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The win had been ugly, hard-fought, and worth every second of the ninety minutes. The changing room was buzzing with the relief of it, the usual post-match complaints gradually giving way to laughter and conversations that had absolutely nothing to do with football.
Which was all very well, but Marc Pubill was fairly certain his legs had stopped working somewhere around the eightieth, and he had absolutely no intention of thinking about football again until tomorrow.
He sat on the bench in front of his locker, elbows resting on his knees, working one sock off with the determination of a man dismantling a particularly stubborn machine. Across from him, Alex Baena was sprawled in his seat, still wearing his match shirt, while Grimaldo had somehow managed to look presentable already, despite having spent the last twenty minutes running up and down a football pitch.
“So Marcos is having a Halloween party,” Marc started.
“Right, and I've already decided,” Alex Baena announced from the bench opposite him. “I'm going as Zorro.”
Marc looked up. “Zorro?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing. Just didn't have you down as a Zorro kind of guy.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Baena demanded, already grinning. “It's a classic. Black outfit, hat, mask, sword. That’s hot! I know Paddy’s girl friends will love it! You can't go wrong with Zorro!”
Grimaldo's expression changed. It was subtle, but Marc knew that look. It was the look of a man who'd just been handed an opportunity and was already considering how best to ruin someone's evening.
“Of course you can't, everybody looks good as Zorro.” Grimaldo agreed, with a straight face. “And imagine if we all went as Zorro. Including the ladies.”
Baena's grin vanished. “No.”
“Come on. It would be brilliant. Imagine Marcos opening the door and finding twenty Zorros in his villa.”
Marc burst out laughing. “We should actually do it. Get everyone involved. Make it a Zorro-themed party.”
“I'm serious,” Grimaldo said, warming to the idea. “We could tell Marcos to change the decorations. Z signs slashed everywhere, swords on the tables…”
Marc leaned back against his locker, laughing. His whole body ached, and the thought of standing up again was genuinely offensive, but this was already proving a much better use of his time than analyzing another ninety minutes of football.
Grimaldo was still going. “I'll talk to Marcos. We can make it official.”
“Absolutely fucking not.” Baena pointed at them both. “I'm calling dibs. I said Zorro first. Nobody else gets to be Zorro.”
“That's not how dibs work,” Marc told him.
“That's exactly how dibs work.”
“Maybe we should all come as Zorro just to piss you off,” Grimaldo suggested.
“Try it and see what happens.”
Marc laughed again, leaning back against his locker. “You're taking this very seriously, mate.”
“Because you two are idiots. I want one fucking thing from this party, and that's to be Zorro. Is that too much to ask?”
“Apparently,” Grimaldo said.
Baena threw a rolled-up sock at him. It missed by a considerable margin.
“Anyway,” Marc said, retrieving the sock from the floor and tossing it back at its owner, “what are you actually going as, Grimaldo?”
“Ana and I are going as vampires.”
Baena looked at him for a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It's just very you.”
“Handsome, mysterious, a little dangerous?”
“Annoying and dramatic.”
“Jealousy is an ugly thing, Alex.”
“I'm not jealous of a man who thinks putting on fake fangs counts as a personality.”
Grimaldo shook his head, laughing, and returned to packing his bag.
“Yeah, yeah,” Marc said, standing up at last and immediately regretting it when his legs reminded him what he'd put them through. He braced one hand against the locker until the stiffness eased. “Just don't start drinking anyone's blood at the party. Marcos will make you clean the pool.”
“Only if he catches me.”
“And you?” Baena asked Marc. “What's your plan? Or are you going to show up in a tracksuit and pretend you've made an effort?”
“Actually, I am going in a tracksuit.”
Both Alexes looked at him.
“An eighties rapper,” Marc clarified. “I've got that vintage red tracksuit at home. The one I told you about. I'll wear that, get some gold chains, maybe a hat and sunglasses. Sorted.”
Baena stared at him for a beat before his face broke into a grin.
“So you're going as yourself.”
Marc frowned. “What?”
“You heard me. You're putting on a tracksuit, adding a few accessories, and calling it a costume. That's just you with extra steps.”
“Fuck off. You don't even know what an eighties rapper looks like.”
“I know what you look like, and that's already half the costume.”
Grimaldo laughed into his bag.
Marc shook his head. “Right, and you're going as a fictional outlaw who wears a hat and a mask. Very original.”
“It's a classic. Just like me.” Baena insisted.
“Sure it is, Zorro.”
“Careful, rapper boy.”
Marc pointed at him. “Keep talking, and I'll convince Marcos to make it a Zorro party after all.”
Baena's expression turned murderous.
Grimaldo was already laughing again.
……………………………………………………….
Marc had barely stepped out of his car when Baena appeared at the villa's entrance, looking so pleased with himself that it was immediately suspicious.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, spreading his arms.
Marc stopped on the path and gave him a long, appreciative look. He had to admit, Baena had committed to the bit. The black trousers fitted neatly into his boots, his shirt was tucked beneath a wide belt, and a black cape fell from his shoulders. The hat and mask completed the look, leaving just enough of his face visible to make the whole thing work. He'd even bothered with a sword at his hip and a whip hanging from his belt.
“Fucking hell,” Marc said. “You actually look like Zorro.”
“Thank you.” Baena drew himself up proudly. “Finally, some respect.”
“Don't get used to it.”
Baena ignored him and reached for the sword, pulling it from its sheath with a theatrical flourish. He gave it a couple of experimental swings, nearly clipping a potted plant.
“Careful, mate,” Marc said, stepping out of range. “Some of us have to play football next week.”
“Relax. I know what I'm doing.”
“That's what worries me.”
Baena sheathed the sword again and, with a grin that suggested he'd been waiting for an audience all evening, pulled the whip free. He flicked it experimentally. It cracked against the air with a sharp snap.
Marc raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, you've got to be joking.”
“It's a proper costume.”
“It's a fucking arsenal.”
“Jealousy doesn't suit you, Pubill.”
“Neither does getting arrested for assault with a decorative weapon, but here we are.”
Before Baena could demonstrate his whip a second time, Grimaldo emerged from the car with Ana beside him. Marc turned, and for once, the joke died before it reached his mouth. They looked good. Really good.
Ana had gone all in on the vampire look, wearing a fitted black corset with delicate lace detailing, the bodice accentuating her figure beneath a dramatic black skirt with a high slit. Dark makeup framed her eyes, and a pair of pointed fangs showed when she smiled. She looked less like someone who'd dressed up for Halloween and more like someone who might genuinely invite you inside her castle and never let you leave.
Grimaldo matched her in black trousers and a fitted black shirt, with a deep red cape draped over his shoulders. His hair was styled back from his face, and the dark details around his eyes made him look sharper, almost theatrical. He wore the costume with the sort of effortless confidence that made it difficult to tell whether he'd dressed up as a vampire or simply found an excuse to look even more like himself.
“Okay,” Marc said, looking between them. “That's unfair.”
Ana smiled, revealing her fangs. “What is?”
“You two. You've made the rest of us look like we got dressed in the dark.”
“Speak for yourself,” Baena said, immediately offended. He gestured at his costume. “Look at this. This is craftsmanship.”
Grimaldo gave him an approving once-over. “You look good, Alex.”
Baena's expression softened with satisfaction. “Thank you.”
“You look like you're about to challenge someone to a duel over a parking space.”
“That's because I could!”
Ana laughed, leaning into Grimaldo's side. He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her temple, looking entirely at home with her tucked against him.
Marc watched them for a moment before looking down at himself.
Red tracksuit. White Adidas trainers. A ridiculous amount of gold around his neck, the chains resting over the bright fabric. He'd considered adding sunglasses, but decided that would be overdoing it. The tracksuit was vintage, anyway, and he was rather proud of having found an occasion to wear it again.
He felt comfortable. No corsets, no capes, no weapons that required responsible handling. Just him, dressed like a rapper who'd wandered in from a music video thirty-five years too late.
Baena slowly turned to inspect him. “So we're all pretending this is a costume?”
Marc spread his arms, displaying the tracksuit. “Mate, I'm an eighties rapper. I've got the trainers, the chains, the attitude. What more do you want?”
“A little effort?”
“Coming from the man carrying a sword and a whip to a party at a friend's house, that's rich.”
Ana laughed again, and Grimaldo gave Marc a quiet, approving nod, as if acknowledging a particularly well-delivered point.
Baena, meanwhile, was already looking for another argument.
“Fine. Whatever. Just don't come crying to me when everyone wants pictures with Zorro.”
“Of course,” Marc said. “We'll try to contain our jealousy.”
Baena flashed them a smug smile, adjusted his hat, and headed for the entrance with his cape sweeping behind him.
Grimaldo watched him go. “He's going to be unbearable tonight.”
“He already is,” Marc said.
Ana took Grimaldo's hand, and the three of them followed Baena inside.
The party was already in full swing, music spilling out from the open doors and laughter carrying through the villa. Marc adjusted his chains, glanced at his friends, and grinned. Whatever happened, at least nobody was going to ask him about football for the next few hours. He hoped.
Baena had been looking forward to this party for weeks. The costume was sorted, the mask fitted perfectly, and he'd even gone to the trouble of finding a proper sword. He'd been prepared to defend his choice against anyone who questioned it, and he'd fully expected to be the only Zorro in attendance.
Which was why, the moment he stepped into Marcos's villa and spotted Cuti Romero standing near the entrance in an almost identical black outfit, his smile faltered. He stopped dead.
“No.”
Marc, walking just behind him in his red tracksuit, nearly collided with his back. “What?”
Baena didn't answer. He was staring at Cuti, who was laughing with a group of guests, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Then, as if the universe hadn't already made its point, Giuliano Simeone appeared from the direction of the living room. Also dressed as Zorro.
Baena's face fell.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Marc followed his gaze. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his shoulders started shaking.
Grimaldo, dressed in his vampire costume, leaned around them for a better look. “No way.”
“Two,” Baena said faintly. “There are two of them.”
“Technically, that makes three of you,” Marc pointed out.
Baena turned to him with a wounded expression. “Don't.”
Marc pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. It didn't work.
“Not a word,” Baena warned.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You're laughing.”
“That's not illegal.”
Grimaldo was no help whatsoever. He'd started laughing too, one hand pressed against his stomach, his carefully chosen vampire fangs doing nothing to make him look intimidating.
Baena straightened his hat and adjusted the sword at his waist, trying to salvage what remained of his dignity.
“Well,” he announced, lifting his chin, “at least I'm the most handsome one.”
Neither of his friends answered. They both looked pointedly at Cuti. Ana shook her head at them in fake disappointment and left them to greet a friend.
Baena looked from one to the other. “Hello?”
Marc suddenly found the decorations above the entrance fascinating. Grimaldo seemed to be examining his own fingernails.
“Hey.” Baena stepped between them, demanding their attention. “At least I am more handsome than Giuli!”
Grimaldo's laughter died just enough for him to give Baena a measured look.
“Mate. Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Mess with Giuli.”
Baena scoffed. “Why? What is he going to do?”
Grimaldo glanced across the room, where Giuliano was greeting someone with an easy smile. Then he looked back at Baena.
“Pull your shorts down during the next game? Make you go viral for real.”
Marc lost it. He bent forward, laughing so hard that one of his gold chains swung against his chest. Grimaldo wasn't far behind, while Baena stared at them both, his mouth falling open in outrage. Baena looked back at Giuliano, who had apparently noticed them staring and was now making his way over. His confidence wavered for the first time that evening.
“Do you think he heard us?”
Marc wiped at the corner of his eye. “I certainly hope so.”
“You're both dead to me.”
“Happy Halloween, Zorro,” Marc said, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
Baena shrugged him off, straightened his hat for a second time, and put on his most dignified expression just as Giuliano reached them.
“Nice costume,” Giuliano said, looking Baena up and down.
Baena smiled tightly. “Yours too.”
“Thanks, mate.”
There was a brief, terrible silence. Then Giuliano's gaze dropped to the sword at Baena's hip.
“Is that real?”
“No.”
“Shame. Mine is a pure Damascus blade.”
Marc made a strangled noise beside them. Baena closed his eyes for a moment, as if silently asking the universe for patience. This was going to be a very long night.
They found their host in the middle of the enormous living room, which had been transformed so thoroughly that Marc briefly wondered whether they'd taken a wrong turn and wandered onto the set of a period drama.
Marcos, apparently, aware that his wife was still firmly in her Bridgerton era, had decided that the most sensible course of action was to surrender completely.
Paddy looked magnificent. Her Regency gown was a soft, rich colour that complemented her complexion, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves, a beautifully fitted waist, and a flowing skirt that moved elegantly around her feet. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate updo, with a few carefully placed curls framing her face. She looked less like someone attending a Halloween party and more like a young noblewoman about to receive guests at her country estate.
Marcos, beside her, was every bit her equal. He wore a perfectly tailored Regency coat, a crisp white shirt, a waistcoat, and fitted trousers, the whole ensemble making the most of his tall, muscular frame. His long blond hair fell neatly around his shoulders, impeccably groomed, and he had the sort of effortless good looks that made historical costumes seem like a perfectly reasonable choice for a modern man. There was something almost absurd about how well the whole thing suited him. He looked like the hero on the cover of a Regency romance novel, the sort of man who would gallop through the rain to rescue a woman from a terrible misunderstanding and somehow emerge with his hair still perfect. Marc could practically hear the dramatic orchestral music.
The table behind them had been decorated in the same style, with elegant candlesticks, fine tableware, flowers arranged in tall vases, and wineglasses catching the warm light. Impeccably dressed waiters were bringing very fancy looking food and drinks. The effect was lavish without being tacky, and it was clear that Marcos had committed to the theme with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
People had gathered around the couple, and from the looks of it, neither of them had been allowed to move more than a few metres for the past half hour. Paddy was receiving compliments on her dress, while Marcos was busy pouring wine for a small group of women, listening attentively to whatever they were telling him. And, naturally, he was doing it perfectly.
He held the bottle with easy confidence, made sure nobody's glass was empty, and offered a charming smile whenever someone addressed him. He was attentive without being stiff, impeccably mannered without making anyone feel as though they were attending a formal reception. When one of the women said something that made the others laugh, Marcos joined in, his own laughter warm and unrestrained. He wasn't playing the gentleman. That was the irritating part. He simply seemed to enjoy making people feel welcome. He could have been wearing a tracksuit and standing beside a barbecue, and Marc suspected he'd have been doing exactly the same thing.
“Look at him,” Grimaldo murmured beside Marc.
Marc didn't need to ask who he meant.
“Unbelievable,” he said.
Ana smiled. “They look lovely together.”
They did. Paddy had slipped her arm through Marcos's, leaning towards him as she spoke to a guest, and he turned his head to listen, his attention settling on her with such easy affection that it made the whole elaborate production feel genuine rather than ridiculous. He said something to her that Marc couldn't hear, and she laughed, touching his chest lightly with her fingertips. Marcos smiled down at her. It was a small gesture, nothing particularly dramatic, but it made Marc's chest tighten with a feeling he couldn't quite name. A little envy, perhaps. A little awe.
He'd always known Marcos was good at this sort of thing. The man could organize a party for fifty people, remember everyone's preferences, make sure there was enough food and drink, and still find time to chat with every guest as though they'd come specifically to see him. He was comfortable in his own skin in a way Marc admired, generous with his attention, never seeming to worry about whether he was doing too much or not enough.
Marc, by comparison, was still wearing a red tracksuit and enough gold chains to finance a small expedition.
He glanced down at himself.
“I'm seriously underdressed,” he muttered.
Grimaldo followed his gaze. “You're wearing enough bling to blind someone if the light catches it right.”
“That's not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Across the room, Marcos spotted them. His face lit up, and he raised his glass in greeting before excusing himself from the group around him. He said something to Paddy, kissed her cheek, and made his way over, moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who knew every corner of his own house.
“Finally!” he called. “I was starting to think you weren't coming.”
“We had to give Baena time to get dressed,” Marc replied.
Marcos's eyes travelled over the black cape, hat, sword, and whip. He stopped in front of Baena, taking in the full spectacle.
“Zorro?”
Baena lifted his chin. “The one and only.”
Marcos looked as though he was considering this claim seriously. “You know, I think you're the third one tonight.”
Baena's smile disappeared. Marc felt a laugh rising in his throat. Marcos gave him an apologetic pat on the shoulder, though there was absolutely nothing apologetic about the amusement in his eyes.
“Sorry, mate.”
Marc had to turn away.
He'd been trying to behave himself, honestly. But Baena's expression, combined with Marcos's impeccable Regency manners and the ridiculous sight of a Zorro standing in the middle of what looked like an aristocratic reception, was too much.
Marcos glanced at Marc's outfit and broke into a grin.
“And you must be... LL Cool J!”
“Generic eighties rapper,” Marc corrected. “There's a difference.”
“Of course there is.” Marcos nodded gravely. “You look great. Very sparkly.”
Marc narrowed his eyes. “You're taking the piss.”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
Marcos laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture affectionate and familiar. Then he turned towards Grimaldo and Ana, complimenting their costumes before asking whether they'd found something to drink, because he has a very good red wine selection available.
Just like that, he had them all included, folding them into the evening as naturally as if he'd been waiting for them all along.
Marc watched him for another moment as Marcos gestured towards the drinks table, already asking whether they wanted wine, beer, or something stronger. There was no denying it. The bastard was good at this. And looked great doing it. And, judging by the way people kept turning to look at him, Paddy wasn't the only one who'd noticed.
Marc had to admit that Marcos knew how to throw a party. An hour in, the living room was packed, the music had grown louder, and the carefully arranged Regency table had become a staging area for abandoned glasses and half-finished drinks. Someone had already spilled something on the floor, which was cleaned up immediately and there was a heated discussion happening near the fireplace about whether a werewolf counted as a Halloween costume or a lifestyle choice, and Marcos himself seemed to be everywhere at once, laughing, introducing people, and making sure nobody went without a drink.
Marc, meanwhile, had found himself at the bar with three girls who seemed to think his costume was the funniest thing they'd seen all evening.
“So, what are you supposed to be?” one of them asked, leaning her elbows on the counter.
Marc looked down at his red tracksuit, then at the gold chains resting against his chest. “Seriously?”
She laughed. “I just want to hear you explain it.”
“An eighties rapper. Very exclusive. Very expensive.” He lifted one of the chains between his fingers. “You can't get this kind of style just anywhere.”
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely. Years of training.”
“Training in what? Looking ridiculous?”
“Looking good, actually. The ridiculous part comes naturally.”
That earned him another round of laughter, and Marc grinned, thoroughly enjoying himself. He'd never had any trouble talking to women, particularly when they were willing to laugh at his jokes, and tonight he had the added advantage of being dressed like a man who'd escaped from an old music video. They wanted to know whether he could dance, whether the chains were real gold, and whether he always dressed like this when he went out.
He answered every question with a straight face, showing off some 80’s dance moves like the running man and an attempt at moonwalking and making up increasingly absurd stories about his illustrious career as a rapper before any of them could catch him out. He was in the middle of explaining that he'd once opened for a very famous American artist whose name he couldn't remember when something caught his eye across the room.
Baena. Dancing. With a pretty girl who seemed to have arrived after them, wearing the 4th Zorro costume at the party. Marc stopped talking for a moment.
“Oh, this is good,” he murmured.
“What is?” one of the girls asked.
“Nothing. Give me a second.”
Baena had one hand on the girl's waist, the other holding a drink he'd apparently managed to acquire without losing his sword. She was laughing at something he was saying, her black cape swinging around her legs as they moved to the music. They looked surprisingly good together, Marc had to admit. Baena was clearly enjoying himself, and the girl seemed more than happy to encourage him. Then they leaned in to kiss.
Marc's grin widened.
Their hats collided. They drew back, laughing, and tried again. This time, Baena tilted his head one way while she tilted hers the other, both of them apparently convinced that the problem could be solved through sheer determination. Their hats collided again.
Marc nearly choked on his drink.
“Take the fucking hats off!” he called across the room.
Baena shot him a murderous look without moving away from the girl. The girl, to her credit, seemed just as determined. She caught the brim of his hat and tried to angle it backwards, but Baena was already adjusting hers, and somehow they managed to get a kiss the third time. Both their hats fell to the ground as the kiss got deeper. They didn’t seem to care anymore.
Marc turned back to the girls at the bar, laughing helplessly.
“I'm sorry. I can't watch this.”
“You know him?” one asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“Is he always like that?”
“Worse, actually.”
He stayed long enough to finish his drink, accepting a compliment about his costume and promising one of the girls a dance later. But the room was getting hot, the music was loud enough to rattle his ribs, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache settling behind his eyes. He'd had a good time, but he needed a little air. He excused himself, promising to return, and slipped away from the bar.
The corridor leading to the terrace was quieter, the noise of the party fading with every step. The temperature dropped, and he could feel the cool air drifting in from the open doors ahead. He loosened the collar of his tracksuit and rolled his shoulders, already looking forward to standing outside for five minutes without having to shout over the music.
He was halfway down the corridor when someone appeared around the corner. Marc nearly walked straight into him.
“Shit, sorry, mate…”
The apology died on his tongue. Ferran Torres stood in front of him, one hand resting against the wall as he stepped aside to let Marc pass.
For a second, Marc forgot what he'd been about to say. Ferran was wearing a Phantom of the Opera costume: black trousers, a white shirt beneath a fitted black waistcoat, and a dark jacket that gave him an almost old-fashioned elegance. A single red rose was pinned neatly to his chest. The white half-mask covered one side of his face, its clean lines drawing attention to the other, where his hazel eye caught the light spilling from the living room. And he was smiling. Not the polite, slightly distracted smile Ferran sometimes gave people when he was tired or caught in conversation he didn't particularly want to have. This one was warm and effortless, reaching his eyes and softening his entire face. His hair had been styled back from his forehead, leaving his features unobstructed, and the mask somehow made him look even more handsome.
It was ridiculous. Marc had seen Ferran a thousand times. In training, in the gym, on the pitch, in the changing room with his hair sticking up and his shirt half pulled over his head. He knew what the man looked like. There was nothing new about Ferran's face, his eyes, the familiar line of his jaw. And yet. His breath caught for a moment, so briefly that he might have convinced himself it hadn't happened at all.
“Hey, Marc.”
Ferran's voice brought him back.
“Hey.” Marc cleared his throat. “You just got here?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I'm late. Took me longer than expected to get ready.”
Marc looked pointedly at the costume, then back at him.
“Really? I can't imagine why.”
Ferran laughed, a soft, pleased sound, and touched the edge of his mask.
“Too much?”
“No.”
The answer came out too quickly.
Marc recovered by giving him an easy grin, leaning a shoulder against the wall as though he hadn't just momentarily forgotten how to speak.
“No, mate. You look good.”
Ferran's smile changed, growing a little more self-conscious, though the warmth remained in his eyes.
“Thanks. You look…” His gaze travelled over Marc's red tracksuit and the heavy gold chains. “Very eighties.”
“That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all night.”
“I'm sure the girls at the bar had better things to say.”
Marc blinked.
Then Ferran's mouth curved into a mischievous smile, and Marc realised he'd been spotted from across the room.
“Ah,” Marc said. “So you've been watching me?”
“I just arrived.”
“Convenient.”
“I have eyes, Marc.”
“Good ones, apparently.”
Ferran laughed again, and Marc felt that strange little catch in his chest return, softer this time but no less unexpected.
He'd come out here for some fresh air. Instead, he'd run into Ferran Torres looking like a romantic lead in an opera, and suddenly the terrace could wait.
By the time Marc and Ferran made it back to the bar, Marc had abandoned any hope of getting his fresh air. It wasn't entirely his fault. Ferran had asked whether he was going back inside, and Marc, who had apparently forgotten that he was supposed to be escaping the noise, had said yes before giving the matter any serious thought. Then Ferran had smiled at him, and that had been that. He was beginning to suspect the mask was some sort of unfair advantage.
They'd barely settled at the bar before people started gravitating towards Ferran. It was hardly surprising. The costume was doing him favors, but Ferran himself could have turned up wearing a bin bag and probably attracted the same amount of attention. He had that easy, open way of talking to people, smiling as they introduced themselves, remembering names, asking questions and making everyone feel as though he was genuinely interested in whatever they had to say.
Within twenty minutes, they were surrounded. Two girls were standing beside Ferran, one asking about his costume and the other trying to convince him to join them on the dance floor. A guy Marc vaguely recognised from Marcos's circle had joined in, making some joke about the Phantom needing a Christine, while another girl was waiting patiently for an opportunity to get a word in.
Ferran seemed perfectly happy with all of it. Marc couldn't really complain. He had his own audience, after all, and he'd never been one to turn down a little attention. But what he found increasingly entertaining was that, despite all the people competing for Ferran's time, Ferran kept turning back to him.
Every time Marc made a joke, Ferran laughed. Not just a polite little chuckle, either. He laughed properly, sometimes leaning against Marc's shoulder, sometimes ducking his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. It was ridiculously satisfying.
“So, seriously,” Ferran said at one point, reaching for one of Marc's gold chains. He lifted it between two fingers, inspecting it with exaggerated concentration. “How much does this thing weigh?”
“Enough to give me neck problems.”
“I'm surprised you can stand up.”
“I'm an elite athlete. My neck is incredibly strong.”
Ferran snorted. “Your neck?”
“Yeah. You want to test it?”
The words were out before Marc had quite considered how they sounded. Ferran looked at him for a second, his hazel eyes sparkling above the white mask, and then burst out laughing.
“You're such an idiot.”
“And yet you keep talking to me.”
“It's a medical condition.”
Ferran gave the chain another tug before letting it fall against Marc's chest. Marc watched him do it, trying not to think too hard about how easily Ferran touched him. He seemed to have developed a habit of it tonight, finding excuses to nudge Marc's shoulder, steal something from his hands, or lean close enough to speak directly into his ear over the music.
He was affectionate with everyone, Marc knew that. Ferran had always been warm with his friends, particularly when he was in a good mood. But tonight there was something almost boyish about him, a mischievous streak that seemed to grow with every drink. He was charming enough to have half the room hanging on his every word, yet he kept doing things that made him seem about twelve.
At one point, Marc was sitting on a barstool, listening to one of the girls explain the elaborate backstory behind her witch costume, when Ferran appeared at his side.
“Move.”
Marc looked up. “What?”
“Move over.”
“There's an entire bar.”
“I want that one.”
“You want my chair?”
“Yes.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
Ferran grinned, put both hands on Marc's shoulders and gave him a shove. Marc, who hadn't been expecting an actual attempt at eviction, nearly slid off the stool.
“Oi!”
Ferran laughed so hard that he had to grab the counter to steady himself. Marc caught his wrist before he could escape, tugging him back.
“You little bastard.”
“Get up, then.”
“You're unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Ferran said, settling onto the stool the moment Marc stood, “you keep talking to me.”
Marc stared at him. Ferran looked unbearably pleased with himself. It was difficult to reconcile this ridiculous creature with the man who looked so devastatingly handsome in that costume. There was something almost unfair about it. Ferran could stand there with his perfect face, his hazel eyes, that smile, and a red rose pinned to his chest like he belonged in a romantic tragedy, and then ruin the entire effect by stealing someone else's chair and looking smug about it.
Marc was rather taken with the contradiction. He was also beginning to lose track of how many drinks they'd had. They'd started with beer, moved on to whatever someone had ordered for the group, and somehow ended up with cocktails that were far sweeter than Marc usually liked. Ferran had declared one of them disgusting, taken three more sips anyway, and then stolen half of Marc's glass when he'd decided his own was worse.
“That's mine,” Marc protested.
Ferran swallowed and looked at the glass. “Is it?”
“Yes, you dickhead. You've got your own.”
“Yours tastes better.”
“It's the same drink!”
“Maybe you make it taste better.”
Marc stared at him for a beat, then laughed. “You're so fucking annoying.”
Ferran beamed at him over the rim of the glass.
Across the room, Marcos had apparently been keeping an eye on their progress. He came over at some point, still looking immaculate in his Regency costume, though his waistcoat had been loosened and his hair was no longer quite as perfectly arranged as it had been earlier.
He took one look at the collection of glasses in front of them.
“Right. You two need to slow down.”
Marc looked up innocently. “We're fine.”
“Of course you are.” Marcos picked up an abandoned cocktail glass and moved it out of Ferran's reach. “And don't start mixing drinks. You'll regret it tomorrow.”
Ferran placed a hand over his heart, looking deeply offended. “Marcos, I would never.”
Marcos glanced at the glass Ferran was currently holding, then at the one Marc had tucked beside his elbow.
“I'm serious.”
“Yes, Dad,” Marc said.
“Don't call me Dad.”
“Sorry, Daddy!”
Marcos shook his head, laughing despite himself, and pointed a warning finger at them both before disappearing back into the crowd.
They waited approximately thirty seconds.
Then Ferran leaned towards Marc.
“Do you think he'd notice if we had more shots?”
Marc stared at him, fighting a smile.
“Absolutely.”
“Right.” Ferran nodded solemnly. “We should do it, then.”
“That's your logic?”
“It's Halloween. We have to commit to the experience.”
Marc laughed and signalled the bartender. In retrospect, he would later acknowledge that this was not his finest decision. The night became increasingly difficult to piece together after that.
He remembered Ferran dancing with the girls who'd been trying to steal him away all evening, though somehow he always ended up back beside Marc. He remembered the red rose coming loose from Ferran's jacket and Marc pinning it back into place, only for Ferran to pluck it out again and tuck it behind Marc's ear. He remembered telling Ferran that he looked like a divorced opera singer. Ferran had laughed so hard he'd nearly spilled his drink.
He remembered another round of shots, someone insisting they take a group photo, and Baena appearing in front of them to announce that he was officially the best Zorro at the party. Marc had laughed in his face. Ferran had laughed too, which had led to Baena accusing them both of jealousy and threatening to challenge them to a duel.
At some point, the music changed. Ferran, who had been leaning against Marc with his eyes half closed, suddenly straightened.
“Oh, I love this song.”
Marc turned to look at him. “You do?”
“Yeah.”
“You don't even know what song it is.”
“Shut up. I know this one.”
He pushed away from the bar and headed towards the dance floor, taking the red rose with him like a theatrical prop. Marc watched him go, already smiling.
Ferran Torres was many things. A brilliant footballer, a handsome bastard, a charming conversationalist, and, as Marc was about to discover once again, quite possibly the worst dancer he'd ever seen.
Even sober, Ferran had never been particularly gifted on a dance floor. He had enthusiasm, confidence, and absolutely no relationship with rhythm. Alcohol, it seemed, had done nothing to improve the situation.
He started with what might generously have been described as a shoulder roll. Then came a series of steps that appeared to have been borrowed from three different dances and assembled without consulting any of them. He swung his arms, turned too quickly, and attempted some unrecognizable step.
Marc was laughing before Ferran even began to lose his balance.
“Mate!” he shouted over the music. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Dancing!” Ferran yelled back, as though this were self-evident.
“Try doing it to the music!”
“I am doing it to the music!”
He demonstrated by attempting another turn. His foot caught against the edge of someone's costume. For one suspended second, Ferran windmilled his arms, his eyes widening behind the half-mask as he realized that whatever happened next was no longer under his control. Marc barely had time to move. He caught Ferran around the waist as he stumbled forward, the sudden weight sending them both staggering backwards. Marc's trainers slid against the floor, and he managed to brace himself just before they could go down together, pulling Ferran securely against his chest. Ferran grabbed his shoulders. They stared at each other. Then Ferran started laughing.
Marc followed immediately, the sound bursting out of him so suddenly that he could barely keep his grip. Ferran had his forehead pressed against Marc's shoulder, his entire body shaking with laughter, the red rose crushed between them and his white mask sitting crookedly across his face.
“You absolute disaster,” Marc managed.
“I nearly died!”
“You tripped over your own feet! You could have gotten injured! Injured, dancing! Imagine explaining that to the coach!”
“Someone attacked me!”
“Yeah, mate, the floor. Very dangerous.”
Ferran lifted his head, still laughing, his hazel eyes bright and his cheeks flushed. He was so close that Marc could see the tiny crease at the corner of his eye, the one that appeared whenever he smiled properly.
“Thanks for catching me,” Ferran said.
For a moment, beneath the laughter and the music, his voice was softer.
Marc's hands were still resting at his waist.
“Anytime, mate.”
Ferran smiled at him again, that same irresistible, utterly unguarded smile, and Marc felt a strange warmth spread through his chest that had very little to do with the alcohol. Then Ferran attempted to demonstrate the offending dance move a second time, right there in Marc's arms. Marc doubled over laughing. He had to lean over a wall to keep himself steady and still hold Ferran.
And that was the last thing he remembered clearly: Ferran trying to dance, Ferran falling, Ferran in his arms, and the two of them laughing as if there wasn't another person in the world worth paying attention to.
………………………………………..
Marc woke up slowly, which was unfortunate, because the first thing he became aware of was that he was warm, comfortable, and had absolutely no intention of opening his eyes. The second thing he became aware of was that someone was breathing against his neck. He frowned. Someone was also holding him around the waist. Marc opened one eye. Then the other.
The room was unfamiliar, the curtains were drawn, and a thin strip of morning light had found its way through a gap, illuminating a chair with somebody's discarded jacket hanging off the back. His mouth tasted like he'd spent the night licking the floor of a nightclub, his head was pounding, and his body felt as though he'd played another ninety minutes. None of that was particularly surprising. The person tucked against him, however, was.
Marc went completely still. Ferran Torres was asleep in his arms. Not beside him, not merely sharing the bed, but in his arms, with his face tucked into the hollow of Marc's shoulder and one leg hooked between his. Marc's own arm was wrapped securely around Ferran's waist, while Ferran had a fistful of his red tracksuit top gathered in one hand. They were practically tangled together, their bodies fitting against each other with a degree of familiarity that Marc found frankly alarming.
He looked down at himself. Still dressed. He looked at Ferran. No jacket, clothes in disarray, but also still dressed, thank God. Marc released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Right. Fine. Excellent. They were dressed. Nothing terrible had happened. There was no reason to panic. He was cuddling Ferran Torres in a strange bed after a Halloween party, but that was hardly a crime.
He tried to remember how they'd ended up there. The party came back to him in disjointed flashes: the bar, the drinks, Ferran stealing his glass, Baena making a fool of himself in his Zorro costume. Then the dance floor. Ferran attempting to perform what he had apparently believed was dancing, losing his balance, and falling straight into Marc's arms. Marc could remember laughing. He could remember Ferran laughing, too, his hands gripping Marc's shoulders. After that, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Brilliant. He had no idea how he'd got from catching Ferran on the dance floor to waking up in bed with him wrapped around his waist like a particularly affectionate koala. He didn't know who had suggested they go upstairs, who had found the guest room, or why neither of them had thought to sleep on opposite sides of the mattress.
Although, looking at Ferran now, Marc wasn't sure he particularly wanted to investigate the last point. Ferran looked lovely. That was the problem.
His hair was a mess, falling across his forehead in soft, untidy strands, and his face was relaxed in sleep, all the mischievous expressions and easy smiles gone for once. Without the Phantom's mask, without the party lights and the crowd around him, he looked younger somehow. His lips were slightly parted, his cheek pressed against Marc's shoulder, and every now and then he made a faint, sleepy sound as he settled more comfortably against him.
Marc felt something warm and stupid unfurl in his chest. He could stay like this. Just for a little longer. Ferran was warm, the bed was comfortable, and Marc's head hurt too much to consider the logistics of getting up. There was something deeply appealing about closing his eyes again and letting the morning happen without him. He even tightened his arm around Ferran a fraction before catching himself. What the fuck are you doing? He loosened his hold, although Ferran responded by moving closer, burying his face against Marc's neck. Marc stared at the ceiling. This was fine. He was fine. He was simply appreciating the fact that his friend was comfortable enough to cuddle him in his sleep. It didn't mean anything. They were friends. They were affectionate when they were drunk. They'd probably fallen asleep like this by accident.
And thank God nothing had happened. Because imagine the awkwardness.
He and Ferran had been friends for a while. At the national team, they saw each other constantly, trained together, joked around, spent time with the same people. Even after they returned to their clubs, they stayed in contact all the time. Whatever had happened last night, Marc was fairly sure he could handle it, but having to face Ferran after they'd accidentally crossed a line would be a nightmare. Especially if neither of them knew what to say about it. And especially if Marc couldn't remember a single second of it.
He'd never forgive himself if something had happened between them and he'd been too drunk to remember. That would have been a spectacular waste of an experience. The thought arrived uninvited, and Marc's face grew hot. Right. Get up. Now.
Carefully, he extracted himself from Ferran's embrace, moving slowly enough not to wake him. Ferran made a disgruntled noise and reached blindly for the warmth Marc had left behind, but eventually settled against the pillow.
Marc stood beside the bed for a moment, looking down at him. He was tempted to get back in. He was also beginning to suspect he needed professional help. Instead, he found the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the tap. Cold water. That was what he needed. A splash of cold water, two aspirin, a strong coffee, and a plausible explanation for why he looked like he'd been dragged behind a car. He leaned over the basin and splashed his face, then straightened and reached for a towel.
That was when he saw it. A dark mark just above the collar of his tracksuit. Marc paused. He leaned closer to the mirror. The mark was unmistakable. A hickey. He stared at it. Then he slowly pulled the collar of his tracksuit top down. There were more. One near his collarbone, another lower down, partially hidden beneath the fabric. He turned his head, examining the side of his neck, and discovered another one tucked just below his jaw.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”
He touched one with his fingertips, as though that might somehow make it disappear. It did not. His face went hot. He had hickeys. Multiple hickeys. On his neck, where everyone would be able to see them the moment he walked out of the guest room. Which meant that something had happened. Something considerably more interesting than falling asleep in a friendly cuddle.
Marc gripped the edge of the basin. He tried to reconstruct the evening again, searching desperately for some memory of kissing someone. A girl at the bar, perhaps? One of the girls he'd been flirting with? Had he gone back to the dance floor? Had someone dragged him away?
Nothing. All he could remember was Ferran falling into his arms.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. Then, very slowly, his thoughts returned to the person still sleeping in the bed. Ferran. Marc swallowed. No. Surely not. He and Ferran had been drunk, yes, but that didn't mean they'd done anything together. They'd been surrounded by people all evening. Marc had spent half the night talking to girls, and Ferran had been practically mobbed by admirers. It could have been anyone.
Still, the thought had taken root, and now Marc couldn't get rid of it. He needed to ask Ferran. He needed to know whether Ferran remembered anything. And he needed to do it before he completely lost his mind.
“Ferran.”
A muffled groan came from beneath the duvet.
“Ferran, wake up.”
“No.”
Marc stood beside the bed with his arms crossed. “Mate, come on.”
“Go away.”
“It's morning.”
“Then tell it to go away.”
Marc pulled the curtains open and bright light flooded the room.
Ferran pulled the duvet over his head.
“The light! It's attacking me.”
“You're being dramatic.”
“I'm dying, Marc.”
“Yeah, well, you're going to have to die with your eyes open for about thirty seconds.”
“No.”
Marc sat on the edge of the bed and gave his shoulder a shake.
Ferran responded by rolling away from him, dragging the duvet with him until Marc was left holding an empty corner.
“You're an absolute bastard,” Marc muttered.
“Love you too.”
The words were so sleepy and casual that Marc nearly forgot why he'd come in. Then Ferran shifted onto his back, squinting up at him through messy hair.
“What?”
Marc hesitated. He could hardly ask, Hey, mate, did we make out last night? Because I have a collection of hickeys and no memory of acquiring them. He needed to be subtle.
“So. Do you remember getting back here last night?”
Ferran frowned, apparently searching through the ruins of his own memory.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I remember dancing.”
Marc snorted. “You call that dancing?”
“Fuck off. I was brilliant.”
“You fell over.”
“Because someone got in my way.”
“The floor?”
Ferran managed a weak, offended smile. “Exactly.”
Marc laughed despite himself, then grew serious again.
“And after that?”
Ferran closed his eyes, thinking.
“Nothing. I remember you catching me. Then I remember laughing.” He paused. “Did we come upstairs?”
“Apparently.”
“Right.”
He sounded genuinely puzzled, but not particularly alarmed.
Marc studied his face. “Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?”
Ferran opened one eye. “Why? Did I do something embarrassing?”
“That's a very broad question.”
“Marc.”
“No, nothing. I just can't remember much after the dancing.”
“Me neither.” Ferran rubbed his face with both hands. “My head is killing me.”
Marc hesitated once more before pulling his collar aside. “Do you know where these came from?”
Ferran blinked at him. Then he sat up a little. His eyes travelled over the marks on Marc's neck, and his expression changed from sleepy confusion to open amusement.
“Oh my God! You got lucky!”
Ferran started laughing, immediately regretted it, and clutched his head.
“Oh, that hurts.”
“Serves you right.”
“Mate, it looks like you've been attacked!”
Marc stared at him. “Attacked?”
“Look at you!” Ferran gestured towards his neck, still laughing. “Who did that?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out!”
Ferran shook his head in delighted disbelief. “Someone at the party clearly liked you.”
“Very funny.”
“No, seriously. You were surrounded by girls all night. One of them must have decided to make her move.”
Marc thought about that. It was entirely possible. He'd been flirting, drinking, and generally enjoying himself. Someone could have kissed him without it being particularly memorable. Except the idea made him feel strangely disappointed. He couldn't explain why. Ferran was still grinning at him.
“Don't worry,” he said, reaching out to pat Marc's shoulder. “Next time, I'll be more vigilant. I'll protect you from the girl attacks.”
Marc looked at him.
“Girl attacks?”
“It's a serious problem. Clearly, you can't be trusted to look after yourself.”
“I'm pretty sure I can handle myself.”
“Not according to your neck.”
Marc threw a pillow at him. Ferran caught it against his chest, laughing again. And there it was: that familiar warmth, that easy affection, the way Ferran could turn an embarrassing situation into a joke and make Marc feel ridiculous for worrying about it. Marc felt marginally better. At least Ferran didn't seem to remember anything strange happening between them. There was no awkwardness in his expression, no uncertainty in the way he looked at Marc. He was simply amused by his friend's unfortunate condition. Which was good. Obviously. And if Marc had to admit that he would have preferred it if Ferran had been responsible for the marks, well, that was a private matter. One he intended to take to his grave.
“I'm going to shower,” Ferran announced, throwing the duvet aside. “I need to feel human again.”
“Good luck with that.”
Ferran got to his feet, swayed slightly, and pointed at Marc. “Don't let any girls near you until I get back.”
“Go shower, you idiot.”
“I'm serious.”
“Out.”
Ferran laughed his way into the bathroom, leaving Marc alone with the headache, the hickeys, and the growing suspicion that his own brain had become his worst enemy.
Marcos was already in the kitchen when Marc finally made his way downstairs. He looked offensively well-rested. His hair was tied back, he'd changed into a simple T-shirt and sweatpants, and he was standing by the counter making coffee as though he hadn't spent the previous night hosting a house full of drunk footballers and people dressed as supernatural creatures.
Marc, meanwhile, felt as though his skull had been used as a percussion instrument.
“Morning,” Marcos said cheerfully.
Marc stopped in the doorway.
“Don't.”
Marcos looked over his shoulder.
Then his eyes dropped to Marc's neck.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Oh.”
Marc closed his eyes.
“Please don't.”
Marcos turned fully towards him, coffee forgotten.
“Pubill!”
“Marcos.”
“Mate!”
“Don't.”
Marcos burst out laughing.
Marc dragged a hand down his face. “Can I have an aspirin? Or two?”
“Of course.” Marcos was still grinning as he reached into a cupboard. “Although I have to say, I didn't expect you to have that much success last night.”
“Can you just give me the aspirin?”
“I'm impressed. You were absolutely gone.”
Marc froze.
“What?”
Marcos placed two tablets on the counter and handed him a glass of water.
“You and Ferran. I had to get you both to a guest room before you collapsed in the middle of the living room.”
Marc stared at him. “You took us upstairs?”
“Well, yes. Ferran could barely stand, and you weren't doing much better. I tried to get you to walk, but you kept stopping to laugh at absolutely nothing.” Marcos shook his head fondly. “I practically had to carry you there one by one.”
“One by one,” Marc repeated faintly.
“Yes. I got Ferran into bed first, then came back for you. You were arguing that you could manage on your own, which was particularly convincing given that you were leaning against a wall.”
Marc took the aspirin with a hand that suddenly felt less steady than it should have. He remembered none of this. Absolutely none of it. Marcos, apparently oblivious to the crisis unfolding in Marc's head, gave him another cheerful pat on the shoulder.
“Anyway, congratulations. You certainly had a good time at my party.”
Marc stared into his glass. So if Marcos had taken them upstairs immediately after Ferran's fall... He'd practically had to carry them to the guest room. That meant there hadn't been much opportunity for Marc to wander off and find some girl who might have left a collection of hickeys on his neck. Not unless she'd somehow materialized in the guest room during the few seconds between Marcos leaving and Marc passing out. Very unlikely. But if Ferran also didn't remembered anything, then… Marc stopped that thought before it could finish.
There was still no proof. It could have been anyone. Maybe he'd kissed someone earlier in the evening and simply forgotten. Maybe…
Marcos seemed suspicious and Marc wanted to crawl into a cupboard and remain there until the next football season. Fortunately, before Marcos could ask any questions, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Is there coffee?”
Ferran appeared in the kitchen wearing one of the guest bathrobes, a towel draped around his neck as he rubbed his damp hair with another. His face was freshly washed, his hair was sticking up in several directions, and he looked considerably more present than he had 15 minutes earlier. He also looked entirely too comfortable.
“Morning,” Marcos said. “There's coffee on the counter.”
“Legend.”
Ferran went straight to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup, and wandered over to the sofa in the adjoining sitting area. He sat down with a contented sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, the bathrobe falling open slightly as he settled back. Marc was doing his absolute best not to look at him. He really was. He'd turned his attention to his glass of water and was concentrating on swallowing without making a fool of himself when Marcos's expression shifted. It was a tiny change. A flicker of curiosity, followed by the unmistakable look of someone who had just noticed something interesting.
Marcos looked at Ferran. Then he looked at Marc. Then, very deliberately, he looked back at Ferran. Marc's stomach dropped.
“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Marcos didn't answer.
He simply tilted his head towards the sofa. Marc followed his gaze.
Ferran had shifted to reach for the remote, pulling one knee up onto the sofa. The loose robe had fallen open farther, exposing the inside of his thigh. There, against his otherwise unmarked skin, was a dark, unmistakable bruise of colour. A hickey.
Marc stopped breathing. For a moment, he could only stare. Then Ferran adjusted his position, the robe falling back into place, and the mark disappeared from view. But Marc had seen it. He'd seen it, and Marcos had seen it, and now Marcos was looking at him with an expression that suggested he'd just solved a mystery and was enjoying the discovery far too much.
Marc felt the heat rise through his entire body. His neck was burning. His ears were burning. He was fairly sure his face had turned the exact colour of the red tracksuit he was still wearing since the previous night.
Marcos slowly raised his eyebrows. Marc shook his head, barely perceptibly. Don't. Marcos pressed his lips together. His shoulders began to shake. Don't you fucking dare.
Across the room, Ferran took a sip of coffee and sighed happily, apparently unaware that his morning had just become considerably more complicated.
“God, I needed this,” he murmured, sinking deeper into the sofa.
“I’m sure you did!” Marcos said sweetily and turned away, covering his mouth with one hand. Marc stared at the floor. There was no way. There was absolutely no way.
And yet, as he stood there with his own hickeys on full display and the memory of Ferran falling into his arms still the last clear thing he had from the night before, he couldn't think of a single alternative explanation that didn't make his face burn even hotter. Marc wanted to die. Marcos was looking at him. Marc was looking at the floor. And Ferran, blissfully unaware that he was sitting in the middle of what had suddenly become the most mortifying morning of Marc's life, was blowing on his coffee.
Marcos took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. Then he glanced towards Ferran, who was now scrolling through his phone with the relaxed air of a man who had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Marcos looked back at Marc. Marc shook his head desperately. Marcos grinned.
“Oh, this is interesting.”
“Marcos, I swear to God!”
“What's interesting?” Ferran asked, looking up from his phone.
“Nothing,” Marc said immediately.
“Nothing,” Marcos echoed, far too innocently.
Ferran looked between them. “You're being weird.”
“I'm being perfectly normal,” Marcos assured him.
“You're never perfectly normal.”
“Careful, Torres. You're a guest in my house.”
Ferran laughed and went back to his phone, apparently satisfied with that explanation. He took another sip of coffee, shifted on the sofa, and tucked his feet beneath him, the bathrobe falling open just enough to give Marc another glimpse of the mark on his thigh.
Marc looked away so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. Marcos made a small choking noise into his cup. Marc glared at him, but it was difficult to maintain any kind of threatening expression when his face was burning and his best friend was clearly having the time of his life at his expense. Marcos leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Listen, mate. I'm not going to ask questions.”
“Good.”
“I'm not going to make assumptions.”
“Excellent.”
“But I will say this.” His gaze flicked briefly towards Ferran. “Whatever happened last night, you two seem to have had a very good time. My party was a huge success!”
Marc made a strangled sound and dragged both hands down his face.
Across the room, Ferran looked up again. “Are you two talking about me?”
“No,” Marc said.
“Yes,” Marcos said at exactly the same time.
Ferran raised his eyebrows.
Marcos smiled. “We're discussing your dancing.”
“Oh, fuck off. I am great at dancing!”
Marc stared at him. This man had a hickey on his thigh. Marc had matching evidence all over his neck. And Ferran Torres was sitting on the sofa in Marcos Llorente's guest bathrobe, drinking coffee and defending his dancing as though that was the only thing worth discussing. Marc didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or go back upstairs and hide beneath the duvet until Christmas.
“Your dancing was a public safety hazard,” Marc managed.
Ferran pointed at him. “You caught me, though.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You were very good at it, too.”
Marc looked at him. Really looked at him. At his messy hair, his sleepy smile, the bathrobe hanging loosely around his shoulders. At the little crease beside his eye, at the mouth Marc suddenly had an embarrassingly strong desire to kiss just to see whether it would feel as good as his increasingly unhelpful imagination suggested. Then he thought about the marks on his own neck. And the one on Ferran's thigh. And the fact that neither of them remembered a damn thing.
He could spend the next week agonizing over it. He could pretend nothing had happened, avoid the subject entirely, and continue being Ferran's friend while quietly losing his mind every time Ferran touched him.
Or he could do something about it.
Not today, obviously. Today he was hungover, humiliated, and fairly sure Marcos would never let him live this down. But eventually, at some point when they were both sober, he was going to have to find out what happened last night. And, if the universe was feeling even remotely generous, he was going to have to make sure it happened again. Only next time, he intended to remember every second.
Ferran nudged his knee with a bare foot.
“Marc?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re making a weird face.”
Marc smiled at him, helplessly.
“Yeah, mate. I'm having a moment. Hangover, you know.”
Ferran laughed, reached over, and tugged one of Marc's ridiculous gold chains.
“Come on, rapper boy. Get me some more coffee.”
Marc looked at his hand, then at his face. Oh, I'm absolutely getting a repeat.
He stood up, took Ferran's empty cup, and headed towards the kitchen before his expression could give him away. Behind him, Marcos caught his eye over the coffee machine. He grinned and made a whiplash gesture.
Marc mouthed, Not a word. Marcos lifted his mug in a silent toast. Marc was never going to hear the end of this. But, he decided as he glanced back at Ferran, who was smiling at something on his phone, it might just be worth it.