Chapter Text
Exactly two months into Harry’s year of self-fortification, things began to go south.
After thirteen years of breakfast, school, hanging with one of the three friends he’d made in primary and clung onto ever since, homework and telly with mum in the evenings, he’d just settled into a new routine.
He’d managed to get himself a part time job. Well, his mum had been the one to go and talk Mrs. Malik into offering him an interview, but he’d shown up. He’d ironed his nicest blue button-down – blue is the colour most associated with trust, he read somewhere once – and managed not to cry until after the brief chat in the backroom of the Malik convenience store. He’d done well enough not to scare them off.
So, he’d gotten himself a job in the local family-owned convenience shop he used to bike a massive detour around to avoid the local loud boys hanging around outside smoking. He’d also set up a savings account with the bank, and the help of mum, and bought himself a pair of ergonomic running shoes.
All of his – three – friends fleeing off to their respective universities the second their A levels were aced and done had left Harry with more time on his hands to self-improve. He’d get up at 7:00 AM, shower, put on his running shoes and do a nice five-mile sprint around the least populated areas of town. Then he’d come home, shower, eat breakfast with mum, and bike to the convenience shop. Niall Horan, one of the few other gap year residents left in town, would be working the till, always. Niall was gregarious, carefree and unafraid to stand up for himself. That was probably why he and Harry had never spoken in all the years they’d gone to school together.
It might’ve seemed that Harry was just hiding away in the darkest corners of the shop, trimming and restocking and pretending to clean to avoid interaction, but he wasn’t. He was learning. Observing the sort of things Niall put up with and the sort of things he didn’t; the way he stood and the way he talked and the way he seemed so blissfully unaware of his own hands. Harry never knew what to do with his hands. He always seemed to forget what he’d normally do, as a human who’d lived his entire life with two perfectly functioning hands, the second someone a little too confrontational decided to make him the focus of their attention.
Niall Horan wasn’t like that. Freehanded, as a person, if that were a thing.
Of course, inevitably, Niall’s happy hands decided to flail too close to the sun.
“Harry, thank fuck you’re finally here!” Zayn Malik, the shop supervisor and eldest member of the Malik sibling clan exclaimed on what was meant to be a regular Monday. The door chime had barely finished chiming behind Harry and the clock above the till read 9:45 AM. Harry’s shift started at ten. He checked his smartwatch just to be sure. Yes, 9:45, on the dot.
“Yeah?” Harry said, looking around. The shop opened at ten on Monday mornings, which meant Niall would usually arrive somewhere between 9:30 and 10:30. Currently, he was nowhere to be seen, and Zayn Malik was standing behind the till, dark eyes laser-focused on Harry. “Where’s Niall?”
“Oh my god, you don’t even wanna knooow,” Zayn groaned, then continued nonetheless: “You know, he was off this weekend, yeah?”
“Uhm. Yeah?”
Harry had been off too, which meant Zayn or one of the other Maliks would’ve been manning the till. Even if Harry had been there, that’s what it would’ve meant. They planned for that sort of thing.
“Well, the fucking dweeb decided to go on a two-day skiing bender apparently,” Zayn continued, expression caught somewhere between mild exasperation and wild glee, “got absolutely fucking pissed and somehow – don’t ask me how this fucker managed – somehow managed to fall and fuck his shit up on the bunny hill.”
Harry laughed a little, hovering in the middle of the shop. Zayn was staring at him, mouth agape and brows near his hairline, expecting more than that. A proper exclamation of some sort, or a belly laugh even. Harry rarely managed that sort of thing around people like Zayn, – people too cool to let yourself go around – but especially now, he was struggling. Who the fuck would man the till, then? He didn’t like the look in Zayn’s eyes.
“That’s fucked, uhm, up,” Harry stuttered out belatedly. “When is he back?”
Zayn laughed out loud. “Mate, his brother got it on video, he wrung himself into a fucking pretzel, practically shoved one of his skis halfway down his own throat. Hang on, I’ve got it on my phone…”
“No, but—is he all right? Did he break something?”
Zayn glanced up from where he was now thumbing around on his phone, raising an eyebrow. “Did he break something?” he parroted. “Mate, he broke everything. Think the only things he didn’t break were his fuckin’ thumbs cause he’s been bragging about it all over socials all morning, acting hard.” Zayn cackled to himself, resuming his scrolling. “Fucking idiot…”
Harry swallowed thickly. “Well, then, uhm…”
“So you’re gonna have to take the till from now on. I’ll show you how, it’s simple shit, a frog could do it.” Zayn didn’t even look up as he said it.
Which was good, because Harry’s face just drained of all colour. “I don’t—I’m not—”
“Right, here it is,” Zayn exclaimed, laughing almost loudly enough to drown out the sound of Harry’s pulse pounding in his ears. “Mate, you’ve gotta see this, it’s fucking mental.”
Harry reluctantly slid up to the counter and watched a bundled-up Niall trip himself, break something, get back up, break something more and then continue that way all the way down the bunny hill. Video proof, clear as day.
“Are we sure that’s not, like, AI?” Harry tried anyways. “Kinda looks like he has an extra leg there at the end.”
Zayn just laughed and flicked his phone off. “Well yeah, he practically broke it in two, so.”
Harry forced a chuckle. “Amazing. Or, I mean, like…”
“Yeah…”
“But uhm… like, I don’t really know if I’m cut out to, like… you know…”
Zayn was already standing, fiddling with the till. “Right, come round so I can show you,” he said, “come on, I don’t have all day, I’ve gotta be somewhere in half an hour.”
Zayn proceeded to attempt to ‘show Harry the ropes’. Except Zayn wasn’t exactly the most detail-oriented trainer. Despite only being a couple years older than Harry, nothing ever seemed particularly new or daunting to Zayn. Granted, he’d probably manned this till for the first time before the age of six, but Zayn’s coolness extended further than that. Harry had seen him at school, around town, on the phone with girls. It wasn’t so much a put-on performance of nonchalance as it was a general sense of boredom. He always seemed mildly bored, with things and people.
Which Harry found wildly fascinating, seeing as things and people tended to send his entire nervous system into uproar.
“Yeah, so that’s about it,” Zayn said after about five minutes of mumbling about buttons without demonstration. Harry had absorbed as much information as possible, trying to make up a song of rhymes in his head on the spot to memorise, but he could already feel most of it evaporating with the sweat on the back of his neck. “Don’t let anyone pull anything, all right? Just tell them to fuck off if they try something, and don’t sell booze to minors. I’ve gotta run.”
“No, I’m—” Harry stepped back as Zayn moved around him, grabbing his phone. “I’m not sure if I got—”
“That’s all right, just blame it on the till if you cock up,” Zayn shouted over his shoulder, already halfway through the backroom. “Be back in an hour or two!”
The time on Harry’s smartwatch read 10:05. 11:05, Zayn would be back. 11:05 or 12:05. 11:05, hopefully.
By 10:22, Harry had five post it-notes of instructions stuck to the bottom of the till. He’d tried out every conceivable combination of buttons and he’d purchased four packs of gum for himself, both on card and cash, just to be absolutely certain that everything functioned as intended.
He’d just begun to properly acquaint himself with the tobacco selection behind him when the door chime went off.
“Yes!” Harry gasped, twirling around. A middle-aged woman wearing an unmatching tracksuit and her hair in a clusterfuck bun had just walked in.
She frowned, raised a brow and laughed under her breath. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” Harry replied, cringing at the unnatural pitch of his own voice. What the fuck? “What can I do you for?”
What the fuck?
The woman snickered, slapping her weathered hand onto the counter. “Carton of Mayfair Blue, please, and I’ll give you a quick tug round the back if that halves the price.”
Harry stared at her, head spinning, and the woman stared back, deadpan.
“Fuckin’ hell, kid, I’m winding you up,” she exclaimed, “I’d fuckin’ eat you alive.” She paused for a second, and Harry still didn’t manage to come up with a single word in response. “Carton of Mayfair Blues, come on, haven’t got all morning. Oi!” she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Lights on in there or?”
“Yes.” Harry blinked, stumbling as he turned toward the tobacco shelf. “Yes, I—” He reached for a pack of Mayfair’s—
“—carton, for fuck’s sake.”
He dropped the pack to the floor, considered picking it up, but thought better of it when the lady groaned impatiently and fumbled his way to a carton instead. He dropped it on the counter, fingers leaving nice prints on the cellophane, and fucked up taking her card three times before she snapped at him again and his throat started closing up.
“I’m, uhm—”
Finally, the woman leaned over the counter, smacked his hands away and pressed the card button herself. She managed to pay her way, took her carton and muttered something about autistic child labour as she marched off. The door slammed behind her and Harry swallowed profusely, holding onto the counter.
He closed his eyes, breathing. Just breathing, like his therapist told him.
Just focus on your breathing, Harry. Just your breathing, not the pressure building behind your eyes, not the invisible fishhooks pulling downward on the corners of your mouth, just breathing. Breathing—
The wave crashing against the back of his throat slowly began to retreat, until he could unclench his teeth and exhale. He managed.
The next customer came half an hour later, looked around and left without purchase. The one after that was a regular alcoholic, who bought what he always bought – a scratch off ticket and a mini bottle of Bell’s – and waved Harry off with a half-smile as he left. Success.
Two more cigarette runs went off without too much trouble; Harry did accidentally mistake Marlboro Gold for a pack of Hamlet, but the customer was patient with him, distracted by her kid.
Eventually, Harry found the wherewithal to start trimming behind the counter and restocking a little here and there.
By the time his watch read 12:32, Harry wasn’t all that bothered. Zayn would be back soon, and Harry had kept things running. He’d be proud, or— unfazed, at least.
At 1:00 PM, a group of teenagers walked in. Barely teenagers, actually, the eldest looking no more than thirteen, and even that was pushing it. The boys nodded at Harry, who nodded back, and then veered off to the right and disappeared between racks of condiments.
At the same time, the backroom door slammed open. Harry couldn’t hear what was being said back there, but he could hear that Zayn wasn’t alone. Zayn’s monotonous hum was being overpowered by a much louder voice. It registered as vaguely familiar in the back of Harry’s mind; just the sharp jabbing nature of it, the tiny gut-punch of dread every time the guy barked out in laughter. If Harry didn’t know him, he probably knew of him; guys like him.
The teens slid back in from the left, up toward the counter. They were jostling each other, snickering amongst themselves, and stealing so many glances that Harry began to pick at his cuticles. They needed tending to, anyways. They did need that.
“Hiya,” one of the boys finally said, at which both his mates broke out in cackles behind him. He slapped a small hand onto the counter and cocked his head back when Harry looked at him. It didn’t make him look any older, though Harry suspected that had been the intent. “How’s it going, lad?”
The other boys laughed, tumbling around behind him.
“Good,” Harry replied, pressing his lips together. He could tell what was coming, had known since they walked in. “Can I help you with anything?”
“We’d just like, ehm—” the boy started, eyes darting past Harry’s shoulder and— yep. There it was. Zeroing in on the liquor selection. “Just a bottle of Smirnoff, mate.” The boy cleared his throat, then artificially lowered his voice, “the big one.”
The boy’s beady blue eyes locked in on Harry’s. Both his friends went dead silent. This was the moment. Was Harry cool or was he a good employee? Was he cool or was he old enough to tell a trio of twelve-year-old’s to fuck off? Which was cooler? Was either?
His tongue felt cold in his mouth.
“Oops, sorry mate, just going round,” someone said from behind, suddenly stepping in from the backroom and bumping Harry in the back. Harry gripped the counter, squeezing in as the guy inched around him.
“Oi,” the kid on the other end said, snapping his unkempt fingers at Harry, “you deaf or something?”
The guy who’d walked out now slid up behind the group of boys, out of focus. Harry was zeroed in on the boy.
“Caniseeyouridplease.”
The boy frowned. “You what?”
“Can I please,” Harry managed, straightening up. He sensed the guy behind the boys shifting on his feet, observing him, which didn’t help matters. “See your ID?”
The boy groaned. He looked back and exchanged glances with his mates, then turned back, sliding his elbows onto the counter. “Come on, mate, just sell us the fucking booze, haven’t got it with me.”
“I need to see ID’s,” Harry insisted, standing pin straight. He couldn’t actually feel his feet. “We don’t sell booze without—”
“Zayn does it all the time,” the boy protested, his mates chiming in, “what the fuck’s wrong with you anyway, you look like you’re about to cry.”
Harry pressed his lips together, shaking his head.
“Look at him, he is!” one of the other boys exclaimed, laughing incredulously. “He is, he’s gonna cry, what the fuck!”
Harry stumbled back further, accidentally bumping into the liquor cabinet. It made a loud, jarring noise and he jumped forward, shocking himself. The boys laughed harder.
“Hang on, aren’t you the bloke who bikes around with that fucking helmet on, the green one—”
“Oh my god, it is, it’s that weird guy with the green helmet, just fucking biking and crying and—”
“ENOUGH!”
In an instant, all the laughter died out.
All three of the boys turned halfway around to look at the man behind them.
And yeah, Harry knew that guy. Everyone in town knew Louis Tomlinson. When Harry was twelve, his older sister had almost slept with him despite him being a year under her. Then he slept with her friend instead, of course, so Gemma caught a lucky break, though she didn’t seem to appreciate it at the time. In fact, one could argue she missed out on a vital rite of passage. Few girls around her age had made it through school and out of town without rounding Louis Tomlinson’s bed. Or the backseat of the beat up modded Honda Civic he used to drive. Even the principal’s office once, if the talk of the town was to be believed.
Now, Louis Tomlinson stood a bit straighter than he used to when Harry would see him smoking around the back of the school or downtown in his black North Face puffer and track bottoms. He’d swapped the puffer for a worn looking three-stripe windbreaker and the track-bottoms for regular jeans. His hands donned a few more tattoos than Harry remembered, and his ash brown hair was different; quiffier.
He’d turned into a man since Harry last looked at him properly, which was maybe a year or two ago, with scruff on his face and width at the shoulders.
If he pulled before, he’d be yanking now. Girls. Women. Anyone, if he wanted.
“Right, off you go,” he told the boys, who suddenly looked significantly younger than they had a moment ago. “Jack, I’ll have your mum here in a minute if you don’t fuck off in the next two seconds, you little shit.”
The boys swore under their breaths, but scurried off like rats nonetheless.
And then Louis stepped up to the counter. “Fucking annoying,” he scoffed, waving in the direction of the tobacco selection. “I’ll have a pack of Marlboro Gold, please.”
Harry tried to open his mouth to speak, but the second he moved his mouth, he knew he’d fucked up. He could feel it start to quiver, his breath stuttering, eyes heating, he’d felt it coming on and he’d missed his chance to flee.
“Jesus Christ, you really are crying,” Louis Tomlinson exclaimed.
One loud, hiccuppy breath escaped Harry’s mouth, and Louis flinched. That’s all he saw before he slammed his teeth together, spun on his heel and leapt through the backroom door. Zayn yelled after him as he came barging through.
“Sick!” Harry sobbed out.
He slammed the backdoor behind him and jumped on his bike. If he wanted home in five minutes, he’d take the quick trip up through the middle of town, but if he did that then he might pass someone he knew, full-on sobbing. He took the long way, lungs aching as he pedalled and gasped, pedalled and gasped.
His cheeks were stained in tears when he drew his bike up the front path, his hands shaking when he locked it by his mum’s.
He ripped open the front door and immediately felt guilty when he heard his mum swallow a scream in the other room.
“It’s just me, mum,” he called out, and knew his feeble voice gave him away. “It’s okay, just felt ill,” he added, hurrying up the stairs to his room.
She was right on his heels, of course.
“Darling, oh my god,” she exclaimed, barging into his room just as he’d thrown himself face first on the bed. “What’s happened, are you all right?”
She didn’t take his muttered no’s for an answer, sitting down at the end of his bed. In the end, he rolled around and let her see his face, let her cradle it and kiss his forehead. “Oh, my poor baby, you’d been doing so well,” she told him, “I was wondering if you’d been pushing yourself too much, working full time and everything.”
He didn’t want to cry anymore today so he didn’t respond, tucking his face into her hair instead and sighing. He’d outgrown his mum by many inches years ago, and she was a slight woman anyway, but it never felt like that up close. He always felt small in her embrace, particularly when he ran to it, scared like a child still.