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It doesn’t look good. Waking up in the same bed with his older, attractive teammate while he has spent most of the season flirting and dancing on the verge of something serious with another guy.
At least both of them have their pants on.
”Pierre?” A hopeless groan is his response.
”I want to die.”
”You don’t want to die. I’ll get you a coffee, and a pain killer, and you help me to remember what happened last night.”
Wanting to get some fresh air Franco picks up his key card, and leaves the hotel instead of calling the room service. 20 minutes later he is returning to the room, finding his teammate sitting on the bed, his face still a little too grey. At least Pierre had showered, and put on a clean shirt.
Last night is coming back in flashes. They were supposed to have one drink. Only one. But the conversation was flowing freely, and neither of them really wanted the moment to end. Vegas was crazy, but it was tempting crazy, and the next morning seemed to be weeks away.
Franco grimaces, remembering a blue feather boa, and Pierre’s hands on his hips. He had been so beautiful laughing in the stuffy air of the club, green glitter in his hair.
”Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
He is surely going to take an offense. Pierre shouldn’t be complaining after Franco had only been supportive, and even brought him a fresh drink.
His teammate is not looking at the coffees, but his own ring finger.
”What the fuck?” Until now Franco hadn’t been aware of the metal’s touch on his own finger. It’s a simple band of silver, but the weight of it is terrible.
”Oh fucking god.” Pierre is going through the items on the nightstand, pulling out a piece of paper. Very official-looking and serious piece of paper.
”There was an Elvis, I think”, Franco says weakly, ”or three. You were wearing Mickey Mouse ears. I sang a Lana del Rey song to you.” Franco has many talents, but he should be kept far away from microphones, when he has had more than one to drink.
”Is this real?”
”Don’t tell me it’s on media.” Franco pulls out his phone. He has some unanswered texts – from Isack too, but Instagram seems to be quiet, and his managers haven’t blown up his phone.
”I don’t think we were spotted.”
”Esteban will be so pissed.”
”What has Esteban to do with any of this?”
Pierre’s mouth tenses like it always does, when Esteban is mentioned.
”We had the boyfriend definition discussion on the summer break. It’s complicated, fragile.”
It’s never simple with those two, but Pierre’s eyes are full of innocent hope.
Franco sits down on the bed, sipping his own coffee, and studying the paper. Their marriage certificate.
It makes him a bit dizzy. Franco is glad that him and Pierre have an easy relationship, but they could have really limited those drinks to one each. ”I have a plan”, he tells, wetting his lips, ”You figure out how we get divorced, and we are never going to share this story with another living soul.”
”Why me?”
”Because you are older, and supposedly wiser.” The Frenchman ruffles his hair, and leans on Franco. It’s not the end of the world. People have been having Vegas wedding regrets for a small forever.