Shakespeare | Harry Styles

Part VIII

Reading makes you a better writer.

That's what you're thinking as you finish up the fifth paragraph of your latest paper. All of your previous assignments have taken days to complete, but here you are, flying through an analysis of a Wordsworth poem. It might have to do with all the help Harry's been giving you, too.

Your phone buzzes on the desk beside you and you snatch it up immediately. You're in the quiet section again. Harry's name pops up on the screen and you answer, holding the phone to your ear as you whisper into the receiver.

"Hi, there," you greet with a smile.

"Y/N?"

The voice isn't Harry's. It's American and much higher than his drawling rumble. Your smile fades into a confused frown.

"Max? Why do you have Harry's-"

"Y/N, Harry's passed out. Like, he's really passed out. I can't get him to wake up and I didn't know-"

"What do you mean?" you ask in a rush. Your voice has risen in volume and you can feel eyes glaring into the back of your head, but you can't find it in yourself to care.

"I found him in his room with a couple bottles and he just-"

"Is he breathing?" you demand in a panic. You push yourself away from the desk and hurry in the direction of the stairs, leaving your belongings scattered where they sit. Your foot slips on a step and you nearly tumble down the rest of the flight.

"Yeah, he's breathing," Max confirms. He sounds nearly as freaked out as you feel.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

You hang up the call as you slam open the front doors of the library. Late November wind whips around you bitterly. You forgot your jacket inside.

The night is dark and empty, like a hollow tube, as you race down the hill that's become so familiar to you. Your toe catches on a crack in the sidewalk and sends you hands-first into the trunk of a thick tree. You gasp at the stinging pain in your palms but don't even take a moment to look at them before you're running again.

One of the lightbulbs is out on the front porch when you reach the frat house. You stumble up the steps, gasping for air as you shove through the front door.

"Max!" you shout, shuffling through the blackened living room. The lights are out except for a dim bulb above the sink in the kitchen. You don't know where everyone is.

"Up here!"

Your pace picks back up as soon as you round the wall of the kitchen, pounding up the narrow stairs to find Max in the doorway of Harry's room.

"I didn't know what to do," Max tells you. His eyes are wide and his fingers tug at the ends of his hair as you brush past him into the room.

Half of Harry's body is sprawled across the mattress, his other half hanging off onto the wooden floor. His lips are parted and his hair splays around his head messily, glasses askew on his nose. You would almost think he was just sleeping.

"Harry," you whisper, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands cup his cheeks and wiggle his head gently from side to side. There's no response at all.

"Max, you idiot," you mutter, and you're surprised at how calm your voice sounds, considering the erratic beating of your heart and the blood rushing in your ears. You can still feel the cold wind on your cheeks and you shiver as you shove at Harry's shoulder, rolling him onto his side. His body is pliant to your movements; he moves like a ragdoll and you nearly burst into tears when his hand remains limp as you take it in yours.