Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction
Strangers In The Night
"Everybody needs somebody sometimes. Everybody needs somebody on their mind" - A Rocket to the Moon
• • • • •
I don't hear from Harry again for several days, or perhaps it's been weeks---I'm not exactly sure. I have trouble keeping track with so much at school keeping me occupied. Professors are already preparing us for finals and assigning double the work. On the plus side, it gives me more material to add to my portfolio.
Now that I'm positive I want that internship, I've got to make sure I'm a candidate that London Studios can't turn down. I do this by spending all my free time refining and perfecting my portfolio, which is on tonight's agenda. The only interruption is a knock at the door.
"Goddammit, Effy, why can't you ever remember your keys," I grumble as I cross the apartment to answer it.
When I swing open the door, I'm startled to see Harry.
"Hi," he says.
"Um, hi. You should've told me you were coming," I say, glancing down at my sweats and old t-shirt in embarrassment.
"I was just in the area. Can I come in?"
I step back to let him inside.
"What are you up to?" he asks, taking off his navy peacoat.
"Just working on some projects," I reply.
"Can I have a look?"
"It's, like, for school and stuff. Not that interesting, really," I tell him.
"So? I'd still like to see."
I carefully step on the spaces between all the pieces of work spread across the floor, a plethora of colors and shapes integrated into patterns and typography. In the middle of the clutter sits my laptop and tea mug, where I had been working before Harry arrived.
"Sorry it's such a mess," I say. "I wasn't expecting anyone today." Now that I think about it, I don't expect anyone, ever, but I keep that part to myself.
"It's not a problem," he assures, finding a small standing area in the corner of my room. "You never told me you were an art student."
"I normally don't tell people, unless they ask. They look at my work and go, 'That's not real art, it's computerized shit.' Nobody gets it so I don't bother."
"No, I get it," he says, picking up an 11" by 14" sheet of cardstock close to him. It's a concert poster I designed with Illustrator in high school.
"I like this," he says, scanning it over. "It reminds me of an old comic, like those vintage Marvel characters."
"Really?" I say, astonished. "You got that? When I presented that in class, nobody saw it, not even my teacher."
"That's absurd. How could you not see it?"
He reaches for another one, a compilation of images for a package design of women's fragrance.
"Wow, look at this one," he says, studying it from arm's length. "It's so abstract that I don't even know what it is and I'd still buy it."
"It's ladies' perfume," I say with a smirk.
He still holds firmly to his previous statement. "I'd give it to my sister or mum."
He glances around at all the other pieces. "So is this why you're locked away in your room all the time? Because you want to make a life out of this?"
I reply with a timid nod. "It's sort of my dream, ya know, to become a graphic designer."
"I think you'd make a brilliant one," he says with certainty.
I tell him about the internship, and how designers kill to work at London Studios.
"That's why these pieces are all over the floor," I say. "I've been trying to pick out the best ones to send in before the deadline."
"Well, these two are a must," Harry says, handing me the poster and package design.
After a few more hours of sifting and eliminating, we only clear a fraction of the floor. I collapse onto my bed, wishing I wasn't so indecisive and that the portfolio limit was more than just a mere 10 pieces.
Harry's eyes wander around my room. I see him glance at the artificial flowers in painted Coke bottles neatly lining my desk. He studies the tower of textbooks haphazardly stacked on the floor. His eyes follow along the clothesline of various postcards and polaroids hanging along a wall until they land on the record player.
He stands up and walks closer to it. "Where did you get this?"
"A garage sale a few years back. I think I paid five bucks for it."
"That's incredible. This baby is so hard to find nowadays," he says, stroking its teal wooden exterior with admiration. "I can't believe how good of condition it's in."
"I probably used a thousand packing peanuts when I flew it over with me to London," I say, recalling my parents' odd stares as I insisted that the player travel in its own separate box.
Harry flips through my tattered collection of vinyls. Most had been thrift store or garage sale purchases so the outer casings may be shabby, but the records inside still play flawlessly.
"Why do you have so many copies of Strangers In The Night?" Harry asks, holding up the duplicate Sinatra albums.
"It's kind of a long story," I mumble, sitting up on my bed.
"I like your long stories," he answers. He takes a seat across from me. His sage green eyes are filled with sincerity as he watches me, waiting.
I pause with a sigh and chew on my lower lip. And then I begin. "For my fourteenth birthday, all I wanted was an iPod. My parents wouldn't buy one for me because they thought it would distract me from school, so I asked my brother. Well, his part time job flipping burgers didn't pay him enough to afford an iPod so he bought me this album instead," I explain, taking the copy from Harry and stroking its cover, "Strangers In The Night."
"Did you like Sinatra?" Harry asked.
"No," I admit. "I had no idea who he was. But Gellan told me that the slow, peaceful songs reminded him of me, and that music sounds way better on vinyl than on mp3 anyway. He said I would really like Sinatra, but I didn't care. I was too pissed about not getting an iPod and I tossed that vinyl somewhere in my room. He wrote something in there, too, on the inside lyric slip, but I didn't get a chance to read it," I painfully retell.
Harry watches me and listens intently the entire time, his lips pressed in a tight line and his eyebrows slightly furrowing in concern.
"My mom cleaned out our house when I wasn't home and gave all our old stuff to goodwill. Strangers In The Night went along with it and I never saw it again," I continue. "It was the last birthday gift I got from my brother before he passed away. Now, when I go to a thrift store and see a copy of Strangers In The Night, I check the inside slip. So far, none of them have my brother's message, but I buy it anyway, every single one."
Harry gets to his feet. He rolls out the record and positions the needle onto the black spinning disk. The rich orchestral intro plays as he extends his hand toward me.
"I don't dance," I remind him.
"Just one."
I shake my head in refusal as Sinatra's silky voice fills my room.
"Please, Jules?"
"I don't know how," I shyly confess.
"Neither do I," he says.
He keeps his eyes on me, begging and pleading, but I don't budge from my bed. A few more seconds and a defeated sigh later, he gives up and reclaims his spot beside me.
I know every word on this album by heart. In the first year after my brother's death, I listened to it every waking minute of every day. It was partially driven by grief, but mostly by guilt. I had this wierd concept in my head that as long as I listened to the album, my brother would forgive me and always be with me. Naturally, I grew sick of it, so I eased up on it. I only listen to it about once a month now.
I quietly hum along with the melodies that flow through the air and into our bodies. It sets such an antique tone for the evening that I can't help but feel like Harry and I are time travelers visiting the 1950s.
"How amazing would it be to go back to Sinatra's time?" Harry says, seemingly reading my mind.
"Everything was so simple back then," I reply. "For instance, in this song, he meets a girl, they dance, they fall in love, happily ever after. Done"
"How is that any different from what people do today?"
"'Cause nowadays people worry about who should text who first and when it's appropriate to make a relationship 'Facebook official.' They had it so easy back then. A guy could just go up to a girl and say 'Hey, wanna go out?' and they'd talk over fries and shakes or go to a drive-in theater or something."
"Then why isn't it that easy with you?"
I breath out a sigh. "Harry..."
"Jules, m'lady," he says in a ridiculously deepened voice. "would you be so kind as to accompany me on a date to a drive-in theater?"
"Dork," I say between fluttery giggles.
"Is that a yes?" he asks with a hopeful edge in his tone.
"It's a please-stop-talking-so-I-can-listen-to-the-song."
I feel him chuckle gently beneath me but per my request, he doesn't say another word. His fingers absentmindedly rake through my long wavy hair as I lay on his chest, perpendicular to him, and listen to the rest of the album as sleep pulls me under.
• • • • •
I don't hear from Harry again for several days, or perhaps it's been weeks---I'm not exactly sure. I have trouble keeping track with so much at school keeping me occupied. Professors are already preparing us for finals and assigning double the work. On the plus side, it gives me more material to add to my portfolio.
Now that I'm positive I want that internship, I've got to make sure I'm a candidate that London Studios can't turn down. I do this by spending all my free time refining and perfecting my portfolio, which is on tonight's agenda. The only interruption is a knock at the door.
"Goddammit, Effy, why can't you ever remember your keys," I grumble as I cross the apartment to answer it.
When I swing open the door, I'm startled to see Harry.
"Hi," he says.
"Um, hi. You should've told me you were coming," I say, glancing down at my sweats and old t-shirt in embarrassment.
"I was just in the area. Can I come in?"
I step back to let him inside.
"What are you up to?" he asks, taking off his navy peacoat.
"Just working on some projects," I reply.
"Can I have a look?"
"It's, like, for school and stuff. Not that interesting, really," I tell him.
"So? I'd still like to see."
I carefully step on the spaces between all the pieces of work spread across the floor, a plethora of colors and shapes integrated into patterns and typography. In the middle of the clutter sits my laptop and tea mug, where I had been working before Harry arrived.
"Sorry it's such a mess," I say. "I wasn't expecting anyone today." Now that I think about it, I don't expect anyone, ever, but I keep that part to myself.
"It's not a problem," he assures, finding a small standing area in the corner of my room. "You never told me you were an art student."
"I normally don't tell people, unless they ask. They look at my work and go, 'That's not real art, it's computerized shit.' Nobody gets it so I don't bother."
"No, I get it," he says, picking up an 11" by 14" sheet of cardstock close to him. It's a concert poster I designed with Illustrator in high school.
"I like this," he says, scanning it over. "It reminds me of an old comic, like those vintage Marvel characters."
"Really?" I say, astonished. "You got that? When I presented that in class, nobody saw it, not even my teacher."
"That's absurd. How could you not see it?"
He reaches for another one, a compilation of images for a package design of women's fragrance.
"Wow, look at this one," he says, studying it from arm's length. "It's so abstract that I don't even know what it is and I'd still buy it."
"It's ladies' perfume," I say with a smirk.
He still holds firmly to his previous statement. "I'd give it to my sister or mum."
He glances around at all the other pieces. "So is this why you're locked away in your room all the time? Because you want to make a life out of this?"
I reply with a timid nod. "It's sort of my dream, ya know, to become a graphic designer."
"I think you'd make a brilliant one," he says with certainty.
I tell him about the internship, and how designers kill to work at London Studios.
"That's why these pieces are all over the floor," I say. "I've been trying to pick out the best ones to send in before the deadline."
"Well, these two are a must," Harry says, handing me the poster and package design.
After a few more hours of sifting and eliminating, we only clear a fraction of the floor. I collapse onto my bed, wishing I wasn't so indecisive and that the portfolio limit was more than just a mere 10 pieces.
Harry's eyes wander around my room. I see him glance at the artificial flowers in painted Coke bottles neatly lining my desk. He studies the tower of textbooks haphazardly stacked on the floor. His eyes follow along the clothesline of various postcards and polaroids hanging along a wall until they land on the record player.
He stands up and walks closer to it. "Where did you get this?"
"A garage sale a few years back. I think I paid five bucks for it."
"That's incredible. This baby is so hard to find nowadays," he says, stroking its teal wooden exterior with admiration. "I can't believe how good of condition it's in."
"I probably used a thousand packing peanuts when I flew it over with me to London," I say, recalling my parents' odd stares as I insisted that the player travel in its own separate box.
Harry flips through my tattered collection of vinyls. Most had been thrift store or garage sale purchases so the outer casings may be shabby, but the records inside still play flawlessly.
"Why do you have so many copies of Strangers In The Night?" Harry asks, holding up the duplicate Sinatra albums.
"It's kind of a long story," I mumble, sitting up on my bed.
"I like your long stories," he answers. He takes a seat across from me. His sage green eyes are filled with sincerity as he watches me, waiting.
I pause with a sigh and chew on my lower lip. And then I begin. "For my fourteenth birthday, all I wanted was an iPod. My parents wouldn't buy one for me because they thought it would distract me from school, so I asked my brother. Well, his part time job flipping burgers didn't pay him enough to afford an iPod so he bought me this album instead," I explain, taking the copy from Harry and stroking its cover, "Strangers In The Night."
"Did you like Sinatra?" Harry asked.
"No," I admit. "I had no idea who he was. But Gellan told me that the slow, peaceful songs reminded him of me, and that music sounds way better on vinyl than on mp3 anyway. He said I would really like Sinatra, but I didn't care. I was too pissed about not getting an iPod and I tossed that vinyl somewhere in my room. He wrote something in there, too, on the inside lyric slip, but I didn't get a chance to read it," I painfully retell.
Harry watches me and listens intently the entire time, his lips pressed in a tight line and his eyebrows slightly furrowing in concern.
"My mom cleaned out our house when I wasn't home and gave all our old stuff to goodwill. Strangers In The Night went along with it and I never saw it again," I continue. "It was the last birthday gift I got from my brother before he passed away. Now, when I go to a thrift store and see a copy of Strangers In The Night, I check the inside slip. So far, none of them have my brother's message, but I buy it anyway, every single one."
Harry gets to his feet. He rolls out the record and positions the needle onto the black spinning disk. The rich orchestral intro plays as he extends his hand toward me.
"I don't dance," I remind him.
"Just one."
I shake my head in refusal as Sinatra's silky voice fills my room.
"Please, Jules?"
"I don't know how," I shyly confess.
"Neither do I," he says.
He keeps his eyes on me, begging and pleading, but I don't budge from my bed. A few more seconds and a defeated sigh later, he gives up and reclaims his spot beside me.
I know every word on this album by heart. In the first year after my brother's death, I listened to it every waking minute of every day. It was partially driven by grief, but mostly by guilt. I had this wierd concept in my head that as long as I listened to the album, my brother would forgive me and always be with me. Naturally, I grew sick of it, so I eased up on it. I only listen to it about once a month now.
I quietly hum along with the melodies that flow through the air and into our bodies. It sets such an antique tone for the evening that I can't help but feel like Harry and I are time travelers visiting the 1950s.
"How amazing would it be to go back to Sinatra's time?" Harry says, seemingly reading my mind.
"Everything was so simple back then," I reply. "For instance, in this song, he meets a girl, they dance, they fall in love, happily ever after. Done"
"How is that any different from what people do today?"
"'Cause nowadays people worry about who should text who first and when it's appropriate to make a relationship 'Facebook official.' They had it so easy back then. A guy could just go up to a girl and say 'Hey, wanna go out?' and they'd talk over fries and shakes or go to a drive-in theater or something."
"Then why isn't it that easy with you?"
I breath out a sigh. "Harry..."
"Jules, m'lady," he says in a ridiculously deepened voice. "would you be so kind as to accompany me on a date to a drive-in theater?"
"Dork," I say between fluttery giggles.
"Is that a yes?" he asks with a hopeful edge in his tone.
"It's a please-stop-talking-so-I-can-listen-to-the-song."
I feel him chuckle gently beneath me but per my request, he doesn't say another word. His fingers absentmindedly rake through my long wavy hair as I lay on his chest, perpendicular to him, and listen to the rest of the album as sleep pulls me under.
Notes
Hello lovely reader, would you answer a quick survey, literally ONE question that will determine a part of the book in later chapters? CLICK HERE PLS.
Also, happy October :) It's finally getting colder (although not really here in California where it's always annoyingly warm). Here's to getting sugar wasted on candy corn!
@twelve
Thank you so much! Means a lot. xx
5/12/14