Chapter Text
Flo might have a tendency to take things a bit too far.
Or at least that‘s what people have told him in the past. If you asked him, he‘d probably say that he‘s just always been competitive. When the confidence of other players seems to crack under pressure, his confidence spikes. He thrives on the nerves that come with high stakes. So when the long-awaited game against Bayern rolls around, every fiber of his being is drumming with adrenaline until he can't think straight just move, move, move. The roaring of the crowd is deafening, the lights are blinding him. Flo hasn’t felt this alive since the Euros.
Praised for his tunnel version, he‘s also somewhat notorious for diving headfirst without bothering to check the depth of the water first.
That’s the reason why he's currently failing to pay attention to Alonso's post-match pep talk in the locker room, his voice nothing more than background noise, mind already elsewhere.
Normally, Flo collapses immediately after such an intense game, all the build-up energy leaving his body at once but today is different. He’s still pent up, jittery anticipation thrumming through his veins as he finishes showering in record time and changes into a fresh shirt. He grabs his things and slips out of the locker room to find a familiar lean figure already waiting for him, leaning casually against the doorframe at the end of the corridor. The first thought that pops into Flos head is Shit, I forgot to put on deodorant.
Which is a bit stupid considering how they cling to each other's sweat-drenched bodies on the pitch all the time but still.
It's too late to turn around now, though, because that's the moment they lock eyes and Jamal does that amazing thing again where his entire face lights up and it wipes Flo's brain blank of thoughts anyway.
“You made me look stupid out there,” Flo says in lieu of a greeting, referring to a particularly heated duel in which Jamal had slipped past him with ease, the ball seemingly attached to his feet.
On television his dribbling seems feathery, like an unpredictable dance, but that’s only half of the story. It’s only on the field that you feel the brute force behind his movements, that you get close enough to understand the one thing reporters and the media always fail to notice; that Jamal is, at the core, simply hell-bent on proving he can go anywhere he wants.
It's thrilling to watch and Flo lives for it – except on days like this when it becomes the bane of his existence.
Jamal slowly makes his way over to him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need me to look stupid, don’t worry.” In one motion, he pulls him flush against his body for a tight hug, hard chests colliding a little awkwardly.
“You're so mean,” Flo whines and tries to tickle him but as usual Jamal seems to be able to read his mind and moves out of reach. Which is annoying and quite literally the opposite of what Flo wanted so he plops down onto one of the boxes in the hallway and taps the empty space next to himself impatiently. “You suck,” he says, glaring at him. “Come sit with me, loser.” Jamal towers over him for a second, contemplating, but it doesn’t take long before he gives in with a small sigh.
“Don’t touch me,” he demands with no real heat behind it, actions contradicting his words when he slumps down impossibly close to Flo, close enough that Flo can feel the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric of his shorts where their legs are pressed together. He has half a mind to call him out on it but then again he doesn’t want him to move away. It’s nice. It’s really, really nice.
Flo isn’t sure when he became so hyper-aware of Jamal’s presence next to him. When this little game between them started.
Was it when they went out for dinner with the national team that one time and Joshua jokingly called Jamal “Wirtz’s boyfriend”?
To be honest, Flo probably would have forgotten about it half an hour later - it was a harmless joke after all, nothing out of the ordinary - if it hadn’t been for Jamal’s strange reaction.
Because instead of laughing along, Jamal proceeded to almost choke on his drink and then refused to make eye contact with Flo for a whole five minutes. The entire thing just seemed so out of character for him, leaving Flo to spend the rest of the night closely watching his every move, his gut churning with something like curiosity.
So maybe that’s when it all began.
Or was it a few days after, when Flo, itching to gauge Jamal’s reaction from across the room had bluntly replied "hot” to a selfie on his private Instagram?
Here’s the thing; Jamal is not an overtly emotionally expressive person - he’s quite the opposite.
Flo had noticed early on how he avoids looking at people directly, how he will sometimes zone out mid conversation. It gets mistaken for arrogance all the time when actually Jamal is guarded and stubborn and incredibly private. It's easy to miss and glaringly obvious if you really start to pay attention. He will talk about a house party he went to but never mention with whom he went. He will drop off the face of the earth, even miss training for three days and only months later he’ll mention in passing that his grandma died that week.
It had taken Flo a year of talking to him on the regular, of relentlessly probing and asking him a million questions, to be able to say with confidence that he understood him as a person. So when this thing happened out of the blue it opened up a whole new realm of opportunity. Like he unlocked new territory in a video game or something.
All it took was a three letter word on his phone screen and Jamal went bright red.
Funnily enough, it reminded Flo of how he‘d felt when he‘d managed to make him laugh for the first time. Not chuckle, not giggle but wholeheartedly laugh, the kind that had you on the floor heaving and your sides hurting.
It made him eager to see just how far he could take things, much like the effect Jamal has on him in training.
In a way, they are too similar to be rivals, but they still clash in the sense that they constantly push each other to work harder, to go that extra mile. Nothing fuels Flo to run faster than Jamal flashing him one of those shit-eating grins and telling him to keep up. It's intoxicating.
So what started out as the occasional lingering touch or bad pick-up line to throw him off quickly snowballed into this all-consuming game of push and pull, charging every interaction between them.
Admittedly, Flo may have gone a little overboard recently. If looks could kill, he'd be a dead man. His latest obsession is calling Jamal horrifying pet names in front of their teammates. “Move, princess,“ he said a few weeks ago, putting his hand on the small of his back while squeezing past him in the locker room. So what if he got a kick out of feeling Jamal glare daggers into the back of his head?
Can you really blame him when Jamals eyes are practically glued to him at all times anyway? When he reacts so intensely to even the smallest poke, when he practically squirms under the attention? Is it really his fault when it’s so damn simple to rile him up? When it’s so much fun?
Unfortunately, getting a rise out of him has gotten a bit harder over the past few months. It seems Jamal has slowly gotten used to Flo’s antics. He doesn’t trip over the ball when Flo says something out of line like in the beginning, sometimes even leaves him on read – And that’s just rude!
Luckily, Flo has never been one to back down from a challenge.
He quickly looks around and finds the hallway empty save for Olise and Jona by the door who seem completely absorbed in a conversation about the French national team. Perfect.
He turns to Jamal, who seems to perk up at the motion, the way he does when coming face to face with a player on the field. All senses heightened, alert. It makes idle satisfaction curl in the pit of Flo‘s stomach.
Suddenly, they‘re close, far too close, close enough that Flo can see the slight stubble above Jamal‘s upper lip where he must have forgotten to shave this morning. Close enough that he notices the tiny birthmark on his right cheek and— Has that always been there? How did he miss that?
Jamal swallows audibly. Flo wants to follow the sound down his throat.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?”
And instead of waiting for an answer, instead of listening to that small voice in the back of his mind screaming abort, abort, abort he puts a courageous hand on top of his thigh.
Jamal’s breath hitches as a snarky reply seems to die on his tongue.
He’s so easy, Flo thinks giddily and drinks in the way he’s gone completely still beneath his touch. For a moment he has him exactly where he wants him, right in the palm of his hand.
And he can read him like an open book.
Seconds stretch like years between them as a number of conflicting emotions flash over Jamal‘s face at the speed of light.
Shock. Uneasiness. Arousal. And then… determination?
“Yeah? Get better then,” Jamal juts out his chin, dark eyes staring back at him without blinking. Huh, Flo thinks slowly, sweat collecting against the nape of his shirt. That‘s new. But he’s not a coward and he’s not one to half ass things, so he gathers his nerves and reminds himself that he has the upper hand here.
He leans forward slightly, head swimming with the smell of Jamal's cologne, the perfect mix of musky and sweet and so, so familiar.
“Maybe you could show me some moves,” he whispers low in his ear.
Jamal barks out a laugh at that, a strange sound like the air is getting punched out of him.
“God, that was so bad. You’re the worst,” he complains but doesn’t move away when Flo only grins and lazily starts rubbing circles into the black fabric of his shorts with his thumb, unsure if the touch is meant to sooth him or taunt him further, or maybe do both at once.
A small sigh escapes Jamal as he lets his head fall against Flo’s shoulder as if having his eyes on him is becoming too much all of the sudden. Typical of him, typical Jamal logic, Flo thinks — hiding from him by shuffling closer.
His heart does a weird little squeeze in his chest.
“You smell nice,” Jamal murmurs almost to himself, breath ghosting over Flo’s collarbone and Flo hums. He feels a little dizzy as he realizes that while everyone else might‘ve drawn today, he might‘ve won.
Much to his annoyance, their embrace only lasts a few seconds because soon more and more players start trickling into the hallway and Jamal cautiously retreats a little, propping himself up in an upright position. Flo doesn’t have time to mourn the loss of contact, though, because Pavlović comes stalking over to them. “Hey, good game, man,” he grins and they do the complicated little handshake thing they came up with on a particularly boring bus ride last year.
“I was looking for you earlier,” he says to Flo, “Guess I should have known you two would sneak off somewhere.”
Jamal scoffs.“He’s all yours if you want. But I warn you, he’s in a strange mood today.”
“I’m just having fun,” Flo protests, hands fidgety now that they’re no longer touching Jamal. For a split second he considers reaching out again but he doesn’t have a death wish. Pavolivić’s eyes dart back and forth between them, his brows furrowing slightly. Flo has noticed people do that a lot around them lately.
“Are you up for some fun later, too? Me and a few of the boys are going out.” Like an afterthought Pavlović adds “You should come too, Jamal.” They all know he‘s not really into the whole night club stuff. Out of the corner of his eye, Flo notices Jamal glance at him. “Uhm…I dunno, Aleks.” Flo scratches the back of his neck. “I’m pretty tired and our bus leaves at eight in the morning, you know...” Pavlović gives him an unimpressed look.
“C’mon, man. At this rate you’re never gonna find a girl.”
“Fuck you,” Flo laughs.
Pavlović all but winks at him. “Buy me dinner first.”
But he seems to know when it’s time to give up, sighing in mock pain. “Alright. But promise me right now that you‘ll go out with us in Amsterdam.” Flo rolls his eyes. “Fine.” Someone calls out Aleks name.
“I think the boys need me“, he sighs. “It’s so hard being popular.“
“We wouldn’t know,“ Jamal deadpans but Pavlović doesn’t seem to hear him, already turning to leave.
“Bye, handsome!“ Flo loudly calls after him.
Then they’re alone again and Jamal shakes his head in disbelief. “You really pull this shit with anyone, huh?” Flo turns to look at him and can’t help feeling giddy all over, a wide grin spreading over his face. “Only the good looking ones.”
Jamal huffs.
“What? Are you jealous?”
And Flo leans a little closer just because he can. Just because he knows Jamal will let him get away with it.
But this time he's wrong, as Jamal stands up, leaving Flo to stare up at him dumbly. “Nah”, he replies, almost smug, dark eyes crinkling. It reminds Flo of the face he makes when a joke flies right over his head.
Like Jamal knows something that he doesn’t.
It’s a little infuriating.
Flo keeps thinking about it for the next hour or so, even when he gets dragged into an argument between Kimmich and Müller about the referee. Do these guys ever shut up about football? He steals glances at Jamal from across the hallway, talking to Olise who looks like he’s ready to call it a night and leave already. He can’t help but feel unsatisfied with where their conversation left off. He missed something, didn’t he? There's a sudden tightness in his chest that he has no name for. His brain is going in a hundred different directions at once, never arriving at any conclusion, thoughts scrambling for a way to get a hold of the confidence from earlier.
That’s when the idea pops into his head.
He doesn’t have to wait long until the room begins to empty. Soon the players leave one by one to either go home to their families, head back to the hotel or join Pavlović and his little clubbing squad.
Maybe it doesn‘t really make sense that he suddenly doesn‘t want an audience. It's a simple equation most of the time; Jamal gets embarrassed ten times worse when their friends are around to hear the stupid things Flo says to him.
But this is different for some reason and Flo isn‘t quite sure why. What if Jamal just laughs in his face? It’s a possibility, right?
Maybe Flo‘s a hypocrite. Maybe deep down he’s afraid his ego wouldn‘t be able to handle it. Even though technically it’s all meant for shits and giggles anyway. Whatever. He frowns at himself.
“Are you coming or what?” Jamal calls out from across the hallway. Yeah, right. He can totally do this.
Before he can change his mind, Flo grabs his backpack and jogs up to him. An unnerving silence hangs between them as Jamal leads him through the never ending hallways of the Allianz Arena to the exit. Then they‘re out the door, the cold night air engulfing them.
Jamal checks his phone. “My Uber is waiting. Do you want—” “I have something for you,” Flo bursts out. Before Jamal has a chance to react he unzips his backpack and shoves the jersey into Jamals hands.
If the situation were any different, he‘d laugh at the way Jamal gapes at it as if he’d never swapped shirts before, but the sound gets stuck in his throat.
Belatedly he realizes that this was way funnier in his head. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore — Not with his heart hammering in his chest like it‘s trying to break out of his ribcage.
He feels…shy — an emotion so foreign it startles him.
“You didn’t win,“ he forces out, trying to conceal his nervousness the only way he knows how. His voice cracks. “So I thought you could wear it. Later, I mean. When you cry yourself to sleep tonight.”
Jamal still hasn’t said a word, just stares at him. Why won’t he say anything? His eyes flick down to the shirt in his hands. Oh god, did he go too far? Did he make it weird? Telling him to sleep in his clothes like they’re–
“It smells gross,” Jamal says, cutting through his panic like a knife.
He feigns disgust as he holds the shirt as far from himself as possible. A wave of relief washes over Flo. “You’re gross.” is his lame comeback, words coming out a little strangled.
In the end, his worst fears don‘t come true. Jamal doesn’t laugh in his face, doesn’t even grin at him, not really. He only gives him one of those rare, small smiles. The corner of his mouth quirking up, no teeth. It’s definitely weird.
It takes Flo exactly a week to figure out why. He’s in bed when it happens, scrolling through Instagram as he always does before going to sleep. He likes a new post from the official Leverkusen account, switches to his private account when he gets bored to reply to memes his sister sent him. A new notification pops up. Apparently Olise has finally accepted his follow request from a few days ago. Curious, he clicks on the new story he posted.
What he sees makes him sit up straight in bed, all tiredness gone in an instant.
It’s a photo from last night. A few of Olises friends he doesn’t recognize lounging on a couch in what appears to be his living room, wide screen of Fifa casting green shadows across their faces. Jamal is there, turned slightly away from the camera so only half of his face is visible. It's dark in the picture but that doesn’t matter.
Olise could have taken the photo on a grainy android, it wouldn’t have mattered. Flo’s eyes would have caught on Jamal’s clothes either way.
He can feel blood rushing in his ears. It’s too much. His pulse is doubling, he has to lock his phone for a second to remember how to breathe, accidentally catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the screen, wide-eyed and pale. In an attempt to stop his head from spinning, Flo closes his eyes but the image is still there, burned into the inside of his eyelids.
Bold golden letters that spell out a name between Jamals shoulder blades – Number 10. Florian Wirtz.
Jamal, who‘s wearing his kit.
Oh.
Oh.