Idk I just felt the need to share this random picture with everyone since HARRYS SO FUCKING HOT OK plus he looks rlly daddy in this pic and I bet Louis has it taped above his bed and prays to it at night sometimes
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Harry's eyes are on him as soon as he rounds the corner, Louis can tell. He has that feeling again, that extra sense that he gets only whenever Harry looks at him. He tries to walk more regular and less lopsided since he knows Harry's watching and doesn't want him making any more assumptions about Louis' well-being that aren't really his business anyway. His football bag is slung over one of Harry's shoulders and his tennis shoes lay neatly in front of the door right next to where Harry is just standing there watching him. It makes him kind of fidgety and uncomfortable, but he finds a part of himself enjoying the attention. As he painfully bends over to grab his shoes, Louis notices at that how tiny they look next to Harry's feet, and glares down at his socks, scolding himself for being so small. It really doesn't do him any favors in life at all. Not yet, at least.
Louis leans against the wall to tug on his shoes after having to fold his body over in agonizing ways to reach. When he uprights, he smooths out his jersey and glances up at Harry expectantly, pretending as if the simple task of putting on shoes didn't totally just wreck him. Harry squints down at him and twirls his car keys around his finger before turning and opening the door, holding it for Louis and shutting it behind him as he leaves the boundaries of Harry's apartment. He still cannot believe that he spent the night in there -- slept in Harry's bed. He would've imagined doing that under different circumstances, which is both disappointing and...well, just plain disappointing honestly. Especially now that he gets a good look at Harry while he trails behind him on the way to the parking lot; he sees how his long legs stretch out in front of him, his hips moving with them under his loose sweatpants, unburdened arm swinging in sync with its corresponding leg. His torso seems long in the fitted shirt that displays his solidly muscled back and lean arms. Dark hair shines in the afternoon sunlight as they step outside, the ends coiled into perfect, natural curls that Louis just wants to get his fingers in and tug forever, see how Harry would react to the touch. He's just all long and fit and his stance embodies masculinity, and he's so Louis' type it's insane. If Louis could, he would be all over him, metaphorically and literally. There's so many things on his list to do to Harry: he wants to touch his hair and wear one of his many black t-shirts and sleep in his bed again, even if Harry himself wasn't in there with him, and kiss him. It's extremely frustrating how he can't do any of them.
If only they got along or something. It would even be a step up if they just didn't talk to each other at all, but of course, they have to have the most epic sometimes-love-but-mostly-hate relationship ever. Honestly, Louis agrees with a lot of the things Harry says, like his coaching advice and his more than impressive football knowledge, and also his team standards. The only part he doesn't agree with is Harry's need to control Louis' own personal decisions and the indignant stubbornness with which he does so. But he has seen that one side of Harry -- that one side that picks him up off the floor like he's done it a million times and wipes the blood from his cheeks and keeps his arms nice and secure around Louis as he carries him, just how he needs it to be, even there's no way Harry would know that. That one side that yells at the boy who beats Louis up just because. That one side that does everything out of his best interest, even if Louis' too stubborn to admit it. And it's that side of Harry that Louis knows he can always count on. He doesn't know why Harry does it that way, but he does, and Louis needs it -- he really does. More than he realizes, probably.
"Oof," Louis breathes as he suddenly walks straight into something incredibly solid, which turns out to be Harry's back, tipping backwards and stumbling to regain footing.
A hand shoots out and grips the front of his shirt tightly, pulling him back before he crashes all the way down. Louis looks up into the hard, bright, green eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed. His face only grows hotter when Harry keeps his hand fisted in Louis' shirt for an extra few seconds, looking back and forth between his eyes with that observing look he always gets. Louis' mouth is open like its urging him to say something, apologize, maybe, but he just stands there and stares back. Then, Harry releases his shirt and turns around to toss Louis' football bag in his back seat. Louis watches his arms flex as he shuts that door and opens another one, which happens to be the passenger door.
"Oh, um, thanks," Louis mutters, his face blooming pink.
Harry stands by his door while he limps into the passenger seat and then shuts it behind him after he's in. Something about Harry's old-fashioned, gentlemanly ways makes Louis feel a certain way. Like he wants to smile sweetly and thank him like a polite boy, but also get on his nerves a little to find out at what point Harry looses his manners and gets a little rough with him. Yeah, he definitely wants to do that.
He watches as Harry has to bend his long body to awkwardly fit inside the door of his car, but once he's in, he's fine. He fumbles and inevitably drops the keys, mumbles something, and finally starts the engine. Louis finds out that he likes watching people drive. As Harry braces his arm against the side of Louis' seat to glance behind him, ducks his head down to get a better angle, uses one large hand to maneuver the steering wheel, he deems it rather amusing and definitely not hard on the eyes, especially with the way Harry's muscles are flexing under his shirt. He only stops watching after Harry looks at him briefly, expression blank, and then he has to look away.
The ride there is quiet -- silent, actually. Neither of them makes a move to speak, so Louis just looks out the window at the wet, gray sky. It's quite humid, and he finds it very uncomfortable to be all squished up against the sticky leather of the car's interior. Especially since Harry doesn't seem to be aware of the existence of air conditioning. He's glad that the ride is short, because it was getting awkward. He doesn't think Harry paid attention to that really though. They're parked in probably the closest spot to the building as possible when they get to Louis' complex. The keys jingle in Harry's hand as he steps out of the car. As nimbly as he can, Louis turns and shoves the door open, planning on getting out of the car all on his own, until he hears an "oof", and the door hits something and bounces back shut.
"Oh, sorry," Louis says, looking innocently out the window at Harry, who's glaring down at him and rubbing his arm.
Harry just pulls his door open again and holds his hand out, eyes squinting down at him. Louis feels slightly embarrassed, but grips Harry's palm anyway, which, might he add, is so large that his hand almost doesn't wrap all the way around, and lets himself be carefully hoisted out of the car. Harry's fingertips lay lightly on his hip as he gets out, as if to stabilize him when really it's nothing more than a touch. Louis' chest gets tingly at that. He tries not to think too much about it.
Harry shuts the door and releases Louis, his hand falling from his hip and coming to grab his bag from the back seat. After that, he follows behind Harry as he walks -- a little slowly, on purpose, so Louis isn't left behind, limping pathetically -- towards the complex. He feels like he's able to stand up a little straighter than before, and like there aren't invisible hands pressing viciously down on every single spot where it hurts the most. The pain is still present, but not as prominent as it was before. The only thing that really bothers him is that his knee is still sore, just as bad as it was right after it was injured the first time, and something about that pisses him off. Maybe he's angry at his body for not being able to take it, or maybe at people for hurting him all the time. He isn't sure.
Louis looks up right before he's about to bump face first into Harry's shoulder as he's thrusting the door open for them. He stops just in time, and as Harry waits by the door for him to go in, he glances down at Louis suspiciously.
"Why're you always scowling and running into stuff?" He mutters, nose just barely scrunched up and the signature, confused crease present between his eyebrows. Louis' heart does a jump.
He answers by frowning some more as he -- God bless -- makes it through the door, finally. Harry stays behind him as he leads the way to his apartment, even though he probably remembers where it is from last time he was there.
Louis is grateful his apartment is first floor so he doesn't have to go up stairs or wait silently in an elevator with Harry, because he doesn't really need any unnecessary awkwardness right now. When they're almost there, he reminds Harry over his shoulder that his key is in the front pocket of his bag and tries not to pay attention to how his small fingers and Harry's long ones brush as he hands the key over.
Once they're at his apartment, Louis shuffles up to the door and twists the key in, feeling Harry's presence close behind him. He swallows and fights the shivers that crawl down his spine. This is usually the part where they separate. He really isn't sure what he should say, because he's half way between thanking Harry and telling him to get out of his business. The thing that drives him to a decision, though, is the memories of those moments in the locker room. That feeling of complete, overwhelming safeness he felt when Harry came and saved him, when those attentive, careful hands touched him gently and when those nice lips formed nice words, and those strong arms secure around his body and nothing could hurt him. His body was completely submissive to Harry in those moments, vulnerable, as were his emotions, too. And that's--that's hard. Louis can't even do that with Liam, never has, never tried to; and Liam's literally the only person he has. So that has to mean something, doesn't it? Maybe he shouldn't burn this bridge quite yet.
"Um," he starts, pausing with the key in the door. "Thanks for...helping me out, you know, uh."
He gulps around the nervousness in his throat and stares at the door in front of his face, not daring to turn around and face Harry.
"I--that's never happened, like, that badly and I'm--I'm glad you...found me and all. Just, um," Louis catches himself as he's about to go off and tell Harry that next time, he can handle it on his own and doesn't need to be babysat. But for some reason, he feels guilty already, and he didn't even say it.
Louis pivots so that his back is propped against the wall and blinks up at Harry, who is standing idly in front of him, one hand clamped around the shoulder of Louis' bag and the other hanging openly at his side. He looks uncertain, like he doesn't know how to react to what Louis' is saying, but he also looks so much more desirable than before, standing right there in front of Louis' apartment, and Louis wants nothing more than to just yank him from the front of his stupid, tight shirt straight through the door with him.
"I appreciate it," he finishes, a bit quieter than he would've hoped, but he tilts his chin up confidently and stares Harry straight in his wary, green eyes.
Harry's throat bobs and his mouth twitches, but his gaze remains locked on Louis, his posture still stiff.
"Yeah, you're, um. You're welcome," Harry replies, his voice sounding deeper and slower than usual.
Louis nods at the floor and endures a few seconds of slightly tense, slightly electric silence between them while deciding what to do next. Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait for very long, because Harry's arm is now reaching past him to grip the doorknob and he's all in Louis' space, towering and long as usual, and smelling like Harry.
"May I?"
Harry's looking down at Louis expectantly, his body paused in its stretch right above his shoulder. Louis doesn't know what he's asking exactly, but he nods frozenly and shuffles aside. Harry turns the handle and thrusts the door open, bracing his arm against it to allow Louis to enter first. After a short hesitation, Louis limps into his apartment and looks back when he hears the click of the door closing behind him. And now, right in the middle of his kitchen stands Harry, Louis' bag hanging from one hand and his keys dangling from the other. He looks so out of place there, and Louis isn't used to seeing anyone over six feet tall standing in his living quarters, or anyone that attractive, either.
"Um, this is my apartment," Louis says for absolutely no reason at all, and looks away from Harry embarrassedly, who is casting fleeting glances around the room.
It makes Louis a little nervous and paranoid that his place looks like a dump or something. Which it doesn't. The only thing he sees that is a bit humiliating is a pair of to-be-ironed black skinnies draped over an armchair. Harry's never seen him in anything but a uniform and cleats, and it feels strange to give him an idea of how he dresses when he's not on the field.
"'S nice," Harry mumbles, and drops Louis' bag to the tile floor.
Louis shifts his weight to level out the dull but constant pain in his legs and watches Harry take in his apartment. He wonders why he even came inside in the first place. But hey, no harm. Especially when Harry starts making his way across the kitchen towards Louis in his long strides, his eyes still wandering around the new space but his movement unwavering. When directs his stare straight over Louis' left shoulder and brushes past him with a steadying hand to the shoulder is when it's obvious that his intentions were different than Louis was hoping. Louis swivels around and watches Harry lean down to grasp a photo frame that was sitting on a table beside the couch. Louis tenses.
"This your mum?"
He lets himself glance at the picture once and then looks back at his shoes.
"Mhm," is all he says, hoping Harry will dismiss the subject at that.
He holds the frame near his face for a few moments, the squinty look returned to his concentrated features, and Louis can tell he's studying the photo closely. It makes him nervous, and he can't keep his eyes away from Harry as he scrutinizes the picture for more than a second. He's just about to mention something else to avert Harry's attention, and furthermore the questions that he's imminent to ask, when he sets the object carefully back in its place and turns around, focus directed now solely on Louis, awakening the familiar feeling of excited anxiety in his bones. There's a short pause between them where harry is staring and Louis is waiting.
"You look like her, you know."
Louis blinks, surprised by the statement. His eyes narrow into his default expression of distaste at the mention of him and his mother in the same sentence. He then realizes that his instinctive mistake has probably clued Harry into the fact that his relationship with his mother is not settled well, but he notices no shift in Harry's body language other than a brief twitch of the eyebrows signifying either confusion or realization. Harry begins to step forward again, but this time his attention doesn't stray from Louis, careful green stare directed straight at him. Louis feels cautious, but knows that in reality whatever Harry is doing, he isn't scared of it one bit.
"It's in the eyes," Harry adds quietly, calmly observing Louis' features. "Nice blue."
Louis swallows and blinks up at Harry, watching him closely. He knows he and his mother look alike, as much as he wishes they didn't. He wishes there wasn't a trace of her in his body, in his personality, but he knows there is, and it sickens him. He doesn't want to be like that, like her.
"But those cheekbones, your lips, eyebrows, those aren't hers. Those are something else, Louis," Harry mumbles, eyes flicking down from Louis' face and back up again. His chest feels hot.
Something about the fact that Harry notices those things about him, cares enough to at least pay attention to the small things feels good. He likes it, a lot, and wants more of it. More of Harry's attention. None if it makes sense.
"There's practice in three days, since you have a long weekend. I hope I won't see you there, unless you're on the bench."
Louis' is a little too distracted to fully register what he's being told, so he finds himself nodding in agreement.
"Kay," he says passively, chewing his lip.
He suddenly feels the weight of Harry's hand on his shoulder, fingertips pressing gently into his skin through his jersey. He leans forward and looks Louis straight in the eyes, almost like a mother would while scolding her child, as if to emphasize the point, except when Harry does it, it feels way different than being scolded.
"I dunno how many times I'll have to say this to you," Harry starts in his drawn-out, low voice. "Be careful, Louis. I mean it."
And Louis believes him, he can tell Harry means it because when he says it like that, firm and clear, he sounds like he does.
The hand drops from his shoulder and now Louis is watching Harry's back as he heads towards the front door, twisting the knob and opening it half way. Louis just stands there, unsure of what he should do. Should he say something? But what are you even supposed to say in this situation? After your coach just rescued you and took you to the hospital, and you then proceeded to stay the night at their apartment, in their bed, whilst secretly wanting to kiss them the entire time? "Kay thanks, see ya later!" "Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed, it was great, too bad you weren't there!" He's panicking, because he doesn't know what to say but feels like he should say something at least, and Harry is almost out the door by now.
"Harry," Louis blurts out last minute, finally figuring out what he needs to do.
Harry turns around, one eyebrow raised expectantly and his bottom lip between his teeth, one hand running through his hair and securing it behind his ear.
"Hm?"
"Um, don't tell Liam, okay?"
Harry's eyebrows scrunch together in the middle and he stares at Louis for a second, paused half way out the door.
"Yeah, okay. I won't."
The door shuts and it gets quiet. Louis closes his eyes and wonders how in the world he is ever supposed to get himself out of this.