#but if I was her publicist and put her on the breakfast club (which I’d never do but that besides the point)

[vicontheinternet]

I know this is late and old news but I would not have ever let Tyla go onto the breakfast club. Like just no

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 36

After his Sunday game of baseball, this one in a lot near Newport Beach with Eddie playing catcher and Harold Goodwin shortstop, Buster pulled a tweed cap low, shrugged on an overcoat, and drove back to the Southern Seas Club. When he entered the suite he was sharing with Constance and Natalie, he found the former holding court with a woman reporter. He held back a sigh as he hung up his hat and overcoat. He’d suspected lately that the Talmadges were undertaking a publicity campaign to head off any rumors of his marital troubles. The Friday before last, Beulah had shown up to the suite to get an article, which was to be syndicated. 

“Now Buster,” she’d said, scooting forward on the settee opposite him. “What is your idea of real happiness?”

“A grand slam in the ninth inning,” he’d said, lighting a cigarette. 

“I was rather hoping you’d answer seriously,” she’d said. 

“Alright, a grand slam in bridge when you’ve been losing all night.”

Beulah frowned. He smoked. Natalie and Constance’s laughter trickled through the open door of the adjoining lounge, distracting him. 

“Let’s try again. I thought you might speak to the domicile.” 

He’d fidgeted, sure then that Constance had put her up to this. “You want a serious answer?” he said. 

“If you’d be so kind as to give one.” 

She wasn’t stupid, Beulah. It took real brains to be a publicist and know what the readers would lap up. He knew what she wanted him to say. Real happiness was being a father to two little rapscallions and a husband to the devoted Natalie Talmadge. “My idea of real happiness …” He looked through the door, but the women were out of sight. 

“You were a nomad in the vaudeville days,” she’d prompted. “No real home. There must be something to be said for settling down the way you have. Everything you could possibly want. The Villa must fulfill your every dream.”

His mind drifted away from the Villa.

“It’s a ranch home in the San Fernando Valley,” he said slowly, picturing it before him. “There’s an orchard, peach and apple trees. Some cherry trees. We’ll have a cow. I’ll milk her before I leave for the studio every morning. Chickens, too. A whole damn flock. Our own eggs and milk for breakfast. I’ve built a state-of-the-art henhouse that’s fox-proof. I might try my hand at a vineyard. And inside, a floor where you can dance. All the records in the world in shelves on the wall. I’d build the shelves myself.” He’d stopped there.

Beulah had given him the funniest look. Questions had hung in the air as thick as the smoke from the cigarette burning down in his fingers. “Perhaps,” she’d said, “it would be agreeable if I simply wrote the article with what I know of you. After all, we’ve been acquainted for quite a long time.”

He’d crushed out the cigarette and nodded, feeling unsettled by the blurt of honesty. “Okay.”

The article was published on Father’s Day, the syrupiest pap he’d read in years. Distant fields are always supposed to be the greenest, and the world in general is usually credited with wishing for something it hasn’t got, but in my own case, I am happier now than I would be under any other circumstances or in any other clime, it began. Briefly, my idea of happiness is this: to have a happy, healthy family, and to be engaged in work like this. I am grateful beyond words that I have them all. 

It ended: So, with (pardon me for boasting) the finest wife, the finest sons, the finest friends and the finest work—helping keep the world in a cheerful mood—I am the most contented man in the world. 

“Mr. Keaton,” the new woman reporter said presently. “I’m Elsie McCormick.” She stood up and held out her hand. She’d been sitting near Constance who was sprawled in a settee in getting a manicure from a plain, thin-lipped woman he’d never seen before. Dressed in green silk pajamas, she looked every inch a Roman empress in repose.

“Hello,” he said to Elsie, on his guard. He offered her a stiff smile as he pressed her hand. 

There was a knock on the door and Constance called, “Come in!”

“It’s such a pleasure,” she said. The suite was its usual hive of activity. Wherever the Talmadges went, so did comforts and luxuries galore. Fresh arrangements of flowers and new hats littered the small tables that dotted the suite. Even now a bellboy was bringing in a box of chocolates the size of an elephant. Natalie appeared from the next room to collect them. “Hello, Nate,” he said, catching her arm so he could kiss her cheek. She gave him a real smile. She loved this kind of hubbub. He knew it made her feel on equal footing with Norma and Constance. 

“I was told you didn’t smile,” said Elsie, settling back into a chair. She was in her thirties, businesslike and Midwestern.

“By who?” he said, though he could guess. He took a chair opposite her and pulled out a cigarette.

“Oh, really. It was only a joke, Buster,” Dutch said breezily, glancing at them.

He could tell from Elsie’s tone that Constance had meant the “joke” to be taken seriously and frowned. The reporter’s questions came one after another in the usual pattern. How did he get the name Buster and what was his real name? Where was he born? When did he first get his start in show business? So he really did smile? 

He answered. Harry Houdini. Joseph Frank Keaton. A church. He gave the cyclone story and said he’d first appeared on stage balanced on a platter when he was all of a day old. Even though these were yarns, his pa had always told them in order to drum up extra interest and there was something to be said for keeping tradition going. Yes, of course he smiled and the frozen face wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. For example, people alleged that his teeth were rotten, he was a moron, or was cold and glum. Silence fell in between questions as Elsie scribbled on a steno pad. Constance hummed in an absent way while the woman spread pink lacquer on her nails. A telegram arrived and Natalie was summoned into the room to receive it. “Oh, just Norm and Mama,” she said, when Dutch interrupted the interview to ask who it was from. 

There were further questions about Jimmy, Bobby, Natalie, their home, and his salary. He recited the one about Nate giving up a promising career in pictures in favor of staying home to press her husband’s shirtwaists, cook his meals, and raise his sons. It had some roots in truth, he guessed. She’d dabbled in a little of that when they were first hitched, but now the cook, maid, and governess absolved her of homemaking and childrearing. The promising career in pictures was a tall tale and so was the happy little marriage. He wouldn’t dream of telling Elsie that in that very suite, the two sisters were sharing the room with two beds and he was sleeping by himself in the master bedroom. Though he couldn’t sneak girls into his boudoir as long as the Talmadge women were bunking with him, that hadn’t stopped him in the three weeks past from entertaining Gertie the makeup girl, Florence, Clara, and other girls whose names he’d already forgotten at his bungalow or in his dressing room. They had all been good, pleasant girls who never stayed the night or asked more of him than he wanted to give. He wouldn’t tell Elsie this, either. 

He did tell her in general terms that the filming of The Cameraman was moving along at a nice clip. It was going so well, in fact, that even pessimistic Buster One wondered if Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd had sounded the death knell for his career too early. It was true that Weingarten was still a thorn in his side, as much of one as Harry Brand had been, and that there were too many suits, schedules, and scripts for him to be at total ease, but he’d managed to wrest back about three-quarters control and figured that was about as good as it would get at M-G-M. They would probably wrap in late July. Another reason for cheer was that enthusiastic reviews for Steamboat rolled in almost daily. The LA Times praised the cyclone finish and said it had the best effects since The Navigator. The Los Angeles Evening Post-Record went further and called it funnier than The Navigator. The Santa Ana Register raved about its originality and fresh gags. Even old Jack Barrymore was moved to comment publicly about how much he admired Buster, throwing out the word “genius.” In response to the excitement of filming and good reviews, his brain fizzed with ideas as it hadn’t since the days with Roscoe. Sitting in the bathtub, shaving, or bicycling the four miles to the Studio Two lot every morning, new gags and novel shots spun through his head. He could barely wait to talk to Irv about the story he had in mind for his next picture, one starring Marie Dressler. 

And yet. And yet. 

Those two words provoked him in the quiet moments when he wasn’t wrapped up in pictures, girls, baseball, and bridge. He didn’t wonder why; there were plenty of reminders during the dinner parties or premieres when Natalie dressed in her finest and pretended to love him. Buster Two played along with the charade. He hadn’t much choice. But in the quiet moments, Buster One unscrewed the flask. He was coming around to the fact that there was no going back to the way things had once been with her. She would simply never be interested in him in the way he desired, in the way, for the first few glorious months of their marriage, she had been. He saw now that it had been a fool’s errand to try to reconcile with her the previous autumn in the hope of getting that back.  

And yet.

During the quiet moments, his mind went back to the night of May 31st seven years ago. He and Nate were alone in their cabin on the train back to California. The porters had pulled down the cushions of their seats while they were at dinner and transformed them into a bed for two. Slipping his robe off and climbing into bed next to her in his pajamas, he was the shyest he’d ever felt with a woman. The lights burned with a dim glow and the room was shadowed. Both of them knew what was expected on a wedding night. He’d been thinking about it since their engagement, but the last time he’d been with a virgin was when he was a virgin himself. He wasn’t sure how to start. It struck him, as he stared up at the polished mahogany ceiling of the Pullman car, that he didn’t know the woman next to him. Not counting the brushes he’d had with her when he was working at Comique or the dates they’d had over the past month, they were strangers. 

The train swayed eastward into the night, rocking them back and forth, bumping them together beneath the sheets. He wanted to apologize, but caught himself. It was, after all, perfectly natural for them to touch now. Natalie was stiff, staring at the curtains as if she could see through him. They would be in Pennsylvania by now, maybe Ohio. He sat up and grabbed for the glass of water sitting in a holder near the foot of the bed; his mouth was as dry as a desert. The movement pulled the covers from Natalie. Her nightgown was sleeveless and the color of champagne, with a high neckline. He’d apologized and laid back down, his mouth only slightly wetter from the water.

He remembered talking to her then, but not what he said. It was nervous gibberish. The only thing he recalled for sure was the defining question that came at the end of the babble: “Can I kiss ya?”

They had kissed before, but always chastely. Natalie would press her lips to his, but didn’t seem to know where to take it from there. Afraid of frightening her off, he never showed her what to do next. Now that she was his wife, he was determined to teach her.

She was uncertain at first. He nudged her lips open for a deeper kiss—no tongue, but showing her it didn’t have to be papery. She mimicked him. He ran his fingers through her hair as they kissed. He touched her white throat. Her skin was soft and his pulse thudded. Minutes went by and she seemed to get up some courage. She felt his cheeks and ears with her fingertips. Her hand skimmed through his hair and touched the back of his neck. With the utmost caution, he touched the tip of his tongue to hers and withdrew it to see how she would react. He thought he might die right then and there when she responded with the softest of sighs.

Still he went slow. He traced her body through the silk of the nightgown, staying away from the places he longed to touch most. She wasn’t plump and sturdy like Viola or willowy and strong like Alice, but slender and frail. He could feel every bone of her hip, spine, and shoulders. This was his wife. His wife.

After what seemed like a long time, she asked “How is it done?”

His cheeks were on fire and he trembled. He wanted her as no man had ever wanted any woman, but he knew he must go slow. Some words must have been exchanged, for they removed their pajamas. Natalie was shivering and he rubbed her arm, concerned. 

“I’m afraid it will hurt,” she said. “Dutch and Norm said it might.”

“We’ll go very slow,” he promised. 

The sheets were pulled down to their waists. She looked at his chest and he looked at hers. Her breasts were small, low-set, and somewhat flat. He touched them and, when she responded favorably, licked them. He kissed her stomach and dipped his tongue in her navel. He ran his fingers over her hip bones. She explored his shoulders, arms, and chest. Finally, he cupped a hand between her legs and wanted to hurrah when he discovered she wanted him. 

It was a blessing in disguise that he needed to go slow. He was so keyed up he would have finished immediately at a normal pace, especially because she took his prick in her hand and said, “I’ve never seen one before.”

He rolled on top of her and pushed just the barest inch of himself inside her. She was as rigid as a board and he could feel her holding her breath. He kissed and kissed her, not moving any deeper. “Does it hurt?” he said, fearing the answer.

Her voice was a whisper. “Not as much as I thought.”

He kissed her and touched her breasts until she softened, then tried another inch. Moments later, he was all the way inside her. He stilled, as much for his sake as hers. The train rattled over the rails and rocked them together. He wondered if the sound would be a turn-on from now on. He tried a shallow thrust. “That ain’t too bad, is it?”

“No.”

He kept his thrusts slow and shallow, but even with an attenuated pace he didn’t last very long. He had to grit his teeth as he came, struggling not to go fast lest he hurt her. When it was over, he swabbed her gently with a handkerchief. The fluid came away with a pinkish tinge, but he was gratified to see there wasn’t any real blood. 

That was the memory he returned to most in the quiet moments, although there were equally nice ones from that summer going into the autumn. It was his idea of real happiness for a time, even if she didn’t yield to his suggestion about the small ranch in the San Fernando Valley. She never learned to be an adventuresome lover, but he loved her too much to care. She let him make love to her on nights when he wasn’t too tired from filming from dawn to dusk and he thought she enjoyed it. Sometimes, she had corned beef and cabbage or another homey meal ready for him when he dragged himself through the door. She did press his shirtwaists. They talked about the baby they knew would result from their nocturnal activities. By Christmas that year, she was pregnant. It had been a blue heaven, for a time. 

“Come in!” Constance yelled at the door, where there had just been a knock. 

Elsie looked up from her scribbling and Buster’s reverie evaporated. It was a bellboy with a hatbox. “Mrs. Talmadge?” he said.

Dutch cocked her head toward the doorway of the adjoining room. “I’m not the missus. Hey, Nate!”

“Coming!”

She emerged from the other room with haste in her step and collected the hat box from the bellboy, tipping him a quarter.

“Let’s see what’s inside,” said Elsie.

Natalie removed the lid and angled the box toward them. Within it was a black velvet cloche hat with a medallion of pheasant breast feathers in the center and long tail feathers swooping off to the sides. She stroked them with reverence, looking as proud as a mother showing off a new baby, and Buster was gripped with a thought that chilled him. If he were to lose it all next week and with it the ability to keep her well-stocked in hats, bon-bons, flowers, and new clothes, she would have no reason to be his wife at all. Notes: The “syrupiest pap” article really was published in the Tribune. It’s pretty obviously not written by Buster and I have a strong suspicion that the Talmadge publicist Beulah Livingstone wrote it. If that’s true, you have to wonder whether it was damage control as Buster’s arrival at M-G-M is where the womanizing seems to have begun in earnest. The Elsie McCormick article and scene are real, I just embellished it. Buster’s flashback about his wedding night came out of nowhere. A lot of sources state that he and Natalie took a car back to California after their wedding, but I read somewhere that it was in fact a train given the time that elapsed between departure from New York and arrival in LA.  The next chapter is nearly finished, so you will probably get it next weekend.  P.S. Yes, I know the portrait is Constance and Norma, not Constance and Natalie, but it’s a close fit. ;) 

[writingsfromhome]

Lookalike (2/2)

Part 1/2

A/N: there were a couple requests for Part II to this one, I hope it makes up for the angst of Pt I!

———————————————————————

Jules and I pretend to look at the menu at brunch, already knowing full well we were getting a large stack of pancakes and endless iced coffee. It was our usual Sunday plans for the Saturday nights we spent together.

I had crashed at Jules after the party, too down to imagine going home to an empty flat. And Jules had been more than happy, talking my ear off about the half hour she had spent with Ed, analyzing every detail and falling more in love with him, only hitting pause when I reminded her he was married.

“The usual?” Jules looks up from her menu, her nose scruchled in humour which makes me laugh in agreement. As soon as we place the order, Jules launches into what she’d been sitting on all morning: “So what was up with Harry’s new girl being your exact lookalike?”

Even though this was the last thing I wanted to discuss, I knew it would also keep me sane. “Do they not realise how she looked just like me?”

“I know I kept asking myself that every time I saw her. He���s so not over you. Did you get that vibe?”

“I don’t know Jules! He ended it! That’s so not fair. It feels like I won but I also just feel like the biggest loser ever.”

We’re interrupted by our server and soon we’ve tucked into pancakes, discussing all the details of last night and every last word of mine and Harry’s conversation.

“It’s so weird how you two ended things. I never said anything before but that doesn’t seem like something he would say? He always seemed like one of the good ones.”

“That I’m holding him back?” The words are just as painful now as they were then.

“Yeah! He was so in love with you. I just can’t believe he thought that.”

I shrug, it was those words that made it so hard for me to move on. I felt like I couldn’t trust what anyone said to me-I thought I knew Harry and our falling out just showed I hadn’t. Who knew what would happen if I trusted anyone else.

***

A couple weeks had gone by since seeing Harry, I’d mostly been able to move it to the part of my mind that only activated when I couldn’t sleep at night. If I pretended I was okay, I would eventually be okay. Right?

I decide to walk home from an interview that day instead of taking the heated tube. This was the third interview I’d been to this week and my morale was low. Days like these, I wondered why I even went to uni when I could have stayed in my family’s food business. Who wanted to be depressed and barely making rent when I could have been well-fed and still home. I sigh.

I step into the supermarket as I near closer to home to pick up a few essentials. In line, I notice the trashy magazines with the collage of pictures. But one of them...is me. I do a double take before I snatch it up.

This was definitely me, in the club with Harry. My face is only half in the light, Harry’s profile is clear. It’s when he took me off to the side to talk. How did papparazzi get into the club?

I quickly pay for my groceries and the magazine and rush home, barely putting my bags on the countertop before I rip the glossy pages open.

Is Harry secretly dating twins or does he just have a thing for lookalikes?

A side by side of the picture on the front with me and a photo of Harry walking through a park with Katy. Katy is turned to the side, saying something to Harry. You can see plain as day the similarity. The world knew! I was in a bloody gossip magazine and the world saw what I saw! Harry was dating somebody who looked exactly like me!

I try Jules but she goes to voice mail. I didn’t even know what to do with this information. I always thought my first time in a magazine would be for something far more important.

I sit, try to take some deep breaths. I needed to talk to somebody about this. I look at the spread again and realise there was nothing there about my identity. Nobody knew who I was. At least there was that.

My spiralling is interrupted by an unknown caller. Thinking it was Jules from work, I pick up without checking.

“Y/N,” Harry’s distinct voice carries through the phone to me and it has the same effect as always. I instantly unclench my shoulders but stay on guard. Why was he calling me?

“Harry,” I clear my throat. “What...why are you calling?”

“Um, I don’t know if you’ve been on Twitter and seen the shots...my publicist asked me to reach out to you because...” I almost laugh. Of course it was just business. Why did I think Harry was calling for me. About us. “...and if you can just lay low for a bit. He was saying...”

I zone out again to Harry’s quiet tone. He was probably with his publicist now. I wondered how much heat he was in. I glance at the picture again, trying to see what the outside world saw. It was intimate, I had to admit. Harry’s hand balanced on the wall I was leaning on. His eyes are trained on me and so is what you can see of mine. You can tell we knew each other, Jules would even call that gazing. I wonder what Katy thought. Why did I even care!

“If all you’re calling is to tell me to wait for the photos to calm down, you don’t have to worry.” I cut Harry off. “I’m not famous or anything, that’s your job remember?”

There’s silence on his end, I hear a whisper somewhere-was I on speakerphone?

“Ah great. Thank you Y/N, I owe you.”

“Don’t bother,” I hang up, ignoring the sting.

***

There were some days that just felt harder than others, and I wasn’t sure where it came from, but I could barely get out of bed the next few days. My job search felt useless, I felt so lonely and used, I didn’t know why I couldn’t move on from my past. Why I was sabotaging my future like this.

It was 2pm and I had gotten up for a late breakfast before hiding under the covers again. London was rainy and I couldn’t be bothered.

Jules calls me after work, by then the sun was a lot lower in the sky and my stomach was starting to grumble in hunger. “I’m buying you a get well dinner, I’m swinging by in twenty and you better be ready.” Jules was no nonsense.

“But I really-“

“No butts except yours in a cute outfit. I’ll call you when I’m there.”

***

“Jules this is fancy,” I gasp when we pull up to a dimly lit restaurant I knew was owned by a celebrity chef.

“Don’t worry, it’s on me. I can smell the fact you didn’t take a shower recently, so I know you’ve been in bed all day. You need this.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I pull Jules into a tight hug. “I’d be in a ditch somewhere without you.”

Everything is going perfectly, I even begin to feel myself relaxing and forgetting about my worries temporarily. But it’s like the universe really couldn’t give me a break.

“Don’t look right now,” Jules says as she casts her eyes to our dessert. “But the devil himself just walked in with your doppleganger.”

“What?” I whisper. “Are you kidding? Here?”

“Shh,” Jules switches to a laugh and launches into a story as if she were midway through it. “So I’ll be doing casts of people’s heads next week and-Harry hi!”

I slowly turn, the blood rushing to my head, pounding against my ears. He’s in a stylish black button up and perfectly tailored trousers, his hand holds Katy’s who is wearing a fitted checkered dress. Her eyes meet mine and I attempt to smile but she looks away-so much for being friendly.

“Jules, Y/N, what a surprise. To bump into you two here.” Harry sounds closed off.

“We’re celebrating, so I picked the fanciest place I know. You can join in the celebration if you want?” Jules says cheerily.

I kick Jules under the table but she barely glances at me, still smiling up at Harry. I finally look at Harry and he’s watching me. Our eyes meet for one, two, three seconds, and he breaks contact.

“Best not to, what with all the stories right now...it was nice uhm seeing you ladies.” Harry looks nervous, his other hand running through his hair before he trails after the waiter who’s showing them to their table.

“What was that?” I hiss at Jules. I don’t bother even responding to Harry. He wanted to make it business so I would keep my personal feelings out.

“It’s so obvious Harry and his girl are one date away from breaking up.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Did you not see the same couple I saw?” Jules exclaims. “Mega. Tension.”

I eye them again from where I sit, no one’s smiling or talking. They stare at their menus. Then suddenly, Harry looks to the side and our eyes meet. Shit.

“Can we change the topic?” I ask, my body is breaking out in a sweat and I couldn’t piece together what I felt. Why I still felt a connection with Harry when he thought he was too good for me or why every inch of my body was aware of Harry in the room.

Jules changes the topic as requested and the rest of the evening is spent on edge. I turn down Jules’ offer to get drinks. I just wanted to be alone; today had been a roller coaster. And I was tired, I don’t even change when I get home. I simply collapse onto the couch and turn on the TV.

But at midnight on the dot, I receive a text.

I know I don’t deserve to ask, but can I see you? -H

I cross check the number to the one that called me before and it’s the same. This was Harry, wanting to see me. But after how he’d treated me-not even how he left me, but the way he played with me at the club and then left it strictly business on the phone, I didn’t want to deal with him.

You’re right, you don’t deserve to ask, I respond. I had to have some self respect if I wanted to move on from this part of my life.

I just need to explain, please? I’ll leave you alone after this if that’s what you want.

It was like holding my breath underwater knowing I’d come up for air eventually. It was just a matter of when I’d crumble. After re-reading his text, I come up for air. I let him know the door was unlocked, he knew this flat inside out. He knew where to come if he wanted to talk. And I swore I’d just let him talk and then take him up on his offer to leave me alone.

It was as if he were in the lobby because I hear the door open a few minutes later.

“Were you downstairs the whole time?” I ask as he walks in, his magnetism undeniable.

“Uh,” he pauses by the doorway. “I guess I should have given it a few before I charged up?”

I shake my head, fighting back a smile. Harry was never a good liar, but a very good charmer.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask out of habit.

“Ah no...no. Y/N...I just want to explain some things.”

I sit back down and Harry walks over tentatively, perching on the sofa himself, his long legs stretching out. It was weird seeing him back here.

“What did you want to say?” I ask.

“Firstly, that I’m an idiot and I’m sorry.” He looks down at his hands, barely making eye contact. “I regret so many things but the way I treated you is number one. Everything’s just a bloody mess and I keep getting deeper into this pile of shite I created.”

I raise my eyebrow, where was he going with this.

“Right so I...I had to call you that day, about those photos. I really didn’t care if people saw you with me or not but I realised if they found out who you were, you may not get any peace so that’s the only reason I agreed to call you when my manager said I should-“

“Yeah since I’m not cut out for fame, right?”

“No, no tha...” Harry sighs, I was being petty and I knew it. I ease up and let him continue. “That’s not it. I didn’t want you to be harassed every time you stepped out. But what I was trying to say is...Y/N I’m sorry for the way I ended things. It was a shitshow-“

“That’s right,” I interrupt, I couldn’t help it. “It cheapened the whole relationship. Harry I don’t even know who you are or what you want with me anymore. You claimed you were too good for me, I was holding you back-“

“I didn’t mean any of it! I heard you that day.” Harry stops my rambling. “I heard you on the phone with your mum, saying you were thinking of deferring your last semester to join me on tour. It killed me! I knew you were going to do it. But I would hear you talking about your studies and...you love what you do-but you were willing to put it aside to be with me? I couldn’t let you do that. I’m not worth that Y/N. And I tried to word it but you know how shite I am at words. It was a slippery slope and before I knew it you were angry at me at something I didn’t even mean. But it was better that, than you going on tour and realising you didn’t want to be with me and realising you’d wasted your year for nothing.”

The silence that follows his confession is loaded. I can barely swallow. But I can see his relief at unloading, the burden lifts from his shoulders, he finally looks at me with hesitance. But the burden settles on my own shoulders. All this time, all the weeks turned to months I had felt my lowest and this breakup had just added to it...it was all just a misunderstanding, a way for Harry to push me away because he thought he was protecting me. Where did that leave me? Leave us?

“Why are you telling me this now?” I choke out, tears threatening to fall.

“Because I realised...I realised I still love you. I bloody love you and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. Katy is a wonderful woman but she was a stand-in...I was only looking for you. I...” Harry gets up and walks over to the window to catch his breath. “I’m ashamed it took me this long to realise I was dating your lookalike. She looked just like you Y/N, how did I not see that? I was just trying to hold onto you.”

He turns to me and his eyes have a wild look, I can’t imagine all the trouble he’d gotten in since those photos. With his team and his girlfriend. And here he didn’t even know his girlfriend was just a lookalike. He literally went out and dated my lookalike and he hadn’t even realised! The thought bursts my tension like a bubble, a giggle escapes me and Harry furrows his brows.

“Are you laughing?” He asks. Which sends me into a full blown laugh. The reality of what happened between us settles over me, I feel a sense of clarity. All this anger and hurt I’d held onto for so long was just Harry’s fucked up insecurity pushing me away. He never meant a thing. And I feel lighter than I had in forever: He didn’t hate me, I was enough for him.

“I-you didn’t even...” my words trail off as I’m overtaken by more laughter. “When did you realise she looked-“ I manage to get out.

Harry begins chuckling at this point as he sits back down, closer to me than before.

“Well as soon as I saw the two of you side by side that night. I knew I fucked up.”

I fall back and laugh harder, but as I catch my breath again, a sob bubbles up in it’s place and pretty soon my laughing fit has turned into crying.

Harry looks on, confused by my manic descension. “Y/N...” he sounds unsure.

“Jesus, Styles, You put me through hell.” I say as I gain control of myself again, taking a few breaths to calm down. “I was at my lowest because of you. I was barely living here.”

Harry moves back, “I’m sorry Y/N. You don’t know how sorry I am. I hated myself for doing that to you. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to.”

“How?” I demand. “We’re on two different paths remember? And you’re dating Katy.”

“We broke up after those pictures,” Harry moves closer to me again. “We just had to keep up pretense for the paps. And who bloody cares if we’re on two different paths. We’ll build a bridge or something. We’ll make it work.”

Harry’s voices grows deeper as he moves in closer, lowered so I couldn’t hear it if I were across the room. I don’t stop the smile overtaking my face, I’d felt ungrounded for so long. Harry being here, promising me a future where we can make it work, it felt like my old roots were finding me again. I feel myself shedding the darkness I’d been clouded under for so long.

“You’re radiant,” Harry gazes at me, his hand coming up to the side of my face and I feel the heat rush to my face.

“You’re charming,” I try not to give in too easily but he made it difficult with the way he grins, his eyes drifting to my lips.

“As for how I can make it up to you,” Harry whispers to them before he looks back up at me. “I can think of a few ways.”

He slowly leans the rest of the way in and every one of my senses are overwhelmed as he kisses me the way he always did. The way he was always meant to. The way we always would.

I wasn’t too fussy. With each kiss Harry leaves across my face, my neck, my body, I forgive him a little more until there’s just me and him and nothing else between us.