May [H.S]

23

Harry
•••

C'est ta faute.

The humming tune meshed together with the vibration of voices. Hammering through my ear drums piercingly, my bubbling frustration builds like the thudding, floor-shaking music. The accumulation of twisted irritation held its feverish place in the center of my chest, driving my thoughts, influencing the way I not-so-conspicuously make my way around people, coursing a path in the middle.

My fingers dig deep into the leather of the jacket, claiming their place just under the thick collar, flushed white at the amount of pressure put into grasping the garment. Lost on the owner's whereabouts, the bodies bubble together, one ever-changing animate object.

Giving the crowd several, back-to-back once-overs, I directly look out for Meg's description.  Matching the tipsy strangers to the image I have painted in my mind– a blond dick, most likely covered in tattoos, piercings, missing his staple piece– the hue of neon coloring over the bopping heads tears away my advantage of height. I'm sure I've seen this Walkers' face around somewhere, that when I see him in the crowd, I'll know for sure he's the prick missing his jacket. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to have him come up to me, asking for it back. 

Being dead-center in a club surrounded by drunk idiots with not one drop of alcohol in your system wasn't fun in the slightest. Being the only person whose thinking logically wasn't fun in the slightest. You'd think being in a club with your tipsy ex sizing you up, and blatantly flirting would sound like a good time. In theory, it does. Heavy emphasis on 'in theory,' I'm not in on the fun.

I wonder what Harley would think about this if he knew the full truth; if Hemmings knew the full truth, even Zayn. Surely, my motives and actions would align, I'd be justified rather than seeming like I've lost my shit. Something tells me they'd still stand behind my actions, and I know that when the inevitable comes, they will. Or at least I hope they will, I wouldn't have much to say in defense if they didn't, that's on me.

Coming up with no match and a jacket in my hand, I glanced toward where I'd left Meg, or more so stormed off. The table she once occupied was now empty, along with her stuff, leaving behind an array of empty drinks and what I assumed to be Joey's and whoever else was hanging there's things. Careless enough to forget them in a jam-packed nightclub. I knew I'd seen Quinn's face around here, some acquaintances from Rubies, a hazardous mix of Reapers and Walkers, all unaware of the decaying reconciliation.

How different this setting would look if they knew.

I eye what my gaze assumes is a blond, dancing alongside some girl. I come to the conclusion rather quickly that he's not the guy I'm looking for, not because of anything to do with his appearance but a gut feeling. Exhaling in frustration, I fight the urge to toss the jacket as I did before, letting it be discarded somewhere with the thought of interrogating the person who it belonged to.

That was the healthier option. Miles better than endorsing my curiosity, and the festering it would do. Ruminating over the guy's motives, if they were strategic or not.

Unrelated or not, my stomach turned thinking about what might've occupied his mind as they'd squished together in that sweaty hot mess of a crowd. As much as I'd like to admit that my dilated hostility was just a result of worrying for Meg's safety, I couldn't. Not when a small portion of my frustration stemmed directly from jealousy, and god forbid the idea that she'd want to fuck anyone else. I fucking hate that I think that way, that those thoughts come and go, but it's the truth.

Focusing on mending my assholish tendencies wasn't at the very top of my list of things to do with everything unfolding. Especially in the midst of my undecidedly serious mental breakdown.