Warning: drug use
Inspired by that photo of Harry in glasses and "The Overpass" by Panic! at the Disco.
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"Pink Floyd tonight. Maple Leaf Gardens." She says, tapping a slim piece of card stock over his lips. It nudges the bottom tip of his nose as she utters, "Wanna know if you still like to blow." Her voice teeters on sounding seductive, but Harry knows it's just how she sounds naturally, yet he wonders if anyone's she's met on the road thought the latter; like they're being seduced by this siren of a woman.
Still, Harry feels a bit dazed and confused, partially because it's midterms so Harry constantly feels like he's become separated from his body and is watching himself trying to survive the next few weeks. But also, because he doesn't remember the last time he's buried his nose in something other than a book.
"I–I always do." Harry murmurs, and Y/N raises her brow in a sort of 'I'm shocked, but not surprised' kind of manner.
He takes the ticket from her and pockets it, but her hands linger near his face. Y/N notices the distress in Harry's eyes that she thinks are still as pretty as she remembers them, framed by the same thick-rimmed tortoise shell glasses that he somehow manages to pull off. His glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. They were sliding down his nose, she notices as well, because he's looking down at her hands that are moving away from his face, and she can't help but giggle at the sight. Adorable, she thinks. She pushes his glasses up higher on his nose for him, feeling a wave of nostalgia intrude her senses as she looks him in the eyes again. Nothing much about him has changed other than his hair passing his chin in cloudy ringlets, and he's got more tattoos.
"Meet me at the overpass in an hour." She tells him, fingers lingering on his pink cheeks, then his lips, looking pillowy and soft as ever, but she leaves before she can even think about succumbing to the thought of kissing them.
"Vodka Cranberry and Cocaine"
or
The one where it's 1973 and Harry's just trying to get through University, but his ex-girlfriend-turned-groupie thinks he's cooler than that.
-:-:-:-
Harry curses under his breath as he feels for his glasses that have fallen off the nightstand, and he curses Moose for roping him into going with him to Bender's party all because the girl he's been trying to bed since Bender's last party was going to be there and he wanted to insert himself into her life (Moose's words, but Harry thinks it's still a euphemism for something). Harry couldn't have cared less at the time, not really minding the idea of potentially getting to smoke at some point, but it had been four in the morning when he and Moose stumbled back to his dorm room (it was closer than Moose's who lived in the other side of the building) so he was exhausted, body aching from not getting enough sleep, and still a little high.
It's just after twelve in the afternoon when Harry wakes up. He knuckles his eyes first, willing the pulsing ache of his tired eyes away as he yawns. He slides his glasses on afterwards, blinking away the tears that cloud in his eyes from before as he yawns again, causing his eyes to water. It's then that he notices the sleeping figure next to him is waking up as well.
"Fuckin'ell Styles, shut the hell up." Moose slurs as he presses the bone of his palms into his temples. "Haven't felt this shit in," he doesn't finish as something on the floor catches his attention. He pauses, leaning down to pick up what Harry notices as an open beer can. It was probably half-done since Moose drinks it in about half a minute. "Much better." Moose sighs, smiling.
