Know: A Harry Styles Fan Fiction
Princess Ariel
"If you can't love babe, then you can't hurt" - Augustana
• • • • •
The journey to the coast of England is supposed to be a long one; the subway itinerary estimates about an hour and a half. However, Harry makes the ride feel much shorter, involving me in his people-watching games.
"I've got the perfect story for this one," he eagerly whispers, glancing back at a couple in their thirties sitting four rows behind us. "They met online a few years back and their first date was something disgustingly cliche. Oh! Like a coffee shop. Then he found out that she collects Cabbage Patch Kids, I mean loads of them. Every room in her flat has at least twenty shelves of these chubby dolls. Even the kitchen! He was properly creeped out so he wanted to dump her, but they've already moved in and she pays most of the utility bills... and she's got a nice bum. And now they're on their way to a vintage toy shop to look for more dolls to add to her collection."
I bite my lips together, trying to suppress my laughter. "Jesus, Harry," I whisper. "How did you come up with all that from the most ordinary-looking couple in the world?"
"Imagination is all it takes. Here, you try." He nods in the direction of a man engrossed in a newspaper sitting with a young boy and girl, who are silently reading the signs and ads on the wall.
"It looks like a dad and his kids," I say with a shrug.
"No, no, no. You're too logical," he says. "Try something like... the man found these kids unattended at a grocery store and lured them in by saying he has free puppies at his home. But secretly, he's kidnapping these kids and holding them for ransom."
I give him a horrified look. "I like the dad and kids one much better," I say.
He rests his cheek on his palm and looks at me like I'm a terminal cancer patient. "The point is not to tell a true story," he says. "It's to tell a wild one."
The train stops and in walks a group of five college-aged girls and one guy. "They're all yours," Harry says with a dimpled, encouraging smile.
I give it a go, using his "imagination" advice.
"So," I begin as a plot grows in my brain. "The boy has a crush on one of the girls but she says she just wants to be friends. He thinks he's being friendzoned when in reality, she's a time-traveller from the year 2075 and assassinates all the US presidents who have ever been assassinated and then frames random people for the crime. She's also immortal because she was bit by a radioactive snail when she was a baby so her real age is something in the 400s. Anyways, she needs to stay friends with him because he's moving to the US soon and he's going to have a son, who, in 50 or so years, will become the next president she has to assassinate."
Harry stares at me, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes sparkling with a new kind of adoration. A few seconds pass before he says anything.
"Good lord, what a fucking story," he commends.
I flash him a satisfied smirk and take a small bow.
When I scan around, I realize that we've come up with ridiculous backgrounds for everyone in our car. There's nobody left and we're both quiet again, listening to the train rumble on the tracks.
"Can snails even bite?" Harry asks after a while.
I shrug and we both bend over in laughter. Almost every passenger turns their head and stares at us, judging us or simply baffled by us. I couldn't care less either way. Harry looks at me through squinted eyes, still laughing uncontrollably, and I can tell he doesn't either.
When we get to the beach, Harry's prediction turns out true. There is absolutely no sign of anyone on the long, sandy shore. I see his point in wanting to come here on a day like this. It's a completely different scenery when it's not littered with screeching kids or hairy, overweight men.
We tread through the sand with our shoes swinging from our fingers and come across a large log that's been split in half. In front of it, there's a couple burnt twigs and scarce, dissipated ash, probably a bonfire that's been long deserted.
"How incredible is this?" Harry remarks, sitting on the half-log and gazing out at the sea.
I take a seat beside him and look up at the pale gray sky. "It would be nice if it were actually warm, too," I chuckle.
"Well, would you rather be here," he says, waving at our environment, "or at work?"
My eyes fix on the foamy water rolling onto shore. It licks the wet sand over and over, sometimes leaving behind fragments of seashells. In the distance, a sailboat lazily floats across the horizon. Aside from the crashing of waves, it's serenely silent.
"That's a tough one," I say, pretending to be torn.
A subtle smile plays on his lips and he slides closer. I sense some hesitation as he begins to wrap an arm around me, and he ends up leaning on them instead.
"The beach always reminds me of Gellan," I say softly.
"Who's that?" he asks, matching my tone.
"My brother. Late brother."
I've never fully understood that phrase. Why are the deceased referred to as "late"? What are they late for? It's such a strange euphemism, and feels even stranger to use in reference to Gellan.
"I'm so sorry," he says gently. "What happened?
"Drunk driver," I say, not bothering to hide my bitterness. "That asshole made it out alive while my brother didn't even make it to seventeen."
I take a deep and steady breath of the salty ocean air. Harry doesn't say anything while he slowly strokes my hand.
"When we were both little, we'd go to the beach all the time," I recall, smiling. "He loved to bury me in the sand. Sometimes I'd make him carve out a mermaid tail and call me Princess Ariel."
"Ariel, huh? I pegged you as more of a Snow White or Belle," he says.
"Shut up, I'm telling a story," I say.
He presses his lips together and makes a zipping motion over them, but I have a feeling it won't last long.
"One time," I proceed, "on a really crowded day, he buried me up to my neck. I remember the sand was so warm, I wanted to just take a nap. He told me to stay put while he ran to find some seashells to decorate me with. He didn't come back for almost an hour."
Harry's green eyes widen in shock. "Did you stay there the whole time?"
"Well, yeah. What else is a four-year old gonna do when her older brother tells her to stay put?" I say.
"Whenever my sister used to boss me around, I'd call her a poopyhead and run away. I still do sometimes."
I can almost picture it exactly, a teeny rebellious toddler with a mop of brown curls, refusing to listen to anyone who tells him what to do.
"It's different for girls, I guess," I say. "It didn't feel that long anyway. I made up animals friends out of the shapes in the clouds and gave them names and everything."
"Do you remember any of their names?" Harry asks.
"Not at all. I was so little."
"So what happened when Gellan came back?"
"Oh, my god," I begin to laugh, "he looked so scared. He'd been running around all over the beach because he forgot where he buried me. It also didn't help that only my head was visible."
Low thunder rumbles from a distance. The clouds overhead appear ominously thicker than before.
"Should we go?" I suggest. "It looks like it's about to rain."
"In a minute. I wanna hear the rest of your story."
So I continue.
"He apologized over and over and was like, 'Please don't tell Mom and Dad!' I don't think I really understood what he did wrong so I was just like, 'Okay. Let's go swimming now!' And to this day, I've never told my mom and dad."
The thunder roars again, sounding closer and louder this time. We look up at the dark billows and I feel a drop of water splash on my nose. Harry looks over and before he can wipe it off, it starts to pour.
I jerk my hood up over my head. The raindrops pummel down at us as we dash through the sand, back in the direction we came from.
"Hold on a second," Harry says, suddenly coming to a halt. I stop with him and glance down. Somehow his hand has found its way into mine.
"What? What's wrong?" I ask, shivering.
"How disgustingly cliche would it be if we kissed in the rain right now?" he asks.
Harry locks onto my gaze, grinning at me mischievously. Little brown curls lay flat on his forehead while water drips down his nose and lips, his intoxicating, tantalizing, lips.
He catches me staring and I force myself to quickly recover.
"Very, very, disgustingly cliche," I answer, before hurrying off the beach.
• • • • •
The journey to the coast of England is supposed to be a long one; the subway itinerary estimates about an hour and a half. However, Harry makes the ride feel much shorter, involving me in his people-watching games.
"I've got the perfect story for this one," he eagerly whispers, glancing back at a couple in their thirties sitting four rows behind us. "They met online a few years back and their first date was something disgustingly cliche. Oh! Like a coffee shop. Then he found out that she collects Cabbage Patch Kids, I mean loads of them. Every room in her flat has at least twenty shelves of these chubby dolls. Even the kitchen! He was properly creeped out so he wanted to dump her, but they've already moved in and she pays most of the utility bills... and she's got a nice bum. And now they're on their way to a vintage toy shop to look for more dolls to add to her collection."
I bite my lips together, trying to suppress my laughter. "Jesus, Harry," I whisper. "How did you come up with all that from the most ordinary-looking couple in the world?"
"Imagination is all it takes. Here, you try." He nods in the direction of a man engrossed in a newspaper sitting with a young boy and girl, who are silently reading the signs and ads on the wall.
"It looks like a dad and his kids," I say with a shrug.
"No, no, no. You're too logical," he says. "Try something like... the man found these kids unattended at a grocery store and lured them in by saying he has free puppies at his home. But secretly, he's kidnapping these kids and holding them for ransom."
I give him a horrified look. "I like the dad and kids one much better," I say.
He rests his cheek on his palm and looks at me like I'm a terminal cancer patient. "The point is not to tell a true story," he says. "It's to tell a wild one."
The train stops and in walks a group of five college-aged girls and one guy. "They're all yours," Harry says with a dimpled, encouraging smile.
I give it a go, using his "imagination" advice.
"So," I begin as a plot grows in my brain. "The boy has a crush on one of the girls but she says she just wants to be friends. He thinks he's being friendzoned when in reality, she's a time-traveller from the year 2075 and assassinates all the US presidents who have ever been assassinated and then frames random people for the crime. She's also immortal because she was bit by a radioactive snail when she was a baby so her real age is something in the 400s. Anyways, she needs to stay friends with him because he's moving to the US soon and he's going to have a son, who, in 50 or so years, will become the next president she has to assassinate."
Harry stares at me, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes sparkling with a new kind of adoration. A few seconds pass before he says anything.
"Good lord, what a fucking story," he commends.
I flash him a satisfied smirk and take a small bow.
When I scan around, I realize that we've come up with ridiculous backgrounds for everyone in our car. There's nobody left and we're both quiet again, listening to the train rumble on the tracks.
"Can snails even bite?" Harry asks after a while.
I shrug and we both bend over in laughter. Almost every passenger turns their head and stares at us, judging us or simply baffled by us. I couldn't care less either way. Harry looks at me through squinted eyes, still laughing uncontrollably, and I can tell he doesn't either.
When we get to the beach, Harry's prediction turns out true. There is absolutely no sign of anyone on the long, sandy shore. I see his point in wanting to come here on a day like this. It's a completely different scenery when it's not littered with screeching kids or hairy, overweight men.
We tread through the sand with our shoes swinging from our fingers and come across a large log that's been split in half. In front of it, there's a couple burnt twigs and scarce, dissipated ash, probably a bonfire that's been long deserted.
"How incredible is this?" Harry remarks, sitting on the half-log and gazing out at the sea.
I take a seat beside him and look up at the pale gray sky. "It would be nice if it were actually warm, too," I chuckle.
"Well, would you rather be here," he says, waving at our environment, "or at work?"
My eyes fix on the foamy water rolling onto shore. It licks the wet sand over and over, sometimes leaving behind fragments of seashells. In the distance, a sailboat lazily floats across the horizon. Aside from the crashing of waves, it's serenely silent.
"That's a tough one," I say, pretending to be torn.
A subtle smile plays on his lips and he slides closer. I sense some hesitation as he begins to wrap an arm around me, and he ends up leaning on them instead.
"The beach always reminds me of Gellan," I say softly.
"Who's that?" he asks, matching my tone.
"My brother. Late brother."
I've never fully understood that phrase. Why are the deceased referred to as "late"? What are they late for? It's such a strange euphemism, and feels even stranger to use in reference to Gellan.
"I'm so sorry," he says gently. "What happened?
"Drunk driver," I say, not bothering to hide my bitterness. "That asshole made it out alive while my brother didn't even make it to seventeen."
I take a deep and steady breath of the salty ocean air. Harry doesn't say anything while he slowly strokes my hand.
"When we were both little, we'd go to the beach all the time," I recall, smiling. "He loved to bury me in the sand. Sometimes I'd make him carve out a mermaid tail and call me Princess Ariel."
"Ariel, huh? I pegged you as more of a Snow White or Belle," he says.
"Shut up, I'm telling a story," I say.
He presses his lips together and makes a zipping motion over them, but I have a feeling it won't last long.
"One time," I proceed, "on a really crowded day, he buried me up to my neck. I remember the sand was so warm, I wanted to just take a nap. He told me to stay put while he ran to find some seashells to decorate me with. He didn't come back for almost an hour."
Harry's green eyes widen in shock. "Did you stay there the whole time?"
"Well, yeah. What else is a four-year old gonna do when her older brother tells her to stay put?" I say.
"Whenever my sister used to boss me around, I'd call her a poopyhead and run away. I still do sometimes."
I can almost picture it exactly, a teeny rebellious toddler with a mop of brown curls, refusing to listen to anyone who tells him what to do.
"It's different for girls, I guess," I say. "It didn't feel that long anyway. I made up animals friends out of the shapes in the clouds and gave them names and everything."
"Do you remember any of their names?" Harry asks.
"Not at all. I was so little."
"So what happened when Gellan came back?"
"Oh, my god," I begin to laugh, "he looked so scared. He'd been running around all over the beach because he forgot where he buried me. It also didn't help that only my head was visible."
Low thunder rumbles from a distance. The clouds overhead appear ominously thicker than before.
"Should we go?" I suggest. "It looks like it's about to rain."
"In a minute. I wanna hear the rest of your story."
So I continue.
"He apologized over and over and was like, 'Please don't tell Mom and Dad!' I don't think I really understood what he did wrong so I was just like, 'Okay. Let's go swimming now!' And to this day, I've never told my mom and dad."
The thunder roars again, sounding closer and louder this time. We look up at the dark billows and I feel a drop of water splash on my nose. Harry looks over and before he can wipe it off, it starts to pour.
I jerk my hood up over my head. The raindrops pummel down at us as we dash through the sand, back in the direction we came from.
"Hold on a second," Harry says, suddenly coming to a halt. I stop with him and glance down. Somehow his hand has found its way into mine.
"What? What's wrong?" I ask, shivering.
"How disgustingly cliche would it be if we kissed in the rain right now?" he asks.
Harry locks onto my gaze, grinning at me mischievously. Little brown curls lay flat on his forehead while water drips down his nose and lips, his intoxicating, tantalizing, lips.
He catches me staring and I force myself to quickly recover.
"Very, very, disgustingly cliche," I answer, before hurrying off the beach.
Notes
Hi everyone, thanks so much for all your kind comments :) I think I'm gonna start updating on a schedule so would you guys prefer updates every Mon/Wed/Fri or Fri/Sat/Sun? Let me know in the comments! ♡
@twelve
Thank you so much! Means a lot. xx
5/12/14