Art | Harry Styles

38

reinforcement of the TW - talk of rape and sexual assault, as previous

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"Stop looking at me like that."

A small, sheepish smile pulls on Harry's lips, as he rakes his fingers through his curls and brings his lip back between his teeth. He raises his camera, snapping a photo of the girl with her feet in his lap.

"Pretty. Sorry," he mumbles shyly, bringing his camera downwards to view the picture he's just taken, catching his girlfriend's growing smile out of the corner of his eye. He lifts the strap from around his neck, setting the camera down on the table in front of them.

Sophie shifts forward onto her knees, shuffling towards Harry, but she's not bold enough to bring her lips to his cheek. She's never really felt this - this unsureness, where she doesn't know which movements are acceptable or far too ambitious; far too much too soon, and she's desperate not to overthink, but she's even more desperate to steer him away from discomfort. Much to her surprise, he tilts his head slightly to the side, allowing his face to inch closer to hers as his lips dare to brush over hers, now-

"Harry! Sophie!"

The gentle padding of rain against the panels of the roof sounds throughout the house, as the curtains are drawn shut, blocking out prying eyes as the time nears past seven. 

A soft glow has overtaken Harry's features, despite having only been back in Manchester for only half a day at most. Perhaps it's the warming environment that comes with the dimly-lit sanctuary of his anciently-furnished living room, or perhaps it's the familiarity of the cityscapes he'd passed in the cab on the way here. 

His curls are flopped messily against his forehead, where he hasn't made any attempt to style it or push it back - his skin heated by the warmth of the fireplace blaring from its position in the corner, tinting his cheeks a mellow shade of pink. The sleeves of his sweater are pulled over his hands, rings shielded by the soft fabric as he outstretches his arms and goes to stand up.

"Are you gonna.." Sophie trails off quietly, joining him in standing up. He catches the faint raise of her eyebrow, pursing his lips delicately.

His head tilts forward in a silent nod, leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead, "M'glad you're here." He reckons it's the fifth or sixth time he's said it since the plane had moved an inch along the runway, but he still feels as if it hasn't been stressed enough. Who else would dream of dropping everything simply to accompany him on an eight-hour flight across the ocean merely for him to be in the comfort of his own home? Quite frankly, there's nobody else he'd want to do so - but still, the fact she'd so willingly branched out for his sake, was beyond his believe - especially with the spontaneity of the matter; it had been a spur of the moment decision; to go home. Yet, here he sits - in his safe haven, with the very person who has the ability to provide such a haven so effortlessly.

Anne had been beyond on board for the idea of Harry and Sophie coming to stay - and Harry's certain he would've gotten on the flight regardless, his heart and his mind set on stepping foot back in Manchester even if it was the last thing he did. Each street he turns down in New York is reminding him of Elle - of the walk home that night following what had happened. Each uneven tile of the sidewalk, each turn around a corner - his mind is clouded. 

"Smells really good, Mum," Harry says honestly, squeezing Sophie's hand before dropping it and taking a seat at the kitchen table. 

"I was guessing the food on the plane wouldn't be the nicest," Anne grins, setting steaming plates down in front of the pair of them, as Gemma surfaces from the hallway, taking her own seat, "so 'thought I'd have to stuff the pair of you up when you got back."

"No complaints over here," Sophie laughs in response, picking up her fork as she catches the twist of Harry's lips beside her. Realisation has set in the pit of his stomach, as his mother takes a seat at the end of the table.

"-tomorrow I really do need to run down to the shops, though - Gem, it'd really help if you came with me," Anne finishes off her sentence, as Sophie tunes back in, sipping the water from the glass in front of her.

Gemma's about to reply, before she catches Harry's pallid face, as he chews on his lip in an unreadable manner. "Whoa," she chuckles light-heartedly, "what's up, Haz? Did someone die?"

"No, no one died," Harry says rather quickly, capturing his mother's attention with his hastiness. Except a part of him, maybe, he can't help but think. His leg is shaking upwards and downwards in a continued, anxious movement, feeling Sophie's fingers reach out to smooth over his own, providing him with a brief sense of reassurance. 

"Is this why you've come home so suddenly?" Anne asks with the furrow of her eyebrows, laying her fork down beside her plate. "Not that it's not great to have you home, but- did seeing us in New York make you homesick? Because it's alright, darling - very normal. S'what uni's like - an adjustment, and-"

She's still talking, and he can feel the room spinning. Everything is blurry, and he finds himself pushing his glasses back up the ridge of his nose as if it'll help clear things; but it's like he's seeing red, without an ounce of anger in his bones. Resentment, maybe - but anger isn't so prominent. His slender fingers are trembling and his bottom lip has jutted out a little, the shake of panic shooting through his veins as he hastily tries to even his quickening breaths.

"I was raped!"

Silence falls among the table, and he's said it. He's near-screamed it, and his eyes land on his lap. He can't look at them; he can't - he can't look his sister in the eye, sure to be mortified at the idea of such a thing happening to him; he can't look his mother in the eye, as she'll undoubtedly be at a loss for words - broken that such a thing had happened, as it had been her sat on the edge of Harry's bed nightly since he was about twelve, listening to his shaky tales of the emotional abuse he'd endured that day from the other children.

It's safe to say that this wasn't what Anne had expected when her son had phoned her and checked it would be okay for him to come home for a week or two. She'd expected maybe a little homesickness - for Harry to need a home-cooked meal and a few nights in his own bed to make him feel better. Not this. Anything but this.

Nobody likes watching their mother cry. It's horrific; heart-wrenching. It's as if - how could somebody so pure, so sacrificial in your favour ever drop the façade? How could anyone ever hurt them, bring them to this point?

And she's sobbing. It's his fault, isn't it? It has to be - he's done this; he let this happen.

Gemma's eyes are wide, as if she can't find any other way to react, her hand clinging onto her glass of water. 

"We'll fix it, Harry," Anne says, her cheeks stained with tears as she desperately eyes her son and the girl beside her. She wants to mean what she says, but she truthfully doesn't know how to fix this. There's no magic wand to wave; no bedtime story to tell to distract him from his problems - she's powerless, and so is he.

And just for a second, as his mother drifts off into staring into open space, as she contemplates what her next sentence truly should be - and as Gemma still struggles to form an initial response - he feels alone. Despite the undying support he knows he'll receive - he feels empty; alone.

He feels the brushing of fingertips tracing over his knuckles, a soft sense of security restored in him once more as he lays eyes on the girl beside him. Her eyes are saying everything he needs to hear and more, as she gently moves to wipe a tear from his cheek that he didn't realise had fallen, those eyes of hers continuing to say exactly right things:

'I love you.'