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Theo is strangely quiet, not at all like himself and Brahim doesn’t know if it’s because he’s sleepy from his flight or because he just doesn’t know how to handle him right now; because he knows he’s being too much yet can’t seem to rein himself in, like an over-excited puppy (which Theo tells him so with a fond, tired smile).
But it’s alright, because he still looks at him and touches him the same, lets Brahim take his hand and lead him out on the sea on a little sailboat named the Esperanza, and she’s shiny and sleek and does beautifully in convoying them to a little inlet just outside of Málaga.
They stand against the railing, look down through the clear water at the coarse, glittering sand. The wind is calm, rocks the boat gently from side-to-side. Waves hush against the fender.
They drink lemon seltzer, though he’d wanted to buy strawberry because he knows it’s the one Theo likes best. He tries not to think about it too hard. Their little fingers are linked together on the hot metal of the railing, and the boyish innocence of the gesture makes Brahim grin; in effect, he hasn’t even really stopped smiling for the past few hours, giddy and bubbly and probably very bothersome but he thinks – hopes – Theo doesn’t mind.
He glances at him, quickly snaps his gaze away and it feels just like the first season he’s known him and raises a flush high on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His hair is different again, a pink-and-blond gradient that probably looks silly but Brahim just thinks it’s sweet.
God . He’s really, really made him stupid.
And Brahim suddenly feels the need to say so, hesitates along the drop, toes just barely over the edge. Then, he takes the leap, just as he did when he was little and chipped his two front teeth on the pristine porcelain of the bathtub. He can still taste the blood, feel his tongue pushing around the broken bits in his mouth.
“I want to marry you.”
And Theo laughs, and even though he’s laughing at him, it still doesn’t feel like when he got poked fun at for not being able to reach the monkey bars on the sandy playground or when Lucho dumped a jug of sugar-tea on his head at breakfast one morning at camp. It feels warm, familiar, comforting, kind of like a secret.
Later, much later, when they’ve talked about everything and the sun is more tame and the waves have gone still, seagulls swooping over the inlet through the salty sea air and he’s laying on the warm plastic of the boat with his head right in Theo’s lap, the words come back to him. They’re insistent, pushing at his lips, begging to be said again to reap any form of reaction – and he knows he really shouldn't, because it was well stupid the first time around, but he’s never been good at saying no to others or to himself.
“I was serious,” he whispers at last. The words sound lost, his voice weak and pitched high with nerves.
“You’re sweet.”
Somehow, the way he says it falls just barely short of condescending, instead filling Brahim with a disgustingly warm and sticky feeling that makes him smile so wide his cheeks ache. Theo brushes his hand up against his face, elegant fingers stroking over sun-kissed skin.
It’s ironic, really, how differently Theo treats him; he’s much more the type of lover to take you out in a flashy Ferrari, buy you a golden Rolex and a bottle of something yet Brahim doesn’t want that; he just wants to be with him, anywhere, anytime . It’s strange, because they’re so similar yet so different and yet somehow it works , they fit together like two pieces of a scrappy puzzle. Sometimes it’s too tight, too loose at others, but they’re still the right shape.
And Brahim has always had Theo wrapped around his finger just so, enough to will him to calm down and cater to his blissful, idyllic calm. (If Theo minds sitting around for hours, he doesn’t say.)
It won’t last forever, clearly, evident in the way the water laps steadily away at the aluminum hull of the boat, at the rocks lining the side of the inlet.
Eventually, maybe in a hundred-million-thousand-three years, it’ll all be gone, eaten up by nature or man or perhaps both.
But it’s here for now, for this moment, and that’s all that matters.
Eventually, definitely all too soon, they’ll be gone, too, whisked back to their busy lives in different clubs, cities, countries.
But they’re here for now, for this moment, and that’s all that matters.
He just turns on his side, pushing his face into Theo’s toned stomach in a sort of childish gesture, his hand coming to rest on his hip, fingers squeezing the softness of it. His skin is golden tan, bitten pink by the sun around his neck and shoulders, whitish lines streaking across it from how strong Brahim’s grip on him truly is.
And Theo moves his hand to his hair, drags his fingers through it, slowly, before he rests his palm on the top of his head. His dark hair has soaked up the heat of the sun, warm beneath his touch. (Now, the sun has begun to go down, dipping beneath the horizon and melting into the clear blue of the sea.)
“I wish we could stay here forever,” Brahim whispers, hot breath falling over Theo’s skin. He studies his tattoos, eyes tracing the lines and etchings and loops and curves, and damned is he for thinking this way but he just really, really can’t bring himself to care.
(Brahim knows exactly what Davide would say: compare him to someone from an old piece of narrative poetry that he’s forgotten the specifics of. Davide is smart, and maybe he should listen to him sometimes, but it’s almost like Theo is the little fanciful devil on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, taking any and all common sense he might have and turning it into such different things and feelings that he feels he might burst.)
He skims his fingers over the writing across Theo’s ribs, marvels at the way he still has no idea as to what it says despite having seen it and touched it with his hands and lips and nose.
His eyes are closed and his head tipped back, letting the sea breeze wash over his face. He blindly traces the slope of Brahim’s nose and taps his finger against the tip of it. Brahim scrunches his face up and giggles, and it really should be embarrassing, but the way Theo smiles at the sound makes it worth it.
In truth, he makes everything worth it.
Even Madrid, maybe.
At least Madrid is something they share – he can look for bits and pieces of Theo at the Bernabéu, beneath the hard-plastic seats and behind the goalposts and across the vast green of the pitch. He can find him all over the city, in the artwork at the Prado and in storm drains and his handprint in the smooth wall of the Puerta de Alcalá.
It’s stupid, too, and he knows.
But he’s always been an optimist – some (Davide) might even argue – to a fault, has always so desperately looked for the good in people and beauty in the world around him.
In turn, he’s the happiest man he knows, learns and sees to cherish little things: an iced lemonade in the heat of summer; the feel of a sandy beach slipping through his fingers; or, really, just sitting here, having his head stroked by Theo like he really is some puppy, warm and content and so, so right .
As well, in a sense, he might also be the unhappiest.
It always takes him far too long to credit if someone is a rotten person, because bad people don’t exist, there’s a little good in everyone, and he just has to find it and keep it and make it grow. Sometimes, by the then, it’s far too far gone, crowning at desolation and pillows damp with tears and long, melodramatic talks with Sandro because he doesn’t dare face Davide and honestly, Sandro doesn’t help much except for pat him on the back and shake his head solemnly.
But it’s worth it, too.
It’s what led him to Theo, allowed him to give him a chance at getting close to him.
It’s what makes him himself; the himself Theo has grown fond of, has maybe even grown to love. The prospect fills Brahim with a feeling akin to radio static.
“Theo?”
“Hmm?”
He debates on the words again awhile, dancing around on the tip of his tongue.
“Nothing,” he settles. “I’m just happy to be here.”
And then Theo’s hand finds his and it’s the happiest he’s felt in the world.