Reign || Harry Styles

22: Suave

Drunk In Love was still playing. Why is it still playing? thought Harry. Long fingers massaging his throbbing temple, even though he knew it was pretty fruitless. Either the playlist came full circle, or he was just imagining it.

He had no fucking idea.

The place seemed more crowded than he remembered it to be. But maybe he was just used to the low hum of the CNN weather forecast and the seductive sound of Jean's voice in his ears. Unlike the hotel room, unfortunately, this venue seemed to be spinning.

Harry did not like the spinning. Not one bit. So in came a mild regret in the back of his head, telling him that he shouldn't have left the comfort of the hotel room in exchange for this pandemonium.

And he shouldn't have had that extra shot of vodka along the way.

Okay, extra shots.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" inquired Zayn, tone on the verge of belligerence, when he caught glimpse of the curly-haired lad and further decided to charge towards him. "Elsie, Perrie and I have been fucking looking for you!"

Harry was caught off-guard. Not because of Zayn's words, but of his belligerence. "I-I . . . Nothing is wrong with you—I mean—me. Nothing's wrong with me. Everything's fine with me," he stammered, trying to sound like everything around him was not spinning, spinning and spinning.

"Where were you?" demanded Zayn, but then he thought about his question again and . . . well, it wouldn't be much use if he knew where Harry had been, either. His friend was acting very peculiar this time, he thought. But he decided not to bring it up. "Elsie was worried sick about you. Like, turned pale and all."

Harry tried to imagine that. Elsie Waters. Blonde hair, blue eyes.

But the only thing he could see was Jean Franco. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Plump red lips. Ivory skin. Breath-taking beauty. A symmetry of perfection. Sex, sex, sex.

"Went out for air," said Harry, placing a hand on his friends' shoulder—like he meant it as a friendly gesture. But really, he was just looking for a steady grip so he wouldn't fall over. "You know I don't like these places, Zayn. These places make me feel . . . clau—" the pounding in his head intensified, "—clau . . . stro . . ." He tried pronouncing the word, he really did. But his mind was a haphazard tumult of images and words and noises and—why is that goddamn song still fucking playing?

"Claustro . . . phobic?" questioned the suave-looking man whose shoulders Harry was gripping, one eyebrow raised. Hazel eyes narrowed, studying the curly lad intently, his brain whizzing so fast Harry could almost hear it buzz.

There was a smile painting Harry's lips, and he slurred, "You know me so well, bro."

And as he looked upon the wary expression on Zayn's face, he thought, those eyelashes are so fucking long Jesus who the hell has eyes so bronze and mysterious like that fuck me, Zayn. Fuck me.

As Harry's mind continued to ramble about how painfully attractive this guy standing right in front of him were, Zayn threw his arms in the air, angry (he did not know why Zayn was angry, but fuck, that guy was fucking attractive). "But you could have told me that you were going out to find fresh air!" shouted Zayn, but all that the drunk boy could hear was muffled voices decorated with this exotic accent and sex, sex, sex.

"Where's Elsie?" demanded Harry, avoiding the topic of his sudden runaway, his eyes roaming around wildly.

Zayn itched the back of his head, flustered. "She's . . . she's at the bar. With Perrie," he answered. Then, in his mind, everything started to click. The curly boy's unsteadiness, how his head seemed to be gravitated towards the ground, and his usual green eyes . . . damn those eyes, they were fucking bloodshot. As the pieces started to gather in his head, he said, "Jesus, Styles, are you drunk?"

Harry had an automatic answer for that question—a package consisting of a vigorous head shake and a short, "No."

"How many drinks have you had?"

"Not drunk," he slurred, combing back his unruly mess of curly hair with his fingers. "Not drunk."

Oh, he was definitely drunk.

The raven-haired lad (that suave motherfucker) observed Harry intently, from top to bottom. He then let out an exasperated sigh and said, "C'mon, mate. I've known you for quite some time now, seen you drunk and seen you sober." A pause. "How many drinks?"

Now it was the tall boy's turn to let out a sigh. A long, defeated sigh. "Dunno. Six? Nine? Dunno." His head darted from corner to corner in search for his girlfriend. But his head was spinning. And he felt himself gradually losing his balance. "You know, Zayn, why the fuck are you still with that Perrie chick?" he slurred. "Even her name rhymes with fairy. Fucking lame. I can fuck you better."

Zayn scrunched his nose, rolled his eyes, and stated, "But your name rhymes with fairy too."

"No . . ," said Harry, dragging on the word. "My name rhymes with sexy." A flirty smirk began to creep onto his face. "Harry. Sexy. See how that works?"

Zayn, on the other hand, looked genuinely concerned. "Styles, find Elsie. Go home. She's tired, and you look like you are, too," he advised.

Tired? Well, yes, Harry did feel a little tired.

He did not feel it before, but now the fatigue was real. So real it felt like it was dragging his body down to the underworld, straight to hell. He wanted to thank Zayn for reminding him that he was tired, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he covered it with his hand. The spinning was real, like his fatigue. Endlessly spinning, however, could result in the projection of stomach acid—and he did not intend to vomit all over the suave motherfucker that day.

Zayn, on the other hand, examined his friend's drunken state worriedly (and slightly horrified at Harry's gay tendency, but he had seen it before, so he was not that surprised). Once the nausea passed, Harry looked him in the eye, gave his shoulder a slight squeeze, and then nodded subtly. "I owe you, dude," he said, even though he owed Zayn nothing.

As the Chesire boy was about to walk away, he felt Zayn's hands enclosed around his lower arm tightly, pulling him back. "Wait, Haz," said the half-Pakistani, his hazel-rimmed eyes scouring intently into Harry's. "Uh, you . . . you know you can always, like, tell me when something's not going so smooth, yeah?"

Harry swallowed. He had no idea what came out of the suave motherfucker's mouth, because the only thing that the drunk boy could hear was muffled voices laced with this husky exotic accent and sex, sex, sex.

Zayn's eyes were still fixated on him. "Elsie's a sensitive one. Last week, she called me—completely out of the blue—and asked if you might be lying to her," he recounted. "M'not trying to assume things, but . . . try . . . try not to hurt her, okay?"

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, concentrating. Muffled voices, exotic accent, sex, sex, sex. "What d'you mean?"

"No, no. M'not . . . m'not saying that you're, like, hurting her or anything. Let me rephrase that. Elsie could get highly senstive at times—you know that—but she, like, detects an inch's distance, whether it's because of your work, photography club, or your studies, she'll assume it has something to do with your relationship," explained Zayn. "She told that to Perrie, by the way. I-I . . . uh." He itched the nape of his neck. "I, uh . . . eavesdropped. Like. Accidentally. Girl talk . . . y'know, stuff like that."

Harry smirked profusely and placed his hand on the raven-haired lad's shoulder. "I have no idea what the fuck you just said." He shook his head repeatedly. "I'm so straight, Zayn." The room spun, he looked to the ground to steady himself. "But you make me question my choices in life."

Hearing that, the British-Pakistani exhaled a sigh, generally very confused, only realising that it was rather pointless to tell his best friend about this fragile topic while he was in his drunkest, most intoxicated state. "Y'know what, Haz? Go home. Drink lots of water. I'll talk to you about it again when you're, like, less drunk or something."