the cool side of the pillow {styles au}

twenty seven

Songs for this chapter:

Amazed - Lonestar

Photograph - Ed Sheeran

Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

Latch (Acoustic) - Sam Smith

Harry's POV:

I'm exiled to the living room with my father shortly after my mum begins cooking dinner. My mother shoos me from the kitchen and claims she and Cleo need me out of the way, even though I'm a far better cook than her. I slump down into the couch cushions with my father's wheel chair sat next to me. As some woman on the telly drones on about the latest news, I take a long look at my dad. Despite the gashes on his face and cast on his leg, he looks good. There's more color in his face than there's been in years; I had assumed the ghastly pale color he'd turned over the past few years was his permanent skin tone.

"I have just received an update on the accident that left a local man in a coma just days ago. The-" I hastily press the power button, watching as the screen goes black. The look on my father's face is one of horror and shame. I feel like I need to say something to erase his uneasiness, but we all know I'm shit with words.

Instead, I clap him on the back and grip his shoulder, providing as much support as I can. Anything I were to say to him would probably be rubbish, and honestly, I can't think of a thing to say that wouldn't involve "and that is why you shouldn't drink". But I don't really think this is the right time for an intervention. Awkwardly, I pull my arm away and bring it back into my lap.

My father stares intently at the television screen as he chokes out, "I remember."

"The accident?" I ask in surprise, to which he nods. And now I really don't know what to say. His eyes never leave the screen and his mouth presses into a tight line. Surely he's replaying the events of that night over and over in his head, which is why I silently get up and walk around the back of the couch, leaving him to his thoughts. I'm shit at comforting people and the last thing I want to do is upset him more.

I poke my head into the kitchen, "Anything I can help with?"

"No," my mum answers quickly as she sprinkles extra cheese on top of the baked pasta.

When she turns her back to place the pan in the oven, I grip Cleo's wrist and tug her out of the kitchen, hauling her up the stairs. My mother yells something along the lines of 'little shit', but it doesn't seem sincere. Cleo is breathless as I pull her into my room behind me and close the door, leaning her against it. Her eyes are full of life and I can't look away no matter how hard I try.

"Well, aren't you going to thank me?" I ask as I wrap an arm around her back and pull her body to mine.

"What the hell for?" she giggles, pressing her nose to my cheek.

I roll my eyes, "Rescuing you from my mum."

"She's not that bad," she says with hesitancy, eyes meeting mine. Before all of this, I would have become defensive and argued that my parents were the absolute worst, that there was nothing good about them. But after almost losing my dad, I can't find it in me to say one bad thing about either of them. Seeing my mother sober for the first time in years is refreshing, but too good to be true; I'd be a fool if I thought it was going to last.

I shrug, "That may be, but wouldn't you rather be up here with me? All alone..."

Cleo runs her fingers through my hair, "That depends on what you had planned."