Tease [Larry]

Seven

Harry swears, having a mental illness is kind of like having a drug addiction. The highs are high, but the lows are low.

He's awarded with a sudden burst of energy in the morning, one that makes him want to go out for a run and make breakfast for the entire family. Though, as he isn't typically a fan of physical exertion, and hasn't cooked a day in his life, he settles for giving his old piano teacher a phone call.

When he thinks about it, he wants the reason to be because he misses it, misses the music he makes and the people he used to play for. If he's being honest, he desires to call Tamica Sawyers because the guilt nearly becomes crippling. It nips away at his skin at the most random of times, like yesterday when he'd sat down at the library to indulge in a book he'd been recommended by Niall, or when he lounges on the couch and ends up spending too many hours watching Addam's Family. In many ways, it's his subconscious, trying to make up for some of the mess he's accountable for creating in his life.

Whatever. Harry's already on the road to recovery if he's started to realize he can't blame all of his misfortunes on other people. Or at least that's what he's been telling himself.

It's a new feeling; the way his body craves productivity for the first time in forever. He paces like a man with claustrophobia, breathing, thinking. His room's probably too small, and his feet far too large, but none of that matters as he quickly side steps the box of VCR tapes at the foot of his bed, kicks the football to the far corner of the room, and nudges a towering pile of laundry to the side.

The phone rings for ages. His spirit dampens and he almost hangs up, but he holds on to the remnants of any hope he has and doesn't let go. He needs this.

Just as he thinks he's about to be sent to voicemail, Tamica's frail voice perks up, boisterous enough to be heard over the brouhaha of tuning instruments. "Thank you for calling Tamica's Piano Shop!" she chirps. "How may I help you?"

It's as if he's been right hooked. The wind is knocked straight out of him, and suddenly this is all one big, impulsive, stupid idea. His hands won't stop fidgeting at his sides, and with great fear, Harry remembers the look on Tamica's face when he'd mentioned taking a break from music. She had to have been absolutely gutted when he stopped returning her phone calls. When he'd stopped showing up all together.

"Tamica," he greets solemnly. "This is Harry. Harry Styles."

The line goes dead silent for a moment. There's no more plucking guitar strings, or whistling saxophones. The lighthearted energy from before is wiped like a clean slate. "Wow. It's been a long time since I've heard from you, boy."

"I had some things going on."

Tamica's quiet again, but Harry knows she's probably rolling her eyes at him. "I'm sure you did. Boy."

His stomach falls to his ass. "C'mon, Mrs. Sawyers. Don't be like that."

"Now I'm Mrs. Sawyers? You have a lot of explaining to do."

"I promise to explain everything to you in person if you allow me to come back to my lessons." He continues pacing, damn near tripping over the box of VCR's because goddamit, it must be in his blood; the unforgiving, irate desire to fuck up anything and everything of substance in his life.

"You know you'll always be welcomed here, Harry. But you also know that I only have so many slots for my pianists." The onslaught of music continues.  "We just got a new student in about a month ago, all the way from The States. She's filled my last available slot for this year."

Harry knows he hasn't been strong these past couple of years. He knows he's only a few bad moves away from withering. But when he'd woken up this morning, taking up the entire space of his bed, basking in the fresh air from his slightly ajar window, he'd thought he'd be ready to handle the rejection. Thought he'd do himself well by grabbing a bull by its horns.