Quarter-Life

Harry’s made sure that his jumper’s clean, the laces on his pink converse are tied, and that his beanie is safely tucked away in his briefcase. He runs a hand through his loose hair as he gnaws on his bottom lip and compulsively wiggles his toes inside his shoes; he’s wrought with nerves.

The last time Monique asked to speak with him in her office, at the end of March, it was because she was adding European History classes to his schedule, and Harry left her office buzzing. This time, mid-October, he reckons he’ll leave in tears. He’s so tense that the buzzing of his phone startles him hard enough to nearly bite through his lip (again).

Nialler: Everything’s going to be fine

Nialler: I love you !!!!

Harry’s halfway through typing out a shaky ‘I love you, too’ when the next set of texts come in.

Nialler: Even tho you gave Layla my lunch

Nialler: And if you get fired and your reputation is gutted for all of eternity

Nialler: I’ll still love you

He can’t even find the energy to roll his eyes. So much for comfort.

“Harry?” Mrs. Tomkins calls his name with a neat smile. Harry does his best to return it although it undoubtedly makes him look like the world’s saddest prick in the cold seats opposite her cluttered desk. “Monique’s ready for you.”

“Cheers,” he breathes out, and motions to get going before Mrs. Tomkins calls his name again.

“Thank you for the flowers again, bug. You’re very sweet,” she tells him, and he struggles to churn out another smile before giving up.

Carrying himself down the carpeted corridor, and into the last office on the right, he already feels that smoker’s panic one gets where they need a cigarette. The scent of Monique’s tobacco candle is only making his desire worsen; he finds himself tracing the outline of the pack from outside his briefcase as he continues to chew on his lip.

Harry was never the troublemaking type as a student, just bad-tempered enough to get a lecture here and there, so the principal’s office (when he was sent for the occasional comment-gone-awry) was never a big deal for him. Monique Douglas, however, is incredibly intimidating.

She may look like a tiny, pantsuit-wearing grandma with a weakness for giant floral brooches, but she’s very much no-nonsense, and she takes her job—and her mantra—very seriously.

The last person who disrespected a student was torn several new assholes, and fired in front of the entire staff at a faculty meeting. Harry had never seen a bodybuilder cry before; the sight of massive Mr. Vega (a gym teacher who’d berated a fourteen-year-old boy for being “too fuckin’ pussy” to play dodgeball), sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor comes to mind every time he goes for a pee in building C.

The added weight of this mysterious funk amplifies with every passing second, and he’s considering bolting out until Monique turns in her chair to face him with a sympathetic smile on her face. “Hi,” he finally says, still lingering in the doorway.

“Take a seat, Harry.”

He’s never been more thankful for his manners than he is now. Maybe she’ll think back to all the times he’s held doors open for her, or volunteered himself for school events, or walked her to her car at night, and she won’t fire him. His eyes dart from the pictures of her grandkids on the bookshelf, to the overwhelming number of diplomas and awards hung on the gray wall behind her, and the purple flowers on her fat desk.

“I want you to tell me what happened. I know I don’t need to say so, but please be as honest as possible,” Monique tells him, and tries to be slick as she inches a box of tissues next to the vase on her right. Harry swipes a sticky finger at his eye, but he can’t tell if he’s crying because he doesn’t remember what life was like before perpetually-sweaty hands.

“Well,” he starts, and pauses to lean back in the stiff armchair. His entire body’s been aching with fear for the last four hours, and now the tissues are taunting him; ‘lotion-soft’ is a funny way to describe the anvil in his stomach, threatening unemployment.

“We were talking about Halloween costumes because, like, I didn’t want to start the lesson ‘til everyone was in since I’m giving them an exam next week. Angelo said he was thinking about being Apollo—y’know, god of knowledge and all that—and pink-hair... Leah?”

“Lianna?”

“Lianna started buggin’ off about how Apollo’s ‘not black’, or whatever. Everyone started arguing with her, then she came back at everyone with this vile tone, and I didn’t think it would go that far, honestly. I know I fucked up, and that I’m poorly in some way,” he says rather openly, half-hoping she doesn’t know what that means, “but I swear I tried to stop it. But that’s when she said...”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What did she say?”

“Uh, I don’t know if she called him an offensive word, or if she just threw it out there, but she said something that I rather not repeat, so I told her to stay after class.”

He’s trying his hardest to keep his composure and act fucking normal, but he can’t stop waggling his godforsaken toes, or swiping at his itchy eyes. Monique’s staring at him with a blank look on her face, so Harry continues.

“I didn’t know what else to do, and I wasn’t going to call her mother because I’m sure that’s who’s responsible for her, um, values, so I just told her to keep her intolerant bullshit out of my class.” He pauses again to take a tissue from the box on the desk, and wipes his hands. “I also asked her to write a paper on the cultural impact of influential black leaders throughout history for tomorrow.”

“Very American History X of you,” Monique chuckles, and Harry feels the hole in his stomach shrink just a bit as it rings through the warm office. He’s craving more than a single cigarette at this point; one for each of the tissues in the box, one for each of the toes he’s going to chop off with a dull blade once he gets home. “I think you handled a sticky situation with a lot of grace, though I’m curious as to why Mrs. Zesiger said you were inappropriate with her daughter.”

“I wasn’t inappropriate. I mean, I didn’t hide the fact that I was beyond angry, but I didn’t even move from my desk. I just spoke to her alone before the bell rang for second period, I promise.”

She hums, and lets a moment of silence hang between them. “I believe that, Harry.”

“So,” he starts chewing on his lip again when Monique leans back in her chair, keeping her gaze locked to his. “What happens?”

“Would you like it if Lianna was transf-”

“Yes.”

He’s keen on leaving as soon as possible, dizzy from the candle’s scent and the downward slope of an exhausting day, and the tips of his toes are absolutely numb. He’s going to get cramps on the treadmill later if he doesn’t stop, but every time he tries, it feels like he’s going to erupt if he doesn’t continue. Then again, who knows if he’ll make it to the gym? He might just end up at Birdy’s to commemorate the end of his two-year dream before texting Niall with his desired epitaph, and digging himself into a failure-sized grave.

He’s already thinking of what he’ll bequeath to Rhiannon when Monique hums again. As she quickly turns, Harry carefully watches her write something on a ‘World’s Best Grandma’ notepad. “I’ll email you with details tomorrow after lunch. Her mother asked for a conference, and I imagine that’s going to take up most of my morning. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

Harry pushes his curls back as his defeated sigh mixes with Monique’s chuckle. “I guess so, though I know of a four-letter word that’s much more accurate.”

“I’m sure it’s gonna come in handy when I tell her I’m suspending Lianna,” she says, sounding more amused than she should at his referring to Mrs. Whoever as a cunt. “I’ll make sure she turns in her assignment before she leaves, though, no worries.”

“You’re going to...” Harry doesn’t finish his sentence so he can exhale the last of the tension in his stomach away.

He’s just realized that she’s not firing him.

Lianna’s getting a suspension, and that’s fantastic—fuck her, and fuck her mum—but Monique’s not firing him. He’s not being humiliated in front of all his colleagues, and she’s still his boss, and he’s still on payroll, and he’s not being asked to pack up his classroom, and he’s not sobbing hysterically over an expensive pint, and he’s still got a job.

He can’t help but grin to himself, even though what happened this morning is still fresh in his heart; he hasn’t seen Angelo since he fumed out of first period. Still, he lets himself smile.

He’s needlessly thankful that Monique feels just as strongly about the situation—though, most likely stronger than Harry. After all, he’s a white guy in his mid-twenties, but she’s a black woman in her sixties. At that, his heart flickers with a bit of hurt for her, too, because he knows that the trouble pink-hair’s caused isn’t the first time she’s experienced something like this.

“She needs to learn her lesson, and I’m going to make damn sure she does. Before you go, though, I want to ask you about Angelo.”

His toes stop, and he’s feeling all the pain in his joints run up into his stomach. “He defended himself, y’know. I mean, I feel like shit for not standing up f-”

“Harry, my love, you can’t be everyone’s savior,” Monique says as she clicks her pen and sets it down on her notepad. “How’s he doing? Has he mentioned anything about Leo?”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s much more talkative lately—not that he wasn’t before, but he’s branching out loads more than he did last year. All he talks about these days is art history, so he hasn’t mentioned his family. Well, except for, like, his grandmother.”

“Miss Marceline,” Monique sighs, her cheekbones popping as her smile reaches her eyes. “My mother was her best friend, you know.”

“Yeah?” Harry chuckles, thinking to the magnitude of the world, and how small he is within it. It’s been a long fucking day.

“That’s why I’ve always kept in touch with her, even after I married Jed and moved to Ocala. Is she okay?”

“She’s making him a costume for the carnival.”

“She’s a beast with a sewing machine,” she says, letting a pleasant silence hang between them before she thanks him for his time. “I still have to talk to him about this because Lianna’s mother insisted he was responsible, but he’s a good kid, so I’m pretty sure everything’s going to line up.”

“I’m sorry about this... mess,” Harry tells her, pressing his briefcase to the front of his jumper as he pushes the armchair toward the desk.

Monique stands to walk around the desk, and she pulls him in for an awkward, yet warm hug that Harry doesn’t quite return. The gesture’s still comforting, even though her head only reaches the space between the swallows she doesn’t know are on his chest. After he pulls away, and is already halfway down the carpeted corridor when he remembers the email that landed him in Monique’s office. He turns on his heel and pops back in.

“Did you forget something, Harry?”

He feels the soggy tissue he never let go of still in his hand, so he tosses it into the bin by the door, and clears his throat. “I’m not a pedophile.”

Monique’s sharp face brightens with a loud laugh. “Honey, the things I’ve heard in the halls give me more reason to worry about your students than I do about you.”

Harry laughs as he leaves the office, and he makes sure to give Mrs. Tomkins the easy, genuine smile she deserves; he no longer feels like he’s going to collapse. He might, however, explode if he doesn’t smoke a cigarette in the next five minutes. He’s pulling one out of his briefcase when he sees the person he’s been waiting to see all day.

He wants nothing more than to wrap Angelo in a giant hug the way Monique’s just done with him, but he stops himself and chooses to call him over from the water fountain by the cafeteria instead. He’s already been stupidly accused of being a pedo today, which is one too many a time for him.

“Styles,” Angelo breathes when he walks over. He’s hesitant, holding tight to the straps of his backpack instead of bumping fists, or shaking his hand.

“Give me your number.”

Angelo’s brows furrow with a dull chuckle. “Why?”

“So that the next time you run out of my class, or you need anything, you can talk to me.”

“I just needed to be alone,” Angelo admits, choosing to look down at the tile under his white trainers. Harry tucks his cigarette behind his ear and places a hand on Angelo’s shoulder; he’s pleased when he doesn’t shrug it off. “I’ve never been called... you know.”

Fuck it, he thinks, and wraps his arm around Angelo to bring him close. Harry mumbles an apology into Angelo’s hair, waiving any nerves about their friendship.

“It’s not your fault,” Angelo tells him, returning the hug with a loose hold around Harry’s waist. “I wanted to be alone.”

“’S alright. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone—ever. At least, not while I’m here.”

“Okay,” Angelo concedes, and he pulls away to dig his mobile out of his pocket. He’s sending a text to the number Harry’s reciting when he shakes his head. “I’m sorry ab-”

“Please don’t apologize. I’m sorry for letting it get out of hand, and for doing a shit job of defending you, and-”

“Are you crying, dude?”

“Christ,” Harry wipes at both of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, though he’s pretty sure he’s not crying and just looks as exhausted as he feels. “It’s just that... What happened this morning was a fucking shame, but I don’t want you to think that I was okay with it. I’m not, and pink-hair—”

“—Lianna—”

“—whatever. She’s out of my class for the rest of the year."

Angelo blinks as a daze washes over his face. Then, he breathes out a pshh, and a tiny smirk creeps up his lips; Harry hopes it’s not the first time he’s let himself smile all day, but it’s understandable if he hasn’t.

He sees his younger self in Angelo, and he’s starting to feel even more grateful for and protective of him. Maybe Monique was right to put Harry in charge of him, though he’s never going to reveal that bit to Angelo.

“Like, I know you’re not cool with that—you’re my favorite for a reason, you know?”

“Tell you what, I’ll let you get away with flattery today,” Harry slowly shakes his head. Their hands clap with a goodbye, like always, but before Harry can exit the hallway, he stops and whistles to get Angelo’s attention again.

“What’s up?” He keeps his hand on the door handle when he looks at Harry.

Harry’s back to toying with the cigarette between his fingers. “I think you should be Apollo, anyway. God of knowledge suits you.”

“You think Miss Robinson would want to be my Artemis?”

Harry lets out his first authentic, happy laugh in a long time, and he’s unexpectedly and unbelievably happy that it’s because of Angelo. He shakes his head and pushes the hallway door open with his knee.

“I think you’re a bit ambitious ‘bout that one. Besides, they were twins."

“Oh, gross,” Angelo grimaces for a moment before it becomes a sunny laugh of his own. “See you tomorrow, Styles."

The moment Harry steps out into the car park by building C, and the flame of his white lighter whizzes through the cigarette between his lips, is breathtaking to say the least. His spine straightens, his stomach tightens, and his eyes roll so far into his head that he can literally see the nicotine and dopamine in his brain crashing against each other in a way that’s slightly erotic.

Or, it’s intensely satisfying—as are the five others he indulges in between the bus stops, the bodega by the park, and the flat. He doesn’t go to the gym because he reckons his toes would fall off, and his lungs would collapse, and he just doesn’t fucking feel like it.

He doesn’t lesson plan, either, because it appears that Layla may be repaying him with more than just iced coffees; he’s finally ahead of his Euro classes, though only by a single lecture.

Instead, he listens to Niall play him the stuff he’s been working on after the pasta they have for dinner, while Rhiannon sits contently on his shoulder. Warmth flutters through Harry every time she purrs in his ear and he, eventually, lets her yank at his ponytail without complaint to make up for pissing her off.

He’d detailed his talk with Monique as soon as he walked into the flat, and immediately confirmed that he was still a dependable source of income. It made Niall happy enough leap off the couch and kiss him straight on the lips, but it sent Rhiannon into a fit at their feet.
Niall reminded her (and Harry) that rent needs to be paid by Friday, but Rhiannon’s never been a fan of others being affectionate with Harry, and she made that clear by exacting revenge on his bare calves while he washed the dishes. It hurt, and he tried to calm her by telling her that Uncle Niall’s not a bad kisser, and she had to deal with it.

“Reckon Anna would have me head, too, if you told her I did that.”

Rhiannon’s claws in his hair are better than her claws on his skin, he thinks, though Anna’s claws on Niall would be much funnier.



He’s out on the balcony during a rainstorm around half two in the morning, because Daisy and Niall have practically forced him out for a cigarette, when he remembers that he hasn’t checked his phone in a while. He lost track of it sometime between a tender ode to nipple tassels and a bowl of strawberries, and forgot it existed after Daisy showed up after work. They were midway through Citizen Kane when Harry fell asleep on the couch.

He tries to ignore the whimpering coming from Niall’s room as he makes his way back in, a lit cigarette still between his lips, and he finally spots the pink case wedged in between the couch cushions. When he pulls it out and lowers the brightness because it’s just near blinding in the dark flat, he sees his battery’s nearly gone, and that he has messages to tend to. Back outside he goes so he doesn’t stink up the entire flat.

Layla: Any update on the status of your hope? :)

Harry slides the door shut while he takes a handless drag, shaking his head at Layla’s text. At eight, she hadn’t forgotten what he’s still pretending he never said.

Still your coworker :) See you same time tomorrow... today... when the sun’s out?

He’s not even surprised that she mentioned it, or surprised that she remembered, but he is surprised that he’d received a message from Angelo in the time he was phoneless. There’s a flash of lightning when Harry opens it.

Angelo Williams: I forgot to tell you that I got an A on that geometry quiz I ws studying for last week and that I found a song called mrs. Robinson by these two dudes that look like nerds. It’s pretty dope tho I feel like miss Robinson would like it. She’s kinda zen.

Harry rolls his eyes after typing out a ‘Garfunkel’s the nerd. Simon’s cool.’

Anna’s Facebook message about the book of poems she’s reading remind him that they haven’t made plans to hang out again; she’s working all week, and he’s got a lot on his plate, anyway. Lesson planning with Layla is proving to be a challenge because he underestimated the amount of work she’s been burdened with, workouts are going to have to spill into the weekend, and he has to go for happy hour on Thursday even though he’s pretty sure he’ll be broke after paying rent; he did promise Danny he’d go.

21:34 Anna Blanco sent an attachment—I like it so far but it’s a lil emo sometimes. How was ur day? :3

Too long, he replies.

Even though he didn’t get fired, Harry’s still feeling a funny energy coming from his chest, cold in the vastness of his funk. He scoffs when he notices his hands are still clammy as he attempts to light another cigarette, but a buzz from his phone startles him and it drops it onto his lap. His eyes bug out and he tucks the cigarette behind his ear when he sees the message Louis’ just sent to the group chat the five ‘ladz’ are in.

Louis and his girlfriend, Cara, are having relationship issues. Up until now, right now—Harry’s almost-three in the morning and Louis’ almost-nine—it’s been a big mystery, and Harry’s been somewhat (secretly) content about it because he doesn’t feel like he’s the only one dealing with a mental impasse.

Yet, the picture Harry can’t stop looking at makes him feel like his chest is caving in for a heavy ocean wave to flood his insides. He lets it fill him and bubble up through his eyes, though they’re happy tears despite the hole Louis’ left him in alone.

Liam Payne: Oi oiiiii !

Z: MASHALLAH XXXXXXX

It reminds him of the time he and Ginny stayed up all night, backs pressed to the floor, on the rooftop of the building they shared a flat in during the last five months of their year-long relationship. Her period was very late, and Harry was very unfit to be a parent—still is, and will most likely be forever.

Why he didn’t think to suggest Cara was pregnant before, considering he thought Ginny was going to break up with him when she had that pregnancy scare years ago (he’d do that months later after finding out exactly why she’d been so distant throughout it), is now entirely ridiculous.

The last time Harry felt this type of dread was when that happened, and while he’s not madly in love with a sharp and lively whirlwind of a woman anymore, and there’s no grief in his heart, it’s eerily similar.

He wipes his cheeks, reaches behind his ear, and finally lights the second-to-last cigarette from the pack he bought in the morning. He’s mindlessly pressing on his knuckles with his damp thumbs, mind is too preoccupied to answer Louis, and staring out at the rain past the railing between long drags.

Last time—that time—everything was escaping his grasp when he didn’t want it to. He was on the verge of losing his sanity because all he saw when he closed his eyes were ghosts of his past with Ginny, though she slept soundly beside him. Now—this time—he wants for nothing, yet he’s back on the verge of losing his sanity even though he still has his job and is better off sleeping next to plump little Rhiannon.

He could have Anna curled up on the empty side of the mattress flat on his bedroom floor... unless she has a cat allergy, in which case he could be beside Anna in some random motel because there’s no way in hell he’s fucking her in her childhood bedroom, and he’d never kick Rhiannon out of bed.

He thinks to the last time he slept with Ginny, and how he’d murmured loving praises she didn’t deserve in her ear. Then, to the last girl he slept with—Irina—and how he felt numb after she let him cum on her chest. Then, he closes his eyes and leans against the wall, remembering the way Anna dragged him by the collar with her back against the Uber’s door.

Her swollen, wine-stained mouth held his sore lips just the right way, and he sighed when her tongue caught his because it had been a long time since he’d kissed someone just because.

He knows he didn’t kiss her back just because, but he thinks that maybe it wasn’t just because he wants to fuck her. He tries pinpoint it, think it could’ve been the wine, and can’t help but wonder if Danny, and Gemma, and Niall, and Daisy, and his mum are right to think he’s missing a relationship.

“Niall!”

Harry jolts out of his sleep-deprived haze when he hears a harsh thud follow the shouting inside, and he turns his head a bit too fast. When the static fades, he can make out Rhiannon’s eyes in the dark, behind a sight he’s unfortunately too familiar with.

“We’re having—” Niall visibly trembling as he stops himself, fumbling to pull the sliding door open. The smile on his face is as wide as Harry’s emotional chasm, and it twitches in his chest with the cold air coming from inside the flat. “We’re having a baby!”

Harry just blinks at him.

It’s not that he’s not excited about Louis’ picture and the accompanying “fancy uncles instead of ladz?”—he’s over the moon. He’s just been thinking too hard about big things on very little rest. That doesn’t, however, stop him from pushing against the bottom half of Niall’s bare thigh with all his exhausted might as he literally bounces outside.

“Mate, we’re-”

“I know,” he starts. He runs his achy, sweaty fingers through his greasy hair, careful that the cigarette dangling between them doesn’t singe his curls. “Could you just... would it, y’know, kill you to celebrate without letting your knob fly ‘round like that?”