Chapter Text
The pavement of Soho, London, was damp with morning dew from the previous night’s rain showers. As Harry meandered further into West End, the smooth black pavement changed to a collection of different colored cobblestone pieces. Charcoal, sand, maverick, and burgundy, intertwined into a beautiful yet nonsensical pattern. Miniature pools of water gathered between the unevenly cut squares, water droplets bouncing with each step Harry took.
Shop owners were seen unlocking their doors, mumbling their polite “Hellos” and “Good Mornings” to one another. The entertainment district was waking up and coming to life with every stride Harry took. Harry passed by BAR Soho, giving a slight wave to Duncan, the daytime manager. His destination was the parlor that awaited him on the corner of Old Compton Street.
Harry pulled his leather jacket a bit tighter around his shoulders as he ducked into the local café to grab his morning coffee. Since Harry moved from Holmes Chapel to Soho three years ago, Menchies had become his regular supplier for a morning brew. Well, sometimes at night too if it was a particularly long day and he felt burnt out.
The inside of the café was cozy, warm hues scattered from the painted walls to the rustic tables. It was relatively small in comparison to the other shops that surrounded the area, making it more of a desirable place in Harry’s opinion. He waited in the short queue, only three other people in front of him. When he got to the front, he ordered his large coffee, added just a dash of milk, and then made his way back to the city streets.
He held the steaming cup in his left hand, thankful for the heat during the crisp September morning. Pulling out his mobile from his back pocket, Harry saw that it was nearing quarter to nine. He quickened his steps slightly, wanting to have plenty of time to get everything settled before his first appointment of the day.
Harry stopped at the corner, underneath of a sign labeled Idle Hand Tattoo Studio . A rod iron bar held the rectangular sign, the black calligraphy simple against the white and gold backing. When Harry got the rights to the premise, making the entryway sign became his first priority.
At the beginning of the 19th century, Idle Hand was a pub that served as a meeting ground for French exiles, poets apparently. Harry didn’t know much about French literature or even 19th century British literature, but there was something about the shop that had a unique charm to it. The old owners kept the architecture as it was when they originally bought it, even left a few pieces of furniture behind. Everything else on Old Compton Street, aside from its name, had been renovated to a more modern look to fit the current century.
During his time at university, while other students joined clubs or athletic teams, Harry had become an apprentice to a tattoo artist named Kevin Paul. All of his life, Harry had been sketching and painting, finding relief and solace in the practice. He wasn’t an introvert, not by any means, but he found there were few things that felt better than imprinting his own art onto someone else. Every time somebody came into the studio, there was an immense amount of trust that was put into his hands.
During his final year, Harry had managed to get his tattoo license while balancing writing his dissertation. He lacked the social life any normal university student had. Instead of drinking himself into a stupor on Saturday nights, Harry was crammed in the back corner of Kevin's studio. Pen and notebook in hand as he observed the artist for hours on end. In his eyes, it was worth it.
Once he had passed all of his courses, Harry graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Business.
After he graduated, Harry moved back home for two years. Except, he wasn’t exactly “living” at home. He had managed to make a name for himself during his college years and was scouted to tour with the Euro Tattoo Convention.
Over those two years, Harry met a wide range of people from all different cultures and upbringings. He saw landmarks that he had only read about and slept in places that would make any other recent graduate jealous. On top of it all, he got to build his own portfolio and spread his brand in multiple countries. Meaning, he already had a client base before he had even opened up a shop.
Once the second tour had finished, while Harry was exceedingly proud of what he had accomplished, he didn’t feel close to being satisfied. So, he returned to Holmes Chapel and began mapping out his next move. That move turned out to be, Soho.
From the tattoos he had produced during university and the two tours, Harry had a significant amount saved up. It was enough to not only make the move, but to own property as well. He spent days looking at different flats online before settling on a studio that nestled on the outskirts of Soho. It was good in the sense that it didn’t cost much, but it was even better for the fact that it was in walking distance from the tube. One month more of packing and finalizing shipping plans, and Harry had moved to Soho at the age of twenty-three.
Pulling out a set of keys from his jacket pocket, Harry pressed a bronze key into the lock. He twisted his wrist and waited to hear the familiar click before turning the doorknob and pushing it open. A narrow hallway covered from top to bottom with old magazine pages, led to the reception's glass door.
There were pages torn from all sorts of different genres and publications. Everything from fashion to news to outdoors to food. It was a compilation of what Harry was able to get his hands on when he began the week long project. The process was messy from the sheer amount of Mod Podge that Harry had to paint over each picture. It was necessary so that the postings would not only stick to the walls, but also have the inability to deteriorate over time.
At the end of the hall, just atop the glass door, shined a blue neon Tattoo sign. Before Harry unlocked the glass door, he flicked the light switch and watched as the twisted bulbs flickered once before radiating a royal blue.
On the other side of the glass door, was where Harry’s heart truly belonged.
While the ceiling was plastered with copies of The Sun Newspaper, the floors were covered in slightly-marred white and black checkered tiles. The left wall was divided directly down the middle; the left half painted a matte black while the right was a matte white. Spaced across the wall were square mirrors, each one equidistantly hung in place. Also scattered along the wall, there were a few of Harry’s own paintings and sketches. The largest one was a painting of Heath Ledger as the Joker.
Directly in front of the left wall, there was a white receptionist desk with a desktop Mac perched on it's top. Vintage leather-bound suitcases were stacked carefully against the desk’s siding, a few black ones with rusted buckles, a beige one with a leather strap, and an olive one with a faded silver handle.
The right wall was decorated similarly, white paint on one half while black covered the other. Where the receptionist desk was on the left, there was a black couch on the right. The fabric was white paisley so it created a contrast pattern against the tiled floor. That was Harry’s vision though, he wanted to keep a color theme while having the different patters neglect each other.
In front of the couch, there was a large wooden spool turned on its side, thick rope wrapped around its middle. Harry discovered it at an art auction during his first year in Soho. One look and he immediately knew that it would serve as a coffee table for the waiting room of the studio.
Hung upside down from the ceiling, there were four side-table lamps. Each one had a different styled covering and they ranged from altered shades of grey and rose. Harry couldn’t exactly explain why he thought it was a good idea to nail lamps upside down on the ceiling, but for some reason, it worked.
Harry flipped a switch to turn on the lamps and walked through the waiting room, organizing the few books that were sat on the make-shift coffee table. He stopped in front of one of the mirrors, set his coffee down, and scrutinized his reflection to make sure that he looked semi-presentable for his bookings.
Brown waves intertwined with one another, spilling over the dip of his collar bones. Harry knew that they would bother him later so he pulled a hair tie off his wrist and with practiced ease, gathered the loose tendrils into a high ponytail. He grabbed a thin, sleek black ribbon from his jean pocket and tied it around the base. The ends of his hair tickled against the base of his neck as he fastened the simple bow in place
Harry leaned forward and wiped the back of his hand against his eyes, the emerald irises stood out against his pale complexion. Slight bags drooped under his eyes, a repercussion from staying up to finish an episode of Game of Thrones. While he looked a bit worn, Harry was sure that he’s looked worse.
At least he managed to change out of his pair of joggers and put on a real outfit that morning.
His grandfather’s vintage jacket hung over his white t-shirt, black jeans lined his thighs tightly. On his feet were a pair of noir leather boots that had silver buckles wrapped around the ankles. The metal created a light clinking noise with each step that he would take.
Yeah, he could do worse.
Turning away from the wall of mirrors, Harry walked towards a mahogany door that separated the waiting room from where Harry actually did the tattoos. The door was slanted, the top left corner slanting down at an angle to give it an Alice in Wonderland feeling. The frame was a deep brown along with beige paneling that hugged the surface of the door.
Harry hauled the door open and then shut it behind him as he walked into the adjacent room. The checkered flooring from the reception followed into the tattoo room, making the transition between the two feel somewhat natural. Against the same wall as the door, the surface was painted a cherry red. Framed photographs from Harry's travels were nailed against the wall, the circular metal piercing the top of each polaroid. Every photo was different and each one of them unveiled a different story.
The previous owners left behind two white oak vintage desks, each one accompanied by a wooden chair. Across the top of the desks there were different pots of colored ink and copies of Harry’s portfolio. Three drawers lined the body of the desks: One for Harry’s sketchbooks and tracing papers, one for shader and liner needles, and one for the different electricmotor guns.
The adjacent wall was covered in shattered mirrors, the fragments giving the illusion that it was a cracked mural. Between the pieces of mirror, there were inserts of sea glass. Emerald, rose, and topaz mingled together along the white expanse. Overhead lights reflected off of the glass causing the colors to delicately shimmer against the checkered floor.
Across the door was Harry’s main work station. The wall painted stark white and adorned with eight different styles of clocks. Each one was gutted open, showing the clogs, nuts, and bolts that turned the minute and hour hands. In order to cohesively bring each design together, Harry pinned old strips of film between each individual clock. Next to the walnut clock, a clock that Harry believed to be the oldest, there was a self-standing bookshelf. On that shelf, there was Harry’s first journal.
That journal was filled with the earliest and hardest tribulation of Harry's life. The beginning pages were marred with crimson red and orange paints, each abstract reflecting when his dad walked out. He was seven at the time, sitting in the lounge of his childhood house. His sister Gemma sat by his side as their dad told them that he was leaving. Harry didn’t cry much as a kid, Mum always telling him that he was a well-mannered child. But that day, he cried more than he thought was humanly possible.
As the pages of the journal continued, so did the abstracts. Harry went from a confused and angry seven year old to someone who began to understand. He understood that sometimes a person needed to end a relationship if it had become unhealthy. There would always be a bit of resentment, but he made progress with each passing year. Honestly, Harry kept the journal because it reminded him how far he had come. Art became a source of positivity and not just an outlet for pain.
The largest clock on the wall was black cherry wood and had a large face with the hours painted in roman numerals. Along the wood outline, World of Invention was painted in a soft-cream pigment. Hanging underneath the clock, on a thin pendulum, was a carved sparrow. It was the same sparrow that inspired the design for the two birds tattooed on Harry's upper chest.
Beside the tattoo artist's desk, there was an early 1900’s styled plush chair, the fabric worn and the salmon color faded beautifully. The arms of the chair were espresso brown and the intricate carvings made the chair seem regal regardless of it's relatively small size.
However, out of everything in the room, Harry’s favorite piece was a granite chest with front doors. Like everything else, it was scuffed black and white. But instead of checkers, it was outlined with diamonds. Gold trim framed the magnificent chest, the surface shining brightly from a recent dusting.
One year after Idle Hand’s opening, word began to spread of the “interesting” tattoo parlor that only had a single tattoo artist.
One year after Idle Hand's opening, the parlor became Soho’s own tourist attraction.
“Harry, you back there?”
“Yeah, just setting up,” Harry yelled as he began disinfecting the tattoo chair and bed.
Through The Wonderland Door, came in Niall Horan. He was one half Harry’s receptionist and one half Harry’s best mate.
Niall was also the most ridiculous fucker that Harry ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Average in height, he stood bit shorter than Harry himself. Niall was of a lean build with thin twiggy legs that didn’t necessarily match the proportion of his upper body. Brown roots had begun to peek out underneath his blonde hair, a telling sign that Niall was going to re-bleach it during the next few days.
It was Harry’s second night in Soho when he met Niall at the bar, Village. Harry was sat at the bar, talking to the bartender when Niall walked up beside him. Niall wore a blue flannel shirt over a cotton white tee and a pair of light wash skinny jeans that hugged his legs. On Niall's feet were a pair of battered brown Chelsea boots that looked they had seen their fair share of bad days.
He ordered a pint of Peroni and had a slightly confused expression as he looked around the bar. Harry took pity on him and leaned over, “Looking for someone?”
Niall stepped closer to Harry’s side so that he could ask quietly, “Is it just me or are there a lot of blokes in here.”
He had asked so innocently that Harry couldn’t help the sharp laugh that came out of his mouth. “That’s usually how gay bars work, mate.”
Niall leaned back, his eyes widened to the size of saucers as understanding finally cleared the confusion painted across his features. He started to laugh and the sound was absolutely infectious.
“Oh fuck, that’s a good one. Now that I know...I can definitely see it,” Niall gestured around the room and the men that were talking a bit too close to be deemed platonic.
Not to mention, the large rainbow flag that stretched across the back wall.
Harry snorted and finished off his tequila sunrise, pushing the empty cup towards the bar. He held his hand out, “I’m Harry.”
“Niall,” he replied happily, shaking Harry’s hand before going on to down the rest of his drink. “Bartender!” Niall yelled, waving his hand a bit obnoxiously to get the man’s attention.
The bartender came back over and placed his hands on the lip of the bar, “What can I get you?”
Niall gestured between Harry and himself, “Another Peroni for me and another one of whatever he just finished.”
“Peroni and Tequila Sunrise, coming up.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, genuinely surprised at the action.
Niall shrugged, “I was planning on buying drinks for girls tonight but seeing as how that’s not likely here, I’m buying you one instead.”
It all went from there, they became a bit inseparable and Niall welcomed Harry into his group of friends. There was Ed Sheeran, a stocky ginger who played guitar at one of the local pubs. Josh Devine, a personal trainer who made it his personal mission to get Harry into other exercises besides yoga (three years passed and still no success). And then there was Nick Grimshaw, host of The Breakfast Show on BBC Radio 1. Niall and Nick met when they both studied at University of Liverpool. That was also before Nick failed out their final year and decided to be the first to move down to London.
During Harry's first bar crawl with Niall and the rest of the group, Niall mentioned that he was about to leave his job. Harry slightly hesitated before he asked if Niall would want to work at the studio when it opened. Previously, Niall told him that he studied communications so Harry figured that he would be a good fit for a receptionist. He had hoped that Niall wouldn’t take it in the wrong way, the fact that he would be hired “under” Harry. But, Harry figured it was better to put the offer out there instead of not trying to help at all.
Niall was ecstatic.
While Harry had sixty-two tattoos littered across his body, Niall had none. It was a bit hilarious how it always seemed to confuse customers when they strode in, seeing that the receptionist's milky skin was bare of ink and piercings. Last year, Niall had asked Harry to tattoo his arse but the moment that the gun was turned on, the needle vibrating incessantly, Niall nearly passed out and fell off the chair.
They didn't try that again.
“Your 9:00 should be here any minute, it’s just a touch up so shouldn’t be bad.” Niall walked further into the room, a planner in one hand and Harry’s coffee from earlier in the other, “How you manage to leave your coffee on my desk every fucking day, I will never know.”
Harry took the cup out of Niall’s outreached hand and took a strong pull, the liquid slightly burning his tongue.“Sorry ‘bout that. When’s the second appointment?”
Niall rolled his eyes and scanned over the opened page of the journal, “Zayn comes in 'round twelve. He mentioned a chest piece.”
“Alright, thanks Ni. I’m just setting up so send the first one back whenever they get here,” Harry said.
****
Harry was tossing out the used paper towels from the previous client when there was a light knock on the door. “Come on in,” He chimed as he finished cleaning up his station.
Zayn Malik opened the door, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when they made eye contact. “Afternoon, Harry.”
Harry walked over and gave Zayn a quick hug, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke filling his nose. “I hear we’re going with a chest piece today?” Harry asked rather than stated.
They met during the tail end of Harry’s second tour, when he was at the Piccadilly Convention Center. The first tattoo Harry had done for Zayn was a shamrock on his left hand. Harry was immediately impressed with his pain tolerance given that it was well known that hand tattoos were the most painful tattoos to get. And yet, there Zayn was, relaxed in the tattoo chair without a single flinch.
Zayn had thick black hair that was always styled into a smart quiff, each piece in a particular place. He wore a simple black shirt and black jeans with holes over the knees. Harry would be incompetent if he didn’t notice that Zayn was gorgeous, his sharp jawline lightly dusted with scruff. His dark brown eyes were framed with thick lashes, adding a touch of femininity to his features. He was just very, very, pretty.
And very, very, not single.
Harry was only a bit disappointed when he found out Zayn had been dating his boyfriend, Liam, for the past year or so.
Regardless, since the first day they met, Harry had become Zayn’s official tattoo artist. When Harry was still living at home, Zayn had made the trip up to Cheshire so that Harry could tattoo a peacock on the back of his neck. It was a bit surprising that they never met up outside of the studio because they always had good conversation, their personalities compatible. It didn't hurt that Zayn was an artist himself.
“Yeah, um, I sketched something up a month back,” Zayn sat down and pulled out his sketchbook from his messenger bag. He flipped open to the most recent page and faced the sketch towards Harry.
On the page were two black sketches of angel wings and in the center was a red kiss imprint. “Color?” Harry asked, a bit surprised because nearly 98% of Zayn’s tattoos were done in black and grey shading.
Zayn nodded, “Just the kiss, yeah.”
“Alright, you know the drill,” Harry waved his hand towards the direction of the tattoo chair.
“Lucky for you, I thought ahead and made sure to shave,” Zayn smirked.
It was during their first appointment that Harry confessed to him that it was always a bit weird for to shave strangers. Especially the customers who wanted to get tattoos on their bums. Harry was an arse man but that was under different circumstances.
Harry snorted, “Well aren’t you just a saint.”
He opened one of the drawers and pulled out the tracing papers. Immediately, Harry got to work on carefully tracing the sketch so that he could apply it to Zayn’s chest. As Harry worked, Zayn stripped off his shirt and settled in the chair, lightly drumming on his thighs as he waited.
Once the trace was done, Harry gently removed the film and pressed it onto the center of Zayn’s chest. Just below his collar bones, the kiss appearing on his sternum. He reached over to his desk, grabbed a hand mirror, and held it out to Zayn. He had to make sure the placement was correct.
“Perfect,” Zayn approved.
Harry grinned and took the mirror back. He pulled the noir, charcoal, and cherry ink, closer to his chair and uncapped the tiny capsules. Digging through the drawer of needles, Harry grabbed the sterilized packing of two liners and two shaders. His favorite gun already sat on the desk, the copper glistening underneath the overhead light. All he had to do was put on a fresh pair of gloves, unwrap the needles from their casings, and attach the first liner in place. With the toe of his boot, he pushed the foot pedal on the ground and the gun began to vibrate in his hand. Carefully, he dipped the tip of the liner into the black ink.
“Ready?” Harry asked as he positioned his left hand against Zayn’s shoulder and the right one hovered just above the blue outline.
Zayn nodded and closed his eyes, relaxing his body as Harry got to work. It wasn’t a difficult tattoo by any means, but Harry always treated each project with extreme care and precision.
“So,” Harry drawled out as he continued marking Zayn’s skin. “Did you make Liam put on lipstick for the print?”
Zayn chuckled, making sure to keep as still as possible while doing so, “While that wouldn’t have been an un-welcomed sight, it’s my mum’s actually.”
Harry hummed in understanding, sitting back so that he could wipe the excess ink with a paper towel. “There a story behind that?” He asked.
“Keeps her close when I’m gone. Haven’t seen her in a while, yuh know, work an’ all.”
Zayn worked at Royal Academy of Arts, just outside of Soho. He was an art professor, mainly focused on teaching painting. The last time Zayn had been in, he was stressed about having to construct the set for the school’s main musical, Les Miserables. Zayn didn’t have any actual want to do the project. Apparently, his friend had managed dragged him into doing it since he didn’t “trust the students.”
Harry thought it was a bit odd seeing as how the students would be art majors. When he voiced that comment, Zayn snorted, “You try telling that to a stubborn drama teacher.”
Harry shrugged and let it go.
****
Six hours later, Zayn was long gone and Harry had just finished his last appointment. A small family emblem on a woman named Grace. It was simple, but admittedly beautiful. Harry was cleaning up the rest of his station, discarding the used paper towels and placing ink capsules back into proper order, when Niall walked in.
“Fancy a drink?” Niall asked as he pulled on his denim jacket.
Harry entertained the thought for about half of a second before shaking his head, “Another time, I’m beat. Thanks though.”
Niall nodded, “Go on then princess, I’ll lock up.”
“Not a princess,” Harry huffed indignantly.
“I love you, but you have a ribbon in your hair. You’re a princess,” Niall stated matter of factly.
Harry rolled his eyes and self-consciously tugged on the ribbon, “Well forgive me for wanting to look descent.”
Niall held up his hands in mock defense, “Calm down, never said it was a bad thing. You look beautiful. Some boy will make an honest queen out of you one day.”
Since Harry was a grown adult, he did what anyone else would have done, and stuck out his tongue, “I hate you.” No actual malice behind his words, of course.
“Home,” Niall sternly said, his index finger pointed towards the door.
“Fine, fine,” Harry huffed, gathering his jacket and stepping out of the back room.
By the time Harry made his way back outside, Soho had erupted into it's wellknown debauchery-filled, nightlife. There were people wandering, well, mostly stumbling, from bar to bar. Harry tugged on his jacket and began the short trek to his studio flat. It was close enough where he could walk to work but just far enough to be a bit of a nuisance when he was exhausted.
Harry made it to a brick building with vintage wooden doors, and pulled out his key. He made quick work of the lock, pushing open the worn down door to get inside. There were only three floors, Harry living in the studio at the top. The stairway was a bit dim, overhead lights flickered slightly as he made his way step by step. The air thick and the stairway smelled slightly of take away curry. Wooden flooring extended throughout the building. Each step he took slightly echoed throughout the stairwell.
On the third floor, 301 was painted onto a green door in off-gold paint. Harry was sure that at one time it must have been a brighter shade but he didn’t mind.
Upon unlocking the front door and walking inside, Harry immediately kicked off his shoes. He shut the door behind him and felt tension immediately leaving his body as he made his way into the studio. The studio had an open floor plan with precariously placed wooden frames to act as partitions.
Upon entering the studio, the first thing people saw was Harry’s work space to the right, canvases and splattered paint covered the smoky grey wall paper. In certain sections, the wallpaper was torn and curling in on itself, revealing sandy brick backing. Two windows were positioned against the far wall, the night sky filtered through to act as an illuminator over the pale wood floor. During his first week, Harry had taken to painting a large mural on the wall, adding onto it whenever he had the time. The centerpiece was a willow tree, the branches brittle and drooping low with peach blossoms.
There was a step stool by the right corner of the wall, a large orange blob of paint covered the top step from the sun Harry had begun to paint a few days back. A nail popped out between the windows, a pair of jean overalls hanging off of it. They were once a pale blue but overtime, the material accumulated multi-colored dashes of paint. One of the knees had worn out and was frayed drastically, white remnants of fabric barely holding the material together.
Acting as a divider, there was a rickety desk marred with half-used paint cans beside a rusted book case that held different brushes. To anyone else, it looked a disarray but Harry knew where everything was down to the last nook and cranny.
Towards the left of the entryway was the makeshift kitchen. Paneled windows stretched across the wall, the rooftop of the building next door serving as a view. A green lamp hung from the ceiling, the color a blatant contrast to the pale orange wallpaper. A 1950’s refrigerator hummed in the corner, the door filled with pictures of Harry’s family. Each photograph held by black circular magnets. One brown table with a single brown chair was set up in the middle of the “room.” A bowl of bananas and apples perched on top of the wooden surface. There was one sink, an oven, and an empty counter top, and that was it.
Pictures of Tuscany were pinned above the self-standing bookshelf that held mixing bowls, pots and pans. An emptied tomato soup can was placed on the far corner of the shelf, holding wooden spoons and Harry's special pancake spatula. The rest of the utensils were packed away in a pull out drawer next to the sink.
Further in the flat, behind a large wood framed partition, was Harry’s bed. He hung a flimsy pink tapestry against the frame to give some appearance of privacy (even though it was only Harry who lived there). The queen-sized bed was disheveled, burnt orange sheets messily drawn back while the brown comforter had been kicked to the floor.
Every morning, the sun spilt through the windows that paneled across the wall, no shades to block out the sunlight. Harry had a black record player setup on top of an old milk crate, records filling the space underneath of it. Every morning when Harry woke up, he would play a record and leisurely listen along as he got ready for the day. It was his soothing balm for living in a city of pure mayhem.
Candles and incents were lined along the windowsill, one or two always burning the moment Harry got home. Where the stairway smelt of take-away, Harry’s studio smelt of lavender or vanilla or sometimes Japanese cherry blossoms.
By the window, there was a small cushioned chair. Cream fabric was concaved from the nights Harry stayed up reading. It was the only sense of “living room seating” that he had. He found that if he was inviting someone back to his place, it usually wasn't to sit across the room from one another and have a chat.
Visible wooden beams stretched across the ceiling of the studio, a string of fairy lights tangled along the ones crossed over Harry's bed. Sometimes at night, after he had turned off his small TV set, Harry would just lay underneath of the fairy lights. He liked to pretend that they were stars and that he was stretched out in a field somewhere. He would also pretend that he wasn’t lying there alone.
A bathroom was set up in the back left of the space, two dividers meeting each other to create a corner. Harry found a way to mount just a sheet of yellow tiles along the bottom of the dividers. They only reached up about three feet tall so they didn't create an entire wall. Behind the tile was a simple white bathtub, the morning paper still hanging off the ceramic lip from earlier that morning. Bronze faucet handles matched the bronze shower head that had been attached to a horizontal bar across one of the dividers. Next to the tub was a small clear table with shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a tan candle placed on top.
Harry had hung clear shower curtains along the partition but he never once had it fully drawn, never caring enough to. Perched at a tilted angle above the tub, was a large mirror. That one and a smaller vanity above the sink, were the only mirrors in the studio.
A simple white sink and toilet were against the back wall, covered from the bed’s view if the curtain was drawn shut.
Harry walked over to the line of candles, picked up a black cigarette lighter that was sat on a floral dish, and lit one of the candles. Once the blackened wick caught flame, Harry placed the lighter back and turned on the record player. Flowers In Your Hair by The Lumineers began to quietly crackle through the quiet blanket that stretched through the studio.
As he walked away from the player, the flicker of the candle light danced across his skin. Harry shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a wire hanger, then put the hanger on one of the three clothing racks diagonal from his bed. Harry pulled his shirt over his head as his hips subconsciously swayed to the melody.
He walked over to the kitchen table and picked up one of the bananas, not feeling hungry enough to make an actual meal that night. In the background Harry could faintly hear someone yelling outside. Reflexively, he strained his ears to listen carefully.
Niall had a bit of a habit of getting drunk, throwing pebbles at his window, and then yelling for Harry to let him in. He did this even though he had Harry’s number and logically, did not need to wake up the entire street with his nonsense. Of course, Harry would let him in anyways and then force Niall to have a glass of water. He would tuck Niall in bed, make sure he was still breathing, and follow suit shortly after.
Luckily enough for Harry, it was some other drunk bastard out there.
Finishing off his snack, he threw the peel away in a bin, blew out the candle, turned off the record, and then made his way over to his bed. Harry tugged off his jeans and briefs in one go, a gust of brisk air making the hair on his legs stand up. He unfastened the ribbon from his hair and pulled out the elastic hair tie, chocolate waves falling down flush against the side of his neck. Brushing his fingers through his hair, he shook out the ponytail crease that had formed at the crown of his head.
Gingerly, Harry climbed in bed and pulled the sheets up to his hips. Turning onto his side, he brought a second pillow against his chest, cuddling the soft material close. Letting the day’s exhaustion wash over him, Harry closed his eyes, and drifted to sleep.
****
The next morning, Harry was a bit slow getting out of his place and off to work. By the time he made it to Menchies, the queue was relatively long. Harry tried his best not to pout, he really did. By the time he got to the front there were already four people waiting behind him. Like every day, he gave them his name to be scribbled on the white cup, and handed the cashier three quid, getting fifty-pence back.
After he ordered, Harry stood to the side of the counter and waited on the barista to finish the other orders before his own. The crowd had died down only slightly by the time the barista called out, “Large Americano, dash of cream,” and placed the steaming cup on the counter.
Harry reached forward for the drink but jerked back when a slightly smaller hand reached it before him. Harry shook his head, slightly confused because he was certain that he was next in line. He looked to his left and saw a man who stood a few inches shorter than him. He had tousled brown hair but more importantly, he was holding the cup of coffee. Harry's cup of coffee.
“Um, sorry, but I believe that’s actually mine,” Harry said a bit awkwardly, pointing at the cup.
The man huffed, narrowing his blue eyes slightly, “Nope, large Americano, dash of cream.” He held the coffee up closer to Harry and honestly, Harry knew exactly what was in the cup because it was his coffee.
“Right,” Harry drawled out slowly as if he was talking to a toddler, “Which would make that mine.”
The man placed his hand on his hip and quirked his left eyebrow. Harry gave him a quick once over, not really sure what else to do in that moment. He was not exactly mentally prepared to get into it at a café of all places.
He wore black jeans, slightly rolled up at the ankles and a pair of shiny black shoes. A red scoop neck shirt was topped off with a black blazer, slightly professional but not enough for him to be some corporate prick. He had impossibly high cheekbones and a slight shadow of facial hair along his jawline and pronounced cupid's bow.
“Look, I really don’t have time for this, I’m running late. And this,” he said before he took a sip from the cup, “Is mine.”
Harry’s jaw dropped and he held his hands out, failing them slightly, “Wha- you can’t just drink it!”
“Well I did, so, do you still want it or can I be on my way?” The man challenged.
Harry shook his head disbelievingly, “Take it, but for the record, it says Harry on it.”
The man turned the cup around and a sharp laugh came out of his mouth, “Well, shit.” He looked at Harry, a smile stretched across his face as crinkles formed next to his eyes. “Thanks, Harry.”
Before Harry could mentally compose a response, the man turned around and left Menchies. Harry was rooted in his spot, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, not really sure how to process what had just happened.
“Large Americano, dash of cream.”
Harry turned back towards the counter and saw the coffee sitting there, steam emanated through a hole in the lid. Taking a step closer and picking up the cup, he let curiosity get the best of him. Harry turned it in his hand to find a name written in messy scrawl.
Louis