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Chapter Text

Louis rotated his arms in circles, feeling his joints loosen with each crack. The cold air in the training center filled his lungs with each inhalation, and as he exhaled, he lifted one knee to his chest, then the other, with the precision of someone who has repeated the same warm-up thousands of times.

After a few minutes of routine, he bent down to adjust his wristband and looked up at the clock on the wall. One, two, three... he had already looked at it five times. Harry was always late, but never this late.

He walked over to the benches at the edge of the court, taking his cell phone out of his bag with the idea of calling Harry. Maybe he had texted, or perhaps there was a message explaining his delay.

When he unlocked his phone, hoping to see a message from his best friend and teammate on the lock screen, he found the opposite: no notifications. A void that immediately made him feel that something was wrong.

He frowned and opened the chat with Harry. The latest messages were still there, so mundane that they seemed to mock him:

See you tomorrow for practice. The Olympics are coming up soon!

Yes! See you tomorrow.

Those messages seemed normal and harmless. It was exactly how they always talked. Louis's mind, unable to stay still, began to fill with terrible scenarios: an accident, a fall, anything that could explain why Harry wasn't there.

With his phone in hand, opening and closing the chat as if caught in a manic episode, Louis headed toward the administration building, convinced that he would find his coach James there. He didn't even get very far: a few feet away, the chubby redhead appeared with such a strange look on his face that Louis's stomach immediately sank.

‘Where's Harry?’ Louis interrupted before James could say a word.

‘Louis...’ the coach began.

‘Did something happen to him? Where is he? Is he okay?’ he blurted out, approaching him with quick steps. His tense, anxious hands rested on James' arms as if that contact could elicit immediate answers.

‘Louis, why don't you sit down?’ James suggested.

Louis let go of him instantly and stood up, bewildered by the recommendation. James never asked him to do such a thing, not even when he had bad news. The gesture was enough to indicate that what he was about to hear was much worse.

‘No. I don't want to sit down. What's going on?’ asked Louis, losing the desperate tone he had had a few seconds earlier.

James let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes before looking down at the paper he was holding in his hands.

Louis didn't hesitate for a second to snatch it away, unfolding it with a sharp movement, filled with anger and desperation to read its contents.

────────

Lawn Tennis Association (LTA)
London, 15 March 2012

Dear Mr. James Corden

We hereby confirm the notification submitted by player Harry Styles, who has decided to participate only in the singles event at the upcoming Olympic Games.

As a result, the Styles/Tomlinson doubles pairing is dissolved in the official Team GB registration. If he wishes to continue participating, player Louis Tomlinson may:

1. Register a new partner for the doubles event.

2. Request inclusion in the singles event, as long as there is a place available.

If no response is received within the regulatory period, Mr. Tomlinson will be excluded from the delegation for this edition.

Best regards,

British Olympic Association (Team GB)

In coordination with the Lawn Tennis Association (LTA)

────────

Louis couldn't believe what he was reading. He had to reread that insipid letter three times, like his mind was trying to convince him that it was all a bad joke. But no: the reality was that Harry had abandoned him, months before they were supposed to compete together in their second Olympic tournament.

Still holding the letter, now crumpled from the force with which he was clutching it, Louis took out his phone again, ready to call Harry and demand an explanation.

‘Louis,’ James murmured, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Louis pulled away abruptly, turning his back on him as he held the phone to his ear. The ringing sounded relentless, mingling with his increasingly irregular breathing, until he realized that Harry wasn't going to answer.

He tried once, twice, five times. Always the same result: voicemail, and that pretentious voice of his partner, or rather now his traitor, saying that “he couldn't take the call at the moment and to leave a message”

‘What the hell is wrong with you, Harry?’ Louis blurted out, anger boiling in his throat. "Why the hell aren't you answering your phone? I hope this is another one of your fucking jokes.

His voice echoed around the empty tennis court as he paced back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands.

‘What does this... this absurd letter they sent James mean? Huh!?’ Louis blurted out, almost stuttering, his chest heaving and his gaze lost somewhere on the court.

A few seconds passed before he let out a sigh and lowered his gaze to the floor. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, still clutching that piece of paper in his hand.

‘Call me when you hear this message,’ he added to the voicemail in a lower tone before hanging up.

He slowly removed the mobile phone from his ear. He stood still, looking first at the illuminated screen and then at the crumpled piece of paper between his fingers. And there, standing in the middle of the tennis court, he realized that, in less than twenty-four hours, Harry had fucked everything up.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Louis couldn't help wondering when it had all started. Maybe it was in that first training session together, or later on, at the tender ages of sixteen and seventeen, when they made their debut at the 2006 Beijing Olympics, climbing onto the podium in first place as the youngest pair in the history of the junior circuit.

It was a phenomenal game, and Louis still remembered the ovation they received when they won. For hours during the match, the stadium held their breath in reverential silence, broken only by the echo of the ball and their own breathing. But as soon as the final ball landed outside the opponent's line, the scoreboard lit up with their victory and the roar of the crowd exploded like glass shattering.

After that, everything happened as if it was in a dream. The roar of the crowd was still echoing when they climbed onto the podium, and Louis bowed to receive the heavy, shiny gold medal, which rested proudly on his chest. For a moment, he thought time had slowed down: the applause mingled with the incessant flash of cameras, British flags waved in the stands, and everything seemed to engulf him in an unreal haze.

In disbelief, he tried to engrave it in his memory, as if he needed proof that all of this was happening and wasn't just a feverish dream. Then he looked to his side. Harry was standing tall next to him, with a smile so wide it seemed to light up the entire arena. His dimples were so deep that Louis couldn't remember ever seeing him smile like that, showing all his teeth, not even when they won the US Open a few months ago or when they received the news that they would be part of England's Olympic team.

Standing next to him, Louis watched Harry bring the medal up to his mouth, pretending to take a bite out of it. Harry seemed so natural, so at ease, that Louis was mesmerized. He didn't come to his senses until he felt a slight nudge on his elbow, a friendly gesture that made him do the same. He did it, a bit clumsily, his eyes still fixed on Harry, with whom he shared a little laugh at that moment. The moment was minimal, almost insignificant to anyone else, but it stuck with him, and he knew that it would stay with him until his death bed.

Minutes later, they were led to the press room. The buzz was different from the one in the stadium: a swarm of overlapping voices, microphones held high, cameras and video cameras that seemed to follow their every move. Everyone wanted the same thing: to get the first words out of the pair who had not only made their debut that night, but also taken home the Olympic gold.

They sat down at the long table, each with a small sign with their name written in black letters. The flashes continued to explode like small electric shocks, and Louis could barely get used to the tangle of microphones that crowded around them like hungry animals. They even barely had time to seat themselves when the first question came above the murmur:

— How does it feel to be the youngest pair to win Olympic gold in tennis? How is it that, having known each other for such a short time, you managed to work so well together?

Harry was the first to react. He leaned towards the microphone with his characteristic ease. His dimples showed as he smiled broadly, briefly laughing before answering.

‘It may sound cliché,’ he said with a half-chuckle, trying to escape his lips as he glanced sideways at Louis, ‘but I think it's because we're different, and that helped us. I... play more on instinct. Louis is the cool head of the duo, the one who measures every shot. If it weren't for that, we wouldn't be here.’

Louis immediately rolled his eyes, faking annoyance, although the curve of his lips was betraying him. The reporters burst into soft laughter, celebrating the complicity between the two young men. They thought they were seeing a picturesque contrast, unaware that this difference would one day be as heavy as the medal shining on their chests.

— You made your debut in the most spectacular way possible, with an Olympic gold medal. Do you feel any pressure about what comes next? Do you think you will be able to maintain this level as a pair?

This time it was Louis who took the initiative.

‘Well, we're just getting started, aren't we?’ he laughed, glancing quickly at Harry. He, leaning back in his seat, returned the slight, complicit smile. ‘I think we both feel we can handle the pressure. It's mutual, we've discussed it.‘ Louis leaned forward a little more, adjusting his posture and clearing his throat before taking the microphone with a firmer gesture. ’But anyway... whatever has to come, let it come.‘

The flashes kept going , the microphones kept throwing questions at them, and for a moment, Louis felt like it would never end. However, all noises eventually stop, and so did that night. Hours later, the hotel door closed behind them, leaving the murmur of the world outside and finally giving them back their silence.

Harry dropped his sports bag without much concern and, before Louis could say anything, he was throwing himself face down onto the nearest single bed, still wearing his uniform. He let out an exaggerated sigh into the pillow, so theatrical that Louis couldn't help but laugh. After all, Harry was a year younger than him, and sometimes that difference was more noticeable in gestures like that than on the court.

Louis, on the other hand, moved more calmly. He left his bag on the desk chair and flopped down on the edge of the other bed, the one that was free. It was clear that Harry had claimed his bed from the moment they walked in. With an automatic gesture, Louis took off his shoes and carefully placed them under the bed, lined up with the edge. Then he let himself fall onto his back, arms spread out to either side, while on the bed next to him, Harry remained face down, sprawled out with his face still buried in the pillow.

‘I can't believe it's all over. All those months of training, the matches... all for this moment that felt like seconds,’ Louis murmured, letting out an incredulous laugh that was lost in the white ceiling of the room.

Harry turned his face slightly towards the pillow, just enough to meet his gaze.

‘Yes... it all happened so fast,’ he laughed too, letting his voice sound muffled. His eyes wandered for a moment to one of the corners of the room, but quickly returned to Louis as soon as he saw him turn his head to look at him in the same way.

Louis didn't seem to notice, but from the moment the last ball landed outside the opponent's line, he had maintained a constant smile, so wide that it drew small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He didn't notice it by himself, but Harry did, and even at that moment, that smile was still on his face.

They held each other's gaze for just a few seconds before Louis looked away. With a slow gesture, he reached for the Medal, removed it from his neck and held it up above him, still amazed that it was shining between his fingers.

‘Your mum would be proud,’ Harry said in a lower tone, almost as if he were thinking out loud.

Louis didn't respond right away. A faint smile, barely a movement of his lips, was all he let slip as he lowered the medal to rest it on his chest again. It was true, even though it hurt to think about it. His mother had been the first to encourage him, to say that he was destined for bigger things like what happened just now. He would never know how she would have felt seeing him now, on top of the podium, with an Olympic medal around his neck.

Harry raised an eyebrow, settling himself more comfortably on the bed until he was lying in the same position as Louis, on his back.

‘I never thought it would feel like this,’ he said finally, staring at the ceiling.

‘Like what?’ he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on him, even though Louis wasn't looking at him.

‘So... unreal. Like I'm in a dream that isn't mine.’

Harry laughed, shrugging at the older man's comment.

‘Well, I'm telling you, it's not a dream. And it is yours.’

Harry laughed, shrugging at the older boy’s comment.

— Well, let me tell you, it is not a dream. And it is yours.

That room remained silent, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of the city filtering through the window. A lamp on the bedside table gave off soft, warm light, casting long shadows on the walls. It was a sharp contrast to the chaos they had left behind just a few hours earlier.

Louis kept staring at the ceiling, the medal still resting on his chest as if it was a physical reminder that it wasn't a dream. He was exhausted, every muscle ached, but his mind was racing: every point, every shot, every round of applause and praise kept coming back to him like he was afraid of forgetting every single detail.

Harry, beside him, let out a long sigh. He had been watching Louis, who remained fixated on the ceiling and the medal on his chest. Harry stared at him longer than he should have, until his discomfort forced him to look away towards the wall, closing his eyes as he tossed and turned a little on the bed. He tried to concentrate on sleeping, but he was sure that he wouldn't be able to. Only a few seconds passed before he opened them again, dazzled by the yellowish light of the lamp that bathed the room in a warm, tired tone. He turned his head slightly, his green eyes falling on Louis, who was lying with his eyes closed, clutching the medal on his chest like an anchor. The smile he had worn all day was gone, replaced by a placid expression that Harry observed more than he should have.

‘Louis...’ he murmured, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

The older one didn't open his eyes; he just let out a low murmur, just enough for Harry to know he did hear him.

‘I can't sleep...’ he finally said in a deep voice, muffled by exhaustion. ‘Do you think we can push the beds together?’

The silence stretched out for a couple of seconds between them, interrupted only by the rise and fall of their breathing. To anyone else, it would have seemed a strange request, but to Louis it was not strange at all.

They had barely begun to get to know each other and were already traveling together from tournament to tournament. Between matches and training sessions, they shared hotel rooms, and Louis had noticed that the younger boy rarely slept. He heard him tossing and turning under the sheets, turning on the TV at odd hours, going out into the corridor or staring at the ceiling for hours until, finally, exhaustion overcame him.

And one night, Harry confessed that he had trouble sleeping alone. He grew up sharing a bed with his sister and he never learned to cope with the absence of someone beside him. Louis didn't judge him; he found it peculiar, yes, but it also made sense of all those restless nights.

From then on, Harry began to test the waters little by little, until one day he gathered enough courage to ask Louis if he could sleep with him. He knew it sounded strange, even childish, but he also knew that Louis wouldn't deny him. After all, if Harry didn't rest well, he wouldn't perform well on the pitch the next day, and that was something neither of them could afford.

Louis let out a rough sound, like someone snatched him from a light sleep, and stood up heavily. Harry looked at him expectantly, not daring to say anything else.

‘We don't need to push the beds together,’ Louis murmured, dragging out his words. ‘Just get into mine.’

Clumsily, Louis took off his jacket and tracksuit bottoms, then bent over, pulled back the sheets and let himself fall onto the bed like dead weight. Harry couldn't help but smile slightly, almost imperceptibly, when he heard the consent.

The younger boy repeated the gesture and also took off his clothes, leaving both of them with the bare minimum to sleep in. At that point, neither of them cared much about formality: all they wanted was to close their eyes and surrender to sleep.

Harry sighed happily as he felt the mattress sink beside him. Louis, now more asleep than awake, muttered something unintelligible and turned his back on him, settling down between the sheets. Harry couldn't help but smile as he heard him mumble, more asleep than awake.

He settled under the sheets and, after moving around a bit, ended up turning his back on Louis as well. They remained like that, both with their backs turned, separated by a couple of inches and the exhaustion weighing on their bodies.

Everything was calm: their steady breathing, Harry's medal shining on the nightstand, and Louis's still resting on his chest. That night would remain engraved in both of their memories as the true beginning of everything.

Chapter Text

The next morning, they had two plane tickets back to London. There was a stopover in Paris, which they hadn't reached yet, and both players had a long eleven-hour flight ahead of them, plus the waiting time for boarding and disembarking. The British delegation occupied a large part of the first-class cabin; most of them were fast asleep, their heads resting against the seat backs or slumped over the shoulders of their nearest teammate.

Louis tried to do the same as the rest of the delegation: sleep. With his forehead resting on the window and his arms crossed over his chest, he forced himself to keep his eyes closed, hoping that at some point the sleep would finally overtake him. The gold medal still hung around his neck, heavy and shiny even in the dim light of the plane, and every so often, like a reflex of someone who thinks they have lost something, his hand would abruptly move towards his chest. That automatic, impulsive gesture always triggered a rush of adrenaline that shook him inside, until his fingers touched the cold metal and calm returned immediately. That medal was there, still with him, and checking it gave him a sense of security that nothing else seemed to provide.

Harry, on the other hand, couldn't sit still. He kept changing position, first on his side, then curled up, then stretching his legs as if the seat was too small for him. He rested his head against the backrest, then on the tray, and always ended up groaning, annoyed by the discomfort. Even in first class, he couldn't get comfortable; the seats seemed hard, narrow, and impossible. The worst part was that he couldn't even order a beer to help him relax: he was still underage, and the flight attendants reminded him of this with a polite smile every time he tried.

Louis heard him groan for the third time and frowned without opening his eyes.

‘Are you ever going to stay still?’ he muttered with slight annoyance as he settled himself more comfortably in his seat.

Harry turned towards him, his curls messy and flattened by the backrest.

‘No. How can you stay so still?’

‘I just can,’ replied Louis, opening one eye just enough to see him twitching, before letting out a short grunt. ‘Try staying still harder.’

Harry smiled, amused by the older boy’s curt response.

‘Sure, because that works...’

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally landed in Paris. The British delegation moved slowly, their shoulders slumped with sleepiness and their suitcases weighing more than usual. As they waited for their luggage on the conveyor belt, the place was filled with colourful uniforms and accents mingling together; athletes from all over the world waiting, yawning, saying goodbye to each other. Louis didn't realise how many athletes had shared that flight beyond the British team.

He stood watching silently, his body numb, when he suddenly felt a weight on his back. Harry, overcome by exhaustion and frustrated at not having been able to sleep a wink, had dropped his head against him without thinking. Louis took a step forward out of habit and turned instinctively, only to find Harry's curls tousled, his face half buried and his eyes closed. Louis said nothing.

The group was led to one of the airport's VIP lounges, a quiet space that smelled of freshly brewed coffee and disinfectant. The leather sofas were too neat for the weariness they carried, and the white lights accentuated the dark circles under the eyes of everyone waiting for their connection home.

Louis slumped into the first available seat, his elbows resting on his knees, watching as the rest of the delegation scattered around the room: some looking for coffee, others trying to stay awake. Harry, on the other hand, sitting next to him, drummed his fingers on his legs. He couldn't seem to sit still, even in the air-conditioned silence that muffled everything. His eyes scanned the room with the same curiosity with which he looked at a pitch before a match.

‘Is he you drinking beer at this hour?’ Harry whispered, barely moving his lips.

Louis looked up without much interest, following Harry's gaze. A blond boy in an Irish green uniform, his cheeks flushed, held a pint of beer in his hands as he looked at something on his phone. Around him, the other athletes could barely keep their eyes open.

‘I suppose so,’ replied Louis, letting his head fall back against the headrest. ‘He’s Irish.’

Harry watched him for another second, amused.

‘I have no doubt that he is,’ he turned to Louis with a half-smile. ‘Do you think they would let him do that if he was British?’

Louis gave a weary smile. ‘I don't think so.’

The blond boy looked up just then, as if he had sensed their gaze, and when he recognised their British uniforms, he smiled.

‘Would you like one?’ he asked, raising his glass in a friendly gesture.

Harry chuckled and nodded his head.

‘I can't,’ he replied. ‘I'm underage,’ he said with a carefree shrug.

Louis rolled his eyes, unable to suppress a smile.

Although he wasn't of legal drinking age either, his case was different. He had turned seventeen the previous year and would turn eighteen in December, which was enough for the delegation to consider him practically an adult. That's why he was in charge of Harry during international tournaments, a formality that seemed unnecessary to him, but which had ended up making him, whether he liked it or not, the one responsible for keeping the boy out of trouble or situations that would be promising for the gossip tabloids.

‘So you're those tennis players?’  asked the young Irish guy, placing his glass on the low table between them. ‘What a prodigies,’ praised the blond boy.

Both Louis and Harry couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle at the compliment.

‘Thank you very much,’ Harry replied before Louis could open his mouth, his smile coming naturally. ‘It was crazy.’

‘I saw you guys play’  said the blond boy with such a thick accent that it made Louis smile. 'It was a good match, especially the last set.’

‘Did you compete too?’ asked Louis, his voice still rough with fatigue.

‘Yes, golf,’ replied the blond man with a slight smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘I 've got the silver. So I suppose I can't complain. I'm Niall, by the way’  he paused briefly before adding ‘Niall Horan’ he clarified, extending his hand to the British duo with a friendly smile.

Niall shook both their hands with an easy smile before sinking back into the armchair. ‘It looked like you've been playing together all your lives.’

Harry laughed, that light laugh that always seemed to come out without him thinking about it. ‘Sometimes it seems that way... especially when we argue.’

Louis turned his face slightly, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, with a brief smile that escaped him unintentionally. ‘Only when you decide to improvise,’ he replied in a low voice, the irony diluted by exhaustion.

Niall watched them, amused. ‘Well, at least you guys seem to get along,’ he said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘That part is always the hardest.’

Louis shrugged, sharing a knowing glance with Harry, who smiled back with the natural ease that characterised the curly-haired boy. ‘I suppose we're lucky.’

For a moment, the noise of the airport seemed to fade away, reduced to a distant hum: the dragging of suitcases, weary footsteps, the constant murmur of languages mingling in the air. The evening light filtered through the windows, and the smell of coffee and sleeplessness floated in the air like an invisible layer.

Suddenly, an intermittent female voice filled the room, drowning out the noise for a few seconds to announce the boarding of the flight to Dublin.

In one gulp, the Irish lad finished his beer. Louis thought that, for a sixteen-year-old, the blond boy could drink surprisingly well.

‘That's mine,’ said Niall, standing up and adjusting the pillow around his neck. ‘It was nice to meet you both. I hope to see you soon.’

The smile he gave them was so genuine that Louis and Harry could not help but stand up as well. They accepted his hand one after the other, a formal gesture but full of sincere warmth. In his mind, Louis felt a slight tenderness and amusement at the blond boy's formality.

The room gradually began to clear, and with it went the hustle and bustle of the Irish delegation, the laughter and strong accents of the athletes lingering in the air until they faded away behind the automatic doors.

Louis and Harry wished the Irish boy a good flight, and he wished them the same, but not before exchanging social media users. Back in their seats, the pair leaned towards the screens of their respective mobile phones, curiously checking the golfer's profile.

Each photo seemed to capture a glimpse of his personality: his broad smile with straight teeth, the bright eyes of someone who lives life to the fullest, with those blue eyes, cold and clear as an iceberg. Niall seemed like a good lad, the kind you feel you already know, someone they'd like to see again.

It wasn't long after that before the loudspeaker, with the same distorted female voice, announced the boarding of the flight to London.

Louis sighed, standing up. ‘It's our turn.’

Next to her, Harry took a couple of seconds to react; he blinked, stretched, and sat up slowly. His hair was tousled and fell over his forehead, giving him an almost childlike appearance.

They walked silently towards the boarding gate, surrounded by other athletes who carried the same weariness on their shoulders. Louis walked a few steps behind Harry, who had his headphones hanging from his ears. For a moment, Louis thought about how unreal it all felt. Winning. Returning. Being seventeen and feeling like he had already lived too much.

Once on the plane, Louis found his seat and sank into it with a sigh. Harry, next to him, settled in, curling up in his seat until he was half reclining.

The plane took off smoothly. The lights of Paris were left behind, reduced to a handful of flickering dots in the darkness. He was lost in thought, watching the city disappear before his eyes, until he felt a vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his phone, the screen showing him a new notification.

British Tennis Federation — Welcome reception for Olympic athletes. London, Friday 21 August.

Louis opened his mouth, turning his head slightly towards Harry, the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to talk about the welcome reception. But as soon as he took his eyes off the screen, he went quiet.

Next to him, Harry was asleep. His head was tilted forward in an awkward position, his curls falling over his forehead, and his headphones were tangled, hanging crookedly from his ears. From them escaped a faint, distorted but unmistakable melody: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Louis watched him silently, feeling a weary tenderness as he saw how sleep had finally overcome the younger boy, leaving him sprawled in an awkward, disorderly position with his neck twisted at an angle that would hurt anyone to wake up in. And yet Harry looked peaceful, lost in his dreams.

The older one reached out carefully, and with his fingertips brushed Harry's opposite cheek to turn his head towards his shoulder. He did it slowly, and “only” to spare them both a pain: Harry's neck and his own head, because of the amount the curly-haired boy would whine when he woke up.

Harry's head rested against his shoulder and the song sounded a little clearer, filtering between them thanks to how close they were now. Louis remained still, not daring to move. He did not want to interrupt the younger boy's sleep, who looked peaceful with his cheek resting on his shoulder and his lips slightly open, letting out little sighs with each breath.

Louis turned his gaze forward, observing the night from his window as the city was no longer visible.

Louis's eyes began to feel heavy, and he considered moving slightly so he could lean against the window, but he did not.

Louis's eyes began to feel heavy, and he considered moving slightly so he could lean against the window, but he didn't. Instead, Louis tilted his head slightly until it rested on Harry's.

The curls brushed against his cheek, soft and warm, with that scent that was a mixture of cheap hotel soap and something sweeter, like the trace of a fruit or an almost imperceptible perfume. He closed his eyes, letting himself be enveloped by the guitar of Hotel California.

And so, with his head resting on the younger one and the melody repeating inside him like a soft echo, sleep reached him too.