|| Chapter Twenty-Five || Marcos – “Why are you awake?”
|| Chapter Twenty-Five ||
Marcos – “Why are you awake?”
MID JULY
“Oi,” a man’s voice cut across the field, sharp in the morning air. “Are we listening?”
“Yep,” Marcos called back, followed by a laugh. “Sorry. We’re sorry.”
A gust of wind rushed across the ground, whipping around Marcos and Sebastian as they stood in the centre square of the Mustangs’ oval.
The morning had come in cold and bright, the kind of winter air that sat against the skin and made every pause feel longer than it should.
The grass was still damp enough to darken the toes of Marcos’ boots, and every time the wind came through, it tugged at the loose fabric of the training top they had given him for the shoot.
Lights, microphones, and a camera were set up around them, looking out of place on the oval despite the club branding thrown over half the equipment.
A few members of the crew moved between stands, adjusting angles, fixing cables, and talking in low voices to each other as if Marcos and Sebastian were the issue and not the fact that none of this looked like football.
They probably were the issue.
It was early Tuesday morning, and most of the team were in the gym, with a couple of them doing drills at the far end of the field.
Marcos could hear the occasional thump of a ball and the distant call from one of the assistant coaches, but all of that felt separate from the strange little production built around him and Sebastian.
They had been chosen to film a promotional piece for the club.
Two young players. Rivals turned teammates. A threatening duo.
That was how the media team had said it.
Marcos had managed not to laugh at the time, mostly because Sebastian had stood beside him with a blank expression that meant he was very close to saying something that would get them both in trouble.
Neither of them wanted to be there, and it was hard to pretend they did.
The fact that they couldn’t keep a straight face while filming wasn’t helping, and the director was starting to get frustrated with them.
It probably didn’t help that every instruction sounded worse once Sebastian repeated it under his breath, or that Marcos kept staring at him when he knew he shouldn’t.
“We’re just going to take five,” the director said, voice less sharp now that he had their attention.
Marcos waved him off and turned to Sebastian, who was kicking at the ground. “How are things with your sister?”
“They’re fine. We’ve called each other almost every day,” Sebastian said, his voice low, and his eyes staying on the ground.
Marcos nodded, watching him.
It had been a few weeks since that morning at Sebastian’s apartment, and Sebastian had not said much about it. Marcos hadn’t pushed, partly because pushing Sebastian rarely worked and partly because he could still remember the look on Sebastian’s face when Loren had found him in the bedroom.
Since then, they hadn’t seen each other outside of the club and games. They had still been messaging each other. Sending each other stupid videos and talking about nothing in particular. Nothing personal, though. Nothing which required anything from either of them.
That was all. No apartment. No bed. No mornings together.
“Do you want me to come over sometime?”
“No,” Sebastian said too quickly, and Marcos’ face dropped before he was able to stop it. “Sorry. I just… I think keeping stuff separate for a bit is what I need.”
The words hit in the small space between them, quieter than the wind and harder to ignore.
“Okay. That’s cool.” Marcos nodded. “You can talk to me if you need to. I listen.”
The offer sat strangely in his mouth.
Not because he didn’t mean it. But saying it made him aware of how little they had actually done that kind of thing. They had started to, the first night they slept with each other, but then getting to know each other better fell to the wayside, and neither of them picked it up again.
He knew Sebastian liked racing games. That he enjoyed tea—at least hated it less than Marcos. He knew what fear looked like on Sebastian’s face and how anger settled under his skin. Or how quiet Sebastian got when family came to close to the surface.
It wasn’t enough.
Sebastian glanced at him and smiled. “Thanks. For now, I just want this to be over.”
“Yeah. I’d much rather be in the gym lifting life-threatening weights.”
That got the right reaction.
Sebastian’s mouth shifted, the smile becoming more real before he turned away again.
“Alright, guys.” The director’s voice reached them again as he strode across the field. “We’re gonna try a specky. The ball is gonna be thrown in, and I want Seb to be the one to jump up and mark it, alright?”
“So, Marcos is on the bottom?” Sebastian asked with a grin, nudging Marcos.
“Exactly,” the director said, paying no mind to the smile and turning away.
Marcos spun and slapped Sebastian’s arm with a laugh. “Keeping it separate, hey?”
“I’m allowed to joke,” Sebastian said, shoving Marcos’ shoulder.
“Right. Well, good luck jumping high enough with those little legs.”
“Fuck off.”
Sebastian turned and ran toward another member of the crew who was marking out a position for him.
Marcos watched him go for longer than he should have, then forced his attention away when the woman in a low cap called him over.
Her red hair had been pulled through the back in a ponytail, and she held a clipboard in one hand while pointing at a chalk marking on the ground with the other.
Marcos walked over and stood where she told him, back to Sebastian.
The mark on the grass put him just inside the square, facing toward the camera. It was not the way he would naturally set himself for a real contest, but apparently, real football was not the point. The point was making everything look clean, powerful, and easy to cut into a thirty-second clip.
“Alright, Marcos, just look like you’re ready to mark the ball,” the director called. “Sebastian, you run up, jump onto his shoulders and grab it.”
Marcos glanced back and saw Sebastian give a thumbs up.
Sebastian’s face had already changed. He was trying too hard to look serious, which meant he was less than a minute away from ruining everything. Marcos smiled before facing forward again and putting his best game face on.
The first attempt was terrible.
The ball was thrown too high and too far, sailing right over Sebastian’s head before bouncing once and rolling toward the boundary. Sebastian stopped dead, arms still half-lifted, then slowly turned toward the crew.
The second attempt was worse.
Sebastian misjudged his jump and ran straight into Marcos’ back, shoulder colliding with him at the wrong angle and knocking them both to the ground.
Marcos landed first, then Sebastian beside him with a grunt that turned into a laugh almost immediately.
That set Marcos off, and the two of them lay on their backs in the damp grass, laughing hard enough that the director had to walk over and scold them and tell them to get back into position.
The pattern continued as the morning pressed on.
A bad throw. A late jump. Sebastian landing too hard on Marcos’ shoulders and nearly folding him forward.
Twice, Sebastian started laughing right before he was meant to jump and doubled over trying to catch his breath, hands on his knees while the crew waited in open disappointment.
Marcos wasn’t much better.
The one time they actually got everything right, Sebastian’s knee hit his shoulder, the ball came down exactly where it needed to, and the shot should have worked.
Marcos lost his composure just before the mark and ruined the shot.
Sebastian slid down his back and landed heavily behind him, already laughing. Marcos turned and pointed at him before anyone could blame him properly.
Sebastian only laughed harder.
The director put both hands on his hips and looked toward the sky.
Eventually, after too many attempts, they got it.
The ball came in clean. Marcos set himself under it, shoulders braced, body still enough to give Sebastian a proper platform without making it look too easy.
Sebastian timed the run properly for once, knee hitting Marcos’ shoulder, his weight moving over Marcos in a sharp, controlled burst. Marcos absorbed it, teeth clenching with the impact, and Sebastian rose above him, hands closing around the ball at the highest point.
Then Sebastian came down with the ball tucked in, landing beside Marcos instead of on him, and the director yelled that they had it before either of them could ruin it by speaking.
They were dismissed right away and sent off the field so the crew could start working on other shots.
Marcos walked beside Sebastian toward the rooms, their shoulders brushing once before they both shifted apart.
Marcos glanced at him. “Little legs got there in the end.”
Sebastian looked across at him, eyes narrowing, but a smile grew on his face. “I hate you.”
“Look at you two.”
Harry’s voice met them as they reached the boundary line.
He was sweating hard, hair a mess, training shirt clinging to his chest like he had just come straight from the gym.
He slowed as he reached them, eyes shifting from Sebastian to Marcos, then back again with the kind of grin that usually meant someone was about to make himself annoying.
“What exactly are we looking at?” Sebastian asked, raising his eyebrow.
“I mean, come on.” Harry chuckled. “They chose the pretty boys for the promo.”
“Are you coming onto us?” Marcos joked, and Harry’s face contorted sharply.
“Damn, bro, get that faggy shit outta here.” He laughed, pushing past Marcos and heading toward the drills downfield. “We’ll meet you out here, yeah.”
The words landed and kept going.
That was what made it worse.
Harry didn’t stop or look back. Didn’t seem to think anything had happened at all. He kept jogging toward the far end of the oval, lifting one hand to someone waiting near the drill setup, already past it. Already onto the next thing.