Take It or Leave It

August bled into September and before I knew it I had a job and a place, in what I was tentative to call, my new friend group. I wasn’t all that sure how it happened, both Annie and I needed jobs and somehow she’d persuaded me into applying at the cafe we’d had our first study date at. The one I’d met Harry in.

I hadn’t thought much of it, until we both got the jobs. And then Annie was insisting we hang out all the time, even after we’d worked shifts together, and thrusting me into her friend group. And before I was even conscious of it, I was learning to be okay with it all. With being on my own.

I had people I could consider friends and I talked to Harry nearly constantly and sure I didn’t hear much from my family but I was okay. Or at least I was beginning to be okay. Or maybe figuring out how to be okay.

I was sitting on a bench in the middle of Washington Square Park minding my own business and pretending I didn’t have schoolwork I should’ve been doing and mostly spewing random and absolute shit into my journal, when I got what had become a nightly text from Harry. (x) It’d become sort of a daily routine for me to find somewhere besides my apartment to just sit and think and write and doodle and relax.

‘Hypothetically speaking, if you’re not hypothetically doing anything, I would hypothetically be able to skype/facetime/whatever tonight x’

‘If you hypothetically wanted’

‘Because we definitely don’t have to’

I rolled my eyes but it didn’t stop a smile from spreading on my face.

‘hypothetically speaking, i would also be down for that if you’re not hypothetically sick of me’

It was only four in the afternoon here, which meant it was nine there. Which meant he’d probably just gotten home from whatever meetings he’d had. I wasn’t sure it was even legal for someone as famous as him to work as much as he did.

‘Hypothetically speaking you should be sick of me x’

‘And also time zones’

‘hypothetically speaking that would never happen’

And with that, I capped my pen and closed my journal on whatever rambling mess I’d been writing.

*

I shouldn’t have been nervous. And I knew that. We’d facetimed or Skyped or whatever, almost every night but every time without fail, I was nervous. Granted nearly all human interaction made me nervous but this should’ve been different. It was just Harry.

“Hiii,” a grinning Harry appeared on my computer screen before I could work myself up anymore.

“Hi,” a smile spread on my face. His eyes were bright and excited but I couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under them.

But as soon as he launched into the story of his day, with very little prompting as usual, I was too wrapped up in his voice to be nervous. In the details he included that no one else would’ve even remembered. In the way his voice was deep and slow and should’ve been boring but made me want to hear every detail he could recall.

I’d always been more of an observer and a listener, mainly because I wasn’t used to anyone caring about what I had to say, but with Harry a lot of the time I had no desire to say anything at all. I wanted to absorb every word he gave me, every thought he’d let me hear.

Before either of us knew it, it was nearly eight and dark out in New York which meant it was nearing one in the morning in London. I didn’t even know how or why he seemed to enjoy my company enough to spend his nights with me, despite the time difference, but I loved every minute of it.

“I should let you go,” I mumbled when my eyes had drifted to the time displayed on my computer screen, “You must be exhausted.”

“You say that like every night,” Harry raised his eyebrows at me, “Some might think you’re trying to get rid of me. Or that I need to do something about the bags under my eyes.”

At some point he’d gone from propped up against his headboard and fluffy looking pillows, to slouched over into a position that was definitely going to kill his neck and shoulders.

“Because every night I keep you up til you’re practically falling asleep,” I countered and matched his expression. It was true. And it didn’t help my conscience that every night he looked progressively more and more exhausted and worn out.

“You make it sound like I don’t enjoy every minute of Skyping with you,” he huffed, sounding mockingly offended with big eyes and knit eyebrows.

“Right,” I rolled my eyes teasingly, “Cause ‘m sure you have nothing better to do than spend your nights on Skype with some weirdo you met on the internet.”

“I don’t actually,” he grinned very matter of factly.

“I’m sure,” I let out a little laugh, trying to ignore how my stomach had flipped, “Unfortunately, I have an English paper to work on and you look like you might pass out at any given moment.”

“I could help you!” I watched his face light up at his own suggestion, “I wasn’t that great in English but I could give you moral support! Cheer you on and that.”

“You’re definitely going to fall asleep,” I deadpanned. As tempting as the idea sounded, I couldn’t get past the guilt of keeping him up when I was well aware he had an early meeting the next morning.

“No faith in me!” he cried dramatically and shook his head against where it had fallen to his shoulder, “It’d be alright if I did, you could just hang up on me,” he shrugged before his face lit up again with yet another idea, “Or not! It could be like a sleepover! Prop me up on that pillow with the hole in it you always make me use and it’d be just like I was there! Minus the alcohol.”

My stomach flipped again (whether over the fact that he remembered which pillow I liked least or that he wanted to spend more time with me, I wasn’t sure) and I tried to keep my tone light and self deprecating (even though it was a legitimate question in my mind), “Aren’t you supposed to be sick of me by now?”

“No,” he brushed it off simply and easily, like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind, “But you should be of me. In which case you’re supposed to tell me, remember?”

Of course I remembered. I’d tried to etch every detail of that night into my brain.

“Except that’s not going to happen,” I shot him a look.

“It will,” he rolled his eyes that time and then began to move to slide down the bed and into his covers a bit more before moving his computer to what I knew was a bedside table (as he’d insisted on giving me a tour of his place the first time we’d facetimed), “So either tell me to fuck off or ‘m gonna lay here and give you moral support while you work.”

It wasn’t more than an hour later before there were deep breaths and soft snoring flowing through my headphones and into my ears. It was another two hours before I had the heart to push myself off my mattress and change into something more comfortable and get ready for bed.

The last thing I saw before my eyes shut and I drifted off to sleep was a content looking boy with pink parted lips and eyelashes fanned out on the tops of his cheeks.

*

The first time Harry showed up on my doorstep completely unannounced, I nearly had an actual panic attack. I’d never been good with answering the door or unannounced visitors and living on my own had forced me into both a lot more times than I could’ve ever been comfortable with. And it didn’t make it any fucking easier.

It was ten o’clock on a Monday night and I felt like my heart was going to explode when there was a knock at my door. Convinced it was an axe murderer, I tiptoed to the front door silently, leaving Pickles and my laptop to fend for themselves in the armchair.

It wasn’t an axe murderer. It was Harry. And I was convinced I was dreaming.

I managed to unlock the door and swing it open to stare in awe, completely forgetting I wasn’t wearing pants or a bra.

“Hiii.”

Hearing that single, dragged out word, through my headphones nearly every night was one thing but finally hearing it in person after weeks was completely different. Enough to almost make me want to cry because until then I hadn’t even realized how much I’d actually missed him.

So instead of giving him any sort of greeting, I pushed myself forward and wrapped my arms around his waist so tightly he probably couldn't breathe. His arms were immediately around me, one hand on my hip and the other on my back. He was warm and familiar and safe.

“Hi,” he let out a little surprised laugh like he hadn’t been expecting me to be so excited to see him.

“Hi,” I mumbled more into his green sweater than anything.

“You alright?” there was another soft chuckle that rumbled through his chest.

“Yeah,” I managed a nod, trying to get over the initial shock of him just showing up, and pulled away, “A-are you alright? Is everything okay?”

That was when I saw it. Everything I hadn’t been able to pick up on through Facetime and Skype calls. His bloodshot eyes. The purple circles underneath. The blemishes on his skin he’d clearly picked at anxiously. My stomach twisted uncomfortably and my breath caught in my throat.

“Yeah,” he smiled at me but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Four hours ago you told me you were going to bed and now you’re here looking like death warmed over,” I answered with knit eyebrows and pulled away enough to let him into my apartment. I was worried sick to my stomach.

“I was,” he nodded, smile still on his lips, “On a plane. Am I not allowed to surprise my best friend?”

I wasn’t sure if my stomach twisted at how easily he called me his best friend or how easily he avoided talking about the fact that he looked like he was dying of sleep deprivation.

“You’re avoiding the question,” I stated and locked the door before turning around to take him in. His duffel bag was over his shoulder and his passport was in his hand like he’d literally come straight from the airport. And that worried me.

“What question?” he was kicking off his boots and not looking at me.

“If you’re okay?” I insisted. I’d never called him out on how each time we’d Facetimed or Skyped he’d looked more and more exhausted and drained.

“‘M fine,” he shrugged, forcing even more of a smile before reaching to open his bag, “Brought you a present.”

I was beginning to learn Harry was a master at changing subjects.

“A present?” I questioned suspiciously.

He nodded and held up a paper bag, “Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

I shot him a wary look but took it anyway, carefully opening it. Flavored vodka.

*

Apparently that was what it took to get anything out of Harry. To be sprawled out on my mattress, drunker than we’d ever been. For me to ask again, if he was alright and why he’d showed up at my place as soon as he got to New York. For him to admit work was more stressful than usual and sometimes he couldn’t breathe. For him to confess that he didn’t have any meetings in New York for three days but he’d needed the only place and person that made him feel human, like he wasn’t suffocating.

He’d stayed for a week. Holed himself up in my apartment and cooked delicious food and watched shitty reality TV and did all the things he couldn’t do in London. I was honored that he’d chosen my place for this sort of therapy. That he’d chosen me.

He’d shown up three more times throughout the rest of September and the beginning of October. Each time he’d come bearing wonderful company and stories and alcohol but progressively looking more and more drained. It probably should’ve been weird or questionable that my place and myself had become some sort of safe haven for him so quickly but I welcomed it with open arms. He was my best friend.

The first time Harry showed up on my doorstep completely unannounced and crying, I was terrified. More so than the first time he’d just showed up unannounced.

I hadn't been able to tell he was crying through the peephole. Until I swung the door open and took him in. He was trying to conceal it, quickly wiping under his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. But I saw how bloodshot and puffy they were, how his chest was rising and falling unevenly, how he looked like he was falling apart.

So I didn't say anything, just grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him into my apartment and wrapped my arms around him. That was when he lost it, fell apart completely into a mess of sobs and shakes.

"'S alright," I breathed out as he buried his face in my neck, "Whatever it is, it'll be alright. You're okay."

"'M s-sorry," he choked out, tears dripping off his cheeks and soaking into my t-shirt, "I-I didn't know where else to g-go. I'm sorry."

"Hey, no," I pulled away to get him to look at me, thumbs instinctively wiping under his eyes, "Don't apologize. I want you to come to me when you're upset," I gave him a little reassuring smile, "You're my best friend."

He just nodded and wrapped himself back around me.

I probably should've anticipated some sort of breakdown of some degree at some point. He hadn't posted much writing on his blog lately or anything. Harry rarely ever opened up and when he did it wasn't very much. Always careful wording and cautious sentences. And he never cried. Clearly it had all bottled up and now he was exploding.

So I tried to calm myself, think rationally, but I ended up just pulling away to look at him again and asked, "Alcohol?"

And that was how we ended up like we always seemed to, on my mattress and well on our way to wasted with an assortment of leftover alcohol, from the previous times he'd showed up, spread around us.

"'S all gone to shit, A," he let out a shaky and bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He'd stopped crying but I was still worried sick to my stomach.

"What has?" I was afraid of the answer but I turned on my side and propped myself up on my elbow to look at him. His eyes were trained on the ceiling, still red and bloodshot and tired.

He took in and let out a shaky breath, "Work."

I blinked at him for a second, trying to wrap my head around it. It made sense, why he was always progressively more and more drained, why he never talked about it.

"W-what do you mean?" my head felt fuzzy. Too fuzzy to be just from the alcohol. I didn’t know much about his work but I knew he and his band were the biggest thing in pop culture, they were on top of the world.

“We’re burning out,” his voice was barely above a whisper, like the words were heavy and painful to speak, “Tha’s what Zayn says. Me mostly. Apparently.”

I didn’t say anything, just slid my hand into his and squeezed reassuringly. He looked like he needed it, reassurance that someone was listening.

“They all want a break. Management wants a new album,” he rubbed his eyes, “Zayn’s threatening to quit altogether. Louis wants to sue.”

“What about you?” I asked softly, thinking back to the first time he’d had a panic attack around me, “What do you want?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, “‘S my fault. Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Tha’s not true,” I felt sick to my stomach. This was why he was so exhausted. He was taking all the blame, convincing himself it was his fault.

He nodded, “It is. I broke first.”

“W-what are you talking about?” I was afraid to push it, afraid to make him break down again but I needed to know, needed him to know that none of it was his fault. Having a shitty management team that didn’t give a fuck about any of them wasn’t his fault.

“I’m burning out,” he answered, finally looking over at me, “I’m the one whose voice is cracking and doesn’t sleep enough and snaps at people over stupid shit. I’m the one losing their mind.”

I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen someone so miserable and filled with guilt in my life.

“Of course you are,” I whispered and squeezed his hand to keep me from throwing myself on top of him and holding him until he never looked so broken again, “They’re working you to death. You can’t blame yourself for that. You can’t control that they’re literally killing you.”

He blinked at me for a minute, like he’d never even considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe he had no control over what happened when he was being worked to the breaking point. Like no one had ever been able to get that through to him. And it would’ve been scary if my brain and limbs weren’t so fuzzy.

And then he did something I couldn’t have anticipated, sober or not.

He leaned up, with what seemed to be no hesitation whatsoever, and pressed his lips to mine. Softly and gently and sort of unsure.

But just as quickly as he’d done it, he moved to pull away, looking scared. Like maybe he thought he’d fucked up. But I just pulled him back to me.

And before I had time to process it, to consider that we were both drunker than we’d ever been together or that he was upset and it just generally probably wasn’t a good idea, we were a flurry of grabby hands and needy lips.

I’d never thought about actually kissing Harry before. Well maybe I had when he was giving me big grins that made my stomach flutter or when he was drifting off to sleep in the middle of a story he was telling me. But I’d never considered it an actual possibility. We were both messes. Proper, falling apart and bursting at the seams messes. And neither of us could afford to get our hands dirty.

But then it didn’t matter because it was well after midnight and we seemed to be wrapped up in the cocoon that was my apartment. Hidden and locked away from the outside world. And nothing else mattered because his lips were on my neck and I was tugging at the hem of his shirt and everything felt okay, even if it was all falling apart.