a/n: this is an epilogue of sorts. it all takes place two years later.
• • •

If he could only touch for the rest of his life, he'd spend his eternity worshipping Harry and if he could only feel, he'd beg for the touch of his lips on his freckled face forever.

Until the end of their times, he wants Harry Styles to be his everything.

● ● ●

I wake up in a cold sweat, my hand instinctively lowering to my legs.

Instead of my pants or sore bruises, I find bare and hairy skin under my palm.

I grip his thigh a little too hard, rousing him from his slumber. 

"Oh, Lou. Another flashback?" I shake my head in denial, not wanting to let Harry know that I am indeed scared.

I turn around away from him, our sweaty backs touching, and I force the whimper to not spill out of me. All I want is to beg for comfort.

Harry gives it to me, wordlessly. He wounds his arms around a traumatised me, letting me soak and bask in the tenderness he so willingly offered.

"Let go love, I'm here to catch you.  I'll keep you safe," Harry promises, stroking my sweaty forehead, his body warm and comforting behind me.

.

I'm up in the attic, hiding away from Harry. I don't want a cucumber in my chicken wrap, thank you very much.

Just no.

I sit down on the dusty floor and cross my legs, cringing at the dust.

There's a lot of junk in our house. Old newspapers, once glossy magazines that were now covered in a layer of dirt, shrunken clothes we were too attached to give away, you name it.

A stray photo album catches my eye. I flip through the pages, the cracks of the spine and the crinkling of the cover, filling the attic with noises.

The first few are photos of me. They're old, three or fours years ago, with minimal of the tattoos I currently had.

Harry Styles convinced me to have our love on our skin. The ink was his way of love.

The photos seem old and fragile but still in excellent condition. They're candids of me, laughing, scowling, smiling, some simply fonding.

I remember Harry clicking away on his disposable camera, me protesting and raising my middle finger in return.

All those playful clicks were immortalised in the album.

We have Polaroids hung in our bedroom, lots of them, taken on the date nights. Simple parties, close get-together gatherings and some blurry laughter filled shots.

A fragment of time frozen forever.

I caress the edge of a photo, it's of me in one of Harry's black shirt. I remember it being taken, the memory was fond.

"Is that mine?"

"It was yours."

I carefully put it away, making a mental note to later scold Harry for abandoning it in the attic to gather dust.

The attic's door creaks open, it reveals Harry standing at the door with a cupcake in his hand.

I scowl and turn away from him, only to hide my smile in my sleeve.

Harry ambles over, stubbing his toe into one of the many piles of magazines. He whimpers an ouch and tightens his grip on the cupcake, crushing it effectively.

Concern overtakes me. I turn around to inspect the mewling boy.

He pouts at me, his hand full of icing and squished crumbs of the once pretty cupcake.

I gasp at his colourful hand and let out tiny giggles. "So messy," I fondly scold, standing up.

"Would you mind if I lick the icing off your fingers?" I innocently ask, eyes set on the icing on his hands. I'm being a minx but it's fun seeing him flush red.

Red is love for me.

Harry raises his brows and pulls his mouth down, it's comical. "Would you mind if I get hard?" he shoots back, cheeky.

"You're just fucking filthy, Harry Styles," I announce, licking at a finger.

.

I escape the flat with an excuse to buy more cereal. I had enough of that kale and spinach smoothies, if I'd drink anymore I worry that my pee would be green.

As I pass by the stores, I catch a  glimpse of myself in the glass. The man in the mirror has full cheeks, a happy glint in his eyes and a sort of peacefulness.

He doesn't look faded anymore. He looks free.

After paying for my cereal, I make a stop at the flower shop.

Holby's florals, as usual.

The bell chimes and the tinkle makes Grethe look up from the counter. She beams at me.

"Look who finally decided to show me that beautiful face!" She wraps me up in a hug.

I laugh into her hair, the fragrance of fresh jasmines wafting off her and soothing my frazzled nerves.

"S'pose you can spare me a minute to make me a daffodil bouquet?" I plead, rocking back on the balls of my feet, the bag containing cereal swinging along with me.

Grethe chuckles and sets to making a bouquet with yellow daffodils.

"Any message?"

I nod and show the quote.

I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.

Grethe insists on not charging me anything. I drop a note in the tip jar.

"How have you been?" I grasp her hand in mine and give a gentle squeeze to the frail woman.

"I miss him, a lot but I've learned to be okay with it. The pain is still there, the grief is still prominent but it's all tucked away. I see red Dahlias and remember him," she says, voice cracking and face paling.

"So attractive with an ugly meaning," I whisper, understanding what she meant.

.

Harry's nowhere to be found. The house is silent.

Slowly stashing away the cereal, I tiptoe back into the bedroom. I find him sleeping, lips pouty and eyes half open.

I place the butter yellow daffodils aside on our bedside table and take a minute to appreciate the beauty of Harry Styles.

I sit on the edge of the bed and let myself mourn. Mourn for the boy who had offered me boots for my blistered soles the night I was smashed.

Unbidden tears slither down my cheeks, tears turn to tiny sobs. Soon I'm shaking in my skin.

Harry wakes up with a jolt and hurriedly pulls me close.

"Baby, what happened?"

"Two years, almost two years since his death, H. I—" I break down into another fit of sobs.

"Darling, I'm so sorry." Harry peppers my forehead with kisses and rocks us.

It feels impossible, forgetting the trauma, the memories that haunt me. And it is true.

I can never forget them but in Harry's arms, surrounded by him, they don't seem so hard to face.

Strong and soft, repentance and reward, my nothing and everything all in one body and soul.

He was strong and soft, repentance and reward, my sin and salvation, cheeky bugger and confidant. Most importantly my everything all in one body and soul.

Harry Styles was mine. I find my missing pieces in him, the untold bits splayed out for his eyes only.

.

A month after my breakdown, I find myself smiling at the languid silhouette of Harry beside me.

Harry never went to jail—he is way too pretty and delicate for jail but the case wasn't valid, not when Ansel was found dead in his apartment after an over dosage of drugs.

Liam Payne resigned his job soon after his friend's death. Seeing the man breakdown will have to be one of the most heartbreaking sights.

Niall and Zayn started living together again.

And Harry.

Harry Styles now kissed me under the sky sprinkled with stars and in broad daylight under the swaying clouds.

Harry Styles slept beside me, consoled me freely. The colours all had a gorgeous meaning behind them all.

White meant all the nights he'd hold me close, kissing the freckles and random moles. White symbolised all the soft moments filled with bewitching looks.

Pink meant that I cried. Cried due to how hard he made me laugh. Cried because of his words, his sheer adoration for me.

Then was green. Green no longer was jealousy. Green is all the frozen minutes I spend, getting lost in his eyes. Green meant seeing admiration in his eyes.

Blue nights and hazy smoke. Blue wasn't sadness anymore, it showed the peace of mind I found. The peace Harry put me in. I turned blue for all the times he made the idea of us feel serene.

Yellow marks and amber liquids. Yellow signified us getting drunk on laughter at midnight with a wine bottle passed among us. I was yellow, for every moment I felt happiness.

Black stood for the sweaty backs and panic attacks. All the panic attacks that were soothed by him. Those were the battle scars being healed by him. I felt black, every time I woke up with a cold sweat only to be tucked into his warm embrace.

Black faded to purple. Purple was me falling in love with him all over again in the morning. Purple patches left on my skin, they were a reminder of our passion. A reminder of how Harry had worshipped me.

Red. Red wasn't the blood or guts or glory. Nor was it kissing Harry Styles with sore lips and bruised soul. Red was love. I was red with him. Red dusted the apples of my cheeks with him, it crawled over skin pleasantly.

.

White no longer stood for me being okay, it was me being more than okay.

Pink no longer meant I was weak. It was me being vulnerable and staying true to myself.

I wasn't green anymore. I had nothing to be jealous of, the world could offer nothing to make me jealous of someone else, not when Harry Styles stood by me.

Blue meant all the forehead kisses that put my heart to peace. It was the sense of being home.

Yellow was happiness, the joy he gave me through being just by my side. It was the giggly drunk happiness found in the wee hours of a soft morning.

Black was me being okay with my past, accepting the trauma I've been through. Opening up to Harry about it. Black wasn't hiding anymore.

All the rough mornings, the fights, the mumbled apologies, the rushed snogging against the cabinets. Purple were his claims of love on me. They were the tears of passion muffled into each other's skin.

Red, red was our love. Alarming, bright and fiery. It was the nights he'd be a devotee of my body, taking his time to kiss and whimper at the stubborn marks, murmuring how beautiful of a person I was.

With him, the colours weren't negative.

It was slow, two years and still the memories of Ansel and I came back to me. They played behind my shut lids but they didn't scare me, not as much as they did.

.

"Why did you stay?" Harry asks me, tired and bones achy.

"I thought I could help him change. It was like I had this mentality going on that if I could change at least one person, I would help a person. But it was wrong, I realised sometimes we all save people and it's okay, you know. It's okay to save just a single person. It's okay that the only person you ever saved is yourself."

"So I wasn't your knight in shining armour?" Harry pouts, bottom lip out.

I kiss his lips. "You were, you are but the Princess needed to be saved from himself. And I did."

"Princess. Can I call you that, or does it trigger you?"

"I'm free now. If you'd press your lips and whisper it across me, maybe I'll find the sweetness in it."

The Princess didn't need a knight to save, unlike every other fairytale, the Princess needed the knight to shatter the illusion that they built for themselves.

● ● ●

The end of PRINCESS.

If you ever feel the need to break down and rant, my PM's are open.

natscroggin thank you for the answers.

Abby, you tit, I love you so much even though you gave me a panic attack.

Thank you everyone for the support.

xx