Together On The Field - l.s

nine

When Harry wakes up, he feels a piece of paper fitted between his cheek and the pillow. It takes him some time to decide to open his eyes, and some more seconds to focus on the room.

This time he recognises the place at the first glance, every single detail of Louis' living room he knows by heart, the red blanket that painfully smells of its owner wrapped around his body, the flat screen, now turned off, the fluffy rugs, the bottles of beer on the coffee table. He's always on the same couch, where he's spent so much time lately, he wakes up there just like that first night months ago, but Louis is not here, it's morning this time, and the sunlight seeps through the glass ceiling. He tries not to think about what is going to happen as soon as the accommodation manager will find out he hasn't slept in his room in the hall of residence.

He finally takes the crumpled note and opens it, with a lump in his throat, attempting to figure out Louis' shaky handwriting.

Breakfast is in the kitchen, didn't want to wake you. L.

He struggles before untangling himself from the blanket and standing up, bleary-eyed and confused, stumbling towards the kitchen. On the counter there are boxes of cereals, a bowl of cubed fruit, some milk and orange juice. He ignores it and scans the room further, a bad feeling in his guts.

"Lou?" he calls tentatively, and he's not surprised at all when he's not met with an answer.

Where could he possibly be? It's, like, seven thirty, at best. He can't be already at the training ground this early in the morning. Harry wanders around the house, uselessly hoping Louis will materialise from nowhere, but of course that stuff only happens in Harry Potter.

He sits on the edge of the couch again, throwing his hands on his face. Why does Louis always have to do this? Why does he have to act like a child?

Fine, Harry kissed him. But he kissed back, didn't he? And he wasn't drunk this time. He must have wanted Harry as much as Harry wanted him, to kiss him like he did, he must have felt that feeling of burn and connection that Harry felt. And maybe Harry relished in the moment too much, maybe Louis kissed him just because Harry was there and was available and didn't want nothing more. Okay. Fine. But why dash off, all over again, leaving Harry asleep on that couch in his house, without any answer? Why avoid confrontation and leave Harry forlorn and dazed like this? Why kiss him and then reject him when Harry wanted more?

He decides he can't stay in this house anymore, not when everything reminds him of Louis and the night before. He needs some time to think, and he needs to talk to Louis, because he can't go on like this. Because he loves him, but can't stand getting some glimpses of what it could be followed by the footballer's sudden coldness. Because if Louis wants to be just friends, he needs to make it clear, to stick to that, so Harry can finally get over him and stop believing in this stupid illusion.

-

Harry hates Mondays. On Monday there's practice after the day off. On a Monday night he injured himself. On a Monday he woke up on Louis Tomlinson's couch after being kissed and then dumped.

On Saturday they lost to Blackburn, so this Monday is destined to analyse the match, to watch never ending videos until they can spot every single mistake, to get yelled on by Roberts, to admit the responsibility of their own errors.

Harry drags himself into the locker room and places his bag on the bench, looking around and wondering where everybody else finds the strength to do things. He feels empty and exhausted, he feels drained and upset, and not even the thought of playing football can make him feel any better. And that says it all.

He puts his shorts on and his stomach burns with heartbreak when he starts to tie his boots, the ones Louis gave him months ago. He puts the gloves on, because it's still fucking cold outside, and feels another pang of misery in his chest. He jogs blandly to the practice ground, even though the only thing he feels like doing right now is bury himself under the duvet in bed and mourn his broken heart.