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bright pink as all of the waiters congregate around their table to sing

him happy birthday, and Louis even manages to clap along with the rest

of the restaurant as Zayn pecks Liam on the cheek before Liam turns

and kisses Zayn on the lips.

Niall calls for a toast, and Harry volunteers to do the honors. He pushes

his chair back and stands, lifting his glass into the air and clearing his

throat a little before he begins.

“When two people find each other,” Harry says, smiling down at the

ridiculously happy couple, “it‟s a pretty amazing thing. The best thing,

really. Liam and Zayn, the two of you are proof of that. It took a while,

but with a little help, destiny finally got its way. The rest of us couldn‟t

be happier, mostly because now we don‟t have to listen to Zayn whine

about it anymore.” Niall laughs, and Zayn blushes and flips Harry the

bird. “But seriously, you guys, congratulations. You two are really,

really lucky.”

Louis drops his eyes down to his plate so he doesn‟t have to see the

look on Harry‟s face, but he can‟t stop himself from hearing Harry add

softly, “Just... really lucky.”

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It‟s quiet at the table for a moment, and then Niall shouts, “Cheers!”

and they all say it back, downing gulps of the champagne Liam insisted

upon buying. Louis is determined not to feel anything about it.

Finally they pay the bill and head outside, and everyone starts hugging

goodbye. Louis knew this was inevitable, but his heart still stutters

when he finds himself face to face with Harry and his broad chest and

waiting arms, the last ones who haven‟t said goodbye. Three months

ago they‟d be going home together, kissing each other goodnight in

Louis‟ bed hours later, the shape of each other‟s mouths stained on

their skin. Tonight, it‟s this.

He lets Harry wrap him up in his arms, and God, it‟s like a shot of

morphine in his veins, making him go soft and pliant. He can‟t help it.

In a moment of complete weakness, he lets himself slide one hand up

into Harry‟s hair, and he feels Harry‟s hand fist in his shirt in response.

Then he realizes what he‟s doing, and he breaks off immediately,

taking three giant steps backward.

“Right, this was lovely, must run, night boys!” Louis chirps, waving

robotically at them all. He turns on his heel and marches off to his car

and doesn‟t look back.

As he drives home, he tries to come up with a contingency plan. If

being close to Harry over the course of a meal is becoming too much

for him now, he needs to be distracted. He needs to keep his hands and

his mind busy until Harry goes. From now on, he decides, he‟s going to

throw himself into his work every spare minute he has. It‟s not like he

doesn‟t have piles of marking to get through before the year ends

anyway. Maybe if he‟s buried under projects and essays and report

cards, he‟ll be too overwhelmed to feel anything even close to desire.

Sticking to the plan, the next week Louis tries to get a jump start on

marking his student‟s final projects. He‟s sitting at his desk during his

free period, working his way through a soliloquy that seems

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particularly unconcerned with the constraints of English grammar,

when there are three sharp raps on the door.

He looks up to see none other than Mike Kendall in his doorway, tall

and ginger and smiling a little goofily. “Hi, Mr. T!” he says, his

baritone voice booming. Louis half winces and half grins at the

nickname, which caught on among the footy players during Grease and

hasn‟t vanished yet.

“Hi, Mike,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair. “Has the theatre‟s

siren song drawn you back to darken my doorstep?”

Mike just laughs. “Nah, sorry. Just wanted to see if you were coming to

the match tonight.” Ah, that‟s right. The last match of the footy season

is tonight, some tournament or another. He remembers Harry

mentioning it a few weeks back, talking about how it was lucky the

season ended just before he had to leave. Louis has no plans to attend.

“I‟m not sure—“ he starts, but Mike jumps in, all cajoling enthusiasm.

“C‟mon, Mr. T, please?” Puppy eyes shouldn‟t be possible from a

hulking teenager, but they‟re coming out nonetheless. “Me and the lads

helped you out with your thing, it‟d be sick if you came to see us at our

thing.”

He does have a point. Plus, Louis has a soft spot for his former T-Bird.

The kid has spirit, even if he sometimes reminds Louis of those

walking trees from Lord of the Rings. “I‟ll see what I can do,” he says,

tilting a look at Mike that makes it clear that‟s all he‟ll get.

“Brilliant!” Mike says, punching the air. “Okay, I‟ve gotta get to class.

Bye, Mr. T! See you tonight!” And then he‟s gone.

Louis hasn‟t been to one of the football matches in what has to be

months. He‟d gone regularly for most of first and second term, sitting

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in the middle of the stands and yelling his lungs out, usually with Zayn

or Niall or both in tow. He hasn‟t been back since Easter, though.

So when he finds himself at the pitch that night, it all feels a little alien.

He climbs all the way to the top of the stands, moving to a back corner

away from the cheering parents and friends. He pulls on his sunglasses

and sips on the iced coffee he bought on the way and tries not to feel

horrendously out of place.

Harry‟s there, of course, on the sidelines with his boys, but he doesn‟t

ever look up at the stands. It‟s not like he‟d be expecting anyone to be

there. Louis tries not to watch him, but since he couldn‟t manage that

when he‟d known Harry for two weeks it‟s not like he‟s going to pull it

off now. It‟s almost nice, being able to watch Harry without worrying

about talking to him or touching him or any of it.

He‟s a blur up and down the sideline like always, shouting out

instructions and encouragements to the players in a hoarse voice,

coordinating with the head coach, and checking in with the kids on the

bench. Louis‟ been a teacher for a while, and he knows what it looks

like when somebody cares about what they‟re doing. He sees the way

the leftback grins when Harry whoops after he nabs the ball from the

other team‟s striker, sees the team captain point at Harry when he

scores a goal. Those boys love him. Louis can‟t imagine that Harry

won‟t be loved wherever he goes, that people won‟t always flock to

him. He wonders what that‟s like.

Then it‟s halftime, all tied up at 1-1, and Louis expects the players to

come off the field. Instead, about half of them stay on the field, with

some of the substitute players joining them. One of the subs has a

microphone with them, and he hands it to the team captain, a compact

midfielder with a shock of blond hair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “Allow me to introduce myself. I‟m

Tony Stockton,” a ragged cheer goes up from the stands, “Thanks.

Anyway, I‟m team captain, and I‟m also a year 13. Since this is our last

match of the season, we‟ve brought all of the year 13s out to say

goodbye. These lads have all been committed to this team from day

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one, and we‟d really appreciate it if you would be so kind as to give

each one a round of applause as I read out their names.”

He goes down the list, and the crowd cheers for each one. It‟s always

easy to pick out the family of the boy in question, with loud whoops

coming from small groups in the stands. Finally, once every name has

been called, there‟s a mass round of applause, and Louis finds himself

clapping along as well. He doesn‟t really know any of the year 13s

well, but he remembers how it felt to have something like this end,

something that felt like it ran your whole life while you were in school.

Tony clears his throat into the microphone, and the cheers die down.

“We actually have another farewell tonight,” he says, humor in his

voice. “We‟re also saying goodbye to our irreplaceable assistant coach,

who will be leaving us for the capital! The poshest footy coach who

isn‟t really that good at footy, Mr. Harry Styles!” All the boys start

clapping, and one of the younger lads on the sidelines gives him a little

shove towards the pitch. Harry jogs out to join the year 13s, grinning

ruefully, and is immediately engulfed in a massive group hug.

He looks very young, and very, very happy.

Louis doesn‟t realize he‟s moving until he stumbles halfway down the

stands and nearly upends a family of four. “Sorry, sorry,” he says,

stepping around them and finally reaching solid ground. He‟s not being

subtle, and if Harry has looked up he‟s almost certainly seen him, but

Louis would rather not know, so he keeps his eyes on the ground as he

rushes back towards the carpark.

He hurries back to his car as fast as he can, trying to force down the

sudden panicked nausea. All he can think about—all he‟s running away

from right now—is how happy Harry looked, happy and loved, and

how he was born to be happy and loved and probably always has been,

and how soon somebody else is going to be making him feel that way,

and how much he doesn‟t need Louis for that. He never did.

He can‟t run fast enough.

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at the pitch. come here.

It‟s almost midnight on the last day of June, and this is the first thing

Harry‟s texted him in weeks.

Harry‟s leaving tomorrow, and Louis hasn‟t spoken to him in two

weeks. He hasn‟t seen him since the football match, hasn‟t kissed him

in a month. It‟s almost midnight on the last day of June, and Harry is

going to leave tomorrow. Harry hasn‟t called, and Louis will never

forgive himself if he‟s the one who breaks, and it‟s time to let it go for

good. Or at least it was supposed to be, until the text message.

He paces through his flat, wishing he was less fucking bone-tired so

he‟d at least have the energy to throw the tantrum he wants to throw.

He wants to break half the things in his flat. He wants to tell Harry to

go to hell. But God knows he doesn‟t have the strength to do any of

that.

He knew what he was going to do as soon as he read the text message,

no matter how much he pretends to deliberate with himself over it. He‟s

going to meet Harry at the pitch. He‟s spent too much time revisiting

the night the two of them were alone there, told Harry too much about

what that night did to him. He‟s going. Fuck it, he‟s going.

The drive is short, and he swears at himself the whole way.

The stadium lights are off but the gate‟s been left open for him, and

when he makes his way through it and around the stands, he can just

barely make out Harry sitting in the middle of the pitch, broad

shoulders under the moonlight and the Manchester light pollution. He‟s

not moving, just waiting, knees drawn up to his chest and arms folded

on top.

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Louis looks out at his back in the distance and tries so hard not to think

of this person as Harry. He tries not to think of all the things that body

represents in his world, of all the places he‟s left his marks on it, of the

heart inside it and the way it feels when it‟s pressed up against his own

chest. He tries so hard not to think, this is the last time.

He makes his way out to the center of the pitch slowly, counting his

steps. When he reaches Harry, he sits down on the grass across from

him and waits.

“Hi,” Harry says, not looking at him.

“Hi,” Louis says lamely. He‟s got no idea what else to say.

“Hi,” Harry says again.

“Already said that,” Louis says automatically, and Harry just barely

stops a tiny smile.

It‟s silent after that, just the two of them breathing and the distant