Afterparties on Tour (One Shot- Italrry x reader).
Premise: Love on Tour is over and Harry needs to tell you how he feels.
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings: / Other writing
[I'm a little late to the party but here's a little snippet of Love on Tour ending and Harry's vay-cay in Italy. Obviously Italrry! is my favourite, I have a whole fic about it lmao.]
🪐
The moon bounces across the gentle but choppy waves, coming to a crash against the scattered rocks before dissipating and retreating from the shore. It must be loud considering the celebrations behind you, a chorus of cheers and booming base.
Feet devoid of shoes, toes buried in the cool sand, nursing a drink and gazing out at the ocean, all that dancing has rendered you an unfit kid in gym class. It’s taken longer than you expected to even your exhales, and once it had settled, the feeling of your skin enveloped in the sand has you staying put. At least a moment longer.
It would help soothe your thoughts about that succubus dressed in only a pair of short-shorts and a loose-fitted button-up, dancing far too close, eyes far too bright, glimmering under the ultraviolet strobes.
He is so unaware of how unhinged he makes you feel, it seems like he only aims to pull you in further- so unaware, that he couldn’t begin to comprehend the concept of needing space and is already making his way over to your hunched figure.
You hear him long before you see him, his steps are heavy and uneven, you can just picture the way he fumbles about, a faint and fond smile soothing your frown.
Once he is only a foot away, he announces his presence,
“Oi! I’ve been lookin’ for ya.”
He comes to a halt, and as you tilt your head to acknowledge him, your face is levelled with his thigh, bare, unnecessarily thick, and begging to have teeth sunk into its fleshy skin.
Your brain is buzzing with profanities, ‘Jesus fuck’, ‘fuckin’ unfair.' 'fuck, fuck.' But you hold it together with perseverance, patting the empty spot in the sand beside you an invitation,
“Hi, Lovie. Have fun?”
He obliges with a loopy, and cheesy grin that obliterates your sense of composure. He is so clueless as he drops to the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, arms stretched out to keep balanced. His finger brushes against your thigh, and you are furious with how easily your skin flares with fireworks.
Harry takes a deep breath, craning his neck and tilting his face to fix his gaze on your own, his eyes sultry, pupils swollen with celebration. His smile only widens,
“Much better now.”
He has to know what he’s doing. Surely. You cannot risk looking into his eyes for even a moment, fearful it will end with your lips trailing along his neck, tongue lapping and nipping at the nape. And for obvious reasons, you cannot look at his mouth, instead diverting both your gaze and the topic,
“I like the hat.”
“I’ll give it back, I swear.” He doesn’t want to.
“Don’t. it looks better on you.” You want him to keep it forever.
There’s a hopeful look that flashes across not only his green gaze but the crinkles of the corners of his eyes, swelling dimpled cheeks, and dramatically raised brows.
You don’t like that look; it makes your insides melt into one big ball of overwhelming happiness and hopefulness. He could set you alight with one facial expression, just imagine what would happen if he did even more.
You cannot will yourself to find out, choosing to commend him instead,
“You’ve been dancing up a storm.”
“Mm. Wanted you to dance with me.” He nods, eyes lulling shut, his chin tilted to the stars.
“I did. For a good three or four songs.”
He seems the opposite of satisfied, bushy brows creasing into a furrow and crinkling his forehead,
“Want you to dance with me all night.”
“You’re ridiculous.” You take the risk of brushing your shoulder against his own.
“And you’re beautiful.” He instantly retorts, tainting your skin with blushing berries, thankful that the moon reflects on the ocean instead of your cheeks.
You’re even more thankful when Harry moves on without your help, inquisitively pointing at the cup still clutched in your palm,
“Whatcha drinkin’?”
“I think vodka and cranberry.” You ponder, glancing down and swirling the cup, liquid sloshing against the glass.
He motions for it, holding his hand out, and you are more than tempted to drop the drink and wrap your palm in his. But he waits with anticipation, and you can only oblige and pass him what he wants, settling for a swift moment of your fingers brushing against his own.
Tilting back, neck mercilessly on display, Harry takes an unintentionally large sip, swallowing with sudden unnerving panic. His mouth is an explosion of sugar sticking to his gums, sending electric charges straight to his brain,
“Christ that’s sweet!” He exclaims, eyes scrunching with distaste, his hand blinding stretching out to return the concoction to your custody.
“Just like me.”
“Just like you.” He mirrors. And he’s looking over at you now, eyelids swelled and intoxicated, lashes wisping, irises flickering in the moonlight. His expression slowly morphs into one of soft sorrow, and he can’t stop himself from speaking the silly truth, "'M gonna miss you, y’know.”
“You’ll still see me.” You attempt reassurance, but you’re almost certain Harry can hear the way your words stay trapped between your teeth, squeaking out with disappointment. You are disappointed if that even begins to cover it.
“Not every day though.” He whines but before your heart can skip a full beat, he panics and presses on, “You’re the best assistant.” This is partially true- you are the best assistant, but Harry will definitely miss you for much more than that.
You scoff softly, lacking the courage to take his words as anything other than platonic banter, a culmination of spending a prolonged period together- over two years to be precise.
In honesty, you hope Harry shares same ache as your already-churning stomach at the thought of spending the unforetold future apart. It's embarrassing, though, knowing you feel far too much for a boy whose only obligation is to be shared with the world.
“Oh, please. You’re just gonna miss being waited on hand and foot.”
“That too.” He teases, hardly able to hold any sternness in his words, more focused on proving his feelings of fearing the distance from you. He needs to make sure you know. Before it’s too damn late, “But I'm gonna miss you more.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.” You try to rationalise and lighten the mood for both of your sakes.
“Hardly! My heart’s been breaking for days.” He flails his arms with a flair of dramaticism, even stomping his foot into the sand with extra emphasis. Dramatic display aside, Harry means every word, just the statement has his chest closing in.
“I think that’s all the Scotch talking.” You say in an attempt to stop your own chest from aching the same.
“I’m serious!” He defends, frustrated that you seem to have mastered the art in denseness… or diversion… which is worse?
It’s obvious to Harry that you’re gonna need a little more convincing, and he is happy to oblige, turning his torso to face you, eyes fixed on your nerve-ridden ones,
“Gonna miss your clumsiness, and your positivity,” he likes the way your face tilts down with shyness, lips pressing together bashfully, “and your sweet laugh.” He’s heard it once, he wants to hear it on a loop for all of eternity.
His truthfulness is almost believable, but even if it was, you aren’t sure what to do with the information. He’s just begging for you to smother him in kisses at this point, and the conviction that he is simply unaware of the effect his words have on you is encouraging you not to indulge. Instead, you are rerouting the conversation again,
“None of that has to do with me being your tour assistant.”
“Still.”
Contradictory to his tongues distaste, Harry wants to touch your hand again, even for just a second, so he reaches for the glass of reddish liquid, skin sizzling when your hold lingers, taking an extra gulp for good luck, a small droplet of cranberry slipping down the slope of his bottom lip.
The silence, though comfortable is deafening, and Harry needs to hear your velvety voice again,
“Say it.”
You turn yourself to accept his authoritative switch, eager to see where he plans on going with this. Ignoring the desperate temptation to rub your thumb across his peachy, puckered lips, absolving him of the merciless sweetness, you take back the drink and finish its contents with one swift, throat-swelling swallow. Eyes crinkling from the candy cruelty, you discard the glass and give him your all,
“Say what?”
“Say it!”
He persists, looking at you with the most darling of pouts, a glimmer of mischievous knowing- wanting you to confirm his wishes. And, who would you be to deny him such an obvious confession?
“I’m gonna miss you too, Harry.”
“How much?”
“You really are ridiculous!” Your eyes roll in sync with the huff that slips from between your teeth.
“And you’re beautiful.” He says like it's old news, “We’ve been over this, how much are you gonna miss me?”
Your stomach is in your head, your head is in your heart, and your heart is in Harry’s hands, unsuspectingly holding your entirety between the creases of his palms.
He cannot know. So, you gesture your thumb and pointer finger together in matrimony but leave the tiniest of spaces in between- the false space in which you hold your sorrows for his soon departure,
“This much.”
“So little?” He playfully pouts, and unbeknownst to you, his pupils are swelling with desperation for you to miss him as much as he, you.
“Hmm, maybe this much.” With little leeway, you expand your two fingers as far as they will stretch, allowing your longing to settle in the gap.
Harry's eyes light up with some sort-of satisfaction, his forehead raising, creases disappearing as his dimples swell from the force of his fiery smirk,
“Just as I suspected.”
“What’s that now?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that… I win.” He concludes, boyish grin only growing- if possible- and with as much grace as one could have after two Scotchs, Harry stretches his arms out, swerving to miss you, his muscles spanning like that of a proud swan, “Cause I’m gonna miss you thisss much.”
His body is starting to stiffen and then loses all rigidity, he can’t stop- well, even if he could, he wouldn’t- his arm from wrapping around your shoulder, tugging you down with him as his body starts to tilt back, threatening to sink into the sand.
“Harry!”
And your bodies are pressed to the trillions of pearly grains, giggles escaping through your parted lips. Your hair is surely sprinkled with sand, as must Harry’s, bodies awkwardly pressed together, his chest criminally close to your own.
“Y/n.” He mocks, confirming his cheeriness over pulling you into his grasp, your back balancing on his stretched-out arm.
The party plays on in the distance, the sea is still singing, and you can hear the soft and stable breaths of the prettiest boy on earth, his face tilted towards your own, freckles flickering under the silver sky. Harry is looking at you with an unreadable gaze- one that you have curiously noticed the past couple of months- it may be fondness... But whatever it is, it quickly dissipates into a woeful stare, and he glances away from your wondering gaze in favour of the sky.
It's quiet for a moment- theoretically only a minute, but it feels like an eternity. Your eyes are tracing the curves of his chiselled jaw, swooping cheekbones, softly kinked nose. He seems miles away, leaving you alone on the beach just as you feared the future would be.
But he is back on earth, and his eyes are back on yours right before your body threatens to rip itself apart. His brows are furrowed, and his chest hurts so carelessly that he wonders if you might feel it too,
“’M a little sad, y’know?”
“Would be weird if you weren’t.” You reassure, from a practical point, this is true. But from an in-love point, you need to ensure he understands you mirror his melancholy, “I am too.”
“Cause you’re gonna missss me?” Harry coos.
Harry wants to hear you say it in your own words, and the only way he knows how is to sugarcoat his words with a sweet and playful demeanour, scared of what might happen if it turns out that his feelings truly are one-sided. You wish he had said it seriously; you want to tell him that you’re being more than serious, that you will miss him, and that you’ll spend the rest of your life missing him, everything about him, everything he makes you feel,
“Have you always been this annoying?”
“I think you’re mistaking annoyance for attraction.” He tries a new tactic.
“Even so…” You concede.
“Even so…?”
“You’re both, alright. And you already know it.” Perhaps you’re giving away too much.
To Harry, not enough. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen; did he really think you would confess your devout attraction for him? Did you even feel the same way? You give him the tiniest of hints, always so cautious and thoughtful. He knows this; he feels your fondness, feels the fiery connection… there has to be more, and how much longer can he wait? Threatened by the reality of the two of you going your separate ways, Harry is fighting this obstacle, fearful that this is his only and final opportunity, having to give you something more, some sort-of encouragement,
“Just like to hear you say it.”
What are you supposed to say to that? It has to be obvious that you feel so much more for him than mere attraction. Stumbling on words, a blushing mess, tripping over your own toes whenever he expressed his endearment or wonderment.
It was certainly easier to chalk his affection up to close proximities, homesickness, and maybe even pining over another woman. Theoretically, Harry had more on his mind than spending his time seeking out your affection.
Your lips are sealed, unwilling to separate and spill your secrets- the only thing stopping you from saying every little thing you love about him.
But Harry is watching and waiting, carefully checking out the way your forehead furrows, eyes darting with some deep thoughts that he just wishes you would share with him. He’s seen this look before- sometimes showing up during difficult days on tour when you were challenged with a particularly gruelling or complicated task, and on occasion, Harry had noticed this conflict in your eyes during the duet of late-night conversations.
He knows you’re stumped for words. He knows you don’t plan on speaking up. He needs to know what you’re thinking about, his face leaning forward, trying to close some of the merciless gap preventing him from being able to peck your cheek,
“Tell me a secret.”
“Yeah, right.” You can tell this is a trap.
You’d be a fool not to know what he was trying; this was his last resort in deciphering your hidden agenda, and the last thing you need is the humiliation of finding out that this little thing going on between you two would remain just that; a thing of the past.
“Tell me, and I’ll tell you one in return.”
He insists with such sweet innocence that could surely coax you into doing whatever he wanted,
“Okay.” You’ll go with the thing that’s been torturing you for weeks now, “I think you should grow out your moustache.”
“Done.” He answers so quickly, with such authority that your heart is doing somersaults. Before you can overthink his hastiness, he continues, “Tell me another.”
“Hey, that’s not how this goes.”
“I make the rules. Tell meeee.” He’s a needy little one and he has you trapped, nowhere to go but nowhere you would rather be.
What’s the point of keeping anything from him when it’s clear his persistence will only be soothed by your obligation?
Harry is as Harry as ever, so welcoming and understanding before even hearing what you have to say. As far as you’re concerned, he’s been seeking you out for a reason, wanting to make sure that this ending isn’t eating away at you.
It is eating away at you, though. You both know without verbalising it. If it remains unaddressed it may very well result in severing the ties you so tenderly share,
“I’m nervous about going home.”
“Had a feeling.” He needs you to know that he knows. “‘M sorry, darling. Promise we’ll see each other, okay?”
“Pinky swear.” Your eyes are like a puppy dog.
“I’ll come over, and we can watch Normal People and… pretend we are.” Harry wants that more than anything.
“I’d like that… a lot.” Your eyes lull with the promise of his loving presence, “I’ll make you a warm cuppa.”
“You’ll have hot chocolate.” He notes proudly.
“And I’ll let you use my fluffy blanket.” You do the same.
“Ugh. I love you.”
He whines dramatically, eyes rolling back, deliciously biteable lips parted and glossy. He really does though- love you. You loathe the flippancy with which he uses these words, substituting playfulness for the failure of his reciprocating your feelings,
“It’s hard not to.”
“That cranberry’s giving you a big head, huh?” He nudges himself against you.
“Don’t be mean.” Also nudging against him in an attempt to reprimand his cheekiness.
“I could never be mean to you.” He pouts cutely, hoping you can tell that he certainly means it.
He’s close- too close- churning your common sense into a spiral of neediness to nearer his face, scatter kisses wherever his skin forfeits. Shuffling back slightly, you miss the way his brows twitch with misunderstanding, and you misdirect the conversation once more,
“Did you see the video I sent you?”
“That puppy was so cute I could have cried.” His features turn to mushy lovability.
“Don’t cry, you’re too pretty.” You tease.
“Too late.” He tries to add a convincing pout.
“Such a crybaby.” A cute, fuckable little sulk. Your diversion has certainly worked, but now you long for the back-and-forth of will-they-wont-they, and you cannot resist letting the words come out, “So, what’s your secret?”
“I already told you.” He says it like it should be apparent.
“You did?” Had you missed something?
“Yep.”
Harry’s certainty is cast-iron, peering over at you with palpable perceptiveness. If his secret was that he planned on growing a moustache, then he had done a marvellous job at fishing you onto the hook. A simmer of frustration bubbles in your belly, shyness and foolishness teasing you for falling into his trap with such ease. Your tone reflects this, retreating to the sanctity of defensiveness,
“Your secret is that you’re a crybaby? We already knew that.”
“Not that.” He rolls his eyes.
“Alright, well, tell me again.”
“Ask me nicely.” He keeps you baited.
“Y’know what, I don’t even wanna know.” You tilt your nose to the sky, giving him the perfect sight of your neck craned, cheeks like apples, lips pouted and puckered.
“Yes, you do.” He informs.
“Nope.” Your lips pop at the P.
“It’s gonna eat away at you.” He sing-songs. He’s right.
“Glad to see you’re getting off on this.” Grumbling, you avert your gaze.
“Would rather get off with you.” He torts, muttering, sudden arousal slipping from his lips and settling anxiously in the already-small gap separating your bodies.
“Filthy boy.” You friskily reprimand.
“And you haven’t seen the half of it.” He promises.
“Is that your secret?” You press on curiously, “Not a surprise. I’ve seen your ‘fuck me’ eyes before.”
“When I was looking at you?”
Harry knocks the breath out of you, not even out of you- it’s trapped if your throat, body stilling like a statue, tied and bound by the predicament he seemed to so blatantly provide,
“Not me in particular…”
“Apparently I have two secrets then.” He muses.
“Just tell me!” You are clearly too focused on secret number one to notice that he just revealed secret number two.
“Hmm… Maybe.” Since you seem so clueless, Harry thinks he should drag this on a little longer, becoming more-and-more discouraged by your blatant dismissal of his attempts to express his affection.
“Harry, I swear-”
“Alright, missy.” He can hold out no longer. “I love you.”
“I know that-”
“Love, love you.”
“Oh.” You finally let the realisation sink in, and it sinks in slowly whilst Harry patiently watches the way you process both his feelings and your own.
The fear of rejection humidifies the air around him, but the relief of having you hear him say it aloud is something he had not known he needed.
Your entirety is like electricity escaping a plug socket, shocking you with such passion that the only thing left to do is give in,
“Well, I guess I have another secret, too.”
“Tell me.” He need not know because you have said it in your own words. But, how nice would it be to drizzle your ‘I love you’ like honey across his aching heart.
You will; coat him in so much caramelised molasses that he will have no choice but to understand that you love him... Right after you make him play a round of his own proven-pointless little game,
“Hmm. Maybe.”
—