The Weekend (Narry)

ceithre

"Do not kid yourself, a conflict is never about a surface issue. It's about ones unsaid, untreated, and unhealed wounds."
Unknown

"No, you don't understand. I need to be in Dublin today." Harry's fingers tap an inconsistent beat on the counter as he attempts to explain his situation to the man behind it.

"I'm not sure if you're understanding me, sir. Dublin flights have been cancelled. We have no way for you to get there today."

"I need to be there by tonight. I need to make sure everything is in order. I can't be stuck in Wales."

The man looks apathetic for a second before he returns to his stoic expression. "Would you like me to ring Dublin Airport and request they open a runaway just for you? Because that's completely plausible, 'innit?"

Harry huffs, readjusting his carry on over his shoulder. "Whatever. Fine. Thanks for all of your nonexistent help."

Harry leaves the line, angrily finding it way out of the airport. If there are no connecting flights to Dublin, he has no reason to stay in the building. Right now, if he were able to, he would probably be calling Louis. He need only hear his voice, and Harry would calm down, his stress would dissipate off his shoulders. But, neither Harry nor Louis have an international package, and Harry doesn't want to spoil the surprise if he doesn't absolutely have to.

He grabs out his planner, to check and see just how far off his schedule is because of this delay. To his horror, he should have already been choosing a dining spot. Closing the planner, he shoves it back into his bag and begins following the exit signs until he is breathing the fresh air of Wales. Harry is not entirely sure where Wales even is, or if it's any different than England. The assistants sounded British, anyway.

When he finds that he's by a coast, he realizes that there are more ways than one to get to Ireland. By his watch, it takes him half an hour to find and convince a fishing boat to take him to Cork. Halfway to Cork, a storm feels the need to spoil Harry's plans once more, forcing the boat to dock in Neamh. Harry isn't entirely sure this town is even on Google Maps, and he's slightly worried about leaving the boat.

After paying the fisherman, he prays to God that the town will at least have wifi.

-

The road between the shoreline and any buildings is a long, straight one. Ireland is lucky it's beautiful, so Harry at least has something to do. By the time he reaches a small pub that has two cars parked on the side and its front door wide open, Harry has seen 528 new shades of green.

When he walks in, he accidentally knocks his knuckles against the doorframe, and he hisses at the sharp pain. The pub is relatively full, which Harry chalks up to it being lunchtime. He pauses to look around, and is pushed forward from behind. He turns to see who did it, and he finds a blonde woman holding a small child on her hip.

"Sorry, just trying to get through. You're in the way." She says, her accent thick and words hard to catch.

"Apologies."

She nods, walking around Harry to sit at a table with a man Harry can only assume is her husband. He makes his way to the counter, figuring that would be the best place to ask for help. The bartender is currently leaning over, chatting with an older man sitting by the bar. He has a white towel in his hand and is probably supposed to be wiping down the glass.

"Excuse me?"

The bartender holds up a finger, still giving his full attention to his friend. It's frustrating to Harry, to be completely honest.