Harry's a better friend but now maybe he doesn't want to be a friend (Patreon)

You guys said that you would like to see more of these two! Harry is head over heels, and we love a soft boy! What would you like to see next, prof!harry or friends who camp!harry? 

part 1 

part 2 

part 3 

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iv.

Harry has always appreciated the gradual shift in seasons. 

From winter to spring, the cold ebbs away as the sun grows hotter, giving kisses of warmth through chilled breezes. Flowers bud, trees decorate their bare branches with leaves, forests bathe their floor in various shades of green in softening soil. The world fills with joy at the prospect of summer nearing. 

From spring to summer, the wind brings heat, like apology kisses from the sun who still weighs with guilt for leaving all winter long. She bakes the earth, crisps the lush grass, scorches the skin of pale children on beaches. Tepid pools in the backyard fill with summer rain, that falls in sheets and rattles thunder through the sky beneath thick, grey clouds. Lemonade on the deck, squealing away from wasps, helping worms cross the hot pavement so they don’t burn and leave their shriveled bodies behind. Waking in the morning to a bird’s song, midday naps, staying up entirely too late looking at a clear sky of stars. 

From summer to fall, a cold breeze. The sun is tired, she has been working for so long, she just needs a little rest. A cool chill slides through the air, apple scented candles strip the shelves and fill homes, pumpkin flavored everything dances on taste buds. Chunky socks keep toes warm, thick cardigans swallow arms in knitted yarn, and goosebumps dance and pimple along arms. Windows are cracked open in the day, Halloween creeps around the corner, bags of candy overpriced on the coffee table. 

And from fall to winter, the world stills. Water freezes over, snow blankets the forest ground covered in animal prints. The Holiday season nears, Christmas songs in shops, train sets around trees and hot chocolate by fires. Sweets and more sweets, gorging on food, staying nice and warm inside as the rain freezes to sleet and slicks the pavement. This time of year is for staying indoors, safe from the harsh bite of frigid air that flushed cheeks rosy and stirred teeth to chatter. 

It was unhurried and steady, very much unlike how his feelings had been as of late. 

Harry had a slight problem, or potentially a big problem depending on what day of the week it was. The soft, platonic, feelings that he had always stored in his heart for his friend Y/N had bloomed like marigolds in late spring. They flourished like dandelions in suburban yards, and were as hard to ignore as the sugar balls that fall from trees in hoards and prickle the pads of feet. 

He wasn’t used to this full melt of panic that overcame him, like being submerged in an opaque pool of distress. If circumstances were normal, he would have just met her, been struck by her in some way, and have wanted to pursue something -- maybe they went on a date or two, maybe they kissed at the door, maybe Harry starts to grow fonder and fonder when they send messages back and forth or call. That’s how it goes. 

Of course he’d been struck by Y/N when they had initially met (how could he not have been? She was loud, a bit crass, but the kindest person he had ever been introduced to in his life), but it was in a different way. Harry had never imagined them together, because when he saw Y/N, he saw someone who deserved the galaxy to be carefully crafted and handed to her on a silver platter. She deserved someone so immaculate, finding the words to describe them would be difficult. He had never felt like he made the cut -- hell, he just all around felt like he didn’t deserve her, so he never allowed any feelings to fester or grow. It helped that he was throwing himself into relationships left and right so that his mind hadn’t had the chance to drift to thoughts like those. 

But now. . .fuck, now he’s fucked. 

All the pampering her, all the time spent together, all the meals they share toe to toe on the couch, and secrets they whisper during geode hunting trips at the park. . .it was hard not to let his mind wander. It was hard not to imagine coming home and kissing her after a long day. Was hard not to imagine their fingers locked together as they strolled down a park trail, or snuggle up together in those movie theatre seats that lean back. 

It was hard not to let his mind wander to touching her, caressing her, stroking her everywhere. He couldn’t help the thoughts that invaded his brain of her beneath him -- of him pouring every emotion that he had for her, into her, with everything he had. No matter how much he did for her, and no matter what he had done to correct what he deemed an unsuitable friendship on his end, he still felt that he hadn’t given her enough. He wanted to give all of himself to her; when Y/N woke in the mornings, he wanted her to know that he was his. 

He couldn’t say this though. He couldn’t confess to her that the feelings in his heart were no longer only friendly bouts of love. It was all consuming -- as certain as the fall of deciduous tree leaves to the ground at the end of autumn. As certain as it was that the seasons would change, that the world would spin on its axis, that he needed to breathe, sleep, and eat to survive -- as certain as all those things, Harry was certain of his feelings.He loved Y/N with his whole being. 

Y/N is Y/N though and would never accept his feelings so easily. She would question them, not out of spite, or because she was inclined not to believe him. No, Y/N would question them because Harry falls hard and fast, typically. Seldom did Harry have a gentle slope to tread when his heart grew fond of someone; it was more of a descent from an icy mountain top, slipping down hard, the rush of adrenalin whips past his face, every date, and cuddle, and kiss made him go faster, fall harder. Then it would taper, the slope would even out, they’re more friends than a relationship -- it was a bit of fun in the cold months, but by the time summer came around he was spreading his wings and flying back to the top of the mountain. 

He would understand if she questioned him, but Harry wondered how he would express to her that this felt different than the times in the past. If not for the fact that they had been friends for a long time prior, then how it felt like that gentle slope. An uphill climb of coming to terms with feelings -- he’s not freezing from how fast he slides from the mountain, desperate for warmth, seeking it out however he could. No, Harry was drenched in sweat as he trekked up this mountain, huffing breath after breath, grateful for every brush of wind that passed him in the form of a hug, a smile, the look in her eyes when she tells him something she finds interesting. 

And now, it felt as if he were digging his fingers into the snow at the mountain top, his fingers worn and frostbitten, he’s lightheaded from the altitude. Yet, despite all this work, somehow it feels effortless. He sweats, and his heart races, and his breathing is heavy, but it’s as easy as existing for him. 

To an outsiders view, it was unremarkable how he finally understood that he was in love with Y/N. There was not some grandiose display of affection like stopping her from marrying another person, or running through an airport before she could board her flight. They were only on her couch, sat on opposite ends with their legs united in the middle, entangled for hours. Neither of them had been doing anything in particular -- she was on her phone and he was reading through his book (one that Cora had actually introduced him to, and while he would love to be petty and say he hates the bloody book and wants nothing to do with it, he couldn’t). 

For hours they had stayed silent; comfortable and quiet, Harry was soothed by the warmth of her body, the small sigh that would leave her if she shifted, and the soft puffs of laughter that might leave her mouth if she saw something funny. There was a candle burning, a scent that was apple cider-y because Y/N was anxious for autumn and Harry had about forty autumn candles that needed burning. It had never been his favorite scent, but now everytime it tickles his nose hairs he thinks about Y/N, he thinks about warmth, he thinks about how in love with her he is.  

Y/N nudged his foot with her own socked toes, tearing his attention from the book to where she was staring at him on her end of the couch, “Guess what I’m gonna do?” She began. 

“Have a wee?” Harry teased and she rolled her eyes. 

“After that?” She gave him time to mull it over, and when he came up with nothing, she grinned, “Out of guesses?” 

“Would have to say I’m all out, yeah.” 

Y/N delicately unlooped their legs from one another, leaning forward to squeeze his calves, “I’m gonna get you a dish of the apple fritters I made today.” 

A gasp had left him, Harry remembers, that he leaned forward and while keeping his thumb nestled between the pages he was on, let his book close and rest in his lap, “You made apple fritters and you weren’t going to tell me? How did you even have time to make them, I’ve been with you all day?” 

“I’m telling you now aren’t I? It was a surprise!” She swung her legs from off the side of the couch, “I woke up at six this morning, headed to the grocery and got all the stuff. The recipe said it would only be a 30 minute process, but I successfully applied two hours to that so I could make it perfect,” she disappeared into the kitchen, but kept calling back to him, “But I wanted to do something for you. I hope they’re good, I know they’d be better bought probably.” 

She warmed them in her microwave as Harry waited patiently in the living room, “Reckon you’re wrong,” he told her honestly, as she walked back in with a small dish in hand, two of them sat on top of one another covered in frosting, “These’ll be better just because you made them.” 

There was truth to Harry’s words -- baked goods had a certain amount of love infused within them just made them taste that much sweeter. When he bit into the apple fritter, he was more than overwhelmed with how lovely it tasted, so much so that after he swallowed, he pushed a sticky lipped kiss to Y/N’s cheek, “Ah!” She squealed, her face scrunched but she laughs as she wipes at her face, “You like it then.” 

“I love them,” he tells her, “I love --” you. 

You. 

He could have said it. They say it to one another all the time, Harry could have told her he loved her and she wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at him for it. But what stopped him this time was because if Harry uttered the words to her in that moment, they wouldn’t have been words exchanged between affectionate friends. If Harry were to say those words, he would mean them with his entire being, and he doesn’t think he would be able to stomach saying them but her not understanding the depth of his words. It felt like he was lying to her, even if he wasn’t. 

“I love them so much. Thank you,” he finished saying it, and promptly coaxed Y/N to lay against him afterward. 

That had been two weeks ago, and ever since Harry had been dealing with these emotions that had far surpassed a cutesy, friendly crush. Every touch meant more now, every movie night, every lunch date, every second of any day that they spent together. Harry could not begin to express the magnitude of his feelings for her to himself, let alone to her, so he’s struggling substantially. He wants to tell her how he feels, but he can’t. . .he just can’t. 

Y/N has never been dense though, so Harry should have known -- just as she had started noticing how much he did for her, she would notice that he had very suddenly stopped saying he loved her. She still said it freely, and openly, and Harry loved that, but he tried to placate his absence of the words with hugs and forehead kisses. 

He should have known that she would bring it up, with her brows pinched while they were in the car on their way back from Adam’s place, sat in the passenger side but tilted toward him, “You’ve been awful stingy with your ‘I love you’s’ lately. Did I get mine revoked or something?” 

His body flushed cold, the blood in his veins chilling as he cleared his throat, forcing out an awkward little laugh, “What? Course not,” he shook his head. 

A huff leaves Y/N’s mouth, “I reckon you think I’m stupid.” 

“No!” He scoffed.

“Not to sound needy,” she started, “And obviously I'm not going to force you to profess your love to me at every waking moment, but we used to say it all the time, and now every time I say it, I’m meant with. . .” she trails off to accentuate her point of the silence he’d been giving her, and his heart aches, “If you’re uncomfortable with me saying --” 

“I’m not --” 

“--then you have to let me know, ‘cos you know I like saying it, but --” 

“I’m not uncomfortable with you saying it! I like when you do,” he turned into his apartment complex, “I just. . . .” 

“I can say it less?” She offers but Harry shook his head again. 

“No!” 

“Then what is it?” She asks, shaking her had, “I’m confused then.” 

Does he confess now? Does he spew all of his feelings at her in this car, relieve the pressing weight on his shoulder, fill as if he’s been alleviated of the secret that suffocates him? What if the feelings are matched? Does she love him too? Would she be happy? 

Or would she be upset? Would she have to let him down easy? Would she tell him they were better off as friends and he would need to figure out how to get over his feelings?

The thought of the latter makes his eyes water. 

“You know I love you, Babe,” he clears his throat, trying to swallow the guilt he feels for saying it but not meaning it in the way she thinks, “I don’t know, I wasn’t meaning anything by it. I will make sure not to withhold any proclamations of love, yeah?” 

“Good,” she settles back in the passenger seat, “I crave validation, you know that. And if you didn’t love me, I think I would just have to start sobbing.” 

Harry wonders how he could tell her that she didn’t have to worry about that at all.