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"careful."
that’s the only warning dejan gets before he’s jerked out of his doze by an elbow in the ribs and an accidental kick in the knee as mohamed tries to clamber past him into the window seat.
a few bruised ribs later and he's seated.
dejan watches in bemused silence as mohamed curls up in his seat, pulling his knees up to his chin and tucking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. his hood is pulled low over his forehead and all dejan can see of his eyes looks tired and droopy.
he looks cramped, grumpy and uncomfortable crammed into the window seat with his shoulder pressed against the wall.
taking pity, dejan pushes the armrest that's separating their seats and boxing mohamed in, up.
"better?" he asks, eyebrows raised.
now without the barrier between their seats mohamed slips a few inches lower into his seat until his socked feet – boring black adidas socks that were probably a gift or something – nudge against dejan's thigh. they stare at each other, waiting for the other to complain.
mohamed wiggles lower into his seat and, while looking dejan dead in the eye, kicks up his legs and props them in dejan's lap.
there's a pause and then, looking from the adidas-clad feet in his lap to the tired, but nonetheless challenging look on mohamed's face dejan says, "and? are you comfy now? or should i move?"
he makes as if to get up and mohamed digs his heels in, almost painfully.
dejan sinks back into his seat just as the plane dips sharply to the right and he can catch a view of the hazy greyish light of dawn casting shadows over the sea of clouds below them. mohamed twists around in his seat to glance over his shoulder but faces dejan again when the plane rights itself.
"stay," he says, "you are comfy."
+
rain is lashing against the large airport lounge windows, distorting the view outside and turning the tarmac and planes beyond into blurry splashes of grey and subdued colour.
dejan flips his passport up into the air and catches it. again and again and again, anything to distract him from the niggling cramp in his left foot and the scratchy, sandy feeling in his eyes left-over from an unsatisfying night's sleep.
a distraction that actually works comes in the form of a warm, heavy weight suddenly pressed between his shoulder blades.
it comes as such a shock that he miscalculates his next throw and has to watch in mild despair as his passport sails through the air in a graceful arc before landing with a muffled thud on the dark blue carpeted floor a couple of feet away.
he lets out a groan and whatever's propped itself up against his back lets out a small – distinctly mo-ish – huff of laughter.
"it's your fault i dropped it," dejan says, turning around.
mohamed blinks up at him, grinning despite the fact that it's still closer to night time than dawn. he looks as tired as the rest of them do; there are shadows like bruises under his eyes and the right side of his hair looks suspiciously flat. then, still smiling blearily, he sways on the spot and tips forward and dejan has to grab him by the shoulders to stop any kind of unfortunate collision.
"no, no. you are just bad at... at—" he makes a vague throwing-gesture, "—at that. two left hands."
"still better than you," dejan counters, unable to resist the opportunity to be a little childish.
apparently unable to come up with an appropriate retort mohamed shrugs and reaches up to pry dejan's hands off his shoulders.
dejan's hands fall to his sides and he lets mohamed tip forward and drop his forehead onto his chest. then, hesitating only briefly, dejan gives in and loops his arms around mohamed's shoulders, pulling him closer.
he can feel the bumps of mohamed's spine under his fingers.
they stand like that, listening to the rain and distant monotone drone of the airport's tannoy.
"i need to get my passport," dejan mutters after a while, eyeing the airline staff that's steadily approaching over mohamed's tousled head. around them the others start forming a vague attempt at a queue, gently shoving and gesturing each other into place.
"then get it," mohamed says, his voice muffled slightly by dejan's chest.
"you need to let go."
mohamed pulls away just enough to look up at dejan and say, "you are the one holding onto me. you let go."
+
they've never played mortal kombat before, mostly sticking to fifa or mario kart, but a change had to come eventually.
it's fun. neither of them really know how to play and they skipped through the tutorial and now they're stuck smashing buttons, laughing and swearing at each other or their character on the screen. but it's fun, nonetheless.
mohamed plays with his whole body, which he does with fifa as well, but it's particularly apparent with this game. he flinches when dejan's character lands a nasty punch or kick and he swerves, ducks and kicks along with his own. dejan spends most of their first round with one eye on mohamed, who's completely focused on the game, and with the other on the game while he stealthily tries to nudge the coffee table out of range.
"ha!" mohamed exclaims, triumphantly flopping back onto the couch as dejan's character crumples.
valiantly trying not to stare, dejan navigates them back into the menu and says, "no, no—it wasn't fair! i could not concentrate with you jumping and screaming like that."
mohamed is the only adult man dejan knows who giggles, but he does as he says, "what? it's not my fault you get distracted like that. just admit," he sits up a little straighter, eyes bright and his cheeks flushed, "this is just another game you are not good at."
it's a challenge and dejan, half-heartedly fighting back a smile, rises to it with as much dignity as he can muster.
+
dejan's whole body is sore.
but it's the good kind of sore, a satisfying feeling that comes from a game well-played. a game where he did the right things at the right times, where his feet didn't feel like someone had filled his shoes with lead and where the man currently slumped onto his shoulder had scored the winning goal.
the adrenaline of the game and the celebratory atmosphere of the changing room has faded into something quiet, but not any less jubilant, and now the bus is dark and quiet except for the rumble of the engine and the muffled blare from someone's headphones.
mohamed's hair is tickling dejan's chin and jaw, but he stays still, barely daring to breathe.
now and again, when the silence becomes just a little too oppressive, dejan steals a quick glance.
he catalogues the way the plains of mohamed's face catch the uneven light that's trickling in through the tinted windows. he tries to count his eyelashes but gets the numbers mixed up when he makes it past twenty and gives up. there's still a hint of pinkish colour in mohamed's cheeks, leftover from a hot shower and the winning adrenaline rush.
it suits him; not that dejan would ever say that to mohamed's face. thoughts like that he keeps quietly to himself.
+
to keep things unnecessarily interesting they do a roommate raffle.
the hat gets handed around and soon the lobby of their hotel is filled with shouts of exasperation, joy and many feelings in between.
dejan takes one quick look at the name on his scrap of paper, sees a hastily scribbled mo in black felt-tip, throws his head back and laughs. once he's recovered he catches mohamed's eye and pulls a face. mohamed tries to retaliate but his eyes are too bright with mirth and flecks of golden sunlight for it to have any real punch.
their knuckles brush in the lift. again and again and again until mohamed sighs and grabs his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go.
they don't talk about it. not when they unpack, not during training or in the aimless hours afterwards. not during dinner or the two hours before the sun finally sets and they're stuck with shitty hotel wifi and spanish television that neither of them understands.
mohamed falls asleep first, curled up on his side with his hands tucked under his pillow, facing dejan's bed.
it doesn't really mean anything, but dejan lets it go to his head anyway.
+
the snow is already lying 10 centimetres deep when they arrive and by the time they get back out of their training ground hostel, another five centimetres have been added. it's quite impressive for english standards, but dejan's seen harsher winters than this.
mohamed – even after spending several years in both switzerland and england – still delights in snowfall.
it only takes twenty minutes of watching mohamed's fingers go from an angry red to a pale unhealthy blue for dejan to give in, strip off his own gloves and force them into mohamed's trembling hands. he blinks up at dejan, red-cheeked and puzzled. the bright floodlights surrounding the field make it look like he's glowing from the inside out.
"i will have the blame if you get frostbite," he says.
mohamed looks down at the gloves – slim, woolly black ones with the lfc logo stitched on the back – then back up at him. "why you?"
because i take care of you, is what dejan doesn't say.
he just shrugs and grins in an i-guess-we'll-never-know sort of way that never fails to drive mohamed mad and jogs off to join the others.
+
they drive home together.
dejan's not sure when this became routine; the route back from the training grounds, past mohamed's favourite coffee shop and occasionally through the posher side of town where they gawk and make fun of the houses – houses that they could afford if they wanted to, but don't.
they stop at red lights and dejan laughs when mohamed fiddles self-consciously with his phone as passersby stop and stare.
it's routine; as routine as their bickering over the radio and the lack of milk and sugar in mohamed's coffee. routine is them arguing over dejan's driving and dejan saying, "why don't you drive next time," and mohamed coming up with a half-assed excuse as to why he can't.
the excuses get more outlandish and far-fetched as time goes on.
routine is the aux cable in the glove compartment that mohamed put there almost a year ago because the bluetooth connection in dejan's car is famously shaky. there's an expired starbucks voucher taped to the dashboard, a keyring from madrid hanging from the rearview mirror – things dejan would've thrown away long ago if it weren't for the fact that it was mohamed who put them there.
there are pieces of mohamed scattered all across dejan's life.
and judging by the fact that dejan still regularly sees the nondescript, grey hoodie he'd accidentally left at mohamed's place a couple of months ago crop up on his person and in occasional instagram pictures he knows much of the same counts the other way around.
routine is dejan following mohamed through the front door before promptly crowding him against it, delighting in the quiet of a dark hall.
they meet halfway and mohamed laughs into the kiss because of course he does.
he drapes his arms around dejan's shoulders, locking his fingers together and pulling him closer. dejan's hands are on his waist, digging into the mixed cotton of mohamed's t-shirt, trying to get to the warmth hiding underneath. mohamed's always run hot and dejan's half-convinced that there's a tiny sun trapped somewhere in his chest.
this hasn't been routine for long, but dejan thinks he could get used to it.
+
"it's just one game—it happens," mohamed murmurs softly.
they're sitting in the back of the bus, mostly hidden from view by the highbacked seats and the general gloom.
dejan lets his head thump against the headrest and closes his eyes. they won – conceded two – but they won even though it doesn't really feel like it. the atmosphere on the bus is contemplative, exhausted. it's pressing down on dejan like a physical weight.
it's always just one game until it isn't and it's the last game and people start making subtle, faux-sympathetic little hints of maybe it's time and dejan will be forced to agree, because hell, it probably is. and then what does he do? go back home, settle down, find a rural youth team to coach and waste away. or maybe he'll become a pundit or a coach and waste away on sky tv instead, bitter and old.
mohamed's hand finds his in his lap where he's got a vicelike grip on his phone and loosens it a little, prying his fingers away.
this is a situation in which mohamed would be poking fun at him – nothing too mean, just little jabs that he knows dejan can take – but this feels different. it was a scrappy, disorganised match and knowledge of this is contributing heavily to general gloom in the team bus. it hadn't been an easy game for anyone, but dejan's seen the tweets, the general vitriol being thrown his way.
they might joke about it in a couple of months, but for now it's an open wound and mohamed's tone is unusually gentle when he says, "dej, it's not a big deal. you had a bad day—that is all. people will forget and next game will be better. for everyone," he adds.
a pause follows where mohamed finally succeeds in wrestling dejan's phone out of his hands and pocketing it.
dejan doesn't even bother to put up a fight, just watches it disappear into the pocket of mohamed's jogging trousers and sighs.
"it's just one game," mohamed repeats.
"please... please stop talking."
it's not meant to be mean and it says something about their friendship that mohamed doesn't take it that way. instead, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter, squeezes dejan's hand and says, "you stop thinking and then i will be quiet."
+
mohamed is grinning.
"it's snowing," he says and points, rather unnecessarily, up at the sky.
it's snowing and also well past 2 o'clock in the morning. the lawn is completely covered in an impressive, 15-centimetre layer of snow and the flakes are swirling down from the dark, starless sky thick and fast, almost obscuring mohamed from view.
dejan, who's only wearing a t-shirt, jogging trousers and a pair of slippers, stays rocking back and forth on the lip of the terrace door.
"are you coming back inside?" he asks.
his grin bright even through the dense curtain of snow between them, mohamed stoops and scoops up a handful of snow, which is as good as a verbal no. the resulting snowball hits dejan squarely in the chest and he has to brace himself on the door to keep himself from toppling back into the blessedly warm living room behind him.
mohamed's gleeful cackle echoes through the still night air.
"congratulations," dejan says, stepping out onto the terrace with an air of resignation, "you hit a still target. are you proud of yourself?"
"a bit," mohamed admits, still grinning.
what follows is a snowball fight that ends with no winners and dejan having lost all feeling in his hands and feet. mohamed isn't fairing much better, sitting in a pile of disrupted snow and looking more exhausted than he ever does after 90 minutes of kicking a ball around. it suits him, all flushed and panting and clearly extremely pleased with himself.
dejan picks himself up from where he'd been sprawled out in the snow and walks over to help mohamed up.
they're practically chest to chest; close enough for dejan to see every detail of the snowflakes caught in mohamed's hair and eyelashes, close enough for him to feel mohamed's breath against his skin, close enough for him to think what the hell and lean down to kiss him.