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The day is dying. The horizon that’s been all shades of blue is now coloured rich gold, with red flames of the setting sun flashing in between the yellowish clouds. The sea surface is calm and untroubled, the light breeze barely touches its stillness. The light is no longer blinding, and Pape takes off his shades to embrace the true palette of the evening. The thin line between the sky and the sea looks like a shining thread.
“Shall we?” He asks Brennan but gets no reply. He tilts his head to take a look and notices how quiet Brennan is. His bare chest moving up and down evenly and his lips slightly parted. He’s sleeping on the sun bed, his long legs covered by a beach towel. He’s too peaceful and Pape doesn’t want to disturb him, but he knows all too well that Brennan would like to be woken up. He never wants to miss the moment when night steps in and claims its rights.
So Pape does what he should — shakes Brennan's shoulder and pinches his side right above the waistband of his swimming shorts. Brennan jumps up and props himself on his elbows, and Pape suddenly regrets waking him up. He could’ve watched Brennan a bit longer, could’ve stayed unnoticed in his quiet admiration.
“Popped a nap, haven’t I?” Brennan smiles and shoves Pape friendly. “Cheers, mate. C'mon, let’s get back to the hotel.”
Pape nods. They are among the last ones to leave. The sand is no longer burning, it’s pleasantly hot against his feet. Brennan throws on a shirt and grabs his bag. For a few moments, Pape watches his long bare soles leave footprints on the beach. Then he follows, and their footprints are intertwined.
Brennan turns back to see if he’s coming.
“What’s off?” He asks slowly. He speaks like that when he wants Pape to understand him, needs Pape to understand him.
“Nothing,” Pape says honestly. Because, indeed, everything is just perfect. Couldn’t be better. Warm evening lights make Brennan’s face tender and unfamiliar.
“Hurry up then, won’t wait for you.”
He will, he’s just teasing, and Pape knows it. Brennan’s considerate and thoughtful, quick to spot if someone is uncomfortable or lonely. That’s how they got along all those months ago.
They have an hour and a half to shower and dress up before the local nightlife kicks off. Before the music is on. Pape knows he’s supposed to like it, but it’s not always the case. Sometimes it’s fun and relaxing and wild and sometimes too loud and too dark. They get recognised once or twice, but more often than not, the girls that approach them have no idea how they make their money. Pape guesses Brennan had his chances with some of those. He’s handsome and easily charming, surely he had some fun.
Pape let a girl suck him off once in those weeks. It was messy and quick, and he was too embarrassed to enjoy the way her wet, soft mouth and clever tongue felt on his dick. He wasn’t sure whether he should’ve thanked her, or kissed her, or asked her name. She laughed, caressed his cheek and told him, her Spanish accent thick, that he was a good boy. It was equally hot and awkward, and as soon as she left the stall, he was all hard again and had to get off with his hand.
The memories of this little adventure are blurry and uncertain, but they still awaken a faint arousal, and Pape touches himself when in the shower. He can hear the sound of Brennan shaving in the other bathroom and, for some reason, imagines the quick slide of the razor against his cheeks and chin. He finishes quickly and suddenly, his orgasm is followed by a dry spasm which leaves him panting. Pape turns the water cold to wash off the sperm and the remaining feeling of excitement.
When Brennan meets him in their joint living room, Pape’s eyes are fixated on the smoothness of his cheeks. His skin shimmers with aftershave, it must smell great, it must be nice to touch it, to follow these lines or the cheekbones with his fingertips. He realises he’s staring.
“Something’s on my face?” Brennan asks, raising his eyebrows, but Pape shakes his head. “If you don’t want to…” Brennan cautiously inquires.
“I want to,” Pape affirms. “And you want it.” He wants everything Brennan wants and is willing to follow him everywhere. And it’s not because he’s indecisive or because he relies on Brennan for casual conversations. No, he simply likes it the way it is. Likes the balance of their young friendship.
“You look good,” Pape says and Brennan smiles at him, slaps him on the shoulder. But Pape’s not lying, the pale pink of Brennan’s shirt compliments his complexion. The colour resembles their third kit of the finished season.
“You don’t look half bad either,” Brennan laughs and Pape adjusts the belt buckle on his jeans.
Neither of them is a heavy drinker, but the summer break means that the borders no longer exist. You can do what you want, feel what you want, try the things that have been frightening even to think of — the heat of the holidays takes off the burden of responsibility and licences all the secret desires. Pape sips his cocktail until he feels brave enough to jump on the dance floor. Is it still early? Is it midnight? Is the morning creeping in? He has no clue as time flows differently here, days are brief while nights are everlasting and overwhelming. The few hours when the moon is up seem as unreal as long forgotten teenage dreams. Pape moves along with the music, feels his body relaxing to the beat, and a girl in a green crop top catches his eye. She winks at him, the thick black of her eyeliner makes her gaze deep and mysterious. Probably he should approach her, probably it’s the right thing to do, but before he makes the first step, someone’s hot breath tickles his earlobe. Pape freezes — the girl is forgotten right away.
“I’ll get going, alright? Don’t feel like sticking around anymore. You okay?”
Pape turns around to face Brennan, and they are so close that their noses are almost touching. The hectic flashes of the club lights scatter this long moment into pieces. Pape wishes these seconds could linger a bit, their proximity is both natural, as if they're on the pitch celebrating, and new because Pape never wanted to reach out and touch a mole right below Brennan’s lips.
“I’m fine,” he replies instantly. “You want to leave? Let’s go together.”
“You don’t have to.” Brennan shakes his head.
“I don’t have to,” Pape agrees. “But I want to.”
Brennan smirks and grabs his wrist, they navigate through the sweaty, drunk crowd until they are outside. It was stuffy on the dance floor but the summer air brings no relief. It’s hot, so hot and Pape takes a deep breath. It’s slightly salty, but there’s no freshness, even though the sea is just a hundred steps away.
“Not feeling well?”
“Nah, I’m good. Just…” Brennan stumbles, trying to find the right word. “...felt kind of out of place. Might be too sober for that, dunno. Let’s go home?”
And home they go, even if home means a double suite in the hotel. They’re welcomed by the dull sound of the air conditioner and the room is so chilly that Pape feels goosebumps creeping up his spine. Brennan doesn’t turn on the light and collapses on the couch in the living room. He grabs the remote, and the screen of the tv set casts blue lights on the floor and on his figure.
Pape washes his hands, but the sound of the open tap is not as loud as the sound of Brennan swearing. He’s upset even if he does his best to hide it, he’s disappointed and bitter, and Pape doesn’t know how to comfort him. If he’s even allowed to comfort him or should just let him sulk a bit and wait till the sea, the sun and freedom cure his sudden melancholy.
When Pape’s back in the living room, it’s still dark and the telly is still on. The re-run of a Euros match is on mute, but Brennan’s eyes are fixed on the screen. Poland is playing Germany (Pape knows it ended 3-1 to Die Mannshaft) and Thomas Müller scores one of his weird, awkward goals that never make it to the highlights of the tournament but also are the epitome of football with clever movement and space-seeking runs.
“Fuck it,” Brennan spits out. Not because he cares who’s gonna win but — realisation dawns on Pape — because he desperately wants to be there. Wants to be on the pitch. To tackle young Zalewski to prevent him from crossing to Lewandowski. Pape sits on the edge of the couch. “They play shite anyway,” Brennan says. ‘They’ are undoubtedly Poland and Pape can only agree. “They do,” he replies quietly, and Brennan turns to him as if he doesn’t expect him to be here. As if he’s missed him coming in (he might have).
There’s an anxious crease between Brennan's brows, his face is always so expressive, so lively that Pape feels Brennan’s despair and disappointment like he feels the scent of his cologne. So close, so tempting, yet untouchable. He doesn’t know the words of consolation, and maybe Brennan doesn't want to hear them. He’s probably had enough of ‘next time’s and ‘will be better’s. And the only form of comfort Pape can think of at the moment is placing his hand on Brennan’s ankle, right where there’s a line of bare skin between the hem of his jeans and the white fabric of his socks.
“Yeah, sorry.” Brennan’s smiling again but his glance gives away the uneasiness. No, Pape cannot let it end this way. Brennan’s pretending and, honestly, he’s not very good at it, or maybe Pape knows him well enough to read through his acting attempts.
“Don’t.” Pape shakes his head. All he needs is some courage, a sip of bravery, and he gets it — from the way Brennan’s lips curl upwards a bit, unsurely yet encouragingly. Pape moves his hand up Brennan’s calf, rolling the oversize jeans up to the knee. He pauses, waiting for something to happen, for Brennan to stop him and to laugh it off. To turn this tension into an inside joke for them two. But there’s no laughter, on the contrary, Brennan is serious and determined. “C’mon,” he says. “Please,” he says. I want it, go on — that’s what Pape reads in his eyes and in the way his lips part nervously.
Pape’s never done it with a guy. He’s no stranger to what happens in dressing rooms and he spent his puberty in a dorm full of teenage footballers, a bunch of lonely, angry and aggressive boys very few of whom were to make it big. But he never wanted — and never tried. Now it's different, they are no hormone-driven children and they both are very much aware of what’s happening. They can come up with excuses later on.
“Pape,” Brennan calls him. He pronounces it wrong, the ‘e’ should be silent but Pape never corrects him. He’s always loved the way Brennan breathes out the soft sound in the end. As if it lingers for a moment on Brennan’s tongue before becoming audible.
“Don’t know what to do,” Pape confesses, and Brennan’s reassuring fingers touch the back of his hand that still rests on Brennan’s knee. Pape wonders if he got it right, if he got this subtle implication. “Guide me,” he asks Brennan. “Teach me.”
Teach me how to make you feel better, how to make you forget, how not to hurt you. That’s what he wants to say but instead leans in and places a weightless kiss on Brennan's calf. He feels the other’s hand caressing his cheek.
“ ‘s okay, all’s right. Take off your shirt, Pape, let’s take it slow, shall we?” Brennan’s voice is low and husky, calm, but there’s a slight trembling that says it all. Pape can listen to him speaking all day long, even if he understands like a quarter of Brennan’s chatting. He obeys and undresses. The tv screen is the only source of light and there’s no reason for self-consciousness, they’ve seen each other naked multiple times. “Good, well done,” Brennan’s speaking to him as if he’s a child, and that’s strangely soothing. But his palms are travelling up and down Pape’s bare torso, and this is exciting. With unexpected detachment, Pape realises himself hard, his briefs tight. It takes Brennan a moment to get rid of his own shirt, and Pape reaches out to him, trying to kiss him. He misses, his lips touch the curve of Brennan’s chin, their noses collide awkwardly. They both laugh, and Pape feels Brennan’s breath on his lips, hot and wet and uneven. “I know what to do, mate, just listen to me, okay?” Brennan raises his brows, his palms cup Pape’s face and their foreheads are pressed against each other.
Pape trusts him. Trusts him more than anyone in that second, and he watches Brennan stand up on his knees on the shaky seat cushions and unfasten his belt. He pulls his jeans and underwear down to bare his thighs. His dick curves up to his belly and the head is dark pink, a watery droplet on the slit. Pape swallows hard — Brennan wants it as much as he does. Maybe even more, because he knows what to expect. It’s a known land for him, while Pape’s still drifting in the ocean, waiting to be thrown ashore.
“Tell me if something freaks you out, promise?” Brennan kicks his jeans away so they land on the floor and takes off the socks. “Let me know if you want to stop, it’s never too late to stop, alright?”
There’s only one thing Pape’s absolutely confident in: he wants it to never stop. But he returns the question. “Do you want to?”
Brennan shakes his head and smiles. The shape of his full lips makes Pape squeeze his own dick through the clothes. All the lewd fantasies are running through his head and he feels like he’s about to blow up from the arousal. He cannot cope with Brennan’s closeness, with the length of his thick lashes, with the muscles of his abs, with the way his face is both perfect, with its high cheekbones and gentle dimples, and flawed as every flick of emotion ruins the balance of his impeccable features. Pape needs to tell him that but he also needs to unzip his jeans, to strip so they are even because Brennan’s body makes his heart throb and his mouth watery. Is it not the body?.. Pape’s too hot, too driven to think it through. But he palms himself and the only words that he’s capable of saying now:
“You’re beautiful.”
Brennan’s hand touches his earlobe, slides down his neck, and suddenly that’s enough for Pape to come into his briefs. Like he’s fourteen all again and his roommate brought a card deck with naked girls with their breasts all exposed. Orgasm hits him and the cotton of his underwear is now sticky and nasty. “Okay?” Brennan asks him and he nods slowly, not sure what is ‘okay’ and if he’s ever been as okay as he’s now. He feels heavy, too slumberish to move but he also knows he will probably get hard again. That physical relief was not enough to put down the flame. He wants it to go on but first… he finally strips off his jeans and briefs, disgustingly wet with cum and sweat. His dick is soft, but Pape still feels pleasant tingling in his balls, it will take him one touch to get hard again.
“Need a breather?”
Pape doesn’t and Brennan gets him. His palms are on Pape’s shoulders and he urges him to lie back on the couch. The velvet cushions are chilly against his shoulder blades. Brennan’s above him, up on his knees which are both sides of Pape’s thighs. His fingers tickle Pape’s abs, then go up to circle the nipples, reach the Adam apple only to disappear and leave Pape yearning for more. “Are you better?” he wants to ask Brennan. “Have you stopped dwelling on those sad thoughts?”
But he doesn’t because Brennan’s amazing lips are on his dick. First, it’s just a kiss, brief and quick, but it’s enough to boil Pape’s blood. He cannot take his eyes off of how Brennan opens his mouth to take him in. Pape hardens under the swift movements of his tongue, even though Brennan doesn’t even take him that deep. But his firm and attentive gaze is on Pape, never leaves him. He pulls away suddenly, and Pape’s dick is once again firm, now coated with saliva, leaking once again in hot, suffocating desire.
Why was he wound up so easily? Isn’t it weird?.. Then Pape realises, he has probably been suppressing it for a while, for many months. Has been hiding from it only to get caught here, on a Spanish island in early summer. “My jeans,” Brennan mutters. He, Pape notices, is breathing heavily, almost panting, and he hasn’t been touched yet. “My jeans, back pocket,” he repeats, and Pape tries to reach out and find Brennan’s jeans on the floor in the pile of their clothes. Thankfully, the couch is low and Pape’s arms are long. In the pocket, there are a few condoms and a small bottle of lube.
“Thought I might get lucky,” Brennan smiles, embarrassed, his cheeks must be pink but it’s too dark in the room. “I guess, I am lucky after all, ain’t I? To have you here with me.”
Pape watches him squeeze the bottle and smear his hand with lube. “Fuck,” he swears. “ ‘s cold,” he explains a moment later. The lube is sticky and looks obscene — and even more so when Brennan arches his spine, puts a clean hand on the couch back and his fingers disappear between his legs. It’s probably not very pleasant as Brennan closes his eyes, his eyelids trembling.
“Have you ever?..” Pape asks, the pictures in his head are vivid and insanely attractive, even if he has no idea whether they have something to do with reality.
“Yeah,” Brennan replies. His voice is hoarse and quiet. “Been a while, though.” Was it a teammate? A friend? A one-night stand? Pape doesn’t care, the only thing on his mind is how he can finally make out Brennan’s long fingers stretching and preparing himself. And a droplet of lube draining down his inner thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
Brennan smiles, and there’s a flash of white teeth between his beautiful lips. He shrugs and almost loses his balance — Pape catches him by his waist, trying to help him regain his balance.
“At first. Not as bad but itches a bit… Just need a bit of patience here, okay? Don’t want to make it hard for you.”
“You can never,” Pape blurts out. He understands he doesn’t want to be a bystander, he’s here and they’re even. It was him who offered comfort so he should — do something. Participate, even if he only theoretically has an idea of how that’s supposed to work. But it’s two of them, and friendship flows both ways.
“Can I?..” He’s not sure what he's pleading for. Can I help you? Can I touch you the way I’ve never touched another man? Can I make you enjoy it as much as I do? But Brennan’s good at reading him, and when English fails Pape, he knows where to look and what to notice.
“No need to ask, Pape.”
Brennan moves closer, and Pape is half-sitting on the coach with a cushion behind his back. Brennan takes his wrist and squeezes out some lube on his fingers. It’s indeed cold, and Pape almost shivers, but then Brennan guides his hand to his entrance, and Pape can feel it. Hot and not very open yet, he circles the tight rim, not sure if he’s ready to push in, but he sees Brennan gasp shortly and does what feels right. Covers his mouth with his own. This is only their second kiss of the night and it feels entirely different — there’s no clumsiness, they fit each other as if they had a thousand kisses and got to learn all the tricks. Brennan’s not pushy, he lets Pape lead but it still bears a certain resemblance to how they play video games. When Brennan lets him win because, as he claims, he likes watching Pape rejoice and celebrate small victories.
Pape still has his fingertip on the edge of the hole, but then he tries something new. He grabs Brennan’s ass cheek with his clean hand, the skin is hot and sweaty, and Brennan collapses, his weight suddenly on Pape’s shoulders.
“Holy fuck, that’s not gonna work. Let’s…” he makes a wide gesture, which Pape translates as a suggestion to switch places. Brennan slides down the coach back to lie down, he spreads his legs, long and strong and used to daily training, and Pape positions himself between his knees. Now, he can see everything much better, he can see the hole sticky with lubricant and not as tight as it felt a few seconds ago. It’s almost relaxed, and the realisation sends a hot wave up Pape’s spine. He has to stroke himself and then he does the same for Brennan because it’s unfair. He’s come while Brennan is still hard, probably painfully hard, judging by the way his dick is firm and the head is attractively red.
Brennan licks his lips, his mouth is ajar and there are a few drops of sweat above his upper lip. Pape leans in to collect them with his tongue. He doesn’t think much, just does what feels natural. What he would have wanted to get be it him on the receiving end of affection. Brennan kisses him, this time quickly, and smiles. His clean hand is on Pape’s cheek, warm and gentle.
“Go on,” he says. His eyes are huge and starry, sparking with eagerness, which is brought out by Pape’s touches and closeness. And now, this is a wonderful thought, and Pape shivers because it’s as unreal as the World Cup final, as impossible as the cold metal of the Champions League cup against his palm. But it’s happening — right now and right here, in the deceiving darkness of the hotel room.
And Pape puts his fingers back in, this time with more confidence. Curls them a bit, scissors, catching the subtle shadow of changed emotions in Brennan’s features. The way his brows knit, but there’s not only pain, there’s also a hint of pleasure in the blush that colours his forehead and cheekbones. The sweaty, wet skin of his inner thighs reflects the flashes of the screen where the match is still on. Pape takes a moment to have a look at it — Poland’s demanding a penalty two minutes into the injury time, but the referee makes an unambiguous gesture of denial.
“More?” Pape is two fingers inside, fully, up to the base. It’s surely not enough, but he imagines that the third finger would feel like a huge difference. Would hurt Brennan and he never wants to do so, never wants to be a cause of someone’s suffering.
“You aren’t scared, are you? You’re doing so well.” There’s a tension in Brennan’s voice that he’s not doing a good job hiding. He’s breathy and his intonation drives Pape crazy. He never knew a simple praise could do this to him, make him desperate and needy. He adds the third, inserts his ring finger slowly and cautiously, glancing at Brennan’s face to make certain he is doing the right thing.
A human body is a wonder, able to adjust and adapt, so fragile yet so easily pleasured. Sweet delight comes in many forms, and one can be a giver or a taker and find joy in both. Pape inhales deeply, as if with cold, lifeless air he can take in something else, the scent of sweat and the burning arousal that fills the room; invisible but present.
“Should be enough,” Brennan tells him, and the moment is the right one ‘cause Pape can barely control his imagination. He wonders if all five of his long slender fingers can fit it, if his narrow palm can enter Brennan up to the wrist, and it’s somehow both equally exciting and frightening. But the fantasy is blown away, Pape’s head is blank and empty, his mind is off just like the lights, and he’s all feelings. All his attention is on Brennan’s features, on his encouraging words, on his head-spinning willingness to take and teach with patience. So, when Pape extracts his fingers, slippery and smeared with lube, from the warm tightness, he is overwhelmed with quiet confidence for the first time this night. It’s just like scoring a goal out of the blue: ten seconds ago, you were on the verge of losing two points and now… A single lucky touch, and the ball is kissing the back of the net. And you’re on top of the world while The South Stand chants your name and your team is hugging you and kissing your neck.
“Stop me if…” If it’s off, if it’s painful or uncomfortable, if it’s not right.
“I will,” Brennan promises and he’s the one to keep his word.
Pape tears the foil and rolls the condom down his dick. It feels surreal, but it’s happening and it couldn’t be better. Couldn’t have come on a different day or in a different season. The summer is young, just like they are, and the new season is a possibility. The future hides the wins and losses of tomorrow until the future is, essentially, today, and all the prizes and applause find their heroes. They will be heroes one day, and Pape feels like one even now.
“I never want to see you sad again,” he wants to say but remains silent, as any words seem excessive and false. “If it’s me who makes you smile, I’ll stay by.” And the lack of words sounds louder, franklier than any noise.
Pape places the tip of his dick at the half-open entrance, and there’s a moment of hesitation. It brings up the familiar, unwelcome tingling of doubts, but Brennan lifts his legs up, so his heels rest on Pape’s shoulders. There’s a small cushion propping him up, and he’s open and ready and breathtakingly gorgeous. And Pape pushes in, slow and cautious, to feel the deep warmth embracing him. It’s tight, and sparkles are flaring up in Pape’s eyes, he shuts his eyes (the eyelids are heavy and swollen, they’re burning) only to realise that he’s ten times more sensitive when there’s no picture to distract his body from this new feeling. New experience.
He pulls out in the same careful manner, and Brennan squeezes his wrist and caresses his arm up to the shoulder. It should be a sign of… of something. He must be enjoying it and while his sensation is probably entirely different and it gifts him pleasure that is nothing like Pape’s, they are connected. Like a mechanism, well-oiled and functioning properly.
But no mechanism can tie up such a knot in Pape’s chest. A second — and he will blow up and cease to exist. There’s only one way out of this unbearable emotion that devours him whole, and Pape moves again, steadily increasing the pace. His skin meets the wet skin of Brennan’s thighs with a slap, and the noise is alluring in its intimacy. It could be vulgar but it’s not, it’s full of affection and youthful desire. Brennan’s heels are on his back, digging into the flesh of his muscles. Pape’s thoughts take a strange turn and he wonders if this season he will be able to bulk up, if he won’t be as lanky and scrawny. With every thrust, he admires the lines of Brennan's body, lean and strong and gleaming with sweat.
“Oh, fuck, do it again,” Brennan blurts out the moment Pape slightly changes the angle. His eyes are wide open and the whites are bright and contrasting. Pape would do anything, anything, so he complies with it and lets himself soak in tight warmth with every move.
He has no idea whether the pace is right, whether the rhythm is fine, but his own satisfaction mixes with Brennan’s obvious pleasure, and he almost misses the second Brennan squeezes tight around him. It takes Pape a few slow, helpless thrusts to follow him in release. He feels cum filling the condom, and he knows he should pull out and grab something to wipe away the sperm from Brennan’s abs and chest. But he’s powerless and heavy, exhausted like never before.
He’s so worn out that no words come out of his mouth, only a tired, helpless moan.
“Was great,” Brennan whispers. “You did well, truly did. Wanna just… lie down a bit? Before the shower and everything.”
Pape nods. His cheek rubs against Brennan’s neck and he can almost hear his own heartbeat, loud and rapid. This moment of quiet understanding, he needs it more than he would've thought. They’re both nasty and sticky with sweat, the match is over and the broadcast is back to the studio, where some Spanish journalists and ex-players predict the next matchday. Pape pulls out carefully, Brennan frowns slightly but that’s about it. He seems much calmer, much less stressed and wound up. As if the tight spring of his troubles eases to let him breathe freely.
“Tomorrow,” Pape says, even though it’s probably well past midnight and tomorrow is technically today. “Let’s not go anywhere. Let’s stay in.”
He just hopes Brennan gets him right. That he reads between the lines and in his gaze what he says with his heart and gestures.
“Well, sounds like a plan, innit?” Brennan laughs, low and quiet, and Pape’s never heard anything more beautiful. It’s the sound of promise.