Anonymous asked: What’s Harry like when he’s drunk?

I was about 99.99% sure that I was dying.

Something was going on in my stomach that didn’t agree with the rest of my body, and so the two systems were casually nuking each other while I clung to my pillows for dear life.

The other 0.01% of me figured that I must have been giving birth right in the middle of my bed, but that was highly unlikely—I think I would have noticed.

I just needed to throw up. Or take drugs. Either was fine.

I had my eyes squeezed shut, but I could see a shadow cross what would have been my line of sight. “Are you alright?” Harry asked.

Quite a bit of time must have passed since he asked me that because when I opened my eyes I noticed that he had changed clothes. Instead of casual wear, he was dressed in darker clothes and his hair was swept up like he had just been to a photo shoot. “Can you bring me my purse?” I asked meekly. My throat was dry, my stomach hurt, my legs ached, and I just wanted to get whatever was in me out.

“Erm... Which one?” he asked apprehensively.

“Céline,” I said. I named my bags after their designers, so sue me.

Harry knew who Céline was (she was my current obsession and I would have slapped him silly if he didn’t) and brought her to me. He looked at me with his eyebrows half raised, clearly unsure of how to deal with a sick woman.

Unfortunately I had to move my arms away from my pillows (one of which was currently squeezed tightly between my knees and chest as I remained curled in the fetal position) to dig through Céline’s contents. Dear God, please let there be some sort of medication in here. Please God, if my number is up at least let me numb myself first.

I almost cried tears of joy when my hand clasped around a travel tube of Midol. “Oh, thank you, God,” I praised. I groaned and sat up, reaching over and grabbing the cup of water that Harry brought me hours ago. I downed two pills with one gulp of water and fell back onto my side, trying to not think about the pain until the Midol kicked in.

Harry looked at me like I really was giving birth. I just stared blankly back at him because I didn’t have enough energy to do anything else. “Better?” he wondered.

“Ugh, no, not yet,” I said, focusing on the wall behind him because it hurt less.

He sat down on the bed next to me, and I could feel his eyes on me, “Do you want to go out tonight?”

My gaze shifted slowly to him and I studied his face—he looked serious, with big genuine eyes and eyebrows slightly quirked upward in question. “No,” I croaked. My stomach began to surge with pain again and I pushed the pillow forcefully into my abdomen.

“We’re going out tonight,” he said.

I closed my eyes again, “Whatever.” It would have been better to die alone, anyway: that way I could at least go in the quiet.

“No, no,” he corrected, “Get dressed, we are going out tonight.”

Furrowing my eyebrows, I squinted at him, “We are not going anywhere.”

“Oh, come on, Brycey,” he said, patting my hip, “You’ve been lying in bed all day—fresh air will do you some good.”

“I’ve been lying in bed all day because I’m dying,” I justified. “You have four other wingmen, you don’t need me.”

“Come on,” he repeated. He grabbed the tube of Midol and inspected the fine print, “It says here that you should start feeling relief in as soon as twenty minutes. Zayn can’t even do his hair in twenty minutes; you can be ready in time.”

I blinked a few times, really slowly, and then closed my eyes again, “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. You’ll have fun without me.”

“I won’t,” he declared.

Scoffing, I made the effort to roll onto my other side so I didn’t have to be bothered to look at him anymore. “You will. Is shagging someone really that important to you that you can’t wait a week? We may not be romantically attached, but my vagina doesn’t share. She’s classier than that. Besides, I think I’m getting the short end of the stick here.”

“Please,” he said haughtily, not believing me. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Come over here and let me hit you in the balls and then we’ll talk,” I grumbled. But even though I was dying going out actually kind of sounded fun. I pulled the blanket up and touched my feet to the ground. “Do I have time to take a shower?” I asked flatly.

He grinned. Or, at least I was assuming that he did because I wasn’t looking at him. “We’re leaving at ten,” he said brightly.

It was only like 8:45, and a shower would be the perfect time killer while I waited for the Midol to kick in. “Hey, Harry?” I asked.

He looked up at me curiously, “Hm?” He was sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees. His eyes looked big and bright, and his lips the softest shade of pink.

“Will you stay with me?” I asked. The way I said it sounded really sentimental, so to lighten it up I added, “Just in case I, you know…die in the shower.”

He smiled softly, “Sure.”

I didn’t die in the shower. As a matter of fact, showering felt really good—after lying in bed and dying all day it was really nice to get all of the germs off of me. I walked out of the steamy bathroom in a towel, and shrieked when I saw Harry lying in my bed and watching TV. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed, clutching the towel to my chest, “I thought you would have gone by now!”

He looked over at me casually, “You asked me to stay so I did. Hey, did you know that What’s-Her-Face from that one show slept with What’s-His-Face? The best friend’s boyfriend?”

I scoffed, “Yeah, I did. And don’t even try to pretend that you don’t follow Gossip Girl. Now get out, I need to get dressed.”

He didn’t make any effort to move, “I’ve seen it all before,” he said, referring to my body. “And I need to see how the episode ends.”

“Let me sum it up for you: blondie gets uninvited to the party, someone gets punched in the face, there’s an awkward goodbye, and that’s about it. Now go,” I insisted. Harry had seen me naked (duh) and watched me undress and redress, but this was a little too coupley for me.

“Can’t,” he said flatly, “Busy.”

I scoffed. Because I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, I fished a club outfit out from my suitcase and changed in the bathroom instead. We exchanged Gossip Girl commentary with Harry all the while. He got through almost another entire episode before I was ready (Because I guess ITV2 had nothing better to do than rerun Gossip Girl). When I walked out, my hair and makeup were done, my outfit was subtly sending messages not to hit on me because I would hit you, and my lipgloss (well, it was lipstick) was popping.

“How do I look?” I asked in a Brit’s version of a valley girl voice. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and gave Harry intense smolder-y gazes.

“Like a bombshell blonde,” he said, swinging his legs over the bed, “Let’s roll.”

---

When On Direction has a day off, usually three to four of them spend it sleeping off a hangover. Exciting, I know. But sleeping all day is usually really worth the night before. I learned this firsthand—the fun way. I mean, when you’re dying you have less fun than usual, but sometimes a good people-watch was what you needed.

I usually spent club adventures in a mildly inebriated haze, but after taking the Midol that meant that I was unable to consume alcohol for at least 12 hours. It was disappointing, but I was fine drinking virgin Rum & Coke’s (so, just Coke) and internally judging bitches. Normally I had cute guys and/or Harry to buy me drinks, though, and without company I was about ready to start dancing my heart out with someone who craved my attention. I liked clubbing because something exciting was always happening: you were never bored.

Being the sober friend wasn’t always bad, though. Eleanor and Danielle were still around (ugh) but sometimes Louis and Liam would give me little smiles or nods of endearment (well, Liam would) and I appreciated it. I always liked Liam—people said he reminded them of a puppy, but I couldn’t think of him that way after I learned of his huge package. But really, he was sweet and actually really hated the fact that he was famous. Liam loved his job, but he hated thinking of himself as hot shit, unlike most people. He wasn’t as innocent as people thought, though—I had heard him say some dirty things before.

Louis, on the other hand, was not exactly what I would call “sweet.” I guess he could be nice—everyone has their moments—but Louis and I never got along. We tried, for Harry’s sake, but really the only time we agreed on something was when it came to our mutual friend. When someone called him sassy they weren’t kidding. He was an abrasive kind of friend—the kind that got you to admit something no matter how uncomfortable you were with the subject, or how rude it was. But I guess we were on good terms sometimes—kind of like how The Plastics were okay at the end of Mean Girls.

As for Niall and Zayn, they were preoccupied with these two girls (because Niall was single and apparently so was Zayn) and trying to get them drunk a few seats down from me. They would probably be thankful that I stayed sober, because they were already on their second or third shots with these girls. At least they would think I was prettier.

Anyway, I had caught the eye of a superhot guy almost immediately after I had scanned the crowd for the people I was with. We were eye fucking so hard that I could feel myself being impregnated. He was wearing a snapback and a shirt that read “Let’s Get Wasted.” I mean, he was no Niall/Zayn, or even Harry, but sweet Jesus. His attitude was all “Fuck me or fuck off. Your choice” and I was DONE. Like, I was pretty sure that this was a sign from God Himself to get over my commitment issues and get married. ASAP.

After talking to the blokes he was with, he started making his way over to me. Oh my God.

As I was fixing my hair he approached me. He leaned in to shout in my ear (because it was fucking impossible to use a normal speaking voice in a club), and tapped the stool with his fingers. God his hands were huge. “Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“No, please, help yourself,” I said, bracing myself.

He smiled at me and I wanted to kiss him. On the dick. I swear, when he winked at me I literally melted. “I’m Nathan,” he said. Usually Harry set me up with randoms and they used some lame pickup line like, “my name is such-and-such, but you can call me tonight” so I was waiting for this, but when I glanced back at Harry he seemed pretty consumed in this girl he was grinding with, so maybe I got this one on my own.

I liked clubs because, even though you couldn’t hear anyone, you had to get really close to talk to them anyway. We were on our own respective barstools, but I could feel his knees tight on my thighs, and I was wearing a dress so it was like there was one layer between us. Remembering the inevitable masculinity of my name, I made a point to flutter my eyelashes. But not in an annoying kind of way—girl, I went to fashion school, I knew how to handle my body—in a feminine way. “I’m Bryce,” I shouted back.

Normally my type of guy was—well, black. (Wiz Khalifa, HELLO.) But that didn’t mean I couldn’t go for this magnificent beacon of chic; he would make a fine mate. “Are you here alone?” he wondered, looking around for anything remotely boyfriend-like/threatening.

“My friends are…” I paused, scanning the dance floor, “Around.”

He smiled, which made me smile. He said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

I almost said something along the lines of not needing to be drunk to go home with him, but I figured that that would be inappropriate and I was a lady. “That would be wonderful,” I said, “But I can’t drink.” Believe me, Nathan: I wanted you just as badly as you wanted me.

“Oh?” he wondered, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering himself one anyway, “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” I rushed, “I had a killer migraine earlier and I just took some Tylenol, so I need to wait until it’s out of my system.” Note: migraines are much sexier than cramps.

He nodded in understanding, “So, Bryce,” he said my name like it was the last thing he expected—I mean, I guess I kind of looked like a Bryce, but what the hell kind of name is that. “Where are you from?”

“Wales,” I said. My accent was a little jumped, since I spent the better part of my adolescence in England, but hopefully he found the fact that I was foreign attractive, “And England.”

“Oh yeah?” he wondered, sipping at his drink, “Where in England?”

“Cheshire,” I said, because most people had only heard of Holmes Chapel because of Harry and I didn’t want to be associated with him at the moment.

“I’m from Gloucestershire!” he said excitedly, “We’re neighbors. Sort of,” he let out a small laugh.

“Sort of,” I replied, “It’s rare that I meet people from the West. What brings you here?” I didn’t even know what fucking city we were in, but hey, small talk was small talk.

“Work,” he said, shrugging. “And what about a beautiful girl like yourself?”

“Oh,” I said, flattered, “My best friend’s in the music business and he’s on tour, and he asked me to go with him so here I am.”

“A musician friend,” he mused, “How interesting. Do I know him?”

The chances were that he did, but once I mentioned Harry things were going to go downhill. I knew this because it happened to me all the time in uni—once I told people that I was friends with Harry (which, honestly, I tried to avoid) all of the hipsters would be like, “Oh you’re associated with One Direction, that’s too mainstream” and that’s totally rude because you shouldn’t use someone’s biggest flaw against them. “You’ll never believe me,” I said, shaking my head.

“Try me,” he said, smirking.

“Harry Styles,” I said.

But he didn’t hear me, so I had to get closer (darn) after he asked, “What?”

“Harry Styles,” I said again. I almost regretted it.

“Of One Direction?” he wondered.

“That’s the one.”

He straightened up, smiling at me like he really couldn’t believe it. “Really,” he said interestedly. He glanced over at his friends and then looked back at me, “Do you want to dance?”

I liked dancing, and I liked the fact that the Harry thing was overlooked so easily. “I’d love to,” I said.

He took my hand (butterflies!) and led me out to the center of the floor, away from anyone I knew. We danced with his front to my back, grinding and dry humping like we were sixteen again. At some point I was turned around and we necked affectionately; I could taste his vodka tonic on his tongue as his hands touched the skin that was exposed from the cutouts of my dress. We still swayed back and forth, both of us really getting into it. I could feel myself getting attached to him and I even considered taking him back to the hotel room—management didn’t give a shit about me as long as I made the boys look good.

I minded my own business but kept an eye on anyone I recognized so I wouldn’t be left at the club alone. As Nathan and I were grinding, I made eye contact with Louis, oddly, who suddenly got wide-eyed and made a slit-throat motion. Eleanor was hanging on him which normally would have been annoying, but I couldn’t deny that her dress was super chic so I got over it. I firmly believed that clothing reflected who you were.

I mouthed, “What?” to him, and since Nathan was behind me he didn’t see.

“Harry,” he mouthed back. See? Just like The Plastics.

Clubbing was all fun and games, but when your drunken best friend with benefits ditches his date and decides to be a man for once in his life, things can get ugly. Fucking Harry felt the need to be a “hero” because apparently I looked “distressed,” but really I was about fifty shades of “furious.”

He danced his way over and looked at me skeptically, “Brycey, what are you wearing?! I can see your stomach!”

Wow, Harry. Thanks for pointing out something that I realized hours ago when I put the dress on—which you saw me do.

He was trying to cut in on me and Nathan, so I elbowed him away, “Who are you, my father?” I snapped, super annoyed at his cock blocking—it was so unlike him.

Nathan backed off and quit dancing because it was clear that Harry was drunk, and it was a safe bet to avoid confrontations with drunk people. Harry gave me a jokingly seductive smirk, “Daddy’s home.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I warned. I didn’t even want to go, and now that I was having a good time he was ruining it.

He was getting all up in my business. He put his hand on my back, so close to me that I could smell alcohol and girl’s perfume on his skin. “Sorry, mate,” Harry said to Nathan, taking my hands and wrapping both mine and his arms around my body so I would sway with him now. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Actually—” Nathan began. The two were matched in height, and even though Harry was a little broader, Nathan looked like he would be a fair match. The last thing I wanted was for a fight to start.

And then, the fucking asshole turned me around and kissed me, like I was his fucking girlfriend. I broke apart from him immediately and shoved him away before slapping him straight across the face. “What the fuck, Harry?” I shouted—not because the music was so loud that he wouldn’t hear me otherwise, but because this was some serious cause for shouting.

Nathan looked awestruck, “Sorry, mate, but I don’t think she wants you.”

“Excuse me,” he said, waving his arm with a finger pointed like he was trying to correct him, “But I think I know Bryce a little better than you do.”

He was making a hand gesture that suggested “a little bit” and squinting through the space at Nathan, who looked appalled.

“You’re drunk,” I said angrily, snatching his hand from the air. My blood was boiling—when I got drunk I didn’t feel the need to rescue a damsel in distress, so what the fuck was his problem?

“Me?” he asked innocently, pointing at himself, “Naaahhh.”

“Yaaahhh,” I mocked. “You need to go back to the hotel.”

He waved me off, “I’m fine.”

“No,” I said sternly, “Go find Louis. I’ll be there in a second.”

He crossed his arms, moping like he was a child, “Fine.”

I swear to God, I will kill him someday. “I am so sorry,” I stressed, turning back to Nathan, “I don’t know what his problem is.”

Nathan didn’t look amused, but he still spoke calmly, “It’s okay. Listen, do you think maybe I could phone you sometime? And then we could get together for drinks without your friend?”

“I’d like that,” I said. He was leaning down to talk to me, so my face was basically in his neck and oh my God he smelled so good.

I put my number in his phone and we kissed one last time before parting ways. I trudged over to the bar, where Harry was leaning against the counter talking with some girl. I grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him over toward the wall, where less people were standing, “What the fuck was that over there?!” I demanded.

“Oh, Brycey,” he slurred, “Let’s go to the bathroom.” He was practically purring, pulling my body against his and swaying with me. I couldn’t help but notice that our crotches we were joined at the crotch. “Faire l'amour,” he said into my ear before blowing softly.

I pushed him away but he still held my arms, “No, no sex. You’re drunk. Now I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” he asked brightly, like he thought I actually meant where he lived. Jesus Christ, this was like Prairie all over.

“To the hotel,” I said, “You need to sleep.”

“Brycey, will you sleep with me?” he wondered, leaning heavily on me as I led him toward the door.

“Sure,” I said absentmindedly. It was only fair that I made sure that he didn’t die in his sleep after he made sure that I didn’t die in the shower. “But no sex.”

“No sex,” he repeated.

Halfway between the exit and the wall we met up with Louis, who took one of Harry’s arms and shifted the drunkard from me to himself. “How is he?” he asked.

“Pretty far gone,” I said. Eleanor fell in step next to me and put her hand on my back. She was a touchy-feely type of person so she probably thought that it comforted me, but unless it was sexual I hated being touched.

“I saw what he did,” Louis said, “With Nathan.”

I looked at him curiously, “You know Nathan?”

“From The Wanted?” Louis said slowly, waiting for me to catch on. When I didn’t, he said, “You know, we have, like, a rivalry.”

Awkward. “I snogged him,” I said.

Louis nodded, “I know.”

“You snogged him?” Harry asked incredulously, looking at me. His eyes were crazy bloodshot. “Brycey, you’re not supposed to sleep with anyone else! That’s why I’m here!”

Shut up, Harry. Just shut up. “Harry, shut the fuck up!” I hissed.

“You two are—oh. Oh,” Louis said, clearly shocked. He blinked a few times in response. “You know he’s not allowed a girlfriend,” he said. It wasn’t so much of a question as it was a statement.

“I know,” I muttered, staring at the ground. Fuckity fuck. “I’m not big on relationships anyway.”

I guess it was okay if Louis knew—he and Harry were best friends and he probably would have found out eventually, but this was probably one of the most awkward encounters we had ever had. And I would have preferred if it stayed between Harry and I—I still hadn’t told my Tumblr followers, but boy, was I going to have a story for them.