the favor (A Harry Styles fanfic)

2/ old leather and tears

Harry's POV:

I remain frozen in my spot, the girl still standing in front of me. Her shoulders shake as she continues to wail on, her face hidden inside of her tiny palms. I don't know whether to ask her what's wrong, or get the hell out of here. I probably should; it's been ten minutes now and she seems to only be getting progressively getting worse.

I decide to man up and pull the lit cigarette bud from my lips. I let it fall to the poorly carpeted floor, and allow the toe of my boot to exhaust the flame. The girl doesn't seem to notice as I follow her and allow my butt to hit the floor, my torso propped against the wall of the closest. Music is still blasting outside, but it's dulled some-what from the thin sheetrock. I cross my wrists and fold my fingers into fists.

She is hiccuping into her palm.

What the hell is wrong with her?

"Is something bothering-"

"Yes." The girl, (I think she said her name was Mandy?), announced and I gulp. Is she going to tell me-

"This whole night has been one giant disaster."

Guess that answers that question...

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know? I don't even like drinking, let alone parties in general, and yet here I am, wandering around a frat house with all this loud music practically causing my eardrums to explode, without even having dinner. I don't like skipping meals. It gives me stomach pains. And I hate alcohol. I really hate alcohol."

Then why are you here? I feel like asking Mandy. All frat parties entail are alcohol, smoking, and sex. If what she is saying is true, shouldn't she be smart enough to not be anywhere near this house?

But I restrain myself. I don't want to push this girl any further than she already is right now. Girls and crying have never been a welcoming sight to me, and God only knows if she starts crying even more, I won't know how to react. The closest thing I've got to comforting anyone was petting my cat after he ran head first into the stairs back at home. Animals are one thing, but I don't do well with sad people, even my family. My mum and I were never close. I don't have any problems were her, we just don't connect. The same goes with my step-dad. Robin is a nice guy, and an excellent husband to my mum, but I just can't seem to relate to him. He likes fishing and Madonna, where as I enjoy reading and The Rolling Stones. It's not as if we're complete opposites, (we both share a love for cooking, as does my mom), but we are different enough to not be able to keep up a normal conversation. Life at home was always me up in my room while the lovely couple enjoyed wine and Desperate Housewives reruns.

I just don't fit in.

And clearly either does this chick.

"Why am I even here? Why did I rush this sorority? I hate sororities! All the overpriced clothes and the tight dresses and the perfume; I could kill myself with how much they wear sometimes. I mean, is one squirt really that big of a deal? They put like, thirty something squirts on! I feel like I'm walking through the fragrance section in Bloomingdales! If it weren't for my family being in this sorority and having to pass on the family legacy and what-not, I'd still be in my dorm, watching Doctor Who on Netflix and enjoying a quiet, peaceful Saturday night. This is not fun. This is torture." Her glossy eyes move down to her feet.

"These are torture. I mean, who wears these things? Aren't high heels the leading cause of back problems in women? Why sacrifice health for a few seconds of beauty? What's so wrong with Converse and jeans?"

I can't argue; I wear the same thing. The boots have been more of my go-to lately, but I still pull out the Chucks sometimes. They're just more comfortable.