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The dim lighting of the Clairefontaine analysis room did nothing to soften the intense energy bouncing off the walls. Kylian had been pacing for ten minutes straight, his hands gesturing wildly in the air, while Michael sat back on the plush leather sofa, watching him with an amused, lazy half-smile.
"You're missing the point, Michael," Kylian muttered, finally stopping right in front of him. He leaned down, placing a hand on the armrest on either side of Michael, trapping him in place with that sharp, laser-focused gaze. "He was born in Leeds. Leeds!"
Michael didn't flinch. Instead, his dark eyes tracked Kylian's face, a slow, fond tilt stirring at the corner of his lips. "I heard you the first five times, Capitaine."
"He could have played for England," Kylian insisted, his voice dropping an octave, softer now, but no less frantic as he looked down at Michael. "Think about it. Bellingham, Kane, Saka... and Erling upfront. They would have been unstoppable."
Michael raised a hand, his fingers lightly brushing against Kylian’s wrist where it rested on the leather cushion. The simple touch made Kylian’s breath hitch, pulling his frantic mind right back into the room.
"Ky," Michael murmured, his voice low and smooth as he tugged lightly on Kylian's wrist. "Look at me."
Kylian let out a sharp sigh, sinking back until he was sitting right beside Michael on the narrow sofa, their shoulders and thighs pressed tightly together. The heat radiating off Michael was steady, a grounding anchor against Kylian's overthinking.
"You know," Michael said softly, his thumb lazily tracing small circles on the back of Kylian’s hand, "I was eligible for England, too."
Kylian turned his head quickly, his eyes widening. "Don't say that."
"London lad," Michael whispered, a small, playful glint in his eyes as he leaned closer, his chin almost resting on Kylian's shoulder. "I could've been on that wing, crossing the ball straight to Erling's head. You could've been watching us win the Euros from the sidelines."
"Michael," Kylian warned, though there was no real bite to it. He turned his face just enough so their cheeks almost touched, his eyes dropping to Michael's lips before pulling back to meet his gaze. "That is not funny."
"It's a little funny," Michael murmured, his fingers slipping up to cup the side of Kylian's neck, the warmth of his palm soothing the tension there. "You get so stressed about things that aren't even real."
"Because I care," Kylian murmured back, leaning into the touch despite himself, his own hand coming up to rest gently over Michael's knee. "I care about winning. I care about who stands beside me."
"Well," Michael said, his voice barely a breath between them as he leaned in just a fraction more, brushing a soft, reassuring kiss against Kylian's cheekbone, right under his eye. "Erling picked Norway. And I picked France."
He pulled back just enough to look Kylian in the eye, his gaze steady and warm. "I picked you."
Kylian blinked, the lingering trace of his tactical panic completely melting away under the weight of Michael's words. A quiet, soft smile finally broke across Kylian's face, his fingers tightening around Michael's knee.
"Good," Kylian whispered, leaning in to brush his lips softly against the corner of Michael's mouth. "I'm glad. Because I don't think I could handle facing you from the opposite side of the pitch."
Michael’s expression softened, a low, fond laugh quiet in his chest as he shifted closer, resting his forehead against Kylian’s. "You’d handle it fine. You'd probably score a hat-trick just to spite me." He paused, his thumb gently tracing Kylian’s cheekbone. "But I'd rather be on your side. Always."
Kylian’s breath hitched; his fingers slid from Michael’s knee to the back of his neck, anchoring him there.
"Prove it," Kylian whispered.
Before Michael could answer, Kylian closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips against Michael’s in a soft, unhurried kiss that erased every last trace of lingering doubt.