Archive of Our Own

Louis’s decided long ago he does not like the swim team. He’s slipping into his English Lit class ten minutes late and Mr. Wilson is giving him a deathly glare that he tries to bait off with a winning smile. It doesn’t work. It’s effectively the third time in a week this has happened so he’s certain there’ll be a detention with his name on it when he gets up to leave again. Mr. Wilson has this thing about “entitled athletes running the school” and has hated Louis since the start of the semester. It’s hardly his fault that he’s good at his craft, thank you very much. Old man Wilson should be thanking him for the good he’s done this school on that footie field, not harassing him for it. Louis sighs as he slips into his seat next to Liam and knows Coach is not going to be happy about him being late for practice over a detention, but he thinks he can work his way out of that headache unscathed. It’s just, Louis wants to tell Mr. Wilson and his coach and Liam who hasn’t stop pointedly staring at him that it’s not his fault he’s late every day. It’s the fucking swim team’s.

The thing is he has to walk by the pool on his way to English every morning. It’s a huge thing, Olympic sized and encased in glass walls that people can look into as they walk by. It’s not that he likes to stop and ogle a bunch of shirtless guys as they get their morning workouts in; he learned his lesson in that respect in Year 10. That’s a hard rep to live down. But just because he has learned to stop drooling at the windows, doesn’t mean everyone has. Thus, every morning there’s a barricade of girls standing between him and his first period, blatantly gawking over the team in their sorry excuses for swim wear. God forbid he actually calls their attention to the fact that they’re in the middle of a vital walkway because then they swarm on him--like today.

He’d tried for a polite yet brisk “coming through ladies” and was met with an uproar of coos and congratulatory shoulder rubs for his game the previous night.

“That final kick was amazing Louis; we knew you had it in you.” And it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the ego boost--it’s a fundamental part of any sport--it’s just that he’s now running late again and Mr. Wilson is not as kind as they are. He’s only saved that morning when he hears a gasp under his swarm of affections, and one of the girls breathes out an “Oh my god,” before turning back over to the window. Sure enough emerging from the water as if this is a real live episode of Bay Watch is swim team captain himself.

He’s a weird type, has two fucking birds tattooed across his chest for whatever reason, and he rises from the pool he shakes his hair out before pushing it back, all the while pretending he doesn’t see the onslaught of girls clinging to the window mere yards away. When he does finally give them the time of day, he looks over, far too suave for Louis’s taste, and gives them all a wink.

That’s right, he actually winks.

Louis thinks it’s cheesy and obnoxious, but at least he pulls the attention off of him long enough to break through to his class as the girls behind him keep right on swooning. He looks back in distaste, and maybe it’s just a trick of the angle, but he almost thinks he sees fish boy’s eyes following him as he walks off. Not that he has time to contemplate that, too busy rushing into the building.

By maths, Louis’s all but forgotten about his misadventures of the morning and is chatting with his mate Zayn. He likes Zayn because as much as he appreciates everyone’s enthusiasm about his sport, Zayn is never one to overdo it. Sometimes Louis thinks if he has to hear another one of his “adoring fans” bat their glued on eyelashes and recount the cool “kick thing” he did at their last game he’s going to pull his hair out. Even his friends who are clued in on actual terminology make him feel suffocated with how much they expect him to indulge them. Occasionally, he has a good laugh to himself about all of them. About how they don’t think he realizes how opportunistic they can be. Louis’s no fool; he knows most of the people who strike up a conversation with him are more interested in being seen with The Tommo than they are to genuinely hold a word with him. It’s why he likes talking to Zayn so much.

He’s mostly quiet, walks the halls with this dark air about him, acts as if he doesn’t care about anyone else’s whispers. Louis thinks at the very least, he’s the closest thing this school’s got to really not giving a shit. The thing Louis likes the most is that Zayn keeps the admiration simply and short with a “Good game last night” before launching into a story he thinks is much more interesting about himself. Today he centers on his morning breaking in his new skateboard. Louis listens intently as he recounts his attempts at his signature aerial, and Louis is about to suggest joining him later that weekend just as he’s interrupted by a screeching sound next to him.

He’s always painfully aware when his neighbor in Maths shows up because the poor sod’s got a habit of dragging his wooden chair at just the right pressure to make an ungodly scratching sound against the floor. Granted, none of the chairs in this particular classroom are that newly furnished, but after almost a full semester most (all) of the students have found figured out how to manipulate the offensive seats with little to no noise. Everyone except Harry Styles anyway.

Louis turns to the sound of Harry’s chair screeching only to see he’s not the only one who’s attention has been snatched from previous conversations. There’s at least six other students staring at Harry for effectively creating his daily nails-against-chalkboard entrance. He does have the decency to blush before muttering a quick “sorry” and taking his seat next to Louis at their shared table. Louis huffs out an indignant sigh meaning to turn his attention back to Zayn, but his counterpart’s attention has already been compromised.

“Always with the dramatic entrances, eh Hazza?” Zayn directs his question past Louis.

“Wouldn’t be me without ‘em, would I, Malik?” he throws back.

Louis doesn’t know why, but he’s always surprised to see them like this, interacting. Partially because they’re both known to be very selective with whom they choose as companions and because in Louis’s mind, if he hates and/or ignores the swim team—it depends on his mood that day—then so does everyone else. He forgets that Zayn isn’t like most people.

Regardless, on the days they strike up these talks, Louis always feels awkward and left out, rare for him, as they talk together across his seat. Everyday he finds a reason not to hop into the banter: That Harry kid’s too dull to keep up; he hasn’t seen the movie they’re talking about in a while; of course everyone likes Beyonce, there’s no reason to add to the chat; etcetera.

Today he settles on his residual anger from his detention he’ll have to serve later that day, and no better person to direct his anger toward than swim team captain himself.

He allows them to carry on without him and sets his attention to the front of the classroom meaning to keep it there until the start of class. However, his plans don’t seem to be working in his favor today. “What about you, Louis?” he hears as he’s pulled from his trance. The voice that captures him is slow and milky nothing like Zayn’s usual tone. He looks to his neighbor in confusion, not having kept up. “What?” he blinks on reflex.

“The new Italian restaurant,” Harry clarifies. “Have you been? Zayn says they have the best breadsticks in town, but I don’t think that’s possible ‘cause there’s that place on Bower St. that’s got all those nice homemade recipes and-“

“No, I’ve never been, sorry,” Louis blurts out. Anything to stop what has to be the most winding and unimportant conversation he’ll have today, he reasons. He looks down at his hands just as their teacher finally appears, calling the class to attention. Eyes downcast, he misses the look Harry throws to Zayn, something of an I told you so, and the consequent eye roll that Zayn returns to them both before going to his seat across the room.

Pulling out his notebook, Louis digs through his bag for an obnoxiously flustered minute before he realizes he’s probably not going to find a pencil and is about to settle on an hour of looking out the window when he hears an “Ahem” beside him and sees a pencil out to his periphery. Disoriented, he turns, and Harry merely smirks at him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was a twinge of shyness in his offer, but Louis does know better so he just stares at the boy beside him.

And the longer he stares, the pinker Harry’s cheeks tint.

“I just, um, I figured this was what you were looking for. I’ve got like, erm, I’ve got extra?” Harry stumbles trying to get his words out. Maybe that’s why he speaks so slowly; he has to have time to stop and think about the words as he chooses them. Louis looks at him perplexed as to why his statement comes out as a question, but he figures he should put an end to this exchange sooner rather than later.

“Yeah, thanks man,” Louis whispers reaching for the writing utensil. As he goes to grab it, he thinks he hears a hitch in Harry’s breath. Under normal circumstances, he would probably investigate it more, except he thinks he already understands, as his fingers wrap around the pencil and his digits graze over Harry’s. He must imagine the heat he feels go through him, spreading from the tips of his fingers and traveling up his entire arm. He must. Except he can still feel the warmth moments later and see his hairs standing on end. He can also detect just the slightest increase to the rate of his heartbeat. That and Harry’s now looking at him as if he’s experienced the same odd responses. Louis determinedly fights the blush that threatens to break through before he coughs and pulls his hand away, giving a stout nod to his neighbor in thanks. When he turns away, he tries to keep his mind on the board, but he doesn’t achieve getting his focus back to the lesson at hand for the entire period.

>>

Louis is running full speed to the football pitch. Lady luck has finally given him some grace for the day when his detention proctor took pity on the unfortunate lot and let everyone out twenty minutes early. “It’s Friday,” he’d lamented, “Go be somewhere else.” Louis had taken off like a bat in the night before he’d even finished dismissing them. When he makes it to the far end of campus he drops his bookbag under the bleachers where the team normally keeps their belongings and rushes into the locker room. Maybe if he’s at least not as late as originally planned, Coach will go easy on him. Still fixing his cleats and winded already, he hops onto the field, skidding to his Coach’s side.

“You’re late,” is all he gets for his efforts.
“I know,” he replies because if there’s one thing you don’t do it’s argue with Coach.

“Bleachers,” his coach demands. “Then you can do ball drills on your own. See if you can remember how important it is to have a whole team.”

Louis nods curtly before turning on his heel and making his way to the stands. From the corner of his eye, he can see his teammates running plays he taught them. They’re not doing them right, but it’s not his place to interfere right now. As he runs his snakes up and down the bleachers, he takes comfort in the fact that this isn’t the worst possible punishment Coach could have ordered of him, so he knows he’s not in that much of a hole. The sun is beating down mercilessly and there’s sweat forming a river down his temples and back, his calves aching with the effort before his coach finally blows his whistle.

“Alright, boys! That’s good for today; bring it in!” He turns to see his teammates make their way toward the locker room, calling to him as they pass. “ ‘lright up there Tommo?” they tease. “Look like ya winded.” Louis flips them all off good naturedly and tries to conceal his flinch when he hears, “Tomlinson!” from his coach. “Get some ball work in,” he says following the team off the field.

Making his final trek down the bleachers and picking up a ball, the wind starts to pick up, and Louis thinks that’s all he needs really. A light breeze and no unnecessary distractions from his sport. He bounces the ball on his knees a few times, stretching from his workout and then he’s all over the field, completely in his element. It’s here that he can lose himself. Worries about grades and so called friends and gentle caresses from certain members of the swim team don’t follow him onto the field. He gets lost in the beauty of it: his muscles aching in a way he’s grown fond of over the years, his breath trying to keep up with him, his legs knowing where to go and twist and strike before he’s even done completing the thought in his mind. He drives himself vigorously up and down the field and his control has the smooth precision as it can only have at the height of a season. In the back of his mind he knows his muscles will be repeating the sensations of these moves in his sleep tonight, committing them to memory. Here the smell of the earth beneath his feet calms him so much it takes more than one person to break him of his concentration.

“Tommo!” choruses to his right, pulling him from his revere. Turning his attention he sees Stan and Liam standing off to the side, hair damp, but fresh as an autumn day. He can trace incredulity and good natured annoyance on their features, but below that he sees poorly concealed admiration and possibly a bit of awe? It’s a look he’s grown familiar with over the years, but he tries not to focus on how big that makes his head seem. Even though his best mates are still openly gawking at him.

“What?” he asks, hesistant.

Stan severs his trance first and speaks up. “Bout time you acknowledge us, we’ve been shouting at you for at least a minute! Coach said to let you know you’re good to go. Hit the showers and that. Everyone else is already gone, mostly.”

Looking toward the locker room, Louis sees what must be the last of the team strangling out of the building. He raises a hand to them in passing. “Didn’t realize I was out here for that long, I guess.”

“You never do,” Liam laughs. “No need to go too hard today though. We’ve still got practice in the morning.”

“Yeah, alright,” Louis laments, kicking the ball up into his hands. “I’ll see you lads tomorrow then.”

“See you Tommo,” they sing, running off the field to catch up with their other teammates.

Heading back to the locker room, Louis figures a nice shower is exactly what the doctor ordered. His day hadn’t gone too roughly as a whole, but he can’t shake this taut feeling that hangs in the air, making him uneasy. He thinks a hot steam will help his muscles—and his brain, for that matter—relax. Entering the locker room he hears at least one shower still running and becomes aware to the fact that he’s not the only one left, probably just some straggler from the team. Reaching a cubicle of his own, he strips down and allows himself to unwind under the stream of heat and water that washes over him. And just when his calm starts to reach every part of him—his serenity is broken by some twat two stalls down.

“We’re soarin’, flyyyin, there’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reeeachh,” the voice belts.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Louis murmurs to himself. Because he finds it annoying enough we people bring music players into the showers with them and this kid is having his very own show time at the Apollo. Do not be fooled, Louis loves a good real life rendition of high school musical just as much as the next Zac Efron enthusiast, but he also likes to be the one to commandeer these numbers. Regardless, he tries to relax as the voice he can’t place (definitely not one of his teammates he notices) attempts to make his way through the entire high school musical discography.

Unbeknownst to the both of them, on the other side of the locker room door, the janitor is checking his watch and deciding it’s about time to lock up the place for the weekend.

It takes several minutes, but the singing Louis has been a forced audience to does eventually peter out to a muted hum. Allowing himself a few more minutes of solitude, and his fellow patron some time to leave, Louis finally emerges from his shower, and he has to admit it did do him some good. Wrapping in his towel, he makes his way to the dressing area only to have his eyes practically assaulted from the sight in front of him. Because not a handful of paces away is a boy. His back is to Louis, so he doesn’t think his presence has even been noticed. Louis’s tongue goes involuntarily dry as he notices the boy is dressed in nothing more than a towel slung low around his hips, and he can see the concave of his back dip sinfully beneath the fabric. It doesn’t take long for Louis to recognize him as Harry from Maths—from the swim team. Louis looks on still baffled at the scene before him. Mainly because Harry is just standing there with his palms pressed to the door, and from where Louis is he can see his brow furrowed like he’s in the midst of a riddle he has yet to solve. Curiosity gets the best of him.

“What are you doing?” he finally questions.

Harry looks startled but his eyes remain just as confused. Twisting his waist towards Louis, both thumbs pointing back at the door his retort is very simple.

“We’re stuck.”

>>

Louis’s trying to think. He’s just staring at the door and thinking and looking around the room and thinking and glancing up at the ceiling and thinking and. It’s not working out too well. Then there’s the swim kid sitting on one of the benches who for whatever reason doesn’t even look bothered. He’s just sitting there using his finger to draw shapes on the wooden benchtop. Upon investigating the door for himself at Harry’s proclamation and finding that it was indeed locked, Louis had advocated for both of them getting dressed and figuring this out. Really anything would have been better than the both of them standing around in towels just looking quizzically at each other. Louis found himself looking more so than not at Harry’s backside, wondering how someone that attractive could have a back so free of scratches and markings and could he be the one to put an end to that horrible wrong? In all, it was extremely distracting.

“Are you even trying to think of something?” Louis snaps at him eventually.

Harry’s head jerks up in mild surprise before he opens his mouth with a “We’ve tried everything, I think.”

“Revolutionary,” Louis snides to himself. Then, “We can’t just sit here like waiting ducks, man, think of something. Try the door again,” Louis suggests as if they haven’t thought of that idea five times already. Just the mention of it has fish boy scrunching his face in pain before he shakes his head.

“We’ve tried that,” Harry reminds him. “Didn’t work.”

Louis’s really starting to hate that slow drawl of his. “Well give me a better idea,” he counters.

And the curly haired boy just looks around the room with a vague air of “like what” and as much as Louis hates how unresponsive he’s being, the kid’s got a point. Because the door is not an option, clearly, and the windows have bars on the outside, and their phones don’t work, and their laptops aren’t with them, and he’s trying not to panic but they are stuck, and he’s never been a fan of enclosed spaces.

“This is a nightmare,” he whines, sliding to the floor against a set of lockers. “Like literally, I think I’ve had a nightmare like this before and it ends with both of us in a body bag thrown in a river where hyenas will come and attack our remains and no one will ever even know the truth to avenge us!”

His head drops to his knees that he’s brought up against his chest. After a few stalled seconds he hears what he thinks is a muffled chuckle, and he looks up ready to spit fire. Sure enough, his counterpart is looking down at his bench still with a poorly concealed smirk on his face and a breathy laugh escaping him with every lungful of air. “This is not a laughing matter, you shit! A serial killer is going to break out of one of these lockers any second now, and I’m gonna make sure he has your head firs—“ He’s cut off by Harry who is really laughing now, his whole body shaking with the effort.

“I’m sorry,” he’s trying to say between snorts. “it’s just--you have such a--an active--“ He doesn’t finish his sentence, just keeps laughing at Louis with glassy eyes and a smile that’s too big for his face.

“Screw this,” Louis mutters and he wonders if maybe he can find a crowbar if he searches long enough.

He’s shuffling through a closet finding nothing more than old gym shorts and a not so helpful mop when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He sighs. “I’m not interested in you laughing at me anymore.”

“Good thing, I came to apologize then.” Louis hears him answer.

Louis hesitates warily, but at the very least Harry doesn’t sound as amused as he was moments ago. He looks back to see him leaning against the door and he’s starting to realize that “suave” thing is something he goes for often. It’s annoying. But if he’s apologizing Louis doesn’t want him to shut up just yet. He gives the boy at the door a challenging eyebrow instead.

“I shouldn’t have laughed at you,” Harry continues.

“You shouldn’t’ve,” Louis agrees.

Harry nods determinedly and makes to grab for Louis’s shoulders, pulling the dirty laundry out of his hands while he’s at it; he looks Louis straight in the eyes then. “We’re going to be fine, you know. Someone’ll come for us, stop worrying.”

Louis gives out an impatient breath as if he’s dealing with a five year old. He may as well be. “And who is that someone? Everyone’s already gone home. Your family, I assume?”

Harry’s face contorts at that. “My dad’s company sent him to a convention this weekend. It’s at this resort though, so my mum went with.” He pauses. “My sister will just think I’m at a friend’s. Yours though?” and he sounds so hopeful Louis almost wants to pet his hair and give him a lolly, as if he actually is five years old. He waits patiently for him to get there on his own but when he doesn’t, “Our dads work for the same company, man.”

He watches as realization dawns. “Siblings?” he asks, still trying to find the silver lining.

“Younger,” Louis answers. “And staying at my aunt’s for the weekend.”

His face does fall a little after that and Louis has only half a mind to be upset for him. “Friends?” Harry asks still trying their options.

Louis sighs, “The football team has practice tomorrow. I’d assume they’d notice my absence.”

Harry perks up at that some. “The swim team has practice too!” Louis thinks he reminds him of an over hyper dog, and he’s still not as pleased with this situation as the chocolate lab in front of him.

“So what, we’re just to wait here all night?” Louis’s voice drips with incredulity.

Harry shrugs. Louis wants to hit him.

“Fine, fish boy, whatever,” and Louis’s walking back over to the lockers in search of a seat. Harry’s hot on his coattails, eyes wide and tongue pressed against his lips in some kind of weird smirk. Definitely a dog, Louis thinks.

“Harry,” the dog says without preamble.

Louis cocks an eyebrow at him, trying to keep up with this kid’s strange thought processes.

“My name’s Harry,” he clarifies.

“I know that,” Louis says still confused.

“You do?” And if it were anyone else Louis would think they were taking the piss, but the boy in front of him seems genuinely surprised. Weirdest kid Louis’s ever met if he’s honest. “It’s just, you’ve not said my name the entire time we’ve been in here…”

Louis tries not to roll his eyes. “Harry Styles. Swim team captain. You’ve got an older sister, Gemma Styles, who’s really fit.” He ignores Harry’s warning glance. “And a mum, Anne, also really fit.” Louis backs away from the swat Harry tries to land on his thigh. “You’re dad works with my dad. We’ve been going to school together for at least six years. And even if that wasn’t enough to clue me in, you literally sit right next to me in Maths.”

A blush has risen on Harry’s cheeks by the end of the speech. “Didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

“I wasn’t,” Louis corrects. “But you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know someone’s name. Not that big of a town, kid.”

Harry laughs and looks up at Louis from under his fringe. “Louis Tomlinson, football captain, you’ve got too many sisters for me to keep up with and they’re all too young for me to catch their names, sorry. You’ve got this one move you do in a game that everyone calls the Tommo Kill; it’s sick.” Louis shrugs, blasé and beckons for Harry to continue. “Um...you tried to cheat off of me on the last Maths quiz but that’s against the student honor code, so I didn’t let you.” It’s Louis’s turn to slap Harry. “Oh and when we were in primary school, you told me you couldn’t be friends with someone who didn’t know his way around a football pitch.”

Louis barks out a laugh at that. “You were shit,” he recalls.

“I know,” Harry grins back. “I’ve never been good on land.”

“So why can’t I call you fish boy?” Louis huffs.

“Harry’s better,” the younger boy says and he’s still grinning as if this conversation about whether or not Louis can progress to calling him Nemo is the best part of his life so far. Louis thinks there might be a lack of oxygen in the room because he’s starting to find this kid endearing.

“Fine,” he relents. “Harry it is.”

>>

The thing about being trapped away from civilization is that you have to put actual effort into finding entertainment. When the sun is starting to creep out of the sky, and Louis’s stomach starts adding to the conversation, they decide to go on the hunt for food. Louis learns that Harry is really handy at decoding combination locks. “I had a spy kit when I was younger,” he gives as the only semblance of explanation to Louis’s quizzical expression. Louis doesn’t complain though because after roughly ten lockers they’ve got a hefty stash of crisps, water bottles, power drinks, and M&Ms.

“A dinner of champions,” Louis says raising his bottle in a toast. “Huzzah,” Harry answers, and Louis still thinks he’s weird but he’s starting to not see it as so much of a problem.

“Camilla Spencer,” Louis says and Harry almost chokes on his water. “Oh c’mon, how did you know that?”

Louis beams at him. They’re sprawled out on the floor now sharing a bag of Salt n Shake trying to pass the time however they can. After a riveting recap of just how Harry keeps his curls so voluminous (Louis was only being facetious when he asked, he swears) they’ve moved on to guessing the last person each of them has been with. Louis still has a smug look on his face, basking in his victory when Harry shakes his knee.

“I just knew alright! You’re not very inconspicuous.”

“You’ve been stalking me, Louis Tomlinson,” and Louis has to clutch his side to catch his breath from laughing so hard.

“Oh young Harold, need I remind you of the company’s cocktail party a few weeks ago? You ran off with Camilla before the second round of hors d'oeuvres was served.”

It works like clockwork every time. A couple of times a year, the company in which their dads work throws a fancy cocktail party insisting that the employees bring along their families. They’re boring events, but Louis’s used them by now; he’s got a go-to group of friends that he can always count on to make the nights more interesting. And these parties are always the same, so much so that there’re a few things he’s learned to count on. One, Mrs. Davidson always gets too drunk within the first hour and goes around giving anyone she can corner a hug that lasts just this side of too long. Two, Mr. Davidson always gets into heated discussions about foreign politics with some poor sap and ends up shouting his case so furiously that that his toupee is lopsided by the end of the night. And three, Harry Styles always leaves with someone before the party even gets rolling. He stays long enough to give a polite hello to all his parents’ friends and he’s out the door with some pretty skirt on his arm without a second thought being given. The guys have learned to take bets on who will be the lucky girl by who starts batting their eyelashes the most when he walks in the room. Louis thinks he should leave that part out if the way Harry is scrunching his brow is anything to go by.

“It’s not a bad thing, Harry. They’d hardly admit it, but all the guys think you’re ace.” He gives Harry’s shoulder a light shove as he says it.

“Oh,” is all Harry says in response. There’s tension hanging in the air between them and then, “You know, I don’t actually do anything with them. When we leave, that is. Mostly we just make out a little. And then they just kind of, um, talk?” He says it like a question.

“No need to explain your magic to me, Styles.” Louis says aiming for teasing but landing somewhere near gentle.

Harry’s eyes go to search Louis’s for what feels like the longest second. He clears his throat and shakes out his hair before getting back on track. “What about you then?”

Louis lets his head fall back against a locker and looks up at the ceiling with the realization that it’s actually been a while for him. He’s spent more time worrying about his season that his relationships if he’s honest. “I guess that’d be my last girlfriend,” Louis says casually.

“Eleanor,” Harry answers, and Louis isn’t surprised he knows it. They were the school golden couple for all of the previous year. “Yeah,” Louis answers him.

They’re quiet for a while when suddenly, “I snogged her brother in Year 10.”

Louis almost chokes on his own tongue.

“You---what? Collin?!” Louis asks aghast because the last he remembers Eleanor’s brother was much too young to be snogging Harry Styles.

“NO!” Harry defends, “Her older brother. Nathan.”

Louis’s heart rate slows down a little at that. “Oh,” he breathes. “Okay, um.”

“Yeah,” Harry says understanding.

And since apparently they’re sharing secrets, Louis figures why the hell not. “I snogged his best friend that year.” He chances a glance at Harry and peels over when he sees how far his eyes seem to bulge out of his head. “You made out with Jackson Pierce?” he says in astonishment. “Yeah,” Louis affirms, “He was c—“

“Captain of the swim team, I know,” Harry interrupts. “I didn’t even know he—I never—“

Louis tries to contain his blush. “I never told that to anyone so keep it to yourself, alright. He was kind of a dick anyway.”

“Then why’d you make out with him.”

“I dunno, he was hot and like, into me I guess, and I saw him practically naked every morning on my way to first period.”

Harry snorts. “You were in that gang of gawking girls?”

“It was a dark time for me, Fishy, let’s not talk about it.” Harry continues to laugh, so Louis throws an M&M at him. “You’re a twat,” he says playfully.

It's all so easy after that. To sit here and enjoy this boy in front of him who's so full of wonder and quirks. Harry spends thirty minutes rambling about his social studies presentation from earlier in the week and how amazing it is that people can create something like the Eiffel tower or Mount Rushmore and somehow this is the perfect segway into how he prefers his lucky charms in the morning (there's a certain ratio you have to get between marshmallow and cereal you see, also the milk -- 2% -- has to be ice cold). It should be boring, especially with the way Harry takes twice as long to get his sentences out. Louis should want to gouge his eyes out of his head after spending hours on end with this kid. Instead he's fascinated, completely enraptured by the way Harry sees things. He wants to bottle up his essence and keep it with him for when he gets feels down.

"Shame I've only now found you out, Harry Styles." Louis means it jokingly, albeit a bit longingly, but he swears he sees a shadow cross Harry's face. "What?" he quips, intrigued.

The corner of Harry’s mouth pulls up just a tad. "I still remember the day you told me we couldn't be friends you know." He glances up to guage Louis's reaction and when he sees his furrowed brow he continues. "Summer before Year 7, we were at the park and you were trying to get me to dribble a football. Said all your other friends were either busy or on holiday and you needed someone to play with."

The day slowly creeps back to the forefront of Louis mind. Sure enough, there's a kid with a mane of curls kicking idly on a swing. And really it was either him or his little sister as far as companions went, so Louis took his chances.

"I didn't really know what I was doing though, and after about 15 minutes of more falling over than actually play time you looked at me and said 'I can't be friends with anyone who doesn't know their way around a football pitch!'" He says the last part in a high pitched tone that had Louis biting back a smile. "Then you stormed off," Harry says ruefully. "I stayed away from the park for the rest if that summer, and the only other place to go was the pool, so," he trails off.

"Here we are," Louis picks up for him.

"Here we are," Harry repeats.

A silence hangs in the air for a while before Louis speaks again. “But you like swimming yeah?"

"Love it," Harry laments.

Louis nods, "You're welcome then."

Harry has to snort at that. "That was a very traumatizing experience for me, Louis Tomlinson!"

"It gave your life meaning, Harry Styles. You should build a monument in my honor!"

He catalogs the sound of Harry laughing, deep and throaty, to the back of his mind. Wants to make sure he never forgets it.

“Well for what it’s worth, I am sorry…I guess,” Louis barely says it above a murmur, but he’s sure Harry catches it.

“You guess?” Harry prods.

Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah I guess. I didn’t mean to like, traumatize you or whatever.”

He’s not going to look at him. He refuses to see what kind of face this poster child for Odd Ball Incorporated wants to conjure up this time. It’s just. He can feel his eyes on him. And it’s not even been an entire day, but he can already picture the way Harry’s eyes will be searching him if he were to look up. He knows exactly where they will dart first, then second. He’s still trying to pinpoint the exact shade of green he thinks the boy’s eyes are. He thinks maybe they’re akin to uncooked peas, but he’s not certain yet. And that should not be appealing; Louis doesn’t even like peas for god’s sake! There’re a lot of things Louis never liked until today: like peas and the swim team and being trapped in a room with near strangers against his will. And he did not ask this boy to burst into his life and make him question his preferences for living as he’s quite enjoyed these things as is without him—in fact, he finds this boy incredibly rude. So no, he will not look up, he will not look at him.

Except he does. He totally looks at him. Idiot. Because Harry is focused on him just as passionately as he’d expected, and he has that stupid smirk pulled on his face and his nose is scrunched up and really all of his features are just too large and too intense and too too much. And Louis is starting to like it.

“Who’s your favorite team?” he blurts without any real preamble.

“What?” Harry questions, trying to keep up. He has the nerve to scrunch his brow as he says it.

“I’m giving you one final chance to redeem yourself, now who’s it going to be,” Louis snaps. He makes a silent prayer that he doesn’t say anything stupid like Chelsea.

“Man U, obviously,” he hears instead. Yeah. He thinks he’s starting to like this quite a lot.

>>

It’s around 2AM when their conversations starts petering out and Harry is nodding off against a locker. Louis gets the bright idea to go to the supply closet again where he finds a plethora of folded towels and gym wear that he suspects are clean enough for two makeshift beds. It’s an impressive spread once it’s all set up, the boys lying head to foot. However, the thing is, no matter how much they may want to pretend, this isn’t just some sleep over at a friend’s house. This is spending the night in your school practically alone, and if they’re honest, it’s extremely unsettling as far as security goes. As tired as Harry was before, Louis can’t help but notice his endless fidgeting, and he doesn’t think either of them will be getting much sleep tonight.

“Louis,” Harry calls after a valiant effort to sleep that went absolutely nowhere.

“Yeah, man.”

“Um,” he hesitates. “About that stuff you were talking about…with the serial killers…”

“Oh my god, Harry I was only joking!”

“I know, yeah I know! But like. Do you hear something at the window?” he rushes out.

“It’s probably just a branch,” Louis says, going for cool and not fazed at all.

He feels rather than sees Harry gulp. “That’s exactly what they say in all those movies.”

Louis’s had enough, and he bolts up ready to tell Harry where he can shove it. Then he sees his face. And there’s genuine worry in his eyes, so much so that it sends a pang throughout Louis’s chest. An image flashes through his mind of his sister standing in his doorway during a thunderstorm, and he is suddenly taken over by an overpowering urge to protect this boy in front of him. It’s like a heat spreads over him, eating his skin, itching to bring them closer.

“Come here,” he sighs and it’s so simple how Harry rushes up to him that he can’t even bring himself to revel in the how well they fit together. Harry’s head lands on his collarbone and Louis can feel the cold tip of his nose against his neck. He lets one hand rest securely around Harry’s waist and the other comes up grasp their hands together on his chest, blatantly ignoring the voice in his head that says this should be weird because frankly, this entire day has been weird, so he may as well let them have this.

“You’re fine,” he comforts, “We’re going to be fine, promise.”

Harry huffs out a breath in the juncture between Louis’s neck and his collarbone, and he lets the heat of it fill him up as he drifts off, murmuring constant words of reassurance until they’re both asleep. He dreams of chocolate curls and strong arms and everything is tinged with the scent of vanilla, and he was right because they are perfectly fine.

>>

Louis shifts in his sleep upon feeling a bizarre sensation near his neck. He wiggles a bit hoping it will just pass over, but to his dismay it only grows all the more persistent. Gathering his bearings enough to crack one eye open, he notices Harry still against his chest, his breathing closer to a pant than normal. He places a tentative arm on his friend’s bicep and knows he must imagine the nip Harry gives to his collarbone. Though that doesn’t explain why everywhere Harry is touching him is now risen with goosebumps.

“Harry,” he tries hesitantly, “Y’alright?” And when Harry’s eyes pull up to meet his there’s something too raw in them. His breathing is too harsh and his eyes are searching Louis’s, always searching, as if Louis is a puzzle he just can’t figure out. His eyes roam all over Louis’s face darting from his eyes to his lips, slow and enticing in the way that seems to be his trademark.

“Louis,” he says simply, but his voice is ragged and fierce in a way that travels straight to Louis’s dick. Suddenly all Louis can hear is the sound of Harry’s struggled breathing in his ear. It’s all he can think about because he cannot -- absolutely cannot-- bring himself to believe this is what he thinks it is. But Harry is still there and he’s in his space and he’s breathing more of Louis’s air than Louis is and he’s searching searching searching and Louis can’t think. Harry maneuvers so he’s now hovering over Louis, making sure to keep his weight off of him. Not that it matters because Louis can still feel the heat of him seeping into his bones. His nose starts skimming Louis’s, and he stops every few swipes to stare at him; it’s like they’re trapped in limbo.

“Louis,” he repeats again, still too breathless to say they’ve only been lying here for hours. Then Louis realizes he’s waiting on an answer, waiting for Louis to tell him he can. Louis’s still not sure what he’s agreeing to or what this all means but whatever it is, he wants it. Wants Harry’s body to come down and smother the flames he’s ignited.

“Yes,” he breathes and his back arcs off the ground in response to Harry’s fervent dive to his neck, gasp stuck in his throat. Harry wastes no time, reveling in what he wants now that he has it. His tongue is hard at work worshipping the vein that’s popped out in Louis’s neck, keen on leaving a bruise that Louis will feel for days.

Louis’s conscious mind kicks into gear at the press of Harry’s mouth against him, and he reaches up to grab Harry by the nape of his neck and brings their faces together in pause. Louis’s breathing matches Harry’s now, and they stare into each other as Louis tries to catch up. Harry’s face is showing his poorly concealed fear of what Louis will decide to do next, so he gives him a small smile hoping that he’ll understand that he just needs a minute. Harry’s lips mimic his before his eyes scan back to his mouth. Louis can’t help but let his trail down as well and he watches as Harry licks his own lips, his pink tongue darting out in a caress that makes Louis shiver. And that’s all the catching up Louis needs before he lifts himself the few inches he needs to, connecting their mouths

It’s harsh and lacks finesse, just a hard press of lips trying to convey their need and want and arousal all at once. Louis pulls as much of Harry as he can into him and whines in the back of his throat when he feels Harry hard and hot, pressed against his thigh. He almost laughs at himself for thinking that having Harry closer would extinguish any flames in him, as the more contact they make with each other only makes him feel more alight. He can’t get his hands on enough of Harry, wanting nothing more than to spend forever memorizing the stretch of his soft skin over strong muscles and taunt abs and broad shoulders. When he pushes up into him, Harry’s had enough, locking his knees on either side of Louis waist and pressing down in one swift movement for good measure. He peels both their shirts off before swooping back down to capture Louis’s mouth with his own.

Louis lets him work while his own fingers slip into his curls and hold him tight. Harry licks into his mouth one good time, and then he’s trailing down Louis’s body idolizing the dip of his clavicle, the rise of his chest, the roundness of his belly going further and further south until he stops just above the waist of Louis’s pants. He glances up at Louis before licking at the line of his trousers.

“Can I?” he asks, hoarse. Louis notices there’s barely any green to be mentioned left in his eyes, only a small strip encircling endless depths of black.

“Please,” Louis says, and he’d thought he meant it as a joke, but it comes out more like an actual plea. Harry doesn’t seem too bothered though as he makes quick work getting rid of the offensive clothing. It takes Louis no time at all to realize he’s completely exposed and laid out bare for this beautiful boy on top of him. His heart rate picks up tenfold as Harry’s eyes roam over his body, scavenging his features with his fingers. His palms come up to Louis’s stomach and cover the entirety of his tummy, a look of awe on his face before he bends down to give it a long and reverent kiss just below his belly button. His hands continue to move down resting on the curve of his hips and Louis can’t help but lift them just a tad because he needs more of Harry, and he needs it now.

The smirk that appears on Harry’s face is devilish and he leans down to kitten lick slow and taunting at the tip of Louis’s cock, one hand still at his hip, the other coming to anchor him at the base. He moans around Louis, intoxicated by the turn of events, and Louis is trying not to jump out of his skin already. Luckily, Harry is quick to catch on to Louis’s hints, and he ducks down to swallow up as much of Louis as he can take. And Louis’s never let himself go as far as to think what Harry can do with that mouth that’s too big for his face, but now he doesn’t see how he can ever think of anything else. Because Harry is good.

He sinks further down until his nose can skim at the skin lining Louis’s base, breathing roughly through his nose before he peeks up at Louis again. Louis is staring right back of course, enthralled and half gone. Harry pulls off with a pop, but wastes no time getting back to the base as he licks and kisses his way to the back to the top where he swirls his sinful tongue around the tip. Louis feels his lips as they gather the precome that’s collected there, and he feels so over sensitized to everything Harry surrounding him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs because really he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. His fingers have found a vice grip in Harry’s hair again, and it’s all he can do to ground himself as Harry works on him, relentless and intent on sucking the life out of him, he’s sure of it. Harry’s tongue is working in neat circles around his cock, and his head is bobbing expertly around him. He works hard and fast as if this is all he’s ever wanted, like he fears stopping will make it all vanish, and it takes everything inside of Louis and all the strength Harry can muster in his free hand to hold Louis down.

Louis doesn’t think he can remember a time when the heat of Harry’s mouth wasn’t enveloping him, when those lips weren’t pressed against him sliding up and down. Harry pulls off again only to lick a hard strip up the underside of Louis’s cock. He whimpers into it as Harry’s hand envelops him taking over the ministrations, and his eyes lock on Louis’s face. The concentrated expression he favors so much returns as he watches Louis fall apart in his hand.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he breathes and his voice is wrecked. The only sounds to be heard in the room are from the pace of Harry’s hand and the sharp intake of Louis’s breath that run together creating a symphony neither of them can get enough of. “God,” Harry exhales and he needs to have Louis’s lips attached to his again. He’s there in a second, lips forceful against Louis’s and hand still working between them. Louis’s head is swimming with the feel of Harry on his hips, in his mouth, over his cock, inside his brain. There’s so much of him, and he’s everywhere.

“Ugh, you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this, Lou.” Louis feels every brush of Harry’s lips as he speaks and it sends a shock down his spine. His hand is slowing down and Louis can’t even bring himself to complain because everything feels exactly right to him right now. Harry looks up so they’re pressed forehead to forehead and his eyes go back to roaming over Louis even this close to him. “There’s something I want to do,” he says. “Will you let me?”

Louis doesn’t know how Harry thinks he can possibly say no to whatever he wants at this point. So he tries to compose himself just enough to breathe out “Yes, anything.” He knows he won’t regret it.

Rising, Harry reaches out a hand to Louis helping him up and once standing, Louis pointedly draws his eyes to the track pants still clinging to Harry’s hips.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Harry apologizes, and his nimble fingers get to work releasing him from their confines until he’s just as bare as Louis is before him. “Better?” he asks, holding his hands out to the sides.

Louis gulps. “I’ll say.”

A blush rises on Harry’s cheeks that Louis can make out even in the mute lighting of the room. “Follow me,” he says trying to distract, and when he reaches for Louis’s hands they both feel the electricity again from earlier in math class. Louis is powerless to say no.

Clasping Louis’s hands in his and letting his arms trail behind his back, he walks them to the cubicles back behind the lockers, stopping in front of one of the showers. Perplexed, Louis just stares at him. After no actual protests arise, Harry takes it upon himself to walk over to one of the showers and turn the water on full force, a silent answer to Louis’s unasked question. Afterwards, he merely steps back and stands beside Louis, shoulder to shoulder, as they both watch the water cascade down to the tiled floor.

“Fetish of yours?” Louis finally breaks the silence.

Harry breathes out a laugh, but only shrugs in response. “You can say no, of course. I mean, you don’t like, have to.”

But what else is Louis supposed to do? They’re both naked for god’s sake, not to mention half hard, and Louis’s already become addicted to the feel of Harry surrounding him.

He turns his entire body to Harry, a challenge alight in his eyes. “If you let me fall, I’ll have your head,” he threatens.

That pulls a smirk from Harry. “I’ll be holding you too tight for that.”

Louis thinks that may have been enough to make his knees buckle right then, but he’ll never actually know because Harry is on him, hands gripped tightly around his waist and practically hoisting him against the nearest wall, before he has time to process it. Their mouths are rough together, triggering a moan that makes Louis’s stomach flip completely backwards; he’s not even sure which one of them made the noise.

He thinks he could care less though as Harry starts maneuvering them into the actual shower. He backs Louis in first and pauses when the water starts to fall upon him. Louis revels in the way the water feels has it trails from his head, across his eyelashes, down his cheeks and to the rest of his body. It’s warm to the touch but doing nothing to the goosebumps that have taken residence all over him. He opens his eyes minutely to see Harry standing before him, mostly dry and jaw slack. He starts a bit when Louis makes eye contact.

“Well that’s just not going to do,” Louis says pulling Harry under the spray with him, his arms making a vice grip around Harry’s neck. The taller boy chuckles down into him, letting his hand reach down to intertwine at the curve of Louis’s ass. Louis squeaks at the little squeeze Harry gives to his behind. His heart races as Harry reaches between them to take hold of him again; it doesn’t take long before he’s stiff to the touch. It’s then that the weight of the situation hits him, and Louis can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes him. “God, none of this makes any sense.”

Harry looks up at that, eyes full of emotion, his mouth opening and closing as if he can’t find the word he’s looking for. “I’ve always…wanted you,” he says, trying his damnedest for an explanation. His brow is furrowed again and his breath is hot against Louis’s lips. Louis looks into his eyes that have turned the deepest depths of black and he can only nod because of course, that’s plenty enough reason for him to be in a shower naked with some guy he barely even knew this time yesterday. And no one’s going to tell him differently as he feels Harry’s mouth start to work at his jaw and trail down his neck.

“I’m always thinking about your neck in Maths, I think,” Harry confesses. “Cause your shirts are so low cut. Very distracting,” he says between kisses.

“Would you like me to stop wearing them?” Louis teases, happy his voice still has at least some strength left to it.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, “Of course not,” he answers appalled, he sucks harder still at Louis’s neck. Louis whines low in the back of his throat when Harry releases his grip on him, but Harry makes no effort to pull away, only pushing Louis further into the wall and bracing both hands on the side of his head. Their cocks are rocking together now, and that, together with the puffs of breaths Harry lets out as he presses his mouth behind Louis’s ear, is almost too much for him. Reaching up under Harry’s arms, Louis makes to grip at his shoulders as the intensity of Harry against him turns his skin white hot. He takes pleasure in the fact that Harry seems to feel the same as he pants into Louis’s hair, his hands coming to grip his backside again, unable to stay away for too long. The rhythm that he’s driving into Louis is erratic by now and much too needy. Louis loves it.

“So much I’ve wanted to do to you. So much I wanna touch,” Harry murmurs, and Louis wonders if he was meant to hear that at all. But he has now, so he can’t very well ignore it.

“D-do it then,” Louis stutters, lost in the presence of the boy in front of him.

And that’s all the permission Harry needs as he drops down in front of Louis, hands still firm on his ass, massaging the flesh there and mouth dangerously close. The water rushing down on him makes him look far more like an Adonis than anyone has the right to. “Do you remember that game a couple weeks ago? Early in the season,” he clarifies, “We won and the team poured all those drinks on you.” Louis can practically feel him gulp beneath him. “And then you stripped your top off and started running around the field?” Louis’s not sure where this is going, but he remembers and he tells Harry as such. Harry only hums back and his lips move to skim over Louis just under his belly button. His tongue darts out and he licks the skin there all the way across to his hip. He darts around a few times then stops at the highest curve of Louis’s tummy, and it’s there that he bites down, eliciting a gasp from Louis. His hand goes flying into the other boy’s hair and he works a bruise into his skin, reveling in the feel of how Harry’s tongue swipes on top of him between lovebites. When Harry pulls away, it’s only so his nose can now skim his bruise, water still falling down upon him. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispers. “And this,” he adds as he presses an open mouthed kiss to the side of Louis’s dick, still full and tall against his stomach. Harry moves to the side only a fraction, surprising Louis as he bites down into his inner thigh. Louis’s not sure how much more of this he can handle.

“Oh,” Harry says almost like an afterthought, “Also your fingers,” and before Louis can question what that means, Harry is grabbing Louis’s hands from his head and sucking each digit slow and enticing into his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

“Jesus,” Louis swears as his head falls back against the wall as Harry’s tongue continues to slot between his fingers the flat of it hard at work, water almost blinding him in the process. But nothing is going to stop him from watching the show Harry is putting on before him. He has two fingers still in his mouth as he moves to stand, his eyes still glued to Louis’s. When he is fully standing, he grips Louis’s waist and just takes him all in, but also forces him to stay in place. Louis tries pushing into Harry because he’s gone and gotten him all riled up and Louis is so hard he can’t see straight.

“Please,” he whimpers.

Harry brings him closer at that, the two of them flush together, and Louis could pass out from the pressure inside of him, except Harry’s only there for a second. Louis can’t bring himself to complain, however, when he realizes Harry is making his way to Louis’s back, hands never leaving him. Once he’s behind him, Harry makes to grip at Louis’s hair and Louis is more than willing to comply as he lets his head loll back onto Harry’s shoulder. They both hiss as Harry brings Louis against him, their flesh lined up inch for inch, Harry’s cock resting neatly against the small of Louis’s back. Harry wraps his hand firmly around Louis’s length as he rocks his own almost frantically against Louis.

Louis’s near certain that he screams out at the touch, but he can hardly be bothered to recall anything but the feel of Harry all over him. He makes to turn his head to face Harry because he knows at this rate he’ll be gone in a matter of minutes. But when he goes to turn his head, Harry has his bent down, pressed into Louis’s neck. Louis wants to tell him to look up, knows he’s going to come soon and wants to see his eyes as he goes over. But he doesn’t know how to form words anymore, doesn’t know anything besides Harry grinding into him and tugging him off. He can’t comprehend anything beyond the pang from the bruises Harry’s left and the spray of water as it washes over them and Harry enveloping every inch of him. Language motor skills are a far gone thing of the past as he pants into Harry’s neck, his senses overflowing. He lets his hands go up to latch at the back of Harry’s neck and concentrates on nothing but the pull of Harry’s fingers and the cascade of water.

As much as he loves everything about this, he hopes they can finish each other off soon because the water is starting to turn cold on them. Soon it will be chilling them to the bone. There’s a particularly annoying group of droplets that keep splashing on his collarbone and aggregate together to make what has got to be the world’s slowest trek down his body. That’s one thing he won’t miss when they’re done here. It’s then that Louis mentally kicks himself for thinking about water for god’s sake when there is a gorgeously nude boy millimeters away and intent on getting him off. He laughs at the thought and tries to refocus his attention to the feel of Harry’s warmth.

Except that stream of water is really fucking annoying and if Louis didn’t know any better—

Louis jolts in his sleep, and looks around rather disoriented, small tufts of hair getting stuck in his nose, before he realizes he’s still on his makeshift bed in the locker room. Huffing, he makes to get up but there’s a weight pressing him down, and when he looks over he finds Harry still sound asleep on top him, and, upon further investigation, drooling on his collarbone.

Oh, Louis thinks. He almost wants to cry at how frustrated he is now because you have got to be kidding me. He must say the last part aloud because Harry stirs next to him, however minutely, before snuggling back into him. The twat.

He knows what he does next is probably inconsiderate, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing Harry abruptly off him.

“Wake up,” he commands. “We didn’t die.”

Harry rises with bewilderment written all over his face as he wipes at his lips. “Oh,” he says his eyes catching the sliver he’s left on Louis’s skin. He grimaces and reaches for one of the gym shirts to pat it away. “Heh,” he tries for humor.

“Heh,” Louis repeats scrunching his face up sarcastically. “Enough of that, I have to piss.”

He stalks off toward the stalls, and really he knows that he shouldn’t be taking his frustrations out on Harry, but he can’t help it. Quite frankly, if Dream Harry was going to work so hard to give him the boner he’s currently sporting, he could have at least finished the job. It’s common courtesy. As he drops his pants at the loo, he thinks of nuclear war and his coach in a swim suit, and decidedly refuses to get off over Harry Fucking Styles.

>>

Eventually Louis does calm down, in more ways than one, and when he comes back to their seating area, he offers a weak smile to Harry in peace.

“Not a morning person?” Harry guesses, and Louis gladly takes the out. Shaking his head, he moves to sit back down next to Harry and notices he’s checking his phone. “How’s that then?” he questions. “Still no service?” He looks over Harry’s shoulder as he asks.

“Nope,” the other boy replies. “And dying by the looks of it,” Harry says showing the big red battery light his phone is flashing in Louis’s direction.

“Great,” Louis huffs. They sit in silence for a moment and then, “We could try the door again,” Louis suggest because he honestly doesn’t know how else to go about this.

“Ugh,” Harry groans, “Can we please not? I’ve got bruises from yesterday; look.” Lifting up the sleeve of his shirt, Harry shows Louis the tale-tell signs of his rumble with the hard door, purpling and angry.

Louis frowns. “Awh man I’m sorry.” He pats Harry’s shoulder lightly but pulls back when he winces under the touch. “No door,” he relents.

“No door,” Harry mimics seeming relieved with this plan of action, or lack thereof. “Shouldn’t be long before someone comes in anyway,” he offers as comfort.

“Yeah? What time is it?”

Harry looks to the watch placed neatly on his wrist, and Louis finds it weird that he’s with someone his age who even owns one. If he had to guess the last time he had a watch was when he was six, and it wasn’t even a truly functioning one. Not that it mattered to Louis since it also doubled as a walkie talkie.

“About 10:30,” Harry answers. “Swim team should be showing up for practice by 11.”

“Gonna need somewhere to wash off all that chlorine,” Louis pipes.

“My thoughts exactly.”

>>

The teams don’t come. They wait and wait and—nothing.

The thing about these Saturday practices is that they’re mostly run by the students themselves, with special responsibility placed on the captains. Both of whom are stranded in a locker room with no one else the wiser. Both the swim team and the football team do show up though, but with neither Harry nor Louis entering their respective practices, the teams get confused, wonder if there was a memo they somehow missed. In the end, they decide on short easy practices—simple drills, a few laps around the track—and when their calls to their dear captains go unanswered they call it a day and tell everyone they’ll meet again on Monday. No one takes a second glance at the locker room, no one ventures under the bleachers to see where Louis’s backpack is still sat abandoned. Though several people insist that something seems off about their captains’ lack of devotion, Niall stating that Harry practically lives in the pool and Liam arguing that he’s pretty sure Louis didn’t have a weekend detention, majority of the masses are just happy for a shortened Saturday morning and revving to start the weekend festivities. And so, when the morning sun has faded, Harry and Louis find themselves in the same spots they’ve been for hours staring blankly into space.

“Ugh,” Louis finally cracks. “What time is it?” he whines.

“2:35,” Harry answers without even looking at his watch which Louis is quick to call him out on.

“How can you just know that?”

“Because you’ve been asking me what time it is every five minutes for the past hour, and five minutes ago it was 2:30. It is now 2:35,” Harry reiterates, barely any inflection in his voice.

“Hmph,” Louis sighs banging his head against a locker. “Well it feels like an eternity! There’s no way it’s been five minutes.”

Harry holds up his watch wordlessly. It is now 2:36.

“God, Harry, entertain me,” Louis whines.

“I already tri—“

“You cannot sing High School Musical if you aren’t will to go one hundred and ten percent with Sharpay, now I won’t say it again,” Louis snaps. Harry stares at him in mock offense.

“Well fine,” he declares, and he moves to go sit on one of the benches across the room.
It’s another endlessly antagonizing five minutes before Louis caves.
“Okay I’m sorry!” he screeches into the empty room, his voice echoing around them. Getting up from where he’s settled on the ground, he opts to relocate to Harry’s bench. “You can do whatever you want, but just do something or else I’m gonna pull all my hair out.” As he says it, his hands find their way to his head, scrapping and tugging at the roots, finally eliciting a laugh from Harry. His slender fingers reach up to encompass Louis’s, and through his snorts he breathes, “Okay, okay! Don’t do anything crazy.” He pries away Louis’s own hands and pats his hair back into place. “I quite like your hair,” he confesses, quiet as a mouse and fingers still roaming Louis’s scalp, making him pliant, even though he’s sure his hair must be back to normal by now. “Rather not see it all over the ground,” Harry continues.

Louis has several sarcastic remarks poised and ready to go on the tip of his tongue, but instead what his ears hear is “Yeah, alright, but only for you.” He can’t even bring himself to focus on the consequent flush of his cheeks, too busy marveling at the way Harry’s face lights up in front of him.

They end up letting Harry serenade them while Louis pretends he doesn’t know any of the artists Harry mentions just to watch his face contort in shocked disbelief because Everyone knows The Black Keys and Louis, this is a classic Led Zeppelin song, what do you even listen to? If Louis keens when Harry promises to kidnap him one day to teach him what “real” music is, it’s nobody’s business but his own’s.

They stay like that for a while getting lost in each other’s presence because in truth the only other option is to actually go mad. The next time Louis asks for the time, hours have passed, and the day has come and gone. Louis gets up eventually to refill his bottle at the water fountain in the corner, their only saving grace of the room they’re held captive. Afterwards, he makes to move back to his makeshift bed, claiming that the hard benchtop is doing absolutely no good for his bum. He vehemently denies the fact that Harry may be the reason his mouth has gone dry and his hands are too twitchy to be in such close proximity to him. Taking a swig from his water and eying Harry from across the room, he tries to think of something to keep the conversation going. Harry, it seems, needs little to no prompting to keep a steady stream of words flowing, and if Louis is honest, he’s grown rather charmed by the boy’s way of speech.

“Why were you even here so late,” Louis blurts out.

Harry looks up in mild surprise. “Hmm?” he questions.

“You were here really late yesterday. Why?”

“I was at swim practice.” Harry’s confusion shows on his face. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, but none of the other people from the swim team were here as late as you.”

Harry looks down at his hands. “Oh,” is all he offers, and Louis knows there must be some sort of story to offer up there, so he pushes.

“Oh?”

Harry only peeks out at him for a second. “Right, well, basically since I’m captain now I have to oversee the practices and stuff, make sure everyone’s doing what they need to do, you know. And, I mean, I still get swim time of my own, but not as much as I’d like. So, I usually just stay after sometimes.”

“How often is sometimes?” Louis’s not letting this one go.

“Um…” Harry hesitates, “I guess it’s more like all the time? More days than not, really.”

Louis just stares at him. “You stay that late all the time,” he repeats to be clear.

“Yeah,”

“Training for the Olympics then?”

Harry’s face finds the smallest of smiles. “Don’t make fun,” he says, voice low.

“I’m not! It’s just, Jesus kid, that’s a lot of training. You gotta be shooting for something, right?”

Harry’s silence puzzles Louis. “Uni maybe?” he prompts.

Nothing.

“I’d like to play at Uni,” he continues to the quiet room.

“You will,” Harry finally speaks up. “You’re amazing.”

“Well that’s only gonna happen if I can manage to not fail Maths, no thanks to you.”

They both laugh easily at that before Louis continues. “You could too, you know. Compete for a Uni, that is.”

Harry fall silent again, and the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes returns. “I think my dad would like me to focus more on becoming the family’s next investment banker, if I’m honest,” he says still not looking at Louis. However, Louis has his shoulders squared and is staring a beeline straight into the side of Harry’s head.

“Is that what you want,” he quips, “And don’t lie because I’ll know that you are.”

“Who said I’m lying?” Harry asks as if he’s appalled at such accusations.

“’Mom, Dad, when I grow up, I want to be an investment banker’ said no kid ever.”

“It’s an honorable career choice,” Harry sputters, “And I never said I was actually gonna go for it, I’m just saying.”

“Just saying what?” Louis asks, continuing his interrogation. He’s getting that feeling in his gut where he knows if someone like his mum or Liam were here they’d be telling him to back off, but he’s too interested to stop now, train wreck be damned.

“I’m. I’m just saying, I’m not sure what I want to do. Yet,” and it takes Harry an actual century to get the sentiment out. Taking pity on him, Louis softens his tone.

“So why can’t you swim while you figure it out? Talk to your coach I’m sure he could find some scouts for you.”

“Not all of us have it that easy,” Harry snaps, his voice sharper than Louis’s ever heard it. He can hear the train wheels shrieking against the tracks and knows he’s powerless to stop it.

“Geez, you swimming types are sensitive, sorry. It’s hardly a real sport anyway. I always say never trust a sport where you can’t see the sweat.” He’s joking, staring off into blank space with a smirk on his face. He expects Harry to laugh maybe, throw it back in his face if he’s brave, but he’s not convincing even himself that the atmosphere hasn’t grown thick within the room. The screech of the train gets louder, wheels squealing as they collapse in on themselves. He looks up to see Harry’s finally given him his attention, his eyes stormy and expression fierce. Louis watches as the train topples to its side, explosion propelling him backwards. “I was only kidd—“

"Great talk," Harry interrupts, ignoring Louis’s crestfallen expression. Suddenly, Louis aches to touch him, smooth the crease that's formed between his brow.

"Come on, Harry, I wasn't being serious," Louis tries for playfully apologetic.

"Yeah, I know,” Harry says, but his voice is flat. "I'm actually kind of knackered though. Think I'll turn in early."

Louis's not sure what time it is, but he knows it can't possibly be that late. "You sure?" is all he can muster. All things considered, it's not the worst option. He thinks his chances for amends will be much higher if they're laid next to each other, and, however more or less forced, he feels the proximity of a good night’s sleep will be beneficial for them. He shifts in his place, ready to make room for Harry beside him again. Seeing his approach out if the corner if his eye, he decides to smile up at him, let him know that they're alright, but his smile falters when he sees Harry moving to take his half of the towels and shirts away, demeanor still icy.

"Think I'll be fine alone tonight," is all he says in response to Louis's puzzlement. He sets up camp on the wall they're sharing as far away from Louis as he can. Louis merely nods, though to no one in particular; Harry's not watching. Flopping into his back, he decides that maybe now really would be a good time to sleep. Harry doesn't say anything for the rest of the night, and Louis stares at the ceiling, restless and unable to drift off for hours more. His only option is to stare at the rubble surrounding him, the aftermath of destruction.

>>

After a night of tossing and turning, Louis comes to the conclusion that sleep is a far gone prospect of the past, and he sits up and rubs his puffy eyes. The thing is Louis finds it near impossible to pretend to be unphased when the problem is right in front of him. Normally, he would just ignore it altogether, but here his problem is sitting right across from him on a pile of shirts looking just a sleepless as he is. He shakes away his nerves before clambering up from his spot and plopping down cross legged in front of Harry’s face.

“Hey,” he says “Wake up.” He shakes Harry’s shoulder and pokes his forehead for good measure.

Harry sighs, groggy and confused, but he looks up, nonetheless. “What?” he asks “Is someone here for us?”

“Well no, not quite,” Louis responds.

Harry groans before looking at his watch “Louis, it’s almost six in the morning.”

“Yeah I figured it was early,” Louis replies sheepishly remembering that the sun had only just started to creep out into the sky before he made his way over. “But I figured we're both doing a shit job of getting sleep anyway.” He can tell Harry wants to at least attempt another round of sleep, but he keeps one eye trained on Louis anyway.

“Look, I came to apologize for last night,” Louis starts. “I didn't mean to like, upset you.”

Harry looks at him as if he's not quite sure what to make of this confession.

“Honest,” Louis says holding up his hands.

Harry rolls onto his side. “Is that something you do often, then?” he asks.

Louis looks at him quizzically, “What?”

“You know that thing where you’ve just got everyone figured out, and they have to agree with everything you say. Do you do that often?” Harry repeats. Louis doesn't know why but he feels his blood boiling.

“Do you do that often?” he quips.

“What?” Harry asks back.

“That thing where you play the victim. Were someone tells you what to do and you just follow along, but then resent them for it.”

“I don't do that, Harry says, but his voice is quieter than before.

“Sounds to me like you do,” Louis presses. “Some kid tells you can't play football, so you drop the sport. I tell you you can't sing High School Musical, and you stop. Your dad wants you to be an investment banker, and you follow along with that too! You gotta make your own life, kid.”

Harry stares off into space. “Did you really wake me up to have this conversation at six in the morning.”

He rolls back over, hoping to catch a few extra hours of shut eye, but Louis is there reaching for his shoulder.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Shit, that's not why I came over here at all,” he says. “Harry look at me, come on,” he maneuvers the other boy until he’s able to pull him into an upright position. “Look at me,” he commands seizing hold of Harry’s chin. Harry does look up but he doesn’t look interested; at least his eyes aren’t as cold as they were the previous night. “I’m sorry,” he continues. “I know that sounds dumb, and I know I’m doing a fuck all job of communicating that, but I’m sorry.”

He pauses in case Harry has anything to say, but the other boy holds his tongue, so Louis continues. His hands go up to cup Harry’s cheeks because why not at this point. “Look many, many years from now, we’re going to have to tell the story of the time we got trapped in the wilderness for 40 days and nights with no water and two broken limbs. We’re going to have to spice up this story in the future, obviously,” he clarifies upon noting Harry’s baffled express. That wins him a smile and a laugh Harry tries to hold in. Louis adds it to his drive. “And when the time comes and we tell our grandkids about this, I’d hate for them to think we turned on each other, you know.”

He lets Harry’s eyes weigh him after that, before, “Our grandkids?” Harry asks.

Louis takes a moment to let the enormity of what Harry’s implying—what he implied—sink in. “Oh, I mean, whatever, you get what I’m trying to say.”

And Harry finally does laugh, taking great joy in knowing he can make Louis so flustered.

“Okay, how’s this,” Harry suggests, “I’ll forgive you and we can be two peas in a pod ‘til the day we die, if you take back what you said—“

“I take it back,” Louis replies easily. Harry hold up a finger.

“And admit swimming is a real sport.”

Louis heaves and squares his shoulders to look intently into Harry’s eyes. “Swimming,” he starts, “is a real sport. Really real. The realest. I could just start rapping about it right here and now.”

“Oh please, god no,” Harry begs, stopping Louis just as he gets the first breaths of what Harry assumes was meant to be beatboxing out of his mouth. They can’t contain the laugh they share after that.

“But honestly,” Louis smiles once they’ve calmed down, “Are we okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, the side of his mouth pulling up involuntarily. “We’re okay. Our grandkids will sing songs in our honor one day. Hopefully, they’re good.”

“My grandkids would never be anything short of excellent,” Louis retorts.

“Oh yes, of course,” Harry agrees and when they lean back against the lockers they find themselves falling effortlessly back in sync.

>>

They end up lying side by side, simply staring at the ceiling with sleep still evading them.

"Tell me about the swimming," Louis says after a while and Harry immediately tenses up beside him. "Nothing you don't want to," he says trying to rectify the situation. "Just, you love it yeah? I'd like to hear you talk about it is all."

Harry does relax, however minimally, before he clears his throat.

"Okay, well um, yeah, I do love it. A lot, actually. It's just, I'm not good at things on land, you know. I trip a lot. And I never really feel right. With everything else it's like we all got this memo on how to do things properly and I missed it. But when I'm swimming no one can tell me I'm doing something wrong. They can't get in my head."

Louis's peeled his eyes from the ceiling now and is looking at Harry who's still completely enraptured by his own commentary, oblivious to the awe on Louis's face as he continues.

"Like, you know how excited you get for your first swim of the summer? There's this sick rush you get, and by your first splash all your worries have just floated away. That's how it is for me all the time; nothing can touch me when I'm in the water. Even when I'm in the middle of a race and my adrenaline is pumping, I feel more calm there than I ever have outside the pool." He takes a breath to center himself and quickly side eyes Louis who's still hanging on his every word. "It's why I don't like talking about scouts and stuff. Makes it all feel like more if a job, like I need to put on some kind of performance. But god, i can't imagine not doing it. I've never had something that made me feel such pure happiness. So like...like."

"Alive," Louis supplies for him.

"Yes," Harry breathes. "Exactly," and for the first time he's properly looking at Louis, propping himself up on an elbow.

"It's crazy," Louis continues, "because even if there's tons of people around, the only thing you can hear is your own breathing and your heartbeat in your ears."

"Yeah," Harry agrees eagerly, "And you can feel your muscles just aching for a break, like, screaming every time you move forward, but you've got so much adrenaline that's it's all the exertion you really need."

"And after you keep pushing, once you get to your goal, you look up, and there's your team, and you can practically feel their elation. Like, for once you didn't let anyone down..." Louis trails off when he notices Harry beaming at him.

"Are you trying to tell me you're an expert swimmer as well?" Harry asks, poking fun.

"No," Louis laughs, "but it's the same with football, mostly."

"Sounds like it," Harry replies and his voice is dripping with fondness. "Everyone can tell how much you love it at your games."

"I'd like to see you at a meet," Louis practically whispers and he wonders when the talking became so hushed. He feels like he can feel the weight of their conversation on his skin, like it's meant only for them and anyone else's touch would only taint it.

"I'd like you to be there," Harry whispers right back, and Louis can almost feel his breathe ghost his eyelids. Looking up, his thought catches in his throat when he realizes how close he and Harry have sidled together. If he wanted, he could count Harry's eyelashes as his downcast eyes roam over Louis's lips.

"Ok," Louis answers feebly, and he's not certain which one of them takes the final plung before they melt into each other. It's nothing like his dream, no rough press of desperate bodies. Instead their lips find each other in a slow dance of HarryandLouis, each knowing what one will need before the other can ask. Harry tentatively bites down Louis's bottom lip, asking for permission, and Louis's insides swoop, causing him to gasp as he opens up. He keens into the kiss, one hand going up to grasp Harry's shoulder, the other reaching down and lacing with Harry's hand poised at their knees. He's breathless and his head is swimming, but he wants nothing more than to continue as Harry's other hand comes up to cup his face, holding on behind Louis's ear. Their tongues tangle together like this kiss is a lifeline and the only thing keeping them alive.

Louis feels like he's floating when Harry finally pulls away, and with his eyes still closed all he hears is, "God."

Opening his lids he's taken aback by the completely unconcealed astoundment on Harry's face. After a hauntingly long second they burst into a fit of giggles that rack their whole bodies because what else are they to do in a situation like this. Louis leans the tiniest bit closer and rests his forehead against Harry's as breathes in his scent.

"You're not gonna come to your senses about this tomorrow and leave me flat are you." He's only pulling Harry's leg but an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach and starts to eat away at him when Harry doesn't immediately respond. He pulls back and hopes his expression is playfully blase, maybe a bit challenging, but knows it's probably more open and unsure.

"You really never caught on, did you?" is all Harry has to say. Bewildered, it takes Louis longer than he's proud of to catch on. Oh. When he smiles up at Harry he wants nothing more than to attach their lips again, so he does, surging forward with giddy excitement that washes over the both of them and fills them to the core.

When a chorus of "Louis?!" rings out through the locker room, Louis pulls back wondering where Harry picked up the ventriloquist act because the sound definitely did not come from Harry's direction. The other boy's eyes light up before Louis's.

"Louis!" they hear again just in time to see Zayn rounding the partition that leads out the door. He stutters taking in the scene Harry and Louis have made over the past weekend of captivity: empty drinking bottles and candy wrappers thrown everywhere, gym shirts in a messy array, Louis's hand still resting in Harry's shoulder, both their mouths now puffy and bruised.

"Jesus, Harry, we told you to talk to him, not kidnap him."

Harry turns a scarlet red and shoots Zayn his most threatening stare. While Louis watches on he wonders just how many people caught on before he did.

>>

Apparently everyone had. Well that could be somewhat of an exaggeration. It was really just Zayn. And the entirety of the swim team. And basically everyone in their Maths class. Also the gaggle of girls who spend their mornings panting over the swim team seemed to catch on pretty quickly that Captain Styles only gave them the time of day when Louis was involved. So not everyone, but certainly a lot. They're sitting in a diner not too far from the school now, Harry and Louis sitting across from Zayn in a booth and scarfing down eggs and pancakes. The promise of food was the only thing able to tear them from the vice grip they'd attached onto Zayn upon realizing their rescue. He's watching them now, bemused as he continues his story.

Apparently, he'd called and texted both of them Friday, his queries gone unanswered. When he'd come up to the school Saturday to practice on their ramps, he'd noticed Louis's rucksack sitting beneath the bleachers, and upon further snooping noted that it still held Louis's phone.

"I figured you just left it after practice and you'd be back, but then I was like why would he bring a back pack to a weekend practice. But it was getting late so I figured I'd just wait to see if you popped up." He pauses briefly, his face comical before he pushes a glass of orange juice towards both of them. "You're both gonna choke if you don't take time to wash the food down. Drink." They turn towards each other, and Harry's got a piece of egg dangling out of his mouth for god's sake, so yeah, they think maybe they should slow down and gladly accept Zayn's offer for a drink.

"Anyway," he says carrying on, "Neither of you were at Josh's party last night, and I heard your teammates talking about how you guys both went AWOL after practice, so I figured the locker room would be a good place to start looking. The custodian thought I was a right nutter for hunting him down but I can be very persuasive."

Their minds race back to how genuinely bashful and, to be honest, fearful their custodian Mr. Murray had been upon finding them. Realizing he was probably worried about losing his job, Harry had taken pity on him with a quick “It’s alright, yeah? Just make sure we check the room from now on.” And in classic Harry Styles fashion, he’d smiled politely and been ready to drop it, just like that. Louis, however, was ready to hand out more than a few choice words, but when Harry’s fingers intertwined with his own, he figured all things considered, maybe they could let this slide.

Sitting in their booth now, Louis just having finished the last of his meal, the combined force of a sleepless night and a hearty breakfast makes his eyes heavy. “Well I guess you’re just our knight in shining armor, huh Zayn? We’ll make sure the kids add in a song for you.” Harry snorts at that, but Zayn doesn’t ask for any further explanation, too immune to Louis’s random antics.

“So you two?” he says instead, the implication heavy on his voice.

When Louis glances to his side, Harry’s smiling into his glass and doing a horrible job of concealing it.

“Yeah,” is all Louis answers, and that’s that really. Harry slips his hand into Louis’s on the space between them on the booth, and his smile is so grand now, Louis knows he can’t possibly be actually drinking from his glass. It only makes him all the more enamored.

Zayn is studying them from his perch, and in truth, they do look a peculiar pair after their weekend together, both blushing and glancing at each other out the corner of their eyes while decidedly ignoring Zayn’s scrutiny. “Well, good,” Zayn finally announces. “I’m tired of Harry using me to get close to you.”

Harry sputters on his juice. “I’ve done no such thing!”

“Honestly,” Zayn carries on, ignoring Harry’s protests, “he’d just go on and on. ‘Do you think I should talk to him Zayn? What should I say?’” he mimics and Harry throws the last of his eggs at him.

“Well thank you so much for breakfast Zayn, but Louis and I really must be going,” Harry says edging out of the booth. His face is a whole new spectrum of red as he grabs for Louis’s hand and pulls him up. “Don’t call us; we’ll call you,” he says in parting before darting out of the door, Louis chortling all the while.

>>

The next week bring countless new adventures for them and ends with Harry’s swim meet. Zayn leads the way as he’s the only one who’s ever actually been to a swim meet, and they try to find a good spot on the bleachers facing the pool with Louis, Stan, and Liam in tow. Stan is grumbling rather loudly about why he has to waste away his Saturday just so he can watch Louis drool over his new boyfriend. “Shh, Stan we need to be supportive of them,” Louis hears Liam whisper at one point and he can almost feel Stan rolling his eyes. He’s joking of course. Louis knows the boys have taken a liking to their three new friends, and he’d even go as far as to say that they would have shown up even without Louis pestering them about it. Only yesterday they’d all found themselves at the neighborhood park in a rousing game of football: Louis, Harry, and Niall against Liam, Zayn and Stan. Zayn hadn’t actually been that interested in the athletics of it stating that virtual footie was more his speed. Niall was quite the opposite, but his excitement usually got in the way of his actually skill, and he was more akin to a puppy prancing around the field. And Harry, well, Harry had Louis to cover for him, which no one seemed to mind too much. It’s seems the years hadn’t improved his skills much. Or at all.

But here, Louis is excited to see Harry shine. Taking their seats, he scans the sidelines hoping to find the object of his affections. He spots Niall first, his blonde hair making him easier to pick out, but Harry is right beside him and talking very purposefully to one of their younger swimmers. A pep talk, Louis thinks fondly to himself. When they finally notice their friends in the stands, however, they make a huge show of waving as extravagantly as possible to acknowledge them. Louis waves just as recklessly right back procuring many pointed stares in his section. He doesn’t mind though. He’s used to being so far gone over his boy. He leans back once they’ve stopped, giving one last smile to Harry as he turns away to continue talking to his teammates. Louis thinks there’s no harm in watching him as Stan goes on bothering Zayn about whether or not this sport has concessions. Harry and Niall continue to talk to all the swimmers before and after their races and after a while Louis hears Liam ask why they’re still in jogging suits and not speedos like most of the other guys.

Louis figures now is as good a time as any to share his vast knowledge.

“It’s cause their heats aren’t til later,” he starts. “That’s what they call the races in swimming. Heats. Niall says that’s good because in swimming you save the best for last. And when it’s Harry’s turn he’s going to do the butterfly stroke. That’s good too cause it’s the one that’s the hardest and you have to use your whole body at once. Harry’s not worried though! He’s been practicing his fly a lot, he said. Fly, that’s butterfly but for short. He said something about wanting to get a butterfly tattoo once, but I told him that might be taking it too far, haha. Anyway, for Harry’s heat you wanna look for him in the middle lanes because he’s got fast times, and basically that’s where they put all the good people. So.”

He beams for the entire room, his face smug and proud and bright as day, though technically he still has yet to see Harry swim. They both agreed that today would be a good time for the Big Reveal, so he’s bouncing in his seat, excited to see firsthand this thing that makes Harry so happy. They’ve made it through most of the meet now, Louis talking everyone’s ear off any chance he can, and Niall’s race is up now. The boys are cheering raucously beside him, but Louis can barely move his eyes from Harry who’s on the sides stretching and having a word with his coach. It’s like what they talked about in the locker room about how the adrenaline just takes you over. Louis is nowhere near the pool, but he feels his heart rate kick up as Harry gets ready as if he’s the one competing today. When Niall finishes, the other boys all stand up and cheer, catching Louis off guard as he follows along, but he only feels a little bad knowing he wasn’t paying attention. Because not long after, Harry’s gearing up to get on the diving board himself. He looks concentrated and determined as he gives his arms one final stretch behind his back, but then his eyes are searching the crowd and he lands on Louis with a small tug of his lips. Louis nods in return, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from screaming or singing or anything else equally obnoxious. Harry trains his eyes back on the water just before the shot goes off. And then the pin drops.

Harry is magnificent.

When he dives into his lane, Louis feels like his head goes underwater as well because suddenly, everything that isn’t Harry is completely blurred and muffled to him. He knows that the room is loud, he’s heard the echoes of the walls for a fair portion of his afternoon. But the beauty with which Harry moves has him entranced. Harry's all the more long and lean here, and Louis thinks he really can see every muscle in his body working to propel him forward. His back arcs every time he brings himself up and Louis feels like he's holding his breath for a century every time Harry dives back under. There's a stunned kind of awe that envelopes him, sending Louis to the edge of his seat for the entire race. When it's done and the swimmers rise from the water, Harry is still the most distinguishable. Because he doesn't look concentrated anymore; he doesn't even glance to the score board like the other competitors. Instead, when his head comes out of the pool, the only thing he offers is a smile beaming with undeniable joy. It's then that Louis’s ears pop and he feels like all his senses have returned. He is breathless as he stands from his perch and starts cheering like a madman. He keeps cheering even when his voice starts to go, and Zayn has to physically pull him back down to the bleachers before he stops. "Told you he was good," he positively gloats in Stan's direction, his eyes never staying from Harry who us now out of the pool and receiving congratulatory pats from his team. Even he can't believe just how right he was.

>>

Louis has his trousers rolled up all the way to his knees as his legs kick lightly in the water from his perch poolside. He smiles fondly as Harry swims up the lane and back towards him.

“And that,” he says “is what all the four basic swim moves look like.”

Louis just smiles and nods enthusiastically, not so secretly addicted to indulging Harry. Once Harry has fully approached him, he lets his arms rest on either side of Louis’s thighs and sighs up at him. The pool feels eerie like this with only their voices echoing around them, everyone else long gone after the day’s competition.

“So, how’d you like your first swim meet then?” Harry asks.

Louis smirks. “Hmm, I guess it wasn’t as bad as I would have thought a couple weeks ago. I could stand to go to a few more.” He plays with the water droplets on Harry’s shoulders as he says it. “Though you’re gonna have to do something about those concessions. Stan wouldn’t stop complaining about how you guys don’t have nachos.”

Harry barks a laugh at that, clearly having spent enough time with Louis’s friends to know how that conversation went over. Louis feels a warmth wash over him at the realization.

“Are you sure we should be in here,” he questions, looking around. “I mean, I like you plenty, but I’d rather not spend another weekend locked in this place, you know?”

“Nah, I’ve got a key.”

Louis arcs and eyebrow at him to which Harry only responds, “Captain privileges.”

“What? I’m a captain too! Why don’t I have any keys?” Louis shrieks clearly offended.

“Well to be fair, you playing ground is just an open field. No place to put a key if you had it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Louis pouts.

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you borrow mine sometime,” Harry comforts, rubbing circles at Louis’s hip.

“Yeah, likely story. I’ve always been wary about trusting you swimming types,” Louis says, poking the sentiment into Harry’s chest.

“Oh, and were you right to think so?” Harry asks, his mouth teasing over Louis’s.

“I dunno,” Louis whispers, “Was I?”

“I think so,” Harry murmurs back, and Louis has the wind completely knocked out of him as Harry grabs at his waist and pulls him underwater.

“Harry!” Louis screeches, once he’s back above water, sputtering half the pool from his nose and mouth.

“Sorry! Can’t trust us swimming folk,” Harry says playfully, and his hands are around Louis’s waist as they continue to float.

“The absolute worst group of people!” Louis returns making sure to spit what left inside of him in Harry’s direction. And Harry, being the freak of nature he is, only seems to love it more, his laughs only getting louder. “We’re great people!” he protests, “You love us.” He peppers Louis’s face with kiss after kiss for good measure, his grip unrelenting.

Louis continues to squeal in protest, but they both know he prefers this change of heart. At the very least, he’s willing to make this one exception.