#haroldsbee

“He’d want you to be there though” your friend - and current flatmate - had argued, “you mean the world to him, you know that. At least give him a ring, wish him luck ‘n everything?” Her persistence, while not as heavy as she had been with prior hassling and berating, had made you realise your actions would have an effect on your friend.

Your best friend. The one currently trotting the globe to sprinkle his talent and smiles and dashing charm the world over.

Scrolling to that one letter H, you hit the call button, with your flatmate mouthing that she’d leave you be to handle your call, but firstly kidnapping the bowl of “i’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself” cake mixture.

“Hey H! Just me wanting to w-”

“Y/N!” You hear his voice, sadly for the first time properly in weeks. “I can’t beli-”

“Harry, hey, slow down....yeah hi, i’m just calling in to say good luck to my superstar best friend. I know you’ll be nervous but there’s no reason to be...I...I just totally interrupted you there didn’t I?” You bite your lip waiting for his response.

“S’alright love, jus’ wanted to say thanks f’calling. Can’t believe you’re wasting y’money on expensive phone calls to me in the states.”

“it’s a FaceTime audio, Styles, don’t think you’re anything special.’ You roll your eyes playfully, despite being fully aware that he won’t be able to see you. (And thank goodness, you’re somewhat of a mess, waiting for your live stream of Saturday Night Live to begin, pyjamas rumpled and and worn, and you’re certain that you still have the remains of your portion of the cake mixture on your mouth, and most likely decorating your shirt.) 

Harry hears the joke besides the pause in conversation, and chuckles to himself.

“Forever keep me humble, Y/N. M’struggling to do this without you to be honest. Nick’s here but he’s talkin’ m’ear off about that daft Pig dog of his, ‘n how I need to get back to London for proper laughs....y’wouldn’t mind that would you? I’ll be the most annoyin’ visitor but-”

“Harry.” Your use of his full name stops him in his tracks. “H....you’re rambling. You can come see me, but only after you smash this tonight...you’re a born entertainer and Jimmy is a great guy. You’ll be great, you don’t need me there..”

There’s a pregnant pause, for what feels like an hour on both ends of the call.

He sighs.

“Yeah...sorry..m’nervous is all. Really wanted y’to be here...need another set o’hands for my suit buttons...i mean, who’s gonna be m’dancing partner tonight? You’ll really want me visitin’ later this month though yeah?” 

You nod again before piping up a small “of course” and never had it occurred to you that most of yours and Harry’s conversations had required minimal verbal communication.

“Good.” He affirms to both himself and you. “Feels an age since we’ve had a proper chat. Feels different, just missed y’is all, like the gossip an’ the laughs”

And the warm cosy apartment of yours, and your smile, and the crinkle in your eyes when you do so. He misses your drunken self plastering “friendly” kisses all over his face but never quite his lips. He misses his best friend because he feels that there is a drift behind the sentiment of his thoughts about you. 

“Well you’ll see me soon, okay? I’m really sorry i couldn’t make it, but i wouldn't be telling you anything any differently unless i thought you couldn’t do this. Show them the Harry Styles you need them to see for you, H. And you’d better give me a shout out for watching you at bloody 4am over here.”

He grins and then remembers to properly speak his goodbyes as opposed to just grinning and pulling you in for a hug that he’s so used to following through after hearing your lips speak a bittersweet goodbye.

The conversation winds down, but his heart starts to race, as a crew member on his side of the phone knocks on his door for the ten minute call. Ten minutes until the world sees him, with his friends, and family, and you behind him.

The phone is left in his coat pocket, door locked and one more hair ruffle for good luck, and the sound of a classic Bowie hit booms through the studio.

This one’s for you, he decides.