You Can't Sing Without Air- Harry Styles Fanfic

11. CEO of Being Breathless

"Can I join you?" Harry asks. 

I'm watching a movie on the couch of the living room, curled up in a blanket. 

"Sure." I say, scooting over even though there's plenty of room. 

He sits down next to me. He's wearing the same t-shirt from earlier but he's switched the stiff trousers out for a pair of grey joggers. I try not to look too closely. It's not like I've ever seen him in joggers. In fact, he used to go about in nothing but his pants. Even so I don't remember ever being distracted by his body before. I turn away quickly, trying to shake the thoughts from my head. 

"What are we watching?" He asks, tossing his arm over the back of the couch comfortably. 

"It's called God Help the Girl. It's this, um,  indie musical I guess about this group of kids who start a band. I've seen it before but it's really good." 

"Cool." He says.  

He leans back into the couch, relaxing his head on the cushion. 

About midway through the film my IV pump begins beeping loudly. Harry sits up startled. I think he was starting to fall asleep. 

"Sorry, gotta go change this." I say, standing up. 

"Mm okay." He says, rubbing his eyes. "Do you, uh, need help or anything?" 

"Not really but thanks." I say. 

I drag the pole to my room where I grab another bag of fluids. I decide to bring it back to the living room with me to switch it while I'm watching the rest of the movie.

I sit down on the couch and turn on a lamp, pressing play on the TV. Instead of watching the movie, Harry watches me as I clamp the line, unhooking one bag and setting up another.  

I feel uncomfortable with his eyes on me. Anyone that has spent two minutes with Harry knows that he has the most intense gaze. That's one thing I remember from when we were younger. I would occasionally catch him training that gaze on me, his eyes piercing straight through me.  

His gaze unsettles me now more than ever. I hate that he's seeing the gritty and gross side of my disease. I'm not one to hide having CF, but besides Sean and my family, I've never really let anyone see the reality of what it's like to live with it.

In interviews for my podcast, I've realized it's not something unique to me. Many of the other girls and women I've spoken with have admitted feeling the same uneasiness about showcasing their illnesses. It's not that we're necessarily ashamed to be sick, we just don't want people to see it as the defining factor of who we are.  

Personally, I can't stand the pity. I've spent my entire life trying to prove that my life is not one to be pitied. Before my illness progressed, I was the life of every party. I laughed loudly and often, and anytime someone tried to tell me that I couldn't do something, I did it, and I did it better than they could. Most of all, I never let people see I was struggling. Even some of my best friends from university didn't know that I was in hospital until I missed graduation. 

I settle down into the couch and turn my attention back toward the movie.  

"That was cool." Harry says when the credits begin to roll. "Her friends aren't able to heal her but they support her through the process." 

"Wow. I'm impressed. I thought you were going to fall asleep there for a little while." I laugh. 

"Well yeah but not because of the movie. I just didn't get enough sleep last night." He chuckles.  

I laugh, remembering what he said to Niall about his snoring roommate. 

I pull my feet up onto the couch, not ready yet to head to my room. 

"Adie," he says, pulling his feet up as well, "I know you don't really want me here, but I'm really glad this happened. I.... I needed a break. Some perspective." 

I draw in a breath. Is this the part when he tells me what an inspiration I am?  Gross. The only thing worse than being pitied is being reduced to an inspirational sob-story, like one of those posters with a kitten hanging from a branch that reads, "Just Hold On".

"Don't get me wrong," he continues, "I love my job and my band more than anything, but it's been a while since I've felt at home somewhere. Maybe it's nostalgia, maybe its the fact that you don't seem impressed by me in the slightest," he laughs, "But it's reminded me what it's like to not have the world revolve around me for a bit." 

I don't know what to say.  For the first time, I start to realize how much he's matured in the last couple of years. He's no longer the insecure, guarded boy who could never be serious. He's seemed to have found himself, and quite happy with what he's found.  

"Yeah well you probably needed the reminder. Your head was starting to get too big to fit through doorways." I joke. 

He leans towards me to swat me on the arm with the back of his hand. 

"And you haven't changed at all I see!" He says laughing. 

I swat him back, landing a  punch to his right shoulder. He looks at me in mock offense.  

"Oh it's on!" he says, grabbing a pillow from the couch next to him and holding it in front of him like a sword. Before I have the chance to grab one for myself he swings it, smacking me full-on in the face. 

"You little arse!" I shriek, laughing as I finally grab a pillow of my own.  I pull the oxygen tube off my face, giving me one less line to get tangled in. 

Before long we're  having a genuine pillow fight. Both of us are on our feet swinging pillows like kids at a slumber party. He's just about to hit me in the face again when I step back, my foot landing on the wheels of my IV pole. Both me and the pole crash to the floor. 

"Oh fuck. I'm sorry!" Harry says, dropping the pillow to rush to my side.  

"Are you okay?" he asks, but I'm laughing too hard to respond. 

"Yea yea I'm fine, I'm fine," I say, still laughing. 

His posture relaxes. Slowly, a smile begins to form on his face. He sits my IV pole upright before joining me on the floor, shoulders heaving with laughter. Our faces are only a breath apart and we laugh until my laughter turns into coughing.   

Harry sits up to grab my oxygen cannula. I attempt to reign in my cough with the deepest breaths I can muster. I know my cheeks are flushed with the exertion from both the pillow fight and the coughing fit, but for once I don't care. 

 Holding the cannula, Harry leans down and returns to his place on the floor.  Instead of handing it to me, he brushes the hair from my face, softly looping the tube over my ears. His fingers brush my cheek gently, and I feel my heartbeat pound in my chest. 

"Thanks." I say, breathlessly.  

This time it has nothing to do with my CF.