Author's Note: Thank you to everyone that voted for Melancholy (and/or other works) to be nominated in the 2017 Fanfiction Awards! I'm sorry that there haven't been a lot of updates recently, I've had a rough few weeks, but I'm back now and updates should be coming more frequently! Sorry this is a little short, but I hope everyone likes it ! Much love !

All week.

Harry's tried knocking on Peggy's door all week. Every time he tries, the door is locked and he's starting to lose his mind. She's home though, and he knows it because he can hear the faint music slipping under the door and the screaming tea kettle when her water's boiled to maximum capacity.

Peggy has every right to be mad at him. He just desperately wishes that she'd at least give him a chance to apologize. Sometimes he doesn't think and he doesn't mean to fuck things up the way that he does. It's been that way since he was a boy and he hates it. There isn't a reason behind his wandering thoughts that take hold of some threads and snip away at others, it just happens and then there's an avalanche of consequences that entombs him.

Since her silence is an indication on her feelings, he decides to write her a note and slip it under her door instead. It's nothing fancy—especially not with his wretched handwriting—but he hopes that she'll at least acknowledge it.

Is there any way you can forgive me? -H

This last week has left him feeling bereft, and it doesn't help that Lola hasn't exactly been keeping in touch with him either. She's so off with him sometimes. But she always comes back, that must mean something, right?

Harry can't bear the thought of wasting his time and doesn't bother acknowledging the part of him that's nagging him like his mother did when he was a boy.

Today, the sky is awash with gray. The clouds remind him of the restless gray sea in a part of the world he can't quite remember the name of. Wherever it was, he remembers idly sitting by one of the few portholes and watching the waves speak to each other when everyone inside the ship had to maintain absolute radio silence or risk blowing their cover.

Walking away from her door feels like keeping that silence.

His feet feel as if they're made up of the same compacted metal as anchors as they drag along the sidewalk. Ever since he was a boy, he's had the bad habit of dragging his feet whenever his mood shifts to a feeling he's decided to call gray. Any feeling of sadness makes him feel gray and the word is a much better match than whatever word the English language decides to call feelings of melancholy or dejectedness.

People clog the streets and shuffle by with variations of conversations and attire. Harry's not watching where he's going. Several people scowl as he bumps their arms or blocks their path and force them to walk around. He doesn't have it in him to care like he normally would.

Harry,

There are so many things I want to say to you—so many things that I've said in letters but they never feel quite the same without saying them to you aloud. I miss having you here more than I've ever missed anything in my life...which is why it's so hard to write this.

I don't know if I can do this anymore.

Every night, I look out my window and wonder where you are and if you're okay. I can't listen to the broadcasts anymore because every time I do, I'm afraid I'll hear about you and I won't know it until they come to your mother's door with a flag and whatever they had of your belongings. The distance is monumental, even when I trace my fingers over a map to match the location from your last letter I still feel that ache knowing I might not ever see you again.

I miss your laugh and your smile and your fascination with books. I miss your voice and the callouses on your hands from working in the lumber mill over the summer to help pay the bills. None of this is easy and I know these letters are supposed to help, but they aren't. Every time I write I feel further and further away from you and I hate it. I hate it, Harry.

You're going through hell and I can't help and knowing that you're going through hell is putting me there. Please tell me what to do, because I don't know how much longer I can go on without you here. Give me a reason to stay strong and suffer with you because I need a lot more than letters to feel like I'm not losing you.

I love you, please forgive me,

El

Harry's relationship with Peggy is far different from his relationship with Elanor, but it still manages to spark the same memory of when Elanor nearly left him while he was fighting for the country. He read the letter so many times that he accidentally memorized it.

Every time he's upset it makes an appearance. It doesn't matter what he's sad about, it always comes at one point or another. The letter is a part of the ghost that he can't get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Peggy's helped, but her distance has created a shift in his mind and the memories are breaking free again.

An uneven break in the pavement catches the toe of his shoe and he nearly falls on his face. Someone catches his arm, "Careful."

The stranger is gone before he can thank him. Faces move by in waves, but there's someone near the edge of the street that catches his eyes. Peggy's brother. He's seen him coming out of her apartment enough times to know for certain that it's him and he's never been happier to see someone.

Harry's legs carry him faster through the lunch crowd until he's close enough to get his attention. "Allen!"

Confusion washes over his features, "Do I know you?"

"Yes—well, no. I'm Peggy's neighbor, Harry."

Something flashes in his expression and from the looks of it, Harry already knows what's coming next. "So, you're the neighbor that stood her up on Christmas?"

Emerald eyes lower in shame, "Yeah...I've been trying to apologize all week, but she won't even give me the chance. Is there any chance she'll forgive me?"

Allen sighs, his eyes roaming the streets and looking anywhere but at Harry. "Peggy's been screwed over by a lot of people in her life. She's nice and people take advantage of her, that's how it always has been. She's learned that people tend to repeat their actions after their second chance, and she's tired of giving her heart away. A third chance is really pushing your luck."

* * *

Lola calls at seven and Harry's at the bar by seven fifteen. Derek kicks him out at twelve when he's yelling at some guys playing pool because the sounds the balls make when they hit each other remind him of gunshots.

The streets are empty and this time no one is there to catch him as he stumbles into streetlamps and trash bins. Everything is a jumbled blur in his drunken haze and he can't read the numbers that differentiate the buildings.

Craig lives on Grove Lane and he's managed to find the street from memory, but all of the buildings look the same. A dog is loose and excited to see another living thing on the street. Harry tries to bend down and pet him, but he falls and smacks his head against the pavement.

He makes two failed attempts before his feet decide they're strong enough to hold him up, even if one of them feels like it's been run over by a truck. There are too many numbers and he's decided to start calling Craig's name in hopes that he'll come out.

Someone throws a plate out a window and it breaks as soon as it smacks into his head. The dog is nowhere to be found. His head hurts and more people are yelling. Craig hasn't come out yet and Harry can't stop crying.

He's alone and his leg hurts and his head is bleeding and he's alone. Lola's half the world away and Peggy couldn't care less. Gemma and his mother don't know what's going on because the last time he spoke with them he told them not to call him anymore—even though all he wanted was for them to call him and tell him about their day

People are still shouting when someone grabs him by under the arms and hauls him up. Black dots dance in his vision and words jumble as they float to his ear.

"Craig?"

Someone answers, but he's not paying attention. Everything's moving too fast and his stomach is rushing up through his throat. Amelia, Craig's wife, is wiping his forehead with a washcloth and telling him to stay awake.

"What happened? You look like you've been hit by a truck and you smell like vodka."

Harry runs a shaky hand through his hair and winces at the pain, "Wish a truck hit me."

Craig sighs and leads him to a bed where Amelia props his head up with a few pillows and uses the rest to elevate his ankle. "I thought you quit this months ago?"

Ice is pressed to his leg and another washcloth against his forehead, "Was...I—I messed up and now...she won't talk to me."

"Who? Lola?"

His head moves too quickly in protest and the urge to vomit resurfaces instantly. One of the kids wakes up and Amelia quickly rushes her out and back to bed with a gentle voice telling her everything's alright.

"No, Peggy. She's my...my neighbor and I...I ruined it...Craig I ruined it."

Everything from day one starts tumbling from his mouth in a jumble of slurred words and run-on sentences that don't make a lot of sense. He's pissed beyond coherency, but Craig makes an effort to listen closely to his words and attempt to decipher their meanings.

Harry rambles for hours—spilling his recent life story and feelings that he didn't realize were there. Craig does his best to listen until the fatigue and the alcohol settle and make a claim on his brain, lulling him to a feverish sleep.

While he's asleep, Craig and Amelia take advantage of his state and take another look at his ankle and the fever he's become attached to.

By the time morning arrives, they've managed to manhandle Harry in his unconsciousness and get him to the hospital.

Waves pummel the side of the ship like earthquakes. Men groan weakly as they're thrown around like untied cargo, arms and legs flailing around in a feeble attempt to maintain some balance.

Harry doesn't bother to steady himself. Seasickness caught him early and it's still clinging to him like lint clings to clothing. There's not room for that here. Throwing up isn't worth the anger of thirty-two men already at their wits end.

Craig's looking at him with sympathy, and he wishes he wouldn't. Everyone is going through something and sea sickness doesn't even scratch the surface.

He's still thinking about the face of the first man he killed. Those wide, blue eyes haunt his every waking moment. It's war and people die. He knows this, but he never envisioned war of any kind having a role in any part of his life. The draft wasn't supposed to be reinstated and it happened anyway. Not enough people and not enough guns.

Training was nothing compared to the battlefield. Screams and deafening bursts of gunfire and explosions were endless. Smoke filled the air and dirt was inescapable. Death, was nearly inescapable. Every step on the battlefield is a gamble.

German soldiers are ruthless and the Japanese are fearless. The first man Harry killed was German. Their camp was ambushed in the early hours of the morning, just before the air started to warm and the dark began to fade.

Three bombs fell and dropped on several men who were fast asleep. Harry got lucky. The only reason he survived is because he needed to relieve himself just before the bombs dropped. Men swarmed the area like flies on a fresh carcass.

Screams matched the gunfire equally and the darkness prevented decisive activity. Panic consumed him and he bolted for the woods without a gun. Unfortunately, he ran toward the oncoming enemies.

A man with terrible aim shot at him. Pain exploded in his leg and he tumbled to the ground. The man that shot him laughed and took his time approaching. Without a gun, he was helpless.

Someone else made it to the tree line and crashed through the trees to their left. The German soldier turned and Harry had moments to make a decision.

He grit his teeth and swung his legs out, tripping the soldier. Unknown words spewed from the nameless man's mouth as Harry scrambled to reach the gun a few inches away. Everything that happened in those few seconds is a blur. All he remembers is excruciating pain, the cold metal of the gun in his hands, and the look on the man's face as he pulled the trigger.

Harry wakes to bright lights and the overwhelming smell of antiseptic. There's a lot of noise in the hall, but his room is relatively silent. Everything feels like it's hidden behind a heavy layer of cotton.

Craig is sitting in a chair to his left, a newspaper in his hands. He's been keeping a careful eye on Harry, and a gentle smile rises to his lips. "Look who's finally awake."

There's a pounding sensation in his head and he knows that he's hungover. Although most of last night's events are lost, he does remember leaving Peggy a note and then heading to the bar after talking to her brother.

He tries to sit up, but something pulls on his leg and an overwhelming sense of nausea greets him in response. "What...what happened last night?"

The crinkling sounds the newspaper makes while Craig folds it are a new form of torture. "You got plastered and showed up on my doorstep rambling about your neighbor. Before you got there, something happened and you broke your leg. Amelia and I got you into a bed and waited until you passed out to get you some better help."

Harry sits in silence and looks at his hands. Drinking has never really been one of his strong suits.

Outside the room, a nurse flips through his charts and explains what's already been done to the nurse taking her shift. An apology dies on his lips when his nurse walks into the room. She won't look at him.

"How is your leg feeling, Mr. Styles?"

Craig stares him down as he struggles with basic vocabulary. The way he's looking at her says it all.

"Worse than usual."

Peggy nods and writes something down near the bottom of the page. "And your head?"

"Also terrible. Not a concussion though, just a terrible hangover."

"We're going to have to keep you for another night to monitor your wounds and make sure your stitches start to heal without infection. I would advise you to be more careful the next time you're out drinking."

She turns on her heel and Harry nearly falls out of bed trying to reach her and make her stay. "Wait!"

Peggy stops, but doesn't make any sort of move to turn around and face him.

"I could care less that my leg is even more fucked up than before. That's my fault. And it's also my fault that you probably hate me right now. I get it, I do, but please just let me explain."

Craig opens the newspaper and pretends that he's not listening.

"Lola called and said she was close and I forgot all about our plan. I never meant to and I never meant to hurt you. Losing your friendship has made me miserable and I hate not being able to read from your small library and learn about all of this. I am so sorry, Peggy."

He can't see her face and somehow that bothers him even more than her silence.

"Yeah, well it should hurt. Maybe you should remember that there are other people in your life besides Lola."