And What If I Were You

Chapter 2 - Part 31

Sunday, April 17, 2022

Bar Horan

Pandanus Island

10.15pm. Drowning his sorrows at the bar...

"Another?" The bartender, Manny, asks, flipping his towel over his shoulder.

Harry drains the last dregs of his vodka soda and sets the empty glass down on the bar with slightly more force than he'd intended. "Yeah. Go on. Why not, eh?"

He's been here for hours and is well and truly past tipsy. He should probably stop, but after the night he's had, the thought of going back to the hotel alone is too miserable to fathom right now.

He'd left Liam and wandered down to the beach to sit and consider his lot in life, and to work out the fuck to do next. It hadn't been pretty, or particularly productive. Then again, wallowing never is.

His grumbling stomach and heavy heart had forced him to seek out some food and an escape from his thoughts. Entering the bar, his intentions had been good; dinner, a couple of drinks, then back to the hotel to sleep. But one beer had turned into 3 and food had seemed like a counterproductive interruption to his drinking, so he'd moved onto the vodkas and that was... Well, it was some time ago.

He still hasn't eaten and now he's well on his way to properly smashed, but he couldn't give a flying fuck. What's the worst they can do? Chuck him out? Have him arrested? Do they even have police on this godforsaken island? Harry's prepared to take his chances, besides, he's not bothering anyone. He watches Manny as he makes Harry's drink in front of him, sizing him up. Harry could probably take him in a one-on-one battle anyway. He's got all his fight training and martial arts shit from the films he's been in after all. May as well put it to some good fucking use 'cause it's not like he's going to be in any more movies for the foreseeable future, not while he's stuck here on this damn island for eternity waiting for his husband to return from his self-imposed exile.

Yeah. That's right. Harry's not fucking going anywhere. He's going to stay right here until he convinces one of the locals to take him to the other island or Louis comes to his fucking senses and returns to face him, whichever comes first.

People who say alcohol makes you dumb and irrational clearly don't have Harry's constitution. It's fucking brilliant. Harry's fucking brilliant. He always has the best ideas after a few drinks.

He's digging his heels in, metaphorically speaking. We shall, we shall not be moved, Harry sings in his head. Even if he can't convince someone to take him to Louis, his stubborn arse of a husband can't stay out there indefinitely, and Harry will be right fucking here waiting for him when he gives in.

He'd been a bit sad when he'd wandered in here but, in Harry's not-so-humble opinion, the best antidote for sadness is anger, and anger leads to action. He has a plan now and regardless of how simple it is, it's still a plan.

There are details to be sorted, like letting Graham know–god knows what he'll decide to do–and a bunch of other people, but they're future Harry's problem. Tomorrow Harry's problem. Tonight he's celebrating his genius.

Manny sets his drink on the coaster. "You're a prince among men, Manny."

Manny gives him a tight-lipped smile, planting his hands on the bartop and flexing his heavily tattooed muscles. Maybe Harry couldn't take him, whatever, he's being well-behaved so Manny won't chuck him out.

"You're alright yourself, Harry. We're closing up at 11 though, so you might wanna wrap up your evening."

"Well, that makes me sadder than I've ever been," he lies, pouting for effect. It's not even close to the saddest he's even been–although in the last month he's set a new bar for exactly how sad he can be and how low he can sink–but Manny doesn't have to know that.