Work Text:
Raichi ends your relationship over cooling McDonald's after nearly a year together.
It's late when you get the text inviting you over. It feels wrong. Forbidden even as you reply that you'll be over soon. Even worse when the doorman greets you sweetly as if he's happy to see you, too.
The doorman doesn't know you're in love with Jingo.
Jingo doesn't know it either, with how you act toward him. But you don't think he cares too much. He's very self-assured about his own feelings, a trait you've admired since meeting him.
It's been a long day for you. Though, you know it's been longer for him. Waking up early to train, drills with his teammates, eat meals curated by someone else, ice baths, endless hours of reviewing game footage, and media appearances for both his team and himself with sponsorships.
Inviting you over tonight is a surprise, for all the reasons listed above. Normally you don't hear from him beyond a goodnight text—or a good morning text, or the odd meme he finds funny, or cat pictures he thinks you'll find cute, little stolen moments during his breaks that you sometimes respond to. It sounds like more than it is. And you don't put much meaning into it, you swear.
Scruffy, dirty-blonde hair shadowing a sharply handsome face greets you just as you lift your hand to knock on the door. "You're late," Jingo scolds.
"I am not," you retort, instinctively snippy. Jingo grins in response.
He glances down at your shoes as he steps back to let you in, his nose wrinkling. "Did you walk here?"
You ignore his question, slipping your sneakers off. They're scuffed and, yes, a bit wet from the earlier rain. These are your most comfortable pair, as you've told him once before. "I only wear them when I go walking." Your socks are still dry at least.
Then Jingo's hand, calloused and familiar, lands on your lower back, sliding up your spine as he guides you into his apartment. The place is huge, meaning expensive, and styled like a curated storage space. He has all the things he likes, along with countless memorabilia from the various points of his soccer career. He's talked at length about several of the trophies he has lined on his shelves, but you only remember a handful—if only so you can rile him up into going on a rant about them again.
His palm settles on the nape of your neck, a thumb rubbing circles into the tense muscles at the base of your skull. He's talking about his day, bitching about a teammate you didn't catch the name of. You probably should know the names of his teammates by now, but you're not a soccer fan.
You love Jingo and only care about soccer because you love him.
"Earth to dumbass, I said bon appetite or whatever the fuck," his voice ticks toward sharp, edged with concern.
Blinking, you realize Jingo's ushered you into his kitchen. Usually empty and under used, since his meals for the week are already prepped. Except for tonight. Your lips purse, eyeing the spread of greasy food on his island. It smells heavenly. Chicken nuggets, fries, cheap cheeseburgers still in their wrappers, with one plastic cup of soda sitting in the middle of it. This is decidedly not food Jingo indulges in during the middle of the week when he's training.
"What?" you ask dumbly.
His hand slips away from your neck as he leaves you, taking the warmth with him. "What do you mean, what? I went outta my way to get you this junk. Where's my thank you?"
Watching him lean back against his counter and snatch up a few of the fries, that ugly feeling in your chest tightens. It really isn't much. It's just fast food. Shit you probably shouldn't be eating this late, and stuff Jingo really shouldn't be eating.
But you think of your apartment. The empty fridge and cabinets. The pizza box on the counter—extra protein, personal sized pepperoni—the smell of lingering in the cramped kitchen. The hunger of not eating all day twisting in your stomach. The dishes in the sink from the dinner you made the night before that earned you a polite thank you before the door to your boyfriend's gaming room closed and you ate under salted rice and chicken alone on your couch.
Fast food wasn't on the menu, partly because it was an expense you couldn't afford when you could cook at home, but more so because your boyfriend talked at length about how unhealthy it was. All the grease and calories and how much time he'd have to spend at the gym to burn it all off. It didn't matter if you were too tired to cook; it wasn't an option at home. When you didn't cook, it was a fend-for-yourself night.
"Thank you," you finally say, stepping beside him, trying to ignore the solid heat of him as you pluck up an oddly shaped chicken nugget. The taste of it greasy with too much salt.
You blink hard to fight back the sting in your eyes after you swallow.
"You're welcome," Jingo says, his teeth flashing with a smugness you should scold him for. He grabs the soda, pulls a sip from the straw, grimaces, then tilts it toward you. "As payment, you're waking your ass up to come to the gym with me in the morning."
Your eyes flick up to him as you sip, the carbonation bubbling over your tongue. He's teasing you, warmth effused in his tone. Maybe just a hint of begging as his gaze dips to where your lips wrap around the straw before coming back up to meet your gaze.
"I am not waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get sweaty." You really should tell him no, like you've done a hundred other times. You don't go to the gym with your boyfriend (though he's never asked you to come with him, either.)
He wakes up before five in the morning to work out— as you've gathered from the shirtless, sweat-soaked selfies he sends you. Which really is too early, not to mention you live across the city and the commute is a pain, even if you took a cab. You've complained about it before, and that always leads to him offering—
"Then spend the night, I've got a home gym. You don't even have to get dressed, I'm not asking you to work out, anyway," he bargains, bumping your arm with his. His tone turns cheeky as he adds, "I just need a pretty view to keep me motivated."
This is where you tell him no. Jingo knows you're taken; he'd met you when you were starry-eyed in love with your boyfriend. You chew through another chicken nugget, putting it off.
Maybe you're a bad person for being friends with him when you're in a relationship. He's flirty, and touchy, and all the things you shouldn't allow when you're dating someone else.
"We can go to the bakery down the street after," Jingo continues, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. "I haven't tried it yet, but it looks like the cutesy shit you like. My sister follows their Instagram page, sends me a billion reels of their ads like a freak, hoping I'll take her."
He glances down at you then away, like he can hide the real want in his voice. He's making an effort to draw it back to casual like he usually does, laying down his own soft landing for the blow he's expecting.
You think of the dishes in the sink at home and the empty "extra protein" pizza box for one on the counter. Then look at the spread of cheap, greasy food on the counter.
Jingo is borderline ranting in your silence. verbally living out his imaginary beef with your boyfriend. "And I'll drop you off with your loser and get to see his prissy expression—"
"Okay," you cut him off before he gets too into it.
He pauses, his mouth open. "What?"
"It's late, I should stay the night," you say, your heart beating so quickly in your throat that your voice wavers. His golden eyes widen, and you add, "No promises on the gym thing, though."
You expect some suspicion. Maybe doubt or judgment. For him to ask if you're fucking with him. Or for him to ask, "What about your boyfriend?" All normal things anyone should ask.
Instead, a charming, if smug, grin tugs at his mouth. He nods once, saying, "I've got a shirt you can sleep in."