You Have Me

Beth doesn't like Mondays. She's not too keen on Tuesdays or Wednesdays either. Frankly, she's not too happy with Thursday's or even Friday's. Then there's Saturday. It's supposed to be the best day--or maybe that's Friday--honestly Saturday is just as bad as Sunday.

Worst of all Beth hates that it starts over, because the last week wasn't enough.

****

It's midnight when she hears their flat door bang open, and then dramatically shut close. Beth wasn't sleeping. Beth doesn't sleep anymore. She doesn't even feel the drowsiness when Harry's out drowning himself in vodka or tequila or whatever he decides will fix his mood.

The television is on, the credits of a movie from the 50's are rolling on one of those channels, people usually forget they have. Beth doesn't even like these channels. She can make herself appreciate them if she has too, but preferably she'd rather just be one of those people who forget they exist.

Except she can't right now, because Beth has stopped watching the movies she owns; because they all remind her of the countless times she and Harry have watched them together curled up on their leather sofa, when things weren't so fucked up.

Beth has also learned to deal with loud clattering and random groans of pain, obviously from bumping into something hard.

Beth only ever gets a few minuets, before Harry stumbles to the living room--like a newborn calf--always slurring a "Bethhhhh," and then dropping his phone and keys on the floor, missing the coffee tabel. He lets his body fall onto the couch, squishing her legs, as she frowns, trying weakly to move them out from under him but almost always she's unsuccessful.

Beth's heart cracking when Harry looks up with big doe eyes. All she can manage is a small sigh and a sharp, "hi."

Harry grins and try's nuzzling against Beth, ignoring the way she is gently pushing against him. "What you watching?" He'll slur, almost sounding like a different language. Beth hates it. Hates the way Harry's eyes are wide and glassy. Hates that she can smell the alcohol all over him.

Whiskey tonight. That means Harry feels like shit, Beth notes.

She try's to pay attention back to the tv and says with a sad tone, "black and white movies." She doesn't want to focus on her pathetic attempt to be normal, or the stinging on her wrist.

Harry scrunches up his face, chuckling. Beth used to find that adorable. Beth used to find everything about Harry adorable. Now, Beth is trying not to hate him. "Mmmm, stellar Friday night, babe,” Harry mumbles wryly, hiccuping a bit.

Beth hates herself for thinking he's making fun of her.

Beth hates days like this. Hates that Harry can't even tell what day it actually is. "It's Wednesday," she says with a discreet roll of her eyes and a tired tone.

"Fuck, it is?" Harry asks confused, his entire face is set in a frown and he looks like a child trying to color inside the lines. Beth doesn't find it cute anymore. Finds it secretly, really sad that Harry's too fucked and drunk to comprehend anything. “Oh well, whatever, yeah?”

Beth doesn't think it's 'whatever' doesn't think she agrees at all. So instead she sighs heavily and shrugs. Apparently that's good enough for Harry; because he smiles and smacks a wet kiss to her cheek and nuzzles closer. Her body tensing automatically, without her permission.

"Thought about you," he starts, getting cut off by a hiccup, "tonight." He says after his hiccups have finished. Beth doesn't cringe, even though she knows many others would. She try's not to tense as he hitches up her t-shirt and rests his hand on the sides of her waist. His hand is hot and sticky with sweat despite having just come in from outside, and Beth is trying not think of the worst.

Lord knows it can't get worse.

"Okay." Beth says, not knowing what she's supposed to say.

Harry frowns again. Harry has been frowning a lot lately.

"Come on baby. Just let me love you right now." Harry pleads with her. "S'fine to let me love you." He slurs, rubbing small circles on her skin. Beth doesn't know what to do. Never knows what to do when his happens, even though recently it has been happening a lot.

His lips are on her before she can stop it. She just wants to move away. She wants to make tea and have Harry drink it until he's coherent and sane--well as sane--as Harry can be. She try's to move away, but doesn't get very far. He pulls away and lifts his head until their eyes meet. "Nooooo don't move away." Harry whines and try's to lean in again.

Beth doesn't let it happen again. Doesn't think she can handle it, if it does. She kisses his forehead instead and shuffles from his hold until she's free. "I'm going to make tea," Harry frowns up at her and grabs the bottom of her shirt. It doesn't scare Beth.

It startles her.

"I don't want teaaaa," Harry whines, letting the a' linger. "Want you. Want you back." Harry pouts, Beth's chest constricting and tightening.

"You need tea," Beth says adamant, and sad. At this point, Beth is almost sure Harry needs a lot of things. Things she doesn't know where to get. Just knows he needs them more than he needs her. "I'm going to ma-"

"I don't feel good," Harry says suddenly. Beth can see the way sweat is slowly forming on his forehead. Doesn't want to point out, that it's kind of gross. "M'gonna be sick."

"Bathroom then," Beth will say, as she helps Harry up, throwing her arm around his waist as she leads them as quickly as she can to the bathroom. As soon as they get there, Harry sprints to the toilet and doubles over and starts heaving. Beth cringes as she hears his sick hit the water. Cringes when Harry evidently starts dry heaving against the porcelain. "I'll be back with tea." Beth almost whispers.

She scurries off to their kitchen and begins boiling the water, trying her hardest not to cry, as she hears Harry sobbing loudly in the bathroom. Beth hates it when Harry cries, she loathes when Harry's anything that's not happy.

The water begins to wail and Beth secretly wishes it had taken longer. She lets the tea bags drown in the water and wishes she could join them.

She doesn't want to go back, doesn't want to see Harry with a puffy face a pink eyes. Doesn't want to see him leaning, lifeless against their toilet. Doesn't want to see Harry so messed up.

"Harry?" She asks quietly. Harry doesn't say anything back, only nods, his hand on his stomach. She walks forward and places the small cup by his thigh. "You okay?"

"Hmm," he says, and Beth doesn't miss the way he didn't answer straight. Knows it's because he's not okay. He hasn't been okay for a while. "You're too good for me, Beth."

Beth doesn't agree. She thinks the opposite actually.

"Are you okay to get up?" Harry nods and lethargically stands. He waits for Beth to follow him and then proceeds to sulk back into their bedroom. "Take your clothes off." Beth orders, Harry grinning back. It remind Beth of before. Of when Harry would smile at her, a smile that seemed it was only meant for her.

"You should take me to dinner first." Harry jokes, finally getting his pants down and his shirt over his shoulders.

"Drink your tea. It'll settle your stomach." Beth orders, knowing that if he doesn't, he'll end up back in the bathroom, hating life. Harry sips half and lays back with a groan holding his arms open waiting for Beth to nuzzle and make him feel safe. Beth shakes her head, not wanting to risk Harry throwing up all over her.

"Want you, Beth." Harry pleads, breaking Beth's heart even more. Beth gives in when Harry's eye glisten with water.

Harry sighs content when Beth lies down next to him, Harry curling half way on top of her, laying his arms over her. "I miss you. Miss you so much, Beth." Beth knows she can't see his face, can only see the top of his head. But she can still pick up on how sad he sounds. He sounds like someone had just killed his puppy.

"I'm here." Beth promises, but even she knows it's not enough.

"You're here--here, but you're not at the same time," Harry explains confusing Beth on new levels. "Your head is somewhere else. It's like..I don't know, Beth. I just miss you." Beth knows Harry's trying, that it probably doesn't mean much, considering how off his face, he is. "I love you a lot-lot."

Beth huffs out a slow breath and then Harry says it again, a bit louder this time and—he’s wrong, she think to herself, terribly wrong. Because it’s never been that Harry doesn’t deserve her, it’s always been that Beth didn't deserve Harry; Harry who made it his one and only goal in life to make her smile every day—every minute; Harry who held her close and safe whenever it felt like the world was coming crashing down.

Harry who never left but probably should have, because now she's messed him up too.

Harrys eyes are drooping closed now and his breath is heavy and leveled.

“You don't deserve to love me, Harry. You deserve to love someone better." She mumbles, pressing her face into His shoulder, “because you deserve better than me.”

Harrys silent, and Beth knows he knows she's right, that he's only here because he feels bad. She feels bad for her too. But then she hears a small, “couldn't love anyone else. There isn’t anyone better than you,” before Harry's body settles and his breathing is slow and normal.

Beth hopes Harry realizes he's wrong. That he can do better. Be better. That she's only making him worse, making a mess of their relationship. She prays that for his sake he'll figure it out and leave, even if she loves him ridiculously and hard.

Today's Wednesday and Beth is tired. Tomorrow's Thursday and Beth knows it won't be much better. Not when Harry loves the way vodka and tequila make him feel more than he loves Beth.

And Beth knows she hates Wednesday's and Thursday's. And she knows she'll end up hating Friday and Saturday as much as she hates Sunday.

Notes

Someone gave me this idea a few days ago and I couldn't resist! Remember you're all bae! This extra doesn't have to do with anything in particular it's just how I picture Harry coming home drunk and Beth trying to keep it together!