Note To Self (Harry Styles AU)

Chapter Fifty Six.

Stepping along the brick sidewalks of downtown Northwood, Harry's eyes remained on his sneakers that Tuesday afternoon. Music blared through speakers outside of the shops he passed, one song fading out as he walked while another grew louder the nearer he became. His  hands had tucked themselves into his pockets, thumbs poking out, and his old skool Vans came to a stop out front of the record shop.

He glanced upward, while his shoulder was bumped by a passer by. Thrifty Vinyl was splayed across the top of the building in worn lettering, and a glowing LED sign flashed the word "Open" along the glass storefront that bore his reflection back at him. He peeked at the time on his phone, shoved the device into his back pocket, and pulled the heavy door open.

An electronic beep rang as he stepped inside, signaling someone had entered the building. His eyes scoured for a soul through the sea of albums across the expanse of the room, his shoes scuffling on the welcome mat as he stepped forward. He wasn't alone for long, with the sound of a man's voice calling from the back room just before his face peered through the door behind the counter.

"Hey!" he shouted, voice rough like sandpaper. "Harry, is it?"

"That's me," he confirmed, keeping his hands hostage in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting.

The man ticked his head in a way of instructing him to come closer, "Great, my mom hasn't even shown up yet, so it's nice to see someone can be on time."

Harry's eyes grazed over the album covers as he passed through hundreds and hundreds on either side of him. Three large shelves took up the entire center of the room, while the walls were stacked with CD racks and pop culture merchandise. Everything from posters, to T-shirts, to anime figurines. His hands were placed on the worn out countertop, the faux wood pattern worn away from the countless sales that had been made over the years.

He looked at the face standing above him on the platform behind the counter, making him appear much taller than he truly was, and made Harry feel small. He recognized him, obviously. He knew everyone's faces, but hardly remembered names. A handshake was offered, and when he introduced himself, Harry immediately felt like an idiot for not remembering it. "Brandon."

Brandon Drew.

"Harry," he returned, and Brandon laughed.

"We went over that." Harry's lips pinched together in embarrassment. "You know the alphabet, right?"

"I'm fairly positive I do."

"Then you're golden. This job is nothing more than sitting around, alphabetizing records, and pretending to be friendly to the three customers we get a day."

Harry frowned, "Three customers?"

"Maybe that's a dramatization," Brandon admitted. "Point being, business isn't exactly booming."

Harry's eyes darted to the cash register beside him, "What about that?"

"You press some buttons and put money in," he simplified. "Don't accept anything larger than fifty dollar bills, and don't steal. Easy peasy." Just as he finished speaking, the same electronic beeps sounded once again as the door opened up and Brendon's eyes overlooked Harry's head. "Oh, Portia The Great has arrived."

"I told you, stop calling me that," she spoke as her heels clicked on the wooden floors. 

Brendon backtracked and reworded himself, "Portia the forever late."

He was virtually ignored, and as she came to stand beside him, her hand rested on Harry's shoulder. "Harry, darling," her voice was just as raspy as her son's. A fiery red Valentino bag was placed atop the high counter, the contents inside rattling.