We're Like Bumper Cars [Larry Stylinson]

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Disclaimer: This is a work of complete fiction. Never happened, not real, no offense is intended. Absolutely does not reflect upon the real life people mentioned in this fictional story. No profit is being made from this work.
-E x

⭐️No.328 - Competition (10/03/21)

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Louis' heart is banging against his ribs, the noise thumping in his eardrums as he takes his mark. He looks left, there's Liam, and right, there's an asshole. Louis breathes out carefully, he needs to keep his inhales and exhales in a rhythm. There's a deadly course in front of him, a 3 kilometre soft sand track to complete. It's a piece of cake for him, but right now, anxiety sitting in his stomach and he's about to wrench up a puddle of nerves.

"Looking a little pale, Tommo," says the ass himself, and how dare he make Louis lose focus. Louis doesn't dare blink to him. He doesn't deserve Louis' absolute attention. "Here, maybe a little water will help you out."

There's a water bottle being nudged at his arm. Louis seethes through his clenched jaw and huffs out exasperatedly.

"Keep your spit water to yourself," Louis barks at the, probably, sneering boy. "Who knows, maybe you spiked that shit with knock out pills."

"Please," Harry laughs, adjusting his position at the start line. "I'm not that soft core."

Harry's not winning this race. He doesn't deserve it, the twat like him. It'll be shameful on Louis' behalf. He's held the title for 6 years, and there's no chance he's going to lose the champion of the school's cross country in his final year. That'll ruin him. It'll feed Harry's stupidly egotistical ass.

He manages to recollect himself before the countdown began. A short three, two, one and the alarm rings into Louis' ear. The patter of sneakers gallop across the short distance of the thick turf before the twelve competitors reach the sand, where everything feels like a workout - but not to Louis. He's been training for this all year. He's not going to lose today.

They're escalating up on the sandy hill, the toughest part of the track. To his right Harry is panting, a sweat stained forehead with his hair bouncing according to his steps. He's trying to pass Louis, but that's not going to happen. Not this time. Louis speeds his pace up, feet stepping into the dips of the imprinted sand - a massive advantage point in his favour. He loses Harry easily behind him. The competition isn't over yet, Harry's a tactical player. Who knows what he has in stall to try and beat him this year. All he knows is that Harry has no chance. Louis has trained hard to win, to get into the interschool champions. He's not going to let the pissbag win.

Left foot is light when it hits the ground, same as the right. He's using the balls of his feet to dance across the track. He can't hear panting, or the smacking of curls against a sweaty head, so he's okay to keep his pace at a more relaxed state. He completes a lap, receiving a high five from one of his teachers. Two more laps to go.

His breath is starting to lag and become rugged. He doesn't dare to drink from the water bottle in his hand. He can't fall victim to a stitch. He wheezes out and looks to the sky for a moment, cloud cover grey and dull. Thank goodness there's little sun. A few small breathers later, he begins jogging with a little emphasis in his steps. He passes some of the fall behinds and people who care less about cross country like Louis does with Math. Second lap is completed in under three minutes.

But midway during his final lap, soft grunts are heard behind him and Louis doesn't panic - it'll ruin his perfect pace. Harry's behind him, lethargic and probably unable to comprehend the defeat he's going to face in less than a minute. Louis purposely strides daintily enough to kick dirt behind onto Harry's joggers. There's a small 'fuck off' from Harry, which only brings Louis' smile wide enough to block Harry from passing him for the rest of the competition.