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Christmas was always my mother's favorite time of year. As soon as November hit, the Halloween decorations would be hastily put away in favor of us working together to lug the Christmas tree down from the attic that was much too tall for our living room's low ceilings, never allowing us to adorn the top with anything seeing as it was smushed against the chipping paint.
Every night after a long day of school and work was complete, we'd pile up on the couch and spend hours watching festive films until it was so late that we'd both condemned ourselves to tired eyes the next morning, but we didn't care, far too concerned about keeping up the Christmas spirit than living in the real world of responsibility. Jane is probably the reason I've always lived in my own head instead of reality.
Ever since she died, I've spent our favorite holiday alone. Granted, the first Christmas I suffered through instead of celebrating was spent with Harry and his family in Holmes Chapel right before the final One Direction performance on New Year's Eve, but even that felt wrong. Since then, each and every holiday season has been spent alone in my house with Olivia while all of my friends enjoy the warmth and laughter with their families.
My friends are my family, but sometimes that fact makes me feel emptier than ever, because at times like this, Christmastime, they have their real families to go home to while I have none.
But not this year.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the cab that picked me up from my hotel, I lean my head against the window and watch the sky transform from a brilliant pink and gold to a deep purple. Once again, I find myself getting lost in one of the last beauties the world has to offer, admiring how easily the sky welcomes change every day when I've never been able to accept the smallest amount, but tonight, I'm hoping to change a lot.
A small smile creeps up on my face when we pull up to Harry's house in the middle of London, what used to be ours. It looks exactly the same as I remember, just as quaint and homey as ever, but the brick barrier of protection surrounding the tall white walls that are illuminated under honey yellow street lamps seem more worn than they appeared last time I saw them. As I get closer, I notice small chips and cracks in the paint along with slightly grown over plants. The outdoor furniture looks more tattered, all of this suggesting that someone actually lives here versus when I first moved in and admired how fresh and new everything was.
What strikes me the most is when I realize just how long it has been since I've visited this humble home. When Harry and I packed our things and left for Jamaica in early 2016, the thought that I wouldn't be back never once crossed my mind.
About four years have seemingly passed since I left the place that served as my protection, brought me some of my best memories, and represented the closest thing I had to a home away from home.
"You're late," a voice sounds that jerks my wandering attention away from the cracked cement at my feet to the owner of the voice who has opened his door before I even had a chance to knock.
There stands Harry with one leg nonchalantly crossed over the other, exposed tattooed arms flexing atop is broad chest. Curls flop down his forehead and blow slightly in the chilly December wind. He appears like he might be cold thanks to the slight trembling of his ringed hands, fingernails perfectly painted black that almost make me want to hide how terribly chipped my maroon ones are.
Adorning his torso is a red and navy striped shirt, dark colors allowing the pearl necklace to pop that he never seems to take off. Beige plaid pants are glued to his legs so perfectly that it should be a criminal offense, and a dark pair of tattered Vans are on his crossed feet.
Everywhere he goes, even just to have dinner in his own house, Harry dresses like he's attending New York Fashion Week. My outfit is a far cry from his with my ratty beige turtleneck and dark brown tweed blazer which are Jane Granger originals from the seventies, meanwhile I'm sure Harry is coated in Gucci from head to toe minus the shoes. The Vans are the only humble thing about him- well those and his entire personality, but on the outside, he appears to be anything but.
Shaking out my left arm so that my dainty watch falls farther down on my wrist, I bring it up and look at the time seeing that I'm actually early. Using my right hand to grip the strap of my small brown leather bag, I shake my head at Harry with a small grin as I walk past him into the house and point out, "No, you probably didn't time the food right, so it's been done for twenty minutes and slowly growing cold on the stove."
Despite the obvious aging of the house on the outside, on the inside it still looks just as pristine as ever, not much different except for a few of the paintings on the walls. The winding rooms full of old pieces of furniture that don't match and shelves upon shelves of random knick knacks and books smell strongly of Italian food, however the sharp smells still fail to mask the scent of Harry and everything that surrounds him- vanilla.
"Would I be correct?" I ask with a whip back around to face him, brown hair flying through the air as I do.
"Annoyingly so," he mumbles with a grin that he tries to hide by rubbing his perfectly pink lips together, but as usual, his dimples and overly bright eyes give him away.
I chuckle at how adorable he is, taking my bag from shoulder and throwing it on the couch before sliding my jacket off of my arms, repeating the action and abandoning it before making myself at home in the dining room.
My mouth falls open slightly at how perfectly perfect everything is. Harry already fixed our plates, both overflowing with whatever delicacy I'm sure he's spent the past few hours slaving over. But what truly makes my smile grow and eyes soften is the way his otherwise plain dining table is decorated.
Harry is hot on my heels, placing his hands on my shoulders and squeezing gently as his hot breath fans over my ear. "Do you like it?" He asks hopefully, sounding more like an optimistic young boy than a twenty-five year old man.
"I- yes," I shakily breath out, bringing my left hand up to put overtop of his that still massages my shoulder and turning my head slightly to look back at him, eyes moving upward to fully take him in thanks to his height.
Only now am I realizing that Harry doesn't have a single Christmas decoration up in his home. He never really was a fan of decorating in November, always insisting we wait until early to mid-December like normal people.
His definition of normal was definitely skewed.
However, looking upon the obvious effort he put into transforming his dining area for the dinner he invited me to brings happy butterflies with wings the color of red ribbons, green pine needles, and golden Christmas bells to my stomach.
"My mum brought most of this over, so she's expecting it back by tomorrow so she can prepare for when you come over on Christmas Eve," Harry sputters, swirling green eyes staring down into mine until the very moment I pull my gaze away to fall back over the table.
Moving away from Harry's warm touch, I take in the strong smells of garlic and olive oil while I let my admiring stare wash over the decor one last time before I sit.
As I slowly walk towards one of the seats with a plate in front of it, mouth hanging open and refusing to close, I take in the beige table runner that I'm just now noticing has flecks of metallic gold thread imbedded throughout it. Small candles line the table along with two tall thin ones standing high in candelabras. All of them are lit which are probably responsible for the sweet vanilla smell that fights against the sharp Italians scents. Among the dull colors are pops of red and green in the form of poinsettias and pine needles.
Without even realizing it, thanks to my state of awe, Harry pulls out my seat for me before taking his own next to where I sit at the head of the table.
My eyes fly all over the place from the decorations, to the food, and all the way back to Harry who is smiling brightly like he is extremely proud of himself, yet there is something off about how dark his eyes look. Instead of holding an arrogance like the rest of his features, they hold a form of nervous angst that he soon allows to fall slowly from his eyes to his lowering cheeks and settling lips, tongue darting out and wetting the plush magenta.
"What?" I ask through nervous laughter, eyes instantly flitting between Harry and the table as I tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear.
Finally after what feels like an eternity of silence where he just stares at me, twisting his lips around in what appears to be nervousness, he holds a finger up and pushes himself away from the table. As he stands, my barely enlarged eyes follow his figure. "Wait here for one second," Harry pleads with me.
He's already half way out of the room when my foggy brain finally functions enough for me to stutter, "B-but what about the food? I'm starving, Harry, and do you know how rude it would be for me to eat without you?"
"I don't care, just do it. I'll only be a second," he calls to me from somewhere far into the house that I can't discern.
With a huff, I begrudgingly pick up my fork and start twirling the pasta around it while hunching over the table and resting my chin in the palm of my hand. I try to hold off from eating for as long as I can, but my growling stomach becomes too much, so I shovel in the first bite, audibly humming at how good it actually is despite it being a little cold.
Just as I'm opening my mouth to take another bite, Harry comes jogging back into the dining room with his hands held behind his back.
"This is really good, H," I compliment him as I stuff another bite in my mouth, barely watching Harry take his seat next to me again from the corner of my eye.
"I know," he states matter-of-factly making my head swivel up with an expression of surprise present on my face, but it only grows when he quickly shoves something across the table towards me. "Happy Christmas."
Every muscle in my face slackens at the sight of a small silver box with a golden bow tied around it. The fork falls from my hand and clatters against the plate making me jump and the food in my mouth stop halfway down my throat. I start to choke, coughing slightly and grabbing at my chest before gasping out, "What is this?"
I'm hesitant to even touch it, fearful that if I do that will be a sign of acceptance when accepting it is the last thing I plan to do.
"Open it and see," Harry chuckles as if his answer is the most obvious in the world.
"But... Harry, it's not even Christmas yet, and I don't have anything to give you!" I protest, frantically shaking my head in refusal. "Plus it's Merry Christmas not Happy Christmas. I can't believe we're still having this discussion after all these years-"
"Belle! Belle!" He raises his voice to get my attention, still chuckling lightly as he reaches across the table to place steady hands on my nervously shaking ones. Keeping his hold on me, he removes one hand to grab the box before picking it up and placing it in my palm, encasing the box within it. "Relax, okay. I can't wait any longer to give this to you, plus you do have a gift for me actually."
"I do?" I question with confusion, face scrunching up while I slowly pull away from Harry's touch and take the box with me much to my own surprise. "I think I'd know if I did."
"I want your opinion," he pointedly states.
"On what? Dinner? Because I made it perfectly clear just a second ago that it's really good, but if you want my opinion on the decorations, I can talk about that all night. Then again, there could be something else-"
"Georgia Rose!" He slightly yells to interrupt me again. "Just follow me."
Harry stands once again, my golden eyes following him as he does. I find myself pushing up from my seat and begrudgingly following him with a gaze that struggles to choose a muse between Harry and the pasta on the table that is still calling my name.
"And bring the box with you," he commands when he glances back and notices my now failed attempt to leave it behind on the dining table.
"Okay fine, but what about dinner? I'm starving and-"
"We'll get to eat, just c'mon," he whines, turning and stomping back over to me. My green eyed boy picks up the small box I once again tried to leave, stuffs it in his pocket, and takes my hand to drag me after him.
My body fights against his tugging but ultimately fails seeing as we've already made the short journey to the couch where he grabs me by my shoulders and gently sits me down. Pulling the gift from his pocket, he shoves it into my hands, physically using his ringed fingers to enclose mine around the slick box. As if commanding me with his eyes, I find myself sighing before inevitably falling down the rabbit hole and into his clutches.
Pulling the dainty ribbon from the box, the gold material falls to the floor silently, the only sounds being that of the couch springs squeaking underneath Harry's weight as he sits close to me- so close that our hips almost touch.
"Okay, but what is it that I'm supposed to give you my opinion on? I'm not opening this until you tell me," I sharply explain as I barely lift myself from the couch to angle my body more towards Harry so that I'm almost fully facing him.
"Ugh," Harry groans, slightly throwing his head back. "Will you just open the damn box?"
"No."
"Please," he practically whines, leaping forward to grab the box from my hands in what I'm sure is an attempt to rip it open and force me to look inside, but I quickly pull it away and trap it behind my back to the point where I'm nearly sitting on it.
"No," I emphasize.
"Fine," he huffs with an overdramatic roll of his clear green eyes. "Give me your opinion on the album."
At his words my shoulders slouch and all the muscles in my face give way to something expressionless. "Really?" I ask quizzically. "I've told you how beautiful Fine Line is, but if you really want me to fan your ego some more I will," I add with a smirk and small nudge with my shoulder to Harry's.
Shaking his head, Harry adjusts his position so he's slouching forward and more angled towards me with his elbows resting on his knees. "Yeah, yeah, but I want to know what you really think. I mean, for me it's um, like I don't, I want to know how you really feel about it past a point of like, 'Oh it's really great.'"
"But it is really great," I point out, eyebrows slowly furrowing together at how flustered he is becoming. It's not like Harry to stumble over his words so much unless he's doing something work related that makes him really nervous.
Really nervous.
Holy shit, why is he nervous right now?
If anyone should be nervous it should be me! I'm the one who's about to drop an atomic bomb on him!
"No, yeah, I know," he cockily deadpans.
Harry instantly screws his eyes shut and frantically shakes his head as I put a hand to my mouth to hide a giggle at his haughty remark. Suddenly, he puts his hands that are surprisingly trembling on mine that rests in my lap. I don't know what comes over me, but I remove the hand I hold at my mouth and place it overtop of his to quell his shakes, all jokingness now pushed aside.
"Tha-that's not what I meant," he stutteringly breathes out, eyes almost frantic now as the gold flecks swirl like solar flares amongst a sky of stars.
"I know," I chuckle in an attempt to ease him, but it doesn't seem to work.
"I meant that I already know that you think the album is good, but I want more than just a surface level opinion. I know how busy I've been lately, so we haven't really been able to talk much, but I'm here now, and I'm yours."
My heart just started beating so loudly in my chest that I am fearful I'm not the the only one who can hear it. If the deafening sound of a drum pounding from within my chest doesn't give me away, I'm sure the sheer widening of my eyes will, the golden irises beaming like a spotlight against the darkest of nighttime skies.
"That's what I need," Harry quietly speaks, his hands shaking slightly more now from where they are trapped between my own. However, the increase in trembles are more likely to be coming from me than him.
"So this means I can return the expensive gift I got you since all you want for Christmas is my real opinion on your album?"
Finally, he cracks a beautiful smile, a small laugh passing through his lips. His downcast eyes fly up to meet mine as he swiftly states, "Absolutely not."
"Damn," I curse, dropping my eyes and smirking playfully. "But if you insist, I guess I'll tell you what I think of Fine Line."
"That's only what I've been trying to get you to do for the past ten minutes."
"Well, if you want to hear it, you should kindly shut the fuck up, and stop being so sarcastic with me, Bunny."
Harry quickly pulls his hands away and holds them up in surrender, gleaming smile continuing to blind me along with the ghastly white gleam of the pearls around his neck.
I maneuver the small box out from under me now with no more need to hide it seeing as Harry and I have reached an agreement, so I lean forward to place it on the coffee table before settling back in next to Harry, the man seemingly angling himself closer to me by the second.
Taking in and releasing one massive breath, I begin my 1,000 word essay on what Fine Line means to me.
"The album is really special, H. I think a lot of different people from different backgrounds can easily find something to relate to within the lyrics which are masterful I might add. Um, I think that you have been really open on this album, more so than you ever have been in the past which is really special. Personally, as someone who knows you, I feel like this is the kind of music you've wanted to make since the moment I met you, and to see you finally putting it all out there so unapologetically without a care in the world of how it will chart or how many copies will sell is really inspiring.
"Top three for me would definitely have to be Cherry," I grin at him earning a dimpled smirk back. "Canyon Moon, and Fine Line. Sunflower, Vol. 6 is another favorite- my lawyers will be contacting you about that by the way," I joke with him, however I keep rambling on, preventing Harry from intervening like he looks like he wants to.
"But if you want me to continue being seriously honest-"
"I do," my green eyed boy blurts.
"Listening to the album actually pissed me off... a lot."
Green eyes glaze over suddenly as his eyebrows draw in, mouth opening slightly with the passing of a breath. Harry's gaze travels all over the place from one point to another almost suggesting that his mind is racing.
"O-okay," he stutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin before eventually pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger. "Why?"
"Because when I listened, I could physically feel your pain like it was ramming me over with a bus. Listening to Cherry was hard enough knowing I caused you some of that pain," I grimace with downcast eyes before looking up to find Harry's body has visibly softened from how rigid it was just moments ago.
Whatever he thought I meant when I said listening to the album made me angry, he obviously came to realize wasn't true.
What did he think I meant to cause him so much fear?
"But then it just gets so much worse, Harry. You know, you start the album with songs that are so bright and happy and hopeful, and that's everything I know you to be and love so much about you, so having to listen to the rest of the songs like Falling and To Be So Lonely was really hard for me, because I know exactly how you feel when you sing about hating yourself and finding facets of who you are that make you wonder if your someone that even you wouldn't want to be around.
"The way you blame yourself for everything even when it isn't your fault, it's hard to hear. And don't even get me started on To Be So Lonely. I... just the anger, the way you finally come to terms with everything she did... it makes me hate her too, and even though I know you don't hate her, I know you must have at one point, because I physically felt it! Harry, the reason I think... the reason I know I felt it so much is because I still-"
"Wait," Harry holds a hand up to interrupt me, eyes narrowed in what looks like extreme bewilderment. "Who are we talking about here?"
"Camille," I slowly speak, emphasizing her name with a bob of my head as if my answer is more obvious than living things knowing they need to breathe to survive.
"Belle," he starts, almost laughing but trying to hold it in. "None of the songs on Fine Line are about Camille."
Confusion instantly grips my heart, every thought in my brain beginning to trickle away until there's nothing left. My mouth begins opening and closing as I search for something to say, head steadily shaking with wonder until I stupidly jabber, "Yes they are."
I watch Harry through cloudy eyes, crinkles forming at the narrowed corners and in between my drawn in brows. The green of his irises lighten to a misty jade with each slow movement they make, traveling from my face to the box on the table with a dimpled smirk that reeks of a mischievousness that he knows something I don't.
"No," he chortles, "They're not. They're about you, Georgia Rose... every single one."
"No...they're not," I start to panic, voice beginning to tremble along with my hands. My head shakes frantically to the point where I feel dizzy and have to back away from Harry so that his warm body is no longer near mine. The arm of the couch stops me from moving any farther.
I feel trapped.
"I'm kind of the one who wrote them all, so I can promise you that they are," Harry confirms as he tries to close the open space between us, but I quickly jump up and start walking backwards to get away from the couch with my hands outstretched in a silent attempt to warn him to not come any closer.
"No, Harry, they're not about me, because if they were you wouldn't have moaned her name, and if you hadn't moaned her name, I could have told you so much sooner," I stumble over my words as I do the same with my feet, nearly falling over. Harry's form stands and starts moving towards me, but I can barely discern how close he is thanks to my tears blurring everything until his hands are on my forearms. I don't fight against his gentle touch even though I want to.
"Told me what? Who's name- Belle what are you on about. Please just sit back down and relax, this wasn't supposed to freak you out so much. I thought you already knew the album was about you. I mean like, um, I guess maybe it wasn't as obvious as I thought..." Harry trails off, face glooming over like the sun hidden by gray on a cloudy afternoon.
"You really don't remember?" I ask, voice cracking more with every word.
"Remember what?" He breathes out almost frustratedly as he slowly but surely eases me back to the couch, fingers pressing into my forearms while my hands wrap around the bare skin of his.
"You moaned out her name. This whole time I thought you were still so in love with Camille, because we kissed at the Met Gala, and you said her name. You were kissing me, but you called me Camille. You were so drunk, so maybe I should have never looked that much into it, but I did, and I haven't been able to stop looking into it for months."
"I what?" Is all Harry blankly says, face completely glazed over to the point where it no longer appears as if there is a soul inside, only emptiness. We've made it to the couch now, however I seem to be the one holding Harry up where before he was doing that job for me.
When everything simply becomes too much for the both of us, we both fall back onto the cushions, still gripping each other for dear life in fear that if we let go, the other will disintegrate into thin air. Harry's face has visibly darkened, not a single ounce of light visible beyond the cold desolation. His eyes search the ground frantically as he appears to be wracking every square inch of his brain to find a sliver of a memory of the night I've just recalled for the both of us, but when the green whips up to meet brown, I instantly discover that he's come up empty handed.
"It's okay, Harry. You don't have to make up some excuse for it. I don't want you to. You obviously did or still have some feelings for her which is fine, but I need you to know that I-"
"But I don't. I'm so sorry I did that to, but it didn't mean anything."
"I'm sorry, Harry, but how can you say it didn't mean anything if you don't even remember it?" I dryly laugh instantly retracting my hands from him and pulling them into my chest.
His eyes turn black at my words, pupils so small now that they are barely visible. With tense shoulders, he looks like he wants to pounce on me with every ounce of frustration that is brewing within him, but he's forcing himself to hold back with all he has. Nostrils flare and jaw clenches in tune with my own, and much to my surprise, tears appear to form in his eyes too.
"I can say that, because I know I felt the same then as I do now," he whispers, the tranquil sound of his voice representing complete opposition from his taut body.
"And how is that?"
Like a dam breaking, the cracks in his strong persona finally give way allowing the crashing and unrelenting waves to ravage through, tearing his body in half with a guttural sob that is the last thing I expected to come from him in this moment. I can barely stand to watch him, body shaking uncontrollably as he frets about what to do with his hands, eventually bringing them up to run through his curls that fall over his forehead when he slouches over to hide from me.
My own lip starts to tremble uncontrollably until the agony of seeing Harry in pain takes over, a tsunami of tears and silent cries harassing my body.
"Like I wasn't enough for her just like I wasn't enough for you," he sobs, voice so deep and full of ache that it's like a stab to my already heavy chest.
"Stop it," I beg so quietly that I doubt Harry even heard me thanks to how he continues to ramble on.
"For Taylor I was too immature. For Kendall I led her on and couldn't even stay faithful, and for Camille all I ever was to her was something fun. She never saw me as anything serious the way I did. I really thought I could see myself falling in love with her, but none of that mattered to me because there was always you!"
"Stop it," I plead again a little louder. When his eyes flash and meet mine, I know he heard me this time, but he chooses to ignore it.
"All I've ever wanted was to be enough for you! I tried so fucking hard to be a man worthy of your love- something I knew you would never give away easily. I knew from the moment I realized I was in love with you, fuck, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that nothing regarding you would ever be easy, and you know what, I was okay with that.
"I am okay with that, but I have to beg for your forgiveness, because I felt you pulling away from me, I did, and I should have just let you go like you needed to, but once again, like you've always said... I'm nothing but an arrogant son of a bitch, and I'm too damn selfish. I was so selfish with you, and I let it get the best of me that day in the hall."
"God, Harry, stop it!" I finally yell, losing control. I fall forward and take his quivering body into my arms, pulling him so close that I feel the wetness of his tears seeping through the worn fabric of my sweater. My hands begin fisting the fabric of his shirt that clings to his back while my chin rests on his shoulder. His sobs are now muffled by his face burrowing into my neck, the salt water tears sticking my hair to his cheeks. "I've forgiven you for that! How many times do I have to tell you? I forgave you for that the moment it happened, because I love you!" I cry against him.
"But you shouldn't have, and you never should!" Harry bellows as he attempts to pull away, but my hands instantly fly up and wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him close so that our foreheads rest upon each other. His accented voice drastically quiets, sounding massively full of defeat when he whispers, "What if I do that again? What if I do that again but hurt you even worse. What if I'm truly no better than Ben-"
"Don't say that," I cut him off, stream of tears slowing as well as Harry's, but my grip on the back of his neck tightens, chestnut curls tickling my fingers. "You are nothing like him. You are everything he has ever wished he could be but never will. You are kind and compassionate and full of emotion that you aren't scared to use, but him... he tries so hard to be all of those things, and maybe he can be, but the difference is that he bottles everything up until he snaps in the worst possible ways. That isn't you and never will be. That isn't you, Harry."
"How can you be so sure?" He whispers, eyes on my lips before moving back up to meet my own.
"Because I know you Harry Styles, and you've always been enough for me."
Without warning, his lips are on mine, and for once, I feel like I have a home again.
I'm falling.