Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Bend your leg,”

Harry uses his hands to carefully put pressure on his knee, which creaks suspiciously in return. There is always this moment while he’s in the middle of his physiotherapy session when his knee stops cooperating, and the ligament starts to fight him like it’s begging for mercy.

It hurts a lot, but he never asks Matthew, the therapist, to take a break. Not even when the pain is as unbearable as it is right now. He has never been one to surrender to things, even when they’re just too much. He throws back his head instead, biting hard his lower lip to try and hide from the physiotherapist the grimace that flashed on his face.

Unfortunately he knows Harry too well, and his struggle never goes unnoticed.

“Does it hurt?” asks Matthew, raising his eyebrows in a frown and loosening the grip on Harry’s leg a little. Harry swallows and squints his eyes, trying his best to stifle the tears welling up behind his eyelids. He knows that he doesn’t need to freak out every fucking time. That each doctor who examined him said the exact same thing. His knee is going to recover. It’ll be fine. It only needs time. He knows that.

He knows that he needs to meticulously follow the rehab guidelines and to do what Matthew tells him. That he can’t rush into things, even if he’s so impatient that he honestly can’t wait to be back on the football pitch. But being reckless would only worsen the situation, and that’s not what we want, right Harry?

He is seriously trying his best. But it’s common knowledge that pain is not really rational, after all. He can’t exactly control what happens in his head now, can he?

At least he can hide it, though. He can smile at his mum when he goes back home to Holmes Chapel for the holidays, he can smile at the therapists and at the doctor, he can even smile with gritted teeth at his teammates, who come and visit him after practice. They always stop by to comfort him, to ask how’s rehabilitation going, and then they go back to the locker room to take a well deserved shower after an exhausting training session.

He’s a master at that. He’s so good at pretending everything is fine, more than fine, when in reality he cringes every time his mind is crossed by the thought that it’s already been three months since he injured his knee, yet he’s still forced to walk with a fucking crutch and do all the exercises to recover.

Of course it hurts.

It hurts a lot to feel your ligament pulling off the bone, hearing that dry 'pop' and knowing that something’s gone wrong. It hurts to have your knee torn in two, to watch a team of doctors reconstruct it in front of your eyes. It also hurts having to get used again to something  that came natural to him only a few months ago, like walking or running. Or kicking the football.

And that probably hurts more than the injury itself.

Underneath all the smiles and the confidence, Harry feels just empty and tired. It seems like everyone and their mother feels the need to tell him always the same things, to reassure him. They say that he needs to stay positive, that if he’s determined and strong enough he will recover in the blinking of an eye. And then they proceed to give him that look, a mixture of pity and concern, as if he’s the dumbest kid on earth while they know the solution to the ancient Egypt’s greatest mystery.

Honestly, Harry would love to know how it feels to be able to speak like that. Because when he is alone and scared, he doesn’t even dare to dream about his comeback on the pitch, when his teammates will hug him and a few supporters will lazily clap from the stands.

He doesn’t dare to toy with that idea, because the moment feels too far away, too blurred. He thinks that there’s no point in dreaming of it, if the second after he’s still laying on that damn table in that forgotten corner of the gym, doing the isometric exercises.

And time passes slowly, so fucking slowly, marked by his frantic breath, by the sound of the crutches on the rubbery floor, by the unsteady beat of his heart, by the creaking of his knee that once was so used to take the strain of ninety minutes in the match without losing steam and that betrayed him in the most crucial of the moments.

Because reality is, when he was about to touch the stars, he fell. Well, technically they made him fall, but whatever. He’s still too bitter about that.

Harry whimpers stoically when he could scream from the pain and bends his knee with more determination to show that it’s nothing.

“Don’t cheat Harry,” reprimands Matthew with that frown still planted on his face, when he notices Harry’s strained features. “I know that you’re worried and everything, but believe me when I say that the pain is common and is part of the therapy. It’s perfectly normal if it hurts, you know. But I need you to tell me if it does, I need you to speak to me, because I need to record how the cure is going. Some knees recover surprisingly fast, while some...” he stretches his leg and spreads a cool gel on his knee, to prep him for the ultrasound, like every Wednesday.

Matthew cuts himself off mid sentence, but Harry doesn’t need him to finish, he already knows what he was about to say. Some don’t recover at all. Blunt as that.

Obviously he knows how serious his injury is. Contrary to popular belief he’s not stupid. He knows how much time it takes to recover properly from an anterior cruciate ligament tear, and he also knows about all the footballers who never do, who have to quit football because they can’t regain the flexibility of the ligament and reestablish proper gait. But even when he carries himself inside and outside the gym, struggling with the crutches, when he grits his teeth so hard they almost crumble, he’s still aware that he can’t be one of those who end up quitting. He needs to take a chance, if one exists, he needs to fight until it’s worth it, until the very end, until they tell him that’s it, there’s nothing more you can do, one way or another. He needs to do that for his team, for his family, and even for that mini him who dreamed to become a famous footballer. Because it’s true that, although at some point every kid has dreamed of becoming a footballer and playing for their favourite team, only a few manage to do just that. But it’s also true that nobody has told him he can’t be one of those, yet. After all there’s still the entire medical staff of the under-21 team of one of the world’s biggest clubs taking care of him. That has to mean something.

Harry doesn’t like to brag, but he knows he’s good. Or at least that he was good, before the injury. That’s why he has to give everything and endure the therapy, the exercises, the ultrasound, the physical pain, and, first and foremost, the sight from the stands of his teammates running on the pitch, playing, scoring and winning.

And more than the fear of not being able to ever recover, what scares him shitless is the thought that if the team works just fine without him, maybe he’s not that essential after all. It hurts to admit that, but he can’t avoid it when he watches his team winning match after match, even when he’s not there. It’s scary, thinking that maybe when he’ll come back, if he’ll come back, he’ll need to fight to be a first-string player again, to find his place in the team. And then he could be not as good as he was before, he could never celebrate a goal again.

He’s always been too paranoid, but it is legit to worry about this kind of stuff. He’s entitled to do just that. Especially when this stuff is associated with the pain coming from the medical treatment, the mixture just too much to handle, so overwhelming that he thinks of giving up, even though the desire to step on the field is the only thing he can think about.

Gemma, his sister, tells him that staying away from the stadium had him becoming a drama queen, but Harry feels more realistic and matured, instead. And not necessarily in a good way. He thinks it happened too fast, too soon, in the wrong way. He had to learn how to handle the insane pressure and the worries that don’t belong to a nineteen year old, an age when the only thing that should matter is running carefree on the field and dreaming of wearing the jersey with the official logo of the English Premier League embroidered where the heart is.

“...while some just need more time,” says Matthew with a shrug, interrupting his stream of thoughts.

He starts to press the probe of the ultrasound on his knee, making him moan in complaint.

“Oh shush Harry, you know how it is,” snorts Matthew with an eye roll. “So, what happened to that bloke who tackled you? Did he come back from the disqualification?” he asks, trying to divert Harry’s focus from the pain he knows he’s causing him but failing miserably.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, tucking some unruly strands under the hair-band. He sighs heavily, like every time somebody has to remind him about the injury. It happened during the match against Chelsea, one of Manchester United’s competitors for the title, and that asshole of a defender, Martinez, tackled him to the ground when he didn’t even have the ball, making him leave the field on a stretcher. Fucking twat.

“Yup,” he sighs, making an obnoxiously popping sound. “They just banned him for three matches,” he nods.

While I’m here doing stupid ultrasounds, he thinks, cursing for the umpteenth time that metalworker of a player, who didn’t even have the decency to apologise to him. “He’s already back and ready to destroy other people’s careers,” he complains.

He knows injuries are part of the game, but he can’t forgive Martinez when he’s a right douche. If every curse he had sent him had worked, by now he should be tied up and gagged in some unknown precipice, not playing for the title while Harry is lying down on a table doing stupid mini lunges and bridges and feeling useless.

“Unbelievable,” murmurs Matt absent-mindedly, without really listening to him. He’s studying carefully the images on the flat screen of the ultrasound machine with an unreadable expression on his face. He fumbles with the keyboard and starts to print the radiological image.

Suddenly the door of the gym opens, signalling that the practice on the ground is over. His teammates enter the building and start occupying the machines to begin a small tapering session. Mr. Roberts, their coach, follows suit. He puts his hands on his hips and starts clapping his hands.

“Half an hour of aerobics and you’re free to leave,” he yells, proceeding to whistle to start the training. Then he approaches Harry in his lonely corner, putting a protective hand on his shoulder.

Harry has always had a good relationship with coach Roberts. He has been his coach since when he moved to Manchester United and he was in the under-16 team. That was Roberts' first coaching experience after retiring from playing football (he was one of Manchester’s best midfielders), and when he was levelled up to coaching the under-21 he brought Harry with him, even if he was one year younger than the required age.

But Roberts always says that Harry is his battering ram, that he’s essential to his philosophy of the game. Harry is always ready to create, to steal the ball from his opponents with his elegant movements, to burst through the defensive line of their rivals. In this way, step by step, he made his way in the new team, achieving a regular spot in the starting line-up.

Harry gives him a weak smile and arches his back, settling against the seat.

“So, how’s going today Matt?” asks Roberts, careful, to the therapist, who gives him a warning glare without replying. Harry figures there must be something wrong. And fuck, what was that? What does that look even mean? Why can’t they just tell him?

Matthew waits for the machine to finish printing, then he takes the images and gestures Roberts to follow him in his office, cutting Harry out. They nod at him and then walk away, talking steadily with muffled sounds, leaving him to watch them argue and point at things on the pictures, without being able to understand what they’re up to. He’s always been rubbish at reading lips. He should have practiced, given all the free time he’s had during these months, so he would be able to pick up on all the things that people seem to believe he’s better off without hearing.

But he’s not a fucking five year old, is he? He’s strong enough to handle the consequences of what happened. Because it happened to him, if somebody hasn’t noticed. There’s no reason to hide things in order to protect him. He’s an adult, or almost so, for fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what they’re talking about, Haz? They’re saying you’re fucked, mate. They’re gonna cut your leg. You can always find a team of one-leg players, though. You’re left footed after all, I reckon you’ll ace even there.”

A boy with raven hair and deep brown eyes approached him furtively, punching him on the shoulder and throwing a sweaty towel at him.

“Shut up for a second Zayn, will you? I’m trying to listen,” hisses Harry in a whiny tone, although the coach and Matthew are already entering Roberts' office. Harry sighs resigned and finally turns to look at Zayn, who is impossibly grinning.

“Malik,” says Harry in exasperation when he takes in the view of his teammate and best friend stretching lazily beside him. “You should be practicing. None of us want to put up with Roberts' anger all over again,” reproaches Harry, curling his lips. “You know that when he starts yelling he’s so loud they can hear him from the first team training ground.”

He takes some tissues from a box and starts to clean the remnants of the gel on his knee, shaking his head in disapproval. He wasn’t exaggerating, and he doesn’t need to witness to one of Roberts' proverbial outbursts of rage.

Zayn shrugs unconcerned as to show he doesn’t give a fuck and then proceeds to throw Harry’s leg off the table to make room for himself. Zayn is never particularly enthralled by the muscular workout exercises Roberts is so keen on assigning them. Actually, nobody is. So it’s perfectly understandable why Zayn is taking the opportunity to sneak out.

“You’re giving me the lecture just because you don’t have to do thirty minutes of quads workout. I’m so jealous.”

Zayn’s words echo in his head, making him cloud a bit. He thought he could go five minutes without that constant feeling of foul and frustration in his stomach, joking lightly with his friend as if nothing was the way it is. After a moment of silence Harry looks up at Zayn with an arched brow.

“Yeah,” he whispers sadly. “It’s fucking fantastic being me right now,” he adds in a dry voice.

Zayn blushes violently and presses his lips together. “Fuck,” he hisses. “I’m sorry Haz,” he bends his head wistfully, his flustered expression showing sincere regret that makes Harry look at him with fondness.

And remorse. It’s not Zayn’s fault.

“It's okay, don't worry,” laughs Harry. “I know you’re jealous, I laze about all day!”

It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on him, especially because Zayn is always so good to him.

“So, did you come over just to escape from Roberts' massacre?” asks Harry with a high-pitched voice, trying to change the subject. He figures that he should keep his bad mood for himself, because he’s tired of these pitiful looks, even when they come from his best friend.

“Yeah, something like that,” says Zayn with a more relaxed tone, accepting the shift of the conversation, although Harry can tell that he noticed him forcing his face in a smile, to cover the sadness and the disappointment. “How did it go then?” he asks, glancing with uncertainty at Harry’s swollen knee.

“Uh, dunno, really. Still have half an hour of passive workout,” tells Harry with an eloquent grimace. “Can you wait for me and give me a lift? The team’s coach bus leaves when your practice is over and I can’t make it.”

If there’s something that Harry positively loathes about the injury is that he lost all of his independence. He can’t drive his car anymore, he can’t take the team’s coach because his therapy sessions always run late. He can’t take the stairs without somebody trying to help him at all costs, he can’t go outside whenever he wants, go away from the dormitory, go out for a walk, for a run, when he’s angry or when he’s sad, or when he just needs to be left alone. And this makes him so fucking frustrated.

Zayn snorts loudly at that. “You’re ridiculous. Can you just stop asking me every time? We’re headed in the same place. In the same room, even. And you’re my best friend. Of course I’ll wait for you, like every other day. And my offer to carry you up the stairs bridal-style is still valid,” grins Zayn, retrieving his towel and bottle of water from the floor and going back quickly on the treadmill, because Matthew is coming back to Harry and Roberts was already supervising the practice with a threatening scowl on his face.

Harry starts giggling, but then has to cut himself off when he takes in Matthew’s serious look. The therapist turns off the ultrasound machine and clears his throat, crossing his arms on his chest.

“So” he says, and Harry has a giant lump in his throat, which is now drier than the Sahara desert.

“Harry, I talked to coach Roberts as you saw, and we had a chat on the phone with your surgeon,” he goes on, frowning a bit in concentration. Harry throws back his head, ready to be hit by the bad news. Maybe he will tell him that his football season is over. Or worse, that his career is over.

“The ultrasound shows that the ligament is reacting well. Clearly the continuous passive motion pre-surgery was crucial,” he states, with a proud edge in his tone. Harry dares to finally look at him with a blank expression, frightened to misunderstand what he’s trying to convey. Then he notices the small grin on his therapist’s face, and he widens his eyes in disbelief.

“As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow you can go to the hospital for one last check and if the doctor gives you green light you can start with the training,” he continues, blinking expectantly when he sees Harry is looking at him with his mouth wide open. “Yes, Harry, on the ground,” he adds as to clarify, and Harry’s confused expression melts into a warm, real smile. The first genuine smile since they told him, that night in the hospital, that he broke his cruciate ligament.

-

Zayn is sitting on a bench, opposite the smallest practice ground of the Manchester United’s Trafford Training Centre. It’s almost deserted, apart from some staff members and obviously the first team training on the other side of the fence. Even the sun is about to set, but Harry is still in the changing room.

Honestly he is so used to waiting for him he almost doesn’t mind anymore. Since when Harry injured his knee, Zayn had to drive him to training and then back to the hall of residence where they live with all the other lads from the team, and he has to wait for him to shower and get changed. And it’s not a burden at all, it’s just that Harry is so slow.

Right now he can’t blame anybody but himself, though,  because he should have learned the lesson from sharing the ensuite with him. Seriously, Harry is one of the fastest players in the league, basically impossible to stop, but as soon as he enters the changing room he turns into a slow coach.

If he wasn’t so used to his need to take his time, Zayn would probably think something bad happened, like, he might have slipped in the shower, with those crutches and everything. He’s almost tempted to go and check on him, but he closes his hand in a fist instead and tries to stop worrying. It was hard at the beginning, when he always felt the need to make sure Harry was okay. They’ve grown up together after all, they’re like brothers, they’ve gone through so many things together, it’s normal.

It’s easier now, though. Of course the feeling is still there, but he has learned to stifle it, to hide his worries, because he knows how much it annoys Harry, how it makes him feel an incapable.

Finally the door slams open. Harry clumsily comes out of the building and starts to walk to the small path that runs along the ground where the first team has practice and leads to the car park. He seems to have not noticed Zayn, busy stumbling over the crutch and adjusting the strap of the bag, that finally ends on the ground. Harry snorts in frustration and stomps one foot on the pebbles, muttering to himself.

When he looks up his eyes are caught by the players still running in the field beyond the fence that separates it from the ground of the under-21. Sometimes they stop by to catch a glimpse of their training, to see if they can spot their favourite players, fascinated by a precise pass, a nice kick, a cool dribble. Harry is looking at those champions like they come from another world, like he’s intruding a private moment that doesn’t belong to him, no matter how much he wants it.

Zayn stands up from the bench, grinning and trying to stifle any noise. He’s ready to help Harry, but first he takes a football from a bag nearby and kicks it, hitting Harry right in the head. It’s not for nothing that he is the king of free kicks.

Harry turns around abruptly, like he’s been brought back to reality. Throwing a hand through his curls, still damp from the shower, he makes a sarcastic grimace at Zayn, who has that winning smile plastered on his stupid face.

“If you want to show off you better do that on the pitch for a change,” laments Harry. His tone is annoyed, but Zayn knows he’s not actually angry at him. Harry is never angry, for what he knows.

He gets closer to him and takes the bag and the crutch from the ground, before Harry can even notice and stop him. He hands him the crutch with a fond smile and then starts walking with a subtle slow pace, so Harry can catch up easily.

Harry looks at his best friend’s relaxed back and smiles to himself. Zayn’s great, really. Harry is so grateful to have him in his life, when he’s away from his family. He’s so glad he met him when he was small and entering a world that can be so, so scary. And he’s been always there for him, especially after the injury. He’s the only one who actually gets him, who understands the way he feels. He’s never tried to take his anguish on himself just because he thought Harry wasn’t strong enough to deal with it, and at the same time he's never tried to throw all his worries at him.

Zayn has him, and Harry doesn’t need words to know that. A look, a gesture, are enough. He’s never changed since they met, and Harry knows how caring and understanding he is. He’s never tried to comfort him when he didn’t want to be comforted, when he was assaulted by doubts and fears and just needed to be sad. He’s never tried to reassure him, just because he knows they will be back to playing side by side very soon. Zayn leaves him alone if he wants to be left alone, but he’s always there, ready to offer his hand if Harry needs it.

“Smart move taking the piss out of your personal chauffeur, I have to say. You’re risking having to hoof it into town.”

Zayn stops abruptly and lowers a pair of black shades on his nose, watching Harry stumbling like a giraffe on the pebbles in the car park. Harry really wanted to remark how it was him who had just received a ball in the head, but then he opts for staying silent, in case Zayn was being serious. You truly never know with Zayn.

“Well, I could always take the underground. Or hitch-hike,” he retorts instead. “Don’t think it would be riskier than getting into your car, Psycho Driver,” he adds outraged, panting as he tries to keep pace with Zayn.

And he likes to take the bus or the underground. He likes to stare at people, everyone doing their things, travelling for different reasons. He likes to wonder where they’re going, likes to listen to snippets of conversations, falling in love for a second, until he has to get out, missing a chance because he doesn’t want to miss his stop, and the likely love of his life disappears on the horizon.

Actually, he’s full of shit, because the training centre is in the outskirts of Manchester and there’s no public transport to get there. Details, details.

“You’re not making it better Haz. And admit it, you’d miss all the fun!” answers Zayn absentmindedly, fumbling with his pocket, looking for the car keys.

“And you’ll miss...” he beams, when he finally finds the keys. He presses a button on the remote and a massive car with a chrome-plated bumper makes an opening noise. “...this baby!” he announces excitedly, stretching one arm ceremoniously and waiting for Harry to say something.

“No,” he mouths, pulling his eyebrows together, while Zayn grins in answer.

“I can’t believe this, Z. Another car?”

He’s not that surprised, to be honest. He suspected Zayn was up to something, given all the car magazines scattered around their room. And he knows Zayn, and with him it comes his passion for big and luxury cars. He just wasn’t expecting this.

“Ha! What did you think I would do with the money from the under-21 golden boot?”

“Are you kidding me? And you intend to drive this monster?” screams Harry horrified, noticing the size of the car. Zayn is already behind the wheel, opening the passenger door with another click.

“You don’t trust me?”  he asks teasingly, turning on the stereo, volume all the way up.

“Honestly?” snorts Harry, trying to stifle an exasperated laugh.

Zayn unceremoniously turns on the engine and taps his index finger on his wrist where there is no watch.

“You can always hitch a ride, like you said. Maybe somebody will finally kidnap you so I’ll get rid of you and your showers that last hours and—“

“Fine, fine. I’ll come with,” Harry rolls his eyes and settles into the passenger seat, muttering something about how, between the two of them,  is Zayn the one who is in the bathroom all the time. He starts to inspect the inside of the car, fumbling with the glove compartment and the buttons on the instrument panel.

“Why don’t you have gloves in the glove compartment?” says Harry, unable to hold back a giggle.

“Why would I?” retorts Zayn with a look that is a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“Because if it’s called  that there must be a reason, and maybe the reason is that you should have gloves in your car in case of emergency. I mean, why would they call it that? Did you know there’s a song by Death Cab that talks about this?” he rambles.

“No,” says Zayn with a sigh that tastes of exasperation and resignation.

“The glove compartment is inaccurately naaamed and everybody knows iiiit so I'm proposiiing a swift orderly changeee,”  he starts to sing softly, drumming on the dashboard. “’Cause behind its doors, there’s nothing to keep my fingers warm—” his husky voice fades in the steady noises of the road.

“What does this button do?” investigates Harry, unable to stay silent.

“It turns the windscreen wiper o—don’t do it!” warns Zayn, but it’s too late, because Harry has already turned it on. The glass is suddenly full of water while the blade is swinging back and forth, pushing it from the surface. Drops of water land inside the car, because they had the windows open. Harry can’t stop giggling, while Zayn gives him a death glare, pressing another button to turn the wiper off.

“Don’t touch anything” admonishes Zayn, even though it’s completely useless because Harry has already started pressing all the buttons he can find, turning on respectively the air conditioning, the small flat screen and the GPS.

“Are you telling me there’s a mini-fridge?” laughs Harry delightedly, opening a small flap and taking a blueberry juice.

“Can you stop playing with my car?” scolds Zayn in the most grown-up tone he’s capable of. “You’re literally five.”

Harry grins happily at the sight of the annoyed face Zayn has pulled. “What’s this?” he inquires, flipping a lever. “Massaging seats? Are you for real?”he laughs mockingly, while Zayn blushes and takes him by the wrists, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Harry. Give it a rest.”

-

The drive is not that traumatic, after all. He feared for his life only twice. The first time when they were travelling at one hundred miles per hour (when the limit was clearly at seventy, honestly, can’t Zayn read?) and the second when Zayn tried to overtake two cars in a row, because apparently that’s what motorways with three lanes were made for. But this is normal if you’re in Zayn’s car, that’s why Harry is keeping his mouth shut, doing nothing but theatrically fastening his seatbelt.

He snuggles against the seat and half-closes his eyes, to catch the dim sunlight of six p.m.

Zayn looks at his young face framed by unruly curls, his forehead wrinkled because of the sun rays, his flushed cheeks, his relaxed lips and smiles at himself, happy to see his friend placid and relaxed for once.

“What?” asks Harry confused, turning to him with a questioning look. The landscape outside is gradually changing as they get closer to the city, there are less trees and more billboards and street lights.

“Nothing,” Zayn shrugs casually, turning back to watch the road. “Did you see that kick by Mata? I mean, when we were watching the first team practice?” he asks, trying to change the subject. “Not sure if he could pull that again during a match, not even if he tried fifty times,” he considers, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting for the car in front of them to restart.

“Uh, dunno, he’s such a good player. Liam was actually good at saving it, don’t know how he did that. Even De Gea congratulated him!” replies Harry opening his eyes lazily.

The expression on Zayn’s face shifts suddenly, becoming sharper. “Yeah, he had his fifteen minutes of fame apparently,” he mutters bitterly.

Thing is, Zayn hates waiting. He hates waiting for the car in front of his to restart. Waiting for Harry to get out of the bathroom. He hates waiting for a teammate to finally pass him the ball. But more than anything, he hates waiting to be called up to the first team, so he will be able to show his value as a footballer.

“Come on Z, it was a good save. You’re being a twat because you’re jealous,” smiles Harry, aware he’s playing with the fire. But he doesn’t care, because he knows Zayn and knows how far he can go until it’s too much.

“Me? Jealous of Payne? Are you serious right now?” roars Zayn in anger. “Jealous of a third-choice goalkeeper? Okay, he’s in the first team, but he will only play if he’s lucky enough that De Gea and Valdes are both injured at the same time,” he changes the gear violently and the tyres make a screeching noise.

Harry diverts his look from the road and stares at Zayn, pursing his lips together in amusement at Zayn’s annoyed grimace. “If you say so. Why are you avoiding him then?” he asks softly, and his yielding voice hits Zayn right in the stomach.

“What, did he come crying to you? Poor boy!”

Harry knows how hard it must be for Zayn, see one of your best friends upgrading to the first team and watching from afar, from the youth team, training to face Hull City while Liam tells them over breakfast how excited he is to fly to Dortmund for the Champions League match.

He knows how hard it is, because it’s the same for him. Except he doesn’t blame Liam just because his dream is becoming true while Harry’s not. But Harry also has the excuse of the injury to keep himself from questioning his skills, while Zayn is one year older than him and has never been called up to train with the first team; so nothing can prevent him from thinking that maybe he’s not good enough, he’s not ready, he wasn’t born to be a footballer. He has every right to pull this self-commiseration attitude, and Harry will go through this with him.

“He didn’t,” hurries out Harry. “But I’m just a little bit limp, not blind. You’ve been spending all the time with me lately, you’re always nervous and Liam is sad,” he states simply.

“Yeah, but I’m not avoiding him,” defends Zayn, emphasizing the word. “He just happened to turn into an asshole since when he joined the first team. He only talks about that, have you noticed? And he walked out on us in the middle of the season just to say he’s playing the Premier League. I don’t get it why you’re taking it out on me Haz, when  he clearly doesn’t care about us.”

Yeah, nervous. Right.

Harry says nothing. He puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder and brushes it with no blame but making him sigh tiredly all the same.

“Fuck Harry. I know what you want from me, but I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Harry feels him going stiff under his touch. “Can you blame me for not wanting to hear all these great stories about how amazing is training with Rooney and Tomlinson?” he continues calmer, looking at Harry from his peripherals.

“Don’t you think I’m entitled to be bitter? I know I’m not fair to him and I don’t need you to tell me it’s not his fault. I know, okay? It’s me. It’s me and my performances, and my twenty goals, that apparently are not enough,” he spits angrily, and Harry would hug him if he wasn’t driving. It was so uncommon for him to put out all his feelings like this, and Harry is happy he can do something for him, for once. He can make him understand that he is good, amazingly so, that he will become one of the best. He can make disappear from his mind the thought that he’s not good enough to make his first appearance at Old Trafford, even with all the hard work.

“Zayn Malik,” he clears his throat all formal, smiling at his friend. “You’re one of the most skilled footie players I know,” he says, without loosening his grip on Zayn’s shoulder, starting to realise how much pain he manages to hide behind his snarky goal celebrations. “You play for Manchester United under-21, for the England under-21 team, for hell’s sake! When are you supposed to start the practices, tomorrow, right? Do you know who played for England under-21? Gerrard. And look at him now. You’re a great player, you know,” he smiles encouragingly. “And a good friend, most of the time,” he adds, and Zayn frowns.

“You know, the most amazing thing is that you’re always there, if you need somebody to listen to your problems. That you have a great rationality. That you never get angry for unmotivated reasons,” keeps going Harry innocently, when he knows he’s hitting close to home.

“Fuck, Harry,” curses Zayn, biting at his lips.

“I’m just saying that you should talk to him. And maybe you’ll find out that it’s not so great as you’re picturing it. Because if I were suddenly called up to the first team I would be scared shitless, I would need my best friends to have my back, to listen to me when I say how hard it is. I would like to see that while everything is changing, my friends are always there. Sucks for them, that is,” he downplays with a laugh, because the patronising reprimands are not his thing at all.

“I care about him,” whispers Zayn, with some commotion in his voice. He shakes his head, realising he has crossed a line. “I really do,” he remarks, sorry that his feelings may be questioned.

“I know Zayn,” says Harry sweetly, and his words comfort a bit the pain burning in Zayn’s chest.

“And I care about you, too. A lot. I know I never tell you,” he adds, slow and embarrassed.

Harry’s smile grows wider, showing his dimples. “You know you’ll be on that pitch soon, Zayn. They’ll call you up and everybody will know how amazing you are. You’ll be there,” repeats Harry, displaying certainty.

“We will both be there,” hums Zayn.

“Sounds like a promise,” laughs Harry with his raspy voice and bright eyes, stretching out his pinky finger, that Zayn laces with his own.

-

“Harry, my boy! I hope I’ll never see you here again!” exclaims Dr. Walters, sticking out a hand that Harry shakes gratefully.

“Thank you so much for what you've done for me. And no offence, but I hope I’ll never see you again too. Or at least not in this office,” says Harry, unable to hide the sheer happiness shaking his body.

It was over.

To be honest, a small part of him still can’t believe it, because he was so used to stop himself from thinking about this very moment that he almost needs to pinch himself. But it’s real, he can start over.

He can think that fate is actually in his hands, and not in some doctor’s ones. And it’s crazy to find out how easy it is to cross out the past weeks and finally being able to think about the future, about what he will feel when he’ll step again on the turf of the football field or when he’ll touch the ball.

“Don’t forget about your poor old surgeon when you’ll win the Champions League, Harry. I expect a signed jersey from the final as a reward!” he gives him his medical file folder with a big genuine smile and then unexpectedly hugs him. Harry hugs him back, unbothered, for once, by someone else’s optimism.

It won’t be all easy from now on, he knows. He can’t ignore the feeling that there will be other bad moments to face. But right now, he couldn’t care less. Because he has the pass to freedom in his hands, in the form of a medical certificate.

“Don’t forget to take it easy. You know you still have one week of post-injury training before you can join the normal practice, and get slowly used to walking without the crutch. I know you’re excited and you’re looking forward to training, but don’t rush it or you’ll waste all the work we’ve done till now,” Dr. Walters stresses out one last time, before saying goodbye for real.

Harry gets out of the hospital, looking down at his legs. He stops on the pavement, slowly lifting up the crutch and putting his foot on the ground. It feels weird. He has pins and needles in his leg, but he wants to try. The first step is uncertain, the second is bolder. He goes on slowly but steadily, and as he walks to the bus stop he feels like he’s running fast as never before.

-

Louis sprints towards the administrative office as soon as practice is over. Every evening he needs to fill up the forms with his results from the athletic tests and he knows that if he waits to do that after he’s showered and changed he’ll find the office packed and would have to wait for ages. And he absolutely can’t have that, not when Chelsea-Liverpool is about to kick off, so he tries to use his speed to get there first.

He just doesn’t fucking understand why this parade is necessary, to be honest. It’s 2015, there are devices made purposely to fill in those stupid forms, and e-mails are also a thing. He suspects this is another one of Mourinho’s old-school obsessions, meaning that if he dares to question it he will very likely end up jogging thirty additional laps of the field after practice, and he's better off as he is.

The waiting room of the office is actually empty, apart from a bloke from the youth team sitting on the couch in the corner. He looks down, head bent, hands laced on his tensed knees. Louis remembers seeing him training sometimes on the ground beside the one where they practice, remembers his curly hair that fell stubbornly on his face and his green, green eyes.

He hurriedly nods at him and then leans over to peek at the glass door that separates the room from the office. Unfortunately Ed, the assistant manager, is busy speaking on the phone and gesturing theatrically with his hand. Louis goes back to the room and with a grimace plops down on the couch, exhausted from training.

“How long has it been?” he asks the boy sitting next to him, who looks up with a jolt and widens his eyes. Which are very green. And pretty.

“Uh—twenty—twenty minutes, I reckon,” he replies with a squeak, and his cheeks turn into the nicest shade of red.

Twenty minutes. Great. Brilliant, even. Judging by Ed’s scowl this is going to take long, so Louis succumbs to the idea that he will miss the match. He should have recorded it, he knew that. This happens because he listens to Niall and to his fucking theory that if you can’t watch a match live you shouldn’t watch it at all.

While he mentally curses Niall he also takes in the view of the boy, who is nervously tapping his foot on the floor, as to fill the silence. He smiles, seeing in the boy himself just a few years ago.

“Are you here for the athletic tests, too?” he asks politely.

The boy finally manages to look back, still a bit embarrassed, and then shakes his head, pointing at a crutch leaning against the wall, just beside him. How could he not notice it? God, Louis is so stupid.

“Oh,” he exhales, and his smile dies on his lips, when he also realises what a crutch could possibly mean. “I’m sorry,” he tries.

“No worries,” mumbles the other guy shrugging. Louis opens his mouth as to say something, but then closes it, feeling the weight of the boy’s green and melancholic eyes on him. He should probably say something comforting. That would be the right thing to do. He should say that he will come back soon, that he knows it’s hard and stuff but he surely will play again, give him a pat on the back, from player to player, because they know this stuff, and maybe even burst into a tribute to Kelly Clarkson and assuring him that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger indeed.

He stays silent instead. He watches the boy’s features, the outline of his lips, faintly tilted upwards, his eyebrows pulled in a frown, his wrinkled nose. He stays silent, because he doesn’t really know how it must feel. He’s never been good at comforting, to be fair. And as much as he wants to say something, he feels that if he does, it would be irremediably the wrong thing.

Media always portrays him like some cold and unenthusiastic asshole, when he’s really, really not. But. He’s a complete stranger for this boy, and even looking at him he feels like intruding something extremely private and agonising. As if that upset tilt of his lip is not destined to be understood by somebody, let alone by Louis.

He looks down, wary, staring at the wooden floor.

-

When Louis Tomlinson enters the waiting room, Harry can distinctly feel his heart sinking to his stomach. The man's hair is ruffled and dishevelled and his red jersey, damp with sweat from training, clings to his perfect chiseled body. He stands there, almost unreal, against the glass door, peering inside the office.

Harry is not ashamed to admit he’s about to have a panic attack. His mouth’s suddenly gone dry and his cheeks are burning hot. He tries to pull a convincing straight face while his brain is screaming LouisLouisLouis and the only thing he can think of is jumping on his feet and ask for a picture or a signature. Or both.

He knew this would’ve happened, sooner or later. That he would have bumped into him. They play for the same club, after all, even if they’re in different leagues.

It’s not weird.

It is not.

Except it totally is.

See, one thing is watching him play from the stands at Old Trafford, or on the telly, or when Zayn and him peek at the first team practices, but another one is having him in the flesh in front of him.

He isn’t ready. And Tomlinson is talking to him, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, unaware that Harry is freaking out so bad inside. Words come out before he can control his mouth, and he squeaks. What the hell. His cheeks are on fire, but hopefully Tomlinson hasn’t noticed, busy as he is looking at Ed.

Harry is achingly praying he doesn’t address him again because he’s not sure he would be able to respond properly. But of course he has to sit next to him and ask about athletic tests.

Harry sighs, because he doesn’t want to make Tomlinson feel bad for asking, so he just shrugs. He’s never wanted anybody’s pity, he hates making people upset, seeing the look on their face when they learn about his situation, making them strive to say the right thing (that probably doesn’t even exist).

He shrugs, so that Louis understands it’s okay if he doesn’t say anything. He’s too embarrassed as it is, without getting that look of fake compassion from him as well.

But Louis must not get it, because he finally looks at him again, with an unsure sheepish smile.

“What happened?” he asks, with a focused frown, ignoring Harry’s puzzled expression.

Well, this is a first. He’s used to people fumbling to change the topic of the conversation, uncomfortable for both parts, not to someone who seems genuinely interested. He casts Tomlinson a considerate glance, but he doesn’t lose his composure.

“We were playing Chelsea,” answers Harry in the end. “A defender tackled me with no reason as I had already passed the ball. Pretty rude. Oh, and I tore my anterior cruciate ligament,” he finishes in a lower tone, trying to play down his words and to ignore Louis Tomlinson’s knee swaying closer and closer to his, almost touching.

Louis makes an horrified face at his words, torturing his upper lip with his fingers. He’s looking at him in genuine pain, like he wants to fix him, but he doesn’t know how. Then he widens his eyes, staring at him like he’s suddenly found the missing piece of a puzzle.

“You’re Harry Styles,” he says blankly, and Harry arches his eyebrows, not sure if that was a question or a statement.

“Coach Roberts told me about you during last week’s award dinner,” clarifies Tomlinson at Harry’s confused stare. “He told me he was upset because his strongest midfielder was injured in the middle of the most important part of the season,” he says with a smile that is half sad and half appreciative.

“I’m Louis,” he says then, sticking out a hand.

Harry knows it would probably be rude to laugh in his face, but he can’t help it. In his defence, it has to be said he tried to stifle it behind his hands, at least.

“Really,” he giggles, shaking nervously his hand. He’s shaking Louis Tomlinson’s hand. No big deal. Oh my God.

“What?” asks Louis bewildered, but his voice is softer and deeper, so different from the one he uses in the interviews, the one Harry is used to hearing.

“Come on. You can’t seriously believe I don’t have a clue of what you look like. I don’t think there’s a single person in England who doesn’t know what you look like. You’re Manchester’s vice-captain, runner-up for the Golden Ball, even if I wasn’t into footie I would know your face, what with that Mercedes ad which is like everywhere,” rambles Harry, beaming. “Plus, you happen to be one of my favourite players,” he adds in an embarrassing squeal, and his cheeks go through every single existing shade of red, setting on crimson.

He’s glad he didn’t say something worse, like I cherish the ground you walk on or I have the biggest crush on you. That could have been more mortifying.

Louis gives him a shy and humble smile. Harry realises he’s embarrassed too, so he diverts his stare, even if it’s so hard taking his eyes off him when they’re so fucking close.

“By the way, I’m going back to practice on the ground tomorrow,” blurts out Harry, trying to fill in the uncomfortable silence that seems to stretch on forever. “So I figure the crutch is only a sham,” he laughs, before he can say something more stupid.

Louis glances up at him, a pleased tilt of his lips. “I’m glad,” he says candidly, putting a cautious hand on Harry’s knee. The touch is warm and delicate, feathery on the fabric of Harry’s jeans, and it sends an excited buzz to his stomach.

“You’ll be back on the pitch in no time, I’m sure. You’re so fi—“ he cuts himself off, awkwardly widening his eyes. “I mean, you’re already in shape, considering how serious the injury was and stuff,” he ends with a faint cough, flustering a bit.

Harry chuckles, then waves his hand in front of Louis, showing his crossed fingers.

“Thanks. I really hope so,” he says, and for the second time he’s not bothered by this easy optimism. Maybe he’s just too happy for his comeback. Or maybe he’s finally understood that it’s not just optimism, that people believe in what they say and care about him. Or maybe he’s not bothered just because it’s Louis Tomlinson who’s trying to encourage him. It doesn’t happen every day.

“Uhm, Harry,” Louis says abruptly, interrupting Harry’s flow of thoughts. “If you’re not waiting for the results of the tests why are you here?” he asks pensively, bringing Harry back to reality.

“Oh! I’m waiting for Ed,” he replies, stretching his arms. “He promised he’d give me a lift.”

“To the hall of residence? Doesn’t Ed live in Rochdale?” asks Tomlinson perplexed.

Harry loves the inflection of his voice. It’s just so caring and warm. And it’s so strange listening live to him, catching every single small expression on his face, knowing that it’s just for him.

“Yeah, usually it’s Zayn, my best mate, who drives me back, but he’s training with the national team, so Ed offered,” nods Harry, trying to focus on the conversation and not on Louis’ lips. He should probably stop looking at him like he’s a cake in the window of a bakery.

Louis is stuck silent for a moment, then he speaks.

“I can drop you off if you want.”

Harry gasps awkwardly, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t faint, really.

“What? Oh my God”

Louis looks at him taken aback, removing his hand that has been on his knee all this time, and Harry was so busy fangirling inside that he hadn’t even noticed. That’s how fucked up he is.

“I mean, there’s no need, if Ed offer—“ he struggles, feeling his hands sweating. Louis locks his eyes with Harry’s, smiling, waving a hand in the air as to say it’s not a bother. His eyes are so blue. Pictures truly don’t make them justice.

“Listen Harry, it doesn’t change anything to me. Ed would have to drive for two hours while I live just two blocks away from the hall of residence, you know,”

Harry can’t believe Louis Tomlinson is offering him a lift. What is his life?

“Yeah, I know—I mean, I didn’t know, but—“ he scratches his neck timidly. Of course he was dying to say yes. He wonders if the look on his face has already given him away. Probably yes.

“It’s all sorted then. Give me the time to get these damn results and shower quickly and then we’re off.”

Harry hesitates. But he can’t really say no now, can he?

“Maybe I can get the results for you while you go get changed. So we’re done quicker?” he offers, and Louis beams at him.

“I already like you, Harry. I’ll see you in the car park in a few,” he strolls off, waving a hand at him.

-

Harry stumbles in the car park and notices Tomlinson’s car, parked in the spot number ten, his jersey’s number. He gets closer, and then stands there, dumbly, without knowing what to do. He can still feel his cheeks burning from before and his heart beating faster than normal. He bends to look at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he throws a hand through his hair to try and tame it, but it hopelessly falls back on his forehead, more ruffled than before.

Suddenly, the car makes a noise.

Harry, lost in his thoughts, twirls around scared, hoping intensely he hasn’t activated the anti-theft device or something. The last thing he needs is somebody accusing him of trying to steal Louis Tomlinson’s car.

All he sees instead is the very same footballer, walking to him with a big radiant smile plastered on his lips, probably caused by Harry’s clumsy reaction.

Harry fixes his button-up seemingly unperturbed and hands Louis a folder.

“Your results,” he deadpans, trying to play it cool.

“Oi, cheers Harry. Jump into the car,” he gestures to the passenger seat, while settling behind the wheel. “Fasten your seatbelt, okay?” Harry nods.

Louis starts the car and gets out of the car park. There’s a bunch of supporters waiting by the exit gate, as usual, trying to get a glimpse of their favourite footballers. As soon as they take in Louis’ car they start screaming, surrounding the vehicle in a mob. Louis pulls the car to a stop and rolls down the window with a smile, ending up with a lapful of presents, jerseys and pieces of paper to sign.

“Hii, how’s going?” he asks amicably, but he’s immediately assaulted by screams, touches and questions. “If we’re quick and calm down a bit I can do everyone,” he tries, while a girl shoves her iphone in his face to try and get a picture.

“Lou, Lou, a selfie!” yells the girl, entering with her upper body inside the car and grabbing onto Louis’ neck. After a surprised choke he forces his mouth into a cordial smile, complying to that stunt that probably happens every day.

“Louis can you sign my shirt?”

“Tommo we need to win the Champions League!”

“I LOVE YOU LOUIS!”

“Let’s try not to lose to Arsenal like last year, eh?”

Harry watches Louis replying politely to everybody, even the ones who are being obnoxious or inappropriate. He feels uncomfortable, but can’t avoid noticing how well Louis seems to handle all of them, how nice he is, how different his media image is from his real self.

He’s so focused on Louis he doesn’t even hear a boy tapping at his window until Louis presses a button to roll it down as well.

“Hello,” starts the gawky boy, nervously. “You’re Harry Styles, right? How’s your knee doing?”

Harry looks at him with his mouth wide open, and looks back and forth from the boy to Louis, who gives him a reassuring smile and a nod of the head.

“Uhm. Hi! It’s good. Pretty good, actually. Going back to training tomorrow.”

The teenager beams at him. “Great! I hope you can play soon. Can you sign this paper for me?” he asks, handing him a pen and a card. Harry has never actually developed a proper signature because he’s never needed to sign anything, so he awkwardly writes his name in his ordinary shaky handwriting. Which is shit.

“Right. Here it is,” he says, handing back the paper and the pen to the boy as if they were burning in his hands.

“Good luck!” screams the boy, smiling at him with a content expression. Louis, who had complied to every request and was waiting for him, starts the car with a knowing smile.

“How fun, right? The most hilarious are the ones who ask you to win a match. As if I enter the pitch with the sole purpose of doing shit unless they tell me otherwise,” he snorts sarcastically, glancing at Harry, who is brushing his arm with his hand.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses candidly.

He’s ridiculous. All his childhood he has dreamed of becoming one of those footballers. One that you go and wait for hours to show up outside the training centre, just to ask for a picture. One that you notice in the streets and approach shyly to get your backpack signed. He’s always wondered how would being stopped by somebody and get complimented for a goal or for a good match feel.

And now he’s signed his first autograph, and for some reason it feels all wrong.

“And?” asks Louis curiously, Harry suddenly remembering where he is and who he is with.

“It’s weird,” he mutters cryptically, clouding the tiniest bit.

Louis giggles. “Yep, weird gets the idea across, I suppose. It is weird until you get used to it. I reckon sometimes it’s still weird even for me,” his tone gets softer. “Maybe you waste five minutes of your time, but it can mean the world to them. And just because you’re so used to the point it gets annoying and you can’t understand it anymore, it doesn’t mean it’s not important,” he explains, signalling a turn.

“Yeah, I get it,” says Harry, because he does. Because he still feels one of them. “But it’s not a good weird,” he whispers, almost hoping Louis won’t hear him.

The other boy reclines his head against the headrest and takes off his sunglasses, revealing his tired eyes, still as beautiful as ever. The sun is setting on the horizon and the sky is painted in the loveliest shades of pink and orange.

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong with that?” asks a disgruntled Louis, feeling maybe a bit attacked.

But Harry didn’t mean to blame him. Of course it was okay for him to take fan pictures and sign autographs, he is Louis Tomlinson. It’s not okay for him, though. Not when he’s been away from the pitch for three long months, when he hasn’t done anything that justifies that boy wanting his signature. It’s not okay for Louis to talk to him in that way, like he’s saying something extremely dumb, like he’s a fool for feeling upset.

“It’s like,” he ejects with a choke “it’s like I don’t deserve it. Why now? When I’m in a car with you and I haven’t done anything good in ages and—“

“Bullshit,” spits angrily Louis, looking at him. “It has nothing to do with me,” he adds, his face all frowned and sharp. “It’s funny that you see it like that. As something you must deserve, and not just as a consequence of being famous. It’s very nice of you, Harry. But if you think that way, you must admit you’ve done something good, after all,”

Harry blinks, taking a moment ponder. It’s true that he has gone through these months with such anger and frustration that he’s almost forgotten what he did before, all the good and happy moments spent on the football pitch.

“Maybe,” he compromises, still unsure.

“Listen, I get that you’re entitled to feel sad and paranoid, after all you’ve been through. But think that you’re coming back. Allow yourself to feel happy for the nice things that happen to you. You’re starting regular training! You signed your first autograph! Nice things! Happy days!” he says excitedly, making him giggle.

“If you believed in this stuff you could think of this as a good sign,”

Harry smiles at his words.”Yeah, I could,” he agrees. “I’m sorry Louis.”

“Don’t be,” dismisses Louis, turning on the radio and probably considering the conversation over. Radio 5 is airing the sport news of the day. Harry snuggles against the seat, lost in his thoughts, without paying attention to the speaker, letting the voices and the noises from the road dance and mingle in his head.

“…the fifteenth match day will feature Manchester United playing Arsenal. The Gunners are in a dark period due to their copious injuries that are...”

Harry hears Louis snort. “Copious injuries, regardless. Oh but surely the left wing and the second choice goalie classify as copious, of course,”  he nods indignant, exiting the motorway.

“...a decisive match to catch Chelsea, who are currently at the top of the table, as the Blues will play dangerous Newcastle in their home stadium…”

“So much bullshit,” complains Louis, fumbling with the dial to change station. “Didn’t know BBC turned into Radio Chelsea.”

Harry says nothing, bathing in the gloomy light of the evening that casts shadows shaped like branches and leaves on his face. It feels nice. He looks outside the window, thinking it’s probably going to start raining.

Louis stops playing with the radio when he hears Someday by The Strokes, making an appreciative noise. He waits till the end of the song to speak again.

“You’re very pensive,” he states, taking a turn to enter the town. “Why?”

Harry has never met somebody like Louis. Somebody who asks you directly his questions, without second thought, just because he cares to know. He sighs.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he says hastily.

“You won’t. Let’s say it’s your toll. I’m giving you a lift, after all. I like talking while I’m driving. And I like the sound of your voice,” he states simply, making Harry blush.

“Fine,” he caves. “It’s just—don’t think of me as a catastrophist, I promise I’m not like that,” he says, causing a small laugh in Louis. “It’s just that I can only think I can’t get it right. I keep thinking that I’ll go back to training and I won’t be good anymore. That the coach won’t call me up in the starting line-up anymore,” he admits in a whisper and for the first time ever. He never told anyone, not even Zayn.

Louis snorts loudly as he changes the gear and then moves his hand to brush not so subtly Harry’s leg.

“Harry, I don’t know much about you, but from what Roberts told me I think it’s pretty unlikely it will go like you think.”

Harry promised to himself he would be strong, he would never crumble anymore, but he can’t help feeling the tears welling up in his eyes.

“What would you know?” asks Harry bitterly, before he can think better of it. “Have you ever tried not touching a football for three months in a row? It’s easy to speak like that when you’re Louis Tomlinson” he fires back heatedly, putting a hand on his mouth as soon as he realises what he said.

He probably has never been less fair to someone than he is being to Louis. And he doesn’t even have any fault, he’s just trying to make him feel better, he’s taking him home, and Harry is being a right twat in return just because he is unhappy with his life.

“No,” Louis looks up at him. It doesn’t seem he’s hurt by Harry’s words, his eyes unfathomable and cold as he scrutinises Harry’s, which are hanging for an answer, for a counter back, for Louis to tell him to fuck off, that he knows shit about him.

“No, you’re right. I don’t know anything.”

Harry feels a massive pang of remorse in his chest, bending his head in shame. Louis looks thoughtful and almost sad, and Harry as selfish as he is, is only hoping that his words haven’t ruined everything. That Louis won’t stop comforting and lulling him with his reassurances. Because it’s how he feels right now, warm and safe in this car while outside it starts raining, next to Louis Tomlinson, who digs deep within him to ease his sorrows, even if he doesn’t have to.

There is a reason why Louis is his favourite footballer, and it’s not just because of his skills, but because he’s extremely talented and always plays for the team and not for himself. He loves him because he’s sensitive and so, so clever, down-to-earth, unlike those rich show-offs who only care about money and fame and women.

“I am so sorry Louis. Again. I am truly sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to say that, especially when you’re being so nice to me,” blurts Harry hurriedly, unable to stand the tense atmosphere lingering in the car. 

Louis doesn’t reply. Harry watches his face and doesn’t find traces of anger or hurt. It’s blank. A blank canvas, heartbreakingly expressionless.

“I’m aware of the image I have, you know,” he says after a couple of moments, voice thin and strained. “They made me look like I was predestined to do this. Like I didn’t have to work my butt off to be where I am now. Like all the pressure and the expectations didn’t have a devastating effect on me, when I was only seventeen,” his words flow, like he had been waiting ages to put them out.

Louis Tomlinson grew up football-wise in the Manchester united Academy. He has been there since he was a baby and then when he was only seventeen he was called up to the first team, and from there he never went back.

Harry and him have never played in the same league, even though they’ve got the age for that, because Louis is a star player, with unbelievable pieces of skill, essential for his team.

Louis Tomlinson is one of the best forwards in the world, at only 22. Real Madrid offered eighty million pounds to buy him, only a few months ago. But Louis wanted to stay in Manchester, his home, playing for the team which made him big.

But it’s not always been good. He had to go from being a nobody to have his name big in the media industry in the span of a year and deal with mega sponsorships, endorsements and things as such, when he was barely an adult. There was a period when his name was always in the headlines, not only in the sports newspapers, he couldn’t go anywhere without being papped. He quickly became a brand, in the dirty way, and people kept arguing that he was a flash in the pan, that he wasn’t worth all that attention, but all the same they kept intruding in his life, making up things about him. Harry remembers that one time when some pictures of Louis’ sisters (who were all underage) shopping appeared in a shit tabloid, and he had to sue the paper.

It is better now, though, the shitstorm is over. Louis is still a big name, but he makes the headlines mainly because of his footie skills.

“They made me go through hell. I’m in a good place right now, but if you ask me if it was worth it? I don’t know. You’re right when you say I can’t judge because I am me. It doesn’t mean I’ve had it all easy, though, you know. I'm not trying to say I had it worse, because thankfully I've never been injured that way. But about what you said... people look at me and see a rich footballer, nice cars, probably a cold nature, a preconstructed image. I’m not that. I had to wear it like armour to protect myself and my family. I was a ten year old playing in my mum’s garden and the moment after I was wearing a Manchester United jersey. I have never had the chance to feel that constant ambition to get somewhere with my football skills, free from pressure. To desire more than everything walking in Old Trafford, feeling small, in a good way, on that ground. Because when I reached the age when you start to dream this sort of things, I already had to step on the grass and take all the weight of a team on my shoulders,” he says sharply, almost in self-deprecation.

“That’s horrible,” whispers Harry, at a loss of words, his eyes never straying from Louis’.

“It was. I don't know why I'm telling you all this stuff, I usually don't care what people think. I suppose I just want to suggest you to relish every moment, because even the bad ones are important in your growth.”

“Well, thank you for telling me. I get it, you know. I’m just scared at some point I’ll have to say, okay, I’m not going to be a real footballer,” confides Harry, feeling like a child admitting he’s scared of the dark.

“In that case you should think of a plan B,” says Louis, brushing his fingers on Harry’s knee again.

“Should I?” blurts out Harry, alarmed, because he thought Louis would come out with another reassurance.

“What would you like to do? I’ve always wanted to buy one of those ice-cream trucks, with the creepy music and all, but I would sell cinnamon rolls instead. Because there are not enough places that sell cinnamon rolls in this world. And nobody would ever ask me to do one hundred squats at eight in the morning,” laughs Louis, poking at Harry’s ribs to try and cheer him up.

And Harry who thought he was being serious.

He rolls his eyes, but relaxes his mouth into a smile. “But squats are nothing compared to abs,” he objects.

Louis squints his eyes and looks critically at him. “Well let me know tomorrow, when you’ve done both,” he grins. “Anyway, we’re there.”

He pulls the car to a stop and turns it off. It’s literally pouring outside, drops of water tapping steadily on the windows.

“So. I think I better go,” Harry retrieves his crutch from the back seats and goes to open the door, but Louis is silent, frowning with his eyebrows expectantly pulled together.

“You’re telling me you want to go through the deluge like this?” he snorts, then opens the glove compartment and pulls out an umbrella, a red beanie with United’s emblem, and a pair of gloves. Harry wants to scream. Of course Louis Tomlinson in his perfection would keep gloves in the glove compartment.

“Put these on, it’s really cold outside,” he hands him the gloves and the hat, pulling the umbrella out of the case. “Stay there, I’ll get you.”

Harry blushes. “It’s fine, really, I can ru—fuck,” he stutters, making Louis giggle while he climbs out of the car and opens Harry’s door.

“I’ll help you,” he takes Harry’s crutch and offers his arm to help him stand up.

“Louis, I promise you I can walk on my own. I’m doing recovery training tomorrow, do you remember?” protests Harry, grabbing onto Louis’ neck all the same.

“Sure. And I would end up joining you if I let you slip in the rain, because Roberts would break both of my legs.”

Harry snorts, but doesn’t argue further. He rings the intercom, and the door opens with  a click.

“I’ll manage from now on,” he keeps the door open with his crutch, turning to Louis. “Thank you. For everything,” he says, in a tone that he hopes conveys how grateful he really is.

Louis’ smile widens.

“No worries. Goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight L—goodnight”

“Louis.”

“Yeah. Louis. I’ll see you.”

“If you want,” lets slip Louis, and then he stays there, still, with the umbrella in one hand, the rain falling thick and heavy. Then he spins around and walks quickly to the car, while Harry watches him disappearing in the dark.

-

“…you’re telling me Louis Tomlinson gave you a lift. Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson.”

Zayn is so annoying. Honestly, what was Harry thinking when he picked him as his best friend?

When Zayn came back from training with the England National Team, quite late, Harry was already asleep. Except Zayn woke him while trying to get to his bunk bed, on top of Harry’s, because he’s unable to do anything without sharing it with the whole hallway.

Then, since Harry was up anyway, he started to tell him how exhausting the workout was, how that asshole, Martinez, had asked how Harry’s knee was, and how Zayn had tackled him hard during the match, to defend Harry’s honour.

So Harry thanked him and told him that his day had been quite good, too, because Tomlinson had given him a lift, and that’s why Zayn is currently jumping on Harry’s bed, screaming and making it impossible for him to fall asleep again. He has also turned the light on, which is pure cruelty.

Zayn pulls the duvet off Harry’s body, making him whimper in annoyance.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” he laments, grabbing the duvet and pulling it to his head, moving to make Zayn fall off his bed. “Go to sleep and turn the light off, thanks.”

Zayn isn’t that easy to dissuade, though.

“Fuck, Harry. Tomlinson. God,” rambles Zayn, ignoring Harry’s pleads and crouching down on his knees.

“Yes, Tomlinson. I already told you, Z. And now can you please let me sleep? I’ve got school tomorrow. And training, in case you forgot,” mumbles Harry, already drifting off.

“Did you ask him for a picture?” asks Zayn further, jumping excitedly on the bed to shake Harry off, ignoring his protests. “Did you pass out?” he investigates, hands on his hips. “Is this why you’re embarrassed to tell me? Fuck, I wish I were there! Louiiiiis I’m your biggest fan ahhh marry mee,” laughs Zayn in a quite good impression of Harry’s thrilled voice.

Harry takes a shoe from the floor and throws it, trying to hit Zayn, who keeps mocking him with a high-pitched tone.

“Ahh I’m in his caaaar—speaking of that, what car does he own? I bet it’s a Ferrari. Next time I’ll come with!”

“Forget it,” mumbles Harry. “And there won’t be a next time. It was already too embarrassing.”

“Ha! So it was embarrassing after all! Did you tell him about the posters in your closet—“

“Goodnight Zayn,” cuts off Harry sharply, throwing him off the bed with no consideration whatsoever.