Chapter Text
Hany always trained as if everything depended on it. He always puts his heart and soul into training, sometimes even pushing himself to extra hours. Unfortunately, nobody was capable of seeing through the façade he always wore, since he rarely raised his eyes to meet anyone's gaze, for no matter how hard he tried, his eyes always betrayed him—that sparkle in his eyes when he appreciated someone, that star-like gleam in the sky in his pupils when looking towards the goalkeeper, those eyes that can intoxicate anyone.
No matter how hard he tried, all he could do was focus on the training session in front of everyone. He didn't have the courage to run near the goalkeeper; all he could think about was the ball in front of him- or so he tried to convince himself.
Only when Hany is out of everyone's sight and faces his reflection in the mirror could he see everything vile about himself, everything he felt ashamed of. Only when he closed his bedroom door behind could he remember every part of Mustafa's back, the only piece of his body that Hany dared to look at. Hany wished with all his heart that he could go and hug him every time he blocked a penalty kick in training, just like his other teammates did. He always wished he could encourage him, that he could be normal like everyone around him, that he could be "pure" enough towards him, that he could stop drowning his soul and mind in lost hope and endless feeling of sin. Sin against his God that has given up on his shameless creation, sin against the family that raised him to be an appropriate individual, sin against himself, and most importantly, an unforgivable sin against his "friend", his younger teammate, that very soul which shines with diligence before him every day.
Only when Hany lays his head on the pillow in yet another failed attempt to sleep does he find it impossible to stop his mind's train of thought from choking him. "Wouldn't the feel of those big, rough hands on your neck be wonderful?" "Wouldn't the sensation of your skin sticking together under the dim lights be warm and satisfying?" No matter how much he trains his body and tries to occupy his mind with different thoughts, his tainted instincts overwhelm both his hands, and the image of the bright young man in his training.
Only when Hany closes his eyes can he clearly imagine that young man who always appears in his dreams, holding his hands, which are gripping the blankets tightly, placing his lips on him until he stops his loud moaning, leaving marks on his neck as people seal their own letters. He has never been a person who longs to sleep, but the longing for such pleasures, which he can only obtain in his wild imagination, strains his heart until he falls asleep. He always wakes up covered in cold sweat, his hands stained with a white fluid, to begin another morning in which he despises himself. Spending the hours before his training pondering whether he is so corrupt that God refuses to forgive him or correct his behavior. No matter how much of his life he prays or submits to his Lord to make this feeling disappear, things only get worse and desires turn into terror, shame, and disgust.
Feeling disgusted with himself for having to always hold himself back because he doesn't want Mustafa to feel uncomfortable, when he feels that Mustafa's comfort is the most important in his small, ridiculous world. He doesn't know if he could control these suffocating feelings, he never knew if his feelings might come to the surface one day and end up being hated by his scorching sun. Another morning asking himself "You were my world, but am I even a ground to you?" Only in his dreams he were able to reveal everything he tried to bury inside him that is burning his skin. Only in dreams can a man be free. But shame and fear always controlled his heart. Fear of what his beloved might say to him, fear of watching his back leaving. The least he could do is ask him not to leave his hand, to never turn his head, before he could wake up to face his dire reality. Man's affliction is fear, and fear is a man's only reality.
On the day of the Belgium match, Hany knew there was no time for all those thoughts; he had to force himself to concentrate on the thing he had spent his whole life working for. Until the second half, Egypt had the advantage, his team, all he had to do was maintain his position and defend as he always did. But for a split second, he didn't know what was happening, he didn't realize it. he didn't know if the ball stumbled at his feet until it went into the goal with his own feet. He didn't know if he had lost focus or his balance; his mind couldn't process what had happened. But he knew one thing in his heart, something like his worst nightmares. He scored an Own Goal, He scored a ball into the goal he was supposed to be protecting himself; he was the reason for the draw. They could have won if he had been more focused. Then he remembered something else: he had scored a goal, and most likely shattered the hopes of victory for that young goalkeeper who never took his eyes off the goal. He had scored a goal against the man he loved and looked up to.
In any case, Hany's thoughts raced so fast that he didn't know how he continued playing or how all that time passed. A draw wasn't a bad thing, especially against a strong European team like Belgium. But what hurt him the most was that his team lost the chance to win because of his stupidity. He was supposed to prove himself to everyone, not make a fool of himself in front of them and in front of himself, whom he already hated. He sank back into his thoughts, unable to lift his eyes to face anyone, just like he used to. He couldn't bear to hear a single word from Mustafa in particular; Hany made him worry not only about the opponent, but also about his teammate who was supposed to be defending the goal.
Hany saw himself as so pathetic that he didn't deserve to celebrate with his team or even hear words of sympathy. He gave an excuse like "I'm tired" and he walked alone until he reached his room and closed the door. This time he couldn't look in the reflection of any mirror. As if the situation wasn't bad enough. He heard footsteps outside the door, something woke him from his endless cycle of self-blame. familiar footsteps he could recognize even if a hundred doors separated them; a knock and a voice he had always longed to hear up close.