12ᵀᴴ CHAPTER
“Those who can forget the past are way ahead of the rest of us”
Sometimes it feels mutual.
But he doesn’t mean to hate his family, is not sure he actually does, really. It’s just that. Zayn had called plenty of times during the time Harry had been at the clinic (obviously none of those calls had been returned, but he’d tried, at the least). Zayn’d always been the best of friends and flatmates Harry could’ve ever found, up until the day he gave Harry out to his parents and fucked up the endless days which came next. And yet, he called. Every night around eight, when Harry knew was the time he was back from the gallery he worked at, where they both had worked at ever since they managed it once college was over.
They hadn’t the same classes together, hadn’t even studied the same thing, but ended up sharing a room nonetheless, which lead to what Harry thought to be a friendship for life.
He can still hear the audience laughing at him somewhere, funny thing.
But Zayn had pretended, is the point. He had called ceaselessly for two entire years until he apparently moved out, whereas Harry’s mother had called twenty times, if much. Gemma had maybe tried a bit more, but gave up soon after, and his stepdad wasn’t that much close to him to even try to push it. His actual father hadn’t bothered even before rehab, so that bit wasn’t a surprise to him at the least.
So. He doesn’t want to hate his family, but it feels stupid trying to sympathise with people who apparently don’t give two shits about his existence. He’s not a teenager at high school anymore, he doesn’t need to humiliate himself to get someone’s attention, he’s way past it. Same blood is nearly not enough of a reason to do so.
He stares at the phone in his hands.
“Not enough technology yet to dial by itself,” Leesha slumps down on the chair next to Harry, settling his plate on the table and sliding it in front of him. “Here’s your toast, I just burned it a little.”
Harry jostles into consciousness suddenly, only because of the smell of butter and fresh toast, also cold, probable old-dated coffee. He doesn’t really bug Elisha ‘bout it, since he’s getting breakfast for free in the kitchen of a café. He’s probably not even allowed in here, she’s too nice to him.
“Sorry?” he frowns at her lazily, head barely tilted to the side as he tries to catch her previous words. It’s no use.
“The phone, Harry. You’ve been staring at it for the past ten minutes as if it’s going to eat you alive. You okay?”
She has sheer concern adorning her features, something he hasn’t seen for a while, so he tries to smile at her to put her at ease. It’s useless, too. He can’t even manage a grimace.
“’ve gotta ring my family,” he mumbles half-heartedly, looking back at the phone and staring some more.
“So?” Leesh dares, biting her own burnt toast, leaning forward on the table with her feet folded under her bum on the chair, her fingers gripping the pitcher with juice Harry had refused a couple of minutes ago.
“They don’t like me,” he admits, not daring to look at her. He hears a soft ‘oh’, though, followed by thick silence and uncomfortable shuffling.
“Why’re you ringing them, then?” she questions quietly, not looking back at Harry either, probably because she feels like intruding into something personal. Harry likes her, definitely.
“I suppose they’re with the stuff I owned before rehab. At least Zayn told me he’d hand them back to my mother. Dunno if he’s done that.”
Elisha nods coyly, mouth full, and doesn’t speak for a while. Harry’s not stupid. The night previous he could practically hear the questions she had to ask him, but didn’t. He felt the tension that followed them ‘till their thresholds, the feeling that something should’ve been kept to himself.
But he really didn’t feel like hiding it all, just like he didn’t feel like letting it all go. At once. He didn’t expect to make her so uncomfortable, either, but apparently that’s what it’s turned into. Maybe she doesn’t care about other people’s stories, maybe she doesn’t know how to deal with the information. Or maybe Harry simply makes her uncomfortable. She probably thinks he’s some sort of delinquent, anyway.
“Who’s Zayn?” her voice echoes around for a while before it dissipates, subdued by the cracking sound of chewed toast.
“My old flatmate.” My best friend, he thinks. Only thinks. It’s not true enough to be voiced, however.
Harry doesn’t want to talk it about it, if he’s honest. Elisha seems to notice, gladly, as she says nothing else for the next fifteen minutes.
The morning is just fine. Not all-too-warm, but not cold, either. Sun had threatened to brighten a few hours ago, but had been covered by some clouds and more rain seems to be coming around. There’s this chilly breeze circling the kitchen, but it’s not enough to erupt goosebumps on their skins.
“It’s about time to go,” Harry stands up, fingers curled around the glass before placing it carefully into the sink and opening the tap to let water pour within it. He mirrors the action for the plate. “Thanks for the toast. I should probably pay you, though.”
Elisha doesn’t make a move on her seat, just turns to him and shakes her head. “You’re part of the group now Harry, don’t push it.”
He snorts. “’The group’ didn’t show up for breakfast. I feel like taking advantage of the absence of people in the kitchen.”
“’s too early. They should be here anytime soon, but whatever. See you at lunch?”
Harry doesn’t feel convinced, but nods. “Yeah.”
Before 7am comes, about half an hour away yet, Harry needs to sort things out with a phone. He can’t just ring and hang up right after. Not this time.
Not again.
--
“Harry.” She breathes out, voice seeming to be muffled by something he supposes is her hand. She recognised him, well shit. “Oh God, is it really you?”
He’s choking, metaphorically. Hadn’t really realised how much he’d missed the soothing voice until he’d actually heard it saying his name again. The thing is: it’s no good for him. Being deluded over the love of his life was one thing; his best friend, a completely different other. But his family. That’s the highest of the levels. If he dares to believe they care about him again, just to fall face first onto the floor once more, he’ll be damned.
Family was supposed to be family. Blood runs thicker than water and all that shit.
“Look, mum, I don’t need questions, just my things back. Tell me when to go and pick ‘em up, and that’s all I have to ask.”
There’s an intake of air on the other side, one he knows she does to keep herself from crying or screaming, and he doesn’t know exactly which one she’s verging right now. Chances are she wants to slap him repeatedly, because she’s taught him better and he knows he’s being rather rude. Situation demands it.
“Harry wha- Everything’s still with Zayn. We asked him to keep it since he’s closer to you.” Another break, in which Harry considers hanging up, but she starts talking again. He’s really trying to fight the urge to tell her he’s missed her. “What have you been up to? Did you just leave the clinic? Oh, love, it’s so long since we’ve heard of you last.”
“No,” he answers only the question he feels is convenient, balling his free hand in a fist by his side, tugging stubbornly at the hem of his shirt. He’s not sure she’s going to understand, but it doesn’t matter. “Can you give me Zayn’s new number? I want my stuff back.”
She sighs. “Harry, love-”
“Anne,” he murmurs dryly, fiddling with a pen. “Is he still around London?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Just call him and tell him to meet me at Jackie’s tomorrow at 1pm with everything it’s mine. He’ll know where to go.”
“Can you please tell me what you’re doing? How are you doing? How long have you been out and why did you never call before?” she’s desperate, he knows. But he’d been desperate too, and she hadn’t understood. No one had. She hadn’t cared before, hadn’t cared during hell happened to him, but she wanted to care now. Now that her son is free, no longer an addicted prick. No longer mentally unstable, as they’d stated.
Now that he isn’t there to damage her image, she wants to know.
She shouldn’t bother.
“I said no questions, mum. Just talk to Zayn. Bye.”
The stinging in his chest isn’t really that bad. He can deal with it. He can deal with anything.
--
It’s a bar just the street below his old building, Jackie’s. Not much of an original name to it, which was probably the reason why it didn’t attract many people at first, but with time it became quite popular. Harry and Zayn’s old circle of friends probably had something to do with the sudden popularity that built up nearly a decade ago (9 years, basically. Harry’s feeling old), and since then Jackie’s business only took off.
It’s ridiculous. He’s seen this place growing along with his career, had gotten drunk beyond necessary with Zayn so many times he’d lost count. It was usually their thing, to come over after a long week of finals, or whenever Harry came back from one of his car travels, with just as much new pictures and stories to tell.
They’d grown here. As artists. As friends. As people.
Sand castles, honestly.
Silently, Harry went up to the bar and got himself a beer, sliding down the first empty booth he found. The leather of the seats still smelled terribly of bleach and alcohol, the mixture they always used to clean them up, and also, possibly, rain. He never really understood why, particularly, it’d always smelled rain, until he visited the place underneath daylight, noticed the mould on the walls.
Humidity was everywhere. Still is.
Or maybe it is just him, his memory playing him games. The majority of the days he showed up were rainy ones, when people would open the dark door and make noticeable presence with the cold wind trilling behind them, a wet patch staining the linoleum floor. He remembers the rainy season, when London didn’t seem to get sick of crying over them. Was also the season he and Zayn stayed out of the flat the most, heads full of work and hearts full of sorrow. (Zayn had just gotten through a terrible breakup and Chrissie had just told Harry about the engagement).
The memory sticks. It’s probably why it smells of rain despite the tentative sun outside.
Harry keeps twitching the beer mat between his fingers as he stares distantly at the far wall, his eyes missing the moving frame settling across from him.
“Haz,” Zayn says, voice calm and face serious. He doesn’t seem happy to be here, at all. Most likely he hates Harry, too.
“Zayn,” Harry mirrors his tone, still obliviously playing with the mat in his hand.
“Long time no see, huh?” he tries to enlighten the mood, smiling briefly before taking in Harry’s expression. Okay then. “You never returned my calls,” Zayn states after clearing his throat, still obviously taking the wrong way in the conversation. “I’ve always heard girls gossiping about you, but I thought I was special to you. Rejection sucks, man.”
Harry is seriously having none of it.
“I don’t see you with my stuff, Zayn. I want my stuff, where’re them?”
Zayn sighs, digging the heels of his palm into his eyes and throwing an arm at the back of seat. “Yeah, your mum informed you wanted everything back. She’s also very worried about you, Harry. You disappeared for three years and refused any sort of contact. Everything we’ve heard came from nurses, but then they stopped saying whatever it was because you didn’t want to. What the hell?”
Harry rolls his eyes, brings the beer to his lips and lets the coolness slip down his throat. “Now everyone cares. How nice are y’all, huh? All you need to know is that I’m fine. I’ve always been just fine, but you refused to listen to me. What’ll change now, tell me?” he sighs, staring at the door. “Anyway, I just want my things. Can you please just give them back to me?”
Zayn’s expression barely even flicks, but he straightens his posture, facing Harry with intent. “I could’ve not been in London, y’know? I could’ve moved out to somewhere else and not been able to come down here to attend to your tantrums.”
“Yet here you are,” Harry said slowly, drinking again, as if to imply Zayn’s an idiot.
“It’s not the way you want it to be, Harry. You’ve gotta learn that.”
Harry explodes, landing his hand heavily on the table. “I’ve gotta get my stuff back, is what I gotta do. No morals over me, alright? I do not need your lecturing again, I’ve had enough of it before. Can you just give the damn belongings to its owner and leave me alone or will I have to make a fuss out of it?”
Zayn, controlled as he is, doesn’t flinch. He blinks slowly at his friend, making him actually feel like a proper idiot. Harry has control over himself, of course he does, but people like to test his limits. He’s not asking for advice here, now is he?
“Gee, Styles, I’m gonna give it back to you, okay? I’m not trying to steal anything or whatever. I have a room in my house with just your shit, that’s how much I considerate you,” he rubs his eyes again, tired. “Damn, Harry. Your car is been parked in my garage for ages now, I don’t even dare touching what’s yours. Thought you’d figure that by yourself.”
Harry only feels slightly guilty at that, but he hadn’t implied Zayn stole what’s his. “I didn’t imply you stole what’s mine.”
“You did and you know it. Don’t bullshit me. Now can we proper talk? I miss you, ‘kay?”
Truth is, Harry misses him too. He misses coming home to someone who’ll throw him a beer and listen to his babbling. He misses someone who’ll sort out his existing crisis with deep quotes that make no sense at all, but he still understands somehow. He misses someone to enlighten his brain when he’s been staring at a blank canvas for far too long.
But Zayn fucked up. Zayn betrayed him. Harry’s not making the same mistake twice.
“Don’t feel like talking. I know what you’re gonna say,” Harry states finally, throwing the beer mat on the table finally and watching it roll around until fully stopping.
“No you don’t. I’m not here to lecture you, or tell you what to do with your life. We’re past that, you’re too stubborn to listen. I just genuinely wanna know how you are, what you’ve been up to, if you’ve got a grip on life again?”
Harry hates him. Zayn’s always so freaking caring and genuine, it almost feels like he can trust him. Should never have stopped.
“Told you. I’m fine. I have a place, I have a job, I know people. I’m not at the top as I was before, but it’s just a matter of time. It’s why I need my stuff.”
Zayn nods, seeming satisfied. For now. As much as the possible, anyway.
“I’m glad,” sighing one final time, he drops a card over the tabletop and pushes it forward until it’s underneath Harry’s tapping fingers. “Here. That’s my new adress. It’s not far, and you can stop by tomorrow night so you can retrieve everything.”
Harry stares at it for as long as he’s allowed, avoiding staring at Zayn’s eyes. He can still feel them digging a hole into his soul, though.
“Or whenever you want,” he adds, and Harry glances up briefly, confused. “You can stop by whenever you want, Harry. I’m still here.”
Harry surely, definitely hates him. Probably.
“Yeah, right. Whatever.”
Zayn looks at Harry for a few more countless seconds, shaking his head to himself and swallowing whatever the comment he has to make. He knows it’s not welcome. Harry’s glad he decided to not speak it. Or that’s what he thought.
“You really need to forget the past, mate. Don’t let it influence you on whatever you’re doing next,” Zayn murmurs silently, just before standing up and starting to walk away.
By the time he’s past the door, Harry’s staring at his fingers, playing with the card, fighting his own thoughts.
He can’t forget the past. That’s way ahead of him, right now, and he hasn’t improved that much just yet.
He’s just human.
--
Author's Mind (?)
Comments: Harry's a dick and I know it. You can dislike him all you want, or not, idk. But don't worry, you know I always like to show his softie side. As always, I'll only as you for time. Hope you liked this one. We've got Zayn! Yey.
Dedication (to the best comment): {@shoot_for_the_sun} wow, thank you so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying the fic and my way of writing! And I appreciate the support so much. Hopefully I'll get more readers with time :)
Next Update: Saturday; March 8th
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