Bloodsport

Chapter 7

Christmas break was something Harry usually looked forward to. It meant a couple weeks of break from school and tests, spent at home with his sister. They'd watch Christmas movies, bake holiday sweets, and if they were lucky there'd be snow to play in outside. This year, Gemma wouldn't be home until a few days before Christmas Eve, and with his parents working pretty much throughout the holidays, he knew he'd have a lot of time to himself. Another thing he tended to adore about Christmas was the fact that he didn't have to see Louis' face for weeks. This year, that wasn't what he wanted at all, and waking up on Monday he almost wished there was school to get to. At least then he knew he'd see Louis sooner or later. Knowing there was no certainty of doing that over the next weeks was oddly disconcerting. He knew why.

The last few months had developed a sickening sense of comfort in being in Louis' presence. Not when he was mean, or they fought, or he said something particularly gnarly, but the times when he was still and quiet. When he was actually bearable to be in company with. When he behaved like an actual, decent human being. More specifically, the reason why Harry was abnormally opposed to the idea of not seeing him was the night they had kissed. That evening was replaying in a constant loop full of dizzying desire, a weird, tingly sense of discomfort, and full-flooded confusion. It swirled around within him. He sort of wanted to push it away for later and ignore it, but the sound of Louis sighing against him contended the desire. Louis had after all kissed him back. Maybe... maybe he also felt something new inside, just like Harry? But had no clue what the odds of that being true were, though.

The first week of the break went by quickly. Harry spent a lot of time with Zayn, who wasn't particularly busy during the holidays. He didn't celebrate Christmas, but his family perpetually had food and family around, which made spending time there feel more like a holiday than it did in Harry's own house. Zayn's father cooked a lot, and none of them seemed opposed to Harry being there, tasting Mr. Malik's Pakistani treats, and sitting at the kitchen table joining them for dinner. They hung out in Zayn's room, playing video games, and sometimes Zayn's sisters would join in. Harry spent so much time in their house that he almost forgot to feel the anxiety that usually hovered above him. He hardly had time to sit and think about Louis properly.

A few days into the holiday break, the two of them were at Harry's house. Zayn had insisted they invite some friends to play video games and drink beer, but before that, they required more joysticks and games. Getting beer wouldn't be difficult since they were both eighteen, but finding the extra joysticks seemed more of a task.

"How do you not know where any of your things are?" Zayn complained. He was dragging his hands through a drawer, shaking his head at the shelves that were organised yet didn't make sense.

"I don't know." Truth was, they'd had a housekeeper for most of his life. She was great at putting things away in a tidy manner, but once Harry needed to find something specific it would take him hours unless he texted her. She was off today, away with her family, and he didn't want to bother her.

Zayn was in a black t-shirt with a flashy print on the front, his jeans slim, and socks strikingly yellow against the dark of his trouser. His hair was done up in a quiff, but it was getting more and more dishevelled the longer he dug through Harry's chest drawers. Harry was lying on his belly, glancing in behind his desk positioned against the wall. The joysticks weren't there, but at least he knew the housekeeper did a great job removing dust in even the most hidden nooks and corners. Harry sat up on the floor, and Zayn moved over to the other side of the bed, reaching his hands in behind the headboard of the bed.

"Something's here!"

Harry's posture straightened. Finally.

"What... Ew! Gross!" Zayn leaped from the bed like a scared cat. Harry leaned over as much as he could without leaving his spot, glancing over at the other side of the bed. Zayn was standing on his knees, staring, disgraced and miffed, at a pair of boxers, now in a heap on the floor.