Gotta Be You

16 Harry: The Stories we Tell

AN: A sexy, old French guy once said, "Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien." Or, for you plebians who don't speak French, "Perfect is the enemy of good." And dear reader, it really is hard being so perfect all the time. When writing this a critically-acclaimed success, the pressure of my fans got to be too much. I needed a sabbatical to get my head together so that I can see this venture through to its bloody end. After one year, I am back. I am revitalized. I am ready bless you with my words once again. Amen.

After the madness of their arrival, Harry wanted nothing more than to draw a moderately warm bath with lots of bubbles, place some cucumbers over his eyes, and drift off to the sound of The Fault in our Stars on tape. However, such is not the life of an international heartthrob.

Chad, Brad, Thad, and to a lesser extent, Jimmy buffly picked up all the boys' bags and led them up to the presidential suite of the hotel. Once they were in, basecamp setup began. There was plenty to do to prepare for the evening's concert.

It was a familiar routine—settling down in a new hotel. First, the boys picked their rooms. After a brief scuffle involving slapping, pinching, and biting, Niall emerged victorious and sprinted toward the master bedroom. Liam rolled his eyes, untangled himself from the remaining two, and chose a room. Zayn continued to wrestle Harry until he had him in a tight a headlock.

"Uncle," Harry wheezed, feeling the light slowly leave his eyes. Thankfully, Zayn relented and dropped Harry into an unceremonious heap on the ground before choosing the final bedroom. Harry sighed. It always went this way. Niall would dirty fight his way into winning. Liam and Zayn were bigger and stronger than Harry and easily out-wrestled him. And then Chad, Brad, Thad, and Jimmy took the final room because they could obviously win a wrestling match without even participating, and all the boys were very afraid of them.

Harry trudged over to the pullout couch in the middle of the living room and began to set up his personal space. A threadbare, Manchester United blanket and a few framed photographs of his long-vaporized childhood home brought some life to the situation. Harry stood back and tapped his chin as he considered what other design elements to incorporate.

Then, he heard a quiet ahem. Shit. He'd forgotten about Rodney.

"Where, uh," Rodney stared at the other boys who were emerging from their claimed rooms. "Where will I sleep?"

Liam slapped his forehead. "Bollocks... I completely messed up the headcount, didn't I?" He glanced around the suite as though another bed was going to magically appear out of thin air.

"I have an idea."

They all turned to stare at Niall, for whom ideas were a rare and alarming occurrence. Even worse, he and Zayn exchanged an evil glance, which smelled fishy to Harry. But before he could interject—

"I think," Niall said, "Harry and Rodney should share!"

Harry's mouth dropped open. That was not what he was expecting. He took one look at Rodney, who now appeared to be a shade of pale chartreuse (Harry didn't know how that worked), and shook his head vehemently. "Come on, Niall. Let's send for another cot, or—"

"So, you'd rather he slept in my room, then?" After a second of silence that felt like a full hour, Niall smirked. "I thought not."

"Cheerio, sleeping arrangements are settled, then," Liam said, clapping once. "Rodney and Harry will stay out here. Next up, setlist."

The boys arranged the room's various seating apparatuses into a circle to conduct their ritual. It was a deeply scientific process for the proverbial menu of each concert to be expertly and individually handcrafted to match the culture, mood, vibe, and even politics of the city they were visiting. For example, "Best Song Ever" was always a no-go in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea where the best song ever was widely considered to be 애국가, of course. In Paris, though— the city of Dumas and Edith Piaf and Coco Chanel and, mmmmmm, Voltaire— well, in Paris, anything was possible.

Harry dragged over a plush beanbag, studiously avoiding Rodney's eyes, and pulled out his notebook. Unfortunately, it was hard to miss the vibrant, cornflower hue of his shiny paint, so Harry was painfully aware of the bot moving to sit in the far corner of the room. Far away from Harry.

"What are we thinking, boys?" Liam said, donning his spectacles.

Zayn considered his own bedazzled binder of songs. "Our Paris set from last year was good, but..." He gestured vaguely.

Harry nodded. There was a certain je ne sais quoi that was missing. "Lads." He stood. "I have an idea." It had all come to him last night on the tour bus, in those small moments between sleeping and wakefulness that always directed any pent-up creativity from the depths of his subconscious into reality. Because for Harry, a concert was never just a concert. It was connection. It was a lesson. It was art.

"Let's tell them the story of a girl," he began.