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Every time someone asked Mario why he had picked Bayern of all clubs, Mario just shrugged and mumbled something about his career and opportunities you should take. Sometimes people would frown upon hearing that, others would argue he had those opportunities at Dortmund too. Mario would turn his back on them, finding something to occupy him, to help him ignore the aching feeling that would always, always be present in his heart whenever someone asked him that question.
In reality, though, Mario knew full well why he picked Bayern, and not Real Madrid, Juventus or Manchester united. Or Dortmund. During his last months at exactly that place, he could feel Marco’s eyes on him, continuously. He could feel them burning in his back. Mario knew that Marco didn’t buy his explanation like the rest did.
The rest of the team had taken it at face value, and although they would never really understand, they at least patted him on the back and, in some cases, even congratulated him. Kevin congratulated him in his own unique way, stating that his move was at least good for the club’s finances.
Marco, though, had only stared at him, eyes dark and wide open, and Mario knew Marco was looking for the real answer, the real reason for his transfer. Marco knew him way to well to believe any of the bullshit that he sold to the rest of the team. Mario just stood and looked back, not even bothering to deny that there was another reason. Eventually, Marco turned on his heels and left the changing room, not having found the answer.
And Mario couldn’t give him the answer for the simple reason that Marco himself was the answer. For Marco, things had been simple from the beginning. For Mario they had once been, too.
They had clicked the moment the first words were uttered between them, that moment being Marco asking Mario to explain how to showers worked, and they had been, well, naked, and despite that fact there had been no awkwardness at all. Mario had laughed, shown him the trick and taken the shower next to him. The conversation that ensued flowed easy and naturally between them.
They were joined at the hip from that moment on. Their friendship had come into being like that of little boys sometimes does; one sentence, one word or maybe only a look sufficed, except that they weren’t little boys anymore, but grown-ups who had to keep their heads above the water amidst the sea, the ocean of media madness.
And madness there was, because the media went bloody crazy over them and their harmony on the pitch. They were pulled in so many directions they didn’t know which one to go.
Staying together was easier, like everything was easy in the beginning. After a while though, things became far more complicated. At least for Mario.
It took him a while to realize that his feelings for Marco weren’t entirely platonic anymore. Sure, he did realise that he basically followed Marco around like a puppy would follow its owner, but he thought that was normal, something best friends did. And Mario had never had a best friend, like he never had a girlfriend. Football just didn’t leave much time for those kind of things.
He realized it when, one night, he called Marco and asked him if he could come over to play FIFA, like they’d do almost every night, and Marco had said he wanted to go to bed early, citing as a reason that he was tired after the particularly exhausting training session Kloppo had put them through earlier that day. Mario had spent the rest of the evening on his couch, feeling strangely rejected.
And then it hit home. All Mario could think was “So this is what being in love feels like.”
To be able to identify the strange feeling was soothing in a way. Mario used the internet to make up for his lack of experience, and it was a relief to see that it was normal, that it was normal to get sweaty palms whenever he was near Marco, that it was normal to feel like he got struck by lightning every time Marco looked at him. And that it was normal to look at Marco’s body when they were showering after training.
A larger part of Mario grew desperate. He knew that if Marco ever found out, he and Marco would be over. And Mario had grown so dependent of him that he didn’t even dare to think of a life where he and Marco were not best friends, or at least friends.
Mario grew afraid of his feelings, afraid of the impact they might have.
During the winter, all the big clubs came knocking on his door, from Manchester United to Real Madrid. Mario refused all their offers. Not because he didn’t want to leave, but because he had realized something. Love was a lot like an elastic string: if you stretch it, it becomes weaker. Overstretch it, and it will snap.
Marco wanted it to become weaker. He needed some room to breathe. He didn’t want to overstretch it, make it snap. Mario knew that going to England or Spain or Italy would be overstretching.
So when Bayern asked if he was interested in a move, he pounced and took the easy way out. He fled.
Nothing seemed to change between him and Marco after Mario had informed the team about his move to Bayern. From the sideline, it seemed that everything was still as it had been. He and Marco would still hang out in the evening, would still team up for exercises and were still joined at the hip.
Except that everything changed. FIFA was played in silence from that day on. Exercises were taken too seriously. They were only always together still because they tried to deny things had changed.
When Mario finally got to wave goodbye to Dortmund it was a relief. He finally got to leave the city behind that had silently resented him since the spring. He finally got to leave his teammates behind, who had said goodbye with the telling promise that they were going to kick his butt when he came to the Signal Iduna park with Bayern.
But most of all, he got to leave Marco behind. Marco, who felt like his better half. Marco, whom he had fallen so desperately in love with. Marco, who was the ultimate reason for Mario to flee.
Munich was nice. Everyone heartily welcomed him, and he was being taken good care of. The city was beautiful, it’s surroundings even more so. The people were nice to him. Pep taught him things he’d never have been taught at Dortmund.
Mario tried to forget about Dortmund, but he would ever so often find himself subconsciously comparing Munich to Dortmund. He would find himself comparing Bayern to Dortmund. He would find himself comparing every player of the squad to Marco.
Goddamn Marco, who just wouldn’t leave his mind. Goddamn Marco, who Mario just missed more and more, instead of less.
He started seeing Marco in everything around him. Every blonde head would automatically look like Marco – sometimes he’d even mistake Basti for Marco. And every time he did so he’d long for Marco a little bit more.
He dreamt about Marco, and in his dreams they would be blissfully happy and when he woke up and found out that he was in Munich and Marco wasn’t lying next to him, he’d feel incredibly empty and miserable. He slept badly because of these dreams, who to Mario were more like nightmares.
He also didn’t play like he had in Dortmund. Mario had come to realize that sometime during last year in Dortmund, Marco and football became the same thing, were essentially the same thing then – now, they weren’t anymore.
Mario felt like a cage was closing in on him, until he couldn’t breathe anymore. And that was when he’d had enough.
Without even thinking, he got into his car and drove six hours straight to Dortmund. The doubts only came when Marco opened the door. When it was too late to turn back.
Marco looked at him, shell-shocked, and Mario looked back, not having one word to say for himself.
After a few seemingly endless moments, Marco stepped aside to let him in, maybe out of habit, maybe because he had come over his initial shock and had realised he shouldn’t let Mario stand there.
Mario walked in with clenched fists, nerves running through him, every vein buzzing with the awareness of Marco’s presence. For a second, he just stood there, in the living room, facing the open kitchen. Then he let his emotions take over and turned around to face Marco, who was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, like he used to do before a big match, when he was nervous. And then, all at once, Mario spilled everything.
“What I am going to do now is probably going to ruin our friendship, or what’s left of it,” he started, laughing bitterly. “But I just can’t keep it in anymore. I’ve had enough. I feel like I have no room to breathe and I’m going crazy. I’m going to tell you the real reason I transferred to Bayern.” Marco looked up to him now, looked him in the eye, his mouth in a tense line.
“I fled. That’s what I did. And the reason I fled was you, Marco. You. Because God, I fell for you so hard during last year, and I honestly just was so fucking afraid of what would happen if I confessed, and I didn’t want it to happen, so I fled. I fled from you, I tried to flee from my feelings. But instead of fleeing from them, I was only confronted by them. So now I’m here anyway, confessing. I’m in love with you, Marco, so fucking desperately in love with you.”
Mario kept looking Marco in the eye, because he has already ruined everything anyway, he might as well stand his ground now. And Marco just kept looking back, agonisingly long, until he opened his mouth. Mario braced himself for the worst.
“And here I was, thinking you left because you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore, because you found out that I was in love with you.” He said softly.
And Mario honestly couldn’t believe what he was hearing, thought his ears were betraying him – but it had to be true, because Marco was smiling his crooked smile, and Marco was slowly walking towards him. Mario just couldn’t contain himself anymore. He closed the distance between them and smashed his lips against Marco’s.
And honestly, despite their noses bumping into each other and the door handle digging into Marco’s thigh – it was all he ever had imagined it would be. Thrills, sparks, lightning were shooting through him and when they broke apart because of the need for air, all he wanted was to do it again. And so he did.
When Marco smiled at him again, later that evening, when they were lying on the couch and playing FIFA like they used to, he knew that maybe there was a chance they could become as blissfully happy as they’d been in his dreams.