anobrain // narry au

jeans

And Louis's right. With a quick glance at the clock above one of the kitchen counters, time was beginning to run out for us. This interim minute -- shared together with the three of us, is our most infinite. The youngest we'll ever be. Today, on this Saturday morning.

"You're right," Harry agrees. He not only takes his bowl of milk but mine too. Mumbling a thank you for not only fixing him a quick bowl of breakfast, but for letting him stay over last night.

Just as swift I shrug him off. It wouldn't be the last time -- a sleepover between two best friends. "See you back here after work?" he questions. And he says exactly what I was just thinking.

All the same, I nod. Humming deeply. "Yeah, sure. Remember if you get here before me—"

"—The key is hidden underneath the green plant by the left of the entrance door," Harry cuts me off, groaning, as I tell him this for the nth time. Then, he rolls his eyes dramatically. "I know. I know."

I smile, beckoning Louis to exit before the two of us are late for work. It wouldn't be a first for Louis with his unintentional tardiness. They usually say inherited traits are difficult to diminish—tardiness has always been Louis's.

"Bye Styles!" Louis departs before me. Calling a temporary farewell over his shoulder. To in which Harry shouts a coherently mocking 'Bye, Tomlinson' responsively after. Then we're both leaving through the front door to a not so punk rock Punk Rock, an unpopulated café where we both work at.

It rests in the heart of Manchester. Beside an overcrowded store in between an expensive, small boutique shop. Not many civilians enter Punk Rock but the cafe has several to a few loyal consumers that make a daily appearance. Then Punk Rock has the occasional customers with forgotten faces, but overall they're all people.

People -- with the abrupt or habitual craving of decaf coffee. Ice coffee. Hot coffee. Small to rare French and Italian well known pastries, and the custom English goods. Some like to sit and some love to stand. Sometimes on their laptops and some like to daze off into an alternate world.

I follow the familiar path, a path of nothing but concrete. Concrete and stones with the simplicities of shrubs as Louis and I move closer and closer to our destination while sharing brief conversations that transition from one topic to another swiftly. All the same it's nothing but warmth and comfortability. Two positive words I habitually feel around my group of friends, and some associates.

Automatically, I think of Dylan, I and Louis's coworker. Also known as the owner's son of Punk Rock. But there's no 'special treatment' or whatever people refer to it as nowadays. He works the same four or eight hours we all do and he slaves behind a stovetop to bake the pastries boss lays out for consumers — Dylan's treated equally; No matter his label.

And he's standing there on his mobile behind the counter. The counter that's not only calling my name, but Louis's as well. The entrance/departure bell rings out when the door opens with great force causing Dylan to look up. A fond smile brushes the curvature of his lips, tugging up an amiable smile as Dylan politely waves when we edge closer to him then behind the counter with him.

Louis playfully shoves Dylan. A mocking, growing smile plays onto Louis's own lips. "Morning dildo," he utters a second time whilst I frown judgementally at him. But Dylan only laughs. Loudly at that: guffawing through his nose --.

"Dildo?" he clarifies, glancing over to me. Confusingly, I shrug with a similar concerned look that Dylan's sporting. He laughs at my reaction. "Today is going to be a long and tiresome day."

And, indeed, it is.

TIRED FEET, OR IN this case mine drag along the pavement leading towards my home with the only thought of sleep. It echoes through the depths of my mind and permanently etches itself into my brain. With relief I'm glad that I've reached the doorstep of my home, swift to unlock the front door.

Just as instant, I'm met with the image of Harry lying comfortably upon my couch in the lounge once I pass the threshold. He's in nothing but one of my black T-shirts and his briefs. Cladded tightly around his thick pale thighs. It's only brief that I glance at him, then I'm met with the bright accustomed smile that has always belonged to Harry.

"Hey," he whispers faintly, beckoning me over towards him with a curve of his index finger.

Silently I oblige. Beginning to remove my converse before walking towards the couch. Nearly collapsing upon it but instead, I land on Harry. Miserably he grunts, nonetheless he makes no attempt to remove me.

Innocently I look up to meet Harry's eyes, flashing him an amiable smile, "Hello."

"The Wizard of Oz is on," Harry says and if I can dramatically describe the increase of my heartbeat at the mention of the American film, I'd compare it to a catalyst in an equilibrium reaction. A topic taught in Chemistry.

The fond memory of my childhood hits me, and it hits me hard, deep. I think of when I was around eleven or twelve and Harry had nearly forced me to watch the colourful movie at his house for one of our best friend, best friend sleepovers. I descriptively remember resisting to watch the movie. Although, I never had an option to begin with.

That evening, Harry made me watch The Wizard of Oz thrice. And I've loved it ever since. And ever since that evening, it became one of our favourite films.

"Did you hear me, Niall? I said The Wizard of Oz is on," Harry repeats himself. I've heard him the first time, but my focus is narrowed in on Dorothy and Toto walking along the yellow brick road. Intentionally ignoring the raspy voice belonging to Harry.

I shush him, placing my index over my lips immaturely. "The Wizard of Oz is on," I hiss. "Be quiet."

Harry laughs but his hands lift defensively. "Alright, alright. I'll be quiet. Keep your pants on."

Playfully I shove him and Harry laughs loudly. His nose crinkles up and his eyes brighten like a child opening presents on Christmas or on their birthday. Then, unsurprisingly, I smile along too. Content with Harry's positiveness since the mishap of weekly movie night yesterday.

From its external, it looks as if the thought doesn't brush past Harry. Nor does it look to cross his mind, and I'm grateful for that.

-

-

-

-

I can't believe I've gotten this far because I'm so damn lazy and I'm always procrastinating. So this is an aspiring accomplishment for a melodramatic fatigued teenage writer.