Harry spends exactly five minutes in Heathrow before he has to go back outside to take a breath.
It’s an unfamiliar kind of overload, this ever-moving mass of people, sounds, smells, thousands and thousands of them in a space that shouldn’t fit them all. It’s a dramatic change from the small towns and villages where Harry’s spent the last months, and the air feels like sludge, heavy in his lungs.
“Mr Styles,” Peter says, arms crossed and looking around warily. “I can get an attendant to take us through, there’s no need to actually walk through—“
“No,” Harry shakes his head. He runs his hands through his hair once, twice, three times, until it’s hanging loose by the sides of his face. It makes him feel safer.
That worries him – he does go out on stage in front of thousands for a living, after all – but there are more pressing matters at hand. Namely, getting on the plane.
“Are you sure?” Peter asks, clearly disapproving of Harry’s genius plan (commercial flight, no extra security). “I can at least get you a lounge while I drop off the luggage?”
Harry, mildly nauseous, smiles at him. “I feel better now,” he lies. “Let’s go, we don’t want to miss it.”
Peter nods, but the frown stays on his face all the way to their gate.
It’s a strange feeling, leaving England. It has a way of getting under your skin, despite the mild weather and terrible rain. Harry gets a little choked up looking at a Dairy Milk display.
“Everything okay?” Peter asks him, with a patient hand on his elbow. Harry shakes himself.
“I’m fine,” he replies, and turns away from the chocolate. It’s not like he’s never coming back, especially not if his mum has anything to say about it. “Just feel a bit—weird, like I’m forgetting something.”
Peter frowns, and counts their carry-ons just in case. It makes Harry smile, but it’s not the kind of forgetting he’s talking about – it’s more like leaving the house and having to go back because you’re convinced you didn’t lock the front door, like that nagging feeling you get halfway through a journey that there must be something crucial that you’re missing.
There isn’t, and Harry knows this. He packed every last possession he had, because he wasn’t going to leave any of him behind in Louis’s house, and the divorce papers should be safe in the hands of the lawyer Louis recommended (whose name, apparently, is Phil, and who sounded absolutely lovely when they spoke on the phone). Niall’s sorted everything on the LA end – he’s got an attendant waiting for him at LAX, and a car. He’s texted mum that he’s safely at the airport, and he successfully managed to contain his excitement and not text Marcus, because he wants this to be a surprise. Everything is fine.
“I’m sure Louis will let you know if you’ve left anything behind,” Peter points out, shouldering people to the side as he leads the way.
Louis gets a first name, apparently, no stiff Mr Tomlinson. Harry sighs.
The runway is windy when they’re led out, and patchy with the rain that’s starting to fall. Harry squints against it, following the black shadows of Peter’s heels up the stairs and into the plane.
He settles in to sleep as soon as he’s in his pod. Peter wishes him goodnight, even as he sits ramrod straight and scans every single passenger that passes. He looks like a gopher guarding the entrance to its tunnel, and Harry tells him as much, which makes him laugh.
Mum texts him just before he turns on airplane mode, a picture of Dusty sitting on the windowsill in the kitchen. Already looking for you, she’s written, with one of the tongue out emojis that make Harry intensely uncomfortable.
YOU ARE READING
Got The Sunshine On My Shoulders || larry stylinson
Fanfiction© hattalove on ao3 Five years ago, Harry Styles left his tiny hometown to make it big as a recording artist. He didn't have much regard for what he left behind - A life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone. Now, Harry h...
