February 2002

Thierry Henry half turned his head in amazement and dismay as the words of hatred filtered down onto the pitch. Then he shook himself, and tried to focus all his concentration on the game again. That was the only thing he could do. Prove to them that his background, and the colour of his skin, did not make him any less of a footballer, or, in fact, any less of a human being. He tried to shut his ears to the hurtful, hateful words, knowing even as he did so that however well he played, his skill would not be enough to overcome the ignorance and prejudice. To the racist fools on the terraces, he was already reduced to second best, no matter how well he played.

He sighed, and forced himself to focus. He watched the ball. He watched Pires work his magic around one defender, two. His lapse in concentration had left him too far back to support, and there was a lot of ground to cover. He sprinted, adrenalin pumping through him as he fought to get himself into position.

Pires glanced at him, saw the furious burst of speed. He had planned on trying to make the shot himself, but he had heard the chanting too, and understood Henry's sudden need to prove himself. He crossed the ball neatly across the mouth of the goal, Henry made a final desperate sprint, and volleyed a perfect shot into the back of the net.

>From the racists, there was a sudden silence, but at the Arsenal end of the terraces, the crowd went wild. His team-mates yelled their congratulations, and slowly, Henry began to smile, as relief and then elation flowed over him.

'Thanks,' he muttered to Pires, as the other player came up to throw an arm across his shoulders. Pires shrugged.

'You deserved it. It was a good run,' he said, and then suddenly gripped Henry's shoulder. 'Say something to the ref, Thierry. You shouldn't have to put up with this. Nobody should.'

Henry shrugged. 'What can he do, Robert? I - we - will put up with it,' he said. 'It's only ninety minutes, after all...' he finished, trying to laugh.

Pires grimaced. He didn't think it was right that his team-mates should have to put up with this kind of abuse, but Henry was right, there wasn't much the ref could really do. Still, it went against his conscience to let the incident pass without making some sort of a stand, and he was glad when he saw Sol Campbell and Ashley Cole go over and have a quiet word with the referee at half time.

***

'I did *not* enjoy that,' Kanu said angrily when the match was over. There was a general agreement from the rest of the players. It had been an easy win, but the mood in the dressing room was far from cheerful.

'The police have been informed, although I doubt they will be able to make any arrests,' Wenger told them solemnly. 'But we will speak to the FA, and there will probably be a fine for the team. They should not allow their supporters to behave in that way.'

It was true, Pires thought. There had been a time not so long ago when Arsenal had had their own issues with racism on the terraces: although the team had always been fairly multi-racial, there had once been problems of racism and especially anti-Semitism amongst and between the supporters. It had taken a huge drive by the team - poster campaigns, youth projects, and a kids' training programme in the local area which liased with local mosques and synagogues - but now racism by Arsenal supporters was beginning to be a thing of the past. Many of the players had helped out, putting their own time into the campaign, visiting schools, talking at youth groups, promoting the team's multi-racial image, and they were proud of the success that they had had. Although they would never have claimed that their supporters were now perfect, they had learnt that to their beloved Arsenal team, racist chanting of any kind on the terraces was considered unacceptable.

So it was an unpleasant shock to learn that not all teams had been as active or successful in helping to curb the problem.

***

'It is not an easy time to be a black football player,' Pires said to Henry, when most of of the team had already left the changing rooms. They spoke French, as they often did when alone together, for despite his two years in London, Pires had never quite grown comfortable with the English language, and though Henry's English was perfectly fluent, he did enjoy speaking French when he got the chance.

Henry shrugged. 'On the contrary, friend. It's easier now to be a black footballer than it ever has been,' he said. 'That does not mean it's easy. Just that... it's bearable, now. It's possible. Not so long ago, I wouldn't have been accepted here at all.' He smiled wryly. 'A Frenchman, and a black man also. It could only have been worse if I were German or Argentinean.' He looked up at Pires with a half laugh. 'It begins to be better now,' he said seriously. 'I suppose in a way, it's important to be reminded that we haven't come all the way.' He fell silent. Pires touched his shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he said. Henry shrugged again.

'It's not your fault.'

'I know. But... remember, I *do* know how it feels to be abused by supporters. It may not have been racism that I was up against in Marseilles... but... but I want you to know that I do understand how you must feel, Thierry.'

Henry smiled. One of the things he liked about talking to Pires was being called by his first name, correctly pronounced. Many of the English players had - after a good natured attempt at getting their tongues round the unfamiliar, un-Anglicisable name - given up and resorted to calling him by a mangled form of his surname. *Onree.* Their pronunciation was almost uniformly appalling, but at least they had finally stopped saying it like it was the English forename. *Onree.* He was getting used to it now, even beginning to find himself nostalgic for the terrible pronunciation when he spent any length of time in France, but he still appreciated it when Pires called him Thierry. Of course, any of the other French players on the team - Wiltord, Viera, and Wenger as well - could pronounce his name correctly, but Pires had an endearing way of saying it, rolling the r's and softening the t's in a mock Paris accent. It had started out as friendly taunting, Pires mocking his supposedly sophisticated Parisian accent, a subtle tension between the two Frenchmen that most of the team could never have picked up on. But now, somehow, it seemed to mean more than that. It made him smile whenever Pires said it that way.

'Thanks, Robert,' he said. The other man squeezed his shoulder, still concerned. 'I'm all right!' Henry insisted. 'Yes, it hurt what they were saying, but I don't let it get to me. I am all right.'

There was something slightly wistful in his glance, and Pires wondered if he was lying, but decided not to push it.

***

It was not until he woke from a nightmare in the early hours of the following morning that Thierry Henry realised how much he *had* let the incident get to him. In his dream, the words of hate had fallen from the stands like poisoned darts, piercing his skin until the unfamiliar stadium had run with blood. He had tried to run forward to pick up Pires' cross, but found himself held back by jeering hooligans. Their hands burned his skin and their words burned his heart.

Filthy, they called him, filthy little black man. Monkey, as though he was somehow less than human. Slave, too, although that one hurt less, because he could accept it as part of his heritage, even if they could not. Go back where you belong, they had yelled. Go back! And in the dream, he had shuddered, feeling suddenly lost. Go back where? London? Paris? Juventus? Africa? None of those places were where he felt he belonged. Suddenly, he felt as if he belonged nowhere at all... nowhere except maybe Highbury Stadium.

And then the other insults, the ones that hurt more because he had not accepted enough to know how to guard against them. Faggot. Queer. Whore, even. He wondered how they knew that those were the words that would hurt, when he himself was not even sure of the implications. Probably, he told himself rationally, they didn't, they were lashing out at random, not knowing that their words were dead on target.

He lay awake in the darkness and waited for morning.

***

March 2002

It was a tackle like any other, that was what Pires remembered most about it afterwards. Maybe he'd fallen a little awkwardly, or maybe it had been a little harder than was acceptable, but even when he'd realised the extent of his injury, Pires found it hard to distinguish that tackle in his mind from any of the others that had gone before it. Perhaps that was one of the things that made it so terrible - the sense that not only could his season be over so quickly, in one single, terrible moment, but it didn't even have to be anything spectacular or out of the ordinary. Just your average rough challenge and a bit of extra bad luck. That was all it had taken. Which meant that it could happen to anyone, at any time, with no warning.

He'd met with Henry afterwards, for a meal, before he'd known quite how bad the injury was. Henry had been worried for him, trying to hide it, but unsuccessfully, and his anxiety had made Pires uncomfortable.

'How is it?' Henry had asked. Pires had forced a smile.

'Not so bad. I should be back in three or four weeks,' he'd insisted. At the time, he had not known it was a lie.

And Henry had looked at him, with the same odd look in his eyes that Pires had not been able to account for, and Pires had caught himself wondering if Henry had known something about knee injuries that he didn't, something terrible.

'Hurry back, old friend. I'll miss you,' was all Henry had said.

***

*Why me?* It was a pointless little question, but everyone asks it, and Pires was no exception. *Why me? And why now, in a World Cup year? What did I do to deserve this?*

He was out, at best, for the rest of the season. And already, he was finding it unbearable. He missed the game, missed playing, missed the anticipation, the exhilaration, the joy of winning.

Missed the team, his friends. Missed their support, their comfort. He felt alone, now. Almost all of the worst moments in his life, he had shared with his team, and they had helped to lessen the grief and the pain. But this was his tragedy, and his alone, and they did not share it. They sympathised, of course. But somehow, it wasn't the same. They were going up in the world. Winning games without him. Even if the injury healed perfectly, he knew he would now have to fight to get back his place on the team. They would not stay still, would not wait for him. They would go on playing, and winning, and perhaps they would stop needing him, and then where would he be?

Alone. Like he was now. Alone, with his leg aching numbly, and his mind going round in bitter circles. *Why now, why in a World Cup year?* He had been really looking forward to playing with the French side again, to hearing his own language, to the anticipation and the fear. It was his *right* to defend the trophy that he'd helped to win four years ago. How could this happen now, like this?

*It's so unfair*, he thought, childishly. *I don't deserve this.*

He felt so alone. He missed them badly, missed all of them, even those he'd been playing alongside just a few days ago. Missed Viera, and Wiltord.

Missed Henry. He shook his head, hating himself for feeling so low. He forced his mind to go blank. It was easier to feel nothing at all.

***

'Those look fun!' Henry said cheerfully, gesturing at Pires' crutches. 'Can I have a go?' Pires grimaced. 'You wouldn't think they looked so much fun if your shoulders were hurting as much as mine are,' he complained vaguely. 'And I wouldn't suggest messing around with them. You might break an ankle, and *then* where would the team be?' Pires said, attempting a joke, but it came out weakly, and Henry looked at him, concerned.

'Robert... this is a stupid question, but... are you all right? You're not feeling too down about things are you?'

Pires tried to smile.

'A season's not such a long time...' he started to say, but the months stretched out endlessly in front of him, and the words caught in his throat.

'Robert, you don't have to pretend in front of me,' Henry said softly, switching to French to place emphasis on his words. Pires shook his head.

'It... it doesn't help to get upset about it,' he said, keeping his voice under tight control. 'There's nothing I can do about it. I'm doing my physio, and... and I think it's helping. So it's not the end of the world. I'll play again, with a bit of luck. And the one thing that I know for a fact *won't* help me is getting myself worked up over it. It's not pretence, Henry. It's... will-power. I *am* all right. I have to be. Because anything else...' he trailed off.

Henry watched him helplessly. 'I just wish there was something I could do to help,' he said.

'You all ready have,' Pires said. 'By... by not abandoning me. By making the time to see me like this. I've *missed* you. I've missed you all. In a way, that's what's hardest. The loneliness.'

Henry touched his shoulder.

'You should have said. I'd have come sooner.'

'You came when you could. I know how it is,' Pires said with a shrug. Henry sighed and shook his head.

'I've missed you. It's just not the same without you there...'

'Fewer arguments over who gets to play down the right,' Pires joked. Henry grinned.

'Something like that.'

'Seriously, Thierry. How are things back at Highbury?' Henry smiled.

'I've missed hearing that!' he said. 'No one else says my name quite the way you do!'

Pires laughed. 'Do I still do that accent? I hadn't even noticed... but don't try to change the subject on me! How are things going?'

Henry hesitated slightly, not wanting to upset or alienate his friend further with tales of the team's success.

'It's going well,' he said eventually. 'I don't want to tempt fate, but I think we have a good chance of making the double this year. The team's playing better than we have done in years, it's really fantastic, Robert, you should see it...'

Pires looked away.

'That's great for you, Thierry,' he said softly. Henry was instantly concerned.

'Hey, Robert! You said yourself that it will not help you to get upset... Remember, it's *your* success too. We'd never have done so well in the League if it wasn't for you!'

Pires shook his head, and looked away. Henry grabbed both his shoulders.

'Please, Robert, don't go to pieces on me! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything...'

'No, I asked you to tell me,' Pires said with a sigh. 'I thought I could take it... but, god Thierry, it hurts so much to hear you talk about the team and our successes, and to know that I won't be a part of all that for such a long time. You're going to win the double... without me!'

'Haven't you been listening to a word I've said, Robert? *Not* without you. *With* you. *Because of* you. *If* we win it will be your win too.'

Pires looked up at him doubtfully, but Henry was gazing at him with such complete conviction that he couldn't help but smile.

'Let's not talk about football,' he said softly. 'I'm sorry, Thierry, but... but let's just not talk about it.'

'You've got nothing to be sorry for, Robert! But if you'd rather talk about something else...'

Pires shrugged and smiled. 'I don't know why you put up with me,' he said, trying to sound more cheerful. 'I'm moping, I'm contradicting myself, and I'm *still* teasing your accent after all these years. And you're just taking it...'

'I don't mind putting up with you,' Henry said softly. He looked up at Pires, smiling broadly, but the wistful look that Pires couldn't quite make sense of was once again in his eyes. 'I *like* putting up with you. I... I like *you*, Robert.' Pires looked at him hard, and Henry almost blushed, wondering if he had said too much already.

'What would I do without you, old friend?' Pires said, and Henry had to struggle to hide his disappointment. He hadn't said too much after all. He had not said enough. Pires had heard only the words, not the emotion that was behind him. Henry almost sighed. *Old friend*, words that used to touch him, were no longer enough.

But almost immediately, disappointment was overridden by relief. It was better that Pires had misunderstood. At least he wouldn't turn away, or be disgusted, or afraid. It was better not to lose his friendship, since there was no possibility of anything else.

***

As the days passed, it got easier to hear the news from Highbury. Pires was *glad* they were winning, even if it was without him. How could he be anything else? They were not his wins, not anymore, but it was his team still, and he would be glad to see them lift the double, even if it was without him. He had to be.

He threw himself into his physio, shutting out all emotion and concentrating on the physical, stretching the muscles further, harder, working, always working, and trying not to think or feel. It hurt, sometimes, but he did not mind, could not mind, the pain was better than the despair. Only, sometimes, when he had pushed himself a little to hard, when the therapist had yelled at him, asking if he *wanted* to ruin the rest of his career. When the pain spread down his leg in waves and he was terrified that he had pushed himself over the edge, that he would never recover from this, that every effort he made was only making things worse... only then was the pain unbearable. He shut his teeth against it, closed his eyes, lay completely still, and eventually it passed. Not the fear, though. The fear was always there. But he could concentrate on the physical. Always concentrate on the physical. Pain was bearable, pain could be ignored or willed away... but emotions were dangerous. He fought them, hid them, controlled them, until eventually it felt like he couldn't feel anything at all any more. Not the way he used to. No more terror. But no more elation, either. No nothing, really. Only blankness, and pain.

But it was getting easier to hear the news from Highbury. He could feel glad for the team in a distant sort of a way. Because it no longer really mattered. He wasn't a part of it. So it couldn't hurt him.

And that was a good thing. It was. It had to be. The fear was dulled. The despair replaced by numbness. The pain could be willed away.

He'd take it slowly. Calm, always calm. He wouldn't - couldn't - get worked up about anything. It was better not to feel at all.

And so there was no drive, no passion, no hope. He went through the motions of his treatment - following the instructions he was given because it was easier than thinking - but with no real determination. He found he could not care. He couldn't imagine ever playing again - and even that thought wasn't enough to break through the numbness. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Sometimes he felt like nothing would ever matter again.

*** April 2002 Henry's eyes were shining with the excitement and thrill of success. Pires could barely even remember feeling that way now, but he made an effort, and smiled at his friend.

'It's going well then?' he asked.

'Oh yes, Robert,' Henry said enthusiastically. 'It's going great. I haven't felt this good about the game since the last world cup...' Henry trailed off, grinning manically, glad that he was no longer having to tone down his excitement in front of Pires for fear of upsetting him. Pires was calmer, now, though his smile was a little stretched. Still, Henry could hardly blame him for that, he knew how he'd be feeling if it was him denied the rest of this fantastic season, denied the World Cup, and then after that... who knew? Henry knew that he'd be devastated. Pires was taking it better than most, it seemed.

'It's been an almost perfect season,' Henry continued more quietly. 'It was only your injury that spoiled it, really. Well, that and...' He broke off and grimaced.

'What, Thierry?' Pires asked. Henry glanced at him. His voice was dull, he hadn't even flicked the r's in his usual teasing way. It seemed like he was only really asking for politeness' sake, but then Henry could hardly blame him for not wanting the *bad* news from Highbury. He'd had more than enough bad news for one season. Henry sighed.

'Oh, it's nothing really,' he said. 'It's just that... you know the FA didn't even fine those racist thugs from the beginning of the season?' he burst out after a slight hesitation. Pires looked up, and Henry sighed again, and shrugged slightly. 'We've been appealing and re-appealing, but now the charge has been completely thrown out. Apparently a team 'can't be held responsible for a small minority of disruptive hooligans'. And since we can't prove exactly who it was, they haven't even been banned from future matches. They got away with it, Robert!' Pires looked away, and Henry made an effort to calm down. 'I said at the time I hadn't let it get to me,' he said with a slightly shaky laugh. 'I guess I was lying. It's just... it makes me so *angry*, Robbie! How can people think like that?'

Pires looked up. Henry's eyes were shining passionately again - but now with anger and hurt and confusion. Pires was shaken.

'They're idiots, Thierry,' he said softly. 'They don't know anything.' Henry shrugged.

'Sometimes I just feel like... like there's no point to any of it... if there are people like that in the world. Even winning the World Cup wasn't enough...' Henry's mouth twisted, and he shook his head slowly.

Pires felt a stab of concern. Momentarily, he tried to ignore it - it was safer to feel nothing - but as Henry's fists clenched, it deepened to compassion. Pires sighed, and reached out to his friend.

'Thierry, don't talk like that. Giving up to people like that... it can never be the answer!'

Henry closed his eyes. 'I know that really,' he said. 'Of course I do. But... but there's no way of winning, Robert. And that makes it hard.'

Pires winced, remembering Marseilles, the baying crowd, the anger and the depression. But that had been easy to fix, relatively speaking - he had moved to a more accepting team. There was nowhere in the world where Henry could go to escape the racism altogether.

'I don't know the answer, Thierry,' Pires said softly. 'Maybe there isn't one. But... but if you give up, then they have won. I know it's hard, but...'

'I'm not about to give up, Robert,' Henry said with a smile. 'Not when we're so close to the double. And not... not when *you* haven't...'

'When I haven't?'

'You... you're having to cope with far more than a bit of name-calling. I - I don't know if I'd have the strength to take it as well as you. But you haven't given in. You're still fighting. You're working so hard - don't think I haven't noticed. And you *will* play again. You're getting stronger all the time. You're not pushing it too hard... you're being so *sensible*... And - and I admire you for it. We *all* admire you for it...'

Pires shook his head. *God, if you knew... if you knew what a complete fool I've been*.

'Thanks, Thierry,' was all he said out loud. Henry smiled.

'I want you back, Rob. I miss you,' he said.

'Oh god Thierry. I...' Pires swallowed hard, choking back tears. It was safer to feel nothing, it was easier, it was...

Henry reached out and gripped his shoulders. 'Robbie, I know it's hard. Please, you don't have to pretend...'

It wouldn't help to get upset. It was easier to feel nothing... nothing...

Pires leaned his head against Henry's shoulder, and broke down. It *hurt*. It was a very long time since he'd last cried like this, and he hadn't remembered how much it hurt. The back of his throat ached, his eyes stung, and his chest felt torn apart. But at the same time, he felt... better. Relieved. Henry's strong hands were still on his shoulders, and for the first time in months, he didn't feel alone. And if it was a weakness to need this - this contact, this release, these tears - then he found he couldn't care any more. Maybe it *was* safer to feel nothing. But... but he felt human again now. Felt like maybe - just maybe - everything was going to be all right after all.

After a while, Pires calmed down. Henry, he realised, hadn't said anything. He'd just held him. He looked up.

Henry smiled at him, suddenly a little awkward, and instinctively reached out and wiped his tears away. Pires almost flinched from the touch, but then relaxed and drew a deep, shaky breath.

'Sorry about that,' he said.

'It's fine,' Henry said. His eyes shone dark and intense, with a hint of longing in them, although for what Pires still could not quite tell.

Slowly, feeling was beginning to return. The disappointment he had held in check beneath the surface, but also the love of the game, the passion, the joy for his team mates' success.

And... and something else. He was suddenly very aware of Henry's touch on his shoulders. Understanding hit him, hard; a shiver ran through him, and he tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.

Henry was biting back disappointment. He had been so close, had held Robbie in his arms, touched his face, dried his tears... Robbie had opened his heart to him, had cried into his shoulder... and yet he still found he couldn't say anything.

Pires almost laughed with the shock of understanding. He hadn't thought that Henry was the type - but to judge by his shyness and confusion, neither had he. Still, Pires wasn't too shocked. Henry wasn't the first man to have fallen for him - he supposed it was something to do with his long hair, European style and oh-so-romantic French accent. No, Henry wasn't the first man to have fallen for him.

He was just the first man he'd fallen for back.

Fallen for back? Fallen back for? Damn it! English grammar never had been his strong point. Still, however you said it, Henry was the first man he'd ever fallen for. And now that he'd realised, he could barely believe that he hadn't noticed earlier. It was as clear as black and white.

'It's all right, you know,' Pires managed eventually, smiling. Henry frowned in confusion, tongue-tied and distressed. Pires reached out and touched his face. Henry's eyes widened. 'It's all right,' Pires repeated. 'Whatever rumours you've heard... I've never done this before, either.'

And he pulled the other man into a kiss.

Henry melted against him, and Pires caught his breath.

It was good to feel again.

***

*It's not fair*, Pires caught himself thinking. He grimaced, but now that he'd had the thought, he couldn't retract it, however petty it was. It *wasn't* fair.

They were sending him back to France for treatment. An operation on his knee, carried out by world-class surgeons, and several then months in a specialist training and rehab clinic.

He knew he shouldn't be complaining. Before his injury, he'd have given anything for a few months off in France. And a few days ago, he'd have been thrilled at the idea of constructive treatment, something to concentrate on.

But now... he wanted to stay in London. Wanted to be near his team mates, his friends.

To be near Henry.

But there was no point complaining. He needed the treatment if he was to play again, and he was determined to do so. To be better than before, to win back his team place if necessary. A season wasn't such a long time. There would be other world cups. He knew that. Right now, he needed the surgery. Needed the care and training that could only be provided in France.

So he would go. He didn't have a choice, he knew that really.

He'd miss Henry.

But it would only be til the end of the season. Not such a long time. He kept telling himself that.

But it *still* wasn't fair. Not now. Not when he'd only just realised that he couldn't live without Henry's broad, broad smile and dark, shining eyes.

Not when he'd only just remembered what love felt like.

It wasn't fair.

But he was determined to make the most of it.

***

May 2002 It was election time in France. Pires had known this vaguely before he went over there, but in his first weeks, he had barely noticed, fully wrapped up as he was in the excitement and pain of his operation.

But now that it was over and known to be a success, Pires found himself becoming mildly interested in the political fate of his country. His own political leanings were on the socialist side, but he had to admit that the current moderate socialist government had not been a major success, and that its chances against the centre-right opposition party were vanishingly small. Living in London, it had been a long while since he'd been in France at election time, but Pires had a social conscience, and a mild interest in politics, and he wondered vaguely if he shouldn't make the effort to get to a polling station, or organise a postal vote. He was a French citizen after all.

But apathy struck. The centre-right was almost ensured of a victory, and Pires was sure that his vote could do little to change that. By the time Election Day came around, he was engrossed in his training, and barely gave it a second thought.

Unfortunately he was not the only one.

***

The phone rang, and Henry knew it would be Pires. He had called almost every day since leaving the country, to hear the news from Highbury, and just to talk. It was good to talk, although it wasn't enough to stop Henry from missing him badly.

'Thierry?' Pires said. Henry picked up an edge of anxiety in his voice, but said nothing, leaving Pires to explain in his own time.

'It's good to hear from you,' he said.

'Never mind that!' Pires said impatiently. 'Have you heard the news from home?'

'Home' normally meant Highbury, but Henry knew Pires was not talking about that, and was momentarily confused.

'What do you mean, Rob?'

'I think the world's gone mad,' Pires said softly. 'The neo-Nazis have won through to the second round of the General Election.'

For a moment, Henry couldn't work out what Pires was talking about. Then his blood ran cold. Forget racist chanting on the football terraces - this was the real thing. The thing he'd always dreaded. Ignorance, hatred, fear, persecution. Racism. Homophobia too, he guessed with a wry smile. But then snatches of Nazi propaganda began to whirl round his head, and he knew it was nothing to smile about. Keep France for the French! Second class citizens! Go back where you belong!

Not France. Not Africa either. Highbury Stadium. Henry clung to the thought.

'Thierry?' Pires said gently, as the silence on the line deepened.

'What can I do?' Henry said desperately. 'Nothing can change them. God, Robbie, we've *tried*! Even winning the World Cup with so many talented black players on the squad was not enough to show them that we are all equal... Maybe I was right before. What's the point of even trying?'

'Don't talk like that, Thierry! There's *always* a point in trying!' Pires said fervently. Henry sighed.

'You're right, I suppose. It's not as though they've won the election yet. There's still time to make a stand against them. But god, Robbie! I feel like I've been fighting this all my life. I'm so sick of it...' 'I'm sorry,' Pires said softly.

'Don't. It's not your fault,' Henry said shortly.

'I didn't even vote,' Pires said miserably. 'I could have and I didn't. They're saying on the news that it was only because people didn't vote that this could happen, and that means I am responsible equally as much as any of those stupid, ignorant bastards who have voted for them.'

'None of us stood against this, Rob! We didn't see it coming. I too am entitled to vote, and I didn't. But we should have. We should have...' 'I more than you,' Pires insisted. 'I was in France...'

'But you had other things on your mind! You're there to get fit, Robbie. Not to save the world.'

Pires sighed. 'I just... I feel so useless,' he said.

Henry laughed bitterly.

'We're supposed to have so much sway with people,' he said. 'We're supposed to be able to influence what products they will buy, what car they will drive. But now... when it would really make a difference...' He trailed off with a shrug. 'I feel useless too,' he said.

There was a long silence.

'Robbie?' Henry said eventually.

'We *do* have influence,' Pires said softly. 'But it'll be difficult to use it. For you more than for me, because I will have to miss the World Cup anyway.'

'What do you mean?'

'Thierry, do you think this is worth more than the World Cup?'

Henry didn't even have to think about it.

'Of course!'

'And - and are you prepared to take action? Even if it may damage your career?'

This time, Henry had to think about it more carefully.

'There would be no point in playing if I couldn't play for France,' he said eventually. 'And it would be impossible to play for France if the far right were in power. Yes, I would be prepared to put my career on the line. And what is more, I don't think I'd be the only one, Robbie.'

Henry could picture Pires' grim smile. 'Well, I don't know how much of a difference it will make,' he said. 'But I have an idea...'

***

His hands were shaking as he spoke in front of the television cameras and radio mikes. With fear, with anger, with relief, even - relief that the national team had agreed to this. No names would be mentioned at this stage - if nothing came of this, he wouldn't have wanted any player but him to get a name for putting politics before their game, however worthy the cause.

But he knew that they were behind him all the way. Henry, of course, and Viera and Wiltord, but this went beyond club. Dessailly and Petit, Barthez and Silvestre... they hadn't managed to speak to any members of the national team that played outside the English League, that would come later, if it was necessary. But all the players they had spoken to had agreed. They would all stick by this, if they had to. They would sacrifice their chance to defend the World Cup. Because in the end, some things mean more than football.

Pires drew a deep breath, and began to speak. Cameras flashed in his face, and his heart pounded. He would win himself enemies for this, he knew, enemies among the far right politicians, and, perhaps more terrifyingly, enemies from amongst football's worst offending thugs and hooligans. But the stand needed to be made. He kept his voice steady and under control. '...We are French but the team's roots are from everywhere, so it would make it an impossibility to play for our country if France is governed by the far right... As players we have the responsibility to show people that they must react to this threat quickly. I urge everyone to vote for Jacques Chirac...' Not the socialist candidate. It was too late for that. The centre right party. But better than the alternative. Pires drew a deep breath.

'Of course... of course we don't want it to happen, but if the extreme right were to win the general election I think more than several players would refuse to take part in the World Cup...'

***

Afterwards, they could never tell how much of a difference it had made. Once the far right had been easily defeated in the second round of the general election, it felt inevitable that the centre party would win. People could barely even believe that they'd thought a far right victory was a possibility. The very idea of a Nazi government winning power in Western Europe seemed distant and ridiculous.

But at the time, it hadn't felt like that. At the time, the danger had felt real. And they had been prepared to sacrifice the World Cup to fight it.

Privately, Henry thought that if their gesture had meant anything at all, it was because the stand had been taken by Pires. In their multi-racial team, it had been a white man who had been the front for their anti-Nazi campaign. And perhaps - just perhaps - that had made some people stop and think. Racism is not as clear as black and white. Anyone can be hurt by it. And anyone can make the effort to stop it.

***

June 2002 Pires picked up the League cup on crutches. A little nervously, not quite knowing how to react to the team. He felt like he'd been away for a lifetime. He felt like he wasn't really back.

They'd won the double - Henry had picked up the golden boot. He'd always said they'd do it this season, Pires remembered with a smile. It was a season the team would remember for a very long time.

And they'd done it without him.

It was surreal to hold the cup, having not played a game in months. He felt more than a little out of place. He shook himself. *Not without you*, Henry had said. *Because of you*. Maybe that was true. But it was still surreal. He turned back to Henry, feeling uncertain and isolated, regret for the lost season as visible on his face as pride for the cup.

Perhaps it was easier to feel nothing.

Henry watched Pires' face go carefully blank, and shook his head. He recognised the look from when Pires had first been injured. From before the first time they'd kissed. >From the time in Pires' life when he'd been at his lowest ebb, with nothing to sustain him. Henry knew that now. They'd talked about it, long hours on the telephone, and Pires had not wanted to admit even to Henry quite how low he'd been, but eventually had spoken hesitantly of the pain, and the loneliness, and the blankness that had followed. He seemed to think that Henry had brought him out of it, but Henry would not take credit for what he was sure was Pires' own strength of will.

*It's good to feel again*, Pires had said, after they had first kissed.

But now, close to recovery, holding the League cup, and surrounded by his team mates, he seemed to be finding it harder than ever.

*Not without you. Because of you. It's your win too. We couldn't have done it without you. *I* couldn't have done it without you*. Henry didn't know how to say the words so that Pires would believe them.

He was on the podium now, staring at the cup with blank eyes. Without really knowing what he was doing, or why, Henry found himself kneeling to him, bowing down before him.

*It's your win too, Robbie. See? We owe it to you...*

The rest of the team were following him. Vierra and Wiltord. Ljungberg, Bergkamp, Campbell and Cole. Seaman. In a spontaneous gesture of admiration and respect, the whole team was kneeling before him.

*We couldn't have done it without you*. They knew it too.

And the fans were roaring. Pires looked up, almost in astonishment, suddenly overwhelmed by... by relief, and pride, and gratitude, and love... love for his team, and... and love for Henry.

And he held the cup high. And he smiled.

***

'God, Robbie,' Henry said afterwards, when they were alone in the deserted changing rooms. He didn't know what else to say. His eyes were shining dark and soulful and beautiful. Pires smiled at him. *You're a romantic at heart*, he thought. *It's wasted on a footballer, really*.

'I've missed you, Thierry. It's good to be back,' was all he said. The familiar, mocking accent, with just a hint of its usual arrogance once again beginning to show through, made Henry smile. He wrapped the smaller man in his arms in a bear hug. He couldn't have been happier. The season had had its ups and downs, but this was the perfect end. Two new pieces of silverware for the Highbury trophy room, and the man that he loved back in his arms. He couldn't think of anything that could make the moment more perfect.

'I love you, you know,' Pires said suddenly, and Henry caught his breath. *Nothing except maybe that*, he thought.

'Oh god, Robbie,' he murmured. 'I - I love you too.'

His shy, eager smile made Pires' heart leap. *Ok, so maybe I'm a romantic too*, he thought with a grin. And he pulled Henry into a kiss.

Perhaps, at the beginning of the season, he'd thought that winning the double was the most important thing in the world. He knew now he was wrong. There were more important things, like responsibilities, and friendships, and health, and... and love. And when he realised that all he wanted in the world was to be here, like this, wrapped in Henry's arms, savouring his kiss, the season didn't seem wasted after all. In fact, he'd got more from it than he could possibly have hoped for.

Because some things were more important than football. Suddenly it was as clear as black and white.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Of course, the French National team went on to be absolutely slaughtered in the first round of the World Cup, but hey, the boys don't know that yet. As far as they're concerned, it's a well-deserved happy ending. And who am I to shatter their illusions?