Sidemen Shots

Miscommunication ~ Minishaw

I wonder what this one's about :)

Harry, feeling truly and utterly bewildered, aimed a small smile at his friend before glancing at the object held gently within his own two hands.

Flowers. Pretty, pretty flowers. (Not as pretty as Simon, but pretty. Like... flower pretty. No one and nothing could ever be Simon pretty.)

"Flowers?" Harry's voice was soft as he pronounced the word, his voice pitching just high enough for the two syllables to form a question.

In answer, Simon only shrugged, noncommittal, before turning slowly and walking out of the room. He seemed to step with lazy purpose, at a pace even slower than the one with which he had just shrugged. Somehow, if that was even possible, considering how slowly Simon had raised those two bony shoulders up towards his ears.

"Ah, flowers!" Harry repeated to himself, as soon as his friend was gone from the room, likely wandering the halls for JJ, one of their other - currently - camouflaged friends.

And, oh, yellow and pink. They were honestly so beautiful, these flowers. Pale and delicate, seemingly very expensive.

If Harry was a narcissist, he would say that these flowers weren't as pretty as he himself was, but Harry wasn't a narcissist, and anything and everything was prettier than him, he knew.

~•~

Having rode to the main channel shoot on his bicycle, Harry briefly panicked over how he could get home, now. What was he supposed to do, cycle one-handed? What if he dropped the flowers or brushed them against a rough surface? They could get ruined!

Then Harry realised that his bicycle had a basket. Panic over.

Placing the flowers gently into the basket, Harry took off humming, wishing to get home fast but mindful of the fancy bouquet.

The first thing Harry was going to do when he got home was care for these flowers: he'd trim the stems and place them in some water, no problem. He could finally put that vase his aunt got him two years ago to good use.

The grin on Harry's face as the wind blew past him was something of dreams.

~•~

As he had promised himself before he left the latest Sidemen location, the first thing Harry did was head for his kitchen, pull out the vase from his aunt and a pair of kitchen scissors. He went to get started caring for the flowers... only to pause, scissors still held in midair and wide eyes locked on the little white card, the pale lavender flowers entwined with looping green stems making up the charming border.

There, in elegant cursive, were the words: To the one I love the most.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Hastily, Harry pulled open one of the kitchen drawers, throwing the scissors in blindly, already half turned towards the vase. He was slower this time, returning this object to its original place in his kitchen, but he was also sadder. There was no need for a fancy old vase without a gorgeous bouquet of freshly-bloomed flowers.

Harry would just have to lie again the next time his aunt asked him (at the next family gathering they will both be at) if he'd used the vase yet.

(She obviously never believed him, since she had asked him that same question time and time again for the last two years, ever since she'd first gifted it to him with a laugh and, "Happy Birthday, Harry. I'm sure you'll make good use of this, what with all those admirers you have chasing after you.")