Harry Styles, the star of London's Jermyn Street Theatre. The main part as Dorian Grey now his to do with what he knows best; to act, but there's not a single script in the world that can teach you how to be someone else when you can't even stand to...
Harry woke with a grunt, and with a killer hangover, he realised as he blinked his eyes open. Blimey, he thought as he placed a hand over his head, he wasn't even sure how he got home last night.
There had been Gin & Tonics and at the end of the evening, the tonic had turned to mere gin. There had been dancing, laughing and flirting,...Had he been flirting with Louis? Did they-? He snapped his head to the other side of the bed and exhaled in relief. It wasn't Louis laying there next to him. That wouldn't have been good for anyone.
As he looked at the blonde man he remembered more dancing, and more gin, and himself stumbling around searching for someone. Louis popped up on his cornea once again, Louis and his oversized black hoodie with sleeves so long his hands disappeared inside them. God, Harry had been flirting with him, hadn't he? He gave out another grunt. Why couldn't he keep his hands to himself? Why did he have to be such an embarrassment all the time?
The man next to him turned around, facing away from Harry as he exhaled a long breath. Harry was quite certain his name was Tom, but just quite. Unsure if he was supposed to wake him up or not, he reached for his phone.
There was one missed call from Sarah and one from Liam, and then there was a text from an unsaved number. He frowned and opened it.
07.45
Not dead
Was the only thing it said and Harry smiled in realisation. He had been searching all over the place for Louis. Of course, and he had been nowhere to be found, so Harry grabbed a cab back home with Tom and then it all went a little blurry again. He eyed the time and pushed himself out of bed. He was supposed to be at work within thirty minutes, but first, he would need to take care of the crippling hangover. He buried his face in his hands before stroking them downwards over his neck and-
What was that? He traced his finger backwards over his throat, put light pressure on the spot underneath his jaw. Felt the heat when blood rushed to his cheeks as he circulated his finger over the spot. He debated with himself whether he should go to the bathroom to give it a proper look in the mirror as his finger still lingered over the lump. Why hadn't he ever felt it before? Or had he felt it but now it had grown bigger? The skin underneath his finger grew sore from the pressure but he couldn't stop touching it. He inhaled a lung full of air, felt the dizziness threatening as he sat himself down on the bed, forcing himself to move his hand, but it was too late. He had felt it and now he couldn't think of anything else. Not about the fact that he was running late for work or the fact that he's nightly companion rolled around as he woke up.
The only thing on his mind was this lump. This lump that he knew would be the end of him, the sickness that would spread in his body like poison. It would eat the last of his strength, it would feast on his body until he was no more than a person slowly fading away in a white gown of death in a hospital bed that smelled like his worst nightmare. He was dying. He knew he was and what's the point to do anything when you already know you're doomed? He laid himself down, pressing his arms against his chest as he felt the tears well up in his eyes. He buried his face down into the pillow and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed but it didn't help.
