sold out ▸ larry stylinson

Chapter 2.

153 days until premiere.

[09.14 a.m., Jermyn Street Theatre kitchen]

Harry emptied the coffee pot, and with shaking hands he moved the cup to his mouth, only to flinch when the coffee stung the tip of his tongue.

"You're not supposed to drink it like it's water, you know," a soft voice hinted from the kitchen inlet. Harry put on a smile and turned around, to see Camille leaning with her elbow against the door frame, her hair tied back in a tight knot revealing a fading hickey at the back of her neck. Harry blinked and swallowed another sip.

"What's water? I've only ever heard of coffee," Harry leaned back against the sink watching as Camille opened the fridge. She grabbed two bottles of water and put one down between magazines and dirty plates on the kitchen table.

"That's water," she pointed at the bottle, "and I want you to try it. It's good for you, dehydration and shit," when Harry didn't make an attempt to answer, she continued, "why didn't you come out last night? I thought we all agreed on meeting up."

Harry tapped his finger against the cup, debated on whether he would make up an excuse or not, but ended up with a shrug. Camille unscrewed the cork of her bottle,"Was it because of what happened yesterday at rehearsals?"

Harry cleared his throat and straightened up, his hand gripping harder around the cup, "Wasn't you the one who wanted me to cut back on the drinking? And now when I stayed home for one damned night you've got the nerve to question it? Classy Camille, really."

A cough left Camille, a sip of water ran out the side of her mouth and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand, looking at Harry with widened eyes.

"I was concerned, Harry, that's why I asked," she screwed on the cork, hesitated and then walked away, but turned again, "just so you know, people around here are growing sick of your bitchy attitude when all we've ever done is trying to show you support. If you don't want to let me in, despite the fact you've done coke from my pussy, that's fine, but don't expect the others to tiptoe around you just because you're too proud to tell them what's going on."

Harry looked after her for a long time, holding onto the coffee cup as if it was the only thing keeping him from sinking down to the floor, screaming out in frustration. He knew she was right. He knew he was a nightmare to work with, and that they all questioned Jeffreys decision the give him the main character after his breakdown in the aftermath of their last production. They had doubted him from the very beginning and he had done nothing to prove them wrong, if anything he had given them more reasons not to believe in him.

Even Zayn couldn't conceal his scepticism any more, he could sense it in the way he glanced at him at home when he thought Harry couldn't see. He could sense it in the way he offered to rehearse lines with him after dinner sitting in the living room on opposite sides of the sofa. He could sense it during every night out, where Zayn's eyes were like hawks following his every move to make sure he would be there when the catastrophe hit. Not to be ready to catch him, no, he was there ready to witness the fall and then pick up the pieces Harry could no longer carry. The part of Dorian Gray, the spotlight, his face on the play-card. Zayn had grown tired of standing in some lunatics shadow and Harry had grown sick of pretending he couldn't see it.

He cast a glimpse on the clock hanging above the inlet, groaned and lowered the last of his coffee. Camille's voice still lingering in his mind as he walked out of the kitchen. He did treat her unfair, but he couldn't help the boiling annoyance that grew inside of him every time she tried to crawl under his skin. He didn't want her concern. He wasn't sure he wanted anything from her anymore.