Inclination

Wheat Grass, Wary Sleep, Wasted Outfits

The sun beats down on your shoulders and the tip of your nose as you lift your arms to serve an overhand ball. Harry shouts a string of nonsense to deter you and you allow the ball to drop and bounce against the court before holding twin middle fingers up at your opponent. He cackles and apologizes, allowing you to carry on as you serve successfully this time, beginning a competitive volley between the two of you.

Harry looks gorgeous underneath the mid-day sun; his sunglasses balance proportionately on the bridge of his nose and his sinewy muscles ripple with each jab and swing of the racket. He's graceful and his clothes hang effortlessly against each dip of his body and you're torn between conning that shirt away from him or asking him to wear it every single time you see one another.

He attempts to distract you each time you serve; mostly by yelling empty threats, waving his arms above his head or telling you to look at objects that aren't even there. Several balls that you project into his side of the court land just inside the sideline, causing him to run after them wildly with a swing and a miss or not even strive to rebound them. After an hour or so, you can tell that he's becoming exhausted by the way his humor and pace die down like an expired battery or a sleepy, grumpy toddler.

Harry pulls his sunglasses away from his face and uses the back of his hand to wipe a bit of sweat away from his forehead, "you've aced the shit out of me."

You smile and raise your arms in a humble shrug before you both approach the net tiredly, "you can't be better than me at everything."

He sucks his lip into his mouth and nibbles on the skin there, propping his sunglasses on top of his head and tapping his racket against your bottom, "I'm not. Trust me. I'm the worst." He holds his arms out to you for an embrace and you're stepping closer to drop into his grip as he holds you with the net pressing against your hipbones, "break time?"

Harry walks you to a smoothie shop down the block and forces you to try a wheatgrass shot, claiming it's "an effective healer" and "extremely rich in protein and contains seventeen amino acids". He hovers the glass at your closed mouth, your hands pushing his wrist away like a petulant child and he's laughing at your repulsed tenacity, "just try it, ace! It's insanely good for you!"

You sniff the thick, muddy liquid and stick your tongue out, plugging your nose with your fingertips and speaking in a nasally tone, "you are doctoring out so hard on me right now, Harry." He bites his lip between his teeth as pinches your bum and you're jumping into the air with a shriek, "fine! God. You are more stubborn than I am," you pluck the tiny glass from his fingers and narrow your eyes at his smug expression, "...moist."

He gags dramatically, his hand gripping his throat for effect and you're tossing your head back in laughter before downing the shot in one gulp and joining him in a revolted retch, "fucking shit. If I ate like you I'd be dead in a week. My body just requires different things, like chicken nuggets and Kit Kats."

His eyes crinkle attractively in appreciation of your humor and willingness to amuse him, "okay, good girl. I'll buy you whichever smoothie you want now." You gasp and clasp your folded hands under your chin and Harry is not surprised but no less beholden when you're asking for the one with peanut butter and cacao in it.

Harry tosses your racket over his shoulder and carries it to a table outside, pulling your chair out for you and then helping you slide it towards the table once you're settled, "such a gentleman."

He winks and sits across from you, curling his lips around the tip of the straw and sucking pink liquid through the plastic tubing, "so."

You peel your eyes away from his mouth to focus on his shielded gaze, "so?"