GANG!HARRY part 5 sneak peek :) (Patreon)

GET READY TO BE A LIL -_- WITH THEM

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v. 

Harry once had a friend named Christopher who fell off the swingset. 

They were twelve, a little too old to be competing who could swing the highest before jumping off but it was the sort of friendship where home life wasn’t the pinnacle of nuclear family virtue, making it imperative that they find something to do. That could be walking Christopher’s wrinkly faced bloodhound for hours, swimming at the community pool despite having their own, roaming aimlessly around the shopping mall buying stupid shite that they didn’t need, or going to the playground and fucking about until night inked the sky black and pebbled it with stars. If it meant pretending that they belonged to the wild when their dads came home from obnoxiously long business trips only to argue with their mums, loud enough that even music is no longer sufficient to drown it out -- then they were doing it.

So they had been at it for a while, at least two hours of dicking around at the park, and Christopher was attempting to beat Harry’s farthest, highest jump. He miscalculated, slid and hit his head on the solid rubber surface and Harry let out a gasp so loud that it tore a Nan from her concentration on the book in her hands. 

It had happened very quickly: the Nan picked up Christopher with a concealed strength Harry had not expected, ordered him to call Christopher’s parents and tell them that they would be going to the nearest hospital. She broke about ten different traffic laws, seeming wild-eyed and more panicked than Harry had originally been, which only proved to intensify his dismay. At that moment, he’d been certain that he had a hand in his friend’s death, and the Nan was in such alarm because she knew Harry’s life was over. 

(Later, when all was said and through, Harry found out from Christopher’s mum that the Nan was Miss. Peggy from a street or two over, who lost her second son to a nasty fall that sent him into a coma. . .it made his heartache for her -- he thought about her often afterward and visited her with chocolates on Wednesday’s after class for the next two years until she moved.) 

Harry was so scared -- his friend was hooked up to all these wires and devices, his head was wrapped up in tannish bandaging, and Harry was anxiously waiting for Christopher’s parents to show up. They worked about an hour out, so he spent a lot of time alone in the waiting room (Miss. Peggy was getting treated for a panic attack she had started having once they took Christopher from her), reluctant to let his own parents know where he was. A nurse who had been catering to him, getting him water, offering him food and checking in with him, came around to offer him to see his friend. 

“It might be scary Love, but I think it’s important for you to see that he’s alive, yeah? Might settle your tummy.” 

It was true -- it did help. Though Harry doesn’t think the nurse was expecting Christopher to wake up with them in the room, nor was she expecting Christopher's face to pull into a deep frown, eyes beading with tears as he uttered in a raspy voice, “Who are you? Where -- where am I?” 

Retrograde Amnesia. As the nurse had described to him, Christopher bumped his head hard, it injured a part of his brain and so he forgot a few things. . .Harry included. In time it would get better, and Harry understood as much, but he remembers just how dejected he felt. His friend was hurt and he didn’t remember him, but he had all these memories, and all these thoughts and Christopher was just -- a blank slate. Tabula rasa, his mum had said that once. 

And while the situations may be far different, he hopes that the same low, dejected feeling he had was not what Y/N felt currently. 

Because he’d kissed her. Stupidly, and drunkenly, he had surged forward after they’d exchanged their gifts with one another from the pure electricity sizzling through him. Harry could lie and say he didn’t know why he’d done it, but he knew exactly why. He was hopelessly, irreversibly taken by her; she was gentle but firm, headstrong and smart, and so, unbelievably selfless, warmhearted and compassionate. Hell, for the first time in a long time, since Gibson’s divorce, since he started drinking himself silly since it was necessary that he go to the hospital and all this shite started happening around it -- Gibson was smiling, laughing, similar to the man that Harry had grown up with, and it was because of (italicize this) her.  

Then she sat before him, told him that he makes her feel safe, filled him with all this tenderness, and warmth and Harry just. . .he couldn’t ignore it anymore. It felt like a necessity that he show her just how he felt, all the emotions that were gushing through him. 

So he practically threw himself forward, smeared his lips against hers, holding her close to him with his hand cradling the nape of her neck. It felt good -- she felt good, and it felt normal to kiss her, with everything that he had in him. He kissed her with everything, captured her lips, let go for only a suck of air he inhales through his nose before he kisses her again. She tasted good and he thinks he could stay like that forever if he were allowed to. After so long of wanting and wishing and feeling such fervid, all-encompassing emotion towards her. . .this was amazing. It brought him comfort. It brought him warmth. 

Afterward, when it was exigent that they part to breathe, Y/N panted over his mouth in small little huffs and Harry giggled softly, sighing contently. He was dizzy from the vodka, sure, but even dizzier from the kiss and Y/N was looking at him with the gaze that she’d given him when he brought her Mitch’s best blanket -- like he might have hung the moon, or painted the sky blue for her in the morning. His heart was large in his chest, his palm slid to her cheek, he rubbed their noses together. 

“We need to sleep,” she murmured, and Harry nodded, “You’ll pet on me till I fall asleep again?” 

“Course, baby.” 

When he woke up, he didn’t regret it. No, he was so happy that he had done it, and to know what it felt like to feel. . .to feel so at ease -- but a sinking feeling in his gut let him know that he shouldn’t change the dynamic of things right now, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much the dynamic had already shifted, from the nurse-patient “family member” relationship. Things would be far more skewed than they already were, and while they were incredibly close already if they crossed that line then it could potentially put her in far more danger than she already was.

And Harry could never forgive himself for that. 

He felt like shit about it, waking up with her, knuckling harshly at his eyes and stretching out with a wide yawn, asking her if she had to carry him to bed because “I don’ remember makin’ it to bed, hm -- barely remember making it to the hotel.” He’d seen a brief flicker in her demeanor and he couldn’t quite pinpoint it (her damned poker face was a real nuisance when it wanted to be), nor could he figure out what exactly she had felt about the kiss in the first place. She had seemed to like it last night, kissed him back ardently even, but was she grateful that he “didn’t remember”? Had she wanted him to? Had she hoped he wouldn’t? 

Y/N only smiles, puckering her lips at Ubbe who comes over to kiss her face, “You were pretty far gone last night, yeah. D’ya have a hangover?” Harry responded with a nod, stretching out his body from his toes to his fingertips, to which she snorts, “You’re bones kinda creak like my granddad’s, need a paracetamol old man?” 

They fall back into their same pattern and Harry makes sure not to stray too far from his usual level of affection as to not arouse her suspicion. She’s a smart girl, he knows he wouldn’t be able to keep her in the dark for long, but for as long as he can, he thinks it might be necessary. Despite how desperately Harry wants to know her feelings for him, her thoughts on the kiss, if she wakes up in the morning jazzed to be at his side like he has been -- it was best this way. He was listening to Gibson at least a little this way, and while he would by no means leave Y/N alone in the way where she would have to fend for herself, he could stray from wanting a relationship. Gibson is a man of reason -- when he makes a suggestion, it is because he’s thought it out, seen all possibilities and has chosen the best one for the situation at hand. Harry could respect part of that decision at the very least, granted the other portion (in which he leaves her out of everything entirely) had been corrupted the moment those bastards thought it would be a good idea to put their hands on his girl. 

There he goes again -- his girl? Fuck sake, who does he think he is? 

It’s madness. It’s absolute, utter madness. 

How the fuck did they get themselves into this? 

                                                           .                           .                          .

Y/N thought that attending family events that weren’t her own might feel awkward. 

She had never been with a guy for long enough nor around the right time of year for it to be necessary that she goes to see his family for a holiday, plus, even if she was, she works most holidays anyway. The only family events she thinks she’s ever imposed on were a few of her friends when she was growing up, only because she had integrated her way into their family with ease, gluing her spot in their parent’s heart so they might want her around. Whether that be cleaning up their kitchen after their daughter passed out on the couch, or always staying the designated driver who would safely deposit their children in their bed with a bucket and stay a while to make sure they didn’t choke on their own vomit. 

So, it’s safe to say she was nervous about going not only to a wedding but his family reunion as well. The only solace she felt was the fact that Gibson was comparably nervous too -- she could tell in the way he began chewing on his nails and zoning out the closer it came to seeing them. The wedding was on New Year’s (something symbolic about it) but the rehearsal was a mere two days after Christmas. From what she’d heard, Gibson hadn’t seen a majority of this family for close to fifteen years, and his reservations lie somewhere between not looking like he used to and being sick as he was. Nobody wants to tell the family that you came close to drinking yourself to death and now have to have two nurses hover around you in the off chance something goes wrong. If she were Gibby, she doesn’t think she would want to go either -- which only doubled her nerves about going in the first place. 

Harry did good at soothing both of them though, especially the day before, when he assured Gibson that he’d spoken with a lot of his family and all of them were just ecstatic that he would be visiting them, wheelchair or not. He also reminded him that he in part paid for a large part of the wedding (which Y/N hadn’t known), so they were all still ineffably grateful for it. He would be greeted with love and adoration from every corner, “They’ve got loads of virgin cocktails for you to dabble in too.” He then let his hand fall to Y/N’s shoulder, squeezing, “And they’re stoked to meet the lovely nurses who’ve been taking care of him. It’s going to be fine.” 

There was some more that he had said but Y/N had gotten distracted watching his lips part and moving around the words. She’d had a bit of trouble with that lately, ever since their forgotten kiss -- she has to reel her gaze somewhere else to maintain her sanity. 

She should have known it had been too good to be true. Things like that -- kisses and moments like the one she and Harry shared last night -- they don’t just happen to her; she had never lived anything close to a movie life. Sure, she was thousands of miles away, running from a rival gang with a gang that she had unintentionally got caught up in, but movies like that. . .the girl gets the guy. They go through all these trials and tribulations together, they end up a couple at the end, one bound together by their experience.

And it’s not to say Y/N believes Harry has no feelings for her at all -- he had to feel at least something, in order for him to just go ahead and kiss her -- but she wonders if he ever meant to act on them. If he hadn’t then that’s okay, she could get over it. . .could pretend that the kiss never happened. She would rather pretend that it was just a drunken show of affection that she hadn’t much expected rather than something Harry might have enjoyed the thought of but didn’t think she was worth pursuing. 

It made it hurt less that way. 

So she was okay with acting like things were regular -- as they were. She was okay letting him drag her closer seeking warmth when they’re both outside taking Ubbe out because he convinced himself no coat was necessary for a five-minute wee. And she was okay when he would order for her if she was napping, and the way his unconscious form would snuggle up against her, arms cording around her body deep in the night. She could enjoy those things, even if it meant that they wouldn’t have anything in the end. 

At least she got to pretend for a little while. 

That all had been beside the point though because she really hadn’t gained or lost anything. Harry was still affectionate with her and maybe he’d forgotten it for a reason. Maybe he had to forget it or things would be tense between them, and she thinks that that would hurt her far more than him forgetting a stupid kiss. 

All in all, none of this helped to soothe her nerves the day they were preparing for the rehearsal. She woke up around 6 AM in an attempt to maintain Gibson’s hospital schedule (and because she knew from her own nerves that she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep -- and if she wasn’t, then Gibson sure as hell had been up all night -- she had been right), administered his insulin, getting him his breakfast and eating a piece of jellied toast off his plate while Niall snored peacefully beside them. Gibson had lamented about not wanting to go, in a quiet voice that she would dare say had a touch of vulnerability to it, “Hate these bloody things, Pet, and I don’t -- I can’t stand a pity filled look. It pisses me right off.” She couldn’t make out much with the small stream of the sun that had effused through the window as it threatened to rise over the horizon, but she could see the way he worried his chapped lip with his top row of teeth. The only reason he was eating was because she was sitting at his side, coaxing the scrambled eggs down his throat but she could tell he was unsettled. 

“It’ll be okay,” she assured him, peeling off the crust of the toast and handing it over to him (he liked it more than she did), “Anybody spares you a glance like that and I’ll bark at ‘em or something.” Gibson snorts though it doesn’t much reach his eyes, taking the crust from her and pulling it into his mouth, “In the meantime, I can give you a little something for your anxiety, yeah? A lil’ PRN diazepam seems like something you need.” 

She fixes up his oral dose and he takes it with the last bit of his water. As always, Gibson is silently grateful, and Y/N sits with him while she waits for it to kick in, rechecking his vitals after about thirty minutes. When he’s calmed down considerably and his eyes are fluttering shut like he might fall back to sleep, he reaches out for her wrist and gives her a gentle squeeze, “Go on, n’have a little more rest won’t you, Babe? Swear the fuckers we’re about to deal with today are a handful -- you’ll need all the rest you can get.” 

Y/N smiles -- she loved when her patients were in their GABA-induced state, where they looked at her like she had taken a ship to outer space and brought them back stardust -- wrapped her hand around his and gave him a squeeze in return. She takes his phone, placing it on the bed beside him, “Remember just give me a call if you need anything, yeah?” 

“Sure thing -- hopefully I can get some sleep with this bloody fog horn next t’a me.” 

When Y/N returns to her room with Harry, he has one of his eyes squinted open like he had been waiting for her for only a minute, his body pressed halfway between his side and her own. The comforter is only draped around his waist, so she can see his sinewy back, with one arm, tucked beneath his pillow and the other flopped out where she had previously laid. He appeared more like a disgruntled puppy than Ubbe, who stayed snuggled between the curve of his legs, unbothered by her arrival. 

“Come back to bed,” Harry’s voice is thick with sleep and slurred from how his cheek is smushed to the pillow -- her heart swells with warmth despite herself, wishing the circumstances for it were just a bit different,“M’cold.” 

“Could it be ‘cos you only have half your body covered? Why are you up anyway?” She teased him as she kicked off her shoes, a breathless giggle left her through closed lips as she walked toward the mattress. Silently does she crawl into the bed, stuffing herself beneath the covers and allowing Harry to slide his arm around her waist, tugging her closer to the middle of the bed with him.

Harry sighs contently as Y/N drags the blanket over the both of them and he nuzzles his way into her neck, breathing in deeply before muttering, “Can’t sleep without you anymore.” It was a matter of fact tone, so much so that as she sinks back into sleep she barely questions the connotations behind his words, instead melting into his hold. Even if it were just for an hour or two more, she thinks a little more sleep would do them both some good, not only considering her tossing and turning, but the fact that they had been up until 2AM watching a rented Swedish film on the telly. 

And in his drowsy haze, Harry smeared his lips at a spot on her neck like a kiss goodnight, but Y/N was too far gone to think deeply about it. 

Y/N woke up two hours later, the sun far more present, having destroyed almost every shadow that had been there prior to her falling back to sleep. Beside her Harry laid scrolling through his phone and upon her shuffling, he turned to face her with a triumphant and relieved grin, “Thank god you’re awake! I’m g’na go wee now, ‘ve been holding it for thirty minutes ‘cos I was worried you’d wake up when I was gone.” 

She had no time to explain to him that he didn’t have to exercise control over his bladder for her because he had already rolled out of the bed and all but jogged to the toilet. 

After they both got reoriented to their situation and their plans for that day, they begin to get ready. There were a few errands Harry needed to run and he thought it might be fun to run them together after she gives Gibson his medicine, and considering she was watching him tonight -- giving Niall full range to get “absolutely guttered” as he had said it -- he was okay with her popping out for a bit. So she and Harry took their respective showers, bundled up to the neck in warm clothes, dropped a still snuggly, sleepy Ubbe off with Mickey and set out to find a floral shop to handpick a beautiful bouquet for the bride (not that she had to hold it, just as a “congrats on getting married”), and something for the groom that he just hadn’t decided yet. Along with this, Harry was going to purchase them something as a wedding gift in general and since no registry was sent out, he decided he would go hand pick it. 

“I’m aces at wedding gifts, Babe -- anyone who wants a great gift has their fingers crossed that m’attending.” He’d boasted and Y/N gave him a small shove, quickly regretting it and looping her hand on his bicep when he slips a bit on an icy bit of pavement. 

“Sorry!” She squeaked but he only laughed, pressing his bicep closer to his body to trap her hand there. 

They spend at least five hours running about and two of those hours were spent deciding which diner they might want to pop in and eat at. Harry acts so painfully normal with her that she knows there is no way the kiss is still slithering around in his brain. She reckons if he had remembered and wanted to forget it or wanted her to forget about it, he would have put some distance between them. Instead, it almost feels as if they had gotten closer in a way. She had never felt so close as she did with Harry as in the past two days -- like if she asked him to open up to her about all his secrets he might humor her with an answer -- and she wonders if it’s one-sided. Was it because she knew what it felt like to have his mouth pressed against hers? For him to suckle at her bottom lip and a content sigh leaving him through his nose, warm over her upper lip? Or was she just making it up in her head?

Harry had decided upon getting them a beautifully crafted wooden wine rack, equipped with all the wine on it, that would be sent to their house with a wine membership as well. Before Y/N can even begin to panic about not sending them anything of worth and value other than her presence, pocketed morphine, routine medications, and insulin, and about a dozen saline syringes -- he tells the woman over the counter very politely, “On the notecard, you can say it’s from Harry Styles and Y/N the lovely nurse, yeah?” 

Her heart had felt too big in her chest, even more so when he turns and gives her this big, wide, cheesy grin.

“Reckon we should give ‘em a spook and say Mr. and Mrs. Styles, hm?” 

She and Harry shared a huge platter of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes, he gives her a small rundown of what a Swedish wedding is like in comparison to what they are used to. The bride and groom walk down the aisle together, there will be a plethora of speeches (Gibson flat out refused to given one and she doesn’t blame him), photos would be taken prior to the ceremony, folk songs can and would be sung, and a shouting match of who could say “I do” the loudest. 

Harry had been in the midst of describing a tradition in which “everyone and their mother” gives the bride and groom kisses -- when his phone vibrated soundly on the table. It rumpled the table beneath it, clinking the silverware and plates together, threatening to tip over his glass of water. He picks it up casually, takes one look at the screen, and his face sours considerably. Holding one finger up, he uttered a quick, “One second, Sweetheart,” before slipping from the booth, and making his way outside.

Y/N had noticed he did that often in the last few days, more than he ever had before. They would be with one another, he would get a call, and whether they were speaking or not hadn’t mattered in the way he would murmur, “One minute, Darling,” “Give me a second, Babe,” “Be back in a tick, Moppet,” “I’ll only be a mo’ Poppet,” “One second, Sweetheart.” She had noticed the pattern within the second day of him doing it, and she wondered if he was doing it with the intent to soothe her. There was no such thing as control over her face when it came to his phone ringing -- her blood runs cold and her heart hammers when she sees that it’s an unlisted number, wondering if someone back at home was hurt, or if they had found out they were in Sweden and had booked a one-way ticket. Her face contorts into some amalgamation of worry, alarm, and fear, she blinks at him -- watches his face to see if she could read it -- but he reads her’s quicker.

He assures her he’ll be back soon, and verbally caresses her with a pet name. It does wonders to work the tension from her body, easing out her muscles until she relaxes as she waits for him, and he comes back with a small smile, mentions nothing of the call, and they continue about their day.