(we're a) Fine Line {HS}

XXXIX - New York (part one) - Dressing Room

"Don't bring God into this. He wouldn't like to witness it."

The final couple of hours before the concert, I lean back on the table of our dressing room, as I was standing next it, and face the screen of my phone, helplessly. This can't mean anything good. Someone is doing this on purpose at this point, because it's not possible... What do they want, anyway?

Harry clears his throat, trying to catch my attention somewhere across the room. I was supposed to be ready, by now, that being exactly what he was taking care of himself, and now must be wondering what the hell is on my mind.

"How do I look?" He asks, instead. I glance up, expressionless, to find him standing still with his arms slightly open to exhibit the wide beige trousers he wears, matching with a tight blue shirt tucked into them, and white suspenders pretending to be preventing them from falling down. I still glance back at the text before speaking, doing so as I rewind my actions on the device to lock it and take it out of the way.

"It doesn't really matter what I think or not." I shrug and keep my eyes low, to nowhere in specific, not returning them to him. Even if he looked horrendous - which is difficult, if not impossible -, he'd still have to wear it, having no other choice for the night. So my thoughts are worthless, in this case.

"Outch.." He pronounces with a hint of a question, letting his arms fall and drastically hit his hips in a disappointed move. I close my eyes and bend my head back, hiding my face in my hands and letting out a frustrated sigh. I was nervous already, about the show and it being minutes from finally happening. Now the texts seem to be more persistent than it would be good to admit, and they surely aren't someone just being nice and wishing me the best.

Harry gets closer to me and grazes my arms to softly pull them from my face to make me look at him. But I still say "No, I'll just go." and manage to get away from him, determined to go get ready, once and for all, in the other little room attached to this one, where our clothes hang.

I'm feeling so stressed to the point that I feel like not even Harry's affection would put me at ease, and I can't stand pretend everything is okay just so I don't get him worried. But was literally rejecting him the best way of precisely not get him worried?

What the hell am I thinking?! Poor him, must be incredulously staring after me, trying to understand what he did of so wrong that I completely devalued an opportunity to complement his stunning looks and to be loved by him. Of course, now I feel even worst then before and I start feeling a pressure on my face.

I open the door of that room again, slowly, and stand at it only with the wide blue jeans and my bra on, the tight beige top remaining to be held by my hands and looked down by my gaze. My eyes get wet because of the pressure, before Harry could even take in that I really do need him, actually.

I start to walk slowly towards him leaning on the same spot as I was before, sniffing at my busy nose. I lift my blurry gaze to see him side glancing at me with his hands on the pockets of his trousers as if he's nearly giving importance to my existence. Still slowly and embarrassed, I take my arms under his to hug his torso, and I sob against his chest, expressing ones and another equivalent reason for my sorrow, "My shirt doesn't fit me."

He eventually hugs my shoulders too, sighing and pretending to be playing difficult.

"That's impossible. You tried it yesterday and it did." He says lowly and, as I don't answer, he lets out another sigh and makes a move to take the shirt from my hands. I let go of him too, understanding that's what he pretends. Then, he starts putting it on me, or helping me do it, to then show me I, somehow, was the incompetent one, all along.