Chapter Five
Sebastian – “Why did you kiss back?”
The distance was noticeable immediately.
Not just because Marcos’ lips were no longer against Sebastian’s, but because of how much space Marcos gave himself when he pulled away.
He shifted back so abruptly that the coffee table knocked against the back of his knees.
His hands were no longer near Sebastian’s body, but hovering close to his own, fingers slightly curled as though he didn’t know where to put them.
Marcos sat upright, shoulders tense, eyes wide and fixed on Sebastian.
Sebastian couldn’t move. His mind was racing, and the steadiness he had felt in his chest had vanished, replaced by rapid breathing and the sudden awareness of every part of himself Marcos had touched. The bandage under his shirt. The cut beneath it. His lips.
He tried to keep his eyes on Marcos, but the burning crawling up the back of his neck forced him to avert his gaze. The floor, the walls, the television. Anywhere but Marcos.
“What the fuck?” Marcos’ voice wasn’t filled with anger. It was more surprised and confused. “I’m not… That’s… I’m not into that.”
Humiliation spread through Sebastian, thick and immediate.
He had done it. Leaned in and kissed Marcos without thinking. Half-drunk, bruised, and in pain, he had let one careful touch from Marcos Reyes pull years of control out from under him.
The worst part was that it hadn’t felt wrong until Marcos pulled away.
It should have been instant. A mistake his body understood the second it happened.
But for the short stretch of time before Marcos pulled back, Sebastian had felt the pressure of Marcos’ mouth return against his.
He had felt Marcos’ lips match his rhythm. Just for a second.
Enough to know he hadn’t imagined it.
Enough to make everything worse.
He lifted his eyes, but only as far as Marcos’ hands. They were held awkwardly above his thighs, fingers flexing once, then curling in. Those same hands had been steady minutes ago, careful with tweezers and alcohol wipes, careful against Sebastian’s skin in a way Marcos had no right to be.
“I...” The words caught in his throat. Sebastian took a breath, and he felt it rattle in his lungs as his gaze lifted, Marcos’ brown eyes already waiting, searching his own. “Why did you kiss me back?”
Marcos didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted back and forth between Sebastian’s, pupils blown. Then Marcos stared at his hands, flexing his fingers before shaking his head.
“I don’t… That wasn’t…” Marcos inhaled slowly. “I have to go.”
Sebastian’s heart thumped heavily against his ribs, and he adjusted his position on the couch, sitting a little straighter.
The pain he’d felt before had gone distant, pushed behind the rush in his ears and the ugly drop in his stomach.
He kept his eyes locked on Marcos, who, despite his words, hadn’t moved.
A few drops of sweat still clung to Marcos’ temple, and some strands of wet hair stuck to his forehead.
His jaw was tight. His shoulders were tight.
Everything about him looked ready to leave except his feet.
“Yeah, no. Okay,” Sebastian mumbled, his hands bracing on the cushions, nails digging into the fabric. “I don’t know why I… That wasn’t anything.”
It sounded bad before it had even finished leaving his mouth.
Too fast. Too thin. Too obviously a thing he wanted to be true.
Marcos finally stood, shuffling away from the coffee table and to the side of the couch, gaze still focused down.
Sebastian got to his feet too, quickly pulling his shirt back on and doing his best to ignore the dry blood scratching against his skin.
The fabric dragged over the bandage, and he winced before he could stop it, but he yanked the shirt down anyway.
“You can just forget what happened. Everything,” Sebastian said, his arms swinging rigidly at his side.
“Yeah. No. Uh, I…” Marcos stammered through his words with a lazy wave of his hand. “Mierda.”
Marcos shook his head again and walked past the kitchen and into the hall, pulling his shoes on without untying the laces. The material pulled and folded wrong and didn’t fully get on his feet properly, though he didn’t seem to care as he stood straight again and moved to the door.
Sebastian followed right behind him, watching every move, trying to find the right words to say. Nothing came. Everything seemed small and useless following what had just happened.
He could tell Marcos it had been the alcohol, but Marcos had seen enough to know Sebastian wasn’t drunk enough for that excuse to hold.
He could say it was the pain, the fight, the shock, but none of those things explained the way he had leaned in, and none of them explained the question he had asked after.
Marcos’ hand reached the door. Sebastian’s chest tightened hard enough to make the bandage pull.
The door opened, and Marcos stepped toward the hall, then stopped, one foot across the threshold, one hand on the door, shoulders shifting as he breathed.
Sebastian waited. His eyes started to sting with each new thought of what could happen after Marcos closed the door behind him.
It wasn’t just the kiss anymore. It was Marcos knowing.
Marcos leaving with it. Marcos carrying it into the lift, down to the lobby, back into the street, and eventually back to the club, where every person would be close enough to hear the wrong thing if it slipped out.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Sebastian managed to get out, his voice cracking on the last word. “Please.”
Marcos didn’t turn. He didn’t say anything.
All Sebastian saw before the door closed was a small tilt of the head, and then he was gone.
Sebastian stayed there, staring at the door.
The apartment pressed in around him.
He could still hear his own pulse, loud and unsteady, and underneath it the quiet of the place he had chosen because quiet had always felt like control.
No one else passing through the rooms. No one calling from a kitchen.
No one asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
Just the city beyond the windows, the white light over the living room, and the clean lines of furniture that usually made the apartment feel like something he had earned.
Now it was too empty for what his mind was doing.
He turned toward the living room. The couch held his attention first, his jacket still lying where he’d left it.
The coffee table was askew. The first aid kit was still open, alcohol wipes and gauze sitting loose beside it, the tweezers near the coaster, and the small shards of glass still resting where Marcos had placed them.
Sebastian dragged his feet back toward the table, his mind folding through the next morning before he could stop it.
If Marcos told anyone, Sebastian had no idea what would happen to him.
To his career. The others would look at him differently in the locker room, and it wouldn’t matter how many of them pretended they didn’t.
It would sit there. With the towels, the showers, the tape on thighs, and the hands on shoulders after drills.
Every ordinary thing twisted into something he had to be careful with.
And then the club.
Sponsorships, contracts, and selection. The soft kind of damage people did when they were too professional to say the real reason out loud.
No one playing at this level had come out openly. Not properly. Not while they still had to walk into a club every day, pull on the jumper, and trust everyone around them to keep treating them the same.
It was easy for people outside to talk about courage. They didn’t have to stand in the rooms after.
The league could have its campaigns and polished statements, but Sebastian had been around football long enough to know what lived under the surface.
He had heard the things men said when they forgot who might be listening.
He had heard crowds, opponents, and teammates laughing at jokes they would never put their names to.
He could already see the headline. Not the player who left Geelong for the Mustangs.
Not the ruck-rover fighting to prove the move had been worth it.
Not the kid who had spent his life learning how to stretch money until it hurt, then signed the contract that was supposed to make all of it easier.
Just the gay footballer.
The words sat on his chest worse than the cut.
His family would see it eventually. Before he had the chance to tell them himself.
Maybe his sister would call because someone had sent her a link, or his grandparents would hear enough broken pieces from someone else that he would have to explain what the article meant, what the comments meant, what the look on people’s faces meant.
They had given him so much. Made quiet sacrifices he had only fully understood once he started earning his own money. He had taken everything they gave him and used it to get here.
And now one stupid kiss could bring all of that down.
Sebastian’s hands shook as he reached down to the coffee table and shifted it back into place, lining it up with the couch.
He adjusted it once, then again, even though the second adjustment barely moved it.
His fingers stayed on the edge for longer than they needed to, knuckles tight, then he let go and looked at his hands.
They were still shaking.
He balled them into fists and dug his nails into his palms.
Marcos’ face sat behind his eyelids when he closed them.
His hand on Sebastian’s chest. The tight curls loosened by sweat.
The smell of him after working out that Sebastian despised that he liked.
The way his pupils had looked blown before he dropped his gaze.
The way he hadn’t answered the question.
Sebastian’s eyes flew open. His breathing became sharp as he scanned the room.