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He sends a smile to everybody who passes him, uttering an apology to each individual who knocks into him with their suitcase, though both are aware who is at fault.

"Sorry," he mumbles, as yet another man knocks into him with the bulky weight of his suitcase and almost sends his lanky frame flying off balance.

"Watch where you're going, punk!" a thick American accent fires at him, that of a short, stout man with a grey-black moustache and an outdated brown leather jacket. 

Harry only mutters another apology, picking up his pace and hurrying aimlessly along the white, polished floor of the airport.  He's anxious - he really hadn't thought this through. 

He catches sight of a small shop, seemingly less busy than the others which appear to be a sight of pure chaos. Instinctively, he heads towards it, edging towards the glass door of the open refrigerator inside of it. He pushes it open, eyes landing on a sandwich that didn't seem too fancy, a packet of crisps, (or chips, as they were labelled), and a bottle of water. 

He knows his black wide legged pants with thin white stripes are a statement, to say the least, and he knows that if the guys from school could see him now he'd be made fun of beyond comprehension, but he doesn't seem to mind. His black t-shirt is tucked in, hanging slightly loose, showcasing the cross around his neck and the unauthorised tattoos on his arms and hands, his ring-clad fingers drawing more attention than anything else - except for the pants, maybe. He wore his contacts today, a pair of black sunglasses pushed back into the waves of his hair. He collects his items, a brown leather bag on his arm and his suitcase dragging behind him as he heads for the till in hopes of paying.

Money had never been an issue for the 'Styles family. Harry's father had worked from the day he was able to until the day he wasn't, and the same went for his mother, Anne. Harry, too, had began work at the age of sixteen - not that Anne needed his help, but because he was someone who loved to give it wherever possible. 

Harry can't help but wonder if people are staring at him because of his bold fashion choices, or because of his accent as he speaks, making polite conversation with the young girl working the counter, as she scans through his items and takes his money.  He decides it isn't his accent, or maybe it's nothing at all - they hear different accents all the time; it's an airport, after all.

He takes his change and collects his food, sending her a smile and another 'thank you', and heading towards a corner table and setting his food down while taking a seat. He fishes for his phone in his pocket, bringing it out and now slipping his earphones in, selecting his favourite 'Pink Floyd' track. 

"Hey," the seat is suddenly occupied in front of him - a girl, she's pretty. Her hair is bleach blonde, her skin is naturally tanned with a glow to it. 

"Hello," Harry sends her a smile of uncertainty, unplugging his earphones after having them in for only a few seconds, placing his sandwich back into its packaging. She's a stranger, after all, who has just made herself comfortable in the seat opposite him.

"Travelling?"

He blinks, biting back a sarcastic comment. He's at an airport, isn't he? What else would he be doing? "Yes, are you?" he answers instead.

"I just arrived back here, actually, I'm from New York," she states, and he nods as if he's interested, "I was visiting family in Michigan."

"Oh," Harry nods again, "sounds fun?" he almost asks.

"You're not from around here, are you?" she brushes off his response, running her tongue over her bottom lip and allowing her eyes to scan him up and down. He shifts slightly in his seat, his discomfort growing a little more as he fidgets with his phone. "That accent," she's not finished, "London?"

"Manchester," he corrects politely, forcing his eyes to watch her own in hopes it will steer her gaze away from his body. His efforts are unsuccessful.

"Well," she finally brings her eyes to his face, and he narrows his eyes slightly while still maintaining his efforts to be gracious, "if this is your first time here-" he jumps slightly as she brushes her leg against his own, his discomfort increasing by the second.

"It isn't," he lies a little too quickly, and she bites back a smirk in response.

"I'll show you around," she says suggestively, and he's had enough. He wouldn't dare be rude, and so he only shifted further back and began to gather his things.

"That's lovely of you to offer, but, um," he swings his bag back onto his shoulder, standing up from his chair after stuffing his bag of crisps and his drink into his bag. He slips his phone along with his earphones into the pocket of his trousers, and puts his sunglasses on properly, now, "I need to get going."

"So soon?" she pouts, and he nods, still slightly taken aback by the forwardness of her actions. It was already like nothing he'd ever experienced back home, such persistence in such a short period of time.

"Mhm," he hums, sending her another smile, "have a nice day." And with that he's walking, his bags carried behind him as he heads towards the other end of the room in embarrassment.

He's not a virgin. It's a common misconception - people throughout high school tended to assume such, that somebody who wandered around with a camera, had cheeks that flushed at mere eye contact and spent his lunches in the library would never have laid hands on a girl. But in fact, he had on more than one occasion. He'd never had a girlfriend, but he'd had sex twice, and neither had been great, neither girl with an ounce of kindness in their hearts.

Harry politely asks for a cab at a desk in the corner of the room, and the man behind the desk informs him after asking for his name and making brief phone call that they have one available outside, and the driver would meet Harry at the door. He thanks the man, heading towards the double glass doors of the airport. 

"Harry Styles?" this is the first time he's heard his name spoken in any accent other than an English one, disregarding the man at the desk.

"Yes, that's me," Harry responds, this driver clearly not the friendliest of the bunch.

Without another word, he turns to walk outside, Harry closely following suit as the cool air whips at his skin, his sunglasses unnecessary but still over his eyes. 

The driver clears his throat as Harry reaches for the door handle of the car they've stopped at, having put his luggage into the trunk. Harry frowns, eyes landing on a steering wheel and peddles, quickly remembering the difference in layout of cars compared to the UK.

His cheeks go bright red as he quickly scurries over to the other side of the car, and the driver lets out a humourless chuckle in response.

"Welcome to New York, kid."

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