hiya!!! you can call me cookie, i write all the time, post occasionally…
my main interests are:
⋆ music (litro anything from early bmth to 1d to labi siffre)
⋆ wrestling (indies, aew, wwe, njpw...the lot)
⋆ films + tv (fav films: labyrinth, the crow, top gun; tv: ted lasso, tua, the it crowd)
⋆ football (i support arsenal but am happy to write for anyone lol)
my masterlist links for fics are below and my requests are always open for business! i will write for any of the above topics and am also open to write for basically anything!
MASTERLISTS:
WRESTLING
MUSIC:
harry styles
mcr
ghost
FOOTBALL
FILMS + TV
NOTE: as standard, i do have boundaries so will not write for things that will make me uncomfortable. it’s important to me that my views on these things are respected, so i will not write for things such as r4pe, inc3st or b3astiality, so please don't request them. aside from that, i heavily welcome all your requests, and am open to writing smut if you wish!
if you'd like to be friends i'm always open for a chat! likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome and are very much appreciated :))
thnks for taking the time to read my intro post, love you lots and happy reading!
Perpetua collects the pots and pans and places them carefully on the drying rack.
He can't help but feel a sense of anxiety for the conversation he will have to have over dinner. What does one say to a brother they never grew up with? A twin at that, someone born of the same identity, with likenesses no one can deny.
Except, he felt everything but like his brother. Embarrassing as it was to admit, the prospect of someone being identical to him, but hating him so profusely terrified him. How should he prove himself? How should he go about the conversation?
He could take it lightly and with courtesy...
...or, just grab the bull by the horns and ask what he must?
Why do you hate me, Copia?
He shook his head, nearly finishing tidying up the kitchen area before preparing the food on to the plates. I just need to get through this evening-
"Perpetua, are you alright?"
The voice of his mother caused him to jump, dropping the spoon he was drying.
"Shit-sorry, yes, Sister, all is well, thank you! I am just about to bring in the food, what do you think?"
Sister Imperator glanced at the food on the counter behind him, however her attentions turn more to her son's face.
She gave him a sorry smile. "Perpetua...I know that Cardi can seem a little...aggravated, but trust me, you'll get to know him soon enough. He'll...warm up. Eventually."
Perpetua paused, then smiled briefly. "It's okay, Sister, I am alright." He swiftly turned to grab the food from the countertop, not wanting to have this conversation any longer than he needs to.
"Alright, if you say so." She nodded, knowingly. "Your father and I will be next door if anything goes wrong."
This stopped Perpetua in his tracks. He knows Copia cannot stand Papa Nihil, well, his father, so he definitely doesn't need that added stress of him coming to "sort anything out". Like that would help.
Perpetua spun on his heel to face her, smiling softly. "Why would anything go wrong?"
Why wouldn't anything go wrong?
𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐
Perpetua tip-toed into the dining room, clutching the plates in each hand. Copia hadn't noticed his entrance yet, still staring into space, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Perpetua coughed lightly, causing Copia to lift his head up.
Perpetua looked startled at the sudden response, quickly responding, "Ah...bon appetit!"
He placed the steaming pasta before them, tucking in rapidly.
Copia stayed still, looking at the food.
Perpetua noticed his motionless brother, sending him into worry. "I,--sorry, brother, are you not a fan of bolognese?"
Copia flicked his eyes up, rapidly blurting out, "No, no, I lov--I like it, thank you." Copia picked up the cutlery and began eating.
That was...strange.
Perpetua shrugged off the response, he was just happy to see his brother enjoying his food. However, he was now at a loss for words.
"So...uh, what's it like being home, you know, at the Ministry?"
Copia looked up and locked eyes with him in under a second.
Oh shit.
Copia swallowed his food, or perhaps a more aggressive response, and murmured, "It's same as always I guess..."
Perpetua blinked, clearly not sure what that meant, having only been living in the Ministry for a few months now.
"Do you...have much...you know...'work' work? I guess that is the very boring part, yes?"
Copia raised his brow. Perpetua scrambled for words.
"I bet you much prefer being on tour, it is so exhilirating!"
Copia squinted furiously at him.
How big am I digging this fucking hole?
Copia put down his fork with a slight bang.
"A lot of paperwork. Didn't realise I was the Ministry's secretary now." He scoffed.
Perpetua frowned. "You are surely a much more important asset than that, Frater Imperator, eh?" He attempted a smile, causing Copia to glance back down at his food. Yikes.
"I guess."
After a few beats, Copia returned eating his food, still avoiding eye contact. "And you, how is this...Skeletour." It was phrased like a question, but surely didn't seem like one that warranted a long answer.
"I, uh, it has been an amazing experience! I am very new to all this, you know, and it was a bit scary at first, I must admit. However, now I feel I am getting into it a bit more-
A ghoul appeared behind Copia, as if by apparition. They bent down to whisper in Copia's ear, cutting right through Perpetua's speech.
"Mmm, yes. Thank you, Sodo."
This was the one that didn't like me, I blew him a kiss and got no response. Hm.
The ghoul straightened up and stared at Perpetua momentarily, before heading out of the door.
"My apologies, V. I have some clergy business to attend to. Nothing to worry about. Just...higher-ups stuff, you know?"
That stung. And I believe he was hoping it did.
Perpetua stammered, smiling forcedly. "I--yes, that is okay, brother! I will keep your food for you, yes?"
Copia nodded and left swiftly, shutting the door behind him.
"copia would hate family dinners, perpetua would give anything to be at them…”
As twin brothers separated at birth, Copia and Perpetua are struggling with rekindling the relationship they could have had growing up. With deep hatred for an act not even committed by the other, and a burning desire to prove themselves, the brothers must put their differences aside and aim towards a brighter future, to lead the clergy to glory. But can they do this before it all burns down?
tw: family tension (THIS IS NOT A SHIP FIC!! they are twin brothers?!)
word count: 1.6k
(please remember to like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think!! - xtremerulez xo)
CHAPTER i
The Ministry, Present Day
"Cardi, would you come down? We have finished preparing dinner!"
Who is she referring to as we? Copia thinks to himself. They are literally ghosts, it would have to be...
V.
Fucking V.
Ever since the beginning of this discovery, (or rather, well-kept secret), of his twin brother, Copia simply could not bring himself to welcome him into his heart, let alone the one place he can call home, the Ministry. The thought of V cosying up to his mother and father, metaphorically, of course, repulses him. Why must he get to play the perfect son? Copia worked long and hard for his position in the ministry, and to him, V's new entrance to the ministry has been nothing but pure disrespect.
Now, it would all have been okay. Concluding the Re-Imperatour, Copia could continue to be Papa. He could have been the final resolution of the clergy...
...the one to reinstate it all...
...the Antichrist.
He shrugs the idea off. This is just a dream. It cannot be his truth now that his idiot twin brother has succeeded him, with no right.
He cautiously makes his way into the dining room. The clergy has recently moved in to a new ministry, with new renovations taking place, one being Copia's office. This means he is forced to sit on a makeshift desk set-up, and sleep on the bed nearby. He calls it his office, but this is really just his bedroom.
Taking a quick glance around the table, he notices the precision of the setting. Places have been laid neatly, napkins are folded with slick creases and the sparkling glasses are eagerly anticipating the filling of the finest Italian red wine.
Huh. That's funny. It almost looks like...well, a home-
"Brother! I am so glad you have joined us! Here, sit, I have prepared-"
Copia's eyes shoot towards his twin brother before him, cutting his sentence off with an icy glare. dressed in a deep, rich purple suit, and for some reason, still bearing his gleaming silver mask over his papal paint. He glances over his brother's attire, interrogating every aspect.
"Why do you still wear your paint?" Copia cuts in abruptly.
"I-I'm sorry?" V stutters, laughing nervously.
"V, let's not beat around the bush, you know? I asked why you still wear your paint, you are off tour, there is no need."
"I-well..." V shakily laughs, leaning his arm against the chair beside him. "I, uh, I've come to like it, you know? Especially this mask, it is very, stylish, as the fans say...haha!"
Copia is unamused. "Only thing I hear is you talking shit to the fans."
V stammers. "I-no, brother! I wouldn't disappoint the congregation like that! Plus, it is a phone-free experience, you know? Everyone will get a different experience at each concert, it is pretty cool..."
"What, so there's no evidence of you telling them to shut up?"
V's eyes widen.
"And the paint, you think it makes you better or something?"
An awkward silence lingers.
"Cardi, do I hear you causing trouble?"
Copia rolls his eyes at the sound of his mother in the other room. Her spirit, rather.
"No, sister. I am simply asking a question to...V, here."
"Well, Cardi, Perpetua has made a very nice meal for you this evening, why don't you try to enjoy it?"
Copia gives V a look of distain, reluctantly sitting down on one of the wooden chairs before him, accompanied by a sigh.
"Well, I...I will get the food, yes?" V says, nervously smiling.
Copia doesn't respond, instead fiddling with a place mat to occupy himself. V pauses, then swiftly moved into the next room. Copia sits silently, his breathing slow and harsh.
Perpetua. Perpetual. Eternal. Am I stuck with you forever?
Summary: Harry Styles has played football for England his entire life. He knows the pressure, the expectations, and the weight that comes with wearing the captain's armband. What he doesn't think he'll ever get used to is doing it without his favourite person beside him. A story about football, home, and the people who make carrying the weight a little easier.
Author's Note: A little one-shot I put together because I am fully in the swing of World Cup fever right now. ⚽️ A footballer Harry, a very supportive fiancée, some family chaos, and a lot of feelings. Hope you enjoy! ❤️
Masterlist: Here
Kansas felt like somebody had left the oven door open. Harry had stepped off the team bus less than three minutes ago and was already regretting every life choice that had led him to standing in forty-degree heat wearing a navy England tracksuit. The sun hung high above the training complex, relentless and unforgiving, and judging by the expressions around him, the rest of the squad were feeling much the same.
"How is this legal?" Elliot asked, dragging a hand down his face.
"It's summer," Jude replied.
"It's inhumane."
"It's literally summer," Jude threw back.
"I live in Nottingham."
The group laughed as they made their way towards the training facilities, luggage being unloaded behind them while coaches and support staff moved around with the efficiency that only existed at major tournaments. Everywhere Harry looked there was movement. Security. Media teams. Analysts. Grounds staff. Coaches.
A World Cup always felt like a travelling city. It felt bigger than football or any club season. Even now, at twenty-eight, at his third World Cup and more than a decade of professional football behind him, Harry still felt it the moment he arrived. The weight and expectation. The understanding that for the next month, every touch, every pass, every mistake and every goal would be dissected by millions of people who believed they could have done it better from their sofa.
"Captain." Harry looked up to find Declan Rice grinning at him. "You alright?"
"Never better."
"Liar."
"Oh, absolutely," Harry joked.
Declan laughed before nudging his shoulder and continuing towards the entrance. Harry followed, shaking his head. That was the thing about international football — the lads knew.
Club football was intense, but there was a rhythm to it. Barcelona was home. Barcelona was routine. Training grounds he knew better than his own neighbourhood. Staff he'd worked alongside for years. A dressing room that felt like family. The same city. The same apartment. The same coffee shop three mornings a week. The same woman waiting for him when he got home.
International football was different. It was compressed and everything was accelerated. Relationships that normally developed over ten months had to form in ten days. Tactical systems had to be learned quickly. Trust had to be built instantly. And as captain, Harry occupied an even stranger space. Part player, part leader, part spokesperson.
The younger lads looked to him. The media wanted him. The coaching staff relied on him. If England played brilliantly, it belonged to everyone. If England failed, a large portion of the blame landed squarely on the shoulders of the man wearing the armband. He understood that—accepted it even. Welcomed it... most of the time.
But it could be lonely.
His first World Cup had ended in frustration. His second had ended in heartbreak. He still remembered the walk back to the dressing room after the quarter-final loss four years ago, the silence hanging over the squad like fog. The feeling that they'd been close. Close enough to touch it. Close wasn't good enough. Not anymore. Not for England and certainly not for him. Which was why this tournament felt different. Partly because it was his third and partly because England genuinely had a squad capable of competing. And partly because of Thomas Tuchel.
Harry liked him and more importantly, he trust him. There was no theatre with Tuchel. No unnecessary speeches or attempts to manufacture emotion where it didn't exist. He was demanding without being dramatic, intense without becoming exhausting. He treated players like intelligent adults, which Harry appreciated more than he could explain. The manager and Harry expected standards which made life easier.
As he reached the changing rooms, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look at the name — he already knew.
Flight delayed. Again. Sorry bub 😢 xx
Harry stared at the screen for a moment before exhaling quietly. He wasn't angry or upset, just disappointed. The tournament schedule had been released months ago. Flights booked. Hotels arranged. Plans made around training sessions and media commitments and family access windows. And now she was stuck somewhere between Barcelona and Kansas while he was standing in a changing room halfway across the world. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Don't apologise. It's not your fault.
I know but it's still annoying.
Harry slipped his phone back into his pocket before sitting down at his locker. The seat beside him remained empty. The changing room filled steadily with noise as players arrived. Conversations. Music. Complaints about the weather. Somebody arguing about card games. Somebody else looking for a charger. Normal footballer behaviour.
For a moment, Harry closed his eyes and Barcelona appeared instantly.
Their villa in Pedralbes, with breathtaking views of the mountains and overlooking the heart of Barcelona. Open doors and listening to the sound of distant traffic and the pool water. Her attempting to speak Spanish to neighbours while he corrected her mistakes. The way she'd insisted on learning Catalan because, according to her, "if we're living here properly, we should at least make an effort." The fact she'd said we. Always we and never you — despite being the one who had uprooted her entire life. The one who had left behind family and familiarity and a career she loved.
Harry felt guilty about that sometimes. More often than he'd ever admit aloud. She'd never once made him feel guilty for it, complained, kept score. Never even asked for recognition. She simply arrived in each new chapter of his life and found a way to make it feel like home.
The strange thing was that most people assumed she followed football because of him but the reality was the complete opposite. Three football-obsessed brothers had seen to that long before Harry entered the picture. Half the time she understood tactical discussions better than some television pundits. More than once she'd watched a match beside him and pointed out something he'd completely missed — usually followed by an unbearably smug smile... usually followed by her being right. The thought made him laugh quietly to himself.
"What?" Harry looked up to Jude watching him from across the room.
"Nothing."
"That smile says otherwise." Jude was trying to bait him.
"Because you've checked your phone six times since we landed."
A chorus of agreement came from around the room and Harry groaned, "Idiots."
"Captain's gone soft," someone called.
"Captain's engaged," Harry corrected.
Which somehow made everybody laugh harder. The noise echoed around the changing room. For a moment, it felt lighter, then his eyes drifted towards the England shirt hanging in his locker and the captain's armband folded neatly beside it. The Three Lions stitched across the chest. The thing he'd dreamed about since he was a boy.
Tomorrow there would be training. The day after that another meeting. Then another. Then a match. Then another. An entire country waiting. Expecting. Hoping.
Harry looked down at his phone one final time to a photo of her that filled the lock screen. Taken somewhere on the coast outside Barcelona. Wind in her hair. Laughing at something he'd said. Completely unaware of the camera. Home.
A few more hours and then she'd be here. Not in a hotel room or beside him every day — tournament rules didn't allow that. But she'd be close.
Close enough to find in the stands. Close enough to see after matches. Close enough to remind him that beneath the captain, the striker, the headlines and expectations, there was still just Harry. And that, more than anything, was what made the whole thing manageable.
──────────────
By the time the teams lined up in the tunnel, the heat that had greeted England in Kansas nearly a week earlier had settled into something more manageable. The stadium, however, was another matter entirely. Sixty-five thousand people created their own climate — their own atmosphere. The noise followed them from the tunnel and onto the pitch, rolling around the stadium in waves as cameras flashed and national flags hung from every available surface. Harry adjusted the captain's armband against his sleeve before glancing down the line of players standing beside him. Some looked relaxed. Some looked nervous. Some were pretending not to be nervous. A World Cup had a way of exposing everyone eventually.
The opening notes of the national anthem echoed around the stadium so Harry lifted his chin, focusing forward and singing every word. However, his eyes drifted toward the family section anyway. He found Anne almost immediately as she was impossible to miss. One hand pressed against her chest as she sang along, already emotional before a ball had even been kicked. Des to the right of her, murmuring the words, while taking in the amount of people in the stadium. There was no sign of her or her father, which made his stomach tighten slightly.
The flight delays had become travel changes. Travel changes had become last-minute stadium arrivals. It had been one thing after another all week. Still. She'd said she'd make it. The anthem continued and Harry searched again — nothing. The final verse approached — nothing. The music began to fade and then a movement caught his eye. A figure appearing at the top of the stairs, running. There she was.
England shirt on. Hair pulled back. A handbag bouncing against her hip. Her father following closely behind carrying two beers while attempting not to spill either of them. The sight was so ridiculous Harry almost laughed during the national anthem. She was already apologising to people as she squeezed through rows. Shaking hands. Hugging familiar faces. Stopping briefly to wrap Anne in a hug and kiss Des on the cheek before finally reaching their seats.
Her father looked significantly less composed. One beer survived and the other appeared to have suffered casualties. Harry could practically hear her laughing from the centre circle. Then she looked down and found him immediately — she always did. For a moment the noise, cameras and pressure disappeared. She lifted on hand, not waving, just enough for him to see. The engagement ring caught the stadium lights — a tiny flash of a reminder. Harry felt his shoulders loosen. Enough to breathe, to settle. Then she winked. The kind that would've annoyed him if anyone else had done it. His lips twitched and then the referee blew his whistle. Suddenly none of that mattered anymore.
The game had started.
The first fifteen minutes passed exactly how England had planned. Possession, control and territory. Harry spent most of it moving between lines, drifting deeper to create overloads in midfield before spinning back towards the defensive line. The Dutch centre-backs weren't following him, which created space for runners around him. Good. Exactly as expected.
Then the Netherlands scored. One quick transition. One mistake. One finish. One-nil. The stadium erupted and Harry immediately turned towards the halfway line, "Come on..." He wasn't panicking or showing frustration and blame. He was doing a reset because that's what captains did.
The second goal was worse. A deflection. A loose clearance. A finish squeezed through traffic. Two-nil. Only twenty-eight minutes played.
Harry stopped running for a second. Mentally not physically. The scoreline sat in front of him like a punch to the chest. Two-nil. This was the World Cup opener. It was everything they'd discussed working towards. Everything Tuchel had drilled into them. And they were two goals down. He could see that the younger players looked rattled. He could see it in the rushed passes, rushed decisions, nervous glances.
"Look at me!" Harry clapped his hands loudly. Several heads turned. "Look at me!"
The command carried and the noise around them faded.
"We are fine."
Nobody entirely believed him, not yet, but Harry didn't care.
"Next five minutes." He pointed at the ground. "Not the score. Five minutes."
Declan nodded. Jude nodded. Marcus nodded. The message spread. Five minutes. Not sixty. Not the tournament. Five minutes. Football became much simpler when broken into smaller pieces.
By half-time England were still losing, but the panic had gone which definitely mattered. Panic killed football matches faster than tactics ever could. The second half started differently and Harry could feel it almost immediately. The intensity. The aggression. The confidence. Tuchel's words still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, but more importantly the players believed them. Marcus scored ten minutes after the restart and what a goal it was. Harry saw it developing before anyone else. The run. The angle. The space opening. Marcus shifted the ball onto his right foot and unleashed something outrageous from twenty-five yards. The net rippled and the goalkeeper never moved. The stadium exploded.
One goal. Two-one. Game on.
Harry grabbed Marcus around the shoulders, "Again." Not a celebration — an instruction. Again.
England kept pushing. Kept moving. Kept probing. The Dutch defensive line gradually retreated deeper and deeper. The spaces became smaller. The legs became heavier. The game became chaotic, just like the kind of match Harry loved. They were at eight-two minutes. The ball arrived at his feet just inside the final third. One touch. Half-turn. A defender stepped towards him. Another hesitated. That hesitation was enough. The smallest pocket. Barely visible. The sort of space that existed for less than a second. Harry shifted the ball onto his right foot and hit it. Clean.
No hesitation. No extra touch. No overthinking. Just instinct.
The strike flew through the players. Past one defender and then another. Past a goalkeeper who never even saw it leave Harry's boot.
Then the net moved and for a moment everything stood still. Then sixty-two thousand people lost their minds. Harry turned immediately, running, arms spread and adrenaline flooding every inch of his body. His teammates collided into him from every direction. Someone grabbed his shoulders while the other jumped onto his back. The noise was deafening but Harry was looking somewhere else. Towards the woman standing several rows back with both hands over her mouth. She was screaming and jumping up and down beside her father who looked equally unhinged. Harry laughed and pointed directly at her.
The cameras would catch it and the internet would have a field day but he couldn't bring himself to care. In that moment she wasn't the woman who had crossed continents to watch him play football. She wasn't his fiancée. She wasn't the future waiting for him after the tournament. She was simply the person who had believed he could do this long before sixty-two thousand strangers did. And as the stadium continued to shake around him, Harry pointed at her again, just to make sure she knew.
That one was for you.
──────────────
By the time Harry finally made it back towards the family area, the adrenaline had mostly worn off. The match still hummed beneath his skin. Ninety minutes of running, thinking, reacting, organising, encouraging, demanding. The equaliser. The roar of the crowd. The relief. The frustration. It all sat somewhere beneath the surface, refusing to settle completely.
The post-match interview had taken longer than he'd wanted. Questions about the goal. Questions about the comeback. Questions about the mentality of the squad. Questions about whether a draw felt like a win after being two goals down. Harry had answered all of them — politely, professionally, captain-like. Now he just wanted five minutes where nobody expected anything from him.
As he emerged from the tunnel leading towards the family section, his eyes immediately searched for her. They always did. The space was still busy despite the match having ended nearly an hour earlier. Families clustered together in small groups. Children running around in oversized England shirts. Partners talking amongst themselves while security and stadium staff patiently waited for everyone to clear out.
And there she was. Talking. Harry smiled before he even realised he was doing it.
She stood in the middle of a group consisting of Anne, Ellie Watkins and two other partners, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. Somehow, despite only arriving hours before kick-off, she'd already made herself completely at home, like she always did.
It didn't matter whether it was a restaurant in Barcelona, a family barbecue in Cheshire, a charity event in London or a World Cup stadium halfway across the world. She found a way to belong. She didn't demand attention, she simply listened. Simply cared about people. Genuinely. She remembered names and treated everyone exactly the same.
Harry's gaze drifted beyond her. Des and her father stood a few metres away deep in conversation, both waving their hands around as they spoke — most definitely talking football. The image made him laugh quietly to himself.
Then Anne spotted him, her face immediately lighting up, "Oh! There's my boy!"
Harry barely had time to react before his mother wrapped him in a hug.
"You were brilliant!"
"Mum." His voice sounded muted, spoken onto her shoulder.
"You were!"
"Mum," Harry softly chuckled. "Thank you."
She squeezed his cheeks briefly before releasing him. Des was next with a clap against the back — strong and proud. The kind of thing fathers did when emotions threatened to appear.
"Good goal. Beauty."
"Cheers, Dad."
Her father immediately nodded in agreement. "Absolute beauty. Goalkeeper never saw it."
Harry shook his head. Football dads. There was no escaping them.
Then finally, her. She stepped forward without hesitation — a quick kiss against his lips. And then a hug, a proper one. Longer than the kiss. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as his settled around her waist. And for the first time all day, Harry relaxed completely.
"You did good, Bub." The words were spoken quietly against his ear, just for him.
Harry squeezed her a little tighter. The scent of her shampoo. The feeling of her fingers against the back of his neck. Home.
Eventually they pulled apart, not very far, with Harry studying her face for a second.
"I thought you weren't going to make it," he said quietly. Or so he thought.
"Oh, you should've seen her." Her father appeared immediately.
"Here we go," Harry laughed.
"No, honestly," he continued. "Flight cancelled. She somehow gets us onto another one. Then talks someone into upgrading us."
Her eyes widened. "I did not talk someone into anything. I asked politely."
"You got us business class," her father threw back at her.
"By accident."
"Nobody accidentally gets business class."
Harry was already laughing and she smacked his arm. "Stop! It was just one time. One thing."
"It was today." Harry looked down at her, noticing the slight flush in her cheeks, the embarrassment. The way she immediately tried changing the subject. God, he loved her.
"You being here going to be a problem all tournament?" he asked.
"Stop it." Her hand squeeze his bicep. The smile on her face ruined any attempt at sounding annoyed. "I just wanted to get here."
I just wanted to get here.
Oof. He felt that in his body. Not because it was glamorous or exciting. England was here. This mattered to him and therefore it mattered to her. A familiar ache settled briefly in his chest — the knowledge that in a few hours she'd be leaving for another city. Another hotel. Another stadium. While he climbed back onto the team bus back into tournament mode. Back into the strange isolation that came with being England captain.
"Want to talk later?" she asked quietly.
Harry's smile faded slightly, not because he didn't want to talk later, but because later meant FaceTime. Later meant hotel rooms. Later meant another conversation through a screen.
She noticed immediately and her expression softened.
"Or..." Harry looked up and she tilted her head towards a quieter section of seats. "Talk now?"
The relief was immediate. "Yeah."
A few minutes later they sat side by side several rows away from everyone else. The stadium had emptied considerably with staff beginning to dismantle equipment and ground crew moving across the pitch below. Harry leaned back in his seat while she turned slightly towards him. Neither of them spoke for a moment — he was waiting for her to start the conversation how she always did.
"The first half wasn't great."
Harry laughed, waiting for this moment, "There she is."
"You know it wasn't. You were dropping too deep."
The conversation felt familiar, comfortable and safe.
"The issue wasn't you dropping deep," she continued carefully. "The issue was everybody else reacting to it differently."
That caught his attention immediately. "Explain."
"You dropped to create overloads. Marcus stayed high. Jude followed."
"Yeah," he nodded.
"But then your left side wasn't doing the same thing."
Harry thought about it and then slowly nodded again, "Which meant..."
"The shape stretched."
"Have you been doing tactical analysis while travelling?" Harry laughed softly.
"Obviously." She bumped her shoulder against his. "But the second half was completely different."
"How?"
"You trusted each other." The answer came instantly with no hesitation. "You stopped trying to fix everything yourself."
Harry looked away because she'd caught him. Again.
"The younger lads settled." She counted them off on her fingers. "Your press improved. Your shape improved. Your communication improved. And your captaincy improved. You looked calmer."
"I wasn't."
"I know," she said with certain. "I know exactly how stressed you were. You hide it terribly."
"I do not." He was trying hard not to smile.
"You do. At least from me, you do."
He groaned and she couldn't help but laugh.
"Bub," she said softly. The teasing disappeared. The football analysis dissapeared. "It's a new team. New players. New manager. New tournament."
"You're doing good." She reached across and squeezed his hand. Harry stared at their joined hands — her ring catching the stadium lights again. "Promise."
The word landed somewhere deeper than the praise. Deeper than the interviews. Deeper than the goal. Because it came from her.
He leaned over and kissed her. Once. Twice. Three quick pecks that made her laugh. "I love you."
"I know." Her smile immediately returned.
"Wow," Harry pulled back and stared at her. "Training all day. A full ninety minutes."
"Mm-hm," she was giggling now.
"Scored a goal. And all I get is 'I know'."
Then one of his favourite sounds in the world — her laugh echoed through the mostly empty stand. She leaned forward and kissed him properly this time. Soft. Warm. Familiar.
"I love you too." Another kiss. "And you know that."
"I do." Harry smiled.
Below them, grounds staff continued their work. Around them, families slowly filtered away. In a few minutes somebody would come looking for England's captain. There would be recovery tomorrow. Training the day after that. Another match waiting around the corner. But for now, in a half-empty stadium halfway across the world, Harry rested his forehead briefly against hers and allowed himself a moment he rarely got during tournaments.
Not captain. Not striker. Not England's biggest hope. Just Harry. And that felt like enough.
──────────────
Another city. Another hotel. Another stadium. Another stretch of days spent living out of a suitcase.
The rhythm of tournament football was strange. People imagined the matches were the difficult part, but Harry had always found the spaces in between harder. The travel. The waiting. The endless meetings and recovery sessions. The hours spent in hotel rooms that all looked vaguely identical no matter what state they happened to be in. By now he knew exactly what people would say.
You're whipped. Can't spend five minutes without her. Need your hand held.
The thought made him smile to himself as he stood in the tunnel waiting for kick-off. It wasn't that and it had never been that. He could live without her — of course he could. The problem was that life was simply better with her in it. They'd spent years building something together. Years learning how the other moved through the world. Years figuring out when to push and when to listen. When to challenge and when to support. Somewhere along the way they'd become a team in the truest sense of the word. And Harry liked being part of that team.
He liked waking up beside her. He liked reaching for her in the middle of the night. He liked being able to turn his head and tell her something stupid the second he thought of it. He liked that she understood football. Really understood it. Not the headlines or the celebrity of it. The actual game — filled with movement, tactics and pressure.
FaceTime wasn't cutting it. The calls and texts helped but they weren't the same. Nothing replaced rolling over at midnight and finding her there. Nothing replaced hearing her laugh from another room. Nothing replaced home.
The whistle blew. Football took over. And for ninety minutes Harry let everything else disappear.
Ghana were organised. Disciplined. Happy to sit deep and force England into patient possession. It wasn't a spectacular match, nor was it supposed to be. Tournament football rarely cared about entertainment. It cared about results. England controlled the game from the opening whistle. The midfield dictated tempo. The defensive line stayed compact. The press worked. Everything felt calmer than it had against the Netherlands. More settled and confident. Harry could feel the team beginning to understand itself — beginning to trust itself.
The first goal came from patience. The second came from instinct. And by the time he'd scored his second of the evening, he could feel the pressure loosening slightly around his chest. Not disappearing but definitely easing. The final whistle arrived with England two goals ahead and completely in control. It was a professional performance — the kind managers loved and captains appreciated.
As players began shaking hands and exchanging shirts, Harry moved through the group naturally, clapping shoulders and pulling younger players into quick hugs.
"Well done."
"Excellent."
"That's the standard."
The words came easily because they were true.
Tuchel intercepted him near the technical area. The manager's smile was small but genuine. "Good game."
Harry nodded. "So were we."
"You were." The distinction made Tuchel laugh. There was praise in the manager's eyes — for the leadership, performance and the way the team had looked.
Harry appreciated it more than he let on. Then he was turning towards the stands.
And there she was. Waiting.
This time she'd made it with hours to spare. No dramatic sprinting down stairs or last-minute arrival. She was standing beside Anne. His mum already smiling before he'd even reached them. Harry didn't think, he simply walked faster.
The hugs came first with Anne wrapping him up immediately.
"Oh, look at you! Two goals!"
"Mum. We don't need to do this every time."
"You were brilliant." He laughed as she brushed a hand through his damp hair. "There is literally grass in your hair."
Des clapped him on the shoulder. Her father did the same. Both immediately launching into a discussion about the second goal. The angle. The finish. The movement. Harry wasn't entirely sure either of them took a breath.
Then his eyes found hers as she stepped forward. One kiss. Then another. Quick. Soft. Familiar. "So proud of you."
The words felt better than any pundit praise ever could.
Harry kissed her cheek and his hand settled briefly at her waist. "I've got some free time tonight."
"Oh?" Her eyebrows lifted.
"I want you to come to the hotel."
"No family?" she questioned.
"Oh, no. Me and these football fanatics are going back to our hotel," Anne immediately answered for her. She pointed towards Des and her father. The pair were still arguing about the match. "We'll survive."
Her dad nodded. "I think."
"You think?" Harry asked.
"No promises."
The group laughed. Anne reached up and removed another piece of grass from Harry's hair. Honestly, it was a miracle she'd managed to raise him.
"You two go."
"You sure?" His fiancée smiled.
"Go spend time with your footballer." Anne waved her away.
"Captain footballer," Des corrected.
Harry groaned. "Please stop calling me that."
"No."
"Go shower," His fiancée squeezed his hand. "You're covered in sweat."
Harry stared at her and she stared right back. Eventually he sigh dramatically, "I'll meet you in the tunnel."
He kissed her once more before finally disappearing towards the changing rooms.
Two hours later they sat tucked into the corner of a restaurant inside the team hotel. It wasn't particularly glamorous. Tournament security meant most places weren't. But it was quiet and private, and most importantly, she was there.
Harry had changed into England sweats and a white t-shirt. She was still wearing her England jersey with jean shorts, hair slightly windswept from being outside. And he couldn't stop looking at her.
She was halfway through the tiramisu he'd ordered. The same tiramisu she'd claimed not to want. Harry watched another spoonful disappear.
"You said you didn't want dessert."
"I didn't," she said with a flirty tone.
"You are currently eating dessert."
"I didn't want my own dessert." She pointed her spoon at him while Harry laughed.
She took another bite before finally noticing the way he was looking at her. He wasn't glancing. It was staring. Her movements slowed while she spoke slowly, "What?"
"What?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I can't look at my fiancée?" he questioned.
"Not like that." Harry smiled and she narrowed her eyes. "Harry."
"You're really beautiful."
"Oh God," she groaned.
"What?"
"You've scored twice and now you're emotional."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." Her smile softened which somehow made things worse. Because now she was looking at him the way she did when she knew something. "What?"
"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head.
"Bullshit."
He laughed out, "What?"
"You've got a thing where you don't want to tell me something."
"I don't."
"You do."
Harry leaned back in his seat and she waited. Patiently. Completely confident she'd win.
"I just miss you," he eventually sighed. The words felt embarrassingly honest. Harry looked down at his hands. "I don't want to sound clingy."
"You don't," she said immediately.
"But..." His shoulders lifted slightly. "I miss sleeping next to you. I miss talking to you without having to call first. I miss turning around and you're just there."
The honesty surprised even him. Maybe because he'd been carrying it around for weeks. Maybe because she was the only person he'd ever say it to. "You're my favourite person."
Her warm smile arrived slowly. The kind that always felt like home.
"Bub."
"I know," Harry laughed quietly.
"You're not clingy."
"No?"
"No." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Although I don't mind when you are."
That pulled a proper laugh from him.
She continued, "I know exactly what you mean and I feel it too. I do. "
No hesitation. No pretending she was stronger than she felt. No pretending she didn't miss him.
"I miss you all the time," she said. The honesty of it settled between them. Comfortable. Safe. Real. "But this is our life, huh?"
Harry nodded because it was. Football. Travel. Airports. Hotels. Distance. Love. All tangled together.
"We've got this." Her voice was certain. Certain enough for both of them. "You've got this."
She stood then, sliding around the booth before settling beside him. Without thinking, Harry immediately wrapped an arm around her. She tucked herself into his side as naturally as breathing.
"I love you, Bubba." Her cheek rested against his shoulder. "We can do this."
Harry pressed a kiss into her hair. Around them, hotel staff moved quietly between tables. Somewhere upstairs his teammates were recovering. Tomorrow would bring meetings and training and preparation for the next match. But for now none of it mattered.
"Even when I'm not next to you," she murmured softly, "I'm with you."
Harry closed his eyes briefly. The pressure and expectations hadn't disappeared. England still needed him. The tournament was only beginning. But with her tucked beneath his arm, her hand tangled with his, the weight felt lighter than it had all week.
──────────────
The thing about American hotels was that they barely felt like hotels. At least not the kind Harry had grown up staying in.
The place England had taken over for the tournament looked more like a small city. Restaurants. Pools. Gardens. Walking trails. Lounges. Conference rooms. A gym large enough to rival most professional training facilities. If someone told him he could spend three weeks there without stepping foot outside the property, he'd probably believe them. Which was exactly what most of the squad were doing. Tournament football had a way of shrinking your world. Hotel. Training ground. Stadium. Hotel again. Repeat until somebody sent you home.
The evening air had cooled slightly as they wandered along one of the pathways weaving through the grounds. Palm trees lined sections of the walkway, lights illuminating gardens that probably required an entire team of people to maintain. Their fingers remained intertwined between them, swinging gently with every step. Or rather, every very slow step.
She glanced sideways at him. Glanced again. Then finally laughed, "Bub."
"Mm?" Harry looked over.
"Should we just stand here?"
His eyebrows lifted. "What?"
"That's the pace you're going."
"I'm walking," Harry out a laugh.
"You are not. You've moved approximately three feet in the last minute."
Harry shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."
She squeezed his hand.
The smile on his face faded slightly. Only slightly. But she'd seen it, like she always did.They walked another few paces before she stopped completely. Harry took two more steps before realising she wasn't beside him anymore. When he turned around she was standing there with her hands planted firmly on her hips. Waiting patiently.
"Come here."
Harry immediately started laughing. "No."
"Bub."
The use of the nickname did him in instantly. With exaggerated reluctance, he turned and walked back towards her. The second he was close enough she placed both hands on his shoulders. Just enough pressure to make sure he was actually looking at her and not the ground — or over her shoulder.
"Hey," she said softly.
His smile softened. "Hi."
"You played well."
Harry immediately opened his mouth.
"Nope." She squeezed his shoulders. "No."
"I wasn't going to—"
"You were."
Harry sighed because she was right. Again. Her thumbs rubbed lightly against the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"You played well." The certainty in her voice made arguing feel pointless. "You will continue to play well."
Harry looked down briefly before looking back at her. She didn't let him escape. Didn't let him retreat into his own head.
"Harry." The use of his full name caught his attention immediately. "You don't need a captain's armband to know you're a captain. You lead with integrity."
She spoke quietly like she wasn't trying to convince him. Like she was simply stating facts.
"You're calm under pressure." Harry almost laughed at that. The look she gave him stopped him immediately. "You are."
The correction was immediate. Firm.
"You're calm when everyone else isn't. You motivate people. You set standards." She squeezed his shoulders. "You lead by example."
The words settled between them. These weren't media soundbites or football clichés. These were things she'd observed over years. Things she'd watched happen long before the World Cup and captaincies, headlines and trophies.
"I'm not marrying you because of football. I'm not marrying you because you're captain of England." Her hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck. "I'm marrying you because you're the exact same man off the pitch as you are on it."
That was the thing she'd always understood. The thing nobody else ever really talked about. The standards. The consistency. The way Harry couldn't switch it off.
The same person who demanded excellence from teammates was the same person who spent twenty minutes researching the best route to a restaurant because he didn't want anyone stuck in traffic. The same person who organised team meetings was the same person who remembered birthdays. The same person who held people accountable was the same person who held himself accountable.
Always. Everywhere.
"That's why I love you."
Harry stared at her and his throat suddenly felt tight.
"Now," her expression shifted back to teasing. "Stop sulking."
Before he could respond she leaned forward and planted a hard kiss against his lips. One that surprised a laugh out of him.
"And get to work."
Harry blinked and then laughed properly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I needed that."
"I know." She smiled and then reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture was so familiar it almost hurt.
"I love you, Harry." Her voice had softened again. "So much."
The honesty in it never failed to affect him. No matter how many times she said it. No matter how many years they'd been together.
"But you are so hard on yourself." Harry looked away which was answer enough. She sighed affectionately, "Every night after a match is going to feel like this if you let it."
The statement hung there. Simple and true.
"I'm in the stands just like I am in Barcelona." She gave a small shrug which made Harry smile. She continued, "Nothing is different."
"Bub—"
"No." She pointed at him. "The ball still goes into the goal. The other team still tries to kick lumps out of you."
"Very true."
"You still have to work your arse off. It's football," she continued.
The conviction in her voice made him laugh again. "You've somehow simplified the World Cup."
"Because it is simple."
"It isn't."
"It is." She squeezed his hand. "It's football."
Then she smiled. The smile that always felt like sunlight. Which was all of her smiles, to be honest.
"And you're fucking good at doing football."
Harry groaned immediately.
She burst out laughing. "What?"
"You make it sound ridiculous."
"You kick ball."
"Oh my God."
"You kick ball very well," she said in a deep voice.
Harry covered his face. She was impossible.
"And not that you need reminding..." Her laughter faded and something steadier replaced it. "I love you either way this goes. I'm proud of you either way this goes."
Harry felt his chest tighten again. This time he didn't fight it with a joke or a deflection. He listened.
"But it'll only go one way if you keep thinking like this." She tapped his forehead lightly. "You're exhausting yourself."
Harry let out a slow breath. She'd found the real issue. It wasn't the pressure of the football. It was the fact he was trying to carry tomorrow's problems before tomorrow had even arrived. The fact he was already worrying about matches that hadn't happened. Criticism that hadn't come. Mistakes that didn't exist.
Eventually he stepped forward and wrapped both arms around her, holding on. She immediately melted against him with both arms circling his waist. Cheek against his chest. Home.
Not Barcelona. Not England. Not a city. Her.
"I love you," he said quietly.
She squeezed him tighter. "I know."
"That's becoming annoying," Harry laughed into her hair.
"A little."
They stayed there for another minute before eventually making their way towards the hotel entrance. The private car Harry had arranged was already waiting. The sight of it made his stomach sink slightly. She wasn't leaving forever, it was three days, but still... three days felt longer during a tournament.
She stepped in front of him before climbing into the car. Both arms wrapped around his waist and her chin resting against his chest, looking up at him. Harry smiled immediately and then kissed her forehead. Once. Her nose. Twice. The second one made her giggle.
His favourite sound.
"I love you." The words left her mouth easily.
"I know," Harry smiled.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Harry."
"Mm?" He laughed.
"Say it back."
"No."
"Harry."
"Nope."
"Bub."
He lasted approximately two seconds and then failed completely. "I love you."
She smiled softly, "See you in three days?"
"See you in three days." Harry nodded.
"I know it's not the same." She squeezed his hands. "But you text me. Call me if you need me."
Harry smiled. "I know."
"The only thing I'll be busy doing is being on the look out with your mum."
A grin spread across his face. "Mm."
"Taking care of our fathers at various drinking establishments."
Harry laughed outright. "Good luck."
"I'm going to need it."
The driver cleared his throat politely. Time.
She leaned forward to do one final kiss and then climbed into the car. The door closed and the engine started. Harry stood there watching as the vehicle slowly pulled away from the hotel entrance. A few metres. Ten metres. Twenty. Then suddenly the brake lights flashed. The car stopped.
Harry frowned when the rear window lowered. There she was half hanging out of it.
"Harry!"
"What?" He couldn't stop smiling.
She pointed directly at him. The same way she'd pointed at him a hundred times before. The same way she'd looked at him from the stands. The same certainty. The same belief.
"You got this."
For a second Harry simply looked at her and then he nodded. Looking at his favourite person who believed in him completely.
"I've got this."
She winked and the window rose. The car pulled away. And for the first time since the tournament had begun, Harry actually believed it.
"Kinda feeling an angsty, lengthy piece, where Harry is super stressed from jumping between meetings and calls. He’s pissed at the people he works with, more than usual, and when Y/N keeps occasionally talking to him, that frustration builds, until he kinda just snaps and tells her to shut the fuck up🥲 “God, I hate it when you can’t stop rambling!” Kind of vibes.
And he instantly goes “oh shit” mentally because he just yelled at her? His girl? Over something that he’s actually always found very endearing about her?"
tw: shouting, swearing ; word count: ~2.1k
Back and forth. Forth to back. On and on and on about things he could quite frankly not care less about. God, these meetings seemed never-ending, Harry huffed. He brushed his fingers through his cropped hair that still held the small remains of the once tight, long, bouncy curls. They would have just got in his way now, he thought, rubbing his forehead in an attempt at dissolving the headache forming. To no avail.
He sighed, moving spreadsheets across tabs as he prepared for another gruelling hour-long meeting with people who he had no patience for. He believed that his office was solely chosen to hold some of the most difficult people on planet Earth, whether it be due to their lateness, (and lack of care for), rudeness, laziness...the list went on. It deeply frustrated him, and he wondered what he had done to deserve these excuse for colleagues.
He's not usually like this. Harry knows he is normally the kindest he can be, and does his best to treat everyone with respect and love. It comes naturally to him, but with these people, it feels so forced it physically pains him. These people have no respect to give, let alone receive.
He rubbed his eyes and clicked on to the day's third meeting with an exaggerated release of air. He plastered a broad smile as he noticed his face appearing on the bottom right corner of the screen, as around 6 others surrounded him on the top bar.
"Hey, everyone." He forced out in the most joyous tone he possibly could, waving briefly before preparing his notes at his side.
"Harry, thanks for joining us. We thought you wouldn't make it on here." The director of the project snorted smugly.
Harry looked puzzled. "I'm sorry?"
The director, whose name was Keith, Harry recalled, laughed abruptly. "Well, uh...you are 15 minutes late."
Harry paused. He looked at the glaring faces on the screen before him, awkwardly rubbing their necks or looking elsewhere. Shit.
"Oh, I-I'm so sorry- I must have had the time as 2.45, not 2.30. My apologies, everyone." He mustered, through gritted teeth. He swore on his life the email said 2.45, making a mental note to check this.
"Oh, well it did. Last minute change 'cause I've got to meet with someone at 3.30. Personal business, hoped you'd understand."
Fucking dick. After all he's been doing today, he's meant to check an email, what, every five mnutes just because Keith The Prick wants to conduct some "Personal business" instead of doing his job? Bullshit.
Harry paused for a moment, nodding to pretend he was offering respect. "Of course. Terribly sor-" He was abruptly cut off by the sound of singing coming from another room. It was you.
You were singing at the top of your lungs, some song from The 1975, Harry realised. Any other time, this would make his day, now he's too frustrated to like it. The noise was overpowering whatever he needed to say, and the music was blasting from your Amazon Alexa. Harry closed his eyes, trying to retain composure.
"One moment, sorry." He muted himself promptly.
He yelled your name, leavig no attempt to care for how loud he was being, he was muted after all. "I'm on a call!" The music ceased, and he heard a muffled sorry from the other room.
You instantly paused your movements, not wanting upset your boyfriend further. He was probably having a busy day, you thought, collecting the washing and separating it into its piles. You'd chat to him in 15, maybe that would make him feel better.
He resumed the call, sighing and hoping to get this over with as soon as physically possible.
When it ended, Harry clicked that red phone button as fast as his fingers could move, not wanting to lose momentum and quickly moving to the next task. He glanced over his notes from the meeting and opened a Word document, getting straight to typing.
Suddenly, his office door swung open as you came in, all smiles. "Harry! Sorry for the singing! You know I love that song. You know they're playing Reading this year? I wonder if we could go, I never got to go when my exams finished, ugh it was so horrible seeing all my friends go without me! Anywho, we could probably do that payment plan they offer, wouldn't that be great?" You beamed, laying out your stack of hoodies on the small sofa adjacent to his desk.
"Sounds great." he quipped, eyes still fixed on the screen. He really did not have time for this conversation after today, and felt an impending sense of guilt in his stomach for doing so, but sometimes you're allowed to be in a mood. He wished you would leave soon to avoid any issues.
You frowned briefly, shrugging off his tone. It couldn't be anything you've done, after all.
"Doesn't it just! I love camping, but it's okay if you dont we could even book one of those VIP tents! That would be wicked, imagine that! Hopefully it wouldn't be too hot, I mean look at the weather last year for that festival! It was on the news given how bloody hot it was! I don't know if I could handle that, but I'm sure we'd be all good f we just prepared right. Oh, and I'd need to get merch..." Your voice spun round in is head, drawing his mind away from the task at hand. This was going to be very difficult. His frustration was only building more and more and he could feel his headache worsening by the minute.
"Have you seen the video of them at Glastonbury? My god, they looked amazing, especially that lead singer, isn't he just so cool! That rockstar life must be so crazy, I mean imagine you never had a normal job like you're stuck in an office and INSTEAD you just toured and toured-"
"God, I hate it when you can't stop rambling! Can't you see I'm trying to work?" Harry spun around in his chair out of nowhere, cutting you off immediately. His eyes were harsh and cold, his fists clenched by his sides, sitting on the armrests. His eyes bore into your soul, stopping you in your tracks in a way you hadn't even experienced before. He'd never said anything like that to you.
Your jaw sat agape, unsure how to form words.
His, also, loosened, eyes widening as he took into account what he'd said.
"Sweetheart, I didn't mea-"
You ended his sentence for him. "No, that's okay. I'll get out of your way." You took a deep breath, turning around, getting ready to close the door behind you.
"No, it's not okay, please-" He stood up sharply and put his hand between the gap in the door.
"Don't. Drop it. Please don't follow me, Harry." You don't face him as you feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You hadn't meant to upset him, but now he's upset you.
He stopped short, dropping his hand and taking a step back. Shit.
He ran his hands through his hair, collecting his thoughts at an incredibly fast rate. How could be have just said that? What a horrible, unkind thing to say to you, his beautiful, loving girl, who he would never let anything bad happen to? The guilt settled in his chest and stomach, a completely uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling.
But he loves it when you talk. He could listen to you talk all day. About anything you liked. He knows he already has spent days doing so, and he hopes to do so endlessly. What if this damages your freedom to feel like you can do so? He gulped, the anxiety of his words settling in further and further.
Despite this, you told him not to follow you. He knows he should respect your wishes, though it pains him to do so. Meeting you halfway, he let you leave, and turned on his Out Of Office.
A gear switched in Harry's brain, causing him to hastily push all of his work to the side, and get set on fixing this.
He preheated the oven, preparing ingredients on the countertop and putting on an apron.
His brows furrowed as he studied the instructions for your favourite dessert, ring-brandished fingers pressing into the pages as he analysed every word with precision.
After some time, it was ready. Laid out neatly on the kitchen side as neatly as he possibly could, a singular silver spoon sat readily beside the food. Just the one. He knew this should only be only meant for you.
He stepped back and took in the display. Something was missing.
He scanned the room for a notepad and pen, locating a floral to do list. Harry's handwriting wasn't always the best, but he made a very strong attempt at perfecting this. He planted it softly next to the spoon.
'Please never stop talking. I love to hear your voice. I love YOU. -H'
It wasn't enough, but it was all he thought to be acceptable for the moment. He left the scene, deciding to sit on the balcony until you returned.
Your keys clicked into the door and you shrugged off your jacket with a silent sadness. You had certainly calmed down, but unpleasant thoughts still lingered in the back of your mind.
What if you did talk too much? Were you that much of a burden to him? Maybe he deserved some peace and quiet. Maybe you should stay somewhere else tonight, let him have that. It was unfair, if you were overbearing, one voice said. It overpowered any other in your head that was set on defending you.
You hooked your tote bag in its usual place, next to Harry's David Hockney one, and made your way slowly to the kitchen to make a much needed cup of tea. You decided you'd only make one before you even entered the room.
The dessert was laid out before you, and your eyes didn't allow your brain time to register it. You simply travelled straight towards it, exhaustion and hunger taking over.
You glanced at the scene, catching sight of the note beside the tiny spoon. As you read over it, your vision blurred yet again. A brief sense of relief washed over you.
This was until you began to look around the room and allow yourself to search for any sight of sound of Harry. What if he had left for the night? You weren't sure if you wanted to be alone tonight. But maybe that's what he wanted.
You finished making your tea and picked up your dessert, stepping lightly towards the balcony for some fresh air. And that's where he was.
Harry was standing, leaning against the balcony rail and gazing into the London skyline. His breath was shallow and short, his fingers tapped uneasily on the glass in front of him. When he heard the door open behind him, he shot up from his slumped position.
You set your tea and bowl down on the small table beside you, noticing how he was watching your every move.
You straightened up, looking at him briefly before you both opened your mouth to speak.
"Thank you-"
"I'm sorry-"
You both paused, letting out a short, genuine laugh. Harry smiled softly.
"I'm sorry." He took a single step towards you. "I would never in a million years have meant that. I need you to know that." He stopped for reassurance, tilting his head towards you. You nodded softly.
"I could never hate anything about you. Especially not that. I could talk to you and listen to you talk all day, all year, for the rest of my life. Nothing should come between that. Nothing else should come first. You should always come first. You always come first." He rubbed his eyes, reflecting on his shame.
He doesn't then reopen his eyes to look at you, so you begin to take careful steps towards him, so softly he can't hear you. But then he felt your arms snake around his neck, pulling him into you.
"We say stupid things when we're angry." You muttered into the side of his neck as he responds by hooking his arms around your sides. "Doesn't make it okay, but we're not perfect."
"You're perfect, though." He added, leaning his head into yours.
"Far from it." You laughed.
He sighed, releasing you to plant a kiss on your forehead. "I'm sorry. I will never do something like that again. You'd never deserve that, and I don't expect you to forgive-"
His sentence is left unfinished as you took him in a kiss.
"Let that be the only way you shut me up." You pointed at him sternly. He nods, dazed.
"I love you." Harry said softly, gazing at you through his eyelashes.
"I love you too." You replied with a smile, running your fingers through the back of his hair.
And here, you thought,
We'll be alright.
HELLOOOO this is officially my first Harry fic hooray!!! I've come such a long way from reading duplicity at the ripe age of 13...Thank you to @whoopsieismelldaisies for this amazing prompt! I'll most likely edit this later to lengthen it or sonething, I literally wrote this in a whole day lol i really hope I did it justice :) plz be sure to like, reblog and follow, and let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist for any/all fics!
not my usual post but if you love harry styles fanfic/bandom fanfic i would SOOOO recommend this group. it’s super angsty at points but just brilliantly written. i loved it!! sorry guys im doing more writing tomorrow i PROMISE i just want these requests to be perfecttttt
My baby (cat) got outside today and something tore his leg open. He needs emergency surgery to repair it and I need to have $500 in two days or else we have to put him down.
Unfortunate and unrealistic update: The surgery quote has gone up to $700 and I need it by tomorrow.
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