NOT MY FIC I JUST NEEDA PUBLISH IT BC IM GETTING THE BUS FOR FOUR HOURS AKA NO WIFI AKA I NEEDA READ SO IGNORE.
Work Text:
"Liam," Louis gasped, suddenly staggering. His hand flew to Liam's chest, fingers clawed around Liam's pec, arm locked straight as he leaned all his weight into Liam, steadying himself. "Who is that?"
Liam peeled Louis' fingers back one by one, casually glancing around for anyone out of the ordinary. He stopped mid-forefinger-pry when his eyes fell on him. "You mean Mr. Future Olympic Champion of Staring Into the Middle Distance?"
"What?" Louis said and whipped his head around, need for support forgotten. "No, no, not Mr. Gold Medal in Bone Structure and Smouldering Gazes, though I'm proud that under my tutelage you're now able to pick out the second hottest guy here. That's not an easy task considering the overall fitness of Team Great Britain, if I do say so myself. So kudos."
Liam raised his eyebrows. Tutelage wasn't exactly the right word for Louis' running commentary about seemingly every person in the world and his constant attempts to corrupt Liam. Louis felt that there were only so many hours a week one could train and the rest might as well be spent socialising, making mischief, and having sex, not necessarily in that order. Probably the reverse, actually.
It's not that Liam disagreed with his reasoning, per se, he just couldn't bring himself to gad about quite so freely. He had every intention of winning a medal in front of the home crowd, men of great bone structure notwithstanding.
This was not to say that Louis didn't want a medal. But beneath the perfect coif--soft and swoopy on off days, aggressively gelled into a whimsically architectural fan for competitions--Louis had a hyperactive hamster of a mind and he wasn't about to spend his entire life just running on a wheel when there was a whole world to explore.
"Second hottest? Who, then?" Liam asked, not really tearing his eyes off of the silver medalist of Louis' loins. Another subjective judging, he supposed.
"Ugh, Liam." Louis made a sound of disgust. "I thought you were making progress. Standing right next to him. Lanky, curls, smile ready for a toothpaste advert."
"Hey lads." Niall broke in between Louis and Liam suddenly, slinging an arm around each boy's shoulders and following their gazes. "You've got a little drool," he said, swiping at Louis' chin before continuing, "so. Scoping out our fine fencing team, are you?"
Louis, who had been test-patting around his mouth for any residual wetness, snapped his head towards Niall and grinned wildly. "Horan, tell me you know Curly over there."
"That, my friend, is one Harry Styles." Niall snuck a quick glance at Liam and added, "Teammate's Zayn Malik. And you're welcome."
As Niall wandered off Louis widened his eyes at Liam and said, "Niall, man! I am so glad Ireland doesn't field a gymnastics team. What would we do if Nialler had never moved here?"
Louis was just beginning to spiral into a maddeningly unproductive conversation with Liam--the supposedly reliable one who somehow did not know if the outrageously large number of condoms available to Olympic athletes also included obscene amounts of lube (What good would 100,000 condoms do them without it, exactly? It was conversations like these that made Louis think that somehow, somewhere, he was failing in Liam's training.)--when inspiration hit him.
He strode across the courtyard, sauntering ever so slightly as he approached a certain Harry Styles, and announced, "I am the six-fingered man." He smoothed an errant strand of fringe off his eyebrow, which he then cocked seductively.
Harry's eyes followed Louis' hand sweeping across his brow. He glanced down at Louis' other hand perched on his hip, fingers drumming lightly on his waistband. "OK...," he said slowly. Not sure of the proper response, he continued, "You hide it really well?"
