Damaged » h. styles au

Chapter 72 - Scarlett

But honestly, if I stop to think about it, doesn’t seem like it. Harry seemed pretty fond of his family, explaining a few of his tattoos to me. Once he lost the ‘love of his life’, he’d told me, he went through some tough times, rebel ones. By the age of eighteen to twenty, he relieved some of his misery in tattoos.

There’s the result.

“The ‘G’ is for Gemma, my sister, and the ‘A’ stands for ‘Anne’, my mum.” He’d pointed out, rubbing the tip of his finger against his shoulders, smiling fondly at each one of the tattoos. “The butterfly and the swallows mean freedom – flying and stuff –, something Meena always believed in, has dragged me into the whole idea as well.”

And I’d just listened, actually paying more attention than I cared to admit.

“These two little crosses here – you might think it’s stupid actually, but I was kind of out of my mind when I got most of my tattoos, so –, I’m a firm God believer, you see, and so was Meena and her little sister, Khaya. That’s why there’s a ‘K’ and an ‘M’ tattooed below the crosses. Because below God, they were the two people I trusted the most. Have always been good with kids, I suppose.”

Harry had actually laughed at the thought, and I couldn’t really see him with another girl who wasn’t Angel, trying to picture a 14-year-old Harry Styles acting as lovely as he does nowadays, but to some other kid who maybe wasn’t a bit like my Angel.

“The ‘might as well’ one is simple, really. Just something she and I usually said to each other for the mere sake of teasing. The other ones inked here,” he’d pointed to his upper arm, and I swear I tried not to stare – much – at his muscles, forcing myself to actually hear him “are just patches of memories. Small useless stories, objects we found together and stupid meanings, things we couldn’t’ve done – that’s why it’s on the ‘things I can’t arm’ –  so I won’t really waste much time on it.”

And then there were so many others. The ones on his ankles, his wrist, the cursive letters spread in many places, random words, drawings, from the smallest to the biggest ones, with no meaning at all – if not the urge he’d felt back them to ink those on his skin – and at the same time, others that held great meanings, and I could even say I’d seen the corner of his eyes prickling with tears whilst explaining those.

The actual thing is, he looked so lost in his own bubble, the part of his life only he had experienced, and I felt a bit bad for being there, crowding his space, when, clearly, I was not part of something he had enjoyed so much. Even after she’d died, he’d still taken his time to make himself the walking reminder of her. Was a bit ridiculous, actually, being there with him, hearing him trusting me enough to let everything out, when I knew I would never make him feel the way that girl had. I was not sure if I was a tad bit mad because I was jealous, or because I had gotten into something that wouldn’t provide me 100% of his heart. Shouldn’t be expecting that, either, but apparently, I was. And just maybe I was mad at myself, too.

And still, there I was, pressed against the back of the couch, his curls tickling the exposed skin of my neck, his breathing giddy and yet calm, his arms beneath the touch of my fingertips, because since a few hours ago I couldn’t exactly stop staring at them. Even being clothed, I could picture the tattoos underneath the denim so clearly I felt like really seeing them, my head going back and forth between their meanings.

So lost in my own mind, I didn’t even realize when he shifted lightly, only being brought back to the living room once he yawned, eyes glued to my face while he shot me a dimpled and sincere smile I couldn’t help but mirror. The dimples an exception, of course. I didn’t have those charming ones. Nor the soft curls clumping over my forehead. Concluding: Harry was rather cute, meanwhile I was-