A Second Chance - A Larry Stylinson Fanfiction

Chapter 11

Sorry this was late, everyone. I had a lot of things going on and I just couldn't get the chapter done on time. At least it's only one week late, right?

Anyway, that was a pretty crazy ending to a "filler" chapter, am I right? I hate to say it, but this chapter is also kind of a filler, but it's really important, so please bare with me.

Enjoy(:

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Chapter 11

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Somehow, Harry and I had managed to collapse to the ground in a way that I'm curled in on myself, pressed against Harry's chest with his arms wrapped around me and his legs encircling me, long fingers combing through my hair. The tears have finally stopped, but Harry doesn't relent. He says nothing, doesn't attempt to whisper words in my ear as he holds my trembling figure, running a hand up and down my back in an attempt to calm me.

But Harry being here only makes me feel worse. I want to ask him to leave me so I can try to regroup myself, but I seem to have lost the ability to speak. So instead, I allow him to think his long fingers climbing up and down my spine are evening my breaths. I allow him to think having my face pressed against the soft material of his shirt and his warm chest is slowing my heart beat to a normal rate.

"You know," Harry suddenly mumbles against my hair, sending tingles down my spine, the first real sound in what feels like forever, "I've got a killer hangover."

I don't react at all. Not even a slight lip twitch. But that doesn't seem to be what Harry was expecting anyway. His movements don't pause, waiting for a response. His fingers continue combing through my hair and stroking my back.

Finally, it becomes too much and I shift myself out of Harry's comfort, forcing myself to my feet, Harry doesn't try to hold me down which I am grateful for, instead, choosing to release me and watch me rise to a stand with careful eyes as if waiting for me to fall apart again. His green eyes burn into me as I collect a change of clothes, a towel, and my toiletries bag. Without a word, I leave the room, closing the door behind myself.

The hall is silent as I walk to the bathroom, signaling that it's still early, meaning probably around five in the morning, maybe earlier. Thankfully, the bathroom is empty and I drop my change of clothes on a sink counter then hang my towel on the shower stall peg. Removing my shampoo, conditioner, and soap, I put my toiletries bag on my pile of clothes. I turn on the water and strip off my sweats before stepping in.

I leave the water running cold, allowing the icy spray to wake me up, willing it to alert my mind past the point of being trapped in my own thoughts.

I take my time in the shower, knowing no one will be coming in for a while. I try to scrub my memory of the night off my skin. Degrading thoughts start to bounce through my head again and I quickly splash some of the freezing water on my face, startling the thoughts out of my head. I am completely positive that if I let myself fall into the black hole of self loathing in my head, I won't be able to make it through the day.

When the frigid icicles finally becomes too much, I shut off the water and hop out of the shower. Teeth chattering, I rip my towel off the hanger and quickly run it all over my body, drying myself as fast as I can, then scrubbing my hair with it. As I'm tying the abused towel around my waist, I notice someone out of the corner of my eyes and my hands freeze, my head snapping up.

He's sitting on the sink counter next to my clothes with way too much nonchalance in his lazy position: one arm laying across his flat stomach, the other pressed between the back of his head and the mirror behind him, forming a makeshift pillow; his legs dangle ungraciously over the counter's edge, one foot swinging loosely back and forth.