make sure he never finds out what Harry does when one of his bodyguards takes a knife to the chest.

A/B/O - Bodyguard AU - Lirry - 20k Written for @omegaharryficfest Prompt #21

#lirry #omegaharryficfest #tracksintheam #one direction #liam payne #harry styles #niall horan #narry #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #1D #1Dfic #1Dfanfic #zanni fic #SHINE

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beanno28 · 4 years

Text

Like Those Foreign Stars

AUTHOR REVEAL

Like Those Foreign Stars by Beanno28

Words: 18,526

Rating: Explicit

Louis’ family go on a vacation to Mexico, he never expects to meet a handsome young entertainer who seems to have taken a liking to him. What happens when Louis easily gives in and decides sneaking around his family’s back to have a fling takes a turn?

Read it now on Ao3!

Written for @hlsummerfest2020

#reblog

#fic 1

#hl summer fest

#myfic #larry fanfic #larry fanfiction #1dfanfic #1d fan fiction #1d 2020

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younghearts-stories · 6 years

Text

high noon: chapter 7 preview

High Noon: Chapter Seven will be out on Wednesday, January 24!

Preview:

My instinct is to laugh at the fact that a grown 23 year-old-man was blasting Spice Girls throughout his whole flat without a care in the world.

But I don’t laugh— in fact; the laugh gets stuck in my throat, not even making it out. Because all I could think about was the fact that Harry was standing in front of me in practically nothing, save from a pair of thin boxers and an array of tattoos that covered his chest and arms. That his hair was a tousled mess and that he was sporting a sleepy smile that I tried so hard not to find endearing, but failed miserably to do so.

He completely ignores my obvious stare and turns back to look at the stove. “You hungry?”

“Uh-“ is all I manage to get out. For some reason my mind can’t find any words to say, at all. It was as if my brain and mouth were suddenly disconnected, leaving me to stand there like a fish out of water.

“You get to try the famous Styles breakfast. I don’t make breakfast for everyone, so you should feel very privileged,” he boasts, a dimple poking through his cheek as he turns away from the eggs to catch my eye and my stomach physically sinks when our gazes lock.

“Oh, and there’s coffee. Thought you might like to know that.”

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soysauceharry · 4 years

Text

the things that have passed - a post doc harry novella

***this is part one of the 4-part novella. the rest will be posted all together.***

word count: 3.6k

[contains mature sexual content]

-*-

2024

Why is it that airports seem to exist outside the definition of linear time?

What was, and what comes next. That space in between, Harry muses to himself as the security line inches forward. It’s unfortunately crowded for six in the morning--the line snakes around the entire holding area. Harry stifles a yawn against the back of his hand and then checks his watch to make sure they won’t miss their flight.

Waking up this morning was borderline disastrous, but even after a night filled with too much champagne and being politely asked to vacate the premises by the venue owners, Harry refuses to let his fatigue cloud his excitement for the next ten days. Ten days. An entire week and a half with no obligations, no responsibilities, no emails--

No emails.

Somehow, the thought is nearly erotic.

“Harry, can we switch?”

There’s a thud. He glances down at the duffel bag on the ground and laughs. “Too heavy?” he asks. It’s a bit of a pitiful image, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. Not when the image is of his wife, still in the sweats she fell asleep in with a pair of sunglasses on her nose completely exposing her hangover for what it is, pouting in front of him.

“My arms are jelly.”

“S’alright, my love,” he says, lifting it up easily. He hoists it over his shoulder and adjusts the strap until it’s comfortable. “You want the rolling suitcase?”

“Mmm.” She pauses to yawn, cutely stretching her arms over her head. Harry is hopelessly besotted. “Sure. Give it here.”

He pushes the bag over and she grabs it, setting her purse on top and wrapping the straps around the handle. She wrinkles her nose and lifts her sunglasses to rest on the top of her head to scratch at her eyebrow, and Harry can tell she’s fighting off sleep with every drowsy movement her limbs make. She sniffs once, then again. And then their eyes meet, and she gives him a lethargic smile, and somehow he falls in love all over again.

“You excited?”

“Buzzin’,” Harry says, shifting a few inches as the line trickles forward. “First proper overseas holiday together.”

“We’ve been to England together, H.”

“Mmm…” Harry shakes his head minutely. “Doesn’t count. My whole family was there. Was like being at home.”

“Fair enough,” she says, and Harry chuckles a bit at the nonplussed shrug of his wife’s shoulders. He knows she’s too tired to engage in debate right now, so he opts for slinging an arm around her shoulders and stamping a kiss to her temple. It’s the right thing to do, as she immediately burrows into the warmth of his chest. He peppers more kisses against her skin, keeping his lips pressed against the side of her head as she snuffles happily into the fabric of his fleece pullover, happy to close her eyes as the line continues to creep forward.

Another five minutes later, they reach the passport control area. They’re directed to the far side, the TSA officer waving them forward. “Passports?” she says not unkindly, but Harry is still quick to hand them over. “Traveling together?”

“Yes,” Harry says, nodding quickly.

“Where are you headed?”

“Greece,” his wife pipes up, straightening up from where she had been leaning against Harry’s chest. “Athens, then Santorini.”

The TSA agent looks up from examining their passports with a hint of a grin on her face. “Special occasion?” she asks, though her voice doesn’t give away much.

Harry swallows, then looks down at his wife. She’s already looking up at him, mirroring what’s probably an entirely too dopey grin on his face. “Honeymoon,” Harry says, staring at her for a split second longer before turning back to the TSA agent. “We got married last night.”

The ring on the fourth finger of his left hand suddenly feels much heavier than before. It’s a gold band--simple, nothing too fancy. He initially thought it would feel like wearing any other ring, but the moment it was slipped onto his finger by the gently trembling hands of the woman he can now call his wife--the woman to whom he gave his name in addition to everything he possesses within him--he knew it would be incomparable to any other piece of jewelry he would ever put on.

And it’s funny now, he thinks as the TSA agent hands them their passports back and beckons them forward with a simple have a safe trip, lovebirds, that there was a moment in time where he thought he’d never get to wear a ring on that finger. But now, all he can think about is how it’ll feel in the cool Grecian waters; how it’ll feel digging into the backside of his wife as he lays in bed with her; how it’ll feel for the rest of his life, perched on his fourth finger, never to be removed but for necessity.

-*-

The Grecian heat is borderline unbearable, but Harry’s trying to embrace the slickness of his sweaty skin and the way his linen button-up has soaked up all the moisture from his back. His shirt hangs open to expose his white tank top tucked into matching cloth shorts--a novel look, his wife would say, but he can’t say the length of the shorts don’t provide some sort of relief from the relentless sunlight.

Avissinias Square is overflowing with tourists. They spill out into the tiny alleys that feed into the market and pour over the stalls filled with trinkets and the freshest fruits and nuts Harry’s ever seen. They’ve barely been there fifteen minutes and Harry’s already lost his wife into the crowd, watching as she’d made some vague gesture toward the far corner. He can see some ornate mosaic lanterns hanging from rods, so he assumes she’s gone to look at them.

Instead of exploring, however, he’s decided to stay put so she knows where to find him. He pushes his sweat-slick sunglasses back up his nose and rakes his fingers through his damp hair to keep it out of his face. The afternoons have not been kind to them since arriving in Athens, but they’ve taken to ending their days with a dip in the ocean to recharge after draining days in the sun. It’s helped for the most part--and who could deny the chance to dive into the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean as a means to escape the grueling heat?--but today’s humidity is exceptionally stifling. Harry reaches into the plastic shopping bag clutched in his left hand and retrieves a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and taking a deep pull.

The stalls near him are filled with books, most of the spines worn to the point of being nearly illegible. Harry’s eyes are drawn to a cart that has signs posted in English--The Philosopher’s Keep, it reads, piquing his interest. He dodges his way through the crowd until he reaches the stall and greets the shopkeeper in broken Greek.

“English?” the man asks, and Harry nods. The man smiles, gesturing to the books on the left side. “These English. Please, look.”

“Thank you,” Harry replies, touching his hand to his chest as he steps past the man into the shade provided by the cloth stretched across the top of the stall’s dividers. Not normally one to frequent the works of the Greeks, Harry finds himself picking up book after book, leafing through the fragile pages and reading a few lines here and there. He finds a copy of Orestes that looks far more loved than his own and sets it aside, contemplating purchasing it once he’s had a look through everything the cart has to offer.

Someone bumps his back as he’s reaching forward for a pale gray title, making him lurch forward. He hears something mumbled in response, likely an apology, so he brushes it off after a quick glance behind him. Harry turns back to the thin book and picks it out of the stack--The Symposium. Familiarity dawns on him. Plato’s works were a favorite of his professor’s in his sophomore year philosophy class.

Finding his favorite quote is muscle memory. Harry flips to the page and traces his finger down the grainy paper, feeling the indentations of some previous owner’s scribbling on his skin. Halfway down the page, he sees it, and his lips quirk upward in recognition:

“...and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment…”

Harry takes in the familiar words, reading over the passage a few times. They seem to have a new meaning when read in the context of his reality--as if he’s actualized the philosopher's thoughts, experiencing them in real time. Tangible feelings instead of abstract concepts of a soulmate, and that--

Soulmate.

The thought sparks something deep within him.

He looks up then, trying to spot his wife in the midst of all the tourists. He sees the white sundress she’d picked out for the day, drags his gaze along the glimmering skin of her back. A certain yearning grows stronger, nearly drowning out the din of the marketplace. He watches as she converses with a shopkeeper while holding up a chosen lantern in question. She laughs, and the action causes him to smile involuntarily. Not out of his sight, even for a moment.

“You buy?”

The man before him gestures toward the book when Harry turns to face him. The thin book somehow feels heavy in his hands, as if each word holds a weight of its own. He glances down and turns it over in his hands, running his fingers along the spine. If he closed his eyes, he could probably single out his wife’s voice in the crowd.

“Yes,” he says, nodding mostly to himself. “I’ll buy it.”

-*-

“I can’t believe it’s our last day here…”

Harry feels the gentle puffs of air against his neck as his wife speaks. Her arms tighten around his neck, and he adjusts his grip on her so her legs encircle his hips firmly. They float through the water as a single unit, with Harry’s feet skimming the bottom of the ocean so they don’t slip under the waves. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon. The water around them is bathed in melting hues of orange, pink, and yellow as dusk settles over Athens.

“Could stay here forever,” she continues, and Harry hums in agreement. She lifts her head to look up at him and gives him a lethargic smile--there’s a certain sated look in her eyes that makes Harry feel lush and warm inside. “Needed this, I think,” she continues softly, blinking up at him. “Was good for us to get away.”

“Glad we didn’t do the Swiss Alps honeymoon, then?”

“God.” She shivers a bit, pulling herself further into Harry’s chest involuntarily. “So glad.”

The waves are rocking them gently back and forth, the rhythm lulling the pair into comfortable silence. It’s grounding to listen to the sounds of the ocean and the shore, to hear families and their children playing along the beach, to hear the calls of birds flying overhead. Harry would never have pictured himself in a place like this, holding (in his humble opinion) the human embodiment of light in his arms after promising an eternity to one another.

To have light forever, he thinks--what could be more wondrous than that?

Harry sponges a kiss to his wife’s temple, and she turns her head so she can capture his lips fully. The kiss is tinged with the salty sea spray and the sweetness of the golden hour. He breathes her in, taking his time to move his mouth against hers, letting his lips part and close in tandem with the waves, and she sighs that delicate sigh that makes him pull her closer still, feeling the way her damp skin sticks against his own, and this, he thinks, is the closest thing to heaven.

“I love you,” she says, leaning back to whisper the words. “Husband.”

Husband. “I love you, too,” Harry replies, ducking down to steal another kiss. “My wife… god, I can finally call you my wife.”

She laughs, throwing her head back and reaching up to cover her mouth. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, and maybe he is.

He connects their lips again, suddenly feeling overcome with the need to keep her here, just like this, and maybe they could stay here long enough for the tide to sweep them out to sea, keeping them suspended in the vast blue water. Maybe they can exist just like this forever, as husband and wife, as lovers tangled together in the ocean. He takes an indulgent look at his wife’s face bathed in the golden sunlight, just on the border of being too bright. He’d gladly go blind if it meant living in this moment forever.

“I love you,” he says again when they separate.

“I know.” She giggles, as if he’s told her a secret. “We said that already.”

“Don’t tell me you’re already tired of it.”

“Could never be tired of it.” She sighs, resting her forehead against the tip of Harry’s chin. “Could say it every minute of every day… I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

“Might hold you to that.”

His wife laughs lightly again, an airy sort of sound that doesn’t sound too far from the tinkling of bells Harry imagines to be outside the gates of heaven. He readjusts his grip on her and moves further out to sea, just until the water skims his collarbones.

Being suspended at sea is appropriate for introspection, Harry thinks, as the pair settles into a comfortable silence. He’s catalogued the various emotions of the last week into distinct separate entities: anticipation, fear, and happiness. Anticipation has manifested itself suddenly, unbeknownst to Harry as he made the realization of how ready he truly was to get started on this new era in his life. To be a husband, to be a committed partner - it feels natural at thirty-four years of age to be transitioning into the mindset of sharing his life with someone else.

Fear, on the other hand, has assigned itself to another part of that transition that is lurking just over the horizon: fatherhood. To bring a child into this world, to create a person who will one day have their own thoughts, their own personality, their own autonomy, all of that with half of himself permanently part of them… If anticipation is a flame that has sparked in seconds, fear puts it out just as quickly.

But happiness - happiness is neither a flame nor its extinguisher. Happiness is a supernova, an explosion against a backdrop of darkness. Happiness is wholly consuming and unabashedly loud, like a roaring runaway train. Happiness can be defined by a singular moment in Harry’s mind, a moment he’s frequently revisited in the last few days.

“Paradise.”

His nose skims smooth, lilac-scented skin. He takes a deep breath in and closes his eyes.

“You are paradise.”

Fingers wind through his hair. Harry glances up through hooded eyes, past the shocking white lace adorning his fiance’s--no, wife’s--skin, to look at her face. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth in anticipation, eyebrows furrowed slightly. As a test, he bites a kiss into the soft plush of her belly, sucking slightly, and he’s pleased to see her startle a bit.

“H--c’mon…”

“Shh…” He placates her with another kiss to the other side of her belly, gentler this time. Her thighs are comforting weights on his shoulders, splayed open without an ounce of shame, as if presenting herself to him like a soldier’s feast. He coaxes the reserved whines from her mouth as he inches lower and lower, lips dragging a blazing path down her abdomen.

“Please, baby...”

His wife’s voice is like another glass of wine, the sound intoxicating to his cotton-filled ears. He’d down a full bottle of it in a heartbeat, he thinks. Every day for the rest of his life, filling himself up with her voice.

“You’ve given me everything,” he whispers devotedly. The happiness surges through him as he finally presses a kiss to her clothed mound. The room feels hot as he loops his index finger through the band of her underwear and starts pulling it down. “You are everything.”

-*-

It gets hotter that night.

So much so that the blankets have been pushed to the foot of the bed while Harry thrusts into his wife, sweat pooling at the base of his spine, and heavy pants escaping his lips. She throws her head back and her eyebrows are pinched together in what could be perceived as pain--but she’s moaning, whining breathily and gasping faster, yes, I need you, please--

“So good, you’re so good,” Harry grunts, and he feels a little manic with the emotion vibrating in his skin right now. It’s--she’s everything, and to have her like this, to feel her nails raking down the slick skin of his back, skin that hadn’t even dried from the ocean when they tumbled into bed, to feel her teeth digging into the meat of his shoulder--

“Harry!” she cries as he bucks his hips even faster now, shifting her higher up the mattress. He gathers her in his arms, holding her against him with one while he balances himself on the other. He fucks into her recklessly, making sure she’ll feel him for days and weeks to come. She clings to him and cries out again, and he wonders if anyone can hear them from the next cabin over.

“Say my name, darling.”

“Harry, please--”

“Louder, c’mon, want them to hear you--”

“God, I can’t–”

Her legs cradle his hips and he shifts his grip so he can pull her even tighter, eliminating any space between their bodies. He feels the way her skin slides against his, sticking in places and tacky with sweat. The humidity of the evening hasn’t faded, and with every exhaled breath the room becomes inundated with the heady smell of their sex, billowing out of the open doors and into the Grecian night.

“Want it, don’t you?” Harry pants now, steadying his grip on her hip. “Want it so bad–I do, too, baby…”

It’s such a stark contrast to their first time. All nerves and anticipation, not knowing what she would like, not knowing if he’d be good enough. But he knows now, has known it for years. Gives it to her just right, makes her make the most heavenly noises that send zips of pleasure right down to his toes.

“My wife,” he says, like he’s thanking some God for his bounty. “My wife, my wife, my wife…”

It pulls something guttural from her, her entire body arching upward from the force of her moan. Harry feels it in his chest, feels it vibrating every cell in his body. He feels how she squeezes around him, somehow pulling him deeper with every thrust of his hips.

“Harry, I’m gonna come,” she pants while pulling at his hair. Her fingers rake down his back, and he’s already anticipating how the scratches will sting in the shower tomorrow morning. He somehow finds it within himself to pick up the pace, to snap his hips against hers to the point of making his wife cry out every single time he pushes into her. “Harry, I--god,” she moans. “Keep going, just like that--yeah, just like that…”

Her gasps pierce the room rhythmically, a sweet symphony to Harry’s ears. There isn’t a moment when he isn’t in awe of his wife, but in these moments--in this moment, right now, with her writhing underneath him as their bodies move in synchrony--he thinks he really might’ve married an angel.

He can recognize that her peak is fast approaching now, with the way her gasps have given way to tired whines. She’s spent, but she still finds the energy to drag her hands back up to grip his cheeks. His hair falls over his forehead, the sweat-heavy strands shaking like branches on a tree in the wind. She holds his face and he leans down, resting his forehead against hers as his arms tighten around her frame. Their world shrinks for a moment, and suddenly, everything comes into focus.

He feels her breath on his face, hitching slightly in her throat as he continues to pump his hips. Her eyes have fallen shut halfway, but he can see her lips faintly make shapes that resemble his name. Her ring is cool against the skin of his cheekbone, and the feeling of his digging into her skin is just as sweet as he’d imagined it. Her body shakes, trembles slightly as she gets closer, grips his cheeks tighter, and he wants to bury himself in the feeling of her squeezing around him--

“--Don’t stop, please--”

The warmth pools in his belly as she arches upward, seeking even more of his body against hers. If he could get closer to her somehow, maybe he’d be able to feel the way she aches for him, but for right now he’ll have to settle for the spasms of her abdomen against his as she grits her teeth, eyes fluttering shut, finally--

“Yes, oh--god, Harry!”

She comes, and Harry swears she could be the eighth wonder of the world.

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #one direction fanfiction #1dff #1dfanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles oneshot #:)

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caramelstyles · 3 years

Photo

already gone — harry styles fanfiction ❝ To love them, you have to set them free.❞

They say love conquers all but when it’s your first love, does the same rule still apply? For Angel and Harry, five years seems so long when you have lost the one love keeping you whole but fate has other plans or maybe a certain matchmaker is to thank. Either way, will their love be enough to reunite them or will their love burn out?

read now on wattpad or tumblr.

story tag | full story page | wattpad link

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edgeofmyniall · 4 years

Text

ten: take me there

storypage | playlist | taglist | thoughts

“Tell me 'bout your mama, your daddy, your hometown, show me around. I wanna see it all, don't leave anything out.I wanna know everything about you then and I wanna go down every road you've been, where your hopes and dreams and wishes live, where you keep the rest of your life hid .I wanna know the girl behind that pretty stare. Take me there...”

“Sit on my face.”

“Do what?” Ginger’s voice rang shocked and hushed. She would be mortified if her parents overheard her.

“You heard me.”

Ginger’s heart raced. She felt like a teenager again fumbling through her words with the boy she liked. Her face turned beet red and her mouth was dry. She, for once, had no words. She wished for this moment for weeks and now the first time she is able, she’s starting to chicken out. At twenty-six, she was acting like a sixteen year old with a boy sneaking into her room.

“My parents will hear me,” she whispers her excuse. She could feel her hips being magnetically pulled to Niall’s mouth. She wanted him so bad.

“Not if you keep quiet,” Niall laid down on the bed with his head resting on the pillow Ginger hadn’t slept on in two years. It smelled faintly of Ginger’s perfume, and as Niall made himself comfortable, Ginger stood in the middle of her room biting her nails.

“What if we get caught?” Ginger asks. Her dress sways from her anxious movements. Niall lifts his head for a mere moment.

“Ginger, you’re an adult. Grow up and let me eat you out!”

Nervous, Ginger strides over to her bed. She knows the bed squeaks when a person rolls over or moves too much. She uses the dark headboard to her advantage, her grip tight on the wood as she straddles her hips over Niall’s chest. Her heart is racing and she knows that her agonizing wait will be over soon. She’ll ride his face until her body passes out from exhaustion and the thought thrilled her.

She holds her wait as she hovers over Niall. His black eyes grow as he looks at the naked and exposed vagina of Ginger. “Yer not wearin’ any panties,” he growls, his dick hardening.

Ginger giggles as she girlishly bites her lip from excitement. She doesn’t know when the right time to roll her hips on Niall’s mouth will be. Are they going to talk or get straight into business?

“You have the perfect pussy,” Niall reaches over Ginger’s thigh and his thumb slowly circles her clit- the sensation almost taking her over. She arches her back and her breathing is eradicated. “The perfect legs, tits…” Niall breathes as he imagines taking Ginger’s big breasts inside his mouth. The way her nipples feel against his tongue. “Perfect voice to scream my name…” He licks his lips as Ginger begins to unconsciously rock her hips.

“Niall,” Ginger breathes- her eyes open from where they had closed on their own. Niall’s words had lulled her into a passion coma. His face was beautiful. Every single feature of his was her favorite. And she wanted more than anything to see her cum all over his face.

“C’mere…”

She rolled her hips over his mouth, his tongue lapping her entrance. She forced her fist to her mouth to contribute as a filter from her moans. She found her rhythm as she rocked her hips letting Niall’s nose hit against her swollen clit. Niall’s lips linger on the fleshy pick skin as he delves his tongue inside of her tasting her wetness. She was so wet for him. And he wanted to taste her forever.

Ginger swallowed a scream as NIall’s nose rubs against her clit as his tongue dove deeper inside her. Her legs began to shake as a fire burned inside of the bottom of her torso. Her muscles tighten in her body as she rolls her hips vigorously against Niall’s mouth. His hands dig into the sides of Ginger’s hips as he rubs his nose along her clit for longer. His tongue flicks against the pink walls, his tongue feeling the groovy roof of her womanhood.

Ginger feels her body about to expire, but rolls her hips harder, pushing herself farther down on him. She wants Niall’s tongue deep inside her. Her knuckles bleed white as her grip on her wooden headboard becomes harder. She knows the build up is becoming too much for her and she feels herself about to squirt.

Hearing Niall whine as her moaning continued was what pushed Ginger over the ledge. Her undoing flowed into Niall’s mouth and over his chin and cheeks. She screamed into her hand as her vision blurred and her body convulsed her thrusting into sparatic rolls. The crashing waves of her orgasm stifled the room as Niall grunted inside of her.

She lets her grip of the headboard go and Ginger falls against the bed. Her feet were still straddling Niall’s face as her legs laid across her chest. She tried to catch her breathing as her heart raced from pleasure, but she felt the bed bounce slightly underneath her heavy body.

She turned to find Niall tugging his dick in his hands. She had been in her own world of recovery hat she didn’t hear Niall’s pants unzip. His eyes were screwed shut as he tried to stifle his moans. Watching Niall get himself off made Ginger’s nipples ache. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted him inside of her still.

“Fuck,’’ Niall whispered as he grabbed the back of Ginger’s head and brought her mouth the tip of his cock. The warm salty cum spurted inside her mouth. The taste of Niall overcame her and she pulled her head against Niall’s grasp and swallowed his undoing. The two fell into silence as they tried to wind down from their sexual experiment. The only sound was the heavy breathing and the lone stomach growl that came from Ginger. The two fell into a fit of laughter before Ginger sat up on her elbows.

“Wanna grab some lunch?” Ginger quirked her brow up. She knew exactly where she was taking him.

“As long as I can have you for dessert…” Niall said, his voice hinting for another round.

Ginger had already opened her bedroom door, purse on her shoulder when she retorted in a sing-song voice: “Always.”

~~~~~~

Ginger was leading Niall down the sidewalk downtown. The shops were open and almost everyone they passed Ginger waved to. They were holding hands as she tugged Niall to the comic book shop that her middle school friend’s uncle had opened.

“You seriously know everyone here?” Niall stated as an observation more than a question. The sun was beating down on the two of them as Ginger licked her cookies-n-cream ice cream from the old time parlor they had just left.

“It’s just Brian. He used to drive my school bus,” Ginger smiled as the glass door dinged as she pushed it open with her now free hand from letting her grip from Niall go. The store was lined with shelves on the three walls. The glass windows that let people look in was covered with vintage posters of superheroes and villains. Niall thought he had stepped into hell when all of the shelves were crammed with toys, collectibles, and figures that were in such a disarray that his stomach knotted. Lining the walls and shelves were glass cases that were filled with memorabilia and toys lined the top of the glass. The back of the store was taken over by bags of dice and cards of games that Niall didn’t recognize. The glass case that was home for the register was the neatest spot in the store. The inner shelves were lined with first edition comics that were held in plastic protective sleeves.

Ginger licked her ice cream as she left Niall to his own demise. She thumbed through old comics that were alphabetized. Niall slowly walked around the glass counter to look at the shelves. There was just enough space in this small compacted store for one other person behind the counter. Everything seemed to tower over him. He didn’t understand Ginger’s desire for messy. He wanted things neat and in their place, but Ginger threw her stuff around and called it her “organized mess”.

The one small trinket that stood out to Niall was a Funko pop figure that the company had made into a key chain. It was something he thought Ginger would like and he found it quite funny. He took the key chain off the shelf and carried it around the store, hiding it from Ginger when she would glance at him. Her smile warmed him. He was a lucky guy, finding a woman that liked to be around him and loved him for his antics. He was lucky that even as a global superstar Ginger saw passed the bright lights and money of fame and saw the real Niall. There was never time that he had doubted the intentions of her. She was real in a world dying to fake it out. She was honest in a room full of liars and she was vulnerable in a room full of hardened hearts.

When Ginger turned to leave, Niall smiled as he pushed the glass door open, the small brown bag held in the same hand.

“Whatcha get?” Ginger bit into her waffle cone. The white and black ice cream was smeared on her nose. Niall reached out and wiped the sticky residue with his thumb and tasted the sweetness of her ice cream.

“Nothin’ really, just a souvenir,” Niall smiled as they went into the next shop.

It was a local boutique that had transformed from a printing shop. The brick wall was partially covered with painted stucco. The lilac walls were lined with pictures of various spots of Laurel Springs. The store was filled with a few people, none of which Ginger paid any attention to. She was more concerned with looking at the clothes and listening to the pop music playing. She was humming as Niall followed her around the women’s clothing. She swayed her head back and forth as the songs continued to play. Niall took notice of the few people staring at her…or him- he wasn’t too sure. He kept his head down and watched Ginger hold a yellow flowy shirt. She shrugged her shoulders and put it back on the metal rack. Niall felt out of place, like an ant under a microscope looking for his anthill, but it was worsened when his newest single played over the speakers.

He was afraid Ginger might make a big deal out of it like she does when they’re alone in the car or cooking, but she only smiled to herself as she looked up at him and wiggled her eyebrows.

Niall stood with Ginger’s melting ice cream cone as she tried on various shirts and pants. His favorite was a pair white washed ripped jeans that fit Ginger’s curves just so with the black bleached band tee. She looked beautiful and perfect and he wanted to take her in the middle of the boutique.

When Ginger paid, she threw her half eaten cone in the public trash. Outside the sun was shining and the wind was gently blowing. Ginger drive Niall around to her “famous spots”: where she and her friends hung out regularly, where she had her first kiss, where she started her period. Everything she said, every word she spoke Niall clung to. He was soaking Ginger in like he was a sponge. He wanted to know all of Ginger and she was showing every aspect of her life. Even the parts she didn’t want to show.

It was in a local restaurant where they stopped for a small snack, that a ghost from Ginger’s past appeared. Pushing a flowered stroller was a blonde bombshell that was followed by a small toolset boy and a built man. Ginger’s heart stopped. She felt her face go flush and her legs begin to shake. After all these years, he still was just as handsome as he was in high school.

The small boy tugged the man towards the blonde beauty and when the father looked up, he saw the woman who loved him when he least deserved it.

“Ginger?” the man asked as he stopped at the couple’s table. He balanced a diaper bag on his shoulder.

“Hi Danny,” Ginger smiled. A little too big for Niall’s comfort but he remained silent. There stood the asshole that crushed Ginger’s heart all those years ago. He balled his fist in his lap as his leg bounced.

Ginger stood and embraced Daniel in a hug. He still used the same cologne and it was intoxicating. Her arm rested on his firm bicep before letting go. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. When did you get into town?” Daniel blushed before looking over to his wife who was standing a few feet over from him looking annoyed.

“Just today. We went shopping,” Ginger gestures towards Niall with her hand before becoming embarrassed, “Oh this is Niall, my um….”

“Boyfriend,” Niall stood and shook Daniel’s extended hand firmly. He squeezed his hand enough to know that he was the alpha male. “I’m her boyfriend.” Niall draped his hand over the dip of Ginger’s back, pulling her closer to him.

“I’m Daniel. Ginger’s friend.”

“Yeah, that you were,” Niall remarked, his voice harsh. His brow was furrowed and the grip on Ginger became tighter.

“Um well I better go. Lila is giving me the look,” Daniel awkwardly laughs. He smiles at the two of them, his eyes lingering on Ginger. “Nice seeing you again.”

The couple sit back down at the table and as the server refills the drinks, Ginger’s phone dings.

~~~~~~

“So you’re tellin’ me that you had your first kiss under the bleachers?” Niall and Ginger were standing at the fence of the high school football stadium. It was getting dusk and the two were on the last leg of their journey before going home.

“Yeah well, I thought it was romantic at the time. He was a total killer with his braces,” Ginger laughed. Niall’s hand rested on her back as her phone went off once again.

“Someone’s popular,” Niall said, a bad feeling growing in his stomach.

“Yeah, it’s my friend Taylor… she wants to meet up tomorrow,” Ginger lied.

“Mm.”

~~~~~~

Dinner at the Blake house was everything Ginger described. They went around the table after blessing the food to say what they’re favorite part of their day was. It was Niall stepped inside of a fifties television show.

“Showing Niall around,” Ginger smiled as she took in a bite of her father’s homemade burger. She grabbed another fry off her plate and waved it around. “The comic bookstore looked a little empty.”

“And what about you dear?” Pennie asked. Her graying black hair was pulled into a low bun. Her face done small wrinkles and laughing lines. Niall pictured Ginger looking like this when she aged.

“Meeting you guys,” Niall smiled as Jack clapped his hand on Niall’s back. This was the family he never had, but the secrets he knew was what kept him far away. He couldn’t trust Jack after knowing he cheated on Pennie.

After dinner, Jack and Niall took Texas outside for an evening walk and so they could talk man to man. Ginger and Pennie stayed in the kitchen to wash the dishes.

Pennie hip bumped Ginger whose hands were submerged in soapy water. “He’s a catch, Ginger,” Pennie looked at her daughter and smiled. “Even if…”

“Mama, I- I don’t know what to say. I tried to stop it but…” Ginger trailed off, her voice cracking as tears bellowed up.

“I know, Stella told me. She always overshadowed you and you just let her. Dad and I wanted to help but we felt like this was something you needed to learn,” Pennie rested her head on Ginger’s shoulder. “As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters, baby girl.”

“Love you, mama.”

~~~~~

“So you dated Stella and now you’re dating my daughter?” Jack pulled out a pack of spitting tobacco as the two men walked down the dirt driveway to walk the family dog. Niall stuffed his hands in his front pockets, trying to concentrate on anything beside this conversation.

“Yeah seems so.” Niall said coldly. He had an issue with Jack simply for the fact that he repeatedly hurt Pennie, a woman he barely knew.

“Were you and Stella together when you and Ginger got together or was it…”

“Sir, no disrespect, but you should be the last one worried about how me and Ginger got together,” Niall huffed. His chest was hot as he thought of Ginger’s phone digging over and over again.

“I see Ginger told you about my past,” Jack breathed in deep, “you probably think I’m a piece of shit, don’t ya?”

“Yes,” Niall was honest with his answer. “If you didn’t want Pennie, why not call off the marriage? Why do that to her and Ginger? Stella?” It was a long minute before Jack answered.

“You see son, sometimes your heart dictates what you want. I wanted Pennie and the other girl. There’s no questioning it. I loved both of them. At the same time, but what I thought I wanted wasn’t what I needed. What I needed was a good ass kicking,” Jack smiles before he continues. “You still love Stella?”

“I care about her, yeah.”

“And you love Ginger?”

“With everything. I actually see myself settling down with her,” he spoke the words he had been feeling for all those quiet months. “She’s my best friend.”

“Ginger is your Pennie. You realize what you needed before things got too messy,” Jack swung his arm over Niall’s broad shoulders. “You make her happy.”

“Yeah…” Niall isn’t too sure about the latter anymore.

~~~~~

Ginger was in the shower when her phone dinged again. Niall was laying in her bed when his curiosity got the best of him. He knows looking leads to heart break but he had to know. He picked up the phone, letting the screen light up and his heart ached as he placed it back on the nightstand. He knew this was too good to be true.

Ginger walked in towel drying her hair. She sat on the bed and leaned to Niall, her lips gently scraping against his beard. “How about that dessert?”

Niall did something he promised himself he would never do. He lied to Ginger.

“Not in the mood,” his voice harsh as he rolled over. The lights cut off and he heard Ginger tapping the screen of her phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~

@oyesmendes @klairelavarias @dontgiveupthedayjob @hannahollan1181 @kare38 @verorax @stayclose-holdsteady @halfpinthoran @angrynarry

#niall horan #niall horan fanfiction #niall horan fic #niall horan smut #niall horan fanfic #1dff #1dfanfic #1dffupdates #niall horan au #niall smut #niall au

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crocodileniall · 4 years

Text

wattpad // story page

Epilogue pt 1

word count: 3101

“So maybe we chose each other,” Niall smiled, reaching his hand out to smooth over her pajama clad thigh. “I have no complaints.”

Clementine didn’t have to think before she said, “me either.”

“But if you had complaints, you’d tell me?” Niall asked, eyebrows furrowing. “Like really.”

“Of course,” Clementine murmured. “Niall, you know I’ve gotten better at that.”

“I know,” Niall nodded. There had been many fights because Clementine couldn’t say what she meant, or put what she needed into words. After a couple fights, the bigger picture was more apparent.

“Besides,” Clementine sighed, head tilting to the side as she looked up at him. “I couldn’t possibly complain. You’re too good to me, you know that?”

3 years later

Niall couldn’t count the amount of ballet’s he’s attended. He’d lost track forever ago. He can say, confidently, that each and every time he’s watched Clementine perform, his heart grows in his chest.

This time was no different. Clementine was on her 10th lead for The Royal Ballet. She was bored, she confessed to him just a few months ago. He understood her boredom. It was the same cycle over and over- and many of the shows she’d done dozens of time.

That’s how she’d come to the conclusion that it’d be her last show. Just for now, she added very quickly after she said. Niall had a funny feeling that within her off time she’d decide otherwise but that was another story.

Clementine thanked Niall profusely for coming, kissing him over and over, silly pecks that made him laugh, arms tightening around her waist.

“Okay okay,” Clementine’s mother laughed, prying her from Niall’s arms. “Let me get a hug in.”

Clementine let go of Niall, falling into her mother’s hug. Niall let her go, unwilling. Through the last couple of years Clementine had gone home lots of weekends, finding it a good change of pace.

“Mel said you guys are going to Italy,” her mother said, pulling away from Clementine. “Is this true?”

“It is true,” Niall nodded.

“Any big plans when you get there?” Her mother asked, eyes drifting from Niall to Clementine and then back to Niall.

“No just chill,” Clementine shook her head.

“Well that sounds mighty fun,” her mother sang, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

Niall felt himself begin to get nervous under her prying eyes. He hoped she’d be able to tell from his eyes that the subject should be dropped. Clementine was unaware of the exchange, wrapping her arm around Niall’s waist, looking up at him with a smile.

“Oh Niall!” Clementine’s mother exclaimed. “I heard you have a new album coming out.”

Niall shot Clementine a look, eyes narrowed. Clementine laughed, patting him on the chest. “Love, it’s just mumsie. She won’t tell the press.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Niall clarified, eyes meeting her mother’s. “And a secret, at that.”

“My lips are sealed,” she smiled. “Anyways I think dad’s pulled the car around by now. We’re off back to Man. Busy day at the shop tomorrow. One more hug for the road?”

Clementine hugged her mother and then Niall was pulled in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek before they were off. Niall knew Clementine would be sad to see them go but it wouldn’t last long.

“Lemen!” A familiar voice shouted from behind them. Niall didn’t have to turn around to know it was Georgie.

“Hey!” Clementine exclaimed, immediately pulling her in for a hug. “How’ve you been? How’s the knee?”

“Ah it’s alright,” Georgie shrugged, waving her off. “I saw your performance. It was great. You killed it up there.”

“Thank you,” Clementine smiled. “That means a lot.”

Niall thought back to a couple years ago, the fallout they had. Georgie’s knee blew out and the pain, emotional and physical, was too much for her and she moved back home.

Niall wouldn’t say it was perfect timing, but it was the same time Clementine moved in with him. Liam was moved out soon after, getting a place with Danielle. They were engaged a few months later.

“We’re heading to Italy tomorrow,” Clementine told her, reaching out for Georgie’s hand. “You should come.”

“No I don’t want to intrude,” Georgie shook her head. For her that was a surprise. Not wanting to intrude.

“We want you to,” Clementine insisted. “It’s be so fun if we got everyone to go.”

“Go where?” Danielle asked, coming up behind them.

“To Italy!” Clementine exclaimed. “If the lot of us went to Italy. Niall and I will be there for a while but-but you guys should come.”

Niall wasn’t upset that Clementine invited everyone. He thought it might be fun to catch up with everyone. It’s been years since everyone was all together like old times.

Through those years apart, Niall could tell that everyone had grown and old fights wouldn’t seem as important as they’d used to. He hoped that everyone else would feel that way too.

Clementine pulled Niall from his thoughts, pulling on his hand, “hey Niall.”

“Hey what?” Niall answered, looking down at her.

“For dinner I want the biggest burger ever, a large fry, and milkshake,” Clementine told him, a big grin on her face.

“That sounds incredible,” Niall smiled, throwing an arm over her shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as they began walking toward the door.

Through their time living together, Clementine had convinced and encouraged him to take on her eating habits and workouts. He would admit, he didn’t mind it in the least. Spending time with her was motivation enough.

As promised, they got the meal of Clementine’s dreams. They spread the food out on the coffee table, the telly on in the background.

Niall would say they’ve become experts at wasting time together. It was second nature, sprawling out on the couch together. It was his favorite thing to do and now that Clementine was taking her break, it was something they got to do more of.

Finally after a full stomach, Clementine stretched out on the couch, legs over Niall’s lap. She let out a groan, shifting to sit up. “Why’d you let me eat so much.”

“Well after years of eating broccoli florets and plain grilled chicken, I figured you deserved to indulge a little,” Niall murmured, fingers finding their way to push through her damp hair.

“I suppose,” Clementine agreed, looking up at him with fond eyes. “Do you always know what’s best for me?”

Niall chuckled, shaking his head, “you come to things in your own time.”

“I just think sometimes how crazy it was that we even met,” Clementine shrugged, a settling against his chest.

“I mean...” Niall trailed off. “It was bound to happen, I think. Mutual friends and all that.”

“But of all the people,” Clementine added, not letting it go. “Why didn’t you fancy Rosie or-or any of the other girls. Crazy that it was me.”

“Well Clem,” he chuckled. “You gave me no choice.”

“No choice!” She exclaimed, craning her neck to look at him. “Bullocks.”

“I remember it all fondly,” Niall laughed. “Oh Niall I got locked out- oh Niall Georgie’s being so rude to me- please. All a ploy.”

Clementine laughed, turning her whole body to face him. “You forgot to mention how you were at my every beck and call. And how you quite literally hated everyone except me. Talk about no choice.”

“So maybe we chose each other,” Niall smiled, reaching his hand out to smooth over her pajama clad thigh. “I have no complaints.”

Clementine didn’t have to think before she said, “me either.”

“But if you had complaints, you’d tell me?” Niall asked, eyebrows furrowing. “Like really.”

“Of course,” Clementine murmured. “Niall, you know I’ve gotten better at that.”

“Besides,” Clementine sighed, head tilting to the side as she looked up at him. “I couldn’t possibly complain. You’re too good to me, you know that?”

Niall rolled his eyes at that, pulling her in for a soft kiss. It wasn’t true. Niall swore Clementine was too good for him, what with her undying love for him. That’s what she always said to him and Niall had to remind her that this wasn’t a Shakespeare play, and that a regular amount of love was just fine.

But there was nothing regular about the love Clementine had for Niall. It was earth shattering love, the kind that would make a person do crazy things without thinking kind of love.

And that’s what it always felt like, when Clementine got bursts of love inside of her stomach and the only thing she could do was kiss him, clumsy and hard and their teeth clattered sometimes, and maybe their noses bumped so hard it made her feel like she’d sneeze- but that was what it felt to love Niall. A swarm of emotions that couldn’t always be named, but they were always there filling up the empty spaces inside of her.

Niall felt just the same, admiring every part of Clementine, the soft parts and the not so soft parts of her. The way she kept everything inside until Niall pried it from her lips, or the way she got angry when she was hungry- Niall both hated and loved those parts of her and he decided he wanted to love and hate those parts of her forever and ever.

Which is why it was a no brainer. Niall wanted to marry her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Clementine was who he wanted by his side until the day he died. When he asked Clementine’s parents for their blessing, he was met with the same enthusiasm as his own mother had given him.

So Niall kept the secret for days and days until they were alone in Italy, just the two of them laid out in the sun. The thoughts kept rushing to him, how desperate he was to ask her the question already.

Clementine was a patient woman, though. They’d just barely discussed marriage. Passing thoughts from Clementine like, “it’d be nice to move out of the city.” Or Clementine’s lingering eyes as they passed a bridal shop on Old Church street.

She never said it, though. Never brought it up, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that she loved him. He didn’t know if she’d say yes, but he hoped and prayed with everything in him that she would.

But nothing with Clementine ever went as planned. Niall was showering after spending hours in the pool, rinsing the sticky sunscreen from his skin. Clementine was laying in bed, contemplating dinner, as she said when he walked off.

When Niall came back out, underwear clad, toweling at his hair, Clementine was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands wrapped around the little black box. Niall stopped in his tracks, the air almost leaving his lungs.

“Well,” Clementine asked, standing up. “Are you going to ask me to marry you? I already found it, it’s not a surprise and I don’t want to wait an ungodly amount of time for it to become a surprise.”

“Well when you put it like that,” Niall sighed, taking the box from her hands. “Makes me not want to ask you.”

“Well when you say that,” Clementine retorted, taking the box from him again. She opened it up, sliding it onto her ring finger. “I will decide on my own. That you’re marrying me.”

Niall let out an unimpressed sigh, shaking his head. “Not even a little anticipation?”

“None,” Clementine murmured, pulling him down for a kiss. “You know I hate that.”

“I know,” Niall mumbled, pushing his fingers through her hair. “I love you, though. Really wanna marry you.”

“Really wanna marry you too,” Clementine told him, smiling softly as she admired the ring on her finger. Her smile faltered for a moment, looking up at him. “But I have to tell you something.”

“What?” Niall asked, beginning to worry.

“I didn’t decide my last show on my own,” she told him, sitting down on the bed. “I had a little help.”

“From?” Niall asked, sitting down beside her.

“I hope this doesn’t make you change your mind, but,” Clementine sighed. “I think- well I’m pretty sure. One hundred percent sure, actually, that I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant,” Niall mumbled, hand instinctively reaching out for her stomach. “H-how? When? Clem I need to know everything.”

“Well you can’t feel anything yet,” Clementine sighed. “I found out about two weeks ago. Which is when I decided to call it quits with ballet for a while.”

“Wait,” Niall furrowed his eyebrows. “I was in LA when you found out?”

“Yes,” Clementine nodded.

“And it was the night you called me crying?” He asked, eyebrows still furrowed. “That craziness asking if I’d love you forever no matter what happens?”

“Yes,” Clementine nodded. “That night I found out.”

“And you kept it a secret?” He demanded, eyes narrowing at her. “Why?”

“Because I had about a week and a half of shows left I couldn’t- I couldn’t think about it,” Clementine shook her head. “And I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“Make a fuss,” Niall groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Clem, this is such a big deal.”

“Well I needed some time to think about it on my own,” Clementine defended herself, feeling a bit uneasy. “And you’ve been busy too with the golf company.”

“You know no matter how busy I am, I’m always one hundred percent with you,” Niall told her, eyebrows furrowing.

“Well Niall,” Clementine cried, looking up at him. “Are you happy? Or are you mad- you know this is half your fault too if you would’ve pulled out like I said to.”

“Clem,” Niall laughed, reaching out for her hand. “Of course I’m happy. I’m so fuckin happy I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

“Are you sure?” Clementine asked, worried he wasn’t telling the truth.

“I’m so sure,” he shook his head. “Clem, were going to have a baby. That’s incredible. The most amazing thing in the world. I’m so happy.”

“Okay,” Clementine smiled, letting out a breath. “I’m happy too. It doesn’t feel quite real yet. Maybe when I start showing.”

“This makes so much sense!” Niall exclaimed, standing up. He’d put it all together, the tiny things she’d done differently the last few weeks. The way she’d been emotional, her need to eat more, the migraines. Niall thought it was the stress of closing week but it wasn’t.

“I haven’t told anyone,” Clementine added, as if that made a difference. “Was waiting a while. Maybe till second trimester?”

“Whatever you want,” Niall nodded, sitting back down beside her. “I love you, you know, so much. So fuckin’ much Clem and I’m so happy.”

“I love you too,” Clementine smiled, letting him wrap his arm around her waist. Niall pressed a kiss to her forehead, exhaling.

This was everything that he’s ever wanted. He’d tell Clementine that, hand resting on her stomach. This was everything he’s ever dreamed of. Clementine wouldn’t believe it, of course, arguing that he has career aspirations and goals that are separate but Niall swears this is it for him. It’s every thing he’s ever needed.

He’d take some time away from the Golf company, focus on Clementine. Niall already knew she’d hate it, the fuss he’d make. With being only five weeks along, the worst was yet to come and Niall was never half there. He’d give both Clementine and their baby his everything.

“Are you in a rush to get married?” Niall finally asked her, breaking the silence in the room.

Clementine looked up at him, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “I don’t know. Are you?”

Niall had his thinking face on, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe in that,” Clementine told him, voice quiet. “A bastard child going to hell. I don’t believe in that. I believe in love and kindness and loving our baby and teaching them to be kind, they’ll go to the right place.”

Niall nodded his head, hand smoothing over her back. “I agree.”

“But,” Clementine added, slowly. “My parents don’t feel the same way as I do.”

“And neither do mine,” Niall chuckled.

“Maybe we just elope,” she suggested, shrugging her shoulders. “Go to city hall when we get back to London.”

“City hall?” He echoed, eyebrows furrowed. “Come on, Clem. No way.”

“Well it’s not legal for us to marry here,” Clementine sighed, exasperated. “And I’m not- I don’t need a wedding.”

“I want a wedding, though,” Niall murmured, fingers brushing over her knuckles. “Want to see you in white. Kiss you in front of all our friends and family. A proper thing.”

“Well I don’t know how or when or- we’re short on time,” Clementine mumbled. “Maybe I should call my mum. Tell her it all.”

“If you think she can help,” Niall nodded in agreement.

“Let’s think on it,” Clementine suggested, smiling up at him. “I’m really hungry right now.”

Niall let out a chuckle, nodding as he said, “whatever you want.”

For Clementine, she had only one good day after that. Her time on cloud nine was short lived. The following morning, she’d planned to ride Niall nice and slow, kisses done his neck. And she was almost there, catching his lips in the millionth kiss since they woke, sheers pooled around them.

Clementine got herself on top of him, straddling his hips. Niall was smiling up at her, cheeks flushed. The motion was too much, though. Bile rose in her throat and she pulled herself from Niall, bounding to the bathroom.

Niall was right behind her, though, catching her hair before she made a mess of it. He rubbed her back, until she sat back on her haunches, looking up at him with glass eyes.

“Definitely pregnant,” she said, voice raw.

“Definitely,” he agreed, chuckling softly.

Clementine caught her breath, eyes fluttering as she caught her bearings. She made her way to the sink, reaching for her toothbrush. Niall leaned against the counter beside her, fingers tapping softly. “So are you um hungry?”

Clementine let out a soft chuckle, toothbrush hanging from her mouth. She shook her head, leaning over to spit. “Not in the slightest.”

Niall hummed, nodding, “right, that’s understandable.”

Clementine finished brushing her teeth a moment later, putting her toothbrush away. “I’m going back to bed.”

Niall was right behind her, though, crawling back to bed beside her, arms winding around her stomach. Clementine could feel him pressing at her stomach with the pads of his fingers. There wasn’t much to feel. Clementine knew he was itching for something to grasp onto, something to make this as real as possible.

Clementine didn’t want to miss a single second of this, though. She reveled in his soft touches, enjoying the vacation they had. She’d argue that pregnancy would make her terribly boring. Lying around, puking, eating, and most importantly, sleeping. Niall had to remind her that one of the only things they were truly good at was wasting time.

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