Wroetoshaw [sidemen]

More Than Enough

Day 5 of Sydneyxix's 12 Days of Ficmas. Yes I'm very late.

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"What about that one?"

You swallowed the last of your drink, followed Harry's gaze. "Him?"

"Yeah, blue shirt."

"Hm... Yeah, no."

"No? Really?"

"Nope."

"Aren't you picky."

"I'm not, Harry. He's just got on a fucking wedding band."

You watched Harry squint across the expanse of dance floor in front of the two of you, through the dense throng of intoxicated party-goers. Once he'd picked out the guy he'd pointed out to you, he acknowledged the silver ring on his finger that he hadn't seen before and his bright blue eyes widened. "Mad."

"It isn't, really. We're the only people at this party who are shit at love."

Harry snorted, handed you his drink when he realized your cup was empty. You accepted it gratefully. "No way. Simon's around here somewhere."

"Simon pulled a girl and is off with her somewhere, actually. Witnessed it with my own eyes."

"No fucking way."

Handing Harry's drink back to him after taking a sip, you asked rhetorically, "Would I lie to you, Harry?" You both knew the answer was no; although Harry wasn't your closest friend, he was a good one–one you usually ended up hanging out with on nights like these. He was sincere and light-hearted, funny and reliable. There was nothing about him that you didn't like, didn't trust. And if it hadn't been for the fact that you'd known he'd be there, too, you wouldn't have agreed to attend this party in the first place.

Harry took a swig of his drink after you had, scanned the crowd again. "Right. What about blondie over there? Gray shirt. Would you date him?"

You tilted your head as you watched him in consideration, and ended up sliding the smallest bit closer to Harry on the love seat the two of you occupied. You blamed your buzz on your gracelessness, your closeness to him. "Don't know about that. Not really my type."

"What's that, then? Your type."

"Just... taller, I guess."

Harry chuckled, a sound so low and full that it sent vibrations throughout your entire body.

The game didn't let up, maybe because your conversations never got old with Harry. They were timeless, like he seemed to be; perpetually youthful and energetic, a refreshing change from the rest of those you've encountered during what few years of "adult" life you've lived thus far.

He asked, "Skinny jeans?"

You said, "Too old."

"Blazer boy, three o'clock," he proposed.

"Seems rude," you told him.

"What about the ginger?"

"That one?"

"Mm."

"No. He can't dance for shit."

Harry stalled at this, head turning to you as he paused in passing his cup back to you. "You've got no right to shit on anyone else's dancing, Y/n."

His grin offended you, settling crookedly upon his face. His lips were red, cheeks were red, face so close that you could smell the alcohol on his breath. Or, maybe, that was yours. You weren't too sure anymore.

"Excuse you." You'd tried to sound snappy, but you were afraid you sounded a bit dumb; intoxication was a bitch, sometimes. "I'm a great-ass dancer, Harry."

Harry's chuckle seemed too loud, too bright. Too close to you. You blinked dazedly, trying to keep your head. "An ass-dancer, yeah? That's funny."

" 'S not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, love. Sucks you can't back it up."

"Like fuck I can."

Harry downed what was left of the cup you'd been passing between you and stacked it with the other empty ones beside him on the couch. Then, almost too quickly for your mind to handle, he was on his feet and tugging at the hem of his dark T-shirt, smoothing it out. "Prove it, then. Up you get. Come dance with me."

After a few seconds' deliberation, you'd placed your hand in his and were standing before him, reciprocating his drunken smirk. "Since when are you the dancing type?" you mused. He dismissed this, turning to lead you onto the dance floor. The crowd unnerved you; everyone was moving far too quickly for your liking, and the room seemed much darker when you were lost in the throng of people. But the sight of Harry's back before you made you feel safe. You called to him over the music, "You're not ready for these moves, my dude."

"Yeah, yeah, less of that," Harry told you, weaving through a final couple of party-goers before spinning around to face you. He pulled you up against his chest, hands dropping to your waist and head dipping low by your ear. His voice only the breath of a whisper, he said, "and more of this."

You can't be too sure what happened, then, aside from the fact that you thoroughly enjoyed yourself. Everything had begun to seem so much bigger. The music was louder, the bass lower, the crowd livelier, your heartbeat faster. Though, what you perceived to be your heartbeat could very well have been Harry's; you hadn't started showing off your moves too close to him, but time only seemed to bring you closer. You were swaying with him by then, bodies pressed completely together, to a song you couldn't really discern, but it was loud and fast and not at all distracting you from the fact that Harry's hands were all over you. And maybe you'd both had too much to drink, and maybe there was a reason that neither of you ever danced at parties, but you loved the way you felt. You loved the way he felt, so close to you, odd lighting illuminating his skin here, leaving shadowy places there. His hands ignited you everywhere they ghosted across your body, only pulled you closer.

And suddenly, you weren't dancing anymore. You were flush up against him in the middle of the dance floor, bodies moving around beside you, but the two of you were still. Except, your world was spinning. Spinning because one of Harry's hands was on your hip and the other on your cheek, holding your face up towards his. He was close again, so so close to you, noses inches apart; so close you could hear his unsteady breaths over the bass, see the bright blue of his eyes through the dark.

Harry tucked his head that much further, that minuscule distance that existed between your lips and his. Lightly, so lightly that his lips felt like feathers as they brushed against yours, he murmured, "Me?"

Your eyes had fallen shut instinctively, and both of your hands were on his back somewhere. "You?" you echoed dumbly. His lips moved against yours again, only just. Your entire body shuddered.

"What about me?" he elaborated, nearly in vain. His hand on your hip shifted up then back down, panicked as he kept himself from you. You blinked, saw odd flashing lights silhouetting Harry's body curled above and all around you. His inquiry ghosted your mouth: "Would you?"

You knew what he was asking, knew what he wanted to hear. One of your hands felt up his back, his neck, found itself in his hair. The music was so loud, Harry's erratic breather louder, your heartbeat loudest. Your entire body was on fire, but you managed, "I thought you'd never ask."

Tugging Harry's head into yours, you kissed him with fervency. You kissed him like you needed him to breathe, to keep you conscious after all you'd had to drink. But Harry himself was intoxicating you, lips sweet and soft and so, so addicting. And maybe you weren't sure whether or not you'd have kissed him sober, but you were sure that you'd been waiting for the proposition. Because as often as the two of you complained about being alone, you had always had each other, and that was more than enough.

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Would love some feedback on this one. Thanks guys xo