So, What? // 1D AU ✓

Chapter 1

~Na na na na na na, na na na na na na,

Na na na na na na, na na na na na na~

Harry Styles didn't have a creative outlet to vent his frustrations into at the moment. There was always his work, but after a project gone wrong, he didn't want to think about that. So usually, when a situation like this arose, he cleaned. Top to bottom, the whole house. It was a double benefit - clearing his mind, and it would prevent his husband from yelling at him when he got home. Harry usually loved to open all the windows and let his favorite music be heard from down the block, but today he was silent and talking to himself out loud.

Dumb fucking bitch doesn't even know what a fucking orchid is.

Oh, you don't like marble countertops? Maybe you should have mentioned that in the preliminary meetings.

Oh, sorry the grill isn't fucking George Foreman - your budget sucked ass.

About two years ago, Harry started working at an interior design firm in Los Angeles, fresh out of college. It was solitary work, and he liked that. Harry would sit in people's homes for days upon days, painting and arranging their lives into nice presentations. Of course, he did have a variety of assistants and construction workers on hand at any moment he wanted, but usually he preferred to do things alone. After all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

That fucking timid smile, that's the smile that the Macy's employees give me when I try to buy a fucking loose blouse from the women's section. Goddamnit, this is Los Angeles, isn't it? And now I'm thinking about that fucking top that I've never worn because he hated it. Fuck.

Today, the house he had been working on for a month or so was finally revealed to a just married couple. And they hated it. There was no outwardly bold statement of - this is fucking terrible - but their gestures and loaded comments all fit into that box. Harry knew he was going to hear it from his boss tomorrow, and he would cry and promise to do better, and then be reassigned another project that he hated. There was always another house that needed built-in bookshelves and a wet bar, and by next week, he'd be building them himself, listening to his Pink Floyd playlist.

I want to break every single white plate we own until my feet bleed from stepping on the shards.

When Harry's thoughts turned destructive, he decided to turn on his mix of rock songs, blaring from the living room speakers as he vacuumed. The machine banged against the corners of the chairs, the coffee table, adding to the number of nicks already there. Turning towards the wall full of pictures, his eyes caught on one in particular, making him stop in his tracks. It did every time he saw it.

Was I that naive to think I was ever a good singer?

Would I have ever made it?