Do You Remember? ☼ Harry Styles A.U.

𝙵𝚒𝚟𝚎

"Delilah, don't you remember what happened afterwards? And most precisely, in your apartment?" He inquires playfully. His fingers entwined with mines, deep pine eyes positioned on my face in the most delicate of ways.

"Do I give you the honour of reminding me or do I keep my story going?" I murmured back to him with a smile.

I inspected the wound on his temple; today is the first time the nurses removed the plasters. It was a deep crimson scratch that contrasted with Harry's usually pink cheeks. His face had always been incredibly soft: he is gifted with the brightest complexion yet light pink cheeks, glimmering green eyes like Mother Nature physically incarnated in this one human being. The nasty scar on his temple felt like an assault to his overwhelmingly innocent features. It made me hold on to his hand tighter.

"Don't... Don't look at it like that." He mumbled insecurely, instinctively fluffing his fringe down his forehead to conceal the wound. "I told the nurses to keep the plasters, but they said it needed to breathe."

"I'm sorry." I sighed. "I hope it doesn't hurt." I leaned in to kiss his nose, and Harry tutted in reply. "And your leg?"

"Broken bones don't just heal in an instant." He smiled hopefully. "I feel better than how I look, I promise."

"Alright, posy. You are less pale than before anyway." I kissed his knuckles slowly. "Besides, you didn't answer me! Should I keep the story going or do you do it today?"

"I can try! I remember this well." He chirped happily, and I broke in shy laughs at his intonation.

"Go ahead then. Remind me."

"We finally ended up in front of the flower shop...

~~

We finally ended up in front of the flower shop, deciding we would split apart from there. I vaguely remember a conversation we had on the way back. We talked about our families and siblings. You told me about your mother and her obsession with gossip magazines, the Arabic accent that still lingers around her speech even two decades after she left her mother country. You told me about your father and his love for cooking, and I could feel the homey warmth at the mere mentioning of your family. The talk about your little sister Thalia probably was my favourite part of the family introductions. You talked about her with motherly affection, and I knew you missed her most now that you moved out from your childhood house for college.

"So you can speak Arabic!" I remember commenting, and then you laughed and said you didn't. You talked to me about how your mother moved with her parents to London when she was a teenager, and how you were born and raised here with a very British father, you pointed out. It made me laugh. I loved to listen to all of it. I loved knowing about your parents; it already felt like I knew you a bunch better.

We moved on to talking about my own, but since we had already arrived at the flower shop, we inadvertently sat on the sidewalk and resumed our conversation. We didn't even have to agree on the issue; it happened quietly, spontaneously. Although I don't remember much of our memories, I still know that between us there was a natural flow of language. Nothing ever felt forced, and I could pour my heart out there without feeling observed. I talked about my parents and my older sister, about how we moved together to a shared apartment. Just as I mentioned Gemma, I instantly face palmed as I remembered leaving the key to the apartment with her. She had slept over a friend's house that night, and I cursed at myself for forgetting something as essential.