Bluebird; Phan

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The boys followed the rules, dragging themselves to the correct positions. Phil had never felt so far away from Dan as he scoured his frame at the end of the grass. He wanted to apologise for scoring, but he didn't want to look like an idiot. At the end of the day, that was the point of the game. And they should've been able to have a bit of competition without falling out.

Falling out. Had they fallen out?

Phil didn't know how he felt about that. He hated falling out with people anyway, regardless of who they were. That was just who he was. But the possibility of having fallen out with Dan was intimidating, dismaying. They were best friends, they weren't supposed to ever fall out. It was like whatever was between them was being trampled on, being cracked and broken and the shards were flying everywhere. But as he grew up, he'd find it only made it mean more, only tightened all the knots.

Phil registered he wasn't really paying attention when he saw the ball glide past him and heard Abi's triumphant cheer. "Sorry!" he squeaked at Tanner's gaze. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine, mate," Tanner laughed. "Are you still breathing from your run?"

"Well, I am kind-of tired," Phil admitted.

"Wanna call it a day?"

Phil nodded slowly and gave an indefinite laugh. "Yeah, I think that's best. I'll make a fool of myself if I carry on."

Tanner called for Dan and he joined the other three at the gate of the playground. They stood there spoke for a moment or two about school the next day and Tanner said they'd be attending the same one because there was only one. They left with a chorused goodbye, but the only one that Phil really recognised was Abi's small and sweet, "See you, Dan."

He didn't know why he did. But, as they walked back, Phil used it to start up a conversation. To shatter the execrable silence.

"Abi fancies you," Phil spoke, under the restraint.

Dan looked over at him, face drawn tight in a glum expression. "That's all you have to say?"

Phil blinked. "What else would I say?"

"Doesn't matter," he sighed. "She doesn't."

"She does. And what're you talking about?"

"I said it doesn't matter."

Phil slowed. "But it does, though. You can't just—Dan, hey. Hold up."

Phil increased his pace to keep up with the boy, who had the ends of his sleeves tugged down in his little fists. It was distinct in everything he was that moment that he wasn't going to say anything.

"Is it because of the game?" Phil tried. "I didn't want to go against you, you should've been in goal if you didn't—"

"Well it wasn't that easy, Phil," he retailed, cold.

"You're just moody because I scored," Phil's voice appeared with an equal harshness. He felt almost guilty when Dan looked at him, startled for a moment and then straining the structure of his face.

"I'm not moody because of that. I'm not even moody."

"You are. And it's just stupid, scoring is the whole point of football, Dan."

Dan shook his head, locked his jaw and walked faster.

"Why're you trying walk away?" Phil rushed to keep up with him. "Dan, stop it. Please, you're being ridiculous. There's no reason to be mad."