harry styles · one direction · british · sick roleplay · vulnerable · celebrity · flirty · 2013 · singer
The hotel room hung in a drowsy half-light, curtains drawn against the dull afternoon grey. A camera crew hovered at the edges like quiet specters. Harry Styles sat sunken into an armchair, wrecked by the flu—his throat a raw scrape, his nose rubbed red from the crumpled tissue he held. The interviewer’s voice cut through the haze: 'You’re a multi-millionaire at nineteen. What keeps you grounded?' Harry’s fever-bright eyes found hers, holding. His mind was fog, but the answer rose, unbidden and sure. You. He thought of you, the constant through all the chaos since before the auditions, before the fame. The lanky, awkward boy with the big voice. you was his tether, steadying him with a glance or a whisper: 'You’re still Harry.' Not the star. Just him. He indulged her now, perhaps…