Background Noise [HS]

ONE

Harry woke alone in a cold sweat, jolting from the mattress. Pale green eyes adjusting to the morning light streaming in obnoxiously through the window, taking in the vibrant world outside. His hooded eyes cast themselves heavily upon the other side of the bed. He wondered if a girl managed to slip into it the night before, wondered if she managed to slip out. They always did that, though he didn't mind much. Part of him never wanted them there in the first place.

Part of him did.

The room seemed to spin as he rolled from his sprawled out position, large feet coming in contact with the hard, wooden floor below. He stood all too quickly, for the moment he did, blood rushed from his head and down to his toes. Large hands splayed themselves along the wall adjacent to his bed as he nearly toppled over at the dizzying sensation. Disgusted with himself for letting things get this far yet again, Harry rested his forehead against the creamy wall until the texture of it replicated itself into his skin. The marring of flesh in memory of mistakes made.

It seemed he would never learn from them.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. And it was, for his head pounded with such intensity—he couldn't bear it. Pulse both heard and felt in his ears, throbbing. Alcohol making itself at home in his veins, seeming there to stay.

The outfit he wore last night clung to him with a sheen layer of sweat. Bathroom light flickered on, the forest green of his eyes swallowed his pupils before honing in on his reflection. The mop of his hair stuck out in different directions atop his head, wild from the hands that roamed through it the night before. Now, his trembling fingers clawed at the curly tendrils, tugging harshly on the ends. The palms of his hands landed with a harsh thud on the counter. Grip tightening round the porcelain of the sink, he stared back at himself. Didn't recognize the green eyes tinged with crimson, though they searched his face with desperation.

It was with distaste for himself that he stripped off the clothing that clung to him so. Shirt ripped rather angrily from his torso and brought over his head, provoking dark curls to tousle before settling along the bare skin of his shoulders. Once upon a time, the length of it merely curled around the tips of his ears. There's still evidence of the tendril's old ways, for the strands now ripple in a way that accommodates the shell of them. Sometimes, depending on how he lied the night before, he would wake to the sight of his hair pushed back and flat along one side of his head, revealing the harsh structure of his jawline.

It clenched at the thought.

The shower water was scalding as it rained down on his skin. He simply turned the faucet handle with conviction that could kill, and there was little to be done about it now. Track of time lost as he stood beneath the running water, the mop of his hair cutting off the air from his nose as it fell in a damp heap across his face. The harsh droplets ran smoothly off the ends of his long, curly ringlets and into his gaping mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken to having it cut. Onstage, the length of his hair was deemed to be a mere part of his look—chocolate icing on the cake.

It practically screamed rockstar.

Though, it served a far greater purpose—distracting from the shadows that carved valleys in his cheeks.

The towel was retrieved and wrapped slowly around his narrow waist, green eyes peering through the haze fogging up the mirror. The haze cleared as he stood there. And he stared at his reflection for a long time, though it wasn't that he liked what he saw—it was that he didn't. The soft edges he once possessed hardened over time, collar and hip bones jutting out in a way that was far from healthy. His broad shoulders no longer formed a V-shape in connecting with his narrow waist, but a sad slope that curved inward before making the harsh transition from bone to bone.