Shakespeare | Harry Styles

3 A.M. (Shakespeare Extra)

Yes, I lied. Here's a short one shot. BUT THERE WILL STILL NOT BE A SEQUEL.

***

He misses you so fucking much.

The hollow in Harry's chest seems to widen every time he thinks of you. It's been this way for six months, since he left you in tears at the airport. Lately, though, it's been so much worse.

It went so well for months. You would call him every night and chat about school, or his new job, or another poem from his journal that you read. You would tell him that you missed him and he would return the sentiment. But things have slowed with your summer break, and now he hasn't heard from you in a week.

Part of it might be his fault. He knows you feel the same ache that he does, but he doesn't want you waiting around for some miraculous way for the two of you to see each other again. He wants you to live your life and enjoy college. He told you as much, and he tries to forget the offended tone you used when you replied, claiming that you were working two jobs over your break to save up enough money to go visit him.

Since Harry's been in London, he hasn't felt the urge to see any of his old friends. No one seems good enough company. His job as an English teacher happens to be more work than he ever thought. He enjoys it to an extent, but he's not allowed the creative license that he would like. He wakes up and goes to work, comes home to his cheap, dingy flat, all alone, and then repeats it the next day.

Tonight, however, he can't get you off his mind. It's the first time he's been able to put pen to paper and scribble out a quick poem since the first week he got back. It was heated and passionate and even vulgar. He pictured you in all your glory, spread out for him, and for the past hour since he finished writing, he hasn't been able to forget the memories, like a film reel looping through his mind.

Harry is achingly hard. He's swollen and pink, and just the thought of you has him leaking frustratedly onto the sheets. When this all began, he hoped that he'd be able to refrain from touching himself and then be able to drift to sleep, but the hope has dissipated. Every time he shifts, even the gentle brush of cotton has his hips lifting from the mattress, searching for a more satisfactory source of friction.

"Jus' need..." Harry groans and surrenders, kicking the blankets down his body. He feels cool air drifting through the open window beside his bed, chilling his flushed, exposed skin. His hand drifts down his body, closing into a tight fist around his throbbing cock.

Harry lets out a ragged moan as he gives himself a rough pull. He thumbs his tip, collecting a dribble of precome and dragging it down his length. The touch of his hand gives him some relief, but it's not enough, and he feels even further gone than he did before.

The clock beside his bed reads three in the morning, and he's already doing the math to figure out your time zone. You should be awake. His free hand fumbles for his phone and he has his thumb poised over your contact before he pauses. He's not sure if you want to speak with him, or even if you'll pick up. But maybe you haven't been actively ignoring him. Maybe you've just been busy. And he needs to hear your voice. He doesn't think he's ever needed anything more.

The phone rings as Harry puts it on speaker. He sets the device on the pillow beside his head, hoping beyond hope that you'll answer.

"Hello?" You sit up in bed as you answer the phone. You've only been curled up for a few minutes, and you certainly weren't expecting a phone call from Harry. It's been a week since you've spoken to him, but you can feel a relieved warmth settle over you. You've missed him.

"Y/N," Harry breathes. He lets out a shaky sigh. His voice is deeper than usual, and rough around the edges. If you didn't know him so well, you might just think that he's tired. But you do know him, and the knowledge that he's hard and needy for you has your gut twisting in excitement. "Hi, angel."