Archive of Our Own

1. KL Rahul

The widely held belief was that he didn't seek relationships. Or if he did — if he ever cracked that impenetrable shell of privacy — the world would stay unaware. Not a whisper on the grapevine, not a grainy long-lens photo, not a single confirmed sighting unless he chose to reveal it himself. 

And Virat Kohli never chose to share.

Rahul understood this. He had known it for years. It was the price of entry to a life like Virat's, the only way to keep any semblance of balance in a world that sought to consume every crumb of his existence. Keeping his heart, like his game, a closely guarded secret, was simply survival.

But the Virat sitting opposite him now, in a quiet corner of a Bangalore café, was breaking every rule of survival Rahul knew.

He was relaxed. Not the performative, post-match relaxation of a hard-earned victory, but a deep, bone-melting kind of ease. He cradled his black coffee as if it were a hand-warmer on a cold morning, his shoulders slack, his jaw unclenched. And his phone, that infamous black rectangle that usually buzzed with frantic, demanding energy, lay face-up on the table. 

Virat Kohli, leaving his screen face up while relaxing? Unthinkable. Unless, of course, the person he most wanted to speak to wasn't sitting directly in front of him.

Which Rahul noticed and minded. He was sitting right in front of Virat.

Every few seconds, Virat's gaze would drift, almost involuntarily, to the phone. A tiny, private, and soft smile would flicker at the corner of his mouth before he’d catch himself and look back at Rahul, his expression clearing into something politely attentive. It was the smile of someone replaying a conversation in their head, someone holding onto a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee in his hands.

In all the years Rahul had known him — through centuries and slumps, victories and defeats — he had never seen this. He'd only ever known the Virat who, when out with friends, kept his phone just an arm's length away, a necessary barrier against the relentless demands of the outside world. This Virat seemed to be waiting for the outside world. Or at least, one specific part of it.

Rahul leaned forward, grabbing the first mundane topic that could reconnect this peaceful, unusual version of his friend with reality. "So, you're still good to meet the cousins, right? Since you're in town. I still owe Athiya that dinner as well, and they've been asking about you."

Virat didn't respond immediately. His eyes betrayed him again: a small flicker towards the phone, which coincidentally lit up with a silent notification at that very moment. The private smile returned, broader this time, as his thumbs darted across the screen with flurries of motion. He typed for a few moments before looking up, the smile still lingering in his eyes.

“Hmm?” he said, his attention still clearly half-lost in the digital world. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course. Just—" he glanced back down, typing one last thing, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Rahul just stared, a slow, dawning realisation spreading through him: This wasn't relaxation. This wasn't contentment. This was something or someone entirely different. "I was saying," Rahul repeated slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips now, "about the cousins. Dinner. Tomorrow. You in?"

“Yeah, absolutely. Just let me—" Virat's phone buzzed again. He glanced down, and this time the smile didn't flicker. It blossomed. His whole face softened, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way they usually only did when he was watching cute dog videos. "Sorry, one sec."

He typed again, and Rahul watched, fascinated. Who the hell could possibly be on the other end of that phone?

When Virat finally looked up, reluctantly shoving the phone into his pocket, Rahul decided to test the waters. "You're in a good mood."

"Am I?" Virat's eyebrows rose, the picture of innocence. "Just a normal day."

"Normal," Rahul repeated flatly. "You've checked your phone seventeen times in the last twenty minutes. You've smiled at it as if it's personally telling you jokes. You've laughed — actually laughed — at least twice. At your phone."

Virat's cheeks flushed, and Rahul felt his jaw slacken.

Virat Kohli did not blush. He stared down the bowlers for a living. Once, he told a hostile Australian crowd to suck on it. He did not sit in cafés, blushing at his bloody phone like a teenager with a crush.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Virat said, but his voice had grown slightly higher and a touch defensive, while he maintained his smile. "I'm just — it's been a good season so far. The team's doing well."

"The team," Rahul echoed.

"Yes. The team. Good energy in the camp this year. Many faces."

"Many faces," Rahul repeated, as if he were a parrot now. "Anyone in particular?''

Virat's eyes flickered briefly, and Rahul seized the moment.

"Ah," he said, leaning back in his chair with a triumphant grin. "There it is. Who is it?"

"There's no ‘it.' There's no one. I don't know what you're—"

“Virat,” Rahul shot him a look. "We've been friends for over a decade. I have watched you go through phases. I have watched you be intense, focused, angry, ecstatic, and exhausted. I have never — never — watched you sit in a café and blush at your phone like a lovesick puppy. So I'll ask again. Who is it?"

Virat opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. For a long, glorious moment, Rahul thought he might actually get an answer. But then Virat's expression shuttered, into something almost shy, and he simply shook his head. "It's new," he said quietly. "Really new. I don't want to — I'm not ready to —"

"Say no more." Rahul raised his hands, even as his mind raced with possibilities. "I respect that. Truly. Just—" He couldn't suppress the grin that broke across his face. "I'm happy for you, yaar. Whoever they are."

Virat's smile returned, softer now, more genuine. "Thanks, Rah."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the afternoon sun slanting through the cafe windows. Rahul's mind, however, was racing. It was racing through the RCB roster, through every interaction he'd observed on social media in the past few weeks, through every potential candidate who might have slipped past Virat's legendary defences.

It was probably someone new at the camp, someone who made him laugh and blush.

Rahul’s phone buzzed, and he looked down to see an email from DC’s head coach about analysing the opposition’s strengths and weaknesses.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Livingstone.

Liam Livingstone. New to RCB this year, he's charismatic, humorous, and quite handsome. Rahul had noticed how the Englishman integrated seamlessly into the team, the easy camaraderie he'd fostered with everyone, including Virat. He had seen them chatting earlier today at practice, with heads close together, Virat laughing at something Liam said.

It made perfect sense. Naturally, Virat would be drawn to someone who could match his energy, someone unafraid of his presence, and someone who could make him laugh amidst the high-pressure chaos of the IPL. And Liam was right there, new, shiny, and utterly disarming.

Rahul was so pleased with his deduction that he nearly missed Virat getting up and gathering his jacket. "I've got to go," Virat said, and there was that smile again, the private one. "Promised someone I'd meet them."

"Right now? Before the match tomorrow?"

Virat's eyes softened once more, that familiar flicker. "Yeah. I promised I'd take him to RCB Café and Bar tonight. Show him around, you know? He's never been."

Him.

Rahul suppressed his urge to cheer in victory. "Livingstone?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

Virat froze for just a fraction of a second; long enough for Rahul to notice, but not long enough for anyone else to clock. Then he laughed, a little too brightly. "Yeah. Livi. He wanted to see the place before the chaos tomorrow. You know how it is."

"I know exactly how it is," Rahul said, and his smile was the smile of a man who had just solved a puzzle. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Virat rolled his eyes, but he still smiled as he walked away, and Rahul watched him go with the warm satisfaction of a job well done.

It had to be Livingstone. Rahul was so confident that he took out his phone and sent a message to the group chat he shared with a few trusted friends: “I know something you don't know.”

The replies arrived instantly and predictably — a flood of question marks and demands — but Rahul merely smirked and put his phone away. Let them wonder. He had figured it out. Virat Kohli, the man who didn't do relationships, was secretly dating Liam Livingstone.

What Rahul didn't realise — what he couldn't possibly realise — was that Virat was at that very moment slipping into the back seat of a car, where a tall Australian with a slow smile and steady hands was waiting for him.

"Hey," Josh Hazlewood said softly, and Virat's heart did that silly flip it had been doing for weeks now.

"Hey, yourself." Virat leaned over and kissed him warmly before buckling his seatbelt. "Sorry, I'm late. Rahul was acting suspiciously."

“Was he?" Josh pulled away from the embrace, one hand resting comfortably on Virat’s thigh. "What did you tell him?"

“That I was meeting Livi at the RCB Café.”

Josh snorted. "Livingstone?"

"He fits the profile. New to the team, charming, overseas player," Virat grinned. "Besides, he'll never ask Livingstone about it, and Livi will never know he was supposedly on a date with me. It's the perfect cover."

Josh shook his head, but he was smiling too — that quiet smile Virat had come to crave. "You've thought about this."

"I've thought about you," Virat corrected, watching with satisfaction as a faint blush spread up Josh's neck. "Now, are you ready? I wanted to show you something."

Josh's fingers tightened slightly on Virat’s thigh. "Cubbon Park," he said, almost shyly. "Well, I don’t know how you managed to close off an entire section of the park at the last minute. All because I said I missed the greenery back home. You know the people will find you anywhere —" He cut himself off, glancing at Virat. "It's stupid. We don't have to."

“Josh," Virat's voice was gentle. "I want to."

The smile Josh gave him then was worth every suspicious glance from KL Rahul, every carefully crafted lie, every moment of secrecy. It was worth all of it.

They drove into the Bangalore evening, two men in love, hidden within the car's enclosure, and nobody suspected the truth.

2. Mitchell Starc

Days later, in Delhi, Mitchell Starc waited in a hotel lobby for his Australian teammate and old friend to come out of the lift.

The DC vs RCB fixture was tomorrow, which meant the Delhi camp was buzzing with nervous energy, but Mitch had managed to escape for a few hours. He’d texted Josh earlier: “Wanna catch up before the chaos tmr?” and Josh had responded with an uncharacteristically prompt “Yeah. Meet in the hotel lobby at 4.”

This was how Mitch found himself sprawled on an outrageously expensive hotel sofa, scrolling through photos of Alyssa and their dogs on his phone, when the elevator doors slid open, and Josh stepped out.

Mitch looked up. Looked again. Frowned.

“Something wrong?” Josh asked, crossing the lobby towards him.

Mitch unhurriedly moved off the sofa, circling his friend like a shark sensing something strange in the water. Josh, meanwhile, shifted nervously beneath his gaze. “What?” Josh demanded.

“What?” Mitch repeated flatly. “Hoff. Look at you.”

Josh looked down at himself, then back up. “I’m wearing clothes. Standard clothes. Pants. Shirt. This is a normal outfit.”

“The outfit’s normal.” Mitch waved a hand. “The ‘you’ is not normal.”

Josh’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what that means.”

Mitch moved closer, studying Josh’s face with the intensity of a man who had, in fact, known Josh Reginald Hazlewood for seventeen years. They had risen together through the New South Wales ranks, through the Australian U19s, and through everything else. Mitch had seen Josh through injuries and triumphs, through the awkward phase when he didn’t know what to do with his limbs, and through the years when he finally grew into them and became one of the most feared bowlers in the world.

He had never, during all that time, seen Josh Hazlewood with his hair brushed back.

“You did something,” Mitch said slowly. “To your hair.”

Josh’s hand shot up to his head with the guilty haste of a teenager caught stealing. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did! It’s —" Mitch made a vague gesture around his own head. “It’s different. It’s swoopy.”

“It’s not swoopy.”

“It’s swoopy, Hoff. You’ve got swoopy hair. Since when do you have swoopy hair?”

Josh's mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. Mitch watched this with growing fascination. In nearly twenty years, he had never seen Josh Hazlewood at a loss for words. Josh was the composed one, the man who could face down the best batsmen in the world without blinking. He did not stammer.

And yet.

“I just—" Josh started, then stopped, then started again. “I tried something new. That’s all. Got bored.”

Mitch blinked. “You got bored.”

“Yes. Bored with my hair. It’s been the same for a while. So I changed it — just a little. Not even that much, honestly. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss—"

“You got bored,” Mitch repeated, because the words simply would not register. “Josh Hazlewood. The man who has used the same brand of sunscreen since 2008. The man who eats the same pre-match meal every single game. The man who once told me that ‘trying new things’ was overrated because ‘you know what you like’. That Josh Hazlewood got bored with his hair and decided to –“ He gestured again. “– Swoop it.”

“It’s not —” Josh ran a hand through his hair, which only made it more swoopy, and Mitch felt his brain short-circuit. “Why are you being weird about this?”

“I’m being weird? I’m being weird?! Mate, you’re the one who turned up looking like you’re about to walk a runway… Is that –“ Mitch leaned in closer, sniffing theatrically. “Is that cologne?”

Josh stepped back as if he’d been shot. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s just – it's the same one I always wear.”

“It’s definitely not the same one you always wear. You usually wear that scent that smells like –” Mitch paused, searching for the right word. “Mahogany. Or maybe sadness. I don’t know, but that scent is very you. This is –” He sniffed again, and Josh actually flinched. “This is lovely. This is pricey… It’s the sort of cologne someone buys you as a gift.”

Josh’s face, already pink, deepened to a shade Mitch had only seen during the Pink Tests in Sydney. “It was a gift,” he mumbled.

“From whom?”

“From –“ Josh’s eyes darted around the lobby like a man searching for an escape route. “From – nobody. Just a – a friend. A teammate. You know, just someone being kind.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “A teammate bought you expensive cologne. As a gift. For no reason.”

“Yes.”

“And you liked it enough to actually wear it.”

“Yes.”

“And you also decided, independently, to change your hair. For the first time in seventeen years.”

“YES!” Josh said, too loudly. Several people in the lobby looked over. He lowered his voice to a hiss. “Yes. Is that allowed? Am I allowed to try new things, Mitchell? Is it a crime now? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mitch glanced at him for a lengthy, triumphant moment. Then he smiled, slow and threatening. “Oh my god,” he said. “You’re seeing someone.”

“I’m NOT –“

“You’re definitely seeing someone. That’s what this is. That’s what all of this is.” Mitch waved at Josh’s entire presence. “The hair. The cologne – Jesus, the glow. You’re glowing, Joshy. You’re literally glowing.”

“I’m not glowing. I’m just – I’m hydrated. It’s hot in Delhi. I’m sweating.”

“You’re glowing because you’re in love, you absolute clown.”

Josh made a strangled noise that could have been a protest or a laugh. Mitch patted him on the shoulder, grinning broadly.

“Who is it? Come on, you can tell me! I’m your best friend. I’ve known you forever. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“There’s no one to tell. There’s no one. I’m not ­– I’m not seeing anyone. I’m just – I told you. I got bored. I’m trying new things. It’s a new season, a new me, a new –“

“—Hoff,” Mitch said quietly. “It’s me. You don’t need to tell me who, but you don’t need to lie to me either.”

Something in Josh’s expression shifted: a crack in the armour, a hint of vulnerability underneath. For a moment, Mitch thought he might finally uncover the truth. Josh’s mouth parted, his eyes softened, and – his phone buzzed.

Josh looked down at it, and Mitch saw the change happen in real time. The tension eased from his shoulders. A small, private smile crept onto his lips. His whole face softened into something almost unbearably tender.

It only lasted a second before Josh caught himself, but it was enough; Mitch had seen it. And suddenly, he understood. “Right,” he said softly. “Okay. I see.”

Josh pushed the phone back into his pocket, but the smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. “I have to go.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I –“ Josh was already heading towards the hotel entrance. “Someone’s waiting for me. I’ll see you at the match tomorrow, yeah?”

Mitch followed, curiosity ablaze. “Who’s waiting? Can I meet them?”

But Josh was already pushing through the revolving doors, and Mitch hurried to catch up, arriving just in time to see his friend slide into the passenger seat of a sleek black car with heavily tinted windows. The car pulled away immediately, smooth and silent, and Mitch stood on the hotel steps squinting after it like a fool.

He caught only a brief glimpse of the driver – a silhouette, hair obscured by a cap, medium build, nothing more – before the car vanished into Delhi traffic.

Mitch stood there for a long moment, contemplating. Then he grabbed his phone and dialled the one person who might have answers.

“Haydos,” he said as Matthew Hayden picked up. “Quick question. Who’s Hoff been hanging around with this season? At RCB, I mean. Anyone in particular that you noticed during your commentary stint during the last few RCB games?”

Hayden’s voice crackled through the phone. “Uh, Phil Salt, I think? They’ve been quite tight. Why?”

“Just curious.” Phil Salt, Mitch’s teammate last year at KKR, now at RCB — young, energetic, English.

That silhouette in the car – broad-shouldered, recognisable – could quite easily be Phil. “Phil Salt,” he repeated.

“Yeah, I’ve seen them together quite often. Josh seems cheerful, which is good. He’s usually so serious, you know? Nice to see him relaxing.”

Mitch nodded slowly. He realised it all added up – the effort, the cologne, and the private smiles. Phil Salt was new, exciting, and completely different from anyone Josh had previously dated.

Of course, that was who it was.

“Thanks, Haydos,” he said, and he hung up.

He returned to the hotel, satisfied with his deduction. Josh Hazlewood, the most steady and predictable man in Australian cricket, was secretly dating Phil Salt.

What Mitch didn't understand — what he couldn't possibly understand – was that the car with tinted windows had parked just outside Lodi Gardens, where Virat Kohli was in the driver’s seat with a takeaway container of something that smelled incredible.

“That was close,” said Josh, obediently opening his mouth for a bite.

Virat grinned, holding up a piece of chole bhature for Josh to take. “Mitch?”

“Being Mitch. Yep,” Josh shook his head, but he was smiling. “He noticed the hair.”

“Everyone notices the hair. It’s curlier now. Very swoopy.”

“You’re meant to defend me!”

“I am defending you. I’m defending your excellent hair choices," Virat said as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Josh’s temple. “Did he buy it?”

“I told him I got bored. He didn’t believe me, I think.” Josh paused, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “Wait. He didn’t follow me all the way through, though. And Mitch is annoyingly stubborn. Why didn’t he?”

Virat’s smile turned sly. “I may have asked Salty to text the rest of the Australians something about how the two of you have become quite close this season. Just in case.”

Josh stared at him. “Fuck – you’re terrifying.”

“I’m resourceful.” Virat started the car. “Now eat your dinner. I found this kulfi place from my childhood – the one my dad used to take me to. It’s still there. Same owner and everything.”

Josh looked at Virat once more, his eyes soft. “You managed to find it?”

“Took some digging. But yeah," Virat felt his throat tighten. “I… I wanted to share it with you.”

For a moment, Josh couldn’t speak. He simply looked at this man – this incredible, extraordinary man – who had found a tiny food stall in a vast city just because he loved his father and wanted to include Josh in his past too.

“I love you,” Josh said, before he could stop himself.

Virat’s smile grew broader, brighter, and warmer. “I know. I love you too. Now eat up. We’ve got a match to win tomorrow.”

3. Faf du Plessis

The Arun Jaitley Stadium felt like an oven. That was the only way to describe it: an oven of noise, of pure cricketing chaos. DC versus RCB, and the home crowd had gathered in full force, not to support the Capitals but to cheer for their local hero, Virat, dressed in RCB’s red, black, and gold. The crowd roared with every boundary, every wicket, and every small moment that edged RCB closer to the finish.

RCB scraped through the line, with their batting nearly collapsing. But at the centre of it all was Virat Kohli, spectacular and commanding once again, leading his team to an innings that kept the crowd on their feet for what felt like the entire match.

On the other hand, Josh Hazlewood had been just as lethal, taking two wickets and maintaining his usual economy rate, with his name already being murmured on the Purple Cap leaderboard.

Faf du Plessis watched from the opposition dugout, and even amidst the sting of defeat, he could recognise excellence when he saw it.

Now, amidst the post-match chaos, he stood near the boundary rope, waiting to speak with his former teammate. Virat saw him from across the field and jogged over, still gleaming with the satisfaction of a well-played match.

“Faf!” Virat gave him a quick, warm hug. "Good game, mate. Unlucky today."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Faf laughed, shaking his head. "You were just better. That innings was special."

Virat shrugged, but the smile tugging at his lips revealed his pleasure at the compliment. They slipped into easy conversation — the kind that former captains and teammates share, partly analysis, partly catching up, entirely comfortable.

But Faf started to suspect that something was wrong.

Virat kept glancing away.

It was not immediately obvious, but every few seconds, his eyes would drift towards the small group of Australian players gathered nearby: Mitch Starc, Tim David, and Josh Hazlewood, all engrossed in conversation. Each time Virat looked, something in his expression would change: a softening around the eyes, a tiny, private smile that had nothing to do with anything Faf was saying.

Faf followed one of these glances, turning to look at the Australians, but by the time his gaze landed, whoever Virat had been watching had looked away. Josh was studying the grass at his feet. Mitch was gesturing animatedly about something. Tim was nodding along.

Nothing evident. Nothing Faf could point to.

But when he turned back around, Virat was blushing.

Just barely — a faint pink tint across his cheeks that he tried to hide by running a hand through his hair.

Something flickered; perhaps Faf’s captain’s instincts. "You all right there?" Faf asked gently.

"Hmm?" Virat's eyes widened with exaggerated innocence. "Yeah, fine. Just — hot out here. Great crowd tonight."

"Mm-hmm." Faf didn't push; he merely observed him.

And then he noticed it.

Virat's hand moved — just briefly. A subtle gesture, fingers brushing his thigh in what might have been nothing at all. But in the Australian huddle, someone shifted. Faf didn't see who. By the time he glanced over, all three men were standing as they had been.

But Virat was smiling again, a soft, secret smile.

Faf's brain, which had been silently cataloguing data all this time, stored it away.

Someone in that circle, he thought. Someone Virat is communicating with. Someone making him blush like a teenager.

He ruled out Mitch immediately — happily married to Alyssa, known Virat for years as a rival and friend, so nothing there. That left Tim and Josh, both Australians and players Virat knew well from their time at RCB.

Faf considered Josh first. He had captained Josh at RCB in '22 and '23, and Josh remained calm, composed, and unwavering. The kind of man who could keep a secret. The kind of man who might appeal to Virat — serene where Virat was fiery, steady where Virat was intense.

But Josh wasn't looking at Virat at that moment. His head was bowed, and he was paying attention to something Mitch was saying. No eye contact, no acknowledgment.

Tim, on the contrary...

Faf glanced over just in time to see Tim looking straight at Virat. And then, unmistakably, Tim wiggled his eyebrows.

It was a small gesture, scarcely noticeable, but filled with meaning — the kind of quiet communication between people who share a joke, who share something special. Virat recognised it and burst out laughing, a bright, genuine laugh that drew several nearby heads.

Faf raised his eyebrows.

Tim David. Young, charismatic, and new to the RCB squad this year. Faf had noticed him around during training over the past few days — always cheerful, always ready with a joke. The sort of person who could make Virat relax and smile.

Everything was made clear.

Faf filed this information away, satisfied with his deduction: Virat and Tim. He could see it.

Later that night, Faf was scrolling through his phone in his hotel room when a message pinged in the group chat — the one he shared with Glenn Maxwell and Virat, a holdover from their old RCB days together.

Maxi: [Video Attachment]
Maxi: Replaced me so quickly with another Australian, Virat? </3

Faf clicked on the video out of idle curiosity and immediately choked on his water.

The video was from RCB’s dressing room, clearly filmed earlier that evening after the match. Music was playing — a Bollywood song Faf didn't recognise — and a small group of players was dancing with varying levels of coordination. And there, at the centre of the frame, were Virat and Tim.

They were dancing very closely, almost pressed together. Tim was behind Virat, his chest leaning against Virat's back, with one hand lightly resting on Virat's hip as they moved in harmony to the music. Virat's head was tilted back, laughing at something, his body relaxed and at ease in a way Faf rarely saw off the field.

It felt intimate. It felt couple-like.

Faf watched the video three times, a grin spreading across his face. Then he typed his reply:

Faf: I knew it.
Faf: I literally worked this out tonight, on the ground. You two are not subtle.

He promptly received a private message from Maxi.

Maxi: Wait, what?
Maxi: You knew??? How did YOU know??? WHAT do you know?!?! I literally only sent this as a joke. I didn't think —

Faf: I'm a captain, Maxi. I notice things.
Faf: Tim wiggled his eyebrows at him during the post-match. Very smooth, very subtle. Absolutely not obvious at all.

Maxi: Faf.
Maxi: Faf, wait.
Maxi: I was joking. I didn't actually think—
Maxi: Is that really a thing???

Faf paused, furrowing his brow at the screen.

Faf: Wait. Were you not serious?

Maxi: I sent it because it looked funny!!! I didn't think they were actually—
Maxi: Hang on, let me think about this.

There was a lengthy pause. Faf glanced at his phone, suddenly feeling less confident.

Maxi: Okay, so I'm watching it again, and honestly? They DO look a bit couple-y.
Maxi: But also, Tim dances like that with everyone. He's just a touchy guy.

Faf: He had his hand on Virat's hip, Maxi.

Maxi: Yeah, and Virat's letting him. That's the strange part.
Maxi: Virat doesn't usually allow anyone to touch him like that. Not even me, and I'm one of his closest friends.

Faf reflected on this. It was indeed true. Virat was well-known for being particular about his personal space — friendly enough, but rarely physically affectionate with teammates off the field. The Virat in that video, swaying easily against another man, was not the Virat Faf knew.

Maxi: Alright, I’ll need to look into this.
Maxi: For science.

Faf: For science.

Maxi: But I'm honestly really pleased for him if it's true?? Whosoever it is, he seems happy.

Faf watched the video again, pausing on Virat's laughing face. Maxi was right. Virat looked truly, profoundly happy — a happiness Faf hadn't seen in years.

Whoever he was seeing, whether it was Tim or someone else entirely — Faf hoped they appreciated how fortunate they were.

What Faf didn't know — what he couldn't possibly know — was that the eyebrow wiggle he'd observed wasn't a secret lover's signal. It was Tim, who had been firmly designated as a decoy, performing his role perfectly.

In the video he had just watched, Tim – fully aware of his decoy duties – was dancing with Virat while Josh was in the bathroom. And the reason Virat looked so relaxed, so happy, so utterly unguarded?

Because just out of shot across the room, Josh had returned and was watching them both with a quiet smile, knowing his boyfriend was safe, happy, and his — and that no one suspected the truth.

When Virat finally read the group messages after his shower, he immediately video-called his boyfriend.

Josh answered on the first ring, his face already looking suspicious. “Bubba, I’m literally on my way to your room now after my physio. What is it that couldn’t have waited another 25 minutes?”

“I’ve been missing your voice. And your face.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” On screen, Josh rolled his eyes – affectionate yet exasperated.

“Let me guess... Mitch again?”

“He’s being so obvious,” Josh groaned, his face now filling Virat’s phone screen. “He kept bringing up Phil in our chat at the ground, like he’s testing my reaction. I’m going to crack.”

“You won’t crack.” Virat lay sprawled on his bed, still smiling from the video Maxi had sent. “You’re the most composed person I know. You once bowled a maiden over to prime ABD without changing your expression.”

“That was different. That was cricket. This is—“ Josh paused, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re up to something.”

Virat sent Josh a screenshot in their private chat. “Maxi sent this to the group chat with Faf and me. Apparently, everyone now thinks I am secretly dating Tim.”

Josh stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a full-bodied laugh — a kind Virat had learned was reserved for genuine moments of surprise.

“Tim. Our Tim David? TD?” he questioned. “They think you’re with Tim?”

“Faf is completely sure. Said he ‘worked it out’ tonight.”

“Oh no.” Josh was still chuckling, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s terrible… That’s brilliant! Tim is going to be so proud when he finds out.”

Virat’s grin widened. “Hey! Mind you, he’s the only person who knows about us – he’s probably still traumatised from when he accidentally walked in on us kissing in the changing room, but he claims he is honoured to be our beard, apparently. So there’s that.”

Josh's laughter softened into something warmer and gentler. He looked at Virat through the screen, and even from afar, Virat felt it — that quiet, steady connection that had grown between them over the past months.

"I miss you, too. Your voice. And your face," Josh said softly.

"20 more minutes?"

"20 more minutes." Josh hesitated before adding, "Er... Pat's been asking why I’ve been so cheerful in the Aussie fast bowler’s group chat lately. I think he's getting suspicious. I don’t think Mitch has mentioned anything to him, though. He wouldn’t do that."

“Pat is always suspicious. It's the captain in him.”

"Yeah, but this is different. He keeps treating me like he's trying to solve a puzzle."

Virat reflected on this. Pat Cummins was perceptive — more so than most realised. If anyone was going to figure it out, it might be him.

"Let him wonder," Virat finally said. "We'll tell people when we're ready. Not before."

Josh nodded, some of the worry easing from his face. "When we're ready."

Josh bid his farewells softly. Then Virat got up to straighten the sheets, smoothing the space where Josh would soon lie beside him.

Three friends made guesses. Three friends were wrong.

Virat had a feeling that the fourth would be different.

+1. Pat Cummins

The news hit the IPL like a bomb.

Security concerns. Overseas players advised to head home. The tournament, once a certainty, now hung by a thread as governments issued statements and cricket boards scrambled to respond.

Pat Cummins, captain of the Australian cricket team, had around seventeen fires to extinguish at any one time. After the Prime Minister, his role was the most important in the country. At least, that’s what the Australian media kept telling him: There were flights to organise, statements to be made, worried families to reassure, and a Test match at Lord's on the horizon that demanded his increasingly divided attention.

The last thing he needed was Josh knocking on his hotel room door at midnight. They were training for the WTC Finals, and Josh had that particular look on his face, the one that indicated he was about to ask for something difficult.

"Patty." Josh's voice was deliberately casual. Too casual. "Got a minute?"

Pat sighed, stepping aside to let him in. "If this is about who’s opening the bowling again —"

"It's not about the bowling." Josh sat on the edge of the bed, avoiding Pat's gaze. "It's about the IPL. The situation."

“I know it’s chaos. We’re all dealing with it.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course." Josh paused, and Pat watched him struggle for words, a rare sight. Josh was usually so composed, so steady. This fidgeting, avoidant version of him felt unfamiliar. "The thing is, I — I'm thinking of going back.”

Pat blinked. "Back where?"

“To India. When the security situation settles — if it's safe. But I'm thinking… I want to go back.”

Pat looked at him for a long moment. "Josh. Mate. We have a Test Championship Final in three weeks. At Lord's. You know, the one I've been trying to persuade the selectors to pick you for ahead of Scotty?"

Josh winced. "I know."

“If you return to India, I can't guarantee your spot. You know that, right? The selectors need to see you, need to know you're fit and ready. If you're on the other side of the world while Scotty's bowling them to victory here —”

“I know." Josh's voice was softer now, almost pleading. "I know all of that. I just… I need to be there, Patty. I need to —"

He stopped, jaw working, and Pat felt his irritation soften into something closer to confusion. In all the years he'd known Josh Hazlewood, through injuries and setbacks, and the gruelling pressure of international cricket, he'd never seen him like this. Never seen him willing to risk his spot for anything.

"Why?" Pat asked softly. "Why do you need to be there?"

Josh's eyes briefly met his before flickering away. "Personal reasons."

"Personal —" Pat paused and looked sharply. Something fell into place. "Hoff. Is there someone there?"

Josh stayed silent.

"Oh my god." Pat sat down heavily in the chair opposite him. "There's someone there. That's why you've been so... your hair, and the — you're seeing someone in India."

Josh's face had turned the colour of a ripe tomato. "It's complicated."

"It's not complicated. It's very simple. You're in love with someone in India, and you want to go back to them instead of preparing for a Test match at Lord's." Pat paused, processing his own words. "Wait. You're in love with someone?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. You're literally glowing." Pat ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay. Who is it? Is it someone from RCB? Is it one of the Indian players? Is it—" He stopped, a horrible thought crossing his mind. "Please don't tell me it's one of the coaching staff."

Josh made a strangled sound. "It's not — it's not anyone you need to worry about. Just — can you please talk to CA? Convince them to let me go? I'll be back in time for the Test, I promise. I'll be fit, I'll be ready, I'll —"

"Hoff." Pat held up a hand. "I can't make promises. You know how this works. If you leave now, you're taking a risk. A big one."

Josh's shoulders slumped. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, vulnerably fragile, a stark contrast to the composed fast bowler Pat had known for over a decade. "I know," he said quietly. "I just — I thought you might understand."

Something in Pat's chest clenched. He did understand, truly. He understood what it was like to desire something so fiercely that he'd risk everything for it. He understood love and sacrifice.

“I'll see what I can do," he said at last. "No promises."

Josh's face beamed, and Pat felt his suspicions confirmed: this was serious. "Thank you," Josh breathed. "Thank you, Patty. I owe you."

"Go to bed," Pat said gruffly. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Josh left, and Pat sat alone in his hotel room, gazing at the wall and wondering who the hell could possibly have won Josh Hazlewood's heart so completely.

Two days later, Pat still had not received an answer.

He'd made some calls, tested some waters, and got nowhere with the CA hierarchy. The security situation was too fluid, they said. Too risky. They couldn't endorse any player returning to India until the all-clear was given.

Josh had accepted the news with a stoicism that Pat recognised: the same expression he wore when bowling on a flat deck, when the batsmen were getting on top, when everything was going wrong, and he just had to keep going regardless.

But Pat could see the signs. The way Josh's gaze drifted to his phone during team meetings. The way he smiled at nothing, then caught himself and stopped. The way he'd started humming — humming — in the hotel gym, something Pat had never heard him do in fifteen years of shared training sessions.

It was truly rather irritating. Yet also rather charming. And mostly just confusing.

Pat was so absorbed in solving the “Josh Problem” that he almost missed his own phone buzzing. When he finally looked at it, he saw a message from an unfamiliar number.

Unknown: Pat. It's Virat Kohli. Do you have a minute to discuss the IPL situation?

Pat blinked, reread the message, and blinked again.

He typed back: How did you get my number?

Virat: Maxi. Obviously.
Virat: Can we talk? It's about the finals.

Pat hesitated. RCB was in the playoff hunt: if the tournament continued, they had a genuine chance at the trophy for the first time in nearly twenty years. That was newsworthy. That was something a player might want to discuss.

He typed: Calling you now.

He pressed 'dial' before he could second-guess himself.

Virat answered on the first ring. "Pat. Thanks for calling. Appreciate it."

"No problem." Pat maintained a neutral tone. "What's on your mind?"

"I'll get straight to it." Virat's voice was measured and professional, the tone he used in press conferences. "You know where we're at with the tournament. First time in eighteen years we've had a real shot. The whole camp is buzzing. The entire city is buzzing."

Pat nodded, even though Virat couldn't see him. "I saw the standings. You've put together a hell of a season."

"We have." A pause. Slightly too long. "The thing is — some of the overseas players are considering not returning. Security concerns. Family pressure. I get it. But we're so close, Pat. So close to something historic."

“I understand. It's a tough decision for everyone.”

"It's a tough call for some more than others," Virat's voice shifted slightly. "There are players who've become... integral. Not just to the team, but to —" He paused, cleared his throat. "To the camp. The atmosphere. You know how it is. When someone fits, they really fit."

Pat frowned. This was starting to sound less like a player worried about his squad and more like something else.

Pat asked, testing, “Which players are you most worried about losing?”

"All of them. Obviously." Virat's reply was too swift. "But some in particular. The ones who've truly... embedded themselves. Who've made Bangalore feel like —" Another pause. "Like home."

Made Bangalore feel like home.

Pat, who'd been half-scrolling through emails while listening, suddenly stopped. "Right," he said slowly. "And you're calling me because...?"

"Because one of them is Australian. And I know you're his captain. And I know you have sway with CA." Virat's voice was carefully casual now, just like Josh had been two nights ago. "I'm not asking for special treatment. I'm just asking you to consider — when you're making your recommendations for the WTC squad — that some situations are more... personal."

Pat's eyebrows raised. "Personal."

“Some players have formed genuine bonds here. Genuine commitments. It would be a shame to see that broken right before —" Virat stopped himself. "Right before the finals. When we need everyone. When I need everyone."

I. Pat filed that away.

"I'll take that under advisement," he said, keeping his voice steady. "Anyone specific I should be thinking about?"

"Josh Hazlewood," Virat said. And then, too quickly: "I mean, he's been exceptional for us. On the field. Obviously. His numbers speak for themselves. But also off the field. He's just — he's fit in so well. With everyone. With the group. With —" Another pause. "With me. I mean, with the team. He's been great to have around."

Pat said nothing. Simply let the silence linger.

Virat filled it. "Look, I'm not asking you to do anything unethical. I'm just saying, if there's flexibility, if there's a way to make it work, it would mean a lot. To the franchise. To the fans. To —" He paused. Began again. "To me."

To me.

Pat leaned back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Virat. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you telling me that Josh Hazlewood — my Josh Hazlewood, the one who's been my teammate for over a decade, the one who once told me he'd rather bowl anywhere else on Earth than on India’s flat decks — are you telling me that Josh wants to go back to India for cricket reasons?"

A long silence.

Virat finally said, "He's very committed to the franchise."

"I'm sure he is."

“He's built strong bonds with the squad.”

"I'm sure he has."

"He's —" Virat paused, taking a breath. "Pat."

"Virat."

Another pause. When Virat spoke again, his voice was different: softer, more vulnerable, unlike the press-conference version from earlier.

"After eighteen years," he said softly, "after eighteen years of cricket, competition, of — of living in this bubble where nothing else matters — I can finally feel something real. Something that's mine. And I can’t do it without Josh. I cannot do it without Josh."

Pat's mind, which had been looping this for two minutes, finally settled. "Oh my god," he breathed. "It's you."

"I'll talk to George Bailey if I need to. I have connections. I can make calls. But I wanted to start with you because you're his captain, and because —" Virat's voice caught. "Because I know you care about him. I know you want what's best for him. And what's best for him, right now, is being here. With me."

Pat opened his mouth. Nothing.

“I can guarantee his fitness, then," Virat continued, pressing his advantage. "When he joins you at Lord's, he'll be ready. Fitter than ever. I'll make sure of it. Just. Please. Help him get here.”

Pat was still processing. The words were in English, but they didn't make sense. Virat Kohli. Josh Hazlewood. Together. The implications were — they were —

"I need to go," Pat heard himself say. "I'll — I'll call you back." He hung up before Virat could respond.

He sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone, before suddenly bursting into laughter. A full, incredulous, what-the-actual-fuck laugh that echoed off the hotel room walls.

Josh Hazlewood. Virat Kohli. Josh and Virat. JOSH AND VIRAT.

He reflected on the past few weeks. The swoopy hair. The cologne. The humming. The way Josh kept glancing at his phone with that silly, gentle smile. The way he'd said "personal reasons" as if it was nothing.

Pat was still laughing as he got up, walked out of his room, and headed down the hall to Josh's door. He didn't knock; he merely pushed it open.

Josh was sitting on his bed, his laptop open in front of him, with Virat Kohli's face on the screen.

They both froze.

Josh's expression flickered through about seventeen emotions in three seconds — surprise, horror, guilt, resignation, and finally, a kind of weary acceptance. Virat, on the other hand, simply grinned.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Virat said, his voice tinny through the laptop speakers. "I wanted to see him melt down in front of me."

Pat pointed at the screen, then at Josh, and then back at the screen. "You," he said, his voice strangled. "And him. That's — that's the — him?"

Josh managed to look embarrassed. "Um. Patty. I can explain."

"Explain?" Pat's voice rose to a pitch he hadn’t hit since puberty. "You want me to explain to the selectors that you're skipping preparation for a Test Final because you're in love with Virat bloody Kohli? Is that what you want me to explain?"

"Well, when you put it like that—"

"JOSH REGINALD HAZLEWOOD."

Virat's laugh rang through the room, bright and genuine. "Pat. Pat, breathe. It's okay."

“It's not alright! Nothing about this is alright! You're — he's —" Pat gestured wildly between them. "How long has this been going on?"

Josh and Virat exchanged a look across the screen: a loaded, intimate glance that conveyed everything Pat needed to understand.

"Since the start of the season," Josh admitted quietly.

Pat's jaw dropped. "Since the start? That's — that's months! That's the whole tournament! That's —" He paused, a thought striking him. "Wait. Does Mitch know?"

Josh was embarrassed. "Mitch thinks I'm seeing Phil Salt."

Pat stared at him before glancing at Virat's grinning face on the screen. Then he looked back at Josh.

“He thinks you're seeing Phil Salt?”

"It's a long story."

"And KL Rahul thinks I'm dating Liam Livingstone," Virat added cheerfully. "And Faf thinks it's Tim David. We're running a full disinformation campaign at this point."

Pat opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

Josh at least had the decency to look apologetic. "We were going to tell people. Eventually. We just — we wanted it to be ours for a while. Just ours."

Pat sank onto the edge of Josh's bed, gazing at his friend: his long-time friend, his dependable, steady, never-caused-a-scandal-in-his-life-except-for-during-pressers friend, who was apparently in a secret relationship with one of the world's top cricketing superstars, and had somehow convinced half the cricketing world that they were dating various others instead.

"You're telling me," Pat said slowly, "that the entire RCB squad — no, the entire IPL — has been playing ‘Guess Who?’ with your love life, and I'm the one who actually figured it out?"

"You didn't figure it out," Virat pointed out. "I basically told you."

"I figured it out halfway through the phone call! The 'Bangalore feels like home' thing? The 'it would mean a lot to me' thing? I knew." Pat threw his hands up. "I'm literally the Australian captain. I'm supposed to notice things."

Virat was still grinning, "You did notice, but you just needed a nudge.”

Pat glared at the screen. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I absolutely am."

Josh reached out as if he wanted to pat Pat's arm but couldn't quite reach. "Patty. Look. I know this is… a lot. I know it's not what you expected. But —" He glanced at the screen, at Virat's face, and something in his expression softened into something Pat had never seen before. "But he makes me happy. Really happy. And I know it's complicated, and I know there are risks, but — I don't want to hide it any longer. Not from you, anyway."

The fight drained out of Pat all at once. He looked at Josh and recognised what he'd been missing for weeks. The lightness. The ease. The way the permanent crease between his eyebrows had smoothed away.

"You're really happy," Pat said. It wasn't a question.

“Yeah." Josh's voice was soft but firm. "I really am."

Pat looked at the screen, at Virat, who was watching both of them with an expression Pat had never seen on him before: soft, vulnerable, utterly unguarded.

Pat said to Virat, "You love him.”

“More than I believed I could love anything outside of cricket.”

Pat sat with that for a moment. Let it settle. Let the absurdity fade into something more manageable.

Then he let out a long, loud sigh. "Fine. Fine. I'll make the calls. I'll talk to Bailey. I'll do what I can."

Josh's face changed: hope prevailed, fear faded. "Patty —"

"Don't." Pat raised a hand, smiling despite himself. "Don't thank me. Just —" He looked at Josh, then at Virat, then back at Josh. "Just be careful, yeah? Both of you. This isn't going to be easy when it comes out."

“We know," Virat said softly. "We're prepared."

Pat stood, heading for the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, then turned back. "One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Tim David? Really?" Pat shook his head. "Faf's going to lose his mind when he finds out he was wrong about that."

Virat's laugh echoed as he left the door. "Faf's a good bloke. He'll get through this."

Pat closed the door behind him, still shaking his head.

In the room, Josh exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "That went better than expected."

"Told you." Virat's voice was warm. "He's a good captain. A better friend. He'll come around."

Josh gazed at him through the screen, at this man who had turned his life upside down in the best possible way, and felt his heart swell. "I can't believe you called him."

“Someone had to," Virat shrugged, but he was smiling. "You were too busy panicking about Mitch."

"I was not panicking."

"You were absolutely panicking. You texted me fifteen times after your chat with him."

Josh looked sheepish. "Okay, maybe a little."

"A little," Virat's smile softened. "Come here. Well, not here. But you know what I mean."

Josh shifted on his bed, pulling the laptop closer and propping it against the pillows so Virat's face was right there. "This is so weird. Having you in my room but not in my room."

“A few more days, hopefully. Then I’ll actually be in your room.”

"I know. I'm counting."

Virat's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Tell me something."

"Like what?"

“Like, what were you thinking when Pat walked in? The very first thing that went through your mind.”

Josh considered this. "Honestly? I thought: well, this is it. This is how it ends. With Pat Cummins walking in on my video call and having a complete meltdown."

Virat chuckled, that full, genuine laugh that Josh had learned meant he'd truly surprised him. "That's very dramatic for someone so steady."

“I have my moments," Josh paused. "What about you? What were you thinking?"

“That I wanted to see it.” Virat’s voice was gentle now. "Wanted to see someone find out and — and not run. Not make it awkward. Not treat us like we're something to be fixed or hidden." He looked at Josh through the screen. "Pat didn't run."

"No. He didn't."

“He was angry at first. That's genuine. That's real. Then he moved past it. That’s what friends do.”

Josh felt something warm spread through his chest. "Yeah. I guess they do."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, simply looking at each other through their screens. Josh could hear movement in the hallway: other players heading to their rooms, maybe Mitch, maybe Scotty, or perhaps someone who would notice if they paid too much attention. But at this moment, none of that mattered.

"I love you," Josh said quietly.

"I love you too." Virat's voice was steady and sure. "Now get ready. You’re coming back home."

Josh grinned. "Promises, promises."

He finished the call and sat for a moment in the stillness, his heart bursting with emotion.

Three friends had guessed. Three friends had been wrong. But the fourth — at last, the fourth knew the truth. And it exceeded what Josh had imagined.