Jaded -narry au-

1.0. Lights

Lights flashed sporadically on the other side of the room, bathing everything in alternate shades of cobalt, emerald, violet, and rose. The music swirled around them, pounding into their heads until the rhythm was etched into their bones, seeping into their souls, setting them free. Twirling girls and grinding guys created vibrant islands amidst the sea of smoke and lights. Jewels, glitter, makeup, and other accessories shone and glinted, glowing in the dark like phosphorus, bright smiles and sultry winks were bursts of expression throughout the dancing. The room was crowded, packed, and the air was hot and humid due to the cramped bodies.

Anyone could see that this place was a mad house, an anarchical mess. But there's beauty within chaos, thought the green-eyed boy standing behind the counter in the back as he wiped down a recently vacated area of the bar. Sometimes he found himself yearning to be a part of the messy beauty that was Pandemonium Club, but it wasn't really his scene. The curly-haired bartender was more the type of guy you'd find at a cozy little cafe, tucked away in the corner with a cup of coffee and a notebook. Not at London's arguably hottest club, serving pretty girls and pretty boys, whores and billionaires, thugs and one percent-ers. But something about the reputation, the aura of mystery and fun, the feel of adrenaline and do-overs, of a chance to be someone else for a night, drew him in. And thus, Harry Styles got himself a job as Pandemonium's nightly bartender (with others of course).

Though upon first glance, he didn't look like he worked there. He was constantly talking to costumers and making hand gestures, enjoying himself while others enjoyed his company. He seemed like a patron, like a beautiful boy enjoying himself, letting go for the night, until he grabbed a bottle and began mixing, pouring drinks with a natural ease, delivering with a flourish. Truth be told, he was a rarity amongst the populace of the building- he was on the surface invested in every single person he conversed with, but yet he was distant, cold. His smile never reached his eyes, and always was a bit forced. He never laughed, only nodded and quirked a corner of his mouth in acknowledgment of the joke or line. He was animated and had a gravitating pull, but he never was attached, never anything more than skin-deep. He was just another face, though admittedly a beautiful one, among the many, fading in and out of the lights and the smoke, seen one moment and a memory the next.

And that's exactly how he wanted it.

~~~

The club was in full swing, the girls drunk and dancing, the men lusty and daring, music pounding like a universal heartbeat and the drinks flowing like water. The curly haired lad was at his usual position behind the counter, serving the costumers that came up to him with crisp dollar bills and a girl to get, a plan to regret, or a memory to forget. He went through the motions, giving smiles left and right, intoxicating men and women with not only the alcohol he dutifully served. It was no secret that the bartender at Pandemonium was a catch.

In fact, it was one of the reasons that some people came so often. They had hopes to intrigue the beautiful boy behind the drinks, to win him over one order at a time. Not only women, though there was an abundance of those. Many times it was some gorgeous bombshell straight from a British magazine, painted and primped, expecting flirtation and consent. Other times it was men in tight jeans with immaculately styled hair, that smiled wide and seductively like a movie star. Whichever it was, they came to win not the heart, but rather the body of the twenty-something year old enigma. Unfortunately for both sides of the pursuit, Harry Styles was not an idiot. Nor was he a prize to be won. He eluded the probing questions, remained oblivious to the moves and innuendos, and blatantly declined all invitations to leave together and have some fun.

He had already had enough fun. One mistake was enough.

Harry had just fended off another advance by a desperate girl, dressed like a mix between a robot and Marilyn Monroe, when he turned and saw a familiar face. Smiling one of his rare smiles, the tall lanky boy made his way down the bar to the only ginger lad in the club wearing a hoodie. Ed always stuck out like a sore thumb in fancy, retro places, but Harry didn't mind. He himself could relate, as he himself never felt like he fit in. The younger lad grabbed a glass and a bottle of vodka, pouting his friend a glass as he approached him.