Chapter Text
Humans are wired to touch.
Our desire for physical contact is always filled, from loving cuddling to a reassuring touch of the wrist.
However, on rare occasions, there are some humans who are starved of such affection. Touch deprivation, if you will. It's not just sensual touches, simply missing out on a friendly handshake or a pat on the back can leave someone feeling starved.
Harry had been fighting for that physical connection since he was a young boy. It wasn't like he had grown up deprived of love from his parents, nor from his sister, he grew up in doting home. He was surrounded by so much affection, especially from his mother. He could have been mistaken for a mama's boy. Always at her side.
Growing up, Harry was told magical tales of love. Stories of soulmates and meant to be meetings. It was definitely a reason he set his expectations of love high as a child, but why wouldn't it? Watching his own parents live out their own fairy tale, through rose tinted glasses, love and life seemed perfect. It was the way they held hands in the street on their family days out or how they cuddled up on the sofa while they all watched corny movies together.
Over the years, that slowly fizzled out. Harry noticed the way that his mother would sit on one end of the sofa and his father on the other, himself and Gemma tucked between them. It was almost as if you could pick the tension straight out of the air. His conversations with his mother became more blunt, she always seemed to be busy arguing with his father, whether it was on the phone or in person. She never had time for their nightly cuddles in bed and night time stories. It went from that, to being tucked in under his blanket and a quick kiss on the head and then ended with him just being tucked in.
Okay, he was getting older and he should probably be over all that, but that didn't take away from the fact that he enjoyed getting to listen to her mellifluous voice as she told him stories. The way she would put on whimsical voices for each character, leaving him in stitches most evenings. Her arm wrapped around him, tracing shapes on his skin while she spoke.
That was when life was easy. When Harry knew what affection was.
Watching his parents' marriage fall apart in front of him over the years had certainly knocked the glasses off Harry's face. It was like hitting a brick wall. Everything that was one rosy now left a somber feeling.
It wasn't until his parents split up that Harry had begun to understand the meaning of love, or what he thought the meaning was. Marriage was just full of pain, disloyalty and bottling things up. Where was the happiness he heard in the stories his mother described.
Love and happy endings only happen in fairy tales.
All those moments brought Harry here. Fingers trailing over his thigh, lightly tracing over the slight raised skin of his newest tattoo, counting each whisker.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six, seven.
Harry's hands travelled further up to his hips, using the tip of his middle finger to trail over the sculpture of his own body, taking in each divot and line across his lower abdomen . It certainly wasn't the same as another person's touch, but it would have to be enough for now.
"Harry" A deep voice echoed through the door, muffled by the water that surrounded him.
Even though the water drowned out most of the sound, Harry knew exactly whose voice it was. Strangely enough, even with the pressing tone that seeped through the water, Harry had no urgency to get out of his bath yet.
The voice was gruff, the sound of a smoker that had just woken up from a night of drinking. Zayn, his oldest friend. A man who Harry trusted with his life, even if he thought Zayn would be the one to cause his death one day. It was ironic, really.
Another call of his name, causing him to sit up out of the water this time, letting out a soft groan as he gently pushed his soaked curls back out of his face. As the water ran down his cheekbones, he slowly opened his eyes, hearing his name being screamed again, this time with the impact of a fist hitting the old wooden door.
"Alright, alright!" Harry groaned, slowly climbing out of the roll top bath tub and wrapping his blue cotton towel around his slim waist.
With his feet padding along the cold tile floor, Harry stopped at the mirror to let his eyes gaze over his damp skin and letting a shiver run down his spine as his soggy curls dripped down. He was quick to dry his body and slip on a pair of black jeans with a black knitted jumper that looked rather baggy on him. A plain black top on underneath.
"I need a piss, Harry!"
Harry groaned in annoyance, turning on his heel quickly and pulling the door open sharply, looking at his roommate.
"Alright, Zayn!" Harry snapped and grabbed a spare towel to roughly dry his hair before picking up his pile of dirty clothes, stepping aside so his friend could burst into the room.
"Put some shorts on, Harry. It's over thirty degrees outside." Zayn stated playfully, giving Harry a wink as he passed. Harry decided to ignore him and headed to his room at the end of the hall, stumbling over a few beer bottles along the way.
Living in a tiny apartment with his insane best friends was probably the worst mistake he had made in life thus far. There were parties most nights, which they never cleaned up after. Hardly anyone got privacy and people were always stealing things from each other's rooms. Harry had grown tired of it, deciding the only way he was going to stop the boys and random strangers entering his room was to get a lock. And it worked wonders.
A guy needs his privacy.
Harry dropped back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as he listened to the boys bicker about who can and can't be invited to yet another party they were planning. A flat full of drunk and horny young adults, grinding up against each other till the sun rose, was an almost nightly occurrence in this apartment. As usual he would hide away in his room till everyone went home, being the antisocial hermit crab that he was.
There was just no time for parties these days.
That was the excuse.
He was once a party person, back when he was a freshman, throwing huge parties and getting absolutely smashed. But then his friends started going to parties without him. They slowly started to hang out with him less. So in the end, he decided that if they didn't want him there, he wouldn't turn up at all. It'd been that way for months.
Harry knew he had classes to attend but couldn't bring himself to go, he had been skipping days every now and then due to the fact he physically couldn't bring himself through those doors. It was as though there was a dark shadow hanging over the doors that he could never bring himself to walk through, feeling as though it clung to him like a weighted blanket for the rest of day if he did.
With the best ill voice he could muster, he slowly pulled out his phone and called in sick once again. At this point, he was sure they knew he was faking it, he was just grateful that they never asked for a sick note from his doctor. He'd email his professor later to get any of the work he missed out on sent over.
Harry finally sat up and headed downstairs to make himself a cup of tea and some toast, groaning loudly as he was attacked by one of his house mates.
"Niall, will you please stop jumping on my back?" Harry asked, trying to shrug his friend off. "You're not a damn koala."
"Oh, you miserable git. I'm only trying to cheer you up before class." Niall hummed, flicking out his pointer fingers and jabbing Harry's side in a playful manner.
None of this was the type of touch Harry longed for. This was the type that simply annoyed Harry, left his skin crawling — yet longing for more. Maybe it was the thought of it being the closest he could get to what he desired.
"I'm not going to my classes. I'm studying at home again today" Harry replied, shrugging his heavy shoulders as he boiled the kettle, swatting Niall's hands away quickly.
"Suit yourself." Niall huffed and walked away, off to Zayn.
Harry leant back against the counter, cradling his obscenely decorated mug with both hands while he watched his two roommates interact. The two of them were complete idiots and their actions proved it. The both of them were often bad influences on the other, ending in them getting into all sorts of mischief and trouble. It left Harry feeling like he was the adult of the house, babysitting two naughty toddlers who just did whatever they felt like.
Between the two of them, they discussed the party that was taking place that evening, sharing devious glances at Harry and snickering to themselves while Harry placed two pieces of brown bread into the toaster.
"We are getting you drunk tonight, Harry. Bring back the old you." One called out with a smirk. Harry didn't really care for who said it — it was said.
With that, they disappeared out the old, dirty white, wooden door and left Harry to himself. Which was a terrible idea, honestly. Once he heard the thud of the heavy door, he buttered his toast and slowly walked upstairs, sitting crossed legged on his bed once he was there.
He often allowed himself to get lost in thought, letting himself daydream of the life he wanted after university. The career he wanted to pursue, a happy and healthy relationship where his need for affection was fulfilled. He hoped that one day he wouldn't find himself doing things that in some way would simulate touch, like his hot baths he took.
That's when his thoughts go back to his future boyfriend, the man with no face. At the moment, anyway. Laying in a royal blue, roll top bath tub with him, the man's hands all over him so he didn't have to anymore. Appreciating his body, his curves and every other detail. He imagined coming home from a long day at work and being engulfed in a tight hug, one that was so tight that it made him lose his breath. Fingers trailing up and down his back while being asked how his day was.
Then again, maybe he would never know the feeling of another person's touch, not in the way he longed for. He wondered if he would ever shake that anxious feeling. He knew it was certainly the reason that he now avoided secure attachments to anyone or anything.
Placing his empty plate on his bedside table, he finished sipping his tea, putting the TV on and was now watching films. He just wanted to fill that empty and silent space in his head before it could be filled with more random thoughts of the man with no face.
Though, Harry's attention was brought to his phone shortly after, it was Niall. The alert was persistent, ringing through his ears like a wind chime on on a particularly breezy day. He had changed it to a quiet chime, trying to make it less aggravating but with the amount of times he heard it, it was just as irritating. Harry was quick to turn his phone off after receiving a few calls from the lad, knowing Niall was going to brag about how he had been invited to a party or how he had made out with some girl in the back alley of the university grounds.
Like that would impress Harry.
It was dirty and a little creepy, no?
You could say Niall was one of the 'popular people' in his classes — as was Zayn — so getting a call from them telling him about their new notch on the bed post wasn't uncommon. Harry had been one of the favoured, until he woke up in a stranger's bed. After that fiasco, Harry wasn't so popular anymore. Now he was just a guy people heard about, whispers around the university of what he did.
Ten months into his freshman year, just as it was coming to an end, Harry had gone to a party one evening and had gotten blindingly drunk. He woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and was cuddled up with some naked man, a complete stranger in fact. Harry wasn't even sure he went to the same uni.
Harry had gotten out of the house so quickly that he didn't even get a good look at the man's face, just wanting to leave all the panic behind him.
Though, he seemed to vividly remember the room. The dusty lilac walls that were decorated with brightly coloured paintings and sketches, all signed with what looked like a butterfly entwined with the letter J. The desk in the far corner was covered in paints, pens and all other sorts of art supplies. The chair was neatly tucked under it and a lilac jumper was laid over the back, small speckles and smudges of paint all over it.
The butterfly remained imprinted in his head, of course. It was such a unique marking.
Anyway, after that whole debacle, Harry wasn't so popular, even his friends had distanced themselves. Or felt that way. It seemed that the fact that it was a guy he had woken up with was the reason a lot of people turned on him, as much as he would like to think society was more accepting, it certainly wasn't the case in his home town.
Deep down he thought that maybe his friends knew he was gay, with the way he acted and the things he allowed himself to say in front of them. So when they heard about his naked man situation and took a step back, it hurt Harry. But he also understood, he wouldn't want to associate himself with someone like that if he was in their shoes, not knowing what he knew now.
Who would? Especially in this old town.
Harry knew that he could trust the two of them behind closed doors, as big of idiots as they were, they cared for the curly haired lad and he cared for them. Of course he knew they would always have his back, if he really needed it.
Right now, he had the party to think about. He had to remember to control himself with the alcohol tonight. He really didn't want a repeat of that disaster. The last night that he had gotten any affection, from what he remembered — which wasn't a lot.
All that Harry could remember from that night was getting into the pastel coloured bed, letting his head drop on the strangers bare, heaving chest, listening to the beat of his heart. It pounded against Harry's ear as though he was nervous in some way. Maybe he was simply out of breath for a reason that was a blank space in Harry's mind.
Either way, that was the moment he wanted to relive, over and over. The simplicity of it all. He wanted to remember the way his fingers felt trailing up and down the man's silky skin. He dreamt of the weight the man's arm left as it was draped over his side, holding him in a protective manner.
Like Harry was fragile, afraid to break him if he made any sudden movement.
Harry somehow brought himself out of his thoughts enough to grab his plate and head down to the kitchen, looking around at the disgusting state of their apartment. Beer bottles, red plastic cups and other party orientated objects were scattered all over the place, making it feel more like a zoo than a home.
Cleaning was his next task for the day, for sure.
It gave him a distraction for the day, to stop himself from overthinking how everything was going to go tonight. It gave him a moment to breathe, remind himself it was okay to be reckless sometimes.
A person's character isn't determined by their mistakes but by how they take those mistakes and learn from them, rather than use them as excuses.
Harry couldn't use it as an excuse anymore. He learnt his lesson. He understood that he had to go easy on the booze tonight and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't end up in another sticky situation that would leave him baffled.
Remember.
Just breathe.
Humans are made to make mistakes...