Work Text:
Full count. Bottom of the ninth.
Styles steps into the box.
Louis winds up.
Styles squares up.
To bunt.
The ball leaves Louis’ glove. The bat connects, tapping the ball onto the field.
Louis rushes forward, snatching it up and launching it towards first.
Styles is in the way.
The ball hits his thigh, and he yelps, falling, sprawled on the clay.
Game forgotten, Louis runs, dropping to the ground, bare knees scraping in the dirt.
Harry groans and mumbles, “Offensive interference.”
“No one’s calling interference, baby,” Louis says, wincing at the growing welt. “Let’s ice this and go home.”