He hates the way
Tiago pronounces his name with that mocking and ridiculously long last ‘o’, always in that fake-sweet tone. He didn’t even play today, but the Spaniard of course found the reason to pick on his nerves anyway. Marco hates how easily he gets caught on those stupid provocations, but has nothing to do with it. He just can’t help the words slipping out from the edge of his tongue before even thinking twice ‘bout what exactly he is going to answer.
“Must be so hard being you, Álvarez? Realizing you are worthless as shit without James,” Marco watches the pleasant darkness boiling in other’s eyes, “No surprise we’re losing every week with a defense like that.”
Tiago’s only laughing in response, almost happily.
“Kitten’s got some teeth, right?” sparkles in his deep-blue eyes could set the whole locker room on fire. Marco doesn’t feel victorious, though. The other’s heavy gaze is almost burning over his lower spine, legs, and shoulders. It’d be better for him not to talk about James, who was the Spaniard’s best friend since childhood and who left the team last year. The truth is, he couldn’t care less ‘bout how painful is for Tiago to hear it till he pays attention to Marco himself. The truth is, he doesn’t want to stop their… whatever it is, being the most stupid and masochistic dork in the world.
The truth is Marco have always hated himself first for his pitiable obsession with Tiago, that somehow happened to be mutual.
“So, what’s wrong, Marco-o,” whispers the elder right into his ear when everybody else’s out, pressing their bodies against the door of his own locker. “Little boy’s a bit upset ‘bout the bench, huh?”
Thiago also knows how to hurt, and does it skillfully. Marco wasn’t supposed to answer anyway; the very next moment they start to fight as they used to: with theirs lips, teeth, with hands, leaving marks and light bruises on each other’s skin, trying to take on the dominance.
Marco can still remember the day when they weren’t even trying to rip each other up, just sitting quietly, embracing and comforting each other on the cold locker room’s floor. Their team not only lost, but lost with a humiliating score, and Marco, who was never the teacher’s pet anyway, conceded one of the goals himself. Tiago was having an awful night too, made to play for almost half an hour with a refreshed calf injury, ‘cause the coach used all the subs till the 60’ minute. “It’s his fault, not ours, all ‘bout the tactics,” he was whispering with warm hands tightly wrapped around Marco’s waist. This was a strange memory, and Marco decided to attribute this behavior to prosaic manifestations of conscience.
They never discussed what’s going on between them, but Marco’s sure that the Spaniard will surely one day got bored and they’ll simply end it. Tiago was the mess, but the most handsome mess he’s ever seen, with that ridiculously cute Andalusian accent, smooth golden skin and all of those birthmarks over his strong chest and gracious collarbones. Marco’s afraid to be told one day he’s nothing but an experiment, but there’s no way he can stop it earlier. Marco disgusts himself.
They’re kissing till they can’t no more, absolutely exhausted, with bite marks and bruises over their cheeks, necks, shoulders. When Marco’s finally able to restore breathing and perception of reality a bit, he takes a couple of awkward steps to the bench, almost falling on it and immediately closing his eyes. He just wants to get home and fall asleep without thinking about anything. Come what may; Tiago can decide what to do with it, he will follow anyway.
“I love you, Marco,” the words are too loud for the night locker room’s silence.
Too loud for Marco, all of whose beliefs were mercilessly crushed at once.
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