Work Text:
His bed is nice, yeah.
But it’s so big, and the huge empty space mocks him some days, asking him why he doesn’t have someone to fill that space, to make it whole.
His someone is a bit far away, far beyond his grasp. His someone won’t magically appear and fill the space on his bed, because his someone is back in Italy, in Milan.
Three seasons in Milan. Three seasons there with Theo.
But now that he’s gone, three seasons felt like a lot longer. Three seasons became all his life, and he grew used to Theo’s face, his voice and his hands and the way he smiled when he wanted to say something special.
Theo is still in Milan. He’s in his room. Or he’s sitting on the couch, with a beer, in his apartment, the apartment that Brahim shouldn’t know so well but he does. The apartment he recognises whenever they video call, every detail alive, so close it’s like he can reach through and feel the old, worn off-white sofa below his fingertips.
But he can’t. Theo is just pixels on a screen now.
And he isn’t used to that. He isn’t used to the other side of the bed being cold, or the big vast impossibly overwhelming silence of a quiet house, or eating dinner alone.
And he should get used to it, because he thinks it’s starting to mess with his head.
But he almost doesn’t want to. The rawness, the novelty of it lingers with him, and somehow it reminds him of Theo. And he holds onto the nostalgia, even when it starts to hurt, just because it reminds him of him. It’s like a bruise. Or sore muscles after a long day. There is something satisfying about it, about the pain and the way it stays, taking its time to fade bit by bit.
His memory of Theo is fading bit by bit, too. It used to be vivid, and he could remember everything, like the feel of his inked fingers running through his hair, or how he’d taste when he kissed him hard after a victory, or how his eyes glittered when the early morning light streamed in from the curtains and cut across his face.
And he would be so close to Brahim, lying right next to him, his big frame shielding him from that morning light, his silhouette coloured yellow and orange by the sunrise.
If he reached out his hand, he could bring it up to Theo’s face. Cradle his jaw and brush his thumb over the little hint of stubble that is always there.
He reaches out his hand.
Curls his fingers, but there is nothing there.
---
Real is a home to both of them. Spain is home to him, especially, and he feels it the moment he steps foot in Madrid-Barajas and its sprawling terminal, the moment he hears the soft dull morning chatter of families on vacation and businessmen in suits.
It feels familiar. Safe. Like a warm hug, but he is there by himself in this big airport, and there is nobody hugging him except the jacket tied around his waist.
---
He calls Theo the first day. Shows him the city.
And something feels different when they’re reduced to two boxes on a phone screen, when Theo’s voice comes out all distorted and crackly. He is the same Theo, and Brahim is the same Brahim, but all of a sudden it feels like they don’t even know what to say around each other anymore, and three years side by side dissolves real quick.
Theo is different over a call. He’s tentative. He listens to Brahim talk, but his voice tapers down until it’s barely audible, and he’s almost whispering into the phone, because it’s a habit from when he used to have Theo so close.
Theo is not close now. This is the closest they’ll be- faces on screens, glitching sometimes, fading in and out. This is the closest he’ll have Theo until God knows when, until maybe their clubs clash or one of them drops by to visit the other.
He wonders when that’ll happen, because already the distance seems unbearable. It wears him thin, plays on his mind 24/7, keeps its mesmerising chokehold on him until it becomes normal.
He imagines walking onto the pitch, except Theo is on the other side. Except they’re wearing different kits. Except the name on Theo’s back is spelled in white and his own is in dark navy blue.
It feels all wrong, and then it saddens him, because that might be the only way they get to see each other. If they’re playing each other, and then Theo is just that, an opponent, somebody running on the field, just somebody else.
Theo is not just somebody else, though. Theo is his somebody, and he misses him, he misses him bad.
But it gets tiring to say aloud, when every time he does so Theo tells him to shut up. He doesn’t want to hear it, because at the end of the day he just wants Brahim to be happy, Theo or no Theo, and the thought is so sobering and sweet and gut-wrenching all at the same time.
Brahim knows he cares. But sometimes he’s so bad at showing it that it's funny. Sometimes he accidentally pushes him away with his strong words, accidentally starves himwhen all he wants is the opposite, to be held by him, to hear his voice, if even all the way from Milan.
Slowly, the calls get less and less frequent. They still text a lot- it seems like he’s clutching his phone all the time, waiting for it to light up, praying Theo’s name will be across the top of the notifications.
Those texts will grow sparse, too, when the new season starts up again and they have something else to focus on, something else pulling them farther apart. Long-distance is hard, and harder when they’re so busy and the world moves so fast.
Good things come to an end. Yes, he knows that, and Theo does too.
He loathes it, dreads it, fears it, even though it’s inevitable.
---
But inevitable things usually come slow, like the sun setting over the Alcazaba, like the waves rolling and crashing and hitting the jagged cliffs in slo-mo, like the stars coming out and lighting up the whole sky.
The only thing he can do is wait.
Hold on.
And so he does. He waits. He holds on. He anticipates the late-night calls, the heart emojis and the cute misspelled texts. Memorises every word, the shape of Theo’s face, holds it all in his heart and carries it around.
And it should be a burden. He should feel it weighing him down, dragging him back towards Milan, keeping him tied to Theo like a moth to a flame.
It is a burden. It gets harder and harder, because he misses him so much, and things are changing, and Theo is a bit stupid sometimes.
But no matter what, he finds he has grown to love the weight of it. He has grown to love how hard it is to love Theo, how it’s a full roller coaster journey, how he knows deep down just by the smile on Theo’s face that he still loves him back.
Maybe he’s a masochist.
---
Until the inevitable, he sleeps alone, in a bed that is too big.
And he always keeps his phone on his nightstand, close enough to reach.