You'd Never Guess (Ziam/Larry fic)

Chapter Seventeen

Harry's P.O.V.

It was a blissful morning; the sun crept into the quiet master bedroom, casting stripes of light across the vast white comforter I was under, and my eyes began to retract from their dilation slowly as the curtains fluttered more and more open. I let a little yawn slip out, and threw a shoulder toward the direction of the fluffy cream-colored pillow. I landed softly on my face and let out a little sigh of contentment. The dainty branches of the trees outside waved gently in the wind; crisp leaves in browns and oranges brought the warm word to my lips. Winter.

I brushed my hair back with my fingers and caught a glimpse of myself in the frosted-over mirror when I sat up. The reflection was tired, indefinitely tired, but I'd looked a lot worse in the past few weeks. I let a sigh escape my lips and unconsciously tugged at the collar of the nightshirt I was wearing. After years of sleeping completely naked, dealing with clothing as soon as I opened my eyes was not my cup of tea, but the Cheshire winters were harsher than ever, and I had to take my precautions so I wouldn't freeze. It was harder than ever to get used to it.

The quiet shuffling of what I could only assume was Gemma getting ready for work - everyone else would be asleep at this hour - could just barely be heard through the slightly open door, but I focused my attention toward the balcony instead. Pushing myself up slowly, wincing as the more tender joints cracked as they warmed, I stumbled towards the veranda, frozen fingers wrapping around cold metal handles as I began to break the crust of frost that sealed the door shut. After about a half a minute of yanking, the doorjam relented, and my sock-covered feet stepped out into pale sunshine and powdery snow.

Two years.

I leaned against the railing and chuckled, calmly enjoying the burst of visible air that was produced from the action. "My God," I groaned, elbows replacing hands as my fingers dug into my hair, trying to keep my cool. Two years since it all went down; two years since the first time I honestly believed we wouldn't be able to make it. Two years since we started falling apart.

A vibration buzzed in the chest pocket of my pajamas, and I stuck my hand in to extract my phone. It lit up dimly - I had turned the brightness down the night before to do some late-night experimental songwriting - and I grinned seeing the tag. Flipping it right-way-up, I set my thumb on its usual place on the home button, accepted the call, and swung my hand up to put my phone next to my ear.

"Top of the mornin' to ya, mate."

The caller laughed, the warm, rich sound filling my mind with heat. "Nationalist bastard."

I rested a forearm against the railing and bundled my free hand into my shirtsleeve. "Good to hear from you - I'll be honest, it's a little quiet here for me. All snow and no practical jokes. Anyway, you're up early, even for you - everything all right there?"

Accent as thick as ever, my Irish bandmate had been, for the most part at least, my closest companion since I had traveled back to my hometown for a break. He called as often as he could - we joked quite a lot, but some of the best memories I had had since I had come back was when either one of us had been hit with reality. Every one of us was in denial, though some of us were in a lot deeper than others. It was for that reason that SYCO had "rewarded" our "hard work and perserverence" with a month's break where we were "strongly recommended" to go back to our hometowns (which was determined by each and every one of us to be their last resort to keep us from doing or saying anything particularly stupid or destructive in front of the media). I'd been away from the boys for two weeks now, but it felt like years. Every morning had started with resentment and ended with loneliness - I'd promised to the heavens over and over again that I would never take my life for granted again if things could go back to the way they were, but it hadn't happened yet.