Look. I know Zayn and Louis applied for the same job. And Niall and Liam went to the same Busted concert (presumably when they were like 8 years old when Busted was touring before 1D was formed). Both of those things are neat coincidences.
But they aren’t very significant to any of them, because they’ve mentioned both of those things like one time in interviews over the course 6 years (and it was arguably to try and make the Script concert seem like less of a thing).
You know what’s significant? What Harry himself made significant?
The Script concert. He had to make a public declaration about it…twice!
“This place is incredible to me…I remember coming to quite a few gigs here. I remember I stood right there watching the Script and it turns out, Louis was at the same gig!“ - Manchester, 22 December 2011
“This venue is quite special to me. I’ve been to quite a few gigs here before. And I remember, about 3 years ago, I was stood just about there to watch the Script in here, and it turns out, that Louis was at the same gig!” - Manchester, 23 December 2011
Louis and Zayn have never described their mutual employment pursuits as “incredible” or “quite special.” And neither have Liam and Niall described the Busted concert that way, despite it being literally the same scenario as Louis and Harry attending a Script concert at the same venue on the same day.
So you have to wonder why Harry cares so much, why it’s such a curious thing that they were there, together, on the same night, at the same time, doing the same thing, and they didn’t even know each other.
But then fate twisted, and they did meet, and became so important to each other, that it made the night they missed each other that much more significant.
“three pan-dimensional beings manifest themselves on earth as a boar, a proboscis monkey, and a baby tapir. they all get tumblr blogs and start selling random shit to people, and they sometimes get in arguments”
what she means:
I'm literally going to die my entire brain is falling out I can't see for all the blood pumping in my eyes and I'm afraid to take my meds because I'll probably just barf them up but no I'm not going to the hospital because health care is expensive I'll just tough it out can you pour me another fifteen cups of coffee while I lay on the cool tile of the bathroom floor and wait for the sweet release of death.
if your still taking requests, do one about steve, nancy, and jon hurt/comfort
He is laying there on the cool duvet with his hands tucked behind his head, chest rising and falling so strongly that it makes her own heart clench. She is crouching by the window, breath fogging the glass slightly, hands shaking.
She can’t breath anymore. For five months she’s been trying to breathe without him, but all she can think of is sitting on his couch with him, wrapping his hand, watching the way he flinched and drew away before relaxing again. Feeling his fear and bitterness and hope and regret seeping out of his pores and mixing with her own.
Her palm burns. She clenches her fist so tightly that her nails dig into her skin. That pain is nothing compared to what she already feels.
Nancy raises her hand and knocks on the thick glass pane. She watches his jerk of surprise. Watches him squint through the darkness at her, take her in, and shuffle over.
He had forgotten to wipe his tears away, so distracted that she was there at all.
“What’s wrong?” she asks (the very same question about to rush past his lips).
Jonathan blinks, suddenly aware of the wetness of his cheeks. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of it in the first place. He wipes them with pale calloused fingers, bewildered. “It was just…”
“Everything,” she finishes for him, in a whisper. Then she slips in through the window. Yes, the air outside is cold and sharp and unforgiving, but the warmth of him — the warmth of him — it is like summer. It is like birds singing, and flowers bright and yellow, and him calling out to her when they’re eight years old, a bundle of sticks in his arms.
Jonathan takes her, hugging her to his chest, and she collapses like an unstable building during a bad storm. His knees buckle. They hold one another up, hearts pounding against one another’s chests. “Bed,” Nancy says.
They simply lay down, fingers intertwined. Her palm feels smooth, now. Her brain does not buzz as loudly. She tucks her chin into the crook of his neck, drawing patters on his shoulder. Drawing flowers for the first time in so long. Since that day.
“It’s too hard,” she tells him. “It’s just… too damn hard.”
His eyes are closed and his hair is obscuring them slightly and he knows. She can barely see him in such dark lighting, but she doesn’t need to see in order to feel it. The connection that feels partially finished.
His chest rises and falls and so does her own. Warm.