Summary: Y/N is in Harry's band and one night they have a drunken hook up. One thing leads to another and they find themselves engaging in a friend's with benefits type of situation. spoiler: it is importantAKA: A friends with benefits to lovers story :) with some angst in there
Warnings: smut, angst, fluff, alcohol consumption
"Hey Harold!" You smile as you easily hop over the side of the couch and settle beside your bandmate.
Harry groans, yet can't keep the small smile off of his face when he sees it's you. "How many times have I told you to never call me that?"
Your eyes narrow at his faux glare. "And how many times have I told you, I simply do not care?"
You reach a hand out and tousle his already disheveled, unstyled brown hair. Despite his lack of styling, his hair still looked perfect. His chestnut hair fell into a middle part when he did nothing to it and you found it endearing. It made him look far younger than he truly was, like a boy you might have pursued when you were in your early days at college. The waves slightly framed his prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw that was sporting a tiny amount of stubble.
He moves his arm from around the back of the couch to pat at his hair, trying to put it back in its nondescript position you had just messed with. After he's satisfied, he uses the same hand to push up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. They're chestnut brown Gucci frames that match the natural highlights in his hair. You can safely assume that's why he bought them. The lenses are clear, but you know they don't hold any prescription. He looks incredulously at you from behind them still.
"Nice glasses," you mention offhandedly as you reach out to the coffee table to grab the drink you had left there earlier.
Before Harry had arrived, you had been taking up residence on the couch, in the spot he had actually taken up. You had ventured to the restroom for a moment and gotten held up in a conversation when asked your preference for the Beatles. Having to defend your staunch stance for the Beatles and against the Rolling Stones, you had gotten swept up into an argument with Adam. He believed that because the Rolling Stones toured for longer warranted them the title of best rock band. While you countered that despite their long touring and production of music, the Stones had a rotation of members. The Beatles maintained the four of them and held such a large impact even though they were barely together for a decade. They were one of a kind, or at least the first of their kind, you'd allow. You weren't really in the mood for intellectual conversation tonight, so upon seeing Harry taking up your seat, you had told Adam you'd continue the discussion at a later date and returned to your spot.
"Thanks," Harry mumbles as his gaze flits around the room. He wasn't sure if you were actually complimenting him, but he would take it as one either way.
The rest of your friends are all up and about, drinking, talking, dancing. It was the usual house party scene: a relatively intimate gathering, music you all actually liked, some friends of friends feeling slightly out of place. There was no pressure in this type of gathering but still Harry wasn't necessarily in the party mood tonight. Usually, Harry was the one instigating these types of get-togethers with his friends and bandmates. He liked to be the life of the party, but as the tour loomed closer and closer, he felt some tinge of longing for quiet and solitude. He knew he wouldn't have much quiet while on the road, which mostly didn't scare him. He loved the stage and the high he received from performing and the gratification he felt from all the people in the room being there to see him. But there was also that other part of him that liked the quiet, the privacy. As the lack of alone time nudged itself around the corner, he had been hoping to enjoy solitude, or at the very least peace before he was on the road. Some sort of blissful state before technical chaos ensued. When Charlotte, the host of tonight's soiree, had texted their group chat about tonight, Harry had politely declined. Then came the slew of private texts from Charlotte giving him all the reasons he should come tonight. He tried to say no again, but had shown up after the continued begging from her.
