Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction

I'm back in Design Principles 102, tracing and cutting spirals for my project. Pressing my Exacto blade firmly against the thick Artagain paper, I precisely follow the curve that I sketched with my pencil. My phone buzzes and I quickly finish the incision to fish it out of my pocket, seeing a text from Harry.

I'm hungry and I'm out of food. Come squirrel hunting with me?

Laughing quietly, I type back the words, I'm in class.

He replies, How about after?

I tell him, It's two hours long. Don't wait up for me.

To my relief, he stops responding after that. I don't want him to starve while he waits for me. I resume with my work and a moment later, Montrose approaches my desk to check on my decision on the internship.

"I'm applying for it," I proudly inform him.

"Excellent!" he says with a broad smile. "Have you sent your application?"

"Not yet. I'm still sorting out the pieces to include in my portfolio."

"Oh, they've put a limit on it now? I suppose they grew tired of sifting through a hundred pages from just one applicant," he chuckles, staring past me in thought. "Well, if you need a second pair of eyes to run it by, I'd be happy to help."

I thank him for his offer and again for the referral. He proceeds to float around the classroom, watching his students hard at work. Pulling out my phone again, I switch the ringer to silent, determined to concentrate on my project free from distraction. This choice pays off because by the end of the class session, I've finished both the assignment and the writing portion to go along with it.

Outside, the weather is bitterly cold. Autumn is coming to a close and winter looms right around the corner. I pull my beanie over my ears and make my way across campus, realizing how truly beautiful this school is and how seldom I stop to appreciate it.

Up ahead, I see a lustrous violet sculpture. From one angle, it resembles the lava from a lava lamp but when I pass it, it appears more like two people in a ballet pose.

An intricate mural on the side of the fine arts building catches my eye. It depicts the entire country of England. Each county is represented in iconic images that use all the major art styles such as cubism and impressionism. I can't even guess how long it took to complete because no part of the four-story surface is left bare.

Along the cobblestone walkway, skinny trees are wrapped in strands of white lights. It reminds me of the holiday season quickly approaching. I can almost smell the fresh pine and egg nog, and hear the jingling of holiday bells.

I'm startled from my daydream when I see a figure up ahead. He sits on a wire bench that looks like an A+ abstract art project, but appears to be extremely uncomfortable. He's staring up at the sky and doesn't notice me at first.

I gradually step closer. "Harry?"

He shifts his gaze to me and smiles. "Oh, hi."

"What are you doing out here?" I say.

"Looking at the stars," he answers as he gets up. "Don't you think it's sad that I can only count thirty of them, at most?"

"That is pretty sad. I didn't know you never finished primary school," I say as we saunter along the path.

"You're funny," he retorts, wrapping an arm around me with an affectionate squeeze.

I giggle in his grasp as the scent from his scarf floats into my senses.

"It's such a shame," he says, staring upward again, "that a truly beautiful sky can never be seen from inside the city.

I know without looking up that he's right. Back in Adamsville, where the street lamps and skyscrapers are pretty much nonexistent, every night was speckled with millions of stars. I'd never been to a big city before coming to London, so my first glance up at night perplexed me. Eventually I grew accustomed to the mostly indigo, starless sky. The city was gorgeous enough by itself that it didn't bother me.

"How long have you been waiting?" I ask him.

"Not too long. I just finished having supper with a couple mates. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," I respond. "I already had some tacos before class."

"So, what now?"

"So... you walk me to the subway and I go home to study for my quiz?"

His nose crinkles as he shakes his head. "I've got a better idea. You go have dessert with me."

"I can't," I protest.

"You can," he argues.

This back and forth goes on for a while longer, and I while tell him that it's getting a little late for dessert, he leads me right in front of an adorable bakery. The aroma of gourmet baked goods lingers into the street, and my resistance crumbles as I follow him inside.

He approaches the front counter while I choose one of the empty tables to sit at. A few people are scattered around the place. Most are alone and fully engrossed in their book or headphones. When Harry returns, the sets an enormous bowl of Neapolitan ice cream on the table and digs right in.

"You're the strangest guy I've ever met," I remark, loading a spoonful for myself.

"How so?" he says.

"Beach in the rain, ice cream on cold days. It's like you have your seasons mixed up or something."

He gives me a casual shrug as he sucks on his spoon. "I just don't like being predicatable."

"Or you're just trying to be a hipster," I tease. "Hipster Harry. Kinda rolls off the tongue, don't you think?"

"It's better than badass Harry."

"Badass Harry?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "There's this notion that everyone seems to have about me, that I'm mean or rude or just a badass in general, especially the fans and the media. I don't know where it came from."

"Well, do you give them a reason to think that?" I ask while teasingly narrowing my eyes.

"I suppose I can be a bit mischievous at times."

"What kind of mischief? Like, what's the worst thing you've ever done?"

"The worst thing?" he says, then stares at the table thoughtfully. "Okay, you really want to know the worst thing I've done?"

"Let's hear it," I say, my curiosity kindling as I lean closer.

"When my parents were still together---"

"Wait, they're divorced?"

"Yeah, since I was seven. I don't have many memories of us as a whole family but the ones I do have are quite vivid."

He digs deep into the bowl before proceeding.

"My dad had this motorcycle that he absolutely adored," he says. "I'd see him work on it everyday but he hardly ever rode it. It was mainly for show."

"Did you ever ride it with him?"

"Oh, I wish! I thought it was the coolest thing ever." His eyes gleam with nostalgia while a fond smile forms on his lips.

"I begged and begged but he told me it was too dangerous and that I could damage it. I was quite upset about that."

"Aw, poor Harry," I say, plucking the stem off the cherry and sliding it in my mouth.

"You won't be saying that much longer," he mumbles with the spoon between his teeth. "One day while my dad was at work, I went to the garage and sat in his motorcycle, pretending I was cruising around town," he reenacts with his arms up in front of him and leaning side to side, "just like my dad always would. I was just this little kid having a blast with my imagination, until I heard my dad's car pull into the driveway."

I take in a brief inhale of air. "Did he catch you?"

"No, worse. I leapt off the seat so quickly that my shoe left a dark scuff mark on the bright red paint job. Not large or noticeable at all. Very, very tiny," he says, squinting his eyes for effect.

He lowers his gaze to the bowl as he scrapes chocolate syrup from the sides and drips it over the ice cream. "But of course, my dad saw it. He asked me about it and I was so scared that I blamed my sister Gemma straight away."

"He didn't believe you, did he?"

"He did, and I felt terrible," he says. "My dad grounded her and to get me back, she wouldn't stop picking on me for ages. I just let her do it, because of how guilty I felt."

It's pretty clear that he's only exaggerating, playing up his sweet-boy charm, but something about the way he says the word "guilty" makes me feel like the actual worst thing he's ever done isn't too far from this story.

"So I reckon that's why everyone thinks I'm a mean person," he says, sinking back in his chair and tilting his head in thought.

I give him a playful eye-roll. "You're right Harry, you're such a badass."

Notes