hate when youre gone

The Wrong Kind of Quiet

I’m beyond exhausted and sleepy ideas of Harry are now and forever will be my weakness. So I wrote some up and I feel cozy and snuggly now, and I hope you do, too. x. 

It’s quiet. But it’s the wrong kind of quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that tells you Harry’s not here, and you hate that.

It’s quiet when he’s gone, but it’s almost quieter when he’s back home. Mornings are a little lazier in an attempt to cling to sleep, and nights are a little longer when you doze on the couch and he pulls your legs onto his.

You hate it when he’s gone as a rule, because your mornings always drag a little bit more for you when he’s away on tour. You miss the warm, snuggly body that you can cuddle against even when your alarm is going off, you miss his arm flopping over to slam the snooze button, and you miss him nosing against your forehead like a puppy before planting a kiss on it.

You miss the smell of his shampoo, and the touch of his skin, and the way he’ll sleepily try to rouse you with a voice that is far more conducive to drifting back to dreams.

You miss him especially when he’s not here but he’s supposed to be here. Your forehead crinkles to a degree that could rival his with your frown and you all but throw yourself across the valley between your pillows so you land on his. It’s cool to your cheek, and a quick swipe of your hand over the bedclothes does nothing but confirm it. He’s gone, and he’s been gone for awhile. You whine in your throat and burrow into it, breathing in deeply and trying to get whatever bit of him you can.

It’s still orange and pink outside with the rising sun – you can’t keep your eyes open for long, but what you can see through the closed blinds tells you the sun is still in its own process of waking up. You know he keeps a schedule that has him awake at all hours of the day and night, sometimes simultaneously depending on the change in the time zones and how jetlagged he is, but you, for one, are sleepily, selfishly disappointed that he’d run off to do God knows what at who knows what kind of hour.

A door slams shut in the apartment and you hear locks twist. You groan softly but your eyes stay closed. Let the robbers take his things, you think. It would serve him right for leaving them unattended.

In this state of delirium, you wonder how sorry he’d be if they took you. That would teach him, you think, ever the dramatic when you’re not quite awake.

There’s a laziness to the way the intruder walks, though, and you recognize the pattern of the footfalls as his. Moments later the bedroom door opens and you hear him creep quietly in. There’s rustling, and you realize he’s shedding some clothes. You peek through your lashes just in times to catch a flash of a full moon quite unusual for this time of the morning before he’s in the master bathroom and the shower turns on.

He isn’t in there for long – or maybe you’d nodded off – before it’s turned off and he pads out of the room. He flits around the bedroom for a few moments and you can’t help your impatient exhale. You think you hear him laugh quietly but maybe you’re imagining it; regardless, when the sheets are pulled back your eyes pop open and you look up at him with bleary eyes.

His hair is pulled back into a bun and its damp around the edges and his skin is pink from being scrubbed clean. He’s got a t-shirt and boxer shorts on and he grins softly at you.

“’Lo, love,” he says, sounding exactly like honey that’s been spread over sandpaper.

You whine in offense when he gets into bed and gently shifts you off his pillow.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he shushes you quietly in that same smooth tone that’s just rough around the edges. “G’back to sleep.”

“Where’d you go?” you croak to him in a morning voice.

“Jus’ for a run,” he tells you while pulling the blankets up around the both of you again. “Thought I could get it done before you got up, sorry.”

You don’t have the energy to move your mouth the way it needs to in order to say, thought wrong, didn’t you, buddy?

Harry pulls you in and you hum and snuggle close into his chest, allowed to be the little spoon to his big one for once. You don’t think he minds, though, because after so long away and so little time left, he’ll happily take you on however he can. He’d probably absorb you if he could if it means he gets to have your quiet reassurance with him when he’s tired in some strange hotel bed at night.

You don’t have the energy to get out a missed you, either, but with his nose and mouth buried in the top of your head and his breathing slowing to match yours, you think he understands just fine.