Together On The Field - l.s

ten

Old Trafford is one of the biggest and most important stadiums in the world. Entering it from the tunnel that leads to the pitch is undoubtedly not the same as doing it from the turnstiles, after showing his season ticket to a steward. It's not the same than entering it from a privileged entrance with Barbara, because Louis has reserved him the best seat in the stadium to watch the matches, to watch him play. Entering the stadium from the tunnel, with a fluorescent sport bib in one hand, ready to be worn, with his headphones on, so that everything seems and looks more majestic, like in a movie (no, he's not ashamed at all), with shaky and uncertain steps because of how excited, how happy, and also how scared he is, it's definitely not the same.

Harry takes a look around, feeling his legs tremble as he takes in the magnificence of the building, of the stands that are about to be occupied by thousands of supporters, all united by the same faith in this football club. He suddenly feels crushed by the weight of this new responsibility, something he has never felt while he was still playing for the under-21 team, when he had the calming awareness that he was entitled to make mistakes, to fall, to fuck up, because it was all for a greater purpose, because he still needed to grow up and learn. Now, though, his only option is to do well, and he's not sure he can.

His legs are really fucking trembling.

Louis discretely comes behind him, tentatively, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder.

"Am I dreaming?" asks Harry, and then turns to look at Louis with a scrunched grimace plastered on his face. Actually, looking at Louis immediately makes him feel better, and his warm and steady presence next to him gives him a bit more confidence.

Louis giggles, and subtly puts a hand on his waist, pressing his fingers on his flesh. "How are you feeling then?"

As if he has swallowed up the whole stadium, supporters included, and they were all doing the wave. That's how he's feeling. And it's not very nice.

Louis keeps smiling at him, encouraging and confident, as if everything it's going to go well, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Actually, it probably is. For him, at least. Louis is so used to this that he can't fully grasp how big this is to Harry. Sure, he's been in the same situation, years ago, but he was younger than Harry, he was barely seventeen, and he was already an acknowledged talent. And, most importantly, his first match wasn't a Champions League semi-finals. What if he fucks up and he gets the whole team kicked out from the competition?

He feels all the pressure, all his worst insecurities almost squashing him. It's unreal, it's a sudden fear, it feels like it's not him standing on that football turf. He dumbly starts to hope Mourinho doesn't put him on the pitch, because the fear of fucking up is now almost overcoming the longing wish to step on that field and do what he's capable of doing, do what he's been hard-working for since he was so small. He tries to push away this petty thought.

He shouldn't feel inadequate only because everything feels so big and different, the benches, the massive Manchester United logo at the entrance, the billboards by the touchline, the mark in the middle of the field, the stands, everything is massive. And he knows that it's not like Old Trafford falls outside the standard size of a football pitch, that is always the same. Maybe it's just him who became smaller, and everything feels disproportionate, ten, one hundred times bigger.

"It's amazing. Of course," he says, not totally convinced, not looking directly at Louis. "Fuck, I'm going to be sick. Oh God," he says, covering his face with his hands. What is he supposed to do? He just wants to run away.

Louis giggles again, but it's a laugh full of fondness and comprehension. He puts his other hand on the small of Harry's back and looks at him with tenderness, then he hugs him tight.