Chapter Six #2
Jacob was right. Sebastian was replaceable. He didn’t even need Marcos to run his mouth to lose his position. He was capable of making that happen himself.
“I want you both out of my fucking sight,” Jacob continued, turning back to look at them. “Get off my field. Deal with whatever shit you need to and do not bring it back here again. Or shit will change very quickly for you.”
Jacob didn’t wait around for a response. He slapped the clipboard against his leg and strode away, farther down the boundary line, his focus back on the field.
Sebastian didn’t move. His hands gripped his thighs, and he closed his eyes.
He tried to even out his breathing as it had become too shallow, too quick.
But the deeper he tried to get the air, the more he wanted to take another swing at Marcos.
The punch hadn’t settled anything. It had made things worse in every practical way possible.
He opened his eyes and focused on the field in front of him.
His teammates were running across the grass, the game being played without him.
Tommy was contesting the bounce with enough effort but not enough control.
Daniel ran through the middle where Sebastian should have been, cutting toward a handball too late and recovering half a second after the opening had passed.
Neither of them was better than Sebastian or Marcos.
They were still on the field.
“Ch?t tiet,” he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.
Marcos shifted. It was small. A movement to angle himself toward Sebastian. Then a deep breath. And another. Then, “Look, Seb—”
That was enough for Sebastian. He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear the softness in Marcos’ voice. Or the slight tremble when Marcos said his name. The uncertainty or confusion or whatever the hell it was.
He didn’t want to hear any of it.
Sebastian pushed to his feet and, without a glance back, marched toward the locker room.
He didn’t clean himself up or change. He didn’t want to risk Marcos walking in and having to deal with whatever came with that. The locker room was empty, and Sebastian passed through it fast, picked up his things, and walked out.
By the time he reached his car, his stomach was throbbing, and it hurt to stretch it out. By the time he was in his apartment, it was in competition with his knuckles to see which could be in more pain.
The shower didn’t help.
Not with the pain, or the feelings, or the thoughts.
He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, put his glasses on, and made his way to the kitchen.
The week after Marcos had been there had not been kind to the apartment.
Sebastian had lost the motivation to maintain.
Plates sat in the sink and cups on the kitchen counter.
The couch and coffee table had never been put back in place, and the first aid kit had only made it from the floor back onto the table.
Sebastian had cleaned up the glass. Everything else stayed.
He sighed at the sight of it all before taking some pain medication. Then took his aching body to the couch—grabbing his PlayStation controller on the way—and slumped down onto it. One leg hung over the armrest, and he propped himself up on his elbow as the television came to life.
The racing game loaded slowly, its menu filling the screen with polished cars and soft music that sounded too neat for the apartment around it. He started a race. Finished it. Started another. Won. Tuned his car. And repeated.
The pain started to die down, and Sebastian didn’t even notice the room around him fall into darkness as the hours passed and the sun disappeared behind the cityscape.
The windows turned reflective, catching the crooked shape of the room behind him.
The only real light came from the television, blue and silver washing over the coffee table, the first aid kit, the cups on the counter, and his bare chest.
Then there was a knock at his door.
Sebastian blinked hard as his eyes started to sting. He was flicking through his collection of cars when he checked around the apartment, then toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move. The knock had been firm enough to hear over the game, but not urgent enough for him to care.
He doubted it was anyone important. No one he cared about lived close enough to drop by for a nighttime visit.
He brought his attention back to the screen before it dipped to his chest. The light slid against the faint scar that had formed, the bump rising slightly above his skin. His finger came up and ran along it without much thought.
Another knock.
This one was harder. More insistent.
Sebastian threw his head back, dropped the controller onto the cushion, and let out a long exhale.
He swung his legs off the couch and stood, making no effort to rush to the door.
His stomach pulled. His knuckles throbbed with the shift of his hand, and he flexed his fingers once before letting them hang at his side.
Maybe by the time he reached it, whoever it was would have left. Or maybe it was his sister, in which case he didn’t really care if she had to wait out there for a few more minutes.
The tiles were cold on his bare feet as he dragged them across the living room and down the hall.
The cool night air seemed to have seeped into the apartment, and being away from the warmth of the couch made Sebastian wish he’d worn a shirt.
He reached the door, and with a small sigh, he swung it open.
Sebastian’s first instinct was to throw a punch. His second was to slam the door.
He did neither.
He just watched Marcos.
Marcos was breathing heavily. Which, even on the field, Sebastian rarely saw. Sweat ran down his face and soaked into his singlet. His shorts were riding up on his thighs, stuck to the skin higher than they should have been. His hair was straighter than ever as the dampness weighed it down.
Then Sebastian saw the bruise that had formed, running along Marcos’ cheek.
They stayed staring at each other for a full minute. Neither of them speaking or moving. Sebastian’s hand was resting on the door as if he were going to close it. Marcos’ eyes were wide as he tried to drag in as much oxygen as he could.
Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.
Then, despite himself, he stepped to the side.
Marcos slipped past, body turned, chest toward Sebastian so he could fit through. The smell of him hit Sebastian fast, and it wasn’t bad. It was just Marcos. And Sebastian silently cursed at himself for being drawn in by it.
The door clicked shut, and Sebastian turned. Marcos was already standing in the living room, shoes off, neatly lined up in the hallway.
It didn’t matter that Marcos remembered to do that.
Sebastian forced himself to think that, then followed Marcos’ footsteps into the apartment, watching him take in the sight. Not the clean, pristine, elegant version he had seen before. But one that had collapsed alongside Sebastian.
Marcos spun slowly, scanning everything. His attention stopped on the television for longer than anything else, the racing game glowing across the screen.
Then his eyes came back to meet Sebastian’s.
Marcos was still breathing heavily, though it seemed different now. Not as though he was trying to drag oxygen in after running, but trying to calm himself down. His chest rose and fell beneath the wet singlet. The bruise on his cheek sat darker in the television light.
Still, neither of them spoke. The music from the game filled the space around them, a gentle piano sounding out a melody that wasn’t being heard.
Sebastian took a step closer, leaving him only one more away from Marcos. His mind wasn’t landing on a single thought. His fist was still itching to be thrown again. To make the bruise bigger. To release all of this anger that was festering.
Sebastian’s hands curled at his sides, and the motion sent pain through his knuckles. Marcos’ gaze dropped to them, then came back up.
Then Marcos’ breathing stopped.
He moved.
Sebastian flinched, bracing himself—
It wasn’t a punch.
Marcos’ lips collided with his.