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head coach lets Harry run practice by himself. Louis leans up against

the fence and watches for a moment as Harry directs the boys up and

down the pitch.

He looks just how Louis remembers him, tall and slim and gorgeous

and all the maddening things he hasn‟t been able to stop thinking about

since the first time they kissed. It had been easier to put those things out

of his mind when he was busy with work or frantic party planning, but

the week in Doncaster, every idle moment had been torture—the

memory of Harry‟s lower lip dragging up his chest, the size of Harry‟s

hands, every detail on repeat in his head and nothing he could do about

it. Even from a distance, seeing Harry in real life now feels like a not-

unpleasant punch to the gut.

He feels suddenly creepy, standing there thinking about Harry‟s idiot

lips and realising that to any passers-by he probably looks like he‟s

ogling the football team. Casting about desperately, he spots the stands

and quickly ducks underneath them, grimacing when he realises how

much dirt is going to get on his trousers as he sits down.

So. This is happening. He is a grown man hiding in the dirt under the

stands, waiting for his friend-with-whom-shagging-happens to get out

of football practice. Okay.

Louis sits quietly, stewing his own pathetic thoughts and growing

increasingly panicked over the cost of getting his trousers dry cleaned

as he stares at the changing room door, just visible over one of the

crossbeams that are hiding him. He‟s there for so long that he almost

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gives up and goes home, which would probably be the wisest course of

action, but then the final whistle finally blows and the boys finally file

into the changing room. Louis gives them enough time that even the

last stragglers are gone before he emerges from his foxhole of shame

and future laundry nightmares. He pauses only to dust himself off

briefly and spare a thought to wonder if he‟s lost complete control of

his life before pulling the door open and stepping inside.

Harry‟s there, alone with his bag of footballs, right in front of him and

real. A quick check around him confirms that they‟re alone, and the

look in Harry‟s eyes is worth a hundred dry-cleaning bills.

“Hi,” Louis says.

“Hi,” Harry says, smiling.

“Hi,” Louis says, smiling back.

“Said that already,” Harry points out mildly. Louis doesn‟t particularly

care.

They stand there for a minute, just the two of them alone in the

changing room, smiling at each other, Louis still sporting a fine layer of

dust and Harry looking like six feet of sunshine. Harry‟s standing with

his arms folded across his chest and his back against the lockers, and

Louis feels like his bones are made of paper.

“Get over here,” Harry says at last, and that‟s all it takes, Louis is

crossing the room in an instant.

When he finally leans up and kisses Harry, it‟s every bit of quiet

anticipation since Christmas all ringing through him at once, lifting him

up onto his toes. His shoulders pull up tight and he buries his hands in

Harry‟s hair and Harry‟s arms wrap around his waist and it feels so

good to kiss him again, like that first big breath after being underwater

too long.

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He feels his feet leave the floor for a moment and Harry‟s picking him

up and spinning them around, pressing Louis‟ back into the lockers.

Louis lets him, lets his mouth fall open for Harry right away because if

he had to go a week without this he‟s damn well going to make up for it

now, but Harry‟s taking his time with it. He runs his hands over Louis‟

chest, holding him close by the lapels of his coat, and kisses him

slowly, making each slide and drag of their lips count, pulling back

every few kisses so that their lips are barely brushing and then smirking

when Louis has to crane his neck up into it for more. He kisses like

he‟s got nowhere else to be, like Louis is the only person in the world.

Louis is sure that other people besides the two of them do, in fact exist.

He‟s sure he‟ll remember some of them in a minute.

He finds himself suddenly staring at the opposite wall when Harry

ducks his head and starts pressing kisses all around his throat, and

Louis lets his head fall back and slides one hand to the back of Harry‟s

neck, dipping his fingers into the little gap under the collar of his

hoodie and feeling the knobs of bone there, the warmth trapped in that

space. It feels good, and affectionate, and good, and Louis is almost

choking on the feeling of being kissed like that when Harry suddenly

drops his hands to Louis‟ sides and starts tickling him.

Louis splutters and laughs and flails wildly while Harry just grins down

at him through red lips, and, God, Harry is a prick and Louis should not

be so happy about it, but he is.

“I hate you,” Louis says when Harry finally relents, and then

immediately undercuts his own words by reeling Harry back in for

another smiling kiss. Harry wraps his hands around Louis‟ waist and

spins him again, only stopping to drop down onto a bench and pull

Louis into his lap. A few more melting kisses, and Louis pulls away

with a contented noise.

“I missed that,” Louis says. I missed you, is what he means.

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“Me too,” Harry says, rubbing circles with his thumb on the skin just

under Louis‟ sleeve. “D‟you want to go get some dinner or

something?”

And here it is. There are two parts of Louis tied up there against

Harry‟s chest, two needs filling up his head. There‟s the part of him

that spent all day waiting for this, that goes all jellyfish when Harry

looks at him like that and wants to do whatever it takes to make him do

it all the time, and then there‟s that persistent beat in the hardest part of

his heart that says too close, too big, too much. He knows which one

needs to win.

“Or,” Louis says, leaning up and kissing him again. “There‟s food at

my flat.”

Louis is lucky that Harry‟s probably as horny as he is, because he

doesn‟t press the issue, just smiles and gives his arse a light squeeze.

“All right.”

Harry follows Louis back to his flat in his own car, and Louis can

hardly wait until the front door is shut behind them before getting his

hands on Harry again. They stumble across the flat until they fall onto

Louis‟ bed, laughing at themselves. When Louis leans down and kisses

the side of Harry‟s neck, Harry practically purrs into it, and Louis can

feel his pulse pick up under his lips. He feels drunk and reckless and

powerful, all because of the boy in his bed.

Their first orgasms come quick, rubbing against each other half-naked

and too eager to make it last. There‟s plenty of night left, though, and in

between cheese on toast and casual touches and Louis chasing Duchess

out of the room they have plenty of time to lazily suck each other off in

the sweaty sheets, leaving fingertip bruises on each other‟s thighs.

It goes on like that for the next week and a half, Harry following Louis

back to his flat or meeting him there later in the evening, sometimes

with a bag of takeaway, sometimes with some sort of treat for Duchess

as a peace offering. It must work, because Louis sees her sit in Harry‟s

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lap at least three times, which is more than she‟s ever liked anyone who

isn‟t him, much less someone who‟s kicked her out of Louis‟ room as

many times as Harry has.

Not that they‟re just in Louis‟ room. The entire flat has been christened

within the week, and suddenly Louis can‟t look at a single corner or

piece of furniture without memories of skin and mouths and pressing

fingers. He‟s reminded of someone he once slept with who said that

only penetration counted as “real” sex, and he pities him retroactively.

He and Harry haven‟t even done that yet, but he‟s never felt this well-

fucked in his life.

It‟s nice. It‟s more than nice, it‟s comfortable and exciting, and Harry,

bless him, seems to know not to push it. He doesn‟t ever stay over,

always managing to clamber out of bed and into his car. After Louis

shoots down a few suggestions of other activities—the cinema, dinner,

some sort of art exhibit—Harry stops asking. He seems content with

this, coming over to have sex and “hang out,” as he always puts it. He

doesn‟t ask any tough questions and Louis is very, very glad.

It‟s good that things with Harry are easy, because Louis has to manage

Grease auditions, which is no small task. Much Ado auditions hadn‟t

been that bad, but this is a musical, and musicals are a whole different

species. It‟s a three step process just for the first round of auditions on

Saturday—choreography then singing then acting—and then Sunday is

going to be a day of call-backs and headaches and wondering how in

the hell he gets this done every go-round. It‟s the same every time.

He‟s got a serious problem this time, though, because going by the

audition sign-up sheet, there are simply just not enough boys to fill out

the chorus. He needs at least half a dozen more, or else all of the

choreography is going to be uneven because half of the girls won‟t

have dance partners and the harmonies are going to sound off because

there aren‟t enough bass voices to round them out.

He mentions this to Harry two days before auditions. Well, not so much

mentions it as moans it from the floor of his living room while Harry is

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going through a roll of photographs on his laptop and Louis is

lamenting the state of his professional life.

“I could try talking to the team about it,” Harry offers. “Maybe some of

them would be willing to try out.”

“Right, because the football team is exactly where all the budding

thespians go,” Louis deadpans.

“You never know,” Harry says, poking Louis in the side with his toe.

“Lots of footwork in football. And if I recall correctly, a certain drama

teacher I know isn‟t too bad with a football himself.”

Louis grins in spite of himself at that, and Harry winks and laughs, and

Louis sort of forgets about it. He seriously doubts there‟s any way any

of the footy lads can be persuaded to audition for a musical, so it‟s not

like it matters. The thought never really crosses his mind, and he tells

Harry he absolutely cannot see him until auditions are over because he

needs to focus on getting his job done, so there‟s nothing to remind him

about it.

That is, until the doors of the theatre swing open five minutes before

his choreographer is supposed to start teaching the kids their audition

routine and a gaggle of boys comes tromping in. Louis stares,

dumbfounded, as they make their way down the aisle to the little table

he‟s set up in front of the stage, laughing and ribbing each other along

the way. He‟s never had a single one of them in any of his classes, but

he recognizes them all. He‟s been to too many of Harry‟s games not to.

“Morning, Mr. Tomlinson,” the one in the front says as they draw even

with his table. He‟s got red hair and Louis knows him immediately. His

name is Mike Kendall.

“Hello,” Louis says. He‟s aware that he‟s probably looking at this poor

boy like he‟s got about nine heads, but he‟s still in shock. “Can I help

you?”

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“Yeah, we‟re here for auditions,” Mike says, pulling a folded up sheet

of paper out of his back pocket. He unfolds it and hands it to Louis, and

Louis finds himself staring at a wrinkled audition sheet with the name

Kendall, Michael David written at the top. “Sorry we haven‟t signed up

for times or anything, it was all kind of last minute. Can we still try

out?”

Yes, please, oh god don‟t leave please we need you, Louis thinks but

does not say.

“I could probably fit you lads in somewhere,” Louis tells him, and

Mike smiles. He looks over Mike‟s shoulder at the rest of the boys,

who don‟t look quite as amicable about the whole situation but seem

overall willing to participate. “Have the rest of you got your forms?”

Louis collects their paperwork and sends them off to choreography, still

in disbelief of what just happened. He texts Harry as soon as they‟re

gone,

what did you do, blackmail them????

just told them what a great director you are and how fun it would be :)

xxx Harry‟s reply says.

pull the other one,

Louis texts back.

also I promised them I wouldn‟t make them run suicide drills until after

the play was over ;) xx

The rush of affection Louis feels in his chest makes him want to throw