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♡
Louis hits the ground, and his breath leaves him like a punch.
The whole world tilts and spins and suddenly Harry’s there, straddling Louis’ legs as they wrestle over the wet grass of the football field, the laughter and voices of the team melting away until there’s nothing left but the swimming sound of Harry’s breathing and the drumming noise of Louis’ own heartbeat.
It’s getting hard to breath now, the air thinning out, disappearing.
“Fucking hell, Curly, get off of me,” Louis groans, his voice muffled as Harry punches into his chest, again and again and again.
And shit, Louis’ not even sure how he ended up here, pinned to the ground at the end of footie practice—he thinks he might’ve said something about Harry’s mum, a stupid joke that he can’t even remember—but his whole body seems to have shrunken down to fit into this moment, into the feeling of Harry shifting over him, their bodies moving together, close, close, closer, too close.
“You’re such a prick,” Harry says, and his voice is quiet but at the same time it’s so bloody loud, there’s so much force behind it and Louis’ not used to that, he’s not used to the way that Harry’s voice sounds drawn out like it’s just about to break. Harry’s words come out muffled as they wrestle each other, and Louis feels him all over as he says, “You’re a prick, Louis, you’re a bloody asshole.”
And Louis has no fucking idea what he did this time.
Harry’s always pulling shit like this, getting mad and not telling Louis what the hell he’s even upset about. It’s always up to Louis to figure it out, and he puts up with it because Harry’s his best mate, even if he is two years younger.
And yeah, Harry’s small, but he’s big as hell on the inside.
“Get off,” Louis tries again, out of breath as he tries to wrestle Harry off of him—he can’t, though, he can’t because Harry’s got both of his hands pushing down on Louis’ shoulders, he’s pressing Louis’ back into the ground, and Louis thinks that fuck, that’s gonna leave a bloody stain on his uniform. “Shit, I can’t breathe, Haz, get off—”
“Oh no, what happened this time?” Someone laughs, and it might be Liam but Louis really can’t tell because the voice seems to come from miles away, just an echo of an echo, of a sound.
And he can’t hear anything with his heart pounding in his ears like that, with his whole heart beating on his tongue.
“Styles, save your goddamn anger for next week’s game!” Coach Cowell yells suddenly, the sound of his whistle breaking up the silence.
Harry stills suddenly and Louis’ already frozen, both of them panting hard, their breath coming out in puffs as they lay together over the wet soccer field. The lads all laugh and the air is heavy with a rain that hasn’t come yet—it blankets everything, it suffocates.
Behind Harry’s head, there’s a piece of a tree and a sky that’s all pale gray.
“What the fuck are you on, mate?” Louis breathes, almost laughing as Harry watches him. Louis keeps his head against the ground as he stares back at Harry, and the air is cold but warm at the same time.
For some reason he doesn’t think about moving just yet, and it might be because Harry hasn’t moved yet and it might not be, but Louis tries not to think about it. Either way, Harry’s sitting over Louis’ legs, staring down at him with green eyes that seem way too full of something, something that Louis can’t place, something that’s a blur of anger and something else.
Harry shakes his head, and Louis’ smile fades away slowly as Harry’s eyebrows pull together, face focused and drawn as his hands fall from Louis’ shoulders to Louis’ neck, his thumbs brushing over Louis’ pulse, a chokehold with no weight behind it, none at all.
“Fuck, Louis,” Harry says, but he’s not going anywhere.
And it’s a bit weird how they’re laid out, isn’t it—Harry sitting over Louis legs, Harry’s hands on Louis’ throat, Louis’ legs spread open like a bloody invitation. Louis’ not trying to be weird about his best mate or anything like that, but honestly, every time Louis’ snogged another boy, it’s started out something like this.
“Shit, Haz, I almost wanna kiss you right now,” Louis teases, and it’s a breathless sound, full of laughter. It’s not like they haven’t kissed before—they have, nothing serious or anything, usually just Louis playing around and pinning Harry down before kissing him all over, laughing and laughing until they both lose their breath. “You have the cutest little mouth.”
For some reason, Harry seems to be offended by the statement.
He blinks and the moment seems tense, stilted, and suddenly the whole world is shaking with a burst of thunder overhead.
This close, Louis can see every part of Harry—
His curls are damp with sweat, falling down loose in front of his face, and he’s breathing heavily still. He’s pissed off, but his hands on Louis’ throat are gentle, and Louis honestly feels like pushing himself up a bit and licking over Harry’s bottom lip, just for a laugh.
Almost like he knows this, Harry says, “Fuck you.”
And then he’s moving off of the ground so fast that Louis feels dizzy with it—the loss of contact, the loss of another body holding him down—and his head swims as he shuts his eyes, wanting everything to calm the fuck down, to just stand still.
The world behind his eyelids is all pitch black and like this, Louis can hear everything going on around him—Coach yelling somewhere in the distance, nothing but a blurry stream of words, and the way the wind moves through the trees and shakes the branches, the way footballs bounce off feet and goal posts even though practice ended ten bloody minutes ago. Like this, he can feel the thunder in the air, he can feel it even though it hasn’t come yet.
“Shit,” Louis sighs, rubbing his hands down his face.
He stays laying on the ground though, because to be quite honest, he doesn’t think he has the strength to move anywhere just yet. Harry is so dumb and childish and stupid and Louis literally has got no fucking idea what set him off this time, he really doesn’t.
He’s trying to replay the whole day back in his mind but he actually doesn’t even think he made a joke about Anne being a hot mum this time. Honestly, Harry’s been in a shitty mood ever since he first got to practice an hour ago, shoving Louis a bit too rough while they scrimmaged and kicking the balls right towards Louis’ head at the end of the match, not even trying to make a joke about it afterwards.
Whatever, Louis supposes he shouldn’t really care.
It’s not like he can do anything about Harry being an asshole.
“Sorry to interrupt your lounge session, mate, but Coach says you’ve got to put the balls back in the storage room,” someone says. “It’s your punishment for giving Harry shit, apparently.”
It’s Niall, Louis knows this without even opening his eyes.
“I was attacked, Niall,” Louis sighs, blinking his eyes open before groaning and squinting against the sunlight—the sky is gray and heavy with rain, but everything still seems too bright. “Help me up.”
Niall laughs, and he’s nothing but a dim silhouette as he hovers over Louis, standing out against the pale gray sky. He lowers his hand down and Louis grabs onto it, letting Niall pull him up onto his feet again, the clouds seeming way closer than they were before, everything shifting and whirling around him.
He realizes that the field is almost empty now, only a few boys still playing out by the far net, and Coach is gone, too. The only thing left is a sack of footballs and pylons that sits over by the benches.
Footballs which Louis now has to take into the school. Right.
“Never mind that, Niall, I want to know what the hell Harry’s problem is,” Louis says, wincing as he rubs at the back of his neck. Glancing towards the school, Louis can make out the blurry shape of Harry just reaching the doors, another sack tossed over his shoulder, and Louis’ happy that at least Harry’s getting punished too. The parking lot is pretty much empty at this time, half past noon on a Saturday, and Louis turns back towards Niall with a look of almost newfound shock. “Do you realize he just attacked me?”
“He’ll come around, Lou, he always does.” Niall says, shuffling around in his practice bag before pulling out his cellphone. He flips it open, and Louis shakes his head at the fact that Niall still has a phone from the beginning of the bloody century. He almost wants to laugh, but really, it’s more sad than anything. Niall wiggles his eyebrows. “Look what I got this morning.”
“Not a decent phone, apparently,” Louis notes, grinning as he rests his hands on his hips. The nape of his neck is damp with sweat and shit, he fucking hates this kind of weather, the kind right before a thunderstorm when the air is humid and sticky and it feels like someone’s breathing right in his face.
“Shut up,” Niall says, but he’s laughing as he holds up his phone in front of Louis’s face. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Louis’ eyebrows furrow as he glances at the picture on Niall’s screen—it’s something blurry that he can just barely make out, the vague shapes of two people hanging off each other at a party, their mouths connected, one tall and one much shorter.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Louis asks, confused.
“It’s you, Louis, oh my god. I can’t believe you don’t remember what you got up to on Friday,” Niall laughs, glancing at the picture again before turning it back towards Louis for the second time. And okay, yeah, Louis definitely sees it this time around—shit, he was so fucking hammered he can barely even remember the party at all, and he definitely can’t remember when he started to think that it was alright to associate himself with Nicholas fuck-face Grimshaw. All he remembers is the feeling of lips on his neck, of a hand on his hip, and later, the feeling of skin on skin on skin. “See, you’re the short one right there,” Niall says, and his voice is full of laughter. “Never knew you had the hots for Grimshaw.”
“That’s because I don’t, Niall,” Louis sighs, and really, he doesn’t. He’s star of the soccer team and Nick is just—well, Louis doesn’t even know what Nick is. Never mind the fact that Louis’ publicly hated him ever since Nick tried to pick up Harry that one time at Stan’s house party. The party on Friday, though, that was at Zayn’s place. Needless to say, it was a completely different crowd. Frowning, Louis shoves the phone back towards Niall. “How the hell did you get that anyways?”
Niall shrugs, grinning as he slips his cellphone back into his practice duffle. “Zayn took a picture at the party and then he sent it to pretty much everyone. The whole team has their own personal copy.”
Louis’ mouth drops. “Are you serious?”
“Afraid so, Lou,” Niall smiles, shrugging. “Liam reckons he’s going to make his into a poster. Hang it up around the school and all that.”
“Oh god, that’s just wrong,” Louis laughs, and to be quite honest, he doesn’t really care that much about it. Nick’s the photographer for the school paper, always hanging around the bleachers after their games, and Louis has to admit that he’s quite fit, even if he is the most pretentious fuck Louis’ ever met. Sighing, Louis runs his fingers through his hair as he squints against the sunlight, sunlight that’s all dim and disappearing. “I suppose I should go perform my for Coach then. Yeah, because I was the one going around and attacking the innocents.”
“Have fun mate. My cleats are starting to itch,” Niall says.
Louis laughs, because what the hell is Niall ever talking about. Really. “Go take a shower then, you filthy boy.”
Above them, thunder shakes the sky again, and Louis takes that as his cue.
♡
Louis stills in the doorway of the storage closet, his eyes wide.
He stills in the doorway because Harry’s still here, he’s still standing in front of the equipment shelf and emptying out the first mesh sack of footballs into the bin that stands against the wall.
There’s a small square window above the shelf, but it’s too high up to see out of, so everything out there looks all white, but pale sunlight is trickling in from outside, striking at the dust in the air, the whole room swimming in shadows and dim light. It smells like dust.
“You alright?” Louis asks after a while of silence.
He doesn’t move from the doorway, just glances around the room and sees that the place is cramped and small and it’s a serious mess, it honestly is—there are hula hoops stacked against the wall, along with plastic crates of jump ropes and tennis rackets and those dumb little scooter boards that Louis knows Harry loves. Torn up gym mats are stacked in the far corner, right underneath the window, and Louis thinks that if this were any other day, him and Harry would be laying on those mats with their legs tangled together, with their hands tangled together, laughing and talking as they listened to the storm pass outside.
But of course, Harry’s not speaking to Louis right now.
He’s already emptied out his sack of footballs into one of the bins, so he’s just standing there with his back to Louis, and like, that’s quite bloody confusing—especially considering the fact that Louis has no idea what he even did.
“Oh, what? So we’re not talking now?” Louis asks, rolling his eyes as he moves into the room, weighted down as he drags in the sack of footballs behind him. He accidentally hits the wedged piece of wood propping the door open, the door starting to close behind him, but he doesn't really care about that right now. Like, at all.
“Wait, don’t—” Harry starts, turning around with wide eyes as the door clicks shut.
“What?” Louis asks, and he’s pissed off now, his words coming out all sharp around the edges. He just keeps moving into the room, stopping a few feet in, and Harry’s making some low groaning noise in his throat like Louis’ the scum of the earth, and that pisses Louis off even more. “What the hell is your problem, mate?”
“My problem is that you just locked us in here!” Harry shouts, his voice echoing out as he stares at Louis with wide eyes. The light coming in from the small window softens the edges of his face, but the room is still dim, full of shadow. Louis blinks, and he completely missed whatever Harry just said.
“What?” Louis asks slowly, confused.
Harry sighs loudly and shakes his head, and then he’s making his way towards the door, shoving Louis roughly when he passes him.
“Always such a darling, you are,” Louis notes with a smile, turning around to watch as Harry rattles with the door handle.
“Shut up, Louis, you just locked us into the bloody storage closet,” Harry snaps, and he’s still going at it, banging his fist against the door. Shelves stand on either side of him, shelves packed with crates of dodge balls and rubber chickens. “Hello!” Harry shouts, slamming his hand down against the door, again and again and again. “Hello! We’re in here! Is anybody out there?”
“I don’t think anyone’s out there, mate.” Louis sighs, picking up the sack of footballs in front of him and tossing them against the wall with a groan. “You do realize it’s Saturday, don’t you?”
“Fuck off, Louis, this is all your fault,” Harry says, his words coming out strained as he kicks at the door again. “Hello! Is anybody out there?”
And Louis almost wants to laugh right now, doesn’t he?
He almost wants to laugh and yell Just nod if you can hear me because this sounds like the beginning of that one Pink Floyd tune that Harry likes, but to be honest, he can’t really bring himself to find any part of this amusing. It’s like, Harry’s his best mate and Louis has no idea what he did to piss him off this time, but he wants to know.
Instead, instead he just gets pissed off.
“Oh, is this my fault then?” Louis asks after a moment of silence, his face drawn as he talks to the back of Harry’s head. “It’s my fault that I was sent in here to put the bloody balls back because you attacked me and then failed to warn me of the fact that I could potentially lock us in if I let the door shut behind me by accident?” Harry doesn’t answer, and Louis rolls his eyes, almost laughing. “Oh, right, no. You were too busy ignoring me.”
Harry sighs, and Louis can practically feel Harry’s eyes rolling. He’s such a fucking brat. “Not talking to you isn’t the same as ignoring you, Louis.”
“And what the fuck is that, too?” Louis asks, his eyes wide. Bloody hell, he’s getting more and more annoyed by the second. Rain is pelting against the glass of the window, washing down the panes, and everything seems dim and bright at the same time. “Louis? You haven’t called me Louis since the second time we spoke.”
“I suppose you’re just not used to it,” Harry says.
“Yeah, because I’m used to having you up my bloody ass all of the time! Sorry if I’m having trouble adjusting to the change!” Louis shouts, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. They echo, going, going, and then coming back again and again and again. “Shit,” Louis sighs, because Harry’s just standing there and Louis knows what that means. When he speaks, his words are all soft around the edges, and for a moment he wishes he had the power to not care if he hurts Harry a little bit. “That’s not what I meant. I like having you up my ass, alright—oh shit, not like that, sorry—I mean I like having you around, and I like when you talk to me all the time,” he finishes, and then, more thoughtfully, “You know I actually quite consider myself to be quite a brilliant top, but—okay, yeah. Too much information.”
Once again, Harry doesn’t answer that.
He doesn’t answer anything at all, actually. He just stands there with his forehead resting against the door, his knees the only part of his legs that Louis can see between the tops of Harry’s socks and the ends of his shorts. The only sounds in the room are the hollow drumming of raindrops pelting against the window and the distant echo of thunder.
Louis sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Do you have a phone, at least?” He asks, because Harry has his duffle bag sitting beside the door and he must have a phone in there, or at least have some way that they can call someone. “Tell me you have a phone.”
“I have a phone,” Harry says, turning to face Louis.
“Do you really?” Louis asks, eyebrows raised.
“No, I don’t.” Harry answers, “I’m just very obedient.”
Louis stands there, waiting for him to say he’s joking and pull a fully charged phone out of his bag, but then it hits him that Harry’s actually being serious. “Oh my god,” Louis says, his eyes widening. His voice is slow like he’s realizing something. “You are such a bloody twat, you know that?”
Harry leans back against the door, and in the pale purple dimness of the storage closet, the bright white of his uniform stands out against everything else. He shrugs, “You told me to say I have a phone.”
Louis shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as he groans. “Haz, literally, that stopped being funny in the sixth grade.”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Harry frowns, but it ends up looking more like a pout and that makes Louis want to laugh again. Harry is honestly one of the least intimidating people in the world, he’s just so sixteen, with his curly hair and his soft edges, his eyes greener than a meadow in the spring. Louis just wants to cuddle him right now because Harry’s his best mate for the past two years and now they’re stuck in a storage closet in the middle of a thunderstorm and cuddling just seems like the only right thing to do. “Stop smiling,” Harry says, completely serious. “I’m mad at you right now.”
“Can you at least tell me why you’re mad?” Louis asks, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Because it’s bloody cold in here, you’re always good for cuddles, and I reckon I’ve only got a few years left before you force me to be the little spoon.”
Harry rolls his eyes, sighing as he crosses the room.
He passes right by Louis, heading straight towards the gym mats stacked up tall beneath the window. Louis watches the lines of Harry’s legs as Harry pushes himself up to the top, shuffling around until he’s sitting with his head resting against the window, and Louis realizes that it’s true—Harry might be shorter than him now, but judging by those bloody legs, the glory days won’t be lasting very long at all.
“Seriously, Curly, talk to me.” Louis says, looking up at him.
Harry sighs at that, wrapping his arms around his knees as he sits on the top mat, and his words muffle themselves into the skin of his kneecaps, his knees all bruised up and covered in grass stains. “I don’t think I can,” he mumbles.
“You don’t think you can?” Louis repeats, and alright, he’s lost. “What do you mean you don’t think you can?”
“I mean I don’t want to,” Harry says, forehead against his knee.
“You don’t want to,” Louis repeats, and his words blur up around the edges as he sighs, shaking his head. “Right.”
This time when the silence comes, it stays for a while.
Louis sits himself down right beside the door, the brick of the wall digging into his back, and he listens as the rain hits against the window and makes everything into a dream of light and storm and tiredness, tiredness because Harry won’t fucking talk to him.
He literally has no idea what to do about it because Harry’s always just been there, he’s always been Harry, glowing and smiling and fitting himself into places where he shouldn’t belong but somehow does anyways, and it’s like, it’s the worst feeling in the world for Louis because he wants to talk to someone about how his best mate won’t speak to him but Harry’s the one person in the world that Louis can go to when he’s freaking out about this kind of stuff.
“Did you go Zayn’s party Friday night?” Harry asks, his voice sudden and loud against the silence.
Confused, Louis blinks, his eyebrows drawing together. “Yeah, why? Is that what you’re upset about?”
Harry shrugs, his cheek still resting on his knees. “No.”
But yeah, clearly it’s what he’s bloody upset about. Louis stays quiet for a moment, watching the way that the raindrops on the window cast pale shadows around the room, dim light stealing slowly over the walls of the storage closet, illuminating the dust. He really doesn’t understand why Harry’s pissed off about him going to Zayn’s party, because it’s not like he hasn’t been to parties before, but then he remembers that Harry’s the type of person who always likes to be included in things, especially big things.
Like, all of the time.
“Wait, are you pissed because I didn’t invite you?” Louis asks, sitting up a little straighter against the wall. Harry won’t look at him, but Louis keeps talking anyways because he just wants him and Harry to be best mates again, especially if they’re going to be locked here until some sad soul comes across them. “I thought you had tutoring with Caroline.”
“I did,” Harry mutters.
“So?” Louis asks, and he’s getting annoyed again, he can’t even help it. “You’re pissed off at me because I didn’t invite you to a party that I knew you couldn’t even go to?”
Bloody hell, Harry doesn’t even like Zayn’s crowd much anyways. They’re all the artsy types, you know—Perrie, for example, is student head of the theatre department and she’s got pink hair for crying out loud. Zayn’s on the school paper with Nick and Eleanor, but somehow they manage to make even that seem, like, really pretentious, which Louis doesn’t understand at all. He reckons they all smoke pot on their breaks from writing because no matter what, one of them is always out back in the Smoker’s Pit with a little black journal and a whole lot of subtle intimidation.
“I’m not pissed about the party, Louis,” Harry says finally, and Louis suddenly remembers where he is, he suddenly remembers that he’s locked in a bloody storage closet as thunder echoes outside, rain washing down the window panes and softening the edges of everything. “Alright?” Harry says, sighing as he slips down from the stack of gym mats and leans back against them instead, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s not that.”
Louis sighs, pushing himself off of the floor before making his way over to Harry, slowly, stepping over scooter boards and hula hoops and half deflated dodge balls. Harry’s watching him, and for some reason the space between them feels heavy like they’re underwater.
Drowning, Louis thinks. This is sort of like drowning.
“Talk to me, Curly,” he says, almost desperate. “I don’t like this.”
“Louis,” Harry starts—
“Stop fucking calling me that,” Louis sighs, and he’s trying to sound angry but he just ends up sounding tired, frowning as he moves to stand in front of Harry. They’re only a few inches apart and Louis just wants to move in even closer, just wrap his arms around Harry until Harry feels okay again, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. His fists are clenched at his sides as he says, “Can you just—will you please just tell me what I did.”
Everything is silent for a moment, and Louis watches as Harry shakes his head, slowly, almost wish like he could give a different answer.
“Why not?” Louis asks, but he’s not mad anymore. He’s confused and he’s helpless and he’s lost and Harry’s mad at him and that’s the worst part about all of this, isn’t it. “Haz, please.”
In the small space of the storage closet, their voices echo.
“’M sorry for attacking you,” Harry mumbles, his eyes trained on the space right above Louis’ shoulder. He’s fiddling with his hands and Louis just wants to hold them, make them stay still. He doesn’t. “That wasn’t nice.”
Louis blinks, and he’s trying not to smile. “Dunno, I quite liked having you on top of me like that.”
“See!” Harry groans, rubbing both of his hands down his face. His words blur themselves in his hands, but to Louis they ring out loud and clear. “You can’t say stuff like that, Louis, it’s not—you just can’t, alright?”
Louis frowns, and then the whole world is cold again because Harry’s pushing past him, smelling like honey and grass stains and like, okay. That hurts. “Haz, wait,” Louis starts, turning to place a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but then everything is shifting and blurring as Harry shoves him back against the stack of mats—and it’s just like before, he thinks, the breath leaving him like a punch, Harry’s face right there, bright against everything else. Louis groans, “Ow, shit. What the fuck, Haz.”
“Don’t—” Harry starts, both of his hands resting on Louis’ shoulder, keeping him pressed against the mats. “You treat me like I’m a child and I’m sick of it.”
Louis blinks, and for a moment he wants to point out the fact that Harry’s sixteen, that he is a child, but at the same time, he gets it. He really does. “So is that what you’re pissed off about then?”
“No, I’m not—” Harry sighs, and his hands on Louis’ shoulders are warm, the heat of them burning through the fabric of Louis’ uniform. “That’s just part of it.” He pauses for a moment before saying, “Zayn sent me the picture, you know. Of you and Nick.”
“Oh my god,” Louis says, the word leaving his mouth slowly. “That’s what you’re upset about? Me shagging Nick? Wait, do you actually like him?”
“No, I don’t fucking like Nick, Louis, bloody hell,” Harry snaps, and then he’s trying to turn away again but Louis pulls him back and then everything is tilting and whirling as Harry fights back, a blur of fist and bone and fabric, both of them toppling towards the floor as Harry shouts, “get off me!”
Louis doesn’t, though, because Harry’s being a little shit.
They keep wrestling and Louis’ losing his breath because Harry seems to be nowhere and everywhere all at once—and the whole room fills with the sounds of their struggling, the sounds of their muffled groans as Louis finally pins Harry to the floor finally, straddling his legs to hold him down.
“Stop, Louis, you’re hurting me,” Harry wheezes.
“Yeah, well you’re hurting me,” Louis says, and he hates the way that his words come out sounding broken and beaten down around the edges, his shoulders rising and falling as he works to catch his breath. “Will you just. Talk to me.”
“Louis,” Harry starts, almost helpless, and he’s staring up from the ground with a tired sort of look on his face, pale shadows stealing slowly over him.
“I don’t like when you’re mad at me, alright?” Louis says, leaning down a little so that they’re faces are only inches apart, the space between them thick. Harry’s watching him with a soft sort of attention, his mouth partly open, and Louis almost wants to lick a stripe across his bottom lip. “I don’t like when you’re mad at me,” he says again, just in case Harry didn’t catch it the first time. “It fucks me up and I can’t get things done.”
Harry nods, but he doesn’t say anything. Typical.
“Haz,” Louis murmurs, almost smiling as he moves in even closer. Harry breathes softly as Louis sits over his legs, and everything is blanketed in a pale white heat that’s growing hotter, like static or stars, it’s everywhere. “Haz,” Louis says again, voice soft as he brushes his lips over Harry’s cheekbones, over Harry’s eyelids and the soft skin of his forehead. “Hazzie, talk to me.”
“Don’t call me that,” Harry mumbles, but he shuts his eyes and lets Louis kiss over them, soft little kisses full of love and fondness.
“Which one?” Louis grins.
And shit, it’s funny, because if Louis ever spoke to anyone else the way that he speaks to Harry, he’d probably lock himself in his bedroom and spend the next week questioning his sanity. But Harry’s different, is the thing—he’s soft and he’s cuddly and he’s like a little baby but at the same time he’s not, at the same time he’s so much more. Louis’ always confused between wrapping him up in blankets and kissing him on the mouth. Usually, he ends up doing both.
“Haz,” Louis says, kissing his cheek again. Harry sighs and Louis keeps kissing over his face, because it feels safe to joke like this, in a cramped storage closet as the lightning outside brightens the room in flashes. Between the kisses, Louis mumbles his words into the soft skin of Harry’s face. “Hazzie,” kiss, “Hazzie poo,” another kiss, “come on, baby, talk to me.”
Louis bites gently at Harry’s cheek and Harry giggles suddenly, out of nowhere—it’s sound that fills Louis up, it’s a sound that makes his heart swell like a helium balloon. “Oh my god, Lou, stop.”
Louis grins, lifting his face up a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, brushing stray curls away from Harry’s forehead and watching as Harry blinks slowly, the dim light making his eyes look paler than before. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry, and I won’t do again. Promise.”
Harry nods, but he doesn’t explain like Louis thought he might.
He doesn’t go on to explain why he’s upset or what exactly Louis actually did, but Louis thinks that it must be pretty serious because they’ve never been in a fight this bad, a fight that ended up with them locked in a storage closet, Louis straddling Harry’s legs.
“You’re my best mate,” Louis says. “That’s forever.”
And then he’s leaning down, brushing his nose against Harry before inching in slowly and kissing Harry on the mouth, soft and chaste and closed mouthed, exactly the same as the million times and one times that he’s kissed Harry like this before.
“Best mate,” Harry repeats, nodding dizzily.
He exhales sharply into Louis’ mouth, and fuck—fuck, Louis’ never been good at handling himself when Harry’s made sounds like that.
Louis starts to move away, but then Harry’s tilting his face upwards, like he’s asking for another kiss, and Louis stops, frowning down at him in confusion. “What?”
He always has to ask Harry that, because Harry’s like a little kitten or something, he’s so expectant. It’s sort of hard to understand.
“I don’t like Nick, Lou,” Harry says, tilting his chin up even more, and his lips are puffy and pink and so very kissable and bloody fucking hell, Louis’ got no idea how a sixteen year old boy could possibly be so good at seduction. “I beat you up because I was jealous and I don’t like Nick.”
“Oh, please mate, you wish you could beat me up,” Louis laughs, but the sound trails off as he starts to think about what Harry just said. Harry’s watching him with a hooded gaze, thunder echoing through the room, and the realization of what this means hits Louis all at once, like a hurricane or a freight train, something big that you can’t look away from. “Oh,” Louis says, his voice small. A moment later, he asks, “Are you screwing with me?”
“I’m not,” Harry says, grinning softly up at him.
“Alright,” Louis nods, inching in closer, even closer. Harry smiles as their mouths brush and then they’re kissing again, for real this time, and it’s unlike anything else in the world. Harry breathes softly, letting his mouth fall open a bit as Louis licks over his bottom lip, and then he moans into Louis’ mouth and that’s it, Louis’ done. He laughs against Harry’s lips as he brings both hands up to cradle each sides of Harry’s face, and it feels like the walls are melting away, it feels like it’s just them and the rain and the thunder. “I can’t believe you’re jealous of Nicholas Grimshaw.”
“Hey,” Harry frowns, all childish and sixteen. “I didn’t say that.”
“You’re jealous,” Louis sings, smiling as he bites gently at Harry’s nose. He moves his hips in circles over Harry’s, slowly, the fabric of their football shorts brushing together, and then he watches with starry eyes as Harry’s eyelids flutter, as Harry’s cheeks become all blush pink. Louis grins, licking Harry’s bottom lip again before saying, “Really though, Curly, you’ve got the cutest little mouth.”
“Stop calling me cute,” Harry says, but it ends up sounding more like a moan as Louis kisses him again, slipping his tongue into Harry’s mouth and trailing along the ridges of his teeth. “Oh, fuck.”
“Hey, baby, no swearing,” Louis laughs, but his words come out sounding breathless as Harry starts to rut up beneath him, their legs slotting together, a tangle of football cleats and long socks and shin pads. Harry moans, and Louis swallows the sound. “Lay back, alright?” Louis murmurs, still kissing Harry. Thunder booms out into the silence and Louis breaks away from Harry, watching as the lightning brightens the room—as it brightens Harry’s face—before everything slips back into shadows again.
Harry leans back so that his head is resting against the floor again, but he’s still watching Louis with a hazy sort of focus. Louis moves off of Harry’s hips and spreads Harry’s legs apart, and that’s when he notices that Harry’s hard as hell, arousal tenting up the front of his football shorts.
“Oh, shit, Haz.” Louis exhales sharply. “Fuck, that’s really hot.”
“Oh my god,” Harry groans, almost embarrassed as he turns his face sideways so that his cheek is pressed to the mat. “Shut up.”
Louis grins, and then he places his hands on Harry’s knees as he kneels between Harry’s open legs, and it’s a sudden thought, but for a moment he wonders what it would be like to just fuck Harry down into the gym mat, swallow all the noises he makes and then just keep going. “You mind if I take your shorts off?” Louis asks.
Harry swallows thickly, shaking his head, and he’s barely there but at the same time he’s so bloody present, so fucking watchful that Louis almost feels sort of nervous, and like—Louis never feels nervous when he’s about to suck someone off. Like, never ever.
“Brilliant,” Louis grins, back in the moment again as he pulls at the waistband of Harry’s shorts, tugging them all the way down Harry’s legs before tossing his shorts towards the door. He decides to leave Harry’s socks, cleats, and shoes on him because to be quite honest, he wants to be able to get Harry dressed again if someone starts rattling with the door handle. Not like he cares if anyone knows that he sucked Harry off in a storage closet, but relationships within the team are strictly forbidden or some other bullshit, and Louis really doesn’t want to screw up both of their chances at a scholarship—even though, yeah, he sort of does want to kiss Harry’s ankles.
“What are you doing?” Harry asks suddenly, staring up at Louis with wide eyes.
“Curly, you’re always so curious,” Louis laughs, but he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he leans down to kiss at the insides of Harry’s thighs, soft and slow, moving up from Harry’s grass stained knees to the paler skin of his thighs where he’s all soft and peach fuzzy, something that Louis could just bite into. Harry sighs, and Louis shakes his head. “Ah, this is no good.”
Harry’s eyebrows furrow, and Louis just smiles.
And then he’s tugging at the waistband of Harry’s underwear, pulling them down over his knees and then off of him completely. Louis is having trouble thinking straight because Harry’s practically naked now, dressed only in his jersey and his foot gear, and his cock is hard and laying against his stomach.
And fuck if it’s not the hottest thing that Louis’ ever seen.
Louis blinks, and then Harry’s whole body is jolting as Louis takes him in his hand, fist moving slowly, up and down, up and down, and the rain outside is pelting against the window, but the sound seems like nothing when Harry’s moaning into his own knuckles like that.
“Louis,” he whines, thrusting slowly up into Louis’ fist.
Nodding slowly, Louis keeps moving his hand over Harry’s cock as he leans down to ruck up the front of Harry’s jersey, pressing small kisses over the jut of his hipbone, over the dip of his bellybutton. “You’re so bloody cute,” Louis says, rising up and licking over Harry’s lips again, muffling all the sounds with his tongue. Harry’s more than cute, obviously, he’s hot as fuck, but Louis doesn’t want to tell him that yet. It’ll go to his head.
“I’m not cute,” Harry breathes, frowning. But his eyelids are fluttering with each flick of Louis’ wrist, and Louis thinks that Harry’s pretty much the least intimidating person in the world.
So Louis just grins at that, and then he’s shuffling back down on the mat and kissing Harry’s thighs again, kissing Harry’s hips and lower stomach before licking a line up Harry’s cock, and Harry’s whole body jolts up off of the mat as he moans, “Holy fuck.”
“Hey, watch your mouth,” Louis laughs, his breath puffing out warm against the head of Harry’s cock. Harry whimpers and Louis goes into suck again, breathing in slowly through his nose.
Harry muffles his noises into his fist, and Louis’ seriously hard.
Louis makes sure to get a lot of spit going—in his opinion, there’s nothing in the world worse than a dry fucking blowjob—and his cheeks are hollowed out around Harry’s cock as he sucks, head bobbing up and down, his hand working around the base of it.
“Oh my god,” Harry moans, dizzy and breathless.
Louis keeps sucking. He sucks and licks and kisses until he feels Harry’s legs start to shake, and at this point Louis’ so turned on that it’s almost pathetic, the front of his shorts tented up as he moves away from Harry’s cock, kissing his hips again, kissing the insides of his thighs. Harry’s breathing heavily and he’s twisting around on the gym mat like he wants to come, but Louis doesn’t want that yet.
“How was that?” Louis asks, because he has to know, alright, he’s just totally that type of person. Harry nods, tilting his face up as Louis hovers over him, and Louis doesn’t have to be asked twice. He kisses Harry slowly, both of them making sounds that the other one swallows, and he laughs into Harry’s mouth when he feels Harry start to rut up against him, getting friction, his hard cock brushing against the fabric of Louis’ football shorts. “Hold still, you pervy little shit, I’ll get you off.”
“Just fuck me or something,” Harry breathes, almost laughing as he kisses Louis messily, sort of desperate, a blur of teeth and tongue and desire. Louis’ whole body is buzzing, every nerve ending filled with electric light, and Harry’s saying, “Come on, Lou. Just do it.”
Honestly, Louis wants to laugh and cry at the same time.
“You know I can’t,” Louis says, and he’s so bloody hard, and Harry’s getting difficult to handle.
Harry pouts, and holy shit, his mouth. “Come on, Lou, please.”
“We can’t, Haz, I don’t have anything—” Louis starts.
“I think I do,” Harry says, nodding over towards his duffle bag that still sits by the door. “Check the front pocket.”
Louis blinks, but he’s too turned on to question it, so he gets up and practically runs over to Harry’s practice bag and unzips the front pocket before rummaging through it. Sure enough, there it is, a little bottle of lube right between Harry’s extra socks and shorts.
“Are you bloody serious?” Louis asks, turning back towards Harry with his eyebrows raised. He’s trying to frown but he can’t even stop himself from smiling, because Harry’s such an idiot. “You’ve got lube and condoms in here but you haven’t got a cellphone for emergencies?”
“I’ve got to put them somewhere my mum won’t check. And this is an emergency, Lou,” Harry laughs, and Louis can’t really argue with that. Harry grins softly, turning so that he’s kneeling on all fours, his elbows on the gym mat, the side of his head resting down against his fists. He smiles up at Louis and says, “Come on.”
“Shit,” Louis says, and his skin feels prickly and hot and too close but in a good way, if that makes sense, like any little touch would be too much. “You’ll be the death of me, Styles.”
Harry laughs, and then he quiets down as Louis settles down behind him, squeezing some lube into his hand before pausing, thoughtful. “Haz, have you done this before?”
Outside, thunder echoes through the trees, lightning flashing through the sky again. There’s something so nice about storms.
“Yes, I’ve done this before, Louis, oh my god,” Harry groans.
“Have you really?” Louis asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “With who? You’re only sixteen, Haz, that’s practically illegal.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem with that,” Harry teases, and he’s got his bum up in the air in a way that makes his shirt fall up towards his shoulders. “And it was only a few months ago. I got drunk with Aiden at a party, do you know him?”
“Aiden?” Louis repeats, disbelieving. He’s trying not to feel jealous but it’s hard—all of a sudden he’s imagining Harry and Aiden at some party in the dark, lights flashing over their faces as Aiden kissed over Harry’s neck, and like, that Louis’ neck to kiss, you know? Screw Aiden. “You mean that odd lad from the swim team? I thought he was a straight.”
“So did I until he shagged me,” Harry shrugs, and then he looks over his shoulder, grinning slowly. “Why, Lou? You jealous?”
“Of course not.”
“Be honest.”
Louis sighs, “A little bit.”
Harry laughs, and then he’s shaking his head as he turns away again, pushing his bum against Louis’ crotch and circling slowly, saying, “Go on then, I won’t need much.”
Louis nods, and he doesn’t mind the change of topic because he’s really bloody turned on and he can see that Harry’s still hard and leaking against his belly, and he feels bad that he’s not gotten Harry off yet. Later on, though, Louis’ gonna have to ask about it. Just to see if Aiden knew what he was doing and all that.
Squeezing lube onto his fingers, Louis pushes into Harry slowly, just one finger, and Harry’s head drops down to the floor as he tenses up, his shoulders drawn tight.
“You’re alright, baby,” Louis says, and he goes slowly as he moves his finger in and out, keeps going until he feels Harry push back into his hand, as he feels Harry start to move and make little noises in his throat that almost get lost to the storm outside. “You’re good?”
Harry nods, and then Louis keeps one finger inside of him as he uses his other hand to work at the waist band of his own shorts, tugging them down until he’s got his hand fisted around his cock, until he’s harder than he ever remembers being in his life.
“Shit,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering as he lines himself up behind Harry and pushes inside, everything feeling hot and tight and good, so good, the whole room filling up with warmth. “Oh, fuck.”
Harry moans, soft and slow, and Louis nods as the slow prickling feeling fills him up inside and out, as it makes gaps in his vision, the only word left in his memory sounding a lot like Harry’s name.
Louis almost feels the rain on his skin, he thinks—
He feels everything, really—he feels the gym mat beneath his knees, the way Harry’s pushing back against his cock, making him go even deeper, the way his jersey is too hot against his skin, the way the heat is suffocating.
Louis keeps his hands on Harry’s hips as he moves in and out, as he moves deeper and deeper and deeper.
“Oh fuck, Lou,” Harry whimpers, and the feeling is all fire.
He keeps thrusting, he keeps going and it’s almost like he’s working to keep up with all of Harry’s movements—Harry, who’s pushing back on Louis’ cock like he can’t get enough of it, and it’s hot as hell and it’s also amusing and curious because where the fuck did Harry learn how to do that? Honestly, Louis’ not even sure he wants to know.
Leaning forward, Louis reaches around to take Harry’s cock in his hand, and he grins when Harry moans loud.
“Am I better than Aiden yet?” Louis asks, stroking quickly.
Harry shakes his head, grinning over his shoulder as he says, “You’re terrible,” but Louis knows he’s lying and it’s the best feeling in the world.
Louis kisses Harry’s shoulder and then he moves up so that he’s nuzzling at the side of Harry’s face, mouthing at his ear until Harry turns to face him, until their mouths meet and the whole bloody world melts away until it’s just them yet.
Lightning rips through the sky, and Louis can feel it inside of him—
The light, the brightness, everything seeming hot and electric as he moves inside of Harry, as Harry moans into his mouth, their bodies covered in sweat and dirt and grass stains.
“I’m close, Lou,” Harry breathes, and Louis nods against Harry’s temple and keeps his hand moving around Harry’s cock, keeps going until Harry’s whole body is tensing up and he’s shuddering, coming as Louis kisses over the little dip of his spine. Harry’s so cute, is the thing, and he just happens to be really bloody hot at the same time. “Fuck,” Harry groans, his body still jolting as Louis jerks him off, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap,” Louis threatens.
But he’s teasing, and a moment later his is mouth falling open around a moan as he comes, the air around him shifting, becoming heavier. His breath comes out in little pants and when he moves away from Harry, he feels cold until Harry’s there again, right there, pulling Louis towards the floor and tangling their legs together.
“I knew you’d be the type to cuddle,” Louis laughs, voice strained as Harry rolls them over and lays down over Louis, laughing as he nuzzles his face into Louis’ shoulder. “You’re just so cuddly.”
“Only with you,” Harry grins, his breath puffing out warm against Louis’ cheek. Louis’ still half hard and he feels hot in all the places where Harry is touching him, but he’s tired and Harry’s so soft and warm and Louis doesn’t mind just laying here for a bit.
“Do you think they’ll ever find us?” Louis asks dramatically.
“No,” Harry says, and it’s like they’re pretending to be in the closing scene of a dramatic theatre piece. “I think we’ll die here, Lou.”
Louis laughs and Harry smiles and then Louis’ kissing him again, licking into his mouth and tugging at his curls because it’s like he can’t even help it, he just wants to be closer and closer and closer.
Thunder shakes the walls, lightning brightening the whole room, and with his lips pressed softly against Harry’s temple, Louis thinks again that he can feel almost it inside of him—
The light, the brightness, the whole world electric.
♡
Niall finds them eventually, but ah, well. Fuck it.