“This is a sweet little trailer, isn’t it?” You cooed softly, standing in the doorway of the trailer set up on the location of the Dunkirk set, the name Styles printed in black print in a plastic sleeve hanging from a pin. The wind catching beneath it and blowing it upwards, a rustling sound being hear from behind you as it fluttered in the wind. His body hunching over to prevent his neatly styled hair from being messed up and flattened by his head just inches from the ceiling, his clunky and chunky black boots tied tightly to his feet as he stepped around the little room. “You don’t spend a lot of time in here, do you?”
“Not really. I prefer being outside or sitting around on the set,” Harry smiled, reaching for an apple set in the fruit bowl set upon the counter beside the sink, a used glass turned upside down on the draining board from when he had poured himself a glass of water earlier. “It’s pretty neat, isn’t it? A bit small f’me but it’s pretty neat.”
He was tall, there was no lie.
But it suited him.
It was homely and he had little trinkets settled around as reminders of who had had waiting for him at home; hanging from the curtain rail was a hoodie his mother had gifted him one afternoon after researching how cold France could get, a little frame with himself and Gemma from a recent trip to Los Angeleswas set up on his counter top and a little picture of the two of you was resounding on his coffee table – a picture from a date he had treated you too the night before he left, taking you to an old Italian-style restaurant where you munched on pasta and drank expensive wine. It felt just like home to him and he planned to keep it that was as much as he could to give him a sense of who he was going home to after filming had finished as well as who was waiting for his arrival home. And with him being the neat-freak he was, it was kept clean and proper and his clothes were folded after he had swapped them for his costume which he would spent hours in, up until the scenes were perfected.
“It’s pretty neat indeed, Peaches,” you grinned, stepping further into the room, and closing the door with a slam behind you. “Have you got any more scenes to film today? I can go back to the hotel, I don’t mind. I’ve got calls to make,” you suggested, watching as he sunk his teeth into the red apple in his hand.
“No, no. I want to spend some time with you now that you’re here,” he whined, falling to the small sofa over beneath the window of the trailer. “Come sit with me. I’ve missed you.”
You’d not seen him for almost 2 months and know that he’d finally arrived in Dorset, Swanage, you took it upon yourself to drive the couple of hours from London to see him in his attire, catching up with him and asking him all the questions his mother had been swamping you with. He had wanted you to visit for such a long time, but with your work needing you to stay in London, you had difficulty fining time to fly to Dunkirk or Urk. And making a compromise to Harry, he had finally agreed to see you once he landed and stepped foot in the UK.
And once he’d seen your car parked up in a parking space of those allocated for the crew members or the cast members, or even the family members and loved ones coming to visit now there was easy access to see them, he was clingy and by your side the entirety of his time behind the scenes. When he wasn’t in front of the camera, speaking his lines that you had heard him rehearse over Skype, he had his arm around you as he took you on a tour around the background scenes – much like what others would do when they were off scenes. You weren’t the only loved one to visit, with Fionn’s family taking a trip from the Midlands and Tom Hardy’s wife and son had taken it upon themselves to visit now that they had time off – begging to see his dad on a daily basis leading up to the time the cast arrived in Swanage, as you had heard Charlotte explain once the man had engulfed his son into a hug.
“When is your next scene?”
“Probably tomorrow morning. I have to be up bright an early tomorrow, so, I want to get as much time in with you as I can,” he admitted, patting the sofa cushion beside him with his free hand, the apple clutched tightly in his other with his elbow set up on the armrest. “Come sit with me. I know there’s no television or anything but we can make small talk. Catch me up on what I’ve missed back in London.”
“You honestly haven’t missed much,” you admitted, perching yourself down on the sofa cushion beside Harry and settling yourself into his side. His arm thrown across the back of the sofa with his hand draped over your shoulder, the itchy and felt-like material of his soldier uniform scratching at the nape of your neck showing from your t-shirt. “All you’ve missed is a little family dinner I went on with your mum and Robin and Gemma and I babysat Lux for a few days when Lou went to Greece until Tom came and collected her.”
Lux had originally wanted her Uncle Knobhead to look after her, but she was too young to understand why he was away for such a long time doing something that didn’t include singing or dancing horrendously to entertain people. When it came to her joining them on tour, it became understanding because she was with him. She saw him everyday and he was there to take her around backstage when Lou became busy with everything hair related; and he took her everywhere until he had to be taken off to the stage area to give the performance all of the fans in the venue.
“You babysat Lux? How was she? I miss her,” he admitted softly, biting from the apple and crossing his boot-clad ankles over one another, resting the heels on the coffee table.
She was his partner in crime. And the two were mischievous together. And he missed her no matter where he was.
“She’s good. She misses her Uncle Knobhead but I promised she could come round and see you when you came back from filiming,” you smiled, resting your head back against his shoulder. The smell of grime and grease and a damp smell from his wet hair melding together into an aroma of him, a distinct waft of his cologne lingering upon his skin. “What have I missed though? How is all of this for you?”
“It’s absolutely fantastic. It’s such a great experience and getting praise for something I’ve never considered before it just such a great feeling,” Harry began, a smile on his lips, the juice from the apple dribbling down his chin. Your finger reaching up and swiping away at the dip of his chin to discard the sticky juice, his skin soft and stubble-free. “I miss you and everything, but, it’s a different feeling than being on tour. I’m away from you for so many months but I’m not country-hopping. I’m staying in one place, working on something amazing,” he grinned, pressing his lips against the pad of your fingertip. A disgruntled groan leaving your lips as you retreated your hand from his mouth.
“Are you enjoying it? Your mum asked me to ask you,” you wondered, your hand resting upon his thigh, squeezing at the covered flesh softly. A smile twitching at his lips. “She wants to make sure you’re not too far above your head and she wants to make sure you’re okay and safe and enjoying yourself.”
“I’m having a wonderful time. I really am. Everything is great and the film is coming together so well,” Harry smiled, “it’s just incredible to be part of something that is reenacting a major part in history. We had to have some kind of history lesson before we started all of this, you know when I had to miss out on our date that one time back in London?” You gave him a swift nod and a smile, shuffling in your seat. “We learnt all about the evacuation of Dunkirk and what happened and I felt like I was back at school.”
“You never studied history, did you?”
“I actually wanted to be a lawyer. You’d have a pretty smart boyfriend right now if he went to college and university to study law,” he smirked, nudging his elbow into your side and chuckling as he nudged your body softly. “Seriously, I could have been your lawyer if you ever ended up in court. And your reckless drunkenness would most definitely end you up in court,” he teased, a gasp leaving your lips as you swatted at his thigh.
He’d accompanied you on many nights out – whether it was an impromptu date with him where you suggested a new club, or whether it was an invite out with the boys and their ladies – and he had seen a side that you never let escape on a frequent basis. A side created oomph music and alcohol that would be brought on a loop for you by Harry or someone who had offered to by the round of drinks for everybody, yet it was a side that Harry enjoyed thoroughly because it brought your humorous side out into the open, discarding the shy and closed personality you sported normally.
“Unbelievable. I’m not a reckless drunk, thank you very much,” you grumbled, a snort leaving his mouth as he set the bitten and finished apple core on a coaster upon the coffee table. “You’re worse as a drunk anyway. You dance on the tables and sing awfully, which is ironic because you’re a pretty fantastic singer,” you grinned softly, his arm snaking around your waist as he pulled you comfortably closer to his side. The envision of Harry and Kristen Wiig dancing at a party still on your mind, his alcohol intake being something he was willing to risk that night.
“We’re a pretty reckless pair when it comes to being drunk, for sure,” he teased, his tongue escaping between his lips and licking over his flesh to remove any sticky juice that had been left behind on his tongue. “We should go out on the town, maybe along the Dorset strip. Take a few crew members out. I’m sure Tom would love to come out and have a drink with us,” Harry smirked, your cheeks blushing as you buried your face into his shoulder. “What are you getting embarrassed for, Gorgeous?”
“Tom Hardy is so fit, Harry,” you sighed softly, your face pressed against his collarbone.
A third husband, if you will – with Harry taking the first and Louis taking the second – and Harry knew about that. Yet he still enjoyed to the teasing that came along with it.
“Oi, what about me?”
“You’re still fit, but come on. How can anyone turn down Tom Hardy if he asked them for a hook-up?” You teased, a snort leaving your mouth as his jaw dropped, a question many women would ask their other halves. “I’m joking, Peaches. You’re the fittest man I’ve ever seen and I’m not planning on swapping you for anybody,” you grinned, lifting your head up and catching his lips curve into a smirk.
And he wasn’t feeling vain, he promised.
“I was hoping so, because, I’m planning on keeping you for a long, long, long time,” he growled playfully, resting his forehead against your head. “I love you, you know that, Gorgeous?”
“I love you too, Peaches.”
“But, I’ll love you even more if you take my boots of f’me,” he begged, moving his ankles from side to side, knocking the sides of his black boots together. A soft yet continuous thud being heard with the movements, as a silent and wordless plea to remove the constraints that were covering his feet in a tightened manner. “Please?”
“No, Harry. For goodness sake,” you groaned, pushing at his chest. “Take ‘em off yourself. They’re your boots and your feet,” you grunted, rolling your eyes as you watched his lips curve into a smirk but his eyebrows furrow and create a dip at the top of his nose.
“But, I ache. I’ve been doing stunts and everything. Besides, my feet hurt and I miss your massages,” he whined, a groan leaving your lips. “Why won’t you love me?”
A scoff left your mouth.
“I do love you, you donut. I just don’t exactly want to go anywhere near your feet right now,” you groaned, his fingers tickling at your exposed hip, his wrist hooking underneath your t-shirt. “You’ve been in them all morning and I bet they’re all smelly and sweaty.”
You’d seen the amount of running around he had to ensue on set, in between scenes and rushing to his next one or running around on scene in character, and it was unpleasant to think of just how achy his feet must have been as well as how sweaty the crooks and crannies would be, and you couldn’t begin to imagine how painful walking barefooted must be.
You’d never given him foot massages – or any massage of some sorts – simply because you weren’t one to give them; you were more of a receiver of massages, especially after a busy day at work with a sore back and aching ankles.
“Oh, shut up. I massage your feet all the time after you’ve been walking,” you heard him grumble, his arms folding across his chest, and his lips formed a pout. His bottom lip jutting out, his green eyes hooded and a sigh escaping his throat. Your feet would usually be seen lodged into his hands, his thumbs kneading at the balls of your feet as his fingers pushed at the flesh below your toes. “Please? It’s a one-time thing. I promise. It’ll bring us closer as a couple.”
“Yes, closer because I’ll puke over your lap and I’ve never done that before,” you murmured, his lips twitching at the corners. “You’ve seen me puke in the toilet, much like I’ve seen you puke in the toilet, but I really don’t think me being sick in your lap, over your costume, would bring us closer together.”
“Please?” He begged, reaching forward and tugging the laces looser.
“Eugh. Fine. But I expect something from you later on when we get to the room,” you reasoned, pointing your pointer finger at him and tapping at his chest.
And something you would get. A mental smirk sifting around his head at the many somethings you would get up too once you got situated behind the closed door of his hotel room – sex in a hotel bed, a handjob in the shower or even a blowjob, sex against a wall with the beautiful scenery of the beach and the sea in the horizon, or maybe his fingers deep in you as he became accustomed to what he’d missed, your fingers turning white with the grip on the mattress.
And he was getting hard in his pants with the thought.
“Of course, of course. I could never turn down whatever you want to do. Unless it’s like, to go to sleep right away. Right now, I could fuck your brains out – “
“Harry!” You gasped, swatting at his shoulder.
“… but I won’t because you won’t take my boots off,” he smirked, a heavy and precise sigh leaving your lips, a wordless acceptance of his offer as you shuffled forward on the sofa cushion and reached forward to grab his closest leg to you. “Thank you,” he drawled out, his calf resting on your thighs.
“You need to stick some teabags in these or something. Get rid of the smell,” you hissed, tugging on the sole of the boot to pull it from his foot, grunting loudly as it gave way and dropped to the floor with a thud. “Seriously. Your sock is wet.”
“That’s not my fault. I stepped into the water accidentally and it got my boot wet and the water sort of got through the little holes and my sock got all wet and it’s the same for my other foot,” he murmured, a hint of embarrassment sitting on his words as they rolled off of his tongue. He groaned as you pushed his bootless leg off of your thighs, his foot coming into contact with the hard floor of the trailer.
“It’s more likely that you fell into the water rather than stepped accidentally, Harry,” you murmured, hunching over his knees and reaching around his leg to untie the lace properly and loosen the leather enclosing his foot. “You fell in the water, didn’t you?”
It had happened before lunch when you’d made a run to the catering tent to gather a sandwich and some fruit for you and Harry to share once he had finished for the day, being allowed the rest of the afternoon off to spend time with you. As soon as you had turned your back, he was sure everything had turned wrong; he’d tripped and fallen into the shore, his booted feet stumbling into the soft tide coming in up the beach and dampening the hems of his trousers as well as his socks and his leather boots. And through laughter and raucous bellows, you’d finally pieced together that he’d tripped clumsily over his own feet, and found himself ankle-deep in salted sea water.
“No,” he grumbled, his voice almost inaudible.
And it was evident to you that the clumsy act was true.
“You’re a donut, you know that? You’re a clumsy little something, I’m telling you,” you teased, tapping his calf muscle as an indication to lift up his foot so you could pull the black boot from his ankle. “Come on. Let’s me take this boot off and then we can wash these socks and get you into your comfier shoes.”
“My clothes are over there on the back of the chair. S’just my hoodie, and some shorts,” he smiled, a sigh of relief leaving his mouth as he felt his foot become free of the constraint of the tight leather he would have around his feet for hours during the day. “And my trainers, actually. I forgot my boots back in the hotel room, but, they’d look a bit weird with my skinny and hairy legs and a pair of those baggy shorts. I can’t pull the outfit off as well as you.”
“You may indeed be a fashion icon, but that outfit would be spoken about constantly in the papers,” you grinned, lifting the clunky boots up and setting them upon the floor beside your own shoes. “Do you just leave your outfit in here?”
From the way his clothes had been neatly folded on a chair by the small table, you had the impression that he didn’t just show up on the set, dressed fully in his outfit, ready and waiting to be filmed; he would arrive in comfy gear that was easy to change out of as well as easy to get changed back into after a tiring day of running around on set.
“Yeah, I leave it in here and then I get changed into it when I come back here,” he explained, bending down and removing the woolen socks from his feet, water dropping from the material and creating dark dots on the dirty purple thin carpet covering the floor. “Not as extravagant as being on tour but it’ll do,” he chuckled, balling up the pair of socks and reaching across your legs to stuff them into his boots.
“You know you should probably hang them up outside or stick them on the radiator or something,” you advised him, watching as he fell back and propped his feet up on the little coffee table, his ankles crossing as the hems of the khaki trousers rolled up his legs. “Harry,” you sighed.
He’d do the same at home.
Leaving his dirty laundry on the floor of the bedroom, or leaving his socks and underwear in his suitcase after a week or so spent in Los Angeles, waiting for you to gather everything in a wash basket as you rummaged around the rooms to gather whatever you thought needed to be washed.
“What?”
“This is your trailer. I shouldn’t be doing all your work,” you reasoned, pulling the wet material from the foot slot of the boot. “Come on. Go and dress,” you smiled at him, pushing the socks into his hand and dragging your hand down his thigh to where his knee was beneath the material.
“Eugh. You always know how to make my socks smell nice and they’re always warm and – why are you looking at my feet like that? I know you hate feet and stuff, but, come on. They’re just sitting on the table,” he pointed out, wiggling his toes into the cool air of the trailer, the sun shining through the netted curtain of covering the window, and shining upon his skin, giving him a warm sensation to cover his skin.
“I always forget you have big tattooed on your toe,” you giggled, “it gets my giggling every time.”
You couldn’t help but catch the scrawny and poorly written word scribbled and inked upon the bare skin at the base of his big toe, the letters massive and wiggly and prominent against the tanned skin below the nail and your attention would always turn when he stuck his feet up in your eye line, whether it was at home, in the garden or at his mothers home when he would strip back and relax.
“You’re such a child,” he pointed out, bring his knee to his chest and setting his right foot upon the cushion, his finger poking at the tattoo. “I god damn hope our kids don’t come home with some weird tattoos on their bodies. I might have to lecture them about bad tattoos with no meaning,” he stated.
“I think I should be the one to lecture them there, Peaches,” you smiled, patting his thigh and pressing your lips against his. “It’d be a bit ironic, in a way, coming from you.”
For someone printed and covered in tattoos that were mismatched and had no link, you had a feeling he’d get distracted with his young children who were curious about what they meant and whether he had a real meaning behind getting the ones that looked rather weird and stuck out amongst the array of drawings.
“Of course.”
“And besides, your tattoos have meaning. They’re just very Harry-like,” you grinned, your nose brushing against his cheekbone. “You have a heart on your arm which is like wearing your heart on your sleeve and you have a cage on your ribs which represents a ribcage and you have a butterfly on your chest which is like butterflies in your tummy. You’re clever in a way, and its very Harry,” you teased, your lips brushing over his soft and porcelain skin.
And you liked the Harry-esque attribute he gave off.
“I know, but, I regret getting them in a way because they’re going to look so weird when I’m old and grey and you won’t like them because they sag on my skin or they look too faded,” he sighed, lacing his fingers together at his kneecap, your chin resting upon his shoulder. “I don’t want to be an embarrassing dad with weird tattoos, you know?”
“Oh, Harry. You won’t be an embarrassing dad, I promise. But, you’re panicking yourself about the future and we’re still 22. We’re not engaged and we don’t have children on the way,” you sighed in admittance, your eyes closing in contentment as you kept your face inches close to his. “Your big tattoo is my favourite though. I believe you did that yourself, didn’t you? If I remember rightly,” you grinned, your hand flat against his belly, moving from his thigh.
“Indeed I did. You can blame Tom for that. When I went to see baby Lux one afternoon, we got a bit tipsy and I decided to tattoo myself since he was tattooing people and I wanted to try it out,” he chuckled, his voice deep and soft and smooth like caramel to your ears, “and you can tell how drunk I was at eighteen years old because it’s so wonky and the G doesn’t even line up,” he chuckled, sticking his foot into the air, his eyes focused on the wiggly lines going up the base of his bare toe, stopping just below the nail and bold and black with ink.
“You’re so precious, Peaches. S’why I love you.”

Notes

I’m turning this into a Dunkirk!Harry one again, just because I have a sweet little scenario playing out in my head with the big-ass clunky boots on his feet. ;)
Also, can we just talk about how perfect these two photos (below) are? They’re stunning. He looks so good and I’m so weak. Fuck. x