Art | Harry Styles

35

It's his birthday.

At home, Anne always made such a fuss. With unnecessary streamers hanging from the each individual ceiling of each room in the house, and far too many balloons, a tacky birthday cake set on the kitchen table each year.

Sophie has slept over at Harry's, per invitation, again. Her presence is the only thing pulling him back from the edge, and quite frankly, he wants her around. He knows it's wrong, but it's a distraction, and it avoids him being left alone to dwell on his thoughts any longer.

Harry's sitting at the breakfast bar, digging his spoon into a bowl of cereal. His shoulders are aching due to his hunched over position, but he doesn't care to move, his tight muscles caused by tension in his back. He hasn't slept - still, days later - and he can't bring himself to relax properly.

"Hi," Sophie murmurs against the shell of his ear, her arms winding around his torso from behind where he's seated on his stool. His chin tilts upwards a little, a weak attempt at a smile on his lips as the back of his head rests against the front of her shoulder. "Happy birthday, love."

Her skin is still damp from the shower, a thin vest top paired with some checkered pyjama pants on her body. Harry turns back to his cereal, as Sophie goes about brewing coffee for them both.

"Thank you," he replies softly, relieved he'd managed not to flinch when she'd touched him. He hopes - thinks, at least - he's getting better at hiding it. He's flinching each time Sophie touches him, but he's trying to remain distracted. He's taking photos; he's trying to smile; he's moving on. It's all he can do - he thinks it'll work.

Despite this, Sophie's noticed. Of course she's noticed - she isn't stupid. She notices Harry's over-cautiousness - the way he has to force himself to keep still; the way he has to hold his own knee still to stop it from shaking up and down.

She noticed most prominently when Elle showed up to say goodbye on Saturday afternoon. The look on his face when Sophie had answered the door, and turned back to Harry as Elle pushed her way into the apartment. The way he'd looked like he'd seen a ghost, and the way his body had tensed like no other when Elle had stepped forward to wrap her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. His face had turned a pallid shade, unable to be masked behind his smile as he waved her out of the door.

She wants to know what - specifically - is bothering him, for his sake as well as her own, but she won't press him to tell her anything. She won't.

But she knows it involves Elle.

She pours the coffee into two mugs, passing one over the counter to Harry, as his fingers reach out to curl around the hot ceramic.

He's barely talking - and in all honesty, he feels safer that way. He's beginning to loathe the shaky sound of his voice, and the way it's a struggle to string a sentence together while remaining composed. While Sophie's just aching for something - anything. A real conversation, with substance, and depth - something Harry is so great at with her. Anybody can see he's shy, and quiet - but she can see so much more. And she wants it. She wants him to act how he did before; incredibly sweet, and talkative to the point where he ends up embarrassing himself. But she doesn't want it unless he's feeling it - unless he feels how he did before. And it's clear he doesn't - and she doesn't know how to make him feel better.

Sophie leans against the counter in front of him, "Are you still up for Empire State today? We could go in a couple of hours and then get dinner after. Or, there's always the option of heading up sooner and then just staying in tonight - watch some movies?" she suggests, and Harry nods, resting his chin in his hand for a moment.

"Dinner sounds good," he responds, smoothing his hand over his opposing forearm, spooning some cereal into his mouth. In all honesty, he doesn't want to go out at all - he'd much rather stay in, holed up in his bedroom, but it's far too suspicious if he suddenly objects to their previously conjured plans.

Her eyes land on his neck; the bruise she'd left a few nights ago still visible, though mainly faded at this point. A deep, greyish purple, only seen if you really look, now. This is the first time he's not wearing a hoodie twice his size since Friday night, the heating switched on in the apartment rendering the hoodies useless.

And then her eyes shift slightly, a little further to the left of the bruise she'd left an inch or two above his collarbone - slightly darker than hers. More recent. Its reddish-purple colour is a little more visible, but only where his grey shirt has shifted slightly - this is the first time she's noticed it.

And it most definitely isn't of her doing.

"That wasn't me."

Harry freezes, eyes remaining fixated on his bowl of cereal as his face twists slightly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"What wasn't?" He plays dumb, stirring his spoon into the soggy mixture of cereal and milk.

"Your neck," Sophie's face is blank; unreadable, when Harry finally brings himself to look at her, "you have a hickey. I didn't give that to you."

"You did," Harry returns, "s'like how I gave you-"

"No," Sophie says, firmer. "I didn't give you that, Harry."

Harry's shakily neutral expression changes to an overly-puzzled one, "What? Yes, you did. The other night - night before India and Liam's.. w-we were on the couch, and-"

"I know. I was there. And I know I didn't give you that," Sophie replies, eyes burning into the spot on his neck, "who gave you it?"

Harry can swear he hears his heart beating, "You did."

"Stop lying," Sophie's voice comes back, as gentle and quiet as his, and as she says those words, he can't help but flinch - the sentence mirroring Elle's from Friday night, and his lip begins to shake. He's aware he won't be able to spin her a story to get out of this. He can't.

"M-M'not lying, ba-"

"You're nervous," Sophie points out gently, but her words are firm, "why?"

"'C-'Cos this feels kinda like an interrogation," Harry's eyebrows furrow, as he lays his spoon back in his bowl, and Sophie purses her lips.

"Who gave you it, Harry?"

His hands are trembling, fingertips drumming a little too hard against the counter, as his lips begin to shake, too. He can feel a heavy sob arising in his throat, and he tries to keep it down, but he can't.

"I-I didn't mean.." he trails off, unable to force out a full sentence.

Sophie's face softens, as she takes a step around the counter, closer to him, pushing her mug of coffee away from her. Harry doesn't look up from his bowl, his jaw clenched as Sophie faces his side profile, her hand reaching out to rest on his forearm. He draws it back quickly, regretting the reflex as soon as he performs it. His lips shake continuously, as he stammers, attempting to explain why he'd moved, but he can't get the words out.

"Harry," she says gently, trying to ignore the sting she feels as she moves away. Her composure remains, while Harry's is crumbling at her feet, his hands clenched into fists and his lips pressed into a fine line, tears beginning to stream down his face in the fashion they've been doing so for days now. He's not better - he's been kidding himself, desperate to convince himself that he can move on without addressing it, but inevitably - it'll destroy him.

Sophie continues, "If I didn't know any better I'd think you'd done something you shouldn't have," her voice is soft, "but I know you; I know this is something more," she gently curls her finger under his chin, inching his face towards her to allow their eyes to meet. He grimaces slightly, reluctant to meet her gaze - but he does so, a quiet whimper leaving his lips as he feels her irises burn into his own. Her other hand moves to his face, her thumb wiping away the tears spilling down his cheeks.

"And I can't stand to see you like this," she whispers, her hands stroking against his hair, now. She's connecting the dots, her intellect easily utilised now, as it seemingly clicks into place. "so, please. Tell me - what did she do to you?"