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The first time Harry wears a dress, he’s five and at a friend, Will Sweeney’s house. They’re in the arts and crafts room, raiding the drawers for all its markers and crayons, when he stumbles upon the corner belonging to Will’s sister. Disney princess dresses line the walls and pretty bows have been hung on hangers above.
For a moment, Harry just looks and stares. An unfamiliar longing sweeps through his chest.
Then Will is back and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we go play foot?”
And it’s exactly what they do. Out in the yard, running and sweating, letting out war cries as they hit the football with their bare feet - cleats and thick socks be damned. Harry’s legs are covered in grass stains by the time they stumble back inside for lunch, and he plops himself down tiredly in a rickety chair.
And yet, he can’t stop thinking about that princess dress.
It was Snow White’s, blue and red and yellow with the puffy sleeves. He loves the movie and demands his mum play it over and over again, until the DVD is scratched and worn out. Last Christmas he forced Gemma to perform a Snow White play with him. He’d been both the charming prince and the evil stepmother, and Gemma had been Snow White. His mum had adored it and told Harry he’d been brilliant in the challenging dual role.
After Will’s mum places sandwiches out for them, Harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He hates to lie but when his feet steer him toward the playroom, he doesn’t stop himself. Suddenly he’s in the girl’s corner and the Snow White dress is off its hanger and on his body - and the way it feels against his skin…
It’s soft and plushy and velvety, and he at once feels calm and tired. He wants to spend the rest of his life in the dress, loves the way the large skirt gives his legs room to breathe, gives him freedom, how the fabric twirls around him when he spins and spins and spins-
He goes too fast and ends up falling loudly into a heap on the floor.
Naturally, Will comes running with his mum in tow. Though Will wants to know if he’s okay, his mum demands to know what he was doing in a girl’s dress. “Silly Harry,” she says as she helps him to his feet. She peels the dress off of him, and it feels like he’s being stripped naked. “Those aren’t for boys!”
She says the words so easily, as if she doesn’t know they’ll haunt Harry for years to come.
* * *
The second time Harry wears a dress, it’s three years later and his sister is celebrating her twelfth birthday. More than anything, she’s obsessed with this show called Friends. Harry thinks it’s positively dull, but Gemma watches an episode every day after she gets home from school. “The only thing I want for my birthday,” Gemma tells Mum one afternoon while they’re driving home from school, “is to go on a shopping spree with Monica Geller. She has the best style.”
For obvious reasons, this is impossible. Despite Mum's best attempts to move Gemma off the idea - "what about a nice trip to Ireland, huh?" - she's adamant. "I want Monica Geller," she says while washing the dishes, while brushing her teeth, while taking out the trash. "That's the only thing that'll make me happy for my birthday."
Defeated, Mum sits herself down on the couch next to Harry and shakes her head. Gemma is away at play practice and they're home alone, Mum is free to air her grievances as she pleases. "I don't want to disappoint her," she tells Harry, her voice weak and quiet. "But it's just not possible..."
Suddenly, Harry gets an amazing, genius idea. Inching slowly toward his mother, he places his hand on her wrist and says, "But what if it is?"
He tells her his plan and watches as his mum's expression moves from defeat to curiosity to relief. "Yes," she mutters, her eyes wandering off to somewhere Harry can't see. "That might work..."
The next week, Gemma's birthday party is thrown. All of her friends are in attendance, digging into the lemon-yellow pound cake and playing party games. Blindly, Gemma swings a baseball bat at a piñata and watches as candies spill onto the carpet at her feet. There's a battle to collect the most Snickers, the greatest amount of Hershey's kisses, to hoard all the Three Musketeers - the big kind! - for oneself. They might be twelve and almost teenagers but a sweet tooth is never beyond them.
As the night comes to a close and Gemma partly believes that the party is over, Mum comes out with an announcement. "Gemma," she says, "we have one final surprise for you." And with no further preamble, she directs everyone's attention to the front door.
And what a surprise it is! Everyone holds their breath as the front door swings open, letting in the cold December air. A few girls shiver as a figure steps into the house and closes the door behind them. Despite the chill, everyone stands on their tippy toes. Could it be...?
But then everyone's eyes adjust to the light, and what they thought was a mystical figure is in fact Harry in a white dress with spindly spaghetti straps and crimson lipstick smeared on his mouth. He doesn't need a wig to imitate a woman's long hair; his curls are crazy and lengthy enough.
He holds open his arms. "Hello, Gemma Styles!" His tone is light like a girl's, but not ridiculing. He'd never imagine doing something like that. "It's me, Monica Geller! And tomorrow we're going to have the time of our life shopping together at the Grosvenor Shopping Centre!"
Laughs swallow up whatever Gemma might be saying to him, and for a moment Harry's stomach falls. Not only is he the joke again, but it's possible he's embarrassed his sister in front of all her friends. Even worse, he might have disappointed her. No matter how much makeup and how many dresses he throws on, he never really will be Monica Geller.
But when Gemma steps closer to him, it's with a shy smile. "Why, Monica," she mutters, smoothing her hand down the spaghetti strap on Harry's left shoulder. "What a surprise!"
Then, leaning in closer, she presses a kiss to Harry's cheek. "I'll be delighted to go out with you tomorrow, whether you're in a dress or not."
"No," Harry insists, "this is your birthday present and you ordered Monica Geller. Expect me in the same lipstick and another one of Mum's summer dresses by noon."
And the way Gemma smiles, the way her eyes light up and her posture loosens, is enough to ensure Harry that this was worth it. It's almost enough for him to be able to ignore the laughs swelling around him, how girls are grabbing their sides and falling over themselves in his own living room.
Almost, he says, but not quite. Not at all.
* * *
The third time Harry wears a dress, he's being led by Gemma through a busy, crowded mall. Given that it's December, everyone's out doing their Christmas shopping. Meanwhile Harry is at his sister's every beck and call, decked out in one of his mum's dresses from her college days: a strapless Persian blue dress with a white belt secured rather tightly around his waist, even when buckled to the loosest notch.
He's aware of the people staring at him as he passes. He tries to brush them off.
They've just entered Bath and Body Works and Harry has bigger issues, besides, such as the impending headache he's sure he's going to get. While Gemma has a ball sniffing candles and looking at sparkly hand sanitisers to attach to her backpack, Harry fights off the putrid scent of body lotions and overly-scented perfumes made for pre-teenage girls. Which, he remembers after a bit of stumbling, is what his sister is.
As he tries to regulate his breathing, a teenage boy swoops in beside him, his arms laden with cardboard boxes full of product. One by one, he begins to put fowl-smelling bath bombs onto the shelves, grumbling to himself beneath his breath. He's wearing headphones and so doesn't notice Harry's breathing over the high volume; his punk rock music is flooding out of the speakers and into the air, and Harry can faintly hear the song himself. This boy will be deaf by the time he's thirty, Harry thinks, as if he's not also the type of person to turn up the Coldplay when it's playing on the radio.
The boy - his golden name tag says his name is Ethan - only notices Harry when he tries to swivel out of the corner and only succeeds in jamming his elbow into Harry's chest. While Harry gasps for breath, Ethan yanks his headphones out and barks, "Hey, watch where you're going, blood."
Then he notices Harry's attire and promptly bursts out laughing, just like Gemma's friends the night before. "Good God," he asks, "what are you wearing?"
Before Harry gets a chance to explain, Ethan is crowding into his space, playing with his hair and cackling like a banshee. Harry wants to shy away from him but can't - he's effectively backed up against the shelf carrying bath bombs.
Then Ethan asks: "What are you, a little faggot?"
It's not like Harry hasn't heard that word before. It figures heavily enough in the vocabulary of the boys at school. But it's never been directed at him before. Not like this.
And it brings about this terrible shame which has his eyes pricking and his cheeks becoming warm and his heart beating so hard like it'll somehow escape his chest. The girls' laughter yesterday was one thing; this word is another.
Ethan tries to do something more - what more can he do after what he's said? Harry thinks with dread - but Gemma returns with her arms full of products, and Ethan promptly skulks away. Quickly, Harry dabs at his eyes. He doesn't want her to see him crying.
It appears like she hasn't noticed, because she's jumping up and down and smiling cheerfully. "Can we get these?" she asks. "Pretty please, Monica?"
Harry has never seen Friends before, but he's sure that this Monica character wouldn't be caught dead with this amount of Bath and Body Works in her hands. For his sister, however, he just grins. "Alright," he says, taking the basket from her hands and manoeuvring them toward the counter. His mum has given him her credit card for the day and ordered him to spend money without consideration of how much these things might cost. It's your sister's birthday, she'd told Harry the night before as she dragged a makeup removal wipe across his lips, trying desperately to get the red colour off. Let her have fun.
It seems that Harry, though, has only become absolutely miserable.
But that doesn't matter, Harry quickly chides himself. It's not his birthday besides. It's Gemma's, and the focus is on her.
They reach the counter and Harry plops the basket down. He doesn't quite feel like meeting the eyes of the bloke behind the cash register, not after his encounter with Ethan, so he looks at the credit card machine as the total climbs higher and higher. His mum's card becomes heavier in his hand. Does someone really need this much beauty products?
At last, the number stops going up, and the cashier says with a snicker: "Cash or credit?"
Only then does Harry look up, and he meets Ethan's eyes again. Those cruel, judgmental, utterly savage eyes.
Harry swallows and sticks his mum's credit card in the machine without responding.
When they leave the store, having paid for their things, Harry is terser with Gemma than he's ever been. "Why did you have to buy all that?" he demands as they move toward Poshmark.
Gemma just smiles. "And why not?"
"Why not? Because it cost a bloody fortune, that's why!" Angry now, Harry stops them in the middle of the hall, blocking a married couple and their baby from passing. The mother steers her baby carriage past the two of them with concerned, somewhat scared eyes.
Harry doesn't care. He feels ridiculous in this dress and he almost hates his sister for making him wear it. "You don't understand anything about the world," he says instead. "I can't believe you're my sister!"
"I can't believe you're my brother when you're dressed like that!"
It cuts Harry right to where it hurts. He staggers a bit before ultimately throwing down their paper bag. All of Gemma's presents - her body lotions and her hand sanitisers and her bath bombs - spill out and roll on the floor.
Without telling his sister where he's going, he stomps off back to the parking lot so he can sulk with his mum in the car.
* * *
The fourth time Harry wears a dress, he's sixteen and lost a bet. Using the fake ID's they nicked off of a friend of Gemma's, Harry and his White Eskimo bandmates had gone out to a bar and decided to get absolutely wasted. Whoever threw up first would have to wear a maid's outfit during their next gig.
Harry agreed to this more out of duty than the genuine desire to: he loved his bandmates but never felt like they heard a word he had to say. Nursing a margarita now, that ignored feeling remains like a boulder in Harry's stomach, weighing him down. He finishes one drink after another and keeps calling the bartender over for another round. Given how plastered he's becoming off of so little alcohol, he begins to suspect that the bartender is on to him, but either way, he doesn't care. He's got to keep pace with his bandmates, who are finishing round after round without issue.
Will Sweeney, Harry's mate since childhood, is particularly adept at the art of drinking unbothered. Harry can't count the amount of bottles he's finished, and somehow he still has his wits about him. He isn't even blushing, and his speech comes out concise and clear. "You're getting behind," he tells Harry when he doesn't immediately start drinking the glass the bartender's set in front of him. This is his fifth round, and his stomach feels like a storm of terrible, heaving, tingly feelings. He's distinctly uncomfortable, sweating out from beneath the stiff collar on his school uniform.
Begrudgingly, he takes a sip of his margarita before promptly placing it down. It only makes his stomach feels worse. His vision begins to swim and he's hit with a sudden, gutting cold shock. He's going to lose this bet, he knows it.
Meanwhile, Will is ordering another round for all of them. The rest of the gang is laughing, clinking their glasses like refined businessmen.
Harry just sinks further into his seat. He knows he's not going to win this bet even if he tries.
He does manage to down another bottle but in the end, he's only left feeling nauseous and unstable. Before any jokes can be made at his expense, Harry excuses himself from the table and makes a beeline for the bathroom.
He only has one moment to glance at his reflection in the mirror - shocked, odd, and sickly pale - before he's holding fast to the sides of a toilet and spilling up his guts into the bowl.
Walking back out into the bar, he orders a glass of water to wash the putrid taste down. The constant wiping of his mouth with his hand must give him away, because Will hoots loudly and swings an arm around Harry's shoulder. "Looks like we've got the loser here!" he yells to the other bandmates.
Harry's water arrives and he busies himself with finishing it while the lads devise just what the punishment should be. Their eyes dart conspiratorially from Harry to each other, and a distinct feeling of unease settles in Harry's stomach. Whatever his bandmates will decide, it won't be good.
At last they've sprung apart with identical grins, their eyes flashing with something more than drunkenness. Their attempt to explain the punishment is cut off by their constant giggling and only Will has enough wits about himself to be able to articulate the bet to Harry. Stepping forward, he grins before whispering the punishment in Harry's ear.
Immediately, Harry pinks.
It's how he comes to enter their next gig the following week wearing a maid outfit Will got for cheap off the internet. There's an apron and everything; even Gemma, thinking the whole thing hilarious, dusted some blush across Harry's cheeks beforehand.
Not like she needed to. He's embarrassed enough as it is.
Harry somehow manages to get through their set despite the loud laughter of the crowd. His hands are shaking on the microphone though, and at any moment he feels as if he'll fall over and faint. All the while, he glances angrily at a very happy, very amused Will.
His friend has betrayed him. He's exposed Harry's weakness and used it against him in front of the whole world.
It's part of the reason why Harry doesn't feel any guilt when his mum proposes that weekend that he go on the X Factor - alone.
* * *
The fifth time Harry wears a dress, it's on another drunken night, this time shared between him and his One Direction bandmates. He has to admit, it's odd being in a band that's not the White Eskimo; however much Will might have tortured Harry, they'd still been best mates since childhood. But then Louis is cracking a hilarious joke and Niall is tripping over the coffee table in the X Factor House and Liam is fussing over them and Zayn is being no help at all, and suddenly Harry feels like he's right where he wants to be.
Still doesn't mean he's comfortable parading in front of his new bandmates in a dress, though.
This time, it doesn't happen by force or coercion. It's almost like the first time he put on a dress, when he was young and curious at Will's house and the Snow White costume seemed to be calling his name. That is, if he'd been drunk and out of his mind and not totally sure of what he wanted, truly.
Technically, they're not allowed to be having alcohol but Nicole made some exceptions. Sliding halfway off the couch now, Harry feels relaxed and buzzing as he finishes his bottle of Jack Daniels. Zayn is talking a mile a minute about something completely irrelevant and Liam, who's only slightly tipsy, plays with the high quiff of Zayn's hair. Louis and Niall are muttering to each other about something but despite all the commotion around him, Harry doesn't feel excluded really. He feels comfortable and assured.
Then Cher Lloyd is walking over to them with a bemused expression, and goddammit, Harry is absolutely gobsmacked by how beautiful the dress she's wearing is. It's long and flow-y in the prettiest pink shade he's ever seen, and it moves effortlessly with her as she sets herself down on the rug. Grinning at Niall when their eyes meet, she grabs a bottle off the coffee table and screws off the cap with ease, then throws her head back and downs the whole thing in a single gulp.
Harry doesn't care about that, however. He drowns out Zayn's hoots of amusement as he leans toward Cher, asking, "Hey, where'd you get that dress from?"
A bit tipsy now, Cher slurs her words: "Not sure, mate. 've had it for ages."
And it seems, for a moment, that that will be the end of it. Cher is back to drinking again, blindly taking whatever spirits the boys will hand her, and her shoulders fall in utter relaxation. But then Harry is leaning toward her again, and before he loses the nerve he asks: "Could I wear it?"
She chuckles in surprise, spitting out a bit of her drink onto the carpet. Niall finds this absolutely hilarious and slaps Louis's knee as he laughs.
Wiping the back of her mouth, Cher asks, "What?"
Maybe it's all the drinks in him, but Harry doesn't back down. "Your dress is pretty. I'd like to wear it."
Another moment passes, and so too does Cher's shocked expression. Instead, she glances down at the dress with a skeptical look. "Dunno, Hazza. Might not fit on you."
"C'mon, I'm the skinniest boy here. I'm sure I could fit into it fine." When only silence falls between them, he pushes his luck again: "Besides, you never know until you try it."
A light returns to Cher's eyes. She points at him with a smile. "Right you are, H!" Smiling still, she places the mouth of a bottle against her lips and takes another long swig of alcohol. Then she's to her feet, stumbling a bit as she grabs Harry's hand. "Alright then, boy-o, follow me."
They both stagger through the halls and toward Cher's room, which she shares with a few other girls. Thankfully, none of them are present at the moment - they're probably out wooing the other absent male contestants, which Harry would feel slightly envious of if it weren't for what he's about to do now. Everyone flirts on the show; they're young, it's natural. But besides Cher, which other X Factor contestant can claim to have worn this amazing dress?
Cher orders Harry to turn around while she takes the dress off of herself and Harry complies obediently. Keeping his eyes pointedly on the grooves in the closed door in front of him, he tries his best to regulate his breathing. He doesn't know why he's so excited about this. It's just a dress.
But then he turns around at Cher's order and he sees her in an oversized T-shirt and sweats, holding the dress in her hand out to him, and his heart lodges in his throat. Sure, it's just a few pieces of fabric sewn together, but if it means something to Harry, then it means something. He's allowed to feel the way he feels about it.
His hands shake a bit as he grasps the dress between his fingers, feeling the softness of the fabric for himself rolling beneath his fingers. Harry thinks he's faint for a moment, but then he's recovered himself with a laugh. "Thank you," he says quietly to Cher.
Cher just smiles and pats him on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to it," she says before leaving out the door and closing it behind her.
Harry's alone now, accompanied only by the dress in his hands and the moonlight seeping in through the open curtains. He stares a bit out at the stars, disbelieving that they're the same ones he'd watch from his bedroom window back in Cheshire. It's only been a few weeks, and already he feels like he's died and come back to life. Harry Styles, baker of Holmes Chapel, is gone and this Harry is what's left of him - the one who asks his female contestants on the X Factor if he can wear their dresses and, what's more, actually wears them.
Which reminds him...
He quickly slips out of his shirt and trousers and stands bare in the girls' bedroom, wearing nothing more than his decidedly manly boxers. Before he lets the hilarity of it all get to him, he undoes the zipper on the back of the dress and positions it so he can step into it.
He lets in one breath, and then two. Finally he takes the plunge and swings his leg through the open neckline.
Harry pleases himself by not proving too large on the first try alone. He swings his other leg in, breathes in one more time, and begins to pull the dress up his body.
It fits like a glove, even after he zips it up.
An indescribable, sudden wave of glee washes over Harry as he feels the fabric embrace his bare skin. It's even softer than it was before and feels much like a hug, suffocating the sadness in him. With a wide smile, he swings around to look at himself in the head-to-toe mirror in the corner of the room. He doesn't just feel good, he looks good too: the tule of the skirt compliments his wild mass of curls perfectly, as if the messiness is intentional and a stylistic choice on his part.
He's shaking slightly as he smooths his palms over the flatness of his chest. Only the bust area doesn't fit well but that's nothing a few socks won't help.
He's about to swing out the door of the girls' room and show off his dress to Cher before he stops himself. A coldness washes over him, even more overpowering than the glee from before. Cher might approve but what about his new bandmates? If they're anything like the lads from the White Eskimo, they'd laugh and make jokes about him. Worse, they'd use it to their advantage on live television, broadcasting Harry's shame to millions of watchers at home.
He doesn't think he can stand that, not a second time.
* * *
The sixth time Harry wears a dress, he's sitting on the floor of his bedroom helping Louis through a solo of his. Despite being the eldest of the group, Louis's the most self conscious about his voice: he doesn't have the past experience like Liam nor the effortlessness of Zayn; he lacks Niall's confidence and Harry's good looks.
That's what he said to Harry, straight up. "C'mon, I'm nowhere near as handsome as you," with a playful sock to Harry's arm.
Needless to say, Harry drifted on a cloud for the whole rest of the week.
Now, they're boyfriends. Or something like that. Something which involves them sharing a bed and cuddling one another as they fall asleep. Something which features them kissing passionately when they don't think others are looking, something which requires long make out sessions that help them recharge after a long, gruelling week.
One by one, their friends are being sent home. The constancy of each other is a blessing in this increasingly bleak, empty X Factor House.
Huddled together now, Louis tries to reach some particularly difficult notes but fails. Each time, it makes him more and more discouraged. "I can't do this," he says finally, banging a hand against his head. "Fucking hell, I wasn't meant to be here..."
"What do you mean?" Harry laughs, hoping there will be a punchline somewhere.
There isn't.
Taking the initiative, Harry slides across the carpet and settles himself next to Louis, swinging an arm around Louis's shoulder and pulling them close. Their sides are touching and the warmth of Louis's skin sets Harry on fire, making him feel giddier than any spirit Niall might give him. "Of course you're meant to be here," Harry assures him, looking straight into Louis's eyes. Meanwhile, Louis won't meet his gaze.
He doesn't respond, either. He grunts something but on the whole he's a quiet, introspective mess that Harry can't exactly reach.
And that - being blocked out in such a way - scares Harry more than anything.
He's going to ask Niall for advice before his brain catches up with him and he realises what a shit idea that is: Louis would be mad at Harry for sharing his self-doubt with the others, surely. He might ask Cher, but then again spending any amount of time away from Louis when he's in this state isn't at all desirable.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, suddenly Harry comes up with an idea. It's not the best thing in the world but it's all he's got at the moment, and needing something fast, Harry doesn't think about it too much. He finds his feet, but not before he leans down to press a kiss into Louis's hair. "I'll be right back," he promises, before he slips into the girls' room and begs Cher for a certain costume.
If Cher is surprised, she doesn't let it on. She hands the costume off easily to Harry, knowing by now that when it comes to girls' clothes and those sorts of things, they're practically the same size.
Before any of the other girl contestants can ask questions, Harry slips into their bathroom to change. It's far messier than the boys' lavatories, with makeup cases spilling out onto the counter and foundation stains smeared along the mirrors. He does quite like the smell, though - something citrusy, undoubtedly from the perfume that all the girl contestants seem to be using - and it calms him down a bit as he slips out of his sweatpants and tank top and into Cher's costume. He gives himself a once over in the mirror, but beyond that, he doesn't dwell too much on his disappearance. He's breezing out the bathroom and right back into his and Louis's bedroom as if he never left.
He expects Louis's eyes on him at once, but in spite of all the noise Harry is making, Louis doesn't move. He's moping with his gaze on the questionable carpet stains (Harry will have to ask the lads about that later, but right now, that's not so important).
It's at this moment that Harry starts blaring "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls from his phone, dancing to the music and singing along in his sequin-y cheerleader costume.
At once, Louis turns his head, a mix of amusement and shock making his features fall slack. Harry doesn't care, though. He keeps on dancing, singing louder than the music in the chorus: If you wanna be my lover, gotta get with my friends...
Then Louis starts to laugh, but it's in the soft, delicate way that Harry knows isn't judgemental. "Harry, what is this?" he asks slowly.
Harry doesn't stop dancing as he replies, "Wanted to cheer you up."
Make it last forever, friendship never ends...
A look passes across his face, and the amusement turns to something deeper - endearment, perhaps. Either way, Louis is finding his feet and making his way over to his not-so-boyfriend with a strangled, "Harry..."
His arms engulf Harry like a wave, pulling him in and holding him under. Harry submits to the tide completely, feels his body drift away with the weight of it as he sinks into the warmth of Louis's chest. The song is still playing but neither of them are listening to the lyrics anymore, not really. Their main concern is the rhythm of one another's heart beats, how they merge together into a song of their own.
Louis rubs his hand up and down Harry's back, burying his face in the crook of Harry's neck. "Thank you."
"Of course, Lou. You need this."
"Yes," Louis agrees, "yes I do." Then, with a grin which presses right into Harry's skin: "Need more of you in a dress, Hazza. You look so gorgeous."
And the genuine tone of his voice, the way he means it - like, truly...
Now Harry's a sobbing, emotional mess, holding onto Louis for dear life. For a moment, Louis panics. "Fucking hell, I didn't mean to say the wrong thing..."
"No!" Harry says quickly. He doesn't want Louis to get the wrong impression, needs him to know that - "It's the best thing you could've said."