Harraël was the last of the five Bones members to be picked up by the transport management had sent for them. Once the car arrived, he couldn't even pretend to be excited for this trip because he simply wasn't. The past two years had been a drag without some quality studio time with his best friends; jamming, writing, recording, generally giving the fans something to be excited about. Though now that the time was here, he had reluctantly packed a suitcase.

His luggage was being carried into the trunk by the driver, and he joined the rest of the guys in the backseat of the SUV. He hadn't even bothered properly greeting his band mates. The minute he got in, he turned his face to the sky high structures beyond the window. The others blamed his sour mood on the fact he wasn't a morning person, while Finn knew something else was going on. He was there, after all, when he'd delivered the news to him yesterday. He'd seen the outraged, broken reaction. It had showed him a whole other perspective, one he now respected.

The tall buildings lining the road blurred, becoming a blank canvas for Harry's straying thoughts. His gut churned as it dawned upon him he wouldn't see Moira nor Oliver for the next couple of months. He'd miss seeing her face when she laughed at thing he didn't find funny in the slightest, or cried during RomComs with ridiculously bad actors. He'd miss the moments she was acting affectionate with him or seeing her interact with her son. But most important of all: he'd miss her.

Tears burned his eyes as he pictured her reading the letter he'd left on her pillow after she'd fallen asleep last night. Knowing Moira, she'd be pissed off with hurt. He was aware that leaving for a while, was equal to completely abandoning her in her book. Oversensitive? Yes. But did she have reason to be oversensitive? Again, yes. Blinking a few times, he forced the tears away; refusing to let them escape. He wasn't one to cry. And it would only make matters worse, he had to get over himself. Within three months, he'd be back home and all would be well. There was no point in worrying if there was nothing he could do about it. With that in mind, he got ready for the 7-hour and 21-minute flight to Stockholm.

*******************

Sleeping was no option the first night. He paced back and forth in his room with his phone in hand, scolding himself for being so stupid. How on earth had he ever thought it to be a good idea to leave a letter instead of give her a physical goodbye? He sat on his bed, waiting for either Cade, Finn, Heath or Isaac to storm in and tell him to go the fuck to sleep. Their rooms were right next to his, and there was no doubt they could hear him moving around.

To make things easier, they would alternate between sleeping-buddies with every hotel. On this trip, the rest slept in pairs while he was the chosen one to have his own room. And since they would stay in the same hotel for three months, he was lucky.

In vain, he tried calling Moira. But it was no use. All he heard was her voicemail. An hour and eight useless attempts passed before he concluded she really didn't want to talk to him.

The following morning, he was lying on his bed on top of the comforter, staring at the clock. He'd just woken up and it was 07:00 in the morning, meaning he'd only gotten three or four hours of sleep.

This was how things went for the next month: wake up early, eat breakfast, pretend to be a happy camper, write, lunch break, jam session, record, eat dinner, worry/try to sleep for the rest of the night.

Saying it was a depressing routine would be an understatement. He no longer went out with his mates, his social network antics went downhill, interacting with the fans was hard when all he could see in his female admires were little bits that reminded him of Moira. His lyrics were gloomy, his music sad. And worst of all, he had to force himself to get out of bed and not stay locked up in his room all day.

Every night at 9pm, New York City time. He would try calling Moira, to no avail. Not once had she answered his call. It saddened him beyond words, he missed hearing her voice.

At one point, Finn had enough of his love-sick behaviour and told him to stop whining about and get work done. If tables were turned, Harraël would've done the same. But since they weren't, Finn only managed to set him off like fireworks.

"Don't interfere in my business." Harraël snapped, clenching his hands into fists. "Pay mind to your own."

"I don't fúcking think so! You're getting paid to write music, go do your job, quit pitying yourself and wake up! She's in New York and you're here, I know everything's unfair, you miss her and you feel like shít. But acting like a fúcking dark cloud won't help you in any way, now will it? Might help ya write some lyrics but that's it, mate."

It was straight to the point and somewhat brutal, but honest nonetheless. Perhaps that was the best, and only way to really get the truth through his head. He wasn't a teenager whose life depended on his high school sweetheart. He was a man. And he had to start acting like a responsible one. And not take his job, bandmates or fans for granted. He'd worked hard to be where he was today, so he had to start appreciating it some more and leave his private life and band life separated.

From then on, Harraël vowed to put more effort into enjoying his time here, while it lasted. He'd let the guys cheer him up, maybe go out for drinks every other night. This new tactic ran smoothly and actually worked for a month, until the 14th of April, the 65th day in Sweden.

Harraël got interrupted from a writing session by the familiar sound of someone calling his phone. Checking the display, he was surprised to see his sister's name. Throughout the years, it wasn't uncommon to not talk to either his mum or sister while he was away recording with the guys. They didn't like it but understood, in return, Harry bought them the most exotic of foreign souvenirs. So it worked both ways.

"Hey Liz!"

"Harraël." She said in reply, and he perked up from the tinge of panic he heard in her voice. He recognised it all too well: she'd used the same tone when discovering she was pregnant with Bella.

"What's wrong?"

He heard her hesitate before answering, "Did you notice anything... odd about Oliver when you first saw him?"

His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, "No, why?" then it hit him "Is he okay? Did something happen? Moira? Are they both okay? Please, god, please don't tell me something happened." He cried out, pacing the floor and running his fingers through his hair.

"Calm down, Haz. Ollie's fine."

"And Moira?"

"She's hurt, but not physically."

He sighed, momentarily closing his eyes. "How hurt?"

"I can hardly mention your name without making her want to burst out in tears."

Guilt and shame washed over him, mixing with another feeling. Satisfaction because she cared enough to cry over him? He wasn't sure. Swallowing the sudden, painful lump in his throat, he whispered "Fúck."

Cade and Isaac -who he had previously been writing with- shot him questioning looks. He waved them off, trying to focus on interrogating his sister.

"Have you been talking to her?"

"Nearly every night. The day you left I was supposed to come see you, remember? So I went by-"

"Shít I forgot!"

"I figured." She grumbled, a little annoyed. "So I went by Moira's place instead, to ask where you were. We got talking, and now she usually calls me for advice concerning Ollie. Or I call her to vent, she's a good listener."

"Yeah, I know." Harry said quietly, barely audible.

There was a pause in their conversation, both siblings lost in their thoughts. Lizzy was trying to come up with a subtle way to voice her suspicions to her brother, while Harry was torturing himself by imagining a very sad Moira, at home with no one to cheer her up beside her mum and Ollie. That brought him back to subject number one, the reason Lizzy had presumably contacted him.

"Look, I don't want to sound rude, sis. But why did you call me? What's so weird about Ollie?"

When she didn't instantly answer, he frowned. "Lizzy?"

"It's just that.." She was having trouble finding the right words. "He is an exact replica of you when you were his age, makes me wonder who his daddy is?"