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No Way of Knowing

Football

As Harry’s eyes blinked awake the next morning, the world was blank and his mind was furiously trying to recall the dream he’d just woken from. In front of him was his coffee table littered with several empty mugs of tea, stirring spoons resting beside them - some on coasters, one directly on the wood, a little puddle drying itself into the table beneath the surface of the spoon. His leg was hung half off of the sofa and his hair was almost entirely pulled from the ponytail it’d been in, the house was silent and sunlight filled his entire living room from the lightly curtained front windows. He groaned softly under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing away thoughts of whatever ludicrous dreams he may have had and instead trying to remember the night before and when he’d gone to sleep.

Four months.

It all came rushing back with a rude amount of force, and he was taken aback by the sudden wall of memories. He’d have to start the day on the right foot; but he didn’t know which that exactly was, nor how to put it to plan. He slowly sat himself up, feeling his body’s fatigue after the emotionally exhausting day he’d previously had. He reached up and ran his long fingers through his unruly, tangled hair, wincing as they were caught in a knot. Sighing, Harry stood, his eyes sneaking a glance into the kitchen as if there were some small chance someone, any one of them, would have stayed the night. He wasn’t entirely prepared to wake the small boy upstairs.

As he climbed the stairs and made his way down the hall, he practiced what he’d say; “Good morning, Anthony. I’m sorry about yesterday. How about we start fresh?” He gritted his teeth and shook his head at himself. How am I going to do this, that is the dumbest load of-

His thoughts were cut off as he rounded the corner into his bedroom and found an empty bed, his heart immediately dropping to his feet. Shit.

“Anthony?” he called out softly, praying he was just somewhere else in the room. He suddenly found himself in a sprint across his bedroom, checking in the master bathroom and finding it empty. With palms immediately sweating, Harry was running through every room in the house, the name ‘Anthony’ falling from his lips with intense repetition. “Anthony, say something!”

Once his feet had carried him up and down the hall, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and back to the living room, Harry felt himself practically near to passing out. This kid, this innocent 8 year old kid, had run away after hardly eight hours in Harry’s care. What a shit person, “guardian”, he’d turned out to be for this kid, not even able to keep a watchful eye on him for more than a day. How could he have ever thought he could do this?

These thoughts were running rampant through his mind as his fingers shakily dialled the numbers on his phone, his legs throwing him two steps at a time back up the stairs to grab a shirt and jeans from his closet. “Nicole? Nicole!” he demanded as she answered the phone, “Nicole, you’ve got to come here, he’s gone, I can’t find him, he’s gone,” he was talking at hundreds of miles a minute.

“Okay, Harry, calm down,” she replied hurriedly, though she was clearly just as muddled as he was as she was flying out of her bed and through her small apartment, “I’ll get some clothes on and be there in fifteen minutes, it’s the fastest I’ve got. In the meantime, be ready to leave as soon as I get there so we can look for him, and I’ll call the police and have them there by the time I am.”

He was already a step ahead of her, running through his open bedroom doors and skidding around the corner in the direction of his closet, “I don’t know where he’s gone, I can’t think of where he could be, I don’t know, how could I let this-” As he entered his closet, his hand caught him around the frame of the door and he froze, his chest rising and falling at an unhealthily rapid pace as his eyes landed on the small, curled up frame of a boy in the far corner. Little arms were wrapped tightly around a football, Harry’s favorite in fact, and Harry’s words were caught in his throat. He was suddenly having to force himself to speak as he stared at the little boy timidly buried against the back wall of his empty closet.

“I… I uhm, n-nevermind, I uhh… I just found him,” he said breathlessly, leaning into the side frame of the door. Anthony’s eyes glanced up slowly, meeting Harry’s as he tightened his hold on the soccer ball. Harry grimaced for a moment as he, “Theresa?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” she murmured. Back at her apartment, she was clutching her chest in relief, her eyes closed as she tried to calm down.

“He seems okay, I think he uhm… I think he just didn’t want to shout. Is that right, Anthony?” Harry asked softly, slowly stepping into the closet and lowering himself down beside the messy open suitcase on the floor. Anthony took a moment, before slowly nodding his head. “Yeah,” Harry confirmed quietly. “It’s okay.”

Nicole smiled softly to herself as she listened to him try to comfort the boy, “Do you still need me to come over?” she asked gently, bringing herself to her sofa and sitting down.

“No, I… I think we’re good.”

“Alright, well… If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Today’s my day off, so I’m free if you two need a hand.” Harry took her words into account and nodded to the phone, his eyes still taking in Anthony’s impossibly tight grasp of the ball.

“We will,” he murmured. With that, the two said quiet goodbyes and he set his phone down, sitting himself back onto the floor and crossing his legs.

Nicole sighed heavily as the phone clicked off, tossing it onto the couch cushions and letting out a breathless groan as she threw her head back against the back of the sofa. A hell of a way to wake up on a Saturday morning.

“How come you didn’t say anything when I was calling for you?” Harry muttered softly, his head tilted to the side and his eyes kind, but full of questions.

Anthony stared up at the long-haired man in front of him, for the first time since he met him truly taking in his features. He didn’t look anything like a dad. Not the way Anthony had imagined one. And no, Anthony knew he wasn’t meant to be staying with this man forever, but he didn’t want a friend or someone to just take care of him. He wanted a dad. He always had.

He watched Harry wait patiently for an answer. He examined his weird button-up shirt that he still hadn’t changed from the day before, noticed the tattoos on his arms and little corners of ones peeking from under his collar, saw a necklace and thought to himself, I thought only girls wore those.

Anthony bit his lip and looked down at the soccer ball. Finally, thinking of the must have been hundred and eighty-two times he’d heard Harry calling his name just minutes before, the boy offered up a small shrug and glanced up into Harry’s eyes. They were nice, they didn’t make the young boy feel scared or unsure or intimidated, like the police officers’ had, or like the men that would judge him as he begged on the street. No, these were eyes that made Anthony feel like - well, protected. Kind of like a dad’s would, but no, Harry was still nothing like a dad.

Harry sighed with relief at the shrug - an answer. Not a definitive one, sure, but it was an answer nonetheless. “D’you like football?” he asked quietly, nodding his head in the direction of the one he was holding. The boy’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he shook his head slowly.

No, he didn’t like football. He liked soccer, but not football.

Harry chuckled softly at Anthony’s confusion, and he gestured to the ball. “You’re holding onto that pretty tight…” He smiled and reached out as if to take it, wanting to maybe toss it back and forth or show him the signature on the opposite side that made it his favorite; but Anthony’s eyes went instantly wide and he slid along the wall away from Harry’s fingertips, immediately shaking his head. The 21 year old boy quickly retracted his fingers and frowned, bringing his hands back to his lap. “M’sorry,” he spoke, “I just wanted to show you something cool. Can I?”

The boy shook his head, his fingers turning white from their pressure against the ball. Harry gulped. He so badly wanted to know what this meant to him.

“Okay, well… How about some breakfast? You hungry?” Harry bit his lip, his fingers twisting his ring at an alarming pace with nerves. Anthony stared up at him, before slowly nodding his head. Harry let out a small breath. “Good, good. Alright, c’mon,” he said, standing to his feet. “The kitchen’s downstairs.”

Okay, well, that was probably obvious. But as he stood there with an outstretched hand, he just wanted to see the boy excited for something. But then again, he asked himself, how could he expect that?

Anthony slowly stood, not taking Harry’s hand - though he couldn’t be sure that it was because he didn’t want to - and instead clinging still to the ball pressed against his chest. Harry gestured out of the closet. “After you?”

Downstairs, as Harry fried up some eggs, the boy sitting at the counter behind him traced the lines on the football, his eyes concentrating and brows furrowed with focus. His legs dangled from the stool, his feet wrapped in socks that were far, far too big for him, his hair hanging in his eyes because it had been a lot of weeks since his mom had cut his hair. He always loved it when she cut his hair, there was always a lot of laughing as she playfully scolded him not to move. She always said it made them like everybody else, to keep all groomed and put together.

But as the weeks went on and she’d gotten worse, there were no more quick trims or hair cuts with her special scissors.

“Breakfast - is served,” Harry said with a soft smile as he set a large plate of food in front of Anthony, eager for him to get to eat as much as he could possibly want. He grabbed his own food, as well as the communal plate of toast, and sat down next to Anthony, filling both of their cups with fresh orange juice and turning to look down at him. He still hadn’t let go of that ball.

“Eat up…?” he said, though it came out as more of a lighthearted suggestion. “I know you must be really hungry.”

Anthony couldn’t help knowing he was right; but he didn’t want to let go. He stared at the food, wisps of steam wafting upward from the eggs and the bacon and the little sausages - and what was the green stuff? Was that… leaves?

Harry smiled as he watched Anthony stare in confusion at the eggs. “That’s creamed spinach, it’s uhm… it’s really good, try it.” He was so glad he kept a stock of bacon for the boys. He of course loved it himself, who didn’t? - but over the last year, he’d cut most of that sort of thing out of his diet. He may not have been completely kale ridden, as many of his friends and fans seemed to think, but he was certainly more careful than he’d ever been before about what he ate.

But cheating this morning felt extremely right.

Carefully, Anthony tucked the football under his left arm and held it securely there, his other arm reaching out and slowly grabbing the fork. Harry smiled to himself and began eating, too, the two of them quiet as they swallowed down the food. “You know, if you want, maybe later we can go outside and play some football.”

Anthony was halfway through a large bite of food when Harry’s words caused his brows to suddenly lower over his eyes. He swallowed it down and turned to look at Harry, trying to understand why he kept talking about it like it was a football. “What?” Harry mumbled, tapping the prongs of his fork against his plate. Anthony tried to decide if this was really worth breaking his silence; but as he prepared to open his mouth and ask, Harry’s brows went up in understanding and a small, “...oh.” left his lips.

“It’s, uhm… We call it a football in Britain. That’s what it was meant to be called.”

Anthony wasn’t having it.

“I’m serious,” Harry insisted, “Americans changed it to soccer all on their own.” There was a small smile playing at Harry’s lips as he watched the little boy’s indignant disbelief change to stubborn acceptance, his scrunched up face turning back to his food. “Want me to prove it to you?”

He instantly was excited at the prospect of pulling up a match on the television and sitting to watch it with him; it could really make this whole situation feel that much more normal for both of them. Anthony seemed unsure as he pushed his food around his plate. “Well, how about this,” Harry started, poking at one of the remaining pieces of bacon on his plate, “I was thinking we should probably try to go and get you some new clothes today? And then you can just think about it, and when we get back, you can tell me if you’d like to watch some football with me.” There was a pause, and for a moment, Harry relented. “Soccer. We can watch soccer.”

It took him some seconds to decide, but eventually a small, almost completely invisible smile tried to pull at Anthony’s lips. He nodded his head and pushed away his plate, sliding off of the stool he was sat on and turning to wait patiently for Harry.

The tall, lanky Brit sighed softly and looked over at his half-eaten plate, then back at the little boy. “You didn’t eat much.” Anthony stared back, his expression unchanging. “...Okay, okay, let me get changed and we can head out?”

Thirty minutes later, Anthony was following Harry to the front door, his arms - of course - still clutching the football and eyes wandering around the house. “Okay, so we have some rules, alright?” Harry mumbled, clearing his throat. “Stay with me, no matter what, and uhm… No going out of my sight, okay? I’ve gotta make sure you’re okay all the time.”

Anthony sighed softly and slowly nodded his head. “And you have to hold my hand when we’re walking, alright? There might be a lot of people that wanna come and talk to us and I don’t wanna chance anything.” Anthony didn’t seem to want to budge, though inside he felt strangely comforted by Harry’s words. He slowly nodded his head, though holding hands wasn’t first on his to-do list. He tapped the sides of the football anxiously and Harry got the message, softly setting a large, warm hand on the boy’s back to nudge him forward and pulling open the front door. “Alright, out we go.”

The drive into town was quiet, traffic heavy as ever as people tried to get into the city for a fun-filled day in Hollywood. Harry tried putting on music, though Anthony’s eyes were trained on the world outside. He seemed to be deep in thought, and Harry couldn’t help the tug he felt inside - no eight year old should have to experience the world with such an adult expression. He should be smiling, fascinated with what was outside the windows, and instead he was focused, concentrating, trying to understand everything. Harry wondered what it would take to bring Anthony back to being a kid again.

His eyes dropped then to the football, and a small smile curled against his lips in thought. Maybe that could be something.

As he pulled into a space and parked the car in a parking garage, Harry tugged his phone from his pocket and sent a group message to a few guys he knew who just might like to enjoy a bit of football, asking for ideas any of them could offer up while he took the boy around to various shops and got him new clothes.

Anthony was quiet as Harry opened his door, slipping out and staring down at the dirty cement ground. He hated all the stuff people wasted. There was gum on the ground, and wrappers for candy, and trash from lots and lots of things that he knew probably could have been used. He hated that.

“Alright, c’mon,” Harry murmured, clearing his throat and reaching out a hand. “Ready?”

There was along pause between them as Anthony stared at Harry’s hand; did he really have to? No one but his mother had ever held his hand and he didn’t need to be babied by Harry. He was eight, for pete’s sake. Harry’s brows furrowed and his expression spoke of seriousness; he wasn’t taking no for an answer. Anthony reluctantly reached out and took the large British man’s hand, allowing him to hold it however loosely and following him out of the parking garage.

The LA sun beat down brightly on them and if anything it’d only gotten hotter since the day before. Anthony hated this. He hated it. He should be back at the tunnel, making jokes with his mom, but here he was, following this stupid man who’d let her go around this stupid city that’d always looked down on him. He and his mom, they were a family, they were a unit, and now he had nothing, he had no one.

As he quietly hated everything and everyone, clutching tighter and tighter to the ball with every passing second, he was unaware of the emerald pair of eyes watching him with concern. Harry didn’t know how to turn this around. He knew it’d hardly been a day, and he didn’t expect him to be okay by any means at all; but he hated seeing the sad, angry expression on the little boy’s face. They needed clothes for him anyway, this was necessary, this was important. He’d had to have taken him out eventually, right?

Harry cringed as he was suddenly bombarded with thoughts as to whether this was the right thing to do in the first place; should he have let the boy stay at home? Asked a friend to go pick up some boys’ clothes? Let Anthony lay quietly in bed and take his time to grieve? Had he robbed him of that? Had he?

“Mr. Styles! Good to see you,” Jackie smiled as she saw him enter the store, her feet carrying her directly to him. She didn’t appear surprised at all to see the little boy, hiding her questions easily like the professional that she was - an owner of a clothing boutique in Los Angeles had to have their wits about them - and instead smiling down at him with ease. “And what would your name be?”

“Anthony,” Harry spoke, “He’s staying with me for a little while. We were hoping to get him some cool new clothes?” He gently tugged Anthony’s free hand back and forth, trying to wiggle a smile out of him and finding no success.

Jackie, her deep brown, straight as pins locks flowing from side to side as her engagement ring flashed in the sunlight that shone through the store’s windows, took one quick look at Anthony and nodded her head in certainty, spinning on her heel. “Follow me, boys,” she commanded brightly, leading them through the store with a grin on her face.

Ten minutes went by as she flitted from rack to rack grabbing items for Harry to try on the boy, the two of them sitting patiently in the fitting room. “Look at her go,” Harry chuckled softly, gently nudging Anthony with his elbow.

Anthony ignored the words, anxiously tapping the sides of the soccerball. He didn’t know why he was here. He knew Harry wanted to get him clothes, but what was wrong with the ones he was wearing?? He didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. He hated feeling like the way his life had been before hadn’t been enough. He liked the way things were. He liked the long hours just sitting with his mom, liked all the things she used to teach him, liked the haircuts and the magazines - oh, the magazines, she always could find a magazine strewn to the side somewhere, filled with pictures of the world outside, filled with what it must have been like to live like them. Live like people with things. People whose moms were taking them to field trips or going to school or who got to play so-

“Anthony?” Harry mumbled, breaking him out of his thoughts, “Let’s try these on, yeah?” Anthony looked up to see Harry’s two long arms, only one of them so heavily tattooed, wrapped around a massive pile of clothes that sufficiently covered up his face. It would’ve been funny if he didn’t feel so much like running right out of the store.

He sighed and slipped off the bench, following Harry into a dressing room. Harry let all of the clothes fall into a heap on the dressing room’s chair, shaking his arms out to rest them and grinning cheekily at Anthony. But, the grin fell when he saw him staring at all of the clothes, his eyes glazed over with… oh, no. Were those tears?

Harry gulped, kneeling down in front of the boy and ignoring the wisps of his hair that kept falling into his line of sight. Gently, he set a hand onto his back, the other finding the football as his eyes carefully watched the little boy’s pained expression.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, doing his best to sound as reassuring as possible, deep down so afraid it wouldn’t work, “I promise.”

“Why did you do this,” Anthony whimpered softly, his eyes squeezing shut tight as he tugged himself away from Harry and sat down in the other chair. It was then that Harry realized he couldn’t have been more wrong to take him out here, frowning heavily as he shook his head. This was his fault.

“I’m so sorry, Anthony,” he whispered, fighting back what was sure to be the cry of the century as he watched the young boy and desperately dug around in his head for ideas. “I’m so sorry.”

Anthony curled around his ball and tugged his knees up, his feet firmly planted to the chair as he buried his face against the ball. He stayed that way as Harry’s head perked up, an idea finally clicking as his fingers shakily tugged his phone back out of his pocket.

To: Nikki
Hey, T. Going to take you up on your offer. Please come out as soon as you can? Need help...


He quickly sent the text to Nicole, followed by another with the store’s address, and sat himself silently down beside Anthony, his knee bouncing.

He let his head rest back, eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tried to calm himself. “You know… I haven’t gotten to spend more than a couple days at a time with my mum in… five years?” Harry mumbled softly, his throat clogged with emotion.

Anthony didn’t move, though he’d heard Harry’s words, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

Harry continued. “I’ll always be grateful for what happened, I mean… I have a lot to tell you about me before it’ll all make sense. But… My family barely knows me.” Harry’s jaw clenched and he took a moment to stay steady. “Sometimes they’ll ask if I like something and I think, ‘how do they not know?’ and then I realize they haven’t been with me for the last five years to know. They haven’t seen me do this thing or that thing, don’t know what kind of jumper is my favorite or where I go on a night off or who half my friends are, at the least.” He sighed softly and looked down, playing with the threads of his jeans. “Sometimes I forget my mum’s laugh, and I have a video saved to my phone just so I can replay it so I won’t forget anymore.”

The two were quiet, the room filled with their sniffles and breathing and thoughts. Harry chuckled to himself for a moment. “Sometimes when I’m feeling sad, I just think about a few of these silly things my mum and sister and I did when I was younger, and I feel like I’m me again. And it all goes back to being okay, even for… just a little bit.”

He felt Anthony slowly lift his head, felt his big, brown eyes land on him and try to study him, not sure if it was all real. The boy furrowed his brows tightly together, then relaxed them, sniffling once more and murmuring, “Is that true?”

Harry slowly nodded his head, turning to face him. “Yeah… Every last word.”

A text buzzed through to his phone, and he glanced down at it, smiling softly at the words, “On my way.”

“So… how about this, yeah?” Harry started. Anthony listened intently. “How about… We get you into some new clothes, and you can tell me about something you and your mum used to do that makes you smile. And then my friend Nicole will be here to take us for some ice cream. How’s that sound?”

Anthony took a long time for himself, examining Harry’s brown boots with force. “Okay,” he nodded, slowly at first, “Okay.”

Those were more words, Harry thought. That was a good sign… Right?
♠ ♠ ♠
Oh. MY. GOD.

You guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OTRA SANTA CLARA, OTRA MILWAUKEE. THEY BOTH HAPPENED.

I AM SO SORRY FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK. I have to run out of here rn so I don't get locked into my library (lol) but I love you guys so much, I'm so sorry for the forever long hiatus, but it's back! And believe me, no matter how long I may take to update, this story isn't going anywhere.

Not going anywhere.

Hope you're catchin' my drift...

ANYWAY. in other news, this chapter is dedicated to arizonaskies (who I will link later) she is wonderful and you need to check her out. Love you guys!! Thank you so much for reading, would LOVE to read feedback on this!!!!!!!!!

-annie <333