Chapter Text
For as long as he can remember, Flo's father has said that when it comes down to it, one of the reasons why he‘s such a brilliant football player is his quick decision-making. An innate ability that made him stand out in the junior teams all the way back, one he has gradually perfected over the years and that to this day can still make all the difference.
Football is like that – sometimes all it takes is one shot, one chance, one well-timed decision. You win some, you lose some, obviously, but overall it has worked out quite well for Flo.
He calls Jamal purely on impulse. And it takes him exactly five seconds to realise that it’s actually not a good idea, which is of course, the exact amount of time it takes Jamal to pick up.
“—Flo? What’s up?” He asks, open concern lacing his words. It’s almost eleven P.M. Flo has never called him this late before. In fact, for the most part, they don't call each other at all. They always stick to texting.
If Flo is breaking the rule, something bad must have happened, Flo can’t blame him for thinking that, which, god, something did happen but—
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” He croaks out, sounding very much not fine. What the fuck is he doing?
“How—How about you?”
“—What?”
He clears his throat, willing his voice to go back to normal and failing miserably. “How are you?”
He doesn’t need to see Jamal to be able to picture the bewildered look on his face.
“I’m good,” Jamal says slowly, as if unsure of what direction this is going in. When he seems to realise, a few seconds of loud silence later, that he’s not going to get a reply, he adds generously: “A bit hungover, actually.”
There’s a bit of shuffling on the other end as if Jamal is rummaging through a drawer in his bedroom. “I was at Michael’s for his birthday yesterday,” he explains and Wow, this was a very very bad idea. Flo feels hot all over, has to bite his tongue to keep himself from blurting out I know.
Jamal probably has no idea that he saw the picture. Maybe he hasn’t even checked Instagram, doesn’t know that Olise posted it at all. Fuck.
Suddenly, the impulse to confront him is there full force, but the lump in his throat makes him hesitate — what is he even supposed to say — and the moment passes.
“Can‘t believe I wasn‘t invited,“ he finds himself saying instead.
“If you moved to Munich you would’ve been,“ Jamal replies easily and even though Flo isn‘t sure if that‘s true— He can count on one hand the amount of conversations he’s had with Olise and on the other the amount of words the Frenchman has said to him in total, they’re not friends or anything, it’s a nice thought.
For a moment he allows himself to entertain the idea, if only to distract himself from his racing heart and imagines meeting with the rest of the Bayern team at Säbener Straße every morning. Imagines what it would be like to live minutes away from Jamal instead of hours, to be able to shoot him a text asking him to hang out when he’s bored instead of requesting to play 8 Ball on iMessage.
“I think you’d like it here,” Jamal says, keeping his voice light but Flo hears the slight edge to it. There it is again, that topic they’ve been dancing around all summer.
Jamal has never outright asked him about his transfer plans, why he doesn’t know. It’s weird considering Flo knows the ins and outs of his contract with Bayern, in fact he likes to believe he’s the first one Jamal told the day he decided to extend it, although he probably wasn’t. Still, they’ve talked at length about it all and yet never about Flo’s future.
It’s odd because he’s sure Jamal knows that he wouldn’t mind him asking. He’d tell him the truth, always has and always will.
Flo fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt. Over the past few months he’s gotten pretty good at knowing what Jamal precisely doesn’t want him to say, what makes him squirm and roll his eyes. Now that the silence between them is tinged with this strange tension he’s struggling. As it turns out, figuring out what Jamal wants him to say is quite a lot harder.
I think you’d like it here, Flo’s thoughts echo uselessly and his brain gets all mushy because it sounds an awful lot like I’d like you here, doesn’t it?
The truth is, Jamal doesn’t have to ask him about the transfer. Flo could just straight up tell him. But he won’t, not yet. Not tonight.
“I dunno,” he teases. “Munich seems great but you know, the people I’m not sure about”
Jamal sighs in mock-disappointment. “See, this is why you’re not invited to things”
Flo grins, finally feeling a little more like himself as they ease into their familiar banter. He can do this, he’s good at it.“I heard they’re all up their own asses, thinking they’ll win the league just because they’ve done it once or twice in the past...”
“Big words coming from someone whose team won last season but is now…what? Fifth in the league?” Jamal shoots back.
Flo ignores him. “Their stadium looks stupid too. Ugly ass red.”
Jamal snorts. “Red is your club color too, dumbass.” Oh wait. He's right.
“Our red looks better though,” Flo argues.
"It's red. There's no difference!”
“Yeah, there is,” he insists. “Your red is too bright…like a stop sign red! It just hurts to look at. Ours is way nicer. Classier. Like…” He searches his brain for a good comparison. “Like wine.”
“Dude, I don’t think you know what wine red looks like,” Jamal replies. “And since when do you think wine is classy? You don’t even like wine.”
“No, but soon I will, I’m training myself to like it.”
Turns out you can’t exactly order Vodka Energy at a posh business dinner with club representatives. Whoops. He learned that one the hard way. In his defense, he was seventeen and still trying to wrap his head around the fact that apparently you're supposed to care more about the taste of alcohol than about achieving the goal of getting drunk. Who knew.
“You’re training yourself to like something you don’t? That’s stupid,” Jamal decides, in that definite way in which he says things sometimes. No room to argue with facts. Merely stating the obvious, a bit crass, bordering on condescending.
The sky is blue, the grass on the pitch is green. C’mon, of course you’re gonna score against Scotland, dummy. Flo feels a little lightheaded, thinking about it now, vaguely remembers thinking Jamal could tell him anything and he’d probably believe it.
He has the inexplicable urge to argue with him now.
“It's not stupid, it’s called being a grown-up,” he insists. “Plus I don’t even mind the taste that much. I just don't understand how people can taste the grapes or what country the wine comes from. I met this guy who said he could tell what soil the vineyard was made of based on the taste alone. That’s insane. Don’t you think that’s insane?”
Jamal snorts. “Have you considered that maybe he lied to you?”
Flo sighs dramatically and sinks back into the cushions on his bed. “Jamal,” he says gravely, “I don’t think he did.”
He stares up at the ceiling and tries to fight it, he really does, but his brain is still stuck on something else.
“I bet Michael can do that too, you gotta ask him. I bet he likes wine, he seems like the type.”
“Because he’s french?” Jamal deadpans.
“No, it’s not that! He just… has those vibes, you know?”
“French vibes.”
“No…” He sighs. “...okay, maybe.”
Jamal laughs quietly and the sound makes Flo feel strangely pleased with himself. For a moment neither of them says anything but then Jamal stifles a yawn.
“Are you tired?”
“A little bit.”
Please don’t hang up. Flo thinks, frantically racking his brain for a way to keep the conversation going. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jamal tells him he wants to go to sleep now, when he’s left alone with his thoughts in the dark. Talking to him is equally nerve-wrecking and grounding.
“Been a weird day,” Jamal mumbles. Tell me about it.
“Weird how?”
“I slept until 12 and woke up with a headache,“ Jamal answers. “I stayed inside the whole day, just watching TV and not really moving much at all. It’s just— My schedule is so hectic at the moment and I barely spend time at home and today I did. I was bored. Can you believe that? I think I haven’t been bored since June.”
“Sounds like a great day to me. Aside from the headache part, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Jamal breathes, sounding unsure.
“You're allowed to have a day off, you know?” Flo says, tentatively.
“I know that,” Jamal scoffs, defensive just like he expected.
And then, quietly, surprising them both, “It’s…still nice to hear.”
The words hang in the silence between them. Jamal has stopped rummaging around. Maybe he’s found whatever he was looking for. Or stumbled upon something he didn’t realise he had.
“You’re too hard on yourself sometimes,” Flo offers. Now that he’s got his foot in the door there’s no way he’s gonna let it fall shut. That’s how they became friends anyway, Jamal giving an inch and him taking a mile.
Jamal hums, an indecipherable sound to probably 99% of the world’s population but not to him. He knows him, knows that it means that while he doesn’t necessarily agree, he’s open to at least considering the idea, open to listening to what Flo has to say.
“I know you think that putting this much pressure on yourself is the reason you got to where you are today and I’m not saying it isn’t,” Flo continues, carefully choosing his words. “But you gotta be able to wind down and actually enjoy what little breaks we get. There’s more to being a great athlete than working hard.”
“When did you get so wise?” Jamal grumbles after a moment. “Are you gonna tell me there’s more to life than football next?”
“Jamal,” Flo grins and lets his voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think there might be more to life than football.”
“No way. You’re lying.”
Maybe it’s the warm fuzziness spreading throughout his body, maybe it’s the fact that he likes the sound of Jamal‘s voice when it turns velvet with sarcasm more than he should, but Flo feels a little daring. He tries to aim for nonchalance but it ends up sounding like a question to his own ears. “You can always call me when you’re bored?”
There’s a beat of silence. He imagines the words traveling across kilometers, across the sea of the night, the citylights spattered like islands in the dark. It’s a weird reminder that it’s just the two of them, for once. They’re stripped of the buzzing atmosphere of a packed locker room, or the looming presence of a sold out stadium.
No witnesses. No audience. Just two people, connected by an invisible line of static.
For a second, he can see him, sitting on the edge of his bed, gnawing at his bottom lip. Just when he thinks he’s not gonna get an answer at all Jamal speaks up again.
“I think I— yeah. I think I’d like that, actually.” A cough. “Thank you”
Flo can feel his face split into a wide grin, a rush of giddiness in his chest.“What was that?”
Jamal groans. “Here we go”
“You're very, very welcome.”
“Shut up.”
“I know I give great advice.”
“You do not.”
“You literally just thanked me, you know?”
“Can’t remember, sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Nah, I think I’ve got the right guy.” Huh. That came out a little funny.
He swallows. “Anything else you need help with?”
“Actually yeah.”
Flo perks up despite himself. “Yeah?”
“I have this issue—” Jamal begins.
“What kind of issue?”
“There’s this annoying guy. He called me in the middle of the night — still hasn’t explained why, mind you. How do I get rid of him? He won’t stop bothering me and I have important things to do.”
Flo giggles, pointedly ignoring the first part. “What do you mean “important things”? You just told me you were bored out of your mind all day.”
“Well, important things that I should have been doing instead of being lazy—”
“Jamal.”
“—Like… doing laundry.”
“Bullshit.”
Jamal sighs. “Dude, I wish I was kidding. I have like two shirts left. I’ve been wearing the same pair of socks for 48 hours.”
“Gross,” Flo grins. “Unless you’re into that kind of thing, I guess.”
“What is wrong with you, seriously.”
He can hear Jamal begin to move around on the other end again.
He clears his throat. “How’s my jersey, by the way?”
There’s a thump, then a muffled curse.
“—Are you good?”
A little strangled, “Peachy”
Did he just–
“Did you drop your phone?”
“No.”
“Right...”
“Have you— have you worn it yet?” Flo presses. The image holds him captive— the muscles of his shoulder blades against the white fabric.
Jamal laughs, a choked up, breathy thing. “You wish.”
Oh. Flo’s mouth goes dry. Should he tell him?
His silence seems to give Jamal enough time to gather his composure.
The only reason why Flo picks up on the slight tilt in his voice is that for a few seconds it becomes the focal point of his entire being. He can’t shake out of it, feels his neck grow hot as Jamal lies through his teeth.
“Wouldn’t put it on even if I had nothing left to wear.”
You little shit. He thinks, dazed.
Jamal has to repeat his name twice for him to realise that he still hasn’t said anything.
“Flo?”
“—Hm?”
“Why did you call me?”
And well, it’s a fair question. One he doesn’t really have an answer to. Because what is he supposed to say?
Sorry, didn’t mean to distract you from doing laundry. It’s just that I realised that I have the biggest most debilitating crush on you and now everything is different except it’s not because you’re still you, laughing at my jokes and playing along. But I’m not me anymore, or I don't know, at least not who I thought I was?
Sorry to keep you up, it’s just that I never had to think much when it came to you, because you’re so damn easy to talk to. And now I don’t know what to do because it doesn’t feel easy at all anymore. This whole thing, whatever it is, feels kind of complicated.
Where’s the line? Is there even a line when you let me get away with just about anything?
You wore my shirt and you lied to me. You wore my shirt and I feel like I’m going crazy.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
People say he’s slow but really, they don’t give him enough credit. Why did you call? A million possible answers are running through his mind. Safe things, harmless lies, some cheeky answer like Jamal might even expect of him at this point – all sitting right on the tip of his tongue.
What slips out, completely by accident, is the truth.
“I miss you.”
He thinks he holds his breath a little.
Jamal makes a weird noise. “We literally saw each other last weekend.”
It’s true. Flo cranes his neck to stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom again, cut in half by the soft glow of his bedside lamp. When he squints his eyes he can pretend to be back in Jamal's flat after the game against Bayern, can feel himself sink further and further into the cushions on his couch, becoming one with it. Can feel his body grow pliant with tiredness and something else, something more deep-rooted, relief maybe, the feeling of something clicking back into place like a dislocated joint.
“Didn’t get to spend much time together though.”
“What do you mean?” Jamal laughs. “We stayed up till 3 am because you said – and I quote,” He drops his voice in a poor attempt to imitate him “it’s too early to go to sleep. I can nap on the bus ride home.”
That’s the part where Flo should probably defend himself, confronted with his own oblivious neediness, maybe he should protest, say something like hey, my voice doesn’t sound like that or even better yet, deny he ever said those things at all.
Maybe he should feel embarrassed.
He doesn’t.
“Wouldn’t let me go to bed,” Jamal breathes, the softness of his words piercing like the sound of snow under a boot.
Not enough time.
“I guess I just—”
Flo thinks of fighting the exhaustion sinking into his bones, thinks of falling asleep to the gleam of the TV and the warmth of their bodies trapped against the smooth leather of Jamal’s couch.
He thinks of the fluttery feeling of having no clue what to do with his hands.
“I guess I wanted to have breakfast with you.”
A few days bleed by and Flo gets wrapped up in the busy schedule of the season.
He’s never been one to half ass things and never one to multi-task. So really, it’s a good thing that he doesn’t hear from Jamal. Because he’s busy, alright, and he knows Jamal is busy too, with preparations for the Champions League and the game against Frankfurt coming up and Meet and Greets and Bayern‘s Oktoberfest celebrations and okay, Flo may have developed a habit of checking his socials.
Because while he very much respects his time he still wants to know what’s going on in his friend’s life and it’s true, technically, he could just shoot him a text and ask but Flo knows he’s got a lot on his plate and doesn’t have time to talk to him.
It’s not that deep.
In fact, Flo has decided things don’t have to be complicated.
And he won’t overthink it, because that’s just not who he is as a person, he won’t overthink it, he won’t.
Instead he does what is expected of him: he channels all his energy into playing football.
He’s wide awake at practice, fierce and unstoppable. Every cell of his body feels lit on fire but his head is blissfully empty. He doesn’t have to tone down his intensity, he reasons, if it makes him improve on the pitch. Today he feels like every bit the generational talent the media praises him to be. So what if his teammates think he’s a little too aggressive when it comes to duels?
“C’mon, that was a yellow!”
“No fucking way!”
News flash, moron, football is a contact sport, Flo thinks as he leans down to help Alejandro up. He barely touched the guy, alright? Always so damn dramatic.
When he turns around he accidentally meets Xabi’s watchful eyes, who crosses his arms before his chest on the sidelines. An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and even though he doesn’t say anything, Flo can feel his face flush with color, feeling caught.
“Trouble in paradise?” His head snaps up. A quite disheveled Granit grins down at him, hair darkened from the post-practice shower, unabashedly craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Flo‘s phone screen, apparently not caring that most people consider that sort of thing at the very least bad manners, if not straight up rude. Flo included.
Although maybe, he had it coming with the way he‘s been sitting in the same spot on this bench for ten minutes, hunched over his chat with Jamal, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The locker room has long begun to empty and he feels vaguely like a foreign body, has yet to even take off his shoes.
Something must show on his face because the curious smile on Granit’s face falters. “Oh shit, really?”
Flo can’t deal with this right now. It‘s day four of no texts from Jamal.
“I didn’t know you guys were actually—”
“We’re not.”
“Oh.. okay.” Now Granit just looks confused. Flo locks his phone like that’ll save him now and suddenly becomes very interested in the contents of his bag, searching for the car keys that he knows are in the pocket of his jacket. He hopes Granit will just take the hint and leave him alone in his misery. Of course he has no such luck.
“Um,” Granit says, scratching the back of his neck. “What’s wrong? Did you guys… have a fight or something?”
Flo sighs deeply. “Worse”
In a spur of the moment decision he unlocks his phone and taps around on the screen for a few seconds.
“Look,“ he says, shoving the photo of Jamal wearing the weird gray Oktoberfest hat into Granits face.
“He looks ridiculous,“ he complains.
“Uhh…” Granit blinks, looking none the wiser. “That’s a big ass hat.”
Flo nods solemnly, a grim look on his face.
“Exactly.”
It doesn’t really get much better after that.
Though at least in the evening he doesn’t have much time to think about it because it’s his oldest sister’s birthday and she invites the whole family to go out to this fancy Japanese restaurant she likes. It’s a nice place, with a sort of cave-like feeling to it, the walls are lined with dark wood and the lights are dim.
Through a wide glass wall you can see into the kitchen where the chefs are stirring pans across open flames, chopping vegetables at a frighteningly fast rate and skillfully arranging plates to be swooped up by a never-ending string of waiters. It’s mesmerising, almost like peeking into some aquarium. Flo loves it.
Although the menu is short, he has a hard time choosing what to eat because the dishes either contain such wild combinations of ingredients that his head spins when he tries to imagine them together on a plate or things he's never even heard of.
He ends up picking what Juliane gets just like he used to when they were kids.
As most of his siblings are already grown up and have children of their own, it‘s rare that they all manage to make their busy schedules align and spend time together nowadays. Flo lets himself get swept up in the excited chatter of the people he loves.
He‘s not quite drunk but a little buzzed, just on the right side of tipsy and everything is funny until a waiter comes and places small glasses of sweet wine in front of them all, a gift from the chef for the birthday girl. Without thinking Flo snaps a picture of it, about to send it to Jamal, no caption needed, only to stop dead in his tracks when he remembers that they don’t text right now.
It’s day four of no texts from Jamal and Flo is starting to feel ridiculous.
You’re 21 for fucks sake, he thinks. Why are you acting like a middle school girl who follows some made up rule about how long you have to wait to message someone to not seem desperate. That‘s insane.
But, but a small part of his brain chimes in, you and him never go this long without texting. If you’re the one making it weird, why hasn’t he texted you yet?
And really, that’s a fair point. Sure, they don’t talk everyday but normally not a week goes by without them linking each other tiktoks or bad skill edits or Jamal sending a screenshot of his latest Subway Surfer highscore because he’s annoying like that.
But now there‘s nothing, only this eerie kind of silence and Flo just knows. He knows something‘s up.
He‘s not going insane and all he‘d have to do to prove it would be to scroll up and analyse the time periods in between their messages. Which he‘s of course not going to do because he‘s being super chill about all of this.
He won‘t complicate things.
It‘s day six of no texts from Jamal when Flo decides that he‘ll text him after training. Because okay, they‘re not really the kind to get sappy with each other but he‘s sure he‘s told him that he misses him before, right? It‘s not a big deal and it doesn‘t matter that he hasn‘t heard from him since. He knows Jamal is busy, there are probably a million things on his mind and it‘s not unlikely that he simply forgot.
Flo will text him after training and everything will be fine. They‘ll go back to normal.
He‘s startled out of his thoughts by Jona slumping down on the bench press next to him, a small towel thrown over one shoulder, airpods in his ears and unsuccessfully trying to prop up his phone so he can still see the person he‘s talking to on Facetime while working out. Talk about efficiency.
Flo is about to reach for his own headphones so he can drown out his voice with music when Jona says “Funny you say that, he‘s right next to me, actually.“
He glances over at him and it takes Flo only about a millisecond to realise who exactly he‘s talking to.
His heart drops to his stomach.
“Jamal says hi,“ Jona announces, taking out one air pod. “He wants to talk to you.“
ShitShitShit.
“I‘m busy,“ Flo mouths and actively has to fight the urge to duck behind something even though Jamal can‘t see him with the way Jona has angled his phone. Jona raises an eyebrow, amusement written all over his face and when he shifts his attention back to his phone screen he tells Jamal, “He says he‘s busy.“
Flo wants to face palm. “Don‘t say it like that!“ he hisses, praying that Jamal can‘t hear him.
The sound of the call is still coming through Jona’s airpods and somehow no moment in his football career, no Champions League game or Euro’s match has felt quite as unnerving as watching his face as he reacts to whatever Jamal’s answer is.
The longer Jamal talks the more Jona seems to grow weirdly intrigued. The mirth crinkling in his eyes morphs into a look that reminds Flo of one a wildlife photographer might have when they accidentally stumble upon a rare exotic species.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he turns to Flo again. “He‘s asking you for a round of rock, paper, scissors.“
“What?“
“I don‘t know, dude.“
Flo hesitates before he takes a deep breath, mentally bracing himself.
“Okay.“
“He‘s in,“ Jona tells Jamal and for the very first time Flo has a hard time picturing what face he‘s making or what he‘s thinking.
“Ready?“
Jona counts down and Flo mechanically shakes his fist. His hand comes out flat. Paper.
Jona laughs, eyes flicking from his phone screen to Flo and back again.
“You won.“
Blood is rushing in Flo‘s ears.
“Won what?"
Jona simply shrugs. “No clue. He just said that it‘s settled then.“
Flo doesn‘t have to worry about texting Jamal because that night he gets a call from him instead.
“Hi,“Jamal breathes and Flo completely blanks, mind reeling. It‘s stupid. He has no idea how he went from using the most obnoxious pick up lines on this guy to a point where a single word, a single vowel leaves him so sickly nervous.
“Hi,“ he echoes uselessly.
“You never do paper.“
“What?“
“When we play rock, paper, scissors,“ Jamal explains. “I was so sure you wouldn‘t do paper.“
“Huh,“ he says and it‘s an odd thought, that in his own hungry efforts to figure him out Flo somehow managed to miss that maybe Jamal has tried to do the same, that he has paid attention to Flo‘s little habits and quirks, that maybe he‘s not the only one who has been categorizing every smile line, every sigh, every word choice.
“Well, you don’t know all my secrets,“ he breathes, hands clammy because he isn‘t sure if it‘s actually true anymore. “Are you going to tell me what I won?“
Silence falls over them and he realises, his heart tripping over itself , that Jamal is lying in bed. He can hear him shift on the mattress.
“When we meet up I‘ll come to Leverkusen instead of you coming to Munich,“ Jamal says nonchalantly. Says When not if, as if they‘ve ever talked about this before.
Flo holds his breath. The ache in his chest is back with a vengeance, without warning and his skin stings like he stumbled front first into an ant pile. God.
“I wanna see you,“ he says, because he has to.
“I know, that‘s why I‘m coming to Leverkusen, idiot.“
Flo closes his eyes. “No, I mean yeah but—“ You‘re the bold one, he thinks. No matter how you feel on the inside. Prove it, come on. Just say it.
“I wanna see you now.“ He rakes a hand through his hair. “Can you maybe…Can you turn on the camera?“
To his surprise, Jamal doesn‘t even hesitate. When Flo feels brave enough to open his eyes, he‘s there, finally, half of his face squished against a pillow, all dark lashes and big brown eyes, looking very very awake despite the dark circles under them.
“You too,“ he demands, pouting like a child and Flo knows he’s done for, can feel giddiness bubble up inside of him, rushing to the surface, uncontainable until it breaks out of him as he too turns on his camera and he can’t stop smiling.
For a moment no words fit between them, they just stare at each other without saying anything. Flo thinks his heart might explode. He thinks it might combust.
“Hi,” Jamal says again, quieter, eyes raking over his face and all of the sudden everything becomes very very real. Flo can see him exhale, watches as he gives in and stops fighting the smile overtaking his own face.
Flo thinks, heart in his throat, that he’s never seen him look like that — so open, so vulnerable and at ease at the same time.
They don’t talk about why they didn’t talk to each other for a week. Instead, they talk about everything else.
Football related things like the upcoming Nations League games or the new drills that Xabi has been incorporating into training sessions. (“Jamal, I genuinely think he’s trying to kill us”) and Jamal‘s hip issues. Eventually, they move on to non football related things like how Jamal’s little sister brought home her first boyfriend the other day and how he’s actually quite sweet and asked Jamal about her favorite perfume.
At some point the jersey comes up again because Flo’s brain can only go so long without thinking about it and when he eyes Jamals oversized hoodie and jokes that for all he knows he could be wearing it underneath right now, Jamal has the audacity to just shrug, Nope, and Flo, who apparently lacks a brain to mouth filter no matter how much media training he does, blurts that he could just take it off to prove it.
It’s —hands down— one of the most embarrassing things he’s ever said to him but he can’t help but think that the embarrassment is worth it, just maybe, when all Jamal does is throw his head back and laugh at him and later rubs at his neck like he’s flustered.
Before Flo knows it, the numbers on his phone screen tell him they’ve been talking for two hours and it’s well past midnight.
“It‘s late,“ he says and Jamal hears what he really means, somehow, that he doesn‘t want the call to end just yet.
He tells him to turn off the lights.
“I‘m too tired to get up,“ Flo tries to protest because in the dark only Jamal‘s silhouette will be left, all important details of him will be lost once again due to the distance between them.
“C‘mon, idiot.“
Even though Flo is not ready to admit it to himself, as with most things Jamal asks of him, it doesn‘t take much convincing.
So he turns off the lights and Jamal does too.
The world shrinks again, shrinks until only Flo‘s bed is left — The covers that smell of the laundry detergent his mom still buys for him, the soft fabric of the duvet, Jamal‘s voice in his ear.
It‘s easy to pretend, the illusion near perfect, that if Flo would turn around on the mattress, he’d find him right there.
It‘s easy to pretend, he thinks, listening to the hum of Jamal's voice, that under the cover of the night he‘d reach for him, that he‘d be brave enough to let his fingers trail across warm skin, across the soft spot where his collarbone meets his neck.
That he‘d wrap his hand around the base of it, timidly, and touch the short curls at the back of his head.
It‘s easy to pretend that Jamal would let him.
Want is a quiet thing that night, flickering like a candle against the muscles of his belly.
“Dude, is that Musiala?” Jeremie exclaims.
Flo’s and Granit’s eyes follow his pointed finger to the Audi at the far end of the parking lot.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Transfering to us,” Jona says drily, a heavy bag of training gear swinging at his side. He grins and waves at Jamal, who awkwardly returns the gesture.
Flo almost laughs because he looks incredibly out of place. He doesn’t get out of the car — A precarious measure, as the car park at Leverkusen's training ground is secluded but far from safe from prying fans and journalists.
“Are you for real?” Jeremie’s eyes grow so big he looks like a fish out of water.
Granit is the one to take pity on him. “He’s joking, man.” With a shit-eating grin he nods in Flo’s direction. “He’s here to see his boyfriend, of course.”
“Still not his boyfriend,” Flo hisses, suddenly very grateful for the fact that Jamal isn’t close enough to hear them. The word boyfriend leaves a funny taste in his mouth.
“But he is here to see you, right?”
He groans, very deliberately not looking over to where he can feel Jamal’s eyes on him.
Fuck, he‘s been waiting so long for this moment and now that the day has come it feels surreal.
“Maybe.”
Before they can further interrogate him, he bids his goodbyes and starts walking towards Jamal’s car. Jona shouts after him to behave which, fair, at this point everyone on the national team knows how Flo gets around Jamal but then again— they really only know the half of it.
Sure, Flo from a few weeks ago deserved to be told to behave around Jamal Musiala. Thing is, Flo today might be in need of a pep talk instead. He feels a little weak in the knees as he makes his way over to him.
Jamal is grinning widely when he climbs into the passenger seat.
He’s all teeth. Flo has to look away for a second because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Don’t I get a hug?” Jamal complains.
Flo swallows but this time when he meets his eyes he doesn’t look away. Focus, he thinks. Don’t think about how that stupid green beanie makes him look adorable.
“Can’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy,” He nods in the direction of his teammates still hovering around by the entrance, doing a pretty bad job at pretending they’re not having a field day.
The corner of Jamal’s mouth twitches. “Still you’re in my car. It’s a little late for that, no?”
“I don’t wanna give them a show,” Flo groans, fastening his seatbelt. “C’mon, let’s go.”
And because Jamal opens his mouth, presumably to call him out for being a hypocrite, he rushes to add: “You can hug me all you want later.”
Some things never seem to change because it does the trick: Jamal huffs but he shuts his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye Flo watches as he puts the car in reverse. This time, with no phone screen distorting the sight, Flo is sure he’s not imagining that his cheeks turn somewhat pink and it makes him feel slightly better about the way his own face burns. Fuck.
His stomach does a nauseating little somersault.
Someone must have cast a spell of nervousness over him, that’s the only explanation. A spell that won’t even lift as the gates to the training grounds get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. There’s something about Jamal’s presence, he realises as they make their way through familiar streets, that makes him feel like a stranger to the city he knows so well.
Leverkusen is far from a worthy contender for Germany’s most beautiful cities, to put it nicely, but he’ll admit he's grown quite fond of it over the years so he makes Jamal take the long way home, pointing at the Christuskirche and restaurants he’s been to, trying to imagine what it all must look like through his eyes. The concrete, the construction sites, the people swarming the streets trying to take advantage of the last rare hours of sunshine before winter’s inevitable arrival.
Jamal is a good driver, fingers flexing around the steering wheel while they make conversation, confidence as an afterthought. It suits him. Flo has a hard time focusing on what he’s saying even while they’re having one of their ping-pong conversations where they try to one-up each other for the thrill of it.
Snap out of it, Flo thinks. You can’t let him win an argument just because—
Just because you like him. His heart soars in his chest.
“Your taste in music sucks ass,” Jamal complains, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil.
“Variety, man,” Flo says weakly. Shit. He really really likes him. “Just because you listen to the same three Kendrick songs everyday don‘t mean you got good taste.”
“Don’t tell me that I need to broaden my horizon again, I swear to god—”
But Flo is a man on a mission now, clinging to their familiar bickering like a lifeline, so he grabs Jamal’s phone and angles it at his face to unlock it. “Hey!”
“Just let me play one song!”
“I already know your 123 Straßenbande,” Jamal groans and tries to snatch his phone back.
“Blasphemy!”
Ever since Jamal confessed that his knowledge of German music is limited to Rolf Zuckowski songs he remembers from kindergarten and Wiesn hits Thomas Müller likes to blast in the Bayern München locker room Flo has understood it as his great duty to introduce him to the art of Deutschrap.
Right now Jamal might look like he regrets every single life choice that led him here but one day he’ll appreciate Flo’s efforts, surely.
Flo puts on Nie wieder by Bushido because C’mon, you gotta start with the classics and it doesn’t take long before he goes down the rabbit hole of explaining the lore behind the rappers infamous diss track against Kay One. Even though Jamal tries hard to act annoyed, it’s clear that he has to bite back a grin as he lets him ramble about Julien’s Blog Battle and the feeling of racing his friends home after school to be the first one to listen to a new Capital Bra song.
When they stop at a red light he leans over the middle console to look at an old Spotify playlist Flo is skimming through.
“Is that song called Neymar?” he asks incredulously, because of course that one would catch his eye and he’s so close that Flo can smell his aftershave.
It’s like someone has knocked all air out of Flo’s lungs, he’s vaguely aware that the traffic light jumps from red to yellow to green and he wants to say something, tell Jamal maybe, but he can’t because he’s still all up in his space and Flo can’t do anything, can’t move, can’t think straight.
When Jamal leans back the first familiar notes of the song bleed through the speakers and Flo has to say something, he has to, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind.
“Your eyes are so brown.”
Jamal shifts gears. “No shit, really?”
Flo groans. “I meant…I meant they’re nice.” He stares straight ahead, can’t look at him because he knows that if he does for even a second the urge to open the car door and jump straight into traffic will win.
It’s a little late for that. He can‘t back down now.
“You have nice eyes.”
Jamal, that bastard, has the audacity to laugh.
“Thank you?”
“Oh my god, I’m trying to give you a compliment, you little shit.”
“You used to be way better at flirting, you know,” Jamal replies without missing a beat. “What happened?”
Flo thinks he can feel his brain shut down because What the fuck.
“Am I flirting with you?” he asks faintly.
Jamal is quiet for such a long time that he has no other option but to look over at him.
“Are you serious?“ he asks, looking like he‘s going through all stages of grief at the same time.
"—Yes?" Flo‘s voice sounds nothing like his own. “No? I don‘t know?“
“Flo.“
He swallows.
“Jamal.”
“If we’re actually going to have this conversation right now,” Jamal says slowly. “I’m gonna pull over.”
Maybe, he realises, this was never a game of tag at all. Maybe they’ve been playing chess instead. Maybe every time he thought he had Jamal cornered, he has been pocketing these little pieces of him without him noticing. Maybe that’s why he can’t move now, why he’s out in the open, exposed, looking for cover and coming up empty handed.
Maybe this is check-mate.
“Okay,“ he whispers as the car comes to a halt.
For the first time that day, when Jamal turns around to him, he has his undivided attention on him. No Leverkusen players, no mediocre city sights, no traffic. His heart feels on the verge of exploding and the dumb Capital Bra song is still playing through the speakers.
It‘s absurd. This whole situation is completely absurd. What the fuck is he doing? There‘s laughter stuck in his throat and he can‘t hold it in anymore, he laughs in disbelief, in shock. When he meets Jamals eyes again they are the softest he‘s ever seen them.
“It‘s only me, idiot,“ Jamal says quietly. “What are you so nervous for?“
Flo swallows. For a brief moment his gaze drops to Jamal's lips, then snaps up again.
“I like you, “ he says, simply. I don‘t want to mess things up.
If he would think it was possible, Flo would think Jamal‘s eyes turn even softer. “I know,“ he whispers. “Maybe do something about it?“
Quite frankly, that’s all Flo needs. For two awkward seconds he struggles to undo his seatbelt, but then he surges forward and connects their lips.
It‘s a chaste kiss, barely more than a peck but when he draws back a second later, lips tingling, Jamal stares back at him with wide eyes, a mirror of how he feels: stunned, breathless, an impatient glint swimming against the brown of his irises.
“Do it properly“, he says, jutting out his chin.
You’re going be the death of me, Flo thinks.
With a racing heart, he leans back in and when their mouths meet this time, he kisses him slowly. It’s nerve-wracking: the unfamiliar feeling of his chapped lips, Jamal‘s smell clouding his senses, the warmth of his body, it’s nothing short of terrifying until Jamal opens his mouth and kisses him back, wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him in, close, closer, and oh. It’s everything.
All of Flo’s worries melt away until his head is blissfully empty and all that’s left is the sweet wetness of Jamal’s mouth and a single thought, the small yet earth-shattering revelation that he was right, that there’s no need to be nervous because it really is just him, it’s just Jamal.
Just the boy he's known for ages, the one who laughs at his bad jokes when no one else will, the one he's made a fool of himself in front of more times than he can count.
Just Jamal, kissing him back with the same vigour with which he does everything and with a determination that’s reserved for Flo alone: to meet him in the middle when neither of them knows the right words.
To give him his all and then some.
Flo ignores the strain in his neck and deepens the kiss, fingers finding the back of Jamal’s head and finally, finally he does what he’s been so desperate to do for weeks. Jamal’s hair is just as soft as he imagined it would be but the sound he makes when Flo’s hand curls around his neck is nothing he could’ve come up with in his wildest dreams.
A sigh escapes Jamal’s lips, like he’s been waiting for this for a long time, like a weight has been lifted off his chest and it reminds Flo of what his voice had sounded like that night, when he‘d told him to turn off the lights.
He thinks about their proximity in the dark and wants to ask.
How long have you been lying there, hidden in plain sight?
Was there a point in time where you were convinced you were alone in this?
Tentatively, he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Did I ever make you feel lonely?
One kiss to the birthmark on his cheek, one to his jaw, then his mouth again.
When they part after what feels like an eternity, Jamal‘s face is flushed, his lips are spit-slicked and he‘s silent. It does wonders for Flo‘s ego. He raises his eyebrows, unable to take his eyes off the sight before him. “Was that better?“
“I hate you” Jamal‘s voice is hoarse.
Flo inches closer, until their faces are mere centimeters apart. He probably looks like a maniac with how much his cheeks hurt from smiling.
“See, I don’t think you do.”
And want is a quiet thing, but the warm feeling taking root in his chest is anything but.
It’s deafening. It‘s broad like a promise.
Flo knows there‘s a name for it.