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Šimon spots wide, inquisitive eyes peering at him over the team Slovakia coach’s shoulder and immediately presses a finger to his lips, willing his teammate to be quiet. He squeezes Luke’s hand, ignoring the bout of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm him as he leans back into Luke’s space.
“Stay quiet and move fast,” Šimon hisses as hushed as he can. Luke fixes him with a confused look before following the path of Šimon’s gesturing. He blanches, colour stripping from his cheeks, and he nods quickly at Šimon. Affirmative, simple, to the point.
Šimon kind of wants to kiss him about it.
Creeping towards the door, he gently nudges the handle down, all but shoving Luke in when he sees his coach’s head start to turn at the sound. Luke, thankfully, rushes in as quietly as he can, hiding out of view of the doorway. Šimon mentally breaths a sigh of relief.
“Nemec! How are you feeling? Ready for Thursday?” The coach barks. Šimon turns, one hand gripping his door handle iron-tight, the other thumbing over the Slovak team pin on his lanyard. He hopes his face is settled into something like a smile – doesn’t want his coach thinking he’s annoyed by him or something.
“Yes, sir. Finland don’t stand a chance,” he responds, switching to the familiar cadence of Slovak. It’s easy confidence, a part of him that’s only strengthened since his last experience at the Olympics. Šimon knows he’s a better player and can only hope that the Slovak team is a better team too.
“Good. I like to hear that. Go rest up, okay? No distractions. We need all eyes on that gold,” the coach says. Šimon nods at him in what he hopes is a cordial manner before he disappears inside the safety of his room, a sigh of relief slipping from his lips when he spots Luke sat at the end of his bed.
“Come ‘ere,” Luke says once the door is firmly shut and locked behind Šimon’s back. Šimon wastes no time, crossing over almost immediately until he can clamber onto the bed and curl his arms around Luke from behind. His face disappears into the back of Luke’s neck in seconds. “You alright, babe?”
“Worried,” Šimon mutters, repeating himself when he realises he’d gotten stuck in Slovak. Still a bad habit he stumbles into sometimes. Less so, these days. Luke huffs fondly, reaching behind his back to ruffle Šimon’s hair as best as he can. A gritty, pained sound tumbles from his lips and Šimon snaps his head up immediately. Luke’s using his bad arm. “Careful!”
“I’m fine. Gotta get it used to moving eventually,” Luke says with a shrug. Šimon bites his non-injured shoulder at that, a semi-serious reprimand. “I’m fine, Nemo. Now tell me – what’s got you so worried?”
“The Olympics? Playing off against my teammates, including my captain? What’s there not to worry about?” Šimon grumbles. His face finds it’s way into the back of Luke’s neck again as he screws his eyes shut. He’s not about to cry on Luke over this.
“You don’t have to play against me,” Luke mutters and Šimon knows he’s not meant to hear it, but he does, and he makes a wounded noise, something guttural and unruly that most assuredly twists his facial features. “Sorry.”
“Don’t. You deserve better,” Šimon says. He pulls back from his hiding spot again and shifts, giving him ample space to push Luke onto the sheets. And Luke goes easy when Šimon nudges him, splaying out across the bed with his windswept curls haloing his head and a lazy smirk on his face. Šimon can’t help himself, has to lean down and kiss him, soothing them both.
Luke kisses back the way he always does – somehow both tentative and confident. Like he knows he wants Šimon, he’s just not sure how much he’s allowed to want that. And Šimon is more determined than anyone to make Luke see that he’s more than allowed to want infinitely.
“Stop trying to distract me from comforting you,” Luke mutters when he pulls back, and Šimon huffs fondly, rolling his eyes in response when the English doesn’t quite compute in his brain. Luke’s used to it, however, knows he’s the cause of Šimon’s system shutting down half the time, and just smiles fondly. One hand brushes along Šimon’s spit-slick lips, the other gently smoothing along the skin of his waist.
“Fuck, your fingers are cold,” Šimon hisses, arching away from the hand Luke has on his lower back. A soft apology slips from Luke’s mouth, but Šimon swallows it down when he kisses him, more than content to keep on with that for however long Luke will let him.
Which turns out to be not that long.
Luke pulls back only seconds later, breathing slightly heavier than normal. Šimon tries to kiss him again, but it’s no use. Luke’s stubborn, tips his head away. “Seriously, are you okay? I don’t want you to bottle it up because you wanna avoid hurting my feelings or some shit.”
“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before,” Šimon says. “Just… what if I’m not good enough to win us gold?”
“It’s a team sport,” Luke responds, like that’s the only answer to it. Šimon goes to speak again, but Luke cuts him off, clearly not as finished as Šimon thought he was. “I don’t think a whole team loss can be blamed on just one person.”
“You literally take the blame for our losses all the time,” Šimon says, eyebrows furrowed. And it’s true. He’s spent more than enough nights arguing with Luke about it, digging up clips and replays to prove time and time again that their losses are never, ever, Luke’s sole fault.
“Okay, but they usually are my fault most of the time,” Luke says, cutting through Šimon’s thoughts. Šimon stares him down, eyes sharp and beady, and Luke raises his hands in surrender. Šimon locks his hands around Luke’s wrists where they rest against the sheets, pinning them in place before he can even think about it. “Fine, whatever, not my fault.”
“Good.”
“But seriously, Nem, don’t let this get into your head. It’ll kill your run before it can even start,” Luke says, hands tender as they stroke over the skin of his back. It’s so uncharacteristically him and Šimon almost wonders if Luke’s hit his head until he remembers that he’d found Luke third wheeling Jack and Nico. Probably stole the line from one of Nico’s speeches, or something. “Now come on, let me up. I’ve got more pins for ya.”
Šimon releases his hold immediately but doesn’t shift from Luke’s lap. He likes it here. Luke sits up and their faces are close. Luke smirks, and Šimon’s pretty sure he’s doing the same, but then they’re kissing, so does it really matter?
“You’re a nightmare distraction,” Luke mumbles against his lips. Šimon kisses him harder in response, all thoughts of acquiring his new pins long gone. He should care, knows that Luke’s been dodging security to get them for him, but Luke’s also dodged security to be with him in person, with Šimon in his lap and their mouths pressed together, so again. It doesn’t matter.
Eventually, when their breathing is all mucked up, and Šimon’s lips feel puffy and swollen, they split apart, Luke’s hands still curled around the divots of his hips and waist. “Pins?” Šimon questions, a pout lining his face when Luke’s hands leave his skin.
“Here,” Luke says, sifting through his hoodie pocket. He pulls out three pins, and Šimon perks up immediately. “South Korea, China, which Jack has fucking six of, for some reason, and Uzbekistan,” Luke explains, pointing at the pins in turn.
“Thank you,” Šimon says in Slovak. It’s one of the few things Luke knows, so he likes to spit it out every now and then, watch the way recognition scrawls across his features. With deft fingers, Šimon unloops the lanyard from around his neck and gets to work slotting the pins in place. “There.”
“Looks great,” Luke says, and he’s not even looking at the lanyard, the cheeky fuck. Šimon pouts about it, but he can feel his cheeks heating up and knows Luke can see it. “Sorry, babe, but you’re literally sat on my lap. Do you expect me to pay attention to anything else? If so, wrong person.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Šimon says, sticking his tongue out playfully. He leans over Luke’s body, careful not to press at his shoulder as he places the lanyard on his bedside table. A yawn ripples through him once he’s upright, fresh bouts of jetlag washing over him. “I’m tired.”
“Take a nap then,” Luke suggests. Šimon huffs, wanting to spend more time with his boyfriend before remembering that he can quite literally get Luke to stay with him. All he has to do is ask.
“Stay with me?” He questions. Luke smiles, easy and fond and so lovesick that Šimon swears he can feel it in his gut.
“Always.”