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.
"It's perfectly normal," he says, brushing his thumbs on Harry's skin. "Harry. Look at me baby," he pleads, and when Harry looks up at him he's overwhelmed by the blue in Louis' eyes that he just stops thinking for a second.
"Yeah," he whispers, lingering in the contact, even if they can't, not like this, where everybody could spot them.
"Don't be scared, Pup. If you're here it's because you can do what you must do."
"No, Lou, you don't understand," he stutters, taking a steady breath. "This is the Champions League, this is the fucking Champions League and I'm here instead of being sitting with Barbara on the stands and it's all fucked up and—"
Louis takes his face in his hands, and scrunches up his nose when he notices that Harry is shaking.
"No, Harry. No," he whispers, aligning their noses. "When the substitution board will show your jersey number and you'll step on the field you'll astonish everyone, yourself included. But not me, because I already know how amazing you are," he tells him, and Harry feels his heart racing.
Louis looks around quickly, then takes the sport bib from Harry's hands and puts it above their heads to cover the soft, lingering and stolen kiss he places on Harry's lips.
-
"Warm up."
Mourinho's words are dry and sharp. Harry quickly takes off his sweatshirt in which he was wrapped, to keep his body warm while sitting on the bench. He puts on the sport bib and stands up, starting his exercises along the touchline, giving quick glances at the players on the pitch and at the score board, that also tells in which minute of the match they're in. There are only twenty-five minutes left.
The board of course shows the score, too, so every time he looks up, that massive 1-1 threatens him, putting him under a lot more pressure than necessary. If it ends like this, Manchester United won't reach the semi-finals, because they lost the first leg to Lyon. They need to win, and they only need a goal to do just so.
The seconds pass, incredibly slowly. The team on the pitch is tired, stuck in a pernicious game. Louis' goal, at the start of the second half, that gave them some hope, had been equalised in the span of ten minutes, and the opponents look like they know what they're doing and are now playing definitely better than them.
While he jogs by the touchline, Harry meets Zayn's eyes and gives him an encouraging smile. Zayn was put in at the start of the second half, and still looks quite nervous, even if this is already his second match with the first team.
There are twenty-three minutes left. And then stoppage time. There are a lot of things you can do in twenty-three minutes plus stoppage time. But those twenty-three minutes are already twenty-two when Harry finishes his warming-up. Twenty-one, when he approaches the assistant referee, ready to be subbed in. Twenty, when finally the speaker announces that he's entering the pitch, and the tensed supporters clap cautiously and a bit reluctant.
Harry takes his position, just like Mourinho told him to, and he gestures to Louis, who gets close and grips his waist with one hand, rubbing his nose with the other one. "Lou, I'm on the half-way line, you and Zayn take the front."
Louis nods sharply and doesn't say anything, he gives him a powerful pat on the shoulder and then motions Zayn to swap positions.
Harry is fresh and responsive, fuelled by the tense waiting on the bench, by the need to do well, but it's difficult to integrate himself in the team, because his moves are neutralised by his own teammates, who are too tired to keep up with his passes, so they more than often end up losing possession of the ball. Harry could destroy the world, but even with all the enthusiasm he feels, he knows that his task is to build the game, to push his team forward, even if the slowness of the midfield makes them lose balance, and they end up giving the other team a lot of free kicks in the attempt to catch up.
There's not much time left, and Harry keeps thinking they need some kind of miracle to pass. Then suddenly, out of the blue, Zayn fetches a ball in their box and directly passes it to Harry.
Harry is startled for one moment, then he wriggles out easily from the pressing of one defender and he twirls on himself, but he doesn't find anybody to pass the ball to, half of his team still in their box after the free kick, still aligned in the defensive scheme. He needs to take a decision in the span of one second, so to take time he starts to run along the touchline, rushing like he never has, because the field in front of him turns into a meadow, and running is the only thing he can do, running and hoping somebody from his team will get the drift, will notice and follow him. He leaves behind all the opponent team's defenders and he reaches the box, and it's just him and the goalkeeper now, who looks at him with a challenging glare. The goalie surprisingly gets out of the box and comes towards him, aiming at his legs, in a desperate attempt to save the ball. Harry knows he's lost the moment. If he shoots now, he would straight hit the goalkeeper, if he waits, the goalkeeper would steal the ball, or at best he would tackle him and he would get a free kick. Not enough. If he tries to jump over him to reach the goal mouth he could risk to miss the net.
He reasons in the fraction of a nanosecond, and before the goalkeeper can cling at his shins, with a back-heel pass he sends the ball behind him, certain that Louis is there for him, ready to help him. Harry falls to the ground when the goalkeeper tackles him, but he looks up in time to see the ball ending up in the back on the net, before Louis throws himself on top of him, hugging him very tight and hiding his face in Harry's hair, leaving a secret kiss on his cheekbone.
"I knew it," he whispers in Harry's ear, before the whole team is piled up on them, celebrating the move that brings them to the semi-finals.
-
They didn't win the Champions League, but they still had a successful season, and Harry is proud of being part, even with a small role, of something so big.
He smoothes the fabric of his new white button-down, that fits him as a glove. He bought it with Louis, when they went shopping together for their outfits for the gala dinner for the end of the football season, last week.
Louis is getting dressed on the other side of the room, across the bed, still unmade, and Harry loses himself in watching every single one of his studied and measured movements. A giggle involuntarily escapes from his mouth, and that makes Louis look up wonderingly.
"What?" he asks with a smile.
Harry rolls onto the bed, risking to wrinkle his expensive new shirt.
"I was thinking," he says, standing up when he reaches the other side, "I had a conversation with Zayn and Liam ages ago about this dinner," he says, smiling as he gets closer to Louis with the purpose to tie his tie. He's very proud of his tying skills (pun not intended) and he wants to show off, even if Louis was the one to teach him.
"And they told me I couldn't be their guest because I would end up being yours," he adds, a smirk twitching his lips.
"Well, they foreshadowed it," says Louis, placing a kiss on his mouth as a thank you for the tie knot. "Perfect," he comments, tightening the tie to his neck. "Thank you, love."
"Well, it's not like we can actually act like each other's date," says Harry, clouding a bit. He always promises himself he won't make Louis feel bad for having to hide their relationship, but sometimes, in circumstances like this, he would just like to do normal things with his boyfriend, attend an event together, step out of the same car and hold hands, be papped by the club photographer, find the picture on the website of the team captioned in a true way. Yeah, he's always liked to dream, after all. Sometimes it's just harder to accept the reality.
"We can make up for it now," counters Louis, trapping him in his arms and starting to work with his mouth on Harry's neck. The bruise will take days to fade.
-
"I want that too, you know it," says Louis abruptly when they're in the car that is taking them to the restaurant where the event takes place.
Harry looks at him, from where he's nestled up in his chest, a silent question written on his face. What?
"To do this in the light of the day. You know it. But you also knew we had to wait," says Louis in frustration, taking Harry's hand and then dropping it. Harry steadies himself upright, looking at Louis' sad face. He hopes Louis knows he doesn't blame him at all. He's never blamed him for his choices.
"Lou, I'm not backtracking. It's just. Sometimes I wish it was easier," he admits.
"I know," sighs Louis, and then doesn't add anything, so Harry considers the conversation done. He stays silent and pensive for the rest of the journey, though, and harry doesn't ask.
They finally reach the place, and the driver leaves them in the parking lot, telling them that he will be here to pick them up at the end of the dinner.
Harry thanks him and goes to climb out of the car, but Louis stops him before he can do just so.
"Wait," he says, and then gets out and goes round the car to reach for Harry's door. He opens it, then offers Harry his arm.
"Babe what are you doing?" asks Harry bewildered, looking around suspiciously before hooking his arm with Louis'.
"The boyfriend," he says simply, and Harry feels his heart thump with love and fear, because saying it out loud, outside of the privacy of Louis' house, of Harry's room where Louis has to sneak in sometimes, feels risky and almost impudent, and so does walking like this, freely, so close to each other that if somebody spots them there will be a lot of questioning going on.
"Oi, get a room!" they hear a voice yell, as they walk gingerly on the path that leads to the restaurant, and Harry freezes, and feels Louis stiffen abruptly. They spin around and see just Niall and Barbara, walking quickly to catch up with them.
"Fuck off," laughs Louis, hitting Niall in the shoulder as they join them, while Harry brushes past them to hug Barbara.
"I'm so happy for you both," she whispers in his ear, and Harry can't do anything but beam at her, because, yeah. He is, too.
-
They're sitting at the same table with Mourinho and his wife, Nevan and his wife, and Niall and Barbara, and Harry feels a bit misplaced, and he wonders why anyone isn't questioning this seating arrangements, but. He's sitting next to his boyfriend, so he won't be the one to complain.
The team knows about them, but they're the only ones, so they still need to act quite inconspicuously. That doesn't stop Louis from hooking his leg around Harry's ankle or keep a steady hand on his thigh, though.
In the middle of the dinner Louis is hijacked by a journalist, who is going around together with a camera-man to interview the footballers for the channel of the club. Louis stands up and follows them, a couple of steps away, where Harry can still hear.
"Here we have Louis Tomlinson, the rumoured next captain of the team. How do you feel about the season that just ended?" she asks, shoving the microphone in Louis' face.
Louis frowns and then smiles, taking it in his hands.
"I think we achieved great results, and I'm proud of this club. I'm happy we're managing to build a solid team and integrate young and talented players," he declares, turning a bit to look proudly at Harry, who feels his stomach flutter with fondness.
"Do you think they will be our future?" asks the woman.
"Our present, our future," says Louis beaming happily at the camera.
"Do you think the future's bright?"
Harry catches Louis eyes and smiles encouragingly at him, giving him the thumbs up.
"I'm sure it is."
-
When Harry landed in Milan for the first time, holding his one-way ticket, and stepped out of the plane to stay, he didn't think that only two months later he would already be back in Manchester.
Yet there he is, in Old Trafford, that football pitch that he knows so, so well. That pitch that gave him so many memories, that consigned him to the real football, that hosted his debut. That turf that feels and smells so familiar, the stands, coloured in red and gold, that once felt like a hug, that well-known chant in his head and in his throat, that goes straight to his heart every time, even if it's not meant for him anymore.
When he landed in Milan, he promised to himself he would let time bury all the painful memories that Manchester gave him. And all the happy memories, too, because the happy memories are still hopelessly tied to the painful ones, and Harry can't let the sadness and the grudge of the most bitter and cold of the goodbyes ruin his football dreams, that have always come first.
That was before Louis, though. And now that he's gone from his life, football is back to being the most important thing.
They haven't met yet. It seems impossible that he still hasn't seen him after two days that they've been in Manchester. They even train at the Trafford Training Centre, because Manchester United is hosting them for the match. It looks like fate really meant it, when he took them away from each other, but Harry knows that the moment will come, and if it's not during a practice session in the training centre it will be in the tunnel, just before the start of the match, or on the pitch, when they'll face each other. He never imagined he would end up thinking something like this.
When Harry landed in Milan, he thought that he would never go back again to Manchester. That that story was over, done, fini, and if Louis was okay with that so would be Harry. If it was so easy for Louis, to forget about everything, maybe it was better things went this way, even if in the end it was always Harry the one to suffer.
He truly doesn't want Manchester to mean anything for him anymore, even if thinking this way feels like a stab in his heart. But if he does well in the Italian Serie A with Inter Milan, where he now plays on a temporary loan from Manchester United, they will pay the fee for a permanent transfer at the end of the season, and that's the only thing he wants right now.
Okay, it's not true. But with some effort he will get over it, he will be okay again. Because his dreams and ambitions are as important as Louis', and no, Louis, evidently they can't come true in Manchester. Or not yet.
Even if they eventually got their shit together, after dancing around each other for so long, and Harry thought he'd proven Louis how much he loves him, Louis, and Harry knows and understands that, wasn't ready to let him go, to let him do his things. Because while Harry was so used to that feeling of independence that tells you to go, to learn to fly, even if you don't know what the future stored for you, and it doesn't matter what you leave behind, Louis was different. Louis hates giving away the stability, the certainty that when everything is finally fine it will stay like that forever.
But fate is petty and mean, and Harry can't control it. That's why the Champions League draw saw Manchester United and Inter Milan, Harry's new team, in the same group stage, along with Dinamo Kiev and Anderlecht. And that's also why after only two months, Harry found himself, with his whole new team, on a plane headed to Manchester.
He doesn't know how Old Trafford, the supporters, will react to his presence on the field. They will boo him, probably. Honestly, he doesn't care that much, when there's something else that matters more. Because two months, he figured, are not enough to delete memories that leave such a mark on your life, people who you shared your space, your best moments, your thoughts, your deepest love with. Especially if among these people there is one Louis Tomlinson.
"It's weird, isn't it?" says nervously Nevan, who's sitting next to him on the plane, when they land in Manchester's airport. Just like Harry, he followed Mourinho to Inter Milan from Manchester United, when the coach decided to go back to manage the Italian club and asked some of his players to transfer and keep playing for him.
Nevan had been Manchester's captain for seven years, but he wanted to try a new adventure, and now he's dealing with a forced come back, different from Harry's, but just as painful.
To Harry, coming back feels like admitting that in that goodbye there were still too many things unsaid. Recognising those places, that look different to him, even if everything is exactly the same, like always, the stadium, the practice centre, the hallway that from the entrance leads to the gym, the fenced grounds outside, the offices, even passing by those closed door and feeling that even if Inter Milan is his family now, and it feels like it, makes him think that he still owes something to Manchester, to this place, and he's not sure it's only a last goodbye of closure, to be able to face the team as an enemy.
"Yeah, it's weird," he manages, sagging disconsolate into his seat. He's not ready.
-
The flat screen hung on a wall in the guests locker room at Old Trafford is showing a clip from Sky Sports of the arrival of Manchester United's coach in the stadium. Harry stops to stare at it while he's wearing his sweatshirt over his match shirt when he spots Louis getting off the bus and dashing inside the building, lowering his sunglasses on two tired and circled eyes and ignoring the journalists who were shoving the microphones in his face, trying to get a statement from him.
He feels a hand grabbing his shoulder and when he turns around he spots Mateo, his teammate, staring at him with a questioning glare and lips pursed together. Harry is happy to have at least someone who is kind of close to him and who knows the situation, because he tells everything to Mateo, but he answers with a shrug at his silent question, as to say he doesn't need to worry, it's fine.
Mateo is the first friend he made when he moved to Milan, apart from Nevan, but he already knew him from Manchester United so it doesn't really count. Mateo helped him with the language, he showed him around, he brought him to the best places in the town and he tried to make him feel less lonely. He's a good guy, and a good friend. He's not Louis, though. Because Harry is starting to realise no one could ever be what Louis has been to him.
And he thinks that maybe not everything is okay, that he's not strong enough for this, he's not ready to see him, to act like they've been nothing when they've had everything.
Mateo encompasses him into a hug when he sees that Harry's eyes are moist and red and he's about to cry, and gives him the chance to hide his weakness into the crook of his neck.
"I know it must be hard for you, Harry. What if you try and talk to him?" he whispers in his ear. "It can't be all lost."
"There wouldn't be—no. No, no, it's fine. It really is," he lies, even if he's shit at lying and everybody can read him like an open book. But he can't let this situation destabilise him, not when the only thing that matters now is playing. Play and win the match, and there's no room for tears and pain, he needs to keep it all inside.
He finally spots him, Louis, in the flesh, in the tunnel that leads to the pitch, in between Niall and Hernandez, jumping on his feet to warm up (and to get rid of the nervousness. Harry knows it's his thing, he always does it). Harry walks and his eyes persistently search for Louis', but the other boy seems to be ignoring him on purpose, while all of his ex-teammates come to him and hug him affectionately. Zayn engulfs his body, and this hug aches more than the others as both smile sadly into each other's neck.
"It will be so fucking hard playing against you Haz," whispers Zayn in his ear. Harry nods, sighing heavily. It's all too much for him. He needs to do well for his team, which is like family now, but he needs to go against his best mates and the team he's supported his whole life. He needs to play against Louis, to hope he does poorly, when he's been his number one fan since forever, despite all of that they've gone through.
But he also needs to do his best, to fight, even if he's spent his time in Manchester with Zayn and Liam, like the old days, even if he's met with Barbara and Niall, like those months haven't passed at all. He needs to put the love aside, to remember that his priorities are now different, that he must put his new team, his career, before everything else, and he's always thought he was good at this, he's thought of this when he left Manchester to pursue his dreams, because of football, because football came before everything else. He's not sure of this anymore, not when he's forced to look at Louis and remember all the things they had.
Niall comes close to him, too, and grabs his shoulder, tight, without showing any sign of resentment. Harry is happy that at least someone doesn't blame him for what he's done, even if Niall is friends with Louis and surely even if he doesn't show it must side with Louis on this whole story.
"You're doing great things Haz, but we miss you so much. Barbara always talks about you," he smiles, with a proud edge in his eyes.
"And what about him?" asks Harry, his voice a tremble. Niall twitches his mouth, grimacing in excuse and then comes closer and hugs him in comfort.
Louis is still fidgeting and looking around nervously, avoiding with mastery Harry's eyes, while he fixes the captain's armband, that he's inherited from Nevan, on his bicep. There's a moment when Harry's almost sure he was casting him a look, but when he looks up Louis is back to feigning Harry is not even there. Instead he goes to Nevan with a challenging attitude and greets him cheerfully and unnecessarily loudly. Harry sees him standing on his tippy-toes to reach and hug the former Manchester captain and his stomach cringes hard, and hurts, when he sees him turn to joke with Mateo on who's going to score first.
And Harry crumbles inside, because he can't. Because one thing is not seeing him, not having the constant reminder in front of his eyes, but another is feeling Louis' presence around and not being able to touch, to reach out, to hide into his arms.
"Lou," he whispers, with his heart in his throat. He tries to get closer, even if he wouldn't know how to approach him, what to tell him, but the referee urges them to enter the pitch, and he loses his moment, once again.
-
"Look at this!" snorts Louis, wielding a copy of The Guardian with an exasperated face.
It's lunchtime, but they just had breakfast. The mugs are hanging in the balance on the handle of the sofa and Louis' cereal bowl is masterfully stuck between two seats, at the risk of falling to the ground and making a lake of chocolate milk on the wooden floor. Louis will never take that to the kitchen, though, because that would mean leaving the warmth and comfort of the couch and he can't do that on a Monday, because Monday it's the day after the match and it's supposed to be spent lazing on a couch.
Every Monday he kisses Harry good morning and steps out of bed first, muttering unintelligible words. He plops down on the couch, turning on the flat screen on the sport news he won't watch, and starts reading the sport columns of the newspaper with the report of the match, commenting every news in a loud voice.
Then Harry comes into the room, setting the breakfast tray on the coffee table and taking possession of the remote, because "I know we're footballers, but why can't we watch, like, a cooking show for once?" surrendering after a few seconds to Louis' stern glare, because "I don't take orders from someone who only got an 'acceptable display of football' mention from The Mirror"
Mondays were nice if they won on Sunday, because you felt all satisfied and relaxed. Harry thought Mondays were nice even when they lost, because spending the whole day cuddling in bed with Louis, making love and doing nothing made him feel satisfied and relaxed too.
This morning Harry doesn't feel relaxed, though. He feels like he's swallowed a bunch of rocks and now they're all in his stomach.
"I'll spare you the read, It says that Mourinho wants to bring you with him to Inter Milan and they made a 20 million pounds bid. The league is definitely almost over, seeing how they start making up shit just because they don't know what to write," he rolls his eyes.
Harry nods hurriedly, turning away to avoid Louis' angry look, feigning interest for the news on the screen when he feels his cheeks and his ears turn red.
Louis doesn't miss his embarrassment, though. He squints his eyes scanning him in confusion and then breaks the silence.
"It's bullshit, right?" he says, with a coldness in his smile Harry doesn't recognise.
-
Harry thought he would have spent his last months in Manchester with Louis before moving to Milan. He thought they would have gone on holiday, just the two of them, somewhere private and far away from the spotlight, because nobody knew about them, yet. They could have gone to some sea place, somewhere warm, rent a small house in a nice area and spend some quiet weeks together, before Harry had to leave. Then when the football season started Harry would jump on the first jet to Manchester at the end of every match, even if it was only for one day, just to see Louis, or Louis could come to Milan sometimes, and they could explore together or just spend their day off in bed, and they would spend the whole week waiting for that moment.
It wasn't thrilling, and it wasn't the best option ever. It's not like they wouldn't have missed each other or that distance was easy to keep the relationship going, but what could Harry do? He really didn't have many alternatives, not after Johnson, the new Manchester United coach, made clear that Harry wasn't part of his project and if he wanted to stay he would have to get used to sit on the bench and fight hard to even get the chance to play. How could Harry be okay with that? He needed to play, to grow up without this kind of pressure, to be trusted even if he made mistakes, because he still needed to shape himself as a footballer. That's when Mourinho came to his aid, asking him if he wanted to move to Inter Milan with him, and the club assured him he would get his space and they would give him time because they were trying to build a team of young promises. It was probably a bit selfish of him, but Louis had been selfish, as well. He didn't even try to understand, to try and make it work, he just got angry, he told Harry that he couldn't believe he didn't talk to him about this, he was planning on leaving him, he gave him the coldest and most disappointed stare Harry has ever received. And Harry knows he has betrayed him, and he feels bad, because he knows how much Louis is reluctant to give his trust to people, and he sees that he has kind of destroyed it for himself. But he didn't exactly try to stop him, when he got on that one way flight to Milan. He didn't follow him to the airport, he didn't ask him to stay, to do it for him. He just yelled at him, saying that if it was so easy for Harry he would make it easier by asking him to disappear, to go away, to leave him alone, when Harry needed his advice and his support the most. As if it wasn't hard enough, having to leave Manchester, having to leave Louis, the most important and steady presence in his life.
-
Louis couldn't believe Harry didn't talk to him about the possibility to move from Manchester United to another team. To another country. Hell, he didn't even think Harry had ever thought about the possibility to go away, how could he? He thought Harry was happy in Manchester, now that he had made it to the first team, that him and Louis got their shit together. Louis thought it was only the start, that there were only better things waiting for them.
It looks like he was wrong, though. He thought it could work, he thought he finally could be happy, but apparently Harry had different ideas. Maybe he didn't care anymore, or maybe he never cared at all.
He didn't want to question Harry's feelings, but he's never been able to keep his paranoia at bay, and seeing him walk away so easily made him think that all the things Harry told him maybe weren't the truth, if it was so easy for him to fathom the thought of living in two different countries, of barely seeing each other.
When he went back to yell at Mourinho in his office, he couldn't understand his explanation, as well, and it was easier to put some blame on him, too, so it would hurt less.
"You're taking him away from me and you're leaving me here alone, without my boyfriend and without the coach who made me become who I am today," he burst out isterically, on the verge of tears.
"You're pretty insecure for being one of the greatest footballers in business," told him the coach, sharply. He always knows how to hit close to home.
"Fuck you," shouts Louis angrily, and he's incredibly close to punching him.
"You know he's good. You know he needs to play to develop his skills and that asshole of Johnson won't recognise how good he could be for this team," continues Mourinho reproachingly.
"It's not a good reason to offer him something like you did and not talk to me!"
"Listen, I get that you're angry and—"
"You don't! You don't get what it means to finally think you've got someone you love and you can trust and then they leave you like this," chokes Louis, hitting the desk with a fist.
"He's not leaving you, Louis. You are leaving him, if anything," accuses the manager, eyebrows pulled together.
"I'm not—"
"You can't leave Manchester. You're their flag, and their strength. You're the light of this team, you're getting the captain armband. You're a Manchester United soldier, until the end. If there's something I'm sure of, it's this. And you need this shirt, you need it like you need oxygen. But Harry is different from you. He's still so young, and I can't let him lose himself. You should support him, because he's going to become great, but he needs a guide, and he can't have it here. I won't let him burn and succumb under Johnson, because he's not as strong as you are. And I'm not taking him away from you, by the way, I'm borrowing him," says Mourinho laconic.
"Borrow—It's a loan?" exhales Louis disbelievingly, voice broken. "I thought—He didn't tell me."
"He didn't tell or you didn't let him tell you? Or you attacked him without listening to his reasons, in the same way you're attacking me now?"fires back Mourinho angrily. "If you truly love him, you'll let him come with me for a year. You'll let me take care of him. And then I'll return him, grown up and sure of his capacities."
Louis looks at him with flames in his eyes, because it should be him the one to take care of Harry, like he has always done until this moment, like he's done in that awful period of time when he was recovering from his injury and nothing seemed to be good, apart from them. But the way in which Mourinho so easily accuses him, like he's not a valid enough reason for Harry to fight for a spot in this team, the way Harry is so easily going to leave, even if it's only for one year, make him waver with uncertainty, eyes welled up with tears. If you truly love him. Fuck off.
Maybe it should go this way.
Setting someone free if you truly love them it's not something he's ever thought about. He thought he would stick and fight for them, if he ever found that someone. Now that he's done it, he thinks maybe he should take that step back. He'll let Harry be him. He can love, and fight from afar, even if it hurts, and he can let Harry leave and live, if that's what he needs, if that's what he wants.
-
The match is hard, they're suffering a lot and they're losing. Harry still has his cheeks flushed and red from seeing Louis score that goal. For not being able to stop him in his run to the goal mouth, for that subtle and faint shove he gave him, that he knows wasn't meant in a mean way but it does taste a bit like revenge.
He leaves him do his things, take his spaces, like he's always done, in life and in football, but now he needs to realise he can't do it anymore, because they're playing for two rival teams. He's still flustered from dazedly staring at the perfect trajectory of the ball, that goes to strike the back of the net. He still has his cheeks strained for that sense of burning at the base of his stomach, for that feeling of boundless pride that should be unmotivated, but he can't help it. His face red, from biting hard at his lips, from restraining himself from jumping out at Louis, taking him in his arms, steal a kiss and hope nobody will notice. From remembering he can't jump on his back for a piggy back ride to celebrate the goal anymore.
Harry looks at the Inter bench, Mourinho is of course standing, still, by the line that outlines his area, hands clasped behind his back and a cold smile on his face, nonetheless, because he must feel like Harry.
But Harry knows that it's in moments like this that he needs to remind himself he can't stop believing, because only one year and a half ago he was thinking that maybe he would never play football anymore, instead he came back, stronger than before, he's playing the Champions League, he devours the pitch with his feet, he stacks up kilometres and goals, so he closes his eyes and runs, and tells to himself that he will keep fighting, because it's in his blood, because he was born for this, and there isn't something that makes him as happy as this, and he needs to show everyone, to prove them, to that fucking coach who thought he wasn't good enough, to Louis, who wouldn't understand why he needed to go, he needs to prove them that he's here to play, to win, with his black and blue jersey damp with sweat that feels like his second skin, with his fierce and hungry eyes. So he intercepts the ball, stubborn, on the goalie restart, he shifts it on his left foot, he starts to run like his life depends on it, the touchline it's his, his and nobody else's, and he almost can't see anything, he just runs and he knows he's got this, he runs and forgets about all the months when he couldn't play because his knee had crumbled, when it seemed like he would never recover, when he met Louis, when he started working for what he wanted, and what he wanted was this, and he needed to remind himself about it when he was running and he knew that he was bound to do something good, that there was always someone expecting something good from him. But someone will always be against him, someone doesn't plan good things for him, not again, he thinks, when he feels himself crumpling to the ground, tackled by somebody, conscious and aware that his knee surrendered, once again, and the tears start to fall before he can feel the pain.
-
Louis doesn't need to turn around to understand where does that whimper of sheer pain come from, because he would recognise that voice in a sea of other voices. He stands stock-still on the grass, paralysed, the ball that rolls in between his feet and he can't bring himself to kick it, he can't move, he can't look around, he can't do anything, not even shove the ball outside of the field, he just stays there, while his teammates didn't stop at all and are just waiting for him to restart the game, but he can't because he's literally frozen.
Then the referee whistles and it's like he's brought back to reality, he spins around and sees the actual image of what had flashed his mind for a second, Harry on the ground, eyes wide open, his chest that pacey rises and falls, holding his bloody knee, an agonising grimace on his lineaments. And Louis feels crumpling, too.
"No,"
He finally manages to run to him, he gets on his knees and crawls to his boy, fright written all over his face, he rubs a hand over Harry's damp forehead and then throws it through his hair. He searches for his eyes, which are empty, and he feels him shake under his hands, so he forces him on the ground, flat on his back, to try and calm him.
"Lou," pleads Harry.
"Shh, don't talk. It's okay," says Louis, keeping combing his hair with his fingers. Then, ignoring the mob surrounding them, ignoring the boos from Manchester United's supporters, the indignant yells of the few Inter fans who came all the way to Old Trafford, ignoring the referee, Harry's teammates who are asking the ref for a red card, his own teammates, thousands and thousands of people who are watching the match from every part of the world, the pundits who shocked are about to comment this moment, ignoring them all, because he doesn't care, he truly doesn't care anymore, he bends over Harry and he kisses him.
"Who did it?" he asks Harry, his voice calm and glacial, while he takes his face in his hands and keeps caressing it. "Baby, who did it?"
The referee blows his whistle again, allowing the medical staff and the paramedics to enter the pitch and assist Harry.
"Oi Styles, sorry, did it hurt?"
Louis suddenly looks up and sees Juan Costa, who evidently tackled Harry, coming close to him with a hand stretched out and a mocking smile on his lips. And that just does it for Louis. He leaves Harry to the cure of the doctors and stares at Juan in disgust, then he takes his hand and he drags him on the ground with him, he sits on top of him and he starts to punch him, with all the brutality he can master, until his nose starts to bleed.
"You—fucking—asshole," he yells, and he can't see anything, he can just perceive the chaos that surrounds them, and then he hears Niall's voice and his strong arms that drag him away from Juan.
"Louis are you out of your fucking mind?" he feels Nevan and Niall try to stop him and block his arms, while he still fidgets and moves with the anger exploding in his chest. He sees the referee pull out the red card and show it to Juan and to him. He can't believe it. He's being banned for punching his own teammate, and if this is not the most ridiculous red card in the history of forever, then he doesn't know what could compare.
But he doesn't bring himself to care, it was due and it was worth it. He spots the bunch of paramedics surrounding Harry, sees that they're setting a stretcher and they're ready to put him on hit, while some steward opened the emergency gate and an ambulance is just there waiting for them.
"Let me go! Fuck off, just leave me alone," shouts Louis, wriggling away from his teammates' hold, who let him, helpless and resigned.
"Lou, don't do anything stupid," says Niall, but Louis just ignores him, getting close to the doctors.
"What happened? What are you doing?" he asks them, voice feeble, dim and tentative like the flame of a candle. "Where are you taking him?"
"To the hospital, put his leg into a splint, careful, avoid a trauma, it looks like it's a lesion but we need further medical scrutiny, on the count of three we're moving him on the stretcher," answers messily a doctor.
It can't be happening. Not this, not again. Harry doesn't deserve this, not when he had found his place on the football pitch, not when he was doing so well.
"Tomlinson, step out of the pitch immediately!" barks threateningly the referee, tapping his pen on the pocket on his chest, to remind him he's just showed him a red card.
Louis can't feel his legs, but somehow he manages to follow the doctors, who are carrying Harry out of the pitch, inside the ambulance, but he suddenly feels a hand gripping his wrist.
"Don't even think about it, Tomlinson, go straight to the locker room and we'll square it up as soon as the match is over," snarls coach Johnson, face purple with anger, pointing Louis the tunnel. He looks like he's about to explode, after losing two players at once and being only one goal ahead, with more than one half of the match still to play. But how could Louis obey.
"I don't fucking care," snaps Louis, trying to get away from him.
Mourinho steps out of his box and quickly approaches them, grabbing Johnson's arm and drawing him closer to whisper in his ear. "Let him go."
Louis takes advantage of this distraction to wriggle out and get out of the pitch, as Johnson stares at Mourinho with hatred and faces him with fire in his eyes. "Don't tell me what to do, I'm his coach, not you. This is my team now."
Mourinho gives him a half-smile as he points at Louis climbing into the ambulance.
"Yeah, You're right. But I would have known how to stop him. If I wanted to," he murmurs, before going back to his bench to tell one of his player he's going to substitute Harry.