During the game, he’d glanced around in panic, watching for signs that his teammates, Coach, the crowd… anyone had seen that kiss. It seemed no one apart from Ed. None of his teammates mentioned a thing, and there were no odd looks finding him across the bus aisle apart from Ed’s. Yet every single glance from his red-headed teammate made Harry falter in his movements.
His stomach hurt. His lips still felt the soft touch of Louis’.
They got back to Doncaster, and Harry staggered out of the bus and into his Rover. He’d hugged the players and told them how splendidly they’d all performed that night as if in a trance. But when Ed had reached him, Harry had hesitated. Ed paid it no mind, only hugged him briefly, patting his back and mumbling, “I won’t say anything” into his ear so quietly Harry felt his breath tickle his curls.
The shock was starting to settle by the time he parked the Rover outside his house.
That kiss meant something. It did, and there was no way around it.
His mother and father were sitting in the living room as he strode into the house. They were focused on a piece of paper, his mother holding a pencil as they both stared at some sort of list with deep frowns. They hardly noticed him as he walked into the house, stuck in his wreckage of a head. He found his way upstairs and collapsed on the bed. They’d just made it to the Championship final, but football had ceased to exist.
For a good hour, he did nothing. Felt nothing. But once his eye-line had touched upon every inch of the ceiling, that strange, restless feeling in his bones arrived. It always came, at home alone. It didn’t seem anything could hinder it.
He lifted his phone and stared at the endless stream of nightly texts between himself and Louis.
Louis: coming over?
Harry: yes!
Louis: you can come if you want
Harry: coming
Louis: you can come now
Harry: yes daddy
Louis: for fuck’s sake harry I swear to god
Harry: jk im on my way
Harry: …daddy
Harry didn’t eat dinner. Didn’t fuel up and reload his body after training as he should’ve. He stayed in his bedroom. He stared at his phone for so long that his neck ached from the position he was curled in. He fell asleep at some point, and when he woke up it was dark outside. The light of street lamps shone in through the window.
He groaned and sat up, a little disarrayed. He looked around, blinking heavily at the room around him. His phone rested right by his pillow. Harry picked it up, and the screen flashed brightly. It was empty. It was two-thirty AM.
Louis hadn’t texted. But then again, neither had Harry.
Déjà vu came and faded; this was different.
Questions irked him all night, and when he woke up, he had no answers. The evening before still tumbled within him, and even though he’d had hours to process, it wasn’t easy to grasp hold of much.
It felt wrong, waking up alone, and having breakfast by himself. Normally, he’d be having tea with Lottie by now, and then in a few minutes’ time, he’d sneak back to Louis in bed. Instead, he was sitting alone in a clean, empty kitchen, staring at a piece of toast on the table. It was difficult to chew. He wondered whether Louis was munching down cereal at this moment, or if swallowing hurt his throat just as much.
Louis. He loved Louis. His Louis.
Harry knew that a big part of him hadn’t been scared to be out for some time. His family all knew, and his best friends knew. Louis’ bloody neighbour knew. So, Jasmine no longer frightened him in the same way she’d used to. But her face lingered between the cracks. Her words from the past were electrical eels shooting out of crevices and hidden places. She hadn’t done anything about her threats, but the emotional calamity they had caused persisted.
If she ever outed him, it would be done with malice, to hurt him. As if being gay could be turned against someone, just like that.
Louis, though… His Louis. His charming, wonderful, golden human being, who’d stood on a bed and danced to fucking 50 Cent only to make him smile… He had kissed him in front of everyone. In front of their team, the crowd, and people they didn’t know, and it had frightened him more than he would’ve ever thought. He’d been so occupied loving Louis that he’d forgotten to deal with the damage and wounds left by Jasmine.
But Louis wasn’t scary, he reminded himself. Louis was warm, a fire pit of passion, and when under his wing all you wanted was to stay there. Louis wasn’t out to hurt him; was putting himself on the line, too.
For what? For love?
He didn’t dare believe it. Was it a moment of ecstasy and amnesia, spiked by a shot of adrenaline, then?
He got into the car, in a mental limbo of fear and loving Louis.
Harry arrived at school, parked, and dragged his steps towards the first class. He knew he was in it, but his mind boxed it up with duct tape.
He didn’t know what would happen, but he couldn’t bear the anxiety his raging thoughts provided. He was used to feeling worried walking into school, but he’d never been as concerned when it came to Louis. Now, he suddenly didn’t know where they stood.
That kiss… It meant something. But what? Louis had disappeared so quickly, making it difficult to know what he’d say today. Were they going to ignore it, and go back to normal? Would they actually… talk about it? And if they did, was Harry finally going to tell him how he felt?
He reached the classroom, but before stepping inside he took a deep breath. He inhaled through his nose and released from his mouth. He took five steps, and then he was inside. He abruptly stopped. Louis was already sitting at his desk. He wore track bottoms and a white t-shirt, and it was nothing out of the ordinary. But he looked down.
When they saw each other at school, they’d smile. Just an inch. Or raise a brow followed by a smirk, private and covert. However, as Harry walked in that morning, their gazes catching, Louis’ eyes instantly dropped to his desk. No smile, no greeting, no nothing. His blue eyes were simply gone.
Oh, thought Harry. Oh.
He averted his eyes and walked to an empty table, as far from Louis as possible. He felt his insides crumple, but he couldn’t let it show. Not there, not in front of everyone.
What was happening right now?
Harry stared at the top of his desk. The class began around him, but he saw only pencil marks and scratches.
In the midst of his own confusion, he had forgotten to truly consider what Louis had been thinking last night.
Louis had disappeared awfully quickly after the match. Harry couldn’t even catch his eyes on the pitch. And he knew he’d been in a state of full shock, utterly unresponsive, but Louis had barely allowed him the opportunity to follow up. Had Louis even wanted to give him a chance to sort it all out?
Did he … regret it? Did he regret kissing Harry like that?
The thought… It hurt.
Louis could have brushed it off. Adrenaline. A spur of the moment. Instead, he had fled the scene so quickly that Harry hadn’t even had a minute to talk to him. Had he escaped because he didn’t want to hear it? Harry’s real feelings?
Oh.
He’d taken off because he didn’t want to hear Harry say how much he loved him.
Was the kiss so bad that they couldn’t even forget about it and move on? And if Louis regretted it… what else did he regret?
Shut up, Harry commanded himself. He needed his brain to shut the fuck up. Just SHUT UP.
He stared at the whiteboard on the wall, and refused to let his eyes stray to the boy with the caramel hair and the hands that cradled his heart. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him again, frightened to death he would get the same reaction as the first time.
When class ended, Louis walked out without a look back.
Harry avoided him for the rest of the day, unease tangling in the middle of his gut, but it later became clear that Louis was avoiding him just as much. When he strode into the locker room, Harry was already inside. The rest of the team surrounded them, and Louis didn’t glance an inch in his direction. Once training started, he took charge and didn’t consult Harry.
Why would he? Harry feebly tried to tell himself. It was a Monday, one of Louis’ days. So, why would he? Just because they’d laid in bed, talking about the Championship final for hours just a few days ago, it didn’t mean that Louis had to consult him on his training sessions the days leading up to it.
They hadn’t even celebrated the win together. They hadn’t kissed in Louis’ room, Harry hadn’t complimented Louis’ right foot, and Louis hadn’t told him his free kick in the first half of the match would’ve gone in if it hadn’t been for that twat of a keeper. They hadn’t told each other how fucking great they were as co-captains.
After training, Harry walked to the Rover in a hurry, fighting not to cry.
He didn’t sleep well that night. Louis didn’t call. And in return, Harry didn’t text him.
Tuesday — a copy of Monday. Harry felt as though his soul shrivelled up and died, little by little, every minute in Louis’ presence. His brain slashed knife-like thoughts over and over in attempts to kill him.
Wednesday, he tried his best not to show how much it hurt seeing Louis walk into the locker room, pull his cleats on, and pretend Harry wasn’t at an arm’s length away, yearning to hold him.
Thursday, he forced himself to ignore Louis Tomlinson completely, and not cry like an absolute fool in the Rover on the way home from school. It didn’t work out.
That Friday, just five days after the semi-final, there was a party. It was at Jasmine’s house.
“No,” said Harry, firmly. He’d had too many beers, and Zayn was standing in front of him with pleading, drunk, much too persuasive eyes.
“Yes, Harry!” he shouted. “Come on! You don’t even have to talk to her. You won’t see her.”
“It’s at her house.”
They were in Zayn’s room, a few cans of beer already emptied and standing on his desk. Harry shook his head, curls flying across his forehead.
“So what, man? Everybody knows you’re gay anyway.”
“They do?”
“No, but as you said, the people who matter.” He pointed to himself.
Harry swallowed down another sip of beer. He didn’t want to see Jas, and he couldn’t exactly go to her house and expect to enjoy her party without her presence. He was sitting on Zayn’s bed, his head leaning against the wall.
“Why’re you stressing me?” he asked. “I just want to get drunk.”
“Alone? Only the two of us?” He raised a pitying brow. “That’s just sad, mate.”
“I don’t want to!” he exclaimed. “Go if you want, but I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are!” Zayn sat down on the bed. “Why is she still bothering you? She said she wanted to apologise, no?”
Harry stared at nothing. His eyes itched a little.
“Unless…” His friend, eyes intensely brown and lashes remarkably long, watched him quizzically. “This isn’t so much about her, as it is about Tomlinson.”
Harry sent him a glare from the corner of his eye. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t know how he could deny it.
“Harry… You need to stop thinking.”
“I can’t.” Everything hurt.
“Yes, you can,” he retorted decisively.
Harry squinted at him through the drunken haze. “Was it a mistake?”
“What?”
“Me, being with Louis at all. Should I just have broken it off? You said you thought it was a mistake, so tell me now, was it?”
Zayn sighed, frowning at him. He was perched on the edge of the bed, his thigh grazing Harry’s right foot. “I don’t believe that anymore.”
Harry’s face scrunched up in a scowl. “Why?”
“Because of how happy you’ve been these last few months. You’ve been a lot more chill lately… except for when you’re freaking out about whatever he said, or did, and what it means.”
Harry huffed. He took another sip from his beer. “So, it wasn’t a mistake?”
“I think you can work it out. As Liam said, he thinks Louis is in love with you, too.”
“As if he’d actually know!”
“They’re mates, too, you know.”
Harry didn’t answer.
“Harry… The last time I talked to him, he genuinely apologised.” Harry looked up at Zayn’s words. This was the first he’d heard of it. “He apologised for being rude to me, said he was frustrated with his friendship with Niall.”
Confused, he whispered, “When was this?”
“Like, last week? Anyway… I said he was in love with you. To him. I said, ‘You’re properly in love with him, aren’t you?’” Zayn grabbed his leg, squeezing. “He didn’t deny it.”
Harry stared, mouth almost falling open. “Are you sure?”
Zayn nodded. “I’m sure. And Liam’s sure, too!”
It certainly didn’t feel like it was the truth. It was like Zayn and Liam’s words came from a different world, unable to penetrate Harry’s atmosphere. If Louis loved him, what the hell was going on right now? Why did he regret the kiss so much? Why had he refused to look at Harry in class? Had Harry done something so completely unforgivable to fuck it all up in the span of a few days? He didn’t understand.
Was the kiss just happiness and adrenaline combined? Or was it actually a confession of love?
If it was a question of love… then Harry had failed to answer. He’d failed to reciprocate. He’d given Louis nothing when he was expected to answer.
And there was only one answer. It was I’m so fucked-in-the-head in love with you, and Harry would scream it. If Louis wanted to hear it, Harry’d howl it at the moon. He’d whisper it into the curve of his shoulder, paint them atop the goosebumps on Louis’ back, and bite them into his lips. Then, every day he’d snog Louis’ face off in front of the entire planet. He would ignore refs, players, and crowds, only to hold him. He’d rather feel the press of Louis’ lips against his own, than the touch of clean-cut, fresh summer grass under footie boots.
If he simply could know that that’s what Louis wanted, Harry would do it. He’d want to do it, if he just knew that Louis was in his corner, holding his hand through it.
“Just come. Come to the party. You deserve to have some fun. If you want, we’ll just ignore Louis and Jas, and have a good time.”
“No.” He wasn’t going.
Half an hour later he was standing on Jas’ second floor, drunkenly playing beer pong in the space next to the stairs.
Zayn had made him drink two more beers on their walk over, and even the cold hadn’t been able to sober him up. As they’d walked into the house, Harry solidly ignored every memory that fiercely launched at him. He omitted the kitchen that looked familiar, the hallway he knew led to Jas’ bedroom, and the sofa that he had once kissed her on. He’d followed Zayn upstairs, and let himself be pulled into a round of beer pong, which he gladly lost on a mission to further inebriation.
They ended up playing for so long that Harry more or less began to forget in whose house he was standing. Zayn, who reeled in anyone in the room who wanted to play, challenged Harry and Ed to round after round. Harry knew he was trying to distract him, and it was working.
Lee, who’d happened to be in Zayn’s proximity before the latest turn, pelted the ball into the cup in front of Harry so hard it jostled and fell backward into his stomach, covering his shirt in beer.
Harry stared down at it. “That shot doesn’t count.”
Zayn and Lee didn’t agree. Ed pulled at Harry’s shirt and began wringing it, and warm beer dripped down onto the table and slid disgustingly down Harry’s stomach. He honestly felt like convulsing at the feeling of it. That, and the constant nausea he’d felt over the past week, was verging on too much. He arched a brow at his wrinkled and wet shirt. He slowly and deliberately twisted it up and pressed the fabric into its own neckline.
“Well, then I suppose this one counts, too,” he asserted, and subsequently launched the ping-pong ball at the last cup standing on the other side. It hit straight on, and the cup fell over, flushing beer down on Zayn and Lee’s shoes. Ed jumped up and down dramatically, calling out victoriously at the impressive shot. Harry grinned at his friend on the other side of the table.
Zayn squinted at him, shaking his head. “Nice bikini.”
“Thank you.”
Zayn grinned with warmth, clearly happy to see him smiling.