Fic: Like Flying - An Olympics AU
Title: Like Flying
Pairing: Harry/Louis, implied Liam/Zayn
Rating & Warnings: R; Alternate Universe Olympics Edition! 6k
Disclaimer: Pure fiction. No harm or profit intended.
A/N: All kinds of feedback appreciated! Thanks to katienyc and xcarex for the betas and junkshop_disco for the much-needed Britpick. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
A special thanks to flimsy who, upon reading about the Korean fencer Shin a Lam, said, "This makes me want a fencing!AU in which Harry stays in protest and then cries when they escort him away because he knows it was unfair but there’s nothing he could do. He’ll find Louis in his hotel room because he knows Louis can always make him feel better, and Louis has already prepared booze and junk food and movies because he’s just that fantastic." That's not exactly how this story goes, but it's a good jumping off point.
Summary: The Olympics are really just an excuse for falling in love. Plus fencing and gymnastics.
On AO3 or below!
Like Flying
“Liam,” Louis gasped, suddenly staggering. His hand flew to Liam’s chest, fingers clawed around Liam’s pec, arm locked straight as he leaned all his weight into Liam, steadying himself. “Who is that?”
Liam peeled Louis’ fingers back one by one, casually glancing around for anyone out of the ordinary. He stopped mid-forefinger-pry when his eyes fell on him. “You mean Mr. Future Olympic Champion of Staring Into the Middle Distance?”
“What?” Louis said and whipped his head around, need for support forgotten. “No, no, not Mr. Gold Medal in Bone Structure and Smouldering Gazes, though I’m proud that under my tutelage you’re now able to pick out the second hottest guy here. That’s not an easy task considering the overall fitness of Team Great Britain, if I do say so myself. So kudos.”
Liam raised his eyebrows. Tutelage wasn’t exactly the right word for Louis’ running commentary about seemingly every person in the world and his constant attempts to corrupt Liam. Louis felt that there were only so many hours a week one could train and the rest might as well be spent socialising, making mischief, and having sex, not necessarily in that order. Probably the reverse, actually.
It’s not that Liam disagreed with his reasoning, per se, he just couldn’t bring himself to gad about quite so freely. He had every intention of winning a medal in front of the home crowd, men of great bone structure notwithstanding.
This was not to say that Louis didn’t want a medal. But beneath the perfect coif--soft and swoopy on off days, aggressively gelled into a whimsically architectural fan for competitions--Louis had a hyperactive hamster of a mind and he wasn’t about to spend his entire life just running on a wheel when there was a whole world to explore.
“Second hottest? Who, then?” Liam asked, not really tearing his eyes off of the silver medalist of Louis’ loins. Another subjective judging, he supposed.
“Ugh, Liam.” Louis made a sound of disgust. “I thought you were making progress. Standing right next to him. Lanky, curls, smile ready for a toothpaste advert.”
“Hey lads.” Niall broke in between Louis and Liam suddenly, slinging an arm around each boy’s shoulders and following their gazes. “You’ve got a little drool,” he said, swiping at Louis’ chin before continuing, “so. Scoping out our fine fencing team, are you?”
Louis, who had been test-patting around his mouth for any residual wetness, snapped his head towards Niall and grinned wildly. “Horan, tell me you know Curly over there.”
“That, my friend, is one Harry Styles.” Niall snuck a quick glance at Liam and added, “Teammate’s Zayn Malik. And you’re welcome.”
As Niall wandered off Louis widened his eyes at Liam and said, “Niall, man! I am so glad Ireland doesn’t field a gymnastics team. What would we do if Nialler had never moved here?”
Louis was just beginning to spiral into a maddeningly unproductive conversation with Liam--the supposedly reliable one who somehow did not know if the outrageously large number of condoms available to Olympic athletes also included obscene amounts of lube (What good would 100,000 condoms do them without it, exactly? It was conversations like these that made Louis think that somehow, somewhere, he was failing in Liam’s training.)--when inspiration hit him.
He strode across the courtyard, sauntering ever so slightly as he approached a certain Harry Styles, and announced, “I am the six-fingered man.” He smoothed an errant strand of fringe off his eyebrow, which he then cocked seductively.
Harry’s eyes followed Louis’ hand sweeping across his brow. He glanced down at Louis’ other hand perched on his hip, fingers drumming lightly on his waistband. “OK...,” he said slowly. Not sure of the proper response, he continued, “You hide it really well?”
“What?” Louis said.
“I mean, I don’t even notice the sixth finger?”
“Oh,” Louis said. “No, it was my line.”
“Your line?”
“My chat-up line. I’m, you know, trying it on with you.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “And you think I like extra appendages?”
Louis’s eyes began to twinkle. “Well, I’m hoping you’ll like a certain appendage, yes.”
“I get the feeling you’re no longer talking about a finger.”
“No, we’ve definitely left the realm of hands now,” Louis said with a smirk.
Harry bit back a smile and said, “Just out of curiosity, is this how you normally hit on guys?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, by talking about your...physical abnormalities,” Harry finished, gesturing at Louis’ hand, which was still sat jauntily on his hip.
“I’m offended,” Louis huffed, glancing down. “I’ll have you know that my penis lacks any malformation at all. In fact it’s perfectly formed, beautiful, statuesque even. If I don’t get any endorsements out of the games, I might become a penis model. I’ve already been approached by Durex.”
“That seems like it might not be true,” Harry said, stifling a laugh.
“Which means that you think it also seems like it could be true,” Louis said sweetly. “Aren’t you curious which it is?”
“What did you say your name was again?”
A minute later they were sat over tea, strictly herbal for Louis; caffeine this late in the afternoon was never a good idea to begin with and the entire atmosphere of the village had him so wired that the lump of sugar he’d plopped into his cup was already blinking “danger” back up at him from within the brew. Harry, who could and did drink proper tea--from the moment he woke up until minutes before he laid his head down--without regard to either caffeine or sugar, blew softly into his steaming cup of Earl Grey, mouth making a perfect circle, eyes trained on Louis, who sat up with a shimmy at this.
“So,” Harry began. “Tell me six-fingers--”
“I feel the need to clarify, for the official record, that I don’t actually have six fingers,” Louis interrupted, wiggling his hands at Harry.
Harry grabbed a hand mid-wiggle and said, “Well, I still don’t know your name yet, do I.”
“Right; it’s Louis Tomlinson. Official nickname: The Howler Monkey.”
Harry bit his lip. “You have an official nickname?”
“You don’t?” Louis said incredulously. “The press love it, gives them something to say so they don’t run out of rubbish to blather on about while trying to comment on obscure sport that both they and the audience only care or hear about once every four years. You know, the human interest element. It’s how you get an endorsement deal. That or have a truly magnificent penis, which I believe I already mentioned having.”
Harry had still been holding Louis’ wrist but he dropped it now and covered his face with both hands to suppress a giggle. He shook his head in disbelief a few times, trying to clear a growing dizzy buzzy feeling and decide where to even begin with this mess. He settled on, “You might have said already...but then you’ve said a lot of things.”
“And you’re not an auditory learner,” Louis finished for him.
“Mmm. Much more visual,” Harry agreed, nodding.
“I was actually hoping for kinesthetic,” Louis said.
At this Harry actually let out a bark of a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth. He looked around wildly, mouth still lidded. When he looked back at Louis, Louis was bobbing his head, eyebrow arched. Harry bit his finger and said, “We’ll see.”
“Liam!” Louis shouted. “The sock on the doorknob means the room is occupied! Don’t you know the code??”
“You cannot be serious right now, Louis,” Liam called back. “You promised.”
“There’re no competitions tomorrow!”
“It’s Opening Ceremony, Louis!” Liam yelled to the door, head banging against it slightly.
“At night!”
Liam folded his arms and looked up and down the corridor. Mortifying. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand out in the hall shouting through a door all evening! I’m coming in.”
Liam stormed into the room and immediately halted, left hand frozen on the doorknob. “Hello. I’m Harry,” a very naked Harry Styles said.
Louis beamed at Liam. “Like I said, occupied.”
An hour later Harry was sprawled--naked still--across Louis while Louis ran a hand through Harry’s curls. “So about this nickname,” Harry began, turning his head to meet Louis’ eyes.
“Mmm?” Louis murmured, sated and now-relaxed despite the earlier tea. A good orgasm overpowers sugar every time, he’s found.
“I am going to assume that you are not called ‘The Howler Monkey’ for the noises you make during sex, because that seems a little too human interest for the BBC,” Harry said and flicked his tongue across Louis’ nipple. “Though it might be a selling point for Durex.”
Recently orgasmed Louis’ brain was not as quick-witted as usual--hamster asleep at the wheel--so he laconically replied, “Was it for you?”
“Not gonna lie, it worked pretty well. A little feedback to let me know how I’m doing is always nice,” Harry said, grinning.
“I’m glad to hear that, because I thought maybe we could go over the tape now and take a look at your form?” Louis said, brain beginning to work again. “See if we can’t get that up to a perfect 10.”
Harry cocked his head at him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Louis continued. “Do they not do that in fencing?”
“You are completely insane,” Harry said.
“I’m kind of thinking you like that,” Louis laughed and bent his head down to kiss Harry.
The next day as the entire Team GB prepared for the Opening Ceremony, a sheepish Harry Styles walked up to an equally embarrassed Liam Payne, stuck out his hand, and said, “I want to apologise about last night and introduce myself properly. I’m Harry.”
Liam cleared his throat and said, “Liam. And it’s, um, nice to meet you. Again.”
Harry smiled ruefully and said, “Right, again. More clothes this time.”
“Thankfully,” Liam said smiling back ever so slightly.
“Liam, stop trying to make him feel bad!” Louis exclaimed, suddenly appearing with Niall. “Harry, don’t worry about a thing; Liam had a sexpulsion contingency plan!”
“A what?” Harry asked while Liam rolled his eyes. “Exactly,” Liam said to Louis, gesturing at Harry’s perplexed look.
“You know, an emergency backup plan of where he could go to sleep in case he got sexpelled,” Louis explained. Niall nodded in agreement and said, “Always important to have one of those, mate.”
“See!” Louis said triumphantly. Harry nodded slowly, then said to Liam, “So, uh, what was your backup plan when I, um, sexpelled you last night? Sorry.”
Niall grinned and interjected, “Oh, they all come to me on account of me knowing everyone. When Liam here told me what was happening in his room, I rang over to Zayn and had Liam sleep in your room, Harry.”
Louis released a sharp “Ha!” and then said, “So really, Liam should be thanking us for sexiling him!”
Liam shot Louis a withering look, but couldn’t help the blush creeping up his cheeks. Louis grinned gleefully in response and said, “So how was your night, Liam?”
Liam sighed resignedly and said, “Lovely, but tonight I’d really prefer it if--”
“Attaboy!” Louis interrupted, thumping Liam on the back and throwing a wink at Niall before slinging his arm around Harry and waltzing off. Harry, still trying to make amends, called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Liam. He knows it’s the night before your competition!”
“You’re terrible, you know,” Harry said when they were alone.
“Nah, Liam and I go way back. And as my best friend of nearly 14 years, he’s basically contractually obligated to find my antics endearing deep down, even if he seems annoyed. Do not be fooled by his frustrated exterior--there is great love there,” Louis said, adding with a straight face, “I’m sort of irresistible that way. And besides, Liam won’t admit it, but we gave him the perfect excuse to talk to your mate, something he never would’ve done on his own.”
“Does he fancy Zayn for real then?” Harry asked, a small smile spreading on his face.
Louis suddenly gave Harry a stern look. “Only if Zayn fancies him. I’m very protective of my people, you know. Like a--”
“Howler monkey?” Harry interrupted innocently. Louis cocked an appreciative eyebrow at Harry. “Speaking of,” Harry continued, “You still haven’t really explained that one to me.”
“Now, you see how the nickname got you sucked right into the human interest angle? You want to know more. You’re thinking: who is this man they call ‘The Howler Monkey,’” Louis said in a film voice-over tone.
Harry nodded dutifully. “Go on,” he said, chin in hand.
“My mum gave me the nickname when I was a toddler. She says that before I was even two years old I was climbing over everything like a little monkey. And I started talking even before that and haven’t shut up since--her words, not mine,” Louis clarified. “I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you? Anyway, thus the howler monkey. Apparently I made a lot of noise and caused a lot of trouble as a child.”
“As a child?” Harry intoned.
Louis, steamrolling right over the dig, continued, “We had a trampoline in the backyard and I would spend hours on it. So she enrolled me in gymnastics and I just fell in love with trampolining for real. It’s like flying, you know?”
Harry didn’t exactly know, but he nodded like he did. As Louis babbled on about training to become a competitive trampoliner, a grin lit up his whole face as bright as any torch and Harry could feel his brain starting to buzz again in response, but he didn’t try to shake it off this time.
When it was time to finally walk into the arena, Harry grabbed Zayn and dragged him over so the fencing team could walk side-by-side with the gymnastics squad, Harry spending equal time being wowed by the massive crowd and sneaking glances at Louis and his crinkled-up eyes.
The next day Zayn and Harry slid in next to Louis in the stands ten minutes before Great Britain’s rotation began. Louis gave Harry a significant look, raised his eyebrows at Zayn, and said, “Wow, I’m quite impressed by all the support the fencing team is giving to the gymnastics team!”
“One big family, right?” Zayn said, squinting at the rings where Liam was warming up before unfolding a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and slipping them on. “Just showing some love.”
Louis nodded solemnly and said, “I’m sure Liam would like it if you did.”
Harry fought against a grin for a moment, admitting defeat as Louis continued, “I can tell you--not from experience, mind you--what kinds of love he might like you to show him, if you’re looking for some suggestions.”
Harry felt like his face was in training for some sort of smile Olympics and not five minutes into today’s “date” it was already sore from yesterday’s workout. He patted his cheeks and stretched his jaw as Zayn shot Louis a look and said, “I’m good, thanks for the offer though.” Zayn nudged Harry and said, “You two carry on like I’m not here, will you?”
Harry nodded and leaned over to Louis and whispered, “I think you’re embarrassing him a little.”
Louis lifted his hands innocently, nonplussed, but was quiet--as quiet as Louis could be anyway, meaning not very quiet at all, though at least not spewing sexual innuendo every fourth word--through the team’s entire rings rotation, leaning hard against Harry’s shoulder at every Iron Cross, gripping Harry’s thigh at every dismount.
As the teams rotated to their second apparatus, Harry turned to Louis and said, “So can we go back to the six fingers?”
Louis laughed and said, “Are you still on that? Have you never had anyone use a chat-up line on you? I recognize that this was probably the best chat-up line you’ve ever heard, but you’re maybe a bit obsessed with it now.”
“I’m not sure if best is the word I was thinking of?” Harry said slowly and evenly. At Louis’ perplexed look, he continued “It’s just that I still don’t understand how telling me you had six fingers was a chat-up line.”
“It worked didn’t it?” Louis said, preening.
“Honestly, I don’t think it was the line that did it...”
“Ah, so then it must’ve been that you wanted to know if what I said about my penis was true.” Louis grabbed Harry’s hand and casually moved it to his crotch, eyes never straying from Harry’s face. “And did I lie?”
Harry wasn’t exactly one for public groping but he also wasn’t about to show his embarrassment to Louis, who had a devilish gleam in his eye. He fondled Louis as discretely as possible without breaking Louis’ eye contact. When he could feel Louis begin to get hard he answered, “No, it was well-represented indeed.” He started to draw his hand away, but Louis pushed it right back into his lap. Harry glanced around before continuing to rub, and said, “But that wasn’t really it eith--”
“Don’t question,” Louis said, rocking his hips and grinning at Harry. “There’s a method to my madness.”
“Mad is probably a good word for it. But humor me; explain why having six fingers was your opening line.”
“You’re a fencer,” Louis said, like that explained everything. “So I’m the six-fingered man. Get it?”
Harry raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He dropped his jumper onto Louis’ lap to hide his hand and began to work at Louis’ zipper underneath it.
“‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father.’...Seriously? Nothing? Not ringing any bells?” Louis said with a pained look on his face. “‘The Princess Bride?!’”
Harry shrugged his shoulders. Louis pushed Harry’s hand off his now fully hard cock in mock disgust. “Wow! You not getting this makes me question my decision to hit on you. Honestly I don’t know if I can continue to receive a handjob, however awesome, from a person who doesn’t know ‘The Princess Bride.’”
At this Zayn cleared his throat and said, “Oi mate, I’m trying to watch some gymnastics here.”
“Sorry, Zayn, you’re completely right,” Louis said sweetly. “Let’s all concentrate on how Liam rides, I mean straddles, that pommel horse, shall we? A thing of beauty, no?”
Louis wasn’t kidding though; it actually was a thing of beauty, Liam’s legs extended impossibly wide, flaring through the air and hurtling toward the horse as he traveled right to left across the leather. Zayn couldn’t help but be mesmerized by Liam’s strength and flexibility, both of which Louis had winkingly pointed out in what was otherwise a very helpful explanation of the intricacy and difficulty of Liam’s routine.
“Very impressive,” Zayn said, but refused to be baited further.
After they cheered on a solid routine from Niall that put Great Britain in serious medal contention, Harry snaked his hand back under his jumper, which was still lying on Louis’ lap. Louis shot him a reproachful look and huffed, “I’m still not over you not understanding my opening line. I’m just not sure now.”
Harry raised his eyebrows and said, “Hmm, rather than questioning your decision to hit on me, maybe you should question the brilliance of your chat-up line. Because I think that if you have to explain it this much maybe it just wasn’t a very good one? I’m just saying.”
“I’m just saying that it’s like if I said ‘I carried a watermelon,’ then I’m saying something and you should know what I’m saying!” Louis swatted Harry’s hand away.
Harry grinned. Louis made him feel totally mad. Harry crossed his arms and said, “I totally don’t know what you’re saying right now.”
Louis sighed. “I feel as if you’ve just put me in a corner.” Louis waited a pause. When Harry didn’t respond he said, “‘Dirty Dancing??’”
Harry giggled as Louis raised his arms to the ceiling in desperation before folding his own arms across his chest. “Okay, you know what,” Louis said, “As soon as this whole Olympics thing is done, you and I are going to have a film watching marathon.”
Harry reached a finger out and caressed Louis’ hand, hidden behind both of their crossed arms. When he felt Louis return the touch, he closed his fingers around Louis’ hand and held it there out of sight, and said, “It’s a date.”
Louis smiled a big half-moon smile, eyes squinching up, and said, “Excellent. ‘The Princess Bride,’ ‘Dirty Dancing,’ and the John Hughes’ oeuvre.”
“Did you just say oeuvre?”
“That is completely a word,” Louis retorted.
“I know that, but who says it? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say it before,” Harry said and pressed his free hand against face to calm his aching smile muscles, face breaking into a grin anyway in rebellion. “But then again I’ve never seen ‘The Princess Bride,’ ‘Dirty Dancing,’ or anything from John Hughes’ oeuvre, so take that as you will.”
“Duly noted.”
By the time Tuesday rolled around, they had spent nearly every non-training moment together, so it was a very smitten Louis who dragged Liam--not in the metaphorical kicking-and-screaming way, but in the literal physically-in-excitement way--to the men’s individual foil competition. Watching Harry fence was nothing like Louis had expected, nothing like every ridiculous fencing movie he’d ever seen (no capes, masks, or moustaches for one thing). Harry was all quick lithe steps then sudden bursts and lunges and flourishes. It was unbelievably sexy and Louis could barely contain himself watching Harry easily defeat his opponents.
It wasn’t until the quarterfinal match that things drew even, with the score tied at the end of regulation time. A voice boomed over the speaker system announcing that there would be a one-minute sudden death period and that if at the end of that time the score was still even Harry would advance to the gold medal bout. Louis squirmed in anticipation and leaned in closer to watch the final minute.
Thirty seconds gone, now forty, fifty; the clock ticked down, but neither Harry nor his German opponent managed to land a touch. Louis began to cheer as the clock ran out but stopped short when the announcement came that there would be one second put back on the clock. Louis held his breath. The whistle blew and there was a stutter step backward, a lunge forward, and then a flurry of activity, followed by another whistle.
Impossibly, the German had gotten a touch. Louis’s eyes flew up to the clock in shock--one second still. “How can there still be a second left? The clock didn’t start, it didn’t start! Harry should’ve won!” Louis exclaimed, punching Liam in his frustration.
“Ow, yes, I see. Look,” Liam said, pointing at Harry’s coach, who was gesticulating wildly to the officials. After much discussion between the coach and the judges, an announcement came asking for silence so the judges could deliberate. Louis gripped Liam’s arm, keeping his eyes glued on Harry pacing with his helmet under his arm and curls bouncing wet and askew about his head. After what seemed to Louis--who was not exactly known for his patience--to be an unendingly long time, the judges indicated that the decision would stand; the German was declared the winner.
Harry’s coach (and Louis) shouted, “No!” while Harry stood stock-still, barely even reacting when the German ran up and shook his hand. The coach made a few motions to him and Harry nodded, running his hands through his hair a few times until it was properly mussed, never budging from the piste. The announcer explained that if Harry left the ring, it would mean he had accepted the judges’ ruling. Louis shook his head and muttered, “Impossible.”
The coach went off to file an official complaint, judges trailing alongside, until the entire floor was empty, save Harry.
Finally he sat on the edge of the piste, shoulders slumped, head in hands, and waited. And waited. And waited. Gone was the grace of Harry in battle; alone on the piste, his long limbs folded around him now, illuminated bright white in the spotlights against the stark backdrop of the crowd receding into blackness, he looked small and lost to Louis. He waited.
He waited for forty-five minutes. Louis felt like he’d hardly breathed in that time, his heart pounding like it was him out there on a stage, like it might shatter into pieces at any moment just from carrying the weight of looking at Harry’s hunched back and not being able to smooth a hand along it.
Finally a judge walked up to Harry and let him know that his appeal had been lost; it was time to leave. The match was over. He made a motion to escort Harry away, but Harry shook his head and suddenly stood on the piste, stretching to his full height, long and lean and straight. It was maybe the first time Louis had seen him not casually coolly slumped and he sucked in his breath at the sight.
Harry’s helmet lying to his left, foil pointed at attention and full of tension like a dowsing rod straining to reach water hidden beneath the piste, and the spotlights glinting through the curls framing his head, he stood tall and defiant. Louis had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He dropped Liam’s arm, mesmerized.
A minute later, security came and escorted Harry from the piste to the crowd’s standing ovation. Louis turned to Liam and said completely seriously, “I think I might be in love.”
Less than an hour later, a still-shaken Harry lost the bronze medal bout. When Louis was finally able to see him, Harry took one look at Louis and his face crumpled. He covered his eyes. Louis sat down next to him and whispered, “You were like a warrior out there.” Harry exhaled audibly and dropped his free hand to the bench between them. Louis followed suit, softly covering Harry’s hand with his own.
That night Louis switched rooms with Zayn--he didn’t think Liam would object too much--and he and Harry spent the entire next day together in bed. By Wednesday Harry’s defeat was big news and a photo of a Harry’s protest was being called iconic. Harry thought that while he appreciated all the attention being paid to fencing and while being an icon was very nice, he’d prefer it if he were also an Olympic medalist.
Olympic medal or not, Louis felt deeply proud of him and couldn’t wait to give Harry a chance to feel the same about him. Friday afternoon was his opportunity, longshot though he was.
Truth be told, Harry already felt something very akin to pride for Louis well before he even took the floor, and just seeing Louis’ powerful thighs and slim waist in his uniform flooded his face with heat. Zayn nudged him and said, “You’re sort of grinning like a maniac, mate.”
Liam leaned over Zayn to take a look at Harry’s beam and solemnly said, “Yes, Louis does tend to drive one mad.”
Harry shushed him as Louis climbed onto the trampoline. Louis began to bounce, kicking up one leg a bit, and soon he was rocketing straight up on each bounce, ten meters into the air. Harry understood all at once what Louis had meant when he said it was like flying.
At the tenth impossibly high bounce, Louis began to tumble and spiral, as intricately as any diver, but instead of seamlessly entering the water after each twist, he effortlessly rebounded into yet another flip. After what seemed to be a dizzying number of rotations, he stilled himself on the trampoline and saluted the judges. Harry whooped, not caring at all that he looked like a maniac.
Twenty-five minutes later, following a surprising miscue from one of the Chinese tumblers and having performed his best routine ever, Louis was the unexpected winner of the bronze medal. His heart felt like it was still bouncing on the trampoline, and his mind was doing flips as he giddily talked to an interviewer from the BBC about the routine and the surprise strength of the British men’s gymnastics team, who had now delivered not only Louis’ bronze in trampoline but the team bronze in artistic gymnastics, thanks to strong routines from unofficial team captain Liam Payne and Irish transplant Niall Horan.
“Any last messages for your fans and supporters?” the interviewer said at last.
“Oh yes, and can this bit go in the highlight reel, because the person this message is for is actually here right now, so can’t very well be watching BBC at the moment,” Louis said with a wink.
The interviewer nodded with a smile. Louis looked directly into the camera, smoothed his hair a bit, and completely seriously began, “Harry Styles. Will you be my boyfriend?” He finished with a huge grin, then called out “Thanks!” as he ran off.
Two hours later they were all celebrating in a bar, Louis pressing drunken kisses against Harry’s neck when Niall yelled out, “Shh, shh! They’re doing Louis’ segment now!”
And there he was, flipping around on screen to a voiceover about ‘The Howler Monkey.’ Harry pulled Louis in at this, laughing as he wrapped his arms around Louis’ chest to steady himself as much as hold Louis tight. He breathed into Louis’ ear, “You look so hot there.”
Then came Louis’ voice from the TV, “Harry Styles. Will you be my boyfriend?” and the announcer explaining, “That would be British fencer Harry Styles, who earlier this week--”
Harry shook his head. That buzzy dizzy feeling again, but this time decidedly less pleasant. He shook his head. No avail. He spun Louis around and looked at him in disbelief. “Did you just out me in front of all of the UK?” He suddenly wished he’d had less beer. “And potentially the entire world?”
“Well...technically only if you say yes. If you say no, then I’ll have just outted myself.” Louis cleared his throat, tasted beer. “As possibly desperate and delusional in addition to being gay. Followed maybe by pitiable and pathetic?”
Harry’s only response was a deep breath. Louis gave him a wobbly smile and continued as undrunkenly as he possibly could, “So I’m sort of hoping you’re not going to say no. Really hoping, actually.” He reached a hand up and stroked Harry’s cheek.
Harry turned his head to kiss Louis’ hand, closing his eyes. He pressed his hand to Louis’, holding it fast to the kiss, the room spinning behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes and said, “I had too much to drink. I gotta go.”
Louis nodded but didn’t risk saying anything further. For possibly the first time in his life. He pressed his lips together to keep himself from ruining what felt like an interminably vast silence, waiting, waiting, waiting for Harry’s answer.
Harry squeezed his shoulder, gave him a wan smile, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he was gone.
The sun streamed--as much as it could; these were the London Olympics after all--through a part in the curtains. Twelve noon. Louis’ hair was matted against his forehead, medal still around his neck, and his mouth felt like his tongue had been glued to the roof of his mouth all night. He padded over to the sink and drank directly from the tap. Next to the sink was a note from Liam reading Gone for breakfast w Zayn. Text me when your up! Louis mentally added an apostrophe and an e, then crumpled the note in frustration. Where was the justice in a world where he slept alone, fencerless, the night after winning an Olympic medal while Liam--also technically an Olympic medalist though since it was a team medal it didn’t count quite as much, Louis reasoned--continued to carry on drama-free (as always) with his fencer?
He made a pot of tea, real proper tea with caffeine, absolutely necessary for how shit he felt. He had the distinct feeling that this was not what he was supposed to feel like the morning after the supposed best day of his life. And definitely not how he should feel after what was certainly the best week he’d ever had, even without the added bonus of an Olympic bronze.
He sighed into his tea, debating whether to turn on his phone or not. As long as it was off, he could resist the temptation to call Harry. And as long as his hair looked the way it did, he could fight the urge to march over to Harry’s apartment and demand a proper answer, and by proper he meant yes, of course. Of course.
He ran a hand through his hair--which didn’t count as fixing it, but was certainly a start--and poured himself a second cup of tea. He was not two sips into it when he heard a knock on the door. Tea in hand, he opened the door and squinted against the sudden light. Harry was leaned against the doorjamb, lanky and tousled as ever. Gorgeous as the first time Louis had laid eyes on him a week earlier. And Louis with his still flattened hair and paste-tasting mouth.
Harry wordlessly handed him a newspaper. The headline blared STYLES MAY HAVE LOST MATCH BUT WON BOYFRIEND IN BRONZE MEDALIST TOMLINSON. Underneath, the article include a full spread of pictures--a distant photo of them walking side by side at the opening ceremonies, them laughing together at all the men’s artistic gymnastic events, Harry cheering wildly at the trampoline finals, and of course a photo of a defiant Harry refusing to leave the piste--plus a sidebar about the number of out athletes at the games (twenty-one, plus two more now) and an inset on the reaction on twitter, where #sayyesharry briefly trended in the United Kingdom.
Harry poured himself a cup of tea while he watched Louis read through the article. When Louis was finished, Harry deadpanned, “So I guess this is a pretty good human interest element, huh?”
“I think it’s safe to say that the press are enjoying this story, yes,” Louis responded. “I particularly like the lines ‘Has the heartbreak of the Games ended for Styles? And having won Tomlinson’s heart, can he lead his team to victory in Sunday’s men’s team foil competition?’ Quality journalism, that.”
Harry nodded, sipping his tea. Louis continued, eyes scanning Harry’s calm but mostly impassive face, “And lots of room for a followup article when you give your answer. I’m sure everyone is curious to know what it is. And by everyone I mean more me than all of the UK and potentially the entire world, though--”
“I watched ‘The Princess Bride’ last night, you know,” Harry interrupted. “Couldn’t sleep and I was just...trying to understand everything, process this whole week, I guess. This week has been so...” Harry trailed off, shaking his head. He looked Louis directly in the eyes and said, “Anyway I realised that you are the six-fingered man.”
“Oh god, should I prepare to die?” Louis said, eyebrows raised. “Maybe that’s not a good idea? The press seem very invested in this now and--”
Harry clapped a hand over Louis’ mouth. “What I’m trying to say is that I understand your chat-up line now. And that you were right. You are the man I’ve been looking for.”
He slowly let his hand drop from Louis’ mouth, caressing Louis’ jawline on its way down, and said, “Now shut up and kiss me, you fool.”
Pairing: Harry/Louis, implied Liam/Zayn
Rating & Warnings: R; Alternate Universe Olympics Edition! 6k
Disclaimer: Pure fiction. No harm or profit intended.
A/N: All kinds of feedback appreciated! Thanks to katienyc and xcarex for the betas and junkshop_disco for the much-needed Britpick. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
A special thanks to flimsy who, upon reading about the Korean fencer Shin a Lam, said, "This makes me want a fencing!AU in which Harry stays in protest and then cries when they escort him away because he knows it was unfair but there’s nothing he could do. He’ll find Louis in his hotel room because he knows Louis can always make him feel better, and Louis has already prepared booze and junk food and movies because he’s just that fantastic." That's not exactly how this story goes, but it's a good jumping off point.
Summary: The Olympics are really just an excuse for falling in love. Plus fencing and gymnastics.
On AO3 or below!
Like Flying
“Liam,” Louis gasped, suddenly staggering. His hand flew to Liam’s chest, fingers clawed around Liam’s pec, arm locked straight as he leaned all his weight into Liam, steadying himself. “Who is that?”
Liam peeled Louis’ fingers back one by one, casually glancing around for anyone out of the ordinary. He stopped mid-forefinger-pry when his eyes fell on him. “You mean Mr. Future Olympic Champion of Staring Into the Middle Distance?”
“What?” Louis said and whipped his head around, need for support forgotten. “No, no, not Mr. Gold Medal in Bone Structure and Smouldering Gazes, though I’m proud that under my tutelage you’re now able to pick out the second hottest guy here. That’s not an easy task considering the overall fitness of Team Great Britain, if I do say so myself. So kudos.”
Liam raised his eyebrows. Tutelage wasn’t exactly the right word for Louis’ running commentary about seemingly every person in the world and his constant attempts to corrupt Liam. Louis felt that there were only so many hours a week one could train and the rest might as well be spent socialising, making mischief, and having sex, not necessarily in that order. Probably the reverse, actually.
It’s not that Liam disagreed with his reasoning, per se, he just couldn’t bring himself to gad about quite so freely. He had every intention of winning a medal in front of the home crowd, men of great bone structure notwithstanding.
This was not to say that Louis didn’t want a medal. But beneath the perfect coif--soft and swoopy on off days, aggressively gelled into a whimsically architectural fan for competitions--Louis had a hyperactive hamster of a mind and he wasn’t about to spend his entire life just running on a wheel when there was a whole world to explore.
“Second hottest? Who, then?” Liam asked, not really tearing his eyes off of the silver medalist of Louis’ loins. Another subjective judging, he supposed.
“Ugh, Liam.” Louis made a sound of disgust. “I thought you were making progress. Standing right next to him. Lanky, curls, smile ready for a toothpaste advert.”
“Hey lads.” Niall broke in between Louis and Liam suddenly, slinging an arm around each boy’s shoulders and following their gazes. “You’ve got a little drool,” he said, swiping at Louis’ chin before continuing, “so. Scoping out our fine fencing team, are you?”
Louis, who had been test-patting around his mouth for any residual wetness, snapped his head towards Niall and grinned wildly. “Horan, tell me you know Curly over there.”
“That, my friend, is one Harry Styles.” Niall snuck a quick glance at Liam and added, “Teammate’s Zayn Malik. And you’re welcome.”
As Niall wandered off Louis widened his eyes at Liam and said, “Niall, man! I am so glad Ireland doesn’t field a gymnastics team. What would we do if Nialler had never moved here?”
Louis was just beginning to spiral into a maddeningly unproductive conversation with Liam--the supposedly reliable one who somehow did not know if the outrageously large number of condoms available to Olympic athletes also included obscene amounts of lube (What good would 100,000 condoms do them without it, exactly? It was conversations like these that made Louis think that somehow, somewhere, he was failing in Liam’s training.)--when inspiration hit him.
He strode across the courtyard, sauntering ever so slightly as he approached a certain Harry Styles, and announced, “I am the six-fingered man.” He smoothed an errant strand of fringe off his eyebrow, which he then cocked seductively.
Harry’s eyes followed Louis’ hand sweeping across his brow. He glanced down at Louis’ other hand perched on his hip, fingers drumming lightly on his waistband. “OK...,” he said slowly. Not sure of the proper response, he continued, “You hide it really well?”
“What?” Louis said.
“I mean, I don’t even notice the sixth finger?”
“Oh,” Louis said. “No, it was my line.”
“Your line?”
“My chat-up line. I’m, you know, trying it on with you.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “And you think I like extra appendages?”
Louis’s eyes began to twinkle. “Well, I’m hoping you’ll like a certain appendage, yes.”
“I get the feeling you’re no longer talking about a finger.”
“No, we’ve definitely left the realm of hands now,” Louis said with a smirk.
Harry bit back a smile and said, “Just out of curiosity, is this how you normally hit on guys?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, by talking about your...physical abnormalities,” Harry finished, gesturing at Louis’ hand, which was still sat jauntily on his hip.
“I’m offended,” Louis huffed, glancing down. “I’ll have you know that my penis lacks any malformation at all. In fact it’s perfectly formed, beautiful, statuesque even. If I don’t get any endorsements out of the games, I might become a penis model. I’ve already been approached by Durex.”
“That seems like it might not be true,” Harry said, stifling a laugh.
“Which means that you think it also seems like it could be true,” Louis said sweetly. “Aren’t you curious which it is?”
“What did you say your name was again?”
A minute later they were sat over tea, strictly herbal for Louis; caffeine this late in the afternoon was never a good idea to begin with and the entire atmosphere of the village had him so wired that the lump of sugar he’d plopped into his cup was already blinking “danger” back up at him from within the brew. Harry, who could and did drink proper tea--from the moment he woke up until minutes before he laid his head down--without regard to either caffeine or sugar, blew softly into his steaming cup of Earl Grey, mouth making a perfect circle, eyes trained on Louis, who sat up with a shimmy at this.
“So,” Harry began. “Tell me six-fingers--”
“I feel the need to clarify, for the official record, that I don’t actually have six fingers,” Louis interrupted, wiggling his hands at Harry.
Harry grabbed a hand mid-wiggle and said, “Well, I still don’t know your name yet, do I.”
“Right; it’s Louis Tomlinson. Official nickname: The Howler Monkey.”
Harry bit his lip. “You have an official nickname?”
“You don’t?” Louis said incredulously. “The press love it, gives them something to say so they don’t run out of rubbish to blather on about while trying to comment on obscure sport that both they and the audience only care or hear about once every four years. You know, the human interest element. It’s how you get an endorsement deal. That or have a truly magnificent penis, which I believe I already mentioned having.”
Harry had still been holding Louis’ wrist but he dropped it now and covered his face with both hands to suppress a giggle. He shook his head in disbelief a few times, trying to clear a growing dizzy buzzy feeling and decide where to even begin with this mess. He settled on, “You might have said already...but then you’ve said a lot of things.”
“And you’re not an auditory learner,” Louis finished for him.
“Mmm. Much more visual,” Harry agreed, nodding.
“I was actually hoping for kinesthetic,” Louis said.
At this Harry actually let out a bark of a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth. He looked around wildly, mouth still lidded. When he looked back at Louis, Louis was bobbing his head, eyebrow arched. Harry bit his finger and said, “We’ll see.”
“Liam!” Louis shouted. “The sock on the doorknob means the room is occupied! Don’t you know the code??”
“You cannot be serious right now, Louis,” Liam called back. “You promised.”
“There’re no competitions tomorrow!”
“It’s Opening Ceremony, Louis!” Liam yelled to the door, head banging against it slightly.
“At night!”
Liam folded his arms and looked up and down the corridor. Mortifying. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand out in the hall shouting through a door all evening! I’m coming in.”
Liam stormed into the room and immediately halted, left hand frozen on the doorknob. “Hello. I’m Harry,” a very naked Harry Styles said.
Louis beamed at Liam. “Like I said, occupied.”
An hour later Harry was sprawled--naked still--across Louis while Louis ran a hand through Harry’s curls. “So about this nickname,” Harry began, turning his head to meet Louis’ eyes.
“Mmm?” Louis murmured, sated and now-relaxed despite the earlier tea. A good orgasm overpowers sugar every time, he’s found.
“I am going to assume that you are not called ‘The Howler Monkey’ for the noises you make during sex, because that seems a little too human interest for the BBC,” Harry said and flicked his tongue across Louis’ nipple. “Though it might be a selling point for Durex.”
Recently orgasmed Louis’ brain was not as quick-witted as usual--hamster asleep at the wheel--so he laconically replied, “Was it for you?”
“Not gonna lie, it worked pretty well. A little feedback to let me know how I’m doing is always nice,” Harry said, grinning.
“I’m glad to hear that, because I thought maybe we could go over the tape now and take a look at your form?” Louis said, brain beginning to work again. “See if we can’t get that up to a perfect 10.”
Harry cocked his head at him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Louis continued. “Do they not do that in fencing?”
“You are completely insane,” Harry said.
“I’m kind of thinking you like that,” Louis laughed and bent his head down to kiss Harry.
The next day as the entire Team GB prepared for the Opening Ceremony, a sheepish Harry Styles walked up to an equally embarrassed Liam Payne, stuck out his hand, and said, “I want to apologise about last night and introduce myself properly. I’m Harry.”
Liam cleared his throat and said, “Liam. And it’s, um, nice to meet you. Again.”
Harry smiled ruefully and said, “Right, again. More clothes this time.”
“Thankfully,” Liam said smiling back ever so slightly.
“Liam, stop trying to make him feel bad!” Louis exclaimed, suddenly appearing with Niall. “Harry, don’t worry about a thing; Liam had a sexpulsion contingency plan!”
“A what?” Harry asked while Liam rolled his eyes. “Exactly,” Liam said to Louis, gesturing at Harry’s perplexed look.
“You know, an emergency backup plan of where he could go to sleep in case he got sexpelled,” Louis explained. Niall nodded in agreement and said, “Always important to have one of those, mate.”
“See!” Louis said triumphantly. Harry nodded slowly, then said to Liam, “So, uh, what was your backup plan when I, um, sexpelled you last night? Sorry.”
Niall grinned and interjected, “Oh, they all come to me on account of me knowing everyone. When Liam here told me what was happening in his room, I rang over to Zayn and had Liam sleep in your room, Harry.”
Louis released a sharp “Ha!” and then said, “So really, Liam should be thanking us for sexiling him!”
Liam shot Louis a withering look, but couldn’t help the blush creeping up his cheeks. Louis grinned gleefully in response and said, “So how was your night, Liam?”
Liam sighed resignedly and said, “Lovely, but tonight I’d really prefer it if--”
“Attaboy!” Louis interrupted, thumping Liam on the back and throwing a wink at Niall before slinging his arm around Harry and waltzing off. Harry, still trying to make amends, called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Liam. He knows it’s the night before your competition!”
“You’re terrible, you know,” Harry said when they were alone.
“Nah, Liam and I go way back. And as my best friend of nearly 14 years, he’s basically contractually obligated to find my antics endearing deep down, even if he seems annoyed. Do not be fooled by his frustrated exterior--there is great love there,” Louis said, adding with a straight face, “I’m sort of irresistible that way. And besides, Liam won’t admit it, but we gave him the perfect excuse to talk to your mate, something he never would’ve done on his own.”
“Does he fancy Zayn for real then?” Harry asked, a small smile spreading on his face.
Louis suddenly gave Harry a stern look. “Only if Zayn fancies him. I’m very protective of my people, you know. Like a--”
“Howler monkey?” Harry interrupted innocently. Louis cocked an appreciative eyebrow at Harry. “Speaking of,” Harry continued, “You still haven’t really explained that one to me.”
“Now, you see how the nickname got you sucked right into the human interest angle? You want to know more. You’re thinking: who is this man they call ‘The Howler Monkey,’” Louis said in a film voice-over tone.
Harry nodded dutifully. “Go on,” he said, chin in hand.
“My mum gave me the nickname when I was a toddler. She says that before I was even two years old I was climbing over everything like a little monkey. And I started talking even before that and haven’t shut up since--her words, not mine,” Louis clarified. “I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you? Anyway, thus the howler monkey. Apparently I made a lot of noise and caused a lot of trouble as a child.”
“As a child?” Harry intoned.
Louis, steamrolling right over the dig, continued, “We had a trampoline in the backyard and I would spend hours on it. So she enrolled me in gymnastics and I just fell in love with trampolining for real. It’s like flying, you know?”
Harry didn’t exactly know, but he nodded like he did. As Louis babbled on about training to become a competitive trampoliner, a grin lit up his whole face as bright as any torch and Harry could feel his brain starting to buzz again in response, but he didn’t try to shake it off this time.
When it was time to finally walk into the arena, Harry grabbed Zayn and dragged him over so the fencing team could walk side-by-side with the gymnastics squad, Harry spending equal time being wowed by the massive crowd and sneaking glances at Louis and his crinkled-up eyes.
The next day Zayn and Harry slid in next to Louis in the stands ten minutes before Great Britain’s rotation began. Louis gave Harry a significant look, raised his eyebrows at Zayn, and said, “Wow, I’m quite impressed by all the support the fencing team is giving to the gymnastics team!”
“One big family, right?” Zayn said, squinting at the rings where Liam was warming up before unfolding a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and slipping them on. “Just showing some love.”
Louis nodded solemnly and said, “I’m sure Liam would like it if you did.”
Harry fought against a grin for a moment, admitting defeat as Louis continued, “I can tell you--not from experience, mind you--what kinds of love he might like you to show him, if you’re looking for some suggestions.”
Harry felt like his face was in training for some sort of smile Olympics and not five minutes into today’s “date” it was already sore from yesterday’s workout. He patted his cheeks and stretched his jaw as Zayn shot Louis a look and said, “I’m good, thanks for the offer though.” Zayn nudged Harry and said, “You two carry on like I’m not here, will you?”
Harry nodded and leaned over to Louis and whispered, “I think you’re embarrassing him a little.”
Louis lifted his hands innocently, nonplussed, but was quiet--as quiet as Louis could be anyway, meaning not very quiet at all, though at least not spewing sexual innuendo every fourth word--through the team’s entire rings rotation, leaning hard against Harry’s shoulder at every Iron Cross, gripping Harry’s thigh at every dismount.
As the teams rotated to their second apparatus, Harry turned to Louis and said, “So can we go back to the six fingers?”
Louis laughed and said, “Are you still on that? Have you never had anyone use a chat-up line on you? I recognize that this was probably the best chat-up line you’ve ever heard, but you’re maybe a bit obsessed with it now.”
“I’m not sure if best is the word I was thinking of?” Harry said slowly and evenly. At Louis’ perplexed look, he continued “It’s just that I still don’t understand how telling me you had six fingers was a chat-up line.”
“It worked didn’t it?” Louis said, preening.
“Honestly, I don’t think it was the line that did it...”
“Ah, so then it must’ve been that you wanted to know if what I said about my penis was true.” Louis grabbed Harry’s hand and casually moved it to his crotch, eyes never straying from Harry’s face. “And did I lie?”
Harry wasn’t exactly one for public groping but he also wasn’t about to show his embarrassment to Louis, who had a devilish gleam in his eye. He fondled Louis as discretely as possible without breaking Louis’ eye contact. When he could feel Louis begin to get hard he answered, “No, it was well-represented indeed.” He started to draw his hand away, but Louis pushed it right back into his lap. Harry glanced around before continuing to rub, and said, “But that wasn’t really it eith--”
“Don’t question,” Louis said, rocking his hips and grinning at Harry. “There’s a method to my madness.”
“Mad is probably a good word for it. But humor me; explain why having six fingers was your opening line.”
“You’re a fencer,” Louis said, like that explained everything. “So I’m the six-fingered man. Get it?”
Harry raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He dropped his jumper onto Louis’ lap to hide his hand and began to work at Louis’ zipper underneath it.
“‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father.’...Seriously? Nothing? Not ringing any bells?” Louis said with a pained look on his face. “‘The Princess Bride?!’”
Harry shrugged his shoulders. Louis pushed Harry’s hand off his now fully hard cock in mock disgust. “Wow! You not getting this makes me question my decision to hit on you. Honestly I don’t know if I can continue to receive a handjob, however awesome, from a person who doesn’t know ‘The Princess Bride.’”
At this Zayn cleared his throat and said, “Oi mate, I’m trying to watch some gymnastics here.”
“Sorry, Zayn, you’re completely right,” Louis said sweetly. “Let’s all concentrate on how Liam rides, I mean straddles, that pommel horse, shall we? A thing of beauty, no?”
Louis wasn’t kidding though; it actually was a thing of beauty, Liam’s legs extended impossibly wide, flaring through the air and hurtling toward the horse as he traveled right to left across the leather. Zayn couldn’t help but be mesmerized by Liam’s strength and flexibility, both of which Louis had winkingly pointed out in what was otherwise a very helpful explanation of the intricacy and difficulty of Liam’s routine.
“Very impressive,” Zayn said, but refused to be baited further.
After they cheered on a solid routine from Niall that put Great Britain in serious medal contention, Harry snaked his hand back under his jumper, which was still lying on Louis’ lap. Louis shot him a reproachful look and huffed, “I’m still not over you not understanding my opening line. I’m just not sure now.”
Harry raised his eyebrows and said, “Hmm, rather than questioning your decision to hit on me, maybe you should question the brilliance of your chat-up line. Because I think that if you have to explain it this much maybe it just wasn’t a very good one? I’m just saying.”
“I’m just saying that it’s like if I said ‘I carried a watermelon,’ then I’m saying something and you should know what I’m saying!” Louis swatted Harry’s hand away.
Harry grinned. Louis made him feel totally mad. Harry crossed his arms and said, “I totally don’t know what you’re saying right now.”
Louis sighed. “I feel as if you’ve just put me in a corner.” Louis waited a pause. When Harry didn’t respond he said, “‘Dirty Dancing??’”
Harry giggled as Louis raised his arms to the ceiling in desperation before folding his own arms across his chest. “Okay, you know what,” Louis said, “As soon as this whole Olympics thing is done, you and I are going to have a film watching marathon.”
Harry reached a finger out and caressed Louis’ hand, hidden behind both of their crossed arms. When he felt Louis return the touch, he closed his fingers around Louis’ hand and held it there out of sight, and said, “It’s a date.”
Louis smiled a big half-moon smile, eyes squinching up, and said, “Excellent. ‘The Princess Bride,’ ‘Dirty Dancing,’ and the John Hughes’ oeuvre.”
“Did you just say oeuvre?”
“That is completely a word,” Louis retorted.
“I know that, but who says it? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say it before,” Harry said and pressed his free hand against face to calm his aching smile muscles, face breaking into a grin anyway in rebellion. “But then again I’ve never seen ‘The Princess Bride,’ ‘Dirty Dancing,’ or anything from John Hughes’ oeuvre, so take that as you will.”
“Duly noted.”
By the time Tuesday rolled around, they had spent nearly every non-training moment together, so it was a very smitten Louis who dragged Liam--not in the metaphorical kicking-and-screaming way, but in the literal physically-in-excitement way--to the men’s individual foil competition. Watching Harry fence was nothing like Louis had expected, nothing like every ridiculous fencing movie he’d ever seen (no capes, masks, or moustaches for one thing). Harry was all quick lithe steps then sudden bursts and lunges and flourishes. It was unbelievably sexy and Louis could barely contain himself watching Harry easily defeat his opponents.
It wasn’t until the quarterfinal match that things drew even, with the score tied at the end of regulation time. A voice boomed over the speaker system announcing that there would be a one-minute sudden death period and that if at the end of that time the score was still even Harry would advance to the gold medal bout. Louis squirmed in anticipation and leaned in closer to watch the final minute.
Thirty seconds gone, now forty, fifty; the clock ticked down, but neither Harry nor his German opponent managed to land a touch. Louis began to cheer as the clock ran out but stopped short when the announcement came that there would be one second put back on the clock. Louis held his breath. The whistle blew and there was a stutter step backward, a lunge forward, and then a flurry of activity, followed by another whistle.
Impossibly, the German had gotten a touch. Louis’s eyes flew up to the clock in shock--one second still. “How can there still be a second left? The clock didn’t start, it didn’t start! Harry should’ve won!” Louis exclaimed, punching Liam in his frustration.
“Ow, yes, I see. Look,” Liam said, pointing at Harry’s coach, who was gesticulating wildly to the officials. After much discussion between the coach and the judges, an announcement came asking for silence so the judges could deliberate. Louis gripped Liam’s arm, keeping his eyes glued on Harry pacing with his helmet under his arm and curls bouncing wet and askew about his head. After what seemed to Louis--who was not exactly known for his patience--to be an unendingly long time, the judges indicated that the decision would stand; the German was declared the winner.
Harry’s coach (and Louis) shouted, “No!” while Harry stood stock-still, barely even reacting when the German ran up and shook his hand. The coach made a few motions to him and Harry nodded, running his hands through his hair a few times until it was properly mussed, never budging from the piste. The announcer explained that if Harry left the ring, it would mean he had accepted the judges’ ruling. Louis shook his head and muttered, “Impossible.”
The coach went off to file an official complaint, judges trailing alongside, until the entire floor was empty, save Harry.
Finally he sat on the edge of the piste, shoulders slumped, head in hands, and waited. And waited. And waited. Gone was the grace of Harry in battle; alone on the piste, his long limbs folded around him now, illuminated bright white in the spotlights against the stark backdrop of the crowd receding into blackness, he looked small and lost to Louis. He waited.
He waited for forty-five minutes. Louis felt like he’d hardly breathed in that time, his heart pounding like it was him out there on a stage, like it might shatter into pieces at any moment just from carrying the weight of looking at Harry’s hunched back and not being able to smooth a hand along it.
Finally a judge walked up to Harry and let him know that his appeal had been lost; it was time to leave. The match was over. He made a motion to escort Harry away, but Harry shook his head and suddenly stood on the piste, stretching to his full height, long and lean and straight. It was maybe the first time Louis had seen him not casually coolly slumped and he sucked in his breath at the sight.
Harry’s helmet lying to his left, foil pointed at attention and full of tension like a dowsing rod straining to reach water hidden beneath the piste, and the spotlights glinting through the curls framing his head, he stood tall and defiant. Louis had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He dropped Liam’s arm, mesmerized.
A minute later, security came and escorted Harry from the piste to the crowd’s standing ovation. Louis turned to Liam and said completely seriously, “I think I might be in love.”
Less than an hour later, a still-shaken Harry lost the bronze medal bout. When Louis was finally able to see him, Harry took one look at Louis and his face crumpled. He covered his eyes. Louis sat down next to him and whispered, “You were like a warrior out there.” Harry exhaled audibly and dropped his free hand to the bench between them. Louis followed suit, softly covering Harry’s hand with his own.
That night Louis switched rooms with Zayn--he didn’t think Liam would object too much--and he and Harry spent the entire next day together in bed. By Wednesday Harry’s defeat was big news and a photo of a Harry’s protest was being called iconic. Harry thought that while he appreciated all the attention being paid to fencing and while being an icon was very nice, he’d prefer it if he were also an Olympic medalist.
Olympic medal or not, Louis felt deeply proud of him and couldn’t wait to give Harry a chance to feel the same about him. Friday afternoon was his opportunity, longshot though he was.
Truth be told, Harry already felt something very akin to pride for Louis well before he even took the floor, and just seeing Louis’ powerful thighs and slim waist in his uniform flooded his face with heat. Zayn nudged him and said, “You’re sort of grinning like a maniac, mate.”
Liam leaned over Zayn to take a look at Harry’s beam and solemnly said, “Yes, Louis does tend to drive one mad.”
Harry shushed him as Louis climbed onto the trampoline. Louis began to bounce, kicking up one leg a bit, and soon he was rocketing straight up on each bounce, ten meters into the air. Harry understood all at once what Louis had meant when he said it was like flying.
At the tenth impossibly high bounce, Louis began to tumble and spiral, as intricately as any diver, but instead of seamlessly entering the water after each twist, he effortlessly rebounded into yet another flip. After what seemed to be a dizzying number of rotations, he stilled himself on the trampoline and saluted the judges. Harry whooped, not caring at all that he looked like a maniac.
Twenty-five minutes later, following a surprising miscue from one of the Chinese tumblers and having performed his best routine ever, Louis was the unexpected winner of the bronze medal. His heart felt like it was still bouncing on the trampoline, and his mind was doing flips as he giddily talked to an interviewer from the BBC about the routine and the surprise strength of the British men’s gymnastics team, who had now delivered not only Louis’ bronze in trampoline but the team bronze in artistic gymnastics, thanks to strong routines from unofficial team captain Liam Payne and Irish transplant Niall Horan.
“Any last messages for your fans and supporters?” the interviewer said at last.
“Oh yes, and can this bit go in the highlight reel, because the person this message is for is actually here right now, so can’t very well be watching BBC at the moment,” Louis said with a wink.
The interviewer nodded with a smile. Louis looked directly into the camera, smoothed his hair a bit, and completely seriously began, “Harry Styles. Will you be my boyfriend?” He finished with a huge grin, then called out “Thanks!” as he ran off.
Two hours later they were all celebrating in a bar, Louis pressing drunken kisses against Harry’s neck when Niall yelled out, “Shh, shh! They’re doing Louis’ segment now!”
And there he was, flipping around on screen to a voiceover about ‘The Howler Monkey.’ Harry pulled Louis in at this, laughing as he wrapped his arms around Louis’ chest to steady himself as much as hold Louis tight. He breathed into Louis’ ear, “You look so hot there.”
Then came Louis’ voice from the TV, “Harry Styles. Will you be my boyfriend?” and the announcer explaining, “That would be British fencer Harry Styles, who earlier this week--”
Harry shook his head. That buzzy dizzy feeling again, but this time decidedly less pleasant. He shook his head. No avail. He spun Louis around and looked at him in disbelief. “Did you just out me in front of all of the UK?” He suddenly wished he’d had less beer. “And potentially the entire world?”
“Well...technically only if you say yes. If you say no, then I’ll have just outted myself.” Louis cleared his throat, tasted beer. “As possibly desperate and delusional in addition to being gay. Followed maybe by pitiable and pathetic?”
Harry’s only response was a deep breath. Louis gave him a wobbly smile and continued as undrunkenly as he possibly could, “So I’m sort of hoping you’re not going to say no. Really hoping, actually.” He reached a hand up and stroked Harry’s cheek.
Harry turned his head to kiss Louis’ hand, closing his eyes. He pressed his hand to Louis’, holding it fast to the kiss, the room spinning behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes and said, “I had too much to drink. I gotta go.”
Louis nodded but didn’t risk saying anything further. For possibly the first time in his life. He pressed his lips together to keep himself from ruining what felt like an interminably vast silence, waiting, waiting, waiting for Harry’s answer.
Harry squeezed his shoulder, gave him a wan smile, and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he was gone.
The sun streamed--as much as it could; these were the London Olympics after all--through a part in the curtains. Twelve noon. Louis’ hair was matted against his forehead, medal still around his neck, and his mouth felt like his tongue had been glued to the roof of his mouth all night. He padded over to the sink and drank directly from the tap. Next to the sink was a note from Liam reading Gone for breakfast w Zayn. Text me when your up! Louis mentally added an apostrophe and an e, then crumpled the note in frustration. Where was the justice in a world where he slept alone, fencerless, the night after winning an Olympic medal while Liam--also technically an Olympic medalist though since it was a team medal it didn’t count quite as much, Louis reasoned--continued to carry on drama-free (as always) with his fencer?
He made a pot of tea, real proper tea with caffeine, absolutely necessary for how shit he felt. He had the distinct feeling that this was not what he was supposed to feel like the morning after the supposed best day of his life. And definitely not how he should feel after what was certainly the best week he’d ever had, even without the added bonus of an Olympic bronze.
He sighed into his tea, debating whether to turn on his phone or not. As long as it was off, he could resist the temptation to call Harry. And as long as his hair looked the way it did, he could fight the urge to march over to Harry’s apartment and demand a proper answer, and by proper he meant yes, of course. Of course.
He ran a hand through his hair--which didn’t count as fixing it, but was certainly a start--and poured himself a second cup of tea. He was not two sips into it when he heard a knock on the door. Tea in hand, he opened the door and squinted against the sudden light. Harry was leaned against the doorjamb, lanky and tousled as ever. Gorgeous as the first time Louis had laid eyes on him a week earlier. And Louis with his still flattened hair and paste-tasting mouth.
Harry wordlessly handed him a newspaper. The headline blared STYLES MAY HAVE LOST MATCH BUT WON BOYFRIEND IN BRONZE MEDALIST TOMLINSON. Underneath, the article include a full spread of pictures--a distant photo of them walking side by side at the opening ceremonies, them laughing together at all the men’s artistic gymnastic events, Harry cheering wildly at the trampoline finals, and of course a photo of a defiant Harry refusing to leave the piste--plus a sidebar about the number of out athletes at the games (twenty-one, plus two more now) and an inset on the reaction on twitter, where #sayyesharry briefly trended in the United Kingdom.
Harry poured himself a cup of tea while he watched Louis read through the article. When Louis was finished, Harry deadpanned, “So I guess this is a pretty good human interest element, huh?”
“I think it’s safe to say that the press are enjoying this story, yes,” Louis responded. “I particularly like the lines ‘Has the heartbreak of the Games ended for Styles? And having won Tomlinson’s heart, can he lead his team to victory in Sunday’s men’s team foil competition?’ Quality journalism, that.”
Harry nodded, sipping his tea. Louis continued, eyes scanning Harry’s calm but mostly impassive face, “And lots of room for a followup article when you give your answer. I’m sure everyone is curious to know what it is. And by everyone I mean more me than all of the UK and potentially the entire world, though--”
“I watched ‘The Princess Bride’ last night, you know,” Harry interrupted. “Couldn’t sleep and I was just...trying to understand everything, process this whole week, I guess. This week has been so...” Harry trailed off, shaking his head. He looked Louis directly in the eyes and said, “Anyway I realised that you are the six-fingered man.”
“Oh god, should I prepare to die?” Louis said, eyebrows raised. “Maybe that’s not a good idea? The press seem very invested in this now and--”
Harry clapped a hand over Louis’ mouth. “What I’m trying to say is that I understand your chat-up line now. And that you were right. You are the man I’ve been looking for.”
He slowly let his hand drop from Louis’ mouth, caressing Louis’ jawline on its way down, and said, “Now shut up and kiss me, you fool.”