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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.

Chapter Text

A slight movement of his shoulder brought him back to reality.

‘Lou... Lou,’ Harry whispered, shaking him gently.

Louis opened his eyes slowly, squinting at the sudden brightness filtering through the cabin as it disembarked. For a second, confusion sent a rush of adrenaline through him: he thought they would be late, that the bus taking them to the hotel would leave them behind. He tried to sit up, but the seatbelt still held him in place.

‘Hey, relax,’ said the curly-haired boy, his hand still on his shoulder. ‘They've only just started disembarking.’

Louis blinked, focusing his gaze until he found those green eyes that seemed to laugh even before Harry let out a laugh.

‘You almost had a heart attack,’ he joked, amused. He was well aware of the older boy’s almost obsessive punctuality; Louis hated to look bad in front of people, especially when it came to tennis.

‘Very funny,’ Louis replied, narrowing his eyes. Harry continued to smile with that mocking expression that sometimes made him want to punch him, just to wipe that smile off his face.

Both unbuckled their seatbelts and stood up. Outside, midday awaited them. The sun streamed through the windows of the walkway, lighting up the air with a warm glow. Most of the athletes, who had looked beaten a few hours earlier, began to regain their energy, including Harry, who walked with his natural grace and smoothed his hair, trying to tame his flattened curls.

But as soon as they walked through the airport doors, the commotion engulfed them like a wave.

Screams, flashes, cameras, improvised handwritten banners. Fans, journalists and photographers crowded behind flimsy metal barriers. The British delegation had just returned, and the crowd welcomed them with a fervour that Louis found overwhelming.

Some athletes smiled and waved politely, hurrying towards the private exit where the Committee's buses were waiting for them. Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. He greeted everyone and signed disproportionately large photographs of himself. His smile, adorned with his characteristic dimples, sparkled in front of every camera, and his hands were raised to receive gifts and high fives. But above all, he stopped to talk to chicks: he smiled, bowed his head when they asked for a photo, and gave them a direct look that was enough to trigger a scream or a nervous laugh.

Louis, behind him, merely raised a hand, barely a brief gesture. It wasn't that he didn't have his own group of fans — which he did — but the media exposure made him uncomfortable. If it wasn't mandatory, he preferred to pass by.

When they finally reached the car park, Harry was still surrounded by people. Louis almost had to drag him to the bus, gently pushing him from behind. He was literally the last to get on: the only one who had stopped to take photos with everyone, whether they were his fans or not.

‘I can't believe you stopped to take so many photos,’ Louis muttered with a mixture of sarcasm and irritation as they collapsed into the last two available seats.

The rest of the delegation glared at them briefly before looking away.

Harry let out a snort that turned into a short laugh at Louis's comment. He knew exactly how those things irritated him: press conferences, meet and greets, people pushing for a photo or an autograph. Louis had never been a fan of that stuff, and frankly, he struggled with it.

Before, everything was different. They only had a couple of interviews a month, a few short articles in local newspapers. Their reach, their fame, was manageable. But now everything would be different. Harry knew it, and he was very aware of it. He also knew that Louis was annoyed by it, that he preferred to stay on the sidelines and go unnoticed. So, in a way, he took on the opposite role: he answered questions, smiled, made jokes. Because someone had to do it, and if it helped to take some of the pressure off Louis, then that was perfectly fine. And if that attention happened to shift onto him as well, he wasn't going to complain.

‘One of us has to do it,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders with feigned innocence, although his smile betrayed a certain satisfaction.

Louis let out a brief, incredulous sigh and rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, right. Because you make the sacrifices for our mutual benefit,’ he said sarcastically, crossing his arms.

The air between them grew tense, imperceptible to anyone else, but palpable in the small space that separated them. Harry put on his headphones and turned towards the window on the other side of the aisle, letting the muffled sound of the music envelop him. Louis, on the other hand, reclined his seat and rested his head against the cold glass, watching as their reflections mingled on the surface as the bus pulled away.

The bus moved slowly through the traffic. Louis rested his head against the window, feeling the cold glass seep into his temple. The sky had that uncertain colour of the English summer, a light grey that promised neither rain nor sun. The midday light fell at an angle on the rooftops, tinging the tall windows and iron posts with copper.

When they crossed the boundary of Hyde Park, the city seemed to soften. Trees lined both sides of the avenue, and the air became fresher, almost humid. Louis let out a sigh, following with his eyes the reflection of the sky in the windows of the Mandarin Oriental, that light-coloured stone building that stood opposite the park with the discreet elegance of the untouchable.

The bus stopped in front of the hotel entrance amid a crowd of cameras and voices that seemed to collide with each other. From the window, Louis saw the sea of umbrellas, microphones, and flashes waiting for them behind the metal barriers. It was starting to drizzle. Some waved Union Jack flags, others held banners with names that the wind made illegible.

Harry straightened up immediately, his smile lighting up as if he had been plugged into the electricity.

‘Come on, Lou,’ he said with that endless energy.

Louis rolled his eyes, although part of him couldn’t help smiling back. Still, he was the first to get up, grabbed his backpack, and they waited in order for the other athletes to come down.

The London air enveloped them: cool, with that slight smell of rain characteristic of the country.

‘Harry! Louis!’ came a voice from the crowd. Louis didn't turn his head. He knew that if he did, Harry would stop, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught up in cameras and questions.

‘Don't even think about it,’ he murmured without turning around, holding Harry firmly by the arm.

‘I was just going to say hello...’ Harry protested, although his smile betrayed him.

‘You've already said hello to half the airport,’ Louis replied, pulling him into the lobby.

Inside, the hotel smelled of flowers and polished wood. Thick carpet muffled footsteps on the floor; the walls were decorated with antique portraits in gilded frames and mirrors that multiplied the warm light from the elegant chandeliers.

A group from the Committee was waiting for them at a long table with white envelopes neatly lined up.

‘Welcome back, boys’ said one of the coordinators, with a professional smile. ‘Here are your keys. Dinner will be at seven, the reception at eight.’

Louis took the envelope with his name on it. The magnetic card was inside, along with a sheet of paper with the room number. Next to him, Harry balanced his backpack on one shoulder as he absent-mindedly leafed through the information sheet.

They got into the elevator in silence, along with a group of athletes who got off as the elevator went up, until only the two of them remained. The reflection in the steel doors showed the contrast: Louis with his straight posture, exhausted but composed; Harry with his tousled curls and a smile barely sustained despite his accumulated fatigue.

Just as Louis seemed about to say something, the ding of the elevator interrupted him.

The hallway was dimly lit, with burgundy carpets and lamps that seemed to float above the wallpaper. They walked silently a few steps until they reached the door to his room, number 2809. Louis inserted the card into the slot and the door opened with a discreet click.

The room was vast and elegant, with that air of discreet opulence that only London hotels could have. The walls were covered with cream-coloured wallpaper with gold embossing that seemed to move gently under the warm light of the lamps. A thick, fluffy carpet covered the floor, muffling the sound of his footsteps, and a small crystal lamp hung from the ceiling.

Two single beds stood at the back of the room, separated by a small table with a white lampshade. The bedspreads were an almost pearly ivory colour, taut and perfect, with precisely folded edges. Opposite them, a dark wooden desk held a vase of pale lilies and a folder with the hotel's gold-embossed seal. To one side, a large window covered with wine-coloured velvet curtains filtered the greyish glow of the sunset, and beyond, the treetops of Hyde Park were barely visible.

Louis placed his backpack on the bed closest to the window and stood for a moment watching the reflection of the outside world on the glass. The London sky had that uncertain shade between grey and violet, and the lights of the park were reflected in his medal, still hanging around his neck.

Harry, behind him, sighed as he flopped down on the other bed. The quilt crumpled beneath his body, and for the first time since they had landed, the silence felt comfortable.

‘God, it smells like a rich granny,’ he said, breaking the silence, lying on his back with a frown.

Louis couldn't help but laugh. It was true, the air smelled of a subtle mixture of waxed wood, flowers, and some expensive fragrance that made you hold your breath involuntarily because it was so penetrating.

‘It's not so bad,’ said Louis, settling himself more comfortably on his bed to turn and look at Harry, who was already looking at him.

At that moment, there were three knocks on the door. ‘Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles?’ asked a familiar voice from the other side.

Harry frowned, amused, before getting up, his dimples threatening to peek out playfully as he approached the door to open it.

Behind it, he was met with the broad smile of James Corden, their coach. ‘Welcome home, champions,’ he said with a tone that was equal parts pride and mockery. ‘I hope you didn't wreck the plane with your big egos,’ he said ironically.

Harry burst out laughing, and Louis just shook his head from his bed, watching James pretend to punch the curly-haired boy in the stomach, who curled up laughing, exaggerating his defence.

‘You were awesome, lads,’ James continued, wrapping his forearm around Harry’s neck and giving him a gentle pat on the head.

‘Hey!’ exclaimed the curly-haired boy, laughing as he tried to break free from his coach's grip, while Louis watched the scene from his bed with a smile.

James Corden had been Louis's first and only coach. He started playing tennis at a very young age. His relationship with Corden had always been cordial and respectful, but rarely went beyond strictly sporting matters. The few times they talked about anything else was because Louis's mother, Johanna, invited him over for dinner. As a child, Louis remembered those visits with a mixture of discomfort and resignation; it seemed unfair to him to have to tolerate his coach off the court, after already seeing him three hours a daily during private practice sessions.

With Harry, it was different. The curly-haired boy had started playing sport as a simple pastime when he was ten years old. James saw him one afternoon at a fair, playing at a baseball stall. He was surprised by how natural his throwing motion looked: precise, coordinated, almost innate. He went over to congratulate him on his technique and advised him to consider joining a team. But Harry laughed, shrugged, and explained that he wasn't interested in baseball; he was just killing time. Tennis was the sport he liked and played as a hobby, without ever having attended a school or academy. No one had ever taught him how to play: he had simply seen it on television one day and found it interesting to imitate what he saw.

That conversation stuck with James.

A few weeks later, he invited him to try a class at the same academy where Louis trained. That's where they met.

Louis had just finished his training and was waiting for his mother, who, as luck would have it, was running late that day. He still had sweat on his skin and bandages on his hands. He sat on the bleachers, watching the youth group's training session that was about to begin without much interest.

Most of those children were there because their parents didn't know what to do with them: those who weren't good at football or basketball ended up with a racket in their hands. They were clumsy kids, with no discipline or real ambition, and Louis found it somewhat amusing to watch them trip over their own feet or hit the ball aimlessly. He, who had spent years perfecting his serve, who had dreamed of being an Olympic player for as long as he could remember. He inevitably felt superior to all of them.

And then he saw it.

Among that crowd of sluggish children, there was one who moved differently.

Harry, only twelve years old, with messy curls and a broad smile adorned with dimples, had completely captured the attention of Louis' blue eyes.

Louis watched him with a mixture of confusion and amusement. There was something almost childlike about the way Harry threw the ball into the air, without any technique, but with boundless energy.

That boy didn't play well, not yet, but he played with something the others didn't have. While the rest of the children followed James' instructions as if they were in another ordinary class, Harry seemed to be in a world of his own, laughing when he missed, chasing the ball with tenacity and improvising with a naturalness that unsettled Louis.

That day, seeing him for the first time, Louis wondered if he was witnessing someone destined to be remembered one day. Although he himself found it hard to imagine himself with an Olympic gold medal hanging around his neck, it was not difficult for him to picture it shining on the chest of that curly-haired boy with green eyes.

For Harry, winning an Olympic medal had never been a possibility; he had never even considered it in his wildest dreams.

A few days after that afternoon, Harry left school early and, instead of going home, decided to go to the tennis academy. When he arrived, Harry noticed that there weren't many people there at that time, so he thought it might be a good idea to practise his serves.

As he approached the indoor tennis courts that the academy had, a whimper grew louder as he moved forward.

Without hesitation, he pushed open the metal doors, making his way inside and finding a boy perhaps a couple of years older than him running back and forth across the court, chasing a lime green ball that a machine was randomly throwing.

Harry was fascinated by the boy's determination. Judging by his straight brown hair, which was soaked and stuck to his forehead, he seemed to have been practising for hours. Not even the headband he was wearing could stop the sweat.

The curly-haired man said nothing as he walked over to a nearby bench to put down his sports bag, still staring at Louis, who had not yet noticed anyone else in the room until the machine threw one last ball and he hit it, signalling the end. It was then, between gasps of exhaustion and heavy breathing, that thunderous applause, amplified by the echo in the large room, made Louis's breath catch and he turned to see where the sound was coming from.

‘Wow! You're really good,’ Harry complimented him, a certain sparkle in his eyes and dimples appearing on his cheeks.

‘Thanks,’ Louis replied once he recognised that it was the lad who had caught his attention the other day. Louis walked past him, approaching his own sports bag to take out a towel and his thermos flask with electrolytes.

Harry swallowed, a little confused by Louis' reaction, or rather lack of reaction, as he followed him with his eyes.

‘I'm Harry,’ he introduced himself, rubbing his sweaty hands on the back of his trousers.

‘Louis,’ replied the blue-eyed boy with a fake smile, while the nervous gesture the curly-haired boy had just made did not go unnoticed.

‘Where did you learn to play like that? I haven't seen you in class. Are you new?’ Harry asked, bombarding him with questions while Louis was still trying to catch his breath after training, now sitting on the bench with his head down, still catching his breath.

‘I have private lessons, I'm not new,’ he replied curtly, looking up to meet Harry's curious and expectant gaze. ‘I've been playing since I was a kid,’ he added.

‘Really? Wow... Why?’ he asked, genuinely surprised. ‘I mean, I don't think tennis is a sport that a kid would want to play when they're young, is it?’ he said, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

‘Well, I was that kid who wanted to play tennis from an early age,’ he replied, standing up.

Although Louis thought the same as Harry, he didn't like it when people judged the sport, which was just as valid and demanding as football or basketball.

— I want to win an Olympic gold medal.