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It’s their first Champions League game in years. The stadium pulses with energy, and the fans chant without stopping, and they win. It’s a good game for the team, and the fans, and those players who've done well. It’s not an especially good game for two of them.
Cuti’s one of the first substituted, hooked off with twenty minutes left, and in between celebrating Richarlison’s two goals he sits on the bench and sulks about it. The manager will say he was taken off to rest ahead of their crucial next game against City, but that’s not the full story. He knows he’s been sloppy tonight, lost possession and given away cheap fouls and put them in danger of conceding. He’s off his game. The pundits won’t be impressed.
Still, it means he gets a front row seat to watch the players still on the pitch. One in particular.
Sonny’s not been playing well lately, that much is obvious to everyone, and it’s a sharp downturn from his phenomenal performance last season. That Sonny was scoring goals for fun, almost always in the good mood that comes with it, smiling his way to the Golden Boot. Cuti misses him. Until this season started, it was the only way he’d known Sonny could be. Now he knows better. His Sonny can be sharp and sad, frustrated enough to throw things in the dressing room and bitter enough to shrug off any attempt at touch. Not always. But sometimes.
However bad his statistics might be, even a goalless Sonny is a joy to watch. He never stops moving, strong thighs flexing as he sprints up and down the pitch, never slowing down or letting up.
Cuti finds himself leaning forward in his seat watching Sonny’s deft feet manipulate the ball, and slumps back into it with the rest of the fans when it’s taken from him again. Put Son Heungmin on a football pitch, grown men pant after him more with every movement. That’s the effect he has on people.
Cuti’s always watching him, from the bench and on the pitch. It sometimes worries him, how much time he spends thinking about Sonny. He’s married, after all. He’d thought he’d never love anyone as much as he loves his wife, and then his son had been born and everything had shifted, everyone else shunted one place down in the list of priorities. His family are his whole world. He’s obsessed with them. He’d thought nothing else, besides football, could ever distract him from that. Maybe he’d been wrong.
But the middle of a game isn’t the time to think about that. Not when he’s getting the opportunity to sit back and watch Sonny attack, heart in his throat whenever he gets near the goal.
As much of a threat as he is to Marseille’s defence, world class and terrifying, it’s not his night. He’s subbed off ten minutes before the whistle blows, and Cuti watches him from an even better position, only a few seats between them on the bench.
He’s not happy to have come off, that much is obvious, slumping in his seat and kicking sullenly at the ground. He’ll probably be throwing water bottles around when they go down the tunnel. It makes Cuti smile.
He thinks, however deep down it might be buried, that Sonny has a mean streak just like him. Not a big one, not like Cuti’s, and neatly covered up by the way he’s so sweet, so genuinely friendly and happy and generous. But it’s there. He’s been sent off before, been in fights, won some very dubious fouls and delighted in them. Cuti thinks they might understand each other.
Sonny still smiles and laughs and celebrates with the team at full time, of course. They all do, a team victory overshadowing for tonight the embarrassment of individual poor performance. But Cuti saw him before. He can’t take it back now.
As they all, one by one, make their way down the tunnel, he keeps an eye on him. Rodrigo chats away next to him, happy in the knowledge that his own substitution wasn’t a pointed dig, and Cuti nods along and half listens, attention elsewhere.
He wouldn’t be alarmed by seeing a flash of anger. It’s nothing Sonny’s not shown before, and it’s healthy, some passion, a bit of fire. But he’s walking with his head down, shoulders hunched, his friend Forster’s arm over them not seeming to do much to cheer him up. Cuti doesn’t like it.
His attention stays laser focused on him even as the team celebrate, cheering and pigeon dancing and slapping Richarlison heartily on the back. He celebrates too, as he should, but it’s hard to really mean it when Sonny’s sat down, not talking to anyone. He looks miserable, exhausted. He looks his age, for once.
Cuti decides, abruptly, that he’s had enough of seeing it. He’s in front of Sonny before he even really registers deciding to walk over. Sonny blinks tiredly up at him, dredging up a small smile from somewhere, and Cuti pulls his hair hard, yanking his head around affectionately in the way he does so often. It pulls a bigger, realer smile out of him, and Cuti beams down at him, and then Sonny leans forward just a little and rests his head on Cuti’s stomach, hand still tangled in his hair.
He scratches his blunt nails into Sonny’s scalp for a second as he thinks. His whole purpose in the team is to see a problem and do something about it, even if that something is rash and stupid and has long lasting consequences.
This is a problem. He’s going to do something about it.
“Get up,” he says. “You have to come somewhere with me.”
Sonny blinks in surprise. “What?”
“Up,” he insists, and tugs at his hair, and Sonny rises as if a gentle pull was enough to lift him off his feet.
Cuti looks around before they leave. He doesn’t expect anyone will notice. The focus tonight is on the man who scored twice, and the man who assisted those goals, even the man who kept out every shot that came at him. No one’s paying much attention to a forward who can’t score and a defender who can’t even last a full game. Except one person.
Kane’s staring after them, jaw set, lips thinned. It’s hard to blame him. Sonny gives so much of himself so easily, to so many people, but it’s not easy to put up with when it’s not your turn. He’s said it himself- “No me lo toques a Sonny, que es mío”- and only half been joking.
And Kane’s had him with him for years now, since they were both young. Cuti imagines it: meeting Sonny at 23, younger even than Cuti is now, playing with him week in, week out, seeing him every single day for so many years. He wouldn’t want to give him up either. Not to anyone, not for five minutes.
Kane’s not so physical either. Keeps himself to himself, except when one of them gets a goal and he lets himself act how he wants to for a minute to celebrate. Maybe that’s why he scores so often. Typical English stiff upper lip. He’s not like Cuti, who acts on impulse, does what he likes, pulls Sonny’s hair and pushes him around just because he feels like it. It must drive him mad, seeing Cuti put hands on his partner.
He hasn’t said anything about it, though. Maybe he recognises, just like Cuti does, that the two of them feel the same way. That they both know the one drawback of Son Heungmin is having to share him, and that the benefits far, far outweigh it, that every time he smiles at you nothing else can touch you.
They manage to slip out undetected, and Sonny inclines his head slightly towards the showers as they pass but Cuti shakes his. As much as he loves to pull Sonny’s hair as he kneels on the tiles to suck him off, or hold one muscled leg up as he fucks him wet and slippery against the cold wall, it doesn’t feel right this time.
“Where can we go?” he asks, very quietly in Sonny’s ear, once they’re away from the others, and Sonny motions for him to follow.
He’d like to take Sonny home with him, see him in Cuti’s house, in his bed. He wants to go to Sonny’s house too, to know how he lives when they’re not at work, to find a gap in his life he can slot into. But neither’s an option, he knows. He has to be content with what they have.
They traipse through the corridors together in their socks, Cuti letting Sonny lead the way. He’s been here for years, scored the first goal at this stadium. He must know it like the back of his hand.
They can go where they like in their stadium, but given what they're up to it still has him faintly nervous, projecting an unshakeable air of “the manager told me to go here, there’s no need to notice I’m not with the team” as they walk, and it’s a relief when Sonny leads him down a side corridor and into what seems to be an empty suite for guests.
There’s all sorts of rooms like this, for when they host concerts and whatever else, Cuti doesn’t know. It’s more than enough for him. The door locks from the inside, and there’s a wide leather sofa, and he’s never been opposed to fucking on a shower floor but this is significantly better.
He donkey kicks the door shut and pulls Sonny into him in the same movement, one hand in his hair pulling his head back so Cuti can kiss him as hard as he means to. Sonny reacts instantly, the lightning speed Cuti knows so well, and shoves them both up against the door so he can reach around him to lock it.
Sonny’s clearly in a different mood to usual, less inclined to be pliant and pushed around, and he kisses him back with wild abandon, fast and hard enough that they have to keep breaking apart to snatch half a breath. His tongue in Cuti’s mouth has his cock hard so quickly he almost feels light headed with it.
Cuti gets his jaw in a tight hold, not to keep him still- he’s not sure anyone could manage that- but to haul him back in, because any second they’re not kissing is one wasted. Sonny’s holding the back of his neck like he’s scared he’ll disappear, forcing their mouths back together over and over again.
His hair’s sticky with sweat, disgusting really, and Cuti’s hand tightens in it, pulling harder, right at his scalp. Sonny makes a low, rough nose, shoves a hand up Cuti’s shirt and rakes his short nails over his chest, clawing down his stomach.
It’s the sort of thing he always loves feeling. He lets go of him briefly and rips his shirt over his head so he can do it some more, Sonny taking advantage of the sudden gap between them to tear at his own and press back up against him, hot sweaty skin against skin. Cuti shoves a leg between Sonny’s, forcing them apart, or maybe it’s that Sonny does it to him. It’s hard to tell when everything’s this fast, this close.
He can’t ever be close enough, though. He has to feel more, so he pushes up the loose fabric of Sonny’s shorts to grab a rough handful of his perfect arse, pulling him closer against him, the muscle pliable under his fingers as they dig in.
And then he immediately has a better idea, and shoves his hand down the front of his shorts instead, the waistband trapping Cuti’s wrist against Sonny’s stomach as he palms at his cock.
Sonny looks as worked up as Cuti feels, and he whines high in his throat as he bites down hard on Cuti’s bottom lip. It’s not quite hard enough to draw blood, but it hurts, and he smiles wide when Sonny lets go. They understand each other, all right. He’s got killer instincts.
“Come on,” he mumbles into Sonny’s mouth, and curls his fingers around his cock inside his pants as he marches him backwards. Sonny stumbles obligingly where he’s led, and when his knees hit the back of the sofa he lets Cuti push him to sit down on it.
Cuti drops to his knees in front of him, ignoring the hard floor, and tugs at the waistband of his shorts and underwear until Sonny lifts his hips to let him pull them off. They’re probably going to mess up this nice, expensive sofa, sweat drenched and grass stained as they are. Cuti doesn’t care. If anyone manages to pin it on him they can take it out of his wages.
This close up, Sonny looks and smells like a man who’s been running non stop for two hours, all sweat and musk, dirt and grass still stuck to him. It doesn’t bother Cuti at all. He just sucks a love bite hard into the soft skin of Sonny’s inner thigh, savouring the salt of it and only letting go when Sonny kicks him in the side. In this at least he’s always careful, but he can leave one mark on him. One bruise, even if it’s livid purple and ringed by teeth marks, can be explained away.
He looks up at Sonny as he sucks the head of his cock into his mouth and sinks down, watching his eyelids flutter and his mouth fall open. He looks perfect like this, dishevelled and flushed, strong legs spread wide for Cuti to fit between them.
He hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, and Sonny’s eyes slip shut, one hand finding its way to Cuti’s head. He doesn’t try to pull his hair out like Cuti always does to him, but his strong fingers press hard into the back of his neck as his thumb strokes along the edge of his hairline. Cuti lowers his head further, chasing the feeling of neatly trimmed hair against his lips, which feels like a victory every time. He gags as Sonny’s cock hits the back of his throat, pulls back, moves in again, a constant effort to keep Sonny’s attention on him.
His mind starts to wander after a while, in the same way it always does before he does something stupid, and on impulse he grazes his teeth very lightly over the soft head of Sonny’s cock. He’s rewarded with an immediate reaction as Sonny gasps and jerks away, cock slipping out of Cuti’s mouth, letting him beam up at him.
“Cuti,” he says reproachfully, a whine in his voice, “That’s so mean.”
“Sorry,” Cuti says, not meaning it at all, and kisses the spot he bit very gently. “Sorry, princesa.”
Sonny groans at that, his head tipping back against the sofa and the hand in Cuti’s hair slipping down to thumb at his bottom lip. “Say that again.”
“Princesa,” Cuti says, and hoists Sonny’s leg up, balancing his foot on Cuti’s shoulder. His toes dig into it as Cuti strokes two fingers over his hole.
“Cuti,” Sonny says again, half wanting, half warning, and Cuti knows what he means, but he’s got nothing to worry about. Cuti’s not cruel enough to try going in dry.
He fumbles in his waistband for the packet hidden there, subtly retrieved from his locker when he’d got his phone out after the game. Sonny’s eyes light up when he sees it, and he laughs, and Cuti finds himself almost embarrassed. He’s bringing lube to work. Nobody warned him about this when he joined Tottenham.
He doesn’t have to worry about taking his wedding ring off first. He can’t wear it for games, and he hadn’t got it out of his locker before they left. He must have forgotten.
The first finger goes in easily, making Sonny groan and roll his hips down towards Cuti’s hand, and he adds a second almost immediately. Sonny hisses, teeth gritted, but he doesn’t tell Cuti to stop. He won’t stop until he’s told. Sonny knows his own limits better than anyone, and he knows what he likes.
He fucks him hard with two fingers, delighting in the way Sonny’s hole flexes and shifts to let him in easier, the low noises he can draw out of him, the way he keens and twitches whenever Cuti grazes his prostate. He’s so much fun to play with.
Cuti’s so hard it’s almost starting to hurt, and he slips his free hand into his shorts to tug slowly at his cock, enough to clear his mind as he focuses on his work. Three fingers fit in Sonny comfortably before long, and he lets a fourth tease around the rim, just to imply what he’s thinking about. Sonny’s eyes widen as he understands. Cuti smiles, and does it again, and waits.
“Fuck,” Sonny says hoarsely, and spreads his legs even wider, the muscle visibly straining. Cuti understands him perfectly.
Sonny’s head tips back, his neck bared, and he groans deeply as Cuti eases a fourth fingertip into him. He only goes up to the first knuckle, but it’s enough to see the way his hole stretches around all four of his fingers, how Sonny’s legs shake and his breath comes ragged.
He’s sweating again, on top of the layer from the game. It’s beading on his skin, collecting in the dips of the muscle in his washboard stomach, and Cuti leans forward to lick a path up the middle of his chest. Sonny doesn’t resist when Cuti lurches upwards to kiss it back into his mouth, sucking the salt taste of himself off Cuti’s tongue.
He’s left his fingers inside him, and like this he can swallow Sonny’s moans as he twitches them, can feel him whine into his mouth. It’s enough to make him light headed, his higher brain functions shutting off as he focuses entirely on what he’s seeing, hearing, feeling.
They’ve worked themselves into an awkward position, Cuti’s arm and Sonny’s leg bent between them as Cuti pushes himself as far into Sonny’s space as he can. Sonny wraps his free leg around him, pulling him in closer, and it makes Cuti reconsider, wondering why he’s still bothering to finger him when they could be fucking right now.
Sonny whines into Cuti’s mouth as he takes his fingers back and pulls away, curling an arm around his shoulders to try to drag him back down. He’s a difficult man to argue with when he’s got his mind set on something, though.
“Move,” he mumbles, tugging at Sonny’s legs, and he takes the hint to swing them around onto the sofa, Cuti shoving him onto his back and swinging a leg over his so he can look at him properly.
He’s an unbelievable sight. His skin, pale from winter and sticky with sweat, stands out sharply against the black leather, his dark hair melting into it. His body’s insane, muscle stacked on top of muscle. He doesn’t look real, like he’s out of some fantasy Cuti thought up. There’s a soft pink flush staining his perfect chest, leading down to his cock, lying heavy against his stomach. If anyone else, out there in the world, looks like this, Cuti hasn’t seen them.
Sonny draws his knee up, nudging Cuti in the stomach with it, and he abruptly realises he’s been staring at him, unmoving, for longer than he thought. No one could blame him.
He anchors himself with a hand around Sonny’s hip as he leans down to fumble blindly on the floor for the abandoned packet of lube, unwilling to stop looking at him for long enough to find it. And then he does, and frantically squeezes the last of it out onto his cock, spreading Sonny's legs as wide as they'll go and burying himself in him like he’ll die if he goes any longer without it. In the moment, that's how it feels.
Even stretched out as he is, Sonny groans as Cuti pushes in, his face screwing up enough to bring out the crow’s feet around his eyes. Cuti lets out a low noise along with him, without meaning to. He can’t seem to keep it in. Nothing feels as good as this. Sonny feels so perfect around him, every time.
He doesn’t give him more than a few seconds to adjust before he starts to move, fucking him in earnest. Sonny just rolls his hips back down into him, loving the roughness like he always does. If Cuti’s ever gentle with him, it’s because he wants to be, because he knows Sonny doesn’t need it. He can take anything Cuti gives him.
He buries his cock into Sonny over and over again, resenting every time he has to pull back. Their bodies slap hard against each other, the only sound in their silent room their harsh breath and any moan either can’t manage to keep down.
Cuti’s fingers flex, aching to hold onto something, to twist and pull. He can’t get hold of Sonny’s hair like this. He’ll have to improvise.
Sonny tilts his chin up as Cuti wraps one hand around his neck. He flexes his fingers a little, and feels the movement of Sonny swallowing under them. Sonny looks up at him, eyes huge and black, slipping shut as Cuti rolls his hips down hard into him.
It’s not easy to balance how hard he wants to fuck him with the need to keep just enough pressure on his neck that he can feel it, that his breath is just slightly restricted. Cuti’s good enough to make it work.
He’s careful to keep one hand planted on the sofa to hold himself up, keeping his weight off Sonny’s neck. He can play, but he can’t leave marks on what’s not really his. But he can dig his fingers in a little deeper, feel his pulse flutter against his hands.
Sonny’s mouth falls open and he reaches for his cock, and Cuti allows it for a moment so he can watch. Sonny’s got nice hands. They’re smaller than Cuti’s, his long thin fingers far more delicate. He always notices that when he takes his hand, which he does as often as he can get away with. He thinks about it a lot.
He only gives him seconds to enjoy a hand around his cock before he reaches down to swat it aside. Sonny makes a low, frustrated noise. Cuti shakes his head.
“Like this,” he tells him, and pins his wrist to the sofa in case he tries again. They’re both aware he’s got one hand free, obviously, but he leans enough of his weight onto the other that his message is understood. No hands tonight.
Like this, the angle is perfect. Sonny’s so reactive, he can tell every time he’s hit his prostate. His cock bounces against his stomach with every thrust. When Cuti leans forward it barely catches on his stomach and makes him gasp. The bones of his wrist flex under Cuti’s grip as he squirms.
Sonny’s free hand doesn’t stop moving, touching Cuti wherever he can reach, nails digging in and leaving stinging lines of sensation behind them everywhere they’ve been. He’ll have nail marks on his shoulders, his thighs, the back of his neck. Good.
He plants one foot on the floor so he can fuck into him harder, and the sofa protests beneath them. In the back of his mind he’s dimly aware that it wasn’t meant to take this sort of force, that there’s a very real chance it collapses before they’re done. He doesn’t care. He can’t, not when he feels like this. He’ll keep fucking Sonny on the floor if it comes to that, in the wreckage.
He wants so badly to make him come. He needs to remind him that even if he can’t feel good because he’s scored, he can feel good in other ways, that Cuti can give him that. He has to make Sonny understand. Even if he never scores another goal, he’s still got this.
Sonny digs his fingers into his own thigh, so close to his cock.
“Don’t,” Cuti warns him, and he groans. “Just like this.”
“I can’t,” he pleads. “Not like-”
“You can,” Cuti insists. He knows exactly what Sonny can do.
Cuti doesn’t slow down even though he’s exhausted, he doesn’t move even though his muscles are screaming at him. He keeps going, and going, exactly the same way, over and over again, as hard as he’s able, harder.
And then one particular thrust must do it where the others haven’t, because Sonny grits his teeth and lets out a pained groan from deep in his chest, and comes, perfectly, untouched, cum landing in thick ropes over his stomach, pooling in the deep valley of his chest.
It’s sublime, and something in Cuti unravels a little, relenting with the proof that he’s given Sonny what he deserves. He lets go of his throat as Sonny gratefully gulps in lungfuls of air.
With Sonny taken care of, it’s like he’s been given permission to finally think about himself. He collapses forwards, burying his face in Sonny’s neck, cum smearing his own chest where they’re pressed together. He’s fucking without thought, driving himself in as deep as he can, following his body’s mindless orders.
He’s not hitting Sonny’s prostate any more with the angle like this but it must still be on the edge of too much. He must be getting sore and oversensitive, but he doesn’t complain. He never does. He just wraps his legs around Cuti, urging him in deeper, and runs his fingers through his hair, holding him close.
When he comes it hits beyond hard. He can hear himself making some guttural noise into Sonny’s neck, the same sort of noise he might make when he puts in a hard tackle on someone, and his mind is perfectly white-blank as he jerks and twitches and fully empties himself inside his teammate.
Sonny keeps petting his hair as he catches his breath. Their limbs are all tangled up, and they’re almost glued together by sweat and cum, a disgusting pair. He eases his cock out of Sonny’s hole, desperate now to be gentle, when he’s been anything but.
He takes a moment to just lie there, with Sonny, in a way he’s never gotten to before. He hasn’t left any marks on him the way he wants to- he can’t- but he still kisses the sore, red ring around his neck, in apology and thanks. Sorry I’m like this. Thank you for letting me be.
He traces his fingers over Sonny’s hole, open and used, and feels his own cum starting to leak out. This time it won’t be washed straight down the shower drain. There’s proof he was there.
Some mad impulse takes over his brain for a second then, and he bites Sonny right where he’d been kissing him, and is promptly shoved hard enough off him to roll off the sofa entirely and hit the floor. Sonny rolls over to look at him, naked and stupid on the ground, and laughs like a hyena.
It’s not exactly awkward between them, once they’ve pulled their dirty kits back on and found some tissues to wipe the cum off Sonny’s chest with, but it’s different. They’ve crossed so many lines before, but it’s always felt like just good fun, a casual encounter between teammates and friends. This is something else. Cuti can feel it. He knows Sonny does too.
He wants to say something, but he’s not sure how, until Sonny reaches for the door handle and he knows if he doesn’t say it now he won’t at all.
“Hey,” he says, and Sonny’s hand falls away from the door as he turns back towards him. “You played well today.”
Sonny scoffs, and looks away, and it pisses Cuti off. He should end every game feeling as good as everyone knows he is. He should know as well as Cuti does that he’s magic.
“You did,” he insists. “You’ll score next time. A hat trick, yeah? I’ll assist them all for you. Who needs Ivan.”
“Shut up,” Sonny tells him, and shoves at him one handed, but he’s smiling. Cuti catches his hand easily, holding it for just a second before he lets go.
Cuti lets Sonny go in ahead of him when they get back to the dressing room. Easier to avoid any awkward questions that way. When he saunters in a minute later, Sonny’s already got his head buried in his locker, and doesn’t look at Cuti as he heads to the showers. It’s for the best. He’s not sure how much his face would give away if he looked at him right now, in front of everyone.
Richarlison’s sat on his own for the first time since the whistle blew, scrolling through his phone, probably answering messages from absolutely everyone he knows congratulating him. A brace on his Champions League debut has to come with a lot of notifications. Cuti flops down on the seat next to him.
“Very poor game from you today,” he says seriously, and Richy laughs. “Only two goals?”
“How many do you want next time?”
Before he can say anything back, though, Harry Kane appears in front of them, looking as sober and serious as ever. “I’m just going home,” he tells Richy. “Just wanted to say well done tonight. Brilliant game. Do that again in Lisbon, yeah?”
“I’ll try,” Richy promises, and Kane smiles at him.
Richy looks back down at his phone, and Kane turns to Cuti. He looks like he wants to say something, like there’s something he’s biting back that he’s absolutely desperate to let out.
Cuti, even though he probably shouldn’t, looks at him the same way he looks at someone who squares up to him on the pitch. It’s a look that says, “and what are you going to fucking do about it?” The answer, apparently, is nothing, because Kane just sighs and turns away, heading in the same direction as Sonny. Good luck to him. Tonight, at least, Cuti got there first.
/
Heungmin feels, coming off, like something’s finally slotted back into place. A brace in the Champions League, in a season like this. He’s proved he can still do it. It had hurt to be dropped for those few games, stung like nothing else, but that’s all scabbed over now.
Nothing ever feels this good. He feels like he’s back to functioning again, like his body’s finally doing what he tells it to instead of inexplicably failing every time. Last season’s magic isn’t back yet, but on nights like these it’s easier to believe it’ll come.
He flops at Ben’s feet instead of in the empty seat on the bench, and rests his head against his friend’s knee. Ben ruffles his hair.
Eintracht scoring moments after he sits down almost spoils his good mood, his mind working overtime thinking about how they could equalise, how he won’t be on the field to help the team pick the dropped points back up- but the whistle blows, in the end, and it’s fine.
H gets praised for his penalty, of course, but it’s Heungmin who won them the game, and he’s everyone’s focus at full time. He basks in the adoration of his teammates, of the home fans who love him so much. Everyone wants to swarm around him, to hug him and tell him how good he is. It’s perfect.
A night like this is something to cling onto, and he finds himself one of many who are reluctant to leave the field too soon. He hangs around, talking to his teammates, the club staff, their families. Cuti brings his son over to meet him, and he’s perfect. Heungmin loves babies. He looks so much like his father when he’s being bounced in his arms.
He can’t stay out there forever though, and once he’s done his post match interviews and posed for a photo with the man of the match trophy it’s back to normal, filing back down the tunnel for a team talk and a change of clothes.
He showers alone, just a shower and nothing more. He might have gone looking for Cuti, but he can’t keep him tonight, not when he’s here with his family. But the hot water stripping off the layers of sweat and dirt feels as good as anything, and he feels lighter when he steps out.
The trophy’s on the bench by his locker where he left it, and once he’s dressed, a towel slung around his neck to catch any drips from his drying hair, he picks it up, rolling it in his hands. He thinks to take a photo with it, and picks up his phone, but it’s stolen straight from his hands before he can.
He turns to see the culprit, grinning wickedly at him as he examines it close up. Heungmin swats at him. Cuti takes no notice. Without his kit on it looks like he’s missing a layer of armour, smaller than usual in a soft tshirt, his hair fluffy and clean from the shower.
“Looks good,” he says, and looks up at Heungmin instead of his trophy. “Told you.”
“Hey,” Heungmin says, pointless considering he’s already got Cuti’s attention, and holds his phone up for a selfie. It’ll make a good photo.
He angles himself so they’re both in frame, and smiles. He expects Cuti will hold the trophy up. He doesn’t. He lifts it to his lips, and bows his head, and he kisses it.
