Chapter Text
Jamal liked weird things.
Going for a run at 4:00 in the morning, when Munich was still wrapped in a slow, gentle half-sleep; the music of completely unknown R&B artists, pretzels dipped in cheddar cheese sauce (even though he would never admit it to his grandmother—after all, he was a real German).
Maybe it would have been more accurate to say that Jamal liked non-conventional things.
Things a little, offbeat.
Michael was like that.
Maybe he was the most “non-conventional” person Jamal had ever known.
Michael with his dark dreads and red tips, Michael who listened to rap at full volume and secretly, in his headphones, those early-2000s songs for lovestruck teenage girls, Michael who played chess on planes while everyone else chatted loudly, Michael who read and reread his favorite books before an important Champions League match.
Michael, who felt halfway everywhere: the Algerian-Nigerian roots vibrating in his blood, the streets of England where he had learned to move between dreams and light rain, and a part of his soul that belonged to France—with its delicate memories and a sweet melancholy that made him unique.
Jamal liked non-conventional things, and it just so happened that Michael was the very embodiment of them.
-
From their very first training session together, they understood each other immediately—there was no point denying it.
All it had taken was a perfectly cut cross from Michael into the box, and Jamal, with surgical precision, had buried it in the net.
Jamal shouted, throwing himself at him without a second thought.
Michael, always composed and a little shy, wrapped his arms around Jamal’s torso, letting his left cheek rest lightly against Jamal’s shoulder.
Jamal held him tight; Michael smelled of freshly cut grass, cool wind, and endless possibilities.
Then, realizing the position, Michael stepped back, cheeks flushing slightly as he scratched the back of his neck.
“Crazy assist, Mike.” Jamal said, grinning.
Mike. Mike. Mike.
The word rolled around in his head, syllables slipping together perfectly.
“From now on, you’re officially my personal goal provider.” He continued.
Michael shrugged, raising an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him as they curled upward: “Only if you promise not to scream in my ear every time I pass you the ball.”
“I’ve never promised anything in my life.” Jamal replied, a mischievous grin lighting up his face.
Michael smiled, shook his head, and returned to his position, talking with Phonzie.
From the bench, coach Kompany noticed too, scribbling frantically over his tactical notes—those two were a perfect match, no ifs, no buts.
-
As naturally as water flowing, as the sun rises and sets each day, Michael and Jamal grew closer.
They found themselves in a limbo of glances, evenings on the couch playing FIFA, gentle touches, suppressed laughter.
No words were needed to understand the subtle current between them—it was there, palpable to anyone who knew how to read between the lines of their gestures.
The living room lights were always dim, only the glow of the screen illuminating their faces, casting delicate shadows along their cheekbones.
Jamal’s doe-like eyes seemed darker, deeper; Michael’s brighter, more curious.
Jamal would sometimes pause to watch him—the tilt of his head calculating a pass, the shake of it chuckling at a missed goal—and something in Jamal’s chest would tighten and loosen at once.
There was something beautiful in that naturalness, a Michael sincere enough, even for a moment, to shed the nonchalant mask the world had put on him.
And Michael knew it. He felt it.
Every time Jamal moved the controller, Michael sensed the tension in his wrists, the precision in his fingers as the game intensified.
He wished he could stop time, right there, in that fragile, perfect moment.
After a couple of hours, the matches always ended the same way: Jamal flopped back onto the couch, painting lightly, hair tousled, a tired but satisfied smile on his face, while Michael leaned slightly toward him, letting a hand rest on Jamal’s thigh, testing the boundary—without crossing it.
Just to feel him. Just to know Jamal felt that strange vibration too.
“I can’t believe it,” Jamal sighed, giggling quietly. “You ruined another perfect cross.”
Michael shrugged, amused, but his eyes betrayed something else—a sweetness he never showed on the pitch, a quiet desire meant only for Jamal.
“I’m just training your patience.” He replied, thumb brushing Jamal’s knuckles for no reason at all, a shy smile playing on his lips.
In those moments, the outside world ceased to exist. It was just them, and that suspended space between them.
Michael loved turning on small lamps—warm lamps, hidden LED strips—creating an atmosphere that felt outside of time.
Jamal finally relaxed, shoulders dropping, letting the tension of the pitch, the fans, the pressure, melt away.
They often spoke in low voices about everything and nothing: the last match, the next training session, mutual friends, strange dreams, wild desires, small fears.
Other times, they sat in silence, feet brushing accidentally on the floor, Jamal noticing the warmth Michael left in the room.
It was as if every exhale, every movement, reminded him: they were there, just the two of them, in a small parallel universe where they could be fragile, imperfect, and yet completely safe.
-
It hadn’t been planned, really, but somehow, in the chaos of their schedules and the endless chatter about matches and life, it happened.
“New York!” Jamal shouted from his chair while scrolling on his phone.
“New York?” Michael asked, a bit confused, as he was preparing a vanilla shake.
“Let’s go to New York for the winter holidays! C’mon, I need a little time away from Munich. It’ll be fun!”
Michael had only grinned, eyes sparkling with that mischievous energy he always carried: “You’re paying for the plane tickets.”
The city hit them all at once—lights, colors, noise, life exploding in every direction.
Jamal’s jaw dropped at the neon streets, the towering skyscrapers, the constant motion—but even in all that spectacle, his attention kept drifting to Michael.
Michael seemed alive here, in a way that made everything else fade.
He laughed freely, gesturing with his hands at things only he seemed to notice, eyes twinkling at every corner, every odd little detail.
Jamal found himself smiling back, caught in the pull of Michael’s energy, wondering how one person could feel both untouchable and perfectly close at the same time.
At the basketball game—sue them, but how could they not go to a basketball match in the States?—their shared passion ignited.
Jamal watched Michael lean forward in his seat, eyes sharp, taking in every play.
He tapped his fingers on his knees in time with the game, occasionally whispering observations under his breath, voice low but excited.
When the ball swooshed through the net, Michael’s grin lit up, and Jamal felt that familiar rush of warmth.
How could someone make the simplest moment feel so electrifying?
After the game they wandered around the city—it was louder at night, relentless.
They walked side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, neither of them moving away.
The cold bit at Jamal’s cheeks, turning them pink; Michael noticed. Of course he did.
“Cold?” Michael asked, softer than the traffic around them.
Jamal scoffed lightly, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m German,” he said. “I’m used to the cold.”
Michael smiled at that—fond, knowing.
“You say that every time.” He replied.
Michael stopped. Just like that.
Jamal almost bumped into him.
“You’re doing that thing.” Michael said, tilting his head.
“What thing?” Jamal frowned.
“Playing it cool.”
Jamal laughed ironically, breath fogging between them. “Since when do you read me so well?”
Michael didn’t answer.
He just reached out, thumb brushing Jamal’s jaw—barely there, accidental enough to be innocent, intentional enough to make Jamal’s chest tighten.
For a second, everything slowed.
The lights. The noise. The world.
Jamal’s gaze dropped to Michael’s lips.
Michael noticed. Of course he did.
They leaned in—not much, just enough.
Close enough to count each other’s eyelashes, to count the seconds, to lose the courage to move.
Then a horn blared somewhere down the street.
Reality snapped back into place.
Michael pulled away first, clearing his throat.
“Come on,” He said, voice a little too steady. “We’ll freeze out here.”
Jamal nodded, heart racing, cheeks burning. Neither of them mentioned how close it had been.
The days passed in a blur, and soon enough they were back on the flight home, everything quieted.
Jamal, exhausted from the city’s intensity, felt Michael’s presence more than ever.
Before long, Michael had curled up against him, resting his head on Jamal’s shoulder.
Dark dreads tickled Jamal’s neck, his breath steady, the soft rise and fall of his chest grounding him.
Jamal held him tenderly, careful not to wake him, and caught himself tracing little quirks: the way Michael’s fingers curled into the fabric of Jamal’s shirt, gripping softly, or how his forehead completely relaxed, making him look younger—almost fragile.
Somewhere between the hum of the engines and the dim cabin lights, Jamal thought—“This is home, too”.
-
The real change probably came with Jamal’s injury at the Club World Cup.
Deep down, he knew it had just been bad luck—fate had that strange way of playing with people like puppets, letting things fall apart without warning.
And yet, lying there on the ground, pain biting and tearing through him, he couldn’t help but wonder, “Why me?”
The impact had been hard. Violent.
Jamal fell with a cry that tore out of him almost on its own—raw, inhuman.
Spectators stood up in the stands; some held their breath, others turned their heads, trying to understand how serious it was.
The only thing he could see was the blue sky and a few soft clouds—and slightly to the left, Michael.
Michael without shin guards, hands nervously gripping the edges of his shorts, right where the number seventeen was printed.
“Jamal? Jamal? Look at me, Jamu. You’ll be fine, okay?”
Jamu. Jamu. Jamu.
Those syllables became a melody in Jamal’s head, something that made the world feel less crooked, less tilted on its axis.
He had never heard Michael’s voice sound so vulnerable, so close, so urgent.
As he was carried away by the medical staff under the scorching U.S. sun, Jamal’s only thought was almost childlike—“Can Mike come with me, please? I’m scared.”
The diagnosis wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it still hit like a precise slap across the face.
Fractured left fibula. Ligament damage. Surgery unavoidable. Four to five months of recovery.
Jamal sighed.
Well, it could have been worse, right?
In reality, he just wanted to cry.
He swallowed hard and nodded at the doctor.
When he woke up in the hospital, the smell of disinfectant wrapped around him, along with the rhythmic beeping of machines monitoring his heart rate.
Michael was sitting in an uncomfortable teal-green chair, sweatpants hugging his hips, the team hoodie zipped up to his chin.
Between his long fingers, he held a book in French, seemingly focused on a particularly tricky passage.
Still half-asleep, Jamal looked at him through heavy lids and whispered: “Am I dreaming?”
Michael lifted his head, smiling crookedly.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Jamal.”
“Michael?” Jamal murmured, his voice thick with morphine, long dark lashes brushing his cheeks.
“Mmh?” He responded.
“You’re ridiculously beautiful.” He added smugly.
The tips of Michael’s ears turned an adorable shade of pink.
“Sleep, Jamal. You need to let the meds wear off.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, okay? Goodnight, cutie.” Jamal replied, wearing a satisfied cheshire-cat smile as his eyelids drifted shut.
Michael shook his head, amused, lowered his gaze, and went back to reading.
Rehabilitation was long and tedious, and Jamal missed training and joking with the squad more than anything.
Michael always found a way to make it a little less painful.
They jumped between boring balance exercises and stretching routines, exchanging knowing looks, challenging each other over who could do more squats without complaining.
Jamal laughed at every one of Michael’s missteps, and Michael chuckled at every one of Jamal’s pain-filled grimaces, never letting things stay serious for too long.
“Come on, Jamal! See? You’re not dead, you’re just incredibly slow.” Michael teased, and Jamal laughed so hard he almost forgot the pain.
Even on the days he was stuck doing rehab, Jamal didn’t miss a match. He loved supporting his teammates.
He’d sit at home, laptop balanced on his knees, pretzel sticks in hand, eyes glued to the screen.
After yet another striking goal from Michael, he grabbed his phone and typed quickly:
> You’ve improved, Mike.
A playful smirk hidden in the words.
Michael, after the final whistle and back in the locker room, replied with a sly smile:
> That one was for you, pretty boy.
Jamal saw the screen light up and read the message; he felt heat rush to his cheeks, bright enough to light up the room.
His foot tapped nervously on the fluffy carpet, a small rhythm of embarrassment and delight, and if he let out a half-squeal into the pink couch cushion, like a fifteen-year-old with their first crush, well, that was nobody’s business.
-
Then the moment finally came.
All those months without setting foot on a stadium pitch had been torture.
That team was his home. The fans were a part of who he was.
Bayern Munich pushed hard, dominating possession and attacking relentlessly—but at the twentieth minute, Leipzig broke through with the opening goal.
At halftime, the teams returned to the locker rooms.
Bayern needed to come up with some magic, the usual thrill of anticipation filled the air: players changing shirts, others psyching themselves up in silence—but for Jamal, everything collapsed into a single sound, the beating of his own heart.
He wanted to play; he needed to step up.
By the second half, Bayern had clawed back, scoring four times.
Four to one, they were flying, the fans shouting and demanding the final blow—the perfect humiliation.
At the eighty-seventh minute, Jamal’s number ten flashed on the substitution board.
Kompany looked at him with that mix of trust and authority he’d carried for months: “Musiala, you’re on.”
Jamal nodded.
His gaze instinctively found Michael in the field, who grinned at him, complicit.
The knot in Jamal’s stomach became pure electricity.
The roar of the crowd crashed through his chest like a shockwave.
And Jamal ran. He ran hard.
The wind lashed against his face, his legs moved in long, powerful strides, freedom buzzing between his ribs.
And then he saw him—Michael, perfectly positioned, eyes locked on the ball.
One glance. One understanding.
Jamal calibrated the pass, a sharp cross into the box—like their first training together—and Michael struck with all the grace that defined him.
For a split second, Jamal swore time stretched thin, like an endless loop—the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum, his ears rang as the ball rippled the net.
Goal.
Five to one.
One minute was all it took for Jamal to assist Michael’s goal.
Written in the stars. Written just for them.
When Michael ran toward him, beaming like the sun itself, the embrace was instinctive, intense—a silent scream bursting between them.
“Welcome back, Jamu.”
Hands gripping tight. Eyes interlocked. The world disappearing around them.
Michael pushed Jamal beneath the fans chanting his name.
Jamal felt drenched in molten gold, blessed by winged Nike herself.
The light wrapped around him, almost making him seem divine.
After the match, back in their shared hotel room, Jamal was still giddy, adrenaline making him tremble.
He threw himself onto the bed, laughing, talking fast, hands moving everywhere.
“Did you see that? Did you see it? Michael, it was perfect! The cross, everything! I honestly didn’t think I could do it like that—and you were incredible!”
Michael watched him, amused, shaking his head, unable to hide his smile.
“How much did you miss all of this?” He asked.
Jamal laughed, his gaze still shining, leaning against Michael’s shoulder.
“How much? So much. Too much. This feeling is everything.” He paused for just a second. “You’re everything.”
Michael looked at him, and for a moment he didn’t know what to do with that confession.
Jamal was a tornado—a tornado of emotion, life, spontaneity—and he was devastatingly beautiful.
Michael’s eyes widened slightly, as if Jamal had said something too true, too direct to ignore.
The silence that followed was different, heavier, charged with something vibrating just beneath the skin.
Jamal bit his lower lip without realizing it, a nervous, instinctive gesture, his heart beating a little faster than usual.
Michael took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, as if afraid of breaking the fragile balance between them.
Jamal held his breath.
He was so close now that Jamal could smell him — familiar, unmistakably Michael — and the warmth radiating from him filled every remaining space.
Michael lifted a hand, hesitated for an infinite second, then gently cupped Jamal’s cheek.
“Jamu.” He whispered, voice lower than usual.
“Mike.” Jamal breathed, the sound catching in his throat.
Jamal closed his eyes briefly, as if that single touch was already too much.
Butterflies exploded in his stomach, wild and uncontrollable.
When he opened them again, Michael was even closer, gaze sliding from his eyes to his mouth, slow and intentional, asking for permission.
And then he kissed him.
At first, it was a gentle touch almost a question. Their lips barely brushed, a timid contact that sent shivers down Jamal’s spine.
Time seemed to stop.
Jamal responded instinctively, tilting his head, letting himself fall into it.
The second kiss was surer, fuller.
Michael’s lips were velvety and plush, and Jamal’s heart hammered so hard it made him dizzy.
Michael’s hand stayed on his cheek, thumb tracing slowly along the tender skin of his cheekbone to his jaw.
Then Jamal parted his mouth slightly, pulling him deeper, their tongues teasing, chasing, setting fire to every nerve.
He looped his arms around Michael’s neck, fingers tightening before sliding into his hair, drawing him impossibly close, while Michael’s hands roamed down Jamal’s back, feeling every curve, every taut muscle, every shiver of desire.
It was a kiss that tasted like coming home, like waiting finally ending, like all the things they had never said over the past months.
When they pulled apart, just a few centimeters, they were both breathing harder.
Jamal opened his eyes slowly, a trembling smile on his lips.
Michael looked at him as if he had just found something he hadn’t known he was searching for.
“Fuck,” Jamal murmured, his voice low, still slightly broken with emotion. “It was about time.”
Michael burst out laughing.
Jamal swore he fell a little more in love and pulled him back in for another kiss.