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adore-laur · 5 months

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COME HOME TO MY HEART

— an angsty continuation of home is a feeling that takes place months after ☕️

——

Standing under a bleak sky copious with death, Harry is just another person in a black ensemble of mourning that rivals the white winter scene. Snowdrifts heap over inscribed gravestones, and willow trees weep frigid tears along with everyone else at the street-corner cemetery. It's a sorrowful evening, not even the pastel pink wisps of a brumal sunset being able to lift spirits.

As the coffin is lowered into the ground, its sleek wood collecting flurries from above, the surrounding air grows colder in lamentation.

A departure from life is impossible to prepare for, isn't it?

Harry hangs back from the crowd by a bare maple tree. He wears a long black coat with deep pockets for his hands. To anyone else, he's an intruding spectator, but in actuality, you personally invited him to be a crutch of support since your parents can't be that right now.

He promised you he would be here, yet the way you've been gazing up at him with indecipherable eyes every now and then tells him you didn't quite believe him.

When you had called him out of the blue and relayed the upsetting news about your grandfather's passing, his heart had ached in a way it hadn't ever before. It ached for you, his grief-stricken girl, and also your family, who were always generous throughout the years. In the week since he arrived back in his hometown, he gave you time to deal with the initial grief independently. There was no need to barge into his ex-girlfriend's life and attempt to be your saving grace. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd wait for you to ask and then lend it without a second thought. Your level of comfort with him isn't something to be presumed.

Nonetheless, it's an unfortunate circumstance just to be able to see your face again.

The crowd disperses once the loose dirt is shoveled back into the ground. Crumpled tissues in hands and hushed chatter signify the end of the funeral burial. It didn't feel right for Harry to attend the service, as it was for close family and friends only. Even now, a nagging feeling inside his gut tells him he doesn't belong in such a sensitive area.

He pushes himself off the tree trunk and searches for your familiar figure that has suddenly disappeared. He mentally prepares what he'll say to you and is highly aware that there's no right way to go about condolences. He just needs to be as gentle as possible.

Eventually, you emerge from a huddled group and lock eyes with him again, with a slight smile that mends his aching heart for the time being.

"You look like a spy," you say, your boots crunching in the snow as you walk toward him.

He laughs softly but doesn't say anything. Instead, his empathetic side takes in every part of your face, looking for an emotion to pinpoint so he can comfort you in the most chivalrous way possible. He notices your dissociative eyes with prominent bags under them, your tinted nose from the cold, and your chapped lips that make him yearn to kiss the rawness away.

He's so close to you again. Has your hair gotten darker due to the seasons changing? Why do you have such beautiful eyes, even on a dreary day? Does the eyeliner you have on come from the pencil stub you've owned since high school?

Knowing his own boundaries, Harry thumbs a quick swipe across your shivering chin and then wraps you in a tight hug. You instantly melt into him, your arms looping around his torso—just like that one night on the rooftop.

"Your hair is so long," you mumble into his coat.

He releases you before the intimacy starts to hurt too much, but he keeps a protective hold on your upper arms. "Do you hate it?"

"No, it suits you." You swallow and look at him, your teeth chattering a bit. "Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies sincerely. "Gramps was a great man."

"He liked you a lot."

"Did he?"

You give him an almost scolding expression and say, "Of course he did. When I brought you home for Christmas the year we started dating, he took me into the kitchen and told me you were a keeper."

Harry's posture stiffens. "I didn't know that."

"It was our little secret," you say quietly, snowflakes falling onto your eyelashes. "Um, have you had a chance to talk to my parents yet?"

"I don't think they'd want to see me," he says while removing his hands from you. He tucks them back into his pockets since they're becoming numb.

"Why not?"

"I just have a feeling." He's been having a lot of those lately. "Not often that an ex-boyfriend shows up at a funeral, you know?"

Frowning, you glance around and say, "It's not like they hate you or anything."

God, he hopes not. Although, he wouldn't necessarily blame them, considering he broke their precious daughter's heart.

"Where are you going after this?" he asks, not wanting to delve into his regrets.

"My parents' house," you reply, your breath visible in the frosty air. "To my childhood bedroom. Hopefully to get some sleep for once."

You haven't been sleeping? He could've guessed, but he didn't want to assume. He wonders if you still light vanilla candles and turn on salt lamps to rejuvenate your energy, according to you.

"Did you drive here?"

"No, I rode with my mom and dad."

Harry shifts his footing and clears his throat. "Would they mind if I stole you for a bit?"

You blink quickly. "What do you mean?"

"I just want to talk," he elaborates, scratching under his nose. "Catch up. That's all."

There's an apparent hesitance when you nibble on your bottom lip. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything you want." Truthfully, he just misses hearing your voice. "I'm staying here with my mom for a while since my winter break starts soon. And, well, you're the only person in this town I enjoy talking to."

"Are you kidnapping me from a funeral?"

"Maybe don't put it like that."

A genuine laugh escapes you, and Harry's knees almost give out. "Sure, let's go," you say with a smile and a lighthearted shrug. "Being here is making me sad."

"Okay. Let me say hello to your parents really quick."

You scan the cemetery, then ask, "Do you need me to come with you?"

He scrunches his nose and toes the snowy ground with the front of his boot. "Please?"

After he politely shakes hands with your dad and gives your mom a long hug, he walks you to his black Jeep parked on the side of the road by the first row of graves, his elbow hooked with yours so you don't slip on the pavement slush. The first thing he sees is that his windshield has iced over from the bitter cold.

He sighs and fishes for his keys, then unlocks the doors. "Here, start it for me and turn the heat on. I need to scrape the ice off."

You take his keys and slide into the passenger seat. Harry makes sure you're situated and then grabs his ice scraper from under the backseat. After a few minutes of manual labor, he gets behind the wheel and shakes snow flurries out of his hair.

"Where on earth are your mittens?" he asks when he notices your hands are tucked under your legs.

"I didn't bring any," you reply defensively.

"Love," he stresses as he pushes his hair back. "It's bloody freezing out. Give me your hands."

"Maybe if your stupid Jeep didn't take forever to warm up."

Harry doesn't make a snarky remark since he knows you're sensitive right now. He just cups your hands between his and blows warm air on them to increase your circulation. They're soft and fit so well between his palms like they were molded to be held by only him.

"Ready to go?" he asks between blowing breaths, focusing his gaze on you.

You study the snowflakes sticking on the windshield. "Where?"

He gently sets your hands in your lap and then reaches across to buckle your seatbelt before fastening his own. "Is Edge of Town still your favorite café?"

"Yeah," you say bemusedly, turning toward him with widened eyes of innocence. "Why?"

Putting his car in reverse, he places one hand on your headrest and smiles at you. "Let's get some coffee there, yeah? For old times' sake."

——

Sitting across from Harry at a corner table in the dimly lit café, you can't believe you almost forgot how handsome he is as you both sip from cinnamon lattes, careful not to disrupt the intricate art made from steamed milk on the surface.

All the slight changes since you last saw him become your focal point, his hair being the most staggering. It's now tied up into a bun, and you're not sure why, but it makes him look different. His facial features have gotten slightly older; the high school baby face you fell in love with now showcases physical maturity.

He's different but somehow all the same.

You've spent the last half hour catching up with him, which has proved easy since college is a relevant topic in both of your lives. You learned that he's getting his degree in the spring of next year, and then he's going to find a job somewhere in Europe to start the next chapter of his life. You're proud of him. He's always had a good head on his shoulders.

"Have you ever had marshmallows in your coffee?" Harry asks, tapping his foot against yours under the table.

You set your cup down and blankly stare at him. "No, you freak."

"It's good," he claims, wiping his lips with a napkin. "You should try it."

"You know, your taste in beverages hasn't improved over the years. Don't even think for a second that I forgot about the ginger ale."

"Excuse me," he says offendedly, "it helps fight the common cold and digestion problems. It's the perfect drink to have in the wintertime."

"Absolutely rancid," you mutter, taking another sip of your coffee.

As you continue your subtle ogling, your eyes catch on brown leather peeking out from his coat pocket. The familiar journal of his catapults you back in time, flashbacks playing in your head from all the vivid occasions you've seen him carry it around or write in it. He had never let you look at his entries, always making a show of hiding his secret words from you. Looking at it now, you see that a page toward the end has some sort of bookmark sticking out.

"You still have that?"

Harry looks confused. "What, digestion problems?"

"No, oh my God," you say with a burst of laughter. "I meant your journal. You've had that thing for ages."

"Ah." He pulls it out and sets it next to his coffee cup. "Yeah, I still have it."

You admire how worn the cover is, decorated with permanent marker scribbles on the cracked material. "Are my terrible drawings still in there?"

Nodding, he smirks and leans back into the booth, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll show you later. They're quite abstract."

The space fills with comfortable silence for a while, and before you know it, you're walking out the door with him and into the night. You don't remember ever getting up, but the numbness in your brain might have caused it. The past week has felt like a fuzzy dream you've been stuck in. Grief is a peculiar thing.

Under the snowy sky, hometown nostalgia in the dead of winter creeps under your skin. When you look around at the sidewalks you used to walk with your grandpa, everything suddenly hits you hard. Your lips wobble as you try to blink back the tears, but they fall without warning.

Harry quickly wraps both arms around your shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of your head. "It's okay to cry," he whispers, kissing your hair. "I promise you it's okay."

You sniffle and say, "Whenever we see each other, I always end up crying."

He hums. "Sorry. I don't mean to."

"No, it's not you this time." You bury your nose in his coat and let the woodsy scent of his cologne distract you. "I just always realize how lonely I am when winter comes around. It gets harder as I get older." Swallowing and shaking your head, you continue, "I used to adore winter as a kid. I would play outside in the snow for hours and then come inside to drink hot chocolate. I wouldn't care if the sky was grey or if my fingers would freeze. Nowadays, I just stay in my room when it's gloomy unless I need to go to work. Growing up isn't as fun as I thought it'd be."

"You still have my number," Harry replies softly, pulling you closer. "You can always call or text me when you're feeling lonely."

"I had to pay by the minute when I called you about my grandpa since you were in the Netherlands."

"And is that so bad?"

You smile and sniffle again. "No, it isn't. To be here on an empty street in the freezing cold, crying and joking around with you... I've missed it. Not the crying, but you know what I mean."

"I know," he murmurs. "I've missed it too."

"Will you be celebrating Christmas with your mom?" you ask, hearing a car drive by. "She's still living here, right?"

"Yeah, I'll be at her house." He cradles the back of your head and gently pulls it away from his coat. "You should stop by. She always thinks of you."

You look at him and say, "All good things, I hope."

"Always." Taking your hand, he starts walking further down the sidewalk. "Follow me."

Harry stops at a streetlight and releases his hand to pull his journal out again. He flips through the pages until he gets to one toward the end. "When we said goodbye in the summer," he says, "I walked around town and wrote about all the places we used to go to—places where we had good memories. You can read what I wrote if you want."

"Really?" you ask. Harry nods, so you take his journal from him and read the black ink that fills half the page.

The streetlight on the corner of Lawton Avenue. I kissed you under it on New Year's when the clock on my phone turned to midnight. Your lips were cold, but they lit a fire inside of me. What I would do to feel them again, even if just pressed against my cheek like you did when we said goodbye.

"Lawton Avenue..." you trail off, your eyes dancing around the area where you stand. "Isn't that—"

"This is the same streetlight," Harry interrupts quietly.

You exhale incredulously, gazing up at the familiar light. "It is. I remember now."

"This feels right, doesn't it?" He steps closer until his boots touch the tip of yours. "Me and you being here. It's like something keeps bringing us back to one another. Does that sound crazy?"

"Gramps," you choke out.

He tilts your chin up with his knuckle. "Hmm?"

You take a deep, shaky breath. "I almost wasn't going to tell you that he passed, but then I thought about how much he liked you. He always went on and on about how nice of a boy you were. How he could see the love in your eyes."

"He loved you. I only saw him a few times, but I know that he loved you so much."

"I know. I think he brought us back together."

"Well, he was right about the love in my eyes," he says, his gaze piercing your soul. "I don't think it's ever completely gone away."

Logical thinking goes out the window when you tell him, "I love you. I shouldn't anymore, but I do.

Harry cups your cold cheeks. "Stop. You don't get to say that."

"I love you," you repeat, your voice becoming thick with emotion. "You still mean so much to me. Just like what you said to me back in July."

"Right person, wrong time. That's what we decided on the rooftop."

"But I didn't mean what I said."

That night was five months ago. It's wild how one day, one look at him can change all your feelings. The love you thought you lost with him is coming back as an unraveling epiphany.

Sighing, Harry looks down at the sidewalk blanketed in snow. "You told me it would never work," he says.

"I didn't know what I was saying," you reply hastily. "It was so overwhelming seeing you again after two years."

"I don't understand," he says, slightly frustrated. "You made it seem like we were better off never seeing each other again."

You wipe your tears that are either from the brisk air or your own misery. "I'll be your friend, I'll be a one-night stand, I'll be anything. I just want to be someone to you again."

He glimpses at your lips. "You are. You're everything to me."

"But the distance—"

"Fuck the distance."

It was the only thing that broke the relationship.

"You were so good, Harry." Resting your forehead against his, you breathe out a landslide of emotions. "Such a good boyfriend. You loved me better than anyone."

"I still love you," he says, placing both palms on your neck. "Years ago, it was high school love that I didn't fully understand. This... hey, look at me." Your chin is tilted back up with his thumb. "This right here is even more real to me. This is why I asked if we could try again."

"So, what now?" you ask, looking into his eyes. "We try again?"

"We try again."

"How?"

"If the distance fucks everything up," he says with his warm breath hitting your lips, "then we know we aren't right for each other. But I'll go through that possibility if it means I don't have to love you from afar anymore."

"Just come home," you plead desperately.

"I am home. Technically, right?"

"No, you don't get it." You grip onto his shoulders. "Come home to me. To my heart."

He kisses your cheek twice, the first quick and the second longer. "I'm right here, baby. I'll stay for as long as you need me to."

"I want you to stay here." Your own voice sounds distant. "I miss you all the time."

"I will," he affirms, his eyes fluttering shut and his voice fading. "I'll come home to you."

Just as you're about to kiss his lips, something taps the back of your hand. The streetlight you're under goes dark, and the vision in front of you fizzles out as you blink rapidly to find yourself back in the café, staring at your latte.

"Hey," Harry says tentatively, squeezing your fingers with his. "You all right?"

Snapping your head up to him, you blurt, "Sorry. I zoned out for a bit." You shake your head and repeat, "Sorry."

"That's okay." He looks out the window, the snow falling harder than it has been all day. "I was just saying that your parents will probably want you to get home soon since the roads will be getting bad. I can drop you off."

Your throat tightens. "Um, sure. Yeah, I'm ready to head out if you are."

"Okay," he says while standing. "Stay here. I'll start my car since it takes forever to heat up."

You just weakly smile as he walks out the glass doors. Sinking in your seat, you try not to think about where your mind drifted. It felt so real, so wildly vivid. His voice, his words, his touch; all of it made sense. In your head, you do everything right. You let him in, not push him away. You talk it through, not avoid the burden you carry. You keep your chin up, not give up at the first sign of doubt.

After lightly slapping your cheeks, you sigh and put your coat back on. When you get up to shove your arms in the sleeves, you see that Harry left his journal on the table. It sits vulnerably next to his empty coffee cup, the string tied loosely around the cover.

You shouldn't, but you do.

Quickly opening it and flipping to the page with the bookmark, you skim the messy ink on the damp page. It looks fresh. Dried dots from snow darken the paper in various places, but you only focus on what the words spell out.

She's under the willow tree, more beautiful than the weeping branches crystallized with icicles. I sit here in my car, wishing there was a way to let her know that I would do anything she wants me to.

My love for her warmly courses in my blood, protecting me from the brutal winter. If she opened her heart to me, I could make her my home again. Light those vanilla candles and kiss her like I used to. Tell her all about how she makes me a lovesick fool with no cure. Give her my time and apologize for ever walking away from the best thing that slipped through my fingers.

Where she goes, I follow. There's some powerful force that refuses to keep us apart. Why can't she see it? I can't be with her if she doesn't yearn for me like I do for her. I understand the distance and why, in retrospect, she sees the potential downfall. However, I see the beauty that could flourish from it if we just try.

I want to come home to her every day, but how do I even begin to tell that to a girl who doesn't feel the same?

Fuck the distance.

The café door suddenly opens with a chime, making you slam his journal shut. Thankfully, Harry doesn't notice since he's too busy looking down and stomping his snow-covered boots on the welcome mat.

You pretend you're picking up his journal for the first time and say, "Don't forget this."

He glances up, eyeing what you hold. "Shit, thank you." He strides over and takes it. "Wait, I never got to show you your drawings."

"It's fine," you tell him. "They're probably really embarrassing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I'm pretty tired."

His gaze dances around your face, then falls to your hands fidgeting with the zipper on your coat. "Let's get you home," he says softly. "You can try to sleep on the way there."

You end up doing just that until he pulls into your parents' driveway. Opening your eyes, you squint at the bright beams of the headlights reflecting off the house's windows. You look over at Harry and find him staring at you, his face barely visible in the dark.

"We're here," he whispers.

You nod sleepily and unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you for… for making today a little easier."

"Of course." He rubs the back of his neck, not knowing where to look. "I hope you get some sleep tonight."

A chasmic pang. A searing sting. A residual twinge.

Why?

Because the words you tearily whispered to him before shutting the car door cause you to fall into bed and clutch the blanket until sleep overtakes your heartache.

You're a good man, Harry.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles au #harry styles #adore-laur #come home to my heart

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