It was a decidedly unpleasant morning.
The small coffee shop Harry frequented every morning, before hauling himself into a gruelling eight hour shift, was absolutely heaving - teeming with a buzzing, caffeinated crowd. Harry'd had to stand in a queue for his regular flat-white for over 20 long minutes before he was even able to glimpse a counter. Then, as if fate decided to add further insult to injury, Jerry - the man who'd served Harry every single morning for the past three years and who'd Harry would say was possibly one of his closest acquaintances, had completely forgotten his name, proceeded to look down his long nose, disdainfully befuddled, when Harry'd politely requested his "usual" coffee order.
Finally, Harry'd stormed out of the place, coffee mercifully in tow (reunited, and it feels so good!), then buried his chin deep within the folds of the thick, woollen scarf wrapped generously around his neck. Because, on-top of the whole coffee shop debacle… the weather had worsened dramatically; the grey, ominous clouds above threatening an impending downpour. And Harry, wouldn't you just know it, hadn't brought his umbrella to work with him today.
Did Harry have the worst luck in all of London? He certainly thought so.
Both gloved-hands clutched at his precious, steaming polystyrene coffee cup - as he prayed to every deity conceivable that caffeine would somehow improve his rapidly souring mood before he started work. Whilst he waited for the pedestrian crossing to flash to green, Harry ventured a hesitant sip, mind totally focused on achieving it's all-important caffeine hit and neglecting to remember that the liquid, within said polystyrene cup, was still at a searing hot temperature.
Harry practically burnt off half his tastebuds in one gulp.
No, this morning wasn't "decidedly unpleasant". It was a terribly bad morning.
As he moodily rounded the corner and Charring Cross station came within view, he heard the aggravatingly hearty voice of the lumbering Irishman, Paul, who was incidentally his boss - call at him from somewhere in the busy commuter crowd behind him.
"Harry! Harry!" Paul puffed along-side, striding and chuffing in order to keep up with Harry's quick pace, "Glad I caught up with you, big things are in the works…" He paused, gauging for dramatic effect, Harry supposed, "I am recommending you for employee of the month!" He beamed - his red cheeks, swollen by the icy wind, glowed happily.
Harry blinked in mild bemusement, "I… um, didn't realise our workplace had an employee of the month?"
Not phased by Harry's apparent lack of enthusiasm at the 'momentous' announcement, Paul unsheathed an officious-looking document from within his overcoat, "Oho yes, there is!" He cleared his throat importantly,
"'Supervisor Paul Higgins nominates Harry Styles for employee of the month!" He grinned down at the 20-something year old then continued in earnest, "Harry is always punctual, always polite and always works holidays, even when he's worked the previous holiday. Harry's always able to work on Christmas, too…"
Paul fluttered his eyelashes guiltily, as he paused his reading to cautiously evaluate Harry's dawning horror. Harry's mouth fell open automatically in complaint, but Paul rushed on, his tone pleading, "You know if you do decide to work, you'll get a nice plaque with the Mayor's signature on it, as well as all the executives at Network Rail! You can frame it for your living room!"
Harry threatened to interject, so Paul rushed on, bargaining wildly, "Hey, if I pull a couple of strings, you can ride on a float during St. Paddy's day! Wouldn't that be great? You love parades, right? And I didn't even mention all the extra holiday pay!"
Paul might as well have been trying to make a sale to a brick-wall. Harry's mouth set itself into a frustrated grimace, as he bit out,
"Paul. I am not working on Christmas! And, by the by... I hate parades." Harry stalked angrily away, considering the matter closed as he tried to put as much distance between the pair of them as possible - but Paul persisted, rushing after the younger boy unrelentingly,
"Wait! Hold up, oi - would you stop walking, please? Look... I wouldn't usually ask! I know you've said already that you're not going to work. But Lux is sick and Niall can't switch because he's got some big family thing and I promised my wife that I'd be home for the holidays this year. I know it isn't fair and I can't make you do it…"
Harry let out a loud, exasperated sigh, which wracked his entire torso… before slowly turning around and facing his Supervisor. Encouraged that he wasn't going to have to chase his employee all over the Station and blackmail him into agreeing to the unwanted shift, Paul continued, "But Harry. You're the only one…"
"Without family." Harry supplemented the words Paul awkwardly struggled to deliver, with defeat.
Every year was the same. He always somehow managed to get roped into covering the holiday shift.
The rest of the day continued as a downward spiral inevitably does.
Taunting, sickeningly in-love couples and close-knit families loaded with Christmas shopping frequented his booth, joyously offering him, "Merry Christmas!", which Harry felt he could only respond to with either bitter sarcasm or a curt, angry nod. He truly felt as if he was turning into the Grinch. (He was probably turning green and hairy, too).
Around mid-afternoon, just as the busy crowds were dispersing in the direction of lunch and the platform he was monitoring was emptying… he visited Harry's booth.
Who "he" was, exactly, Harry did not yet know.
All Harry knew was that he was pathetically, insanely, lustfully infatuated with the brilliantly handsome stranger.
He was tall. With broad shoulders and tapered, narrow hips. He always adorned clothes that hugged the line of his sculpted figure, close fitting, lightweight and impeccably stylish. His hair was possibly Harry's favourite feature - meticulously styled into soft-looking spikes, other than his twinkling, doe-like brown eyes. Or his wide, goofy smile. Or perhaps his voice - deep and masculine sounding, one Harry'd forced himself to commit to memory.
"Can I get one adult, return ticket to Waterloo, please?"
Still wallowing in his own victimisation-via-Paul, Harry didn't recognise his Prince Charming's voice at first. He typed the relevant information into the keypad infront of him, then waited half-a-second for the ticket to print. He replied in the most monotone voice he could manage, feeling increasingly like a robot, while keeping his head down in an uninterested sort of way,
"That'll be £2.50, please."
Money and ticket were exchanged, then a short, but cheerful, "Merry Christmas" was followed.
Harry raised his head, presumably to sneer at the well-wisher, but the insult caught in his throat as he finally clued-in on who, exactly, was addressing him.
"Nghhhh…."
Harry cursed himself internally as the embarrassing squawk escaped his mouth. The love-of-his-life just grinned at him obliviously, collected his ticket, then trotted away, strolling down the platform. (He even walked majestically!)
Harry watched him leave, chastising himself and groaning in bitter disappointment. "Great," He complained outloud, "Now the guy probably thinks I'm either mentally incompetent or have a speech impediment. Perfect!" He slammed his head against his desk, trying to eradicate his mental anguish while chanting in a mantra, "Just say hello next time, just say hello next time, just say hello next time!"
A scuffled shout and a loud bang, followed by panicked yells immediately pulled Harry out the misery pool, he'd submerged himself in momentarily. He raised his head just in time to see two suspicious-looking youths flee the scene and… oh god, his Prince Charming lying on the train tracks.
Adrenalin took over.
Harry burst out from his booth and bolted down the platform, screaming at the top of his lungs, hoping a train guard wasn't too far away to hear,
"PLEASE SOMEBODY! I NEED HELP HERE! A MAN'S ON THE TRACKS!"
Harry collapsed onto his knees at the spot on the platform across from his apparently unconscious Prince and he called out,
"Sir? Please, Sir? Can you hear me? Please, Sir… this is dangerous, a train is coming very soon, it's an express, you need to move!"
There was no response. Charming was completely immobilised, sprawled out oddly against the lattice frame-work of the tracks. An ugly welt was starting to blossom in deep purples and blues across Charming's forehead.
There was nothing for it. Harry jumped down without hesitation, and gripped at Charming's shirt collar, vainly attempting to rattle him awake,
"Please sir, please wake up! Oh god." He tried shaking him again, to no avail. It was useless, Prince Charming was out cold. Though, through Harry's panic and terror… he couldn't help but notice how utterly beautiful he was, up-close. Especially when not separated by a glass-window and speaking panel, as they usually were.
The not-far-off toot of an incoming train pierced through Harry's wandering thoughts, cementing his place back in reality and immediately filling him with dread. Almost causing a full-blown case of whiplash, Harry turned around, only to discover that the 10:30 express train from Paddington was fast approaching the platform behind them. And if they remained where they were on the tracks… they'd both be crushed.
Utilising the upper-body strength he never knew he had, Harry heaved Charming against him with one almighty push… and managed, somehow, miraculously, to roll them both under the platform, to safety.
The train's wheels roared past them and Harry winced, his body still trembling with fear at just how close a call that'd been. He felt Charming's body stir underneath him, and for a fraction of a second his brown eyes opened… and peered up at Harry.
"Hello…" Harry breathed out, remembering his mantra whilst in awe of being in close proximity to such beauty. But Charming wouldn't have heard him, anyway. He only slipped further into unconsciousness.