Take It or Leave It

**FULL HOUSE SPOILERS AHEAD**

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“Alivia!”

I hadn’t been expecting it at all was the thing. I was only halfway down the block but my muscles had already relaxed and my heart rate had slowed and I wasn’t in fight or flight mode anymore. Until I registered that it was a familiar, deep, British voice.

“Alivia!”

I just kept walking. I wasn’t going to slow down, I wasn’t going to turn around, I wasn’t going to have anything to do with Harry Styles.

I thought maybe I’d lost him, weaving through the late afternoon crowds and increasing my speed to nearly a jog, but before I had time to process it, a hand was wrapping around my wrist.

“What the fuck?!” I hissed and spun around, anger and adrenaline coursing through my body. He had no fucking right to follow me when I clearly wanted nothing to do with him, let alone touch me.

There was a very out of breath, scared looking Harry Styles. His eyes were wide and panicked, like he hadn’t realized what he’d done until I spun around.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?!” I spat, not caring that we were in the middle of a crowded sidewalk in SoHo and it would be too fucking easy for him to get spotted and recognized, “I very vividly remember telling you to stay the fuck away from me last night.”

He blinked at me for a second, clearly surprised I was waiting for a response at all, “I-I know. Fuck. I just. I-I need to speak with you,” he stumbled over his words.

I couldn’t even hold back an eyeroll, my anxiety was gone, completely suffocated by my anger, “Oh, I’m sure you do. Want to apologize and clear your conscience right?”

“N-no,” he shook his head quickly, “Tha’s not it at all! I swear! I just. Please. I feel horrible.”

“I don’t care,” I answered honestly because I really couldn’t care less. I wanted him to feel shitty, absolutely miserable, for what he did to me.

“I-I know. You shouldn’t. Fuck. I just. Can I please talk to you somewhere private?” he sounded desperate and I probably should’ve cared that someone like Harry Styles was practically begging to apologize to me but I didn’t.

“Why?” I let out a cold laugh. It should’ve bothered me that I was being sort of downright mean to him, but I was too angry, too hurt.

“Because I did a really shitty thing and you deserve more than someone who didn’t even go after you the first time with an explanation or apology,” he answered simply.

Another thing that I’d learned about Harry Styles in the few times I’d been around him, was that whether you wanted to believe him or not, a part of you already did. He was all wide eyes and sincere voice and every bit of him just oozed genuine.

“Jesus christ,” I groaned and ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t know why his words were getting to me, why my brain was even considering give him a second to explain what he’d done. I tried to tell myself it was because it wasn’t everyday a pop star fucked you over and begged to apologize and explain himself.

“Fine,” I breathed out finally, “Fine. But we’re doing this my way. And not because you fucking deserve a chance. Because I deserve an explanation.”

*

It should’ve been weird that I dragged him to my apartment. I shouldn’t have trusted him, shouldn’t have let my brain begin to make the connection between Harry Styles and H. I justified it with needing privacy, somewhere I could just scream at him until my throat hurt without anyone recognizing him if I needed.

By the time we’d miraculously made it back to my apartment without him getting spotted, my anger had subsided a bit, replaced with my anxiety again. This was H. The one who’d read things I’d poured my soul into. The one who listened to me rant about my family after a panic attack. The one who knew my favorite bands and movies and foods. And it was fucking terrifying being around him, not just because he was Harry Styles, but because I’d never imagined in a million years I’d actually meet him. Or that I’d ever actually know someone in person that knew all the things no one else in my life did.

“Sit,” I instructed, pointing to the two mismatched stools at the little breakfast bar after I’d shut the door. I was going to stay strong. I wasn’t going to give in or think too much about the fact that he was H. I was going to get an explanation and an apology and then I was going to kick him out and never have to deal with him again.

I watched as he carefully sat down, not saying a word. He looked terrified and sort of tired.

“You have until I make this cup of tea,” I said after what felt like an eternity of silence as I looked for my favorite (and only) mug in an attempt to distract myself from the feeling of his eyes on me. I didn’t even want anymore fucking tea, I’d bought a cup to go, but I needed any sort of distraction I could get.

I glanced over at him. He’d been nervously twisting the ring on his middle finger but his head snapped up at my words with wide eyes.

“I-I’m so sorry,” was the first thing he managed to sputter out, “I-I didn’t,” he paused and took a deep breath, like he was trying to figure out the most efficient way to get his words out as quickly as possible.

I just focused on filling the kettle. I didn’t want to see his nervous expression.

“I didn’t not tell you on purpose,” he sounded like he was shaking his head, “I just. I was scared. Really fucking scared. And I know it was shitty of me and I’m not making excuses, but I. I had no idea how to tell you without freaking you out. A-and then I saw you in the cafe and I sort of panicked. Because what was I meant to do? Just give up my only opportunity to talk to you in person? A-and ‘m not saying that that wasn’t shitty of me, because it was, but. I didn’t have bad intentions. I wasn’t trying to fuck you over or humiliate you or take your place to vent away. A-and I wanted to tell you that night, wanted to tell you so many times, but I didn’t know how.”

I just looked up at him, “So you just let me fucking humiliate myself?”

“Everytime I tried to tell you I-I felt like it’d fuck everything up even worse. And it was selfish, so fucking selfish, but I was so scared to lose you,” I could hear the frustration in his voice as I set the kettle on the stove, “I-I don’t have anyone in my life like you. That gets it all. That I can talk to about anything. Never have, honestly.”

My legs felt like jelly as I turned to the fridge and managed to pull out the half gallon of milk without dropping it. Before I could try to think of something somewhat intelligent to say, he was continuing.

“I don’t want to lose you, like even though now you know who I am, I don’t want to lose you,” his voice was shaky. I just looked up at him like he was crazy.

“You act like just because you’re Harry Styles that makes me not want to be your friend. The fact that you lied is what does that, not the fact that you’re a fucking celebrity,” I mumbled and reached for the sugar in the cupboard because I couldn’t look at him. I wanted to be bothered about the fact that he was Harry Styles, but I couldn’t. That wasn’t his fault. What was his fault, was what he’d done.

“I-I’m really just normal,” he rushed out quickly, “I-I’m nothing special I just have a crazy job,” he tried to justify, “I’m not like a celebrity I just work. A-a lot. B-but ‘m not any different. ‘M still H.”

My head snapped up from the kettle when I heard the last sentence. He knew everything about me, and the thought that Harry Styles knew everything about me sort of made me want to hide and never show my face anywhere ever again. But I couldn’t hold it against him, even if I wanted to, because he couldn’t help that he was Harry Styles. And that fucked me up.

“You know more about me than anyone in the world,” I mumbled, picking at my shirt, “And it scares the fuck out of me. Even if you’re just H.”

“I don’t want that to change,” he shook his head as I looked up at him, “I-I know I fucked up and I don’t deserve it, but I want to fix it. A-and it sounds weird but you’re like my best friend. And I don’t want to lose that.”

I just stared at him for a second, “You lied.”

“I know,” he breathed out and rubbed at his eyes, “A-and ‘m not excusing it cause it was shitty and I’m so, so fucking sorry. But I promise I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. Part of me, the prideful and hurt side, didn’t want to believe him. But a bigger part of me did. The bigger part of me wanted the person back that I could tell everything to but it also was fucking terrified. No one I’d ever know in real life had ever read anything I’d written or seen any of the pictures I’d taken. Not my “friends” or my siblings, and especially not my parents.

I didn’t have someone like H or Harry or whatever and really that’s all I’d ever wanted. Someone who I could actually talk to and not have to worry. Someone who didn’t care if people made me anxious or that I thought too much or that I laughed too loud or that I had the weirdest the sense of humor. And H, or Harry, was exactly that. But it was terrifying because he seemed so genuine all the time and letting him into my actual life made me want to puke.

“You do know I have every right to hate you, right?” I just wanted to make sure.

“Y-yeah,” his eyes widened (which I hadn’t thought was possible) and he nodded, “Y-yeah, ‘m completely and fully aware.”

I looked back down at the counter. He was giving me a stress headache.

“You’re making this really fucking complicated,” I muttered under my breath and picked at the label on the half gallon of milk, “I should still want to rip your head off.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I still wanna rip my own head off,” I looked up to see him giving me a nervous smile.

“You really fucked up,” I mumbled with a sigh, “And I don’t think you know how much it fucks me up.”

"I-I know," he stuttered, "And I get it if you never wanna speak to me again."

“I don’t think you do,” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Not completely,” he admitted, “Just what you’ve told me.”

It sort of caught me off guard. It was nearly impossible to connect in my head, by myself that H was Harry and Harry was H. Until he said things like that. And then I either wanted to punch him or hug him.

“Right,” I answered quietly, trying to keep my shit together and not let him see how much it affected me, “I just. No one else in like, actual real life has ever read or seen my stuff. A-and you know how personal that is. You post that kinda stuff. And it really fucks with me that you’re sitting in my kitchen and you know more about me than anyone.”

“I know,” he answered carefully, “I know how much all of that means to you. A-and I never meant to get in between that, I swear. And ‘m so, so, sorry I did, A. So fucking sorry.”

My eyes picked up from the kettle I’d been staring at in an attempt to stay calm. No one had ever actually called me A before. I wasn’t even sure how it had started, probably after a million text posts I’d made complaining about people pronouncing my name as “Oh-livia” or “Uh-livia” and never “Ah-livia”. It really only bothered me because it was the spelling my grandmother had chosen.

Thinking of her and what should’ve been a meaningless nickname made my lips pull up into a smile just the slightest bit, “No one’s ever actually called me that before.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide, “O-oh, shit. S-sorry I just thought that-”

“N-no,” I cut him off quickly, “‘S fine. Nice really. I like it.”

And it was nice. To be called by the nickname I preferred, that reminded me of good memories and thoughts.

“W-what do people call you then? Just Alivia?” I shouldn’t have liked how he’d always pronounced my name correctly or how slow and soft his voice was.

I shrugged and looked back at the kettle, “Al by my family and Liv by my friends. The latter is better than the former. Whatever really.”

It’d been ages since I’d been called either of those. I had better memories with the latter but since I’d moved to New York I’d always gone by Alivia. I’d never really thought about how I had been called so many different things by different people that I seemed to have different ways around. I talked differently around my family than I did my “friends” and even though I’d never felt completely myself around my “friends” it was better than with my family. It was almost like having different identities and I’d never thought about it that much, how it probably wasn’t very good for me, until Harry brought it up.

“Liv,” he tested the word out with a little smile, “I like that.”

I smiled and just as I was about to say something, the kettle began to whistle, snapping me back to reality. And reality sucked.

Reality was the fact that Harry Styles was sitting at my counter, testing out nicknames for me, because he was actually H. And reality was also that I was letting him in, in real life, after all he’d done.

I didn’t have time to say anything about it though.

“I-I should go,” Harry said suddenly, like he’d been snapped back to reality too, remembering I’d told him he could only stay and explain himself until my tea was done.

“You don’t have to,” I tried to keep my voice casual with a shrug as I forced my shaky hands to pull the kettle off the stove, “Y-you could stay for a little while. I-if you don’t have plans.”

I couldn’t help but glance over at him as I pulled a tea bag out of the box left on the counter from the last time I’d made tea and dropped it in the mug. It was stupid, and I knew it, to ask him to hang around after what he’d done. He looked horribly nervous, twisting at his ring again.

“Y-yeah? A-are you sure?” I could hear the hesitation in his voice. The H I knew hadn’t ever seemed hesitant.

“Yeah, if you want,” I poured the boiling water into the old mug and shrugged again, “We could try it. Friends and all.”

*

I hadn’t really thought it through, Harry and I being friends and all. And I certainly hadn’t expected for us to actually work out as friends, for me to get over the entire H/Harry thing. But slowly but surely, both of those things had begun to happen.

Harry was only in New York for another two weeks I’d soon found out. And the thing about being friends with Harry Styles in a city like New York is that you either go out somewhere ridiculously private and expensive, or you stay at home and eat yourself sick on shitty takeout and binge watch 90’s shows. In the first week we’d managed to watch every episode of Full House ever. Which was a feat in itself considering I had classes and Harry had meetings nearly every day.

We didn’t ever talk much about his work, or why he was even in New York, which probably should’ve been weird, but I found it weirder to talk about. It was easier to just think of him as H. So we spent everyday of the first week holed up in my apartment and neither of us questioned it. It was nice though, to have a weird sort of bonding time to connect Harry and H in my mind and to really get to know each other in person.

“You need a proper sofa,” Harry sighed and flopped forwards onto my mattress face first, which was still sitting right in the middle of my still nearly empty living room, after we’d finished the very last episode of Full House and a very large cheese pizza.

“That’s all you have to say after the most traumatic ending to a series ever?!” I shoved at his back, covered in just a thin white tshirt.

He scoffed and turned his head on my floral sheets with raised eyebrows, “Did you really think they’d end a show of eight seasons without the main character regaining her memory?”

“Fuck you!” I tried to hold back a laugh, “I was like six the first time I saw it!”

Harry rolled his eyes, “So you were a gullible child too?”

“You’re a dick,” I rolled my eyes back at him before flopping down on my side next to him.

He just grinned, head turned toward me on a fluffy pillow, “You really do need an actual couch though.”

“I like my mattress, thanks,” I answered with a yawn and pulled a pillow that had fallen to the floor over to rest my head on. Despite the fact that it was still August, I was cold in my plaid boxer shorts and blue t-rex sweater but I was far too lazy to pull a blanket over me. (x)

I wasn’t sure how, but marathoning sitcoms proved to be more than tiring. It was some time after one in the morning and I was ready to pass out. The sun seemed to already be setting earlier and earlier and my living room was completely dark except for the glow of the tv and the city lights shining in the big window.

“Liv?” I hadn’t even realized my eyes had shut until I heard his soft voice.

“Hm?” I tried to open my eyes again but they felt too heavy to open all the way.

“‘M gonna go, yeah?” his face was only inches from mine and he looked almost as tired as me. I felt sort of shitty about it. This was probably like a break for him and he’d spent most of it in my apartment.

I blinked at him for a second, taking in his messy hair and half lidded eyes, “You look tired.”

“Thanks,” he sounded like he was rolling his eyes and I realized my eyes were shut again, “I’ll text you tomorrow, alright?”

“Wait,” I forced my eyes open and tried to tell myself it was sleep taking over my brain, “Y-you could stay, like, if you wanted. ‘S late.”

“‘S a-alright,” he sounded surprised, really I was just as surprised I’d even asked when six days ago I’d practically ripped his head off, “‘S not that late.”

“It’s like one in the morning,” my eyes were getting heavier and heavier, “Don’t worry, I won’t make you sleep on the floor or anything.”

“D-do you want me to stay?” he sounded and looked nervous. His eyes were big and wide again and his bottom lip was between his teeth.

I shrugged, trying to sound casual, “Yeah, only if you want.”

And that was how we ended up side by side, facing each other, with the blankets pulled up to our necks.

“Liv?” he asked again when it’d been quiet for a few minutes, just the hum of the muted TV because I couldn’t sleep without it.

“Hm?” I blinked my eyes open heavily. Despite the fact that I was nearly fast asleep, I could tell he was nervous again.

“I-I, um, a-are we okay now?” Harry’s half lidded eyes searched mine. My eyes had finally adjusted to the dark and I could see every detail from the glow of the TV. He was so pretty, I’d admit it. I got why people went crazy over his big green eyes and messy dark hair.

“W-what do you mean?” I knew what he meant. But I wasn’t expecting it and I needed to get my thoughts together.

“A-are you still mad at me?” his voice was softer, “Y-you have every right to, I just, was wondering.”

I shrugged, trying to sound casual because we hadn’t talked about it since the first time I brought him to my apartment, “Wasn’t ever really mad at you I don’t think.”

He gave me a little eye roll, “You wanted to rip my head off.”

“But I wasn’t mad,” I yawned and pulled the blankets up a little higher.

“What were you then?” I could tell from his tone that he didn’t believe me.

I thought about it for a few seconds, “Hurt, mostly.”

He just blinked at me, his eyes looked green and fuzzy from the dim light of the TV. He looked like he was trying to figure out how to collect his thoughts into actual words. He looked so sleepy and concerned and sad.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing that tumbled out, “I’m so-”

“Stop,” I shook my head, “‘S fine. We talked about it. ‘S over.”

He sighed heavily, “‘S not fine. I made you feel like shit and-”

“Harry, don’t,” I shook my head, “I’m fine. It’s late, sleep.”

“Okay,” he rubbed his eye sleepily, “But I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I matched his tone with raised eyebrows, “But ‘s fine.”

It was quiet again for a few minutes and I could just feel sleep beginning to tug me under when Harry spoke up for the third time, “Liv?”

I was beginning to wonder if he was that kid at sleepovers, “Hm?”

“I feel like I should warn you that-” he cut himself off with a yawn, his voice was deeper and tired, “That, well like you already know, but I have bad dreams sometimes s-so like if you wake up and ‘m like gone that’s why. ‘M probably in the bathroom or something.”

“Do you still have the panic attacks after?” I asked carefully. We’d talked about it quite a few times, when he was still just H.

He shrugged, picking at a string on the blanket like he was ashamed, “Sometimes.”

“Wake me up, alright?” I felt like if I spoke too loud, he’d shatter.

“N-no, no,” he shook his head, looking back up at me, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, but wake me up,” I nudged at his arm.

“N-no-” he began again but I cut him off.

“Yes. Goodnight, Harry.”

*

It was a mere two hours later, three thirty in the morning, when I felt Harry shoot up straight in bed. My head was fuzzy but I made my eyes blink open anyway.

Harry was sitting straight up in bed, breathing heavily and shaking his head. Overall, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Hey,” I managed to wrap my hand around his wrist as he tried to push himself off the mattress.

He looked over at me with pale skin and wide eyes, “Shit. ‘M s-sorry, go back to bed.”

“N-no, no,” I shook my head, forcing myself to sit up even though my eyes were burning and my eyelids were heavy, “Wha’s wrong? What happened?”

“J-just a bad dream,” he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, “‘S f-fine. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t let go of his wrist, instead asked seriously, “A-are you going to the bathroom because you need to or because you’re going to have a panic attack?”

His head just snapped over to look at me like I’d caught him.

“D-does it matter?” he mumbled, chest rising and falling harshly.

“Yes,” I looked at him seriously, “I wanna help.”

He looked as if no one had ever said that before, like no one had ever wanted to help. And it broke my heart because I knew what that was like. I knew what it was like to have people that didn’t care or didn’t get it or know what to do.

“N-no, no,” he shook his head again, eyes screwing shut, “‘M fine, ‘m fine.”

“Harry,” I said sternly, getting his eyes to open and look at me, “What do you need? What can I do?”

He shook his head, “I don’t - I don’t know.”

I blinked at him for a second. I’d never been the one taking care of someone having an anxiety attack, I’d always been the one having the anxiety attack. A part of me felt some sort of responsibility for him, not just because he was panicking in my apartment, but because he’d clearly never had anyone take care of him when he was panicking. And it made my heart hurt.

I just nodded, “O-okay. Well, tea? Do you need tea? Or another blanket? Or anything. Just tell me what you think you need and I’ll get it.”

“I-I don’t know,” he shook his head, eyes screwing shut again, “I-I can’t breathe a-and I don’t know, ‘m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Hey, hey, no you’re okay. D-don’t stress about it. Just. Just if you think something’s gonna make you feel better I’ll get it, okay?” I asked him carefully. My stomach was in knots. I’d known for ages, since I first read his writing, that he had anxiety too but I’d never thought I’d see him like that.

I knew what it was like to felt trapped in your own skin. To feel like it was pulled too tight across your bones. And I knew what it was like to not know what you needed, to not be used to having someone around when you were at your lowest.

“J-just can’t b-breathe,” he kept shaking his head.

I stood up then, because I couldn’t stand to watch him shake and fail to catch his breath anymore, and stood in front of him, holding my hands out, “C’mere. You need air. You hafta breathe.”

Harry’s eyes opened again, wide and panicked but let me take his hands and tug him to his feet. His whole body was shaking.

I gently led him over to the big window in the front of the living room and hoisted myself up on the big windowsill before patting the spot next to me, “Here.”

He eyed the windowsill warily before shakily pushing himself up to sit, long legs hanging off the side. I turned to the giant awning window and unlocked it before shoving it open as far as it would go, which really wasn’t very much.

“Do you wanna sit here?” I asked softly when I could feel the city air blowing in, “There’s more air.”

Harry shook his head and just scooted over, pressing his side up against mine, “Th-thank you.”

"Hey, 's alright," I told him quietly, feeling him shake against me, "It'll be over soon and you'll be fine."

He shook his head again and did something I wasn't expecting, rested his head on my shoulder and buried his face in my neck, arms instinctively wrapping around my waist.

I'd come to learn, mostly in the past week, that Harry was just a generally affectionate person. He strongly believed in warm hugs and forehead kisses along with swinging his legs in your lap or leaning against you at any given time. He just liked contact, like he liked to know someone was there. I wasn’t even sure he was aware of it. But this was different. He’d never clung to me like a terrified koala.

I froze up at first, not used to being needed or even touched physically in a positive way like that, but before I could process it, my arms were wrapping around his back.

So we stayed like that for fifteen minutes; Harry clinging to me and shaking, just trying to breathe through it, and me trying (and probably failing) to hold him tight and assure him it’d be over soon because panic attacks didn’t last forever and he’d be okay, I promised. Taxis and people passed under the window, the city lights glowing against his huddled up figure. It would’ve been a gorgeous picture if he wasn’t falling apart.

He finally pulled away with wet, bloodshot eyes and slightly more even breaths.

“Hi,” I gave him a little reassuring smile and before I knew what I was doing, I was wiping under his eyes with the sleeves of my dinosaur sweater. I wanted to wrap him back up until he looked completely okay again, like the always laughing, bright eyed Harry I knew.

“H-hi, s-sorry,” his voice was raw and unsure. His eyes were still wide and nervous, but he looked drained and exhausted at the same time.

“Don’t apologize,” I shook my head, “You alright now?”

He nodded, “Th-think so. I-I’m sorry, fuck, ‘m so sorry, A. I-I should go.”

“W-what? No. Harry you just had a panic attack, you shouldn’t go anywhere,” I looked at him like he had three heads.

“N-no, I fucked up. I-I didn’t mean to. I-I woke you up and I shouldn’t have made you deal with me like that and I should definitely just go,” he sounded like he was only realizing what had happened.

My chest tightened. I felt horrible. I knew what it was like to break down completely in front of someone with have no control over it and be completely humiliated when it was over with. I wanted to hold him and not let go until he forgot it had even happened.

“Y-you don’t have to leave,” I shook my head quickly, “I have panic attacks all the time, I’m the last person it would bother. Promise.”

“I-I’m so sorry though, I should’ve-”

“Harry,” I interrupted him firmly but carefully, “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just glad you’re alright. Let’s go back to sleep, you look exhausted.”

“A-Alivia, I don’t-” he tried to interrupt.

“If you really want to leave ‘m not gonna make you stay but if you wanna leave just because you had a panic attack, ‘m not letting you leave,” I crossed my arms over my chest, as if I could intimidate his nearly six foot frame, “And if you do leave, you’re not driving. So which is it?”

“I-I don’t wanna bother y-you anymore and-” he sounded like he was expecting me to want him to leave and my chest ached because god, did I know how that felt.

“Stop. You haven’t bothered me at all. You want me to leave this open?” I turned to the window. I wanted him to know the conversation was over, that there wasn’t a single doubt about me wanting him to stay even though he’d had a panic attack.

He shrugged, “Whatever you want.”

I shot him a funny look, “Do you want it open or shut?”

He only shrugged again, like he genuinely didn’t know what he wanted. Like maybe no one ever asked him what he wanted about little things like that.

“Harry,” I knit my eyebrows, “Do you want it open or shut? It requires a one word response.”

He stared at me for a second, clearly still unsure of what to say or what he wanted, before answering timidly, in a tone I’d never really heard from him, “O-open, please.”

A smile spread across my lips and I nodded, pushing myself off the windowsill and holding a hand out for him, “Alright, c’mon then.”

And then before I knew it we were huddled under the blankets, face to face. Harry had stopped shaking and his breathing had returned to normal and my stomach didn’t feel like it was twisted in a million knots anymore. And maybe I hadn’t been able to stop my arm from snaking around his waist, to remind him I was there, that he was safe.

It was quiet for a few minutes before another soft, “Liv?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”