Chapter Text
and wonder: to create art, wonder is the first step. you acknowledge your own finite elements and you acknowledge the infinite. when you realize the wonderful and mysterious is around you, you assent to the idea that you are not in control and you begin to wonder. and that’s where the songs are born.
- jon foreman
†
JULY 2016
A fitted black suit with trousers that hug his legs like an old friend and a jacket that hints at lean muscled biceps. Gleaming platinum cufflinks. Carefully shaped and polished hair. A strong, steady gait. Harry shouldn’t have expected anything less, but when Louis Tomlinson steps into the room looking as he does, he and the entire room hold a collective breath in awe of him.
The sunlight streaming through the glass windows lining the conference room appears to shift and redirect towards him, catching on all the right points and turning him to a glowing Adonis.
Harry straightens his spine and when he looks, everyone else is doing the same. Beside him, Andy goes to touch the end of her plait but it isn’t there. They worked too long that morning getting her hair into a bun like she’d wanted. She said it looked professional. She shifts in her seat and shoots him a smile.
An eager assistant rushes to turn Louis’ teacup over and fill it with steaming dark tea while Louis takes his seat and looks down the length of the table.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, voice strong and clear. The corners of his mouth curl in a fleeting closed-lip smile. “Thank you all for coming. I know the trip here was long for some of you.”
He takes a careful sip of his tea and then a breath. “I’m sure you've got places to be so I won’t keep you,” he says. “You have in front of you the contracts which were drafted up by our lawyers, Mr Jack Lieberman and Ms Alex Holt.” He gestures to the two individuals sitting across from Harry and the other parents in the room.
“Your own lawyers have also looked over the contracts,” Louis says. “And made adjustments and negotiations they found necessary.”
Harry glances at Niall who's sat beside Andy, wearing fake glasses he purchased at Lloyds because he said they make him look smart.
“That said, we’ve all reached a mutual understanding of our obligations from here on out,” Louis says. “So, without further delay, let’s proceed. Please.” He gestures to the folders on the table, and Harry opens the one positioned in front of him, lifting the pen beside it.
Contracts have always given him pause. The concept of ink and paper acting as a chieftain of sorts is daunting, as is the man sitting like a king at the end of the table. Despite how many times Harry has combed through this very contract with Niall or how many times he’s talked it over with Andy, he hesitates now.
Everyone else is already signing. Some have even passed the contracts over to their daughters. At least one of the girls doesn’t require parental signature at all.
Harry clicks the pen once, twice, and twirls it between his fingers.
“Dad,” Andy urges him quietly.
Harry glances towards the end of the table. Their eyes meet, his and Louis’. He feels a stroke of fear in that moment like the other man can read every line of him. He tries to school his expression into one of impassivity but it’s unclear as to whether or not he succeeds.
Slowly, Louis smiles. Not the tense thing he managed seconds ago. This one is softer, more cautious, and knowing. Perhaps he hasn’t read every line but he’s picked up on the synopsis, and the private smile he reserves for Harry now is as reassuring as Harry needs it to be.
Harry directs his gaze to the contract and the line awaiting his signature and begins.
†
“Can you believe this?” Andy gasps, staring up at the sky. “I still can’t believe this.”
Harry tugs on his necktie and then opts to pull the damn thing off entirely. He loosens the first three buttons of his shirt and exhales. He feels the infrequent lure of nicotine, watching a person light up across the street. It’s been months since his last smoke but every now and then, it feels like no time has passed at all.
Andy turns to him, eyes wide.
“You’re officially a star,” he tells her.
The words tastes funny on their venture past his lips. He uses it often when talking to his daughter, Andy, short for Andromeda. Her name is robust and elaborate but it’s a wink at her mother’s name too. She was Cassie, short for Cassiopeia. From the beginning, they thought of their daughter as a star. Harry just never realized she'd become one in the literal sense.
He watches through the glass as Niall shakes hands with one of the lawyers who’d been present at the meeting and steps through the double doors of Sony's headquarters. Harry looks at him and smiles.
“You can lose the glasses now.”
Niall touches his thumb to the bridge of his glasses. “Not until we’re in the car.”
“You know, the suit does more than enough. You look every bit the average lawyer in this alone,” Harry says, sweeping his hand across Niall’s lapel.
“I look like I finished training just yesterday,” Niall argues.
Harry huffs a breath. “Can we go for a pint now?”
“Yeah,” Niall says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look like you need it.”
“Bee,” Harry calls to Andy. “Come on.”
A fury of commotion starts up to their left. Harry had seen the people gathered there but didn’t realize who they were until they raise their cameras. Bright flashes pop and fade like fireworks. Everyone standing on the pavement redirects their attention towards the glass doors where a burly security guard extends his arm to keep them all at bay. Louis steps out, a pair of aviator shades donned, head down.
“Louis!” the paparazzi calls. “Louis! Look here! Louis, you just signed your first band, man! How about a smile?”
Louis doesn't even look at them, but how could he, Harry thinks, with all that light and too much noise? Another guard opens the door to a sleek black car parked directly ahead of them and Louis slips inside. The door shuts behind him and the car pulls off.
Harry looks to Niall, finding his expression much the same: dazed and detached. They’ve had more than enough of this show for now.
“Pints?” Niall says.
Harry nods. “Pints.”
†
Andy swirls her chip through the frothy crown of her root beer float and stuffs it in her mouth.
“Can you believe...?” she mumbles, mostly to herself. She's pulled her long curly hair from its bun and keeps it back with her heart-shaped sunnies. Her lip glossed mouth parts for another chip but before she eats it, she whispers for the millionth time that day, “I can't believe this.”
Harry looks at Niall who raises his second beer to his mouth in lieu of a comment. His phone shivers against the wooden pub table. He reads the message there waiting for him and swings his gaze toward the entrance. His sister waves when she spots him and starts her venture towards them.
“Gemma, is that a gift bag?” Harry asks as he stands to hug her.
“It’s just a little something,” she replies.
“Come on,” Niall groans. “We said no gifts.”
“You got me a gift?” Andy gasps.
“Just a little something,” Gemma repeats as she hugs Niall. She pulls Andy into a big hug and presses her hands against her cheeks. “So proud of you.”
Andy grins, swiping the gift bag out of her hands. “Can I open it?”
“Just as soon as I grab a beer. I don't want to miss this,” Gemma says, setting her handbag down. She heads to the bar, still dressed in her work attire. She looks tired every time Harry sees her these days. Being a teacher while raising a child would do the same to anyone.
“We said no gifts,” Niall mutters.
Harry pats his arm. “Don't beat yourself up about it.”
“Yes, Niall, it's okay,” Andy says. “We know you're on the dole.”
Niall grabs a handful of chips as if to toss them at her. Harry pins him still with a fierce look. “I washed my hair this morning," he says firmly. The last food fight ended with maple syrup stuck to his curls for hours.
Andy slurps on her drink, glaring across the table. They'll hash it out later over a game of FIFA most likely, which is best for everyone. Gemma returns with a heavy sigh and a pint set on the table.
“Alright,” she says. “I'm ready.”
Andy's arm dives into the gift bag. She extracts a light blue jewellery box.
Niall starts shaking his head again. “A little something, she says.”
Gemma swats at him, her eyes focused on Andy as she pops the box open.
“I love it,” Andy says immediately and passionately.
“What is it?” Niall asks, leaning close.
Andy draws a gold necklace from the box and lifts it into the dim light. The gleaming body of the pendant swings slightly in the air, adorned with delicate jewel-encrusted wings outstretched.
A bee for Bee.
When Andy was still newly born and sputtering spit bubbles the way babies do, Cassie would call her 'my little Bee' and the endearment stuck long after she was gone. One day when she was much older, Andy came to Harry with her guitar in hand, and played a cord for him, slamming her thumb down on the fret, causing the string to buzz. She looked at him, eyes wide. 'I’m buzzing', she’d exclaimed like a manic genius and buzzing forever became synonymous with playing guitar.
“You can open it,” Gemma says, lifting her beer. “It’s a locket.”
Andy gasps. “What?” She starts fumbling with the pendant and twists it open. There aren’t any pictures inside, just an inscription. She laughs. “It says ‘Buzz on.’ I love this so much.”
“It’s from the whole family,” Gemma says. “Your dad included.”
Harry gives Gemma a look, but she ignores him. When Andy beams in his direction and throws her arm around him, he’s forced to play along. He didn’t contribute a penny to buying the necklace. He doesn’t even know how much it cost, though he can imagine. Spare money for him is always used on ice cream and clothes and on buying new records every now and then. Not on gifts, even as much as he’d like that.
Andy places the necklace in Harry's palm. “Could you put it on?” she asks.
“'Course,” Harry says.
The bee hangs low on her torso when he’s finished. It pairs well with the necklace she already wears, a cross that belonged to her mum. Andy holds the gold bee between her fingers. “It’s perfect. I’m never taking it off.”
Gemma smiles. “Good. I want to see it when you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone.”
“Hell yes,” Andy says. “Probably won’t happen anytime soon. But when I’m a solo artist definitely, and I’m one step closer now.”
Harry sighs. “Stop talking about being solo when you’ve just joined a band. It’s not the right mindset.”
“But it’s true,” Andy says dismissively. “This is all just a pit stop.”
Harry tells himself to stop trying but never does. He resigns with a “Finish your chips” and lifts his beer to his mouth.
†
The first time he put a guitar in his daughter’s hands she was five years old. Cassie had the idea that if Jimi Hendrix started at 15, imagine what their child could achieve if she started a decade earlier. It’d been a joke, as far as he could remember. But Harry’s mum insisted that every child needed a talent and he couldn’t think of a better one than music. it was only meant to be a talent, though. Not a career.
Andy took to the guitar like it was an extension of herself. Her palm touched the wooden neck of a Les Paul, her fingers stroked the copper strings, and it told her all its secrets, everything she needed to know. By ten, she played as well as Harry. By fifteen, she played better.
At sixteen, she’s sitting in a studio surrounded by three other girls, an ocean of space separating them from Harry and the other parents spectating their first rehearsal. He’s never felt further from her. You’re clinging, she says sometimes. That’s a thing he does a lot apparently. Even his sister says so. He responds to separation anxiety by seizing opportunities to hold tighter. He doesn’t have anything to hold onto right now but his own sanity. He’s nervous and from the way she’s tugging at the end of her plait, Andy is too.
He pulls out his phone and sends her a quick, “You’re doing great!”
She reads the message and looks at him, her eyes narrowed and nose scrunched up. She sends a reply and stores her phone away.
“We haven’t done anything yet,” reads her message.
She makes a good point. Clinging doesn’t make much room for logic.
Harry glances at the other parents in the room, one of which is already looking at him. She smiles and extends her hand for a shake across the short distance between their chairs.
“I’m Rachel. I don’t think we’ve spoken yet,” she says.
Harry takes her hand. “Harry,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re with Andy, yes?”
“I am,” Harry says. “And you’re Rose’s mum?”
“Sister, actually."
He should have known. Now that he looks at her, she can’t be old enough to have a 17-year-old daughter. But then again, most people think the same of him.
“I thought you were Andy's brother, at first,” Rachel says, echoing his thoughts. “You and Andy could be twins.”
“I should start telling people we are,” Harry says. “Suppose I’m playing myself.”
Rachel grins. “Not too late to start now. I won’t tell anyone.”
Their attention is diverted by the door opening on the side of the room. In walks Louis with a string of individuals after him. Harry recognizes one as the producer, Darkchild, a music industry power player known for working with Beyonce and Mariah Carey. The rest, he’s never seen before.
All of the girls sit upright. Andy releases her plait. Beside her is Rose, the guitarist, with her blond hair pulled into a ponytail. On the left of Rose is Kendra, the drummer, who only now decides to stick her sunglasses into her dark fro. Finally, there’s Mercy, the bassist, with honey brown hair and nails she’s chewed down to the quick while they waited.
Louis’ eyes pass over them, smile growing. “Good morning, everyone.” His voice is strong enough to carry through the room but somehow soft too.
The girls reply with greetings of their own.
“I’m happy to see you all looking well-rested and ready to go,” Louis says. “We’re hoping for a productive day today. We’ll mostly just be focusing on groundwork. Getting you all better acquainted. Going over some general info. I’d like for you all to start learning each other’s styles as musicians too. It’s my hope that soon enough you’ll start to feel like a band and then, of course, you’ll be a band.”
Harry sits forward, bracing his arms atop his knees.
Louis claps his hands together. “Let’s get started with introductions.”
Their first 'rehearsal' doesn’t turn into much of a rehearsal at all. It is, however, exhausting, even for Harry who mostly chats at random with the other parents. He leaves for a break to ring his mum about dinner and fetch a cup of coffee, and returns to Andy removing her guitar from its case and lifting the glittering silver strap over her head. He finds his seat again and watches while she and the other girls ready themselves to play.
“I've got a question.”
That’s Rose. When she turns to face Louis and Darkchild, her blond ponytail whips the air, as does the surprising sharpness of her voice. Everyone looks at her, which Harry detects is what she wants.
“We've all got a role, yeah? Drummer. Bassist. Vocalist. Me, the guitarist, yeah?” Rose asks.
Louis’ brow creases. “That’s correct.”
“I’m just clarifying since there’s more than two guitars here.”
Andy’s gaze lifts away from the strings of her Les Paul and Harry sits forward again, watching the little lines appear between her brows. The tension congeals in the room until everyone is stuck in it.
“There are some things we’re still working out right now,” Louis says after a breath. “Originally, yes, the plan was that each girl would have one role. But all of you can sing and more than one of you can play the guitar.”
Some of the parents start chattering again, discussing this new piece of information. Beside him, Rachel says nothing, and he wouldn’t expect her to now. At least, not to him.
“So then the lead vocalist role is open again?” Rose asks, and again the room silences.
Harry purses his lips, thinking back to the night before.
“You know Rose, the guitarist? She doesn’t like me,” Andy had said. “I can tell.”
“How so?” Harry asked as he swept fallen leaves and petals off the worktop into a rubbish bin.
They were tidying up the flower shop before retiring for bed. The time had passed slowly thus far, each hour bringing them closer to the following morning, and her first official day as a professional musician.
“It doesn't matter," she'd replied quietly.
“Hey," he'd said. "You know what to do right? No matter what?"
Andy looked at him and smiled. "Make music, not war."
"That's right."
Of course now, with this pointy-nosed girl singling Andy out, it’s hard to feel the same way he did then. It’s hard to champion peace when Andy has a death grip around the neck of her guitar, not from anger but from anxiety. She doesn’t do well with confrontation. She gets that from him. Cassie would've charged head first into a problem. Harry always tried to find the quickest route out of it. Andy fell somewhere in between.
“Not quite,” Louis says. Another long pause. “The lead vocalist role...will go to Andy.”
“And lead guitar?” Rose questions.
Louis simply looks at her. “We’re considering also giving that to Andy,” he says carefully.
Rachel speaks up. “How exactly is that fair?”
Harry tenses and Andy looks at him, her bottom lip bitten. He exhales between his lips, trying to signal for her to do the same. She does.
Louis turns in his seat and looks at Rachel. Even from this distance, Harry can see his jaw lock.
“It’s not meant to be fair. It’s meant to be productive,” Louis says, and turns to face the girls again. Rachel sits back in her seat, looking somewhat affronted. She should be, in all honesty. Even Harry knows a dismissal when he sees one. Louis’ next words are solely for the girls and they’re gentler. “When we really start to play and hash things out, we’ll have a better idea of where everyone fits best. I know it’s a lot to process right now but every decision we make is so that you girls can be the best. I promise that no one will be left out or made to feel like they aren’t contributing. I need you to trust that. All of you.” He casts a glance again to the parents, his eyes lingering on Rachel, flickering almost imperceptibly to Harry.
With a sigh, he looks at Darkchild. “Alright. That’s more than enough talking. Let’s run through some songs.”
It goes terribly.
Andy and Rose attempt to outplay each other whenever they have the chance. They throw everyone off. Louis stops them repeatedly. He has them go acapella and even then, they try to outsing each other. After a break, Rachel decides to sit beside another parent, and Harry assumes that their short acquaintanceship has come to a quick end.
Harry spends the rest of the band’s painful display with his forehead in the palm of his hand. There’s still a whole half hour left when Louis mercifully brings things to a close.
†
“So,” Harry’s mum, Anne, cooes, squeezing Andy’s shoulders. “How was rehearsal today?”
“Awful,” Andy says curtly, slipping past her.
Harry looks at his mum expressionlessly. “I told you not to mention it,” he says, leaning in to press a greeting kiss to her cheek. “I literally just told you so on the phone.”
“How am I supposed to not talk about this? My granddaughter’s first big day as a musician?” she asks. “I expected happy news.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Harry says. He lifts the paper bag in his hand. “I brought wine to make up for it.”
His mum pats his dimpled cheek and takes the bag from him, shutting the wooden door behind them. One of the cats brushes his ankle, its siblings lost somewhere in Harry’s massive childhood home. Stepping into the kitchen behind his mum, he’s greeted straight away by Gemma, two kisses dropped to either side of his cheeks.
“What happened?” she whispers, throwing a glance at Andy curled up in the window seat with another cat pressed to her chest.
“Hate to say it but one of the girls is a bit of a bitch,” Harry replies.
“Harry,” his mum hisses.
A smile dons Andy’s face, although she directs it towards the rain-splattered window pane.
“It’s the honest truth,” Harry says. “There’s no other way to explain it. She’s bloody Regina George.”
His mum hands him a glass of wine. He takes a big swig of it, strolling over to the window seat. He lifts Andy’s legs and plops down beside her, dropping her legs across his lap.
“Is it too late to kick her out?” Gemma asks, sitting on a barstool. Her legs swing side-to-side like pendulums.
“Think so,” Harry says, holding his wine out to Andy.
She takes it and has two sips before handing it back.
“But,” Harry says, not to Gemma but directly to her. “We’re not going to let her get to us, right? Music, not war.”
Andy stares back at him, lips pouted. He sets his hand on her knee and pats, resting his head back against the window.
“Hey, Bee,” Gemma says.
Andy looks at her.
“How was it working with Louis Tomlinson?” Gemma asks, resting her chin in her palm.
Andy smiles. “He’s cool."
“He’s odd,” Harry adds with another drink of wine.
“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Andy murmurs.
“I’ve read articles about him,” Harry fires back. “He’s got that massive house of his, all that money, and he’s just alone. No wife. No friends.”
“Wife?” Gemma gasps. “You think he’s straight?”
“Maybe? I don't know,” Harry answers. “But that’s exactly my point. No one knows, because he’s never with anyone. He doesn’t seem to have a personal life at all.”
“Everyone's got a personal life,” his mum chimes in, removing her casserole from the oven. She pulls off her oven mitts. “But some people like to keep theirs private.”
“Can’t fault him for that,” Harry says, polishing off his wine. “I’d be his secret lover if he asked.”
“No,” Andy groans. “No, no, no. Dad, you can’t flirt with him or anything. Everyone hates me already. If they even think something's going on between you two, you’ll just make it a million times worse.”
“A little dramatic,” Harry mumbles. He holds up two fingers and squints at the insignificant space between them. “Just a little bit.”
“Promise me you won’t flirt with him or give him your number,” Andy says.
“You make me sound so desperate. I’m offended.”
“You are desperate,” Andy says. “No offence.”
“Yikes,” Gemma says. “I think that’s the cue for more wine!”
“You wound me,” Harry says to Andy, pressing a hand to his heart.
“Please promise me?” Andy says again. “Louis Tomlinson is off limits.”
“I was joking,” Harry says, pushing her legs off his lap. He stands. “As I already said, I think he’s odd and secretive. Gorgeous? Yes. But odd and secretive. Believe me, I’m not interested.”
Some commotion at the front door saves him from the rest of that conversation. He fills his glass with more wine while Robin, his dad, enters with Gemma's two-year-old son in his arms, and Gemma’s boyfriend, Ralph, trailing after them. Harry greets them all with the rest of his family and takes the toddler, Alfie, into his arms.
“Found someone who truly loves me,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to the boy’s cheek. He gives Andy a sideways glance. “Why can’t you be this small again?”
“Because I’m a musician now,” Andy says.
Harry smiles, beginning to sway with Alfie in his arms. “That’s the spirit,” he says, shooting her a wink. “Why don’t we have any music on?”
Andy heads over to the record player and starts, as usual, with Prince. His mum starts swaying to the beat while slicing up her casserole. Gemma sets the table and hums along. Andy plays her air guitar.
Soon enough they’re all seated and started on their dinner, their varying discussion on politics and current events, and always, lots of laughter. For now, the band and even Louis Tomlinson, are forgotten.
†
They enter through the flower shop, although there is a separate entrance that leads straight to the upstairs flat. Harry likes to check that everything is still in one piece before he retires. Andy heads to the back and up the stairs. Harry locks the shop door behind him. He checks that all the blinds have been pulled down. The pipes are all off. The register is closed and covered. Then he heads upstairs.
Andy stands in their solitary bathroom, already changed into pyjamas. He steps into his room, sinks down onto his bed with a heavy sigh and kicks off his shoes. He changes himself into night clothes and slips into the bathroom and steps beside her at the sink.
“I didn’t mean what I said about you being desperate,” Andy murmurs, tossing a dirty makeup removing wipe into the bin. Instantly, she looks 16 again, and not years older like she’s been going for lately. As the youngest in her band, Harry gets it. But it still scares him sometimes how he’ll look at her and think he’s been asleep for the last two or three years.
Harry glances into the mirror and meets her pale green eyes. “I know,” he says, voice muffled by the toothbrush jammed in his mouth.
Andy hovers by the door, leaning her head against the frame. Her curly hair is a tragedy, falling this way and that, exactly like his own. Harry rinses, stores his toothbrush away, and looks at her expectantly.
“I don’t want you to be alone all your life, you know?”
Harry sighs, slipping through the door past her. “Not this again.”
“You’re almost 40.”
Harry swivels on his feet and stares wide-eyed at her. “I’m 33.”
“Which is close to 35, which is halfway to 40,” Andy says on her way into her room across the hall.
Harry rolls his eyes all the way around his sockets and starts folding his duvet down his mattress.
Andy calls to him, “You should go on Match.com.”
“Go to sleep,” he says in reply.
She comes back into his room, sticking her retainer into her mouth. “I move out in a week.”
“I’m aware."
“Then you’re going to be all alone and miserable--”
“Don’t forget desperate,” Harry says, crawling into bed and collapsing into his pillow.
“I said I didn’t mean that,” Andy replies. He can hear the pout in her voice even if he isn’t looking at her.
Harry takes a breath and opens his eyes. “What are you trying to say?” he mumbles tiredly.
“I’m worried about you. When I leave, you’ll be alone,” Andy says. “That’s all. I really do want you to find someone. Not Louis Tomlinson, but like--”
“Jesus. I don’t even know him, Andy,” Harry says. “But if it makes you feel better, as impossible as it is, I swear--” He sets his hand on his heart. “I will absolutely not flirt or attempt to date your new boss.”
“Great. But seriously,” Andy says, plopping down on his mattress. “I feel bad about leaving you.”
Harry sits upright. “Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “Please don’t. You’re going to be big. I want that for you. You leaving and following your dream doesn’t make me sad. That’s not possible.”
“Why can’t you go on Match.com?”
Harry huffs a laugh. “Because I’m not desperate.”
“I didn’t--”
“I know,” Harry stops her. “But I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with being desperate, in my opinion. Sometimes people get to a point where they crave love so badly that’s how they feel and I think that’s only human. I’m just not there yet.”
Andy doesn’t stop with the frowning.
“Plus,” Harry says, flicking her nose. “Things have been going pretty well with Gemma’s co-worker.”
“The Tory?” Andy questions, cringing. “Tell me you're joking.”
Harry gives her a look. “Politics aside, he’s funny sometimes. And he mentioned wanting to have drinks, so...” He shrugs. “I’m not hopeless.”
Andy’s lips twitch.
Harry lifts his arms and wiggles his fingers. “Okay, let’s hug it out.”
She crawls into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist and setting her head against his shoulder. He squeezes her, resting his chin atop her curly hair.
“I’m kind of scared,” she mumbles after a moment. “Which means, like, really scared.”
“About what?”
“Leaving. Not just for you but me too,” Andy says. “Those girls don’t like me. I don’t know what I did but they don’t like me.”
“They don’t know you,” Harry replies. “Right now, they’re threatened by you, maybe. All they’ve got to go on is how talented you are and that scares them. But they’ll get to know, babe. I promise. And then things will be better.”
“You think?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he says.
She laughs softly, squeezing him a bit tighter. He presses a kiss to her forehead and releases her.
“Good night, love.”
“Night, Dad,” Andy says, crawling off the mattress. “See you in the morning.”
“You too,” he says, burrowing down into his sheets, pulling the duvet up to his chin. Andy shuts the door behind herself and a second later, he hears her door close too.
Parenting in an odd twisted way is a little fucked up. You grow up thinking love at first sight is impossible, and then some doctor puts this squirming alien lifeform in your arms and you’re ready, willing, and able to take a bullet for it.
Lying to your children is fucked up too. But it’s one of the first things Harry learned to do as a father. It’s possibly the one he does most.
When Andy asks him if he’s lonely, it’s his job to tell her 'no'.
When she asks if he wants her to stay here forever, he has to lie and tell her 'no'.
†
Let it be known and written on record that it takes Louis Tomlinson only one rehearsal and a half to finally snap.
They’ve moved to a different room with more natural light as if that will inspire peace amongst the band. He’s wearing light-wash jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a black beanie. Considering the promise he made to Andy, Harry doesn’t stare at him for more than two seconds at a time (three, if he’s feeling rebellious). The point is that Louis is dressed down and clearly ready for serious progress and an hour into their rehearsal, they’ve gotten nowhere.
“Enough,” he says suddenly, holding up a hand.
The girls stop playing. Harry breaks his rule to watch Louis steadily, breath held like the rest of the room.
Except Rose, of course.
“Why not give me my own piece to play and I’ll show you I’m good?" she says. "That I’m better.”
Harry makes what he thinks is a tiny sound of disbelief but when he looks, Rachel is glaring at him from two seats away. Down below, Louis starts massaging his forehead. Rachel takes that as her opportunity to stand and speak.
“They each deserve a chance to show you what they’re cut out for,” she says, her arms folded like her sister’s. “It’s ridiculous that this has come down to some sort of competition. But if it’s a competition, let them battle it out. Stop forcing them to work together when you’ve already pitted them against each other.”
A few parents nod their heads in agreement. The whole time, Louis stands with his back to them, his forehead in his palm.
“Mr. Tomlinson,” Rachel says. “How are you going to get this band in order?”
Louis turns. “Leave.”
Harry’s eyes widen. A hush falls over the room. Louis and Rachel’s eyes lock.
“In fact,” Louis says. “Not just yet.”
He looks at the girls and the parents both. “This is how it works when you step into this room, into this building -- my building. They’re your children or your siblings, whoever. But when they’re here, they’re my band. And every decision that’s made in regards to this band is mine to make.
“Let me be really clear: you all are here as spectators and that’s it. You don’t make suggestions. You don’t make demands. You don’t stir up drama and discord.” He looks right at Rachel when he says it. “If your concern is for their success--” He points towards the girls. “Let me do my job. Because it’s my job, not yours.”
No one speaks. Harry doesn’t know if anyone breathes. Andy glances at him and he widens his eyes.
“Now, you may leave. All of you,” Louis says, gaze sweeping across the parents, meeting each of their eyes full-on. When he meets Harry’s, it feels as if the temperature drops, pulled down to freezing by the ice blue of his gaze.
Rachel apparently doesn’t know when to quit. “Mr Tomlinson--”
“I won’t repeat myself,” Louis cuts her off. He turns to the burly man in the corner of the room, who Harry believes is his personal guard, and says, “See that they all make it to the lifts.”
The guard steps forward, holding a hand out towards the door as if they don’t all know where it is. They all begin to rise. Harry stands, eyes glued to the side of Louis’ head. As annoying as he finds Rachel, he feels a degree of distaste for Louis in that moment too.
Harry isn’t always on his best behaviour but when he is, he likes to be credited for it, not punished. Being lumped in with Rachel after sitting quietly all morning is a slight he might never forget.
He waves to Andy on his way out and sends one final glare in the direction of Mr Tomlinson.
†
Troye places a cup of tea down on the worktop for Harry, along with a fresh golden croissant, both still steaming. “Tell me about him. What’s he like?”
“He’s a bit of a dick,” Harry says, promptly. He lifts a fresh vase into the sink basin. “That’s all you need to know.”
With a twist of the tap, cold water begins pouring into the vase while Harry lifts his teacup to his mouth. He nearly succeeds at leaving the topic be, but no one has given him a chance to vent about Louis until now and it all just tumbles out.
“He’s sort of arrogant and unwilling to take suggestions, which I guess is his right. He wasn’t particularly in the wrong either. But--” Harry narrows his eyes. “The way he spoke to everyone like he’s so accustomed to commanding people-- He made all the parents leave rehearsals, yeah? And then two days ago, I got an email saying we’re no longer allowed to come back.”
Troye winces. “Was it that one woman’s fault? The Mega Bitch?”
“Is that what Andy’s calling her?” Harry asks.
“That and some other things too,” Troye says, smiling.
Harry laughs, lifting the full vase from the sink and setting it on the worktop. “It was technically her fault and that’s why if anyone was asked to leave, it should have just been her.”
Troye takes a bite of the croissant Harry hasn’t touched. “But what about how gorgeous he is? How mind-blowing was he up close?”
Harry scoffs. “Didn’t get very close to him. But I guess the pictures don’t really do him justice. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. He ruined it for me. I can’t even appreciate him aesthetically because he ruined it.”
The shop bell rings. Troye hops down from the worktop as a patron enters through the glass door, a red-haired woman who comes by frequently. Harry is fortunate enough to have mostly independent customers, like the ones who come in for their weekly bundle of sunflowers or a new tin of plant food and don’t require much help. It’s jading sometimes however when he’s alone at the shop and wanting conversation.
As expected, the woman starts browsing the bouquets they already have on display with only a small smile sent in Harry's direction. He gets back to the vase he’s preparing for delivery.
“How does Andy feel about him?” Troye asks.
For a second, Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about, his mind having wandered. Tucking a few stems of hydrangea into the vase, he answers, “She adores him, and I think he feels the same of her. Aside from him wanting to make her lead vocalist and guitarist, you should see the way he looked at her during auditions. Like she was already a star. The other girls think she’s a favourite because it’s clear she is. After just two practices.”
“He seems like a clever man to me,” Troye says.
“I guess he does,” Harry mumbles, tucking a sunflower stem between his lips. He repositions a few of the flowers and sticks the sunflower in where it fits best. He smiles at his finished work: a simple mixture of sunflowers, hydrangeas and three white peonies. With a sigh, he says, “So long as he doesn’t fuck her over, I don’t really care.”
He throws a glance towards the woman still strolling around the shop. But it doesn’t seem like she’s heard him. He slides the vase over to Troye. “Let’s wrap this one up. Needs to be delivered before noon.”
Troye takes the vase off to the side. The woman approaches the register with her bouquet.
“Nice choice,” Harry says to her.
She smiles. “I wanted something brighter than the last one. I had red roses and hydrangea.”
“Next week, I’ll have fresh yellow chrysanthemums in,” Harry says. “Maybe I can throw in some of those with some red roses for you then. Might be a brighter combination.”
“We’ll see how long these last me first,” the woman says. She hands off her card and Harry takes it. He hands her the receipt to sign while slipping her bouquet into a cellophane bag.
“Thanks for coming,” Harry says when she takes the bouquet.
The woman hesitates a moment. “I read an article recently in the Sun about your daughter,” she says. “Congratulations to both of you.”
Stunned, Harry simply looks her. He swallows, forcing his tongue to remember what it’s meant to do. “Thank you very much,” he says, smiling. “I’ll let her know she's got some support.”
“Please do,” the woman says. “Have a good day.”
“Same to you.”
He watches her leave and leans against the opposing worktop, lifting his teacup for another sip.
Troye comes from the back a second later. “Van’s all loaded. I’m off for deliveries, and then class,” he says. “See you this afternoon, H.”
“Have fun,” Harry says. Seconds later, he’s alone.
He’s always alone. He likes to think he has a well-sized circle but everyone within it is often preoccupied with something else. Troye, his one employee, is also a student. Niall works tirelessly to be the lawyer he’s dreamed of becoming. Gemma is busy. His mum is busy. And his sole child is standing on the brink of stardom.
He spends his days, sunrise to sunset, surrounded by flowers and baked goods, which obviously isn’t a terrible fate but it’s quiet. Flowers and baked goods don’t talk. Silence leaves too much time for deep thought. As of late, deep thought breeds questions. And questions almost never end in answers.
For instance, what is he supposed to do when more strangers come to know his daughter? What if all of them aren’t kind? What does he do when fame attempts to swallow his only child whole?
He turns and looks at himself in the mirror lining the wall behind the register.
“Relax,” he says tonelessly.
He thinks it helps.
†
AUGUST 2016
“Is that it?” Harry asks.
Andy scans the boxes stuffed into the boot of the Jeep. “Think so.”
Harry nods. “Ready to go then?”
“I guess,” she says with a shrug. She gives him that funny look again and Harry looks away because he can’t deal with this. Not yet. He pulls the boot door closed.
“Come on then. Let’s try to beat the traffic.”
They climb into the car. Harry jams his keys into the ignition and slides his sunnies over his eyes. Andy does the same and pulls her seatbelt across her body. She starts fiddling with the radio right away. Driving without music is like driving without petrol. Not as limiting but equally jarring.
“Did I tell you Mercy is bringing her dog?” Andy says ten minutes into the drive. They’ve been mostly silent, aside from singing along to Womanizer by Britney Spears. “She’s got a chihuahua named Petal.”
“How nice,” Harry says. “You could have brought Sam along.”
“I’ll come back for him,” Andy says. “I told him so before I left.”
Harry breathes a soft laugh. “He’ll have to keep me company for Netflix night.”
From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Andy look at him. “I can come back for Netflix night.”
“No way. You should bond with the girls,” Harry says. “The whole point of moving in with them is to bond. Friday nights, you should spend doing each other’s hair.”
“Because that’s such a girl thing to do, right?”
Harry glances at her. “No, because it’s fun. We do each other’s hair all the time.”
“Yes, but we’re weird. That’s not something girls do together. That’s not something fathers and daughters do together. No one sits around doing each other’s hair except us. ‘Cause we’re weird,” Andy concludes.
“Well, see if I ever braid your hair again.” Harry turns up the radio.
Andy twists the dial down.
“Stop it,” Harry says, turning it up again. “My radio. I’m driving, so my radio.”
“I hate this song,” Andy says. It’s a Kills song he doesn’t remember the name of. She starts pressing buttons, mostly to be a nuisance, and then they hear the familiar beat of Juke Box Hero and gasp. Harry slaps her hand away from the radio.
“Ow,” she whines. She reaches out and tugs on a tendril of his hair.
“I’m driving,” he says again, reaching for the volume dial to twist it all the way to the right.
While the song blasts from the speakers, they sing, loud enough to burst their lungs, with all the windows down, and their hair flying about their heads. Andy starts with her air guitar. She can’t hear a riff play without strumming along somehow. Harry drums his hands on the wheel and that’s how they pass the time, like they usually do, song after song after song.
†
Mercy’s chihuahua Petal is actually quite friendly for a chihuahua. Regrettably, Harry always bought into the stereotype about that particular breed being loud and mean. But Andy and this dog take to each other right away, so quickly that Sam, her bearded dragon back home, would be heartbroken. It’s just another reason on the long, long list of reasons why Harry resents her new flat.
It’s so much larger than necessary, even for four girls. Each bedroom is the size of Harry’s kitchen and living room combined. The kitchen is fitted with stainless steel appliances, granite worktops, and glossy tiled floors. Andy can’t even cook on her own. All of the gadgets like the flat screen television, the Xbox, and the Wii have come courtesy of the label. It all smells new, not mildewy like Harry’s flat had smelled when he moved in with Andy years ago.
He starts to panic when Mercy’s parents leave. Kendra’s parents stick around for a while after assembling her new bookshelf but eventually they leave as well. As awful as Harry finds Rachel, he’s a little grateful that she’s adamant about helping Rose unpack all of her things. Andy on the other hand is a little less proactive.
“Don’t you want to at least unpack your clothes?” Harry asks. He’s leaning against the door frame. He doesn’t want to go sit on the full-sized bed where Andy is reclined with Petal in her hands or over on that fucking chaise by the window. He just stands there looking like an oddly placed house plant.
“Nah,” Andy says. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Harry looks around at the bare walls. “You’re sure you don’t want your posters?”
Andy sits up looking around at the walls. “Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow and pick up a few of them.”
“It’ll have to wait until the weekend,” Harry says. “It’s a bit of a drive.”
Andy folds her legs up atop the bed and nods. “Maybe this weekend then.”
Harry looks around again. The room is so empty. Leaving her here feels like leaving her in a shoebox. Albeit a massive shoebox, but his point stands. The room lacks every bit of personality that has grown and thrived around Andy for years. The candy wrappers, the vast collection of lip gloss, the empty candle jars and a solitary one burning on her desk. The old records for their shared Crosley player. Her guitar propped in the corner surrounded by dirty socks and baseball caps littering the floor.
He feels his throat tighten and decides suddenly that he has to leave. He won’t make it much longer anyhow.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a fancy bookshelf,” he says, voice lowered so that Kendra doesn’t hear. “Or a TV.”
Andy scoffs. “I've got my books.”
“Well, your grandparents are sending a cheque for you. So you can buy some things and decorate if you want,” Harry says. “I’ll drive up and bring it to you when it comes in the post.”
“That’s nice of them,” Andy says quietly.
Again, she looks at him in that funny way.
Again, she looks like she’s just starting primary school surrounded by children with a mum and a dad, squeezing Harry’s hand a little tighter in her own.
She looks like the nine-year-old who completed her first original song on guitar.
When she was twelve years old and had her first period, she cried on the phone with Gemma for hours locked in the loo and refused to talk to Harry because he was a 'boy' and he couldn’t understand and 'It’s not fair', she’d said. Harry listened through the door. 'Why don’t I have a mum?' He’ll never know what Gemma said to her. He just knows Andy came out of the loo with that look in her eyes and curled herself against Harry’s side to watch the rest of Golden Girls.
They’ve been here before. Time and time again, they find themselves in moments where they remember that it’s just them. Just Harry and Andy. Before and after anyone else, they have each other. But he has to go now.
“I have to go,” Harry says.
Her top and bottom lip twitch. “‘Kay.”
“Come here, Bee,” he says, and she climbs off the bed. He hugs her tightly, both arms around her shoulders, curly head against curly head. He kisses her forehead twice and lets her go. His shirt comes away wet from her tears.
“I love you. Have fun,” he says. “Ring me, or I’ll ring you and be annoying. Don’t make me be annoying.”
Her laugh is watery as she drags her palms over her eyes. “That’s enough of you.”
Harry smiles, rubbing his thumb over her dimple. “See you.”
“Love you, Dad.”
He waves to the other girls on the way out, even Rose and Rachel. He doesn’t know whether or not they wave back. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t slow down until he’s out of the flat and leaning against the walls of the lift. He squeezes his hand into a fist. The sharp pain of his nails against his palm distracts him from the stinging around his eyeballs.
He starts his car up and peels away from the kerb. His gaze rises to the rearview mirror. He keeps glancing into it until he can’t see the front of the building behind him. He’s too far away and his vision has begun to blur. He’s a mess. The corners of his eyes and the back of his throat burn. He pulls over to the side of the road, throws the car into park, and exhales.
Then he lifts the hem of his shirt over his face and allows himself a moment his daughter will never know about. Parenting is fucked up. You grow to love the speechless little wonder in your arms until they grow up and one day ask you to let them go.
And when that happens, you do as Harry does and you cry.
†
SEPTEMBER 2016
The nightclub, G-A-Y, bears the burden of hosting the band’s very first gig. Harry doesn’t use the term burden lightly. He knows little about the band’s progress since that last rehearsal he witnessed over a month ago, except that Louis has the girls rehearsing every day and seeing a vocal coach regularly. Andy doesn’t give him much more detail than that. She says she wants him to be surprised.
Harry is one of the few people who actually likes surprises. A birthday party full of all his favorite people? Yes. A new car? Yes! A hefty cheque? Fuck yes. He looks forward to surprises. He looks forward to good things unknowingly coming his way.
Something tells him he’s not going to like this surprise.
He thinks of Andy and Rose duking it out on their guitars, enough to break their strings and give themselves blisters. He thinks of Rachel, who’s standing just a few feet away, scowling at him during that fateful rehearsal. None of this is breeding ground for improvement or success. Even the great and powerful Louis Tomlinson may not be enough to turn it all around.
Gemma bumps her shoulder against his. “You’re glaring.”
Harry blinks and looks at her. “At who?”
“No one,” Gemma says, swirling her straw around her cosmo. “But someone’s bound to think you’re looking at them eventually.”
Harry huffs, lifting his vodka soda from the table. “If this goes badly, we’ll have to make a speedy getaway. You go out and start the car. I’ll run up on stage and grab Andy.”
Gemma laughs. “Relax,” she says, meeting his gaze steadily. “Everything will be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Harry says simply, which is his answer whenever someone tells him 'everything will be fine'. Everything is never fine. At least one thing is always wrong. His mum had proven so over fifteen years ago while speeding to the emergency room. She turned out to be very wrong.
“Niall’s here with Troye,” Gemma says suddenly.
Harry turns, looking for them near the door, and sees Louis instead. Niall and Troye are in his peripheral but he’s stuck looking at the other man for a moment. He’s standing alone, one hand hidden in his pocket, another cradling his phone. His eyes are directed at the screen. He’s not suited up tonight but he looks just as fine as he did then, wearing tight dark wash jeans and a ruby colored t-shirt. As alluring as he is, he manages to go undetected in his dim corner.
Niall’s arm comes around Harry's shoulders, successfully breaking his focus. “How sick is this?” he says. “All these people turning up for the girls?”
“It’s a nightclub, Niall,” Gemma says. “These people showed up to dance and get pissed.”
“That works too,” Niall says. He taps Troye. “Let’s get a drink.”
Harry’s eyes drift over to Louis again. There’s someone with him now, a dark-haired lad standing close with a beer bottle in his hand. Louis gestures with his hands as he explains something, pointing toward the stage or towards the door. The lad beside him nods and offers a comment here and there, but mostly he adds to the air of exclusivity that surrounds Louis at all times.
“You’re glaring again,” Gemma croons. “Only now you have an object of choice.”
Harry rolls his eyes and wraps his lips around his straw. “Leave me alone,” he mumbles.
He doesn’t know where Andy and the girls are. His text messages, for the most part, have been ignored, although Andy was kind enough to send back a smiley face when he mentioned he’d arrived. A small blessing. Troye talks them into dancing at least once. An oldie and a second round of booze urges them onto the dance floor. Harry has to take a break after five songs to use the loo. He leaves them still dancing and finds his way after asking the bartender for directions. He bypasses the urinal for a stall, always wary about attempting to aim when he’s under the slightest influence.
When he’s finished, he steps out and freezes for just one second before proceeding forward.
Louis glances up into the mirror and their eyes meet. He smiles politely. Harry smiles back, pumping soap into his palm. He scrubs his hands, glancing up into the mirror again and their eyes meet once more.
“Harry, right?”
“Yes,” Harry says, cutting off the tap. He reaches for a towel, dries his hands and turns to face him quickly. “It’s good to see you again, Louis.”
“Same to you,” Louis says. “Are you excited for tonight?”
“Nervous. But also excited, yeah,” Harry says.
“Same here, honestly. Although I think I’m more nervous on their behalf.”
It’s an odd thought to have in the men’s toilets but Harry decides then that he likes Louis’ voice. It echoes somewhat in the hollow space and comes back just as softly as it left Louis’ mouth.
“Why’s that?” Harry asks. “You don’t think they’re ready to perform?”
Louis shakes his head. “No, I think they’re more than ready,” he says. “Andy, I think, has been ready for a while. When I say I’m nervous on their behalf, I mean that I know how they must be feeling, having done this myself years ago. Every performance made me nervous, but none like the first.”
Someone else comes into the loo and looks at them full of judgment for loitering in spots that they shouldn’t. Harry can’t blame them. He hates when people do it too. It’s just that leaving the loo means ending this conversation and you wouldn’t believe it but Harry’s actually enjoying himself.
“You’ll have to tell me more about it sometime,” Harry says. “Your One Direction days.”
Louis laughs. Another pleasant, ricocheting sound. “I’ll bore you but sure.” He turns starting toward the door. Harry follows him and slips behind him into the darkness of the club. Louis glances at him again with a smile. “Enjoy the show.”
“You too,” Harry says. He finds the others, sitting down now at the table, nursing their drinks. His phone buzzes when he joins them.
I see you!
It’s from Andy. Harry looks around.
I’m backstage! Coming out soon!
Harry starts to reply when yet another message comes through.
I got sick all over the car on the way.
Harry laughs. Just don’t do it again on stage.
I’ll try. If I don’t manage I’ll be aiming for you.
That’s how you treat your #1 fan??
Of course. Always with the best. :)
Harry looks again toward the stage. He finishes off the rest of his drink while his foot begins to bob anxiously. He scans the club for Louis and spots him a little closer to the stage. Oddly enough, his presence is comforting. Then he starts moving forward and mounts the stage and Harry’s nerves are thrown again into disarray.
“I think it’s starting,” Gemma says.
Someone hands Louis a mic and the DJ brings his next mix to an end.
“Hello everyone,” Louis says into the mic.
A myriad of people scream and whistle for him. They sing his name and Louis looks for a moment like Christ greeting his flock. Harry slurps determinedly on his drink rather than stare at him. The eyes are the gateway to a lot of things. For Harry, they sometimes lead to flirting and flirting leads to slipping his business card into front pockets, and the business card leads to… A lot of things. All of which are forbidden when it comes to Louis Tomlinson.
“I’ve brought a very special group of girls with me tonight. This is their first gig as a band after over a month of really hard work. So please, please give them a warm welcome,” Louis says. He swings his hand toward the wings of the stage. “These are The Wonderlands!”
Kendra comes out first and gets situated at her drums. Mercy is next, entering with her bass guitar, followed by Rose with her own guitar. And finally, Andy slips from behind the curtains into the spotlights. Louis puts the mic right in her hand.
The right side of her hair has been plaited, which is a style Harry is accustomed doing for her. He feels jaded about everything these days. The fact that she has someone else to plait her hair is no exception.
She wears black jeans and a loose black tank top that’s shorter in the front than it is in the back. She’s also sporting a new pair of wine-colored Doc Martens. Her glittering red Les Paul catches all the spotlights as she heads to the front of the stage and sticks the microphone into its holder.
“Good night everyone,” she says, smiling. “I’m Andy Styles.”
Niall, Gemma, and Troye scream for her. Harry’s tongue has forgotten itself again.
She puts her hand up above her brows to shield against the spotlights. “Think that’s my family,” she says with a laugh. She turns and looks at Rose, who approaches her own mic.
Rose waves. “Hello! I’m Rose Mooney.”
The crowd whoops and howls for her.
“On the drums is Kendra Rossi, who’s feeling a bit poorly tonight. Not too much talking for her,” Andy says. The crowd cheers even louder now. Everyone loves an underdog. Kendra answers with a little drum beat.
“And I’m Mercy Upton on bass,” Mercy says, waving.
Andy turns to her mic again. “On behalf of the four of us, I’d like to thank you for being here tonight, even if you just came to dance. Good news is that we like to dance too.”
Troye whistles loudly at that, fingers tucked between his lips.
Andy smiles, taking the neck of her guitar in one hand, adorned with silver rings, and curving her other around the mic. “This is our first time performing live so go easy on us, yeah?”
Harry glances around at all the faces, all the eyes on her, looking for a scowl or some sign of displeasure. What would he even do if he found one? Pull a roundhouse kick on them? Drag them into the back alley for bare knuckle boxing? He’d be tempted but no, most likely not.
“So, we’re going to play a few songs for you all. Hope you enjoy them.” Andy adjusts her in-ear and the strap of her guitar. She nods her head to Kendra to start up a count. Kendra taps her drumstick against the side of a cymbal and Andy keeps nodding her head to the beat, mouth approaching the mic. Her eyes slip closed and then flutter open.
“Oh, right,” she says, grinning. “And we’re The Wonderlands.”
With that, she starts on her strings, playing a riff Harry recognizes immediately from the opening of '1901 by Phoenix'. Her eyes are on her strings and her fingers move flawlessly. Always flawless and effortless. He never expected less of her. His qualms had been with the order and congruity of the band itself. But Kendra has the beat down perfectly. Mercy is one with the bassline. Rose’s own guitar is a sister and a friend to Andy’s. They work together, all of the instruments, all of the girls, until they hit the note they're looking for.
Andy releases her guitar, allowing Rose to pick up the guitar line. She opens her mouth to the mic and her voice flows free.
Harry grins and he’s on his feet before he knows it. Gemma, Niall, and Troye beside him are too, swaying to the beat, hands lifting to the roof of the club. Harry can’t even focus on dancing or singing along, his eyes glued to the stage. He’s in awe. He hates to be too proud or too boastful, but he has a goddamn right to be. Into this world, he brought a star. He doesn’t mean that in the rock star sense. He means an honest-to-god spectacle of glittering space dust.
Andy shakes her curly hair around, foot tapping the stage. She moves her hands in the air like she’s casting a spell, and each time she hits a high note, it’s almost as if she is, like she’s charming everyone here.
"Falling, falling, falling, falling," she sings, and all of them are.
She grabs her guitar again between one verse and the next to play hard with her band. Her face is split by this grin he doesn’t think he’s seen before, not even when they played their own instruments together. There’s something about the spotlights, the shouts of the clubgoers, and her bandmates surrounding her that brings a truly radiant, matchless smile to her face.
He doesn’t even know when one song fades into the next. They play this sick rock version of 'Love On Top' by Beyonce. They play 'Counting Stars' by OneRepublic. They play 'Don’t Stop Believing' by Journey. Before he knows it, it’s over. It’s over and he stands awestruck, watching her take a bow with her bandmates, watching her blow kisses to the crowd, watching her depart the stage.
This is the moment when he truly feels furthest from her. This is the onslaught of her ascension to fame. He feels her slipping from his fingers and yet somehow, he’s never been more proud.