Lirry Stayne One Shots

Charity

It all felt a little too much like home, to him.

By neverhadthewords on Tumblr

He saw those brown eyes every day, hidden in the small crowd of people and watching him intently. It set him on edge, had his fingers missing strings and tabs. He would smile, more than a little embarrassed, and mutter a small apology to those listening. A few people would wander off, no longer interested in the talent of an amateur street musician with cold fingers and chapped lips. Those eyes, though, would never leave. They would stay longer than anyone else, watching him carefully with a kindness that he was unfamiliar with even as all of the other faces changed and shifted around.

Harry didn't have any friends. The closest he came was Zayn, a dark-skinned boy who had been kicked out of his house when they discovered that he was an alcoholic addicted to cigarettes. They only knew each other because they occasionally slept near each other on the subway, covering for one another whenever anyone went to tell them that they couldn't spend the night in the dim cars. He liked to think, though, that those brown eyes were a friend, dropping enough money into the open guitar case for a cup of tea, at the very least.

He had yet to speak to those eyes, although he wanted to. He had yet to say a single word, deciding only to play his guitar with that much more precision whenever they were around. (It didn't work.) He would try to impress, try to get the stranger to stay until everyone else had walked away and it was just the two of them. The two of them standing face to face, Harry with his guitar and this stranger with his soft brown eyes. It had yet to happen.

Today, though, they never came around. There wasn't a pair of brown eyes watching him, no matter how long he played. The sun was beginning to set, and there had been no sign of his stranger anywhere. The night was cold; Harry could see his breath. Those few people that were standing in front of him wouldn't be there for long, no matter how well he played. There was barely even enough money in front of him to get a hot cuppa, let alone any kind of food. He would be lucky to make it through the night without a stomach ache.

Harry finished up the chord progression he'd been working on, stopping in the middle of what might've been a song. The small crowd clapped a little bit, a few people tossing coins toward him as they dispersed. There was no brown-eyed boy standing in the back, no friendly hand tossing a few crumpled bills into the small pile that was there. Harry leaned down and picked up what he had, shoving it into his pocket and putting the old guitar in its place. He slung the case over his shoulder and turned to walk away.

He had his hands in his pockets and the collar of his old coat turned up. It felt as though he was the only one on the street tonight, even though he knew that there were other people walking by him every few minutes. For whatever reason, there was this feeling in the pit of his stomach, this little part of him that inexplicably felt lonely. He had no idea why it was there, knew that it didn't make sense. The boy had never even said two words to him; what right did he have to miss a stranger?

"Hey!" A voice called from behind him, too loud in the silent winter air. Harry let out a puff of air. Why must people be so noisy? Didn't this man know that people were trying to sleep? A hand landed on Harry's shoulder, and he whipped around, almost taking out the figure behind him with the neck of his guitar case.

Brown eyes stared back at him, bright and friendly. "You didn't wait for me," an unfamiliar voice said, thick with an accent that screamed he was from another part of the country. Harry wondered exactly what brought him here, to the dark part of London. "I was looking forward to listening to you play."

Harry shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. "It's cold out. Hurts to play." He wonders if the boy understands him, knows that his words have always been lengthy, slow, drawn out. He's heard it enough times in class, teachers telling him to enunciate and articulate with sharp t's and harsh r's. His fingers played with the change in his pockets, looking for something to do. "Besides, you're running late today. Not my fault you missed the show."

The boy smiled. "Did you think I wasn't coming?"

Harry knew it was pointless to deny it now, knew he was far past feeling embarrassed. This boy already knew he was homeless; what could be worse than that? What could possibly be more humiliating? A small crush? No, that wasn't too terrible. Not at all. "Yes, actually. I did."

The boy smiled, as though Harry said exactly what he wanted. "Let me make it up to you, then. Have dinner with me tonight?"

Again, Harry shook his head. "I couldn't do that. I can't... I'm fine, really."

The boy laughed a little bit. His face was tinted red; Harry thought it might've been from the cold, but maybe this stranger was just as nervous as he was. "My name's Liam." He held out a hand and Harry shook it tentatively. "There, alright. Now we know each other. I am socially obligated to help you."

"Big words, Liam," Harry stated, placing his freezing hand back in a pocket that didn't help to make it any warmer.

He followed Liam home anyway, regardless of the part of him screaming that he shouldn't. He sat through dinner, drinking cheap beer and eating pizza that tasted like heaven, even though it was from the cheapest place around and had probably been sitting under a heating light for an hour or two. He let Liam talk him into staying the night, intoxicated with the alcohol and the idea that someone cared, was taking care of him.

He borrowed Liam's clothes, an old jumper and a pair of flannel pants that were far too big for him. He was led to the sofa, tucked in with a real, soft blanket that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and covered him from his chin to his feet. The pillow beneath his head was large and comfortable, dipping around his head in a way that had him falling asleep before he even realized it.

In the morning, though, he would wake up and realize what he'd done. He would change back into his own clothes, fold everything and leave it at the foot of the couch. He would grab his coat and his guitar case from where they sat behind the door and run off into the cold winter air, ashamed and embarrassed. He wasn't a charity case. People weren't supposed to take care of him. He didn't deserve it.

As he shrugged the coat onto his shoulders, though, he would notice that it was a little too big. The sleeves hung over his fingers, protecting them from the wind, and the buttons were all in place, shiny and new. He would button them all up with unsteady hands, breathing in the smell of cinnamon and vanilla.

It would smell like home.

It would make him smile, because he would realize that it gave him a reason to go running right back.