That one player from England - ls.

And there he was, in a pale blue suit with sewed details, button-up unbuttoned almost completely, a golden cross hanging from his neck, red swollen lips, moist and bright eyes painted of a deep green with blue little spots. Every single detail glittering under the moonlight, every breath heavier than the prior. The smoke was still in the air mixing with the humidity of a British rain that, Louis could feel in his bones, was near.

There he was, just being him, wandering over the dark sky with a tired look and parted lips. Tears of frustration threatened to break through those emerald eyes, that captivating pair of jewels, leaving Louis breathless; his stomach pressed, throat sore and raspy. The only noise was the music from the bar downstairs and a faded chat, both of the sounds opaqued by the now thrilling and shrill sound that Harry was with his obscure and silent presence, resembling the moon's.

. . .

Louis, an eccentric football player who was raised in the stardom.

Harry, a simple photographer that lives a simple life.

Almost by mistake the opposites meet.

Who knows, maybe they're not that different.