Harry Styles

Peace;
by definition it's freedom from disturbance; tranquillity.

That's all I want — peace.

Peace;
a valuable people take for granted.

Peace;
something I'll never get to experience whilst being in the spotlight.

Peace;
something a bottle of whiskey I'm emptying at this very moment can't even offer.

Peace;
a state I'm currently interrupting by banging on people's doors and trying to figure out which apartment is Amber's.

Don't blame me —
I couldn't sleep.

Right after the show in New York, we got into a plane back to Los Angeles, and I didn't miss the opportunity to enjoy the bar's bonuses by washing down the disappointing feeling of my performance with whiskey.

I'm a fucking mess.

Even though the disturbing images of my performance kept playing in the depths of my sanity, I couldn't get my mind off the fact Amber's been quite distant lately. Not that we're close or anything, it's just weird how we went from joking to avoiding in an instant. As her friend, it is my duty to understand what's wrong, right?

When I was in my dressing room after the disastrous show, I thought she was going to give me a pitiful look and try to tell me a bunch of bullshit about how great the performance was — just like everybody else before her did.

I hate when people lie to me like that.

Instead, I was greeted with the most understanding look, which surprisingly made me feel somewhat okay, though it got washed away when we set foot back in LA.

After the plane landed, I went home trying to doze off, but the thought of her avoidance couldn't stop me from tossing and turning. Maybe it's the jetlag. Or maybe actually I did something to upset her?

So here I am, a few hours after our flight, trying to get the answers haunting me inside the flat complex I walked her home to after the party we met for the second time.

Now, the tricky part is figuring out the number of her apartment. Shouldn't be hard, right?

I inhale a deep breath, and finally decide to gently knock on a random door. A few seconds which feel like an eternity pass by, as I'm being met with utter silence.

Well, I'm off to a good start.

I finally move on to the next one, banging heavier than I did on the last door. After impatiently tapping my foot on the complex's grey tiles, I find the doorbell button and hold it for longer than necessary, in case they didn't hear me.

Silence.

Why is nobody answering the door?

I let out a huge sigh, and contemplate whether or not it's worth the hassle. Should I just quit?

This is really testing my patience.

I take 2 or 3 steps back to exit the building, but turn back when I notice a staircase steeping for a few stories. I annoyingly click my tongue in the back of my mouth, currently having a mental debate if I should give it a chance.

After a few moments of me standing next to the railing like an idiot, I make a pact with myself to try one more door. If they don't answer, I leave. As simple as that.

I move a staircase higher and start with ringing the doorbell this time.

Silence.

I determinedly attach my knuckles onto the wooden door a bit louder multiple times, but get met with absolute silence.

Well, this is my cue to leave.

My stomach slowly fills with agitation with each stride I make toward the stairway. I heavily make a single step down the huge staircase, but stop dead when I hear some shuffling behind the wooden door.

The noise ceases for a minute, making me stand frozen in place and wonder if it was my mind playing tricks on me.

A small shuffle erupts from that way again, so I quickly rush to attach my ear to the cold door, and notice the noise being followed by small, limping steps.

I manage to disengage my cheek from the door in time when it finally opens, as it almost hit my forehead. I instinctively hide the bottle of whiskey behind my back, trying my hardest to look sober by straightening my back and running a hand through my hair to make it more presentable.

I take a single step back when the door opens completely, revealing a completely gray-haired woman in her mid-eighties, wearing a floral-print nightgown and fuzzy slippers, the soft yellow light behind her revealing a small garden of plants and flowers.

"Good evening, miss." I try to hide my slur, remembering to keep a straight posture.

"Sugar, I'm afraid it's not evening anymore." She fixes her glasses, checking the numeral watch on her wrist. "It's 3:41 am, honey." She explains in a kind voice, her Southern accent being very prominent right now.

Oh. That explains why nobody was answering the door.

"Oh. I'm sorry, miss. I was wondering if you could tell me which apartment is Amber's," I slur, and don't miss the way she narrows her eyes at my bad act of sobriety.

"And who would you be?" She fixes her thick glasses once more to scan over my tall frame, letting out a confused hum.

"I'm H-her friend," I try to sound as polite as possible, only to earn a disapproving headshake from her.

"You're that Reece boy, aren't you?" She sighs, her Southern tone growing a little defensive, as she looks offended now that she supposedly knows my name.

Who the fuck is Reece?

"She's told me a lot of unpleasant things about you, Reece. I'm afraid you're not welcome here." She sighs heavily, and I open my mouth to interject, but she lifts her index finger in the air, silently telling me to let her finish. "She's almost done paying for that fool Brandon's bills, is that the reason you're here?"

What bills is she talking about?

"Dear Amber's got a good heart. I mean, she brings me butter cookies every week, and we solve crossword puzzles over tea together. So I'm practically begging you to not break darling's spirit again. She's barely back on her feet after what you did." She continues talking to me like I'm someone named Reece.

What the hell?

"Miss, I'm sorry, but I'm not Reece. My name's Harry." I watch her eyes light up at the mention of my name, almost as if she's been told a lot about me.

"Oh! My bad!" She giggles, and I notice her smile missing a tooth, explaining the small lisp she has in her voice, "It's the 13th door."

"Thank you so much! Have a nice... morning." I struggle to find the right words, as she mutters a small, "Lord have mercy," before flashing me a faux smile and closing the door right before my nose. I hear the lock on her door twist, as the same heavy steps get less and less audible, indicating her absence.

The 13th apartment.

I climb a staircase higher, and reach the 6th door, feeling out of breath already.

For fuck's sake.

Of course. Out of all apartments, she chose the one on the highest floor.

I exhaustingly move up three more stories, as the alcohol in my system takes a toll on me, and my legs start to feel limp causing me to fumble over the steep steps.

Get yourself together, dickwit.

I fight my way to the highest storey, completely out of breath, as my feet function as obstacles, making me trip over my untied shoelaces multiple times. I pant as hard as ever, clutching onto the glass bottle in my hand, and reaching for the doorbell with the other, but then halt my movement when I remember it's a bit over 3 am.

Surely, she must be sleeping by now.

Well, fuck me.

I turn back to the staircase, exasperatedly letting out a huge sigh and looking down at the multiple flights leading to the main door downstairs. There's no fucking way I'll make it back without falling.

I glance back to her door with the metal symbols '13' glued to it, the '3' bent to the side a bit, as I press my ear on the hard door, hearing muttered chatter and laughter behind it like the noise is coming from a TV program.

I decide to ring the doorbell after all, so I hold the button for the longest time, as the noise becomes almost unbearable, and I only let go of it when I hear the voices stop and light footsteps hesitantly lead the way to the door.

Multiple locks twist open, before she timidly opens the door just a small crack, peeking her nose through the tiny space to figure out the cause of the noise.

Once she realizes it's me, she lets out a small sigh of relief, and opens the door a few more inches wider, revealing her confusedly grimaced face formed by a few strands of chocolate curls fallen out of a messy bun, as she's wearing an old, oversized Hello Kitty shirt paired with jersey shorts.

She raises her eyebrows in anticipation when neither of us say anything, as I scan over her features once more, seeing a layer of sweat formed on her forehead, dark circles under her eyes, and flushed red cheeks making her look like she's just ran a marathon.

"Cute PJs," I point to her shirt with the white cat surrounded by a bunch of hearts, as her puffy red eyes shoot everywhere like she's struggling to snap back into reality.

"How much have you had to drink?" She insecurely tugs on her shirt, her voice being the raspiest I've ever heard it be; breaking in the middle of words, almost like she's just been screaming her heart out.

I draw my thumb and index finger together, leaving minimal space between the two, and lift them to show her the supposed amount I've drunk, only to earn a heavy sigh from her.

"Jesus Christ, Harry." After a moment of contemplation, and anxious fingertip drums on the doorframe, she finally opens her door widely — an invitation inside her flat.

I take the offer, making a timid step inside after wiping my shoes on her doormat with the words 'Live. Laugh. Leave.' imprinted on it.

She takes a few steps backward, as I follow her strides, and scan over the space, instantly bursting out in laughter when I see about a dozen pairs of Crocs in every colour of the rainbow starting from red to black displayed on a shoe rack.

"Why am I not surprised you have a whole collection of Crocs?" I take a few steps further in the apartment, the scent of cinnamon and peppermint getting more persistent with each stride I make.

Of course she has her house smelling like Christmas all year long.

"Please, you haven't seen my collection of sunglasses yet." She leads me to what I suppose is her living room where I'm met with multiple shelves covered with every shade of sunglasses you could ever imagine.

About 50 pairs of groovy glasses are sitting colour-coordinated on the shelf starting from rimless heart-shaped hot reds, to whimsical wavy beach blues.

I reach for a pair of yellow spectacles, but she snatches them from my fingers and rests them on the bridge of her nose, the lenses a bit too big for her, so she has to drag them up a bit with her index finger every once in a while.

"The yellow ones are mine," she giggles before removing a hot-pink pair from the collection and puts them on top of my head.

"Thanks." I adjust the spectacles a bit. "I didn't think you'd be awake by now." I express my wonder, walking to her open-planned kitchen, as she makes her way to the couch, pressing play on the TV remote to continue the halfway watched episode of Friends, 'The One with Pheobe's Cookies'.

"I couldn't sleep," she nonchalantly says, her voice still raspy from whatever she was doing.

"Plus, I didn't think you'd come here in the middle of the night." She spitefully backfires, as I drag my fingers over the kitchen countertops, and put out the Christmas-scented candle with two of my fingers, then rest the glass bottle of whiskey next to a vase full of tulips and a bowl filled with the colourful, fruity hard-candy on her island.

"Or come here in the first place..." She monotonously continues when I don't reply, as her eyes stay glued to the screen in front of her.

"I couldn't sleep either." I take about five long strides, and reach the couch she's sitting on the right side of, plopping down onto the left side of it, creating a three feet distance, both of our sights narrowed to the show now.

"But here we are," I shrug, finally turning my head to look at her, as my fight against the multiple staircases have sobered me up a bit.

She senses my change of vision and turns her head to the left, making our eyes meet, as the tint of the yellow sunglasses fit perfectly with the shade of red that hasn't left her cheeks since the moment I stepped into her apartment.

"But here we are." She confirms, taking a cheeky glance over my face, then clearing her throat after letting out a shaky breath and turning back to the TV right when a loud fit of laughter erupts from it.

'And you'll be topless?' Joey's voice echoes from the television set, as I rest my head on top of the small couch, feeling quite drowsy, but then get reminded why I came here in the first place.

"Amber," I turn my head to hers, making her do the same, and watch her eyes await for me to continue. "What's going on?" I earn a sorrowful sigh from her, as she instantly knows what I'm referring to.

"I don't know." She frustratingly rubs her face with her hands, "It's just that... You've got an album release coming up and I don't really know if it's a good idea for me to be seen with you." She tries to put the words correctly, somehow sounding like it's somebody else that's come up with the statement.

Is she ashamed of me?

"I don't get it. But you're working with me," I try to see where she's going with this, as my sentence seems to light her eyes up a bit for whatever reason.

"I know, but the tabloids say otherwise." She backfires but her tone isn't as confident as it was mere seconds ago.

"Fuck the tabloids, honestly. Every woman I've seen with gets tied into the headlines with my name next to them. I'm sorry you have to go through this as well. But now that everyone's seen you performing in the band, there's no question why we're seen together." I shrug, turning back to the TV after she does the same.

"I mean, you're right. It doesn't matter anyway because I've already made a promise to myself to not let them affect me." She sighs, her tone being much lighter. "Just forget that ever happened, then." She removes the yellow-lensed glasses from her nose and rests them on top of her head.

'Nestle Tolous,' Phoebe says in a French accent from the TV.

I look to my side to see Amber quietly mouthing every line in the show as if she's watched the episodes hundreds of times. Then I scan over her pink Hello Kitty shirt and stifle a laugh.

Please, she's undeniably a Phoebe.

A few minutes of us sitting there in silence go by, and I start to get sleepier with each second passing by. I got my answers, but I have no idea why I haven't left yet.

I watch Amber's hands on her thighs fiddle with a white-beaded bracelet next to the golden one I gave her.

The width of her couch gives us very little distance, so as a drowsy wave overcomes my hollow mind, I've got no choice but to drunkenly rest my head in her lap, making her enticing hands involuntarily get attached to my curls.

"What are you doing?" She gives me a weird look, impulsively raising a single eyebrow, as the rest of her body stays frozen in place, and I notice her voice slowly becoming stronger and less raspy.

"You know, I could see myself being Joey." I try to steer clear of the question by telling her which Friends character I could be, because frankly, I don't know the answer to her question either.

"You can't fall asleep on my lap, Harry," she states, a slight hint of panic in her voice, yet she does no action to remove me.

"I mean, Joey's quite charming, and funny... he's also very serious about his food..." I list the traits he has, putting the pink-lensed glasses she gave me on the bridge of my nose, not earning an answer from her, as we both look ahead to the widescreen, and continue to watch the show, the picture falling rose-tinted now.

Moments of quiet tension go by and I feel her hand under my head move, and just when I think she's going to push me off, she faintly brushes her palm against the tips of my curls, the touch being barely perceptible, but surely there.

I move around in her lap a bit so that my head gets pressed up against her hand a little firmer, as we don't share eye contact at all. She takes my movement as an invitation to let her fingers get lost deep in my curls, so she gently digs them in my mess and twists a single lock around her finger, only to continue massaging my scalp in circling motions.

I lift my eyes to look at her through my rose-coloured glasses and see her still watching the show, but automatically continuing to attach feathery touches in my curls like it's an instinct.

My sight is still attached to her features when I start to feel sleepier with each delicate touch she applies to my locks, making me enter small paradise. Though, I'm forced to exit it when her hand gets removed from my feathery bliss.

"Why'd you stop?" I try to figure out the motive, already feeling colder with the absence of her hands.

"I told you, you can't fall asleep here." She finally breaks free of me, standing up and going to the kitchen to grab a single hard candy.

"Plus, you can't be Joey." She continues, taking out her messy bun and removing the yellow glasses from the curls shooting in every direction, perching them on top of her nose once again.

"Why not?" I stand up, walking over to the kitchen island, and drag my fingertips across a stack of crossword puzzle journals.

"Because... he's my favourite."

***

alright alright I'll stop with the Friends references... maybe

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