quixotic//l.s. au

four.

Harry sighed heavily, knowing he didn't have the energy to cramp during a jog after just eating lunch.

He dropped the ball onto the turf, trapping it firmly between his cleats, refusing to make eye contact with Louis as he awaited instructions.

"Right," Louis nodded, biting back a smirk. "Good boy."

Harry ignored the teasing

"So, Haz, it's dominant foot-"

Harry's neck snapped up with anger.

"I know how to do it."

Louis pursed his lips in annoyance, throwing up his hands, sneering, "Then fucking do it if you're so good."

Harry sighed heavily, bringing his right foot over the ball, turning with it, and then snapping the outside of his foot back against the ball, chasing it past Louis and towards the net.

"Cunt," Louis coughed.

Louis was slightly impressed when he read the second count on his stopwatch after Harry had flew the tattered ball into the goal.

"Putting in the work at home, I see," Louis nodded, proud of the way Harry dribbled the ball back without a sassy comment.

He only nodded in confirmation, trapping the ball inches from Louis.

"Let's really play now," the older boy grinned, dragging the ball out from between Harry's feet with his inner foot before he had time to realize what was happening.

Harry chased after in seconds, trying to slide his foot in during one of Louis repetitive step-overs, obviously taking the piss out of him for thinking the one was anything to be proud of.

Louis got a little too cocky, however, and attempted to soar the ball into the net from an excessive distance; Harry stole it nearly five feet from the goal, and had it halfway across the turf before Louis' mind could even register what had happened.

Louis kicked it out from underneath him just before he could slam it into his own goal, and Harry tripped onto his knees when Louis own cleat came in contact with his ankle.

"Fucking hell," Harry groaned, chasing back after Louis, turf stained into the white rips of his skinnies.

Harry went in during one of Louis' step-overs, trying to steal it back and knock Louis onto his knees, just as Louis had done to him.

He got a little too aggressive, though, and caught his cleat in the slightly damp, mild mud of the turf.

They were both tripping over top of each other with a thud before either one could try to regain balance.

Harry found himself with his face in the stomach of the heavier boy on top of him, and Louis had caught a knee to the groin.

"Prick," is the only thing Louis can groan in the midst of the pain, rolling off of the younger boy, hands cupping his package with a wince.

Harry shook his head, defending, "You tripped me first, asshole."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Louis sneered, ripping off a shoe, tossing it at the messy-curl boy with a glare. "You're so fucking petty."

Harry slammed the cleat into the turf beside him, demanding, "Don't throw shit at me."

Louis stared at him in disbelief, still trying to catch his breath, unsure how he would regain all the air that had been knocked out of him.

He yanked off his other shoe, exhausted, tossing it harder at the prissy boy.

Harry decided he'd had enough.

He launched himself at Louis, grabbing the collar of his tee, adrenaline pumping as he rolled over him, accidentally tugging him to the top while doing so.

He pressed his knee harshly against his abdomen, having a bit of sympathy not to hit him the dick again.

"I fucking hate you!" Harry yelled, still clenching the fabric of his shirt, face inches away. "I mean it, Louis! You think it's fun to fuck with people-"

Harry didn't mean it, though.

Louis harshly grabbed a handful of Harry's curly fringe, the boy yelping in pain as his head was pulled back, Louis basically seething with anger.

"Don't put your fucking hands on me," Louis warned, Harry's hands releasing his shirt in seconds, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried not to cry.

"Got it?"

Harry tried to nod, but hardly succeeded, as Louis was gripping his hair so tightly.

Louis finally let go once they had reached an understanding, dropping the boy's head onto the turf, guilt washing over him at the sight of the glossy-eyed, blotchy-faced younger boy.

Harry's fist was against his cheekbone long before he would've had a chance to apologize, though.

Harry manages to strike three or four good hits during the fight, but, in the end, it's him who is pinned to the ground.

"I fucking hate you, Louis Tomlin-"

Harry's basically screaming, really.

Louis just shakes his head, frustrated with himself for being defenseless with the pretty boy, leaning in and kissing him desperately, hands cupping either side of the younger boy's face.

Harry turns into literal putty, consent so obvious it's pathetic

"I can't stop fucking think about you," Louis groans, revisiting the marks from the banquet. "You and your plump lips and your whimpers and your annoyingly pretty-"

Harry basically choked on his own spit at that last part.

"You think I'm pretty, Louis?"

The older boy's sharp cheekbones are crimson and burning.

"Something like that," He mumbles, unable to meet Harry's eyes.

The younger boy shakes his head in disbelief, anger dissipating into nothingness before he lead Louis' mouth back to his own, both of them still blushing.