Chapter Text
“Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” - Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
~
“Run it again. You’re not giving the words enough emphasis, Zayn,” Mr. Curtis groans. His voice is beginning to drawl with exhaustion. At this time of night, towards the end of the rehearsal, he loses his frustrated snaps and starts to lean towards half-assed criticisms.
Louis glances at the dark haired boy from across the stage. He knows Zayn well enough that he can probably predict what’s going on in his best friend’s head. Most likely, it’s along the lines of:
Nothing is theatrical enough for you; you dramatic, overly flamboyant cornball.
Zayn only nods, though, with his lips pressed together into a tight line, and returns his attention to Louis. He isn’t Zayn anymore, but Brutus. With a bit more zest, he bellows his words out across the empty auditorium,
“Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager, than to repute himself a son of Rome under these hard conditions as this time is like to lay upon us.”
There is a silence in the room, as the other cast members look up at them from their seats below the stage. Louis is impressed with the sincerity of Zayn’s delivery, but his thoughts are interrupted by the booming voice of their teacher.
“Well. It wasn’t awful. But we’ll improve on this monstrosity of a scene tomorrow. You’re all dismissed.” The director waves his hand lazily through the air, and Zayn narrows his eyes as though he’s about to jump off the stage to tackle him. Nonetheless, everyone else is sighing with relief upon hearing their permission to leave.
Louis tucks the script underneath his arm, and disappears backstage. He loves the feeling he gets when he’s in the underbelly of the school’s production. There is a dusty, comfortable air in the cramped spaces, full of lighting equipment and half-painted sets.
People that are just as passionate about the arts as he is are always scrambling to and fro, talking into headsets in their ears or hastily pinning curls of hair up and away from their faces.
They lean against walls, reading over lines under hushed breaths, and Louis can feel the build up of creativity smothered into the walls. The place reeks of past musicals, plays, and productions. He bathes in the idea of it all.
Louis moves himself towards the dressing rooms, where he’d left his backpack. He has to sideways-squeeze past a girl, and make a few lefts before he’s pushing through a door and physically bumping into Zayn.
“Oh, hey-“
“Mr. Curtis is an ass, you know that? It's ridiculous, having us do Shakespeare… Like that totally won’t bore the entire audience to actual tears.” Zayn is rolling his eyes and talking a mile a minute. He’s bustling about the room, stuffing his belongings into his backpack and scowling under his breath. “I mean, I know it’s a classic, but come on.”
Louis stifles his laugh, and throws his own bag over his shoulder.
“I think you’re just upset because he put you on blast today.”
“Excuse me?” Zayn is laughing now, eyes bright and teeth gleaming from between his curled lips. “How dare you accuse me of being too dramatic.”
“We should get Mr. Curtis in here to see this, it’s exactly what he wanted,” Louis mumbles slyly, and Zayn pushes his shoulder roughly.
“I hate you… But I’ll give you a ride home if you need it.”
“I do need it. You mind?”
“Course not. C’mon, I’m parked by the football field.”
~
Outside, the autumn air nips at the tips of their noses, encouraging the boys to wrap themselves further into their jackets and curl their hands into tight fists.
There’s cheering going on in the distance, and Louis lifts his head to see the lights of the football field and a crowd of cheering students in the bleachers. He can hear the band playing, as well.
People actually drag themselves into the freezing cold to watch these games?
“Do you wanna catch the last half?” Zayn asks with a raised brow and a small shrug from behind his scarf. Louis grimaces. He hates the overrated fame the football players receive.
They’re blown up to superhero status at this high school. They walk through the halls like Greek gods, chiseled and tanned and stuffed full of inflated egos.
And really, what is it that they do to deserve such attention? Throw an oddly shaped ball and run into a large rectangle for points? Anyone could do that. Even Louis.
Okay.
Maybe not Louis. But, still. There isn’t nearly enough dedication and practice going into football as there is into something as beautiful as the theatre. But does he see such enthusiasm at the school productions? Of course not.
Alright, perhaps he’s being a bit bitter.
“Fine. Let’s check it out.”
They change direction, heels spinning enough to start them towards all the commotion on the other side of the parking lot. Under the streetlights, their feet hit the black pavement in synchronized movements.
As they get closer, the announcements become clearer and easier to comprehend.
“Another beautiful pass by Harry Styles, ladies and gentlemen. The boy has quite the arm, I have to say. That could have been a touchdown had the home team’s blocking been more tight.”
Harry Styles. He is the poster child of the American Dream. He’s a household name in this tiny, nowhere town. The boy lives like a legend in the halls of the high school, adored and cherished by all. There’s absolutely no reason to hate him… Which only makes Louis despise him more.
They make it to the bleachers, and the lights nearly blind Louis. The entire field is lit up, and the crowd is on its feet. He now understands why - their school is winning by seven points, and there’s only one quarter to go.
Zayn takes the lead, and the two of them worm their way through the tightly packed stands until they make it to an empty spot. Louis’s eyes find their way to the quarterback, aforementioned Harry Styles.
The tall boy moves back, his muscled arm poised to make a throw. Curls stick out from underneath his helmet, and his taut legs are slightly bent in an athletic stance.
Okay. Harry is a little bit cute. Sort of. Maybe.
Harry thrusts his arm forward, biceps flexing, entire body curling like some sort of statue cut from marble. He is all sharp angles and tight lines.
Alright, maybe he’s the most beautiful creature Louis has ever seen in his seventeen years of existence on this planet. But that’s neither here nor there… He’s still overrated.
Louis’s body is nudged as people throw their hands into the air to pump their fists and cheer. The cheerleaders on the sidelines move into their next cheer, which involves a stunt. They’re doing flips and tossing each other into the air, and the band begins to play.
Louis glances at the clock. Two minutes left until the game ends.
Harry pulls a towel from its place tucked into the side of his pants, and wipes his face with it. He stuffs it back where it was, and waits for the center to call a huddle. The boys, all in their navy blue uniforms, stalk into the circle.
Louis sees that they all look to Harry for direction, whose voice can’t be heard from this far away. His facial expression is unreadable behind the damn helmet, but his big hands are making gestures as he shifts his weight from one hip to another.
They do a running play this time, and Harry passes the ball easily into another player’s grasp. He weaves between defenders until he’s got a clear passage to the end zone, and the crowd is in hysterics.
Screeches of joy ring through Louis’s ears, and even Zayn is jumping up and down as the running back crosses the line for a touchdown. The cheerleaders erupt into celebratory jumps, and the game is decidedly over.
The entire football team runs into a gigantic mush of teenage boys jumping into each other’s bodies. Most of them clap Harry on the back, or slap his butt, or pat his shoulder.
And as the curly haired boy slowly removes his helmet to shake out his drenched hair and take a deep breath, the crowd roars even louder.
This boy is even more of a star than Louis had originally predicted, considering he’s never actually attended one of these games. His absence has been a mix of rehearsals getting in the way, and an overall lack of interest.
As people begin to flood towards the parking lot, buzzing with excitement and relief, Zayn places his hand on Louis’s shoulder and leans in enough that they’ll hear each other.
“I’ve gotta find the portable toilet. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Sure, yeah.”
Louis slowly makes his way down the steps, behind a line of shuffling people. When his shoes finally hit the grass, he shoves his hands into his pockets and moves with purpose.
The thing is, he hates big crowds. They overwhelm and suffocate him, so he’s moving a bit recklessly. He just needs to get to Zayn’s car, and out of the loud atmosphere as quickly as possible.
He isn’t looking where he’s going though, when he slams into another body. It doesn’t feel like flesh though, and he realizes his face has just collided with the rough material of someone’s chest pads.
“Sorry mate, wasn’t paying attention,” Louis mutters, rubbing at his forehead. He glances up, and realizes who it is that he’s crossed paths with. It’s a sweat drenched Harry Styles, raising an amused brow at him.
“’S alright.” The football player gives him a once over, lips parted.“You enjoy the game, Pretty?”
“Pretty?”
“Sorry, was that lame?” Harry laughs breathlessly and shrugs. “I’m not too good at being smooth when my muscles ache and I’m utterly exhausted.”
“I’m sure that’s what it is,” Louis scoffs, turning to move in the opposite direction. He feels himself blushing, but chews on his lip hard enough to bleed in an attempt to suppress the feeling.
Like hell he’s going to let some superstar jock turn him into a pile of mush.
The pavement looks nice against his white sneakers, and he watches his steps for a few paces. He can hear the chatter of students all around him, a comforting warmth despite the frigid and unforgiving October winds.
Zayn meets him at the car within five minutes, and they climb into the worn seats. His friend fumbles with the keys, desperate to get the engine running.
Louis buckles his seat belt, and relaxes when the vents start feeding hot air towards him.
The light reflects off of Zayn’s jaw as the dark haired driver pulls out of their parking spot. The golden glow from the street lamps makes the two of them look like soft caramel, and Louis smiles to himself.
He watches blurred lights pass above them through the windshield the whole way home, and if Harry Styles crosses his mind more than once, no one needs to know.
~
Monday morning, Harry is leaning his left shoulder against a locker and scratching the side of his face as he listens to Liam incessantly go on about how last night’s episode of Dancing With the Stars went. Truth be told, Harry didn’t even know that people still pay attention to that show, period.
“And I was thinking, this girl is obviously getting pity points because she’s eighty years old, right? So-“
He stops listening to Liam when the definition of beauty rounds the corner into the science wing, books hugged against a sweater-clothed chest. The sleeves are just a little too long, and the boy reaches up to brush some fringe from his eyes as he listens to Zayn Malik speak to him.
It’s the boy from last night, the one that nearly made Harry faint on sight, and suddenly, his legs are wobbly. He blinks once, twice, and tries his best to peel his stare from this fucking pixie. Where the hell did he even come from?
Zayn Malik, a theater nerd who only really speaks up in English class, runs a hand through the pretty boy’s hair as a form of silent farewell, and steps into a classroom. Harry narrows his eyes, and feels as though he’s just been vaccinated with a dosage of jealousy. He wants to run his fingers through that hair.
Pretty Boy opens a locker with a few twists of the lock, and shoves some books into it. He then pulls a textbook out of the container, and Harry is going to explode. He’s never had such little self control in his life.
Without so much as a “excuse me for a minute” to Liam, he bounds towards Pretty Boy. He hasn't the slightest clue as to what he’s doing.
The stranger doesn’t notice his presence behind him, so Harry lightly taps his shoulder. The boy jumps, and whips his head around to face the intruder… And that’s it. Harry is done for.
What’s he supposed to say when these long eyelashes and sharp cheekbones are choking the air out of his lungs?
“Oh, it’s you,” the boy breathes out, in an almost tired way.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Harry says with an awkward half smile. “My name’s Harry, and I’m afraid we didn’t properly meet last night.” He scratches the back of his neck, and Pretty Boy only raises a cautious eyebrow at him.
“So?”
“So…” Fuck. Words, dammit. Use words. “..So can I have your name so I can stop calling you ‘Pretty Boy’ in my head?”
Did he actually just say that? Out loud? Harry’s going to kick his own ass as soon as this interaction is over.
Pretty Boy’s eyes widen tenfold, and he exhales rather loudly. His response is delayed, and the time in between is full of blinks and deep breaths.
“It’s Louis. Bye.”
He leaves, and Harry lets the name 'Louis' make a home inside his heart.