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points that just sprang up inside his head.

“Okay, yeah,” Zayn says when he finally regains control of his body,

scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket. “Sounds brilliant.” Liam

is going to give him his number. It‟s work-related, and technically

under false pretenses, but still Liam is giving him his number. He will

have a direct line to Liam at all times. They‟re basically married.

After Liam reads off his number, Zayn double- and triple-checks that

he‟s got it right before saving it to his phone. “If you spot anything

fishy, let me know and I‟ll see if I can‟t sort it out,” Liam says

earnestly. If Zayn is discount frozen peas, Liam is premium filet

mignon in human form. Just, you know. Less French.

“I will.” Zayn nods eagerly. “I will absolutely ring you.” And then he

will put a ring on it.

Liam‟s face crinkles up into a smile. Zayn wants to build a shrine to it.

“Wonderful. Anyway, I‟ve got to run. Enjoy your dinner.” He gives

Zayn a tiny wave. Zayn starts to return it before realising he probably

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looks ridiculous, so he does his best to make it look like he meant to

run his hand through his hair.

“Yeah, cheers. You too. Man.” He aims for nonchalance but he thinks

he may have missed the mark. Liam just keeps smiling, though, and

disappears around the corner. Zayn manages to keep it together for a

full ten seconds before he collapses against the freezer door. He is

never doubting destiny again, so long as he lives.

This vow lasts until he‟s paying the cashier, when he realises that he

didn‟t give Liam his number in return and drops his change all over the

floor. Oh, bugger destiny with a rake.

Louis really does like his job, but he doesn‟t like every second of it.

Especially not right now, hunched over his desk after hours, looking

over the first drafts of his students‟ final compositions for the term. He

could be at home right now, getting cozy with The Only Way is Essex,

but there are only a few weeks left before Christmas hols and his kids

are going to need all the help they can get.

Louis sighs and circles a line on the pages in front of him in pen. This

character entered stage left two pages ago, he writes in the margins, so

while having him enter again stage right here without having

mentioned him ever leaving is a fascinating choice, you should

probably change it unless you plan on introducing evil twins as a plot

point. He taps the end of the pen against his teeth thoughtfully. Too

harsh… or not harsh enough?

As he bends the pen to paper again, Harry opens the door. He doesn‟t

say hello, just tosses a mesh bag of footballs to one side and stalks to

the desk nearest Louis‟. He sits down heavily, not looking at Louis,

then stands up after a moment to walk back to the door and close it. He

returns to his seat and scrubs a hand over his face before finally

meeting Louis‟ eyes.

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Louis considers telling him he‟s sitting at the desk where Jeremy

Givens sticks all his gum, but decides that this isn‟t the time. “Hi. Talk

to me. Are you all right?”

Harry‟s leg is bouncing up and down, as if he can‟t quite accept

stillness. “No,” he says, not looking away from Louis. “I mean, yes,

I‟m fine, and that‟s what—Jesus. I‟m angry.” He looks quickly out the

window with what‟s almost a smile, but by the time he meets Louis‟

eyes again it‟s a grimace. “You can keep something—you can respect

student confidentiality, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, what—” Louis starts, but Harry‟s already pushed out

of his seat and pacing in front of Louis‟ desk.

“You know Richards? Tom Richards? Tallish, spiky hair, one of my

strikers?” Louis nods. “I asked him to stay behind after practice

because he seemed off his game. He wasn‟t passing to the other

forward we had playing, Mike Kendall, wasn‟t linking up properly with

him at all, and those two can practically read each others‟ minds

normally.” He pulls that almost-smile again, and Louis hates that look

already. “I was actually worried about him. I thought, I don‟t know, I

thought maybe something was wrong at home.”

Harry still hasn‟t stopped moving. “And so I ask him, after practice, it‟s

just us, I ask him what‟s going on, and you know what he tells me?” He

pauses and meets Louis‟ eyes. “He says that he and Kendall aren‟t

speaking, aren‟t friends anymore, because apparently Kendall told

Richards that he‟s gay, not that Richards put it in those terms.” The

pacing resumes. “He tells me—this boy on my team, who‟s been

playing with all these guys for months—that he doesn‟t want to play

with Kendall anymore, that he‟s already told the other lads.” His hand

on the back of his neck, he falls heavily back into his seat. “Christ,

Louis, I‟ve never wanted to hit a student before, but I nearly lost it.”

Louis forces his fingers to unbend from the fist they‟ve formed, from

around the script page he‟s crumpled into a ball. “What—” he clears his

throat, “what did you do?”

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“I told him that under the circumstances, I didn‟t want him playing with

Kendall either, or on any team of mine, and that he was benched until

further notice,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the desk. His eyes

are ablaze, and Louis can‟t decide if he should be more frightened for

or of him.

“Jesus, Haz.”

“I know, Lou, I know but—fuck, I don‟t care, he betrayed the team and

the trust of a teammate and, Jesus, I feel like he betrayed me because I

liked this kid,” he says all in rush, leaning forward and putting his head

in his hands. “And, fuck, Louis, tomorrow I‟m going to have to tell

Kendall that the team knows, that I know, when I have no fucking

business knowing, and I‟m not…” he takes a few deep breaths and

shakes his head, “I‟m not doing that and making him play with the

prick who did it to him, too. No. Fuck that. I don‟t care.”

Louis looks at the line of Harry‟s shoulders, strung tight as a bowstring.

He‟s almost afraid to move, unable to cope with everything radiating

off of the man in front of him. “He‟s lucky that it‟s someone like you

who‟s dealing with it,” he manages, but his words feel pale and useless

compared to the pure energy vibrating out of Harry.

Harry lets out a harsh laugh. “He‟s not lucky. There‟s nothing about

this that‟s lucky. If there‟s—Jesus, if anyone‟s lucky it‟s me, Lou.” He

looks up, and Louis can see the redness of his eyes, the wetness of his

lashes. He looks like a Rembrandt, like an oil painting of firelight. “I

hate that. I hate that the fact that I made it out of school without any of

this bullshit makes me lucky. I hate being thankful for getting

something that, that Kendall and everyone else shouldn‟t even have to

think about asking for. They should just get it.”

If Louis was afraid to move before, he can barely breathe now. The air

seems stretched thin, a rubber band about to snap.

Harry swallows thickly. “My friends didn‟t care, and my parents were

great, and it‟s not like there were any other guys who liked guys at my

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high school, so I just ended up dating girls anyway. And it was fine.

And nobody cared. And fuck, Louis, I thought that meant that things

were changing, that things were better, but they aren‟t, I just got

fucking lucky.” He wipes a hand over his face. “I just feel… I feel

really stupid, and I can‟t do anything about it.”

The room is silent except for Harry‟s heavy breaths and the sound of

Louis‟ brain shorting out. “Hazza,” Louis says. “Haz.” Harry won‟t

look at him. Fuck it. Louis can deal with processing this information

later.

He stands and comes around the desk, drops into a seat next to Harry.

“Harry, Christ, you‟re already doing something.” He almost doesn‟t

hesitate before sliding his hand behind Harry‟s neck. “You can let that

shithead rot on the bench for the rest of the season, first off.” That gets

a slightly watery smile out of Harry, and part of Louis‟ brain does

backflips. “And you can be there for Kendall. You can have his back.

That‟s—” after all Harry‟s said, he feels guilty for even taking a breath,

“that‟s more than anyone ever did for me, all right?” Harry‟s eyes flick

up to his. “So don‟t think it‟s nothing.”

“Maybe it isn‟t nothing, but God,” Harry sighs. “I‟m still an idiot. You

know, I never said anything to you guys about being, I don‟t know, not

straight, because I honestly thought it didn‟t matter. Jesus, Lou, I don‟t

even have a word for it. I thought it didn‟t make a difference, because I

thought everyone was moving on from that stuff.”

“It doesn‟t have to make a difference,” Louis says carefully. If that‟s

what Harry wants, he can pretend not to care about this. He can pretend

that this doesn‟t tip his world sideways, that it hasn‟t already. He can

lock this away if he has to, if it takes this look off Harry‟s face.

“I wish you were right, Lou, and maybe yesterday I would have

thought you were.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But if this is how

it is, if my students are going after each other for being something that I

am? It matters, whether I want it to or not. And just because I‟ve been

able to pretend it doesn‟t affect me doesn‟t mean I get to ignore

reality.”

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Louis rubs the back of Harry‟s neck gently. “Okay. I see what you‟re

saying. It matters.” Harry lets out a heavy breath. “But I think the fact

that you figured that out means you can‟t be all that stupid.”

Harry takes a few deep breaths. “God, Lou,” he says, “everyone in the

world is an arsehole except you,” and maybe it‟s the weight of

everything that‟s been said, but they both dissolve into giggles.

“Glad to see you‟re catching on,” Louis says. The part of him that‟s

relieved to see Harry looking less likely to fly into a million pieces is

just about loud enough to drown out the part of him that‟s still freaking

the fuck out.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay. I can still—I‟m going to help him, and do

everything I can, and if it‟s too much or if I fuck up I can always come

cry at you about it. A good plan.” He sits up a little straighter in his seat

and seems to have shaken off the worst of what‟s weighing him down.

He even fixes his hair quickly, so Louis knows he can‟t be doing that

badly. “All right, I think I‟m ready to face the world again.” He looks

up at Louis and smiles. “I‟d thank you for listening, but I know you‟d

just tell me that I can always talk to you,” he says, cutting off Louis‟

protests, “So I‟ll skip ahead in the conversation and thank you for that,

instead.”

Louis opens and closes his mouth. His brain is full of fog, and the only

coherent thought that is breaking through is sheer amazement that this

is a person who exists. Maybe it‟s causing Harry pain now, but Louis

sends out mental thanks to whatever power allowed him to pass

through adolescence without being ruined by reality. He feels like he

gets to hang out with a unicorn.

He doesn‟t realise he‟s been staring until Harry clears his throat. Right,

conversation. Louis has partaken once or twice. “Fair enough,” he says.

“You‟re welcome.” Harry squeezes his shoulder, and Louis is

conscious of every square inch of contact. Because he is a bad person.

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