(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)
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"Lights up and they know who you are. Do you know who you are?"
Harry | Lights Up
The hardest part of this was being Harry Styles. The world thought they knew me. In their eyes, I was a singer. A charmer. A gentleman. Sometimes a womanizer. Sometimes a fashion connoisseur. Apparently, I was lots of girls' (and guys') fantasy. I struggled with these identities coming up in the spotlight, not knowing which to adopt or if I should adopt any at all. Simply put, I didn't know what to be. I was a stranger to myself the majority of my adult life.
When I was younger my mother encouraged me to be myself, whatever that might entail, and assured me that I had her undying support in any regard. She also trusted me enough to know I wouldn't try to be something she would disapprove of in any case, so that was an added comfort. My dad on the other hand encouraged me to work hard at whatever I did, and to maintain my authenticity at all costs, even if it was my career that ended up on the line. He also encouraged me to always be the hardest working person in any room (to never let anyone outwork me), and this was ultimately the key to success in any field.
They tried to make me good at a lot of things early on, like piano, cooking, and football, and these things all defined me for most of my teen years until the band came along. But I don't think either of them anticipated exactly what I would become after seeing me through the craze of the X-factor days. At 16, my mom was reluctant to part with me, but aware that I was on the road to something promising. She might've sensed untold things in my future—mother's intuition and all—but I don't think even she was prepared for what came. I often think that if it weren't for her being exactly as good as she was, my off-handed comment about how the X-Factor looked fun would've died in vain the moment it left my mouth. I'd probably still be a member of a lousy garage band, working in a bakery, and studying at university. The epitome of mediocrity.
It's because of her exact goodness that I had the courage to sing in White Eskimo at all. And it was because of her exact goodness that she happened to zone in on my flippant comment about the show and signed me up. And it was because of her exact brand of goodness that I ultimately am Harry Edward Styles, from inception to present day.
On February 1, 1994, Harry Styles number one was born. Then the day she signed me up for X-Factor and stood with me in impossibly long lines (hunger pangs and all) until my name was called, Harry Styles number two was born. This was the Harry the world knew and who had evolved before their very eyes. From cheeky dimpled cherub, to professional singer, to charmer, to womanizer—and the labels kept coming.
Problem was, no one knew about Harry Styles number three. He had been born in secret the moment Zayn and I became one, and I had no idea what to do with him now. He was like a ghost, a rumor, a shadow. Commandeering, but incorporeal. Hard to get a hold of. In truth he was nothing because no one knew he existed. Not even Zayn himself. And it was because of Harry Styles number two (singer, charmer, womanizer) that Harry Styles number three couldn't lift his head above water to breathe.
Harry number three was sensitive, fragile, clingy, anxious, self-conscious, afraid, and lost. He was all the things that Harry number two wouldn't allow me to be in the face of the public—couldn't afford for me to be. So number two grabbed the real me (number three) by the shoulders and often shoved me so far under the surface of reality that I drowned and relinquished the reins to him completely.
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"I had all and then most of you, some, and now none of you.
Take me back to the night we met."
Lord Huron | The Night We Met
The arid days of 2015 seemed but a vague recollection of a past life as I gazed into his eyes a few feet away from me on the sofa. Swimming in his mellifluous laughter, my blood slowing to savor the warmth of his studious regard. I felt giddy and weird. He had gotten up briefly to light a candle (vanilla, our old favorite), before plopping back down beside me and lighting a Marlboro. The satisfaction I derived from seeing him smoke again felt like a cool towel pressed to a fevered brow, or a splash of water on the tongue after a desert trek.
It offered an inexplicable combination of emotion. That of relief, of nostalgia—of vicarious pleasure. His lips curled around the filter with a sensual grace. With each inhale, I inhaled. With each exhale, I had to refrain from shuddering. Smoke shrouded the space between us, spilling spectral from his nostrils and parted mouth in an irreverent display that said, f—k our health, f—k our youth, do whatever feels good. His eyes were heavily lidded as he watched me over the pall of smoke, tempting me with every unspoken device in his arsenal. I wanted so badly to become his drug. His nicotine. I wanted him to breathe me in and out, over and over again, until he depleted my self-worth—until he was satiated. I needed him to need me.
He hung his head on the back of the couch and puffed away. I followed suit and lay back as well, folding my hands atop my stomach. We were absolutely perfect for each other, and I was reminded of that in the strangest way now. Our silence was already comfortable. I wasn't anxious about what to say next, and neither was he. We were so used to simply existing near each other that the pressure to say the right thing had faded, and we were keen to let our non-verbal chemistry do the talking.
After seeing him again, I couldn't stop revisiting every nuance and elation and peculiarity of our time together, like I was flicking through a photo album of our greatest hits. I could remember the aroma of the weed he carried in his backpack, which left the odor all over his paperwork sometimes. I could sense the warm moisture of his tongue caressing mine. I could taste chocolate on his lips whenever we kissed after eating sweets. I could feel him breathing down my neck as he read something over my shoulder, laying across the bed stark naked; he half atop of me.
I remembered everything now. Something about his presence unlocked a corridor in my memory that I raced down in true abandon to recollect the pieces of us lost in grief. I saw him sleeping, long dark lashes against hollowed cheeks. Fine-boned and exquisite. He rarely slept through the night though, and I wondered if that restlessness still plagued him.
Sometimes he would wake me up and pick up a conversation we'd been having hours before I fell asleep, and I always tried to answer as coherently as I could. I could translate his morning grunts when he didn't feel like talking. He knew how I liked my coffee. I knew how he liked his chicken. He liked missionary so he could stare into my eyes the entire time and intimidate me—exposing my weaknesses for him.
I remembered when he would get so high he would f—k me stupid, and the only way I could get away was to sleep in the tub with the bathroom door bolted. I could see him now sifting through the clothes I had taken off at the end of the day and finding my shirt to wear to bed. He had an obsession about wearing my shirts when he slept, and it took me a while to realize he needed to be held too; and that this was his way of satisfying that need without having to admit to it.
I moved further down the corridor and unlocked several wings that recounted expressions of our love language (intimacy beyond intimacy.) Sometimes after a show he would rub my back until I fell asleep. I liked to scratch his scalp in the car, even if he had his headphones on and was ignoring me. He would pop my blackheads some mornings, out of a morbid fascination, and I'd pick crusty stuff from his nose, or from the corners of his eyes whenever he awoke midday.
He would watch me shower from the bed in our rooms sometimes, and whenever I sensed him looking, I would take extra care to put on a show of washing. There was nothing sexual about it, just sheer exposure and vulnerability. He liked to cook shirtless, his faint singing filling the kitchen like an island breeze. I missed the way he would say "whoopsie daisy" whenever I fell or dropped something around the house. And I missed falling asleep on his lap whenever we stayed up late watching movies and playing video games. He was serious and meticulous about his games, and typically zoned me out anytime he embarked on a solo excursion into the console.
The last door in my memories of him led to the gifts. There had been several little ones throughout the years from both of us, but the ones that appeared to me were the most significant. The first thing I saw was the vintage Cartier watch I'd bought him in 2014, which I once thought about engraving, but couldn't think of anything to say. Shortly after he had brought me a vintage polaroid camera, and although I never purchased film for it, I liked the way it looked in my office cabinet, among my leather journals and other Zayn-inspired keepsakes.
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After a while of catching up with him, I got up and wandered around the lounge and studied his record player and vinyls. There were tons of Bob Marley and Gregory Issacs. I took the liberty of keying up "Natty Dread" and felt deeply satisfied listening to the crackling static of the player as "Lively Up Yourself" started. The music transported me right away. I shut my eyes and vibed around the room as he checked his phone and took a few calls on the patio. I fell into the bass, playing air guitar, bobbing my head and swaying my hips. Then my hat was off, flying across the floor and skidding to a halt against a far wall. I ruffled my hair and drifted away with the vintage sound. When "No Woman No Cry" came on, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to find him staring at me from across the room, quietly amused. He had slipped back in and posted up against the sliding door, and had been watching me for a while now. I laughed and plopped back on the couch in embarrassment.
"Don't mind me," he laughed. "I was enjoyin' the show...seriously."
"M'sorry. I lost it for a minute there. I missed this so much."
"Me too." He stepped into the kitchen and there was the sound of the fridge opening and shutting. Soon he reemerged with two beers (Stellas) and I watched him open each with the backside of a plastic lighter. Before we drank, we toasted to old friends and new paths, to our success, and to whatever else the future may hold for the both of us. Before drinking, I lost myself, watching his lips part and slowly wrap around the brim of the bottle. Then I caught myself and followed his lead. I wasn't fond of beer, but this one was decent. A Belgium lager. Light, summery. I curiously swished it around my mouth, rocking my head to "Rebel Music", then watched Z grab a coaster for our drinks.
"Sick tune," he said off-handedly, falling back onto the couch with a thud.
"Since when do you drink beer?"
"I know right?" he chuckled weakly. "Ant' and the boys got me into it a while agoh. I just sort of picked it up from there, y'know?"
"I remember you hated drinking."
"So much. Still kinda do, if I'm honest." He shrugged, lifting the bottle for another sip. "I'm what they call "a social drinkah." At that we looked at each other and laughed. I had become the total opposite of a "social drinker" of late. I liked to get f—ked up sometimes, and he was the last person on earth I could fool by pretending otherwise. He had fielded so many late-night drunk calls from me in the band that it made me nervous to look him in the eye just now.
Didn't matter. I couldn't look directly at him for a while anyway, because I kept losing it for other reasons. He was just so goddamn good-looking. Somehow he looked even better than last night, since he was immersed in his element and dressed more casually. Dressed how I remembered him onstage in those final days; in graphic tank tops and man buns and skinny jeans and big boots. The flesh of his arms called out to me—it was so soft. I wanted to brush against it with the back of my knuckles repeatedly, then allow my fingertips to roam unchecked. Now I wished he had sat closer so I could find any excuse to touch him.
He went on about how his mom had reacted during her first visit to his new set-up in LA, where he had taken her out to experience a bit of the night life and culture. Suffice it to say, she wanted him back home right away and away from the seedy influences of some of the godless people of the city. Later I teased him about buying the only house in LA without a pool, since he still didn't know how to swim, and he assured me he had every intention of adding one eventually.
I drifted again while he talked, savoring the throaty inflections of his strange voice, and chewing the inside of my cheeks with an unhinged hunger. All I could think was, I want to f--k your lungs out. I want to f—k you now—hard, repeatedly, endlessly. Until he begged for me to stop. Until he whimpered my name. Until he lay quivering in my arms, nerve-endings frayed, totally at my clemency. I wanted his grunts, his moans—sounds I hadn't heard in months which I wanted to feel as he exhaled into my mouth. I needed him so bad it ached. All of me. And of course I hadn't realized just how much this ache had overtaken my body until I saw him again in person. Flesh and bone and beating heart before me. Soft skin. Warm bones. Sultry eyes. Pouty lips. The same feline grace in his mannerisms. The same elegance in his slender hands.
There were so many places I yearned to kiss again. My places. The inside of his wrists, the nape of his neck, his chin, the small of his back. The thought of someone else claiming them made me tremble with rage. Those were the places I had mapped out through my untiring obsession with his body, and won through years of tribulation at his side. They were not easy conquests. If I could, I would have branded them with my initials so that anyone who wandered in behind me would be repelled by my markings, knowing I had charted these insanely tender realms first and that they would forever be mine.
But that was the third me; the stupidly romantic, theatrically emotional Harry number three. What was worse is that no one ever saw this side of me. I stomached it all. I held it all back until it threatened to hemorrhage from my veins or push me head over heels into an aneurysm. I hadn't uttered this truth (the truth of us, the truth of what he meant to me) to anyone. And in doing so, I had fried every channel in my brain till I could barely distinguish between the things I was feeling and the things I was experiencing. They had run unchecked for too long.
"Z..." I began, but couldn't finish. Didn't matter. He could read my mind like always. He watched me with half-lidded eyes in silence, before biting his lip in indecision and averting his gaze. Neither of us were prepared to acknowledge what we were thinking. It sat between us like an entity—quietly persuading us to address its presence. Although the new platonic dynamic we had adopted was sustainable (charming even) I wanted the old way to return. To upheave the constraints keeping us in line and several feet apart. I wanted to greet the tender thing sitting between us and once more be the way we were. When we touched without inhibition, and where he stared at me with open lust.
It had been a long time. That statement served well for everything. He and I hadn't spoken since March 25th, yet here we were. How? I had ignored his texts for a while out of anger, and when I was ready to talk a few weeks later, he had changed his number. I emailed a few times, hoping he might log back in and see the archive of shit I had sent him, but I doubt he ever did.
When I got word of the engagement ending, I had no reaction. For a while I just felt empty; mocked by fate. How long had I lain awake at night after he left me, fearing news of the wedding? How long had I dreaded the official date since he first proposed in 2013? Yet, the moment we parted, the engagement magically ended? As if it had never been? Where the f—k was this luck when he and I were still together?
The amount of stress he could've spared me if he had just been upfront with me about none of it being real with her. It pained me to recount the days of fury and self-loathing he could have rescued me from by just being honest. Now she was a thing of the past. But I knew Zayn and understood exactly what the end of the engagement signified. He was pushing everything he had known for the last 5 years out of his life (Perrie and I included.) For him, we were the same disease that he would be much better off without in this new life. It was precisely like Zayn to cut all channels that led back to his former self, severing ties with anyone who threatened to weigh him down as he headed into the future.
The playing field had been leveled. Perrie no longer held an edge over me. I had the upper hand, because I was able to finagle my way back into his life under the pretense of friendship; knowing I desired anything but mere acquaintanceship. And even though the news of their break-up came as a certain indicator that he was running from us all, I couldn't help but to hope that day. Soon that hope turned into prayer, and I hadn't stopped praying ever since, knowing he had broken her hold over him for good.
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