Idiosyncrasy (Harry Styles AU)

One

Chapter 1

Harry

My Mum said the first time she knew I was too kind for my own good was when I spent six hours trying to coax an alley cat to eat out of my hand. I still have scars from when I got too close too quickly. Instead of crying I got mad at myself for scaring him.

Mum must have been wrong though because whenever people give me their hearts, I always find some way to gently return them, unused, unopened, hardly even looked at.

I am better with animals than I am with people because people need you to explain why you love them. They need affirmation and emotions and animals just need you to pat them from time to time.

No dog ever told his master, "I just feel like you don't give as much in this relationship as I do."

I wish people were more like animals and they could come and go out of your life without all the messy bits in between. Just pure, unconditional love, simple and clean.

But sadly, that's not the way it works. That's why I don't fall in love. It isn't that I don't believe in love; I do-but not for me. I'm just . . . scared of it. Yeah, twenty-four-year old Harry Styles is scared of getting his heart broken.

I'm so scared of losing someone important to me because everyone important to me gets taken away.

That's why I don't have any friends. I haven't had a decent conversation with a human being in over five years. No one wants to talk to me, either. To them I'm just a weirdo-and maybe that's true.

I go to college and avoid everyone, go to work and avoid everyone. I guess people are intimidated by me. But that's okay with me. The more they stay away, the better.

Now, as I light a cigarette on the balcony of my flat, I stare down the three stories at the street. The people and cars look like ants, bustling around after their home had been stepped on.

That brings a goofy smile to my face, and I shake my head at my thought. Sometimes I really do wonder about how sane I really am.

I'm slowly losing it. And I know it's just a matter of time before I do.

As I take a drag from my cigarette, I shiver a bit and stick my free hand into the pocket of my jeans. It's supposed to snow later tonight, and I'm not looking forward to it. Snow in the city just isn't appealing to me.

Blowing the white smoke out, I watch as it curls up towards the grey sky, eventually dissipating into the freezing air. I've always been fascinated with cigarette smoke for some reason. I guess it's just another one of those disturbing things I romanticize.

I soon finish my cigarette and flick it onto the ground, putting it out with the toe of my shoe.

Heading back inside to the warmth of my flat, I decide on going down to the lobby to retrieve my mail, since there's nothing else to do.

I take the elevator down and notice she's working at the receptionist's desk today.

The only exciting part of my dull life is messing with the receptionists, but especially this one.

Bethany Carol.

I've never spoken to her, but I like confusing her by taking stuff off her desk and whatnot.

I smirk to myself and unlock my box, pulling my mail out.

Sifting through it, I notice a letter with no return address. I scrunch my eyebrows together in confusion. Who do I know that would send me a letter?

I shake my head and watch Bethany from the corner of my eye. She's working on some paperwork of some sort, clicking her pen loudly. It's really starting to annoy me. I busy myself with looking through my mail again while I wait for her to get distracted.

She turns away briefly, setting down the pen in front of her, and I sneak over and snatch the pen, stalking off with a smirk.

I go back up to my flat and glance at the unmarked letter.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I slit it open, pulling out it's contents, subconsciously knowing I should have gone with my gut feeling and thrown it in the rubbish.

The words are penned in neat familiar handwriting across the page.

Dear son,

I heard about what happened a few weeks ago, and I mourn with you. I know you probably don't wish to hear from me, but I am your father. I also heard that you moved out of Cheshire a few years ago to London. I wonder how you like it there. You've never been one for the city. I long to see you again, and I hope you read this, even if you do still hate me.

Sincerely,

Dad

Pure shock takes over my body, and for a few minutes I don't move a muscle.

When I do finally snap out of it, it's to rip up the neatly folded paper in my hands.

"Fuck," I mutter, voice still raspy from my earlier smoke. I stand abruptly from my chair and pull on my hair.

My father of all people contacting me. Questions were running through my mind one after the other. How did he get my address? Does he think he can just waltz back into my life just like that because of what happened? Why did he have to remind me of that terrible day? It happened five fucking years ago . . . How is he just hearing about it now?!

That day I lost so many important things. He'll never know just how much it scarred me. 

I shut my eyes and clench my jaw, trying to block the memories and the screaming from my mind. But it's no use. Everything is burned into my head like a brand. It's impossible to forget.

Whirling toward the wall, I pull my fingers into a tight fist. I promised myself I wouldn't do this again, that whatever got to me I would let it pass and try to be happy again.

But here I am, punching a damn hole in the wall again and again.

"Fuck you, dad!" I yell, voice hoarse and throat dry. "It's your fault all of this happened!"

I hit the wall one last time then, breathing hard, begin to examine the damage done. My hand is bloody, and the wall has several holes in it. I cringe, knowing I'll have to fix that.

I should go to hell. I deserve to go to hell and I know it.

But for some reason, the thought doesn't phase me. Maybe it's because I'm already in a hell of my own. A hell I created for myself in my own mind.