——
"Where's Harry?"
You swear he was in the room a mere second ago. As a matter of fact, you swear he was just standing next to you playing an intense game of ping-pong while wearing only his boxers and socks.
Harry has been childishly ignoring you for the past hour by hitting the hollow plastic ball back and forth with someone from the backstage crew in complete silence. You kept stealing glances at him, hoping his expressive eyes would reveal what was irking him, but he never acknowledged you. Based on pure assumption, he's mad at you. You think he's being a bit dramatic.
"Not sure," answers the crew member with a shrug. "He left without saying anything."
"Great," you reply, sighing in frustration. I'll go looking for him.
You snatch your sweatshirt from the chair in the corner and head out on a mission. Harry can't be too far, but the unfamiliar venue with mazes of hallways and covert doors could make your search quite difficult. Thankfully, plenty of workers with recognizable shirts and lanyards roam around backstage, either pushing equipment carts or having muffled conversations with people through their walkie-talkies.
You politely raise your hand to garner the attention of an older woman casually leaning against the wall. "Excuse me, have you seen Harry Styles anywhere?"
Her hazel eyes narrow suspiciously. "Are you a fan? How did you get back here?"
"No, no," you say quickly with a nervous laugh, taking your specialized lanyard out from the pocket of your jeans and showing it to her. "I'm his girlfriend, and I— well, I sort of lost him."
She walks closer and squints at the laminated card with your name and picture printed. "You lost him?"
Heat prickles up your neck and travels to your cheeks. "Um, he's quiet. Sneaks right past me all the time."
The woman smiles faintly. "I'm sure he does." What the hell is that supposed to mean? "I think I saw him going to the private bathrooms in the back," she adds, hiking her thumb behind her shoulder. "Hey, tell him to stop walking around in his boxers, will ya?"
"Sure thing," you reply distractedly with a nod, not fully comprehending what she said.
After wandering down the brightly lit hallway, you eventually reach the back area of his dressing room. The smooth walls turn into rough, white-painted bricks as the opening of the communal bathroom comes into view. There's still an hour until showtime, and you wonder what Harry could be doing there. Usually, he waits until right before he has to go on stage to get ready.
You find him standing in front of the sink, a plush robe wrapped around his sulking figure as he brushes his teeth with his lucky pink toothbrush. One look at his face tells you he's not in a good mood.
Fights with Harry tend to be over petty things that are easily forgotten the next day. Joining him on tour has caused some lingering stress since what he does, as fun as it appears to be, is still strenuous when unpredictable mishaps can occur at any moment. You can't remember what you said today that is making him blatantly ignore you. Maybe it has something to do with jet lag, or perhaps he's just being stubborn. Either is highly possible.
"Hi," you mutter, looming next to him.
Harry continues brushing his teeth while avoiding eye contact with you. The air smells of spearmint and his potent cologne, but it doesn't bring you the comfort it usually would due to the palpable tension currently clouding the air.
"You're mad at me," you say plainly, drumming your fingers along your thigh.
He leans over the sink and spits out the residual toothpaste, then inhales heavily, almost impatiently, as he picks up his mouthwash. He grants no response and twists open the cap, taking a short swig and swishing it around in his mouth. You rest your hip against the counter and impatiently cross your arms. It doesn't feel nice when he hasn't even so much as spoken a single word to you when you've been in close quarters for the past hour.
Since when has the silent treatment ever solved anything?
"If you're not going to speak to me, I think I'll just go hang out in the tour bus for the night," you say, swallowing down the lump in your throat.
Harry shrugs one shoulder without a care in the world, and you take it as your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You honestly don't have the patience or energy to start a one-sided argument right now, so with a disappointed hum, you begin walking away.
Your feet halt just before you turn the corner. "Have a good show," you mumble with burning sarcasm.
Once you're out of his sight, you curl your fists by your head and grit your teeth, almost letting out a crazed laugh at his ridiculousness. You want to scream. He sometimes acts like such a kid, too arrogant to admit when he's sorry and too selfish to try and mend the issue before it builds into something bigger. It's terrifying to think it could become unfixable.
After five minutes of asking around, you're led to the back parking lot, where the tour buses are lined up. The main one you ride in with Harry is guarded by two security guards. You lift your lanyard without uttering a word, and they immediately open the door.
You stomp up the stairs and throw your belongings onto the couch, trying to not let the simmering anger in your blood turn into an uncontrollable boil. No one else is around, so you shut all the interior lights off and climb into the tiny bunk bed you share with your stupidly stubborn boyfriend. The sheets are still crumpled, and his dirty socks lie by the edge. Everything smells like him, and for once, you wish it didn't.
Exhaustion eventually kicks in, and you drift off to the distant sound of the crowd going wild inside the arena.
——
"Psst."
You jolt awake from the voice right next to your ear. Your hazy brain catches up to consciousness as you grumble a noise of protest. There's no need to open your eyes when you know whose body is causing the dip in the uncomfortable mattress.
A shake is then given to your elbow. You jerk it back and hope he takes the hint.
"Ow, bloody hell!" Harry whispers harshly.
"Go away."
That was a bad idea. Instant regret. Harry responds by rolling on top of you, borderline knocking the air out of your lungs. You tiredly groan and push him off, his body falling next to you in the cramped space of the bunk.
"Seriously, go away," you repeat, putting a pillow between you and him. "Stop sucking up to me and acting like everything's fine."
Harry takes the pillow and flings it somewhere far. "Yeah, well, I don't appreciate you just leaving and not texting me your whereabouts. That scares me."
You roll your eyes. "I told you where I'd be, yet you decided to give me the silent treatment."
He ironically goes silent at the truth.
"And," you continue, kicking his leg under the covers, "I don't appreciate it when you don't speak to me. It hurts."
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, remorse leaking into his apology. I was being an idiot. I can't even remember what I was upset about."
You slowly turn over to face him. "Me neither."
He's freshly showered, the hood from his sweatshirt thrown over his damp hair. His face is slightly rosy from the recent steam, and his lips look remarkably soft in the minimal lighting.
"I hated not seeing you in the crowd," he says quietly, glancing at your mouth. "It's my fault, but still... it wasn't the same without you."
You lean forward and kiss his forehead, making a content hum vibrate in his throat. His legs intertwine with yours as he rubs under his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.
"Please never stop talking to me," you whisper. "Even when you're annoying, I still like to listen to your voice."
Harry smiles fondly and places his palm against yours, admiring the size difference. "You're my favorite person to talk to. Do you know that?"
You feign a gag at his sappy statement, and he laughs before nuzzling his face into your neck and innocently tickling your sides. He eventually stops and wraps his arms around you, planting tender kisses on your exposed skin.
His addictive scent consumes your senses, and you let yourself drown in it until sleep drapes over the both of you like a favorite childhood blanket.
——