Harry: This was not what Harry was expecting when you had asked him to come to New York. He’s standing off to the side at the too-posh engagement party for one of your sorority sisters, completely out of place. He doesn’t fit in among the pinks and pastels in his black suit pants and white button down. The heat of the Hamptons had caused him to roll his sleeves up, tattoos on full display and he knew people were looking. He glanced around, noticing you by the champagne fountain with several other girls he knew would have promptly ignored him all through school but you have a bright smile on your face and he knows you feel at home. You’re dressed in a pale pink chiffon dress with nude heels and you look every bit the part of the high society princess he had always assumed you to be. “So you’re a music producer… is that lucrative?” A man dressed in a pastel purple suit asks and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah… is for me,” he explains, tipping the flute of expensive champagne he’ll never know the name of against his lips in the hopes of getting smashed. “I work on Wall Street myself, make a killing… more than enough to support someone of, Y/N caliber,” he snides with a smile and Harry recalls how you had explained this gesture to him as being “polite with a bitch slap.” “I take care of Y/N just fine… not that she needs it, the store is rather successful,” Harry defends, standing to his full height while unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to reveal even more ink. The man doesn’t back down. “She never was one for… outcasts but perhaps she’s grown into liking charity cases more than she did in school,” he offers with a raised eyebrow that is entirely too groomed to belong to a man and Harry narrows his eyes. “Maybe and I’ll say… I love how she handles her charity cases, she’s very thorough,” Harry exaggerates before walking away, black boots stomping against the concrete as he breezes past you to head inside. “You alright?” you question, wrapping your arms around him behind with a happy smile. “I’m fine… it’s just too hot out there,” Harry lies, tapping your fingers with his and you nod. “Molly asked me what is what like to be with someone so different from me… I couldn’t really answer that,” you tell him, leaning back against the bar behind you and Harry raises an offended eyebrow at you. “I don’t feel like you’re that different from me anymore. You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had and you treat me like the princess I think I am,” you tease with an easy smile Harry always returns. Harry decides then that he’ll just have to deal with the assholes in pastel suits but when you take his hand to keep at his side, Harry decides this highfalutin crap wasn’t so horrible.
Liam: When you had asked Liam to take you to the theater, he had not planned on seeing a musical. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was planning on but watching almost three hours of non-stop singing was not it. He sits at your side in the dark theater at the West End, utterly bored and wishing he were anywhere but there. He stares, wide eyed, at the stage not registering any of the events taking place. He’s already gone through everything he needs to do for the upcoming event taking place at the store and he’s run out of things to think of. “Isn’t this beautiful,” you question with tear-filled eyes, staring up at Liam during intermission and he nods robotically. “So beautiful,” he sighs dryly, eyes shut and he prays he can sleep through the rest of the show. “Liam… wake up, it’s starting and you don’t want to miss the second half!” you whisper in excitement, jolting Liam awake with your shaking and he gives you a tight lipped smile. “No, I wouldn’t want that” he whispers back, slouching down into his seat while tugging at his tie to loosen the constricting material. By the end of the play, he’s lost three hours he’ll never get back and you’re a teary mess. He glances around, other women in the same state as you blubbering on and on about the beauty of Les Miserables to their husbands who look like they’d rather be murdered violently than sit through another musical. Everyone other man is in a suit, crisp and clean and he’s in black slacks and a white button down. His tie was long ago loosened and his tattoos were never fully hidden from view. You fail to notice others glancing at Liam, eyes washing over the tattoos and piercings before they scurry away. “Liam, don’t you agree?” you question again, turning in the front seat of Liam’s Land Rover and he raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you go again?” you repeat and the idea of sitting through another musical makes him want to wreck his own car. “If you wanted,” he sighs, scrubbing his eyes with his knuckles and you smile.
