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meet-me-in-the-kitchen · 6 years

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Imagine: Two Ghosts (PART ONE)

TRIGGER WARNING: ...there’s a sLiGHtly steamy scene. angst**

The one where he’s with Kendall, while she’s standing alone in a crowded room.

“Y/N, for the thousandth time, I can’t come with you, but I promise I’ll get there soon after,” Harry states, continuing to fold his clothes and place them inside the little suitcase and travel pack laying open on their bed. Frowning at his lack of sorrow or any remorseful emotion, Y/N moves closer to him and nudges him reproachfully.

“Harry, this is really important to me. You know that,” she says softly, unable to express how much she wanted him to be there.

“It’s just a party,” he mutters, raising his hands in defense when Y/N’s face fell. It was the Halloween party held in an Art Exhibit where all of Y/N’s friends and her boss from work would be there to support her. The art exhibit held at a museum an hour and a half away was famous for its modern art, depicting the past from the perspective of the current year. Y/N had created a series of pieces painstakingly over the pay two years.

She had calculated every shade and stroke she would brush onto the canvas. Now was her moment to get her art some exposure from some very famous judges coming down to the museum for both the event hosted there, and an art contest awarding the artist with the best technique and most creativity instilled within their collective pieces. Y/N could feel something good coming out of the blood, sweat and tears she had spent on the project. At least, she hoped that was the case.

She wanted Harry to be there in particular, because he was her muse and motivation. The entire piece depicted Harry, from the softness of his curly hair to the hues of forest green in his eyes and the craters indenting his cheeks. The faint amusement and shyness in the purse of his cherry lips as he smirked, and the innocent furrow of his eyebrows. It was him. It was her love on a series of canvases, all set to unravel the love of her life.

Harry didn’t know.

He didn’t know that there was a contest, and she’d entered it with her masterpiece being him. He didn’t know she’d spent months sketching and painting what she remembered from when he’d laugh with his dimples showing and his eyes alit like a child on Christmas Day. He didn’t know she’d spent months putting what she felt onto paper, restarting over and over if the slightest feeling was inaccurately expressed. He probably didn’t know how much she loved him. But that was okay, y/n had decided, because she wasn’t quite sure of the measure of that, either.

He didn’t know she had spent hours and days at a time painting in the art studio downtown where she kept her work, because she was painting him. He had assumed she was working on some other project and that the exhibition event was just a Halloween party. Nevertheless, Harry had been the one to text Y/N repeatedly when she had fallen asleep in the studio, paintbrush in hand as the moonlight swept over her cheeks and hair. He had been the one to coo and half carry her grumpty, half-awake self into the car, where she would fall asleep and wake in her warm, safe bed with him the next morning.

“Baby, you needa eat,” he’d scold Y/N half heartedly, his eyebrows dipping in concern as he lifted her up from where she’d nodded off, standing in front of a canvas and had nearly fallen and hit her head on the hardwood floor beneath them.

“Don’t look!” Y/N yelped, panic in her eyes as Harry merely rolled his eyes amusedly, and brought her closer to his chest when he had her up in his arms in bridal style.

“Only got my eyes on you, petal,” he murmurs, sponging kisses to her cheeks, and down her neck, making her giggle softly.

“Not here, you goose,” she stops him through laughs as he continues to assault her with kisses and lovebites- “there are paintbrushes everywhere, and there’s paint on the floor. Not on the floor, Harry!”

“‘M house and my girl. Can do it anywhere we’d like,” he says gruffly, smirking slightly as he lowers a happily shrieking Y/N onto the floor safely, her body spread underneath his. Silencing her giggles in one movement, he has his fingers pressed there, and she gasps quietly, her fingers fisting before her nails scratch down his back. Biting his shoulder, she tries to conceal her gasps and moans as he moves his fingers in tight circles over the flimsy fabric covering the swollen button of her heat.

“What d’yeh day, then,” he asks, voice smug and causing a confused, flustered y/n to stutter as he stops his movement, removing his fingers and lifting them towards him as if in inspection. “W-what?”

“Want it, then?” He hums, still smirking, but now rubbing his fingers into her hipbones comfortingly.

“Y-yeah,” she agrees breathily. And that’s all the confirmation he needs. Afterwards, he makes sure she has food in her and sleeps soundly.

Now, Y/N was half wishing that Harry had known something about the art exhibit. Even a little detail that would urge him to attend the exhibit sooner. All she’d said was that everyone from work would be dining there, and she might get a promotion (which was true, as y/n really might get one tonight). She had also mentioned the museum it would be held in was famous for its artwork, which was also true. The only part she hadn’t let slip was her involvement in the exhibit. Harry knee how much she loved art, and had probably assumed she just wanted to appreciate it visually, from a distance.

“Promise you’ll be there?” Y/N asks uncertainly, leaning back and crossing her arms tighter over her chest. Rolling his eyes, Harry nods. “Yes. For fuck’s sake, Y/N. I’ll be there.” Y/N was caught frowning at his choice of words, Harry’s expression softening slightly at the fiddle of her fingers. Rolling to her in his rolling, wheeled chair, he pulled her down to his lap with a startled squeak from her.

“I’ll be there, yeah?” He hums, wrapping his arms around her soft waist, pulling her up so her bum was comfortable in his lap. “You’ll see me with a sign with your name on it, lovie one of ‘em from the airport. I’ll be proper dressed for it, too. Maybe I’ll even wear a thong-“

Shoving him back slightly, Y/N let a giggle out as she placidly stayed on his thick thighs. Letting out a shrill, fake moan, Y/N rolls her eyes before truly beginning to smile again.

“Be right there,” he hums, pressing his lips to her forehead. “In the front row, center, button.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Don’t forget to wear a costume though. It’s Halloween themed.”

* * *

Harry doesn’t show up.

It’s a minute past eleven, and the exhibit had started quite a while ago. There were people crowding around portraits filled with thin lines of self proclaimed modern art. There were scatters of university students, the elderly, and the occasional middle aged or teenage person; acting as sad salesmen instead of artists as they tried to attract people walking by.

Some people were drunk on the rich wine the sponsors had splurged on, grinding on the dance floor as if it were that of a club, instead of one with floors that looked like they belonged on palace walls. The room was dark, but there was a dim glow inviting passers going by to glance at the artwork. Vampires hidden in the darkness whisked away ballerinas, demons pulled angels close, and jocks in costume twirled alongside nerds.

Candy was everywhere, but so were ghosts and demons. Statues which burst into life the moment you walked past them.

“Your boobs look great!” Kristina from accounting yelled at Y/N, nearly toppling over from the alcohol she had consumed. Muttering a ‘thanks’ between her amused chortles, YsB found a little enjoyment in the Halloween themed night. A few polite and playful catcalls and whistles were directed to Y/N , from overly drunk people. She couldn’t help but feel a little smug for her costume.

She, herself, was dressed as Jessica Rabbit. Y/N had thrown a crimson wig on, and had gone all out for her costume. From the tantalizing, sexy red dress she had on, and the sleazy expression she’d spent minutes perfecting over the weeks to come. Hell, she’d even switched up her perfume and done her makeup painstakingly flawless. She wanted to look good for herself. Of course she did. What soles her confidence more than dressing up as a symbol of desire in cartoons? She looks good and she knows it. But she also wanted to look good for Harry. She wanted to see his jaw drop at the low dip of the front and back of her dress, the slit at the side. Her ginger locks.

Clearly, that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

Y/N was jealous. Not of the art. Of the people who had their loved ones right by them. The ones who cared enough to come. She knew it was irrational. At least slightly. There was still at least half an hour left before the exhibit ended with prizes and congrats to the winning artists. She still had time to show Harry. And, besides, her coworkers were dining and gawking at her art. They were clearly excited, even without the buzz of alcohol in their veins and the spark Halloween brought.

So, Y/N waited some more, keeping herself busy with the crowds, artists, and judges amazed by her artwork. She smiled politely and mumbled ‘thanks.’ If the muse for her masterpiece would’ve been present, she’d have been beaming. It didn’t feel special anymore. It felt pathetic she spent months painting someone who didn’t care enough to even drop by an exhibit for a few minutes.

“And the artist winning this competition with her masterful technique and emotionally attractive piece is... Y/N Y/L/N!”

The applause are deafening, serenading Y/N as her heart sinks with every congratulating statement. Her coworkers break into proud roars, and her boss ushers her to the stage, where everyone is waiting to get a glimpse of the artist who had stolen the prize with her technique.

Y/N’s heart breaks more as she joins her artwork up on the stage. Every bit of Harry is captured and waiting, instead of Harry himself. It makes her want to shred the canvases and scream. Her eyes trace over the applauding crowds of men and women in costume, searching for him. But he’s not there. She’d feel it if he was. That doesn’t stop her from wishing otherwise.

The female judge has a bright smile on her face, handing over a large trophy, certificate, and signature sheet allowing the museum to store the art for days to come. The idea of him being there forever causes Y/N’s heart to skip a beat. The judge begins talking, introducing Y/N and her artwork. Congratulating her. The claps and appraising words seem to swerve over her, or go inside her ears for a faint moment, before escaping once more. She feels nothing and everything. All at once.

“And now let’s let this talented young woman talk about her artwork for a moment. Our words cannot do it justice.”

The audience erupts into polite silence, watching her every move.

“Hey, everyone,” she started, feeling clueless and as if she was having an out of body experience while speaking. “First of all, I would like to thank all of the people here supporting me tonight. Friends and colleagues who took the time to attend something that means something to me, not because it matters to them, but because I matter to them.”

The words coming out of her own mouth only make her feel worse.

“I always criticize my work too hard. I’ll create something and use all of my energy, pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into the piece, and afterwards take one disgusted glance at the artwork and throw it into the trash. As they say, an artist’s worst critic is the artist, themself.”

Many members of the audience nod and groan with the relatable habit.

“Everything I create, no matter for how long, there’s always this sense.. this need to destroy it. I find every flaw in something flawless, simply because I created it, and so there has to be something wrong with it. I over analyze my analysis until the unmoving artwork is more lively than I am. I grow disgusted, tired, and I feel like something has restricted my creative process. I wonder what is wrong with me, and how I can still dare to call myself a lover of the arts- or an artist, at all.”

“But I could never grow disgusted with this piece,” she said softly. Tracing her fingers of the places the paint splattered brush had roughly skated over the canvas, the dips and rises of colour, the audience waited for her to finish.

“I could never grow disgusted of this canvas and the splatters of paint on it, because it represents him. The boy I love. And I know it’s so pathetic and it’s so overwhelming to spend months painting an emotion, such as love onto paper. I know it’s impossible to record how fast my heart beats when he smiles. How safe I feel when he’s around. How powerful I feel when both of us are together, in this relationship, as equals. How it can’t be possible to use colour to represent how I feel the pain he does when things don’t work out, or the worry I feel when he scrapes his finger while trying to cut an apple again, because he never learned how to properly. The feeling I get when he looks at me in a room full of people. It’s a sad excuse of trying to portray how happy I feel when I’m with him. When his green eyes widen, because he’s obsessively watching The Vow, and although he knows what’s going to happen, it never fails to make him cry. His hair after he’s just run his hands through it; his hands intertwined in mine, with rings he wears as a ridiculous replica of Mick Jagger.”

“I know,” she whispers into the microphone. “This piece of art can’t possibly accurately show my insecurities and my fallacies and how he’s enough to become what I’m not and I’m enough to become what he’s not. I know that I can’t ‘draw’ the half choice, half unconscious feeling to fall helplessly, incredibly in love with him; but I also can’t not try.”

Clearing her slightly clogged throat, and fighting back tears prickling in the corners of her downturned eyes hotly, Y/N finished the speech.

“The boy I’m in love with— his name is Harry Styles. He’s my muse. He’s the one who these paintings represent; and therefore they will never be disgusting, because no part of Harry Styles is anything less than perfect. This is my greatest piece yet and will probably be forever, and I am so grateful that I had the chance to share it with you. Thank you.”

The audience breaks into genuine applause, with people wiping their tears and smiling real smiles, and Y/N wants to bask in this moment, but she can’t ignore the dejection. The feeling that she’s so submerged, in because of Harry choosing not to show up. Because of him breaking his promise. Her portrait has lost its purpose, in a way. It has failed to even give him a glimpse of how she feels.

But he’s made it clear how he feels.

It’s not even that dramatic, now that Y/N thought it over as coworkers swarmed over her in heaves of congratulations. Harry didn’t ask her to do this for him, but she had. She’d spent months on a series of paintings that encompassed him and how she viewed him, and her feelings for him. He couldn’t even show up one night, after countless reminders.

Y/N tried not to let it affect her too much, but it really hurts when you’re the one who cares more than the other person. Relationships were supposed to be like ones that are symbiotic. With equal care and give and take. That didn’t seem to be the case anymore.

He’s probably not doing something fun, y/n tried consoling herself. Maybe he just forgot.

But it’s half hearted.

“Okay, so I didn’t want to do this so quickly,” Y/N’s boss began, her voice excited and beckoning all of her colleagues closer. “I just figured with the overflow of good news, I might just add.. Drumroll, please, Chad... Y/N’s been promoted!”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

It wasn’t that Y/N wasn’t elated. She was. She had been waiting for this promotion for so long, and had worked her ass off for the position. But he was supposed to be here to feel happy for her, too. He was supposed to be here, and he wasn’t. Unlike the times when shed bee at every exhausting concert to support him. Every recording. Every late night when he struggled to come up with lyrics. She’d been there. He wasn’t.

“Oh my God, thank you so much!”

She tries to come across as how she would’ve responded, if she hadn’t been feeling the strange feeling of betrayal and abandonment. After a few minutes of celebrating within their circle, toasting to Y/N’s promotion and success, Chad asks the question:

“So, where’s Harry?”

Where’s Harry?

“He has the stomach virus. It’s really bad. I wanted to stay home, but he insisted on my coming here.”

Lie. She didn’t know where he was. (Truth)

Nodding, Chad walked to Melissa, the receptionist. Pulling out her phone and knowing it would already be a mistake, Y/N exited out of the many frantic texts she’d left Harry, and instead clicked on the ‘Google’ application. Harry Styles. She tapped the search button.

The headlines were differentiating and great in number, but they all had the same gist and idea:

Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner Partying in London

Hendall Back Together?

Y/L/N Replaced With Jenner

With her heart racing and fingers shaking, Y/N breathed raspily and tapped on one of the news articles. Her heart dropped as it was met with a clearly stoned, drunk Harry staring at and laughing with a jubilant Kendall Jenner. She had herself all over him, and he was doing nothing to stop her. Feeling a sob nearly breaking from her throat when she realizes it’s not photoshopped, Y/N makes an excuse and walks out of the art museum, into the dark night with the star speckled sky her witness as she wraps her arms around herself in her dress. As she dials his number frantically, again and again, even when it goes to voicemail. Fuck her exhibit. She wasn’t letting him make any stupid decisions or risk his health by driving home intoxicated.

On the third try, he picks up.

“What?” Harry asks, his voice slow and slurred slightly.

“H-Harry!” Y/N cries. “Where are you? If you’re drunk I can come get you. I don’t want you driving like thi-“

“Fuck off,” he snaps, voice cold and unfamiliar. y/n feels herself shifting into an even darker place in her mind. Harry knew how her previous boyfriends had treated her. How they had yelled and shifted emotions from content to cold so frequently, she couldn’t trust them. Now, he reminded her of them.

Shivering slightly, Y/N begins to speak again when he starts to laugh.

“Yeah, Kendall, take your top off!”

I’m the background, there are hundreds of voices chanting the same thing. Just as the same voices begin cheering, he hangs up.

Breaking into sobs, Y/N types one more message and sends it, hoping he’ll remain faithful and Harry.

I’m coming in five minutes. Please don’t do anything stupid.

In a few seconds, the response arrives:

Fuck off dgnt wnt u hre

She goes anyway, telling her coworkers her ride is here, and she won’t be driving back with them. They’re slightly disappointed, but very understanding, beginning to leave themselves. With her trophy in hand and other letters and such informing her of her promotion and place of her artwork at the exhibit, Y/N calls a taxi and leaves to where Google says Harry is. The internet is a scary thing, but there are far more scarier things.

“Here, please,” Y/N muttered, requesting the cab driver to remain at the grounds for a few more minutes.

The security guards recognized her as Harry’s girlfriend and let her in, immediately. When Y/N enters the party, her brain feels like someone is hammering it. The stench of alcohol makes gag, weed and hard drugs beside stoned celebrities and rich people. The women are topless, and nearly all of the men are stripped to their boxers. Some people are in skimp Halloween costumes. Everyone was grinding or getting high.

This was what Harry would choose over Y/N.

Keeping her head down and trying not to punch every person who made comments about her body inappropriately, Y/N skimmed the area for her boyfriend. Finally, there he was. Chugging down drink after drink with a near naked Kendall Jenner by his side. Walking to him slowly and shakily, Y/N tapped his shoulder, trying not to cry right there. When he turns around, his happy expression turns sour and cold. “Let’s go home, Harry,” she pleads, touching his arm. He shakes her off, unconsciously rough. “No.”

Trying to pull him out again, Harry now shoves her off, his eyes narrowed and fists clenching. His nostrils flare out in anger. “I said fucking no!” He booms. The room grows silent for a moment and Y/N feels hot years skate down her cheeks. “You fuckin’ go home. Stay at your place. I don’t want you anymore. You’re boring as fuck,” he muttered icily. Turning back to the people behind him, he grins again, throwing back another drink as he pushes Y/N towards the gate, security intrusively escorting her of the building.

“Sorry about that, guys. My ex girlfriend’s clingy as fuck. Now, let’s get this shit started.”

Begging the guards to take her back, because she knows how Harry gets nauseous, sick, and his asthma acts up when he takes too many drugs, and although he’s not being himself at all, she just wants him to be okay. This isn’t him. This isn’t her Harry. But, as much as she repeats this to the guards, they don’t care. They push her out and don’t look back.

Sobbing, she looks for her cab driver, and gets into the car. He looks slightly sympathetic, but when she admits she only has twenty pounds, his face also morphs into an icy one. “I can’t drive you if you do not have the money,” he replies robotically, receiving the money and doing nothing to calm a now frantic Y/N, who had used the minimal money she’d brought with her to the event tonight. It’s funny how people only help you when you are of use to them.

And so, she walks the streets alone, lost and scared with sobs racking throughout her body in heavy, loud releases. Her head aches and so does the rest of her body. Everytime she passes a man or hears a cat call, she sinks into herself. Everytime a car whizzes by, she moves away from it. Her phone has died from all the times she’s called and attempted to interact with Harry. She prays she’ll be okay. She prays he’ll stay.

Please don’t leave me.

The one where she walks the streets alone at night, and he doesn’t want her anymore.

i had an out of body experience trying to get this done fast enough so please read this!

MASTERLIST|Requests are open!

There will be a part two if requested.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #one direction #harry styles imagines #larry #harry styles preferences #harry styles fanfiction #one direction imagines #one direction preferences

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