Tfios (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 10

It was past ten thirty by the time we finally packed up camp, giggly (on all our parts) and not entirely sober (on Niall, Zayn, and Danielle’s parts). I’d agreed to take Harry back to the hospital, protests of his ability to get himself home without help shot down by all involved.

We crawled into a taxi, a yawn stretching across my face as I buckled my seatbelt, curling into my jacket as Harry told the cabbie the address. 

He leaned back against the seat, giving me a lopsided smile as we started towards the hospital, Harry’s perpetual home.

“Do you ever get tired of sleeping in a hospital bed?” I asked, a question that had been bothering me for a while. A lot of terminal patients set up care outside of the hospital, so they could die in the comfort of their own home.

“It’s my bed now.” He replied, giving me a tooth filled grin.

“So you actually prefer living there?” I loved my bed, lumpy as it was, and couldn’t imagine sleeping through the fluorescent bustle of hospital life every single night. One of my favorite parts of the day was holing up in my room, pulling my covers up over my head and knowing that I was in a place the world couldn’t get me.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve had this conversation with my mother.” 

“You know I don’t think we’ve talked much about your mother yet.” I replied, only half joking.

He let out a mournful noise. “If I’d known you were going to make me discuss my feelings I’d have walked home!”

I laughed, a tired giggle that sounded far less sober than the one beer I’d had. “You? Walk home? Trip more like.”

“I’d make it eventually.” He replied petulantly, leaning against the door and shooting me a sideways glance. “My mother’s nice. She doesn’t begin to understand, but she tries.”

“Have you tried explaining it to her?” I asked, liking the way the radio buzzed in the background, the engine rumbling through my bones, the stale smell of the taxi undercut by the smell of Harry. 

He shrugged, tapping his feet against the ground. “I don’t think I really want her to know. It’s better that way.”

“Why?” I wanted to understand, but I couldn’t. It seemed to me that cutting her out only made things harder for him.

“Because it’s easier for her to think that she can help me.” He replied, his eyes on the carpet, shadows sliding across his features and making him impossible to read.

“Maybe she could if you let her.” I offered, but maybe he was right. Maybe she didn’t have to understand cancer in the intimate way the affected did, maybe he could protect her, make her believe in the possibility of buying more time for just a little bit longer.

“No.” His voice had an edge to it, defensive and raw. 

I reached a hand across the gray seat, pushing my fingers through his. It’s okay. “Yeah I know.” 

“So what did Zayn want to talk about?” He asked, in a classic Harry Styles subject change. 

“The metaphorical resonances of eating the icing before the cake.” I replied, letting him take the conversation back into easier territory. “He thought it was symbolic of the sweetness of childhood, followed by the more upsetting cake of adulthood. I was partial to the carpe diem theory, in which the eating of the icing first represents an understanding that you have to enjoy the best parts of life while you can, since an entire cupcake is never a certainty.”

He snorted, squeezing my hand, lightness returning to his tone. “You’re full of shit.”

“Would I lie to you?” I asked, a laugh rising up before I could tamp it back down. I didn’t used to be like this, all giggly and mooney eyed. But then, I guess I hadn’t been a lot of things before I met Harry. I hadn’t been unhappy per se, but if dying was like falling then my life was like floating. It was like I’d been drifting, waiting for something to pin me down and make me feel something.