{Kate's Point of View}
The numbers on the doors of the hotel rooms got higher as I went down the corridor. I carried the key card issued to me by the front desk when I arrived. To my surprise, my name was already added to Harry's reservation. According to the young woman working the front desk, Harry had called down and added my name to his reservation when he checked in. Apparently the open invitation I had discovered with security at the stadium was never just for One Direction events, but for any moment with Harry. I was given a key and told the room was located on the twelfth floor. As I walked, I watched for room 1216. At the end of the corridor, I found it.
I could hear my heartbeat everywhere. It was so loud that it had to be coming from the sky because a thunderous, deafening beat couldn't possibly be coming from my chest. I was undeniably nervous. The last time I had seen Harry, I had abandoned him in the rain after he made the effort to fly to my home and comfort me when I was upset over my grandfather's health. I just prayed Harry wouldn't show me the same indecency after I flew halfway around the world to comfort him.
The key slipped into the lock and the small light flashed green. The lock on the door audibly clicked and the handle turned down easily. I entered the hotel room and immediately wanted to turn and escape back to the corridor, to the street, to the airport, and back to London. The room was smaller than most suites the boys stayed in. The space was a mess; shoes and clothes were tossed haphazardly around coating the floor and furniture in Saint Laurent. There was a faint pungent odor that made me cringe. I thought the room was vacant until I saw Harry lying in the bed.
Careful not to trip over one of his boots, I approached Harry's bed. His bedside table was loaded with untouched plates of food, glasses of water, and bottles of medications. His hair was matted from sleep. The back of his grey t-shirt was damp between his shoulder blades from sweat. His breathing was shallow in his sleep. I stopped at the foot of his bed and resisted the urge to pull open the curtains and take in the nighttime view of the city and surrounding water down below. I looked over at his sleeping frame. He was there, but he wasn't there.
Harry's sleep was fitful. He lay on his side, but shifted his legs around repeatedly. His hands clenched and unclenched periodically in a strange rhythm. His brow creased in tension. His lips formed a tight line as if he were restraining himself from crying out. I wondered what was plaguing him, torturing him. I wondered how long his sleep had been this way. I wondered if it was because his body was hurting or if his heart was hurting.
After several long minutes of watching Harry's body fighting him, I reached out. I touched Harry's upper arm and watched his hardened face relax. His fists unclenched and the crease in his brow disappeared. I turned on the bedside lamp and saw just how pale his face appeared in the light. His eyes blinked once, twice, three times. Finally, he saw me. Harry allowed his lips to twitch at the ends enough to form a small smile for me. "An angel," he whispered, shifting from his side to his back.
"No," I said too harshly. "It's just me."
"Are you really here?" Harry rubbed his tired eyes.
I touched my favorite tattoo on his arm, the anatomical heart. His skin was too warm and a thin layer of sweat was sticking to him. "I really am."
Our eyes stared into each other for a few silent seconds. Sensations poured from one person to the other. I could feel his energy, his goodness, just as strongly as ever. The connection that I assumed to be dismembered was instantly restored. It was as if I could feel his emotions and he could feel mine. For the first time in a long time, I felt the desire to kiss him.
"Come here," he ordered. I stepped closer to the bed. "No, come here."
"Up there?"
"Yes."
I slipped out of my shoes and climbed onto the bed beside Harry. Instead of lying against the pillows, I sat right beside his body. I couldn't stop myself from pushing the hair out of his face. When my hand came in contact with his cheek, he nuzzled his face into my hand. Every block I had put up to protect myself from him was breaking down and it required little effort from Harry.
"All right, love?"
I smiled. "How are you?"
"A bit under the weather."
"Harry," I chuckled. "How did you let yourself get so ill? Why didn't you see a doctor?"
"The flu isn't what has me, Kate. You know that."
The way he said my name sent shivers down my spine. My name was never a word escaping him. It was always a word that he savored on his tongue and said with all the intrigue and curiosity of a person using a word for the first time. When he said my name, I could hear him tasting it on his lips.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the flu isn't the only thing hurting me."
All at once, Harry threw back the duvet and was on his feet. I sat in confusion as he rushed to the bathroom. He reached behind him to shut the bathroom door, but he didn't push hard enough. The door slowly moved to the doorframe, but lost momentum and started backward. Through the gap, I saw Harry kneel before the toilet and retch.
My own squeamishness vanished as I pushed myself off the bed and hurried to the bathroom. I could hear Harry spitting into the toilet. I froze in the doorway, unable to walk any further into the bathroom. Before I could do anything else, Harry stood up and flushed the toilet, eliminating all evidence of his sick. I turned and walked back to the bed and took my place. I didn't want to embarrass him by having him know I had watched. I heard the sink run for a moment, then the tap turned off. Harry hobbled back into the bedroom and got back in bed.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
"Fine. It happens." His voice was sharper now.
"Can I get you anything?"
"No."
"You should really drink some water. You're probably dehydrated."
"I said no. Please," he begged.
"Okay. But later, you will drink some water." I tried to keep my tone playful, but he only nodded solemnly.
I gingerly got off the bed and walked to the large windows that were covered by thick curtains. I pushed the curtain back and looked down at the grid of lights that burst through the darkness forming the outline of a city. Lights sparkled off the water on the other side a line of buildings. Skyscrapers formed a tower of floating lights through illuminated windows. Cars dotted the ground below. Even from our high floor, I could see hundreds of fans assembled on the pavement outside the hotel. There were even faint cheers coming from them.
"Your fans are relentless," I smiled over my shoulder to Harry who was watching me intently. "They are so dedicated."
"They are."
"It must feel like you're never alone."
"Opposite, actually."
"Oh?"
"It's funny," he said in a tone so serious it had no room for humor, "I see thousands of people a day, and yet I feel so alone. The only person I want to see is you."
"Me?"
"You."
"Even after...everything?"
"Even after everything."
My heart sang. I felt lighter on my feet. The question I had been asking myself for months was whether or not Harry even loved me to begin with. Now, in fewer words, he had admitted to wanting me. Despite the drama of our breakup, Harry still wanted me. I turned back to the window so he wouldn't see my smile.
"Is that so unbelievable?" he asked.
"A little," I whispered.
I had been adamant about letting Harry go. I didn't want either of us to feel an attachment any longer. As much as I loved hearing that he still wanted me, I knew I couldn't want him.
"I want to take you into the city. It would be a nightmare with all our fans downstairs. Louis told me he and Niall went out and it required police escorting them as well as a decoy car. There are barriers out to keep fans away from regular pedestrians. It's madness. If it weren't for all of that, I'd take you out."
"If it weren't for your flu, I wouldn't even be here," I reminded him coldly.
Harry paused a moment. He was clearly taken aback by my response. "You're right. You wouldn't be here."
"Could you at least try to eat something?"
"No," he snapped. "And if you're here to be my mother, you can get back on a plane and go home. I don't need that."
It was my turn to be taken aback. I stared in disbelief at Harry. He looked small and desperate against the bed with his sunken eyes and pale face, but his words had been as lively and vicious as ever. "I'm sorry, Harry. Really, I am. That wasn't my intention. I'm here for you."
"I'm sorry, too."
The air was still and awkward after the outburst. I closed the curtains shrouding us in darkness again with just the soft glow of one bedside lamp. I looked over at Harry and noticed the sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.
"Are you warm?"
"Burning alive," he sighed.
I found the temperature control dial on the wall. I readjusted the temperature to a much lower degree. The air conditioning unit attached to the wall below the window turned on with a soft hum. Cool air instantly fed through the vents. It was instant relief.
In the bathroom, I stared at the marble bathtub and shower. The bathroom was nearly half the size of the living space of the hotel room. Everything was perfectly clean and smelled vaguely of lemon cleaning product. I found two washcloths on the marble countertop and wet one of them in the sink with cold water. I squeezed out the excess water and folded the cloth neatly.
"Here," I whispered to Harry. He had closed his eyes. I laid the wet cloth across his forehead to cool him down. He had begun sweating profusely from his fever. "How's this?"
"Much better," he whispered. "Get back on the bed with me, please."
I did as I was told. I took my place sitting beside Harry and watched him carefully as he took slow, steady breaths. After a few minutes, his breathing got so shallow I assumed he had fallen back asleep. He looked angelic. Though it was clear he was feeling unwell, he was just as beautiful as I always remembered seeing him. He had the natural physical allure that made me feel fortunate just to be able to look at him.
Unable to restrain myself, I reached forward to feel his cheek to gauge his temperature. As my fingertips gingerly swept across his cheek, his hand reached up and caught mine. Eyes still closed, Harry pulled my hand to his lips and began pressing soft kisses to each of my fingers. His touch was feather-light. I could barely feel his lips as he brushed them against me, but I could certainly feel the effect he was having on my heart.
"Harry," I whispered.
"Your fingers are so cold," he whispered back.
"I turned the temperature in the room down to make you more comfortable," I responded.
"I have a hoodie in the chair over by the window. Please put it on."
I found the hoodie draped over the back of a nearby armchair. I slipped the hoodie over my head and pulled it securely around me. The hoodie was plain black with the inside soft from plenty of wear. It smelled like Harry, irresistible.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much." Just as I was about to get back on the bed, I looked at the chair one last time. A piece of framed artwork was resting in the chair. It was so out of place, I stopped to stare at the work. "What's this?"
"What?"
I lifted up the frame and examined the displayed image. It looked nonrepresentational; whatever shape was being depicted was hidden under messy, bold lines. Deep violet and indigo and cerulean soared across the background. Accents of yellow-gold and chocolate brown were incorporated. The shapes were mostly vertical. The image was high-intensity and alive. It was as if the colors were crawling across the background. It was the kind of art that evoked emotions.
"Oh, my artist friend George Piper sent that over. Remember when we went to his gallery opening?"
"Yes," I said quietly. I couldn't tear my eyes from the piece. It was so expressive and passionate.
"Notice how untidy the lines and things are?" Harry sounded like he was in pain.
"Oh," I finally understood.
"George, apparently, is no longer sober."
I could vividly remember going to the art show with Harry and perusing George Piper's work. The first section of the gallery displayed his work when he was drunk. Battling alcoholism, George's work was best described as disorganized and impulsive. His images were hidden under rogue lines and vibrant, unworldly colors. The second section of artwork was pieces George had completed while sober. Every image was clearly identifiable with subdued hues and soft lines. It was obvious the image he had sent Harry was completed while inebriated.
"What is it supposed to be?" I squinted hard at the work.
"You and me," Harry said through gritted teeth. He was certainly in pain. "George sent it to me while I was in Jakarta. Apparently, he got drunk and passed out in an alley in Paris. He had a dream about us. I guess he drew us as we appeared in the dream. But you know how his work looks when he's drunk, love."
"Did you tell him we're—" ...not together anymore?
"No," Harry shook his head.
I put the framed image back on the chair and got back on the bed. The irony of the situation was not lost on me. George had worked hard to have his life complete, and then circumstances that were unclear had caused him to lose it all. That was something I could identify with regarding my relationship with Harry.
"Could you turn the light out?" Harry whispered.
"Yes," I whispered back. I reached over the turned the bedside lamp off. The room fell into nearly complete blackness. The messiness of the suite was hidden entirely from my eyes. Harry's sickly body disappeared. For a split second, things felt normal again.
"I really appreciate you coming here. I'm sure you didn't want to, but thank you. It means a great deal to me." He whispered every word. It was as if everything being shared between us was some important secret. I had missed the intimacy of whispering with him. I liked the exclusivity it gave us.
"You should get some rest," I urged.
The air conditioning unit hummed from across the room. Harry's breathing slowed as he drifted into a comforting sleep. The sounds of Hong Kong taunted me from twelve stories below. It was the first time since leaving London I was able to process what I was doing. I had flown halfway around the world to help someone who I was intentionally trying to steer out of my life. I was lying in a bed beside my ex-boyfriend. Doing the right thing was supposed to feel good, so why did all of this feel so wrong?
____________
Hours on the bedside alarm clock ticked by and sleep evaded me. I stayed wide-eyed in the darkness sorting my thoughts uselessly. One moment, I was in love. The next moment, I was not. The harmless boy bedside me was destroying me. My heart was heavy and the burden didn't feel lighter by being with Harry and didn't feel lighter with the thought of leaving.
Just as I was about to get up to find my phone, Harry stirred. He let out a long groan as he pushed the thin sheet off his body. Through the darkness, I heard him let out an involuntary whine. His pain was definitely back. I made to find the lamp to provide light, but Harry was already climbing out of bed.
"Harry?"
I got the light on and watched as Harry got up and rushed from the bed to the bathroom. He didn't even bother turning on the bathroom light or attempting to shut the door. My legs worked faster than my brain as I followed him to the bathroom. Some light from the bedroom area had washed into the bathroom and I could see Harry kneeling before the toilet. His hands were clamped down on either side of the bowl.
"Harry?"
His body buckled and shuddered and retched then repeated. I was at his side in an instant. He coughed hard and gagged. I reached down and gathered his sweaty hair with my hand. The haunting sound of sick splashing into the toilet made me raise my eyes to the ceiling. The veins in his neck strained against his skin. For a moment, he was silent. His body calmed, muscles relaxing in waves.
"You're okay," I said quietly. "I'm here."
Suddenly, his body tensed again. Harry retched again; more sick projected from his mouth. Dry heaves made him arch his back and his stomach clenched. He coughed again. I silently begged for mercy for him. At last, he reached up and flushed the hot sick away. Mustering up all his strength from his weakened body, Harry lifted himself and staggered to the sink. He cupped his hands and sipped water before spitting it out. He uncapped a bottle of mouthwash and took a mouthful, swished, spat, and brushed past me back to the bed.
"How do you feel?" I climbed back onto the bed.
"Better," he croaked, voice scratchy and irritated from vomiting.
"Can I get you anything?"
"No, love."
I sat cross-legged at Harry's side. He looked fragile in the muted light. He closed his eyes and breathed through parted lips slow, jagged breaths. The chest of his t-shirt was damp from sweat. I wanted to take all his pain away.
"I'm sorry you're so sick," I mumbled. "I feel so bad."
"It will pass," he said plainly.
"You're so hot," I felt his forehead. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his face.
"Not right now, I'm not. But when I get dressed up, I look pretty good."
"You may be sick, but you're still funny," I giggled.
"But not funny in the sick way," he amended.
He winced and sucked in a breath. I watched as a small tension line formed between his eyebrows. It was a line I had seen dozens of times when he sang. The line appeared when Harry reached a long note. I nearly smiled at the sight of it.
"Okay?" I whispered.
"Not really," he admitted.
My heart broke under the pressure of his words and his pain. Slowly, I reached out and lifted the hem of his t-shirt. I slipped my hand underneath the fabric. His skin was searing hot and velvety smooth. My fingers were cold from the room temperature. I watched Harry wince in reaction to my cold hands. The line on his forehead deepened. I pulled my hand away.
"No," he whispered. Harry put his hand over mine. The fabric of his shirt separated our skin.
"Sure?"
"Yes."
I rubbed his stomach up and down. I could feel the muscles flexing and relaxing as pain stung him. I had read somewhere that a person could rub pain away. I wanted to provide relief to Harry. I wanted him to be well. So I carefully rubbed shapes along his stomach. I kept going until the tension line smoothed out and he started relaxing.
"Don't stop," Harry whined.
"Is it helping?"
"It feels good."
My hand kept moving long after Harry had fallen back asleep, long after my hand went numb, long after the city began to quiet. If it made Harry feel better, I would do it.