pyrite (harry styles) [completed]

nineteen.

Summer 2013

                 

"Fuck."

I'd never heard the word sound so pretty, low and throaty from below me.

I'd been standing, perched over him, inspecting the way the tattoo artist expertly shades in the massive rose he was having placed on his left arm.

"You're really sure about this?" I asked, gently giving his hand a squeeze as I watched him wince.

"Little late to turn back now, kitten."

My cheeks warm as he calls me my favorite pet name. In public, no less.

It didn't matter that we were only in the presence of this massive, tatted and gruff tattoo artist, who didn't care at all that he was Harry Styles, but it made my insides feel fuzzy to feel some semblance of being a real couple in front of another human.

Of course I'd spilled to Eleanor, but that was pretty much it. I made her swear on everything that she wouldn't tell, because she was actually the only other soul who knew.

We decided not to tell the boys, or Lou, or Caroline, or anyone on the crew. Since we'd always spent time together, we figured no one would be the wiser. Nothing would really be changing when we all reconvened in Australia. 

As far as fans went, it was the same. Since the most hardcore of the bunch had already identified me, they didn't find it strange that I was accompanying him in Los Angeles while the band was on break. One even surmised I was from there. That made me laugh. If only they knew.

We'd been holed up at the Beverly Wilshire for a few days, and it had been amazing. No one had figured it out yet, miraculously, which I credited with being surrounded by other celebrities. The Emmys were that week and I'd seen half a dozen massive celebrities just on our hotel floor hallway alone.

And we'd ventured out of the Beverly Hills' borders for the first time this afternoon, because Harry was itching for new ink. I felt pretty special, because I'd yet to be present for one of his many, many tattoos.

I liked the idea of him thinking of me whenever he looked down at it, especially in the future when we inevitably took different paths.

"Does it hurt?" I ask, when I see his button rose crinkle up. I hate watching him in pain, even if it is self-inflicted.

"Only a bit," he promises, giving me a brave grin.

I ruffled his hair and tried to distract him. "I've got a surprise for you later."

"What kind of surprise?" he asks, eyes wide. My tactic worked.

"If I told you it wouldn't be a very good one, would it?" I challenged, and he gave a little pout.

"A hint then, please?"

"It has something to do with tomorrow."

His brow furrows as the tattoo artist lets him know he's finally finished, and he lets out a whistle as he checks out the final product.

"Wow, thanks man, it looks better than I imagined!" he graciously shakes the hand of the artist, before turning to me. "What do you think?"

"It looks so good," I smile, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me. I speak before I really even think through my sentence, "I want one too."

"You what?" His shocked version of the word "what" always gets me, since with his accent it sounds there were about eight u's in the word instead, and I giggled.