Art | Harry Styles

16

"A-Alice," she stammers in complete and utter shock. 

"You just gonna stand there?" her best friend challenges with her signature arch of her eyebrow, discarding the suitcase by her side and opening her arms.

"Oh my God," Sophie steps into Alice's embrace, shock and overwhelming happiness preoccupying her senses at that very moment. "How? I thought you couldn't get here- I- the flights are-"

"I know," she chuckles, squeezing Sophie's arms briefly, before grabbing her bag and entering the house, "I couldn't. But your friend, he-"

"What?" Sophie's eyes widen, a soft pang suddenly prominent in her chest. She has a feeling, a gut feeling. But she doesn't believe it to be true just yet. 

"Your friend, Harry." The world stops spinning. "He found my Instagram, dm'd me about how much it would mean to you for me to be here, and offered to pay for the flight."

Sophie swears she must be turning a horrid shade of white. Her blood runs cold, a thick sense of self-hatred pumping through her veins at this very moment. He'd listened. He'd listened to her distraught and did everything in his power to fix it.

"So what's the deal with him, anyway?" her best friend sets her bags down, little hesitation before making herself at home, "he's cute. D'you like him?"

Somewhere between late night and early morning, Harry is sitting on a stool at his kitchen counter. There's a buttered crumpet in his right hand, and a cup of tea in his left.

"You can take the Brit out of Britain.." Gemma trails off, taking a seat on the stool opposite Harry, as he raises an eyebrow.

"What? Missed a good crumpet."

"It's four AM."

"So?" he stuffs the final piece of his crumpet into his mouth.

"So, you're always in bed by 11 at the latest. Having sent yourself an email with the tasks for you to complete the next day."

"Jetlag," he says with a yawn.

"You don't get jetlag," his sister replies simply, "you sleep on planes."

"Shut up," he mumbles.

"What's going on?" Gemma frowns, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand. "Is it a girl? A guy?"

"No," he lies, biting his lip as his eyes dart sideways. A habit he can't seem to break, when it comes to lying. And Gemma's caught it.

"Harry, we tell each other everything."

"Mm," he hums, "just a bit of jetlag."

"Pass me your phone," she says suddenly, and her brother frowns.

"What? Why?"

"Because. Pass me your phone, or you know for a fact I'll rugby-tackle it from you."

Confused, he hands his sister his phone, and she opens it, unlocking it easily. The password is their mother's birthday, so it's hardly difficult. 

"What are you doing?" he groans, resting the side of his head against his hand.

"Okay, so I know for a fact that the only people you follow on Instagram are me, and your favourite bands. So who's Sophie Ashford? You follow her, too."

Harry almost winces at her name, and Gemma raises an eyebrow, clicking on her profile.

"Just over two thousand followers, so she's not a celebrity," Gemma trails off, analysing the profile before scrolling down to view her pictures, sounding surprised, "oh, she's gorgeous."

"Tell me about it," he mumbles, outstretching his hand to take his phone back. His sister hands it back to him, as Harry drains the final drops of tea from his mug.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" his sister presses, and Harry purses his lips.

"S'nothing to tell. You know what m'like," he shrugs in attempts to keep his composure, "I'm a bit of an idiot sometimes." He's never been good at hiding his emotions, and his sudden 'nonchalance' is transparent.

"So you like her."

"No," he sighs, eyes on the floor this time so Gemma can't catch him in a lie, before he puts his mug into the dishwasher, filling the final space in it and turning it on, "she's just a friend."

"But you're upset, Haz-"

"Gemma, please," he says softly, shaking his head. The events of earlier today are still so incredibly fresh in his mind, and he doesn't want to relive the humiliation by sharing it with his sister, "not tonight."

"Okay," she agrees with only slight hesitance, nodding her head slowly, "I'm gonna go to bed."

"Me too," he nods in agreement, running his hands tiredly over his face, before catching sight of his sister's expression, and pinching her chin in his hand, "stop worrying. I'm fine, and it's a waste of time."

"Your rings are cold," she huffs, wrinkling her nose and pulling her face from his grip, "do you sleep in those things?"

"No, I have a diamond encrusted case for each individual ring, each one with a silk interior."

Gemma shakes her head, a small smile on her face, "I'm glad you're home, Haz."

"Mhm," he hums, yanking his sister into a hug, "me too. Now, shut up. Go to bed. My guess is there's more Instagram pictures to be taken tomorrow."

His sister grins, "Goodnight, dickhead."

"I'm telling Mum," he declares, as his sister throws up her middle finger and walks out of the kitchen. The moment she's gone, the smile falls from his face, hoping his joking manner had provided his sister at least a little reassurance about his level of wellbeing. He sinks back into his chair, bottom lip pinched between his forefinger and thumb, as he's left alone with his thoughts - thoughts of anxiety, discontent, and undeniable self-loathing.