Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can't Lose

Chapter 2

Harry had mastered Louis' running schedule, his class schedule, and his Starbucks schedule, but Louis sometimes seemed to disappear for hours at a time. He pressed Louis for information about his schedule during tutoring, but Louis brushed him off and made him study in silence as punishment for distractions. The cheerleaders said they thought Louis had class, but Harry could never find him in any of the regular classrooms.

It wasn't until he stopped into Starbucks to ask Zayn, who accidentally said, "He's at ba—" before he shut his mouth, turned away from Harry, and refused to say another word.

After a few attempts to find out what Zayn meant to say—including baseball, banjo lessons, and bartending school—Harry found himself walking into the musty building that housed the school's dance department. He smiled at a security guard sitting at the front desk.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know where the ballet class is?"

The elderly man finished reading a page of his fishing magazine before he blinked up at Harry. There was a pause.

"Aren't you Harry Styles?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

A beat passed.

"Are you lost, son?"

"No, sir," Harry chuckled, low and quiet. He shook his head and took off his Packers hat. He smoothed his hair back. "I was...I was in the area and wanted to say hello to a...To a fellow student. Who is a dancer."

The guard tilted his head left.

"Follow the music. Only one advanced class going on right now, though it'll be over in a few minutes. Just don't get caught peeking. Madame Beverly is a strict one."

"Thank you, sir."

Harry grinned at the guard and walked down the hallway. got louder the more he walked. Most of the studios were dark, but some had small groups of students working through choreography. While the football team's locker room in the stadium was state of the art, modern and new, the dance studios were a bit more used. A bit more vintage.

He reached the end of the hallway and was met with an open door. The music sped up, the sound of feet hitting the floor matching up with the faster tempo. There was a rhythmic clapping sound keeping the beat, a woman's stern voice shouting commands every few seconds. Harry stood beside the open door and held onto the doorway, sneaking his head inside.

He saw Louis immediately. It helped that Louis was soaring through the air at that very moment.

Louis' legs were stretched forward and back in a split, his upper body arched with his arms over his head. Black tights appeared to be painted onto his legs, sweat dripping down his throat to dampen his white, skin tight t-shirt. The reddish brown hair on the center of his chest and under his arms showed through the thin material.

"Yes, Louis." The woman at the front of the mirrored studio clapped once. "Lovely."

Louis landed and stepped off to the side, his chest heaving and sweat pouring down from his hair, which was held back by a thin black headband. He lifted the bottom of his tee and wiped it over his face. His stomach was as wiry and muscled as the rest of him, his upper abs especially defined. He had a line of matching reddish-brown hair sinking below his tights, his ribs puffing out every few breaths.

"Excuse me? Yoo hoo? Curly? Who are you and what business do you have in this class?"

Harry looked down at the tiny, furious woman with a loose high bun glaring at him from inches away. He opened his mouth, his eyes searching for Louis. Louis stood with the other curious dancers, his hand over his lips and his brows arched.

"Um, I...Sorry, ma'am," Harry said, ducking away from the top of her wooden cane. "I just..."

"This is a closed class," she said, her words clipped. She reached for the doorknob of the studio door. "No lookie-loos."

Harry stepped back in time for her to slam the door in his face.

. . .

Zayn came out of the break room with his hands behind his back. He tied his apron, his eyes zoning in on a head of curls seated in one of the worn leather arm chairs by the window. He grunted.

"What's he doing here again?"

Louis yawned as he checked a box on his clipboard.

"Who?"

"Styles."

Louis glanced over the counter and caught Harry staring. Harry smirked at him before he lifted an upsidedown textbook over his face. Louis smiled, chuckling under his breath.

"He's pretending to study but actually just eating all the cookie straws. I guess he got tired of being booted out of dance classes."

"I don't like him." Zayn's top lip sneered. "At all."

Louis pushed a metal cup onto a hot water spout. "Why?"

"I just don't."

"He seems harmless enough." Louis dried his hands. "He's amusing, actually, even if he doesn't realize it."

"I don't think he's harmless." Zayn looked towards Harry as he shook his head. Softer, he said, "Not at all."

"What makes you say that?"

Zayn crossed his arms over his chest. "People don't just start pursuing strangers for no reason. Especially not douchey football players like him. There has to be something else going on."

"Oh. Well, um...He's not the douchiest person I've ever met, by a long shot, but, I guess..." Louis stepped closer, his eyes darting from Harry to Zayn. He could see a page in his sketchbook turning in his head "What should I do? I know it's weird for someone like him to want to talk to me—"

Zayn squeezed Louis' shoulder. "No, no, no," he whispered, his eyes warm and glued to Louis' face. "No, I didn't mean it that way. Not at all. He has every reason to want to get to know you. I just don't trust him. His intentions. That's what I mean."

"What should I do?"

The front door opened and Liam stepped inside. Zayn's eyes slid to him over Louis' shoulder. Liam waved wildly at him.

"Hi, Zayn! And Louis. And Harry. And, um, other patrons of Starbucks." He smiled at the masses, but his face emitted beams of happiness directly to Zayn. While he was busy radiating pure joy, he walked into a display of Via Coffee boxes. "Oh," Liam's face drooped, his hands attempting to catch each falling box, "sorry, shit, sorry." He fell to his knees. "I'll clean it up. So sorry."

Zayn ran his tongue along the inside of his top lip. His eyes snapped to Louis.

"I'll figure it out."

Louis watched Zayn round the counter.

"Figure what out, Z?"

Zayn gave him a thumbs up over his shoulder. "Don't worry, man." He walked towards the fallen Via display. "It's all good."

At the display, Liam bundled as many boxes into his arms as he could. He stood, but his sneakers slipped on the tile. An attempt to catch himself in a squat failed. His legs wobbled until he landed on his ass with half the boxes spread across the floor. The snorts of nearby students carried to his burning ears.

"Shit, sorry," Liam whispered. "I'm so—"

"Good thing all you have to do is kick, not catch."

Liam's eyes flew upwards.

There Zayn stood. Sunlight from the door poured around him and gave every one of his edges a soft, gold glow, like some sort of green apron wearing superhero. A quirk of Zayn's hip made the remainder of the boxes in Liam's arms slide to the floor, like a cascade of boxed coffee. Zayn got to his knees and picked up two boxes.

"Hi, Liam."

Liam didn't move a muscle, his mouth agape and his arms limp at his sides. Zayn arched an eyebrow, removing a box off of Liam's groin.

"You okay?" Zayn chuckled softly.

"H-Hi—Hi, Zayn. What are you doing here?" Zayn looked down at his apron, a crooked smirk making Liam blurt out, "I mean, doy, you're at work. Sorry. You're probably busy."

"Nah, it's alright." Zayn let his wrist brush Liam's forearm to take a box from beside his hip. "How are you?"

Liam looked from his arm to Zayn's face. "Me? I'm, yeah, good. I'm..." He started to bundle boxes into his arms. "Sorry, so sorry, about this mess."

"No worries. I'm glad you came in."

"You...are?" Liam asked, his brows rising higher and higher.

"Mmhmm. I've been thinking about you a lot lately."

"Me? What about?"

Zayn took a box of coffee out of Liam's pile and smiled shyly.

"How about we get that drink you mentioned?"

Liam's arms slackened, sending coffee boxes down the front of his body.

. . .

Louis stepped in the door of his apartment, kicked off his shoes, removed his coat while doing a wide pirouette, dropped said coat on the kitchen table, and set off for the sofa. He glanced at Zayn's open door and checked his watch. His neon green socks slid for his last two steps, his body propelled onto their old sofa. He grabbed the remote and turned on the television, flicking for a few seconds while crossing both of his legs on the couch.

"And we are just about to get started down at the good old Armadillo Bowl," a male announcer named David said loudly. Louis' placed the remote on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest, glancing at Zayn's empty bedroom. "Word has it that the Armadillo's are mighty fired up from last week's win, thanks, of course, to the domination of wunderkind Harry 'Hugo' Styles."

A stock photo of Harry in his uniform flashed on the screen, along with his stats and records he had broken during his college career. Where other football players looked intimidating, Harry grinned as if he was about to get cotton candy and board a ferris wheel. His eyes sparkled and his hair was bouncy, a black fabric headband holding his curls off his forehead.

The screen panned out to show a row of men in ill fitting suits sitting in a box somewhere above the football stadium. Cheerleaders in red and black performed in the distance.

"They are not thinking about anything less than the big W for today's game against Ohio State," David continued. "And that would be a huge W."

"Right you are, David," another male announcer named Bill said. "Ohio State is having one hell of a year—one hell of a season. This won't be an easy win, but something tells me the mighty Armadillos are not too worried about it."

The stadium roared so loud the announcers turned around.

"It appears our home team is taking the field," David chuckled through his words. "And...to different entrance music than usual."

Louis' mouth fell open.

"Pitbull has been replaced by, huh, let me get my glasses for this one." David put on a pair of tiny, wire rimmed glasses and held a sheet of paper far from his face. "Prokofiev." He squinted beyond the camera. "Am I saying that right, fellas?

A voice off camera confirmed, "Prokofiev," amidst laughter in the studio.

"And it appears we have Julie on the field with Captain Harry Styles." David took off his glasses and grinned with all of his extra white teeth. "Julie?"

The screen changed to the madness of the sidelines. Louis tried to keep up with everything going on, from players stretching to coaches shouting at clipboards to mascots running around with flags while shooting t-shirts out of cannons.

Booming cheers of, "Hu-go! Hu-go! Hu-go!" caused Julie to hold her hands over her ears. Julie shouted into her mic, "Julie Jones here with Captain Harry Styles. Also known to fans as Hugo, or"—she thumbed towards the crowd—"maybe you haven't heard."

Harry ambled into the frame wearing a dimpled grin and his entire football uniform. His jersey was red with black print, rolled up a couple of cuffs on his biceps. His socks were red with a black stripe around his calf, which contrasted with the tight black pants that clung to his long legs from hips to knees. He looked broader than usual due to his shoulder pads.

"Afternoon, ma'am," Harry drawled, hugging her amidst all his gear. "How are you today? How are the kids?"

"I'm just fine, as are they, thanks, Harry." She held her hand towards the screaming crowd "Sounds like you've got some fans today."

Harry waved both hands at the stands, his grin growing along with the chants of, "Hu-go! Hu-go!"

"We've got the best fans in the world," he said loud enough to be picked up on the mic, then rested his right hand on Julie's shoulder. "We're truly blessed. One might even say"—he looked the camera head on—"Hashtag: Blessed."

"Harry, can you tell us a bit about your new entrance music today?"

Harry smiled playfully.

"Oh, the Prokofiev? That old thang?"

A wry amusement curled Louis' lips. "Could you sound prouder of yourself for pronouncing Prokofiev right?"

"I practiced saying his name, like, twenty times today to make sure I said it right," Harry said on camera. Julie laughed and Louis rolled his eyes. Harry continued, "Well, I saw a ballet the other night that was"—he looked into the camera—"inspirational. Dancers are so disciplined. So focused. So gifted." His eyes seemed to sparkle even more, his voice dropping even lower. "Captivating to watch."

Louis cuddled down so deeply into the cushions that he felt as if he was being eaten alive by foam, his limbs all wrapped around his body in some sort of protective cocoon. He pulled a Frito-scented blanket from the top of the sofa and swaddled himself in it, then turned up the television volume.

"Yes, we saw photos of you at the performance," Julie said. "I think the whole country saw it! Are you becoming a ballet fan? Will we be seeing the football team in tights and tutus anytime soon?"

The screen flashed with the Tweeted photo of Harry with the Cub Scouts. Harry glowed with a dimpled grin, looking chic and ever the All-American hero even in his wrinkled black long-sleeved tee. He had held up a peace sign and two of the little boys, Spiderman and Bob the Builder, beamed up at him instead of the camera, mirroring his peace sign with their smaller fingers.

The inside of Louis' body became as warm and drowning as the outside. He fanned himself with the blanket. "You hate football. Football sucks. The NFL is evil." He wiped his hands over his face. "The NCAA exploits student athletes for profit on merchandise. Fuck football culture."

The opening of The Dance of the Knights restarted in the background.

On screen, Harry looked at the camera, smiling but focused. "Well, I'm certainly trying my best to be a ballet fan. UT Amarillo has an amazing dance program. All of our art and design programs are amazing, but are functioning on a fraction of the budget they deserve. I'd encourage any potential donors to think about nurturing the student artists of our community with as much enthusiasm and generosity as they provide student athletes." Harry's stare never wavered from the camera but his eyelid flickered. "Lord knows I'm gonna do my best to support student artists in any way possible. Whatever it takes."

The announcing booth was silent. Julie blinked up at Harry with the mic frozen in air. Louis held his cheeks from his position in the center of the sofa. Even the fans behind them were chanting, "Hu-go," with softer confusion.

"Wow," Julie finally said, quickly amending, "I mean, yes. Right. Very good, Harry. Uh, and," Julie adjusted her sensible sportcoat, "the game today, how are you..." She looked baffled from the camera to Harry's rapt face, "Feeling?"

"Oh, we're totally going to win," Harry said, giggling at the end of his statement. A coach came over and touched Harry's bicep, whispered something in his ear. "I've got to go, ma'am, but thank you for taking the time to speak with me today. I do appreciate it."

The cameraman just caught Harry pecking Julie's cheek and pulling her into a hug before the shot went back to the men in the booth.

"Well, that was..." Bill blinked, his brows furrowed. "Unexpected. Not in a bad way, but..." He shrugged his meaty shoulders. "Different. Just different."

David said, "You know," while pointing his pen at the camera, "Harry Styles is a good old boy that likes to have a good time. He's a Texas boy at heart. He's the life of the party. He is the party. He's not afraid to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or cookie jars, if you know what I'm saying."

"Oh, we do, Dave, we do," Bill chuckled. "I've shadowed the young Styles before for a feature and I can verify he is a legitimate celebrity on campus. In the state of Texas, really."

"He knows how to have fun, and he sure as hell knows how to play football, but his celebrity status has led to questions about his maturity, and his ability to avoid distractions and lead a team but, I have to say, Bill, I'm seeing a whole new Harry Styles today. Always a charmer, always a prodigy, but finally seeming to settle into his role of leader for the mighty Armadillos."

Louis snorted. "He listens to fifteen seconds of Prokofiev and suddenly his maturity is national news."

The front door unlocked and Louis fumbled for the remote. He collapsed backwards on the sofa with one arm thrown behind his head. Zayn came inside.

"Hey, man." Zayn shrugged his coat off. "What's up?"

"Yo. Nothing. You?"

Zayn shuffled into the living room while itching the left side of his neck.

"You watching that for a class or something?"

Louis blinked confusedly. "Huh?"

Zayn pointed at the television, where the movie Happy Gilmore was playing with Spanish voiceovers.

"Oh, yeah," Louis said, his voice extra deep. He twirled his fingers in the back of his hair. "Yeah. Trying to become fluent."

"Cool." Zayn stood still and watched the movie for a moment, then turned away. "I'm gonna shower."

"Cool," Louis said, bored and casual.

He waited until he heard the shower turn on before he craned his neck backwards. He scrambled to sit up on the center of the couch and palmed around the cushion while keeping watch for Zayn. He gripped the remote and hit one channel back.

"Nice," he whispered.

The Armadillos were already up by seven. The screen flashed with Harry's small photo in the corner, indicating that Harry had caught the touchdown pass. He saw #14 STYLES run past the camera on long, endless legs with his black helmet on, though curls peeked out the bottom. Louis exhaled shakily and hugged his knees.

. . .

"You need to learn how to study. Better late than never."

"I'm not much of a visual learner."

Louis peeled a Post-It, chuckling easily. "You're a type of learner? Will wonders never cease?"

"You could give me another lap dance." Harry sat back in his seat with his hands behind his head. "I'm sure that will get my study skills back on track. C'mere." He spread his legs, nudging his knee to Louis' thigh. "Ride 'em, cowboy."

Louis fastened the Post-It to Harry's textbook without looking at him (or the sliver of abs and happy trail revealed by his scrunched red Armadillos tee).

"That is never, ever happening again. Why did you pester me into tutoring you in the first place if you didn't want to do any work?"

"To get into your pants."

Louis snorted.

"At least you're honest. Now." He circled the next assignment on their syllabus. "You've had over a week to do this. Show me what you've got." Harry opened his notebook and revealed two blank pages. Louis hung his head, looking up to squint at him. "Please tell me you at least outlined like I showed you?"

"Umm..."

"Right, so that's a no."

"I just don't get why we need to write about ourselves for this assignment. I crushed the last quiz we prepped for—"

"You got a B."

"—but I don't feel like talking about me."

"I don't think Professor Mullins wants the dirty details of your life. The assignment is meant to show that you're thinking about what a tragedy is and can relate it to your own experiences, not that you're regurgitating memorized facts like on the quiz."

Harry tapped his temple with two fingers.

"I don't think about tragedy. A positive outlook is key for success."

"You don't find anything tragic?"

"Nope."

Louis chuckled, the sound lacking in humor. "Must be nice."

Harry replaced his hands behind his head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you'd be hard pressed to ask someone, anyone, about tragedy and find that they have experienced no tragedy in their life. Or they don't understand that tragedies happen in the world outside their own happy, little bubble."

"I don't have a happy, little bubble."

"You literally just said that you don't register tragedy for your positive outlook. That sounds bubble-ish to me."

"I don't."

"Then what do you find tragic? What makes you sad?"

"I thought sad was different than tragic?"

"Very good," Louis said, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. "That's true, but maybe for this assignment, you can start with what makes you sad. Maybe that'll be a springboard and get your juices flowing."

"I know other ways to get juices flowing."

"God, you're such a cheeseball. Do you hear yourself talk?"

Harry snuffled, "Hey," as he gently shoved Louis' shoulder. Nearby students looked up from their papers and books, Harry and Louis ducking lower in their seats. After a moment, Harry whispered, "I'm not a loser." He poked Louis' wrist with his eraser. "You're the loser."

"Yeah? Well, I'm the loser who completed this basic, simple assignment a week ago. Think about that when you're still trying to remember who Shakespeare is at eleven-fifty-nine the night before the paper's due."

Harry's eyes strayed from Louis' face to slowly meander towards his laptop screen.

"What did you write about?"

Louis slapped the screen shut.

"You're seriously trying to copy my paper about a personal tragedy?"

"I'm just curious about what you wrote about, God," Harry groaned. "Everything with you is so fucking tough."

"Funny."

"Why is that funny?"

"You do nothing but deflect onto others. Everything is always everyone else's fault. Everyone else is difficult or tough. It has nothing to do with you or your lack of commitment or your weak sense of fortitude."

"I have fortitude," Harry interrupted him. "I've got plenty of it."

"On the field? Maybe. In real life? Not a chance."

"That's not true."

Louis kept his face away from Harry to ask, "No?"

"No."

"You could have fooled me." Louis unzipped his backpack and quietly chanted, "L-A-Z-Y. What does that spell? La—"

"Rainy block parties."

Louis slowed his motions. He didn't look at Harry, but he asked, "What?"

"Rainy block parties are tragic."

"Rainy block parties."

"Yeah. You happy?"

Louis balanced his backpack on his lap and crossed his ankles under the table, turning to face Harry.

"Go on."

"About what?"

"Rainy block parties. Why you think it's tragic."

"I just..." Harry looked up at the ceiling, his right fingers tapping on the library table. "I think it's tragic that a whole neighborhood of people spend time organizing a block party and printing flyers and renting a bounce house and paying a DJ. They went to the town and got permits to get those wood things. You know. The wooden street closing things that sit on the road. They, you know, made potato salad and got heros and whatever other things people eat at block parties. Then it rains and it's like...everyone is stuck in the house eating soggy heros and a DJ is just standing there in the rain playing the 'Cha-Cha Slide' to an empty street. It's..."

Harry looked down. Louis' eyes never wavered as he arched his brows, his expression calm yet rapt. Harry slid his notebook towards his backpack.

"Forget it," Harry said.

"No, no, that was good," Louis said quickly. His hand shot out to hold Harry's notebook to the table. "Seriously." Harry's gaze flickered to his face, his full lips pouting as he frowned. "I'm serious. That was good."

"Talking about soggy heros?"

"You were talking about the tragedy of lost potential."

"I was talking about the 'Cha-Cha Slide.' I can't exactly put that in a paper."

"Well, I wouldn't name the Cha-Cha Slide specifically, but your ideas are right. And besides, it's a personal statement. It doesn't have to be about some big, huge tragedy going on in the world. As long as you show you understand the concept, and express yourself clearly, you'll be fine."

"Puppies."

Louis tilted his head, asking, "Puppies?"

"Yeah, I..." Harry ran his fingers back through his hair. "I think they're tragic, too."

"Puppies?" Louis repeated, slower.

"I think it's tragic that they're born from their mom, and they probably have brothers and sisters, but then they get broken up after a few weeks. They all go different places and don't even know they have siblings. They don't get to be with their mom or dad. That's tragic."

After Harry's quick barrage of words, his face went rosy and his fists clenched on the table, Louis sitting silent beside him. Louis opened Harry's notebook.

"Alright."

"Alright?" Harry said, huffy.

"Yeah. Try that out, too."

"I can't write a paper about puppies."

"Harry," Louis said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's not about puppies and bounce houses. It's about showing you understand the concept of tragedy and are able to relate it to your own life."

"How are puppies tragic?"

"You're saying puppies, but the root of what makes it tragic to you is..." Louis scrunched his lips side to side, squinting at the highest book shelf. "Sort of a mix of the loss of innocence and the tragedy of destiny. The puppies are destined to grow up without their parents and, because they're puppies, they have no say over it."

"You're serious."

"Look, Riggins, you can write about whatever you want, but we're running out of time." Louis checked his watch. "You've only got ten minutes of my time left. Then you're on your own."

"Ten minutes? I can't write it all in ten minutes!"

"You have ten minutes of my time and guidance," Louis said calmly. He placed his hand on top of Harry's. "Christ, stop flailing. You're gonna shred your notebook. Why are you even using a notebook? You're rich. You have a laptop. Bring it to class and the library."

"I like notebooks. They're classic."

Louis removed his hand. "Well, get to writing. Try to get some of yourself in there, not just an ode to puppies and potato salad."

Louis opened his laptop and double clicked on a document. He had ten minutes of library time left. He could at least finish his conclusion for Fabrics of the Medieval Court. He glanced at Harry.

"What?" he asked, tapping his pencil beside Harry's notebook. "You were just super inspired and chatty. Start writing while your juices are flowing without the aid of a beej."

Harry closed his notebook and pulled it towards his backpack.

"Hey," Louis said, blocking his book. "What? What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking about destiny. Tragedy. All that...Shit." Harry exhaled, looking everywhere but Louis' face. "I'm just over this."

"Over your paper or over thinking thoughts that aren't football, beer, and sex? C'mon," Louis drawled, opening Harry's notebook. "You're doing so well. Truly. Don't stop now. Unless you want to share."

"Share?" Harry laughed, his brows sky high.

"Yeah. If you wanted to talk some stuff out."

"About tragedy?"

"About whatever you want, if it relates to your paper."

Harry bit his bottom lip, looking at the table. "My favorite player of all time is Don Hutson."

Louis rested his face on his hand.

"Why do you like him so much?"

"We have similar body types. He was an old timer. A lifelong Packer. He's who I would have wanted to be if I was born a hundred years ago." Harry chuckled under his breath. "He's who I want to be now, even being born when I was."

"Wow. A way old timer, then."

"Yeah. It was a completely different game. A completely different world."

"Right."

"He played while war was going on. There was no glitz and glamor. No crazy money or endorsements. He just played his ass off and revolutionized the game while the rest of the world was at war."

"What about Don Hutson made you think of tragedy?"

"Where did I get my hands from?"

Louis thought about Harry's question in reply to a question. He lifted his right shoulder, gently tapping his pencil against the table.

"Maybe you just have a natural inclination. A natural ability. It happens. It happens in dance. Some people are born with better feet than others. You can stretch and train forever, but sometimes it just comes down to genetics. Your dad and grandpa were NFL stars. It makes sense you might have a bit of a head start on the genetic lottery compared to...Well...Anyone else."

"Do you know what the opposing teams call me?"

"Oh! Um..." Louis sucked air through his back teeth. "Hugo, right?"

Faint amusement softened Harry's face, but he shook his head, his stormy pout returning.

"They call me Silver Spoon."

"Harry, you're..." Louis ran the very tip of his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip. "You're a rich kid from an NFL dynasty. Silver Spoon is probably the kindest thing they could call you."

"It should really be Silver Platter, though."

"Why?"

Harry's mouth flattened to a tight line, his tongue pressing his left cheek outwards.

"Jerry Rice is arguably the best wide receiver of all time."

Louis was starting to feel like a football; tossed and thrown for loops one question after another.

"Okay. And?"

"And do you know how he says he got his hands?"

Louis shook his head. "Tell me?"

"His dad was a bricklayer. His sons would help him at work. Jerry Rice and his brother would throw bricks at each other from one floor of a house to another. That's how he says he got his hands. Working, as a kid, with his dad. Laying bricks."

"That's interesting. I never knew that."

"So, what I think is tragic is that these guys were working. They were living lives as people. Jerry Rice didn't even get a scholarship to college, which is tragic by itself. He was a fucking phenom. Then I'm here"—Harry held his palms out—"with a natural ability, I guess, and my parent's money and everyone kissing my ass. When did I ever throw bricks? When did I fight in a war? When did I—"

Louis' phone buzzed. Harry tore his eyes from Louis' face, his jawline twitching. In his peripheral vision, he saw Louis lift his backpack, put his phone inside, and zip the bag. Louis placed his backpack under the table, then rearranged his limbs on his chair, his left foot tucked under his bum.

"Sorry, Riggs, you were saying?"

Harry's eyes slid from his empty notebook to Louis' face.

"Don't you have to go?"

"Nope," Louis said, popping the p. Harry turned to look him head on, Louis' lips twitching upwards. "You were saying?"

A slow smile stretched the corners of Harry's mouth as far as they could go, Louis mirroring his grin and tapping his eraser on the table.

. . .

The football team all shouted, "Armadillos!" at the top of their lungs while pushing against each other in the middle of the field. They had another glorious victory in the books to continue their perfect season. They were the visiting team, but enough of their fans made the trip to their away game to cheer and scream as if they were at home. It was a good day.

Coach Taylor walked by to shake the hand of the coach from the opposing team. With him, came a flurry of media.

"Harry!"

"Hugo!'

"Harry Styles!"

Chase watched Harry grin with his arm around Liam's shoulder. Cameras flashed brightly as sweat ran down Harry's exhausted, but ecstatic, face. His helmet dangled from his fingers, his hair sticking up in wild curls behind his thin headband.

"Hi," Harry drawled, giving the media a friendly wave. "Did y'all enjoy the game?"

The crowd around Harry was so large that some of the media started to get frustrated. A few pushed past Chase to join the mob, Chase stumbling and glaring at them.

One reporter shouted, "Harry! What can you tell us about your approach to today's victory? What was your secret?"

Harry lifted his helmet and pointed to Chase. "This guy, over here, was throwing fireballs right into my hands. You should be talking to him. He's the hero."

Some of the media looked at Chase while Harry fielded another question, but boredom radiated from their half glances. They turned back to Harry. Chase grit his teeth and turned away, joining the other players moving towards the locker room.

"Hey, man, great game!" Eric said, patting Chase's chest.

"Fuck off, Jersey."

Eric frowned behind his face guard. "Um, okay. Sorry for saying anything."

He went to run towards another group of players, but Chase reached out and gripped his forearm.

"Sorry, man, forget I said it."

"What's up with you? You just won. You alright?"

"Nothing, just...Just tired."

They walked with a group of players to the visitor's locker room.

"So, you know Louis?" Chase asked casually. "That twink with the bet?"

Eric took off his helmet and shook out his hair, his brows furrowed.

"What about him?"

"Do you know where he's from?"

"I think California. Why?"

Chase shrugged.

"Just curious."

"Why?"

"No reason." Chase shoved Eric into a cart of dirty laundry. "Thanks, Jerz."

Later that night, the team got on their luxury bus. Harry grinned up at Chase from his seat and held his hand out, both men bumping fists. Harry's wet hair was bundled in a tiny, high bun. Liam was already sleeping against his shoulder with his headphones in.

"Hey, QB. Amazing game." Harry's voice was rough, as if he was on the brink of sleep. "Did you talk to the people from ESPN? I sent them your way. They were looking to interview you."

The corners of Chase's lips pinched. "No. They didn't seem interested."

Harry frowned. "No way. I talked all about you and the game today and how on you were. That's so strange."

"Yeah, who knows." Chase shrugged and chuckled. "Maybe next game."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry said, holding his hand up. They slapped hands again and Chase moved on. "Have a good sleep."

"You, too, man. See you at home."

Chase moved to the end of the bus. He glanced at a freshman named Joe Adams (#59, Defensive Line; Freshman; Boise, ID) and flicked his hand.

"Get up."

Joe blinked wide-eyed and pulled his earbuds out. "Me?"

"You're in my seat. Get the fuck out of here."

Joe looked at the empty seats surrounding them and shrugged. He picked up his duffle bag and moved away from Chase, who threw his bag in the aisle and plopped down over two seats. He took his iPhone out of his sweatpants.

"Let's see here," he murmured.

He typed 'Louis Tomlinson' into Facebook. Louis was there, though his profile was on complete lockdown. Chase hummed and checked his Activity Log. Everything was wiped clean except for a recent Like for a page called Golden Bay Turkey Trot 2015!.

Chase went back, searched for Golden Bay High School, and waited. Many student profiles popped up that listed Golden Bay as their high school. Chase read over a couple of names with mutual friends, swirled his finger in the air, then tapped on the screen of what looked like a football player.

"Easy as pie," he said as he crafted a message.

. . .

Harry tiptoed to the dance studio hallway, his knees rising extra high as he glanced behind himself every few steps. When he got to the studio, he started to lead with his ear. There was no classical piano music. Instead, the beat of a futuristic R&B song vibrated the floor beneath his shoes.

He reached the entrance and peeked inside. Louis was not in his dance tights and white shirt. He was wearing a wisp of a black tank top that clung to his sweaty, shining torso, the hair on his chest darker than usual. His sweats were grey and bunched at the knees. His bare feet were darkened on the bottoms as he strutted across the floor.

The chorus kicked in and Louis started pirouetting, another male dancer mirroring him until their moves synced up. Their bodies seemed to tumble together, their moves modern and sensual, as opposed to the strictness of ballet class the week before.

The sound of two people murmuring to each other made Harry's ear lean towards them. He listened in, even though his eyes were glued to Louis sliding and spinning on his knees as his partner chased him. Their bodies collided and melded, the dance partner pulling Louis to his feet and pressing their bodies together.

A man asked, "Who's the smaller one?"

"Louis," a woman answered. "Louis Tomlinson."

"Why hasn't he come to any of the auditions? He'd be a natural for the tour. Great body."

"He's not looking to go pro. He just minors in dance. He's a costume designer, and on the track team, of all things."

The man tutted his tongue. "Shame. He can move. Lovely technique. Ballet training?"

"Very strong."

"Feet?"

"Fast, though his arches could be higher. He works well with what he's got."

Harry tuned out their voices completely once Louis was bent backwards with his dance partner's face pressed to his neck, the partner's muscled arms holding him tight around his lower back.

Then Louis broke out of the intimate hold. The strength of Louis' strut as he charged towards the mirror made Harry's heart race, every pound of his bare feet against the wood floor sending shockwaves through Harry's bones. The two dancers synced up for the final chorus, both mirroring each other's intensity and strength.

Harry didn't realize he was standing with his mouth agape and his backpack hanging from his fingers until he heard, "Can we help you?"

He blinked towards the voice. It was Louis' dance partner who asked. The dancer smirked at him as he sipped from a water bottle. Louis was beside him with his back to Harry, shaking his head and pulling shoes out of his gym bag.

Oh, Harry thought. The music had ended. The voices behind Harry had disappeared.

"I, um, wanted to see Louis, if that's okay?" Harry tucked his backpack strap over his shoulder and looked to Louis, who was heavily invested in the contents of his gym bag. "Louis?"

Louis stood. "Yeah." He looked over his shoulder as he rolled a striped sock over his foot. "I'll be right there."

Harry looped his thumbs in his backpack straps and rolled up on the balls of his feet. Louis said something to his dance partner, who winked at him and patted his back. Louis scoffed quietly before he faced Harry to jog his way.

"Hi," Louis said, slowing his pace. "What's up?"

"Can I walk you home?"

Louis raised his eyebrows. "Walk me home?"

"Yeah, I figured we could walk and talk and stuff." Harry hurried to walk next to him. "You have work soon, right?"

"Uh..." Louis held out the word, "yeah."

"I can walk you there, too."

Louis stared straight ahead and blinked, Harry holding the door of the building open for him.

"What do you want to talk about? Thanks." He stepped through the door. "Shakespeare?"

"Whatever you want."

"Like?"

"You. Things about you. I want to learn about you."

"Like what?"

"Like, um, everything." Louis turned a corner and Harry stumbled after him. "Wow. You even walk fast."

That earned a small smile from Louis, Harry running faster to get in front of him and walk backwards.

"So, um..." Harry fanned his hands away from himself. "Why do dancers wear leg warmers? And why do you wear a leg warmer on only one leg? Doesn't your other leg get cold? Why do you bundle up so much all the time if you just take your clothes off for ballet class? Why do you wear such fancy clothes to regular classes?"

Louis' small smile grew to a grin.

"Didn't take you for a dance fan."

"I'm a new dance fan, but definitely interested." His eyes flickered over Louis' entire body, his easy grin never faltering. "Really interested."

Louis chuckled softly and slowed his steps, running his fingers through the back of his hair. He and Harry walked beside each other through an archway of golden trees.

"Hmm. Let's see if I can answer some of your questions. Well, dancers wear leg warmers because it's easier to take them off during class. Sweats are too annoying to put on and take off over shoes when we only have a few seconds between sets."

"Do you ever wear only leg warmers and dance around the house naked?"

"No," Louis laughed and shook his head. Harry grinned sideways at him, mischievous and sly. "God, your brain is...Terrifying."

"At least you're acknowledging I have a brain."

"Touche. Dancers bundle up because most dance studios are in basements or are air conditioned. When class first starts, it's pretty chilly. It takes a bit before you warm up and get sweaty. I like looking put together in academic classes because I spend most of my time in workout clothes or covered in thread and steamed milk. I wear a leg warmer on my left knee sometimes because I injured my knee in high school and it gives me trouble once in a while."

Harry's brows furrowed.

"How?"

"My first, and only, moment of glory doing hurdles at a meet. Too bad. They were fun, when I wasn't busting my knee."

"It still gives you trouble?"

"Nothing huge, just mild aches and soreness. Occasionally I have to baby it a bit. The leg warmer keeps it toasty, which I've found helps when it's acting up."

"Are those tights you wear comfortable?"

"Yeah, actually. Male dancers wear a dance belt, which helps with junk related issues. You get used to it."

"I don't know how you understand a word your teacher says." Louis laughed, a flurry of hot pride swirling up through Harry's entire body. "I'm serious! Madame talks so fast and it's all in French." Louis' giggles multiplied, his body hunching forward. Harry swayed his hands in the air like a conductor. "One, two, pottery yay, boulangey, five and six. What does that even mean?"

Louis wiped his fingers under his eyes, still tittering.

"You pick it up after dancing for so long. That's part of the fast feet thing."

"Fast feet?"

"Yeah. Choreographers will only give instructions once, and you have to catch on really quickly. I think of it like fast feet."

"Is that why that Madame said your feet are fast?"

"Um, yes," Louis snorted. "But you kind of do the same thing. It's not hard when you do it every day."

"Me?"

"Yeah, with football. You have to learn all sorts of plays and the coach seems to just yell them at you. I don't know how you understand that."

"We have books and stuff. Binders with plays in them. Plus, we practice a lot."

"Well, dancers practice a lot, too. I guess it's similar. You've got soft hands." He did a little spin as he walked. "And I've got fast feet."

Harry stopped walking, shaking his head.

"Fuck me, Tomlinson." He broke into a jog with hands outstretched. "You're so damn cute."

"Shut up," Louis laughed, running backwards. Harry tackled him with as much care and gentleness as he was physically able, cradling the back of Louis' head as they landed in a pile of leaves. "Harry! What are you—" Airy giggles bubbled out of Louis' mouth as he shoved Harry's face out of his neck. "Ugh, I stink right now. I need to shower before I go to Starbucks and stink for another reason."

"Nah, you smell good."

"You're crazy. I've been dancing for hours. I'm rank."

"Nope." Harry took a long, loud breath beneath Louis' ear, prompting more squirmed giggles from Louis. "I'm right. And after a shift at work, you smell like coffee. It's a good stink."

"You been smelling me often, Styles?"

Harry rolled half off of him, draping his arm over Louis' chest.

"It's one of my favorite hobbies."

Louis lifted a vibrant red leaf from the grass. He tucked the stem behind Harry's ear, his fingertips meandering through Harry's curls before he pulled his arm to himself. Harry tried to look at the leaf in his hair, the sound of soft chuckling pulling his eyes back towards Louis' face.

"How's it look?"

"Charming." Louis placed another leaf over Harry's other ear. "There we are. Now you're balanced."

"Lou."

"What?"

"This would be, like, the perfect fall makeout moment."

Louis laughed and pushed him off with two palms to his chest. Harry fell onto his back and Louis stood.

"You've been reading too much Shakespeare, Romeo."

"What happened to Riggins?"

Louis scanned Harry's relaxed, sprawled body, a rainbow of leaves pillowing Harry's curls.

"He's still around."

Harry stood just as Louis took off. "Hey!" He started to run before his feet were fully on the ground, and his shoes slipped in the leaves. "I'm supposed to be walking you home!"

Louis called over his shoulder, "Some gentleman you are!"

. . .

Harry panted, "Why am I always," he breathed for a moment, sweat dripping down the sides of his nose, "running after you?"

"Do I have to say the L Word?"

"Oh, please," Harry groaned out. He was around ten feet behind Louis, his lungs and legs absolutely burning. "Please tell me you love me. It might be the last thing I hear before I die in these woods."

They turned a corner.

"You're so dramatic. We're almost done. And you're thinking of the wrong L Word. You know it amuses me how much it annoys you when I call you L-A-Z-Y."

Louis pranced the last few steps of the trail on light toes, his ass bouncing further away from Harry. Harry heaved a breath into his body and caught up with Louis, then promptly collapsed on his back. Louis' chuckles barely sounded in the early morning air.

Harry heard his phone ringing in his backpack, but he could only focus on the steamy breaths puffing out of his mouth. Louis leaned over him with his hands on his thighs. He nudged Harry's side with his shoe.

"Hey, I gotta go. I have an early meeting with my advisor."

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice cracking. Louis laughed again, standing up straight. Harry lifted one limp hand. "See you tomorrow morning."

"See you."

Harry heard Louis trot away. His phone rang again and he groaned, hiding his face with his forearm.

"Too early," he mumbled, still not moving. "Go away, phone."

When a squirrel ran too close to his head for comfort, Harry rolled his body up. He crawled to his backpack and dug through until he found his phone. He tapped Accept and lifted it to his ear.

"Oh, hi," he said, a touch breathless. "What's up?"

. . .

The next morning, Louis found himself working extra slow during his dynamic warmup. He had already done a sufficient amount of movement to start his run, but he still had his sneakers on.

A crackled sound behind him made Louis spin, but it was only a squirrel. He exhaled quickly and refocused on his stretching.

He jogged over to his backpack and took out his phone, tapping his thumbs on the side of the phone while studying the time. He opened a new text message and scrolled through his contact list, but his scrolls slowed as he reached letter H. He nibbled his bottom lip for a moment, then shook his head.

"Whatever," he muttered, then silenced his phone and started his playlist.

Upon returning from his run, he turned alerts back on. He had a new email waiting for him from the Office of Academic Affairs. Louis frowned and tapped his screen.

Due to a personal matter, HARRY STYLES will be unable to attend any previously scheduled TUTORING SESSIONS for the remainder of this WEEK. Please contact HARRY STYLES privately to resume your TUTORING SESSIONS. Thank you for your service to our university.

. . .

JD Styles sank into a chaise lounge on the back deck of his home. He crossed his ankles at the end of the chair, his eyes scanning over his sprawling green property. He swirled his glass of scotch on the rocks, toeing his loafers off.

"Guests gone?" Harry asked from beside him.

JD took a quick sip, then hissed. "Yessir. It's too bad about old Marjorie, but the catering was a real success. I'll have to keep this company in mind for the next Armadillo alumni event."

Harry slid his thumb under the seam of his beer bottle label.

"Marjorie seemed like a real nice lady from all the...the pictures and stuff. You know?"

"She was." JD held his glass to the sky. "God bless the old girl."

Harry propped a hand behind his head and used the rim of his beer bottle to push his sunglasses higher on his nose. He itched his feet together.

"It's great Gretch has you during all this. I'm sure your support is important during such a tough time in her life. She seems really upset, with good reason. I'd be..." Harry sipped his beer, letting the slightly warmed beverage smooth over his tongue. "Inconsolable."

"Support? In-con-solable?" JD's gruff laughter mixed in with the clink of ice cubes in his glass. "You're going soft on me, son."

"What's funny about supporting Gretch when her mama passed away?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. Gretch is a good girl. She's great. A great girl." JD sipped a mouthful of scotch. "Too bad we're divorcing so soon. I had high hopes for us, but, you know how it goes."

"What?" Harry craned his neck to look at his father. "You're divorcing Gretch?"

"We are. My little sugarbell doesn't know that little detail yet, but"—JD chuckled—"I'm sure she'll take it like a champ."

Harry's brows wrinkled. "But...Why? Why now?"

"I think it's time to trade-in and trade-up."

"You just got married last summer."

"I know. Waste of money but, it was one hell of a party, wasn't it? Worth it for the publicity."

"I just..." Harry turned in his chair and sat on his socked foot. "I just don't get it."

"You're young, son. You don't get a lot of things. Least of all about relationships."

"What does her mother dying have to do with you getting a divorce?"

JD laughed with his head thrown back, his salt and pepper waves flowing around his tanned face.

"I figured you'd be thrilled!"

Harry's confusion only deepened. "Why would I be thrilled you're divorcing Gretch?"

"You've always had your eye on her, you salty dog, you," JD said on a playful growl. Harry shook his head with his mouth agape. "It's fine. If I was your age, I'd be fucking my way through your university."

"But I..." Harry looked down at his empty beer bottle. Something sour bloomed on his tongue, his stomach aching. "Forget it."

"What?"

"Don't you...Don't you think it's weird that you've always..."

"Always what? All this talking." JD snuffled into his scotch. "Who knew you were such a chatterbox?"

Harry looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. "You've always encouraged me to have sex with as many people as possible, including your exes."

"So?" JD held his arms toward his vast property. "I like to share the wealth."

"That's weird, Dad," Harry said with more firmness. "I was a kid and you were telling me it's okay to sleep with older women. Encouraging me. I was a kid."

JD breezed, "Were you? How quickly time moves."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and faced forward.

"That's fucked up. It's taken me years to realize that was fucked up, but for whatever reason, I..." Harry's lips twitched shut for a beat. "I've been thinking more clearly lately and, looking back, that was fucked up."

"Harry," JD drawled, staring at Harry's profile. "It's okay. You're a chip off your old man's block." Harry looked at his father. While he had inherited most of his mother's facial features, he was built just like his father, with the same wavy hair and long limbs. "What's wrong with a young man making the best of his youth? You'd better do it now, or else you'll wake up and have to listen to your wife go on and on about her dead mother." JD scrunched his fingers in the air in a talking motion. "Blah blah blah."

Harry stood up.

"Forget it. Forget I said anything. I'm going to my room."

JD dropped sunglasses down from his hair without looking at Harry. He waggled his fingers as he took a drink, multiple Super Bowl rings glinting in the sunlight. His lips slapped.

"Give Gretch my best, son."

Harry turned back and whispered, "Jesus Christ, Dad. I'm not going to go fuck your grieving wife."

"Woah-oh," JD laughed, craning his neck back. "Sounds like someone needs to get laid."

Harry walked through the deck doors.

"I'm going back to school tomorrow."

JD rolled his upper body over the side of the lounge.

"But I thought we were going to go golfing?"

"I'm not in the mood," Harry said in the distance.

. . .

The dance studio was empty save for one dancer. A pure white spotlight illuminated the center of the room and the solo dancer, but it was otherwise dark.

A rock song featuring a relentless guitar lick and roaring singer accompanied the dancer's choppy, modern movements. The dancer's bare feet pirouetted across the floor, their hair standing up high with peaks of sweat and a sheen of grease highlighting their wiry muscles. They wore nothing but tight black sweats and a ripped white tank that dripped down their shoulders, dipping so low it barely covered their lightly-haired chest.

Harry snuck through the open door and tiptoed along the mirrors. The dancer's shirt flew up to expose his flat abs and Harry stumbled over his own feet. He fell ass first into the nearest folding chair.

The dancer strutted towards him as the chorus of the song kicked in. Harry froze in his seat with his legs spread, his arms hanging at his sides. As the dancer came closer, Harry opened his mouth to call out, "Hi, Lou," but no words came out.

Louis walked directly up to him and peeled his white tank over his head. The swaying of his rounded hips synced up with the pounding beat and the scrunching of his obliques, more and more skin revealed. He threw his shirt at Harry, the damp material melting down Harry's face to pool on the floor.

Harry's head dropped back, waves of arousal engulfing his entire body so suddenly he felt paralyzed. He was reminded of the smell of locker rooms. The sweet smell of fresh sweat. The rank smell of too much sweat at the very end of a game. The feeling of relief when he made the connection between his hard-ons after practice and the smell of men.

Then Louis was gripping the chair between the vee of Harry's thighs. He held Harry's stare with blazing blue eyes and dragged the chair to the center of the dance floor, the chair vibrating underneath Harry's ass.

Louis straddled him in one quick motion. Harry pressed his nose to the dip of Louis' sweaty collar bone and gripped his ass.

A hard slap stung Harry's cheek. Harry's head was thrown to the side, his mouth opening to moan.

"Did I say you could touch?" Louis murmured.

Harry's voice whimpering, "No," echoed around his head.

Louis laced his fingers in the back of Harry's hair and pulled his head backwards.

"No, who?" Louis asked, low but direct. He gyrated deep, slow circles to the beat, his hand tightening in Harry's hair. "Answer me."

Harry moaned, "No, sir."

Louis giggled.

"Sir," he taunted, his voice a high coo. "Sir?" He pulled Harry's hair back and lifted himself enough to peer down at him, their open lips barely a breath away from each other. "You can do better than that."

Harry's mouth swayed closer to Louis' but Louis pulled back. Louis chuckled and pushed Harry's face into the front of his throat, Harry huffing in deep breaths of Louis' scent while mouthing whatever skin he could, his motions frantic.

"Lazy. Lazy. Lazy." Louis hips ground for each word, sweat and grime from Louis' chest transferring to Harry's own heated skin. "L-A-Z-Y. You're fucking lazy, Harry Styles." His hand squeezed between Harry's legs, the weight of Louis' body pushing him tighter for each grind. "L-A-Z-Y."

Harry groaned, "Please," and his hair was pulled back hard, pleasure surging through his frozen body. "I want you," Harry said, breathing harder. "I need you. I worship you." Louis pulled his hair again and Harry breathed, "I love you."

Louis' amused laughter poured over his face.

"Oh, Harry. How darling."

Harry's eyes widened.

"But I do. I love you, I love you, I love—"

Louis' lips smothered him and sucked the air out of his lungs, Harry moaning with their tongues sliding together. The bite of Louis' stubble only made Harry press harder kisses to his lips, until Louis tightened the grip on his hair and sealed their lips together, Harry's chest heaving to breathe.

Even though his mouth was taken over, Harry felt air rush through his entire body, his hips arching up for more, more, more of Louis' body. Toe-curling pleasure drilled through the center of his body, the base of his spine on fire. Harry gasped and sucked on Louis' lower lip, his hair pulled hard but their lips never breaking apart.

A dull beeping sound snuck into the music. Harry's motions grew frantic, his hands scrabbling up Louis' sweat-slick lower back.

"Louis," he panted. Louis' mouth pried his lips open, the ache in the center of Harry's body almost unbearable. "Louis, Louis, Louis, Lou—"

Harry's eyes flew open as his body seized inwards. He looked down at his groin and clenched his eyes, his hips rutting against his mattress without his control. Hot stickiness glued his cock to his boxers, his motions slowing.

Harry panted loudly in the silent night air. His body went limp.

"What the fuck was that?" he whispered, burying his face in his pillows. He gulped, able to feel sweat racing down between his shoulderblades. He ripped his face out of his pillows to suck in a breath. "What the fuck?"

His childhood alarm clock on his bedside table beeped. Harry groaned and reached out, fumbling to hit Snooze.

He knocked a few buttons and dials. A song blared through the radio. Harry blinked at the alarm clock with come cooling on his groin. His eyes darted side to side, his mouth falling further open.

"What the fuck?"

. . .

Louis eased his arms down and touched his toes. He let his head fall forward, his hamstrings burning pleasantly. He rolled his body up and stretched his arms one by one across his chest. He kicked his feet forward and wiggled his ankles, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he reached for the sky. He toed off his trainers and stretched his toes against the Earth. One more round of bounces and he turned towards the woods.

"Wait!"

Louis' bounces slowed.

"Wait! Lou!"

Louis started to jog towards the path.

"I'm here!"

Louis didn't slow, but he didn't speed up. Harry ran up on his left side.

"You're back," Louis said.

They followed the path to the right.

Harry said, "I'm sorry I missed the last few days. I..." They jogged for a few seconds, Harry's breaths puffing into the chilly air. "I had to go home."

"Why? Had a Republican ball to host? A Jeep that needed selling?"

"Death in the family."

Louis' face remained forward, but his eyes darted to Harry.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, softer.

"It's okay. It was my stepmom's mom. I didn't really know her."

"Still, I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks. I tried to keep up with my classwork, I promise."

Louis felt himself starting to smile and sped up his stride.

"Enough talking. We need to go faster."

"Okay, Goldblum. Lead the way."

"You and your Jurassic Park obsession is so..." Louis trailed off and looked at Harry. His gaze dropped to the ground. "Hey, what the fuck? Are you looking at my feet? Why are you looking at my feet?"

Harry's head snapped forward.

"I'm not."

"You totally were."

Harry sped ahead of him.

"Was not."

"Ugh, you just get back and you're already such a menace."

"Aw," Harry drawled, slowing enough for Louis to pull ahead. "You missed me!"

Louis called back, "I did not."

"You totally did."

A smile stretched across Louis' face as his feet flew on the ground. He and Harry became equal, both breathing in sync, their feet pounding the path at the same time.

Louis held his hand out. "Can I have your phone, please?"

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets as he ran and just missed running into a hanging branch, if not for Louis hurrying ahead to lift it as Harry ran by.

"Why do you want my—"

"Jump," Louis said, and Harry jumped over a log.

"—my phone?"

Louis took the phone from him and typed as he ran. He handed the phone back.

"There. Now you've got my number and I've got yours." Harry gasped and cradled the phone against his chest, Louis hurrying to add, "For tutoring purposes only. This is not an invitation to text me at all hours to talk about God knows what."

"Hashtag: Happiest day of my life."

Louis laughed loudly. "C'mon, we need to actually train."

"Hashtag: We?" Harry teased with arched brows.

"Hashtag: Shut up and run before I leave you behind."

. . .

Harry and Louis stood in front of the library with both of their heads tilted left. A paper printout was hastily taped over the locked doors.

"Gas leak?" Louis hitched his bag higher. "How weird."

"Yeah. I hope the books will be okay."

Louis smirked as he checked his watch. "Um, Zayn said he needed the apartment for some art thing for the evening. We could go to Starbucks?"

"Why don't you come to my place?"

"The frat house?" Louis dropped his wrist, squinting. "You want to study at the frat house?"

"Yeah, why not? We can go in my room if it's too loud downstairs."

"Are you going to be able to focus in your room?"

"Of course," Harry scoffed, looping his thumbs in his backpack straps. "I promise. We will be totally studious." Slower, he repeated, "To-ta-ly stud-i-ous."

. . .

Zayn pinched his black tank away from his chest and fluffed it once. He put his hand on the doorknob to his apartment and let out a long sigh, then sniffled. He pulled the door open.

"Hi," Liam gushed, thrusting forward a bouquet of roses.

Zayn curled his lips and held his face away.

"Ugh," he grunted. "I hate the smell of roses." He flicked his hand at the flowers. "They're the most cliche of gifts."

"Oh, I'm—I'm sorry," Liam said, softer. He lowered the roses. "What's your favorite? I'll bring them next time. I'll bring bushels of them."

Zayn turned from him and walked into his apartment.

"Doesn't matter," Zayn said, bored. He didn't hear footsteps behind him and slowed. He glanced over his shoulder. "Are you coming to my room or what?"

"I just..." Liam' black boots went pigeon-toed in the doorway, his hands clasped around the rejected roses. "I just thought we were going on an actual date this time?"

Zayn crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his weight on his left leg.

"A date? An actual date?"

Quickly, Liam said, "Yeah, like, I know last time was kind of, um, rushed. But amazing! But just, like, sex." He held his palm out. "Really, really good sex. Fantastic. Mind blowing. Ama—"

"Get on with it."

Liam pulled a glossy brochure out of his blazer pocket.

"Right. So, I was thinking we could walk around The Abbey Museum and then get Pakistani food at a restaurant three blocks from the museum. It has near perfect Yelp reviews and I've already memorized the menu."

"The Abbey?" Zayn asked with arched brows. "Pakistani food?"

"Yeah! I thought that you would, um, like the museum. Since you're an artist. I've always wanted to go, but I never had anyone to go with. And, though you didn't verbally tell me you like comic books, um, I noticed some comics on the floor when we were having sex, and they have a special Marvel exhibit running at the Abbey right now that I think you'd really like. If you haven't, like, seen it already, of course."

Zayn walked up to Liam, his steps slow and measured. He ran his tongue over his top lip.

"What is this, Payne?"

Liam blinked, backing up in time with Zayn's steps.

"What is what?"

"What is this nice guy shit? What is this date planning and museum visit and Pakistani food routine?"

"It's—It's not a routine," Liam said quickly.

"How the fuck did you even know I was half Pakistani?"

Liam's back hit the doorway.

"I've had a crush on you since freshman orientation."

Zayn narrowed his eyes, their shoes touching.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Liam took a big breath in. "At orientation, we had to go around a circle talking about ourselves. Chase made a stupid joke about you being Aladdin from Arabia. You calmly informed him that he sounded racist and that Saudi Arabia is a real place, but that your dad's family is from Pakistan, which is a nearby, but completely different, country."

Zayn's lips fell open. Liam took a quick catch breath.

"And I just thought you were a genius hero with the prettiest eyes I'd ever seen, which I didn't understand at first, because I—" Liam's voice cracked, his eyes flitting away from Zayn's serious stare. "As you know, I'd never been with a guy until the other night. But I always tried to pair with you when we had group projects in classes. I think I was the only person who looked forward to group projects. But..." His words slowed. "You would never talk to me unless it was about class stuff and, even then, you seemed to only like me because I was good with PowerPoint and Excel. But I..." He looked down at the collar of his black blazer, where Zayn's hands had curled into the stiff fabric. "I...What are we...You..."

Zayn gently pulled him down, Liam's gaze darting to Zayn's lips a half-second before they were kissing. The plastic surrounding the bouquet of roses crinkled between their chests, Liam inhaling deeply through his nose with their lips joined.

"We can go to the Abbey and get Pakistani food," Zayn whispered, Liam's lips surging forward to kiss him again. "But I'm paying for myself."

Liam pouted.

"But I want to take you out on a date."

Zayn tightened his hold on Liam's blazer and kissed him harder, murmuring, "Don't fight me on this, Payne."

"I don't want you to think I'm just coming to you for sex. Or to experiment," Liam whispered, shuddering breaths over Zayn's lips. "It's not about that for me. Not with you. I...I like you."

"So you won't mind if we don't have sex after our date?"

"Of course not."

Zayn smiled slowly and wrapped his fingers around the stems of his bouquet.

"Let me just put these in water."

Liam stood stunned and frozen against the door frame. His eyes followed Zayn's motions around the kitchen to find a vase, fill it, and place his roses on the center of the kitchen table. Zayn stood with his back to Liam to close the cabinet above the refrigerator.

"If Lou asks, I'll say they're from a still life project." Zayn turned towards Liam. "Your secret is safe with me. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fantastic."

Zayn exhaled a round of quiet, huffed chuckles as he shrugged on his black leather jacket. He walked up to Liam and cradled his cheek, thumbing his cheekbone.

"We're definitely having sex after our date, if you're game." He pecked him softly on the lips. "Just to let you know."

"O-Okay," Liam said as he nodded.

They walked out of the door. Zayn locked the apartment and pocketed his keys, bumping hips with Liam as he walked past him.

"A genius hero with pretty eyes," Zayn muttered, chuckling. "How ridiculous are you?"

Liam ran after him and laughed, "Hey, I was very taken with you! And you do have pretty eyes!"

"Who actually enjoys group projects?" Zayn teased, bumping Liam into the wall with his shoulder. "I should run for the hills now. You're clearly a sadist."

Liam clasped Zayn's hand while they walked down the steps, their arms swinging between them.

. . .

For Harry and Louis, 'totally studious' meant opening their books and holding onto writing implements, but in reality meant lying head to foot on Harry's bed with Daredevil streaming on the flat screen in Harry's bedroom as they worked their way through the frat house snack pantry.

Harry came back into his bedroom through the open door.

"Ooh, yeah," he said, giving his voice extra grit. "I knew I bought the good shit for a reason."

He placed a pint of ice cream in front of Louis, who was lounging on his stomach with his socked feet at the head of the bed. Louis popped the top off his vanilla bean gelato.

"I'm impressed. You actually have good taste in snacks."

Harry stuck a spoon into his pint of Chunky Monkey. "I'll take that as a compliment, thank you." Louis chuckled softly. Harry sat at the head of the bed with his back against the headboard, both of his legs bent and crossed. "You have the most extensive sock collection I've ever seen. You have a new pair on every day."

Louis peered over his shoulder at his feet clad in black socks with white aliens.

"Not really. I think that's just called wearing clean clothes. Something you clearly never got the memo about." He narrowed his eyes. "You're always looking at my feet, weirdo."

Harry gave the back of his spoon an obscene lick.

"I think you've inspired me to develop a foot fetish, to be completely honest."

Louis' high laughter came on so suddenly and strongly that he could only flop on his stomach, his back shaking and his ass bouncing. Harry laughed, raspy and low, before swallowing another mouthful. He pinched Louis' pinky toe and Louis kicked at him.

"Seriously, though," Harry said, his giggles quieting. "Why do you run barefoot but wear socks all the time?"

"My coach in high school said I was over-correcting a lot because of my shoes when I ran. I had blisters and stuff. Then he was like, why don't you try it barefoot? Some runners like it better. It worked, so now I just run without shoes. It makes me more grounded or something. Makes my stride more natural." Louis rolled onto his back and bent his knees, his feet flat on the bed. "My parents seem to think socks are a neutral enough gift for me, so I get them for basically any life event or holiday. That's why I have a lot, I guess. And, um, my feet are always kind of cold, so—"

"Hu-go! Hu-go! Hu—"

Harry and Louis looked confusedly towards the broken off chant. A crowd of freshman players stood in the open doorway. Their arms were pumped up at uneven heights, their expressions equally confused at the sight of Harry and Louis, fully clothed and over the covers, surrounded by textbooks while eating ice cream.

"Yeah?" Harry asked on a soft chuckle, stirring his pint. "What's up?"

"Nothing," the player, Mark Mallory, said (#47, Running Back; Freshman; Boston, MA). He slowly backed away. "Sorry, I just thought...You know." He made a shallow thrusting motion with his hips. Uncertainty colored his voice. "Hu-go?"

"Door's open, man. We're just studying."

The group of freshman moved away from the door, their confused mutters fading in the distance. Louis stared at the ceiling, his toes curling on top of each other at the head of the bed.

"Do you like when they call you that?"

Harry turned a page in his notebook. "What, Hugo?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I guess so. It pumps people up. It works well on the field. Announcers can say, 'Hu-going all the way' when I score. The press seems to like it. It's a nickname."

"Yeah, but do you like it? Who gives a shit about the press?"

"I mean, I guess I like it? I think it's funny that it caught on, but it only adds to my hook."

"Your hook?"

"Yeah, like, my press package. Things about me that commentators can talk about on-air that makes fans want to be fans of me. Everyone has to have a story."

"Being part of an NFL dynasty isn't enough of a story?"

"That's fine for football people. Hugo makes people want to fuck me, which gets me an entirely new fanbase."

"This is bizarre." Louis turned onto his stomach. "Hearing you talk about it so nonchalant." He uncapped his highlighter. "What does Hugo even mean? Is it your middle name or something?"

"Oh, you..." Harry propped himself up on one elbow, his legs out straight ahead of him. "You don't know?"

Louis highlighted a line. "Why would I know your middle name?"

"No, like, Hugo is, um..." Harry laughed softly for a moment. "It's a nickname I got in high school."

"Does it have something to do with football?"

Harry sat up straighter and crossed his ankles. He scrunched his long toes on his bare right foot and itched his heel to his calf.

"Sophomore year, my team had an overnight trip for a championship game, so we were all staying in a hotel. And, you know, we were all revved up after the game and we picked up some girls from the hotel pool. So, I'm having sex with this girl, and I presume it was going well," he chuckled, "because she starts screaming, 'Hugo! Hugo! Hu-go! Hu-go-oh!' at the top of her lungs when we were, like, really going at it."

There was a small, but joyful, chorus of, "Hu-go! Hu-go! Hu-go!" from nearby frat boys.

"I guess she thought that was my name? I dunno how she got Hugo from Harry, but I can't really talk. I don't remember her name. So, yeah. My teammates heard it in the hallway and were fucking dying laughing. It sort of stuck."

Louis rolled onto his side and brought his knees closer to his chest, propping his head up on his hand.

"Do football players often listen to each other have sex and pretend that's normal?"

"It happens."

"You're a weird bunch."

"It was a joke." Harry lifted his foot and shoved Louis' shoulder. "It's funny. People find it charming and kind of hot. It sends the message I'm a good fuck."

Louis arched his eyebrows.

"It sends the message? Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing. We just...We have very different views on privacy and sex, I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't care if strangers think I'm a good fuck. The people I choose to have sex with should be the only people in that equation."

"C'mon, Lou, you're smart. You know that, in this day and age, to be famous in any field, you have to have hype. You have to have something that sticks."

"So, you want people to know you as being a good fuck or being a good football player?"

Harry pursed his lips and weighed his head side to side.

"I'm both, so I don't see a problem with either."

Louis snuffled, "Whatever," and rolled onto his stomach. He swallowed a spoonful of vanilla gelato, refocusing on his notes and swaying his feet in the air. "Do you have your notes for Shakespeare? We have to start working."

Harry got to his knees and stretched out on his stomach beside Louis. He lifted his backpack from the floor and half pulled it onto the mattress, leafing through loose pages scrunched between books.

"What's that?" Louis asked curiously.

Harry's hand slowed. He pulled his notes out and shoved his backpack off the bed, but Louis caught the strap.

"Louis—"

Louis pulled out a Post-It filled copy of Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and Global Order. His jaw dropped.

"Are you—Are you reading Noam Chomsky?" Louis looked from the book in his hand to Harry's face. Harry stared intently at his bedspread. "Harry, this isn't on the reading list for any of your classes. Neither is..." Louis pulled out a dogeared copy of The Hobbit. "This!" He pulled out a worn copy of A Song of Fire and Ice. "Or this!"

Harry buried his face in a text book.

"You mentioned Chomsky a few times in conversation. I sometimes have to look words up on my phone, but I, um, have Amazon Prime. It was super cheap in paperback."

"Harry Styles," Louis whispered in awe, his smile beaming. "Do you actually like to read?"

Harry frowned, his lips pouted forward and his brows drawn together.

"Just, like, don't tell anyone, please. Okay?"

"What, that you like to read?"

"Yeah, I can't have that getting out."

"Harry, scholar-athletes are a thing. Liam's a really good student. A lot of athletes are actually really involved in academics. There's nothing wrong with being both. Weren't you a Boy Scout?"

"Eagle Scout. I built park benches for the grounds of a retirement home."

Louis giggled, "See? You're not as dumb as you look."

Harry grinned and rolled onto his back, his head pillowed by paperbacks.

"Mmm, babe, maybe we should shut the door afterall. All these compliments."

"Ridiculous."

"Want me to feed you ice cream? All romantic-like? Since we're both getting in the mood and all."

"You're being ridiculous, Hugo."

"No, no, no," Harry said, holding the word as he laughed. "No, you always call me Harry. Not Hugo." He knocked their feet together. "I like that."

Louis put a Post-It on a page in Harry's textbook. "I thought you liked the nickname?"

"Yeah, like, on the field and for public stuff and sometimes as a joke with friends. My real friends don't seriously call me Hugo."

As Harry settled down with his textbook, Louis' eyes scanned from the fresh Post-It to his own notes.

"Right," Louis said slowly. "So, do you have your outline for—"

"Not that we're real friends," Harry blurted out. "I mean, I know I'd like to be real friends with you, but, uh...Uh..."

"We're getting there. I can tolerate you for extended periods of time, at least." Louis looked to Harry and guffawed. Harry stared at him with his hand over his chest, his eyes shimmering. "Jesus, don't look so shocked. You act like I hate you or something." Harry said nothing, but dropped his face. Louis felt his insides soften as if his lungs decided to visit the bottom of his belly. "Harry, I-I don't hate you. Don't be ridiculous."

"Yeah, I know." Harry chuckled. "Yeah. I know that."

Louis arched his eyebrows.

"Do you?"

"Yeah, it's all good."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't it be?"

"You sound unsure."

"No, I don't."

"Alright."

Harry broke their stare and scratched his eyebrows, staring seriously at his books. Louis' eyes followed him as he picked up his pencil and turned to a fresh page in his spiral notebook.

"It's...weird," Harry said.

Louis took a moment to reply, "What?"

Harry pressed on the spine of his paperback Othello.

"I feel like...I feel like sometimes when things happen to me, I think of it in terms of, like, marketability. It's always been that way. When I was having sex with that girl and she was yelling Hugo, I was hoping my teammates would hear, because I thought it'd be funny and a cool story to tell if I got famous. Sometimes, I..." Harry bit his bottom lip, tapping his eraser to his book. "Sometimes I feel like I can see my future ahead of me. Pieces fall into place and I can tell how it'll be played off in public. Or I know how to play things in my favor. I know what to say or do to make myself desirable and buzzworthy, but still natural and cool."

Harry looked up from his book and was hit with a wallop of blue eyes. Devoted, focused, interested blue eyes.

"That's actually really interesting," Louis said quietly. "You feel like you're not in the moment, because you're plotting the next move."

Harry swallowed. "Yeah. Exactly."

"That must be tiring."

"A—A little bit, but not..."

"Not what?"

"Not when I'm with you."

"Oh." Louis arched his brows. "That's—"

Harry hopped off the bed and grabbed their ice cream pints.

"I'd better pop these back in the freezer. I think they need to chill out."

Louis snorted. "Ha. Good one."

Harry hurried out of the room and pulled his bedroom door shut behind himself. He padded down the steps and through the living room on the way to the kitchen. He opened the freezer and threw his ice cream in the side section to avoid the plethora of frozen meats so old they were basically blocks of dirt colored ice.

"There he is! Didn't know if you were balls deep in twink yet."

Harry shut the freezer and blinked at Chase.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You've got your boy all alone in your room." Chase patted his wallet in his pocket. "Is this the night I lose a hundy?"

"No one calls it a 'hundy,'" Harry said with a bored flutter of his lashes. He narrowed his stare. "And don't talk about Louis that way. It's not true and it's not polite. We're just studying."

Chase's blond brow shot up as he cackled.

"Well, well, well! My suspicions are true."

"What?"

"You like him. You're actually into him, aren't you? You'd have fucked him by now if you weren't actually into him."

Harry snorted and shook his head, his eyes skirting towards the living room. "Bye, QB." He started to walk out of the kitchen.

"Just checking on the status of our bet. Maybe I'll come up and watch Netflix with you and Louis, if you don't like him or whatever."

Harry froze, then turned. He smiled kindly.

"Stay away from Louis. Leave us alone. You're not welcome in my bedroom at any time, least of all when I have guests in there."

"Us? You and Louis are an us?"

Harry groaned and turned away, flicking his hand over his shoulder.

"Go jerk off or something, Headley. You're annoying the daylights out of me."

"Maybe your boyfriend can help me—"

Chase's statement was cut off by Harry gripping his shirt with both hands and backing him against the fridge. Chase's feet dangled inches above the ground, the tips of their noses brushing.

"You keep Louis' name out of your mouth," Harry said quiet and low, but not unkindly. He squinted and nudged his forehead forward. "Don't you ever speak of him like that. Just because we have a bet, that doesn't mean you can treat him that way."

"Whatever you say, Silver Spoon."

Harry released his grip and walked away without another word. He ignored the loud, suggestive hoots from players immersed in a Playstation battle in the living room and went upstairs. He swallowed outside his bedroom door, blowing cool air out of his pursed lips before stepping inside.

"Hey," he said, leaning back to close the door.

Louis looked up with a soft smile.

"Hi."

Harry flopped on his stomach beside him.

"Sorry I disappeared. Chase was being an asshole."

"Yeah, I've noticed he has a habit of that."

Harry's hand froze on the remote control.

"What?"

"He made a strange comment when I was coming in tonight. Something about if I had a hundred dollar change of clothes in my backpack? Is that a football thing or something?"

Harry's jawline tightened.

"Ignore him."

"So." Louis sat up with his legs crossed. He tapped his pencil to his copy of Hamlet. "We're doing a really, really bad job of studying here."

Harry winced, but his smile was too wide to hide for more than two seconds.

"Yeah, we kind of are."

"I think we should budget Daredevil time to study time."

Harry sat up and mirrored his position, their knees almost touching.

"That sounds awesome!" His full, open lips pursed curiously as he blinked. "What is a budget?"

"Fifteen minutes of TV, thirty minutes of studying."

Harry's grin faded. "That's not—That's unbalanced. You love balance. It should be fifteen and fifteen."

"If we say fifteen for TV, it will really end up being, like, twenty if we get wrapped up in a good part."

"So?"

"So? We have to work."

"How about I rub your feet while we have TV time? Does that sweeten the deal?"

"That makes me want to watch TV even less."

"You can rub my feet, then?"

"You're straight up Gaston-ing right now."

Harry got to his knees, puffed out his chest, and held his fists to his pecs before belting out:

"When I was a lad, I ate four dozen eggs, ev'ry morning to help me get laaaaarge!"

Louis hid his face in his hands, collapsing on his side and curling in a ball. His huffed, hysterical laughter was drowned out by Harry continuing to sing, "And now that I'm grown, I eat five dozen eggs!" He bent over, crooning in Louis' face, "So I'm roughly the size of a baaarge!"

"No." Louis laughed and groaned in the same breath. He fell back with his arms flat on the bed. "No, you don't know every word of Gaston's song. Nope. You can't."

"I also know Tale as Old as Time in English, Spanish and American Sign Language. We sang and signed it at my pre-school graduation."

Louis smiled as his giggles softened, his eyes even softer than his voice. He watched Harry arrange his limbs into a kneeling teapot position.

Harry dipped his arm sideways into an imaginary cup and chirped, "Tea, Chip?"

"I am not Chip," Louis said firmly, Harry cackling.

. . .

Louis took a slow breath in. Something hot and firm pinned his front to the pillowy mattress. He breathed in deeper and nuzzled his nose to his pillow. Warm lips pressed to the back of his neck.

"You're up," Harry said, low and growly. "Good."

"Why?" Louis rasped. Harry nuzzled his ear, Louis slapping his lips and pushing his face away. "Shh. Early. Shh." He felt Harry's hand slip under his body and smiled. He took a breath in and exhaled it as a stuttered laugh. "What are you doing?"

"We've got time before class."

"Psh. As if you attend classes."

Harry merely chuckled and slipped his hand down the front of Louis' boxer briefs. He kissed his neck slowly and deliberately, his nose nudging each spot that he kissed. Louis' chest ballooned, Harry's palm closing around his morning wood. Louis ground his hips backwards with a soft whine.

"Such a simple lay, you are," Harry whispered, lips brushing beneath Louis' ear. His low, deep words sank through Louis' every pore, dripping sweetly into his brain like warm maple syrup. "I'd suck you or fuck you 'til the cows come home, but you love a good hand job."

"I do," Louis whispered. He reached behind himself and laced his fingers in Harry's hair. Harry started kissing his neck faster, Louis exhaling a long, low moan. "Fuck, I do."

Harry licked his earlobe, purring, "Today at work, no one will request a drink based on temperature."

Louis' nose wrinkled to hold back a giggle. He hummed, "Mmm," while scratching Harry's curls. "Tell me more."

"Then, track practice will be cancelled and you can take a three hour nap. Guilt free."

Louis bit his bottom lip, his hips thrusting shallowly into Harry's hand.

"Oh, baby, now we're talking."

"And then," Harry whispered in a low, seductive tone, "you're gonna get an email from Mood Fabrics in New York City. Congratulations. You won an hour long shopping spree at Mood, plus a date with Tim Gunn at Red Lobster."

Louis laughed so hard he curled into a ball, Harry snorting against his neck.

"C'mere, giggles," Harry said fondly. He squeezed his cock. "I wanna make you come."

Louis rolled over with his arms already above his head. Harry pulled his red Armadillo's jersey off of Louis and tossed it to the floor. Louis smiled and arched his back, Harry sucking his left nipple in passing.

Harry flattened on him, grinning with sleep mussed curls and soft eyes. Louis cradled the back of his head with both hands and pulled his face down. Their lips hissed as they sucked wet kisses. Harry lifted his face to breathe hotly against Louis' mouth.

"Lou?"

Louis' eyes opened.

"What?"

"After I jerk you off, can I go down on you?"

"Uh, yeah," Louis said, breathless. He looked at Harry's lips and lifted his head, joining their lips. "Sounds good."

"Then," Harry said, licking his own lips, "can I eat you out for a while?"

Louis panted and jutted his hips up.

"Yeah, sure, sounds awesome."

"Cool," Harry grinned.

Their kisses deepened, Harry resuming his tight, sure strokes over Louis' cock. Louis moaned into their kiss, arching under him.

"Almost seems like you're enjoying this, Grumpy Gus," Harry whispered into his mouth, his hand speeding up. Louis shivered as he whimpered, his eyes squeezing shut. Harry dropped his face to suckle Loui's pulse. "Tell me you like it, Lou. Wanna hear you say it."

"I l-love it."

"Yeah?"

"I love you," Louis said, his eyes opening. He smirked. "Even when you wake me up early for no damn reason."

Harry smiled crookedly. "Love you, too, babe. Now, how about you come for me? Wanna suck you off so fucking badly."

"Yeah," Louis exhaled, his breaths breaking into a series of moans. His voice took on the high, weak tone only Harry seemed to wring out of him. Their lips sealed together, Louis' cock throbbing in Harry's fist. "Fuck, Harry—"

Each quiet murmur from Harry sent puffs of warm air over his face. "C'mon, Lou, come for me. C'mon, Lou. C'mon, babe, you're so fucking hot. Christ, Louis, nearly—"

Louis' eyes shot open. He did not blink for almost thirty seconds. Air barely made it in through his nostrils.

He stared at Harry's sleeping face resting one inch from his own. Soft, chocolate curls, tanned skin, bitten lips, and complete relaxation. Even his eyebrows were attractive and elegantly shaped while he slept. Tiny breaths puffed out of Harry's nose, his hands curled up against Louis' chest with one leg linked between Louis' ankles.

Louis blinked.

The sight in front of him did not change due to moistening his eyeballs. He looked around the dark bedroom. The Daredevil page for Netflix was frozen on the television. Harry's comforter had been thrown over them from Harry's side, which meant that Louis fell asleep first, which meant that Harry saw him sleeping and voluntarily wrapped them up in blankets.

"No," Louis whispered.

He slipped off the bed and slid bonelessly to the floor. He laid on the floor for a moment, his heart pounding in his ears. He gripped the hardness between his legs, biting his bottom lip and pushing his cock down from his tight fly.

"No," he whispered again. He shook his head and felt around for his shoes. "No. No. No."

The mattress creaked. Louis looked up with wide eyes and saw Harry's hand rubbing over the bed.

"Lou?" Harry mumbled into his pillow.

"No," Louis said as he shoved his shoe on. "No."

Harry pushed himself up on his forearm, his relaxed expression replaced by that of a rumpled kitten. He slowly licked his lips.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving."

Louis bent for his other shoe. Harry's warm hand gripped his wrist.

"It's late," Harry whispered, his voice even deeper than usual. He squinted and thumbed the underside of Louis' wrist. "Stay."

"No. No, thanks. No."

Harry sat up straighter. "It's late and cold out. I'll sleep on the couch downstairs and you can take my bed."

Louis checked his phone and turned away, Harry's hand falling from his wrist.

"It's not that late. Not even eleven."

Harry slid his legs out of the blankets.

"I'll get you an Uber."

"Nah," Louis said, zipping his hoodie. "I'll run."

"Louis," Harry said, frowning. He rubbed his hand over his lips. "It's late."

Louis shouldered his backpack. "I'll run fast. Thanks, um..." His mouth faltered as he stepped backwards. "For the study venue. And for the ice cream."

"Yeah, sure. I'll," Harry yawned, "I'll walk you out."

"Nope," Louis said, already at the door. He opened it and stepped out. "Night, Harry."

He didn't wait for Harry's reply before he shut the door.

. . .

"Hit the showers!"

The football team groaned and rolled onto their backs.

"I have actual nightmares about these suicides at the end of practice," Liam panted, ripping his helmet off. He squinted up at Harry, the sun blazing and casting shadows over Harry's broad shoulders. "How are you so normal? Aren't you exhausted?"

Harry cradled his helmet to his side.

"I dunno. Ever since I started doing extra runs every morning, it's like my tolerance at practice went up. It sucked for the first couple of weeks, but now I think I'm in a groove or something."

Liam scrambled to his feet. "Oh, so, you...You still do that? You run with Louis?"

Harry grunted as he and Liam trotted to the locker room. Coach Taylor squeezed Harry's arm in passing.

"Nice work today, Styles. Showing real fortitude and endurance." He patted his shoulderpad. "Great speed, too. Whatever you're doing, keep it up, son."

"Thanks, coach," Harry said, grinning.

As the football team got closer to the locker room, another team exited. Harry saw Louis walking with a couple of other runners. His hair was dark and freshly washed, his skin scrubbed clean, a red duffel bag looped over his shoulder. He listened intently to whatever was being said then murmured something, prompting the other runners to laugh louder.

Louis' gaze slid across the mass of football players until he landed on Harry. Realization brightened his face. His lips curled into a small, gentle smirk as the other runners chattered beside him.

Harry mouthed, "Hi, Lou."

Louis rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide his growing amusement. He held Harry's stare until the runners walked past the football players.

Harry spun to face him. He caught Louis peeking over his shoulder ever so quickly before Louis smiled and shook his head, turning away from Harry.

The sound of football cleats tapping blacktop faded in Harry's ears, but he could feel Liam's presence beside him.

"You like him," Liam said softly. "You actually like him. For real."

Louis turned his head and gifted Harry with another peek of shimmering blue eyes. Harry tightened his grip on the face guard of his helmet, standing motionless until Louis turned away a final time.

Harry gave Liam a dimpled smile as he itched his sweaty hair. "Yeah, I do," he said simply. He walked towards the locker room. "For real."