Chapter Text
It feels like hearing Jamal's voice for the first time again.
It's not under London's grey weather with the crack of puberty in his voice, with the unsure look in his eyes, with Michael's own reluctance to meet his gaze. Back then, when they were teenagers.
No, now his voice softens in a deep, low timbre; Michael doesn't really know how to describe it except it feels thick like honey, sticks to the back of your eardrums. Michael stands right outside the training grounds, under the unrelenting heat of August, when he hears it. He greets Michael like they’ve never been apart, walks towards him with a familiar, warm smile. He's grown taller. His hair shorter. His posture more sure, confident.
He still has the same soft, brown look in his eyes.
Throughout August until the start of September, Michael rarely says a thing. He nods along to Jamal's occasional chatter, his explanations of the schedule, the life in Munich, the different style of play in the Bundesliga: Not as rough as the premier league, but all the more dangerous with abrupt twists and counters. It's a pendulum of compact defensive versus effective offensive. It's a sudden mistake or transition versus build-up and persistence.
Jamal becomes his guardian, in a weird and funny way. Always by his side to pull him along with Phonzy and Sané, sometimes Aleks joins them too. Throughout cheeky bar or club nights or lazy after-training hang outs, Jamal remains the constant who laughs and squints a smile, who leans in close and tugs for Michael to follow along.
On the pitch, Michael believes they're made to play together, too. Jamal finds him and Michael always has the number 42 before his eyes; a beacon and guiding light across the quake of the stadium, through aching muscles.
He believes.
He believes and he shouldn't have been so naive. Because, and this sounds way too kitschy to even think, Jamal is a lot like the sun the way he casts them all, the team, in light to shine. It's not only reserved for Michael, it's reserved for everyone.
Michael isn't special. The thing he has with Jamal isn't special.
Until Jamal comes up to him after the game with his free kick goal, asks him if he could show him his technique, lend him ‘a foot or two’. “I'm not really good with free kicks and corners and all,” Jamal explains, “you know, we always have someone else doing them.” Someone like you.
Michael's throat is a little dry, so he just nods and mutters a quiet sure. A tiny part of his brain remains skeptical and scoffs: You, the generational talent, asking for help? Are you joking?
Of course, Jamal's shots are perfect. Almost. Michael stands in goal with spare keeper gloves. Jamal takes a few steps back.The sun dawns behind him with the outline of early autumn, tints him in orange and violet. He glistens with sweat and determination. Step one, step two– he breaks into a short run to shoot.
Michael jumps to the side to catch the ball in time. His hands tingle.
Jamal groans, throws up his hands, “I'm too predictable.”
Michael grins. “You're too stubborn. But your technique is pretty good. Try changing something small.”
Jamal scoffs. Michael notices how his nose scrunches up when he does. “Like what?”
“I don't know,” Michael admits honestly. “Sometimes it's luck, sometimes it's something trivial like your breathing.”
Jamal's eyes widen and it makes him look so young. For a moment, they're scrawny and clumsy teenagers again with Michael's tongue twisting up whenever he's around Jamal.
“I think that's it,” Jamal snips his fingers and Michael snaps back to the moment and blinks.
“What?”
“Breathing.”
Jamal doesn't miss this time.
He beams and whoops and runs over, slaps him on the shoulder. His eyes are so genuine with gratitude and Michael, again, doesn't really know how to form words. Jamal leans close, smells of sharp aftershave and tangy sweat. “Thanks man.”
Michael inhales bravery and calm as he says, “You owe me.” You don't, you really don't. I'm just playing around with you.
“For sure,” Jamal laughs. A breathless laugh, unlike the hysterical one he has during training sometimes, when he makes fun of Leroy. It's the kind of laugh that flutters on your skin like a feather-like touch.
Michael's made of crumbling stone, helpless to nature’s whirlwind that is Jamal Musiala.
They part ways.
-
They form a routine, stay in after training to practice headers, corners and free kicks to go their separate ways after. Until Jamal offers to hang out at his place, wanna watch NBA later this night? Until Michael taunts him with a FIFA game and they end up in his living room. Until it's all they seem to do aside from their profession: be around each other. And it's comfortable. It's chill.
It slowly drives him insane.
It shouldn't because it's predictable. Jamal's touches are predictable. He's gotten used to Jamal leaning in close to wrap an arm around his shoulder, tease him with a flick to his chest or cheek. He's gotten used to his voice, the way it swallows up German sounds to mix in a mash of a German-British accent. He's gotten used to his laugh like it's been playing on spotify shuffle for the past weeks. Michael indulges in it, mirrors it all the same. Phonzy mentions it during training, how they always end up together for an exercise, how fast they've grown close. Michael just shrugs because what's he supposed to say? It's the truth.
There's nothing special about it. Phonzy himself is pretty close to Jamal.
And honestly, everytime, every fucking time Michael thinks that– that what they have is just normal and ordinary and nothing unique because it's just two old friends reconnecting on the same wavelength, Jamal stirrs up his doubts.
Tries to prove Michael wrong.
It happens during the whole PR Oktoberfest fiasco when Michael is not only forced to wear horrendous lederhosen, but also into an interview in which he ends up wide-eyed, his glasses covering up any sign of nervousness or panic. His skin sizzles, his mouth coming up with single syllables until Jamal appears by his side to help him through the interview. He teases him, winks, “–but he's getting better at German. Don't you, Mike?”
And then he pulls him aside, again, smiling shyly and asking if he wants to join for the Festplatz¹. Michael assumes they're going with their usual group of Leroy and Phonzy.
He assumed wrong.
He stays pressed to Jamal's side as they walk through tight crowds of people. Michael squints at changing and flashing lights. He tries to blend out the chaotic choir of music and voices by focusing on Jamal who's uncaring of it all. Jamal, who turns his head to meet his eyes, smiles, like he's sharing a secret with Michael. We're doing this on our own, it says, and no one knows.
No one knows who we are. For now.
Everything around him turns into tv static.
Michael stares and almost trips on his feet but catches himself in time. Jamal's hand shoots up to hover over his back. He snickers, then pulls on his sleeve to random stands and games of chance.
They shoot cans and ducks and whatnot and miss half their shots. Well, Jamal wastes half their shots and Michael snorts and remarks how he's been missing the fifth can in a row, “Seriously, you suck at this.”
Jamal looks back, eyes glinting. “Yeah?” He challenges and smirks. The voice should be swallowed up by the bustle around them.
Michael hears it as clear as an announcement in the stadium.
Jamal doesn't miss this time. (Again).
The guy at the shooting stand asks them what they want but it's just a bunch of ugly plushies so Michael and Jamal wave it off and call it a tip.
The guy, admittedly, looks a little more than confused.
Afterwards, Jamal insists on getting him something else and Michael raises an eyebrow to ask what're you on about?
“You won,” he explains, “you know. The shoot-out,” and reaches for his hand to tug. They start walking and Michael wordlessly follows, his hand resting pliantly in Jamal’s palm. All strength leaves him in that moment, he couldn't squeeze and hold on even if he wanted to. He doesn’t if he wants to.
They find a colorful food stand with overexaggerated comic-esque art. They offer all kinds of sweets– roasted almonds, different kinds of fruits and cakes to stop at these… heart-shaped gingerbread thingies that hang off the ceiling. The lady behind the counter is well past her sixties with grey hair up in a bun and flowery, colorful jewellery; the kind of lady who tends to her own garden and makes her own marmalade or something.
Jamal motions to one of these gingerbread hearts and the lady smiles and goes to get one. They exchange money and pleasantries and Michael eyes that thing in Jamal's hand like it has personally wronged him.
Jamal laughs. “You definitely need one of these. German souvenir and all.”
“That looks ugly and probably tastes like shit.”
They slowly aim for the exit, swimming through the crowd. Jamal can't stop laughing. “You're not really supposed to eat them anyway.”
That's just plain stupid. “The fuck are they for then?”
Jamal shakes his head and smiles. “I'll explain when we're in the car.”
Well, moments later, Michael's in the driver seat now and all Jamal ‘explains’ is, “it's a gift.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“Bro, the whole purpose of a gift is just to have it, you know?”
Michael stares at him for a moment. Then breaks into a short, breathless laughter. He takes the gingerbread out of Jamal's hands and looks at it. The edge is decorated in red, the writing in white. He tries to read it out loud. “ Liebling²?”
“You have to practice your pronunciation,” Jamal giggles.
“What's it mean?”
“And your German. I can't always spell it out for you.”
Michael rolls his eyes and leaves it be.
Late in bed, he googles it. Thinks it's just a joke. Because it is. Nothing abnormal or special about it.
It gets worse.
-
It gets worse in the sense that Jamal continues to feed his delusion, makes him believe that what they share is…just different. Michael doesn't know how to define ‘different’, but Jamal acts a bit different around him compared to others.
For example, Jamal gives him a lot. He gives his all on the pitch as he does as his friend. He gives easy smiles and the worst overly dry scrambled eggs or a too bland tomato sauce. He gives oversugared teas and sweaty high fives. He gives loud howls and whines after a lost game. He gives hysterical giggles when Michael tells a deadpan joke, drily as Mike does. He gives and gives and gives while Michael takes, willingly, eats it up until he's left with a tooth ache, with a stomach too full and warm.
It's just so easy to take it all in when they always spend time together.
Jamal's hip injury breaks up their little routine, their give-and-take.
It had dawned on him days before during their private training. Jamal winced after a kick, holding onto his hip with a grimace. Michael jogged over and asked if he was alright. Jamal straightened up and pushed a smile to say it's nothing. The idiot went to get the ball, flinched after the third step and Michael crossed his way, touching the hip to stop him. “We're getting home and let the physios handle it tomorrow.”
The silence afterwards was damning; Jamal stared at him with big eyes and opened his mouth as if to say something, and Michael almost cursed to spit it out. Then he realized how his hand was still on Jamal's hip, how both of them didn't back away, how Michael was sentenced to look at him at this proximity. Maybe Phonzy had sneaked to the training pitch to shoot for his head, because he wanted to die and slap himself for his next words. Did he not think?
“You don't need to be carried, right?”
It was supposed to be a joke, something to break…the weird atmosphere that had formed. But god, Michael didn't say it in a teasing, dry or grinning tone. He murmured it because he was overwhelmed; it felt like being called out by a teacher after you had said ‘a bad word’ and they forced you to repeat it. You would just mutter under your breath, embarrassed and ready to die.
He murmured it, embarrassed and shy and so unlike him.
That was just in his head though, the soft tone of his voice could've been mistaken for flirting, too.
He froze.
The pit of dread in his stomach didn't get a chance to swallow him whole because Jamal mumbled, “I think it's fine. Just need to balance my weight a little.”
They didn't talk much after that.
Fast forward to training now with Jamal being immediately delegated to the physiotherapists and Kompany pulling him aside. Before Michael can even form doubts, anxious thoughts and predictions, Kompany cuts right through. To the point. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but about your little, additional training sessions: You can't do these anymore. You guys need regeneration during these weeks more than anything.”
-
Autumn freezes over to winter.
They're out of the DFB Pokal but Michael settles with the mulled wine, Munich's curved and bright countenance, the echo of the Allianz and a comfortable lead in the Champions League so life's good.
He's made a little home right by his teammates. By Jamal’s side. They celebrate his birthday with a small get-together at his place; laugh, play Mario Kart tournaments and watch boring, low budget movies because Aleks claimed it's ‘funny’. He falls asleep and wakes up to everyone gone except for Jamal. He makes his signature, dry scrambled eggs, makes bitter, bad coffee that's somehow still the best Michael's ever had. Life's good.
Right before winter break, in the treacherous comfort of their training pitch, Jamal tells him he'll be visiting the states with his family and asks if he likes to come along.
Life's not so good.
He feels something leap beneath his chest. The words shoot fast and harshly like a perfect shot on goal – Do you wanna come with? – right to aim for his throat. What's he supposed to say to that?
He curls his hands, crescents forming on his palm. He nods. Jamal beams and bats his back, raving about how amazing it'll be. A hot shower washes through him. The floodlights shine down on them, too bright and framing Jamal like a halo. Everything's too much.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Michael realizes he's fucked.
-
“Hello?” The voice on the other line rasps out. Michael probably woke him up in the middle of the night but frankly, he doesn't care.
He has valerian tea in one hand and his (second) iphone in the other. It's on speaker. He's cuddled up in two layers of blankets, the lamp by his bedside illuminating his too wide and half-empty room. The heaters are on the second hottest level because the cold is out to get him. And so is something else.
“I think I have a crush on my teammate,” he admits and is met with silence.
Eze hangs up.
Michael glares at his phone and is, admittedly, a little hurt by the sheer dismissal. He dials the number again. It rings and echoes through the room for half a minute before Eze picks up again.
“Yeah?” He grumbles in a deep, still sleepy voice.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Michael snaps.
“What,” Eze asks and sounds genuine. Michael can see him blinking before his inner eye, trying to form a coherent thought in order to understand why his friend, Michael Olise, known to never initiate or pick up a call, calls him in the middle of the night during a weekday.
“Mike? That you?”
“Who else?”
“Shit can't be real,” he mutters under his breath. Silence follows and Michael gives him five seconds of doubt before he warns him not to hang up again. Eze, apparently, sobers up and asks in a pressed and more serious voice, “Are you alright?”
“I said I have a…,” Michael sighs, “crush on a teammate.”
Eze doesn't say anything. Moments tick by. He hears rustling, water running, a lot of gulping, then, after having downed half a liter, an annoyingly loud and satisfied sign. “So,” Eze finally says.
“You heard me.”
And honestly, Michael is a tad bit angry right now. Eze doesn't seem to grasp the severity of the situation, which, fair. Poor guy was woken up in the middle of night before a match day. However, Eze was his last and only call because like in hell was he going to talk to his family about this. Or his other friends. They wouldn't tear him to shreds, but his family is on the conservative leaning side and his other friends barely have experience or exposure to… ’this stuff’. Their world usually revolves around sports, games, hip hop and rap after all.
Hell, Mike himself wasn't really familiar until he was confronted with a full blown, cliché butterflies in your stomach kind of situation as the days before their vacation drew nearer, like how the fuck will I behave around this guy when I'm seconds away from bursting into confetti?
“Since when are you gay tho?” Eze asks like they're discussing the weather.
“I,” Michael falters, “I don't know if I am. I mean, I guess I am partly but that's not the point.”
Eze sighs like an old soul. “You could've just texted me man.” His voice is still drowsy around the edges, “like. I don't know what to tell you. Obviously, you can't tell him. I mean, technically, you can, but–”
But?
Eze doesn't add up on it. Michael presses, “But?”
“I'm not gonna lie, it's weird to hear your voice have any semblance of desperation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Thanks,” he sighs again. Michael frowns, confused. What're you thanking me for? “Like, for telling me. I know it isn't easy. To admit, I mean. To anyone.”
Oh.
“You're so bad at this,” Michael doesn't know whether to smile or groan.
“Shut up,” Eze laughs, “seriously though. You have two options: tell him or don't. Deal with either.”
“And how do I deal with either?”
“I don't know,” Eze admits, “I guess call your poor friend in the middle of the night to whine about it.”
“Eat shit,” Michael sips on his lukewarm tea to suppress the grin.
“That's how it works I guess.”
“And you're…,” Michael hesitates, “just fine with it?”
“You waking me up in the middle of the night because of your sexuality crisis whatever the fuck? No I'm not, I have a fucking game tomorrow.”
Michael laughs wholeheartedly.
“G, seriously. I don't care. Who's this guy anyway? That bambi guy?”
“What,” of course not. Michael pinches his eyes together and braces himself for the teasing.
“Oh my god, it is him. Nah, I expected Beckham or some in his prime, not–,” Eze mimics a high-pitched voice, “a little deer.”
“The fuck are you on about?”
“That your type? Pitch princesses?”
“ ‘Pitch princesses ’?” How did he come up with that?
“You heard me the first time my man,” he snickers, “Mike likes them tall, lean and–”
“ Shut up,” he cuts in, “just shut up. I'm hanging up.”
Michael doesn't hang up. Eze, cleared up from his previous sleep-induced delirium, doesn't either. They talk about Mike's desperation, about how it'll be fine even though let's be real Mike, it will suck a little. That's just how it is. But I got you.
Michael feels a little less terrified, as if everything's manageable after all. He's got a bright future ahead of him, people that love him, friends like Eze to count on and he has Jamal, though not fully.
(Not in ways that matter.)