The next time he saw Louis, he was leaning against his locker at school. He was wearing a black t-shirt with sleeves that were folded up to the tips of his shoulders. It was almost December, but his arms were still naturally tanned and smooth. He didn’t even flex, yet his biceps looked sculpted. His hair was soft, as if newly washed, and it hung down into his eyes. Harry hated how outrageously good-looking he was, especially when he wasn’t planning on talking to him again. This thing was over.
Louis only noticed that Harry was across the room when Zayn walked past and began rolling a tobacco cigarette on top of his maths book. Louis glanced over at Harry, and it almost seemed like he was about to walk up, but swiftly changed his mind. He raised a brow towards him, but Harry jerked his jaw away. He didn’t want to hear him out.
He continued ignoring Louis for the following days. At football, he simply did as instructed, and he planned not to speak a word in Louis’ direction during his own practice hours. Louis frequently looked like he wanted to say something, but Harry kept his promise to himself and didn’t let him get close enough to talk.
In addition to ignoring Louis Tomlinson, he gave his parents the cold shoulder. He didn’t want to speak to them, either. However, they were both suddenly and inexplicably spending all of their free time at the house. One day he found them eating biscuits and drinking tea in the sitting room after football practice. He tuned out their attempts at conversation and instead headed up to his room. The following day went on similarly, but Harry drove to Zayn’s house to avoid them instead.
On Wednesday, he was on his way to practice when the inevitable happened. He was strolling between the main building and locker rooms, but when he turned the corner, he stopped dead. Then he spun around and strode the other way. He stalked off, but he heard her call after him.
“Harry — Harry, please stop!”
“No.” He shook his head firmly.
“Come on!” He heard her voice as she hurried after him. He felt a deep, nauseating discomfort in the middle of his chest begin to build, and a claustrophobic fog threaten his personal space as he heard her close in behind him. Her hand touched his arm — not harshly, but it was enough for him to stagger.
“Stop! Fuck,” he breathed, taking two steps back. She stopped, and he found himself staring at her furiously. She was wearing the same puffed jacket she always did during winter. Her hair was straight that day, and her eyes looked sharp-edged. Harry had once thought she looked nice, but now all he saw were teeth and lips like blood.
“Harry, I want to talk. That’s it.”
“But I don’t want to hear it! Please just stop texting, and waiting around for me! I don’t want to be near you.”
Her face was twisted up in emotions he couldn’t gauge. “I just want to talk.”
“Jas!” His stomach was turning in on itself. “We’re not friends anymore. We’re never going to be friends again. You’re the one who made sure of that.”
“What you did to me wasn’t very nice, either.”
“What you’re doing now is worse. Leave.”
She was silent for a few seconds before she crossed her arms. “Fine.”
He turned and began back towards the locker rooms.
“Harry!” she called, and he stopped for the barest second to hear her say in quiet without inflection, “Just don’t forget that I know.”
He shook his head, stomach on the way up to his throat. “You were my friend,” he mustered out, speaking without looking back.
“And you were mine,” she said.
He left. He couldn’t stay there. She hated him, and she still wanted to hurt him, despite claiming she just wanted to talk about what happened. Harry walked into the locker room, went straight to the toilets, and vomited until his stomach was completely empty.
Walking out to training, he felt revolting turns in his chest still, but as if that wasn’t enough, he had to deal with Louis. That day, he seemed irked. Harry had managed to avoid him sufficiently that week, but during a water break Louis strode up to his side. They were a few yards from the other boys, but Louis glanced around before he spoke.
“Are you done being silly any time soon?” he said, brow raised just like the other day. His voice was quiet, but there was a touch of annoyance and exasperation to be detected there. He looked like he was about to sigh, as though Harry needed to simply get over this little phase so they could get back to business.
Harry didn’t answer, only fixed his headband and aimed a stare at Louis’ perfectly carved cheekbones.
Louis crossed his arms. “Stop being a spoiled brat. You can come over during my free period on Friday, all right?”
He really thought he could have him back so easily. It seemed like he thought he had Harry wound around his finger, just like Harry thought he’d had Louis at his beck and call. Harry didn’t like that thought and had no clue how to respond to Louis, so he walked away without a word. It didn’t appear to deter him, however. Throughout practice, he kept his eyes on Harry, unblinking. If Harry accidentally met the gaze, his face would soften and fall into some sort of look of allure, eyes full of win and invite.
The problem was that he had never looked at Harry like that before. Not so… enticingly. He was usually glaring and insulting, but that day his face was full of charm and encouragement. He wanted Harry to give in. But then he would win, and Harry wasn’t especially interested in that. To make him stop it, he threw a football at him. It smacked into his back, and Louis promptly flipped him off, but the stares ceased.
It wasn’t until the end of practice that Harry couldn’t ignore him anymore. It wasn’t something that Louis did or something he said. The boy was standing at the corner of the pitch, where the boys’ belongings were piled up. He was grabbing the case of water bottles, and Harry had to fetch his own jacket that was on the ground by his side. He was on his way to get it when he stopped in his tracks.
They all wore hats, tapered training sweats, and cotton gloves during practice these days, but even though his skin was also sweaty from training, he felt cold all over when he noticed Jasmine and her group of friends strolling past the pitch. He stood petrified and watched in great discomfort as Jasmine stopped next to Louis Tomlinson. He couldn’t move closer, but he couldn’t run away, either. He had to hear what she was saying.
“Good practice, Louis.”
She sounded fake. Harry’s heart beat like a hammer. What the fuck was she doing?
“Thanks.” Louis took a sip from the water bottle he held.
She stayed put. “So, do you think you’re going to win the scoring league next term?”
“Hopefully.”
“Well, don’t let anyone beat you.” Her smile was wide and her eyes crinkled.
“Not a chance,” he smiled.
Harry didn’t know what came over him. It was like electricity had become pent up within, and watching Louis smile, like that, caused a circuit. It was that smile; that gorgeous, spikey, completely stupid, and poisonous smile that made Harry’s body feel like wet paper and rubber all at once.
He hated that smile. And he absolutely detested that Louis had aimed it at her.
Jasmine disappeared around the bleachers with the rest of the group, and Harry found himself instantly behind Louis. He wanted to simultaneously kill him and steal him away. He heard Louis exhale in surprise as Harry’s arm locked over his chest from behind.
“Woah,” he gasped, hand grasping at the arm that Harry had latched around his neck. He began to struggle, his back squirming against Harry’s chest.
“If you ever wanted to see me again, you’ve definitely fucked it up now.” The words came out in a hiss, and Louis yanked away from him. Harry pushed him off, and then seized the jacket that Louis had been cradling in his hand for the last few minutes. Styles was written on the back of it. “That’s mine.”
He stalked away, leaving Louis behind on the edge of the football field. It felt like the blood in his veins was boiling, sizzling. The very tips of his fingers felt hot. Lately, it was as though anger was lingering right under the surface of his skin. Louis perpetually ignited him as it was, and clearly Jasmine had given him major issues. And she had done that on purpose, knowing it would bother him.
Perhaps all of this had finally done his head in.
He headed straight for the car. He didn’t want to face the lads, or Louis for that matter. He refused to run into Jasmine again. He started the car and began exiting the parking lot. Halfway home, he realised he didn’t want to go there, either. He didn’t want to see his parents pretend they were okay.
It was cold, and December had just begun. Running around the park with a football didn’t seem so fun anymore. He didn’t know where to go except to Zayn’s house. He drove past his place, but he could see that his parents’ car was parked out front, and he supposed they would all be hanging out together by then. He didn’t want to bother them. He forced himself to go home.
Louis didn’t reach out to him. Not that Harry had expected him to. He felt shameful about his actions. He hadn’t physically fought with Louis in a long while, and the anger had washed over him so unexpectedly. He hadn’t been able to control himself.
Thursday, he didn’t particularly want to go to school, but his mother was working from home that week. If he stayed at the house, she’d have questions or want to talk. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. On Friday, he left school after lunch. He drove out to the park and walked for an hour before finally heading home. He knew his mother and father would be home, but despite their efforts of trying to apologise for leaving him alone too much, he didn’t feel better by their presence.
They were just there. It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t like they did anything together anyway. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t go back to their normal lives in a week or two. It wasn’t like Harry couldn’t see they both hated being there. He could tell by the way his mother would sigh and blurt out passive-aggressive phrases at his father, and the way that his father would leave the room the second his mother would walk in. They weren’t happy and pretending that they were wouldn’t make it better.
Harry spent his Saturday watching animal documentaries, face pressed against his pillows. It had been a week since he’d talked to Louis, and more since he’d touched him. His mind kept returning to Louis’ hands and his room. The cluster of things stacked on the desk, and the soft bed with fluffed pillows. He kept thinking about how he’d pounced on him on Wednesday. He thought of Jasmine. He thought of Louis’ fucking smile at her.
What even was that? He knew that Jasmine was up to something, just like when she’d greeted Louis in the hallway all those weeks ago. But Louis didn’t know that. What did he think of her? Did he imagine she was just nice? Why had he looked at her like that? Did he look at everyone like that? Harry doubted it. He’d never seen Louis flirt, but he was certain if he tried then he’d kill. If only Louis knew what kind of person she was.
On Sunday morning, there was silence. Harry’s eyelids felt glued down, crusted in the corners. He’d stayed so long in the bed that weekend that he suspected he might not be able to leave it. His brain seemed stuck in guilt that morning, too, and it was becoming overbearing. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He hated it.
He tried to put his mind to other things. He even attempted to study. There was a quiz in French the following week, and honestly, studying hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind the last couple of months. After showering, he managed to revise for an hour or so before he started to hear noises from the ground floor. Perhaps any other teenager would have been startled, but Harry was used to it. Loud voices and shouts were beginning to feel like background noise.
His parents were fighting again. He supposed staying home for so long and remaining civil was simply impossible for them. Harry managed to keep his eyes on his school books for half an hour before he heard his own name being tossed around. First, it sounded like his mother yelling, and later it was his father’s voice bringing it up again. Then it was like they couldn’t stop saying it. Harry this — Harry that. They said his name so many times he wondered if they’d forgotten he was actually a person, rather than an abstract trophy they seemed to claw at.
“Shut up,” he groaned, hands digging into his hair. It was getting longer, curling around his jaw now, but it wasn’t enough to block the noise out.
Harry waited until he couldn’t bear the hungry ache in his stomach anymore. He hadn’t eaten since last night, and although he didn’t want to talk to his parents, he eventually had to make his way downstairs to the kitchen. He also really wanted to tell them to shut up.
He knew there were pancakes in the fridge that he hadn’t touched the day before. His stomach gurgled at the thought of it, but when he walked into the room his mother was blocking the fridge. She stood in front of it, wearing sweats and a cardigan, arms crossed. Harry glanced to the other side of the room, where his father was leaning against the kitchen table, eyes hard and angry.
Usually, they were quick to make out like everything was okay once he’d walk into the room. Not today it seemed.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked.
No one answered.
“Seriously, what’s happening? You were talking about me.”
“Ask your father —”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Anne!” He raised his hands in the air. “Jesus! It’s always my fault, isn’t it?!”
“Whose fault is it then? Mine? You always blame me. I’m done trying so hard if you don’t!”
“I don’t care? You don’t care. You’re the one trying to change everything.”
“And change is so bad?”
“If all’s fine before, how is change ever better?”
Harry’s mother covered her face for a short second. When she removed them, she looked completely and thoroughly exasperated. “I’m finished with this,” she exclaimed. “You don’t care about our family!”
Harry stood there, an invisible shape of stone.
´
“What have I done to make you hate me so much?” asked Harry’s father. He looked full of anger and frustration. “It’s one afternoon, Anne! One.”
“One here, one there! It adds up, Des!”
“You’re making it worse in your head.”
Her eyes were trained on Harry’s father, wide and full of pain. “I can’t do this.” She grabbed onto Harry’s wrist where he stood. Her nails dug into his skin as she pulled him out of the kitchen and towards the front door. “Let’s go, Harry. You don’t deserve this.”
He was so astonished by her actions that his legs simply followed as she tugged him into the hallway. She grabbed a pair of shoes and tossed them at him, forcefully pushing a coat onto his shoulders. His mind raced, but his mum was steering him outside while his father hurried after them in socks and golfing attire.
She steered Harry out and towards the car. It rained, and the cold bit into his cheeks instantly.
“What the hell are you doing, Anne?” yelled Harry’s father.
“I don’t need you, Des,” she called back across the lawn. There were tears on her face. “Not like this. We are leaving.”
His father stood still on the porch. His voice was steady, but quiet. “Then don’t come back, Anne.”
She stopped on the pavement, next to her car. Her hair was unbrushed, and her face pink. Her eyes flickered wetly between the porch and the car. Then she looked at Harry. Her expression changed. “Oh, honey —” she started, like she hadn’t registered the emotion on his face until then. Her hand reached to pat his cheek, but he tore away from her. He began backing away, shaking his head at her.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, voice cracking. Her mouth moved, but words didn’t come out. “You think you are better?” he continued, staring at her in disbelief. The wind was tearing at their clothes, but it was also pushing him further away from her. And he was glad of it. He stared right into her green, tearful eyes. “At least he doesn’t pretend he wants to be here. You can stop, too.”
Once again, he was walking off. Leaving. He couldn’t go back to that house. He couldn’t face his father, and neither could he look at his mother’s face and pretend to be happy when she apologised and told him she loved him so dearly. It would be salt in wounds.
He headed down the street. It was cold; his coat wasn’t thick enough for December. The wind dragged its edges against his bare cheeks, and all he could do to protect his ears was pull the hood of his jumper over his head.
He felt nauseous. His insides screeched, but his voice didn’t work. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t scream. He felt tears on his cheeks, but he ignored them. He kept walking, but he didn’t actually know where to go. Everything was cold, and no matter where he went, he couldn’t forget any of it. His brain was a sledgehammer that pounded into the sides of his head. He stopped for a second on the edge of the pavement, sitting down, and fitting his head between his knees. He thought he was going to vomit again.
Where could he go? Zayn was probably busy, like always.
He couldn’t go home.