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⁓ Snitches and talkers get stitches and walkers. ⁓

"Fuck, you're tight," Louis groans.

"Oh, really? I thought this would be easy considering I've never done this before," Harry breathily shoots back. "Fucking moron."

"Are you going to shut up and let me fuck you?" Louis snaps. The floor is cold, but Harry's body is radiating heat from everywhere, and it's making Louis even more frustrated.

"Please, do go on." Harry rolls his eyes, but his scowl forms into a wince and the annoyed quirk of in his mouth disappears as it shapes into a small 'o' when Louis hardens his grip on his hips, and pushes into his body. "Shit," he winces, and his hand goes to clutch at Louis' bicep, and Louis has to go down to rest on his elbow at his side.

"Don't tell me it hurts, love," Louis says. "You're the one who insisted not to be on your knees."

"Oh, excuse me if I – uhh." Harry's nails sink into Louis' skin as he bottoms out.

"Son of a bitch," Louis swears, immediately slapping his hand off.

"You're one to talk," Harry hisses, his lower leg wrapping over Louis' calf. "Anyway – " He gasps as Louis pulls out and then slowly thrusts into him again. Harry's so unbearably tight, and the heat all around him almost makes Louis dizzy. He leans on his elbow and breathes heavily, fingers clutching around Harry's hip.

"You could've at least warned me, you asshole,” Harry exhales.

"Sorry," Louis grits out, concentrating on slowly work in and out. "Now, what were you saying?" he asks, as snarky as he can manage.

"Yes, um." He bites down on his lip hard, and Louis can't help but feel quite satisfied. He's rented his mortal enemy speechless. "I was saying that excuse me if I’d like to see the face of the person who’s the first to fuck me."

"Yeah," Louis breathes, rolling his eyes as much as he can while, you know, fucking somebody. "Because you're so bloody in love with me."

Harry actually laughs, and it causes a ripple in their bodies, a trickle of something (not sparks) to shoot up Louis' spine. He gasps against Harry's neck.

"Stop laughing," he orders him.

"Why? It was the funniest joke I've ever heard."

"Are you going to shut the fuck up while I fuck you?" Louis complains, thrusting into him harshly. He does it roughly on purpose, and Harry's body slides up a few inches on the floor. He gasps, hissing against Louis' neck.

"Thanks." Sarcasm.


He thrusts into him, and he can feel Harry's body going less stiff and more responsive and willing as the time passes by.

"Is it good yet?" Louis asks, voice softer, because he's not a total monster.

"Mm-hmm," is all he says, but he’s locking his legs behind Louis’ thighs, so Louis supposes that’s answer enough.

He doesn't say anything else, and Louis picks up his pace in satisfaction. His fingers clutch at Harry's thigh, his other arm feeling a bit numb, as he's been leaning on it. Harry clenches around him, making Louis gasp and lose his grip, and his chest knocks into Harry's. He moans into his neck, feeling his sweaty skin against his cheek.

Harry's chuckle is not nice. "You know," he gets out between breaths. "If you come first, then I'm the one who fucked you."

Louis almost growls. Would he just be silent for once? He grips Harry's hips harshly and with his chest against Harry’s, he fucks him hard. It's deep, harsh and the only things coming out of Harry's mouth now are moans, hisses and heavy exhales. It's relentless, warm and sweaty. Harry's body gets more and more responsive underneath Louis’, squirming at every thrust, and when Louis changes his aim, his whole body jerks.

"Found it?" Louis smirks.

"Found it," Harry groans.

Louis chuckles and then they're back into it. Louis keeps aiming for it, not always getting it, but judging by Harry's creased forehead and open mouth he assumes he does more often than not. Harry's brows are furrowed like he's concentrating, and Louis can feel the pool of heat build in his gut.

He groans, cheek accidentally clashing into Harry's. The boy under him doesn't say anything though, and Louis realizes it's because he's biting his lip so hard it's white. "Harry, come on." He can't come first. It'd be too degrading. "Harry," he urges. "Come."

He doesn't, and Louis feels like slapping him a bit, but then again, when has Harry ever listened to a word Louis has said?

Louis takes matters into his own hands – literally – and he slips his hand down Harry's chest to his stomach. He can feel his muscles ripple and ribcage expand quickly under his hand. He finally reaches his cock, and with two sharp tugs, he's got Harry coming all over himself on the dirty floor of the locker room. Harry clenches around him so abruptly, that Louis can't keep quiet as he comes, too, inside of the other boy.

After that it's silent, only their rapid breaths echoing loudly in the room. Louis' on top of Harry, face buried in his neck, heaving out breaths against the crook of his shoulder. They lay there for a minute. It takes almost sixty seconds for their heart rates to slow, and come down from their orgasms.

Then Harry pushes Louis off. "Stop breathing on my neck. Ugh."

Louis rolls his eyes, sitting up and chucking the condom at the bin. It goes in, naturally.

Harry's already wiping himself off, and Louis hits him not too lightly in the arm. "My jersey. Really?"

Harry scoffs, throwing it at him and gets up from the floor. He stands there, looking obnoxious and full of unjustified pride.

Louis glares. "You were gonna shower anyway. Arse."

"I thought you liked my arse," Harry smirks. Louis balls up his dirty football jersey and throws it after him. He misses; Harry's already turned around and headed for the showers. The only thing satisfying about it is Harry's waddle.

"Fucking dick," Louis mutters.


Louis doesn't even know how it happened. They were arguing on the football pitch, Coach yelling at them to stay after practice and talk it out, tired of their constant fighting. They did, and as expected it led nowhere.

They've always hated each other, is the thing. The first clash they had was when both of them wanted the same number on their jersey. Even though Louis had claim, Harry got it for some unbelievable reason. Louis had to watch his number, 17, get printed underneath a filthy "Styles" and he had to live by with the mortal and mere number 28.

Then there's the matter that Louis is the prime midfielder. He's the playmaker, ball distributer, and honestly the puppet master of the pitch. He runs the whole game, both defending and scoring, and without him his team would be nothing. He's practically the next Xavi Hernandez. It doesn't help, though, that Harry Styles is a striker – the best striker on the team, and Coach wants Louis to rather pass him the ball than score himself, and if Louis gets yelled at when he rather dribbles through the defenders himself than to do so, then that's something he’s willing to take because no way in hell is Harry going to take the crown from Louis and win the scoring league.

It didn't get better when the seniors graduated, including the team captain, and Coach named Harry and Louis co-captains for their senior year. Louis was in rage. Dammit, he’d worked his arse off to be captain. All those nights at the pitch after school, all the hard training and morning runs – his coach should see that he’s giving his all into this, considering if it doesn't involve a ball Louis despises working out.

It's early September now, and not even a month has passed since school started and Louis’ been co-captain with Harry. It's unbearable is what it is. Harry's got the worst fucking ideas (starting up yoga with the team on Saturday mornings, really?) and the fact that he's the most pretentious jerk to roam this planet does not help. Stupid long legs, disproportionately broad shoulders, and how does one manage to have a six-pack while sporting love handles? Christ’s sake! It's the granola, Louis swears on it.

Today, it was one of the usual fights.

"Why can't you get your head out of your fucking arse and pass me the ball for once, huh?" Harry growled, pushing through some of the teammates standing in the way.

"Oh, so you can miss the entire goal again? Like you did the last game?" Louis spat. It had been the last match of the previous season and they were down by one, in the final three minutes, and the bastard fucking missed the shot.

"Fuck you, Tomlinson. I was fucking tackled and you know it!"

"Stop blaming anything but yourself. You're just a pussy, aren't you?"

After that it escalated quite quickly. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty glad Liam was there to rip Harry off his body before he punched him in the jaw. It's not fair to hit someone who's smaller and has a much prettier face, really.

Coach tried to speak with them, he really did, but after three years of hatred, verbal and physical combat, it's not that easy to just bury the hatchet. So when the boys were allowed to go back to take their showers, the rest of the team were already done and gone. Louis was fuming, throwing off his jersey on the floor in pure frustration. Harry wasn't better. The insults were showering down over both of them, and then Harry was gripping Louis' hips and they were getting off against each other on the floor. It was Harry's idea that Louis should fuck him. Louis' not really one to deny a free fuck, so.

Right now though, he's not sure why he would ever even consider doing something like that with Harry, the pretentious hipster moron that he is. Louis' not even gay to be honest. The only positivity he can think of right now is that they didn't kiss, so he didn't get any hipster bugs in his mouth at least.

Louis slams his locker shut, and then jumps back in horror when there's a face hiding behind it. He sighs when his heart rate has slowed down – it's Niall. Of course it is.

"What do you want?"

The blond arches a brow. "Really? Is that how you greet your best friend?"

Louis rolls his eyes, and starts strolling down the hallway. He hears Niall's footsteps behind him, his never ceasing rambling just floating past his ears. Honestly, the kid has a lot to say for someone with such a small set of opinions. Niall’s smart, casual and likable; he's easygoing is the thing. And he won't ever stop talking.

"So, how did it go with the coach after practice?" Niall asks, as they reach the parking lot. It's not a surprise that he already knows. It's a small town, which equals a small high school, which in turn translates into ‘news travel fast’. "I heard you and Styles got into it again."

"Ah," Louis hesitates. On one hand he got to fuck someone, but on the other he hates that person, so, "Fairly okay. Nothing new." Well.

"So you punched him in the face?"

Louis lets out a loud cackle as he unlocks the doors to his car and pulls the key out of the keyhole. "Nah. That happened just once."



He opens his door to the driver's side, and is about to say goodbye to Niall when he sees the boy jumping into the passenger seat without hesitation. Louis gets in, arching a brow once he's inside.

"What are you doing?"

"You're driving me home." The 'duh' goes unsaid. "Well? What are you waiting for? Chop-chop."

Louis just shakes his head and starts the car with a hair-rising screech.

When they get home, Lottie's in the kitchen. She's pouring herself a glass of juice and Louis easily sneaks it from her and empties it before she's turned around again. She notices the empty glass and just sends him an annoyed stare before pouring herself up some more.

Niall's by the door taking off his shoes, having decided in the very last minute (when Louis' car was right outside his house, for God's sake) that he was coming over to Louis' instead. He comes into the kitchen, immediately greeting Lottie with exaggerated hugs and kisses to her forehead.

She rolls her eyes, holding her glass far away from him not to spill. "Hi, Niall. Bye, Niall," she mutters and then trudges upstairs to her room. Niall laughs and opens the fridge, looking for something to eat.

"Niall, make me food," Louis pleads, flopping down on a chair by the dinner table and resting his feet on the one next to it.

"There's nothing in your fridge."

"Ugh." Come on. Louis has had football practice and had sex. He needs food. Energy. Nutrition. Pi-zza.

"When's your mum home?"

"She's not. Her shift’s already started," he says. His mother works nights at the hospital, so it's usually up to Louis to make dinner for him and Lottie when she's not there. The twins live at Mark's most of the time, and only spend a couple a days at a time at home. It has its good parts; he doesn't have as much responsibility when his mother is working, but also the bad parts; he misses them.

Today it's better they're at Mark’s, though. If there's no food then that means Louis has to go shopping or buy take out. Children should eat good food, and when Louis is in charge that's not going to happen. It's half past five, and Louis currently does not have the energy to go grocery shopping.

"Let's get pizza," Niall suggests. It's like one mind, really.

"You're driving."


Of course Lottie wants to come, because she doesn't trust Louis with something even as simple as buying pizzas. You'd think the fact that Niall's coming would be enough, considering he'd never hurt a crumb.

They take the car, Niall driving and Louis half sleeping in the passenger seat while Lottie's in the back. Niall decides the music even if it's only a five-minute drive and it's Louis' family's car, because apparently since he's “just as much part of the Tomlinsons as Louis” as he puts it, those facts are insignificant.

They pull up outside the parlor, walking inside discussing the toppings of which are edible with pineapple. It's highly irrelevant seeing as none of them would ever dream of getting pineapple on something as sacred as a pizza (Hello? Have some dignity). They're leaning against the counter as they wait, Louis resting on his elbows. He's tired, hasn't done his homework yet and he also has to go for a run tonight. He leans his face in the crook of his elbow.

On the other hand, he might skip that run. Too fucking tired.

They wait a few more minutes, Louis not picking up his head and just listening to Lottie and Niall bicker about something without relevance in their lives whatsoever. He hears when the door chirms, new customers walking into the parlor. By the sound of it, it's a woman and a man, and they're talking in frustrated tones, their bickering seeming like it hasn't stopped for fifteen years. Louis is about to snap his head up and tell them to shut up because their fighting is giving him a headache, when the door chirms again and the next voice is the one that haunts his dreams. Well, okay, not really, but it's Harry.

"Have you ordered yet?" Harry's voice asks, and Louis frowns. He looks up, finding Harry talking to the bickering couple. Obviously, they're his parents. No wonder the boy's so uptight.

"No, sweetheart. What do you want?" The woman's voice softens considerably.

"I'll have the veggie one," Harry mutters. Typical, Louis thinks, rolling his eyes.

The boy is in a hoodie, just like Louis, and his eyes look tired and his hair’s disheveled. He's still waddling a little, and Louis smirks as he leans back against the counter, watching Harry walk out of the parlor again.

"Wasn’t that Harry Styles?" Lottie asks. She's in eighth grade and doesn't even go to the town's high school yet, and still she knows who he is. It could have something to do with Louis always complaining about the boy and coming to her to tell her all about their fights, but most likely that's not the only reason.

"Yeah," Louis mutters.

"Hm, he's fit."

"Shut up, Lots."

"I mean he is," Niall says, objectively, and Louis scoffs. "I hear he's the favorite on the team."

"Yeah, alright," Louis laughs and rolls his eyes. Please. "When you're done talking shit, come out with the pizzas." He hands Lottie a few bills and trudges out the door, heading for the car. Naturally, he finds Harry leaning against his own. It's a shiny, black Range Rover, and probably cost more than Louis' entire house. Another reason not to like him; he's spoiled.

Harry's fiddling with his own fingers, looking nothing like when he's fuming, and trying to wrestle Louis to the ground. Louis goes to lean against the brick wall, exactly on the opposite side of the sidewalk, right in front of Harry.

"How's that waddle?" he asks, putting up a smirk on his face.

Harry's head snaps up in surprise, and his stance immediately shifts as he sees him. His face turns grimmer and he picks his head up, confidence suddenly littering his demeanor. "Why? Didn't know you cared so much about me."

"I thought you were the one who cared about me. You practically begged me to fuck you."

"I didn't beg," Harry says through his teeth. "And it was hardly any good either."

"Please," Louis scoffs, pushing off the wall and walking up to the other boy. He leans forward, holding up his chin just inches away from Harry's. "I fucked you into oblivion."

Now Harry is the one to scoff. "Don't flatter yourself.” His hands go to Louis' shoulders, shoving him a few paces back. It's not that hard, and it only makes Louis roll his eyes.

"As if you wouldn't do it again," he grins. He arches a brow as Harry opens his mouth, but just as he's about to say something the door to the pizza parlor opens, and Niall and Lottie come trudging out with two pizza cartons each in their arms.

Louis takes several steps back, and joins them as they walk by. He sends Harry a dark look that is reciprocated without hesitation, before he turns around and ignores Harry's presence completely.


Louis doesn't really understand it, the Harry thing. He hates Harry, and Harry hates him. One moment Harry was spitting at Louis, and the next he was spitting on his fingers, opening himself up on the floor beneath him with lube he got from God knows where. Louis doesn't regret it per se, but he doesn't understand it. He wouldn't do it again.

Strangely, it doesn't seem to have affected their relationship at all. They still hate each other – that much was obvious last night outside the pizza place. Which is a good thing. Louis can't imagine life not hating Harry. No sneering in the hallway, no nasty comments in class, no threats during warm up, and no fights at half time. It's unimaginable.

Louis rolls over in bed Tuesday morning, the day after what will from now on be referred to as “the incident”. He groans into his pillow, the noise turning into a half scream before he remembers that his mother is sleeping. The scream turns back into a muffled moan, and he scrunches his eyes up for a second. Fucking school.

He rolls over again, sitting up, hair disheveled and eyes grim. He throws the duvet off and gets up. He stares at himself for a second through the mirror on the opposite wall, squinting his eyes at his tired profile for a moment. If he were a vampire, maybe he wouldn’t look like a fluffy pigeon each morning he woke up. He turns on his heel, and heads into the bathroom, leaving his beloved bed unoccupied.

His bed. Ah, his perfect bed. He doesn't have his own car like most of his classmates, he doesn't have a tv in his room, or a brand new computer, but he has his warm, big bed. They’re practically married the two of them.

He takes a shower, shaves, puts on his clothes, and packs his footy practice gear. He goes down to the kitchen, briefly greeting Lottie who's already sipping on her tea at the table. Louis makes himself some and puts it in a to-go cup, one from the large supply he and Niall stole from Costa a long time ago when they were bored. They’re far from criminals, but Louis admits, it was rather exciting.

It's not really weird that they hate each other, he thinks as he sips, Harry and he. Literally everything is different about them. Louis' loud and says things without thinking, burning in the moment of heat. Harry is mostly quiet and reserved, gazing, and his words are biting like frost. Louis' smaller, shorter, and Harry's shoulders are broad and he's tall. His eyes are deep green while Louis' are blue, his lips thin and Harry's mouth big and full. They should be living on different planets, honestly. God knows Louis’ life would be easier if they did.

He takes the car to school, dropping Lottie off first and then parking in his usual spot in the school lot. He wonders if there will be any noticeable changes as he walks into homeroom, but the lovely glare from the other side of the room when he walks in reassures him there aren’t. Ah, sweet sense of normalcy. And nobody seems to know he’s had sex with a boy.

He’s had sex with a boy.

If Harry even counts, which he doesn’t. Harry’s not even a boy. He looks like some kind of grown up man with a baby head. Kind of. In fact, Louis is forgetting it ever happened. Please, as if he ever laid a hand on him.

“Lou,” Niall calls from the back of the room, and Louis saunters down the aisle to take the seat next to his. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as the teacher starts moaning about being on time, and for Niall not to act as if Louis actually was and stop disrupting class.

“When’s the English assignment due again?” Louis asks quietly, pursing his lips.

Harry’s chewing gum. It’s quite annoying. Frankly, it’s something that has disturbed Louis for the longest of time. He’s obnoxious even in the way he chews. Long stretches of his jaw, won’t keep his mouth shut and also talks like he’s the most important person in the world. As if people are supposed to have time to listen to his slow, stupid drawl.

“Next week,” Niall tells him. Louis’ eyes send daggers at the side of Harry’s head.

They go separate ways after first class, Tuesday being one of the few days Louis doesn’t have to endure Harry’s presence until football practice at the end of the day. The hours go by fine. Louis has lunch with Niall, Stan and a few guys from the team, and determinedly does not think about the fact that he’s fucked a boy – more precisely, the boy who’s sitting at the table with some of the school’s hipster types and another party of the team.

It’s weird, but only because Louis doesn’t feel weird. He should be fidgeting in his seat, contemplating his every move and crying on his bed, wondering why he can get it up when it’s a bloke grinding on him. He doesn’t, though, because he’s not pathetic. He just doesn’t feel weird. Nothing’s changed, nobody knows, and he and Harry still hate each other. It’s not like they’re going to do it again. Life can go on.

“We should buy like fifty bars of KitKat and a ton of popcorn and just die on Sunday,” Niall says. “It’ll be expensive, but worth it.”

“Can’t. The twins are coming over for the day.” Two months ago Louis would have said yes and brought the milk with a season of Breaking Bad, but not anymore. “And also, diet.”

“Ugh,” Niall complains. “This is why I’m not on the footy team. I couldn’t hold a diet for even two hours.”

Louis scoffs. “You could, you just don’t want to.”

Niall shrugs. “True.”

Before football practice, Louis usually gets going by running two laps around the pitch. It gets his blood pumping, brings him into focus, and he takes the time to contemplate what he needs to think about and concentrate on during the next practice session. It’s a strategy he’s been working with since the start of season. He uses the time to contemplate what skills he needs to improve, what techniques he needs to work on, what drills they should run during practice, and mostly also what the most efficient way to shut down Harry’s stupid fucking suggestions is.

Louis’ still jogging around the pitch when a few of the other lads from the team start trickling onto the pitch, kicking around a ball before practice starts. Louis’ just passing the bleachers and comes to a stop by the gang, picking up his water bottle from the case on the bench, and he spots Harry. He’s on his way from the locker rooms, bag thrown over his shoulder, trudging slowly like he’s got all of the time in the world. He should be first on the field like Louis – he’s co-captain, isn’t he? Jesus, show some respect and responsibility!

Harry’s nearly on the field soon enough, and Louis is about to say something when he hears someone call him from behind. He turns, frowning, vaguely recognizing the girl who’s waving at him from the bleachers.

“Hi, Louis!” she calls, smiling and waving before she turns to her girlfriends and giggles, sitting down next to them. It’s not unusual that people watch the team practice. People – mostly girls – sit on the bleachers studying or chatting in the sun as the lads work out, and it’s definitely not uncommon that people say hi to him or wish him good luck before games. This girl though, he doesn’t quite understand why she’s talking to him, specifically.

He wrinkles his nose slightly, waving back stiffly. Her name is Natalie, or Nicole, or something in the likes. She’s one of the people who tend to follow Harry’s squad around. Why would somebody genuinely want to be around him? Louis shudders. Who would want to listen to his words? Who’d want to date him? Who would even want to touch him – okay. Yes. Well.

Louis turns around again, facing the pitch, and immediately he’s locking eyes with the aforementioned moron. Louis arches his brows in annoyance. “What are you looking at, Styles?” he snaps.

Harry only glares and turns away.

Louis ignores him for the rest of practice. They do it like they always do. Louis runs practice Mondays and Tuesdays, Harry Wednesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays they usually have matches, so Coach runs a lighter session with them in the morning before school starts. Today’s Louis’ day though, and even if Harry struts around giving pointers and encouragements, he’s in charge. They’d been meant to run all practices together, but Coach let them split it up when he realized they couldn’t agree on anything, ever.

Louis decides they all should run the drills the last fifteen minutes, and all of the boys groan.

“Come on,” Harry says, jogging up to him. He’s in the red training jersey with black shorts just like the rest of the team, and he’s towering over Louis slightly. “You made them run ten laps yesterday. Give them a break.”

Louis absolutely despises feeling small, and so he nails his eyes on Harry, glowering with his jaw clenched. “How do you expect the boys to play ninety minutes when they’re in bad shape?” He turns to the other lads. “You, go run. Now!”

“The season’s just started,” Harry says once the boys have run off. “You can’t go all in from the start! You need to build it up, the body –“

“Shut the fuck up, Styles. I don’t need your biology lessons. They should be in shape, and they should keep their fitness up outside of practice on their own. If we want to fucking win this season every single person needs to be in shape.” Louis spits out the words angrily. They have to win. They have to. There’s no other way.

Harry opens his mouth, but Louis cuts him off. “You can do your freaking yoga and granola stretches or whatever asparagus shit you like on Wednesdays, but today I run practice and you better start the drills before I snap your neck.”

Louis exhales heavily in frustration, kicking off to join the team and leaving Harry behind.


“Does it mean you have a disorder if your fingernails don’t grow?”

“What the fuck, Niall.”

“Serious question.”


“Is that an answer to my question, or you being your natural, rude self?”

“Fuck you.”

“They haven’t grown at all since I last cut them. Like, yesterday.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I feel like you’re in a bad mood today. Do I not offer you enough comfort in life anymore? I realize I’m lacking a bit of satire for your taste these days, but as I said, I might have a disorder and until I’m cured you’ll just have to deal. How’s the football going? And also, should I go to the school nurse? Hmm, I think I might.”

Louis turns to glare at Niall, where he’s sitting on the other side of the table. They’re in the school library the next day, where it’s meant to be quiet. “The school nurse? I swear to God, Niall.”

“What? It could be a lethal problem. I need my nails for… stuff.”

“Like getting food out of your teeth?”

Niall looks at him. “Do I have chocolate between my teeth?”

“Fuck off.” Louis sighs, turning back to his algebra. He’s trying to study, and Niall is attempting to annoy him to death. It doesn’t help that the first football match of the season is coming up, and his nerves are a ticking time bomb.

“And it’s not even like I’m playing it up.” Niall leans over the table, pushing his hand in Louis’ face. “Do you see this? It’s –“

“I get it, Niall. The new school nurse is hot!” Louis exclaims.

“Mr. Tomlinson! We keep quiet in the library!” the lady at the front desk hisses at him, earning him several looks from lingering students.

Louis sends a homicidal glare Niall’s way, and the other boy at least has the decency to muster up a sheepish smile. Louis rolls his eyes, turning back to his homework, and thankfully his friend keeps quiet after that, even if Louis can see him biting at his nails.

It’s so typical that just when Niall finally shuts up, Louis can’t concentrate anyway. The upcoming game is at the front of his mind at all times, and his stomach feels funny and uncomfortable every time he thinks of it. It’s just that everything is hanging on a thread, and if they don’t get a good kick off for the season, it’s going to be a lot harder pulling that string up.

And it doesn’t help that Harry’s training strategies suck. His yoga inspired warm-ups are worthless – everybody knows that football players are stiff as sticks – and his knowledge and understanding of the football game might be decent, but the way he happens to enforce this into actual practice is more or less hopeless.

The stress is nibbling at his insides, and at this rate he’s going to combust. There’s tons of other shit he has to worry about, the jackass on his team shouldn’t even have to be on the list. The game isn’t even until next week, and the stress isn’t good for him. Shit, he’s going to have to ask Lottie to make him one of those facial cleanses tonight.

His phone buzzes on the table next to him, and after a glance at the name on the display he quickly picks it up, angling his face away from Niall and answering.

“Hi, Mum,” he murmurs.

Hey, honey,” she says softly, and Louis already hears the guilty note in her voice. “You in school?

“Yes, is everything alright?” he wonders, glancing around the library, his fingers subconsciously finding their way to his mouth.

Yeah, baby. I just needed to tell you I’m picking up an extra shift today. I won’t be home until lunch tomorrow. I’m really sorry, love, but can you make dinner and–“

“Of course, Mum,” Louis reassures her solemnly. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? And then family dinner on Friday? You, me and Lots?”

Yes,” she says, and Louis can tell she’s smiling. He bites his cheek to keep his own expression intact, and nods to himself.

“Good. Love you, Mum.”

Love you too, Boo.”

They hang up and Louis sighs, running a hand over his face. Shit, okay. Enough is enough.

He starts stashing up his books and pushes his stuff into his bag, pocketing his phone. Niall looks up at him in question, and Louis throws his bag over his shoulder.

“Niall. Sorry, mate, I have to go.”

“What about last period?” he asks.

“I can’t, I –“ He looks at Niall pleadingly. “I have to go. I’ll call you later, yeah?”

Niall shrugs, glancing down at his phone. “Sure.”

Louis nods and then half jogs out of school towards his car. He gets in and throws his bag onto the worn passenger seat, leaning over and opening the glove box, pulling out a stash of papers he’s had in there for way too long. He places them in his lap, sliding a thumb along the edges.

He’s been putting this off for so long, but lately it just seems inevitable. He thought he could work it out somehow, but everything just seems to be going downhill, Harry being co-captain and ruining the team’s chances at the league title being very much part of it.

He groans, leaning back in the seat and hiding his face behind his hands, taking a few moments to collect himself. He suddenly feels disgusted with himself for acting like such a brat right now. He’s not a brat. He’s a hardworking lad who gives his all to achieve what he wants – this is only embarrassing. But he can deal with that.

Louis shakes his head at himself. He has to be quick and be back for footy practice at four-thirty. He’s already dreading it, Harry’s polka warm ups and exercises, and he does not have any urging desire whatsoever to spend an hour listening to him droning on and on about technical shit he’s known since he was five.

He gets himself together and starts the car, swerving out of the parking lot and speeding into town.


Louis is as dead as a zombie. Whatever that might mean. He doesn’t feel very alive is the thing, but he still has to drag himself out of bed and to school. He slips into a pair of skinny jeans, throwing on an oversized, simple black shirt and slipping into his checkered vans. Since they don’t have a match tonight (which they usually do on Fridays) the practice is scheduled after last period instead of before first, and Louis can spend the entire day not being pestered with Harry’s presence.

His mother’s still not home from work, but they’ll have a family dinner for once tonight, and Louis’ quite looking forward to it. He’d rather hit the gym than go to first period, but having a stellar attendance record can’t hurt his future, which is looking rather uncertain as of this moment.

He goes to make sure Lottie has woken up and finds her at her mirror in her room, and so he goes down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He makes two jelly peanut butter sandwiches and brings a cuppa each up to Lottie’s room. He places hers on the desk she’s sitting at, and then proceeds to flop down on her bed.

“Did you–“

“Text her? Yeah, she’s not coming,” Lottie interrupts grimly, frowning at the mirror in front of her.

Louis sighs, even though he knew what the answer was going to be all along. He scratches at his scalp in annoyance, and shakes his head. “She makes me so frustrated, you know.”

“Me too,” Lottie mutters.

“How long’s it been?” he asks, taking a bite of his sandwich, chewing loudly. “A month?”

“Try two.” She puts her curling iron down, turning around in her chair and crossing her legs. “I don’t want to nag her. It’s up to her, Lou.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, but insists on rolling his eyes. “I haven’t seen her in forever. Not like, for real.”

“Maybe next week, okay?” Lottie says, pulling a tight smile. Louis nods, but he doesn’t have much hope.

Finishing their breakfast and brushing their teeth, they pack up their schoolbags and then get into the car. Louis drives by Niall’s house, because apparently his best friend doesn’t feel like driving today, and when they pick him up he spreads out on the backseat, filling the car with good-natured chatter that lightens Louis’ mood immensely. He drops his sister off at her school, and Niall climbs into the front seat. He’s finally starting to think the day’s not going to be as bad as he thought this morning, when all of that is shattered in the timespan of five seconds.

Louis is about to turn into his usual parking spot when suddenly he’s cut off by another car, seemingly appearing out of thin air. He is forced into an abrupt stop, slamming the brakes and having him and Niall shot forward in their seats.

“Ooof!” Niall lets out a rough breath, the seatbelt cutting into his chest. “What the fuck!”

Louis narrows his eyes in incredulousness, realizing who the fucker who just stole his parking spot is. A black Range Rover. Fantastic.

Harry gets out of the car as soon as he’s parked, throwing a winning smile Louis’ way accompanied by a casual wave and a wink. Louis rolls his window down, yelling “Motherfucker!” at him. With an angry growl he starts the car again, parking on the other side of the lot.

“I fucking hate him, Niall,” Louis swears. “Do you understand how much of a prick he is?”

“I know. I’ve witnessed stuff.”

“And I have to deal with that for a fucking hour every day!”

“Maybe we should do something about it?” Niall says, pursing his lips.

Louis turns towards him in his seat, interested. “However do you mean?”

“Maybe we should teach him a lesson.”

“Have him beat up?”

“No! Christ Tommo.” Niall shakes his head. “I meant, like, a prank. Make him suffer a bit, but not in a ‘rough him up’ kind of way. Who do you think we are? The mob? Mate, we watched Disney movies last weekend.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Niall’s right of course, but it’s not like Louis would mind seeing Harry with a few tame bruises. Okay, he’s not a sadist, but it would be nice to get back at him a bit. A prank does sound tempting.

“I like where your mind’s at, Watson,” he says after a moment of pondering, and begins to climb out of the car.

“Why am I always Watson? Louis, it’s literally the other way around. I’m Sherlock, you twat.”


Louis hates Harry an extensive amount.

Yes, he realizes he spends an awful lot of his time thinking about how much he despises him, but he’s just such a bother. He’s currently shooting penalties at the keeper, and is netting them neatly in the corners every single time. Louis is standing on the other side of the pitch, shaking his head. They’re not even supposed to be shooting penalties. Coach specifically told them to practice their technique on something they feel like they need to improve, and with the way Harry keeps casually scoring, Louis doubts he needs to practice shooting from the spot kick, eleven meters from the goal. Like, seriously? Fucking show-off.

Louis hates him.

He squares his shoulders after few minutes of scowling and juggling with a ball of his own, and saunters confidently over to where Harry’s shooting at the goal.

“If you’d practice something you don’t already know how to do, maybe we’ll win a game or two,” he says, crossing his arms with the football at his feet.

Harry’s back stiffens, and he slowly turns around to arch a brow at him. “And what have you been practicing?”

“Things that will improve my game,” he says, shooting out his jaw. “Penalties occur in three out of fifteen games, statistically. I doubt you’ll need much more training. Why don’t you go dribble some cones or something?”

“Are you really telling me what to do?” Harry asks, jaw clenching.

“No. Just giving you advice,” he smirks. “You’ll be needing it…” He gives Harry a meaningful onceover and a pointed look, turning around and strolling casually towards the bleachers.

And in one…two…

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” Harry growls, hand locking on Louis’ shoulder just as Coach calls out, ending practice.

Louis turns around, firmly pulling Harry’s hand off him. “I just meant that if you keep up with your rabbit exercises and only shooting penalties at Liam, then you might not spot on the team anymore,” he shrugs.

“I’m the best player on the team. Stop talking a bunch of crap,” Harry hisses. His wild, dark curls are pulled back in a pink little headband that looks ridiculous, and how he even expects Louis to take him seriously is beyond belief. Never mind the fact that he’s right out lying to Louis’ face.

“You’re not the best player or the team,” Louis spits. “You’re the seventh. Might pass for sixth.” He’s a close second. Whatever.

“Why am I even having this conversation with you?” Harry says, shaking his head disbelievingly. He starts pacing towards the bleachers, and Louis strolls besides him, enjoying how annoyed he looks.

“Because you just can’t stay away from me. I thought we established this, you’re in love with me.”

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that? Shut the fuck up and leave me alone, will you?” Harry picks up his bag and throws it over his shoulder. Louis reaches for his as well, smirking as he follows Harry to the locker rooms.

“Not until you admit you have a huge, flaming crush on me. I don’t blame you. I’m good-looking.” It’s decided. He’s going to pester Harry until he doesn’t want to be on the team anymore. Revenge in a very unpredicted manner. Good one, Louis.

“And how the fuck have you come to that conclusion?” Harry asks, shaking his head. “You’re such a tit, you think everyone likes you. Open your fucking eyes.”

Please. Louis knows everyone doesn’t like him. That’s what jealousy means. Duh.

“Open my eyes? If anyone should it’s you. From this morning I’d think you’re fucking blind,” he sneers.

“Is that what this is about?” Harry says, rolling his eyes as he opens the door to the locker room. A few of the lads from the team slip out in the go, and Louis glares as he waits to get inside. “Me taking a parking spot I got to before you? You’re going to annoy me into suicide because I took the spot you wanted?”

“That’s my spot!” Louis yells as Harry struts inside. “You and your obnoxious car has never parked there, why the fuck would you now? Everybody knows that’s my spot!”

“Everything isn’t about you, Louis,” Harry scoffs, setting his bag on one of the benches.

Louis glares and starts unpacking his own, noting how empty the locker room suddenly feels. He’s about to explain to Harry very clearly exactly how much everything actually is about him, when Harry’s phone starts ringing. He watches him answering it, seeing him turn his back towards Louis and mumbling into the phone.

Louis’ plan isn’t working. Not that it was very well elaborated, but Harry’s not even breaking a sweat getting pissed at him. Louis hoped he’d maybe push him a bit, subsequently get suspended from the team for attacking a teammate. Louis realizes he’s not on his best game. He’s going to have to do better.

Harry’s putting his phone away again, his tall back turned toward Louis. The red jersey stretches over his broad shoulders when he leans down, and Louis squares his own shoulders, crossing his arms.

“Was that your mum? Are you guys gonna’ fight over pizza tonight, too?”

“Why don’t you just mind your own fucking business?” Harry spits, spinning around vehemently, anger suddenly seeming to ignite him in a way it didn’t before.

Louis holds his hands up. “Oops! Sorry. Sensitive much?” He smirks, and puts his bag on the bench and starting to rift around for his stuff. It’s working.

“Why do you always feel the need to be such a snarky little brat? Honest question.” Harry scowls angrily, and Louis can tell he’s getting worked up. Still, it suddenly doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

“Why are you so bloody pretentious and condescending?” he shoots back, turning to glare back at him.

“I’m not condescending. It’s not my fault you feel inferior by nature.”

“I don’t feel inferior,” Louis growls, his blood suddenly stirring furiously. He flexes subconsciously, trying to make himself seem bigger than he is. He’s always used his voice to appear bigger and stronger and take up the most space in a room, and he carries himself in a way that people don’t usually notice that he’s actually quite petite. It’s only with Harry that Louis’ reminded that he’s smaller, and he absolutely loathes it.

“Sure, you don’t. You feel so strong and powerful all the time. It’s why you feel the need to push everybody else down and make people feel bad, so that you’ll feel even bigger and better. You’re so confident, love being yourself that you have to fight so hard to –“

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis growls, lunging for him. Their chests connect harshly, knocking the air out of both of them, and Harry falls back against the locker, Louis tumbling with him. They scramble, pawing and pushing at each other to get out of the unintentional embrace.

Louis felt the need to punch him, now he doesn’t want to be near him. His words sent a wave of unease through him, and he feels like drinking bleach to get rid of it.

Harry grips his shirt then, and hauls him up and pushes him roughly, sending him backwards. Their eyes lock in a heavy gaze. Louis’ chest is heaving, and Harry’s still sweaty from practice, hair mussed and body warm. Louis can still feel his hands tingling from the contact of Harry’s skin as Harry stares at him, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. There’s this thing in Louis’ stomach that clenches like a fist, like it’s drawing in this need by the fingers. Harry’s emerald eyes seem to catch the change in his demeanor and how he looks at him, because then he’s close again, but for another reason.

Their chests press close together and Louis’ hands land on Harry’s shoulders. Harry pushes him back until he hits the lockers behind him, and he doesn’t know how wrestling turned into this.

Harry’s in his face, and they’re breathing rapidly. Louis’ eyes trail to his lips and he isn’t sure how they got here, just like it happened last time, but they’re so close, torsos crushed against one another, Harry’s knee pushed in between Louis’ thighs somehow. Harry’s hands tangle into Louis’ hair, holding his head back. He sinks his teeth into Louis’ shoulder, and Louis gasps. It’s odd. Louis doesn’t know if he’s biting him or just seeking some sort of leverage, because not a second later Harry rolls his hips, moving into him.

Louis’ nails dig into his back, clawing at him, and his other hand grips a tight hold of the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him back. Harry ruts against him again, and Louis mustn’t be thinking because this is Harry fucking Styles, who he hates.

Louis bucks up, meeting the roll of his hips and the feeling is like nothing he’s felt before. Sex was great, but the way he can feel Harry’s hardness – proof of how turned on he is because of him – against his own makes something inside him twist, and it feels incredible.

Harry’s face is in his neck, and Louis’ head is against the locker, bumping into it with every thrust they share together. He’s already fully hard, and the material of their footy shorts is thin, and Louis can feel everything. He’s wet he realizes, pre-cum smearing his boxers, as Harry’s chest moves quickly against his own. He’s almost completely enveloped by him, and his chin is just barely over Harry’s shoulder. Harry breathes against his ear, Louis suddenly having the urge to push Harry’s shorts down to slide their naked cocks together. He moves his hands to his hips, sliding them under the waistband of his shorts like he wanted, and he feels how Harry’s thrusting gets more fervent, erratic as Louis meets him halfway.

Louis clutches at his skin, gripping Harry’s small, albeit perky, bum in his hands, groaning as he feels his muscles tighten with every thrust. Louis isn’t thinking. He isn’t thinking because obviously if he were then this wouldn’t be happening. This is Harry. But Harry’s arse is also currently naked and in Louis’ hands. He palms at him, and Harry’s breaths are warm at his neck, body getting more and more rigid against him, and Louis knows what’s happening.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps when Louis runs hand over the cleft of his cheeks.

“Shut up,” Louis groans. He’s in the zone here, thank you. He’s so painfully hard, and as Harry whines in his ear he’s getting closer and closer, rapidly. His fingers dig into Harry’s skin, and he knows he’s not lasting much longer.

Abruptly the door to the locker room is slammed open, and Louis pushes Harry off of him with a force he didn’t know he possessed. Harry stumbles away, eyes ringing with alarm. They’re hidden behind a wall of lockers, thankfully.

“Lewis!” It’s Niall. Fucking Niall. “Where are you? Are you conditioning your hair?”

“Niall! I’ll be out in a second,” Louis says, hoping his best friend can’t detect the panic in his voice.

“Jesus Christ, man, you’re slow. Everyone’s gone.”

“Niall! Leave,” he orders. “I’ll be out. Just wait by the car.”

“I have actually seen you naked before,” comes the answer from the other side of the lockers.

“Jesus, Niall. Just fucking leave. Please!”

“Whatever,” he answers easily. “I know you dress to the left, man. Chill.” Louis thinks he’s about to snap his neck. “Fine,” Niall finally says, and Louis can hear the door slamming shut a moment later.

“Motherfucker,” he swears. He quickly starts pushing his clothes back in his bag, cleats going in even though they usually stay in the locker. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this fast packing before, but he can feel Harry’s eyes on him, and suddenly he feels a lot more uncomfortable with being near him. He stuffs his bag, throwing on his shoes and a hoodie over his head without looking at him. He stomps out the door, jogging away after Niall.

Shit. It happened again.