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I.End of Vacation (end of July)
It's not possible to have an open gay relationship as a male footballer. It comes with the job description.
Honestly, Jamal has never really put much thought to love in general; football always put up walls and narrowed his vision. At the end of the tunnel, there was always football, his dream, his aching limbs and weeks overfilled to the rim with his schedule, but there was never love. Love, especially growing up, was seen more of a distraction by his managers and coaches, something only a professional with an established career could allow and only a girlfriend or wife. Never a boyfriend or husband. Jamal adopted the mindset, was quick to avert his eyes that followed outlines of strong shoulders and tuned out low voices and deep laughs.
Because it wasn't allowed. Because it was a distraction anyway.
So he never entertained the idea of having a boyfriend. From his teammates' side, he's sure they wouldn't mind: What's said in the cabin, stays in the cabin. You don't out anyone. But it's never become relevant, hell, he's never had a crush either; of course his gaze would linger when he found someone attractive, but actively pursuing someone was not worth risking his career.
Which, falling for Flo was not part of his career plan. Kissing him wasn't. Waking up next to him wasn't. He blinks the sleep from his eyes. Gazes up through his lashes to Florian who sits up in bed, leaning against the headboard. Not worth the risk, his mind reminds him, but he forgets it once the sun blinks through and shines on his face, lighting up his green eyes in what reminds him of the first buds that bloom in spring.
He scrolls through his phone and nibbles on his lip. Jamal stares, feels himself bubble up with excitement, warmth spreading from his fingertips all the way to his toes. He flexes his fingers beneath the blanket, tries to bite down a smile. He looks so adorably stupid with his messy bleached hair and his glare that's too focused for an early morning. What time is it anyway?
"What's the time?" He mumbles, voice rough around the edges. Florian flinches, caught off guard, looks over with wide eyes before they soften. Jamal snickers.
"Almost 10."
Definitely an early morning.
Jamal scoots over to press against his side, tilts his head to catch a glance at his phone. "What're you looking at?"
“Insta,” he mumbles, half in thought. Then he stops in his tracks, like he remembered something, and shakes his head.“And I found an article. Something about us being a couple but I think it was just clickbait." He swipes around on the screen, then shows him the article.
Jamal hums, ignoring the tight feeling in his stomach. A tight feeling that reminds him how life isn't about whimsy club confessions and kisses and waking up next to your lover like in a romance movie, it's also about gritty conflicts. Namely the conflict of being boyfriends and being professional, famous football athletes.
They have to talk about it.
But is there much to talk about anyway? They're gonna have to lie and deny it.
"You know," Florian fills in the silence and brings Jamal back to the moment. His voice goes quiet, almost tender, and Jamal melts a little, "we should talk about how to…,uh…"
"Go about it?" Jamal suggests.
"Yeah."
Denying is one thing, but actively suppressing the urge in public to hold hands, lean in close, go on trivial dinner dates while stealing kisses, yeah…Jamal knows that's the only right way, and he knows they're going to be met with a few eyebrow raises the moment they'll be seen in public either way. But it doesn't wash away the sour taste on his tongue. He skims over the open article on Florian's phone and thinks. Ponders.
Dream duo on the pitch, dream couple off the pitch?? The title is so blatantly romantic, the image used too: A dark picture of them by the side of the road, holding hands and leaning against each other as if they were trying to drink up the other's warmth in the cold of the night.
But it's Greek with its swithering July.
The whole article just boils down to being close friends. A couple of good friends — weird wording that screams author just wanted to aim for a spiky headline. Trust the media's odd ability to balance hints of homoeroticism while denying any possibility of it at the same time. Even the Wusiala thing was ambiguous, sprinkled with so much romantic undertones that the media and fans reared right back with such good friendship, what a chemistry on the pitch, and so on. It's always about being friends, footballers but never about being boyfriends.
(Even though he stumbled upon a tiktok edit that suggested otherwise, but he quickly scrolled past that. That part of the fanbase remains yet to be explored)
"I have an idea," he says and Flo perks up. "I know it's a stupid plan, but also kind of funny. Hear me out…"
-
II.Pre-season (August)
The plan is simple. The execution is not because, well, it relies on them actually seeing each other. And with the season on the horizon and Jamal being stuck in South Korea for the Audi Cup, then returning and both of them busy with pre-season preparation…it proves to be difficult.
What about having a gay relationship and then a long distance one to top it off?
Jamal hangs his head and runs his hand across his face as they're texting back and forth about a when, where, how, and ultimately settle on the middle of August in Munich. Jamal spent half their chat faux-whining about ' you know how the PR with the FCB is Florrii…, so much traveling. Cut me some slack.'
Florian, begrudgingly, responded with ' Don't call me Flori wtf. And fine, Munich. But you'll plan the date.'
And Jamal actually plans it. He, very smoothly and subtly he dares say, comes up to Thomas and the others in the cafeteria after the annual team get-together. Their management always plans these hang outs, especially for new transfers, during pre-season for morale and team bonding and whatever.
Thomas still munches on his plate that's definitely too full for a man his stature but hey, they're athletes. Half their team already left for the pitch in a friendly easy kick-off or went out…or home ( ahem, Olise). Only Thomas, Manu, Joshua and Leon remain on the table.
He rounds their table and starts talking, "Hey guys. Got a quick question. You know any recommendations to go out…"
Thomas draws his brows together and cocks his head like why're you asking older men for places to go out? That should be your area of expertise.
"...on a date?" Jamal finishes with a shaky smile.
Manu raises his eyebrows, Leon whistles and smiles and Jo leans over with curious eyes, "You have a-"
"I thought it would take forever," Thomas interrupts, stands up and slaps him on the back. "Who's the lucky girl?"
"Or boy," Manu adds drily.
He doesn't beat around the bush, but he also doesn't wanna burst through the door with an answer like well, it's Flo; because Jo watches him, still chewing on his salad and he doesn't want him to choke. So, "you'll…get it. Just quick, Thomas, c'mon."
Thomas narrows his eyes, "I'll let you off the leash," he says eventually. Then twists his mouth in thought, eyes focused somewhere in the distance. "The area around Nymphenburg has some exclusive shops, restaurants, cafés. It's pretty alright there."
Jamal nods and pats him on the shoulder, "Alright gotcha, can you send me one, two links later?"
"Yes. Of cou-," but Jamal interrupts him, in a hurry to leave. Leave as soon as the inevitable uncomfortable questions start rolling in. You never know with Müller.
"Yeah, thanks!"
-
They end up doing none of that. The date is spent cuddling on the couch with Jamal using Flo as his personal mattress, his cheek squished against Florian's chest, his arm dangling from the sofa's edge. Netflix runs in the background, but Jamal focuses on the even rise and fall of Flo's breathing, or the faint smell of fabric softener on his shirt, or the way his fingertips trail patterns on Jamal's other arm.
-
The plan evolves. If you can call another rushed meet-up before international break a development.
Florian drives him through the bustling streets of Cologne. Heat pools on the horizon, the sun going out in intense red. Jamal looks away from the sky to Flo who stares straight ahead, concentrated. It's a hot and late summer.
It darkens once they go out after Jamal dropped his bags at his apartment. The plan is simple, he constantly reminds himself: Don't jerk away from holding his hand, in fact, hold on tighter. Don't dwell on possible glances from strangers, look at him instead.
He isn't scared.
He isn't, when they sit in the back of the restaurant and laugh and let their gazes linger, interlock their feet beneath the table like stupid and giddy teenagers. He isn't, because being stupid and in love kind of makes him invincible. Like nothing matters except Flo's whining about his steak and how it's not properly cooked and Jamal cackling, trying to explain to him it's supposed to be that way, you moron. And he just shoots Jamal a glare, half-pouts and Jamal can't stop smiling, because that's it, isn't it? The thing they always rave and swoon about in movies, how love makes you stupid, invincible, makes you burst with all the overflowing feelings in the pit of your stomach.
-
III. International break (September)
You're high in the clouds, but you can fall just as quick. Jamal learns this when they prepare for their international break in September. When they storm through the field in Düsseldorf and leave a 5-0 in their wake. When he feels his love bleed from the pit of his stomach into his feet in goals, assists, crushing embraces and sees it reflect in the green glint of Flo's eyes.
The whistle blows and he wants to collapse, lay on the grass and shout, smile, laugh because it's just the UEFA Nations League for god's sake but he feels like he's just won a title. Nagelmann claps from the sidelines and meets his eyes. Nods towards the other end of the pitch where reporters are already lined up.
An interview. Of course. Nothing big. He's done these a dozen of times even though he stumbles on his words a lot but Thomas told him, gotta practice in order to be better at it, starboy. Flo and him planned for this, anticipated it even. He wants to rip off the band-aid already, because they will address the relationship rumors. He has to get this thing over with. Now. See if their idea works out or not.
A quick break in the cabin and a chug of half a liter of electrolytes later, he's faced with a small brown-haired woman who smiles back genuinely. That calms him a little.
The first question is innocent, just a simple you were involved in all four goals, how much euphoria did you still have from the Euros?
Jamal rambles on, like he always does, occasional lost glare here, an uneasy smile there. The next question though is of course about him and Flo. Wusiala. And Jamal smiles nervously, takes a second to gather himself because okay, yeah, this is happening. They're doing this. Be calm. It's just a question about your chemistry on the pitch.
But the question after? Bordering on shameless as it's blunt and bold like shooting a string of fireworks in the sky that write in big, sparkly letters Musiala and Wirtz are boyfriends 👨❤️👨
"Judging by recent photos and some rumors, are you and Flo Wirtz in a relationship?"
Just stick to the plan, Jamal.
"Well," he starts, chuckles, slightly sways from one side to the other and raises an eyebrow, "no. We're just really good and close friends. That's all." Add something, that sounds too obvious and simple. Jamal continues, ignores the sting in chest, "We're straight," straight up lying, what are you doing? The plan was to deny a relationship, not your sexualities, you fool.
The sting in his chest turns into a full blown, throbbing twinge. He swallows down the bitter taste. This was supposed to be fun, too. They were supposed to point and laugh at this stupidity. At the fact that they have to put up with this farce.
It doesn't feel funny now.
The interviewer nods it off and they switch back to football, to Florian's deep pass and Jamal's across-the-yard sprint, the lucky goal.
When he enters the cabin and breaks through the talking noise of his teammates, Flo is right there to ask how it went and Jamal forces a smile and lies. Again. "It was fine." And now he feels worse because lying to Flo was not part of the plan either. But he's tired. He's so tired.
He doesn't suspect Florian noticing because his hands are on his shoulders, and he leans in, smiles, gazes up with that familiar mirth in his eyes. Jamal smells sweat, the whiff of his deodorant fading away and Flo's own fresh and raw scent mixed in between.
-
Florian does notice it though. Not in the bus when Jamal naps on his shoulder nor when they spend the rest of the evening in the lobby with the team only to be ushered away because it is late, after all. Not when they round the hallway that leads to their (Jamal's) room and chuckle about something stupid Flo has said. It happens when Jamal turns away to press his keycard against the door. It unlocks. They pass through. He flicks the dim light on and turns back to Flo who-
his throat closes up. Something coils in his gut when Florian stares back at him with an expression he can't place. His face does not move an inch. His head's slightly tilted up, casting light over his half-lidded eyes.
No one says a word.
His gut tenses up, tight and tighter, like he's just hit the ball towards the goal and hangs in the air between the short sequence of the strike and waiting for the impact, waiting if it's a goal or not.
Flo looks at him like…the first time when they were about to kiss. Or after the loss during the Euros in the quarter-final, when he quietened down in the bus, gazing into the distance, contemplating. Mulling things over. Maybe this expression is a mix of both, of desire and frustration? Worry?
Florian reaches out to take his wrist and pulls. It's a feathery soft pull but Jamal almost trips and Flo's hands flash up to his shoulders for balance.
He starts snickering. Embarrassing.
Jamal bats his hands off. "Stop laughing."
Florian does not stop laughing. "Really living up to your nickname."
"I- that's not true," he argues in a voice a little too heated for a playful teasing, "you just caught me off guard."
"Sure, Bambi," he cracks a goofy smile. Jamal wants to slap and kiss him. "Seriously though, what's up?"
Of course he noticed. " What do you mean?"
"No more lies Jamu. How was the interview for real?"
"You stared me down like that just…to ask how the interview was?"
Florian blushes and averts his eyes, "I was just- stop avoiding the question."
Jamal sighs, waves a hand to drop it in frustration after and walks towards the queen-sized bed with the perfectly ironed sheets and drops himself head first, makes a mess of it.
Seconds later, Flo pinches his side and he jumps and shifts to smack his hand away, "Can you fucking stop, you-" but his boyfriend is relentless, hands darting out in quick movements and Jamal's head whirls as he tries to catch them, laughing.
There's a fraction of a moment where he times it right, almost gets a grasp of them but Flo turns their hands over and pins them onto the sheets instead. His legs shift onto the bed, caging him in.
He cocks his head and smirks, "You're gonna talk now?"
How is he supposed to talk now? When he pushes him down like that, the hold on his wrists unnecessarily hard, his legs brushing Jamal's sides. He comes closer. Jamal could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.
He inhales. Flo's characteristic scent again, mixed with the freshness of a shower . He exhales. Flo's gaze drops, following the movement. When he speaks up, his voice cracks, "Can you," he clears his throat, "get off me because I don't think we'll talk this way."
Florian lowers his voice, "If I do that, you're gonna throw over a blanket and call it a night. I know you."
"Because it's past midnight, you idiot."
One of Flo's hands let go of the hold to flick him on the forehead, "You say that like you didn't barge into my room at 1 am to watch the Copa."
One arm is free now. Jamal could use this opportunity to push him off.
He doesn't.
"I am tired though," he adds quietly. Looks away. "The interview was…" bad? It wasn't entirely bad. It was just…unexpected? Not that either.
His brain rummages for words, his mind desperate for the answer to the sting in his chest whenever he thinks of the lies. He knew he had to lie. Their relationship could only mean that. Lie or hide, depending on the reaction of the interview, maybe both.
Simple plan, huh:
Hear me out. Lets use their stupidity against them. They're gonna do the work for us. Uhm, so, the media, fans or clubs, they brush over awful people all the time. They'll always find an excuse. Deny the obvious. Look at the past World Cup man. And two silly guys holding hands? Well, what if we're really good friends?
It was supposed to be the perfect compromise. Still able to show affection publicly, but don't suffer grave consequences.
It doesn't stop the ache in his chest though. Maybe it even worsened. Jamal mumbles, "Can we talk about this another time?" He meets his eyes and Florian looks back at him with a conflicted face, "Just wanna enjoy the little time we have."
Flo presses his lips together, leans and looks away to stand up. Okay yeah, Jamal ruined the little mood they had left and now he feels bad bad. Worse than before. He wants to apologize, but Flo taps his hips, once, twice, with a gentle smile and says, "C'mon. Get up or roll over. Let's watch something."
Jamal stares back, a small weight falling off his heart, nods and scoots over to make room.
And with him being so close he fully breathes him in, with his fingertips along Flo's jaw, with a kiss, and another and more, everything seems a little better. More manageable. He's loved and cared for.
They're not watching anything tonight.
-
IV. Season (September)
They don't manage to meet up for the next week but don't rush to either, since they spent every waking minute together during the international break. They text, call, giggle about twitter and instagram comments in reaction to his interview: ‘ They're not gay. Why can't you people let two guys just be friends!’ And Florian howls, 'Jamal, you called it. You really called it.'
Sure, there's a remark here or there insisting that ‘ there is definitely something more going on between these two, wake up!’ But it's overshadowed by overeager, mostly male friends defending their 'honor'.
However, the comedy of oblivious fans is short-lived.
The Champions League prep fills his week and over the course of it, Jamal starts to go through some…"behavioral changes". He barely talks in training, avoiding banter and solely focusing on the ball, his play. He doesn't realize until his teammates draw attention to it.
Phonzy's banter turns into background noise and he misses the timing on when to laugh or say something back several times. Phonzy ends up looking at him like he grew a second head, "Didn't sleep much or something?" And Jamal laughs nervously, "Yeah, something like that."
When Leroy asks him to join for a spontaneous hang-out afterwards, he declines. Aleks and Thomas throw him suspicious glances, and the only one who doesn't notice his change of behavior, maybe because he's new, is Michael. Or maybe he just doesn't make a big deal out of it. He appreciates that either way.
Once he's home, he immediately aims for his bed to take a nap. When he wakes up, it's early evening and Florian's daily 'How was you day?' rolls in. It's followed up with 'Call later?'
Jamal stares back at the chat, then peeks at his profile picture. A picture of them during the vacation with Jamal's arm slung around his shoulder, both of them holding up a peace sign. Flo's face is blank. Such a dumb expression, he thinks and smiles softly.
Then his stomach rumbles and he groans and puts the phone away. Time to eat. He moves to get up, but then it rings and he hurries to answer. It's probably Flo.
"Hey," he says out of breath and filled with too much affection because at the end of the line, his mother snorts and something dies in him.
"Oh honey, you sound like you expected someone else-," and he's only mentioned Florian in passing to his parents, his father nonchalant with a congrats son, I'm happy for you, while his mother tried to press on for details. Jamal mentally braces himself.
"Mom-"
"Well, greet him for me," she cuts in and rants on, "he's been keeping you busy, hasn't he? Because you haven't replied to my text."
His stomach falls. "What text?" He checks his messages simultaneously, scrolls and lo and behold, there is a message from three days ago reading: 'How is my darling doing? 😘'
How did he miss that.
"I'm sorry," he needs to lock in for real, "I've been in a bit of a blur."
"Oh," she says and pauses, "it's not love trouble, is it?"
"No, uh…" yes, no, maybe? I don't know. I really don't know what my problem is.
"You know, you can talk to me."
"I know," and his stomach makes another low noise, demanding a meal, so he walks over to the kitchen and puts his mom on speaker, the phone on the counter. He opens the cupboard over the sink and grabs the overpriced protein muesli. Places it onto the counter.
"You know, I saw the interview…," she continues and Jamal stops in his tracks. Then shakes himself out of it. Opens the fridge to grab the milk.
"We both know it wasn't going to be easy…" Jamal listens, sets the milk down to get a bowl. Lays it down to pour in the muesli, then the milk. Exactly in that order. Not the random crazy chaos Florian has got going on where he switches up the order like a madman. He smiles, feeling warm, and shakes his head.
"Or was it the game? The Netherlands?" She checks in and Jamal snaps back to the conversation.
"Nah."
"So it was the interview?"
"Not that-" either. He clasps his mouth shut.
Jamal, finish the sentence. Why are you hesitating? He thinks for a second too long and he's still pouring the milk while doing so which leads to it overspilling. He curses.
"So it was the interview!"
He groans and gets a cloth to wipe it away.
"Honey, spill it," she pushes on. Jamal breathes through his nose. I already did for god's sake.
"Mom."
"Yes?"
"Give me a second to gather my thoughts," he murmurs, fishes out a spoon from the drawer and closes it with his hip. Walks over to the living room, sets his muesli on the coffee table and wiggles down on the sofa. Might as well make himself comfortable while he's being interrogated. By his mother. He digs in and munches on the muesli, slowly, turning things over in his head.
But his head is cloudy, covered in fog like in cold autumn and winter mornings when you can't see half of the road and squint your eyes, trying to make out blurry outlines.
All in all, he doesn't have a clue. So what if it's the interview? What if it's the lies he had to tell? It's not supposed to be a big deal, it's supposed to be an easy 'you have to accept it and move on'.
More than a minute passes so he goes with the interview to satisfy her motherly needs. "Maybe it's the interview. I don't know. I just hate lying about things like that."
And Jamal can't see her, only hears her voice but judging by the tone of it, she emphatically nods along. "I see. Hm. I understand…look Jamal," and oh, she says his name. No embarrassing pet names, no honey or darling or dear, and that's a clear sign that he's in for a monologue lesson.
"I know this is hard. Especially as a famous footballer. When you love someone, you wanna shout it out to the world, right?" She chuckles and heat crawls up his neck. "Let them know he's yours, you are his. Shower him in affection no matter the time or place-" and Jamal wonders, his face now warming up too, what romance novel she's reciting this from?
"But love's also about something else. Remember your complaining back as a child because your schedule was so full? And you missed these silly cartoons you loved to watch as a kid? Or when you had to cancel another birthday party? Mama," and her voice gets higher as she mimics little Jamal, " I'm always stuck with practice. Isn't there one more free day for me where I can do fun stuff? Remember, you only had-"
"Sunday's off," he mutters in thought, dazed by the details of the retelling. Mothers' memories work in mysterious ways. He drifts off to the time when he was scouted and they moved to England. He knew things would change. Become serious. His mother reminded him there would be less fun, that it might be annoying and exhausting at times but you love football, right? And Jamal nodded enthusiastically with a toothy smile, yes, yes!
Complaining felt wrong with a once in a lifetime opportunity like that. With the chance of making his dream a reality. So obviously, his mom would remember that one time where he grumbled and moaned about it.
"That was one time though," Jamal reminds her and scoops up his spoon for another bite.
"Of course, of course," she chuckles. "What I'm saying is you love football. You love it so much to the point where it was okay to sacrifice parts of your childhood."
He lifts the spoon but stops halfway, mouth still open.
"Think about it."
-
Jamal thinks about it. And about the next time he'll see Florian again.
He is torn between two feelings.
A feeling of longing, of I can't wait to see him, can't wait to pull him close, touch and kiss him, laugh and forget everything else. For a little while. And a pervasive tightening in his chest because his mother added '... talk to him about it.' Gave him another monologue how important communication in a relationship is, especially…about your feelings. Ugh.
So, he's on the edge as their next meet-up draws near.
They end up on opposite ends of the country with Jamal all the way up north in Kiel, and Flo in Sinsheim and settle to meet in Cologne again since it's "kind of" the middle. He informs his coach and managers that he won't be traveling with them back to Munich ‘ if that's alright?’ They scrutinize him for a second but don't pose any questions aside from a shrug and ‘just be on time on Monday.’
Jamal finds himself in Flo's car again. They greet each other with their signature handshake which…they sometimes still do in private and it's admittedly a little funny considering they're boyfriends but habits, right? They catch up for a bit, Flo congratulating him on the 6-1 and winking, "Let's see if your team keeps it up though."
Comfortable silence settles over them for the remainder of the ride. Jamal watches the scenes and buildings change through the tinted windows, then looks over to Flo and follows the strong shape of his jaw. His eyes wander lower to his hand resting easily on the gearshift. Veins jut slightly under the skin of his hand, following the curve of his wrist to disappear under the long-sleeve shirt.
When he looks up, he finds a confused Florian staring back at him. Jamal bolts upright. "What are you looking at?"
What do you mean, shouldn't you be looking at the road? But then he notices the red light and mumbles a response. "Nothing."
-
Later, they're in the lift to his apartment and Jamal bounces his leg and looks straight ahead. Barely says a thing. And Florian brushes his hand to check, "You're not saying much, are you okay?"
Jamal nods quickly, the motion almost giving his neck a pinched nerve. " 'Course."
Florian hums but doesn't push further. Once they're inside, Jamal exhales the pent-up breath that's been building in his lungs and immediately pulls him into a hug.
Florian tenses up, surprised. "I'm not going to disappear, you know."
Jamal mumbles out, buried in his neck, "I know."
Florian tentatively wraps his arms around him, like he's cautious to not frighten a scared animal or because he's just awkward. "Uh…so something's up?"
He snorts, "Can't I just hug my boyfriend?"
Florian breaks the embrace to look him dead in the eye like are you serious right now? "Sure you can. But…" something's up.
He sighs and closes his eyes because yeah, no more running away and gulping down your feelings. His mother's voice echoes in his mind, more like an annoying reminder to stop avoiding his fears than gentle words of support like it usually is.
Jamal pulls him towards the light living room area: A sock and pullover hang off the sofa, consoles and a random glass are abandoned on the coffee table, the beige carpet is a little askew– it's little things like these that break up his prospect looking home and show him it's his boyfriend's. Yeah, he's home. He's safe. Secure. No need to be nervous. They sit down on the sofa, close with legs pressed against each other and Jamal speaks up.
"So, I don't wanna ruin the mood," and he peeks at Flo who widens his eyes and looks at him like he's going to tell him his cat died. He doesn't have a cat, uh, so maybe telling him about a transfer abroad or something. Jamal immediately rushes to calm, "it's like, nothing super serious."
"Man. I get it. Just talk."
"I was just thinking…this whole thing," he gestures between them, "I thought this was supposed to be fun."
"Wait, hanging with me isn't fun?" It should sound like a joke, but his voice wavers.
Jamal shakes his head and waves his hands in a no motion, "No! Don't say-"
"Good, cause you sounded like you were going to break up or something."
"What the fuck," Jamal cusses and reaches out to squeeze his hand, "no. Are you crazy?"
"I'm not. I just don't know what's going on man," he adds with a nervous, lost laugh.
"It's basically about the whole we're just really good friends. I was just-," he bites on his tongue, thinking about what to say next, "you were right about the interview. It sucked. The whole thing sucks." It makes me sad and angry. I know I shouldn't be angry. I know I shouldn't make a fuss. We chose this compromise.
(But we didn't choose who to love and what's accepted.)
He thinks of little Jamal with only free Sundays, and yes, the stupid cartoons and birthday parties he missed or the amount of school work he had to catch up on. Or all the friends he lost along the way. Or the lingering gazes on boys and the feeling of wrongness and doubt, the long evenings in a bed that felt too small to fit all the thoughts in his head. And he thinks of his parents, and the corny, nose-sniffing conversations about we'll always love and support you no matter what. He thinks about the euphoria on the pitch, and the swelling feeling in his gut that felt like pride, like happiness, like all his pain was worth the love he had.
The love he had for football.
And he thinks it's still unfair. Unfair that I have to hide a part of myself to live the other. It shouldn't be like this.
But it is. Because life can be cruel. Because love is all about sacrifice.
"I get it," Florian says quietly, "it shouldn't be like this."
"Yeah."
A beat passes. Then Flo's arm wraps around his shoulder to pull him close. He holds his breath – Florian starts rubbing circles on his arm– and breathes out.
He looks over, then quickly away. His hand wanders to Flo's thigh, tapping his fingers on the fabric of his jeans. He thinks, contemplates, his body tingling from their touch, their proximity, but concentrate, you're trying to pour your heart out. "It's just unfair," he mumbles.
"It is," Flo says softly. "But…," he continues and gives a shaky laugh, "you know, I…," the hand that's been drawing smoothing circles, freezes up. It takes a second, another, for it to continue.
Jamal wants him to finish the sentence, is patient and gives him a generous five seconds before he says, "What did you wanna say?"
Flo tenses up. "Nothing."
"Flo."
"Seriously. It was nothing."
He stops the playful dance and tapping on Flo's denim. Turns to fully face him and pinches his eyes. Clicks his tongue. "I feel like you're withholding important information."
"Jamal, seriously. I swear," he pleads with big eyes. Big, false innocent eyes. Jamal doesn't have mercy, shifts closer to press on. Flo tries to lean away with no avail.
"This will turn into a wrestle if you don't say it."
"As if you can overpower me," he shoots back.
"Do you wanna try it? Come on, I had to spill my guts too," then he adds, a little too proudly even though he's quoting his mom, "Communication man."
"I prefer you as a nervous bag instead of this cheeky idiot who can't-"
"Florian," he's half-straddling him at this point, "say it."
"I'm not-"
"Say it."
Florian groans and throws up his hands and Jamal flinches away to dodge. " I love you."
Jamal stares him down with a gaping mouth.
I love you.
He said 'I love you.'
His whole body dissociates; he can't feel anything except the prickling that spreads over his skin. Flo meets his gaze, averts it, and blushes.
"You happy?"
He still doesn't say anything.
"Please," and Flo hides his face behind his hand, "stop looking like that."
"Sorry," he croaks.
Flo drops his hand with a sigh and folds his arms, still avoiding his eyes. "That was…the, uh, point. You know, the situation is shit but I, well-," he gestures vaguely and Jamal cracks a smile. It's unfair, but I still love you. Despite that. Because that's all we have. Especially in these moments, right?
How can his boyfriend be so fucking stupid and so perfect at the same time? He starts cackling and he doesn't know if it's hysteria or being drunk on love. Maybe both. Florian smacks his shoulder and he deserves that, "Stop it."
Jamal shifts onto his lap. Draws close and inhales shakily.
"Me too," he exhales, his breath fanning inches away over his lips. He takes his time; to look at Flo and his hazy eyes, follows the faint hint of red on his cheeks down to the pink of his lips. He leans in.
It's a slow kiss, unlike the fleetness of their last one when they said goodbyes. Unlike the clumsiness of their first. It's a faint touch that brushes his upper lip, presses down, only to pull away to do it over and over again.
It's easy to forget his worries when he melts into it, into the taste and touch. When sweat pearls and breaths ghost over skin, when they end up tangled in sheets and limbs. With heartache and a hollow throb in his chest he leaves, full of love and sadness and raw emotion only life can give you.
Loving also means mourning, and he's ready to bear the grief, the sacrifice, if that's what it takes to be with him.