#blushinghaz

Harry goes down before he really notices it. It’s just—he’s running and then he’s down, on the ground, and his ankle is throbbing and everyone’s running over to him, and then Zayn’s there, because of course he’s there, looking sweet and concerned.

Harry hates it when Zayn looks concerned—when he looks like he’s in pain, when he looks worried or not happy at all, so “It’s not anything, Zayn, it isn’t,” he says, even though it does hurt, quite a lot, and he’s at least that embarrassed. Sometimes he wishes Zayn wouldn’t have to take care of him quite so much, but then again Zayn’s hands are gentle on his leg and he’s staying close and Harry’s an awful person but it feels nice, having Zayn worrying over him.

“Idiot,” Zayn tells him, in that fond way that Harry knows means he doesn’t really mean it, “You already tripped on it earlier, what were you doing?” he turned away to look at Simon, and Harry flushed. He’s supposed to be the captain, not spraining his ankle every five minutes. “Think it’s a sprain sir.”

“Okay, get him to the bench and put some ice on it.”

No, that’s not—Harry doesn’t want to go out, he can play on it, he needs to play on it. Needs to play. “I don’t—”