Chapter Text
(Harry’s POV)
August marked the end of yet another stifling, but busy, summer for the UK YouTube scene, and so sparked an ‘end of summer’ party, hosted by George, Arthur Hill and Chris at their new flat.
The guest list was only small, and Harry felt privileged to be included within the small numbers; Harry himself, Arthur TV, and Bach. It was just the six of them in the flat, and instead of a raging crack den like the old parties used to be, the men shared jokes, snacks and drinks while the football played in the background. It was less of a party, actually, and more of a social gathering. Small. Intimate.
A social gathering which Harry cherished.
They didn’t have those within the Sidemen much anymore, and the only times Harry ever really got to see them was during a shoot, whether it be for the Sidemen, or for Big Wedge. He wasn’t sure when the switch happened, when they stopped hanging out outside of filming without a camera on them, when they stopped texting as frequently, but it hit him there and then, sat on the sofa at his friends’ house, that he didn’t remember the last time he’d spent time with any of the Sidemen outside of filming.
When did that happen?
Why did we let that happen?
The football match ended – another loss for Chris’s team, and another win for Harry’s – and Harry zoned back in, fixating a massive grin on his face and laughing at the frustration that darkened Chris’s.
But the unease still sat heavy in his stomach, nausea causing it to flip, like he’d eaten too much food in too short a space of time. He feared if he moved too fast he’d vomit.
I don’t remember the last time I hung out with the Sidemen outside of a shoot.
I don’t remember the last time we talked about something that wasn’t work related.
Harry didn’t understand: he hung out with Chris, and everyone within this room, all the time outside of filming.
Why were the Sidemen any different?
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Chris grumbled, downing his beer and shaking his head. ‘Shock, Harry wins again.’
‘Hey!’ Harry exclaimed, trying to shake the stifling feeling of nausea from his body. ‘I barely win anything anymore!’
‘You’ve won the hearts of the entire nation,’ George Clarke said with a wry smile. ‘Every girl in the world above the age of 11 loves you.’
Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck off, mate.’
Sometimes, I hate being the favourite.
Sometimes, I wish no one knew who I was.
Sometimes, I miss the person I used to be.
‘The same goes for you too, Georgie,’ Chris retorted. ‘My editing team are having a field day with the clips of you on Strictly.’
‘I should never have said yes to the opportunity,’ George joked, running his fingers through his curly hair. ‘I knew it would come back to bite me in the arse.’
Like most exciting things, George’s Strictly announcement had taken the world by storm. Harry, as well as George’s other close friends, had been shocked, although they congratulated him all the same, and later, supported him when George got through week after week.
Harry couldn’t have been prouder of the way George had blossomed in the process. His confidence was sky-rocketing, as well as his ability to try new things without fear.
I wonder what that’s like, Harry mused quietly to himself, to be so fearless that you can do anything without worrying about what other people will think of you.
‘And a wonderful arse he has,’ Arthur TV stated, giggling, the small amount of alcohol he’d drunk hitting him like a truck.
The entire flat burst out into laughter, except for the resident musician Arthur Hill. The man simply sat there, a smile playing on his lips, watching the entire situation unfold in that quiet way he always did. A silent observer.
Himself and Harry were very similar in that regard: up for a good time, however when the chance arose, they could exist in silence without consequence.
‘Thanks, man,’ George said when he’d calmed down. ‘You say the sweetest things.’
It was shortly after this exchange where boardgames were introduced into the fray. Arthur Hill wiped the floor with everyone at Monopoly, Arthur TV managed to consistently string enough letters together to win two consecutive games of scrabble (despite his incessant whining that his vision was swimming, and that he was too drunk to play), and later he beat Bach at Chess, the pair of them locked into an intense battle that lasted almost two hours.
‘A good night for the Arthur’s,’ Arthur TV joked, as awkward as ever, a slight slur to his speech, swaying from his spot on the sofa.
Arthur Hill offered him a snort and a high five. ‘It isn’t hard when everyone else is a fucking idiot.’
‘Hey!’ George and Chris exclaimed together.
Harry and Bach shared a grin across the room but stayed silent.
He liked that about this particular circle of friends; if he wanted to stay silent, they allowed him the space to do so. If he wanted to just sit back and watch, he didn’t need to ask.
With the Sidemen, however? There were so many times where he wouldn’t be left alone, so many times where he was forced to participate when all he wanted to do was breathe, and it left him out of sorts and pushing through wave after wave of vertigo. Especially on shoot days: there were cameras everywhere, and by extension, there was nowhere to hide.
Some days I just want to hide.
‘I thought Bach put up a good fight,’ Harry offered quietly. ‘Not many people could last almost two hours with TV over there.’
George giggled. ‘TV’s lucky if he can last two minutes.’
With an offended gasp, Arthur TV started shouting drunken nonsense. Harry couldn’t help but join in when the entire flat burst into laughter once more.
This… this is what I crave.
As a way of distraction Chris put a film on, a comedy Harry had never seen before, and everyone relaxed back onto the sofas, chattering away amongst themselves, white noise in the background.
At some point in the last few weeks, Harry realised he felt at home here, in his friends’ flat, within the presence of these five men. He never thought he’d feel at home anywhere that wasn’t Guernsey, that wasn’t with the Cals, that wasn’t with the Sidemen. Grateful didn’t seem like a strong enough word to describe how he felt about their existence in his life, but he was grateful.
Harry Lewis was grateful to be in their circle of friends.
He was grateful.
He was so fucking grateful.
Eventually, as the night wore on, Arthur TV and Bach headed home. ‘Yes, I’ll make sure the idiot doesn’t die in his sleep,’ Bach told the room. ‘He’s sleeping on my sofa.’
The front door closed, signalling their departure.
Chris excused himself and disappeared into his room to go to bed.
George, barely minutes later, started to doze on the sofa before he excused himself also, most likely exhausted from his strict training regime for Strictly.
See, even though George is as busy as he is he can still make time for his friends.
Why can’t the Sidemen do the same?
Harry still couldn’t get his head around that: George Clarke, on Strictly? It was fucking mental. And Harry was proud. He was proud of his friend for his commitment to the random, to the ‘out of the ordinary’ things he did.
Yes. Harry Lewis was fucking proud of his friends and their achievements.
He came back into himself, then, and glanced around the room tiredly, feeling his limbs, and his entire existence, sink further into the comfy sofa. God, what he wouldn’t do to just fall asleep right there, content, surrounded by the echoes and memories of his friends, sleeping soundly knowing they were just down the hall, knowing they were only a soft call away.
Arthur Hill was the only other man in attendance, smiling softly in Harry’s direction, observing him – only Harry didn’t feel the eyes on him like he did whenever he was out in public. Something about Arthur was just… gentle. He was a gentle man, with an even gentler soul, and no action he took was ever out of malice or judgement.
Harry adored him for it, adored his gentle nature and his quiet demeanour even more so.
‘Alright over there, Harry?’ the man in question asked quietly, dimming the lights a little.
‘Content,’ was all Harry replied, just as quiet, just as soft, tasting the singular word on his tongue.
Despite popular belief, Harry got on with Arthur Hill extremely well. After all, he’d known the musician for years, and they talked about everything and anything and even nothing… it was bound to happen when they had mutual friends, that they’d eventually become close friends too.
(Sometimes, instead of calling Ethan for support, instead of calling Josh for advice, Harry called Arthur Hill).
Harry had even been to a few of Arthur’s shows in the past, supporting the small artist in the same way he’d supported Vik. Sometimes, Harry was the only friendly face Arthur saw in the crowd all night.
It was something Arthur had admitted to Harry a while back, that whenever there was no familiar or friendly face in the crowd he lost his confidence, that he lost all desire to perform, and Harry had sworn, then and there, to ensure that someone was at his every show. He used his influence. He called in favours from overseas friends and acquaintances he’d made over the years to make sure that Arthur would know at least someone in the crowd – someone that wasn’t his tour manager.
Not that Arthur knew that, of course. It was Harry’s little secret, his little… obsession.
‘I listened to your new song by the way,’ Harry spoke up, suddenly remembering something he’d wanted to tell the other man for days. ‘One of my all time favourites, I think. I've had it on repeat ever since.'
‘Oh, thanks, mate,’ Arthur said, the man pleasantly surprised. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘It was cool of you to let me listen early,’ Harry continued, still confused as to why that had even happened. He knew Arthur let his friends listen to bits and pieces of his music he was working on, but it was the first time that Harry had been gifted early access to an entire song.
‘Well, I wanted to know what you thought,’ Arthur said. He seemed to hesitate then. Harry waited patiently. ‘Your opinion matters to me.’
In the faint light of the sitting room, Harry’s cheeks flushed.
He prayed Arthur didn’t see.
‘What did the others think of it?’
‘No one else has heard it yet,’ Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Just… just you.’
‘Oh,’ Harry whispered in return, a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed it down. ‘I… thanks, you...’
A wave of tiredness crashed over him, no warning in sight, and Harry yawned, sinking back further into the sofa, his brain filling with fog.
God, he didn’t want to go home. Something about going home didn’t feel right, didn’t feel… human. He’d never liked being alone for too long, and living alone was his own personal hell, like he'd done something abhorrent in a past life and was only atoning for it now. Harry either invited people over or he was out with friends: at the pub or round someone else’s house. He craved the closeness his friends smothered him with, craved the connection that came hand in hand with humanity.
He'd cried for days when the Cal’s had moved out of the flat. He still cried about it now, especially on the bad nights. The nights when the dark was too dark and the cold was biting and the night harboured demons and devils that sunk their talons into Harry’s skin and tore away at his existence, revealing his lonely, beating heart for the world to see with crimson spilling from the gaping cavity on his chest.
Only no one saw it.
No one knew, and no one would ever know. It was an admission Harry would take to the grave… he was nearly thirty years old for goodness sake. He shouldn’t need coddling anymore, shouldn’t need reassurance in the form of a tender touch.
But I miss it.
I crave it.
I… I need it to survive.
‘Stay the night,’ Arthur called, an invitation, but more of a demand.
A demand Harry was in no state to decline.
‘Thanks,’ he repeated once more, his eyelids fluttering.
Harry thought he must have dozed off because suddenly there was a blanket and a pillow on his lap, and Arthur Hill was dragging his duvet and pillow from his bedroom, a look of intense concentration on his face.
The Guernsey man stifled yet another yawn. ‘What –‘
‘The others can be miserable, but we’re going to have a sleepover,’ Arthur Hill said, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. ‘Damn, I fucking love a sleepover.’
Harry laughed, a bubble of fond igniting in his chest, so large and so warm it fought off the worst of the loneliness that resided inside of him.
He liked it when Arthur smiled. He thought it was a beautiful thing. He thought it made Arthur’s eyes sparkle like diamonds.
Woah there. Steady on.
‘There’re some spare toothbrushes in the guest bathroom. Usual place,’ Arthur Hill continued. ‘And I’ll find some clothes for you to change into.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ Harry said quietly, rubbing at his eyes, willing himself to wake up properly. Just for a few minutes.
Accepting the basketball shorts and thin jumper Arthur handed to him, Harry headed into the guest bathroom to change and brush his teeth, his heart still racing from where their hands had briefly touched.
Something about wearing Arthur’s clothes felt right, felt warm, felt like home when other people’s clothes hadn’t before; Ethan’s felt like wearing your older brothers’ clothes, and Josh’s felt like wearing your dad’s massive jumper when you were missing him. Both made Harry feel inexplicably safe (at least, they used to), as did Arthur’s… but Arthur’s felt like home.
Josh’s clothes felt more like missing home, especially as of late. He had an old jumper of Josh’s from years ago in his flat, a jumper he wore on cold nights or when he needed to feel a semblance of comfort from the older man… however as the days and the weeks and the months and the years went by, it was like the magic, and the essence, of the jumper was lost to time, unravelling at the seams like a ball of yarn tumbling down a cliff.
Harry didn’t know what that meant.
Josh doesn’t care. Not like he used to.
It feels like I’ve been abandoned all over again.
Once by my family back in Guernsey, and now here in London. Again.
Pondering, with a familiar ache settling in the depths of Harry’s skull, he headed back into the living room of the place he deemed his second home. He stopped in his tracks, another lump forming in his throat.
Arthur had laid out the blanket and the pillow for Harry to sleep with. He’d even gone so far as to plump the sofa cushions too.
Harry swallowed the lump down, pretending that the burning in his eyes was from tiredness.
‘Proper sleepover vibes,’ Harry said, settling down. ‘I approve.’
‘It’s not a 6* hotel,’ Arthur said, his face twisting into something bitter.
Harry thought Arthur sounded embarrassed by the fact, maybe even guilty… uncomfortable.
‘I don’t like 6* hotels anyway,’ Harry said, snuggling further beneath the blanket, hating the thought of Arthur feeling bad about something he had no control over. ‘I prefer my home comforts. I prefer rooming with people. The world doesn’t feel quite so big when I’m around people.’
‘Does that overwhelm you?’
‘Does what overwhelm me?’
‘How big the world is?’
‘Yeah, sometimes.’
Harry froze for a moment, unsure as to where the bout of raw honesty had come from. He didn’t open up to the Sidemen like that. Christ, he didn’t even open up to Chris like that, and yet here he was, words falling from his mouth as easily as taking a breath of the purest oxygen.
Arthur hummed gently. The soft noise seeped through Harry’s skin like balm, impregnated his muscles, and he relaxed. ‘Noted,’ Arthur said.
‘Fucking strange, you are,’ Harry mumbled, unable to stop the grin that grew on his face, half asleep all over again.
Arthur’s returning smile blinded him.
Harry curled up beneath the blanket. He snuggled up as his heart desired.
It was the best Harry had slept in months.