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I must be seeing things, Michael thinks to himself as he watches a child skid to a stop, her boots splashing up a muddy puddle.
Three days back in Munich, he has already been itching to leave. But if he tries to bail on another press conference, Noel Noa may truly crucify him. So he's still here, walking through the glossy cobblestone streets he once used to frequent, trying to remain anonymous.
Until he passed a playground, stumbling upon a little girl who bears an uncanny resemblance to Alexis. It's a bit pathetic that, even after so many years of estrangement, his eyes can readily latch on to the traces of Alexis within the toddler. The faded fuchsia in her golden hair, the constellation of freckles dusting her cheeks, the soft shape of her eyes, which is of the same plum-like hue as Alexis.
Michael must be seeing things. Too little sleep and too many shots of espresso does that to a man. He needs to go home and let himself rest for once. Needs to look flawless for reporters and paparazzi later. In forty-eight hours, he'll be back in Madrid, with its sunny weather and intense, enveloping blue skies, where he isn't haunted by the spectres of a certain boy.
Michael pivots to cross the street, when another voice rings out, making his legs go numb.
“Rose! Liebchen, we have to go home now. It's getting dark.”
Slowly, very slowly, he turns around until Alexis swings into view. He's crouched on the damp grass, fingers gently brushing away a smidge of dirt from the girl’s face. “You have to be more careful, dear. What if you got hurt?”
“But I didn't, papa!” She excitedly points to a spot behind her, her grin wide. “I saw a snail today, a snail! Its shell was so pretty.”
Alexis smiles warmly at—his daughter?—and ruffles her hair.
“That's wonderful, dear. But we have to head back now.”
“Can I keep the snail, papa? Please? I already have a name for it!”
“Of course. We can look for the snail tomorrow, hm? Now, let's go, your dad will be home soon—”
“Ness,” Michael says, the name wrenched from somewhere behind his ribcage.
He sees the exact moment when the tender smile on Alexis's face is flattened into blankness. He glances up, and his shuttered gaze lands haltingly on the other man. Alexis rises back to his feet, dusting off the hem of his cardigan. Rose darts behind him—whether out of shyness or fear, Michael can't tell—but she peers up at him anyway, curious.
“Kaiser.” His voice is the perfect mimicry of amiability, though his expression lacks sentiment. “Is that you? God, it's been so long. I almost didn't recognize you.”
Now that Alexis is giving him his undivided attention, Michael descries the marks time has left on his body: the softening muscles, the miniscule wrinkles marring his skin. A decade has already passed since he retired from football.
“Well—” Michael can't dredge up a response. A maelstrom of emotions is tearing through him, impossible to navigate. Unable to bear it, he lets his attention drift to the child. “Is she your…?”
Gently, Alexis coaxes Rose out. “Oh yes, this is my daughter, Rose Dietrich. She is a darling, and my entire world.”
With her face still partly pressed into Alexis's hip, the girl murmurs a meek greeting.
Michael has never been fond of children, not because they can be reckless and needy and annoying (although those are contributing factors) but because he’s scared that kids would bring out some latent cruelty within him, a monstrosity that has been inked into his blood.
“She's lovely,” He replies tonelessly, then blurts out a more pressing question: “are you married?”
Alexis lifts his hand, a thin, silver wedding band glinting on his finger. It's expensive and nondescript, nothing to write home about. “Yes, it’s been years. Are you—”
“No. Never.” His answer is an ingrained reflex now, something he has to repeat for all the people that try chatting him up at ridiculous, exclusive parties, the sort he usually avoids.
“That's … unsurprising.”
Silence falls over them, so stifling, so noxious that it rankles, like a bruise refusing to heal. He has half a mind to snap at Alexis for it, until he reminds himself that this probably isn't the same Alexis he abandoned long ago.
The man in question shifts on his feet, a hand grasping Rose’s. (What kind of name is that? Why would he name his daughter that? Why does Michael even care?)
Alexis is the one to break the impasse, saying, “I'd love to catch up with you, but we really have to go back. My husband returns from work at eight. He'll get worried if I stay out for too long.” A ribbon of some emotion, too elusive for Michael to parse, threads through his voice.
“Right.” He steps aside to give them space.
Distantly, Michael recognizes that a voice inside him is screaming for clarity. For years, he succeeded in keeping his mind off Alexis, so much so that all their memories (especially the good ones, no matter how meager they are) gained an evanescent quality, like the dreams of a mother which curdled into nothing by the time he was old enough to understand that nobody would ever come to his rescue.
He tries to brush past him. Michael doesn't know what he intends to do as his hand darts out to grab Alexis by the forearm, stopping the man in his tracks. His sharp, lacquered nails dig into the fabric hard enough to leave indents upon the skin.
Alexis turns around, dread starkly written on his face. “Yes?”
“I'm in Munich for the next two days.” He begins, the words gruff and clumsy. “Let's meet up somewhere. Anywhere. I really don't care, whatever is convenient for you. You can pick the time—”
“I—I don't know. I can't promise anything.” He gives Michael a sidelong glance. “If I can, I'll text you about it, if you don't mind? Do you still have my number?”
“Yeah.”
(Michael may have deleted it from his phone, but he can still recite it by heart.)
Rose starts to protest about being hungry, squirming in Alexis's hold.
“I really should go now. Have a good night, Kaiser.” Gently shushing her, Alexis takes her hand again and crosses the street, disappearing down a streetcorner.
Michael forces himself to not look at his retreating figure. Instead, he stalks off towards the direction of his hotel.
ᡣ𐭩
There is nothing Michael hates more than being a victim to his own psyche. That night, he has a nightmare so visceral and repellant, he wakes up with a gasp that scrapes his lungs raw.
The sun is peeking over the horizon, bands of pale light streaming into his room. Michael sits up, drawing a deep breath, and lets it out in a tremulous exhale. He blindly drags a hand over the nightstand until his fingers close around a packet of Ernte 23 and his zippo lighter, retrieving a cigarette from within to light it.
It soothes his nerves just enough to wash away the terror, but the bitter aftertaste lingers in his marrow.
He hasn't had one of these episodes in a while. He would have preferred to keep it that way.
Now that he's become fully lucid, going back to sleep would be an exercise in futility. A feeling of listlessness settles over him as he watches the smoke from his cigarette billow and swirl up to the ceiling.
He’s tired, but not in a way that offers a simple recovery like adequate rest or a healthy diet. He has spent most of his life fleeing from everything—his home, his father, his fears, himself—that the idea of slowing down, settling into a space that he could ever call his own was too foreign a concept for him to entertain.
Almost involuntarily, Michael thinks of Alexis. The pure love welling in his eyes when he introduced his daughter. A stutter of uncertainty when he mentioned his husband.
Morbid curiosity sinks its claws into Michael.
Alexis got married. He has found someone that probably loves him, cherishes him, his magic and never makes those lovely eyes of his weep. It feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke on him. Michael remembers how dreamy and romantic he always was, babbling about how true love could erase even the most profound curses. Maybe without Michael’s presence to spoil it, he got his happily ever after at last.
At least one of them got what they wished for. Not that Michael ever accepted it even when his wishes came true.
ᡣ𐭩
Five hours before his flight, Michael receives a single text message from Alexis. It's succinct, when he was usually the type to ramble and go on tangents. It details the address of a local bar on Baaderstraße and asks whether he can meet Alexis here in an hour.
Michael almost flings his phone out of the window upon seeing it. Then, surrounded by his clothes and other belongings that he has yet to pack, he types out a reply.
The hour passes by in a blur. By the time he regains his senses, he has stepped into the modest bar, regret fiercely burning under his skin.
The decor is stripped-back and unpretentious, no Bavarian kitsch. There are a handful of tables, a small bar with a cornucopia of fresh ingredients displayed behind it, and warm, amber lighting. The smattering of patrons present all appear to be students or artistes, leaning over their drinks in hushed but animated chitchat. He has disguised himself blandly enough that nobody spares him more than a passing glance. He approaches the bartender and orders a Gin Tonic.
Then the waiting game starts.
Michael could be anywhere else in this shitty country, but of course he's in some obscure bar, hoping Alexis (after all this time) shows up. He's pathetic. A fucking idiot. A piece of shit.
His drink arrives soon, but there are still no signs of Alexis. He can't taste the liquid sliding down his throat. It fails to dispel the tension from his body.
Did Alexis change his mind after all? Or maybe a more important task came up and the any thoughts about Michael got pushed at the back of his mind. For all he knows, Alexis's husband disapproved of him meeting Michael.
He doesn't get the time to entertain that final scenario properly, because when he glances up from his drained glass, he sees Alexis hastily cross the room towards Michael.
“Kaiser! I'm sorry if I made you wait too long—” He unceremoniously drops into a barstool, breathing ragged. He looks frazzled, his hair tousled and cable-knit sweater rumpled like he threw it on in a hurry. “Rose's babysitter cancelled on us at the very last minute, so I had to drop her off at a friend's house before coming here.”
“It's fine.” Michael says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do you want anything to drink? I'll pay for it.”
“Oh, you really don't have to—”
“Shut up.”
His eyes rove everywhere, never quite settling on Michael. Finally, he turns towards the bartender and greets him like a friend. In return, the bartender gives him a sunny smile and asks if he wants his usual order. It's strange to realise that Alexis’s life truly has continued without Michael.
“Thank you.” Alexis says. “I hope I'm not holding you up? You have a flight to catch soon, right?”
“All my luggage is already at the airport. It's fine. I never knew you got married, Ness.”
“It was a very private affair.” His chuckle is strained. He retrieves his phone from his pocket, thumbing through it to open a picture of him and his husband, the Swiss Alps a scenic blur behind them. The man is generically handsome with blonde hair and blue eyes. “I guess I should also tell you this, I'm Alexis Dietrich now. My husband's name is Fynn. He's somewhat notable of a tennis player. Won a few ATP Tour titles in singles and a silver medal at the Olympics once.”
Michael nods, utterly uninterested in any of that. “I'll call you Alexis, then.” He hasn't called Alexis by his first name in a long time. It's like donning clothes that no longer fit him, reciting a script he has stopped acting for. “How did you two meet? It must have been cheesy, I bet.”
Alexis flushes scarlet. “Ah, not really. We met at a fundraiser. I had just retired from the team after the World Cup, so Gesner dragged me there to get some ‘fresh air’. Fynn was the one who struck up a conversation, said he admired me as a player and found my loyalty to—Bastard München inspiring. We kept talking for weeks after that, and one day he just asked me out.”
“Isn't that wonderful,” Michael replies drily. “You married the first man that said something nice to you? Not that it's unexpected.” God knows those aren't the words he wants to say, but the cruelty is an old reflex.
“There were more reasons. But I don't think you're here to listen to me harp on about my marriage. I'm not sure why you're here at all.” For the first time, Alexis lets their eyes lock together. “Why are you here, Michael?”
Michael huffs. “I don't understand it, how could you give up on football so easily? What happened to that magic bullshit you used to never shut up about?”
A spark of challenge dances in Alexis's gaze. He slightly leans forward and asks, “Do you really care? Why does it bother you that I quit? I stopped being useful to you a long time ago. Weren't you the one to tell me that traditionalist pigs have no place on the field?” He doesn't sound angry or even sad, his voice is utterly flat.
Michael opens his mouth to answer, when he's interrupted by the arrival of Alexis's drink, a ridiculously colourful cocktail called Butterfly Punch.
“So you gave up? You just proved me right, then.”
“I was hoping,” Alexis smiles, but it's all wrong and uncanny in its falseness, “for a civil conversation with you where we catch up. Not this. You haven't changed.”
“Neither have you.”
Alexis takes a long swig of his drink. “I still love football, if you were curious about that. And magic. I watch your matches sometimes, and your plays have improved significantly. Sae Itoshi is a better midfielder than me, I suppose.”
“You watch my matches?” Michael asks, tilting his head to the side. So you haven't stopped caring about me? is what he really means. But of course, this is Alexis, who never lets anything go. Who lingers at the doorway to drag out the farewell. Who is the last to abandon a sinking ship.
“Of course.” He admits without compunction. “I hope you've been happy in your present life.”
“Sure.” Michael answers flatly, though he's lying to both himself and Alexis just like he used to, with him projecting hauteur and Alexis choosing to be blind to the lies that embellished his proclamations like gold.
Alexis’s smile softens. “You’re a terrible liar even now, Michael.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“Enough.” Emboldened by the tension or proximity or something else, Alexis reaches out and brushes his hand against Michael’s. He forces himself to not flinch. Slowly, he relaxes though. Alexis has always had that effect on him.
“Then you're lying too,” Michael accuses. “Do you even love this guy? Or were you so scared to be by yourself that you signed a marriage certificate at the first chance you got?”
“That's not—” Alexis chokes on his reply. “It's tactless to comment on other people's relationships like that.”
“Tell me I'm wrong, go on.”
“And why do you care?”
“Because—”
It hurts seeing you with someone else. Even though we were in love, I never let us be lovers, and I regret it so fucking much. It's fucked up that we're both miserable in our own seperate worlds. I was stupid for leaving, but I never thought I was capable of loving someone this much. Because I love you.
He never gets to confess any of it. This is the moment Michael’s phone blares to life with texts from both his handler and Noa, asking where he is and why he isn't at the airport yet. Right, he has to return to Madrid and scrape this meeting off his mind. It's too little, too late by now.
Now that their bubble of tranquility has been broken, Alexis appears discomfited all of a sudden, wringing his hands ineffectually.
“I have to go now. Take care.” Michael mumbles, fishing out his wallet to drop a hundred euros on the counter. Then, he adds in a taut voice: “I'm sorry for everything, Alexis.”
Alexis attempts to say something, but Michael doesn't want to hear it. He twists on his heels, and the bar falls away from his view.
Outside, the weather is frigid enough to freeze Michael's tears so that they cling to his lashes, never getting the chance to fall.
ᡣ𐭩
"Let's swap roles. You wait and I don't come back."
-Mahmoud Darwish