"Five quid you're gonna burn those," Lottie says, as she leans on the counter next to the stove later that night.

Louis opens his eyes, throwing a glance at the frying pan. And, ah, crap. She's right. He hurriedly pulls the pan off the stove plate with a grimace, eyeing the burgers he attempted to make.

"Shit."

Lottie ticks her head to the side, glancing at the burned meat. "So, what's on your mind then?"

Nothing. A lot. Everything?

"Don't lie, I know when you lie."

"Just worried about... stuff, you know?" They don't talk about what "stuff" implies. They don't have to.

Lottie smiles sadly at him, and then nods at the kitchen drawer where the takeout menus are located. "Should we order in?"

Louis rolls his eyes, but agrees. "That's probably for the best."

He plucks his phone out of his pocket, feeling another anxious contraction in his chest when he sees the display is still empty.

Lottie takes hold of his arm after turning off the stove, and pulls him gently towards the living room. They end up ordering Chinese, and they chat lowly as they watch a movie that's running on the TV. Louis tries to stay away from the rice when they finally eat, knowing he hasn't gone for his daily run yet, but it looks too appetizing and there's so much on his mind other than the diet he's been keeping the last two months.

He tries not to think and just concentrate on the movie, but these nagging thoughts are constantly at the back of his head. He doesn't even know if he's going to make it to next the week at this rate.

He's not even meant to be thinking about the Harry thing. Look, it's not even like Louis got mad about what Harry was talking about. It wasn't even true, like, Harry is full of bullshit. Louis was just annoyed with him for being such an idiot and thinking he knows everything. What he said had no impact on him whatsoever, and even if it did, it's not as if Louis would let it show. That thing that happened afterwards just kind of... happened, and there's nothing else to it. Harry's just got this weird thing about him, and that's – Yes, this is all Harry's fault. Established. Done with. Stashed away and never thought of again. Great.

"Do you think you could teach me how to drive, maybe?" Lottie asks, looking at him from her side of the worn leather couch.

"You?" He raises a brow, brought out of his trance. "Are you even old enough?"

"Yes," she says, rolling her eyes, but then bites her lip. "I just thought," she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, "since Mum and Dad aren't around much, and like, I know you're busy, but perhaps you could teach me?"

Louis thinks his heart is squeezing a bit. "Of course I'll teach you, sis."

**

There are many things Louis has thought about these past days. This was not one of them.

After an hour of football practice the following Monday (a half hour of running drills, and a half hour of playing mini-games that Louis rewarded the boys with, but they didn't seem to particularly enjoy since their legs were too tired, including murderous stares from Harry), Louis finds himself in the locker room. All the lads are undressing, getting ready to shower, and Louis can feel Harry's angry gaze from across the room.

So, like, Louis is not awkward because there are a bunch of naked dudes surrounding him. That's a regular weekday afternoon. It's just that, Harry's looking at him, and Liam is leaning against the locker they almost got each other off against. And that's weird. It's really weird. He and Harry have gotten off against each other. That's... just. Louis doesn't know what to think when he thinks about that. It's strange and a bit creepy, and somehow it's all he can think about.

Harry's currently only partly undressed, standing by his bench in shorts, frequently sending small glares Louis' way. The rest of the boys are either in the showers or getting into fresh clothes. Louis has barely gotten his own kit off. He realizes this with a start and quickly rips off his jersey, kicking off his socks.

He cannot end up alone with Harry in the locker room again. That stuff can never happen again. Because it's gross. And that's not a gay thing – it's a Harry thing. Also, Louis does not need this in his life. Harry means trouble, and Louis can't have more trouble in his life than he already has. This, whatever it is that's happened twice now, cannot happen again, which means that Louis can't end up alone with Harry. Ever.

He quickly pulls on his old jersey again, figuring he better not test things and get in the showers, risking being caught alone with Harry afterwards. He stuffs his things in his bag again, ignoring Harry's eyes on him and stalks back to the football pitch. He didn't go for a run last night. He should jog some extra laps.

Louis avoids Harry like the plague for the rest of the week. He doesn't even sneer at him in the hallways the next day or spare him a glance at practice on Wednesday. He doesn't let himself get agitated at his stupid exercises at practice, only clenches his jaw and does whatever Harry orders, and he thinks Harry notices it. He doesn't stick around in the locker room and he doesn't shower with the team. It's kind of gross riding in his car all sweaty he soon realizes, so he usually stays and runs laps around the field until the showers have cleared out. Yes, he knows he's being a bit ridiculous, but he doesn't want to take any chances.

It's Thursday morning, six o'clock, when Louis picks Niall up before school. Niall looks half-asleep when he trudges out of his house, his school bag and a duffel bag thrown over a shoulder each. He's in track bottoms just like Louis, a t-shirt on his chest, and for some apparent reason he's put his fringe into a tiny ponytail that stands proudly upright on his forehead.

"You look like a unicorn," is the first thing Louis says to him. "Is that a tiny prick?"

"Fuck you. I cannot believe I'm doing this. You should be so glad I'm your best friend."

"I love you," Louis grins, poking him in the cheek. Niall only grunts and ties his shoelaces.

When they arrive at school the lot is empty, the brisk morning air fresh against their cheeks. They dump their bags by the bleachers, and Louis makes Niall pull on a thin, long-sleeved shirt over his t-shirt before they kick off on the track encircling the grass pitch. The grass looks a bit dewy, a sign the autumn is slowly nearing, and the fresh air does well for Louis' lungs.

Niall is panting slightly heavier beside him, but he's keeping up well. They chat a bit as they run and Louis stretches his legs out, feeling a slight ache. Harry made them do some really fucking strange exercise the other day that felt more like bending over and spreading your legs than anything else, and it's left some traces in his muscles.

"I don't get how you do this every day," Niall breathes after five laps, sweat glazing his forehead, cheeks flushed.

"I don't do this everyday."

"Maybe not at six am, but you run the blocks and the park all the time."

Louis shrugs the best he can while running and kicks up his speed, leaving a yard of space between them.

"Shit," Niall breathes heavily once he's caught up. "Calm down a bit, won't you? We've run five laps at a decent pace. You're going to ruin your legs, mate."

Louis makes a non-committed grunt, keeping up his pace.

After seven laps Niall throws himself on the grass beside the track and announces his capitulation, chest heaving and face flushed in red where he wrenches a bit too exaggeratedly on the ground. Louis rolls his eyes and runs two more laps, walking one last to calm his nerves and blood flow.

They shower in the locker room that's specifically distributed to the football team. Usually it's off limits for anyone not on the team, but since classes haven't started yet Louis figures it won't matter if Niall spends fifteen minutes in there. They get dressed, Louis using up ten minutes in front of the mirror trying to tame his hair, while Niall imitates a dog getting out of a bath. Louis pushes his sweaty clothes into his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder as they walk back to the parking lot.

It's almost warm when they step outside, and the morning dew is completely gone. The parking lot has started filling up with cars, and Louis waves at few of the lads from the team standing by the small fountain in front of the big entrance. The school may be small, but the board sure seems to invest a lot of money into making it look fancy.

They dump their duffels in the backseat of Louis' car and fetch their school bags, trudging back towards the main building. Louis' first class is French, while Niall has Geography in the second building.

"See you on the other side, mate," Niall says, saluting him and starting to back away.

"Tell Mr. Warner a big fuck you from me!" Louis calls after him, and Niall's laugh seems to echo against the sky.

Louis grins, and turns to face the main entrance. Of course, that's when he sees Harry.

He's leaning against his pretty car, shining like a toy in the morning sun, and he's with that artsy guy. He's in Louis' drama class but doesn't say much. They both look stupid where they stand, all sharp jaws, lean bodies and eyes brimming with disinterest. Harry's in black, skinny jeans as usual, a moss-green plaid shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, and he's got his Ray Bans on like the pretentious bastard he is. If he's trying to look cool and authentic he isn't succeeding. Louis almost snorts. His friend is doing a way better job of it; dark, almost raven hair that's getting a bit long and is pushed to the side, everlasting pout on his lips, and a smoke between his fingers.

Louis glances down at his phone when it buzzes in his hand, disappointment sinking his chest once again. He bites his cheek and sends another glance towards Harry. A second later Harry's face turns Louis' way, and Louis determinedly twists his chin away, walking straight into the building without another look.

**

"Lads!" Coach exclaims, gathering them all around him during half time. Louis' blood is pumping, his knees are grassy and his forehead's sweaty, the adrenaline shooting through his body like a rocket. "You've got this, yeah? We're down by one, but if you keep this is up we'll catch up in no time. Liam, try to get the ball out as fast as you can, and Jonah we're going to move you up the field. Prioritize the offense, yeah?"

The rain is pouring down, drenching them, and Louis is furious. The opposing team is shit and yet they've succeeded a goal to them. It wasn't even a pretty goal, and if Stan hadn't fouled their midfielder they wouldn't have gotten that free kick. It was a cheap one as well, and Louis was opening his mouth at the referee in 0,1 seconds.

This isn't a good start of the season. The referee has kept a close eye on Louis after that, and he even threatened to give him a yellow card if he didn't keep his mouth closed for the rest of the game. Louis can't even give a friendly elbow in the ribs to one of the opposing players, and the frustration is making him sweat even worse. Coach is constantly yelling at him to go wider, to open spaces for the rest of his teammates, even though Louis knows if they'd all just keep their positions for once he would easily be able to dribble through the opposing team's defense.

"You've got this, Tommo!" Stan says fiercely, clapping him supportively on the shoulder, before Liam grips his neck and tells him to keep open so that he can get him the ball immediately from goal kick.

They get back out on the field soon after that, and Harry grabs Louis' shoulder harshly. "Pass me the fucking ball, fuckhead," he growls, and then jogs off to his spot for kickoff.

Louis fights off the urge to flip him one, and then the match is on in full force again. It's sweaty, rough and frustrating, and Louis uses his muscles to tackle anyone he can get close to. He's too heated and Harry keeps waving at him to pass, but he's in a bad position and Louis' head is spinning.

The second half is coming to a close what feels like forty minutes too soon, the desperation among the team almost tangible on the field. The blood is burning in Louis' veins.

"Wider, Louis!" the coach yells.

"Louis, over here!" Connor is screaming, and all Louis can think is "four minutes" and that there are two players in front of him that he needs to get past.

The ball is light and moves quickly at his feet due to the wet grass, and he moves with the speed and technique only someone with years of training could. He doesn't even think. Harry is waving at his right, vein almost popping in his neck, and Louis fakes left, going right. He passes his first opponent, his teammates calling for him in his periphery. The second player isn't attacking him like the first one. He's pensive and calculates Louis' moves, not blindly attacking. Louis' blood is stirring as his muscles work without thought. He does a quick step over, then fakes left, goes right, and then stops, bringing the player out of balance for a fraction of a second, just enough to be able to pass him on the left side.

The maneuver is impressive, but Louis barely hears the crowd cheering. He can tell Coach is screaming at him, pointing in a direction Louis doesn't have time to waste looking in, and he sees Harry waving his arm above his head. Louis doesn't pass him, though. He charges forward, voice in his head frantically yelling that they can't lose. He can see the other team's keeper readying himself to protect his goal, and he can Harry's looking absolutely livid in the corner of his eye.

Louis continues forward, ready to shoot, and then suddenly he's tackled.

He looses the ball.

It's a fair tackle. Louis is on his bum on the wet grass, and the referee doesn't even bat an eye. He feels his stomach sink, and he knows he's screwed up. It's just simply in the air that his teammates' insides are bubbling with annoyance and disappointment at his actions.

He looks up, immediately seeing the grim stare Harry's nailing him with. He shakes his head slowly and Louis feels like he's imploding. He gets back up on his feet, and his throat is thick and there's a lump in it, but he tries to breathe normally. It's not working, his chest feeling tight and heavy as it heaves in ragged movements. There's nothing but disappointment within him. He knows it's his fault, and the rest of the team know it too. He's just cost them the first win.

There's only a minute left of the game and Louis knows they're going to lose. The crowd seems to know it too, their cheers having died down and their posters lowered.

But then Louis sees it happen. Freddie steals the ball from the guy on the other team. It happens in a matter of seconds. The player succeeds the ball to Freddie, who sends it through the air, landing at Stan's feet. A quick maneuver, another pass, and then the ball is figuratively in Harry's hands. Harry shoots forward, rounding his defender and sends the ball shooting like lightning into the far end of the goal, into the net.

It's a tie. 1-1.

The game is over subsequently and Harry's in the bottom of a pile of muddy Donny players, and Louis' left staring.

They didn't lose, is the first thing he thinks.

Second, Harry made sure of that.

Third, Louis screwed up. He fucked up bad.

The crowd is cheering, Harry's being praised, the coach is shaking his head at Louis and it feels like something is burning a hole through his body, burning his flesh from the inside and rotting every piece of him.

The disappointment turns into anger.

He doesn't speak to anyone after the game. Niall gives him a sympathetic smile that he ignores. His sister and mother tell him a "good game" each from where they are standing, closely huddled under a yellow umbrella, which he completely neglects. He's soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead. He should feel cold, but he's so heated inside he could ignite.

None of the boys speak to him in the locker room. Only Liam claps him on the back, making Louis shrug the hand off without a word. The lads get into the showers, and Louis sits on the bench, staring at the muddy floor for minutes.

He can hear the boys singing in the showers, Harry's name being praised over and over again, and Louis' never felt quite like this before.

He's never been this disappointed in himself. Maybe it's how enormous the buildup for the game was, how high his expectations of himself were, that made everything feel so colossally disastrous now, but he knows there's so much more. Everything is riding on this. He doesn't have anything else. He doesn't know what he's going to do if this doesn't go his way – and that is terrifying.

Tears prickle in his eyes and he suddenly can't stand it anymore. He gets up from the bench, wiping at his eyes, pulling on his jacket and throwing his bag over his shoulder. He storms towards the door, ready to run away to the parking lot without another glance at a single person who witnessed the game tonight.

His eyes catch on something, though. Harry's bag is open, and his fancy car keys are on the top of the clothes in his bag, glinting a bit in the fluorescent lights. It's silly, and it's childish, but in the moment it feels justified.

In the go, without a second thought, Louis snatches the keys from the bag, and jogs through the rain to the car his family's waiting in.

**

Lottie and Louis' mother are out getting dinner. Louis didn't want to come. It's been an hour since he left the school after the game and the anger has subdued a bit. The rain is still pouring, and he's sitting on the small stone porch outside the front door, staring as the tiny grass lawn turns muddier by the minute. He's got Harry's car keys in his hands, fiddling slightly with them in his lap. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do with them. Just put them back in his locker at practice on Monday? Harry's surely not even suffering, probably caught a ride with his parents back home after the game.

Fuck.

Louis doesn't know what he's doing. He had it figured out. He was going to win every footie game this season and prove that he's good enough, but now everything seems so hopeless. First game and he screwed up. He sighs, groaning in annoyance and looks up.

"What the fuck," he says loudly. What the hell?!

There's a soaked, dripping and completely sodden Harry Styles walking by on the sidewalk past Louis' house.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he calls, watching as Harry's head snaps up, finding Louis staring at him in confusion. Harry looks up, glancing at the house for a second. He's only got a hoodie on and a pair of tracks, his bag hanging over his shoulder, the strap across his chest. His hair is wet against his forehead, and he looks like baby Tarzan more than anything else. Well, he also looks like a beaten puppy.

Harry stares at Louis for a moment, standing still on the pavement, before he finally says, "The question is, what are you doing? Why are you sitting on a porch, looking sufficiently suicidal?"

"I'm not suicidal! I'm just... it – I thought it was appropriate to my mood," Louis huffs.

"So fucking dramatic, I swear to God..." Harry sighs and shakes his head, rolling his eyes tiredly.

Louis copies the gesture lamely, crossing his arms where he's sitting under the yellow porch light. Harry's still standing in the rain, not that that matters to Louis. "If anyone's suicidal, it's you. What are you even doing walking in this weather?"