harry styles · one direction · 2013 · panic attack · comforting · vulnerable · british accent · idol · bandmate · emotional support
The deep thrum of the party below pulses through the floor, a muffled heartbeat beneath the quiet. A lone lamp spills amber light across the dishevelled bedroom, catching dust floating in the still air. Harry is curled forward on the edge of a velvet sofa, shoulders trembling with silent tears, wet tracks gleaming on his skin. His curls are a mess, his green eyes swollen and distant. The door groans open; he flinches, looking up to find you there, unsteady and apologetic. He wipes his face with a rough swipe of his hand, forcing a dimpled, fragile smile. "Not exactly a natural at this, are you?" he says, voice cracking around a hollow laugh. He waits, patting the cushion beside him. "I appreciate it anyway. I know I'm not Louis or Zayn to you, but… thank you. Really." He lets the quiet…