Can I Stay?
Harry doesn’t hate Y/N.
He’s sure of it, he thinks, because hate is such a strong word and that whenever it comes out from his lips, it’s damn serious and nowhere near petty (maybe except that time he said that he hates physical activity, which he maybe slightly does up until now) and that someone he’s mad with needed to get things right.
Doesn’t hate you at all because if he did, he would’ve probably told you off majorly or made a snide remark behind your back, that he really didn’t mind with you knowing about — and that was only if he hated you.
Jeff would like to think otherwise. Then Nick, then Mitch, then the whole band and Niall think the opposite too.
Then you’d like to think otherwise, same as they all do.
You weren’t a stranger at all to when he becomes snippy-snappy for no reason at all or when he completely quiets down whenever you’re in his vicinity, even more when you’re only an arm’s reach away from him at times.
Couldn’t count on both hands the times that the both of you seen each other from being in the same friend group and in the same interest mostly, that he’s never greeted you properly just as he does with everyone else, always wondered what was it like to be given a hug by him and even a peck on the cheek sometimes.
It’s the odd, awkward, tensioned silence you simmer yourself in whenever you approach him, in which he sometimes just replied with a pointed look that looks bored and offended at the same time.
“Probably just tired, y’know.”
Sarah says with a fry in her mouth and you don’t really know when they’d be tired of trying to make excuses for Harry to make you feel a little bit better with his actuations, sometimes a pang of guilt in their stomach whenever they try to apologize for him.
You’d heard the excuse made up for him, all composed with casualty, for probably more than a hundred times now, eyes training to him who’s only a couple of feet away sat in a large booth surrounded by some friends, and he doesn’t look tired at all.
He’s glowing and buzzing while you aren’t because you’re becoming a little hell-bent wondering on what you must’ve done — or maybe that you didn’t have any fault at all.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Sarah hears you involuntary mumble under your breath, a fry from her tray being popped to your mouth lazily while she sees you rubbing your hands up and down your arms, a little slouch to her shoulders to know that you’re cold and doesn’t have a jacket to spare; and the fact too that she’s sorry for you.
“Harry’s probably just knackered.”