Neighbors AU (Patreon)

Who doesn’t love a caring neighbor?

ps (sorry this took forever!! my computer isn’t working right so i’ve been suffering and writing on my phone D:)

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In retrospect, Harry knows that he should mind his business.

He’s always been good about it; if someone was doing something that didn’t concern him, or they were doing some that they didn’t want to concern him, then he stepped back. If they wanted him involved, then they would involve him, and he lived by that. Rarely gossiped about others for that reason too — what someone was doing in their life was to no worry of his own.

However, when he hears his neighbor crying he just can’t.

Harry had moved in a little over two weeks ago, to a flat ten minutes off from campus. It was a cute little place, a large brick building with seventy or so units, floors separated by room and bathroom variations. He was on the floor with one bed, one bath, a sizable kitchen and a nice little living room. It was enough space for his gangly limbed body to move about as he pleased, and save for a few stains that he worked out of the carpet and build up on the backsplash above the counters — it was the nicest he could get for the price. Plus with his Pinterest boards filled to the brim with ideas, he was ready to spruce the place up and make it, its best self.

The only downside was that the walls were paper thin, meaning anything either neighbor was doing he had a clear earshot of what was going on. If their telly was too loud, he knew what they were watching, if their stereo was bumping and there was a clear voices and conversations he knew that they were having a party. That was mostly from his living room neighbors though -- his bedroom neighbor was rather quiet, apart from the occasional blast of music and a small squawk like it surprised her as well before it lowers to a silence. He thinks she is his favorite neighbor though. They’d only met once for a brief moment outside of their flats, while he was carrying in groceries and attempting to stuff his key into the lock. She had come up in what appeared to be a bit of a rush in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a loose jean jacket seeming hastily slung around her shoulders but she took one look at him, and the nicest smile he’d seen from anyone in this place, immediately graced her mouth.

“You’re my new neighbor, right?” She asked, her keys dangling around her finger.

“Yeah,” he returned her smile the best he can, “I’m Harry.”

“It’s nice to meet you Harry,” she pointed at his hand full of bags, the key chains jingling and clanking against each other soundly through the hall, “D’ya need help with those?”

He had been very grateful, because he was toddling eggs a top of his bags and if those became a little off kilter then they were falling and cracking. She had taken them, along with four of his other bags no matter how heavy they were until he had enough leverage to push the key into the lock. Y/N had even followed him in, settling his bags down on his counter before giving him a small nod, “I like your sunglasses. I gotta get going but I’ll see you later! We have to bake cookies or something together.”

Harry remembers feeling warm, because she was sweet, and his friends had teased him mercilessly about his tortoise shell rimmed sunglasses, and he contemplated making her a plate of his casserole as a thank you but figured that that was a little much. She might think he was a murderer, or summat -- trying to poison her food, and he didn’t want to come off as pushy. He just made conscious thought not to play his computer too loud when he was in his bedroom.

They kept it friendly, nodding to one another in the hallways and shooting smiles, but that had been it, mostly.

Which means he should definitely mind his business, when he hears her all but sobbing around eight at night, but he can’t. Just simply can’t hear these snuffles and sniffling cries, a small bit of yelling, and it makes his heart shake. And while he doesn’t know her, that small bit of kindness she’d given him was enough to make him feel for her.

Before he could realize what he was doing, he’d baked a dozen chocolate chip cookies and saran wrapped them tight on his nicest plate. He had knocked on her door, halfway hoping that she was awake and halfway hoping that she wasn’t and he couldn’t make a fool of himself. What if she tells him to fuck off? To mind his business like he oughta be doing.

There was a good moment where he could run back to his flat, escape in a haste and pretend that someone just ding-dong-ditched her via a knock, but he figured that could only add to her frustration. Then he’d be guilty eating the cookies that he made for her, hoping to ease some of her stress or at least what is making her upset. It’s not that he’s worried to see her, per say, but he is worried about overstepping, because he always minds his damn business! He just doesn’t want to overstep his bounds.

The sound of the floor creaking on the opposite end of the door makes him perk up, and Harry straightens out his shoulders. Her knob twists and the lock twists all in one motion, the door swinging open to show her with her cheeks stained wet from tears. His heart aches for her, as she rushes to wipe the backs of her hands against her cheeks, “Hi Harry!” She attempts to chirp, yet her voice quivers, “Sorry, was my TV too loud?”

“No — no not at all,” he holds the plate up, “Um, I actually baked you some cookies. I used a nut free recipe in case you’re allergic — I hope that’s okay?”

Y/N looks equal parts shocked and sad, and he worries that he’d messed up when her lips hang open and quiver, tears welting at her waterline, “Wha — thank you so much! But what is it for?”

“I figure you deserve some. You’re my favorite neighbor and favorite neighbors deserve treats.” While it was true to some extent, he keeps the bit about him hearing her cry out of the explanation. He knows when he’s caught crying, he wants to crawl directly out of his skin and hide beneath a rock. The last thing he wanted to do is embarrass her, or pry, so he thought this was suitable enough.

It proves that this does not work as he had particularly planned because a big, watery drop slicks down her cheek as she intakes a shaky breath, “Thank you,” her voice wobbles. She takes a step forward and slings her arms around him, and Harry remains mindful of the plate even in his surprise, moving them from in front of his body outward so she could tuck herself against him. She clings tight, stifling a cry — or attempting to — and Harry wraps his arms around her. The hand not clutching to the plate of cookies, she smooths up his back in slow, soft circles against the soft fabric of her shirt. She smells of fresh roses, like she’d just stepped out of a tub of petals but he won’t allow himself to focus on that.

“Are you alright?” Harry inquires but then immediately wants to kick himself in the ass — of course she wasn’t bloody fine! “I mean — do you want to talk about it? I know we don’t know each other well, but if you just needed someone to listen.”

Y/N snuffles, drawing back and looking at him as she nods, “Yeah,” she drags her hand beneath her eye again, “Yes please.”

. . .

In the span of three hours, without even knowing her favorite color, Harry learns that Y/N’s now ex boyfriend was a massive prick. The worst of the worst, who practically drug her through the mud, and who she had just found out had been cheating on her for six months. He was always borrowing money and never giving it back, had opened up a credit card in her name that she ended up having to pay it off. And no matter how bad things got, he’d tore her down so wholly, and completely from the inside, that she felt like that was what she deserved.

And it was disgusting — the stories she shares made Harry feel heavy and gross. Y/N wishes nothing more to get the time she spent on him back and she admits that that’s the reason she’s crying. Out of regret and relief; the emotions flow from her freely, as she eats on the cookies and asks if he wants her to get some food (“It’s the least I can do, for making you sit hear and listen to me cry.”) He had assured her that he was alright but that didn’t stop her from ordering two full containers of fried rice and double the order of crab rangoon.

As they eat, shoving forkfuls of rice into their mouths as she laments her last year of time she’d spent on him. All the things she was probably missing just to appease that shitbag. All the concerts, and weekends, and opening nights that she missed waiting for him to come around, just for him to not show, spewing some bullshit story about how he got held up somewhere.

He feels for her immensely, because she’s not a bad person. She radiates a warmth and tenderness so evident, he couldn’t even imagine someone taking advantage of that. Twisting it to their own advantage in spite of her. It actually sickens him a fair degree and he expresses as much. He’s never been the fuck all alpha type of guy, who shows his cock whenever he could, but he wants to fight this guy. And Harry is not a fighter at all — much more of a lover in that regard — but god if he could get his hands on this guy, he would decimate him. Mess him up nice and good and tell him to never in his life think to treat another woman like that.

His anger is only soothed when he looks over to her, one leg bent on the floor and the other stretched out in front of her looking the calmest she had all night; after going through the horror of it and speaking about it (which’s she admits she had kept from her friends and family). He hadn’t gotten a good look at her flat, considering he’d been preoccupied with her crying. She fits here, a small wooden coffee table shoved out of the way, one comfy looking couch with a few throw blankets. There was a laptop sat on cushion, the lid halfway shut with the screen having long since fallen asleep. The art on the walls was hauntingly beautiful, lots of dark, fluid lines that entrance him.

She tucks the rice into her cheek, before murmuring over a mouth full, “I like your tattoos,” she glances down at where the ink is exposed on his arms, “Have they got stories or do you just like them?”

He looks down at this arm, twisting it even to get a look at his tricep, brows raised some like he was surprised to see a few there, “Some of ‘em have stories behind them and some of ‘em I just liked, yeah? A bit of ink is addicting.”

Y/N nods enthusiastically, “Which one hurt the most?”

“Ooh,” he hisses in thought, “I’ve got some birds on my chest that didn’t feel very good. The others were fine but it was the shadin’ of ‘em and colorin’ it in that hurt the worst.”

“Lemme see?” She requests and Harry responds without thought, stuffing his fork into the remnants of his rice and pulling down the collar of his shirt. The shirt was loose enough that it wasn’t too hard for her to get a clear view of both, and Harry revels in the way she marvels at them. “Those are amazing,” she gapes at him, scooting closer and squinting like she was trying to absorb every detail, “Did you cry? I would’ve.”

“A little...my eyes watered but I tried my best not to.”

Y/N reaches her fingers upward and outward, though she pauses just before she touches, “Is it okay if I —“

“Yeah, course,” he tries to keep his voice from shaking, excitement tickling his veins as the tips of her fingers skate across his skin. Goosebumps rise in her wake and he stifles a shiver, warning his brain to stray from filth. His nipples have always been a very sensitive spot for him and the closer she gets tracing the swallows, the more his insides tickle and buzz.

“Your skin is soft,” she comments idly, “You’ll have to bring me next time, and I’ll hold your hand.”

Harry clears his throat, nodding, “I’ve got one scheduled for Thursday if you really wanna tag along.”

For the first time that night she grins, a real big, genuine grin as she nods.

“Yes! That’d be fun, maybe I’ll get one too.”