i 0d2125e00f277ca8 (17 page)

allowed to be here whenever he wants, but it still feels dangerous.

Everything feels sort of dangerous lately. Harry opens the gate and

motions for Louis to walk through, then ducks under the stands to

unlock the hidden breaker box and flip on the lights. The pitch floods

with light in front of them, bright green and wide open under the night

sky and no place at all to hide.

Louis squints at Harry, walking backwards onto the pitch and feeling

words churning up like they always do when he‟s nervous. “Worried?

Who‟s worried? The only one who should be worried is you, Styles,

because you‟re about to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of the

Tommo.” He pauses and thinks through that sentence again. “Or the

feet of the Tommo. Whatever would be more humiliating.”

Harry just laughs and pulls the football out of the duffle. He tosses it

into the air and starts bouncing it off his knees, higher and higher each

time, following the ball with his eyes. His concentration makes the

lines of him long and steady, and the column of his throat is pale and

perfect under the pitch‟s fluorescent lights.

Louis swallows. He is perhaps in over his head.

Suddenly Harry kicks the ball, catching it mid-air and sending it

soaring past Louis. He takes off at a run, blowing by Louis before he‟s

even registered what‟s happening. Louis curses under his breath and

goes tearing after him, pleased when he closes the gap quickly.

“Too slow, Harold,” he says, coming in from the side with a slide

tackle that knocks the ball from Harry‟s feet.

112

He scrambles upright and starts running the other way down the pitch

as fast as he can, the ball dancing ahead of him. He hears the pounding

of Harry‟s feet behind him a moment too late, unable to stop Harry

from colliding with him roughly and stealing the ball away.

Harry comes to a stop a few paces from Louis, breathing heavily

through his grin. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security, Lou,”

he says, his left foot resting on the football.

Louis may be a bit winded, but he‟s aware enough to see the fierce joy

in Harry‟s eyes, the predatory set of his shoulders. His cheeks and lips

are bright pink, either from the cold or from exertion, and Louis can see

the fluid way his muscles move under his shirt when he shifts his

weight for another attack. Competition looks good on him.

Keeping eye contact, Harry feints right, then left, and Louis banks hard

and follows him each time. Finally Harry slips past him with a spin

move, his shoulder sliding across Louis‟ with a force that feels

intentional. Louis isn‟t far behind him, and this time he grabs Harry‟s

shirt, slows him down so he can steal the ball back. Harry isn‟t easily

outdone, though, and they spend what could be minutes or years upping

the ante, swearing and laughing and using dirtier and dirtier tactics to

regain possession as they sprint up and down the pitch.

Louis realises somewhere along the line that they never established

how exactly one wins whatever game they‟re playing, but then Harry

makes a break down the pitch and Louis is too busy chasing him to

care.

One of them—Louis couldn‟t say who—finally goes too far,

underestimates his own strength, and the two of them go down in a

tangle of limbs at midfield, the ball rolling away slowly before coming

to a stop. Louis lunges after it, but Harry is too quick, throwing his

body across Louis‟ to hold him back.

His hands find Louis‟ wrists, holding him down, and Louis has to admit

he is well and truly pinned.

113

Everything has gone so quiet all of a sudden, just the sounds of the two

of them trying to catch their breath, Harry sitting astride him now. His

beanie has come off somewhere in the melee, and the lights of the pitch

above him pick out his curls in silver. Louis has always known,

intellectually, that Harry is bigger than him, but it‟s different to know it

physically, to have Harry‟s body cover him and blot out the stars.

He‟s imagined them in this position before, but actually feeling Harry

there, feeling him with his own actual body and not his imaginary

daydream body, is a little too much. Half of him is knotted up in his

nerve endings, incapable of rational thought, and half of him is miles

away, clinically analyzing everything that‟s happening from

somewhere in space. Both halves are about thirty seconds from

catastrophic failure, and that could have consequences that Louis isn‟t

prepared to deal with.

Louis meets Harry‟s eyes, and Harry‟s mouth slices open in a grin that

leaves Louis as winded as any tackle.

“Gotcha,” Harry says. “Looks like I win.” He‟s frozen still, though, and

while his smile is sure, there‟s a question in his eyes that Louis has no

interest in answering, or doesn‟t know how. He thinks instead of the

grass prickling against the back of his neck, narrows his focus to that

single sensation.

“Is that how this works, then,” Louis says softly. He‟s stalling, holding

off the moment he can feel humming toward them. Harry huffs a small

laugh that turns to fog in the cold air. Louis had forgotten the

temperature, can‟t quite take it seriously when he can feel the heat of

Harry down to his bones. Even that has him reeling, the thought that the

warmth seeping into him was part of Harry half a minute ago.

“You tell me,” Harry says quietly. Louis takes a deep breath, feeling

panic thread its way through him, crackling along every nerve. He

searches for a response, something clever and witty that will get him

out of this without having to risk anything, but when he reaches for a

rejoinder he finds his brain is full of static. His throat feels tighter and

tighter, and when he lets out a breath a small whine comes with it.

114

Harry‟s hands loosen on his wrists, distracted, and if Louis is honest

with himself, what happens next is pure fight or flight.

He surges upwards, taking advantage of Harry‟s moment of inattention,

and bowls them both over. Leaving Harry flat on his back, Louis runs

for the football, snatching it up with his hands. He‟s got no plan, no

strategy besides move move keep moving, but when he looks back

Harry is upright and running after him, thank God.

Louis runs the length of the half and carries the football between the

goalposts. When he turns, football held overhead, Harry is slowing to a

stop, a tired smile on his face and his beanie in his hand.

“You know, that‟s not actually how the game is played,” Harry says

wearily, tugging his hat back onto his head.

“Expecting me to play by your rules was your first mistake, young

Harry,” Louis says, tossing him the football.

Harry fixes him with a considering look. “Yeah, I guess it was,” he

says, cocking his head to one side. Then he drops the football, and

before Louis has time to react, Harry‟s grabbed him around the legs and

heaved him over his shoulder into a fireman‟s carry, ignoring Louis‟

squawks of alarm and protest.

Louis contemplates his upside-down view of Harry‟s arm. He‟d like it

better right-side up, and with his crotch not pressed dangerously against

the muscle and bone of Harry‟s shoulder. It‟s a very nice arm,

admittedly, but even so.

“Harry,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “What the shit are you

doing?”

“If you can make up rules, so can I,” Harry says, striding across the

pitch. He doesn‟t even sound like he‟s making much of an effort, the

bastard, and Louis needs to stop feeling things about how easy it is for

115

Harry to physically throw him around or else he‟s going to find himself

in a very compromising situation soon. “My rule says that the loser has

to carry the winner off the field.” His grip on Louis‟ thigh tightens, and

it‟s all Louis can do not to squirm against it.

“Good rule,” he says into Harry‟s arm. “Next time can you give the

winner a bit of warning?”

“Next time the winner will be me,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the

smile in his voice even if he can‟t see it. “So I‟ll be sure to let myself

know.”

“Smartarse,” Louis grumbles. He glares down at the grass, which really

isn‟t fair. The grass never made him have inconvenient sexual urges. At

least not directly.

Then the world tilts and he‟s being set down, right-side up, on the edge

of the pitch. Harry picks up his duffle bag and shuts the lights back off

before opening the gate and ushering Louis through with a bow.

Louis smiles, even if he can‟t quite meet Harry‟s eyes. “I could get

used to this,” he says, waiting for Harry to catch up. Harry just laughs.

They cross the carpark in silence again, and Louis can‟t quite tell what

kind of silence it is. They reach his car, and it‟s only when Harry‟s bag

hits his backseat with a thwap that Louis realises it‟s empty.

“Your football,” he says. “I‟m sorry, I didn‟t realise. We can—“

“I‟ll get it on Monday,” Harry says with a shrug. He slides into the

passenger seat and pulls the door closed.

The drive back to Harry‟s is almost as quick as the drive to the school,

and when Louis pulls up to his block of flats he can‟t decide if he wants

116

Harry out of his car as fast as possible or if he wants to keep driving

until his petrol runs out so Harry can‟t ever leave.

Harry unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches into the backseat for his bag.

Then he turns to Louis, holding out his hand. Unsure, Louis clasps it in

his own.

“Good game,” Harry says, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards,

and then he slips out of the car, leaving Louis with a phantom warmth

in his hand and a stupid expression on his face. Both stay in place the

entire drive back to Louis‟ apartment, Louis doing his best to ignore the

insistent pulsing in his groin.

He feels like he‟s suffocating in the small space of his car,

overwhelmed by sense memory. Harry‟s weight pressing him into the

ground. Harry‟s lip caught between his teeth in concentration. Harry‟s

voice rumbling low in his chest. This whole thing has been throwing

sparks at the dry kindling of his mad, terrible wanting, and now a fire‟s

been lit under his skin, smoldering between his nerve endings and

making him sweat in his seat.

When he finally makes it back to his apartment, he pauses only long

enough to throw the deadbolt before staggering into his bedroom. He

doesn‟t even make it onto the bed, falling on his knees just inside the

door instead. He braces against the bed with his forearm, burying his

face against the duvet, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to

take himself in hand. He groans at the first touch, desperate for it, for

anything.

He doesn‟t waste any time, taking tight, fast pulls, and fuck, it almost

hurts to do it dry, but if he doesn‟t get some sort of release in the next

two minutes he‟s going to die. Breathing shallowly, he lets the leftover

pieces of the night take over. He thinks of Harry above him, and the

smell of grass, and how it would feel to get fucked with that grass

against his skin and that face looking down at him. He imagines Harry

taking him apart on the midfield line, under the lights, out in the open.

He remembers Harry‟s hands tight on his wrists, and shudders wrack

117

his entire body. One, two, three more strokes, and he‟s done, coming

into his own hand with a broken sound.

He sits there he doesn‟t know how long, coming down less from his

orgasm than from the entire night. God. He is a fucking wreck, and it‟s

only getting worse. He can only imagine what Harry would think if he

saw him like this, alone on his bedroom floor with his prick out and a

hand full of come. What is wrong with him? He hasn‟t been like this

over anyone since he was sixteen years old and terrified and helpless to

stop himself from thinking of the fit boy from biology class every time

he got himself off. This has gotten completely out of control.

Louis finally musters the energy to go clean himself up, deciding that

staying on the floor until he withers into dust under the weight of his

sad, sad state of affairs is not actually the way he wants to die. When he

raises his head, though, eyes fall on his pillow. There sits Duchess,

grooming one paw imperiously and staring at him with what can only

be disdain.

He drops his face back onto the bed with a defeated whimper.

118