Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part VII

Friday nights are for reading.

You've opened the window of your dorm room to let in a cool breeze that breaks through the suffocating warmth of the building's heating system. You're halfway through a copy of Wuthering Heights that you borrowed from Harry, curled up on top of your comforter and reading with the dim lights from outside. With each turn of a page, you find your thumb in a curved divet exactly the size of Harry's thumb. You've learned in the past few weeks that he licks his fingers before turning pages.

A sharp knock comes at the door and makes you flinch. A glance at the clock shows that it's twelve-thirty A.M. You stay put, flipping the page again and hoping whoever it is will think you're asleep. But it comes again—harder, consecutive knocks that make you jerk into a sitting position.

The persistent banging continues and you groan, holding your place with a bookmark and sliding the book onto the desk beside you. You hop down off the bed, sliding your feet into a pair of slippers and padding across the room to open the door, where the knocking has finally stopped.

There seems to be no one there when you first glance into the hallway. You turn your head first to the left and then to the right.

"Christ, Harry!"

You jump when you spot him slumped against the wall beside your door. He looks up at you with dazed eyes.

"Thought yeh weren' in. Took yeh long enough t'open the door."

Harry stays seated on the ground and turns away from you to stare at the opposite wall. You frown at him.

"Are you okay? You can come in."

"'M fine," he replies bluntly. He pushes himself to his feet and brushes past you into the room. A whiff of alcohol floods your nose and your heart sinks. He hasn't had a drop since your talk with him, nearly a month ago.

"What are you doing here?" you ask gently as you follow him inside and close the door behind you.

"Wanted t'see yeh. 'S tha' a crime?" Harry spins on his heel and surveys your dorm. His eyes catch your side, decorated in your favorite colors, posters that just scream you plastering the walls.

"Well, no. Of course not." You lean back against the door, your frown deepening. Why is he acting this way?

Harry takes a step toward you and cups your jaw with a cold hand, leaning in to press his lips to yours without another word. His tongue pries into your mouth and you taste the stale flavor of beer.

"Harry, stop," you mumble against his lips, giving his chest a soft shove. "You're drunk."

"Barely had anyth-"

"I can smell it on you," you accuse. "And you taste like beer."

He takes a hard breath and pushes away from the door, backing into the room. The lights from the window frame his silhouette in an eerie bluish glow.

"So, what 'f I had a few drinks?" His tone is flat and you don't like it. "'M allowed t'be a fuckin' college student, yeah?"

"Harry, stop," you demand. You've never seen him like this and he's never spoken to you with anything but kindness or teasing humor. "What's wrong? Just tell me what-"

"Said 'm fine!" he shouts. "Get off m'fuckin' back!"

You press back further into the door, flinching at his sudden outburst. You can't see much of his face, shrouded in darkness, but you can see the heaving of his lungs and the way his fists are clenched at his sides.

"Don't yell at me," you say, so low it's almost a whisper.

"Then stop pesterin' me!"

"Would you please calm down? I have neighbors."