After practice, Harry went home, showered, and momentarily contemplated asking his parents to watch the semi-final that Sunday. Louis’ words of advice echoed in his mind, but he felt resistance battle his small set of encouraged thoughts. What if they simply said no? Or what if they said maybe, and then didn’t show? Perhaps he was better off not knowing the result. Maybe it was better to protect his heart from further injury.
As he met his mum in the kitchen, he contemplated asking her one more time.
“What’s up, dear?” she asked, looking up from her iPad where she leaned against the worktop. She wore jeans and a black blouse, and dark curls framed her face delicately. Harry looked down at his feet, realising the two of them had dressed very similarly. He also wore light blue jeans, fashioned with a black t-shirt and sneakers. He held on to his navy hoodie, fingers cramping around the material at his stomach.
“Um, I’m staying with Louis this weekend.”
“Oh?” She didn’t look horror-stricken, or repulsed by the idea. She looked composed, like she didn’t mind it so much. Harry hoped that was what she felt. “I hope I’ll see you Sunday evening then, before bedtime.”
It was the perfect opportunity to tell her about the match, and ask her to come.
“Me, too,” he mumbled instead, grabbed his bag off the floor, and strode out into the living room, through the hallway, and out the front door.
In the car, he wondered if he’d done the right thing or not. By the time he reached Louis’ house, he still didn’t know.
He parked on the street in front, grabbed his bag, and trudged up the small path to Louis’ stone porch. Someone had planted a purple flower in a huge pot that hadn’t been there the other day, but Harry kind of liked the colour. He knocked on the door and waited a good three minutes before it swung open.
There, he stood. In black shorts and a white t-shirt. He wore sports socks, and his hair looked damp from his shower still.
“You could just walk in, you know,” he said. “We’re alone.”
A smile started to grow on Harry’s lips. “We’re alone,” he repeated slowly.
Louis rolled his eyes, but he was grinning, too, as he turned around and walked into the house. “Don’t get any ideas now.”
Harry closed the door behind him and stepped out of his shoes. He left them on the doormat, knowing there was no need to hide them tonight. “I’ve always got ideas. Thought you knew that by now.”
“I’m well aware. That’s why I said it.”
“But now I can’t think of anything other than those ideas.” He followed Louis into the living room, watched him fall down on the worn leather sofa, and decided to follow his lead. He crammed himself in between him and the back of it.
“Feeling right at home, aren’t you,” huffed Louis, grabbing Harry’s arm not to fall over the edge.
He felt Louis’ shoulder press uncomfortably against his cheek, but could only delight in the position he found himself in. Louis smelled great, as per usual. “You invited me, remember?”
“Did I say you could steal my spot on the sofa?”
Harry looked at Louis’ jaw as he spoke. “You never complain when I touch you…”
Louis was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said thoughtfully, and it sounded as if he agreed.
Harry’s face shaped into a smile on its own accord, and his hand moved to Louis’ hip. Ever so lightly, he let them sneak under the hem of his shirt, touching the skin underneath, following the line of his trousers until he reached the middle. He felt Louis’ stomach move underneath his fingers. There, below his belly button, the small hairs were soft. He didn’t move as Harry’s fingers tenderly ran over his skin, the hairs gently folding underneath as they went.
He pressed his nose into Louis’ shoulder, the fabric touching his lips and the scent of laundry detergent brushing over him with each inhale. “What are you thinking of right now…?” he murmured.
He wanted to know what Louis thought when Harry was cradled by his side, when his fingers touched his skin, and when their breathing aligned just like this. Was he thinking that they should be together, for real? Harry was thinking that. He was thinking it every moment they were wrapped around one another. He should be mine, and I should be his. Why didn’t Louis just ask him to be his?
“I think…” Louis closed his eyes and swallowed. “Your hands are very long… and spindly.”
Harry exhaled a cackling laugh, surprised by the words.
“Why are you laughing?” He frowned, eyes still shut.
Harry shook his head, smiling. He kind of liked the comment. He glanced down at where his hand splayed over Louis’ stomach, deciding he liked the way it looked. It looked like it belonged there, like Louis was his to touch and no one else’s.
“To be fair, it’s really fuckin’ weird how someone can look so much like a frog, yet have such nice, un-froglike hands.”
“Hey. I don’t look like a frog…”
Louis grinned, and it looked sort of devilish for a second, but he seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say because the smile turned into something kinder. “Nah. I would take it as a compliment.”
Harry squinted. “Would you now?”
“Yes,” he nodded importantly.
Harry flattened his hand on Louis, deliberately letting his fingers just barely breach the top seam of his trousers. Louis squared back against the cushions as if he was making himself more comfortable. Harry removed his hand.
“Oi.”
“See.”
Louis opened his eyes. “See what?”
“See,” Harry repeated. “You’re thinking of your own ideas, too.”
He smirked. “I guess. You can put your hand back.”
“I didn’t come here to let you fuck me the whole weekend.”
“Wasn’t expecting it.”
Harry bit down a smile and placed his hand back on Louis’ stomach. His skin was warm, and Harry let his palm move upwards and flatten in the middle of his chest. His heart pounded strongly and evenly.
“Plus,” added Louis, “no sex before the big game is better, right?”
Harry wasn’t sure he agreed, but he certainly liked the idea of just hanging out with Louis for a whole weekend anyway. “What should we do tonight then?”
“I’m thinking… pizza. Beer. And movies.”
It sounded really, really good.
“Okay.” Harry smiled against Louis’ shirt. Louis closed his eyes again, and his right arm pressed around Harry’s waist, holding him closer. Harry rested on his side, cuddled against Louis’ body. He let his hand fall down to Louis’ trousers again. When Louis remained silent, he hooked his thumb under the lining of his boxers.
“What are you thinking?”
“Right now, I’m thinking about pizza.”
Harry looked up at his face, throat suddenly tight. “Louis…” I’m so fucking in love with you.
“What, love?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
Harry’s inhaled and was met by Louis’ blue, blue eyes. His heart stuttered.
“Erm… should we order now? The, er, pizza.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it had to do.
“Yeah, definitely.” Louis sat up and grabbed his phone from his pocket. Harry moved reluctantly. “I’m gonna’ have pepperoni, I think. Do you want the one with burrata and rocket again, or that god-awful one with courgette and bell-pepper? No, don’t say anything. You’re getting the rocket one. You didn’t like the garlic on the other one, right? Fuckin’ hell, it was bad. We’ll get the pepperoni and the rocket, and split it. Sound good, eh?”
Harry only nodded. It kind of baffled him how much Louis actually remembered. The boy by his side was so mum on his feelings and yet so open all at once. It wasn’t about what he said, it was about what he did. His actions did speak louder than words, and for the last few months, he had only done things that made Harry think it was possible he felt like Harry did. He didn’t dare decide for himself that Louis loved him, but hope was suddenly there. Perhaps Louis didn’t know that Harry loved him, but maybe he felt something.
Louis’ hand touched Harry’s curls momentarily, just behind his ear. “Hey? I’ll pick up the pizzas and you can choose the movie in the meantime, all right?”
Harry nodded again. If they were openly dating, they could go together, wait at the parlour holding hands, and share kisses on the pavement by the car. But they weren’t dating, and they weren’t out. So, he’d stay and choose the movie.
Louis left and returned only half an hour later. Harry had prepared plates and cutlery at the coffee table in front of the telly, and when Louis strode in, he was actually hungry. Louis instantly dropped the pizza on the table and flopped down on the sofa, thigh pressed right up against Harry’s, casual and relaxed.
Louis remained like that for the rest of the evening. Everything he did was with an air of off-handed confidence. He was so smooth and nonchalant in the way he pressed against Harry on the sofa, in how his hands occasionally touched Harry’s arm when he spoke, how easily he laughed, and how stupidly fit he looked as he arched his sarcastic brows and smirked as he looked at Harry’s face after he said something he didn’t particularly agree with. Harry realised that this was Louis’ real side. This was what he was like when he didn’t fight, when he wasn’t insulting anybody, when he didn’t feel cornered, or under pressure. This was Louis Tomlinson at ease.
Harry loved him more because of it. He loved the feeling of Louis’ hands, of his warmth, and mostly he loved the way Louis behaved like it was the most natural thing in the world that Harry should be wrapped under his arm as they watched a Disney animation on the telly. It felt real.
And when they finally went to bed, slipping in under the duvet after hours of just being next to each other, all Harry could think about was Manchester United Youth Academy. All he could think was that he had to get into Manchester, because if he didn’t, Harry would end up watching Louis slip through his fingers while he moved one-hundred-and-sixty-three miles from him.
Just the thought of it made him feel sick.