Hell Is Empty [Harry Styles AU]

I

I sigh out loud at her complaint. She's always saying that bump in the bridge of her nose isn't really there. I guess she's right. None of her is really there. But I draw exactly what I see, anyway. That's what they tell you to do in art class, isn't it? To trust your eyes?

"Your eyes won't deceive you, Styles, it's your mind that does that." The fake upperclass accent, a dreadful impression of my old art teacher, comes from across the table. I look up from my notepad to spare her a quick glare, before I once again become immersed in 'drawing what I see'.

"Except your eyes deceive you too, don't they Harry?" Her tone is thoughtful and question without intent, all signs of mocking gone. I ignore it anyway. "I hate it when we come here. You hardly ever speak to me. Or the others. Where are they, anyway?"

She knows what I'm thinking. I don't know why she insists I speak out loud. She knows me better than anyone; she knows that I wouldn't be so careless as to converse with her in public; she knows I'll ignore her.

"My cheek bones are a little more defined than that, don't you think?" I briefly look up again to see a slight scowl on her face. "And I know I'm getting old, but is it really necessary that you actually draw those lines beside my eyes?"

I eye my drawing and smile amusedly. Shes right about the wrinkles and I notice her unwillingness to say that word. 'Lines,' she always says, 'Certainly not wrinkles.'

I put my pencil back to the page and darken the 'lines' on her face, trying my best to suppress a grin when she huffs in annoyance. Just because it's so much fun to toy with her like this, I quickly sketch in a set of devil horns over her dark hair. Her glare is practically burning right through me, and I have to try my hardest not to laugh out loud here in public.

"Irony is not as funny as you think it is, Harry."

The horns are not ironic at all, I think. She truly is a devil. What's ironic is her name: Angel. And that definitely is as funny as I think it is.

Aside from the fact she is utterly mischievous, she is - literally - one of my many demons. She is the one who holds the most dominion over my mind; she is the devil to my own personal hell. She is my best friend.

"Draw me next." Another voice, this one different but equally as imaginary, comes from my left. I don't turn to see who it is but there's no need: I know this demon's voice all too well. His name is David - notably a biblical name (the irony is not lost on me). Paul and Matthew are probably somewhere around here too, but I don't bother looking for them. All four demons are my friends - my only friends. There are more of them, but I either simply don't get along with them or they just don't seem to bother me so much.

I subtly shake my head no, but not so much that any real person would notice. David and the others are not quite so good at knowing what's on my mind as Angel is, and so they need this. It's weird, I suppose, because aren't they fragments of that very mind?

The gentle voice of a female comes from beside David at the end of the small table, "Is this seat taken?"

I ignore the demon's question. I don't recognise her voice; she's not my friend.

"This cafe is, like, insanely busy today. There aren't any seats but these. It's crazy."

I feel my body become ridged. Is she purposely provoking me? Mocking me with her words?

I look up at the demon, whose voice is not familiar.

I'm surprised by her looks. Is it normal to be attracted to your own demon? I suppose it's not. It's hardly normal to be able to see your demons, is it? It's probably not even normal to have demons at all. I wouldn't know, however - all my friends are demons.

This demon looks nothing like a demon should, I notice.

Her dirty blonde hair is wavy and long enough that it reaches her waist. Her eyes are a pale blue, with painted black lashes and naturally smooth, tan skin surrounding them. Her lips are a pale pink, plump from the way she's chewing them. They're dry from the cold winter air outside. She wears a white knitted sweater and tight jeans, a small pile of books cradled in her arms with a pair of reading glasses resting on top.

"She's pretty," Angel says, "Don't be weird."

I realise I've been staring at the unfamiliar demon and I quickly look away, turning towards Angel. I give her a glare that could rival her own, but she merely finds it as amusing as I find hers.

"Shut up," I hiss. Her eyes widen in surprise. I'm almost shocked for a moment too, that I dared speak aloud, but then I remember why I'm angry. I'm angry that my own mind does this to me: sends mocking, provocative, beautiful devils to try to end me.

"Excuse me?" That soft, feminine voice speaks again.

I turn my glare on her now. "I wasn't talking to you," I mutter lowly.

"Harry!" Angel admonishes me. "Be nice!"

I'm confused. Angel normally loves it when I'm annoyed. It's almost as if she exists solely to piss me off, if she weren't also my best friend.

"She real, Harry," David says, his voice laced with amusement.

I feel my eyes widen and lips part in surprise. Did I really just out myself to someone? No, surely not. She's one of them and she's in on it. They're trying to get me to embarrass myself in this room busy with people - not just demons, but people.

I school my expression, doing my best to show none of my potent annoyance on my face as cast my eyes downwards. The top page of my notebook is suddenly ripped out and balled up in my hand. Without looking up, I throw it at Angel. Of course, it can't possibly hit her, but I find her little squeal satisfying nonetheless.

I begin to draw another demon - not David, like he requested, but the beautiful, unfamiliar one.

I wonder briefly if her name is as ironic as the others; if she even has a name at all. Anything so angelic and innocent certainly wouldn't look ironic, but she is still a demon, beautiful or not.

I hear shuffling and see in my peripheral vision that she has slipped into the booth seat across from me. She doesn't move right along to the window like I have, but stops halfway. I hear the slight crunch of paper as if she has picked up the drawing I threw.

Impossible. My gaze shoots up and I see that she now occupies the space that Angel did previously. I'm surprised, for a moment, that Angel would move for another of my demons, but then doubt begins to flow through me. She's not a demon at all, is she?

My unspoken question is answered by a chorus of voices that only I can hear. My head begins to hurt, as it always does when they all talk at once. The loud, painful murmur subsides and quietly, from directly behind me, the voice of my best friend speaks.

"She's not a demon at all, Harry."

She's not a demon at all.

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