#quick friend delete your accounts and put your spotify to private | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

idkthisisjustforfanfic · 4 years

Photo

two years too late, chapter t w o

When your alarm went off on Friday morning, you were sure that it had all been a dream. Your feet hit the floor and you looked out the frosted window. The snow was still there. Your coat was still in the living room where you’d left it, your tea cup still on the coffee table--an empty reminder of the night before.

Your commute was longer than usual but not nearly as bad as the way home yesterday. The subway was in better condition and people seemed less miserable, likely because it was Friday, and the city always seemed to have a bit of a buzz at the end of the week.

So now, as you stood in the office kitchen waiting for the Keurig to spit out your coffee, you recounted the events and sorted them into the good and bad categories that your brain so easily made.

Good: he didn’t bring it up. He seemed excited enough to see you. He didn’t mention any other embarrassing events. He was nice to Alyssa. He paid for the Pad Thai. He didn’t overstay his welcome in your apartment. He said he’d see you again.

Bad: there were plenty of awkward moments. He used your stupid nickname multiple times. He didn’t take the hint that you didn’t even want him in your apartment in the first place. He told you he’d read your stories (which likely meant he read your tweets and those were all sorts of a mess). You felt stupid most of the time you were with him. He said he’d see you again.

You couldn’t really decide which category that last one fit in, so you saved it a spot in both.

“Did you see that Harry Styles performed a super small concert at Spotify last night?” Your coworker, Carly, slithered up to your cubicle and smiled toothily at you. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail, her casual Friday look still put yours to shame.

You were used to her excitement about anything Harry did, but this time it was harder to feign interest. You licked at your lips and willed away the heat that tried to rise to your cheeks. “I’ve always been more of a Liam girl myself,” you said nonchalantly, keeping your eyes on your computer as you pulled up The Scoop’s homepage.

“Oh come on, the hair and the eyes and those tattoos,” she laughed a little, lowering her voice as if this wasn’t typical workplace dialogue. In fact, it was regular workplace dialogue. Carly was obsessed with One Direction (but mostly Harry) and she never kept that a secret. She was the one who wrote most of the articles about the band--her live tweeting of Harry’s album release were some of the The Scoop’s most popular moments.

And besides, your job revolves around talking about this type of shit. You had to be up to date on whatever celebrities were doing and you always needed to have something quick and witty to say about it.

But you were also used to avoiding conversations about Harry in the workplace. Seeing as he’d released his album right after you started your job meant the first month was like tiny dodging bullets--an article here about his record sales, a list assignment there about the best lyrics. (You passed that one on to Carly though, claiming you hadn’t even listened and couldn’t possibly take joy away from her by writing about something she loved so much).

Your coworker Max walked by, offering a smile to both of you as he headed for the kitchen.

The Scoop’s office was modern and sleek, filled with standing desks and conference tables surrounded by balance ball chairs. You had common spaces with brick-red couches and vending machines for when you needed a change of scenery or a snack--all of the makings for a trendy workspace and happy employees.

The gym downstairs was open late into the night and early in the morning--though you’d managed to wander in there once and it was only by accident. You heard rumors that they had deodorant and toothbrushes for the staff to use, but that still didn’t do it for you.

“How’d you fair in the snow? I saw your tweet last night,” she rested her arms on the wall of your desk, her chin falling to rest on top of them as she waited for your response.

“Fine--the subway was shit but my roommate made a good dinner,” you said, dropping the details of your late night snack as you sipped at your coffee. “How ‘bout you?”

You turned to her now, offering her your full attention after checking to see yesterday’s story count. She rolled her eyes a bit. “Fine--I would have rather been at his concert, but whatever. You win some, you lose some.”

You smiled, Carly’s sense of humor was one of the main reasons you loved working here. She was friendly and funny and she was always in support of your desire to cover more real news. She’d been working there a whole year longer than you, and she regularly reminded you that eventually, you’d get to a place where you were covering the types of stories you had your eyes on. She also regularly reminded you that you were one of the most popular writers and regularly received the most digital fan-mail out of everyone on staff.

You’d connected with her quickly after coming on board, and you were thankful for the fact that she was your go-to work buddy. Topic question? Carly could help. Needed to know whether or not it was cool to work in a conference room when you needed a change of scenery? Carly knew.

She offered to grab lunch with you later on but soon left you alone at your desk, hunting through twitter to find some good topics for the day. Your phone buzzed beside you, signaling a message from Jessie. Your stomach knotted and you picked it up to unlock it.

You’d messaged both her and Bryn this morning to inform them of the night’s events. While you might normally include Jake and Adam, you decided that the matter was best suited for the separate chat you had with your girlfriends: one that often had secrets and memes and emojis that weren’t necessarily appropriate to share with the boys. At least not these boys.

Y/N L/N (9:04am): Saw Harry last night….

Jessie Alby (9:26am): What?! How’d it go?? Was he in town?

Y/N L/N (9:26am): He texted me last night and asked if I wanted to go see him play somewhere. Brought my roommate. So weird.

Y/N L/N (9:26am): And before you ask, no, he didn’t bring it up.

Bryn Miller (9:27am): Hold on. Weird why?

Y/N L/N (9:27am): Because we’re not really friends anymore! I haven’t seen him since that night and seriously even seeing him then was weird because he barely speaks to us now.

Bryn Miller (9:28am): I mean, I’d probably have trouble keeping in touch if I were as busy as he is 🤷

Jessie Alby (9:32am): Still shitty of him. But it’s nice that he reached out!

Y/N L/N (9:34am): I didn’t even know he still had my number. I would have deleted it after that night if I were him 🙃

Bryn Miller (9:35am): It wasn’t that bad, Y/N! If it makes you feel any better, you’re probably not the only person who’s done that to him.

Y/N L/N (9:36am): Not helpful!!!!!!

Jessie Alby (9:37am): So wait. Where did you leave it? Did he say he’d see us all soon?

Bryn Miller gave Jessie Alby’s message a thumbs up.

Y/N L/N (9:40am): He said he would but he’s said that a thousand times. We’ll see!

Y/N L/N (9:40am): He did say that he’d love to see us all over Christmas 🎄

You set your phone down on your desk, staring at the photo of the three of you that was thumb-tacked to the side of your cubicle wall--a muted office-gray that reminded you of a stormy sky. It was pinned up beside a picture of all six of you: Jake, Bryn, Adam, you, Jessie, Harry at the end. You’d folded it over right between he and Jessie, fearful that coworkers would catch a glimpse and recognize the mop of curly hair. He looks familiar, they’d say. Is that Harry Styles? You know Harry Styles?!

Before you started at The Scoop, you’d gone through your instagram and rid yourself entirely of any traces of him. Facebook was another matter--most photos of the two of you had been uploaded by others nearly ten years ago--but you’d untagged yourself and set your settings to as private as could be.

You looked back down at the screen of your phone. While the prospect of seeing Harry around the holidays seemed to excite both Bryn and Jessie, you couldn’t decide where you landed on the matter.

Seeing him wouldn’t be miserable, you guessed, especially if it was with the rest of them. Two years ago there were too many people in Kenny Tilley’s basement, which is probably what led to you drinking more than you should have. A more contained setting with only the five other friends who’d seen your highs and lows felt more comfortable. Even if Harry was there.

So you put it on the back burner for now--not obsessing over whether or not you’d see him again and doing your best to quell the butterflies that erupted in your stomach when you thought about the fact that he’d thought of you and invited you and apparently didn’t hate your guts. It felt all too similar to being fifteen again.

Later, you were sat at an afternoon meeting with Carly to your left as Whitney, your boss, detailed the new search engine optimization settings. Whitney was 35, single, and probably the coolest person you’d ever met. She oozed the type of confidence that you could only dream of, and being the Editor-In-Chief of The Scoop seemed like a sick gig.

She wrote whatever she wanted, managed the other writers and editors, and still had time to go to hot yoga three times a week and run a wildly popular bagel-rating instagram account. She had dark brown hair and her lips were always the perfect shade of pink. She wore hoop earrings that were big enough to be bracelets. She was cool.

On top of that, Whitney was caring and compassionate, never one to shame her employees on their mistakes or necessary areas of improvement. Talking with her about work made you excited and hopeful and made you feel like she believed in you. You knew she did.

Carly was busy doodling a flower on her notebook page when your phone buzzed. Harry’s name on your screen--even in it’s abbreviated form of Harry S--sent a jolt of panic down to the tips of your fingers as you reached for the phone and pulled it into your lap.

She pulled her eyes up from the blue ink on her paper, a sideways glance before you mouthed sorry, and turned your attention back to Whitney’s speech on tagging. The aluminum shell of your phone felt like it was burning in your lap, especially when it buzzed for a second time.

You flipped it over slyly, careful to not let Carly see your screen.

Harry S (2:43pm): Tell your coworker Carly I liked her story this morning on my show last night

Harry S (2:43pm) 🙂

You shut it quickly, worried that if she saw her own name she’d only be more intrigued about the message. You turned it over in your lap again, eyes wide as you waited for a lull in the conversation to quietly excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Your heart was pounding faster than it should, tiny thumps that matched your footsteps on the geometric carpet as you wove through other cubicles to find a private place.

The truth of the matter was this: you’d been telling yourself one version of this story for the last two years. You embarrassed yourself in front of him, made a complete fool of yourself, really. So the narrative in your head was along the lines of this: he’d never want to speak to you again because you ruined a perfectly good friendship.

The thought that he didn’t feel that way left beads of nervous sweat on your forehead as you found safety in an empty emergency exit stairwell.

A door shut a few flights up. Voices echoed off of the concrete before another door opened, closed. You looked at the message again as your thumbs hovered over your phone’s keyboard.

With minimal thought, you created a string of syllables that maybe wasn’t exactly the nicest response you could have come up with.

Y/N L/N (2:46pm): Definitely not telling her that. She doesn’t know I know you.

You watched as the blue line danced it’s way across the top of the screen, the word beneath your message immediately turning to read. You waited for the three dots to appear, but instead, you were met with a vibrating phone and an obnoxious picture on your screen of Harry, age 16, standing in your mum’s kitchen with an apron on, fresh off a shift at the bakery.

“I’m at work,” you whispered into the phone after sliding your thumb along the bottom of the screen.

“Oh, yeah, sorry--I just--you’re keeping me a secret?” You could hear the suggestive tone in his voice, causing you to roll your eyes as you ran a hand through your hair. He spoke again, a chuckle escaping his lips. “That’s hot.”

“Okay, ew, gross. Glad to see you’ve grown up over the last few years,” you spoke sarcastically, causing him to laugh harder now on the other end of the line.

“Why don’t you want to tell people you know me? You’re that ashamed?”

You weren’t ashamed. You’d been proud and excited at first--your friend was successful and talented and was taking the world by storm. So what happened, people would ask. Why don’t you talk to him now?

You didn’t have time to get into it with him. “Harry, I’m at work.”

“Right--are you in the middle of something?”

“Yes, a meeting.”

“You’re in the middle of a meeting right now on the phone with me?”

You could hear the smirk on his lips. “Well, no.”

“So you don’t have five seconds for your longtime friend?”

Your eyes went wide at his label. Friend? Longtime? Neither felt necessarily true in the current moment, but you decided not to push it.

You looked around the empty stairwell, left without a good excuse. “I mean--I can talk for a second, I guess.”

“What are you up to tonight? I had radio stuff this morning but I’m done now. Probably gonna nap for a bit to be honest,” he thought aloud. You were so content just listening to him talk that you didn’t respond. “D’ya want to do something? S’Friday.”

You made a face at him through the phone when he reminded you what day it was. You knew what day it was. You were a working adult. You had a calendar on your email server and a physical one on your desk. Another pause as you mulled over his proposal.

“Y/N?”

“Sorry, um, yeah--I guess so,” you said, knowing deep down that you wanted more than anything to hang out with him. You wanted it to feel normal and goofy and just plain fun--the way it felt before.

The next question crawled up your throat and out of your mouth before you could really process it. “Can it be low key, though? Like--without paparazzi?”

He laughed to himself, you imagined that he had that shit-eating grin on, wherever he was. The backseat of a Chevy Suburban like last night, a dressing room, a hot tub filled with models. You didn’t know where he was and you decided you weren’t going to ask. “Yeah, Smalls. Got it. No paparazzi. So--midnight then?”

“Midnight?” You asked incredulously, your head pulling back from the phone in confusion.

“It’s New York City. There was no one out to see us last night because of the weather and the time. Pair that with the big coats and we were undercover, pretty much.”

“So we can only hang out at midnight now?” Some sort of sinking feeling in your stomach, you tried to swallow it away.

“If you really don’t want to be seen with me--which apparently is incredibly important to you,” he teased, a blush rising to your cheeks when he kept speaking. “This will have to be our secret.”

Your heart did a flip. It was just you, Harry’s voice on the phone, and your adrenaline alone in the stairwell. “Okay.”

“Alright,” his voice was quieter now, almost as if he sensed the shift in the air, too. “Get back to work, then.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll text you, and--yeah, we’ll figure something out.”

“Alright.”

“Bye, Smalls.”

“Bye, H.”

Alyssa fell asleep on the couch at 11:29pm just as the third consecutive Friends episode started. You got up quietly, pulled on a sweatshirt, then your coat on top of that. You slipped out the door and down to the foyer of your building where you waited on the front step.

The snow had melted a bit from the night before, but the air was still cold enough to prompt you to pull your hood up over your ears. It was quiet in the Village for a Friday night, a couple passed by on their home from some type of evening out. Eventually, a taller figure with the same flat hat from the night before strode up to your steps.

His head was down to block the cold, but when he lifted his eyes and met yours, you raised your brows in greeting. This prompted Harry to chuckle.

He lifted his arms to motion to the emptiness around him, looking up at you from the sidewalk, gray cement beneath his black boots. “As promised--no paparazzi.”

You fought the smile that tried to creep onto your lips. “A rare sight, m’sure.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets as you climbed down the three steps to meet him at ground level. “Night time is usually the best for exploring, anyway.”

“Exploring?” you pulled a face. “You said yourself last night that you have an apartment. Haven’t you done enough exploring?”

“I can always do more.”

“Where’s your apartment from here, anyway?”

He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Seven blocks up and one blocks west towards the river.”

Seven blocks up and one block west towards the river. That was practically your backyard. Instead of addressing the fact that he lived so close (and yet still didn’t bother to reach out), you started walking in that direction, he fell into step beside you.

“How was work?”

“Fine, how was the radio stuff?” You used the term he’d applied earlier, looking up at him as you passed the wash and fold on the corner.

“I asked first,” he looked at you with knitted brows, playfully offended that you’d turned the question around. You seemed to have a habit of doing that.

“It was fine. Had a meeting in the afternoon that you interrupted me from. Wrote seven different stories today. Most of them were lists. I hate lists.”

“You hate lists?”

You looked both ways before crossing the street. A few cars passed by and Harry seemed to shrink into his jacket--you didn’t know if it was to avoid the cold or avoid being recognized.

“Hate them,” you nodded. “It’s all I write. Dumb lists about dream vacations or things I’d rather be doing at any given moment. People love them, though.”

He laughed a little bit, eyeing you sideways as you made contact with the sidewalk on the other side. “If people love them then why do you hate them?”

“Because I want to write real news!”

“I think you are writing real news,” he said quietly, clearly deep in thought about your statement. You passed by Walker Park and he looked down at you. “That list you did--10 things we know about Ariana Grande’s new music video--that’s real news. Everything she does is news.”

You let out a small laugh, appreciative of his reassurance. He’d always been kind and thoughtful, but his words crawled into your heart as you waited for the walk-sign to flash white above your head.

“I guess I just want to cover more than just that.”

He nodded, his lips pushing out told you he was still pondering your words. You felt uncomfortable, so as you entered into the crosswalk, you changed the subject to his day.

He told you about the radio hosts he’d sat with, the questions they asked. His eyes wrinkled at the sides when he talked about the nice things his fans said on twitter. Three more blocks, then a big glass door with a doorman out front. Harry stopped short.

“This is my building.”

“It’s--” you searched for the word like it was hidden in sand at the beach, your formal education in wordsmithing suddenly out the window when confronted with the smooth lines and modern accents. “Nice.”

“We don’t have to go in,” he shrugged, looking down at you.

You spoke at the same time as he did, again.

“We can go in.”

“We can keep walking,” a change of direction for him when he heard your words. “Yeah, no, I can give you a tour.”

You wondered about his walk on the way over. Did he listen to music in headphones like most millennials heading for a friend’s place? Did he count the yellow taxis that passed by, slipping into the night as their shifts came to an end?

He greeted the doorman by name and unbuttoned his coat as you waited for the lift. He told you he bought the apartment in April, claiming he stayed in hotels or at a friend’s place when he was in town before that.

He swiped a card and pressed a button, and when the elevator opened, you were face to face with the back of a brown leather couch and two rustic end tables. Round-top windows across the room showed the night sky, white-oak floors sat beneath an oriental rug.

“Wow,” you stepped forward, assuming, since he seemed pretty comfortable, that the lift had actually deposited you straight into his apartment.

“Yeah, well, can’t take credit for the decorating. My mom and Gemma helped--and Erica, too, actually.”

He took off his coat and set it on the couch, leaning against it as you stood in the center of the room. The lift closed behind you, a hum of a mechanical sound let you know it was slinking down it’s shaft.

Before long you were settled on the couch with a glass of wine in your hand, Harry in a chair to your left with his ankle resting on his knee. He dressed in black from head to toe--his shirt, his pants, his shoes.

“So the rats are the worst part,” he laughed, his fingers running through his hair as he looked up at the ceiling. “Makes sense.”

“I didn’t really buy it at first--you hear people say they’re terrible but until you see one pulling a piece of pizza up a staircase in the subway station, you just don’t understand.”

“May or may not take over the city, kind of thing.”

You let out a belly laugh, throwing your head back as he smiled over at you, swirling his wine in his glass. “Exactly. But I guess the best part is just,” you exhaled a big breath, wondering how to sum up your love for dirty, tough, soul sucking New York City. “My friends here, and Alyssa, and my job.”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes scanning over you for a second. When he spoke, his voice was quiet--curious--and almost like he didn’t want to know the answer. “Do you ever miss home?”

“Holmes Chapel?” You said it as if you weren’t quite sure where home was. You thought of the fields, the small downtown and the roads that led you out of that universe. “Not really.”

He nodded, tugging at his lower lip.

“I mean, I miss the people, of course. My parents, my sister. My house. Not the town, really.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a sip from his wine as he stared at the eggshell white ceiling. “I do.”

He didn’t bring his eyes back down to you. Instead he avoided your gaze, giving you permission to study his features as if you hadn’t studied them your whole life. As if even now, when you saw him on a magazine cover, you didn’t pause for a second to evaluate the eyes looking back at you or the one piece of his hair that always seemed to fall onto his forehead.

When he let his eyes trail back to you, your lips curled upwards. “We left on different terms, I guess.”

His eyebrows rose and fell, a look of amusement crossing his face.

“While you were signing record deals I was finishing a-levels.”

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed your mind. There were other moments like this when the differences between your life and Harry’s felt incredibly staggering. Like when you found out he was dating Taylor Swift. Or when you learned he’d met Paul McCartney.

There were always small reminders that the two of you existed in separate worlds, even if those worlds hadn’t collided in a long time.

“I meant what I said last night, y’know.” He watched you closely, his eyes an emerald green in the dark lighting of his posh living room. “About being a shit friend.”

You didn’t know what to say. He was a shit friend at times. But so were you. At least, you had been that night. You remembered the time he helped you roll your bicycle back to your house after you got a flat tire at Jessie’s. Year 7.

You remembered the time he warned you that Peter Moore was going to ask you to the school dance and pretended to be your date so you didn’t have to go with him.

But then you also remembered when he missed Adams birthday party because he got drunk the night before with Ed Sheeran and couldn’t bother to call. You also remembered when he didn’t text Jake after his grandma died because he was in Tokyo.

You understood that fame happened. You didn’t ever expect him to pass up his chance--especially seeing as you’d always known how talented he was. But sitting here, with your feet on his couch and a snow-covered New York outside, you just wished he’d kept in touch.

“I get it,” was all you said.

He kept his eyes trained on you, and you wondered what it would be like if he’d never left. Maybe he would have moved to London like the rest of you did. Or maybe his fate had long been determined. All you knew, as you watched him tilt his wine glass back to finish the last sip, was that you wished life was like a snowglobe. One that you could shake, and drop, and flip upside down to watch the snow and glitter dance, the scene inside completely still, never to change.

You felt uncomfortable in the Chevy Suburban by yourself that night, the heat on high because you made small talk with the driver about how cold the night air was. A text from Harry saying he enjoyed your night together was the last thing you saw before closing your eyes in bed.

You reasoned with yourself at the kitchen table the next morning over a bowl of oatmeal. Maybe being his friend wasn’t terrible--you’d done it before and maybe it would be just like that. Maybe you could keep your teenage feelings in check.

You’d barely gotten a bite of breakfast down before your phone buzzed beside you, a FaceTime call from Jessie coming through.

“Good morning,” you laughed after swiping your thumb across the screen to answer the call.

Jessie--her auburn hair up in a bun and the freckles on her cheeks more present than ever--had her face smushed up against Bryn’s.

“Hi Brynie,” you waved your spoon at them, knowing full well what they were calling about.

After a second glass of wine, Harry had decided to send a snapchat of the two of you--your cheeks smushed together just like your friends’ were, now--to the rest of the group.

“Good morning my arse--you’re lucky we waited until a decent hour to call you and demand some fucking answers, woman,” Jessie’s accent was thick, her energy palpable through the phone as Bryn let out a laugh.

“What she means is, how was your night?”

You rolled your eyes. “It was fine--I don’t know why he suddenly wants to hang out with me.”

“And he seriously still hasn’t brought it up?” Jessie’s eyebrows pointed together like an arrow.

“Nope,” you popped the ‘p,’ adjusting in your seat as you took another bite of your breakfast. Mushy oatmeal wasn’t necessarily your first choice, but you hadn’t been shopping since the beginning of the week. You and Alyssa had planned on heading to the grocer down the block, but that was only if she ever woke up.

“I mean, I also have avoided the conversation like the plague, to be fair. M’not about to just say, ‘hey, remember that night when I was really drunk and acted like a fucking idiot?��”

“I don’t think he thinks it was that bad,” Bryn tried to reassure you.

“Right!” You let out a quick laugh, careful to not be too loud in your quiet apartment. The morning was still somewhat untouched. Unopened mail on the coffee table, the candle Alyssa had bought a few weeks ago still uncapped beside it.

The blanket your roommate had fallen asleep with the night before was still balled up on the couch. You wondered what time she made the semi-unconscious trek from this room to her bed. You didn’t know because you were busy drinking wine with Harry and pretending that all of this wasn’t weird.

“Listen,” you told them. “I don’t know why he wants to hang out with me or where his head is at about that night, but--I don’t know--I’m just trying to be normal.”

Jessie raised her eyebrows, a small smile coming across her face. You could read her mind. After being friends with her for more than half of your life, you knew exactly what she was thinking when she opened her mouth, looked at you, looked away, and then closed it.

“Just say it, Jessie,” you rolled your eyes, another spoonful of oatmeal into your mouth, waiting for her lecture to ensue.

“I dunno, Y/N, I just think that you and Harry--” she looked over to Bryn, who immediately continued on for her.

“You might always have a schoolgirl crush on him, and we just, we don’t want you to get hurt again.”

You licked at your lips, your eyes falling to the wood of your kitchen table. Knots of dark maple stared back at you, providing no insight or guidance on how to respond to the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I know,” you said quietly.

You hadn’t meant to get hurt the first time. It wasn’t your fault that the week you finally had the guts to tell him how you felt was the same week he left for bootcamp. You thought he’d be home in a few weeks--those shows didn’t really make people famous, right? Certainly not your friend with an obnoxiously loud laugh and a penchant for using embarrassing nicknames.

So maybe you sulked around for a while after he left, especially when it became clear he wasn’t coming back.

The first call was to tell you he’d been rejected, but, wait for it, there was good news. A group was formed. You and Adam joked about how long it would take for one of Harry’s new bandmates to punch him when they realized how annoying he could be.

A call a few weeks in had him excitedly telling you that he was going to Spain. Then he was moving into the house, then they made it further and further each week. The calls slowed down and soon the majority of your interaction with him happened through a telly screen.

You’d sit around in Bryn’s living room, smacking Jake on the head with a pillow whenever he talked too loud, arguing that you all needed to pay close attention, voting as much as your mobiles would allow. While Jessie and Bryn were totally in the know about your growing crush for one of your best mates, Jake and Adam remained relatively in the dark.

He was home that first Christmas, telling exciting stories of the celebrities he’d met and the places he’d been, casually letting it slip that he’d lost his virginity and was likely moving to London--the band was going to try to go even further.

You’d kind of given up at that point, recognizing that your lives were two threads being pulled in opposite directions. While you’d once been part of the same cloth, you were building your own tapestries now.

So you let it go. Bryn and Jessie offered their love and support and everyone kept going with their own academic endeavors. You’d see him at holidays or maybe once in the summer when the band came through town, laughing in empty venue hallways and being ushered to the best seats in the house. You’d have a glass of wine or a pint when you knew you’d be seeing him, quelling the nervous knot in your stomach that often lodged in your throat.

“He still calls me Smalls,” you said, pulling your eyes up to see them again as a smirk tugged at your lips. “Such a stupid nickname.”

“S’not stupid,” Bryn objected, her face twisting into one of irritation. “S’cute--and Adam and Jake still call you that sometimes too.”

“S’different coming from Harry,” Jessie answered for you, a silence passed and you let your spoon clank against your bowl as you set it down.

“He knows he’s been a shit friend, by the way. Both nights he’s admitted it to me, so, I think he feels guilty, I guess.”

“I mean, I get it, y’know. I get that he’s been way too busy and running in a thousand directions.” Bryn shrugged her shoulders and let a sigh escape between her lips.

“But it’d be nice if he could at least see us when he’s home, respond in the group, text us on our birthdays,” you finished for her, knowing by heart the places in your life where he was missing.

You’d done your grocery shopping, cleaned the bathroom, and you were now seated on the couch in a pair of sweatpants. Slivers of nail polish fell down like the snowflakes from two days before as your thumb scratched wildly against your pointer finger.

Alyssa was seated on the floor in front of you, rifling through a bin of DVDs--artifacts of her teen years. “Mean Girls, Sleepover--that one’s a throwback,” her messy bun pulled wisps of her loose brown hair away from her face.

A knock on the door had her leaping to her feet, a look on curiosity crossing her face as she danced on bare feet towards the door. She pressed her eye to the peephole, her face a ghostly white as she turned around and pushed her back to the door, barricading it shut. “Harry Styles is at our door.”

“What? Why?” You stood from the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you closed the distance between the two of you.

“Oh, he called and said he was going to stop by for tea,” she whispered at you, sarcasm dripping from her words as she stepped aside so you could take a look for yourself. “If celebrities are going to start showing up at our door we need warnings, Y/N!”

“I didn’t know he was coming--he didn’t say anything!” You pulled the door open before she could respond, revealing Harry, hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. An awkward smile on his face as he spoke.

“I’ll try and give a better warning, next time,” he made eye contact with Alyssa, playfully letting you both know that he heard every word you’d said.

But that was nothing compared to the level of embarrassment you were used to when it came to Harry and things that came out of your mouth. So, you looked him up and down, noticing that he was dressed more formally than the night before. Same black pants, but this time a black button down shirt, undone just enough at the top to show flecks of black ink on his chest.

You reached forward and tugged at the fabric, pulling him into the apartment and closing the door behind him swiftly. “Did you walk in the front door? Did anyone see you?”

He smoothed out his shirt with a frown when you let go of him, Alyssa staring wide eyed at the two of you when he responded. “Someone was walking out and held the door, didn’t even look up, though, s’New York, for you.”

You padded over to the window on the opposite side of the room, looking down at the street below. The last thing you needed was a photo linking you and Harry together. Young journalist uses childhood friend for career success, they’d say.

“No paparazzi,” Harry answered for you as he hung his coat on the back of your front door.

He was right--there was no sign of lenses or flashing lights on the curb below, just white cigarette butts and hardened sidewalk gum. You turned to face him, still completely uncertain why he was standing in your living room at 5:30pm on a Saturday.

You didn’t have to say that, though, because he soon offered an answer. “I uh--I was gonna go to a concert tonight, was just wondering if you wanted to come. You, too, Alyssa,” he turned to your roommate, who’s eyes were wide despite the smile on her face.

You cleared your throat, hoping to make Alyssa snap back into her regularly functioning self. Harry brought his eyes to you. “Sara Bareilles--do you know her?”

“Do we know her!” Alyssa laughed, her excitement only growing as you made your way to the couch. “I cried so hard to Love Song in the shower when I was twelve.”

Harry chuckled at this, letting his eyes settle on you. Alyssa did the same--clearly hoping that you’d acquiesce.

You stuttered over your words, uncomfortable with the power they were both affording you. “What--I don’t--we’re just supposed to tag along to her concert? Do you have three tickets?”

“She invited me,” he shrugged. “Said I could bring friends.”

“Bring friends?” You repeated his words, letting that sink in. Right, okay. This is how it was to be a celebrity. Free things, show up places and get VIP treatment. “How do you know her?”

“Her manager is friends with Erica. Saw her at a party about a week ago.”

“Y/N, we have to go. It’s Sara Bareilles. She’s like, on Broadway and is amazing.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go. If anything, a Sara Bareilles concert with Alyssa was something you would have jumped at a few days prior. Adding Harry to the mix--and using him as the ticket in--felt weird.

“You really think it’d be okay with we come?” Alyssa turned to Harry, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her maroon sweatshirt.

He nodded, his eyes flickering back to you. “S’fine, if you’re busy.”

“We’re not busy,” you said, letting a sigh brush past your lips. “I just feel bad, I don’t want to use you for tickets.”

“I’m inviting you,” he laughed, walking to sit beside you on the couch. “And I’ll make you a deal, Smalls. You can totally buy me a drink when we’re there.”

You rolled your eyes, simultaneously bothered and enchanted by the way he winked at you.

You’d been to Irving Plaza before. You’d seen two shows: one with Alyssa and one on a bad Tinder date. The bar that they had inside was decent (thank god, especially for that date) and the bathroom stalls were covered in drunken sharpie doodles. It was right next to Union Square, making it accessible and easy to find.

Tonight, however, instead of shuffling through subway gates and dark tunnels, you’d been dropped off by the same man in the same black Chevy Suburban and you learned his name was Roger.

Erica met the three of you in the back--an alleyway entrance that seemed much less glamorous than you’d imagined fame to be. She gave you a hug this time, seemingly excited to have two civilians along for the night. You wondered what her life was like: did she have to schedule Harry’s dates with models and influencers? Did she have to memorize their phone numbers or worse, their astrological signs or favorite colors? She must have had tons of awkward encounters with beautiful and boring girls--ones who were latching on to Harry for the money or the fame, or, apparently, the free invites to concerts.

Harry’s manager, Jeff, made an appearance backstage when you and Alyssa were busy photographing the signed posters of previous acts that hung on the white cement wall. Snapchatting them to Bryn and Jessie seemed like an obnoxious, yet totally acceptable thing to do. You couldn’t explain why Harry was suddenly interested in being friends again, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy it.

The most exciting moment pre-concert was when Alyssa subtly grabbed your hand, nearly cutting off circulation as Sara greeted both Erica and Harry with a kiss on the cheek. She introduced herself to Jeff and then to you and Alyssa before offering to take a picture, one that Harry insisted on being in. She left the group behind to finish preparing for her show, thanking you all for coming and promising to play Harry’s favorite song.

And you learned something else: famous people wait for the lights go down in a venue before heading to their post. They slink in between bodies and find a secluded corner to spend their night, sending others to the bar so they don’t have to risk being seen.

Which was fine, you owed Harry a drink anyway. So you got five Moscow Mules and headed back to the group before doling them out. One for Harry, one for Alyssa, one for Erica, one for Jeff, and one for you.

You measured the night in songs, wondering how many you’d sing along to before having to part ways with the boy with a big smile and an even bigger heart. Alyssa, with her drink up to her lips, wiggled her eyebrows at you as if she knew exactly what you were thinking.

You figured she probably did.

So when Harry slinked an arm around your shoulder, drunkenly swaying to the music, you let yourself relax. He wouldn’t--no, couldn’t--do this if he really hated you, right? December 29th was a night that you both likely wished to forget, but if he really felt like you’d ruined your friendship, he certainly wouldn’t invite you to a concert, get drunk on Moscow Mules, and then whisper into your hair that he was glad you were here.

Which is what you told yourself the entire ride home, hoping to counteract the anxiety that the liquor brought on. Alyssa giggled in the backseat and swiped through photos of the show on her phone, showing them to Harry, beaming like a proud parent. She slipped into her bedroom after you all rode up in the elevator, insisting that she was exhausted and sleep-deprived, but you knew it wasn’t that. She hoped that more alcohol and late night chatting would lend itself to a different night entirely, one that you knew wasn’t possible between two people like you and Harry.

So when her bedroom door shut and the both of you were left standing awkwardly in the middle of your living room, you offered the only solution you could think of: wine.

“Does it turn on?” you heard him call from the living room as you sifted through the drawers in the kitchen. Spatula, no, can opener, no. Your hand landed on the wine opener, pulling it out of the heap of other kitchen utensils before rounding the corner back towards the couch.

“Hmm?” the bottle clinked against the glasses in your arm as you tried to deliver them all safely to the surface of the coffee table.

“The Christmas tree,” he said, but you didn’t see him.

He’d left his spot on the couch--trading it for a place beside the tree--kneeling and reaching for the wire in the back as he tried to shove it into the socket.

“Oh, yeah, just--”

He succeeded before you could give him any pointers, the room illuminated in different shades of greens, reds, yellows, and blues. He turned his head to look at you before getting up, a smug twitch of his lips as you let out a laugh.

“I’m quite handy, y’know,” he said casually, pushing himself off of the floor before sinking into the couch. “Leaky faucet? I’m your man.”

You rolled your eyes as you cut open the foil around the cork, his eyes on your fingers as you inserted the screw, fighting a smile. “I’ve got a super, but thanks.”

“A super?”

“Superintendent. S’a person who lives in the building and does all of the handy work. New York thing, maybe.”

“Your loss,” he reached for the wine glasses and held them up, letting you tip the bottle into them.

You cheersed and took a sip, the quiet of the room settling around you as he lifted an ankle to rest on his knee. “I talked to Adam the other day.”

You didn’t mean to make a face like it surprised you, but it happened before you could stop it.

“You act like he wouldn’t answer my calls or something,” he laughed, clearly amused by your intrigue.

“No, it’s not--” a sigh as you searched for the right phrasing. “I just know he misses you. Jake, too.”

“Yeah--well, was good to talk to him. I told him we’d been hanging out. He said he already knew.” He smiled at you playfully, using his words to accuse you of talking behind his back.

You bit your lip and gave a dismissive blink of your eyes. “S’not my fault I keep in touch,” the words fell out of your mouth, landing in the air between you, maybe too harsh.

He was quiet for a second, nodding slowly. “I’ll text them all tomorrow. We’ll set something up for the holidays. When are you back, again?”

“The 20th.”

“Eleven days,” he thought aloud. “We should fly together.”

“Together?”

“Yeah--I know you already booked, maybe you can get credit or something to change flights or seats.” He rested his head on the back of the couch, his eyes closing for a moment.

“When are you going?”

“‘Round then as well. I can have Erica look into it tomorrow,” he said.

You let it go, too tired to push or pull or do anything besides listen to him tell you about his time off. He’d been busy with tour and promo and all the things that apparently came along with his lifestyle. He was excited for some down time. Family meals, hometown pubs, and you believed him when he said you’d be a part of it.

While there had previously been a don’t ask, don’t tell attitude about him being back home, it felt different. He promised to see your parents and to head to Red Lion with the gang, a smile through sleepy eyes after a half hour of planning.

“You should go,” you laughed at him, reaching forward to take the empty wine glass from his hand.

He pushed his lips out, his eyes glued on a framed picture of you and your sister. “Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t wanna?” Your lips quirked upwards, unaware that he had a say in the matter.

He turned to look at you. “M’having fun, Smalls.”

It dawned on you then that he was tired and slightly intoxicated. Maybe not the worst you’d ever seen him, but definitely a little buzzed.

“Well, bedtime. And you can’t stay here.”

Another frown, his eyes flashing to yours quickly. You tried not to overthink it.

“Come on,” you said, standing from the couch to fetch his coat from the hook on the door. He made a face at that--one that looked bothered and disappointed all at once. He pulled himself off of the cushions, as if every movement was painful and exhausting.

“Dunno if I’ll make it,” his accent was thick, you didn’t know if it was the wine or the lack of sleep, likely both. He took a few steps towards you and reached for his jacket, taking it from your arms and shrugging it on.

You watched him for a second, the dim light of the Christmas tree kept the room glowing and warm. The stubble on his chin looked more pronounced than yesterday, his eyes a deeper green in the night.

“You’ll make it,” you said quietly, the words barely above a whisper as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

He looked down at you, blinked twice, and leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?”

He didn’t need to. He didn’t need to call you or text you or even promise to see you again if he didn’t want to. But you didn’t say that. You swallowed the anxiety that lodged in your throat, the voice that gnawed and chanted two years too late as he stepped around you.

“Okay,” you said.

He pulled the door open, offering another smile before pulling it shut. You heard his footsteps head for the stairs, only four flights down to the sidewalk out front.

There was no car, no Roger. He didn’t call ahead. You wondered if he liked walking the snowy streets, and you wondered if he’d also trace the night in reverse, each step until now. You wondered what he’d say if you brought it up.

You wondered, but you decided you could live with the not knowing as you climbed into cool sheets and clamped your eyelids shut.

read the other parts here

tag list: @clorenafila @ainsleesolareclipse @castawaycths @harryspirate @wanderlustiing @ursamajor603 @thurhomish @omgsharry @jdcharliewhiskey @stepping-into-the-light @rachkon @jdcharliewhiskey @sad-little-asshole

*join the tag list here*

LMK what you think!

#tytl #two years too late #harry styles fanfic #harry styles story #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #Harry Styles Fan Fiction #harry styles fiction #harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry x reader #reader x harry #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurbs #harry styles one shot

270 notes · View notes

zacfaq · 7 years

Text

PLEASE DON’T SEND ME “PASS IT ON” MESSAGES !! as sweet as some of they are they can be really annoying. i don’t check my PMs here! if you need to get ahold of me either send me an ask, or email me.

apparently necessary reminder: google exists! i’m not a know-it-all source, honestly i shouldn’t even be your second plan after google unless it’s a question specifically based on me or something relating to me

i try to avoid fandom drama as much as possible and keep a generally positive space, so please don’t come and ask me about stuff like that. thanks.

if you want to commission me please send an email to [email protected]. do not email me through this address if your intentions are purely social and not work related

-what do you use to record and edit your speedpaints?

i use OBS to record, and edit in sony vegas

-what do you use to draw?

huion gt-191 and clip studio paint

-what are your pen settings?

just the default settings. all my custom stuff/things i’ve downloaded from CSP assets are just things i think look neat but probably never end up using.

-a blog called papersans is claiming to be you! are they a thief?

that’s literally me, i use it to archive my art so i can find stuff easier without having to hunt through my tag. also available for people who just want to see my art n not my other posts

-when is your birthday?

february 6th!

-what is your sexuality?

gay. i like men.

-how long does it take you to draw?

idk like. awhile? sometimes 45 minutes sometimes four hours sometimes a week.

-can i draw you/your ocs?

of course! pls show me after it would make me very happy !!!!!

-favourite band/singer/musician?

i don’t know a damn thing about myself here’s a spotify playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Zk5o5g7nMnGt0vrJVEcDq?si=7cd248a0b64046ee

-will you do art for cheap/free?

nah. art is currently the only job/income i have, if ur interested in commissioning me you can either find my prices on like, any of my pages, but if not ur more than welcome to email me @ [email protected] and i can give you prices there !! -(venting or something involving abuse, suicidal thoughts, self harm, bullying, eating disorders, or other similar things in real life situations. even in fiction i’m iffy.)

i hate to sound rude or not be of help, but please don’t send these messages to me. they send me into horrible anxiety for several personal reasons. if you’re having such negative thoughts i implore you to speak to someone you trust without an anonymous mask, or do your best to seek help from a professional. i have my own things to worry about and as much as i’d like to help, i simply can’t.

-(asking for advice that isn’t related to art)

i would love to help but i’m not an ~all knowing source~. i can’t give you tips for school. i can’t give you tips for life. not only will i probably not know a solution for you but there’s likely a chance i’m in just as bad a situation as you/going through the same problem, as silent as i am about my personal life. also don’t use ‘asking for advice’ as an excuse to vent about things or to send me a paragraph describing in depth something listed above/that’s potentially triggering. thank you.

even if you’re looking fr art tips i’m not a great source i’m still learning, ur best bet is looking for already existing sources and reading through those bc i don’t preach the word of Art God. i’m also awful at explaining things

-why didn’t you answer my ask?

Main reason is i’m just really really bad at socializing, so it’s not anything on u. i’m almost always low on energy and when i do talk to people it wears me out really quick. i’m also just. not gr8 at talking in general so if i can’t think of a reply i tend to just leave things n then end up forgetting about them

-how do you draw [blank]?

honestly my art style is such a fucked up thing that’s so personalized to my own use i can’t do or make tutorials. the best i can do is direct you to my youtube.

-can we do an art trade?

sorry, i’ll have to say no. i’m not necessarily busy but i get stressed very easily, so i try to keep my art to either personal stuff or work ! if you would like art from me, please considering commissioning me! mutuals and friends may be the exceptions here if they catch me at a good time or we make plans well ahead to do smth when we’re both free to work on stuff

-can we be friends?

please don’t ask this. i’m awful enough at socialization as is and i just don’t fit well with most personality types. not to mention this is just overall a bad question. it backs the person being asked into a corner where they either have to say “yes” and end up in a friendship that actually isn’t working out and is maybe only good for one side bc they’re getting any and all of the benefits, and if they say “no” they look like a total dick bag and come across as an ass. don’t ask this question. it’s not how socializing works. it’s not how friendships work. thanks. -can you tag [blank]? unfortunately i’ve been a real bad place in terms of memory so i can’t tag tons and tons of things. i try and tag more general/basic things but i’m sorry i’ll have to pass on specifics. if i post or reblog things that trigger u or harm you it might be best to unfollow for ur own safety!! very sorry

if it’s specific words you’d like tagged please consider blacklisting the word itself.

-how tall are you?

i’m 5'11".

-can you promo me?

i’d rather not, doesn’t sit well with me. if you have a commission post you want me to reblog i’m happy to! but i won’t just do text based handouts, y’know? not a fan of being used for visibility for no reason, and chances are if i do it for one person it’ll happen with hundreds of others and i don’t want my blog to turn into a free advertisement zone that just floods peoples’ feeds with promotions.

-you reblogged something from someone extremely problematic/unsafe

thank you for letting me know! tell me what it is they did, even better offer proof on it. i’ll likely delete the post and blacklist their url to hopefully prevent their name popping up on my blog in the future. i won’t publish these asks mostly to avoid discourse or in the event false information is provided. sorta just safety precaution i guess

-you’ve done something bad

again, thank you for letting me know! if i post or say something questionable please feel free to message me and i’ll try my best to address the issue and adjust accordingly. i’m aiming to grow as a person so critique is welcome, both on me and my artwork. don’t just come up and call me an asshole or a prick or something, actually point out the errors and explain why they’re wrong so i can better understand and it doesn’t just turn into a defensive round of who’s worse, because i tend to be a very defensive person.

-i think someone is stealing/reposting your art!

thank you very much for telling me! don’t message them right off the bat, come to me first and i will deal with it. i’ve dealt with this shit tons of times and it’s tiring as fuck but i’d rather repeat the same stupid civil message over and over again than start a giant calamity over something and end up with someone getting hurt. if you do get involved please stay polite about it don’t throw insults just a simple “hey this art was done by princeofmints/tv-headache/zachary jack/dirtypip/(etc my other account names) and he doesn’t want his art reposted, please take this down or add proper credit.”

-can i use your art as an icon?

sure man. only on places like instagram, tumblr, or twitter though, and proper credit in an easy to see place must be given. if a piece of art is of my ocs or especially vent art though never use it for icons. thank you.

-can i repost your art?

the answer is “no” but i know you’re going to do it anyways. easy to see credit is mandatory. if you see somebody reposting my art please let me know and i’ll talk to them. if you want to use my art in things like image edits, i don’t allow that. want to use my art in a video? if it’s something like an AMV sure fine just credit me and inform me beforehand, if it’s something like a cringe/comparison video. no. i don’t want any association with work like that whatsoever. you may not use my artwork for fanfic covers.

-can i colour/finish one of your sketches?

no. even if you don’t intend on posting it.

-what is [insert some form of media/fandom]

https://www.google.ca/

-why do you have an entirely separate blog for your FAQ? you know you can make blog pages, right?

i’m well aware of that and originally my faq WAS set up on a blog page, but unfortunately many folks proved to be either lazy or just couldn’t figure out how to get to a blog page on mobile so i had to set it up this way for accessibility purposes.

-tons of your videos are gone, what happened to them? will they come back? can you repost them?

i set old videos on private for my own sake, i don’t like having my old content available bc it just looks old and stale and i don’t like it. there’s nothing deep about it, i just don’t want people interacting with my old stuff. as deep is it gets is i just deleted videos related to fandoms i’m sick of bc the association is fuckin annoying. these videos will not come back into public. i do keep them posted for my own reflection sake, but that’s it. don’t ask me to bring them back. don’t whine about me not putting shit back out just bc ur a little sad n gonna cry. guilting people is gross, reevaluate yourself.

if you want a song from an old video, just ask me! I’ll happily let you know what the music is in case u liked ‘em and can’t remember the titles or artists. i’ve also got a playlist full of the music i listen to so u can comb through there n see if the songs u want are there

#prince peeps

258 notes · View notes