#angryinternetduck

**********

Harry was… exhausted. 

Just… tired. 

And the bar was crowded, and it was loud, and there were so many people. 

He stared at the whiskey in his glass, swirling it around… and around… and around… 

“Hi!” 

Wow. Perky. Too perky. 

Harry didn’t turn around. The whiskey was so… mesmerizing… 

“Hullo,” Harry murmured. 

“I’m drunk!” 

Harry blinked, glancing around despite himself. 

Bloody hell. 

Red hair. Red hair, in a high ponytail. Blue eyes, freckles. Freckles, freckles, freckles. She was grinning, blinding him. Pinkest lips he’d ever seen. She was chewing bubble gum. She rolled it between her teeth. Bright pink. A white shirt, a little pocket over her heart. A little mini-skirt. 

She looked like a bloody angel. 

She was glowing. 

What the fuck. 

“Um - er -” Harry cleared his throat. “Hello,” he repeated. 

“Hi!” she said again. “Can we take a picture?” 

“A - a what?” 

“A picture!” she chirped, holding up a polaroid camera. 

“I -” He hesitated. 

She’s drunk, she’s gorgeous, he’s drunk, he loves her, why not - 

Why not? 

“Sure,” he said. 

She grinned. Harry’s heart stopped. 

She leaned in, Harry smelled cherry chapstick, bubble gum, liquor - 

“Smile!” 

A flash. 

Harry blinked, and she giggled. Tapped his nose. Harry blinked again. 

What the fuck. 

It printed. Whiirrrrrr… 

She took out a marker, spun it around her knuckles - she was left-handed, wearing a little ring on her middle finger, red nail polish - and murmured, “Ar… a… bell… a,” as she signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of a polaroid. 

A polaroid of him, a startled smile on his face, his gaze on her, who was beaming at the camera, her eyes bright and sparkling in the flash of the camera, dazzlingly brilliant in the dim darkness of the bar around them. 

“Arabella,” she said, blinding Harry with another dazzling grin and holding out the picture. Harry blinked. Nodded. “Er - Harry,” he said. “Harry!” she giggled, kissing him on the cheek. 

“Nice to meet you!” she chirped, and spun around, and - 

And she was gone. 

What. 

The. 

Fuck. 

***

Harry wanted a sweet. 

Something sugary… and soft… and bad for you… 

He found a bakery. Sprinkles. Lovely. 

Not even a queue!

Harry grinned. Got a cupcake. Pulled out his wallet to pay… 

Something else fell out - 

A picture. 

A polaroid. 

An angel. 

Arabella. 

Woah. 

“Sir?” 

Harry blinked. Looked up. “Er - right, sorry.” He paid up. Left the store. 

Arabella. Christ. Almost forgot about that. 

She didn’t leave a number… 

For fuck’s sake - why the hell didn’t she leave a bloody number? 

Harry sighed. Glanced across the street. 

Looked like he was going back to the bar, didn’t it? 

***

Too early. 

He was too early. 

Only nine o’clock. 

Harry sat near the door. Ordered a whiskey. Swirled it around. Stared at the clock. 

***

Eleven. 

A gust of wind. 

Cherries. Bubble gum. 

Harry looked up. Grinned. 

An angel. 

“Harry!” she exclaimed. 

“Arabella,” Harry said.

They were staring. 

There had been music, hadn’t there? In the bar? And people? 

There wasn’t any of that now. 

It was just her. Just him, just her, those eyes. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry laughed, and he stood up, took a step, and - 

Her lips were soft, perfect, tasted like cherries. And tequila - hadn’t she just arrived at the bar? - and bubble gum. She was so sweet. She was giggling, her fingers slipping up through his hair, her hips swinging with the music. 

“Get a room!” somebody shouted. 

Harry grinned. Forced himself to pull away. 

“Shall we?” he asked. “Get a room?” 

She giggled. “We shall,” she said, and they went and got a room. 

***

It was heaven. 

Of course. Only fitting for an angel. 

It wasn’t enough. Harry got the feeling it would never be enough. 

He got her number. 

Left.

Lasted two weeks. 

“Hullo, Bella…” 

***

She had a wonderful little flat. 

Bright and airy despite the cheap rent and creaky building. 

Harry loved it. 

She hated it. 

Something about being inside. 

But the hallway was fine. 

She liked the hallway. 

Something about all those lives, coming together, little interactions. 

They ended up in a lot of little corners. 

In the hallway. 

***

Next time, he lasted a week. 

Barely. 

The next, a few days. 

Barely. 

He was getting addicted. 

It was okay. 

He didn’t mind. 

Wasn’t anything he could do about it anyway, was there?

She was like something caught in his teeth, always there, nagging and nagging until - 

Until he called. 

“Hullo, Bells,” he began every call. 

“Meet me in the hallway?” he ended every call. 

***

Six times. Six times was heaven. 

Seventh time, she stood him up. 

Harry knocked. 

He hated the door. 

Loved the flat, hated the door. 

All wooden, with little splinters everywhere. 

Nobody answered. 

He hadn’t expected anything; she answered on the third knock. 

Answered the door on the third knock, the phone on the third ring. 

Harry knocked again. 

Nothing. 

A third time.  

Harry’s hand was already on the doorknob. 

Nothing. 

Harry frowned. Jiggled the knob. It was locked. 

He knocked again. 

Knocked, and knocked, and knocked. 

And then -

Harry hissed in pain.

A splinter. 

“For fuck’s -” 

He sighed. Stared at the door. 

And then he walked away. Where was she? 

***

I’m sorry, she’d said. I’m so sorry. 

He’d smiled. It’s okay, he’d said. I don’t mind. 

It wasn’t okay. He did mind. 

But then she kissed him. 

And he didn’t mind anymore. 

***

Harry knocked on the door to Arabella’s flat, only using one knuckle. 

He hated that door. 

Knocked again. 

Waited a beat. 

He raised his fist to knock again - 

The door swung open. 

Harry blinked in surprise; that was only two knocks, wasn’t it? 

It was a man. Tall. Red hair, blue eyes. Lots of freckles. Glasses.  

“Who’re you?” Glasses asked. 

“Harry,” Harry said. “And you are?” 

The man frowned. “Harry Styles?” 

“Yeah, pleasure,” Harry answered, a bit impatient. “Who’re you?” 

Glasses raised an eyebrow. “Looking for Arabella, are you?” 

“For fuck’s - Who are you?”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “I’m the brother. Oliver.” 

Harry faltered. “Oh,” he said, feeling like a fool. “Right. Is Bells - is she here? Arabella?” 

“Yeah,” Glasses - Oliver - said, smirking. “In the loo. I’m heading out…” He stepped back to let Harry in, and Harry nodded as he walked past him. “Right,” Harry said, turning back around to face him. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “nice to meet you.” 

“Right, right,” Oliver said absently, staring at Harry. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Er…” 

“Can I just…” He hesitated. “Let me just warn you -” he began, and Harry smiled a bit. 

“The brother warning?” he cut in. “Break her heart and you’ll kill me? I got it.” 

Oliver chuckled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, no, I was going to say…” He grinned. “I was going to say be careful, mate. She’ll be fine. It’s you I worry about. Don’t let her break your heart, yeah?” 

Harry frowned. “Er… yeah.” 

Oliver studied him for another awkward second. “Right,” he said. “Well. Cheers.” 

He grabbed his coat, and he left the flat. 

“Cheers,” Harry murmured, staring at the door. 

“Harry!” 

“Bells!” Harry exclaimed, spinning around. 

“Hello,” Arabella giggled, kissing him. 

“Hello,” Harry said. 

“Missed you,” Arabella breathed against his lips. 

“Missed you too, Bells,” Harry sighed. “Missed you too.” 

***

She met him at a little coffee shop. 

She didn’t warn him. 

Well, not really. 

Just called. Asked where he was. 

“See ya,” she’d said. 

And then she’d appeared. 

Like a bloody miracle. 

And then she’d dragged him outside.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” she’d said. 

And so they walked. 

Well, he walked. 

She skipped. Ran. Jumped. Twirled. 

Sang. She had Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys stuck in her head. 

Of course she did. 

Harry grinned and held her hand as she spun into his arms. 

***

Harry was drunk. 

Pissed. 

Absolutely off his face. 

He was having the time of his bloody goddamn life, singing, dancing… drinking… 

And then he saw something. 

Red hair. A shimmer. A magic. 

An angel?

She turned. Blue eyes, freckles, bubblegum.  

An angel. 

His angel. 

Making out with somebody. 

Harry choked on his whiskey. Slapped a fifty on the counter. 

And left. 

***

Arabella called him. 

Harry didn’t answer.

***

She called him again. 

Harry picked up. 

“Meet me in the hallway?” she asked. 

No, Harry’s brain told him. Say no, it said. Break it off. Don’t - 

“Absolutely,” Harry said.

***

She kissed him before he could say anything. 

She kissed him senseless. 

Because she was beautiful. 

Because she was perfect. 

Because she was an angel. 

And, well, if she was a devil in between the sheets - his sheets, that other guy’s sheets… 

There wasn’t anything she could do about it, was there? 

***

She arrived at his flat two days later. 

She knocked three times. 

When Harry opened the door, she was grinning. 

She produced a box of chocolates. “Do you like chocolate?” she asked. 

Harry grinned back. “I love chocolate.” He stepped back. “Come in, then.” She walked inside, floating on rainbows, and bounced onto his couch. She held out the chocolates, and he took one, and she popped one into her mouth, grinning up at him. 

“Hello,” she giggled. 

“Hi,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow and stealing another chocolate. 

She stood up. Wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close. 

“You’re cute,” she said. 

“Thank you, darling,” Harry laughed. “Not too bad yourself.” 

“You’re wonderful,” Arabella hummed, and she kissed him, and everything melted away. 

***

She was glowing. 

Wearing his shirt. 

Her hair was soft, the dusk light through his window creating a halo around her head. 

A halo. 

Of course. 

Harry was lying in his bed, watching her mess around on his piano. 

“You like to play?” she asked. 

Harry nodded. “Mhmm.”  

“I used to… play…” she said softly, dragging her fingers against the keys with a feather-light touch. Notes floated through the air like butterflies, so crisp and clear that Harry could practically see them in front of him. 

“Why’d” - his voice was raspy; he cleared his throat. “Why’d you stop?” 

Arabella shrugged. “Got bored…” 

C… D… A… C… D… A… 

Harry frowned. He’d never heard that before. He liked that. 

He loved that. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

She shrugged again. “Dunno.” 

She played it again. 

C… D… A… C… D - 

She stopped as Harry wrapped his arms around her, bending down to pepper kisses down her neck. “Harry,” she giggled, spinning around to kiss him properly. “Christ, you’re ridiculous,” Harry laughed as she tugged him down onto the piano bench. 

“You love me,” she breathed. 

“Impossible not to, Bells,” Harry murmured against her. “Impossible not to.” 

***

Pandemonium. 

That’s how he’d describe her. 

Perfect pandemonium. 

Angelic, perfect pandemonium. 

Arabella liked that word. 

“Pandas,” she’d said when he used that word to describe a party they’d gone to.

Harry had grinned. “Pandas,” he’d agreed. 

Arabella had laughed, and she’d kissed him. 

“Pandas,” she’d giggled. 

***

She liked old films. 

The romantic kind. 

Her favorite was The Apartment. 

She called it The Flat. 

But she couldn’t just watch a movie; no, no, that was too boring. 

Instead, she multi tasked. 

She watched the movie, and made cookies. 

And threw popcorn into hats. 

And played card games. 

Today, she braided Harry’s hair. 

“I wish I’d met you when it was long,” she mused softly. 

“Me too,” Harry sighed, watching Shirley MacLaine spout flu statistics in an elevator on the screen. “Shoulda stayed in bed this morning,” Arabella murmured as Shirley did. She lowered her voice and imitated Jack Lemmon’s sick voice - “Shoulda stayed in bed last night.” 

Harry grinned. 

Arabella’s voice rose a pitch again. “Nineteen!” 

“Watch your feet,” Harry cut in, slipping into falsetto as Shirley said, “Watch your step.” 

Arabella giggled, mussing his hair. “And watch your hands, Mr. Kirkby!”

“I beg your pardon!” Harry chorused with Jack. 

“One of these days, I’m gonna close these doors on you and…” She mimicked Shirley’s random motions on Harry’s head, tugging just a bit too hard, and Harry yelped. “Christ, woman!” he scoffed, ducking away. “You watch your hands.” 

Arabella giggled, fussing with his hair again and kissing his head. 

The Apartment filled the room for a second. 

And then - 

“I’m bored,” Arabella declared. 

“Claustrophobic?” Harry asked, standing up and stretching. 

“Phobic,” Arabella echoed, making a face. “I hate that word.” 

“Hate’s a strong one, Bells.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I do!” she exclaimed resolutely. “In fact,” she added, I’ve got a phobia of it!” Harry raised an eyebrow. “A phobia of the word phobic, hm?” She giggled. Nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

“How’s the hallway sound, Haz?” she asked. 

“The hallway sounds fantastic,” Harry said, and she led him to the door. 

***

She was rock and roll, Harry decided one morning. 

Perfect pandemonium in rock and roll. 

A bit of piano, angelic choruses, and then rock and roll. 

Harry spun a pencil around his knuckles and began to write. 

It was all too easy. 

She was an angel. 

He really saw an angel. 

He practically finished the song in one morning. 

Only Angel, he called it. 

C… D… A, it began. C… D… A… 

*** 

hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated 💜 thanks for reading!!!

**********

He hadn’t figured it out yet. 

It was 1:57 am, according to his digital clock, and he didn’t have anything.  There were scraps of paper scattered on the desk in front of him, and he was rolling a pencil around his knuckles absentmindedly. He was looking at the wall, his lip between his teeth, his brain still spinning a million miles an hour.  Spinning in circles a million miles an hour.  Harry sucked a breath in through his teeth and sat back in his chair.  Stared at the ceiling fan. 

***

He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep.  He just knew that he did, at some point, because he woke up at 2:35 with his head on the desk and a crumpled piece of paper stuck to his cheek. He sat up, and ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the paper in front of him.  And then he stood up and went to the kitchen.  ***

When he came back, his phone was sitting on his desk, staring up at him innocently.  He sighed, and picked it up, and scrolled through his Instagram, and then he was bored, and he looked at the little red dot over the Phone app, and it said 128, and he sighed, and he clicked on it, and he started going through the voicemails.  And then his finger slipped, and he didn’t realize until he’d flicked once through the contacts, and when he realized, he stopped, and the screen slowed to a stop at a name, and Harry’s breath caught, and memories rushed back to him, and suddenly, he had inspiration. 

**********

Three Years Earlier

Harry didn’t want to be at that party.  He was tired, and it was late, and he was feeling a headache coming on.  But Zayn had wanted to go to that party, and so had Liam, and so had Louis, and Niall -  Well, Niall didn’t care.  Niall was just happy to be in New York, living the life.  But Louis and Liam and Zayn had wanted to come, and Harry tried to protest, but he could never say no to Zayn, so there he was, listening to the loud music, sitting at the bar, nursing a cup of ginger ale because he really didn’t feel like getting drunk and making a stupid mistake.  “Harry!” Harry sighed and turned around, because it was Liam, and he was drunk, and Harry wouldn’t have been very surprised if Liam had tackled him, because it had happened several times before.  “You,” Liam slurred, “are being hit on, mate.”  “I’m being hit on,” Harry echoed.  “Yessir,” Liam said.  “By… Who?”  “By… her,” Liam said, wheeling around and jutting a finger at a girl behind him.  Harry sighed.  She was, admittedly, lovely. Dark hair, dark eyes, black dress, black shoes, red lipstick. She was drinking a glass of something, something amber and gold and whiskey-looking, and there was a cigarette in her left hand, and she shifted her shoulder, and her hair moved slightly, and Harry saw a spade tattooed onto her skin on her neck.  “She’s smoking,” Harry said, and Liam wiggled his eyebrows. “Yessir,” he said again. Harry rolled his eyes, and spun around in his seat, and took a sip of his ginger ale. “I’m good, thanks.” Liam huffed from behind him, and then Louis called his name, and he shouted, “Tommo!” and he disappeared. “I’m offended,” a voice said from behind him less than a second later.  The voice was feminine. It was low, and smooth, and silky, and confident. Like honey.  Kind of British, but not quite.  Harry smelled smoke. And caramel. He turned around. “Hello,” he said.  “You’re not interested?”  “Getting straight to the point, I see.”  “Beating around the bush, I see.”  “What’s your name?”  “Emmaline,” she said. “Edward.”  “Really?” she said. “You don’t look like an Edward.”  “Thanks,” Harry said flatly. “Thanks very much.”  “Well, Eddy,” she sighed, sitting down on the stool next to him, “it’s a pleasure.” “Likewise,” Harry said.  “What’re you drinking?”  Harry gave a wry smile, looking down into his ginger ale. “Ale,” he said.  “As in ginger?”  He looked up, met her gaze, smiled. “Precisely.” And then, “Can I buy you one?”  “You want to buy me a ginger ale?”  “Whatever you like,” Harry said.  “Ginger ale it is,” Emmaline said.  He ordered one, and she stared at him, and she took a drag on her cigarette, and he felt his nose crinkle. “You don’t like smoke,” she said. He looked at her, at her white-polished nails, at her cigarette, and he shrugged.  She crushed the cigarette in the tray.  Harry was almost impressed.  And then she took out a pack of them, holding his gaze, and pulled out another, and lit it.  “Well, well, well!” somebody crowed from behind Harry.  Louis.  “Harry, mate, you’ve just got to introduce us to your lovely lady friend!” Zayn yelled, and Niall laughed, and Harry rolled his eyes, and Emmaline leaned forward, and she murmured, “I told you you didn’t look like an Edward.”  “Thanks, lads,” Harry muttered.  “So?” Liam asked. “Who’s this?”  “Emmaline, boys,” Harry said. “Boys, Emmaline.”  “Emmaline!” Louis repeated, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Emmaline, it is quite the pleasure.” Emmaline glanced from him to Harry and she met his eye and said, “Likewise,” and then she smiled at Louis, and she winked.  Harry rolled his eyes, and the boys hooted.  She slapped her palm on the bar, and she stood up.  And she leaned forward, leaned into Harry’s ear, whispered, “Keep the ginger ale, Eddy.”  And then she was gone, and Harry felt himself inhale, and he smelled caramel and smoke and whiskey and Louis hooted and Harry didn’t hear him, just watched as she walked away, watched as she was enveloped into a group of girls.  “Harry,” Zayn said, coming around to her seat, “I think she left something.”  A napkin.  And a phone number. What a cliche.  “I’m into it,” Niall announced excitedly, picking up the napkin.  Harry rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t last two minutes with her,” he muttered, pulling away the number. “You’re rude,” Niall said, crossing his arms across his chest petulantly. Louis grabbed it from Harry’s hands, dancing around to lean on the bar. “I could last longer than he could. I could last longer than you could. I could last longer than the two of you combined!”  Niall made a face, and Zayn giggled (he tended to do that when he was drunk) and said, “You’ve got a dirty mind, church boy!” Liam grinned and snatched the napkin away, pulling out his mobile.  “Right then,” he said, thumbing in the number.  “No!” Harry yelped, darting forward and pulling it back. “No, no, you’re not about to make a fool of yourself over a pretty girl. Scatter. All of you. You’re all pissed, and you’re going to make a stupid mistake.”  Louis pouted and crossed his arms. “You’re no fun,” he whined.  “I would never make a stupid mistake,” Liam insisted. “I am the most responsible member of the band, and, as the most responsible member of the band, I say that we should call the number and get Harry laid!”  The boys all cheered, and Harry rolled his eyes.  “Call it, Harry!” Zayn exclaimed.  “No.”  “Fine, then,” Louis said, waving the bartender over. “Five shots, hm, lad? Make it snappy.”  “Call it,” Zayn said again.  And then he said, “Or I will!” And he grinned and Harry almost replied -  But the bartender was faster, and there were five glasses in front of them, and Liam reached for one (most responsible member of the band, my arse, Harry thought), but Louis slapped his hand away.  “Go, Styles,” he said.  “Me?”  “Yes, you, Harry Styles, the one and only, go.”  “Go what?”  “Do it, Harry!” Niall said enthusiastically. “Come on!”  Harry pursed his lips and almost shook his head, and then Zayn pushed a glass towards him, and Harry could never say no to Zayn, and then he tipped the shot glass back, and it burned down his throat, and bloody hell that felt good.  And then he did it again.  And again, and again, and again, and again, and then there were five empty shot glasses upside down on the counter, and Harry couldn’t think straight and his stomach had butterflies and he blamed it all on Zayn. 

***** 

He was still drunk, but Harry told himself it was fading.  He stared at the ceiling of the limousine, his hands folded on Zayn’s leg, which was thrown across his lap. They were all sleeping, and Niall’s head was on his shoulder, and Zayn had his leg over Harry’s, and Louis was curled up with his head on Zayn’s leg, and Liam was drooling on Niall’s left calf, and Harry was border-line uncomfortable, but he didn’t care enough to complain.  He couldn’t get her out of his head.  He could still smell smoke on his jacket (which was probably from Zayn or Louis, really), and he kept thinking of her, of her voice, of her eyes, of the smell of caramel and whiskey and cheap cigarettes, of ginger ale.  *****

He called her when he got home.  “Who’s this?”  “I’m bored.”  “It’s a pleasure, bored. I’m Emmaline.”  “Well, Emmaline, I think we should meet.”  “Eddy, it’s midnight.”  “I know, isn’t it wonderful?”  He heard her laugh, and she said, “I’ll text you an address. The door’s open.”  And then she hung up.  *****

She lived in a flat a few blocks away, and Harry opened the door, and he was almost nervous.  But not quite.  She was there, watching TV, her leg on a footstool, throwing popcorn in her mouth, still wearing the black dress, and Harry smelled caramel and smoke, and there was a window behind her, and through the shades, moonlight streamed in, and Harry thought he was dreaming, because she really was gorgeous.  There was a cactus on the windowsill, and Harry felt himself smile.  Of course there was.  “Heya, Eddy,” she yawned, stretching her arms towards the ceiling.  “Emma,” he said, and she grinned, and she stood up, and she walked over to him.  And then she kissed him, and she tasted like caramel, of course, and mint and whiskey and bloody jasmine and Harry smiled through the kiss and turned her around, and she giggled and kissed him and everything was perfect. 

*** The next morning, Harry had a pounding headache. 

He struggled up through the pain, and he pulled on his clothes, and he found a piece of paper, and he scribbled down a note with something along the lines of Call me, and he kissed her nose, and he regretted leaving for a split second because she was so bloody beautiful.  And then he walked out the door.  *****

Three weeks later, he’d gotten a phone call.  Kind of.  He’d missed it.  Hadn’t picked it up.  And then, he’d listened to the voicemail. “Hey, Eddy.”  She sounded like honey.  “So, I’m having your baby.”  What?  “And, uh… Yeah. Just thought you should know. Okay, bye!”  And that… was it.  What the fuck? Call Back Voicemail.  “Emma, call me. I’m sorry I missed your call, but call me.”  Call Back.  Voicemail.  “Dammit, Emmaline, I need to talk to you.”  Call Back.  Voicemail.  “Emmaline, what the bloody hell does that message mean? Call me, Emma.”  *****

He never heard back from her.  He tried. For weeks.  Months, really. And she never picked up, never answered, and soon, he got a different message.  “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.” **********

Three Years Later

Harry was at his desk, and his clock said 3:16 am, and he was pulling out a blank piece of paper, and he kept glancing at his phone, and then a melody came into his head, and he didn’t know where it was from, but he wrote.  He wrote until the sun came up, keeping every single page, just writing without a filter.  It was nonsense.  Complete and utter nonsense.  But a slow grin spread across his face, because he liked it. He opened his laptop and typed in his question, and he grinned, because he liked that, too.  And he grabbed his pencil, and he titled the notebook page with the most nonsense.  Kiwi. 

**********

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_____________________________________________________________

The Week Before

Harry. 

Was having. 

The time. 

Of his bloody goddamn life. 

He knew he was drunk; he knew it. 

But he didn’t care. 

Because it made him feel so fucking gooooood!! 

And he was dancing on a table, and he was singing, and it was all out of tune, but he didn’t care, and he was legless. Absolutely legless, and his head was swimming in a pool of bliss, and he had no fuckin’ idea what was going on, but he really just didn’t care. 

He was so happy, so giddy, so ready for just anything, and there was a girl next to him, and she was pretty, and had a nice smile, and she kind of reminded him of - of somebody, somebody who wasn’t there, but - 

Wait, wait, who was - why did she… 

Thinking about who she reminded him of was making him sad. 

He didn’t want to be sad. 

So he grinned, leaning forward, whispering nonsense in her ear, and she giggled, and he slipped a hand on her waist, and she leaned into him, and he knew he had her, knew she was his, and he was happy, and he was laughing and happy and he took her somewhere, took her away, and he was giddy and excited and absolutely off his face. 

***

The next morning brought a headache and a feeling of wrong deep in his stomach. 

It was a bad headache. 

His skull was pounding in his head, his stomach rolling. 

He felt like he was going to throw up. 

But he couldn’t - not… not there… 

Where was he? 

He looked over, saw the color of her hair, the curve of her face… 

That wasn’t - 

Why wasn’t - 

Who -? 

Why was she -? 

What had he… 

Shit. 

His heart fell to his stomach. 

He remembered.

Holy shit, he fucking messed up. 

No, no, he could fix it; he’d fix it, he’d fix it - 

He had to fix it. 

***

He hadn’t fixed it yet. 

He was driving home, his eyes blurry on the dark, empty streets in front of him. 

“Shit,” he was muttering. 

Over, and over, and over, because holy fucking shit, he’d messed up. 

His stomach was turning, rolling and rolling, because he was hungover, because he knew that something was happening, knew that he’d messed the fuck up, knew that it was all wrong, knew that he couldn’t go back - 

Holy shit, he couldn’t go back. 

He couldn’t go back, couldn’t undo what he’d done, couldn’t do anything. 

***

Harry felt like he was falling.

Like he was falling, a million miles an hour, the wind rushing past his ears. Like he was falling from the ground, like everything he knew was crumbling away, out of sight. Like his hand was outstretched, reaching, grabbing, desperate for something - anything. Like it was all just out of his reach. 

Like it was his fault. 

Because it was. 

It was his bloody fucking fault. 

He was staring at the door to his flat. 

Your flat.

The flat he shared, with you, because he loved you. 

He loved you. 

Shit.

It was cold. 

Cold and dark and wet. 

His keys were in his hand, the key hovering near the keyhole. 

He felt like he was about to throw up. 

Like he was about to cry. 

His heart was still in his stomach, pushing, pushing, telling him to FIX IT, and he wasn’t. 

Because he couldn’t. 

What had he even done? 

He couldn’t even process it. 

 What did that make him? How bloody messed up does he have to be to do that? How could he possibly make that mistake? When he loved you? He didn’t… not love you. There was no doubt about that - he knew with all his heart that he loved you. 

So why the bloody fuck would he ever -? 

He couldn’t even think it. 

Harry opened the door, and walked inside. 

***

You were sitting on the sofa, watching TV. 

Your hair was a halo around your head, slightly frizzy, like you’d slept on it a little bit. You were holding the remote, a mountain of blankets folded over your shoulders, a cup of tea steaming in your hands. Your eyes, your bright, happy eyes, were tired, and red and… 

Looking at him. 

“Hello, Harry,” you said. 

You sounded tired. 

Absolutely knackered. 

He whispered your name, helpless. 

“You called me,” you said. 

“I…” 

“You were drunk, Harry.” 

“I know.” His voice was barely audible. 

“Did you mean it?” you murmured. 

“I didn’t,” he said. “Whatever I said, I didn’t…” 

“Whatever you -” You laughed wryly. “Right, right, you don’t remember. Of course.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are.” 

“I’m…” 

“I know. I know, I know, I know…” 

You stood up, blankets falling to the sofa, your legs slipping from the covers, and you were wearing those fuzzy yellow socks he’d gotten you last Christmas, and you shook your head, putting your face in your hands. “I was just hoping,” you whispered. 

You looked up, shaking your head. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. I have to - I, uh -” 

You shook your head, swallowed thickly, backed away, ran up the steps… 

Harry collapsed on the sofa. 

You came back down, and he stood up, and you dragged the heel of your palm across your eyes, and - and bloody hell, you were crying, and all he wanted to do was hold you, hug you, tell you it was okay, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t do anything, he was falling, falling… 

You met his gaze. 

Bit your lip, shook your head faintly… 

And opened the door, and left. 

***

Your voice, chirping your name on your answering machine, was like a stab in the heart. 

“Let’s talk?” Harry pleaded. “Beachwood is - it’s open… I’m open… I’m open whenever, I’m free… Whenever you want… Let’s have a cuppa, hm, love? Please? Just a cup o’ tea, please? Please, love, let me explain?” 

Pause. 

Pause, pause, End. 

***

“Darling, it’s me. It’s just me. I just made a mistake. Please pick up.” 

***

“Please, let’s talk? I’ll be at Beachwood at two o’clock, love. Please, meet me…” 

***

You weren’t there. 

You didn’t meet him. 

***

“Please, let me explain. Please, please. I know I messed up, I know. I just… Please, let me… I don’t know… Please, let’s talk? I’ll buy you anything. Coffee, love? Tea? Just a cuppa, darling, and I’ll explain… We’ll talk? Please?” 

Harry paused, almost waiting for a response, and then he sighed and shook his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he hung up.

***

Harry was at his desk, his head propped on his fist, his pencil scribbling nonsense on his notebook page. He was just writing, letting the words spill out of his head into his pencil and onto the paper without any filter, and he was getting nowhere. 

But it felt good. 

So he was scribbling. 

And writing, and writing, and writing. 

And it was all about you, about your lips, your feel, your taste, your touch… 

And, even better, he already had three completed drafts about you that he’d written even before the breakup. And those were good drafts, too - they were probably going to make it onto the actual album. 

He wrote a lot of songs about you, didn’t he? 

Probably too many, honestly. 

***

You called him. 

He missed it. 

But you knew his schedule. 

You knew he’d have a haircut that day. 

A grooming day, you’d called it. 

So you didn’t want to talk to him. 

You knew he wouldn’t pick up. 

“Hey. I got your message… es… Uh, I’ll be at Beachwood at three.” 

You cleared your throat. 

A beat of silence. 

Another, another… 

And nothing.

***

The last time he’d been at the Beachwood Cafe, Harry had been stood up. 

The time before that, he’d been with you. 

A few times before that, it had been his first date with you. 

His first official one, anyway. 

Now, his eyes flicked through the room, over the blue and yellow tiles, over the smooth wooden chairs and countertops… He saw the spot where you met, where you sat, the place you’d made out that one time when the staff had cleared out ‘cause it had been so late… 

He swallowed thickly and glanced at his watch - 2:14. 

Bit early, wasn’t he? 

But he sat, and he ordered a cup of tea, and he waited. 

***

2:55. 

He ordered a coffee. 

Your specialty. Exactly how you liked it. He lined everything up, the cup’s handle in perfect reach, its bottom lined up with the edge of the table. He put cream and sugar in arm’s reach, too, so that, on the off chance your taste in coffee had changed since the last time he’d seen you, you’d be happy. 

He just wanted you to be happy. 

With him. 

God, all he wanted was for you to be happy, for him to be happy, for the both of you to be happy together. 

So he set everything up, just the way you liked it, and waited. 

He waited, his back to the wall, watching the door, sipping his cold tea. 

***

3:00. 

The coffee was still steaming, its side still warm to the touch. Not scalding, though. 

Your car pulled up. Right in front of the cafe. 

The lights flicked off. 

And then… 

Nothing. 

You didn’t move. 

Harry’s eyebrows creased, his eyes trained on the car, and - 

“Can I fill your cup, sir?” 

He looked up, startled. 

The waitress. 

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes, cheers. Thanks. Thank you. Thanks.” 

He was rambling, and he realized it, and he shut his mouth. Nodded another thanks. 

She took his cup away.

Harry missed it. 

It was a nice cup. White, red trim. Little designs engraved around the side. 

It would come back. 

He looked up, out the window, at the still car. 

Would you? 

***

3:10. 

The door opened. 

You stepped out. 

You were wearing a red shirt. White jeans. 

Harry thought of his teacup and almost slapped himself. 

He looked at his hands, at the clock, at the girl filling his cup. 

He tried not to make it too obvious that he’d been waiting. Desperately. 

***

“I miss you,” was the first thing you said.

You hadn’t even sat down yet. 

The bell had rung when you’d walked in, the waiter had smiled at you. 

You were looking at Harry, now, your eyes intent on his.

Your hair was slightly askew from the wind. Still perfect. Obviously. 

Your fingers were wrapped around the strap of your bag. You looked stiff. 

“I -” He was rasping. He tried again. “I miss you, too.” 

Lame. 

Lame, Harry. So lame. 

“I know,” you said. 

A beat of silence, staring competition, and Harry lost. 

Kind of. 

He stood up, gestured to the chair. 

Awkwardly. 

It was all awkward. 

All awkward, all quiet. 

You sat down. 

He did, too. 

You didn’t touch your coffee. Didn’t seem to notice it. Just kept staring at him, like you’d die if you looked away, and you were so pretty, so lovely, sitting there in front of him, for the first time in weeks, and Harry felt himself start to feel happier even just seeing you. 

“So?” you said. 

He blinked. 

He realized he hadn’t thought it out that far. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“I know.” 

“I was drunk.” 

“I know.” 

His eyes bounced between yours, searching, searching for any hint that you’d take him back. He wasn’t finding anything, and he felt his throat starting to close up, felt that familiar feeling of tears threatening to rise. 

“I miss you,” he whispered. 

“I know,” you said, but it was softer, and he was getting somewhere, and he hoped. 

“Is - is there anything I can do?” 

“I don’t know, Harry,” you murmured. “I don’t know.” 

He didn’t know what to say. 

He couldn’t say anything. 

And you didn’t say anything, and it was quiet, and… 

And the silence was deafening. 

It lasted for hours. 

Hours, and hours, and hours. 

But it was really only seconds. 

And then - 

You shook your head. Bit your lip. Stood up. 

And you walked out the door, and Harry was falling, falling so quickly in slow motion, falling faster and faster and slowing down and it was confusing and he didn’t know what to think and he was watching your car drive away and - 

And you were gone. 

Your car was out of view. 

Harry’s breaths were quickening. He felt the tears coming. 

He couldn’t cry. 

No, no, no, he couldn’t cry - he was in public - but you were gone. 

You were gone. 

_____________________________________________________________

Harry was staring at the ceiling.

It was dark. 

Late. 

He didn’t feel like looking over at his clock - he’d have to move his entire head and neck. 

But it was late. 

Sometime after midnight. 

He was thinking. 

Thinking a lot. 

Too much. 

It was painful. 

But he was so tired, so exhausted, so… done, that he didn’t even care. 

He just let himself wallow in his thoughts. 

In his thoughts of you, of what you were doing, where you were, what he could have been doing with you if he hadn’t - if he hadn’t - hadn’t done it, of memories, that time in Arizona, that night, trying to figure out what the fuck had happened for the three millionth time in a row. 

And he just couldn’t get the image out of his head of you doing the same, in your bed, curled up on your side, trying not to think of him, of memories, of that time in bloody Arizona, and he was picturing you with your friends, trying not to think, and he was picturing your smile fading when his name was mentioned, and he pictured your changing the subject, and he missed you. 

He missed you, and he was scared. 

Scared that he was out. 

That he was out, that the two of you were done. 

That you were done. 

Done with him, with them. 

He was scared that you’d never remember him again. That you’d never need him again. 

He groaned in frustration, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. 

He rolled out of bed and sat at his desk, and he finished the song. 

Falling, he called it. 

Falling, falling, falling. 

tell me: 

how you like your coffee 

your favorite song on Fine Line

if I should make a sequel to this because I (might) have an idea

your least favorite mode of transportation or!

tell me all four and make my day!!

or or!!!!