Big Yellow Taxi [Harry Styles]

Chapter One; pretty boy needs a jacket.

            The taxi continued to trudge on through the traffic, our driver weaving in and out of lanes and taking short cut after short cut in attempt to reach some sort of refuge, but to no prevail. It seemed we were, for lack of a better word, fucked.

            “You get out now,” the driver finally said.

            “What?” Both pretty boy and I repeated at once, looking up at the man sitting in the front. It was half passed two in the morning, which meant we’d been in his car for a little over three hours.

            “My shift is over,” he replied as if it were obvious, “and the traffic is too bad, so you pay and go,” continued, giving us a serious look. I gaped at pretty boy, him giving me an equally as confused look. This guy couldn’t be serious, could he?

            “I call the cops,” he told us, confirming that yes, he was indeed very, very serious.

            Pretty boy began digging in his pockets, and myself my deep abyss of a bag, trying aimlessly to find my purse. I grumbled, finding relief as my slim fingers finally hit the cool leather texture of the purse. I looked up at pretty boy then, who was also fishing through his wallet, “How much?” I asked the cabby.

            “I’ll give you discount,” he told us, “twenty each.”

            I looked over at pretty boy, attempting to gain silent confirmation that we’d both be paying our own way. But rather, he pulled out a fifty pound note and handed it to the cabby, telling him to keep the change for tip. I gaped at him, still wide eyed as I climbed out of the taxi into the fully stopped London traffic. I wasn’t entirely sure where exactly we were, but all I could really tell was that I’d been here once with an ex-boyfriend, for some surprisingly delicious diner food.

            “Well,” I told pretty boy, “I’ll be seeing you, then?”

            “No,” he said casually.

            “That’s harsh, pretty boy,” I said, digging my hands into my coat pocket and beginning to walk away – at least the rain had stopped, making the ground extremely slippery. I was careful to be sure where I walked, not wanting to step into any rogue puddles in my faux leather flats.

            “No,” pretty boy said, catching up to me – though it wasn’t much of a feet, I was small, and didn’t move entirely quick, “No as in I can’t leave a girl alone on the street this late at night – my mum didn’t raise me like that.”

            I arched my brow at him, giving him a look that was easily read as, ‘are you insane?’

            “I’m not going to leave you to get hurt, or sexually assaulted, or anything else that happens on the late London streets,” he said, still walking in toe with me. His legs were much longer than mine, and I could tell he was trying his damndest to keep his strides small enough to be keep pace with me. I sped up then, trying my best to accommodate his insanely long legs – which, after close study seemed to match his insanely long everything else. Pretty boy was adorned with spider like appendages for fingers, and arms that could only match that. His hands were enormous, and everything about him was just, big.

            “You are an insanely large human being,” I told him, attempting to fill the silence that had fallen over us – we probably looked like quite a pair, a tiny girl and giant walking side by side, her trying her hardest to match his enormous strides, and him slumping along the beaten roads.

            “I get that a lot,” he responded cooly, looking around the streets, “also, I’ve no clue where we are.”

            “That makes two of us,” I paused, before adding “to the not knowing where we are thing, not the being large.”