#ssaa

Harry was fascinated. As most people were by Y/N, because she managed to be everything anyone could want - yet evade the sense that she was real, as if she were a phantom in the guise of an actress. In the center of the room, the spotlight on her, but there was a blank space in her eyes.

In the manipulative, draining way that Hollywood tended to have, this aspect of Y/N intoxicated the social climbers around her. They tried to fulfill her expectation that was never vocalized, seek validation that had never been promised to begin with.

The movies she starred in had gained international recognition. With awards littering the floor of her lavish mansion, she was clearly in the midst of a firestorm within her career. All eyes were on her. Not restricted to the sense of her work, but when she entered a room it seemed no one could help but spent a few moments, dazzled by her glow.

There was talk among the gossipers and media personnel, of Y/N becoming a director, or that one of her scripts would be passed onto production soon. The way she dealt with art was grandiose and made a statement, she felt like 1920s glamour in a 2017 woman. Essentially, it was everything of the past people craved, with the optimistic hope of the present; she was surreal and felt more like a promise than a guarantee, which made people love her all the more.

People were strange in how they were drawn to what would let them down, eventually.

She grabbed people’s attention without so much as making a noise. It was simple. She was attractive, but more like magnetic fields than airbrushed skin. Golden flecks of magic sprinkled from her fingertips and she simply became the Woman of the Night with barely so much as a blink.

Harry didn’t know how to approach her.

Her image had been painted on the back of his eyelids for weeks. They had stumbled into each other a few times, enough to justify a rushed introduction and quick compliments. He liked her movies, she liked his music. It was easy enough.

It wasn’t enough, though. He wanted more of her, and with the way her eyes would be caught by his own, slowly drifting down his body- it was clear that she wanted more, too.

He finally gathered the courage to start a conversation, at a random networking event that had him bored out of his mind. With a glance her way, in the corner she had nestled into with a glass of wine, he figured she felt the same.

“Hi,” he had begun, sidling up next to her in the booth. The drinks kicking in his veins had given him the boost of confidence, and the hazy aura in his eyes to forgive any forwardness he might’ve brought to the table.

“Hello, Harry Styles,” she acknowledged him with a tip of her glass. Y/N’s eyes seemed to sparkle, somehow, in the dimly-lit room, and Harry could smell vanilla wafting from her perfume.

His heart didn’t have a chance.

The night had ended with her, fast asleep on his bare chest, her fingers clutching onto the sheet’s edges like a small child. His thumb grazed over her fingers again and again as she made small, sleepy noises. Harry had stayed up longer than she had, his eyes drifting over her face.

It felt as if he were running in a church, as if it were sacred, as if she would wake up and demand to know why he had stayed the night. (Not that it had been discussed, but with the way she had jumped back into bed after using the restroom, and immediately tucked her arm around his side, he had assumed the invitation was clear.) But she remained, fast asleep, and Harry remained staring.

Frankly, it was a side of her that Harry wouldn’t get the chance to see a lot, in future ‘meetings’. Their schedules were so hectic, Harry genuinely had to pencil in Y/N’s name on his phone, in order to make it work. Whatever they were, to make ‘it’ work.

And Y/N seemingly did the same, texting Harry the hours she would be free to see when his matched up. The vague sense that it would be restricted to a hook-up was heavy in the air, next to Harry’s moaning and Y/N’s curled fingers grasping for whatever paneling was behind the bed. It didn’t bother them, necessarily, because frankly – that was all they could offer each other.  

Endings didn’t often happen snuggled up under comforters, scrolling through shit hotel TV, staring at her face as she mumbled in her sleep. They typically ended with rushed kisses and her giving him one last bum squeeze, a giggle bursting from her lips as she dashed out of the bedroom, her shirt still unbuttoned and a car’s horn blaring below.

He liked that version of her the best, though, when she was asleep and he was beside her. It didn’t have the elegance and glamour of her evening gowns and smokey eyes, but it made him feel special. Harry got to see her like that, when she wasn’t acting. And the fact was, she always seemed to be acting.

The magic wore away, as it tended to do. After a month, Harry no longer noticed the golden flecks and crimson streaks that drifted after her physical form, he didn’t hear the angelic bells when she laughed.

Rather, he saw the violet smears, the eyeliner smudges, the beige stains on the fronts of his shirts. From when she, drunk and stumbling into his chest, had made her way back to him at the end of the night, again. Harry heard that one time, when they managed to squeeze in a dinner and he fed her pizza. He had made a dumb joke about the cheese, when she laughed so hard, she snorted and almost fell off the bed. He saw Y/N, and was privy to her sans pedestal and wings.

They weren’t anything tangible, though. There were no firm titles, labels, anything. Harry didn’t even have her name in his phone, it was simply the mesh of digits he started associating with her face.

Harry enjoyed that bit, because neither one of them had to play a role. He didn’t have to buy her flowers and she didn’t have to text him more often than the rare moments she did.

No “boyfriend”, no “girlfriend”. In his mind, somewhere deeper than conscious thought where he overanalyzed situations and overthought his words, he felt like that was what kept them real. It was what stopped Y/N’s missing piece from becoming too large of an elephant in the room, what let her laugh unexpectedly and not feel the need to explain anything. Because she didn’t owe him anything. It was what prevented Harry from getting too much in his head, from doing things that would be reserved for a man who could properly love her, with the right time and dedication.

Y/N wasn’t playing a role, not with him. To ask her to do so would shatter the glass that had been so sturdy, thus far. Ruin what they had built. There was no reason to break through the walls, shards flying everywhere, in order to have her stay a bit longer in his bed.

Harry could make do, he was an adult.

It was when she was pulling away that Harry realized he wasn’t as much of an adult as he had thought. His last four texts had gone unanswered. He would’ve understood, if he were asking her to meet up again or to send naughty photos - but they were texts of puppies, of weird clothing he found in thrift stores, of questions he had about that one TV show she had gotten him into (the finale was a fucker, and he wanted to know her thoughts). There was no pressure, no urgency, but he had hoped she would’ve responded.

Truthfully, it was not a huge deal. Harry was not heartbroken and he managed to continue on with life. Hook-ups had the nasty tendency of creating unrequited situations, which Harry realized was a bit relevant to his own situation, and ‘ghosting’ was not uncommon. Especially in his industry, it was what practically created muses for the artists. They thrived off of heartbreak, derived from any hurt imaginable.

Harry couldn’t shake off, though, how happy she had seemed, tucked against his side, naked chests pressed against one another, popping Goldfish at the others’ open mouth. She had seemed happy. He was happy. Was he wrong?

It went beyond sex, he had realized reluctantly.

She was a woman he couldn’t let go of, because she cried at every movie. Even her own, her eyes would tear up before the end credits and she would try to wipe them away without Harry noticing. He couldn’t let go of her because she had seen the world, knew art from countries he had never heard of. She would show him photos from her phone, the ones of her standing crudely against naked statues and pretending to be in awe of majestic portraits, and she would explain to him how art became her life. He couldn’t let go of her because he could tell her, in the same hushed voice she had used against the darkness of night, the emotional, spiritual relief that happened when he performed. How a piece of him lived in every song he wrote, and he couldn’t imagine who he would be without it. And how that equally satisfied him and terrified him, and she would give him a tiny nod and wrap her fingers more firmly against his hair, watching the shadows of his face.

He couldn’t let go of her because he wanted her to meet his mom, his sister, all his friends. He wanted him and her to become a ‘they’, and to be known for certain things. Like how his friend-couples were known for doing certain things together, for always going bowling on Thursday nights or holding wine board game nights on Sundays. He wanted her to be tucked against his side, laughing at the more ridiculous celebrities, at every formal event. He couldn’t let go of her because he could see it plain as ever: he could, very potentially, love her.

Maybe she had sensed his feelings, somehow. Maybe that was what was empty, within her, some gargantuous black-hole that sucked away her desire for more. Maybe she got bored, and it was nothing but another ending. It didn’t settle right with him, it didn’t match up to the woman he met between bedsheets. But, Harry figured, perhaps he was wrong.

He found her on the rooftop.

It was another networking event, and Harry couldn’t stand to stay in the venue for one more minute. He had grabbed two bottles of wine, thinking he would give one to Jeff later, and made his way up the stairwell. The stairs were tucked away near the back of the ballroom, which had made it easy enough for him to escape.

Harry didn’t want to feel another hand touch his shoulder, another cold voice expressing their love for his music, when he felt almost certain they had never heard it. It was cold and stark in the stairwell, but it beat the mass of kiss-ass barbarians below.

He found her on the rooftop.

Her heels were slouched against one another, against the elevated brick edge. Her dress was flapping in the wind, the loose bottom curling against her bare toes. Her legs were up to her chest, her arms wrapped around, and her chin resting on her knees. Her hair was up, but several pieces had fallen out and fell against her cheek. Her shoulders were shaking.

Harry was startled, to say the least, because he hadn’t expected her to be there. Last he had heard, she was in a different country filming an indie movie about Russia in the 1930s.

“Y/N?” he asked, as if she would disappear in a second. He stood next to the entry door of the stairwell, his heart thumping in his chest against the cold. His arms had fallen by his sides, the sloshing bottles loosely dangling by his fingertips. Almost immediately, in a bashful sense that he loathed, Harry wished he had glanced in a mirror before heading up. His suit was most likely wrinkled in the back, his hair was definitely not coping well with the wind.

Harry just wanted her to miss him, was all. And it wasn’t very likely, in his or her state.

Y/N’s head lifted, her eyes looking over her shoulder, before one arm rose and she offered a tiny wave.

“Hello, Harry Styles.”

She was drunk, and her mascara had transferred over to her cheeks and somewhat down her face. Harry felt at a complete loss, unsure of how to deal with Y/N when the tears weren’t from Up but something else, something that made her seem more ashamed than before.

He truly wasn’t sure what was happening in Y/N’s life. Not that he ever had a clear idea, but it was something he regretted now more than ever. Not asking her about her day, not checking up on her every so often - he had assumed that would’ve been too forward, too much, that it would’ve pushed Y/N away.

“What’re yeh doing up here?” Harry approached where she was curled up, moving her shoes so he could sit down. She held out a hand towards one of the bottles, and he reluctantly gave it up.

“Just thinking,” her voice broke, her eyes glancing away from him, to hold back the upcoming stream.

“About wha’?”

It was just Y/N’s luck, to be crying over a man on a rooftop - like some heartbroken teenager in a cheap rom-com - only to have the man show up. And not only that, but he was so heart-breakingly gorgeous that night, with his hair messed up the way she liked, and his shirt half-unbuttoned and his pants hanging a bit low. It was simply just her luck.

She hadn’t meant for anything to happen. Y/N enjoyed watching Harry from afar, to see his charm work over a crowd like an ocean’s wave. The people were just along for the ride, to experience his magic and witness history in the making. Entire textbooks would be written about how he lived, how he grasped attention with humility and pride, how he loved everyone and everyone loved him.

She hadn’t meant for him to notice her, or even to walk over. She hadn’t meant to sleep with him, the first night. But when his hand was on her thigh, and his voice had lowered, bordering husky, she hadn’t stood a chance.

Y/N had created a safe space within Harry. A shelter for her insecurities and flaws to become exposed, to see the light of day lest they plan a mutiny in the suffocation of fear. She had rambled to him like a school child who was learning something new everyday, about her fascination with art and how she had tried new techniques with camera angles and location shots (many of which failed, which was why she typically never let the words slip past her lips to others). Y/N could only starve off the mortification for so long.

He had become too much to her, for it to last.

Her success as an actress had sustained the piece of her that craved meaning. The reaction of people to what she had to perform was everything she could ask for, and more. Satisfaction drenched her shoulders when she received an award, recognition, or even when a famous director give her that knowing smile. The smile that meant, you’ve got this figured out, whatever it is. You’re one of us.

Her success had, similarly, led to her creating divides. Within herself, within how others wanted her to be. There were expectations that weighed down her shoulders to stay poised, that lifted the smile on her lips when it began to droop, that caused her eyes to unfocus after the fortieth time someone was trying to quote her own movie back at her, and did it wrong.  

With Harry, she had felt more free. And originally, because they had been such a secret, it was a salvation. She could separate herself physically from her expectation and live in the ways she longed for, have the romance she craved. It had developed into something more, though, and all Y/N really knew was how to run away. Create more divides.

She supposed it was instinct, more than anything else. Since Harry had been a home for her fears, she would soon turn away from their new location in a natural attempt of escape. They would follow, she knew, and Harry would be left in the dust. A biproduct of her trying to be what she felt she should be.

“Me,” she answered, and it was partially true.

Harry fell quiet, this time, and in the lapse of their words Y/N found it was harder to breathe. Her heart thundered in her chest when he finally spoke, and the tears threatened to over-spill. She wasn’t expecting to hear his voice dry-cracked with exhaustion, the bottle rising hesitantly to meet his lips. Y/N honestly would rather get drunk off the redness from those lips, than the wines in her cellar.

“It’s okay, if yeh wanted to end things. I know yeh’re busy, got a lot goin’ on.” His eyes were held resolutely on the bridges in the distance, the lighted tips of skyscrapers and the dashing streams of cars below. It was cold, the wind beating against their breath and keeping their cheeks redder than the circumstances alone would have allowed, and Harry felt the overwhelming sense of inadequacy gripping his bones.

In his more poetic moments, he had referred to her as his Muse, his goddess, his Eve who never left Eden. And it was true, to an extent, as all mythologies cast their foundations in the well of actuality. She held the world at her fingertips, poised between finger and thumb, and all he could be was a speck in relation.

She never made him feel ‘less than’, because she never quite focused on her talent to begin with, when she was with him. When they were in public, he could easily notice the shift between her then – and her later that night, legs tossed over his own and her head burrowing into his butterfly tattoo. Her actress persona was more refined, with practiced flaws so as to enhance the general beauty of her celebrity. Her other persona was more casual, gentle, with genuine rough curves and edges.

“Never said I wanted to end things,” Y/N mumbled, her fingers reaching down to pick at the pokey ends of the brick edge.

“Yeh didn’t say anythin’, actualy.” His voice was more clipped.

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“Could’ve said that, I-” his fingers reached up and he tugged at his roots slightly, raking the hair back. The wine bottle met his lips as he, aggravated, attempted to sort through his thoughts. It didn’t help, though, only made him feel more imbalanced and less sure about what he felt.

“I dunno,” he sighed, “I didn’t expect yeh to drop me, I guess.”

How much more honesty would it take to shatter the glass around his eyes? Harry already felt them begin to bend with blurry reluctance, the bitter rise in his throat being the ultimate betrayal.

“What did you expect me to do, Harry? What was I supposed to do? Did I miss the script between us, was there supposed to be another fucking scene I missed?”

And, no, Harry hadn’t expected her head to snap over in his direction, her shoulders heaving upwards with an angry rise bubbling in her throat, and her eyes to suddenly break into a clear, irritated glare into his.

She wasn’t acting, now, and she didn’t seem so golden.

Harry wasn’t feeling so golden, either, next to her.

“Treat me like I deserve a response,” was all he could reply with, his tearful gaze looking into hers more hesitantly.

“I don’t owe you anything, Harry Styles. We never established anything,” and her voice broke again, the exterior glaze of frustration not quite matching the vulnerable end of her words.

Harry watched her carefully.

“Did yeh want to establish something?” he asked slowly, unsure of which response he wanted.

Y/N didn’t want to talk to him, anymore. Her mouth felt heavy, closed, yet her tongue worked against her. A drop hit her arm, and it was only when Harry’s fingers gently grazed her cheek did Y/N realize she had started crying again.

“I don’t know, what I want. It’s all just so – so, I don’t know. I can’t think,” she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut. Y/N could feel the wet mascara fucking up her face more, and the small part of her that had demanded perfection for so long was writhing against her chest.

“That’s oka’,” he was murmuring tenderly, almost, and Y/N hadn’t realized he had shifted a bit against the edge. His hip was closer to hers, his legs dangling down as hers were still tucked against her chest. One of his arms reached out, hesitant, and when Y/N glanced up she saw him looking at her, silently asking if it were okay. With a brief, glum nod from her, Harry’s arm went around her shoulder, pulling her in next to his side.

“We don’t have to figure anythin’ out. I just wanna know, if yeh wanted to end things. Gotta know, so I know if I gotta let go.” It was the most clear either of them had been, the only portion of the discussion that had lacked emotional-driven response and reaction. Y/N appreciated that about Harry, that he could be absolutely rational and calm down way faster than she was able to.

“I like who I am, with you,” she whispered, and she knew he heard because his body stilled, somewhat.

“I’m not who I am, all the time. And, I dunno...it’s hard? Because I can’t figure out how to balance myself, when you aren’t around. I don’t want to be so dependent on someone, not when we aren’t anything.”

Harry nodded, understanding. It had been difficult for him, as well, because although they hadn’t discussed the extent to which they would be dedicated to one another, he hadn’t been messing around with anyone else. And it was hard, on the stretches where they were traveling and across the world from each other. It was difficult because he didn’t know if he had the right, to call, or to text, or to ask for anything.

“Maybe we could make our own thing, yeah? Not a relationship, but with more contact than we’ve been givin’,” he compromised, and Y/N rested her head on his shoulder. He shifted slightly, giving her more space to snuggle in closer.

Y/N gave a little nod, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“I like yeh, lil famous Mrs. Y/N.” he gave her shoulders a squeeze, and felt them shake slightly. Worried, he looked down, but saw she was giggling this time.

“I like you too, megastar Mr. Harry Styles,” she replied, sniffling a bit.

They sat there, quiet, in the silence of the night and the overall epic nature that tended to wash over those who sat on a rooftop together, pressed in each others’ sides as they no longer feared the next day. The horizon twinkled with the cars and streetlamps in the distance and the noise of the street below intermingled with the wind to become dispersed over the ground as a whole. It was quiet outside, too.

“Do you wanna know something? Never mentioned it, before,” Y/N said, and one of her hands drifted down to play with the edges of his coat.

People were awfully strange in how they gave up their hearts at midnight, as if the hours wouldn’t tick by and life would just stop. For a moment. For a second. For that instant.

“What’s tha’?”

“You’ve got a glow around you. It’s the first thing I noticed, when we met?” she began, and his heart was already growing a bit, “It’s like…” she drifted off, shaking her head as she searched for the word Harry already knew.

“Gold?” he offered, praying his words didn’t sound as choked as he felt inside.

Y/N paused, before nodding against his shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re gold. And sometimes I feel it, too? Like, gold,” she cut off her own rambling, seemingly a bit embarrassed that her words didn’t appear to make sense outside of her feelings. Y/N couldn’t tell that Harry had felt the same way about her, that she was, for a time, his Sun.

Harry hummed agreement, not feeling the need to explain his own take on how she impressed him, in a shower of golden rain. There would be other nights, he felt sure.

“I was wonderin’...”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to...” The question was already in the air, the ending was all he had to get out. It wasn’t a huge step, anyway, and it wouldn’t cement anything that would require expectation into what they were to each other. But, he had spoken about Y/N to his mother, anyway, and she had been curious to meet the woman.

“What is’t?”

“Meet my mum?” he finished, feeling it sort of difficult to swallow.

Y/N stilled, before looking back up at him, confusion bringing her eyebrows together, and worry painted across her lips. He would kiss it off, if the timing were different.

“Does she know...who I am? About us?”

“She knows yeh’re a great girl, and that yeh’re a bit shy. That yeh like Goldfish but won’t eat real fish, because yeh think of Nemo,” Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t know what yeh do, for a job, though. Didn’t mention it, didn’t think it described you well enough.”

Y/N waited, perhaps a bit confused as to what Harry meant, so he continued.

“Amazing actress, yeh are. But that’s not all yeh are, yeah?” and she nodded, so he braved forward, “Just was wonderin’ if yeh wanted to meet her. No pressure, you don’t have to. She just thought yeh sounded lovely, ‘s all.”

“Does she really?” Y/N sounded a bit nervous, as if she didn’t quite believe what Harry was saying.

“O’ course she does, because yeh are,” Harry brushed it off.

Suddenly, he felt a couple of hesitant kisses against his neck, before one of Y/N’s freezing-cold arms wrapped behind his head to hold his face closer to her lips as they gained intensity. He shuddered, but let her continue, his dimples poking deeply against his smile.

“You’re kind to me, Harry Styles.” Her breath smelled of wine and Harry felt certain he had a mess of smudged makeup against his scruff. He set his bottle down and turned towards her, his hand reaching up to cup her cheeks. They were cold, as well, and still slightly wet from her tears.

“Yeh’re cold,” he mumbled, his eyes drooping from the heavy thudding within his veins.

“Warm me up?” It was barely a whisper, and the shivers that broke against his spine weren’t from the wind.

So, he first started on warming her lips, by kissing her gently. They were a bit rough, not as smooth as her lips usually were, and he ran his tongue against her lower lip as he pulled her in closer. She laughed, a bit, but it quieted down when he pressed deeper against her mouth, a heavier breath escaping his and warming against her lips.

It was one of his favorite things about her, how she would always laugh at the first kiss, little puffs of air against his lips. She liked how he reacted to it, by not questioning what she thought was funny, but accepting it as a compliment of sorts.

Eventually, he broke off, with a small kiss at the end, still holding her face close to his own. Her eyelashes fluttered against his nose when she looked at him, her lips still parted and full. He swallowed hard, flashing her a quick grin.

“Hi,” he whispered, unable to really contain the giggles that slipped from his lips, this time. Harry felt like a twelve year old boy, sometimes, after kissing her, because while she was definitely the most real with him, there was still a phantasmagoric level to her beauty. He almost felt like it hadn’t happened, but his lip was still tingling from how she gently bit against it, so it must have.

“Hello, Harry Styles.” 

His heart really didn’t stand a chance.