#70s!harrystyles

The trek from the opposite coast hadn’t been as bad as you thought it would be. You were nervous at first because, up until this point, you had never been on a plane. But there was something about the ride amongst sun kissed, gossamer clouds that made you never want to get off.

Now you were stood at the airport, wedged in a phone booth, camera strapped and hanging from your neck. Your small blue suitcase tucked in between your legs as you rest the phone between your ear and shoulder. Rooting around in your denim jacket pocket for the piece of paper containing the phone number for the motel Harry was staying in, as well as an address. You find it, then drop a dime into the coin slot. The dial tone buzzes loudly through the receiver before a pre-recorded woman’s voice prompts you to dial “the number you wish to reach.”

The shrill phone ring bleeds through the phone becoming the soundscape for your observation of your surroundings as you wait for him to answer. Two young children run around screaming and laughing, A young couple sit cuddled up together on an island bench, a TSA guard, with his too small button up shirt, stained with sweat, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee at a counter cafe. You scratch your arm, it had been weeks since you’d decided to quit smoking and it was getting harder and harder everyday to not just cave.

“Hello?”

His voice pours through the phone like honey, comb still in, static dances around the accompanying silence. You jump even though you had been expecting his voice, you hadn’t realized just how long it had been since you’d last spoken.

“Hey, Harry, Hi,” you speak, while fumbling to readjust the phone, settling on just holding it up to your ear with your hand.

“Hey love, y’here? How was the flight?”

“Good, good. I mean there was a baby crying the whole way down but I feel worse for their mom than I do myself and the attendants just seemed like they wanted to jump out of the plane, sans parachute, ya know? It was wild, so beautiful but like, we were up so high. It’s weird to think about how far technology has come. Uhm, are you picking me up still?” You ramble and Harry notices, his soft chuckle trickles through the phone, notifying you.

“You nervous or something, bunny?”

You laugh, waving your hand in the air in front of you, as if doing so would fan away the acute feelings of anxiety that followed you from your home, onto a plane, and right to Sky Harbour International airport. You hated surprises and although you had been together for nearly three years, you weren’t sure if Harry had known.

“No, no. I’m fine. Totally copasetic.”

There’s a light shuffling on the other end of the phone as well as a few soft voices but none clear enough for you to distinguish.

“Choice.  I can’t pick you up. I gotta finish up getting your surprise ready but I will meet you at the motel at six, you have the address. Y’alright with taking a cab?”

You glance around the airport. The TSA guard is now talking to a woman who is holding the hands of the two children that were rebel rousing earlier. She looks exhausted.

“Yeah, yeah. I can… I can do that.” “Alright! I’ll see you then,” the smile on his face was evident through his words, bringing the corners of your lips as well.

“See you then.”

You hang up and push yourself away from the pay phone, picking up your suitcase. You survey the wide, open space of the airport. People coming to and from, going everywhere, going nowhere. Finding their place in the world by getting lost. It was something that had always fascinated you; the idea that everyone you’re surrounded by in a public place has their own story. Sonder, a three dollar word that you’d thought Harry had made up during one of your game nights. The both of you had been so high that night - deciding that an LSD fueled scrabble game would be way more fun - that it took you nearly 45 minutes to locate it in the dictionary.

You step through the large glass doors towards the taxi nursery at the edge of the curb. The late afternoon sun washes you in a soft glow, as a snug blanket of dry heat surrounds you. You place your suitcase by your feet and pull off your jacket, tying it around your waist. The plain white tank top you have on reflects the surrounding light. You hold a hand out and a bright yellow car, top light on, pulls up in front of you. You toss in your suitcase before climbing in yourself. Dictating the address to the driver, you settle in for the ride.

Phoenix is unlike any place you’d ever been before. The city, with its towering, stalagmite-esque buildings scattered amongst vast flatlands. It carries a warm, sepia tone with an occasional burst of colour. You snap several pictures through the windows as you drive through the downtown metropolis. Attempting to catch the quick passing beauty of the city at sunset.

The Caravan Inn is a sight in the evening. The glow of lights irradiates the building making it seem as if the sun is shining right from it. The neon illuminated sign, a cavalcade of colours topped with the silhouette of a man riding a camel. A click of your camera shutter and the taxi speeds away, leaving you standing in front of your accommodations for the next few days.

You walk to the motel office, taking in the large OASIS sign, just to the left of it, that hangs right above a pool area. You mentally curse yourself for not packing a swimsuit. A light, airy chime sounds when you enter the small office, followed by the smell of stale coffee and the faint scent of lingering body odor. A stout woman, with white blonde hair stack and pinned to the gods, assists you, handing you a key and pointing you in the direction of the room Harry had been staying in, 2A.

The sound of your shoes echoes every time they meet the teal painted concrete steps. Your quick ascent to the second level of the motel causes your camera to bounce against your chest. You swivel left then right, then left again once you reach the landing. It only takes you a moment before you realize that the door you’re looking for is right in front of you, cloaked in the same aqua hue as the steps. A rusted, brass ‘2A’ sits in the center of it.

The room itself, modest in size, looks as if it held secrets that would cause your demise if you were to learn them.  A queen sized bed, dressed in an obnoxious orange comforter sits against the wall, coming far into the middle of the room. Beside it, two bedside tables covered in a wood patterned vinyl, one with a clock, both with matching lamps. Gold bulbous bases, cylindrical off white shades throwing rays of toasty light around the room. Harry’s worn leather shoulder bag sits unzipped in the far corner, at the square, wooden base of the bed.

The soles of your shoes drag against the low, dark carpeted floor as you enter the room.  A small side skip allows you to squeeze through the tight space between the foot of the bed and a small television stand before dropping your bag next to Harry’s.

The lone analog clock ticks right as you look at it, as if speaking directly to you. The hour hand rests just past the 5 and the minute, on the 3. It’s then that you realize just how long the journey had been. You sit on the bed, your weight lightly ricochets your body up then down, a squeal from the springs echos off of the brown and cream striped wallpapered walls. You’re exhausted and after a few passing seconds, decide to prioritize a nap over a shower. You lay back on top of the blanket, your head sinks into the pillow and just like that, you’re out.

Keys in a deadbolt brings you into a stream of consciousness. You keep your eyes closed and attempt to keep your breathing even and leveled, wanting to will yourself back to sleep. A shuffling sound follows the soft click of the of the door closing. You feel the bed dip then a strong arm secure itself around your waist along with a nose nuzzling into the hair at the base of your neck.

“Bunny?”

His lips touch your neck in a barely there kiss as his breath seeps into your skin and down your spine.

“Know you’re awake.” You groan as he kisses the base of your neck before untangling himself from you.

“Scoot your tush, got your surprise f’ya.”

You open your eyes and sit up, finding him standing at the edge of the bed, hands behind his back. You turn to face him, positioning yourself in the middle of the bed, legs crossed beneath you. His face holds a smile as bright as the neon signs of the countless motels on the interstate. Dimples on full display. His eyes trace the lines of your face.

You run your hand through your hair, smoothing it down.

“What is it?”

“My god, you’re gorgeous.”

“Duuuude,” you whine, the anticipation of not knowing why he’d asked you to come to Arizona was reaching critical mass. You want to know, you need to know.

“You have t’guess.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” his tone is laced with mock seriousness, causing his face follow suit, fighting against a smile.

You crawl forward across the bed towards him and rise to your knees when you’re right in front of him, so close your chests touch. You bring a hand up to his hair, playing with the long curls before tracing your hand down his t-shirt clad chest painfully slow. You notice his adam’s apple bob as your hand rests right above the top of his jeans. You trace your fingers from hip bone to hip bone as you pepper sluggish kisses up his neck to his jaw, which clenches when you kiss the soft groove between the sharp edge and his earlobe. His lips part, his eyes close and you know this is your chance. You use your free hand to snatch “your surprise” out of his hands, snapping Harry out of his revelry.

You scoot back quickly, your back bumps up against the headboard, laughing as Harry lunges towards you. You hold the item, which you now knew is a record, in the air as he tries to take it away from you. He sighs, giving up almost immediately while settling into the space between your legs, his chin resting on your stomach.

“Fine, you win.” You flash your teeth in victory.

“Don’t I always,” you laugh through your gloat, looking down at him. His eyes, wide and bright staring back at you, the pale jade speaking to your soul in a way nothing else ever could. He kisses the small patch of skin on your torso where your shirt has ridden up in all the excitement.

“Well, check it.”

You roll your eyes then bring the record down to eye level, blocking Harry’s face completely. In your hands, Fleetwood Mac’s self titled album, which left you a bit confused. You distinctly remember going to the record store with Harry to buy it the day it had come out. In fact, you were pretty sure this was that exact copy, the coffee ring in the corner confirmed that. You tilt the record to the side to reveal Harry’s smirking face, your eyebrow raises to silently ask him what the heck was going on.

“Turn it over you mong.”

You sigh causing Harry’s head to sink with the release of air, flipping the record, turning to look at it from the side. Harry’s eyes are trained on you as you read the delicate, black scrawl that takes up the bottom right corner of the sleeve. Your eyes widen as you look back and forth between Harry and the album. His smile growing wider each time.

“How the fuck did you… oh my god!”

                                                    Hey Bunny!

                                    Thank you for loving and living.

                                             Love, Stevie Nicks x.

“I know a guy. Check inside,” Harry pushes, he rolls his lips together, eyes trained on you as you tilt the record sleeve. Two small, rectangular pieces of pink hued paper, a stiff card like stock, fall onto the bed beside you. You place the record down gently and pick them up. Reading them, Harry didn’t think you could be more visibly excited, he was wrong. The fist holding them clench as you use you free hand to pull Harry up to eye level with you.

Pressing your lips together in a kiss that screamed appreciation and adoration. You pull apart moments later to catch your breaths, resting your forehead on his, all heavy breathing and dilated pupils you manage to squeeze out an nearly inaudible, “thank you.”

Harry takes you by the hand, pulling you through the crowd of sweaty, intoxicated in some way or another, bodies closer to the front of the stage. Turning back every once in a while with a huge smile on his face, which you returned with just as much enthusiasm.

The opening band had just finished their set and the crowd is amply warmed up, ready for the magic that is Fleetwood. You had chosen to go sober, wanting to soak in every song, every moment, every emotion, to hold on to for years to come. For when your grandchildren asked you about your youth, knowing that this was a moment you would regret to forget.

Harry pulls you into him, lazily draping an arm around your shoulders, once you both find yourself in a great spot; two rows behind those pressed up to the stage. You wouldn’t have to crane your neck to see but you felt bad for the shorter folks left standing behind your beau. The boy was tall and there was no denying that.

The house lights come down resulting in a boisterous roar from the crowd, mirroring the rumbling anticipation and excitement in your gut. You’d been listening to the band for as long as you could remember, from before Stevie had become a part of the magic, but it really was her addition that had made you fall in love all over again.

One by one Mick, Lindsey, Christine, and John take their places, instruments on their person. Safe for Mick’s drum set, which he quickly shuffles behind. Stevie is last on but most definitely not least. She floats onto the stage with a grace unparalleled to any earthly creature, dressed in a white, lace, tie up, cropped blouse, a sheer white shawl around her shoulders and light denim bell bottoms. She takes her place behind the microphone at center stage, tambourine in hand. The stage lights create an angelic halo around her as it shines through her flowing, blonde hair. You’re mesmerized, so much so that you hadn’t noticed Harry’s arm drop from around your shoulder.

It’s Christine who speaks first, addressing the crowd, welcoming you all to the show, thanking you for wanting to be a part of this experience with them, introducing the first song.

“‘Bout to do a song from the Kiln House album for you. This one’s called Station Man.”

Her accent catches you by surprise, breaking you out of your trance with a smile. You nudge Harry softly in the ribs, looking up at him. He looks down at you, a knowing smirk etched on his face.

You’re having the time of your life, dancing and singing along. Both to songs you hadn’t heard before and songs your soul could recognize in the afterlife. Jumping and spinning circles around Harry as he sways along to the music. Watching you enjoy yourself is one of his favourite things about spending time with you. A close second to your ability to challenge his mind with just the words that came out of your mouth.

“This is a song from our latest album that came out a few months ago. It’s a song from Stevie Nicks called Rhiannon,” Christine’s voice echoes throughout the theater.

Whistles and hoots drift from the back of the room to the front, cloaking you in a feeling of belonging. The opening chord of the song drip from Lindsey’s guitar, in a new yet familiar way, as Stevie steps up to the mic. You bring your camera up and snap a quick photo before settling. Preparing yourself for your favourite song off of the album you’d been listening to on repeat since you’d first had it in your possession.

“This is a song about an old Welsh witch.”

It’s then that she makes eye contact with you, smiling, and for a split second your heart stops. You can’t help but allow the grin on your face to grow exponentially. Her eyes leave yours and land beside you, on Harry, and she sends a short, familiar wave in his direction, to which Harry returns before she launches into the song.

Her voice guttural and raw, full of unspoken feelings and unknown history. She’s petite but so incredibly chasmal. You elbow him in his side, harder this time, fueled completely by awe.

“Heeeeey. What was that for?”

“Stevie just fucking waved at you!”

He smiles, lifting and dropping his shoulders at your verbal observation. He stays silent, swaying to the music as you stare at him in complete and utter disbelief. You take a minute, glancing at Stevie and then back at Harry. Finally connecting her acknowledgement of his presence and his casual indifference.

“You know Stevie Nicks…” He turns his head to acknowledge your realization, but keeps his eyes glued to the stage.

“You know Stevie Nicks? How do you know Stevie Nicks?”

He stays silent, his lower lip now wedged under this teeth. Gnawing ever so slightly.

You had now lost complete interest in the events happening on stage, shifting your focus, trying to understand how your boyfriend knew your idol.

You try again, slower this time, louder.

“Harry. How do you know Stevie Nicks?”

He releases his lip, only to replace his teeth with his thumb and forefinger. Pulling at it pensively, his eyes still trained on the stage.

“We used to date.”  

His words are so nonchalant that you’re thoroughly convinced you’ve misheard him. Your eyes widen. You look back and forth between Harry and Stevie. A lump forms in your throat as you watch the golden haired goddess twirl and glide around the stage. Her voice echoing throughout the theater.

Your mind drifts as you attempt to enjoy the show. You want to enjoy this moment, to relish in it but you continuously find your train of thought crashing into an pit of ugly envy, a flaming, fiery mess with no survivors. Jealousy had never been your MO but you’d always been distressingly aware of how absurdly incomparable Harry is. The passing eyes of both women and men alike was a constant reminder of that fact. It wasn’t only the fact that he was painfully handsome either - although denying that it is a colossal factor would be naive and foolish - but the genuine and intoxicating aura that surrounds him. Pulling people in, making them want him and want to know him. It had been the very reason you’d approached him in that dark, dingy dive years prior, and now it’s the reason you feel as small as you do. Incredibly inadequate standing next to him, in the pit of a show led by a woman whose aura and beauty matched his, whom of which he had been involved with. How could you compare? How could you ever live up to that? A lyrical angel, a literal rockstar. You’re tired of the sour feeling pinching your stomach but you can’t help but compare yourself to the ethereal enigma that is Stevie. Who could? You didn’t say anything to Harry through the rest of the show nor him to you. You’re so consumed with the rush of feelings that’ve come over you that you hadn’t noticed the show had ended. It wasn’t until you felt the movement of the crowd heading towards the back of the theater, like a high tide being pulled by the moon, that you re-join reality. Your nerves are fried and you’re not quite sure if they could be repaired.

Harry turns to you, smiling. His hands on your face, cradled beneath your ears as his thumbs stroke your cheeks.

“How’d you like the show?”

His voice is soft and expecting. You look up at him, pushing a brief small smile up from the reservoir of adrenaline you hadn’t known you had left over.

“Got one more surprise f’you.”

He sounds so excited that you didn’t have the the heart to tell him, point blank, that you’d had enough and just wanted to go home. Not back to the motel, home.

He pulls you gently to a door on the side of the theater that reads “CREW MEMBERS ONLY” in big, red block letters, leading you through a long hallway filled with gear cases and crew members, giving a swift nod to every other passerby. Your confusion only grows when he stops in front of a door labelled in fancy, slick cursive as the green room. A mixture of laughter, conversation, and music seep through, muffled by the barrier in front of you. He stops and turns to you, dropping your hand before relocating them to your shoulders. You look anywhere but him, the ground having more interest than yours to be transparent about how you’re feeling in this moment. He went through all of this trouble, although now you question how much trouble it truly was, for you. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful because you were far from it. You just didn’t want to spoil his mood with yours that had curdled within the last hour.

You feel a hand lift off of one shoulder. A light finger placement under your chin brings your eyes into contact with the saturated everglade within his. He’d always been really good at reading you. Knowing when something was off, when you felt off. You weren’t sure if it was the post-concert fumes or the joint he’d smoked in the parking lot before the show, but he hadn’t shown you any hints of knowing. You found yourself silently praising every deity you knew by name.

“‘lright, m’gonna need to stay calm. Okay?” A soft laugh peeks through his words.

You remain silent, nodding in complacent understanding. He turns, lightly rapping on the door. His ring - the rose one you’d given him on his birthday last year - sounds a vague metallic clang on the antiqued wood.

The noise of the room, once muddled, hits you like a speeding freight when the door swings open. A sing-song chorus of Harry’s name plays through the space. You shuffle in behind him, keeping your head down. You aren’t generally a quiet person but moments like this are far and few between for you.

Harry working the room is nothing short of magical. Greeting anyone and everyone as you tail him, a firm grip on the bottom of his worn Rolling Stones tour tee. Hugs, fist bumps and light conversation all around. It isn’t until he introduces you loudly to the room that you realize you’re standing in the center of it. Harry no longer in front of you, but at your side, nudging you gently forward.

You look up, raising your hand in a demure greeting, as names you won’t have the chance to remember are hurdled towards you. Then, out of a door you hadn’t noticed in the corner of the room, steps the woman of the hour. She fiddles with the tie on her shirt as she enters deeper into the room.

“What’s with all the commotion out here?”

She sounds just like she sings, real and raw, and you’re enthralled all over again. She scans the room, biting back a smile. It grows only when she spots Harry and speeds to his person, arms out and welcoming.

“Harry! You came. I’m so glad!” He laughs into the hug and tsunami of invidiousness you’d been riding crashes at your feet with full force. You feel smaller than a head on a pin.

You watch as they step out of their embrace, but continue to hold each other at arm's length. Stevie’s on his biceps, Harry’s on her forearms.

“Wow, this is so good. This is great.” Her words are like sunshine and although she’s not speaking to you, you can’t help but to be filled with an indiscriminate warmth. You cross your arms over your chest. You feel intrusive on this reunion but just when you’re about to make a mad dash for the door she turns and looks at you.

“Is this Bunny?” She looks back at Harry. A rush of confidence propels you forward, hand out, you introduce yourself.

Stevie smiles, releasing Harry and takes your hand, pulling you into a hug. The scent of patchouli and lavender radiates from her, sending your head in a spiral. You look up at Harry, eyes wide. His elbow rests on his other arm that’s strung across his chest. His hand covering the large grin that has surfaced on his face. She pulls away from you, holding you in the same way she had Harry.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you. He talks about you nonstop. So nice to finally put a face to a name.”

You look back and forth between Stevie and Harry, who was now stood behind her.

“Uh… yeah. Big… uh, I’m a big fan of the band,” you stumble, “...and of yours. Huge fan of yours. Massive,” and blaze through the end of your truth.

She laughs gently, sweetly then she’s gone, beckoned from across the room, whisking over to whomever required her attention.

You’re in shock, hands still out in front of you. Harry steps forward, a light snicker escapes him as he takes your hands. You stare up at him but you’re not really looking at him.

“You okay?”

You nod slowly, your jaw slack, leaving an open space between your lips. Harry kisses the side of your mouth before letting go of your hands. He tells you to grab a seat, that he’ll grab you a drink, before jetting off to the refreshment table where Stevie and Mick are having, what seems like, a deep conversation.

You find a spot on a small, gray couch in the corner of the room. Watching people get drunker and more rowdy as the time goes by. They start to blur together into one massive streak of colour and sound. It isn’t until you spot the time on a clock located just above the bathroom door that you realize Harry had been gone for nearly an hour. The air grows suffocating as you stand, searching over heads of fluffed and curled hair for refuge. You spot Harry moments later. His arm slung around Stevie’s shoulder as they talk animatedly with Christine. You want to walk over and pull him away, plead with him to take you back to the motel, but the barbed wire twisting around your stomach made you hesitant. You watch him place an exaggerated kiss on Stevie’s head and that’s what sends you off the deep end. The feeling as frigid and sharp as an ice bath.

You scramble towards the door you’d entered through just a few short hours ago. Knocking shoulders and bumping drinks until you finally reach the handle. You tug it so violently that you could’ve sworn you’d ripped the door off its hinges.

Almost blindly, you stagger forwards into the hallway, sucking in a deep breath. You can hear your heart in your ears, feel your pulse in your throat, as you push yourself further down the hall. Stopping when you reach a pile of equipment cases piled just high enough for you to get your feet off the ground had you chosen to climb them; and you did. Propping yourself on the edge of a peripheral case and sitting on top of the large amp casing.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way, you know you shouldn’t but your head and heart weren’t cooperating. The futility of trying to get them to comply and coexist to give you some semblance of  sanity is incredibly high. So in turn you decide to become just that, incredibly high. You shimmy backwards, resting your head and back against the wall, before pulling a joint out of your pocket. Rainy day insurance is what Harry had called it when he found out it was a permanent fixture to your person.

“...in case of emergencies.” “Good to know you’re so prepared, love. If I’m ever in need of some immediate enlightenment, I’ll know who to ring.”

You light it with a match from a matchbook you’d taken from the motel. You inhale deeply, letting the small, packaged green sit tightly between your lips. You hold it in, one, two, three seconds before releasing a cloud of smoke with a big audible sigh. Your eyes sliding shut as you wait for your erratic heartbeat to level out.

When Stevie’s head peeks out of the green room door a few moments later, you’re too floaty to realize. She spots you, however, looking as serene as they come. The joint, now a roach, pinched between your fingers. She glides over to you, her movements so fluid, you’d swear she were swimming through the air.

“There you are,” you open your eyes at the sound of her voice to find her smiling at you. A lazy smile graces your features.

“Hey there.”

“I wondered where you’d run off too. Harry was talking my ear off all weekend about how I just had to meet his Bunny and I barely got to chat with you tonight.”

Your smile and relaxed demeanor fall as you take in her words. The filter you once had has burned down to non-existent. Your immediate thoughts began to flow sluggishly from your lips and you were sure you shouldn’t have let it but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Harry was with you all weekend?”

“Yeah, we had a few days off. We were trying to work out some logistics for the third leg of the tour, one of our openers dropped out and I remembered that Harry had been trying to do the music thing for so long, figured we’d give him a shot. Y’know?”

“Tour?” you sit up, leaning forward, pulling your legs into a criss cross position.

Harry saunters out of the green room, spotting you and Stevie, he approaches the two of you but you’re too distracted to notice. Not sure if it’s because of the haze from the smoke or the news you’d just heard. “Yeah, he’s gonna be great.”

“What am I gonna be great at?” He questions, entering the conversation.

You look at him, all droopy eyelids and knitted brows. You’re positive that if you weren’t as high as you are now, you’d be shaking.

“Opening for Fleetwood on tour.”

You speak so curtly and clearly that you scare yourself. It feels as if your soul is trying to disconnect itself from its earthbound prison, but you’re holding on for dear life.

Harry turns to Stevie so quickly you can see his movements blur, following him in delayed time as if it were on another plane of existence.

“You told her?”

“You didn’t?” Stevie’s eyebrows are raised.

“I need a drink,” your words muffled by starch, the interior of your mouth feeling as if you’d just played an insanely long round of chubby bunny. You try to jump off of the case but your clouded mind executes the action before your body could follow, causing you to stumble once your feet hit the ground. Harry’s arms are out in an instant, catching you. You land face first into his strong, broad chest. His scent hits you in a billowing poof of air. It’s woodsy and citrusy and salty and sweet. It’s too much.

You push yourself away from him, out of his arms. He calls after you but you’re already sliding back into the green room. At the refreshment table a wide spread of liquors is presented to you. You reach for the vodka but make a split last second decision and reach for the tequila instead, knocking over a bottle that was in the way. You hold the bottle of tequila above your head but it’s snatched from your fingers right as you’re about pour a shot into your mouth.

Harry stands in front of you, tequila in hand. He looks like someone has kicked his puppy and you find yourself vexed because he had no reason to be upset. He was the one leaving you.

He leans in, mouth so close to your ear that you can smell the faint trace of alcohol on his breath.

“Can we please talk about this outside?”

You scoff, a light snorting noise punctuated with an eye roll. Oh, noooow he wants to talk.

“Please?”

“Fine,” you humour him, your concession tangled in a heavy sigh.

He places the bottle back on the table before spinning you around. Placing his hands on your waist, he guides you gently out of the green room.

You don’t stop moving until you’re outside, in a loading area, buses and trucks lined up uniformly. The late night air is a lot staler than it had been when you first arrived. An oven with the door open, no wind, just warmth all around. It sobers you up almost instantly. Harry stops nudging when the two of you are settled in between two, large packing trucks parked closely together, leaving only a few inches between your bodies. You lean lazily against the truck, allowing your eyes to close and your head to lul to the the side, awaiting his reasoning, his explanation, as if there was one good enough to justify him keeping this from you.

When he speaks your name it’s soft, reminding you of the clouds you’d flown over less than twelve hours ago. What you wouldn’t give to have that peace of mind back in this moment.

“Listen, I didn’t know if it was actually going to happen. Been talking to Christine and just recently caught up with Stevie and she’d mentioned it. I didn’t want to tell you unless it was a sure thing.” You open your eyes, raising them to the sky. The height of the trucks tunnel your vision, redirecting your focus to the twinkling clusters of stars stitched to the deep, dark velvet of the two am sky. He keeps his eyes trained on you.

“And is it?”

“S’what?”

You finally look at him, immediately meeting his gaze, throwing you off for half a beat. You shift your weight from one leg to the other.

“Is it a sure thing?”

He remains silent, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes and releases. You can see the gears in his head turning, the possible negative outcomes of answering your question, playing in his eyes. Like a silent stop motion film. All in black and white. All unhappy endings.

He does, however, answer you with a slow nod. Keeping his eyes on you, studying you as if he had a major exam coming up that could make or break his school year, watching for any signs that may point to you telling him that you were done with him.

“And when were you going to tell me? If you even were going to tell me,” you mutter the latter under your breath but he still catches it. His posture straightens.

“I was going to tell you Bunny! I swear. Was gonna be tonight too, like when we got back to the motel. After I loved on you cause god, I’ve fuckin’ missed you and it’s only been a few days…” he pauses, stepping towards you but you’re quicker, side stepping so you were no longer flush the truck. Square with the opening between them, creating much needed space between you and Harry. A pained expression plateaus his features but he continues, turning his body to face your new position.

“I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted you to have an unforgettable one. Wanted to make up for what happened on your birthday last year.”  

You cross your arms over your chest, relinquishing a sigh. You remember it vividly, although you wish you could forget it.

It had been a while since you had celebrated your earthstrong day but Harry insisted that you must do something for it. 25 was a big deal, it was important. Harry had made a big deal of planning a dinner for you and your family to celebrate. What he hadn’t told you was that the dessert he’d prepared, your favourite after meal pastry, had a little something extra in it that he hadn’t warned you about. Long story short, you spent the rest of your night talking your parents down from a very bad high, and Harry - the cause of all of your grief that night - slept through it all. You’d put him in the dog house for months after that and he’d never stopped apologizing.

“You have to admit though. Now when y’look back at it, s’kind of funny. I mean your mum really dug that shag rug,” he chuckles.

“It’s not funny.”

He tries to subdue his giggles resulting in a wide grin instead. You struggle to remain stoic, still fuming, but you could feel the edges of your icy-ness began to melt away. There’s just something about this boy that always gets to you in the best way possible. Which is why finding out that he may be away for months at a time tasted so incredibly bitter.

You let out a puff of air.

He gives himself a light tap on the cheek. His mouth pursed in a small frown as he tries to focus on remaining serious.

“Oh come on Bunny, I’m sorry okay. I swear I was gonna tell you.”

He nudges you softly, hoping the contact would soften your hard demeanor and lighten up the weight of the situation. He’d really been hoping to have this talk to you when you were in a better mood but he now knew he had to tread lightly.

He takes a tentative step towards you. Your arms, still tightly crossed against your chest, begin to loosen. Slowly, as if counting the seconds and steps in his head, he reaches for your arm. When you don’t resist, he pulls you in close to him in a warm embrace. Whispers of apologies and pleasantries leave his lips in short bursts, threading through your hair and landing on your shoulders. He’s being incredibly gentle with you, and although you’re sure he wishes it had the opposite effect, every touch breeds heartache. The dam is cracking and your hand is hovering above the manual release button for the floodgates.

You release the hold that you have on your own arms when he starts petting your hair. Long, molassing strokes that fall in time with both of your breathing. Naturally synced. Your face pressed against his chest, fitting like your favourite pair of jeans: snug, comfortable, perfect.

“Didn’t even know you wanted to pursue music,” your words are muffled by the cotton of his shirt but his sigh lets you know that he’s heard you. He rests his chin on top of your head.

“Wasn’t something I thought I’d get the chance to do, y’know? Was a hobby for so long, always just mucked about with it. Used it as an outlet. Gave it up before I met you”

Your arms wrap themselves around your stomach loosely, as if they were keeping you from falling apart.

“How come?” You were curious. You couldn’t help help but think that it was because he’d met you that he given up his dream. Freelance photography didn’t pay greatly but it was your passion and Harry had always pushed you to do what made you happy. So he’d taken a job managing a bakery down the street from the apartment you shared to support the both of you.

“It was a different time in my life, back when I was living in California. Didn’t really have much that I had to care about. I was living with a bunch of people who were trying to make a living that way so I fell into it.” He’d stopped his work on your hair, bringing his arm around you shoulder to bring you in closer.

“Is that how you met Stevie?”

He chuckles, it’s airy but full of reminiscent energy.

“Yeah, that’s how I met Stevie.”

You shuffle, moving your head to look up at him. His eyes full of memories. You urge him to continue.

“I was crashing on a friend’s couch in this artist commune. They had a party one night and she was there. We talked and just, I don’t know. Ran with it. We don’t have to talk about this, it’s weird innit? Me talking about my ex.” You lean back to look up at him eyebrow raised.

“You really think this is the weirdest thing to happen tonight?”

He laughs.

“You’re right.”

The corners of your mouth twitch upwards for a split second. You move back to your former position, pressed up against his chest. You close your eyes, indulging in the rhythmic beat of his heart.

“So what happened?”

“It was a lot. There was a lot going on and I couldn’t handle it.”

You hum, nodding ever so slightly.

“Plus she met Lindsey…” He pauses, untangling his arms from you taking a small step back. He lifts his hand and runs the pad of his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. You eyes flick up to his, looking down at you. He sighs, the corner of his mouth lifts, “...and I met you.

The flutter you feel in your stomach is strong but short lived when you remember why you were both standing in the loading area of a theater instead of hanging out with your favourite band just a mere feet away. You’ve been trying to avoid asking your next question. Trying to push it to the back of your mind, attempting to distract yourself from it because you already knew what the answer would be but it stayed stewing, and now it was bubbling over. Before you could stop it, it flew out of your mouth and into the space around you.

“Are you going to accept the offer?”

Harry stays too quiet for too long. With each passing moment, you can feel the ends of your already frayed nerves fizzle and burn out. He looks at you, really looks at you. Your eyes, your lips, you, as a whole. When he finally does speak, his voice is steady and his words, soft. He leans down, cheek touching cheek. And although it’s whispered, his lips tickling the shell of your ear, his words speak unreachable volumes.