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It takes forever to get off the field. Then, it takes forever to get out of the dressing room. Every journalist wants a piece of the winning team, especially goal scorer Šime Vrsaljko. Dejan is impatient through interviews and tries to mask it best he can, which is not well at all. He watches with frustration as Šime takes his time with each reporter. The urge to smash each camera, step on every tape recorder and rip every notebook it strong, but manageable. He just needs five minutes. Five minutes to kiss Šime’s lips raw and tell him how fucking proud he is. Unfortunately, such an opportunity doesn’t seem to present itself to him. Once the reporters are cleared out and everyone has gotten changed, the team gets herded to the cars taking them all to a club downtown to celebrate the win. Dejan doesn’t have a chance to have a say in it as he gets pushed into a vehicle with an excited Domagoj Vida.
“Seriously,” Domagoj says as soon as they have closed the doors. “Is there something going on with Rakitić and Modrić? Does everyone know something that I don’t?”
Dejan laughs and is about to answer when the car door on Vida’s side opens. Šime sticks in his head.
“Get out of the car, Vida,” he says decidedly, opening the door further.
“What? But?” Vida casts a confused look at Dejan, who shrugs. He bites back a smile, and a look at Šime tells him that Šime has been just as desperate to get some time alone together.
“You can go with Subašić and Luka,” Šime replies, gesturing at Vida to go. “Come on, bro. Just do this for me.”
“Yeah, sure, see you at the club?” Visa says, aiming his last words at Dejan, who nods.
Šime jumps in and closes the door, immediately scooting over to Dejan’s side, pressing a light kiss on his cheek.
“Well, that game was something else.” Dejan doesn’t answer, he gently put his hand on Šime’s neck, pulling him in for a lengthier kiss. They do not part for many seconds during the ride to the club.
The team starts off hanging together, cheering, turning over more than a few shot glasses. Everyone is thrilled and the energy is almost a living entity. They should all be completely beat after such a straining game, but there is nothing in their expressions or action to suggest even the tiniest bit of exhaustion.
“I wanna dance!” Šime says after an hour or so, leaning close to Dejan to be heard over the music and the excited chatter of the team.
“Go dance, have fun!” Dejan smiles in return. “Don’t leave without me though?”
“Never!” Šime promises and presses his half-full glass of beer into Dejan’s hand.
Dejan gasps in mock-surprise. “For me?! What a romantic guy you are!”
Šime rolls his eyes and disappears into the crowd.
-
Dejan can see the tension in Šime’s body from across the room. He excuses himself to Perišić and moves slowly closer to where Šime’s dancing. Something dark fills his lungs and mind, making it harder to breathe, harder to see clearly. There’s another man with Šime, talking to him, dancing closer and closer. Šime leans in to answer the man, accompanied by a shake of his head. The man laughs in return. The tension and stiffness to Šime’s movements doesn’t go away. Dejan stalks up to them, throwing an arm around Šime’s shoulders, effectively stopping him from continuing to dance. Šime looks up at him with a funny look in his eyes.
“Everything okay over here?” he asks harshly, turning to look at the man opposite to them. The man pauses for a second, watching, no evaluating, the look on Dejan’s face. The man smiles and there’s a challenging glint in his eyes. Dejan smiles back. Šime nudges Dejan in the ribs with his elbow and ducks away from the arm crossing his shoulders. Dejan stands still, a bit dumbfounded, staring at Šime.
“What are you doing?” Šime asks, there’s irritation in his voice and fuck Dejan wish he could just kiss him to make this weird stranger go away, but instead, he bites back;
“I don’t know, what are you doing?”
“We’re gonna have a drink by the bar,” Šime says with finality. The ‘don’t follow or interrupt us again’ is silent but heavily implied. The look on the man’s face as Šime turn his back on Dejan and walks away forces Dejan to slowly count to ten. He makes it to four, twice, and that’s to be honest better than expected. He leaves the dancefloor and goes to stand by the closest table, keeping a firm eye on the bar.
“Luka is dancing on the tables.” It’s a calm statement, but it does take Dejan’s attention from Šime and the stranger, and to Ivan Rakitić who now stands next to him, one shot glass in each hand. He follows Ivan’s gaze to where, indeed, Luka is on top of a table at the other end of the room, dancing surprisingly well.
“He needs a dance partner, Ivan, go over there,” Dejan advices, then sighs when Ivan only glances suspiciously at him. “It won’t do you any good standing over here and undressing him with your eyes. Go over there and get to work!”
Ivan’s eyes goes wide for a second, then he sighs. “But what if…”
Dejan puts a hand on Ivan’s shoulder and pulls him closer, directing his own and in the process also Ivan’s gaze back to Luka.
“Ivan,” he says in a grave tone. “You scored two goals today. You laid the foundation for our victory. You almost started a fight on the pitch. You are on a roll. You are good-looking. Our captain, have been stealing glances at you for weeks so for fuck’s sake. Just go over there and dance. Feel it out. See where you end up. Just go. You need to climb one table, then you’ll be on top of the world.”
“On top of the world,” Ivan repeats. He looks up at Dejan and hands him a shot glass. Dejan accepts it and immediately knocks it back, Ivan following suit. He hands Dejan his empty glass and heads into the crowd, making his way toward Luka. Dejan smiles to himself. Good for Ivan. He turns back to Šime, who is… not there anymore. The bar seats are empty and Dejan scans the crowd without finding him. He walks over to the bar, puts the glasses down on the bar and pushes them towards the bartender.
“Thank you, sir,” the bartender says politely, putting them away. “Anything else?”
“Did you see where Vrsaljko went? He sat here a minute or so ago. Brown hair, tattoos and…”
“Yes,” the bartender kindly interrupts. “He went outside to have a smoke with the man he was sitting with. If I may say so, he didn’t look comfortable with the arrangement.”
Dejan runs off to the exit without even thanking the bartender for the heads up.
-
“Come on, have a smoke! Have a drink! It’s on me!”
Šime silently curses himself for not letting Dejan save him from this incredibly stupid encounter. The stranger, who still hasn’t introduced himself, has a firm grip on his forearm, leading him through crowds toward the exit. He passed other football players, nodding and greeting in passing, but he wasn’t close enough with any of them to really break away from the stranger and strike up a conversation with them instead. After all, he could handle himself. Dejan would see. He had to stop being so protective and jealous in public, or one of these days it would give their relationship away. Šime walks slower, the stranger pulling at his arm for him to hurry up. He’s surprisingly strong, but Šime is comfortable with the knowledge that he could take him in a fight. When they get close to the exit, Šime stops. The stranger turns to look at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, smiling in what is probably supposed to be a charming manner.
“I don’t wanna go outside, man,” Šime says.
“What do you want? A drink? Another dance?”
“Nothing, I don’t want anything from you. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression, but…”
The stranger’s smile fades and he pulls Šime’s arm. Šime stumbles forward, ending up so close to the stranger that their chests almost touch. Too fucking close. Šime wrenches his arm from the stranger’s tight grip and pushes him back. He’s about to warn him to stay away when a body rushes past him. Šime barely has time to register an elbow pulling back before a closed fist is flying forward and Dejan lands a fine right hook in the stranger’s face. The stranger takes the hit surprisingly well and grabs ahold of Dejan’s shirt. Dejan’s suddenly shouting something and Šime sees the stranger readying himself to throw a punch of his own. He dashes forward, pushing the stranger to make him lose his footing. Other people come running over and soon, Šime can do nothing but stand aside as Subašić pulls him out of the rumble before heading back in to try to reach Dejan.
-
“What the fuck, Lovren?”
Dejan hasn’t even reached Šime yet, but he feels like he might deserve to be yelled at semi-publicly. The security guards flanking Dejan turns their attention to Šime, who is simmering by the door, as everyone is now very aware of.
“Don’t worry,” Dejan tells the guards. “We’re both leaving.”
They don’t answer him. They reach Šime and Dejan holds up a hand before the other man has a chance to open his mouth.
“Let’s go outside, then you can yell at me all you want.”
Šime nods, glaring daggers at the security guards before turning around and leaving. As soon as they are outside, Šime takes Dejan’s hand and pulls him around the corner into an alley.
“I said; what the fuck, Lovren?” There's a vicious glimmer in his eyes and Dejan can’t really tell if it’s because Šime’s angry or turned on or both.
“He was being rude. He grabbed you. You pushed him. I saw red,” Dejan concludes. There’s no point in dwelling on the details. He spits, and blood splatters on the sidewalk next to them.
“I was handling it. I could’ve taken him easily,” Šime says, pulling a hand through his hair. The anger is draining quickly, Dejan can see it shift into worry. He waits it out.
“Fuck!” Šime exclaims, taking a step closer. He gently touches Dejan’s cheek, moving to the split in his lip. “Are you okay?”
Dejan flashes a bloodstained grin. “Yeah. I’ve had worse.”
“Didn’t think that guy had that much fight in him,” Šime says quietly, caressing Dejan’s lower lip with his thumb. Dejan doesn’t flinch at the sting when Šime sweeps over the cut.
“He didn’t,” he replies, daring to put his arm around Šime’s waist. “But the security guards did.” For a moment, Šime looks ready to stomp back into the club and fight those guards with only spite and his own two fists. His eyes burn again.
“Are you angry with me?” Dejan asks, pulling Šime as close as he can.
Šime huffs. “I should be.”
“So, me fighting for on your behalf wasn’t a turn on at all?” Dejan nestles a hand in Šime’s hair and brushes his lips against Šime’s, taunting him. Šime all but moans as Dejan gives his hair a gentle pull.
“You can’t lie, Vrsaljko, I can feel it,” Dejan whispers, referring to the bulge in Šime’s pants that’s currently pressing against Dejan’s thigh.
“I guess I owe you a thanks,” Šime smiles and presses his lips against Dejan. It’s messy and tastes like blood, but they are not slowed down by this fact.
“Let’s go back to our room,” Dejan suggests, out of breath. Šime hums and presses one last kiss on his lips before walking around the corner and waving in a cab.
-
Šime’s back is against the door as soon as he has managed to close it. Dejan puts his hands on either side of him, trapping him.
“You said something about a thank you,” he says, voice low.
“Thanks for getting punched in the face by security guards for me,” Šime says.
“You’re welcome,” Dejan answers. The kisses taste like blood and tequila and Šime realizes he is not opposed to it. Dejan pulls at his t-shirt and Šime raises his arms so Dejan can pull it off. Šime takes his time unbuttoning Dejan’s shirt, knowing that Dejan won’t rush him. He lets his hands slip from the buttons to feel Dejan up, stroking his abs, his thighs, his crotch. The tension in the room is unbearable, but making Dejan desperate for him is excellent pay back for him getting into unnecessary fights. As soon as the shirt hits the floor Šime reconnects their lips, nagging at Dejan’s lip, knowing it’ll hurt. Dejan doesn’t seem to mind as he backs away, Šime following him slowly enough for the kiss to break.
“Move,” Dejan says and Šime can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. He doesn’t respond quickly enough and Dejan puts an arm around him and walks him backwards. Šime stumbles into the dresser. Without taking his eyes off Dejan, he clears the surface of the dresser and doesn’t blink as a lamp and various other things crash to the floor. Dejan lifts him up on the dresser and starts unbuttoning his jeans. Šime makes an approving noise against his lips, and Dejan rests his hands on Šime’s thighs, deeping their kiss and that’s when the door unlocks. Šime’s sitting on the dresser, Dejan’s tongue is in his mouth and his jeans are unbuttoned as Domagoj Vida stumbles through the door. Both Dejan och Šime turns to look at him.
“Hey, guys, you missed it, Ivan was making out with Luka in the… oh…” Vida freezes mid-step, eyes firmly on where Dejan’s hands rest on Šime’s thighs.
“Vida,” Dejan says with a voice it’s best not to ignore. Vida looks up at him. “If you are not gone in five seconds I will break your legs.”
Vida scrambles to assemble himself and starts backing out the door. “Yes, I’m going, bye, have fun, be safe, bye!”
The door slams shut and Šime lets out a huff, leaning his forehead on Dejan’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe it,” he breathes, barely audible.
“I know, he’s an idiot,” Dejan agrees, totally missing Šime’s point.
“No, not him.” Šime raises his head to be able to look at Dejan. They’re so close. He can feel the tension between them. Sometimes this, dragging it out, just existing this closely to Dejan, playing with the tension is almost as exciting as actually having sex. But only almost. Šime puts his arms around Dejan’s neck.
“This,” he says, smiling at how obvious it is that it takes all of Dejan’s self-restraint not to lean in and kiss him. “Us. Scoring. Winning. Fighting. Fucking. Loving.”
“Poetic,” Dejan says ironically, but Šime sees that his expression softens. “I’d like to get to the fucking-part of that, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I don’t know…” Šime starts, immediately being cut off by Dejan lifting him from the dresser. He locks his legs around Dejan’s hips, trying not to laugh.
“You tease,” Dejan growls, promptly crossing the room and dropping Šime on the bed. Šime pulls Dejan down on top on him, kissing him hungrily, verging on dirty, making it explicitly clear what he wants.