Bloodsport (Unbelievers: Harry's POV)

Chapter 3

By the time he got home, Harry had replayed the whole afternoon in his head so many times he wasn't sure if some of the details were even correct anymore. He dragged the training bag after himself up to the house, having parked in the driveway. He could tell the lawn had been newly mowed, because the scent of fresh-cut grass hit him the second he'd opened the car door. He completely adored that smell, but right then it was hard to focus on it. He opened the front door after breathing in what could probably be one of the last few real days of summer, and entered the house through the hallway, tossing his shoes and bag aside. A sort of mental exhaustion wanted to bury him in the sofa, but as he walked into the living room his parents surprised him by... being there. He slowed in his step, looking back blankly as they seemed to stare expectantly.

"Hello?" he said, shrinking a little further into his hoodie.

"Hi, darling," greeted his mum. Her long, black hair was twisted into a knot at the neck, fastened with a large clip. She wore make-up as per usual, and her clothes were fit for the office. His father looked more or less ready for the golf course, but when did he not? "Are you ready?"

Confusion dawned on Harry's face. "What?"

"Pizza?" she smiled.

Oh, right. The pizza. For an hour or so Harry had actually forgotten the catastrophe of the previous night.

His father looked up at him with a smile, but it was one that made him look older than Harry had up until then viewed him as. All of a sudden, he could detect grey in his hair, and more wrinkles around his eyes than usual.

"All right, let's go," he said, unable to think of a reason not to. His parents seemed fairly at ease.

"Splendid," chirped his mum, and they stood from the sofa. Harry turned around, heading back the way he came from. The night before seemed like more than twenty-four hours ago. It felt like a year had passed. Since then, he'd been thrust into a morbid sphere of anxiety, found the courage to buy lube and condoms at a store, had a physical fight, and actually had sex — with a guy. Not just any bloke, either. Louis Tomlinson of all guys.

"Why don't you drive us, Harry?" suggested his mum as they strolled out to the driveway.

He raised a brow at her. "Why?" They hadn't driven together in months, and usually if they did then it'd be in his mum's silver Mercedes in unchallenged silence.

"It'll be fun, dear!" she twittered, uncharacteristically energised. "Let's see the progress since you got your license." She settled once she'd processed his and his father's unimpressed stares. "Oh, don't be so boring. I would love to have you drive us, dear."

"Fine," he said, shaking his head. It was an obvious attempt for them to do something fun together. A very, very feeble one. It was silly, but Harry couldn't deny her the opportunity. It seemed his father couldn't, either, though they both knew it was stilted.

The drive was quiet at first, Harry focusing on the road and trying not to make any mistakes his dad would inevitably give him instructions on. His mother discussed the menu, reading it from her phone, and his father hummed disinterestedly from the backseat. The unusually laidback atmosphere was switched back to the more common bickering as it came forth Harry's mum had mistakenly been reading off a menu from the wrong pizza parlour.

"You can head in," said Harry, dropping them off before parking. "I'll come order in a sec."

The two of them headed inside, and Harry managed to parallel park despite the echo of his parents' disagreements between his ears. He went inside, finding the restaurant busy. It was the most popular pizza place in town, and thus Harry wasn't surprised despite it being a Monday. He found his parents, cutting in through their bickering.