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He got woken in the middle of the night to the phone on the bedside table blaring. Ugh. It was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face and it took a moment of bleary bumbling to shut the thing up.
"'Ullo?"
"Mr Fletcher, I- I'm terribly sorry to bother you at this hour but-" 1am to be precise.
"Oi! Is that Darren? Fletch! 'Ey, it's me!" Familiar Geordie accent, words all slurred together, slow and lazy like-
"Is that Mikey?" With a few drinks in him. Clearly.
"Uh, yes it is. I can send him up if you want?"
Darren muffled a groan with his pillow and pushed himself up. "Nah, he'll only get lost. I'll come down and get him."
The bedside lamp flashing on just about blinded him. He pulled a training t-shirt on over his head and padded out of his room and down the hall to the hotel. Realised a bit late that boxers, one sock missing and a crumpled, stinking t-shirt probably wasn't the best look. But it was Michael. Crocked Michael. It didn't matter.
When he got to the reception, Michael was leaning against the reception desk with a dazed look in his eyes and his usual leering grin on his face. Darren shot the night clerk a sympathetic look. "Aye aye," he said, half-heartedly smoothing his bed head down. "What you doing?"
Michael looked up and his grin grew from ear to ear. "Darren!" he called, pulling his best mate into a bone crushing hug with less grace than usual.
"Alright, lad, keep it down. People are trying to sleep," he mumbled but wrapped his arms around Michael's waist nonetheless, burying his nose in the taller man's neck. He smelled of beer and something stronger, plus that usual smell of grass and fabric conditioner that was so him. "What's up? Thought we said I'd come round tomorrow and we'd have lunch-"
"I can call a cab, if you'd like, Mr Fletcher."
Darren waved it away. "Don't trust him to get there safely," he said. "Besides, his missus would kill him, coming home in this state."
"Lisa wouldn't! She's nice," Michael insisted, arm still slung round his friend's shoulders.
"Nicer than you deserve," Darren quipped. "Thank you," he said to the night clerk, and led Michael off to the lift before anymore embarrassment could occur. "What's up, Carras?" he asked.
Michael shrugged, leaning his considerable weight on Darren. He wasn't built as broad as many footballers were - in fact, whilst he was sturdy, he was rather slender - he was just bloody massive. Lanky. He smiled rather conspiratorially and said, "Was just out. For a few drinks, for the win... best win we've had in ages so we had to celebrate. And I wanted to see you."
He lugged him into the lift and pressed the button for his floor. "Why did I cross your mind?" he asked.
"Because we beat you, duh," Michael said. Then his expression softened. "And you don't take losing well."
"Neither does any professional sportsman, Mikey."
"But you especially! You know what I mean. Your forehead scrunches up and you're thinking about a pass you could have played better or a tackle you could'a put in. You're too hard on yourself."
Darren only hummed at that. Michael smiled again. He saw it out of the corner of his eye. "What?" he demanded.
Michael's usual cheeky grin was softer. "I like when you call me Mikey."
"You put ice down Rio's boxers for calling you Mikey - from the front!"
Michael snorted. "He deserved it. But you're different."
The lift opened out onto his floor and he struggled his way down the hall, juggling his best mate and key card for his room. He kept his voice down, the rest of his team slept on this floor. "How am I different?" He struggled to keep the smile out of his voice.
"Well, for one, Rio's ugly as sin," Michael said, matter-of-fact, making Darren laugh. "They all are, to be honest. Never known a bunch of scarier looking fuckers. And, for two," he said, his arms winding around Darren's hips as Darren struggled with the door. It opened and he pulled Michael in before they were caught. "You stroke my hair and kiss my neck and tell me you love me... I wouldn't let Rio do that."
Darren ignored the cheeky comment. Typical Michael. Any expression of actual emotion covered with jokes and mocking grins. Michael leaned back against the wall and he reached out and brushed unkempt dark locks out of his eyes. "I do love you," he said.
Michael's hands still rested on his hips and he was rubbing his thumbs into Darren's jutting hip bones. He was acutely aware of how sharp his hips must be, now painfully conscious of his skinniness. His stomach rolled at the thought, his mind racing- until, "I love you too," Michael pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And I miss you. Everyday."
His heart ached. God. He missed him everyday. One day, when they were both ready to hang up their boots, he'd wake up to him every morning, try - in vain - to get him to shave, ask him to tie his tie... Michael knew all that. "I miss you too," he settled with.
Michael let out a sigh that was somewhere between sad and content. Darren changed the subject. "Hope no photographers saw you coming here," he said. "What, with all this press buzz about gay players right now."
Michael mulled this over for a second, visibly thinking very hard with his alcohol impaired brain. "It's all fine, 'Geordie wandering streets at 1am, drunk as skunk' isn't news. That gay players thing though, an England national and a Premier League star... shit Daz, do you think they're speaking about us?"
Darren could practically see the mental strain it had taken Michael at this moment in time to work out that he was in fact an English national and Darren played in the Premier League. It was adorable and he would have kissed him if he wasn't so annoyed at the lack of sleep. "Nah, they've supposedly been speaking to the FA about coming out. And unless you're going behind my back-"
"Good luck to them, whoever they are," Michael said, letting out a yawn. He rocked forwards on the balls of his feet - which must be aching by now - and moved his hands from sharp hips to messy blond hair. "Your hair's cute when you've just woken up," he said.
"Hmm," Darren said. "Wonder who's fault it is that I've just woken up?"
"How are you feeling?" Michael sidetracked. Darren wasn't first sure what he meant but then there was a warm, large hand pressed against his lower abdomen.
"Alright, good actually. It's a better day and it hasn't flared up in awhile. Nothing's sore."
That mischievous twinkle came back to Michael's eye then and he hoisted Darren up into the air so that his long legs rested around his waist. "I think we can fix that," he said.
Darren suppressed a laugh. "You sure you can-"
"Jesus, Darren, I'm not that hammered-"
"-And I'm knackered, Mikey. I've just lost a match. You should be tired too! Not raring to go, you bleedin' animal," Darren said. Michael frowned, looking very disappointed, so he said. "In the morning, I promise."
"I'll hold you to that."
He wriggled his way out of Michael's grasp and pulled him across the room. "I know. Let's go to bed, love."