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Kylian knew a lot about winning.
He’d learned what triumph felt like when he held that world cup trophy at the age of nineteen, had learned what it felt like to be lifted up high by a nation’s love and the world’s admiration. He knew what it felt like to have the gods smiling upon you.
But he knew about losing, too. He knew about the abyss that opened up inside of him, the terrible sense of impending doom when a game had slipped from his grip, when all of his runs seemed to hit a dead end, when nothing seemed to work out in his favor. He knew all about doggedly fighting on, about desperate last ditch efforts and he knew how the sound of the final whistle cut right through a man’s heart and left a permanent injury.
He knew all of this from experience, but somehow he was still left reeling after this absolute nightmare of a semi-final, hurt all over again as if he’d never been in this position before. Kylian felt like a kid again, he felt brand new, he wanted to hit something, he wanted his mom.
At least he thought that he was hiding it pretty well, this embarrassing emotional regression. He had performed all of his captainly duties, had shaken all the hands offered to him and patted the back of every teammate, offered the usual words of consolation, even if the words rang empty to his own ears.
Now he was presiding over the after-party of their defeat. A macabre tradition, he thought, everyone huddled around, alternatively fanning the flames of their collective disappointment or drowning them in alcohol. Kylian had run out of encouraging sound-bites, had run out of what-if-scenarios, had even run out of anger. His body felt heavy, weighed down with invisible lead weights and he was quite content to stay where he was, right at the center of the room, in the middle of the action but not part of it. It made him feel as if he was still the captain of something, even if his ship had already sunk. He stayed where he was and he knew that from the outside he looked calm and collected, but in truth the taste of defeat was still strong and sharp in his mouth and he kept drinking to wash it down.
What else was there to do? He took another swig and let his gaze wander around the room. Lucas and Ibra still hadn’t stopped talking, running on the last trace amounts of adrenaline in their systems, acting as if they could still turn the game around if they just analyzed it from every possible angle. Bradley and Desire had turned the music up to a volume that was physically painful and were now shouting at each other on top of it, making jokes and collapsing into raucous laughter, both of them teetering on the edge of hysteria, as if they were trying hard not to cry.
Kylian turned away from them and watched the rest of his team making pointless small talk about flight schedules and weather forecasts, texting their girlfriends or slandering the Spanish team and their mothers to anyone that would listen. The familiarity of it was strangely comforting, everyone indulging in their own particular coping mechanism.
Kylian sighed and completed his visual inspection of the room, eyes finally landing on Ousmane, who was sitting directly across from him.
Ousmane, whose arm was wrapped around a despondent Michael Olise, fingers clenched a bit too tightly around the other man’s biceps to be merely friendly.
Kylian had watched Michael get up and try to sneak away from the party no less than six times. Ousmane had dragged him back into the room every time and was now holding him captive in the corner of the sofa. Kylian had pointedly tried to avoid looking in their direction for the last hour or so. Mostly because he could sense the dark cloud of abject misery hanging above Michael’s head and hated how powerless it made him feel. There was also something about the way that Ousmane had trapped him between his own body and the upholstery, something about their thighs pressed up against each other, that made Kylian feel weird.
He looked in their direction for a second too long and Ousmane caught his gaze. Kylian swallowed against the weirdness rising up in his throat. Maybe he still hadn’t run out of anger yet. Maybe there was still enough rage in him to go over there and punch his second-in-command square in the face.
The asshole was grinning at him now.
Far too self-satisfied and far too amused to be appropriate.
Kylian was still clenching and unclenching his fist when something in Ousmane’s expression changed. He was looking down at Michael and then back at his captain with something like triumph in his eyes. But it wasn’t gloating, wasn’t malicious in any way, really. It was the pride of a cat returning home from the hunt with a fat mouse in its teeth. It was an expression that said look what I caught for you.
Suddenly he remembered what Ousmane’s coping strategy had always been, for as long as he’d known him: Distraction.
And the worst thing was that it always, always worked on Kylian.
He got up without another thought, suddenly able to move again, and walked over to the couch, sitting down on Ousmane’s other side. Jules got up to make room for him without even hesitating and normally Kylian would tell him to stay where he was, because this whole idea of him as a dictator had started off annoying and then became funny and was now starting to get annoying again, especially on an evening like this, where it had become so painfully clear that he had no power over anything at all. But he was drunk and he didn’t give a shit anymore. And he really needed to have a word with Ousmane.
“Ous.”
Dembélé nodded, still looking far too happy for Kylian’s liking.
He leaned around his old friend to get a better look at their number 11, the man that he had come over here for, if he were to be honest.
“Hey, Mike.”
Michael didn’t react at all, and with his head down and his hair open, locks covering most of his face, he looked eerily similar to the image that Kylian still carried around in his brain of the first time they had met, when Michael shook his hand and lifted his head for a second of eye contact that seemed to be causing him physical pain. Michael had been younger then. He had decided to play for France, which wasn’t really what people had expected, and was joining the national team for the first time. As Kylian remembered, he didn’t make the best first impression.
“That boy needs to be medicated or something,” that’s what he heard one of the staff whisper after Michael had finished his round of handshakes and introductions and was whisked away for his medical check-up. He wondered if Michael had ever made a good first impression in his life, in the world outside of the football pitch.
Things had changed a lot since then. Everyone was by now well aware that he was a genius, for one thing. He had proved himself to be an integral part of the team and had overcome almost all of his initial awkwardness. Hell, even his French had improved and he could actually string a sentence together if he really tried. But right now, he looked just as he did back then, as if having his hopes and dreams crushed in such a monumental fashion had actually catapulted him backwards through time.
Kylian wasn’t even sure that the younger man was still conscious, that’s how quiet and motionless he was.
“Is he asleep?” He whispered into Ousmane’s ear. The other man laughed.
“Nah. He’s just pretending. Aren’t you?”
He jostled Michael with the arm that was still slung around his shoulder. Michael lifted his head just enough to meet Kylian’s eyes and gave him the tiniest nod, as if even this slight movement was costing him an enormous amount of energy.
Ousmane threw back the rest of his drink and bumped Michael’s shoulder.
“Drink up, bro. I’ll get you another one.”
Michael glared at him but didn’t argue. He finished his own drink and made a disgusted face.
“You don’t like it?” Dembélé looked honestly concerned and Kylian remembered some of the drinks that his friend had mixed for him back when they were teenagers, remembered the burning of what had to be pure alcohol in the back of his throat, making him cough.
“It’s warm.” Olise replied, which was more kindness than Ousmane deserved, if you asked Kylian.
“Drink faster, then,” Dembélé shrugged and plucked Michael’s empty cup from his hands. He finally let go of the other man and got up to get new drinks, throwing a glance at Kylian, as if to tell him to keep watch while he was gone.
Kylian rolled his eyes.
“You can leave, you know?” He said, as soon as Ousmane was out of earshot. “You don’t have to play along with his shit.”
Michael was eyeing the exit longingly, but he stayed put. Then he looked over at Kylian, just for half a second, and shook his head.
“You want me to leave?”
Kylian almost swallowed his own tongue trying to get the words out quickly enough.
“No, no, no, no. Not at all. Please stay. I’m really happy that you’re here.”
The corner of Michael’s mouth twitched.
“Good. That makes one of us.”
Kylian had to laugh at that.
“Come on. Are you telling me you’d rather be sitting in your room by yourself right now? What would you even do?”
Michael tilted his head from side to side as if he was considering his options. He rubbed his eyes.
“Not sure what I’d do. Pills, probably. They put us on the fourth floor and I’m not sure that’s high enough of a jump.”
It was supposed to be a joke, Kylian wasn’t stupid, of course it was meant to be a joke. But he didn’t like those kinds of jokes. And he especially didn’t like them coming from Michael, who said everything in the same matter-of-fact monotone, no matter if he was telling the truth, telling lies or being sarcastic.
“Stop it,” he warned. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“You asked,” Michael reminded him. And Kylian couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed, because he secretly appreciated the brutal honesty.
He moved a couple inches closer.
“You gotta stop beating yourself up, man. It’s not your fault.”
Michael let his head drop against the back of the couch and gave him one of the most intense side eyes that Kylian had ever been subject to.
“Did you memorize this shit, man? Did you and the coach role-play this scenario before the match in case we lost?”
“No,” it was Kylian’s turn to be brutally honest.
“I didn’t waste time thinking about losing. I thought we’d win, bro.”
Michael looks at him now, properly, eye to eye.
“Yeah, me too. We were wrong, though.”
Kylian can’t stand the hollow, defeated tone, can’t stand the way that Olise leans forward again to hide his face behind his hair, can’t stand the distance between them, even if it’s only three quarters of a sofa cushion. He wants to reach out and hold his hand, because his hand is just lying there, empty, on his lap, looking all cold. But before he can gather up his drunken courage to do so, Dembélé is back, dropping into the space between them as if that’s not the most disrespectful shit Kylian’s ever seen.
“Here you go,” Ousmane hands Michael his drink and bumps their glasses together a bit too forcefully, spilling booze on both of their legs.
Michael flinches and rubs pointlessly at the stains on his jeans but doesn’t say anything.
Ousmane looks from Kylian to Michael and back again, the grin sliding from his face.
“What the fuck did you do to him, man?” He puts his arm back around the midfielder but keeps looking at Mbappé. “I leave you alone with him for two minutes and he’s all miserable again.”
Kylian bristles at that.
“Fuck off. Because he was doing so well earlier, right?”
“We were having the time of our lives, weren’t we, Mikey?”
Dembélé shakes him a bit and Kylian still can’t believe with how much ease his old friend is invading Michael’s personal space.
That’s another thing that’s changed, he thinks.
The first time he had swept Michael up in a hug, after he had scored a magnificent goal during a training match, he had been so tense that Kylian worried he was going to snap his spine. When the others joined in to congratulate him, patting him on the back and ruffling his hair, it seemed to take him real effort to stay put and not shrink away from their touches. In those early days, Michael endured people’s hugs like a dog being restrained at the vets. That didn’t stop the other players from bestowing their clumsy affections on him every chance they got. Kylian always wondered how nobody else seemed to notice his discomfort, and he was forced to come to the conclusion that maybe not everyone was watching Michael Olise’s every move as closely as he was.
But that was then, and this was now.
It had taken some time, but Michael had become far more easy going around his teammates and had even revealed a completely different side to his character. He wasn’t quite as stoic and aloof as he appeared in the media. Now he complained when he was annoyed with the game not going the way he had strategized, he smiled big and unrestrained when he was happy, and he leaned on their shoulders when they were sitting next to each other on the bench. He even celebrated with them, when the mood struck him.
There was a part of Kylian’s brain that still hadn’t stopped replaying that golden moment from their match against Sweden, where Michael had provided him with the most beautiful assist and then proceeded to launch himself into Kylian’s arms and give him a kiss on the top of the head. Even more than the goal itself, that kiss had made Kylian feel blessed.
So no, Michael is not as skittish as he once was. But still, what Ousmane is doing rubs Kylian the wrong way.
“Give the man some space, bro.”
Without realizing it, he has switched into his captain voice, in a feeble attempt to exert some kind of authority over the situation. He sees Dembélé’s smile grow even larger. Cheshire cat looking son of a bitch.
“Ahh, Kyky, don’t get agitated now. He loves it, look!” He puts down his drink and uses his free hand to grab Michael’s jaw and turn his face into the light.
“Love it when you talk about me like I’m not there, that’s for sure.”
It’s the usual bone dry sarcasm, but it’s softened by the way that Michael gently twists out of Ousmane’s hold on his face and doesn’t even give him a little slap. And what Ousmane’s doing here is so clearly a slappable offense.
Dembélé still won’t stop touching their number 11, hand now resting on the back of his neck, looking far too happy with himself.
“See, captain? Everything’s just fine.”
Kylian can’t help it. Before he can form another clear thought, his hand has clenched into a fist and he punches Ousmane in the shoulder, hard, causing most of the drink left in the man’s cup to splash onto his own shirt.
It was a good punch and he knows that Ousmane’s hurting, even if he’s laughing it off. Laughing and accusing him of violent conduct and leaning even more into Michael’s space, leaving Kylian sitting there with his wet shirt and his knuckles throbbing, looking like a crazy person. Tunnel vision sets in and he can’t help but throw another punch, hitting Ousmane in the ribs. He finally gets a reaction, even if it’s just a rather weak clip to the ear, not quite enough, but it’s something, at least. Something he can feel. He launches himself at his older teammate, blood rushing in his ears.
“You guys are hilarious.”
Michael takes advantage of their little squabble to dislodge himself from Ousmane’s side. He manages to get up, but before he can even take more than a single step, two strong arms wrap around him and pull him back onto the couch.
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
Dembélé is breathing hard now because it’s been a while since he beat up Kylian and he’d forgotten how annoying it is to fight him; how quick and mean and ruthless he can be. His heart is hammering against his rib cage, Olise can feel it, through his bones and his skin and his t-shirt. He squirms around in his hold, but with no real conviction.
“I need to take a piss, idiot. Let me go.”
He speaks calmly, almost in a whisper and it makes Kylian realize how close they are, his knee still digging into Ousmane’s left side and Michael pressed up against his right.
He is vaguely aware that there are other people in the room, as well, and wonders how all of this looks to them. Maybe a neutral observer could explain to him exactly what’s going on, because he doesn’t have a clue.
But all thoughts of other people vanish when Michael looks at him, full on, with the biggest darkest eyes that he’s ever seen, eyes that seem to see through him and envelop him completely.
“You coming back?”
Kylian hears himself ask before he can think about it, his separation anxiety kicking into high gear. His lip is swelling up where Ousmane hit him, but it doesn’t hurt nearly enough. How was it possible that Ousmane had forgotten how to throw a punch? Wasn’t it like riding a bicycle or dribbling a ball? Why couldn’t he have knocked him out before he embarrassed himself like this?
Michael doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t mock him. Instead he smiles, a rare genuine smile that makes his eyes somehow shine even brighter.
“Yeah. Promise.”
Kylian holds his gaze for a second, basks in it.
Then he looks at Ousmane, gives him a nod. This time, the man obeys without question and lets Michael go.
The midfielder straightens up and stretches his arms out over his head, frowning at the stiffness in his joints from where he’s been sitting in the same position for such a long time.
“Don’t kill each other,” he instructs them as he turns to walk away. “Or at least wait until I’m back. I wanna watch.”
Kylian watches him until he’s left the room, then he steals what’s left of Ousmane’s drink and leans back into the cushions, glaring at his second-in-command.
“What?” The man asks, eyes wide, the very picture of innocence.
“What the fuck are you playing at?”
Ousmane inspects his cuticles.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kylian groans in frustration.
“We had a conversation about this, remember?”
Ousmane looks up then, only to roll his eyes at him.
“Oh please. You mean six weeks ago when you almost drowned yourself in the pool because he didn’t respond to the meme you sent him?”
Ousmane straightens up and does his best impression of Kylian, which is still awful, even after all these years of practice.
“Ous, Ous, what do I do? I can’t risk the tournament, Ous! What if it all goes to shit, Ous? Not even a laughing emoji, can you believe that, Ous?”
He drops the voice.
“Well, the tournament’s over, Kyky. We lost. What now?”
Kylian doesn’t know what to say and suddenly he can feel the weight of it all pressing down on him. They lost. They lost. They lost. It’s over. Soon enough, they would all return to their respective clubs and home towns and he would no longer be able to watch Michael Olise eat his cereal in the morning. He wouldn’t be able to see him at all.
“This yearning shit is not your style, man.”
If Ousmane keeps talking, Kylian will have no other choice but to punch him in the balls.
“You’re not good at it. Just make your move and deal with the consequences. What are you so scared of?”
He says this as if he truly doesn’t understand the magnitude of Kylian’s problem. As if this was some harmless crush and not a matter of life and death.
He chooses not to answer the question. Which is answer enough in itself for Ousmane, who sighs and puts a hand on Kylian’s shoulder, shaking his head as if he only just now realized how fucked everything is.
“Don’t you think he seems depressed?” Kylian asks, trying to move the conversation onto more important matters.
“Of course he’s depressed. We played like shit today and you know how the boy is. He takes that to heart.”
“Maybe this is not the right time. He’s not in a good headspace.”
“Oh, it’s the perfect time. This is quite possibly the worst day of his life, and you have the unique opportunity to turn that around for him. Give him something good to remember.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“With your dick, for example. It’s funny looking enough, might cheer him up.”
Kylian knocks his head into Ousmane’s shoulder, not quite hard enough to be classified as a headbutt, but not gentle.
“My dick’s not funny looking,” he protests. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Gotta keep you humble, somehow, don’t I?”
Kylian doesn’t respond. Instead, he keeps looking over at the door.
“What would happen if you jumped from the fourth floor of this place?” He asks suddenly, and Ousmane’s hand stops rubbing his back.
“Would you die, do you think?”
Before Ousmane can think of anything to say to that, Michael returns.
Kylian watches him move carefully through the maze of minimalist furniture and around the crumpled figures of their drunk teammates.
When he arrives back at the couch, he gives both of them a look.
“Move,” he says and they instantly break apart and make space for him to sit in between them. Not too much space, though.
“Did you finish my drink?” He asks Ousmane, who tries to plead his innocence but quickly folds under scrutiny.
“I’ll get you a new one,” the older man promises and he is already getting up when Michael pulls him back down.
“Nah, don’t. I don’t like that shit, anyway.”
“What do you like, then?” Kylian asks and puts his arm around Michael, trying to be casual about it, the same casual way that Ousmane had manhandled him all evening, but it doesn’t feel quite right. He’s being too gentle, too reverent, but he can’t help it. It feels like he’s holding his future in his hands. Michael’s close enough now that Kylian can smell him, feel the warmth of his skin under his clothes and the tickling of his locks brushing Kylian’s neck. It’s all a bit much.
Michael keeps his head down, but Kylian gets the sense that he’s smiling to himself. Maybe Ousmane was right all along, as much as he hates to admit it. Maybe Michael actually is enjoying this, being the center of attention. He gives him a little shake.
“What do you like, bro?”
Michael shakes his hair out of his face and looks up at him.
“I like peace and quiet.”
“Well, you can’t have it. Choose something else,” Ousmane demands and starts poking him in the side until Michael bats away his hand and curls even closer into Kylian’s body, sinking down into the cushions and resting his feet on the coffee table.
“What do you want?” Kylian asks him again, almost in a whisper. They are so close now that he can feel it when Michael swallows before he speaks.
“I want to go back in time and play the match again.”
Kylian nods, resting his cheek on Michael’s head.
“Me too.”
“God, you people are hopeless.” Ousmane throws his hands up in dramatic exasperation, but Kylian can hear that he’s smiling. He pats Michael’s knee and gets up.
“I’m done with you. Have fun wallowing in your misery.”
He walks away, rubbing his shoulder and complaining loudly to everyone that will listen about their captain’s violent tendencies.
Kylian hopes that it keeps everyone else far away from him.
He brings up his other arm to hug Michael more fully. He hopes it doesn’t read as desperate, but that’s exactly what it is: A desperate attempt to keep Michael right here, next to him. Michael sees right through it, of course, and responds by running his hand up and down Kylian’s arm and pressing his face into the other man’s neck, breath warm and sweet on his skin.
“D’you wanna get out of here?” Kylian asks, suddenly feeling far too exposed.
“Of course I do.”
“No, I mean, do you wanna go somewhere with me?”
“Just you and me?”
“Yeah, just you and me.”
Michael smiles, honest to god smiles, as if that’s the best thing he’s heard all night. Which, to an introvert like him, it probably is.
He jumps up, suddenly full of energy, and reaches out his hand.
“Let’s go, captain.”
Kylian allows Michael to pull him up and doesn’t let go of his hand the whole way out of the room. He has the vague sensation of being watched and he’s pretty sure that if he turned around now, he would see Ousmane somewhere in the general vicinity, looking far too pleased with himself.
But he doesn’t turn around.