Harry Styles Imagines/Blurbs

How He Sings to You

It'd always make you laugh how people would go on about Harry's dumb stories and how it took him so long to get through a seemingly simple tale. You agreed, but to you his drawling nature was amusing and endearing, an extension of the humming always rumbling around inside his throat. His lilting, highly-detailed stories sort of mixed together with the songs in his head and produced that slow, lulling speak people were so used to. That was one reason you had decided there must always be a song floating around inside-- other than the fact that he just always seemed to be mumbling out notes under his breath, humming as he put the dishes away, obnoxiously belting from the shower.

You didn't mind so much, though. Yeah, he was totally able to use it to get under your skin, but for the most part he was more of a child than a menace when it came to annoying you with his tunes. Sometimes he'd start singing a cheesy romance song to you in public because he just knew you hated it, sometimes he'd just cheekily wake you up with an annoying rendition of "Mele Kalikimaka" because he knew it'd be stuck in your head for the rest of the day. And in a silly, mischievous way he did so love your irritated groans as you'd roll over and smack him in the face. "No,  Harry, not again... you know I hate that song."

But then, sometimes he'd do just the opposite. Instead of trying to aggravate you with silly songs, he'd be trying to cheer you up, calm you down, help you sleep or smile or not feel quite so bad about the world. To him, holding you close and humming small fragments into your ear were synonymous-- there wasn't really one without the other. Any time you'd be upset, he'd pull you in without hesitation, and soon after you'd always hear his voice begin-- sometimes in little, disjunct melodies, sometimes in quiet lyrics, but always soft and soothing and just the right amount of raspy and calm. Sometimes you wondered if he even realized because the notes seemed to spiral together with the secret thoughts in his head and you weren't sure if he even knew he was making noise at all. But you liked it-- liked the way it made him wear his heart on his sleeve, liked how the first thing he could think of to calm you was the steady drone of his voice, liked how his chest felt vibrating with low tones against yours. And it did always calm you down, no matter the crisis.

Then there were the times-- whether after a movie or on a particularly hot summer afternoon or just after a big dinner out-- where you'd find yourselves sprawled on the couch for no particularly good reason. Often his head would find your lap and your fingers would find his curls and his eyelids would find a heavy place between sleep and awake. He'd seem to forget the world was real and slip into a dream-like state, his lips pursing and brows furrowing and rumbles starting. You liked watching his face sort of relax and quirk as his thoughts slowed and his humming started. You often wondered if he'd forget you were there if it wasn't for your fingers gliding over his scalp-- the strains buzzing his lips were so quiet and personal and absent minded that you'd wonder which far off place his mind had wandered that time. But weirdly enough, you didn't mind. It was a nice accompaniment to your laying around all lazy and strung together.

Then there were the car singalongs-- sometimes silly, sometimes serious, always Harry. With songs like Disney, he'd make childish imitations of the characters-- singing and laughing and being all kinds of cheeky. With the oldies there'd be dumb lyric changes that'd make you giggle, and over-exaggerated impersonations of the classic stars. Then, of course, there'd be the female powerhouses-- Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, and the like-- of which he would make hilarious, but impressive work. No matter how hard his girlish belts would make you laugh, you'd always come away secretly impressed. You'd never tell him that, of course, because he'd be way too proud of himself and you just couldn't give him that kind of satisfaction. Especially not when he'd pound his arm and shake his curls to the beat of his favorite rock tunes as he'd sing along all raw and strained. It'd be entirely too attractive and you'd sort of hate him for it-- didn't he know what kind of things that did to you on the inside? Worst was when you'd think he didn't notice your desperate admiration, but then he'd just sort of glance over with this rogue-ish tease in his eye like he was this clever, heartless jerk and you'd just want to punch him so hard your lips accidentally attached forever. Or... something like that.

But, you guess he made up for it when in the dark of night, he'd sidle up next to you and nuzzle a hum in your ear. Sometimes it was hard to tell if it was for his own pleasure or yours, but honestly it didn't really matter. On his particularly endearing nights, the hums would morph into giggled lyrics, and his hushed voice would tickle at your neck, making you squirm and return his dumb chuckles. And even though you'd play a beg for him to stop his poking, you'd be glad when he persisted with his silly melodies because in those moments, well.. in those moments it all felt realer than ever. No matter how many tours he'd go on, no matter how many arenas or stadiums or planets they played, no matter how many people got to hear the sweet sounds of his voice, none of them would get to experience it the way you did-- sweet and silly and personal, like you were the one person that mattered most to him, the one person he needed to hear him above all others.