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It starts with a prank gone wrong.
Julian is Switzerland, a neutral party in a locker-room engaged in a chaotic war. It was his fault, probably, careless with his things as he had prepared for the morning training session. His scarf had been forgotten on the bench, ambiguously lain between cubbies. So really, when he comes back to find his scarf among the casualties the latest battle, soaking wet and half green, Julian had sighed to himself and grumbled a bit, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth getting upset about. He’d drop it in the laundry bin with the days training kits and pick it up tomorrow and that would be the end of that.
At-least that’s the plan right up until Presnel takes one look at the sad looking scarf in Julian’s hands.
“Aw shit, babe, that was yours? Fuck I’m sorry I didn’t know.”
Julian just shakes his head.
“ ‘S not a big deal. I’ll drop it in with the kits and it’ll be good as new in the morning."
“Yeah but what about for today,” Presnel points out, frown deepening. “It’s snowing!”
Julian huffs and rolls his eyes.
“I think I can survive without it for a day.”
Presnel doesn’t seem to hear him, staring thoughtfully at one of the green stains that now adorn Julians scarf. He snaps his fingers.
“I’ve got it. Don’t move.”
Julian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, again. He’s still in his training gear he’s not going anywhere without showering first. He pulls off his shirt, tossing it into the laundry bin and throwing the scarf in as well for good measure. His shorts are halfway down his thighs when a soft something is tossed around his head and neck, blurring his vision.
“There. You can use mine until yours comes back from the wash.” Presnel’s tone is cheery. He’s still smiling as he reaches up to play with the scarf, burying his fingers into the knit and looping it once more around Julian’s neck.
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll let you keep it,” Presnel’s smile widens, his fingers still playing along the edge of the scarf. “This color looks good on you. Better than on me I think.”
His eyes sweep Julian once over, and Julian hopes his blush isn’t spreading past his neck. He’s suddenly extra away of the fact that his shorts are half-off, the band tight around his lower thighs.
“Ha. Thanks! Uhh- I mean, I guess blue was always my color?” Julian laughs nervously, suppressing to urge shield the lower half of his body with his arms. “Well, uh. I mean. I guess I’ll -” instead he gestures down to his leg a little helplessly.
Presnel’s glance follows his gesture and Julian’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat as Presnel’s eyes widen as they trail past his hips.
“Hah. Yeah, I’ll uhh, i’ll let you get back to that, then.”
Presnel winks and Julian’s pretty sure his eyes dart down to his hips once more before he turns and walks away.
Julian decidedly doesn’t think about it.
The cold shower he takes five minutes later is entirely unrelated.
-----
Julian feels stupid.
No well, correction, what Julian actually feels is cold. He feels cold because he stupidly forgot his hoodie on the kitchen counter and now they’re going on an outdoor tour of a facility whose purpose had been explained to them in great detail but he had been too goddamn cold to pay attention to.
So he’s already in a bad enough mood when Presnel saddles up to him, looking perfectly content in his baby-pink get-up. Had he been in a better mood (read: warmer) he might have made some light-hearted joke about the glasses being a bit too much, even for you Kim.
As it were, all that fun joking energy Julian can muster up usually is being spent trying to keep warm so the best he can manage is a once over.
“Something wrong, mon cher?” Presnel said in a tone cherry enough to warrant a glare.
“ ‘m cold is all,” Julian responds petulantly, even while leaning into Presnel, desperate for some semblance of warmth..
“Ah mon bebe,” Presnel sighs and steps back ignoring the way Julian whined for the missing body heat.
He wordlessly hands Julian his hat and before Julian can protest, peels off his hoodie.
Ok now Julian officially feels bad. Bad and a little dumb. And still cold.
“Presko, no. You’ll be cold.”
Presnel ignores him, opting instead to jam the sweater over Julian’s head.
“m not a child.” Julian’s voice is still muffled.
“Really? Well, you could have fooled me.” Presnel tugs harder and the fabric sweater falls where it should.
Julian sighs and pouts a bit, but in the end, the warmth wins him over.
So he accepts the gesture, warming his hands with his breath before moving to tuck them into the kangaroo pocket. Presnel catches his hand before he can do so.
“Jesus, fuck Babe. You’re hands are still like ice cubes! Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Presnel starts with Julian’s right hand, cupping it between his own and rubbing gently. He kneads at the palm and moves upward, carefully pulling at each finger. He repeats the same with Julian’s left hand, all the time muttering about ‘stupid, stubborn, germans.’ Or atleast, that’s what Julian thinks. Presnel’s french can be difficult to understand even in the best of times.
Julian tucks his hand into the pocket as he waits for Presnel to finish, hoping anyone watching will attribute Julian’s flushed face to the weather.
The feeling has mostly returned to Julian’s fingers when Presnel stops his ministrations. He, however, does not let go of Julians hand as expected. Instead, Presnel laces his fingers with Julian’s and pulls them both up to his mouth, bathing them in warm breath before pressing a kiss to the back of Julian’s hand.
“There, all better now!” Presnel says satisfied, seemingly unaware of how he’s rendered Julian incapable of speech.
“Oh shit, the tour’s moved on without us. C’mon babe, quick!” Presnel tugs Julian behind him and navigates them through the facilities and back to the team.
Presnel doesn’t let go of his hand until they board the bus to go home.
Julian finds he likes it too much to complain.
-------
Julian is staring at the bench.
More accurately, he’s staring at the jersey that’s neatly folded on the bench. Returning from a shower to find a jersey at his locker isn’t exactly uncommon, he is a football player after all. But- the name on the jersey is most certainly not his.
It’s carefully folded, the rectangular shape allowing for the bold lettering spelling out ‘Kimpembe’ to be easily read by anyone passing by.
Julian squints his eyes. The jersey doesn't seem to disappear under his glare. He sighs, checks around to ensure no one is watching, and then moves the offending item out of his space. He is still wrapped in only a towel after all.
And so he determinedly opens his locker, determined to more rigorously evaluate the situation once he has some pants on. He doesn’t, after all, want Presnel to catch him half naked and contemplating the jersey.
Julian comes to find an explanation for the jersey two minutes later. Someone (most definitely Presnel, his brain supplies helpful) had gone to the liberty of clearing all the shirts out of his locker, clean or dirty.
It’s fine- Julian knows how to pick his battles and anyone could see this was a losing one from miles away. So he grabs for the jersey and tugs it over his still wet hair before he can overthink the whole thing.
The fit is almost perfect which was strange because he could have sworn Presnel wore a size larger. The blue is, at least, familiar color for Julian, comforting in a way neither green nor red have ever been. The crest ( ‘A cock,’ Leroy had snickered, back when they still in U21’s, the first time they’d lined up against Les Bleues’) an alien weight against the chest.
He felt the eyes following him across towards the mirror, though maybe it was just the burning of Presnel’s name across his shoulder blades. No matter, if there was anything Julian had learned during his time as a professional, it was how to ignore unwanted attention.
So he picks up the brush and the blow dryer and gets to work on his hair. Presnel will find him.
---------
It takes longer than Julian predicted for Presnel to approach him. His hair is already mostly dry and he’s starting to feel a little exposed so when Presnel starts filming, he doesn’t say anything. He waits as Presnel walks in a mini half-circle, cracks a smile when he gets in real close exclaiming about how ‘see, he is french!’ He half turns to point at the name, as if anybody could have missed how perfectly Presnel’s name fit stretched across his back.
He waits for Presnel to finish recording, puts down the brush, and kisses him.
The kiss shouldn’t feel special, really nothing more than a simple press of lips in a half-empty locker room. But for Julian it feels like coming home
He moves to pull away when he feel Presnel’s hand grab at his shirt and draw him back in before their lips can part. Julian can feel Presnel smiling into the kiss and he can’t help but to reach his hand up and stroke at his cheek. Presnel’s tongue runs along the seam of his bottom lip and Julian opens his mouth instinctively, swallowing one of his moans. The kiss starts to creep into R rated territory when Presnel pulls away.
"I thought you'd never catch on," he whispers.
Julian’s staring at Prensel, trying to figure out the classiests way to ask ‘yours or mine?’ when another voice interrupts his train of thought.
“Oh come on, you guys couldn’t have waited until the international break to do this ?” Layvin groans as he passes a smug Christopher a fifty euro note.
“I still can’t believe I lost money on that hand-holding bullshit,” Thilo mutters darkly, glaring at the pair. “Julian, you owe my a hundred euros.”
Julian splutters.
“What for ?!”
“For being a dumbass! A man gives you the shirt of his back and warms your hands for you and you don’t kiss him? Did your mother not teach you any manners?”
“Wait, hold on.. you guys were beating on whether I’d kiss him?”
“Please,” Thilo huffs and rolls his eyes. Someone else calls out a ‘Heads-Up’ and Julian moves reflexively, almost missing how Thilo snatches a roll of bills right out of the air. “That’s not the only thing we were betting on. Mbappe if this is even a euro short...”
Kylian enters joins them from a side-hall where he’d apparently been throwing things.
“I thought they taught you how to count over there in Germany,” he sits down next Thilo, close enough that their knees touch with each word. “See, just like we agreed, twenty five if Drax makes the first move. If you want anything more you’ll have to take me to dinner first…”
Julian turns back to Prensel, feeling oddly intrusive despite the circumstance. Presnel is still gripping the jersey, the number four oddly distorted beneath his hand.
“So… “ Julian starts nervously, somehow still unsure of where he and Presnel stand.
“So, I was thinking... I could come home with you?”
Julian bites his lip.
“Your place is closer?”
Presnel smiles.
“Mine it is then.”