i 0d2125e00f277ca8 (16 page)

“I suppose I‟ll leave you to your actual work,” Harry says, leaving his

seat. He walks over and picks up the bag of footballs.

“Do you have to?” Louis sighs. “Couldn‟t you have another crisis?

They‟re much less boring.” Harry grins at him, and Louis is glad to see

his face wiped clean of the pain it had carried before.

“I might be able to come up with something else equally traumatic by

lunch tomorrow,” Harry says, hefting the mesh bag over his shoulder.

“See that you do,” Louis says, looking over the top of his glasses.

Harry laughs as he leaves, the door closing behind him with a snick.

Louis waits until he‟s sure Harry‟s a suitable distance away, and then

lets out a strangled scream into his empty classroom.

Louis' windscreen has a crack in it. He was driving through a

construction zone once when some piece of machinery sent a pebble

flying into the glass, and the impact instantly split a crack from one

corner to the other, spiderwebbing out at the ends. It's always there

now, since Louis can't really bring himself to spend the money to fix it,

and every time he drives anywhere he's half-waiting for the windscreen

to finally shatter.

Louis sits at a stoplight and stares at the crack his windscreen and all he

can think about is Harry.

It‟s been a week since the whole episode with Mike Kendall, and

maybe if Louis were a better, less sexually frustrated person it would be

a week since Harry came to him in a moment of emotional distress, but

instead it‟s a week since Harry told him he likes men.

105

Suddenly all of Louis‟ fantasies have become much less abstract and

much more immediate. The question is no longer whether or not Harry

is interested in men; it‟s whether Harry‟s interested in Louis, which is a

much less comfortable thing to have on his mind. Flirting doesn‟t feel

playful anymore. Whatever they‟ve got their trigger fingers on, it isn‟t

loaded with blanks.

It‟s not just that Louis knows, now. It‟s that Harry knows that he

knows. They‟re both aware that something could happen, that the only

thing stopping it is the two of them. It‟s a precarious balance, and Louis

can never tell anymore where the line between friendly and flirting

falls, or if it was ever there, or what anything fucking means. He‟s left

constantly on edge, wondering if this is the moment, or this, or this,

Harry leaning too close to steal a sip of his tea, hair brushing the side of

his neck, Harry smiling when he catches Louis staring at his hands,

Harry‟s hands lingering every time they touch, staying a beat too long

on Louis‟ wrist or waist or shoulder. Has he always done that? Is Louis

reading into things too much? He‟s crawling out of his skin, just

wondering if the glass will give.

Louis is a lot of things, but he‟s never been one to let things lie. He‟s

not one to sit down and talk about things, either, and that leaves him

with physical communication, which is the only thing he really knows

how to do anyway. He starts choosing the tightest shirts in his closet,

pulling his braces down and letting them hang loose sometimes when

Harry‟s around. The first time he does it, he means to catalogue Harry‟s

reaction, but then he gets distracted by the way Harry‟s shirt rides up

when he stretches and he misses the moment entirely. Harry‟s eyes still

track him around the room, but no more than usual. Louis doesn‟t know

what to make of that; he has no idea what their “usual” is or ever was.

Eventually he realises that no matter what Harry does, he‟ll twist

himself into knots over it.

It‟s starting to get to him in ways that he really shouldn‟t let it.

Combined with the stress of classes and trying to put on a damn

Shakespeare, it‟s making him irritable and short with everyone, even

people who are just trying to help him. When his mum calls and asks

about his love life in that sly, knowing Mum way of hers, he snaps at

her and then feels guilty about it for the rest of the week. When the

106

feedback from the microphones almost leaves them all deaf during a

technical rehearsal, he feels like he‟s going to pull his hair out.

“Oh, for God‟s sake, Niall!” he shouts up at the sound booth in the

back of the theatre.

“Working on it!” Niall throws back, and when did Louis start taking

this out on Niall of all people? Niall never did anything to anyone.

“Someone needs to get laid,” Zayn says, sidling up next to him with a

bucket of paint.

“That‟s rich coming from you,” Louis says.

He spends that night slouched on his sofa, watching old episodes of

Cake Boss off his external hard drive and trying not to lament the

passage of his youth. He feels restless, like there‟s an itch he can‟t quite

scratch. He watches the man onscreen sculpt impossible shapes out of

what is supposedly food, and thinks of Harry. Well, he‟s almost always

thinking of Harry these days, but he‟s specifically thinking about his

stories of working in a bakery as a teenager, burning bread and stealing

cookie dough. He‟s definitely not thinking about present-day Harry

wearing nothing but an apron, or covered in chocolate frosting, sweet

and sticky under Louis‟ tongue. Nope. Not at all.

He pulls out his phone and stares at the lock screen, considering.

They‟ve always texted each other at random times of the day, little

jokes or comments or general miscellany, but Louis could swear even

that has changed. It‟s not just Harry sending a message from class

about the person in the next row who looks like Robbie Williams or

Louis texting him when one of his students turns in a four-page essay

on the sexual implications of Jack and Algernon‟s conversation about

muffins in The Importance of Being Earnest. Now it‟s late nights with

Duchess looking annoyed from the foot of the bed as his phone lights

up the room, words on his screen just skirting the edges of what he‟d

really like to say.

107

Still watching the sugary roses bloom, he pulls up Harry‟s number, just

below Zayn‟s now on his favorites list.

is fondant actually magic? because i do not understand

Not his best work, but enough to get a conversation going. A few

minutes later, he‟s rewarded with a response.

you should know a baker never reveals his secrets, tommo ;)

Louis snickers and replies immediately. As he does, thoughts of the

secrets Harry has revealed to him steal unbidden to the back of his

mind.

ur not a baker, ur a mildly competent footy coach. do those reveal their

secrets?

The response is almost instantaneous.

more than mildly competent >:(

The image of Harry frowning at his phone is too good, and Louis can‟t

help but try to rile him up more. Louis likes taking it a little too far with

him, pestering him until he‟s not quite sure what Harry will do next.

pls. could kick ur arse myself.

For what it‟s worth, he actually was pretty decent at football back in the

day. Harry seems eager to put him in his place, though, and Louis

squirms in his seat when the next text arrives.

you want to prove that? put your money where your mouth is?

108

Oh, dear. The last thing he needs is to imagine Harry lounging around

his flat, in whatever state of undress he almost certainly is in, thinking

about Louis and mouths in any capacity whatsoever. He knows none of

the actual words in the message are anywhere near R-rated, but his toes

still curl. He takes a deep breath and waits a few minutes before

responding, staring blindly at Cake Boss and trying to talk himself

down. It doesn‟t work.

i‟ll do anything i like with my money, styles. and my mouth. u scared?

He knows he should be embarrassed, should stop trying to escalate

something that he can‟t control, but all he can think about is whether or

not Harry will catch his breath when he reads what Louis sent. After

ten minutes have passed without a response, though, he‟s less excited

and more annoyed.

shaking in my boots. speaking of, do you actually own trainers? :)

Louis can just see his smug face, looking pleased with himself as he

comes up with trash talk. Maybe it‟s a little bit attractive, but that

doesn‟t mean he‟s going to stand for it. A full fifteen minutes pass

before he sends his response, giving Harry a taste of his own medicine.

He means to make it twenty, but he breaks before he can get there.

dick. let‟s do it, then. u and me, footy deathmatch, best man wins.

He expects another long wait, but this time his phone buzzes less than

five minutes later. When Louis reads what Harry‟s sent, he throws his

phone down the couch and grabs a throw pillow, burying his face in it.

your arse is mine, tomlinson.

It takes active effort to keep from pressing his hand against the semi

he‟s currently sporting. Images swim unasked for before his eyes.

Harry in a football kit, covered in dirt and sweat. Harry pushing him up

against a wall in the boy‟s changing room. Harry taking whatever he

109

wants. Louis gropes down the couch and retrieves his phone, peeking

out from behind the pillow to tap out as innocuous a response as he can

manage.

yeah right. u talk big, but we‟ll see. when r we doing this?

If the last message came in minutes, this one comes in seconds, and the

idea of Harry staring impatiently at his phone has Louis biting down

hard on the pillow.

now. come pick me up.

And oh, that sends heat buzzing through Louis‟ brain. Harry doesn‟t get

pushy often, but Louis knows how it looks, all fiery eyes and curled

lips. Louis has gotten him like that with a few texts, and he‟d be proud

of himself if he weren‟t in such a fucking state.

hazza it‟s almost midnight

The problem isn‟t really that it‟s late. The problem is that Louis isn‟t

sure he can deal with being around Harry in person right now if a series

of texts about football have him seriously considering turning off Cake

Boss to have a wank.

backing out now? knew you couldn‟t handle me

That does absolutely nothing to help.

wanker. pick you up in twenty

Louis‟ thumb hovers over the send button for a few seconds before he

finally shuts his eyes and presses it. This is not a good idea. He knows

that. But he can‟t back down, not now.

110

The drive to Harry‟s only takes ten minutes, but Louis needs ten extra

to change into sport-appropriate clothing and think about dead animals

until his hard-on calms down. He maintains an even and sedate pace all

the way to Harry‟s block of flats. He will not speed. Maybe the

prospect of spending time with Harry can get him to agree to sports at

an unreasonable hour of the night, and maybe a few innocent texts can

get him hard, but he will not hurry. Louis has some dignity.

When he pulls up, Harry is already outside on the pavement, dressed in

shorts and a t-shirt, beanie pulled low over his ears. He‟s carrying a

duffle bag, which he slings over his shoulder into the backseat as he

slides into the passenger side. Louis is watching everything, the way

his shorts sit low on his hips, the way his body twists when he turns

back around.

“Hi,” Harry says, reaching to buckle his seatbelt. He grins at Louis, his

cheeks red from the nighttime chill, and Louis tries so hard to keep

himself under control.

“Hi yourself,” Louis says, dragging his eyes away from the curls

escaping from under Harry‟s hat. “Ready to be beaten at your own

game, literally?”

“Stop stalling and drive, Tomlinson,” Harry says. Louis doesn‟t need to

be told twice.

He peels away from the pavement just a little too fast, and it‟s a quick

ride to the school with the two of them trash-talking back and forth and

the tension crackling in between. They‟re laughing by the time the two

of them pile out of Louis‟ car, but it still doesn‟t feel like there‟s

enough air to fill Louis‟ lungs on the walk across the carpark, in and

out of the puddles of light formed by the streetlamps. Soon they fall

into silence, their breath making twin clouds in the crisp air, shoulders

brushing with every step.

111

They reach the chain link fence that surrounds the pitch, and Harry

reaches into his duffle, pulling out the keys to the gate. The lock opens

with a clunk, impossibly loud, and Louis coughs out a nervous laugh.

Harry turns around at the sound, smirking. “Don‟t worry, there‟s no

one else around.”

Louis knows this, knows that even if there is, Harry‟s technically