Luxury | Harry Styles AU

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐 : 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞.

"Nobody said it would be easy"

TW: MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM/ SELF HARM PRACTICE!!

(If there are any spelling or grammatical errors - no there's not. You are simply hallucinating, you mad, deranged goblin.)

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The large expanse of the Styles property looked like a floral-obsessed, suburban mum's wet dream. 

A large tulle tent stood in the center like an omnipotent figure and wooden chairs drowned in flowers and silk were strewn around it in a seemingly casual manner but Harry knew his mum probably had given the organizer coordinates for each and every object's placement.

He regretted his decision. He did not want to be here in the slightest. He thought he'd play 'dutiful son' and attend the party but he should have known it would be this nauseating. 

His head ached from the amount of pink and white and fucking yellow that was all around him, and he decided another refill of scotch was due.

Just as he began to walk towards the bar set up in the open sunroom he was approached by Anne.

The man sighed.

Ignoring her son's obvious displeasure, she said, "Come with me, H. I have someone to introduce you to."

He clicked his tongue, "Mum-"

"Oh shush. Cmon." She looped an arm with his and dragged him with her with that fake, upper-class smile she always put on during these kinds of social gatherings. Harry thought about how much he despised that she was so good at being a socialite. Then he chastised himself for sounding like a rich, moody teenager who was oh so different. 

She walked them inside the house and stopped in the hallway in front of a couple dressed in hideous, to Harry atleast, matching yellow suits, "Jeremy, Mishti, this is my son Harry. Harry, this is Jeremy Donald and his wife Mishti Rahman. They are your father's partners and our friends."

She spoke to him like he was a child.

"Hello," he extended his hands out that were adorned with raven black rings. He usually had a more colourful range of rings on his hands but he didn't have the heart to wear colours when he was grieving this much. Love wasn't the only emotion the man dramatized, sorrow was one of them too.  "It's nice to meet you."

Anne gave him a side away at his stationary face. 

Sorry mum,  don't feel like fucking smiling.

Ignoring his difference, she enthusiastically asked, "Did you know, Mishti here is a writer!"

"No." He was lying. He knew Mishti Rahman well. He was actually a fan but he was simply in the mood to be the bitchiest fucker out there.

"We-well she is," Anne faltered. "She has 2  books published already. With Penguin nonetheless!"

"That's admirable." 

"Thank you, Harry." The woman replied. Her voice held the elevation of education and old money.

"Of course."

An awkward silence filled the air. Harry reveled in the knowledge. "Well, it was good to talk to you. I'll find the booze now."

This time he offered a tight-lipped smile at the couple who had seemed to have grown rather awkward by his comment and Harry wondered how much shit his mother would give him if he laughed right now. But before he could do so, the pair walked away in silence leaving a horrified Anne behind.