Beautiful Nightmares (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 7

HARRY'S P.O.V

  Tossing the thick duvet off me once again, I roll over onto my stomach and let out a exasperated groan. Propping my head up with my hand I glance over at my bedside clock that reads 2:00 A.M. Well I wasn't getting to sleep anytime soon. I run my hands through my thick mass of tangled curls and pull them forcefully, taking my anger out on the brown ringlets. I inhale loudly, trying to clear all negative thoughts from my mind. Closing my eyes in mock tiredness, I exhale and refuse to let my brain take me to the event that has caused all this stress. I repeat the deep breathing process a couple more times before my consciousness begins to slip. I sigh and snuggle further into the feather pillow, relieving the weight of my head into the comfort it provides. I wonder if I'll have anymore nightmares about Louis tonight; maybe the pillow will help?   

Louis.  

The resentment towards myself fills my entire body with the thought of his name, making it fizz with frustration. Tossing violently to the side, I gather my body up underneath me and step down from the hotel's bed. I pull on my plaid boxers and shove a hand into my thick hair absentmindedly. It was simply no use for me to continue to try and force myself to sleep, when it obviously wasn't working. Dragging my feet on the scratchy surface of the room's dated carpet, I walk silently over to my suitcase for some clothes. I toss aside the dirtied underwear from a week ago across the room and reach for the simple white t-shirt that's folded haphazardly among the other rumpled articles of clothing. I pull the soft fabric over my head after giving it a quick whiff as a freshness test. A pair of yesterday's jeans and a quick swipe of deodorant later, I'm heading out the door with nothing but a my phone and a crumpled $10 bill in my back pocket.   

I close the door shut with a quiet click and stride down the corridor feeling a little lighter. I press the button to activate the lift and lean against the hallway as I await its arrival. Tiredly glancing around the hall, I pull out my phone - a force of habit - and unlock it. I press on the Twitter application and scroll carelessly through my mentions, replying to a couple from the fans - answering a couple questions and such. My lips curve upwards into a smile as I think about how I just made someone's day. I still couldn't get over the fact that people considered me as a celebrity and would "die" if I responded to their tweets; I'm still yet to get used to this life that's presented itself to me.   

The elevator dings and my gaze shifts to the now open glistening metal doors. Striding into the lift before it closes, I shove my phone hastily back into my back pocket. I press the Ground Level button and sigh as I catch my reflection in the elevator's mirrors. My hair is extremely disheveled - more so than it usually is - and there's puffy dark purple bags underneath my bloodshot eyes. My skin is ashen and pale, differing from the usual slight tint of red that makes its way onto my cheeks everyday. On top of that all, I'm practically dying for a hot cup of tea. My hands shoot to my back pocket and finger the bill thoughtfully. Pulling out my phone once again, I open up google maps.

  15 minutes later, I'm thoroughly confused yet I somehow made it to a quaint coffee house that's buried in the maze of roads that is New York. I palm the sides of the warm tea cup carefully as I make my way across the tiny shop to sit in the back corner. Sliding into a wicker seat across from an identical empty one, I study the room discreetly. There's barely anyone here - as it's 2:30 in the morning! The only three people occupying the shop include the teenage cashier who looks like he's bored out of his mind, me, and an elderly lady who's furiously scribbling something onto a sheet of lined paper. The way she's so absorbed in whatever she's writing is almost fascinating; it makes me wonder what on earth it must be about to cause that amount of dedication. I mean, shouldn't people be resting by now? But then again, New York is the city that never sleeps.  

My eyes trail down the intricate blue and white patterns of my tea cup and then follow the wisp of steam that rises from the heavenly liquid. I take a small sip only to discover that I had forgotten to add sugar to it in my sleepy haze. Standing up and gently pushing the chair back with a muffled squeak, I make my way over to the shelves containing antique mason jars labeled with names like "Pooh's Honey Jar" and "Tooth Rotter". I pull the sugar cube container off of the aged wood and open it, grasping a small brown cube in my hand. I return the jar back to it's original spot and turn around to walk back to my table when I see him.