Stranded [harry styles] ✓

16

Harry's POV

We're waist deep in sea water, fingers interlocked and mouth's grinning. The sun bounces off of her golden hair and illuminates her pale skin, accentuating the constellation of amber freckles arching across her cheek bones. But there's unease in the water; rippling wildly through the waves in the form of a strong gust. So strong that her pupils blow wide and her fingers slip from my hold. And although I fight back, I just know I'm never going to see her again.

I wake up, gasping.

Sarah's POV

Five days of awkwardness and tiptoeing around Harry has left me feeling incredibly isolated and alone. The extent of our socialising has been nothing more than standing side by side, waist deep in crystal water, throwing spears at anything that moves and then cooking it in silence. Conversation hasn't elaborated further than greetings or overly polite please and thank yous, the majority of which spoken through gritted teeth. 

I've not been hungry though. Hunger seems almost like a thing of the past; a distant memory of a darker time. And my stomach hasn't growled at me in days. 

But it's socialisation I crave now. 

Harry sits opposite me in the sand, his legs crossed beneath him. There are large bags under his eyes; deep and mauve like bruises as though he hasn't slept in weeks. He keeps his head down and picks at his fish clumsily, flicking numerous amounts into his lap. This wild-haired, thin human being is nothing like Harry Styles at all. 

"How are you holding up?" I try to sound casual but my words are too quick. Too close together. Harry gently raises his head and squints at me as though my face is the sun. 

"How are you holding up?" He sounds too tired to be spiteful, regardless of the fact that I'm quite sure he's trying to be. It feels as though my insides have been doused in a heavily concentrated dose of disappointment and my shoulders slump. But I'm not going to pass up the opportunity to have a conversation. 

"I'm tired." I reply, hoping that this might open up an opportunity for Harry to explain why he looks like he's gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. "And I'm homesick. These past few days especially."

There's a long, awkward pause and in my frustration I jab my stick into the ground beside me. The fish slides off and flops into the sand, instantly covering one side in a sand-crumb coating. I sigh.

"Well, I guess I'm holding up the same as you then." Harry snaps but his voice is still void of any real bitterness or loathing.

"We don't have to be unkind to one another, Harry." I say tentatively and bite my lip. "We're in this together, remember?"

Harry lifts his head again and parts his lips to speak. His eyebrows are mashed together in a furious frown and I brace myself; prepared for a verbal earbashing.

Except Harry's forehead suddenly relaxes and his eyes widen into large watery orbs. His parted lips open and close repeatedly until his entire face crumples and a large sob rips out of him.

I'm on my feet before my brain even has a chance to think about doing it. My feet pound against the sand as I cross the small space separating us and my heart breaks as he raises his eyes to reveal red, tear-streaked cheeks. I reach my hands out to him and he accepts instantly, pulling me towards him. My legs give way and I fall onto my knees; half in the sand and half in his lap. I'm vaguely aware that I'm probably caked in all the fish he's dropped but I can't find it in me to care.

Harry's hurting.

Harry needs me.

His sobs are raw and loud in my ears now that I'm closer and I rip my hands from his grip to pull his head against my chest instead. We're an awkward tangle of limbs and fish and tears and sand but neither of us moves to correct it.