hate & other words || h.s au

five

"You're a terrible driver."

"You're a terrible passenger."

"You're going to get us killed."

After everything that I've done for him today (I practically carried him from the men's bathroom to his car, for God's sake), I can't believe he has the audacity to criticise my driving skill. I drive my mum, who can be very fussy at times, a lot and not once has she ever complained about my driving -- that's all the confirmation I need to know that I'm a good driver. Harry is just saying that to rile me up. Well, jokes on him because I'm going to be the bigger person this time and keep my mouth shut even though I have plenty of insults on the tip of my tongue. Besides, I ought to be nice to a sick person even though I just told him a few minutes ago that I don't think he has a heart.

Which leads me to another problem: "You really think I don't have a heart?"

"Oh here we go again." I mutter, loud enough only for me to hear.

Harry has asked me that question three times in the last fifteen minutes and each time I tell him that yes, I do think he doesn't have a heart, I'd earn a frown from him. Not an angry frown. More like a 'how could you say that' frown.

I've known Harry for twenty-three years and it blows my mind how it takes me this long to find out that he has a sensitive side. I thought he's just a purely mean person -- the hurtful comments he constantly makes about my lack of soul mate and how I'm meant to be alone for the rest of my life are some of the reasons why I thought he doesn't have a heart.

I would've never thought that underneath the tough exterior he displays and the nasty remarks he spews, he's actually soft. Looks like he can kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll, if you will -- that's how I'll describe Harry from here on out.

"Since when do you care about what I think of you?"

From my periphery, I can see Harry shifting in his seat, wincing with each move he makes, no doubt wishing that he's in bed instead and not in his car. I know from experience that when you're sick and when your muscle and joint ache you'd only feel comfortable when you're in bed, under the duvet. Harry's eyes are closed and it seems like he's counting his breaths. For a moment, I worry that he might vomit soon and vomit, he does, but he vomits words.

He shrugs. "Forever, I guess."

I look at him, brows furrowing at the odd sentiment. I didn't think he'd give me that answer. Healthy Harry would say something along this line: there's no bloody way I care about what you think, Cleopatra or you're mad if you think I care about what you think.

So there's only one explanation to his response:

He's delirious. He must be because he wouldn't be saying that if he weren't. Harry Styles does not care what I think of him. My opinions mean nothing to him – he's made that clear several times before.

Unlike him, I care about what other people think of me a little too much. I'm not proud of that particular trait of mine. Teaching myself to not be bothered by everyone's opinion is a work-in-progress for me.

"You should've turned right," he tells me, snapping me out of my thoughts, his voice scratchier than it was back in the bowling alley.

"Damn it," I curse under my breath as I glance at the side view mirror, sighing when I see the right turn I've definitely just missed. Turning to Harry, I exclaim, "You should've told me a few seconds ago!"

"I thought you knew where you're going," he counters weakly.

After missing the turn that would've saved us about five minutes, Harry navigates me to his place even though I can tell that it takes everything in him to keep his eyes opened. He wants nothing more than to sleep, I bet, and I want nothing more than to go home. As it is, I don't think I can leave him alone like this (no, I've not gone soft on him) especially after seeing him struggling to climb out of his car after I've parked in his empty parking space.