Only Angel
2.3k words on a polaroid, magic, and pandemonium. Harry Styles x ofc. Warnings: teeny bit of bad language, alcohol, barest mention of cheating
Harry pulled out his wallet to pay, but something else fell out - A picture. A Polaroid. An angel. Arabella. Woah. “Sir?” Harry blinked. Looked up. “Er - right, sorry.” He paid up. Left the store. Arabella. Christ. Almost forgot about that. She didn’t leave a number… For f*ck’s sake - why the hell didn’t she leave a bloody number? Harry sighed. Glanced across the street. Looked like he was going back to the bar, didn’t it?
**********
Harry was… exhausted.
Just… tired.
And the bar was crowded, and it was loud, and there were so many people.
He stared at the whiskey in his glass, swirling it around… and around… and around…
“Hi!”
Wow. Perky. Too perky.
Harry didn’t turn around. The whiskey was so… mesmerizing…
“Hullo,” Harry murmured.
“I’m drunk!”
Harry blinked, glancing around despite himself.
Bloody hell.
Red hair. Red hair, in a high ponytail. Blue eyes, freckles. Freckles, freckles, freckles. She was grinning, blinding him. Pinkest lips he’d ever seen. She was chewing bubble gum. She rolled it between her teeth. Bright pink. A white shirt, a little pocket over her heart. A little mini-skirt.
She looked like a bloody angel.
She was glowing.
What the fuck.
“Um - er -” Harry cleared his throat. “Hello,” he repeated.
“Hi!” she said again. “Can we take a picture?”
“A - a what?”
“A picture!” she chirped, holding up a polaroid camera.
“I -” He hesitated.
She’s drunk, she’s gorgeous, he’s drunk, he loves her, why not -
Why not?
“Sure,” he said.
She grinned. Harry’s heart stopped.
She leaned in, Harry smelled cherry chapstick, bubble gum, liquor -
“Smile!”
A flash.
Harry blinked, and she giggled. Tapped his nose. Harry blinked again.
What the fuck.
It printed. Whiirrrrrr…
She took out a marker, spun it around her knuckles - she was left-handed, wearing a little ring on her middle finger, red nail polish - and murmured, “Ar… a… bell… a,” as she signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of a polaroid.
A polaroid of him, a startled smile on his face, his gaze on her, who was beaming at the camera, her eyes bright and sparkling in the flash of the camera, dazzlingly brilliant in the dim darkness of the bar around them.
“Arabella,” she said, blinding Harry with another dazzling grin and holding out the picture. Harry blinked. Nodded. “Er - Harry,” he said. “Harry!” she giggled, kissing him on the cheek.
“Nice to meet you!” she chirped, and spun around, and -
And she was gone.
What.
The.
Fuck.
***
Harry wanted a sweet.
Something sugary… and soft… and bad for you…
He found a bakery. Sprinkles. Lovely.
Not even a queue!
Harry grinned. Got a cupcake. Pulled out his wallet to pay…
Something else fell out -
A picture.
A polaroid.
An angel.
Arabella.
Woah.
“Sir?”
Harry blinked. Looked up. “Er - right, sorry.” He paid up. Left the store.
Arabella. Christ. Almost forgot about that.
She didn’t leave a number…
For fuck’s sake - why the hell didn’t she leave a bloody number?
Harry sighed. Glanced across the street.
Looked like he was going back to the bar, didn’t it?
***
Too early.
He was too early.
Only nine o’clock.
Harry sat near the door. Ordered a whiskey. Swirled it around. Stared at the clock.
***
Eleven.
A gust of wind.
Cherries. Bubble gum.
Harry looked up. Grinned.
An angel.
“Harry!” she exclaimed.
“Arabella,” Harry said.
They were staring.
There had been music, hadn’t there? In the bar? And people?
There wasn’t any of that now.
It was just her. Just him, just her, those eyes.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry laughed, and he stood up, took a step, and -
Her lips were soft, perfect, tasted like cherries. And tequila - hadn’t she just arrived at the bar? - and bubble gum. She was so sweet. She was giggling, her fingers slipping up through his hair, her hips swinging with the music.
“Get a room!” somebody shouted.
Harry grinned. Forced himself to pull away.
“Shall we?” he asked. “Get a room?”
She giggled. “We shall,” she said, and they went and got a room.
***
It was heaven.
Of course. Only fitting for an angel.
It wasn’t enough. Harry got the feeling it would never be enough.
He got her number.
Left.
Lasted two weeks.
“Hullo, Bella…”
***
She had a wonderful little flat.
Bright and airy despite the cheap rent and creaky building.
Harry loved it.
She hated it.
Something about being inside.
But the hallway was fine.
She liked the hallway.
Something about all those lives, coming together, little interactions.
They ended up in a lot of little corners.
In the hallway.
***
Next time, he lasted a week.
Barely.
The next, a few days.
Barely.
He was getting addicted.
It was okay.
He didn’t mind.
Wasn’t anything he could do about it anyway, was there?
She was like something caught in his teeth, always there, nagging and nagging until -
Until he called.
“Hullo, Bells,” he began every call.
“Meet me in the hallway?” he ended every call.
***
Six times. Six times was heaven.
Seventh time, she stood him up.
Harry knocked.
He hated the door.
Loved the flat, hated the door.
All wooden, with little splinters everywhere.
Nobody answered.
He hadn’t expected anything; she answered on the third knock.
Answered the door on the third knock, the phone on the third ring.
Harry knocked again.
Nothing.
A third time.
Harry’s hand was already on the doorknob.
Nothing.
Harry frowned. Jiggled the knob. It was locked.
He knocked again.
Knocked, and knocked, and knocked.
And then -
Harry hissed in pain.
A splinter.
“For fuck’s -”
He sighed. Stared at the door.
And then he walked away. Where was she?
***
I’m sorry, she’d said. I’m so sorry.
He’d smiled. It’s okay, he’d said. I don’t mind.
It wasn’t okay. He did mind.
But then she kissed him.
And he didn’t mind anymore.
***
Harry knocked on the door to Arabella’s flat, only using one knuckle.
He hated that door.
Knocked again.
Waited a beat.
He raised his fist to knock again -
The door swung open.
Harry blinked in surprise; that was only two knocks, wasn’t it?
It was a man. Tall. Red hair, blue eyes. Lots of freckles. Glasses.
“Who’re you?” Glasses asked.
“Harry,” Harry said. “And you are?”
The man frowned. “Harry Styles?”
“Yeah, pleasure,” Harry answered, a bit impatient. “Who’re you?”
Glasses raised an eyebrow. “Looking for Arabella, are you?”
“For fuck’s - Who are you?”
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “I’m the brother. Oliver.”
Harry faltered. “Oh,” he said, feeling like a fool. “Right. Is Bells - is she here? Arabella?”
“Yeah,” Glasses - Oliver - said, smirking. “In the loo. I’m heading out…” He stepped back to let Harry in, and Harry nodded as he walked past him. “Right,” Harry said, turning back around to face him. “Well,” he said awkwardly, “nice to meet you.”
“Right, right,” Oliver said absently, staring at Harry.
Harry cleared his throat. “Er…”
“Can I just…” He hesitated. “Let me just warn you -” he began, and Harry smiled a bit.
“The brother warning?” he cut in. “Break her heart and you’ll kill me? I got it.”
Oliver chuckled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, no, I was going to say…” He grinned. “I was going to say be careful, mate. She’ll be fine. It’s you I worry about. Don’t let her break your heart, yeah?”
Harry frowned. “Er… yeah.”
Oliver studied him for another awkward second. “Right,” he said. “Well. Cheers.”
He grabbed his coat, and he left the flat.
“Cheers,” Harry murmured, staring at the door.
“Harry!”
“Bells!” Harry exclaimed, spinning around.
“Hello,” Arabella giggled, kissing him.
“Hello,” Harry said.
“Missed you,” Arabella breathed against his lips.
“Missed you too, Bells,” Harry sighed. “Missed you too.”
***
She met him at a little coffee shop.
She didn’t warn him.
Well, not really.
Just called. Asked where he was.
“See ya,” she’d said.
And then she’d appeared.
Like a bloody miracle.
And then she’d dragged him outside.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” she’d said.
And so they walked.
Well, he walked.
She skipped. Ran. Jumped. Twirled.
Sang. She had Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys stuck in her head.
Of course she did.
Harry grinned and held her hand as she spun into his arms.
***
Harry was drunk.
Pissed.
Absolutely off his face.
He was having the time of his bloody goddamn life, singing, dancing… drinking…
And then he saw something.
Red hair. A shimmer. A magic.
An angel?
She turned. Blue eyes, freckles, bubblegum.
An angel.
His angel.
Making out with somebody.
Harry choked on his whiskey. Slapped a fifty on the counter.
And left.
***
Arabella called him.
Harry didn’t answer.
***
She called him again.
Harry picked up.
“Meet me in the hallway?” she asked.
No, Harry’s brain told him. Say no, it said. Break it off. Don’t -
“Absolutely,” Harry said.
***
She kissed him before he could say anything.
She kissed him senseless.
Because she was beautiful.
Because she was perfect.
Because she was an angel.
And, well, if she was a devil in between the sheets - his sheets, that other guy’s sheets…
There wasn’t anything she could do about it, was there?
***
She arrived at his flat two days later.
She knocked three times.
When Harry opened the door, she was grinning.
She produced a box of chocolates. “Do you like chocolate?” she asked.
Harry grinned back. “I love chocolate.” He stepped back. “Come in, then.” She walked inside, floating on rainbows, and bounced onto his couch. She held out the chocolates, and he took one, and she popped one into her mouth, grinning up at him.
“Hello,” she giggled.
“Hi,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow and stealing another chocolate.
She stood up. Wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“Thank you, darling,” Harry laughed. “Not too bad yourself.”
“You’re wonderful,” Arabella hummed, and she kissed him, and everything melted away.
***
She was glowing.
Wearing his shirt.
Her hair was soft, the dusk light through his window creating a halo around her head.
A halo.
Of course.
Harry was lying in his bed, watching her mess around on his piano.
“You like to play?” she asked.
Harry nodded. “Mhmm.”
“I used to… play…” she said softly, dragging her fingers against the keys with a feather-light touch. Notes floated through the air like butterflies, so crisp and clear that Harry could practically see them in front of him.
“Why’d” - his voice was raspy; he cleared his throat. “Why’d you stop?”
Arabella shrugged. “Got bored…”
C… D… A… C… D… A…
Harry frowned. He’d never heard that before. He liked that.
He loved that.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She shrugged again. “Dunno.”
She played it again.
C… D… A… C… D -
She stopped as Harry wrapped his arms around her, bending down to pepper kisses down her neck. “Harry,” she giggled, spinning around to kiss him properly. “Christ, you’re ridiculous,” Harry laughed as she tugged him down onto the piano bench.
“You love me,” she breathed.
“Impossible not to, Bells,” Harry murmured against her. “Impossible not to.”
***
Pandemonium.
That’s how he’d describe her.
Perfect pandemonium.
Angelic, perfect pandemonium.
Arabella liked that word.
“Pandas,” she’d said when he used that word to describe a party they’d gone to.
Harry had grinned. “Pandas,” he’d agreed.
Arabella had laughed, and she’d kissed him.
“Pandas,” she’d giggled.
***
She liked old films.
The romantic kind.
Her favorite was The Apartment.
She called it The Flat.
But she couldn’t just watch a movie; no, no, that was too boring.
Instead, she multi tasked.
She watched the movie, and made cookies.
And threw popcorn into hats.
And played card games.
Today, she braided Harry’s hair.
“I wish I’d met you when it was long,” she mused softly.
“Me too,” Harry sighed, watching Shirley MacLaine spout flu statistics in an elevator on the screen. “Shoulda stayed in bed this morning,” Arabella murmured as Shirley did. She lowered her voice and imitated Jack Lemmon’s sick voice - “Shoulda stayed in bed last night.”
Harry grinned.
Arabella’s voice rose a pitch again. “Nineteen!”
“Watch your feet,” Harry cut in, slipping into falsetto as Shirley said, “Watch your step.”
Arabella giggled, mussing his hair. “And watch your hands, Mr. Kirkby!”
“I beg your pardon!” Harry chorused with Jack.
“One of these days, I’m gonna close these doors on you and…” She mimicked Shirley’s random motions on Harry’s head, tugging just a bit too hard, and Harry yelped. “Christ, woman!” he scoffed, ducking away. “You watch your hands.”
Arabella giggled, fussing with his hair again and kissing his head.
The Apartment filled the room for a second.
And then -
“I’m bored,” Arabella declared.
“Claustrophobic?” Harry asked, standing up and stretching.
“Phobic,” Arabella echoed, making a face. “I hate that word.”
“Hate’s a strong one, Bells.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I do!” she exclaimed resolutely. “In fact,” she added, I’ve got a phobia of it!” Harry raised an eyebrow. “A phobia of the word phobic, hm?” She giggled. Nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“How’s the hallway sound, Haz?” she asked.
“The hallway sounds fantastic,” Harry said, and she led him to the door.
***
She was rock and roll, Harry decided one morning.
Perfect pandemonium in rock and roll.
A bit of piano, angelic choruses, and then rock and roll.
Harry spun a pencil around his knuckles and began to write.
It was all too easy.
She was an angel.
He really saw an angel.
He practically finished the song in one morning.
Only Angel, he called it.
C… D… A, it began. C… D… A…
***
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