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A knot had started forming around Marco’s chest for the longest time. If he were to look back and pinpoint the exact time it began constricting his heart and lungs, flashes of training camps would enter his mind. Trading smirks and sharing earphones, but he despised dwelling on it. He had put it on the back aisle of his thoughts, and they would only emerge during particular late nights when he was beyond tired, control slipping out of his grasp.
He never expected Chicago to be surprisingly charming until minutes ago. Ducking from the lobby, he was immediately greeted with the sight of tall buildings, a cohesive mesh of historic-looking and modern ones that shone against the dark sky. Lamp posts jutting every few meters, emitting yellow light that wrapped the street with a softness that Marco thought was universally nostalgic. A river was prettily framed, flowing in the middle of the busy city. His position on the 15th floor earlier allowed him a view of it right when the sky had turned a deep shade of orange. Nearly everyone in the hall had turned their heads around, taking in the sunset from the huge windows of a building that Marco had forgotten the name of for a charity event.
Something in his chest loosened, maybe from the new sight of this foreign country that he hadn’t seen yet or due to his tipsiness. He settled for a combination of both.
“Do you need me to call you a taxi, sir?”
Marco swiveled his head at the sound. A tall man with a nicely tailored tuxedo stood a few steps away from him. A security guard, he noted, dutifully providing a helping hand. It was nothing out of place, from Marco’s assessment, for a seemingly well-renowned building. A grateful smile graced his face at the suggestion before he quickly realized that the man’s backside was facing his way instead.
“Oh, yes. Please,” the other guest answered. His tone was heavily accented, unlike the fluency of the American security. “Thank you.”
It was familiar enough for Marco, despite the low thrum of the other guest’s voice. He could hear a European accent from miles away.
The security guard stepped aside, revealing a man in a dark, fitted buttoned-up shirt with sleeves rolled up, nearly reaching the elbows. Familiar. Dark hair with the bluest eyes looking back at him. Just outside his peripheral vision, the security had pivoted and began moving in his direction to extend him the same offer.
“Marco?” the stranger asked, a slow smile blooming up his face.
The blond had unconsciously grinned back. “Lewy.”
Robert Lewandowski stood five steps away from him. His hair slightly tousled, handsome with age, and was smiling widely at Marco as if he was an unexpected Christmas gift in early November. In a way, he was for Robert. The Chicago air was chilly at night, and Marco noted the faded smoke escaping past his former teammate’s lips. His stomach felt cold, though his cheeks were warm.
“Oh!” A voice broke out their staring. The security guard, who looked pleased at the sight of two old friends unexpectedly meeting, smiled politely at the two gentlemen. “Do I need to call a separate taxi or would you be going together?”
They traded a glance.
Robert opened his mouth first. “Are you in a hurry?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I just finished a charity event.”
The brunette’s smile deepened, and his voice had become stupidly soft.
“Tired?” he asked.
Something about their exchange so far tickled Marco. It was odd, but comfortable.
“No,” he giggled out, shaking his head again.
Robert stared at the blond for a minute, as if he was mulling over a thousand different possibilities of his next words, but they just continued exchanging stupid grins with each other.
“Ich hab daheim noch einen guten Wein,” he softly informed, before he let the quiet settled for a while. “Falls du Lust hast.”
Marco threw his old friend a small smile. “Okay.”
–
The ride to Robert’s place was quiet for the most part. The sky had turned darker, and few lights beamed along the streets they passed, though Chicago remained bright as ever. Pleasantries were tackled, and the two men failed to bite down the grins that threatened to split open their restraints. Delighted giggles spilling over after every question and answer. Suddenly, they were twenty-two and twenty-three again, on their way to Hohenbuschei for another team practice, wrestling on the backseat over nonsensical banter, and cheeks aching from laughter.
Behind Robert, the skyscrapers blurred themselves into long-winded streaks of curvy lights. Marco felt drunker from the sight. To his left, the rolling swells of calm waters mirrored the bright hues of the twinkling towers enveloping its edges. It was an uncommon sight. Los Angeles with its buildings, but so unlike it with its tide and gleaming reflections. Beautiful was what Marco would summarize it as, and when he turned his head back toward his companion, a fond smile had settled on Robert’s face as he watched Marco take in the scenery.
The Pole had spent the last four months of his time in the States residing in a penthouse overlooking Michigan Lake, as Robert told Marco. His living room was spacious and open, slightly dimmed with large windows that showcased the endless water and the now seemingly tiny buildings glinting from afar. A large TV with a sleek electric fireplace underneath sat in front of the sofa that, funnily enough, reminded Marco of bread rolls.
“What’s so funny?” Robert asked, pulling the blond out of his quiet appraisal. He was grinning as Marco chuckled.
“Your sofa looks like a bread,” he pointed out, which only made the older one’s grin stretched bigger.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That’s why I bought it, I think.”
Marco prodded around as Robert entered his kitchen to fetch the bottle and their wine glasses. Behind the bread sofa stood a large wooden shelf adorned with numerous trophies and medals. Photos of family, friends, and teammates were framed prettily and scattered between the gold and silvers decorating each level. His eyes flickered briefly at the color yellow, immediately recognizing a series of photos after their Champions League Semi-final win against Madrid. He hovered over the collage before tearing his eyes off, and catching a glimpse of a few children’s toys near the bottom shelves.
He laughed, touching the semi-circular device. “Why do you have this?”
Robert threw him a look from over his shoulder before beaming at Marco, who had seemingly made himself at home without needing his permission. He eyed the toy Marco was referring to.
“My daughters,” he said softly, before shrugging. “They like seeing their daddy getting shocked.”
A loud rumble of laughter instantaneously echoed against the walls of the penthouse, startling enough for Robert to pause his wine preparation and instead, gawked at Marco’s boisterous cackle. The blond’s lopsided smile and dimple showing their true carefree nature for the first time in ages right before Robert’s eyes, whose breath nearly stuttered as something in his chest knotted for a second before it released its painful grip.
“Okay. We’re playing this,” Marco decided as he walked over to the couch with the lie detector toy machine in his hand.
Robert groaned. “Really?”
“Yes! Really.”
Rejection was something the Pole always struggled to give when it came to the blond man— who he hadn’t even seen in nearly four years and had last talked to a year ago— sitting on the fuzzy carpet of his living room rather than the sofa. Marco had an illogical pull on the brunette, and the next thing Robert knew was that he was now sitting beside his junior with two glasses of wine served in front of them— their knees bumping.
“So, if you lie, and then the machine goes Bztt! You have to drink, okay?” Marco quickly explained his idea.
Robert’s eyes widened at the suggestion. Amused more than anything. “With wine?”
“Yes! With wine,” Marco said, giggling slightly.
Excitement was apparent on the German’s face, and Robert, as it turned out and had been proven through time, was a weak man with little to no resolve outside of football. His kryptonite was a talented blond midfielder whom he had spent two years with, and used to sulk whenever he teased him too much.
Robert laughed, and then he nodded. “You first.”
Marco shrugged, as if saying fair enough, and set his hand on the device.
The brunette hummed quietly as he stared at the black table before him, and Marco silently watched Robert’s blue eyes scanning uselessly around the room, squinting, with a smile plastered on his face. He observed the older one’s deep dimples and the greys beneath the black of his hair, the unfamiliar lines under the Pole’s bright eyes, his chin. Aging suited him well, Marco mused, but Robert had always been attractive, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise to him.
Meanwhile, recollection swirled inside the Pole’s mind. Chicago lights illuminating Marco’s face, painting his blond hair with colors, and the wonder dancing around his dark eyes.
Robert snickered, lifting his head up. “Is Chicago better than LA?”
“Oh, come on!” Marco protested. His earlier gaping on the taxi had given it away.
“What?” The pole had his hands up, laughing. “You can answer no!”
The German nearly rolled his eyes, though his effort in subduing his smile was failing him, anyway. “Alright, no,” he answered before pressing the button, and the machine began emitting a whirring sound.
Silence came before Marco wrenched his hand back in shock.
“Aw!” he yelled out, only to be muffled by Robert’s loud laugh.
After much protest and teasing later, Marco finally downed his glass of wine, half full.
The striker’s hand now rested on the childish device.
“Do you like your new team?” the younger fired out.
Robert just shrugged. “It’s alright.”
Nothing happened, and Marco immediately roared in disapproval.
“Are you going to extend your contract?” Robert implored during the German’s turn.
“I don’t know,” the blond answered. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
The lie detector ruthlessly buzzed his hand once more, and Marco quickly accepted his defeat after he briefly cursed out the toy. Then, he tilted his head back, chugging down his share of wine at an impressive speed, letting the rich sour taste burn and slide down his throat. Robert became hazy for a second in front of him, though Marco saw the curve of his lips just fine. The Pole’s stared at him with amusement and a hint of concern. Robert’s deep chuckles caused the other man to grin in return.
Looking back, both men were humble about their achievements. That was what the media had always known them for. The title of every interview of the down-to-earth legends who were driven and combative on the field, yet outside it, Robert Lewandowski downplayed his world-class ability, while Marco Reus’ loyalty stood above all else. Years later, sitting side-by-side as both men played rounds of a stupid game, competitiveness slowly brewed inside Marco’s body. Enough that he was willing to take a cheap shot.
They had quietly gazed at each other. Robert’s hand was now on the toy as he waited patiently for his old friend’s question.
Marco’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Do you miss me?”
Blue eyes flickered in surprise. “Of course.”
“Yes or no, Lewy.”
“Yes,” he easily answered. “I missed you.”
Warm.
Robert’s place was warm, like a thick blanket wrapped over two intertwining bodies on a forgiving winter. It reminded Marco of their training camp in Spain and how the sun blazed down on them. How annoyed Robert was when Götze had suddenly sprung up on him and wrapped his arms around the midfielder. The heat made him aware of the fire slowly swaying inside the fireplace and how it highlighted the faint weariness clinging around Robert’s eyes. Marco tore his eyes away from the blues.
He chuckled. “I missed you, too.”
Bright eyes bored into his every movement as Marco brushed their last interaction aside. He prodded the lie detector toward his way before he threw a wide smile toward the Pole.
“My turn,” he cheekily announced, as if he wasn’t the cause of the small turmoil simmering inside the brunette.
Marco was avoiding Robert’s gaze, and the quietness settled over them for the second time that night. The water outside the windows was indecipherable, but they heard it anyway. The gentle crash of waves folding over itself, lapping delicately at the sands before drowning them, and then pushing them back in place.
Robert mapped over the details of Marco’s face.
“Are you still angry with me?” Robert quietly asked. There was a small, careful smile adorning his handsome face, and Marco looked away, rubbing his hand over his face.
A minute passed before the blond finally replied.
Marco sighed. “No.”
The lie detector sat between them, its lights blinking lazily as it processed the answer. Its soft whir seemed louder than it had been earlier, and neither of them spoke. They waited with matching half-smiles, eyes fixed on the toy rather than one another, each pretending not to care nearly as much as they did.
The device buzzed. Marco hissed in pain before plopping himself down onto the soft carpet with an arm slung over his face. For a second, it almost felt funny, but neither of them was smiling anymore. It was the closest they’ve physically ever been in years, yet the invisible rope between them strained painfully, more than it ever did when they were thousands of miles apart. The silence that followed wasn't hostile; just slightly rigid and fragile to the touch. It was full of questions neither wanted to ask.
Although there was only a 15-months difference between the two, Marco had always believed that Robert was meant to be born years before him. When he first joined Dortmund, the Polish player naturally took on the role of an older brother figure within the team, despite his young age. He was wiser and patient than most, collected and clever with his every move on the field. Marco brought out a much more playful side of the older one, but foundationally, they had formed a solid partnership. The best Dortmund ever had.
Marco liked to push— he’d blame it on his young age at that time, but his teammates would argue good-naturedly that impishness ran in his blood. He was easy to adore; a firecracker you’d tackle and gleefully suffer the harmless burn from it. Glowering and pouting when his younger self performed below his expected standard, and then Robert had to trail after him, nudging his arm and teasing him until the blond lost the feeling of anger.
It didn’t come as a surprise to Marco that the brunette relented first, raising his white flag before him.
“I’m sorry, Pszczółko,” Robert gently said, and the German let his words washed over him like warm water trickling over his bruised skin.
Marco shrugged. “It was childish, my anger,” he commented, dismissing the apology that wasn’t meant to be said anyway.
Robert frowned. “No, it was not.”
Marco chuckled, and his dimple appeared alongside his crooked smile. Robert wished it could remain. All he had was the memory of it to rely on, a new recording in his mind that he could replay over and over instead of the same ones from decades ago when they still wore the same-colored jerseys and touches were easy as he tried to drown out the noises of Chicago at dawn and the coldness of his bed.
“We had teammates come and go, and it was …” Marco shrugged. “It was alright. It was hard at first, but we always get over it eventually, no?” From the corner of his eyes, he could see Robert nodding attentively. “With you, I was alright at first. I mean, what a great offer! I was happy for my friend even though it was—”
Marco blinked twice, and then he tilted his head upwards against the carpet, trying to evade Robert’s eyes, making the Pole’s eyebrows furrowed in worry.
Robert moved to console the blond. “Kochanie—”
“Lewy,” Marco groaned out instead, frustrated. “Don’t call me that.”
The older one faltered at his words. “Call you what?”
“Kochanie,” he laughed, but nothing was amusing. “I know what it means.”
For a brief while, pure numbness took over the older one’s body.
Marco’s smile and laughter were always contagious. Robert knew it was impossible not to grin back at such a sweet sight. It was the reason he had to turned his body around the moment Marco started laughing when their eyes met on the pitch back in 2015. His focus, even resolve, simply wavered during those moments that he had to momentarily sever it to snap back into his game, and yet, peering down at the grinning drunk man— gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous— lying on his living room’s rug, his chest thudded out an agonizing beat instead.
Marco swiped both hands against his face, chuckling once more.
“Oh, Lewy. I’m angry again.”
“Those first few matches after you went to Bayern, all I could think about was how nice it was to see you again even if you were on the opposite side of the field. Then, the more we play, the more we lost …” Marco pursed his lips, trying to swallow down his next words. “I just get so angry.”
“Your absence became so loud,” he resumed, and began straightening his shoulders before moving them around, chasing away an invisible ache that settled over them. “I would roll my shoulders like this to get rid of the feeling,” Marco told him, scoffing. “You’re always supposed to be near, but when I looked back, you weren’t there, and I would get upset.” He shook his head, slightly dazed by his own words. “It was ridiculous.”
Quietness lingered, though it wasn’t the one they used to share countless times after training or during long bus rides. It was remarkable how quickly words abandoned them; the two people who had once spoken through glances and fleeting touches on the pitch. Robert studied the scuffed floorboards peeking beneath the sofa with an intensity that bordered on absurd, tracing invisible lines in the grain of the wood as though they might lead their way into the German’s fisted hand so he could unfold it. Somewhere, Marco shifted his weight to sit, but otherwise both men remained rooted to the softness of the rug.
“I had to leave,” he confessed.
“I know.”
Robert looked up. “No, Marco,” he softly countered. “I had to leave.”
“What do you mean?” Marco breathed out, confused. His voice sounded smaller than he had anticipated.
Distance felt like an empty word as Robert’s eyes caught Marco’s. Something sick swirled inside Marco’s chest, something ugly and so boyish. They were threading their way into a territory that was nowhere near familiar. Both muting out the sound made by a pair of erratic hearts. Robert threw him a strained smile, and Marco's stomach tightened before a single word had been spoken.
“Playing with you was,” Robert searched for the words, rubbing at his palms, “such a rush. I think being struck by lightning would be less exciting.” He let out a short chuckle, and his eyes drifted somewhere over Marco’s face. “It was easy, like breathing.”
“You know, my chest …” His hand slowly rose until his palm rested against his sternum. “… is heavy. And it became heavier when I had to head home after practice because I can’t see my teammates, and it was always fun when I’m around you,” the corner of his mouth quirked up at the memory, “but then my chest would beat like crazy when I remember that there’s practice tomorrow.”
His fingers began tapping against himself.
Faster.
“It would go on and on endlessly until the pounding here,” he pointed toward his chest, “went from excitement to fear. It became overwhelming.” His voice had grown quieter now. “Scary.”
Marco's eyebrows knitted together.
“Pszczółko,” he whispered, finally looking up at his former teammate. “You were terrifying,” he said, letting out a humorless laugh. “You scared me.”
Robert's hand drifted back to his chest, almost absentmindedly. Fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt, where his heart would’ve been. His palm lingered before they began tapping lightly over his heartbeat. A quick, uneven beat repeated over and over again, mimicking a frantic rhythm thrumming under the skin.
Once.
Twice.
Then, a third time.
“Marco, Marco, Marco.”
Each repetition landed with another tap against his sternum.
“All night,” he murmured. “Then in the morning … Marco, Marco, Marco. Never stops.”
A hollow chuckle escaped Robert, soft enough that it barely qualified as one. He shook his head in quiet disbelief at the realization of hearing his thoughts out loud after meticulously tucking them away for a decade. His thumb unconsciously brushed over the spot where his heart continued its drumming; where it was once impossible to tame.
“I needed to be near you, touch you, smell you so it would slow down. I had to hear your laugh or see your eyes crinkle happily— it was a constant need,” he confessed. “On the pitch, I was calm because you’re there, and by then, I knew it was something else.” Robert shrugged, though he seemed exhausted. There was a quiet resignation in his tone. “The offer just came at the right time.”
“I didn’t want to lose a dear friend,” he added, “so I decided that it was right to leave.”
“Decided that it was right to leave …” the blond echoed. “Why?”
“Marco …”
“What’s right about it?” Marco asked, his voice climbing without him realizing. “I don’t understand.”
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Marco, you understand—”
“No,” he retorted. “I don’t.”
This was familiar somehow. The Pole bargaining with his German midfielder, whose composure was slowly faltering. It was a wrenching sight. Marco Reus simmering with anger due to him, Robert realized, again. He did it again.
“It was right to leave,” Robert started, “because it was a burden.” He looked back into Marco’s blue eyes and found them solemn, darker than he remembered.
“You felt differently, and making you uncomfortable was the last thing I wanted to do because Marco …” He inched closer. “I was starting to cross a line, but I’d rather have your friendship than nothing.”
The column between Marco’s brows creased even deeper, and he had pressed his lips tightly as if he was restraining any hurtful words that might’ve slipped out. He felt young. His mind reeled back to their last season all those years again, and everything tumbled in. The feelings accumulated in a quick succession. When Marco opened his mouth, it almost felt defensive.
“How would you know that I feel differently?” he asked.
“Kochanie,” Robert sighed. He ran his hand over his face. “It was one-sided.”
“But you should’ve told me.”
“No,” he laughed humorlessly. “No, I cannot. Not at the stake of what we had.”
“You should’ve!” Marco insisted. “I wouldn’t had to figure it out on my own while I was still dealing with my anger.”
Robert’s head snapped up at his words. “What?”
The German refused to spare him a glance. His eyes rested on the fireplace, and how the flame swayed. Its artificial noise crackling much louder now, filling in the silence that relentlessly kept dawning on them. Marco didn’t need to turn his head to know that his friend had settled nearer. He could feel the heat of Robert’s body.
“Marco,” he called out. “What did you mean by that?”
The midfielder dismissed him. His hand absentmindedly toyed with the soft strands of the rug instead. He felt the brunette’s hand slowly circling his wrist, and Marco yanked himself away from the touch. Annoyance flared in the pit of his stomach when the Pole’s touch actually vanished. A second passed, and Marco felt a gentle tug from the end of his trousers. Then, again. Tentative pulls occurred, as if it was trying to coax the blond out of his indignation. Robert had moved, now residing beside him, and obstructing his view of the fireplace.
“Marco,” Robert whispered out. He gently rested his head against Marco’s. “Es tut mir leid.”
Marco tried putting a distance between the two, but the Pole moved quick as he held Marco’s head in place. Robert’s touch was light, but it was firm enough that the blond wouldn’t be able to push him away without force. Robert’s hand left a ticklish sensation against his cheek.
“Marco,” Robert tried again. His eyes searched for him. “Kannst du mir verzeihen?”
A soft motion began. A thumb caressing Marco’s face as if he might’ve shattered if touched wrong. His eyes flickered, stealing a glimpse of the striker whose attention remained fixated on him. The blond averted his stare.
“Don’t look away,” Robert pleaded.
It felt lighter, like a knot unfolding, when Marco finally stared back. The gentle strokes against his skin continued, and each contact felt nauseating— a disarray of feelings gathering on the pit of his stomach. Every puff of Robert’s breath had touched his lips, and it felt like a kiss.
Robert’s gaze dropped, and blood rushed loudly inside Marco.
“Will you tell me what you mean, please?” the Pole almost begged. “Did it meant what I think it meant?”
“Może,” Marco eventually mumbled out. His voice sounded weak even to his own ears, but all he saw was Robert’s wide eyes and how adoring they were peering down at him. A child on Christmas, he thought again.
“Może?” Robert repeated in slight wonder. The quiet delight in his tone was intoxicating, and Marco felt himself gradually mirroring it.
“Do you,” Robert paused before starting again, voice ridiculously soft and low that the blond nearly couldn’t hear him. “Do you still feel that way, mein Schatz?”
The moment Robert’s fingers had grazed his face, Marco sobered up at an alarming speed, although he found himself questioning his condition as he suddenly felt dizzier than before. Robert’s awaiting eyes were as blue as they had been years ago. Marco knew them well. It was a hidden thing, known only to himself, that Marco grew a habit of observing Robert from a distance. He memorized how the Polish man's eyes would harden as he diligently assessed the play, the dimples curving with his every movement, even the twitch of his brows when frustrated.
Along the years, the rope tautened, and it became tiring— Marco’s eyes glancing at his glowing screen, seeing Robert’s name appear and pushing down the woozy feeling infiltrating his body. His stomach would flutter, though it wouldn’t last long before dread took over, thrown into the nauseating mix. Every exchange felt like a sad telephone game with its string barely holding on, and too many unspoken words floating between them. Marco was tired. All the energy needed to sustain his walls had slowly drained out with each stroke of Robert’s finger. Suddenly, it was easy for Marco to answer.
“Tak,” he replied quietly.
Robert glowed at the sound. “Tak?” He sounded breathless.
Marco nodded against him. “Tak.”
The next thing the German knew was that he was tackled to the ground, a familiar striker holding his weight above him, grinning widely as if he had scored a winning goal. Robert’s hands cradled Marco’s face.
“Hübsch,” the brunette muttered. Marco’s skin flushed at the word. “Du bedeutest mir alles.”
“Yeah?” Marco croaked out quietly.
“Yes,” the striker affirmed before Marco could even finish his word.
Robert’s hand came up slowly. His fingers brushed the line of Marco’s jaw, warm against the blond’s skin, and lingered there before his thumb drifted higher, tracing the curve of Marco’s lips. The touch was barely there— a feather-light sweep that sent the German perfectly still, his lips parting almost unconsciously beneath the gentle pressure. His breathing faltered, stuttering under the Pole’s fingertips.
Robert’s eyes traveled down as he watched over his friend’s every reaction. The faint catch in his breath and the way the blond’s eyes searched his. His thumb remained where it was, resting lightly against Marco’s mouth, as though he was memorizing the softness of it. Robert’s eyes stayed on Marco’s lips for a fleeting second. His thumb stilled as he drew a slow breath, his voice barely more than a whisper when it finally broke the silence.
"Can I?"
The question settled between them, soft enough that it almost disappeared beneath the sound of their breathing. Marco looked up at the Pole for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah," he whispered.
Robert leaned down carefully, almost unsure, disbelieving at the sight of Marco lying beneath him. He slowly moved nearer as though he was giving the blond every chance to change his mind. Their lips met, and both men softly gasped at the touch, finding air for the first time in years. Robert’s shirt wrinkled underneath his fist, and the blond drew him closer, almost urgently. They slipped into another kiss.
It was slow. Warm. Familiar in a way that made their chests ached, and it felt like they had shifted to a different place, inside a second home that had watched over as their quiet intimacy grew. For a second, it felt like the carpet beneath Marco’s back had softened into fresh-cut grass, and stadium lights burned behind his closed eyes. He could almost hear the roar that had swallowed them whole that day they had won the tournament.
Years ago, Robert had been the one pinned beneath him, laughing helplessly as Marco grabbed his face in both hands, crushing him into the turf while the rest of the team piled on top of them.
Now, Robert’s body became an anchoring weight above him instead, one hand braced beside his shoulder, the other cupping his jaw with the same tenderness. There were no teammates crashing into them. No whistle. No trophies waiting on a stand. Marco could only feel the quiet press of Robert’s mouth against his, though their body remembered the rush anyway, buzzing uncontrollably. It was a different kind of win, but the same person holding Marco’s face and the same blond strands between Robert’s fingers.
–
“What happens now?” Marco asked. His hand gliding over the greys of Robert’s hair in a never-ending caress. An entranced motion.
They were lying on the living room’s carpet, tangled together in the quiet aftermath. Marco was sprawled comfortably across the Pole, his cheek resting against his chest, while the other man kept a hand possessively wrapped around the midfielder. His free hand had found its way to the nape of Marco’s neck, fingers idly combing through the prickly blond strands.
“We visit each other every week, and every other day we can call,” Robert decided quickly.
Marco started laughing, disbelieving his ears. “That sounded like a torture!”
Robert smiled at the sound of the blond’s laughter, holding him tighter.
“We’ve wasted enough time, Pszczółko,” he muttered against Marco’s hair. “I need every second with you.”
Marco wondered if Robert could feel the warmth spreading beneath his skin at his words. He felt impossibly shy— so unlike himself. He burrowed deeper into Robert’s embrace instead, hiding his face against the brunette’s neck. His nose brushed the column of Robert’s throat, and his lips skimmed his collarbone with the slightest shift.
He hummed in agreement. “I need you, too.”