By@/iwantstylinson on AO3
Summary:
It wasn’t until they were settled in and lying idly on the couch with their bodies intertwined that Harry whispered, holding back tears, “I’m not who I want to be.”
Louis leaned down, lips close enough to graze Harry’s cheek, and asked simply, “Well, who do you want to be?”
Harry had thought about growing his hair out for a lot longer than he had even realized.
Notes:
WARNINGS - there's descriptions of an anxiety attack, feelings of body dysmorphia, and alcohol consumption.
Work Text:
Harry was 16, nervous and frustrated, messing with his hair in the mirror while getting ready to leave to go audition for The X Factor. He hated his hair. It was so short, curls splaying out and curling in at random, accentuating the baby fat still filling out his cheeks. He looked like a little boy. He didn’t feel like one - he felt like himself, but he wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
“Harry, are you about ready?” His mum called from downstairs, eager to get to the venue on time.
He closed his eyes and thought of rock stars with scruffy faces tossing their hair rhythmically, singing loudly and carelessly as crowds cheered along; of mermaids confidently brushing their fingers through their hair, glistening with sea salt and flowing down their backs, serenely singing into the coastal air. He took a deep breath in before opening his eyes and walking out the door.
---
Harry was 17, crying still on his way out of the studio, pushing his fringe out of his eyes as he wiped away the tears. I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who didn’t really care that much about what people thought about them, but I’m not, he’d said, in a moment where the crushing truth came pouring out of him. He hadn’t even known where it came from, really; he had never given the whole situation much thought in the context of what it said about him as a person, and the realization was startling.
He climbed into the car, another trip to another destination - they all seemed to blur together during busy days of constant promo - and in the golden light of the London sun setting through the car window, Louis was illuminating.
“What’s wrong, love?” he asked, concerned, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him tight.
Harry couldn’t speak, his mind racing faster than anything Louis could keep up with, no matter how hard he could try. He thought about the comments he had read on Twitter. He thought about his nervous eyes flitting about as he sang breathlessly into the microphone, voice thin and rough. He thought about his fringe, constantly in his eyes, and how stiff and uncomfortable he had looked in that blazer. He imagined himself on stage, dancing and skipping and whipping his hair freely in the wind.
The car pulled up to the house and they went inside in silence. It wasn’t until they were settled in and lying idly on the couch that Harry whispered, holding back tears, “I’m not who I want to be.”
Louis leaned down, lips close enough to graze Harry’s cheek, and asked simply, “Well, who do you want to be?”
---
Harry was 19, exhausted, running his hands through his quiff as he walked off another stage, another crowd roaring in applause. His head was spinning, the world a dizzying mess of lights and sound, and he had to stop for a moment and rest his hands on his knees to try to make it stop. He tried to grasp onto some moment, some fan's face he had seen during the show, or maybe a line of lyrics he had sung, but everything that flashed in his mind disappeared in an instant like some strobe-light nightmare.
