"Fuck, you're tight," Louis groans.

"Oh, really? I thought this would be easy considering I've never done this before," Harry breathily shoots back. "Fucking moron."

"Are you going to shut up and let me fuck you?" Louis snaps. The floor is cold, but Harry's body is radiating heat from everywhere, and it's making Louis even more frustrated.

"Please, do go on." Harry rolls his eyes, but his scowl forms into a wince and the annoyed quirk of in his mouth disappears as it shapes into a small 'o' when Louis hardens his grip on his hips, and pushes into his body. "Shit," he winces, and his hand goes to clutch at Louis' bicep, and Louis has to go down to rest on his elbow at his side.

"Don't tell me it hurts, love," Louis says. "You're the one who insisted not to be on your knees."

"Oh, excuse me if I – uhh." Harry's nails sink into Louis' skin as he bottoms out.

"Son of a bitch," Louis swears, immediately slapping his hand off.

"You're one to talk," Harry hisses, his lower leg wrapping over Louis' calf. "Anyway – " He gasps as Louis pulls out and then slowly thrusts into him again. Harry's so unbearably tight, and the heat all around him almost makes Louis dizzy. He leans on his elbow and breathes heavily, fingers clutching around Harry's hip.

"You could've at least warned me, you asshole," Harry exhales.

"Sorry," Louis grits out, concentrating on slowly work in and out. "Now, what were you saying?" he asks, as snarky as he can manage.

"Yes, um." He bites down on his lip hard, and Louis can't help but feel quite satisfied. He's rented his mortal enemy speechless. "I was saying that excuse me if I'd like to see the face of the person who's the first to fuck me."

"Yeah," Louis breathes, rolling his eyes as much as he can while, you know, fucking somebody. "Because you're so bloody in love with me."

Harry actually laughs, and it causes a ripple in their bodies, a trickle of something (not sparks) to shoot up Louis' spine. He gasps against Harry's neck.

"Stop laughing," he orders him.

"Why? It was the funniest joke I've ever heard."

"Are you going to shut the fuck up while I fuck you?" Louis complains, thrusting into him harshly. He does it roughly on purpose, and Harry's body slides up a few inches on the floor. He gasps, hissing against Louis' neck.

"Thanks." Sarcasm.

"Welcome."

He thrusts into him, and he can feel Harry's body going less stiff and more responsive and willing as the time passes by.

"Is it good yet?" Louis asks, voice softer, because he's not a total monster.

"Mm-hmm," is all he says, but he's locking his legs behind Louis' thighs, so Louis supposes that's answer enough.

He doesn't say anything else, and Louis picks up his pace in satisfaction. His fingers clutch at Harry's thigh, his other arm feeling a bit numb, as he's been leaning on it. Harry clenches around him, making Louis gasp and lose his grip, and his chest knocks into Harry's. He moans into his neck, feeling his sweaty skin against his cheek.

Harry's chuckle is not nice. "You know," he gets out between breaths. "If you come first, then I'm the one who fucked you."

Louis almost growls. Would he just be silent for once? He grips Harry's hips harshly and with his chest against Harry's, he fucks him hard. It's deep, harsh and the only things coming out of Harry's mouth now are moans, hisses and heavy exhales. It's relentless, warm and sweaty. Harry's body gets more and more responsive underneath Louis', squirming at every thrust, and when Louis changes his aim, his whole body jerks.

"Found it?" Louis smirks.

"Found it," Harry groans.

Louis chuckles and then they're back into it. Louis keeps aiming for it, not always getting it, but judging by Harry's creased forehead and open mouth he assumes he does more often than not. Harry's brows are furrowed like he's concentrating, and Louis can feel the pool of heat build in his gut.

He groans, cheek accidentally clashing into Harry's. The boy under him doesn't say anything though, and Louis realizes it's because he's biting his lip so hard it's white. "Harry, come on." He can't come first. It'd be too degrading. "Harry," he urges. "Come."

He doesn't, and Louis feels like slapping him a bit, but then again, when has Harry ever listened to a word Louis has said?

Louis takes matters into his own hands – literally – and he slips his hand down Harry's chest to his stomach. He can feel his muscles ripple and ribcage expand quickly under his hand. He finally reaches his cock, and with two sharp tugs, he's got Harry coming all over himself on the dirty floor of the locker room. Harry clenches around him so abruptly, that Louis can't keep quiet as he comes, too, inside of the other boy.

After that it's silent, only their rapid breaths echoing loudly in the room. Louis' on top of Harry, face buried in his neck, heaving out breaths against the crook of his shoulder. They lay there for a minute. It takes almost sixty seconds for their heart rates to slow, and come down from their orgasms.

Then Harry pushes Louis off. "Stop breathing on my neck. Ugh."

Louis rolls his eyes, sitting up and chucking the condom at the bin. It goes in, naturally.

Harry's already wiping himself off, and Louis hits him not too lightly in the arm. "My jersey. Really?"

Harry scoffs, throwing it at him and gets up from the floor. He stands there, looking obnoxious and full of unjustified pride.

Louis glares. "You were gonna shower anyway. Arse."

"I thought you liked my arse," Harry smirks. Louis balls up his dirty football jersey and throws it after him. He misses; Harry's already turned around and headed for the showers. The only thing satisfying about it is Harry's waddle.

"Fucking dick," Louis mutters.

**

Louis doesn't even know how it happened. They were arguing on the football pitch, Coach yelling at them to stay after practice and talk it out, tired of their constant fighting. They did, and as expected it led nowhere.

They've always hated each other, is the thing. The first clash they had was when both of them wanted the same number on their jersey. Even though Louis had claim, Harry got it for some unbelievable reason. Louis had to watch his number, 17, get printed underneath a filthy "Styles" and he had to live by with the mortal and mere number 28.

Then there's the matter that Louis is the prime midfielder. He's the playmaker, ball distributer, and honestly the puppet master of the pitch. He runs the whole game, both defending and scoring, and without him his team would be nothing. He's practically the next Xavi Hernandez. It doesn't help, though, that Harry Styles is a striker – the best striker on the team, and Coach wants Louis to rather pass him the ball than score himself, and if Louis gets yelled at when he rather dribbles through the defenders himself than to do so, then that's something he's willing to take because no way in hell is Harry going to take the crown from Louis and win the scoring league.

It didn't get better when the seniors graduated, including the team captain, and Coach named Harry and Louis co-captains for their senior year. Louis was in rage. Dammit, he'd worked his arse off to be captain. All those nights at the pitch after school, all the hard training and morning runs – his coach should see that he's giving his all into this, considering if it doesn't involve a ball Louis despises working out.

It's early September now, and not even a month has passed since school started and Louis' been co-captain with Harry. It's unbearable is what it is. Harry's got the worst fucking ideas (starting up yoga with the team on Saturday mornings, really?) and the fact that he's the most pretentious jerk to roam this planet does not help. Stupid long legs, disproportionately broad shoulders, and how does one manage to have a six-pack while sporting love handles? Christ's sake! It's the granola, Louis swears on it.

Today, it was one of the usual fights.

"Why can't you get your head out of your fucking arse and pass me the ball for once, huh?" Harry growled, pushing through some of the teammates standing in the way.

"Oh, so you can miss the entire goal again? Like you did the last game?" Louis spat. It had been the last match of the previous season and they were down by one, in the final three minutes, and the bastard fucking missed the shot.

"Fuck you, Tomlinson. I was fucking tackled and you know it!"

"Stop blaming anything but yourself. You're just a pussy, aren't you?"

After that it escalated quite quickly. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty glad Liam was there to rip Harry off his body before he punched him in the jaw. It's not fair to hit someone who's smaller and has a much prettier face, really.

Coach tried to speak with them, he really did, but after three years of hatred, verbal and physical combat, it's not that easy to just bury the hatchet. So when the boys were allowed to go back to take their showers, the rest of the team were already done and gone. Louis was fuming, throwing off his jersey on the floor in pure frustration. Harry wasn't better. The insults were showering down over both of them, and then Harry was gripping Louis' hips and they were getting off against each other on the floor. It was Harry's idea that Louis should fuck him. Louis' not really one to deny a free fuck, so.

Right now though, he's not sure why he would ever even consider doing something like that with Harry, the pretentious hipster moron that he is. Louis' not even gay to be honest. The only positivity he can think of right now is that they didn't kiss, so he didn't get any hipster bugs in his mouth at least.

Louis slams his locker shut, and then jumps back in horror when there's a face hiding behind it. He sighs when his heart rate has slowed down – it's Niall. Of course it is.

"What do you want?"

The blond arches a brow. "Really? Is that how you greet your best friend?"

Louis rolls his eyes, and starts strolling down the hallway. He hears Niall's footsteps behind him, his never ceasing rambling just floating past his ears. Honestly, the kid has a lot to say for someone with such a small set of opinions. Niall's smart, casual and likable; he's easygoing is the thing. And he won't ever stop talking.

"So, how did it go with the coach after practice?" Niall asks, as they reach the parking lot. It's not a surprise that he already knows. It's a small town, which equals a small high school, which in turn translates into 'news travel fast'. "I heard you and Styles got into it again."

"Ah," Louis hesitates. On one hand he got to fuck someone, but on the other he hates that person, so, "Fairly okay. Nothing new." Well.

"So you punched him in the face?"

Louis lets out a loud cackle as he unlocks the doors to his car and pulls the key out of the keyhole. "Nah. That happened just once."

"Twice."

"Whatever."

He opens his door to the driver's side, and is about to say goodbye to Niall when he sees the boy jumping into the passenger seat without hesitation. Louis gets in, arching a brow once he's inside.

"What are you doing?"

"You're driving me home." The 'duh' goes unsaid. "Well? What are you waiting for? Chop-chop."

Louis just shakes his head and starts the car with a hair-rising screech.

When they get home, Lottie's in the kitchen. She's pouring herself a glass of juice and Louis easily sneaks it from her and empties it before she's turned around again. She notices the empty glass and just sends him an annoyed stare before pouring herself up some more.

Niall's by the door taking off his shoes, having decided in the very last minute (when Louis' car was right outside his house, for God's sake) that he was coming over to Louis' instead. He comes into the kitchen, immediately greeting Lottie with exaggerated hugs and kisses to her forehead.

She rolls her eyes, holding her glass far away from him not to spill. "Hi, Niall. Bye, Niall," she mutters and then trudges upstairs to her room. Niall laughs and opens the fridge, looking for something to eat.

"Niall, make me food," Louis pleads, flopping down on a chair by the dinner table and resting his feet on the one next to it.

"There's nothing in your fridge."

"Ugh." Come on. Louis has had football practice and had sex. He needs food. Energy. Nutrition. Pi-zza.

"When's your mum home?"

"She's not. Her shift's already started," he says. His mother works nights at the hospital, so it's usually up to Louis to make dinner for him and Lottie when she's not there. The twins live at Mark's most of the time, and only spend a couple a days at a time at home. It has its good parts; he doesn't have as much responsibility when his mother is working, but also the bad parts; he misses them.

Today it's better they're at Mark's, though. If there's no food then that means Louis has to go shopping or buy take out. Children should eat good food, and when Louis is in charge that's not going to happen. It's half past five, and Louis currently does not have the energy to go grocery shopping.

"Let's get pizza," Niall suggests. It's like one mind, really.

"You're driving."

"Fine."

Of course Lottie wants to come, because she doesn't trust Louis with something even as simple as buying pizzas. You'd think the fact that Niall's coming would be enough, considering he'd never hurt a crumb.

They take the car, Niall driving and Louis half sleeping in the passenger seat while Lottie's in the back. Niall decides the music even if it's only a five-minute drive and it's Louis' family's car, because apparently since he's "just as much part of the Tomlinsons as Louis" as he puts it, those facts are insignificant.

They pull up outside the parlor, walking inside discussing the toppings of which are edible with pineapple. It's highly irrelevant seeing as none of them would ever dream of getting pineapple on something as sacred as a pizza (Hello? Have some dignity). They're leaning against the counter as they wait, Louis resting on his elbows. He's tired, hasn't done his homework yet and he also has to go for a run tonight. He leans his face in the crook of his elbow.

On the other hand, he might skip that run. Too fucking tired.

They wait a few more minutes, Louis not picking up his head and just listening to Lottie and Niall bicker about something without relevance in their lives whatsoever. He hears when the door chirms, new customers walking into the parlor. By the sound of it, it's a woman and a man, and they're talking in frustrated tones, their bickering seeming like it hasn't stopped for fifteen years. Louis is about to snap his head up and tell them to shut up because their fighting is giving him a headache, when the door chirms again and the next voice is the one that haunts his dreams. Well, okay, not really, but it's Harry.

"Have you ordered yet?" Harry's voice asks, and Louis frowns. He looks up, finding Harry talking to the bickering couple. Obviously, they're his parents. No wonder the boy's so uptight.

"No, sweetheart. What do you want?" The woman's voice softens considerably.

"I'll have the veggie one," Harry mutters. Typical, Louis thinks, rolling his eyes.

The boy is in a hoodie, just like Louis, and his eyes look tired and his hair's disheveled. He's still waddling a little, and Louis smirks as he leans back against the counter, watching Harry walk out of the parlor again.

"Wasn't that Harry Styles?" Lottie asks. She's in eighth grade and doesn't even go to the town's high school yet, and still she knows who he is. It could have something to do with Louis always complaining about the boy and coming to her to tell her all about their fights, but most likely that's not the only reason.

"Yeah," Louis mutters.

"Hm, he's fit."

"Shut up, Lots."

"I mean he is," Niall says, objectively, and Louis scoffs. "I hear he's the favorite on the team."

"Yeah, alright," Louis laughs and rolls his eyes. Please. "When you're done talking shit, come out with the pizzas." He hands Lottie a few bills and trudges out the door, heading for the car. Naturally, he finds Harry leaning against his own. It's a shiny, black Range Rover, and probably cost more than Louis' entire house. Another reason not to like him; he's spoiled.

Harry's fiddling with his own fingers, looking nothing like when he's fuming, and trying to wrestle Louis to the ground. Louis goes to lean against the brick wall, exactly on the opposite side of the sidewalk, right in front of Harry.

"How's that waddle?" he asks, putting up a smirk on his face.

Harry's head snaps up in surprise, and his stance immediately shifts as he sees him. His face turns grimmer and he picks his head up, confidence suddenly littering his demeanor. "Why? Didn't know you cared so much about me."

"I thought you were the one who cared about me. You practically begged me to fuck you."

"I didn't beg," Harry says through his teeth. "And it was hardly any good either."

"Please," Louis scoffs, pushing off the wall and walking up to the other boy. He leans forward, holding up his chin just inches away from Harry's. "I fucked you into oblivion."

Now Harry is the one to scoff. "Don't flatter yourself." His hands go to Louis' shoulders, shoving him a few paces back. It's not that hard, and it only makes Louis roll his eyes.

"As if you wouldn't do it again," he grins. He arches a brow as Harry opens his mouth, but just as he's about to say something the door to the pizza parlor opens, and Niall and Lottie come trudging out with two pizza cartons each in their arms.

Louis takes several steps back, and joins them as they walk by. He sends Harry a dark look that is reciprocated without hesitation, before he turns around and ignores Harry's presence completely.

**

Louis doesn't really understand it, the Harry thing. He hates Harry, and Harry hates him. One moment Harry was spitting at Louis, and the next he was spitting on his fingers, opening himself up on the floor beneath him with lube he got from God knows where. Louis doesn't regret it per se, but he doesn't understand it. He wouldn't do it again.

Strangely, it doesn't seem to have affected their relationship at all. They still hate each other – that much was obvious last night outside the pizza place. Which is a good thing. Louis can't imagine life not hating Harry. No sneering in the hallway, no nasty comments in class, no threats during warm up, and no fights at half time. It's unimaginable.

Louis rolls over in bed Tuesday morning, the day after what will from now on be referred to as "the incident". He groans into his pillow, the noise turning into a half scream before he remembers that his mother is sleeping. The scream turns back into a muffled moan, and he scrunches his eyes up for a second. Fucking school.

He rolls over again, sitting up, hair disheveled and eyes grim. He throws the duvet off and gets up. He stares at himself for a second through the mirror on the opposite wall, squinting his eyes at his tired profile for a moment. If he were a vampire, maybe he wouldn't look like a fluffy pigeon each morning he woke up. He turns on his heel, and heads into the bathroom, leaving his beloved bed unoccupied.

His bed. Ah, his perfect bed. He doesn't have his own car like most of his classmates, he doesn't have a tv in his room, or a brand new computer, but he has his warm, big bed. They're practically married the two of them.