Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction
Hairy
"If I fall for you, I'll never recover" - Maroon 5
• • • • •
This is why college is superior to high school: class doesn't even feel like class. It just feels like I'm hanging out in my room, enjoying my favorite hobby. Well, art college, at least. Of course, there's the half hour lecture at the start of class but after that, it's a completely independent work period.
This week in Commercial Design 104, the assignment is to create a label and billboard ad for a made-up food item. I came up with "Chipperonies," which are essentially deep fried pepperoni slices similar to potato chips.
I'm diligently staring at my computer screen, playing with different color schemes for the letters on my label when my professor announces that class is now ending.
"Be sure to save your documents, everyone. I'll see you all on Wednesday," he says.
I close photoshop and put my laptop on sleep mode, certain that I'll be working on it later tonight. After gathering everything in my bag, I sling it over my shoulder, zip up my coat and layer on my scarf, preparing for the night outside. I'm still getting used to the nippy English weather. It got pretty cold in Connecticut sometimes but England has a different kind of cold, a sharper kind that cuts you to the core.
I shove my hands in my pocket while I walk two and a half blocks to the subway station. Weeknights are my favorite time to ride the subway. It's slower, but it's not the speed of the train that literally decreases, it's the people and their movements.
There aren't as many travelers as the morning commute and among those people, most are winding down from their work or school day. No one is in a rush. No one is pushing or shoving. All the evening riders seem much more kind to each other.
I get off the subway a few stops earlier than normal and make my way through the nightlife district of London. A couple wrong turns later, I spot a flashing neon sign that reads Drinks & Chicks and cross the street to enter it. I've only been to Effy's workplace a handful of times but each time was to drop off her keys or food. I've never actually been inside. Tonight, I'm surprising her.
Before I even get close to the door, I notice a long line of people standing impatiently against the wall, a plethora of outfits that come in body-conforming, sequined, and most of all, short. I know it's not snowing in London but it's not exactly miniskirt weather either. Barely keeping warm in my thick coat, scarf and boots, it mystifies me that these girls haven't turned into icicles yet.
I didn't plan on staying long since I still have some homework to do, but I made all this effort so I might as well stick with it. I join the long line, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall like everyone else. Suddenly, a guy with too much hair gel and a collar-popped shirt approaches me with an amused smirk.
"Aw darling, are you lost?" he asks.
"I'm just saying hello to my friend," I timidly reply.
"Oh, you're here for Annabelle?" he asks. He lowers his sunglasses despite the sunless sky and eyes me head to toe. He doesn't look more than a few days older than me.
I shake my head. "Effy."
"Effy! Why didn't you say so sooner? I thought by 'friend' you meant a special 'friend.' Come with me."
Before I could ask what he means by "special friend," he takes me by the wrist and leads me to the front of the line.
"She's with me," hair gel guy utters to the husky bouncer at the front door, who simply grunts and lets us in. That earns us a chorus of whines and complaints from the line but they are soon drowned out by the thumping music and buzzing conversation in the club.
I can't say whether this club is large or small or comment on the choice of decor because all I can see in every direction is people. People on the first floor, people on the second floor. People on top of people, people underneath people, people who I thought was one person but turned out to be two really close people. You would think that with the amount of people and movement that the place would smell like sweat, but it doesn't; the pungent stench of liquor overpowers it.
Hair gel guy says something but it's impossible to talk over this music. He repeats himself and this time I watch his mouth closely.
"You dance?" His breath is an awful blend of breath mints and alcohol.
My eyes grow wide and I shake my head. Nevertheless, he grips my hand tightly and begins dragging me to the center of the dance floor.
"No!" I shout, but my voice disintegrates in the music. He jerks me even more aggressively.
"Let me go!" I resist, pulling to regain control of my arm.
"Hey!" I hear someone bellow in a deep, gruff voice. "She said no!"
Another guy emerges from the vibrating crowd and shoves hair gel guy, prying him from my arm. Hair gel guy stumbles backward into a group of girls and their boyfriends but quickly stands up and staggers toward the guy who pushed him.
"Who do you think you are?!" hair gel guy spats about an inch away from the other guy's face, although he has to look up because he's at least a head shorter than him.
I think I'm about to witness my first fist fight but instead, the other guy says to him in a level voice, "Go home, mate. You've had too much to drink."
Despite his angrily contorted face and balled fists, hair gel guy doesn't budge. It seems like his feet are glued to the floor while he silently glowers at the other guy walking away.
"Are you alright?" other guy asks.
His eyes are either gray or blue or hazel. The dim lighting makes it hard for me to tell. But what I can say for sure is that they're gentle, incredibly gentle.
He sweeps his brown ringlets over his forehead to get a closer look at my hand and wrist. As he examines on, I can't help but notice how tangly and disheveled his hair is and wonder if he ever brushes it.
"I'm fine," I say. "Thank you for doing that."
As I zip up my coat and head toward the exit, messy hair guy calls after me.
"Wait, you're leaving already?" he asks, his eyes turning a dark shade of disappointment.
"Yeah, I only came to visit my friend but I don't think I can stay here a minute longer," I say, antsy to leave.
"Well, let's visit her then. What's your friend's name?"
"Effy."
He cups his hands around his mouth and starts hollering, "Effy! Effy! Where are you Effy?"
I yank his hands back down, checking my surroundings for anyone staring. "I don't think that's gonna work. She's a bartender so she's probably busy anyway."
"Rubbish!" he objects. "If she's your friend she can't ever be too busy for you. Come on."
He waves for me to follow and we weave through the sea of dancers. I'm pressed between two tall men in tank tops and when I look up, messy hair guy is nowhere in sight.
"I'm right here," his voice calls between strangers' heads. He extends his open hand and I take it. It's a lot bigger than mine but the way his fingers wrap around it makes it oddly comfortable.
We reach the bar and not surprisingly, all the seats are full. I stand on my toes to try and see over the thick mass of people lining the bar but it's useless.
"I think I see her," messy hair guy says. "Does she have bleach blonde hair with bluish tips?"
"That's her," I confirm.
"Let's go. I think I see one of my mates, too." He leads me by the hand and I realize that he hasn't let it go, even though we're not in a dense crowd anymore.
"Hi Louis, mind if we snag your spot?" messy hair guy asks.
His friend glances at me with a slight glint in his eye before smiling at messy hair guy. "Sure! I'll be right back, this is my favorite song!"
His friend hurries to the dance floor and a gorgeous, slender brunette follows, giggling. We replace them in the stools and I watch Effy on the other side of the bar.
She's shaking a drink mixer and flirting with two guys. She says something with some hand gestures and they both burst into hysteria, barely able to catch their breaths as she pours the clear, golden liquid into their glasses. She says something to them again, leaving them with another chuckle, before heading toward the other side of the bar to retrieve another bottle.
"Hi there, love!" she exclaims when her eyes fall on me. "What are you doing here?"
I smile and shrug. "I just wanted to stop by and say hi. I hardly ever see you since you work so late."
"Aw, how sweet," she says with a genuine smile. Her eyes flicker to messy hair guy. "And I see you've made a friend too."
"Oh, yeah. Effy, this is messy hair---I mean, uh..." I stammer, feeling my face redden.
"Hairy, just Hairy," he finishes.
"Wait, what?" I ask, bewildered.
"I said Harry. My name is Harry."
"Oh, right," I mumble. "Harry. Not Hairy. Harry's a name. Okay. Harry." I keep my eyes on the table top in front of me but I can tell they're both staring at me. Why do I have to be such an awkward freak?
"Right. Anyways," Effy begins, "are you having a good time tonight?"
"Not exactly," I confess.
"You haven't had a drink yet, have you?" she asks, smirking.
I shake my head. "I don't want one either."
I've never really been a fan of drinking. I just can't stand the way it tastes, but I have nothing against people who do enjoy it.
"Oh, goodness, please don't tell me you're one of those creeps that come to the pub just to sit and gawk at me. If that's the case, there's two delightful bouncers I'd like for you to meet who are more than happy to escort you out."
I shake my head, laughing. London deserves a bartender like Effy and I should let her get to it. I get up from the stool and Harry does the same.
"I'll see you at home, Effy."
"See you later, love. Pleasure meeting you, Hair-y," she says emphatically. They both smile mischievously at me and I feel like crawling into a hole.
• • • • •
This is why college is superior to high school: class doesn't even feel like class. It just feels like I'm hanging out in my room, enjoying my favorite hobby. Well, art college, at least. Of course, there's the half hour lecture at the start of class but after that, it's a completely independent work period.
This week in Commercial Design 104, the assignment is to create a label and billboard ad for a made-up food item. I came up with "Chipperonies," which are essentially deep fried pepperoni slices similar to potato chips.
I'm diligently staring at my computer screen, playing with different color schemes for the letters on my label when my professor announces that class is now ending.
"Be sure to save your documents, everyone. I'll see you all on Wednesday," he says.
I close photoshop and put my laptop on sleep mode, certain that I'll be working on it later tonight. After gathering everything in my bag, I sling it over my shoulder, zip up my coat and layer on my scarf, preparing for the night outside. I'm still getting used to the nippy English weather. It got pretty cold in Connecticut sometimes but England has a different kind of cold, a sharper kind that cuts you to the core.
I shove my hands in my pocket while I walk two and a half blocks to the subway station. Weeknights are my favorite time to ride the subway. It's slower, but it's not the speed of the train that literally decreases, it's the people and their movements.
There aren't as many travelers as the morning commute and among those people, most are winding down from their work or school day. No one is in a rush. No one is pushing or shoving. All the evening riders seem much more kind to each other.
I get off the subway a few stops earlier than normal and make my way through the nightlife district of London. A couple wrong turns later, I spot a flashing neon sign that reads Drinks & Chicks and cross the street to enter it. I've only been to Effy's workplace a handful of times but each time was to drop off her keys or food. I've never actually been inside. Tonight, I'm surprising her.
Before I even get close to the door, I notice a long line of people standing impatiently against the wall, a plethora of outfits that come in body-conforming, sequined, and most of all, short. I know it's not snowing in London but it's not exactly miniskirt weather either. Barely keeping warm in my thick coat, scarf and boots, it mystifies me that these girls haven't turned into icicles yet.
I didn't plan on staying long since I still have some homework to do, but I made all this effort so I might as well stick with it. I join the long line, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall like everyone else. Suddenly, a guy with too much hair gel and a collar-popped shirt approaches me with an amused smirk.
"Aw darling, are you lost?" he asks.
"I'm just saying hello to my friend," I timidly reply.
"Oh, you're here for Annabelle?" he asks. He lowers his sunglasses despite the sunless sky and eyes me head to toe. He doesn't look more than a few days older than me.
I shake my head. "Effy."
"Effy! Why didn't you say so sooner? I thought by 'friend' you meant a special 'friend.' Come with me."
Before I could ask what he means by "special friend," he takes me by the wrist and leads me to the front of the line.
"She's with me," hair gel guy utters to the husky bouncer at the front door, who simply grunts and lets us in. That earns us a chorus of whines and complaints from the line but they are soon drowned out by the thumping music and buzzing conversation in the club.
I can't say whether this club is large or small or comment on the choice of decor because all I can see in every direction is people. People on the first floor, people on the second floor. People on top of people, people underneath people, people who I thought was one person but turned out to be two really close people. You would think that with the amount of people and movement that the place would smell like sweat, but it doesn't; the pungent stench of liquor overpowers it.
Hair gel guy says something but it's impossible to talk over this music. He repeats himself and this time I watch his mouth closely.
"You dance?" His breath is an awful blend of breath mints and alcohol.
My eyes grow wide and I shake my head. Nevertheless, he grips my hand tightly and begins dragging me to the center of the dance floor.
"No!" I shout, but my voice disintegrates in the music. He jerks me even more aggressively.
"Let me go!" I resist, pulling to regain control of my arm.
"Hey!" I hear someone bellow in a deep, gruff voice. "She said no!"
Another guy emerges from the vibrating crowd and shoves hair gel guy, prying him from my arm. Hair gel guy stumbles backward into a group of girls and their boyfriends but quickly stands up and staggers toward the guy who pushed him.
"Who do you think you are?!" hair gel guy spats about an inch away from the other guy's face, although he has to look up because he's at least a head shorter than him.
I think I'm about to witness my first fist fight but instead, the other guy says to him in a level voice, "Go home, mate. You've had too much to drink."
Despite his angrily contorted face and balled fists, hair gel guy doesn't budge. It seems like his feet are glued to the floor while he silently glowers at the other guy walking away.
"Are you alright?" other guy asks.
His eyes are either gray or blue or hazel. The dim lighting makes it hard for me to tell. But what I can say for sure is that they're gentle, incredibly gentle.
He sweeps his brown ringlets over his forehead to get a closer look at my hand and wrist. As he examines on, I can't help but notice how tangly and disheveled his hair is and wonder if he ever brushes it.
"I'm fine," I say. "Thank you for doing that."
As I zip up my coat and head toward the exit, messy hair guy calls after me.
"Wait, you're leaving already?" he asks, his eyes turning a dark shade of disappointment.
"Yeah, I only came to visit my friend but I don't think I can stay here a minute longer," I say, antsy to leave.
"Well, let's visit her then. What's your friend's name?"
"Effy."
He cups his hands around his mouth and starts hollering, "Effy! Effy! Where are you Effy?"
I yank his hands back down, checking my surroundings for anyone staring. "I don't think that's gonna work. She's a bartender so she's probably busy anyway."
"Rubbish!" he objects. "If she's your friend she can't ever be too busy for you. Come on."
He waves for me to follow and we weave through the sea of dancers. I'm pressed between two tall men in tank tops and when I look up, messy hair guy is nowhere in sight.
"I'm right here," his voice calls between strangers' heads. He extends his open hand and I take it. It's a lot bigger than mine but the way his fingers wrap around it makes it oddly comfortable.
We reach the bar and not surprisingly, all the seats are full. I stand on my toes to try and see over the thick mass of people lining the bar but it's useless.
"I think I see her," messy hair guy says. "Does she have bleach blonde hair with bluish tips?"
"That's her," I confirm.
"Let's go. I think I see one of my mates, too." He leads me by the hand and I realize that he hasn't let it go, even though we're not in a dense crowd anymore.
"Hi Louis, mind if we snag your spot?" messy hair guy asks.
His friend glances at me with a slight glint in his eye before smiling at messy hair guy. "Sure! I'll be right back, this is my favorite song!"
His friend hurries to the dance floor and a gorgeous, slender brunette follows, giggling. We replace them in the stools and I watch Effy on the other side of the bar.
She's shaking a drink mixer and flirting with two guys. She says something with some hand gestures and they both burst into hysteria, barely able to catch their breaths as she pours the clear, golden liquid into their glasses. She says something to them again, leaving them with another chuckle, before heading toward the other side of the bar to retrieve another bottle.
"Hi there, love!" she exclaims when her eyes fall on me. "What are you doing here?"
I smile and shrug. "I just wanted to stop by and say hi. I hardly ever see you since you work so late."
"Aw, how sweet," she says with a genuine smile. Her eyes flicker to messy hair guy. "And I see you've made a friend too."
"Oh, yeah. Effy, this is messy hair---I mean, uh..." I stammer, feeling my face redden.
"Hairy, just Hairy," he finishes.
"Wait, what?" I ask, bewildered.
"I said Harry. My name is Harry."
"Oh, right," I mumble. "Harry. Not Hairy. Harry's a name. Okay. Harry." I keep my eyes on the table top in front of me but I can tell they're both staring at me. Why do I have to be such an awkward freak?
"Right. Anyways," Effy begins, "are you having a good time tonight?"
"Not exactly," I confess.
"You haven't had a drink yet, have you?" she asks, smirking.
I shake my head. "I don't want one either."
I've never really been a fan of drinking. I just can't stand the way it tastes, but I have nothing against people who do enjoy it.
"Oh, goodness, please don't tell me you're one of those creeps that come to the pub just to sit and gawk at me. If that's the case, there's two delightful bouncers I'd like for you to meet who are more than happy to escort you out."
I shake my head, laughing. London deserves a bartender like Effy and I should let her get to it. I get up from the stool and Harry does the same.
"I'll see you at home, Effy."
"See you later, love. Pleasure meeting you, Hair-y," she says emphatically. They both smile mischievously at me and I feel like crawling into a hole.
Notes
I'm actually finished with this whole story but I'm not gonna post it all because I don't even know if anyone will read or like it. So let me know what you think and I'll update. :)
@twelve
Thank you so much! Means a lot. xx
5/12/14