Got the sunshine on my shoulders - by: hattalove

chapter three

As Harry soon figures out, the one B&B in the village shut years ago. He walks up and down the main street, his face still sticky with tears, looking for a place to stay, but he's too afraid to ask a passersby.
He could go to Northwich, to Stoke on Trent, to any of the dozen villages that are a stone's throw away – there's bound to be a bed somewhere.

His mum is also bound to hear about him being in town.

He's not too sure he's ready for another reunion, especially with a mum who's probably going to be angrier than Louis was.

It's Harry's one single regret about leaving this place – the fact that he wasn't brave enough to tell his family. That he wasn't brave enough to pick up the phone. He's a horrible, horrible son, regardless of the fact that he sings praises to his mum in every other interview. She hasn't seen him in five years.

And he misses her; he misses her like he would miss a limb, misses Gemma, Robin, the house that saw him through the best years of his childhood.

He's here now. Maybe he can fix the one thing he really broke all those years ago.

After all the hours he's spent in the car, the inside of it smells like wet dirt and sweat. He decides to leave it behind, tucked into a side street, and makes the walk up the hill on foot. He tries his best to not think along the way, just enjoys the ever-present wind lashing past his ears. It finally feels like May outside, and he gets warm enough to actually take his vest off.

He still looks like he bathed in a mud pit, but it's a little bit better.

The walk is over much sooner than he'd like. He stops before the eerily familiar hedge, still meticulously shaped, and hesitates with his hand on the gate handle. As much as he hates to admit it, this house stopped being a home as soon as he moved in with Louis, and the years that have passed since then must make him more of a guest than anything else.

He looks through the windows, again, and wonders if his old bed is still up there somewhere.

He stands, and lets the wind blow the hesitation out of his head; he's got to do this one thing. He presses the handle.

"Harry?" asks someone – his mum, definitely his mum – from behind.

He gets choked up before he even tries to speak. He hasn't heard her voice in—God, half a decade.

"Hi," he gets out, with no small amount of trouble, and hunches his shoulders. Her soft breathing behind him feels like a freight train loaded to the very top with regret, just slamming into his chest at full speed. "Mum. Hi."

"Oh my God," she says. She doesn't sound angry, and that's the only reason he feels brave enough to turn around.

There's a couple of shopping bags on the ground, a handbag, a set of keys – all things she must have dropped. By the time he dares to look her in the face, he can't make out any of the details because his vision is blurry.

"What happened?" she whispers, and Harry—Harry just has no idea where to start.

He shakes his head, desperately biting his lips to keep the tears away. It's barely been an hour since he stopped crying, his tear ducts should be completely wrung out—

Amid the hazy shapes that now make up the world, he can make out, in bizarre crystal clear quality, as she opens her arms. There's a bit of hesitation in it, but Harry won't, can't, question the comfort she's offering. He will, later. Right now, he just needs a hug.

"I'm sorry," he says as soon as he's got his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She's shorter than he remembers. "I'm so sorry."

"Shush," she says, rubbing his back. It's a little hesitant, but it's there. "I'll shout at you, do you hear me? I will shout your little head off, but I need you to sleep on it first. You look exhausted, love."