fireworks
a little under 2.5k on fireworks and wine. Harry Styles x reader. warnings: none I can think of? lol this was supposed to be in a fic writing challenge, but... I didn't take the prompt (fireworks) soon enough. So. Uh. Whoopsidaisies oh AND it's a reader insert ('cause of the challenge lol) so uh hope I didn't botch that. I've never done one of these before... enjoy :)
You met Harry Styles at a New Year’s Eve party.
Your boyfriend at the time had had some sort of connection, and you’d gotten into the party, but you were borderline regretting the whole idea because now you were bored. You were drinking some sort of punch, lurking behind your boyfriend as he somehow kept engrossed in one of the most boring conversations you’d ever eavesdropped on.
It was after you tapped your boyfriend on the shoulder to tell him you were getting more punch, after he waved you off and dove back into the conversation, and when you’d made it to the punch table that he’d approached you.
He’d startled you, coming up behind you and saying, “Good punch, hm?” just a little softer than normal, and you gasped. “Sorry,” he said, smiling a bit, and you couldn’t help but smile back, because who could refuse those gorgeous dimples?
“‘s okay,” you replied, and he said, “Enjoying the party?”
“Yup,” you lied, leaning against the punch table.
“You’re terribly unconvincing, uh…” He looked at you expectantly, and you shifted your cup to your left hand to hold out your other for a handshake. You told him your name, and he shook your hand as he said, “Harry.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry,” you said, and he nodded. “Ditto. What’s wrong with the party, then?” You smiled, shaking your head, and told him, “It’s not that bad. I’m just a little tired, but, uh… you can’t exactly leave a New Year’s party before midnight, huh?”
“You’re right,” Harry said, “that would be scandalous.”
“Absolutely,” you agreed. There was a beat of silence, and then he asked, “So, er - how’s the punch? Reckon I should get some?” You smiled a bit. “I reckon you should.” He raised a brow. “Are you mocking me?” he said, pouring some punch into a cup.
“Handsome and quick,” you said, and he grinned. “Funny, too,” he said, “and proper humble. ‘m quite the catch.” You nodded, looking over at where your boyfriend was, and replied, “Me too.” Harry grinned. “See we share the humble trait, hm?”
You bit back a laugh despite yourself and, not quite unreluctantly, went on, “Only, uh… I’m already caught. That’s my boyfriend, over there, and I should probably get back…” Harry followed your line of sight, and then nodded. “Right,” he said. “Erm - nice meeting you.”
“Yeah,” you said back, giving him a smile. “Ditto.”
*****
The ball dropped, and you kissed your boyfriend.
The fireworks started, and you held his hand.
Everybody was cheering, and you were scanning the crowd.
The fireworks died down, and you found who you were looking for.
Your boyfriend kissed your cheek, but you were smiling at Harry.
*****
You and your boyfriend didn’t work out, but it wasn’t a messy breakup; you stayed friends. So when some manager asked for your number from him because he was looking for an in in your industry, he gave it over, because he was your friend.
In fact, you stayed such good friends that, when Harry Styles texted you and admitted he wasn’t looking for an in in your industry but rather a date, you told your ex and thanked him for handing over the number.
*****
The date went well.
But not well enough.
He didn’t kiss you at the end of the night.
And you didn’t kiss him at the end of the second night.
And neither of you kissed the other at the end of the third night.
So lovers? No.
But friends? Absolutely!
*****
“You,” you declared, already holding a glass of wine, “look like shit.”
“And you,” Harry replied, “started without me.”
“Sue me,” you muttered. “You were twenty minutes late.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, lifting a half empty bottle of wine. “Started this twenty minutes ago, did you?” You pursed your lips, grabbing it from him and filling up your already over half way filled glass. “‘s your fault for being late. You’ve got to wash your glass, by the way.”
Harry scoffed, grabbing it from the coffee table. “I left this here last week.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Shoulda washed it.”
“Wasn’t in the room, love. Out of mind, out of sight.”
You giggled. “You started without me too.”
“Sod off,” Harry mumbled, not bothering to rinse his glass before filling it.
“Had a date?”
“‘f you can even call it that,” Harry said.
“Ooh, that bad, huh?”
“Worse. Her name was Gertrude. She took me to Spasso’s.”
“Yikes,” you breathed.
“And,” Harry went on, gesturing for you to follow him as he walked into the kitchen, “she was going on and on about rom coms, yeah? Like classics and shit. And then - and then” - he turned around, catching your eye for drama - “she goes I think my favorite is To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re too haughty. It’s really not that bad.”
Harry huffed, ducking his head into the refrigerator. “Oh, please. ‘s a tragedy. And it wouldn’t have been that bad, but after she said classics, that rubbish is just -” He paused, and reappeared, and said, “Darling, I’m not seeing any wine.”
“Must be blind, then,” you said, nudging him aside. But then you looked, and your fridge was basically empty, and there were no bottles of wine patiently waiting for you. “It was - I had two…” You faded off, turning to look at him sheepishly. “Uh… Yeah, so I may have just finished the last bottle?” Harry groaned, rolling his head back dramatically.
“Christ, woman, I come here once a week for an escape, and you can’t even manage to have a bottle of wine for me?” he asked in a whine. “The only time I drink sophisticatedly, the only time I can really talk, the only -”
“Shush,” you said, putting a finger over his lips. “Shush shush shush. I’ve got whiskey.”
Harry’s brows jumped. “Ooh.”
You nodded at the cupboard. “Grab glasses.”
Harry grinned, leaning in. “Love it when you tell me what to do.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing him off you, and muttered, “You’re hammered already and here I am giving you more alcohol. Ridiculous.” Harry scoffed. “Am not!” You raised an eyebrow, pouring him a glass. “Whatever you say, Styles,” you said.
“Right then, Miss Sober, tell me about your week, hm?” Harry asked, and you sighed, collapsing on the couch. Harry sat next to you, sliding an arm around your shoulders. You sighed, again, and swirled your whiskey around in its glass. “Well… I had another date with Kyle…”
Harry snickered. “Kyle the cardigan guy?”
You rolled your eyes. “He wore it once.”
“It was olive, love,” Harry said. “Olive.”
“It was a poor fashion choice, Styles, shut your mouth,” you said back. “Happens to all of us. Want to reminisce your outfit at my birthday party?” Harry groaned, tipping back the last of his whiskey. “I was pissed, darling,” he insisted. “The lights were off. Can Mr. Cardigan say the same?”
“He’s a nice guy, Styles.”
“He likes Nickelback.”
You scoffed. “You like Nickelback!”
“Not anymore!”
“You’re impossible,” you sighed, reaching to refill your glass.
“Impossibly wonderful, darling.”
“Conceited ass,” you said under your breath. “Ask me about my week, and then nitpick every little thing I say.” Harry rolled his eyes. “So dramatic, you are. Tell me something good and I’ll react appropriately!”
“Ooh,” you giggled, “big words from the drunk.”
“Takes one to know one, love.”
“Love,” you echoed dreamily. “Ever been in love, Styles?”
“F*ck’s sake, now you’re really pissed,” Harry laughed.
“Took you this long to figure that out, huh?”
“Pardon if ‘m a bit slow, ‘m a bit tipsy from the lack of wine ‘round here.”
You scoffed. “Lack of wine, he says, as if it’s my fault.”
“Oh, but it is, love - you started without me.”
“There it is again!” you said. “Love. You’re too good at this dodging questions thing.”
Harry smirked at you over his glass. “What dodging questions thing?”
“Oh, shush. Have you? Have you ever been in love?”
A beat of silence, and you were almost convinced he’d answer seriously, and then he smiled at you and said, “My mummy.” You rolled your eyes. “No, Styles,” you said exasperatedly, “I mean romantic love. Butterflies in your tummy romantic love. Every second thought about them love. Warm and fuzzy feelings love.” You giggled. “Kissy love.”
He paused for a second, and you looked up. “Take your time,” you giggled, and then Harry flushed, shaking his head. “Just thinking ‘bout your vocab, hm? Tummy, kissy - didn’t know I was drinking with a four year old.”
“I hate you,” you sighed contentedly.
“Hate you too, love.”
“Can’t call me love if you won’t answer the question.”
“Oh, my darling dear, my honey pot, my precious rose petal, my -”
You groaned. “I’ll put on To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, Styles, swear to God.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry seethed.
“You’re full of yourself.”
“Said that already, love.”
“Different wording,” you giggled. “I can be creative.”
“Creative, my ass,” Harry murmured.
You whined, slapping him on the chest. “You’re rude.”
“Got any other adjectives?” Harry asked. “Prove your creativity, hm?”
“Rude, jackass, bastard,” you said, and then took a sip of your whiskey as you mumbled nonsense. Harry grinned. “Nice try, love,” he said, and you pouted. “I’m drunk,” you insisted, draining your glass.
“Clearly.”
There was a beat of comfortable silence, and you leaned forward to pour more whiskey into your glass. “Whoopsidaisies,” you murmured as your hand slipped and some sloshed onto the table. You leaned back, and took a sip, and then realized Harry was staring at you.
“What?”
“Did - did you just say whoopsidaisies?”
You giggled. “Maybe.”
“You did not just say whoopsidaisies.”
You cleared your throat, lowering your voice a bit. “I don't - I don’t think so,” you replied in a British accent. “No one says whoopsidaisies do they? Unless they're…” Harry grinned, catching on. “There is no unless,” he said, taking up a slightly higher pitched American accent. “No one has said whoopsidaisies for fifty years and even then it was only little girls with blonde ringlets.”
You laughed, shaking your head and leaning into him. “What if I want to be a little girl with blonde ringlets, huh?” Harry tsked, twirling a piece of your hair around his fingers. “You’re going off script.”
“Can you imagine Hugh Grant with blond ringlets?” you giggled.
“They’d go well with his blue eyes.”
You sighed. “Anything goes well with Hugh Grant’s blue eyes.”
“What about my blue eyes?”
“They go wonderfully with your blond hair and freckles.”
“Why, thank you. I always thought the blue stripe in my hair was a bit much.”
“No, no, it matches your eyes.” You paused, looking up at him, and said, “Should do it.”
“Should do what?”
“Dye your hair.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Blue?”
You grinned. “Pink.”
“Can you imagine,” Harry murmured.
A beat of silence, and then you sat up and exclaimed, “Dick!”
Harry’s brows jumped. “‘ve got one, yes,” he said, and you shook your head, pressing a finger against his chest in an accusatory way. “No,” you said, “that’s another adjective. To describe you.” You grinned. “You are a dick.”
“Very clever,” Harry told you.
Another second of silence. A car honked outside, and then a dog barked, and then Harry looked at his watch. “Erm - darling, I know we said we weren’t going to say anything about your birthday, but -”
“Oh, no,” you muttered, downing your glass.
“I might have a little surprise for you?”
“H, I thought we agreed -”
Harry grinned, leaning forward and taking your hands. “I know, I know we agreed, but I couldn’t help it, because this lad I know from secondary school -” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Not important. The point is, the opportunity was too good to pass. Don’t be mad.”
You huff. “Just get on with it.”
“Wicked,” Harry said, and he stood up, pulling you towards the balcony.
“Where are we -”
“Shush,” Harry interrupted. You’d arrived on your balcony, and Harry was positively buzzing with excitement. “What am I looking at, again?” you asked, and Harry shushed you again, checking his watch. “Any minute, now…”
He settled next to you, and you felt his hands on your shoulders, and then -
Fireworks exploded across the sky. Sparks of color filled the city skyline, popping and fizzing out before another set went off. They seemed to last for ages, each burst more dazzling than the last, until the last one sputtered out with a cheerful pop, leaving you in breathless awe.
Vaguely, you realized the pleasant weight of Harry’s hands on your shoulders had disappeared, and you turned around to see him lowering his fingers from his ears. He was grinning, though, looking absolutely ecstatic.
“You hate fireworks,” you breathed.
Harry laughed, shaking his head and pulling you into a hug. “Happy birthday, love.”
“Oh, H,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “Thank you.”
You pulled away first, keeping him close, and for the first time in your four years’ worth of friendship, you had the urge to kiss him. And, from the way his gaze kept slipping to your lips, you guessed you weren’t the only one feeling that urge.
“Harry?” you whispered, feeling yourself lean in.
“Hm.”
“Can I -?”
“Please,” he murmured, and he closed the distance, and you were kissing Harry Styles.
He was warm, and soft, and tasted slightly of vanilla, but mostly of whiskey, and just a hint of mint. He was smiling, just a bit, against your lips, and you couldn’t help but revel and smile back at how perfectly you fit together. Your lips fit like puzzle pieces, your hands feeling perfectly natural on his chest, his hand warm on your cheek.
He pulled away much too soon, and despite the desperate need for air, you felt yourself tipping forward to just get a little more, just a few more seconds, just a few moments more of that happy bliss he’d given you.
“He’s a moron,” Harry said, and you blinked, almost in a haze, before realizing that fireworks were going off again, and you giggled, leaning against his chest. “It was supposed to be one burst,” he told you, and you grinned, looking up at him. “They’re beautiful.”
“I know,” he murmured, and he kissed you.
*****
Two years later, neither Kyle the Cardigan guy nor Gertrude the Spasso’s girl was invited to the wedding.
You didn’t think they’d mind.
The wedding was on the first day of summer, on the summer solstice.
It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful wedding.
Harry still didn’t like fireworks.
He got them anyway, and as they exploded, he kissed his bride.
*****
hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be v much appreciated 💜 thanks for reading!!!!
masterlist | ask
