Falling | h.s

forty-nine

HARRY'S POV

"I don't want to go out there," I protest, embarrassed by my own childish behavior. My arms are crossed over my half-bare chest as my hips rest against the counter in my dressing room. I stare at my band members and manager stubbornly. 

"You have to, H," Jeff sighs and I can tell it is taking everything in him not to start rubbing his forehead out of stress. I wouldn't blame him if he did; it's five minutes until showtime and the main act is refusing to go on. 

"But I don't want to," I stress and reach down to begin twisting one of my rings. 

"You love performing," Jeff pushes, attempting to reason with me. 

"I love performing but not these songs," I explain with a groan. "I don't want to sing about her. I'm not ready. "

"Harry, I--" Jeff starts but before he can continue, Mitch rests a hand on Jeff's shoulder. 

"Give us a minute?" He requests, making Jeff nod his head hesitantly. The rest of my bandmates file out of the room silently before closing the door quietly behind them. I let my eyes fall towards the ground as Mitch walks a few steps closer to me and folds his own arms across his chest. 

"Talk to me," he states calmly. 

"What is there to say?" I shrug. 

"What are you so afraid of?" He pushes, forcing me to pull my eyes up from the floor. 

"I don't want to sing "Golden,'" I mumble out the confession and he sighs sadly. He reaches his hand up to rake his nails up and down my back comfortingly. 

"I know, H. But you have to," Mitch attempts to calm me down and I let out a shaky breath. 

"She should be here," I continue and he nods slowly. 

"She should," he agrees. "She should be in this room right now, painting your nails and telling you how good you look. But just because she isn't here doesn't make tonight any less exciting." I lift my head to look at him, urging him to continue. "You should be so proud of yourself, H. You opened up, got personal. Shared a piece of your heart with the world. You should be excited to get onto that stage and express yourself. With or without her."

"It just feels wrong," I shrug again. "It feels wrong to be celebrating something that is half hers without her here. She should be here," I repeat myself, my voice drenched in pitiful sorrow. 

"I know, H," he sighs again, clearly upset as well. "I know. But it's also half yours. It's half your blood, sweat, and tears. It's your emotions, your stories." 

When I'm quiet for a moment, he continues. 

"Look at me," he demands and I force my eyes to his once again. "You are Harry motherfucking Styles. You were born to be a performer, and right now, there are 20,000 people waiting to watch you. Go show them how fucking great you are." 

At the reminder of the fans waiting for me, I nod solemnly. The fans; the people I do it all for. I can't let my heartbreak ruin their night. 

"Okay," I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Let's do it." A smile stretches across Mitch's face at my words as he pulls me into a quick, reassuring hug. 

"Let's do it." 

Everything feels static as I walk backstage of the venue. My stylist follows my trail, picking at minor issues with my outfit, while Jeff walks alongside me, still attempting to cheer me up. I smile at the roadies and the backstage staff, but it all feels like an out of body experience. All I can hear is white noise as I finally approach the side of the stage where Rosie waits for me with an enormous, giddy smile. 

"You look awesome!" She cheers overenthusiastically and I force a smile. A staff member who I didn't know the name of passes me my earpieces and I plug them in silently. Rosie's eyes scan my face quickly as she digests my obvious disdain and nervousness. 

"Don't be nervous," she smiles softly and reaches out to rub my arm comfortingly. "You're going to be amazing."

"That's not what I'm upset about," I say and she grimaces, knowing exactly what I'm talking about. But then, her smile grows twice in size. 

"Everything is going to be amazing," she says and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Trust me," she adds with a glint in her eyes. "Everything is going to be...perfect." 

I try to believe her as someone else passes me a microphone and she gives my arm a final squeeze. I nod at her once and watch as Mitch and the rest of the band walk onto the stage. I feel a familiar feeling of pre-show jitters wash over me as the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. 

"Showtime," Jeff says, patting me on the back twice. I nod at him as well, still not feeling up to speaking much. But as the beginning notes of "Golden" begin, a combination of anticipation and anxiety stirring around in my stomach. 

With a final deep breath, I walk out onto the stage and down the stairs. 

My heart is pumping out of my chest as I sling my favorite white guitar over my shoulder and wave to the fans. 

And then, it begins. 

Golden.