Remember Me [harry styles] ✓

32 - B Stage and berry

"Whenever I close my eyes, I picture you there, I'm looking out at the crowd, you're everywhere."

It's as hot and sticky as I remember.

My ears are ringing from the high-pitched squealing of the girls flanking my sides, and the chest of whoever stands behind me is one hundred percent glued to my back - I'm already dreading the moment that we are going to have to be peeled apart. My own jersey dress clings to me like a second skin and I'm grateful for the last minute swipe of deodorant I'd decided to apply before venturing out here.

Every tour date so far, I've spent seated or watching from the sidelines. But Denver is different. Tonight, I'm in the pit. Right up at the front just like the very first time; reunited with the cold iron rail and the inability to see my own feet. Only this time, I'm not clammy with nerves and silently seething with bottled-up anger. I'm not hating on my past drunk self and poor credit card habits, or trying to remember how to breathe.

Tonight isn't the first time I've seen Harry in eight years, it's more like eight seconds. And tonight, nothing could wipe the smile off my face even if it tried. 

I cheer along with everybody else as Meet Me in The Hallway comes to an end, signalling what I imagine everyone hopes will be some dialogue from the man himself. But the dimpled grin on his face says it all really - he's just as excited to be here as they are. 

Harry had been surprised when I'd expressed my desire to watch from this spot, and Adam had made a poor joke at how he was probably just worried I'd get crushed fending off everyone else "pining" for him. He'd taken a guitar pick to the head for that.

"You all look beautiful, Denver!" He yells into his microphone, and wiggles his fresh set of baby pink gels at a duo screaming his name. The response is hysterical - chaotic even, and the resounding scream could easily be misinterpreted for the opening scene of a horror film. But I'm getting used to it - this hysteria that seems to follow Harry. And it's actually sort of inspiring. 

Maybe so much so that I can almost sympathise with Penny's incessant fangirling. 

I think I miss her sometimes. Eve too. But my life in Melbourne feels like a distant memory when I'm gallivanting across the States, and any mere thought of The Gelato Store now opens a whole new can of worms regarding what's going to happen when the tour is finished. It wakes me up in the night - leaving me in a cold sweat. Because this time, I'm not sure a regular letter exchange is going to be enough. 

Harry dances across the stage in front of me, catching my eye with one of his show-stopping smiles.  The confidence and sheer joy that oozes from him when he's performing is contagious and I can't help but beam back. I want to grab hold of everyone; shake their shoulders and yell just look at my best friend! He's glowing!, but selfishly I also want to keep this overwhelming sense of pride to myself. Harry is mine in a way that he isn't for anybody else in this room. Just as he's something to them that he probably isn't for me.

But the fact that he can have this effect on so many individuals is what powers the look of awe that I can't seem to control.

He approaches the edge of the stage and raises both arms into the air; drinking in the attention and breathing the lust-polluted air. Everyone watches in anticipation, but I know this routine - I know what comes next. And when Harry's right Gucci-clad foot hits the top step - the rest of the arena catches on. Flanked on either side by a bulked up member of security, he makes his way down the stairs and into the sea of eagerly awaiting fans - as casually as climbing into a public pool. The crowd splits in two; forming a channel for our 21st century Moses, and as he gets forever closer - my heart pounds.

I know that I'll be seeing Harry after the show. I know that I'll be sharing his hotel room and that tonight - like the past seven nights - I will fall asleep in the cage of his tattooed arms. I know that there are still ten days left of our Harry and Juni tour of America. But even still, his presence gives my heart wings. Makes my mouth dry out. My hands are impatient; fingers twitching with the overwhelming desire to have him close to me. I want to feel him whisper my name into my hair, and the chain around his neck bump into my nose. But Performer Harry is not mine to have and I need to learn some God damn patience.

He glides by; the gold flecks of his blouse catching in the overhead lights and his ring-stacked hands waving at every single smiling face. And just when I think he hasn't seen me - he turns his head and winks. The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk that I know is meant for my eyes only, but before I have a chance to respond - he's moved on. Out of sight. Only the shifting spotlight overhead and the screams gradually getting louder deeper into the room are any real indication that he's still here.

And then he takes his position on the B-Stage, joined by a Fedora-wearing Mitch who maintains his signature stoic look beside him; eyes fixed on his guitar. It's much harder to see them now and I can't prevent the pang of FOMO that hits me. It's embarrassing to admit out loud but - I want to be wherever Harry is. I want to see the look on his face when he looks out to the crowd of people who have turned up just for him. I want to feel that emotion with him. Most of the surrounding fans have pushed back towards them, leaving me lingering on the outskirts with only the view of his shimmering back, and part of me is tempted to crawl through everyone's legs until I'm at the front again. But before I allow my mind to run away with itself - he pulls the microphone to his lips.

And it's like a magic spell. Because the moment Harry parts his lips - everyone falls into some sort of trance; rendered speechless with the anticipation of whatever it is that he's going to say.

"Now," he says in that signature British drawl that makes a three letter word twice as long. "I'd like to dedicate this next song to the person that it's about."

My breath catches. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what's next on the set list.

The crowd are clearly overjoyed with this information; screaming and crying out for him, and the heat that creeps up my neck and into my cheeks is astonishing. He throws a fleeting glance over his right shoulder and I can spot the shit eating grin even from back here.

Seriously, does Harry live to tease or please? Regardless, I've never been more thankful that nobody really knows who I am. If it were any different - Adam's prediction about getting crushed may have been correct. 

He pulls the microphone back to his lips. "You know who you are," he says, and then, after a pause. "My berry."

The familiar opening guitar of Sweet Creature begins and despite the amplified applause and the sobbing of the girl on my left hand side - it takes all of my willpower not to jump his bones there and then. 

author's note: Tomorrow, it will have been a year since I saw Harry at the O2 in London wearing that gorgeous pink, gold and black matador outfit and I'm feeling all sorts of denial right now. *brb while I watch every video and cry over every photo I took*
Also, it turns out I lied. Shit-hits-the-fan is chapter 35, not 36. Apparently I can't count. 
But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one :)