No One Does It Better

Chapter 3

October 5, 2013

11:13

"Harry, honestly!" Zayn's exasperated voice floats its way into Harry's consciousness and he manages a groan in response. "Get up," he demands, drawing back the curtains.

Harry quickly buries his head in his pillow with a muffled, "Fuck off."

"No. Come on. Liam's sick and you're coming in for him," Zayn's voice leaves no room for discussion as he digs through Harry's closet for something clean and suitable for work. He decides on a pair of washed out skinny jeans with a hole in the right knee and a soft burgundy jumper that he throws on the end of the bed.

"Call Niall," Harry tries anyway.

"Niall's busy."

"With what?"

"You've got two seconds to get out of that bed before I drag you out myself."

"Fucking hell," Harry grumbles, "fine. Let me at least shower."

"Please do."

Harry throws him the bird as he walks, stark naked, into his bathroom. He takes a second to splash cold water on his face, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, before he makes his way to the shower. He walks into the kitchen, fully dressed, fifteen minutes later. Zayn puts a plate of eggs and toast before him and then goes back to making tea for them both.

"What's wrong with Liam?" Harry asks through a mouthful of egg.

Zayn makes a face before replying with a quiet, "Cold."

"Oh," he swallows, "Maybe we should see him after work?"

"Don't think that's a good idea," Zayn says quickly and Harry raises his eyebrows. "I don't need both of you sick, yeah? It'll be me 'n' Niall 'n' nothin' will get done," he smiles and Harry's face relaxes.

"True," he smiles.

After the accident, Harry couldn't bring himself to go back to the restaurant. He couldn't face the sympathetic glances and coddling coworkers. They didn't know the whole story, really, but it was too much to deal with anyway. Zayn got him a job at the record shop his uncle Marcus owns. It's small, and the only employees are Zayn, Liam, Niall, and himself, but Harry thinks it's better than nothing.

---

Work is work, and the customers are sparse and ask Harry stupid questions, and it's a normal day. They play My Head Is An Animal on vinyl and Zayn smokes weed behind the cash register, his feet propped up and crossed on the counter. As soon as the clock hits 5, Harry says a quick goodbye to Zayn and leaves him to close up. And if Zayn throws him a sad, knowing look, he ignores it completely.

---

It's not until Harry's sat on his usual barstool at his usual haunt that he remembers last nights' heart stopping turn of events. He whips his head around, scanning the small pub for any sign of bright cerulean eyes. Finding the place nearly empty, he turns back to the bar only to find Damien staring back at him with a thick, raised eyebrow.

"Y'alright, mate?" Harry's become quite fond of the young bartender in the time he's spent at Mike's Pub. Everyone knows him here, but he and Damien have built up a friendship. He's young, and looks more like he walked out of Hollister advert than the slums of New Jersey. His dirty blond hair can almost always be found pulled back into a neat ponytail, and he somehow always manages to keep his skin golden, sun-kissed. He came to England with his family when he was just 5 years old. He ran away from Essex when he was 17, and, after a year of living on his mate's sofa, he charmed his way into the job he has now. Harry thinks he's a good lad. He plays his role, listens to Harry's drunken woes and feeds his need, but not without the occasional 'maybe you should see someone' thrown in for good measure. It's always dismissed, but he tries.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, shaking his head, "Yeah. I'm good. Whiskey."

Damien raises his other eyebrow reaching behind him for the closest bottle of Jameson, "Jumpin' right in tonight, then. Rough day?"

"You could say that," he mumbles before taking a hefty swig, welcoming the smooth burn into his being. "Where's, uh, last night, there was a guy?" Damien looks at him, unblinking. "I mean, there was a guy behind the bar."

"Oh, yeah," Damien nods, grabbing a wine glasses from underneath the counter and the cloth from his shoulder, "His name's Louis. We've picked up some business lately. Boss man said it's time to get some more hands back here."

"Right."

Damien looks up, studying his face minutely before asking, "Why? Oh, and at least make yourself useful. Help me clean glasses before the rush comes," he's only half joking as he throws a spare cloth at Harry.

"Dunno," Harry lies quickly, catching the cloth and grabbing a glass from the counter top, "Just- didn't notice 'im when I came in is all," his voice is quiet and Damien knows better than to step on his toes when he's like this, so he just nods, holding a glass up to the light before bringing it back down and rubbing the stem of it again. "Is he gonna be in tonight?"

"No, actually," Damien mumbles before turning his attention to an older business man, tie undone and suit jacket over his shoulder, handing over a cold bottle of Heineken. He walks back over to Harry, putting the clean glasses on the shelf behind him, "He's really new to the city, y'know? He's moving in with his mate," Damien turns back to lean his forearm on the bar, settling into the conversation, "He's from somewhere up North, I think." Doncaster. "I can't remember-somewhere in Yorkshire. He's back there gettin' the last of his boxes today. Movin' in with a mate a few blocks over. He's a good lad, he is. A right laugh, too. I think you'll like him well enough."

Harry forces out a dark laugh and downs the rest of his drink, "Sure."