Chapter Text
H
Harry surveys the crowd, tries to force himself to commit this feeling to memory. The roar, the sheer amount of volume and noise that seems so much bigger than him echoes in his ears. He claps his hands once and a burst of chalk explodes in front of his face. He inhales and takes in the musty smell, exhales it and shakes out his arms.
His coach stands somewhere out of his periphery. He can’t see him, but he feels him—the waves of anxiety rolling off and hitting him square in the stomach. In three seconds, he deduces that he will puke. But in two seconds, the band of stone-faced judges signal for him to begin. He shoves the queasy feeling deep down where it can’t get out, and he faces the high bar. It’s tall, but Harry’s tall too. His height gives him an advantage on this event.
He positions his body under the bar and is just about to begin his last routine of the day when he sees him. That face. The face that is overly punchable. The face that is smirking at him right now and trying to throw him off his game. Harry adjusts the sleeve of his leotard with a snap, tries to pay him no attention. The din of the crowd dims a little to his ears as he jumps up to the bar and gets his swings going.
In a matter of seconds, this will all be over. This event is the only thing standing between him and qualifying for the men’s final gymnastics team being sent to Brussels this year for the Olympics. The crowd gasps appropriately when he does one release, then another. His body flies through the air, precise and controlled. When he flings himself into his dismount, he sees stars. When his feet land, no hop or bobble in sight, he closes his eyes for a moment to burn this memory into his brain.
Remember this.
When he opens them, he sees that face again. Louis Tomlinson, arch-rival and all-around stuckup gym rat who considers himself to be God’s gift to the sport. He’s no longer smirking this time. Looks more like he’s just seen a ghost, his face pale against the gleaming navy of his leotard.
Harry shoots him a cocky smile, hopes he now realizes that Harry Styles is not here to mess around. He’s getting on this team and he’s going to be the very one to beat. He’s getting on it, no matter how good Louis Tomlinson thinks he is. No matter how good the rest of the American men competing are.
When he does his final salute and waits for the score that’s about to launch him into United States Olympic history, he spares one last look over to Louis before immediately seeking out his family in the audience. His mom is bawling, typical. His sister looks like she’s about to have a stroke. His step-dad is holding up a homemade sign.
Harry’s Going for the Gold — San Francisco Loves You!
This goal has been just out of his reach for the last few years. He’s 23, he’s been killing his body to make it to this point. Now it’s here, it’s really happening.
When the final scores trickle in and Harry gets to hear his name announced to the Olympic team, he sheds a few happy tears. Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Zayn Malik… and of course, Louis Tomlinson of all people, join him in the tide of emotion. They’ve made the team, too.
“Think you’re so good,” Louis whispers to him as they stand beaming on the podium. Someone’s just handed him flowers and Niall, who hails from Georgia and has a twang so thick Harry can never understand him, is audibly sobbing.
“I know I’m good. You’re just jealous I finally beat you,” Harry growls back, elbowing Louis to step in front of him for the blinding flashbulbs of cameras. Their grinning faces are about to grace every cereal box in America. He needs to look like a million bucks.
“I can’t believe we made it, boys,” Zayn says with pride radiating through his voice. He’s from Colorado and is wiry, strangely good at the pommel horse. Harry keeps grinning, looking straight into the light. Their lives are about to change. There’s nowhere to go but up.
L
“Again,” Coach Mendella shouts. His voice is gruff and it pisses Louis off more than usual this morning. It’s barely 6, the sun not even up in the sky yet, and Louis has been at this pass for the last hour. If he could just get it right, get coach off his back for a minute, he’d feel a little better.
Mendella’s a legend, known for his wry sense of humor and his commitment to pulling the best team he possibly can out of thin air. That means he pushes his team members. He’s been pushing Louis on his tumbling for ages. Louis would rather pass out from exhaustion, but he can’t. He’s got the basic moves down. This tumbling pass is usually the type he could do in his sleep. It’s the landing that’s fucking with him.
Every time his feet slam down, it puts him right in the vicinity of the mirrored wall. Not a problem, most days. His old gym had mirrored walls. Made it easier for his coaches to look at his blind spots, see all the ways he could improve. But today’s the first day of full team training at Grier Lake Gym, the premiere spot where American men vying for Olympic glory go to train. Mirrors mean he can’t escape the gaze from Harry. He’s been watching him like a hawk all morning and it’s throwing him off.
“I can do this. I’ve done this a million times,” Louis grumbles. He passes Liam as he walks to the opposite side of the floor, lining himself up for another go.
“You’re overthinking it. Your last rotation’s got your chest too low to the ground. Arch back a bit. It’ll have you landing cleaner and you won’t stumble so much,” Liam says while he’s doing a bevvy of pushups. He switches to doing them with one arm then, frowning in concentration. Louis tries hard not to roll his eyes at the obvious showboating going on.
Liam’s from Connecticut and was the darling of his university team. He’s racked up near-wins at every championship he’s been a part of. Stylistically, technically, he’s pretty damn close to perfect. Socially though, he’s a bit of a nightmare. Louis shakes off his comments, annoyed that they sound helpful despite Liam’s snotty tone. He squares his shoulders and focuses on the next few seconds. He launches into his tumbling pass, arching up just a bit on his last trick. Lo and behold, he sticks that landing.
“Better. Keep it up, Tomlinson,” Coach says, squeezing his shoulder. Louis hates that Liam was right about this but it doesn’t even matter. At least he got through to him enough that Louis was able to ignore the blatant attention from Harry. He looks at him leaning up against the pommel horse, smug as fuck, his long hair tied back in a bun. He’s got a Green Bay Packers shirt on that’s ripped at the sleeves, paired with tight black shorts. When he moves, you get a glimpse of the tattoos inked all down his arms. Louis hates him. He really does.
“You’re staring again,” Zayn says from off to his right as he walks off the floor and beelines it for his water bottle. Zayn’s his best friend on the team. They’ve trained together in Colorado for years, went to college and competed at UC Boulder. He was pumped when him and Zayn both finally sailed through trials. When you’re away from home so long, especially in this sport, having a familiar face around is better than paying for weeks of therapy.
“He was staring first. Why the fuck is he wearing a football shirt from Wisconsin of all places? The guy’s from California. No cheese-whiz in sight out there. I’ve seen him eat kale salads in the middle of meets before. Fucking hippy,” Louis says, cocking his hip and taking a swig from his water bottle. Him and Harry Styles, they’ve got quite the complicated history.
H
Harry Styles hates South Carolina. Realistically, it’s not so different from California. There is sun. There is a beach close by. They’re also pretty close to a beautiful lake, so that’s maybe a plus. But honestly, California’s got nothing on the bugs in the Carolinas. He’d been warned before he got here that he’d have to keep an eye out for some larger-than-life flying critters, but this is ridiculous.
Team training morning session is over, and Harry finds himself back in the open living quarters for Team USA. They’re all sharing a communal room, bunk beds shoved up against wood-slatted walls. It’s like being in a very expensive summer camp. Nothing but the best for the men of gymnastics. God bless America.
Harry only wanted to take a nap. That was all he wanted when he got back to the room. The communal area is free because most of his teammates are popping in to the team physical therapy pen. Getting iced up and rubbed down. Harry’s feeling alright, with the exception of this bug situation.
He’s been in a stare-down with what he’s been told is a palmetto bug for the last four minutes. He’s counted. He was about to crawl into bed and forget the ache in his muscles when a shadow scurried into his field of vision. The bug’s perched on top of his bedpost and he’s got a shoe out, ready to strike—if only he had the courage.
“Is this a part of your weird training ritual? What do they teach you people in California?” Louis asks as he strolls in. He’s got a knee brace on and is staring at Harry like he’s crazy. Maybe he is.
“Shhhh, you’re going to frighten it even more. I’ve been watching it forever. I’m so close to smacking it but I’m afraid it’s going to fly at me,” Harry says, crouching down a little lower. If he stays just far enough away when he hits, maybe it won’t launch itself directly into his hair. That would be ideal.
“Scared of a little bug, are you? No wonder I edged you out on floor and high bar at so many meets these last few years. Makes sense,” Louis says, laughing to himself.
“Does this look little to you? Look at the size of this thing. Look at the antennae. Disgusting,” Harry mutters. He has no time to defend himself against Louis. He can hear the over-confidence in his tone and wants to fight back, but there are bigger problems to attend to at the moment. The bug moves and Harry reels back, shrieking. Louis isn’t going to let him forget this one, he can feel it already. Louis grabs the shoe out of his hand and smacks a few times, smushing the bug somewhere on top of Harry’s bed sheets.
“Guess you’ll be doing laundry tonight. Unless you want to bunk in my bed, baby doll. Might be too scary to sleep alone,” Louis says with a wink. Harry rips the sheets off his bed and stalks off to the laundry room.
“Never in a million years,” he mutters as he leaves. He’s going to have to throw his shoe away. He’s also going to have to burn these sheets if washing them isn’t enough. They’ve got afternoon practice in another hour. He still needs to wolf down lunch and try to sneak a little meditation in before warm-ups begin. He shoves his sheets into the washer, clicking it to the hottest setting it can go. Louis’ peals of laughter follow him down the hall as he walks to the cafeteria for lunch.
Harry has his Olympic diet down to a very precise science. A heaping salad. A bowl of fruit. Steamed chicken. Vegetables on top of vegetables. He shares a table with Niall and watches in slight horror while he shovels macaroni and cheese into his mouth. He barely has time to take a breath.
“Lordy, that morning practice damn near wiped me out,” Niall says between forkfuls. Niall’s strongest on rings, floor exercise and parallel bars. For such a powerful gymnast, he eats like shit. Harry watches him for a few seconds, feeling a little nauseated.
“Niall, you’re from the South. What are your thoughts on palmettos?” he asks while he spears a cucumber and pops it into his mouth. Niall laughs, an intense little cackle that bursts out of him.
“They’re disgusting but they’re nothing compared to paper wasps. Stink bugs are worst of all. They like to try and ruin all the crops at my daddy’s farm. You should come out sometime, Harry. A little southern hospitality might do you good after all this Olympic business is over,” Niall says, whacking Harry on the back. He chokes on some of his salad and nods along.
He pictures himself on Niall’s farm, swiping peaches and home-grown tomatoes, maybe sitting with him on a porch drinking sweet tea. It sounds great.
“Might take you up on that. Louis was giving me shit because one of those palmettos scared me earlier. I hate him,” Harry says. Niall snorts, starts in on some of his garlic bread.
“Both of you are crazy and way too competitive. Hey, do you think Mendella’s gonna go easy on us in afternoon practice? I’ve got a phone call I have to make tonight and am jonesing to get out early,” Niall says, shoving the remaining bread in his mouth and smiling at Harry. Niall gets up and buses his tray, leaving Harry sitting alone with no answers for him. Mendella will want them in the gym any minute. The temperature’s rising today and Harry’s dreading having to fling his body around in a heat like this. He wipes away a bit of sweat already forming on his forehead and leaves the cafeteria. Afternoon practice is where the real work will have to begin.
L
Zayn shouldn’t be allowed to move the way he does. It should be illegal, to be so good at one event. Louis still hasn’t tapped into how he does it, the way he’s able to keep his legs so tight, keep his toes perfectly pointed. He moves in a blur, scissoring this way and that, pushing up into complicated handstands, dismounting like it’s nothing. He’s seen him do this particular event a million times but it never gets old.
Afternoon practice on the second day of team training finds them being put to test on their strongest events. Coach has them running a practice meet to prepare them for the actual Olympic stage. Liam, Harry and Louis are competing for spots in the all-around, while Niall and Zayn are more specialized. Zayn wipes a small bit of chalk from his forehead and grins at Louis, pinching his cheeks.
“Get off me, you douchebag. You’re going to get my face all gross and chalky,” Louis says, shoving him away. Coach doesn’t look amused, has commented a few times to Zayn and Louis that they need to act more professional. Less like hyena brothers, more like serious gymnasts.
“Aw, you’re just scared Harry’s gonna think you look ridiculous, aren’t you? Your boy’s not even looking this way. He’s too busy messing around with perfect Liam on the rings,” Zayn says, fluttering his eyelashes at him. He’s too pretty for his own good, really. Their next rotation’s at rings and Louis and Zayn make their way over to Liam, Harry and Niall.
“He’s not my boy. If anything, he’s my sworn enemy. The most loathed of them all. You of all people should know that,” Louis whispers to Zayn as they congregate with the rest of the group. Him and Harry have been going toe-to-toe for years now. Louis had noticed him at his very first national competition, was appalled at the tall, gangling idiot who somehow snuck his way into the gym and started giving him a run for his money.
They were still in high school then, both of them. Louis was a senior, technically, preferring to do all his schooling the old-fashioned way—at home. With his severe training schedule, high school had to be put on the back-burner. He’d been sweeping every competition he’d been to until Harry Styles came along.
At the first meet he’d competed against him, Harry beat him by 2/10ths of a point on the floor exercise, which was just insane to him. Every time Harry would do a leap that seemed impossibly complicated for his long-limbed body to manage, Louis’ heart would break a little more. He wasn’t used to having real competition, not like this.
It didn’t help that Harry was cute. Dangerously so. Back then, his signature curly locks that all the girls screamed for was cut shorter. He’d land a tricky tumbling pass and his hair would keep moving, having a mind of its own. Fans would be out in droves to watch him, falling all over themselves at his feet. He’d smile that cocky smile of his and the world would fall in love.
Through college, Louis had found a best friend in Zayn as well as an equal competitor. They’d bump into Harry at college invitationals too - same with Niall and Liam too. None of them were total strangers at this stage. They’d been all circling around each other at various competitions. Different coaches, different tricks, but same stakes. They all wanted Olympic glory, no matter where they came from.
Harry and him led an antagonistic relationship through all the competitions. If Harry did a double front salto tucked off the rings, Louis would up the difficulty and go for piked. They played like that always, one-upping each other every chance they got and trash talking all the same.
Coach claps his hands when their whole group is assembled at rings, pointing at Liam first.
“You’re up, Payne. Show them how it’s done,” he barks. Liam preens at the attention, happy to oblige.