Inked > h.s au {DISCONTINUED}

chapter 9

           “Out of the month and a half I’ve known you, I’ve never been inside your dorm,” Harry notices, climbing onto my bed and spreading his limbs to each corner so his legs come off the end. “This is very comfortable.”

            He hadn’t stopped complaining while we were trudging up the stairs again. Every step he took he would groan, and it almost seemed like he was about to die. Part of me was tempted to throw the wine bottle towards him, but the other part of me was just thankful that he isn’t my goddamn roommate. (But, I would probably trade Piper for anyone, so.)

            “You know what would be way less comfortable but really nice? If you’d make room for me,” I say, rocking back and forth on my feet. Darkness overflows the room and the moonlight hits Harry just right, causing his curls to look silver, and I think that it’s crazy that he was just here a week and a half telling himself ‘to never kiss you again’. And nothing’s changed, really. It’s just that stealing wine from a restaurant really brings two people together.

            Speaking of wine, it’s still in my hand and I’m almost positive that alcohol isn’t allowed in these dorms. “There’s plenty of room on here,” he says, patting a spot next to him so I can lie down. And it’s ridiculous, because he’s skinny but not that skinny. I throw the wine bottle on top of him and he says, “Oh, yeah, right. So, have you got any bottle openers, Goose?”

            I’m lucky that there’s a stereo in our room, because music just makes everything better. (Try listening to Arctic Monkeys while you clean your room. You’re welcome.) I plug my phone into the stereo and my ‘indie rock’ playlist starts playing, and I feel like a proper stereotypical art student. Because, you know. Arctic Monkeys and The Vaccines and all them.

            “Harry, you’re asking the wrong person. I mean, I’m eighteen and absolutely no fun. Like, I don’t even know if I fucking like wine.”

            He hums, putting his hand in his back pocket and searching around. (Later: “You weren’t fingering yourself, were you?” “Lennon! You dirty pervert.”) Even though I can barely see it, his face looks like he’s struck gold and he pulls his hand out. In it is, lo and behold, a corkscrew. “You’ll like wine,” he says. “Like, almost every art student likes wine. Or they drink it. It’s more of an image than a taste, to me,” he says as he opens the bottle.

            “You’re so fake, Styles,” I say, finally sitting down on the bed next to where he lays. “That’s like saying, ‘Yeah, I’m vegetarian, but I’ll eat meat with my friends because they eat meat, too.’”

            As classy as he is, he kicks off his boots and starts drinking straight from the wine bottle. Essence of elegance, I think to myself, smirking.

            “Yeah,” he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and handing me the bottle. “But meat doesn’t give you a buzz.”

            And when the wine hits my lips, I like it. It’s like grape juice, you know, except totally different. He smiles when he sees my reaction, pondering whether or not it’s actually good or if it’s the peer pressure getting to me. “College has started way too many bad habits for me,” I tell him. “Like, it’s only been a month and I’ve picked up smoking and drinking.”

            “You smoke?” Harry says, putting his hand to his heart. “Wow, Lennon. I’ll drink- hell, I’ll drink- but smoke? God bless your lungs.”

            My hand hits his chest in defense, and I almost want to scream when he holds it there. “Oh, please. Says the guy who takes girls on dates involving breaking into his work place.”