I'll Keep My Arms Wide Open

Touring has always been one of Harry's favourite things. He loves the feeling of getting up on stage every night in front of thousands of people - to share his music and have them sing and dance and laugh along. It's an adrenaline rush like no other - injected straight into his bloodstream.

But even he'll admit it's been a long, intense four months. He's seen you between March and now, but one week out of four months is not enough. That's why he's more than excited for the last two shows, because you're flying in to see him, and then he plans on stealing you away to a remote island somewhere where he doesn't have to be anything but your boyfriend and wear dodgy shorts that you'll tease him about and drink fruity drinks or beers from stubby bottles, and love on you until you're both satiated and satisfied.

It's the evening before the first LA show, and he's feeling like everything is coming together nicely. The night is warm but comfortable, he's got a good little buzz going on from the drinks people keep offering up to him, and in a few hours time, you'll be in his arms.

He's half-listening to a conversation his bandmates are having about what they plan to do with their time off, snuffing a laugh into his drink when they suggest a 'lads holiday', and is about to respond to Mitch's quip about spending 'too much time together' when his phone screen lights up with a message from you.

I can't make it. Don't be mad.

He sits up straight in his chair, blinking while trying to focus on the very blunt, very real text that is laid out for him. He pushes back his chair, garnering a few glances his way when the metal legs scrape across the floor. "Gotta..." he waves them all off when they look ready to get up as well. "Jus' need a wee..."

He clumsily pats Mitch on the head for reassurance as he passes him by, before he makes his way through a mass of crew members and into a quiet hallway.

His fingers shake. This wasn't the plan. You were supposed to be here with him when it all ended, you were meant to be boarding your plane right now for fucks sake. He looks at the message again, hoping maybe that he was just seeing things, but is disappointed when it's still there. He jambs his thumb onto the call button and presses the phone up to his ear, his free fingers plucking at his lower lip.

You pick up on the second ring. "Harry I–"

"What's wrong? Are yeh alrigh'?" He cuts you off, a tiny bit of relief running through him that you at least answered your phone.

"I'm fine," you sigh before taking a deep breath. "I jus–"

"Then why can't yeh make it? What's going on?" He demands, beginning to pace. His hackles are rising and he's not entirely sure it's rational, but you two are still treating deep wounds and trying to make your relationship a strong one, built on trust and love and being open with one another - and he's scared.

"The project we're working on at the office took a turn for the worse when the client changed their concept," you say quietly, a shake to your voice. "They need us to redo the whole thing..."

Harry groans, drawing his hand down his face. He knows how hard your job can be, and normally he's very understanding, but... "Can't yeh jus delegate something - or work remotely?" He rumbles, petulant.

"You know it doesn't work like that," you point out. "I can't leave my team to pick up the slack while I –" he knows you well enough that you're probably gesturing vaguely at nothing, "it wouldn't be fair, Harry."

"S'not fair that yeh were meant to be on vacation an hour ago and now you're telling me you're not coming," he says with a snap, jaw flexing. His fingers feel tight around his phone and he has to remember not to snap it in two. "They work yeh too damn hard, know tha'?"