Be My Boyfriend (ft. Narry)

you

ok so did u like chapter 18? c:

oh and tnx for ranking this on fanfic #126 like what. i cunt even. whyyy?

and we reached our goalsssss. *cheers*

so here's the date. anD DO YOU KNOW HOW SAD I AM? i made a narry date uSING MY PHONE. i couldnt make it perf :'c

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[unedited]

19. Harley Bear

I take in breaths after breaths as I look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair that used to be grown so long is now cut by our neighbour's grand-dad and my clothes actually make an effect on making me seem enchanting. I look attractive, really. And that's difficult to say because I never really find myself that brilliant. Fear not, I'm not entirely wearing urbane clothes that make me look debonair. But I do look pleasing enough. Hopefully I really do because honestly, that Harry that I see in the mirror is not the Harry I've been for my 18 years of age. I hope Niall appreciates my appearance, otherwise receiving help from Gemma will just be an utter bullshit.

I feel as if Gemma is far more excited than I am for this date.

There will be two more hours until I pick Niall up and I can barely push off my jittery behaviour. It's quite nice that I look really dashing at the moment, but then there's this realisation that interferes my excitement and mental cheering.

Well, fuck.

The only fault in this is : I have worn presentable clothes, styled my hair, but I have not planned anything for the actual fucking date. And now that I've noticed this fact, my grimace takes over my squealing liver (yes, liver) and I push Gemma to the floor (and she shrieks like a total bitch, but she's not my top priority). I run out of our house, barely caring about my my curly hair that, surprisingly, is (or was) in a tall quiff. And the run isn't exactly heroic. It's like, when somebody sees me like I am now, they'd be like: "Oh, shit! Look at that! There's a moron!"

And the fat woman on the sidewalk has the accurate reaction, but I assume she only says those exact words above mentally. She does stare at me in horror as I present a poor attempt of triathlon. I flick her my bitter finger before turning to another road, stopping out front of Gideon's house. Knocking on his door countless times, Marisol opens it and I let myself in, running more idiotically to his bedroom. I burst in, finding him in his bed, watching a film on TV, eating tacos, and drinking beer.

He notes my presence and lifts a brow. "What are you doing here? I don't want you here."

I shoot him my darkest glare before flopping beside him in the bed, forgetting about my proper clothes that must've wrinkled. Poking him in the arm, I tell him, "Help me, bruh."

"Ew, you're sweaty," he whines, dragging his bottles of beer away from me. He chugs an awfully large amount before asking what I want.

So I tell him everything while ridiculously pacing back and forth on his filthy floor. Throughout my rambling, he either stares at me, then at his beer, then makes sweet love with it or glares at the wall, probably to make it melt like what those shitty heroes do, only walls aren't metallic and Gideon is a moron.

"You're an idiot," Gideon says after I rant. "And are you seriously going to a date like a sweaty bitch that hasn't taken a shower in ultra-fucking-million-thousands of years?"

"That's helpful. Really, it is," I pause pacing to glare at him. "Help me, bro. Where do I take him?"

"Shouldn't you be thinking about this last night when you fucking asked him? Oh god, idiot alert!"