Chapter Text
There are many defining factors and variables that make London, London. There’s the London eye, often a big tourist attraction, and a beautiful way to see the city. There’s Big Ben, the London Bridge, and Buckingham Palace, important and historic locations that draw crowds of fascinated parents and unimpressed children. Another thing you could find in London, like many other big cities was the bustling crowd. Tourist, businessman, and pedestrian alike flooding the streets and sidewalks, going in different directions to get to where they need to be.
Harry liked the hustle and bustle of the city, it made him feel like he was a part of something bigger, albeit a small part. Harry always took the same train on the Underground and the same streets to walk on the way to work every morning. Leaving his small apartment at the same time every morning. He would walk two blocks to the left of his apartment building and take the Underground before getting off and walking one more block to his job at the tattoo parlor. He would arrive about an hour before opening and help wipe down the stations and needles with his coworker, Liam, before opening the shop. There were usually very little customers in the morning, but as the day grew closer to the afternoon, more customers would show up. One of Harry’s favorites was a guy by the name of Louis who would often come in for something new almost every other week. He would also bring many ideas with him, such as a tic-tac-toe game, a buck, little stick figures, and many smaller tattoos that looked like doodles covering his arms. After a full day of work, Harry’s shift would be over. He was thankful he didn’t have to work the night shift and deal with the stupid drunks who decided to get tattoos on a dare, drunkenly squirming the whole time and making his job even more difficult and in turn, making the process even more painful.
Taking the familiar, busy streets while the sun was beginning to set, Harry would leave to go to his second job at the bar a couple streets over. Walking in, the faint smell of beer and greasy foods being prepared in the kitchen greeted him. The dim lights creating a hazy and comfortable feel, as if it was a whole new dimension shrouded in shadows of celebrations and an air of contentment. The bar was never too busy, but it’s most popular days were when football fanatics would come to watch the game on the old tv in the far corner above the bar or when a local musician would perform on the dingy stage near the back. The stage was more of a raised platform with scuffed wood flooring in the back corner than a real stage. To make up for the shitty lighting, exposed light bulbs strung from wires hung above it, swooping from one wall to the next, creating a simple glow to the stage corner. When the sound of the radio playing both old and new music lowly from the cheap speakers around the bar became too monotonous, local musicians would be payed to perform and bring some more life to the bar. While he couldn’t deal with drunk customers at the tattoo shop, he was alright with serving them at the bar. The drunker they were, the more drinks they would buy, and the more they would end up paying Harry. A plus for working there was that the guy who owned the bar and a friend of Harry’s, Zayn, would often give him some of the extra food that wasn’t sold from the back as a free dinner. Also, flirting with the cute men and women who would sit and watch him mix their drinks was another nice bonus. Their eyes always trained on his toned arms as he would do elaborate flips of the mixer to impress them and show off his skills. Usually these tricks would earn him a number or two and that would make Harry smirk and keep the slip of paper, napkin, or business card in his back pocket in case of an “emergency”. Those random faces were never fulfilling though, They would entertain him for a little bit, but they all seemed the same. No one really stuck out to him. There was no spark, no flicker.
After his shift at the bar in the early hours of a new day, the sky would be black with a few sprinkling of stars dimmed by light pollution while the glow of buildings and street lamps illuminated his path. Even this late at night, there was still life to be found on the streets; late-night partiers stumbling home, stressed businessmen on their way home from extra hours at the office, the stray pieces of newspaper that would sometimes blow past Harry’s feet as he passed, showcasing a snippet of a story before being taken away again by the wind. When Harry was feeling especially joyful on his walk home, he would whistle, hum, or even sing. He had been told on a few occasions that he had a good voice, but he would usually shrug it off; he was happy with his jobs and didn’t feel like pursuing a career in music. Although the sound of a familiar song always seemed to make the walks home seem shorter.
By the time he reached his apartment building and had trudged to his door, digging out his keys and walking in, he was ready to pass out. Some nights he would even forget to change out of his work clothes. The small apartment wasn’t much, but it was his safe place, his home. Harry’s life probably wouldn’t be considered much to most, but he couldn’t have asked for more.
…
For some reason, Harry woke up earlier than usual and instead of going to back to bed like he normally would, he decided to get an early start on his day. With the extra time, harry took a little extra time in fixing himself up, styling his hair into perfection, and picking a shirt that was pretty clean for a change. Checking himself out in the wall mirror, Harry made sure everything was in place, slightly fixing his mini ponytail before grabbing his keys, wallet, and phone and heading out the door.
The first difference that Harry notices is the way the air smells. While London is overrun by tourists, buses, and cars, for some reason the morning air smells fresher than on his normal commute. The next thing he notices is how small the crowds on the streets are compared to later in the morning. While it can never truly be London without some of the crowds, Harry feels less like he’s being pushed along the sidewalk by other commuters, but actually placing his feet on the pavement and walking. The blue of the sky is lighter than usual, accompanied by soft clouds stained pink by the newest rays from the sun. Harry closed his eyes and took a long moment to breathe and immerse himself in the feeling of the morning.
The last thing he noticed was the music. He could faintly hear the strums of a guitar caught in the breeze and exhaust from passing cabs. Harry opened his eyes. After checking how much time he had left before work (a long-ass time), he followed the melody a few streets over. The path he took was slightly off of Harry’s normal commute and he took the time to appreciate the less familiar sights while being pulled along by the music. Small shops and businesses lined the street. One was a small boutique with simple dresses lined on racks outside showcasing a sale. Another was a small cafe that had a steady stream of people looking for their morning coffee to get through their hard day ahead of them. The last shop that Harry noticed was a small flower shop with several baskets of fresh daffodils, bluebells, and dark red carnations while also displaying several vases of peonies, tulips, and gardenias. The floral scent from the shop wafted down the street and seemed to intertwine beautifully with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of the melodious guitar to create a charming and alluring atmosphere.
When Harry came to the end of the street and found the source of the music, he almost tripped over a crack in the pavement. The music was floating from a street musician with a “well-loved” acoustic guitar and the face of a model. The open guitar case filled with a good collection of coins and bills showed that his skills with music were pretty popular. His fingers moved so skillfully along the strings it almost seemed like the strings were another part of him, moving with the soul of his song. While the song was beautiful, Harry didn’t know if anything made by nature or by man could compare to the street musician sitting on a stoop of a building in the middle of London. His hair was brown, longer on the top and close cropped on the sides of his head. It was artfully messy like he had been staying up late puzzling over the perfect lyric like a true starving artist. His pale skin looked soft in the morning rays of the sun. His sky blue t-shirt made his toned arms look fantastic and the grey ripped jeans and beat-up trainers completed the look.
When he opened his pretty mouth and began to sing along to the guitar however was when Harry really started to have a heart attack. His voice had a slight Irish accent while singing and was the perfect combination of raspy and smoothe to make the sound unique and beautiful. The air was sucked out of Harry’s lungs listening to the beautiful melody that poured out of the Street musician like water.
Harry wasn’t quite sure how long he stood at the end of the street staring at the musician before the musician finished his song with a couple quick strums and a powerful finishing note. He felt the air whoosh back into his lungs now that he could focus on something other than the performer’s voice and guitar. Unfortunately, that was the moment the performer decided to look up. If Harry had thought that the performer’s music was like water, then his eyes were like the ocean, a blue so deep and captivating that he could almost see the cresting waves.
So focused on the musician’s eyes, Harry hadn’t noticed how long he had been staring at the musician until there was a pale hand waving in front of him. Realizing he had been openly gaping at the beautiful man, Harry quickly blushed and focused back in on the man.
He was staring at Harry curiously, those blue eyes dragging over his appearance as if trying to examine who he was from the inside out. That was also the moment that Harry realized he was no longer across the street from the musician. In his amazed stupor, he had apparently crossed the street and was standing in front of the musical man. Quickly turning red, Harry dug a few pounds out of his pocket, dropped them into the open guitar case and spun around to walk to work, hoping that the musician hadn’t noticed his flaming red cheeks.
And as Harry briskly walked up the road towards the tattoo parlor, he didn’t realize that a stunning pair of blue eyes and a crooked smile were watching his retreating form.