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Marco called before boarding the flight but it’s still somehow a surprise to see him among the people exiting the plane.
Auba didn’t bring a sign. For one, Curtys is old enough that his interests have moved on from art supplies, so he doesn’t have anything to write with except black markers, and for two, Auba feels too old for it.
Marco spots him without the sign anyway, if the smile that draws across his face is any indication. As ever, that smile eclipses any worries Auba could have had about the world. He smiles back and waves.
Auba watches him walk towards him, assessing his gait, and he hates himself for it. Hates Marco’s barely noticeable limp even more.
“Bonjour!” Marco says when he’s close enough to be heard and it startles a laugh out of Auba.
“Guten tag, Marco,” he replies and Marco’s grin grows wider.
“See, you’re learning so well,” he says.
“Your French is still bad,” Auba says in French, and Marco grimaces at him, probably getting at least the gist of the sentiment. “C’mon, my car is this way.”
He gestures Marco in the right direction, has to resist the urge to place his hand protectively to the small of his back to guide him through the crowd. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands in lieu, so he puts them in his pockets. Watches Marco walk. Tries to decide if he should offer to carry his bag. If Marco will even accept it.
*
The ride to Auba’s country house is quiet. It’s late morning and a weekday, so the roads are mostly empty. Marco is leaning his head against the car window, looking at the countryside outside.
“Tired?” Auba asks, just once.
“Didn’t sleep enough last night,” Marco says, so Auba puts something quiet on the radio and leaves him to his thoughts.
The ride takes a bit over an hour. Halfway, Marco falls asleep, so it takes longer because Auba is careful to avoid potholes and sudden movements as to not wake him up.
*
“Sorry,” Marco says after they arrive and Auba gently shakes him awake, “it’s this new medication I’m taking - it makes me groggy.”
Auba swallows the first thing that comes up in response. “You can nap a bit when we get inside,” he says instead and Marco doesn’t protest.
“This is a nice house,” Marco says, as they head up to the front door. Auba smiles. He likes his house, an old villa restored to fit modern needs. It’s got everything he could have thought to need, as well as a rustic charm he never anticipated liking.
“You’ve never been here before?” he asks, even though he knows Marco hasn’t. It’s just a way to keep talking, cover up the nervous energy he’s felt ever since Marco called. “You should come more often.”
“I don’t really like traveling these days,” Marco says, as they enter. Auba knew that, of course. Outside of traveling to away games, Marco prefers his home in Dortmund. Auba doesn’t blame him.
The make it to the living room and Marco sinks into the couch with a sigh.
“I have a guest room,” Auba offers tentatively. Marco shakes his head.
“The couch is okay,” he says, and Auba walks back to the hallway to take a blanket out of the cupboard. By the time he comes back, Marco is lying down, his eyes closed. In the light from Auba’s big windows, he looks even paler, with dark circles under his eyes and Auba feels a pang of worry.
“Do you need to take any medication?” Auba asks. Marco opens his eyes, and he looks like he’s hesitating. Auba forces himself to wait.
“At noon,” Marco says finally. “I should probably eat something before though.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Auba says, sounding surer than he feels.
“Okay,” Marco says, reaching out to pull the blanket closer, and curling up on the couch. “Hey, Auba?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you be around?” Marco looks conflicted and Auba frowns, confused. “I mean, will you be nearby when I fall asleep.”
“Oh!” Auba says, and his ribcage hurts like pressing on a bruise. “Yes, of course.”
Marco nods and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take too long for his breathing to even out, but Auba stands in his living room and just watches him for a while. He doesn’t think of anything in particular.
After, he goes into the kitchen and putters around, washing plates in the sink even though he never does that. He pulls out the condiments to make a sandwich and puts them back inside, consumed by the worry that the sandwich will be stale by the time Marco wakes up. He does this a few times, repeating the motion until the jars are covered with a light sheen of condensation.
In the end, he makes a simple sandwich. Bread, cheese, this fancy local ham. He wraps it up in a sandwich bag. He thinks he hears a sound from the living room and he rushes to get there, tripping all over himself, the bag clutched in his hands.
Marco is sleeping peacefully. He’s accidentally crushed the sandwich. He eats it standing at the counter, letting the crumbs fall into the sink. He isn’t really hungry.
He makes Marco another one. Pristine, and put away in the fridge.
Then he goes back to the living room and settles on the opposite couch with his phone. Has a hard time focusing, switching between apps. He does that until Marco opens his eyes again.
The smile that paints across his face is the best thing that Auba has ever seen.
Marco eats his sandwich and he takes his pills and Auba doesn’t count them. Marco suggests they go for a walk.
“How far can you go?” Auba asks him automatically, bites his tongue right after as Marco’s face clouds, as he looks away, suddenly pale and distant.
“I’ll tell you if I need to rest,” is all he says in the end.
Auba bites down on an ‘I’m sorry’ because he won’t apologize for caring. He nods instead.
So they go for a walk. Marco’s limp is barely noticeable and Auba tries not to look for it. It’s a nice day, summer green and warm, but not oppressively.
“I can’t believe you grew up here,” Marco says, as they stop by a pasture. A few curious cows look up from their grazing and approach them.
“The next town over, but it’s similar enough,” Auba says, shrugging. A cow comes near and Marco reaches out to pet it between the eyes carefully.
“It doesn’t feel like it fits,” Marco continues, smiling as the cow nudges him with its nose. “You and the cows. You’re too glamorous for this place.”
Auba shrugs. “I think I wore a cow print jacket at some point,” he points out.
“Shhh,” Marco says, reaches over to cover the cow’s eyes, “not in front of Milka. That could be her cousin you’re talking about.”
They start laughing and the sound of it rattles the cow into stepping away.
They labor up a small hill. Well, Auba doesn’t. He’s fit and match ready. Training camp starts next week. Marco’s breath comes heavy and Auba moves closer to him, watching him with worry.
Finally, they make it to the top, and Marco makes a soft sound of amazement at the view. Stretching down below them are fields of pale wheat, stark against the blue cloudless sky and swaying in the light breeze.
“This is beautiful,” Marco says, and Auba nods, quietly. Watches his face instead of the view.
The feeling in his chest seems to expand through his body, warming him more than the sun. Auba watches Marco’s face in the sunlight, the stark shadows and lines of pain smoothed by the moment.
‘I love you,’ sits at the tip of his tongue, burning.
“I’m retiring this season,” Marco says, quietly.
What?
“What?” Auba asks, shaken.
“I’m retiring.”
Auba shakes his head in denial. “But you did the surgery,” he points out, “you’re doing all your physio. You can still-”
“I’m tired,” Marco cuts him off, staring out across the wheat fields, “I can’t do it anymore. It hurts too much.”
And on some level, Auba knew that. He had to have known the moment that Marco refused the armband when it was offered and insisted the club give it to Auba.
“I’ll miss you if you go,” Auba says, wincing at how petulant he sounds.
“I’ll be in the stands for every home game,” Marco says, quietly, “I’m a Dortmund fan for life. It’s my home.”
Auba bites back on words about how things won’t be the same. How he won’t be able to look up and see Marco at the corner of his eye on the field. How he won’t see him in the dressing rooms and on the plane and early in the morning at team breakfast.
How it feels like he’ll lose all the pieces of Marco that he selfishly feels like he gets to have.
“Okay,” is what comes out instead and Marco looks at him, surprised and grateful. “Every home game?”
“Every home game,” Marco confirms, smiling.
And Auba knows Germans have boundaries. Hugging is okay if it’s on the field, but to be avoided anywhere else.
He steps forward anyway, touches Marco’s elbow. Folds him into his arms, feeling Marco tremble where their bodies touch.
They stay like that for a while, looking out across the wheat fields. At some point, they descend the hill, and Auba leaves his arm around Marco’s waist, and Marco leans on him when the pain starts creeping back into his limbs.