** MAJOR EDITING**
Niall realises he likes Harry, his best friend. But Harry's already drowning deep in a toxic relationship with Liam, his companion.
A story of love, lust, friendship, and abandonment between five friends during their last year of...
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THE DINNER GOES GREAT disregarding the silent treatment between Harry and I the entire time. I just watched Harry involve himself in conversation after conversation as I did the same, just not with each other. Still we all sang the traditional Happy Birthday song whilst servers presented Harry with a tiramisu based cake with exactly eighteen candles dipped into it.
Contently, Harry extinguished the miniature flames on each candles with a forceful blow as familiar people clapped and cheered for him. The birthday dinner carried on to about midnight as the both of us trailed down the corridor to our hotel room in tensional silence.
It's aching to be on horrid terms with Harry. Sure when we were younger and more platonic the minor complications are expected with a friendship. The silent treatments and the bickering. But to have a dispute about whether or not Harry decides to model or not shouldn't destine the horrid terms we're on now. It sucks.
It sucks because there's so much I want to say — want to warn him about, if he decides to adjoin the fashion world. Although Harry isn't willing to listen to me.
"I'll take the couch," he tells me before we walk through our hotel door. I say nothing afterwards.
Later on, after a shower, I tuck myself into our temporary hotel bed alone whilst wrapping my arms around myself tightly. They were a mental replacement of the muscular arms that subconsciously hold onto me through the night, in a soft cuddle.
Unintentionally I listen to Harry discuss the privileged modelling deal with his mum then with Gemma until I slowly fall into a peacefully earned slumber.
WE ARRIVE IN MANCHESTER the following day. Everyone but Cara, whom decided to stay behind with her companion Kendall some more days. For some more peace. And some more space is created between Harry and I — a suffocating and hostile kind of space. The one that closes your throat up like an allergic reaction to a simplistic toxin. Possibly lemons or peanuts.
It's suffocating to not be suffocated by Harry.
To not be, tightly, wrapped in his muscular arms. To not feel the captivating burn of Harry's strong gaze looking into mine. To not see the intent and passionate look in those naturalistic coloured eyes. To not sense the comfortability of Harry's presence. To not only feel the privileged comfortability when he's around me; I miss Harry around me, in a positive atmosphere.
In the school yard I inhale the burning taste of a stale cigarette. It opens up my lungs in a shallow and dangerous way for the drug to past through the pathway. The burn sinks into my bloodstream. As fatal as that sounds, the feeling is nice. Tranquil and soothing type of nice.
The poisonous yet addictive substance releases habitual stress for a minute or two or several — and I am stressed out. And a little conflicted. And a little upset at Harry's words because they replay on and on in my head like a catchy song. Like one of those songs that you absolutely hate because it's tuned and upbeat and everyone is besotted with.
