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Kylian squeezes the last bit of fruit puree from the green pouch into his mouth, the cinnamon flavor biting through the apple and coating his sore throat pleasantly. He pulls up his socks higher over his knees, makes circles with his ankles before getting up off the bench and out of the locker room.
He’s meeting new teammates and tries to remember that first day of school feeling they must be having, but they’re either more nomadic than he’s been (Hakimi) or way older (Ramos) so maybe this is just another day for them. Kylian had imagined meeting Ramos in Madrid, but now he tries to see him as the new guy, not the captain.
Hakimi is more elusive, it takes a couple days for them to get facetime and when they do, Kylian is grateful for his Spanish because Achraf is barely past ça va? and croissant. Hakimi extends a hand and they repeat his name, Achraf, a couple times between them till Kylian gets it right.
“Don’t go easy on me, eh?” Kylian jokes,
“I won’t.” Achraf responds and it momentarily hits pause on Kylian’s breathing. The other man’s eyes are intense with the world’s longest lashes and he’s got a dimple that Kylian processes as an existential danger.
..
Personal space is a zero-sum situation for Kylian, he’s either burrowing deep into someone’s armpit, post-match sweat registering as perversely sweet to him from adrenaline or he has his earbuds in, sunglasses on, jacket on the adjacent seat, not even responding if the president himself is begging for his attention.
He’s gotten too used to having sole agency over his engagement that it throws him off balance to keep getting pulled into Achraf’s orbit.
It starts when Achraf steals a water bottle right out of his hand and doesn’t even acknowledge him after. Next, Achraf is pulling him into the plane seat next to him, under the pretext of keeping Sergio from bugging him. Next, he’s handing Kylian a stack of flashcards in Spanish and French, asking him, test me. Next, he’s climbing into Kylian’s car behind him, the driver turning around with his eyebrows up. Can’t go home, too empty, is all he says. All in all, it takes a month for Kylian to come to terms with something off-kilter about this particular friendship, and then another month to be fully at peace with it.
..
Kylian is fouled hard and he freezes on the ground, sending up a quick prayer that nothing is injured. By the time he’s fairly certain he can get up, there’s a full fight breaking out over him, bodies shoved and pulled, harsh words about someone’s mom. He stays down protecting his head to avoid getting caught up until he hears Achraf cursing in Spanish, and yeah, that sounds like a card. Kylian is pleasantly surprised it’s not a red so they can see through this match together. Lurking under that is a less straightforward feeling settling dark and deep in his belly. He wants to see what Achraf looks like fighting for Kylian.
..
A lab coat too-politely asks Kylian to please wait. He’s just peed for his doping test after being randomly selected three times in a row. He chooses to take it as flattery, his performance is good to be true. But a fourth time, he’s gonna complain.
“I have to get to the bus,” Kylian tells her so he can get a timeline here.
“Your sample has been flagged for a full screening, I’m really sorry.” She looks actually sorry, that or she wants a shirt signed. A small panic rises in his throat, he knows there is no reason for this, but he’s not that solid on biology even though it's the only thing he paid attention to when he used to have lessons—his first guess is rational, like, maybe he ate something? His second guess is flat-out crazy, like, is his system flushed with extra oxytocin from having too many feelings? He sends a group message to his mom and lawyer giving them a heads up, and drafts one to Achraf he doesn’t end up sending.
Turns out to be nothing. Maybe the machine glitched.
..
Brice laughs reading the interview on the newspaper that keeps calling him “the friend with the comb.” Kylian had insisted he come along to his biggest American interview besides Time and look where he’s been relegated to.
“Did you decide what you’re wearing? Navy or black?”
Kylian shrugs, “You pick.” He closes his eyes, leans back in the chair and waits for the hot towel to fall over his eyes so he can let himself think. Brice drops the newspaper in Kylian’s lap and gets to his work. Kylian thinks about the clay under a sculptor’s hands, the leather under tailor’s hands. He feels like art when he’s in this chair and that thought drags him into a non sequitur of a daydream, where Achraf is smiling at him and isn’t looking away too quickly like he usually does.
..
“Where does it hurt?” Achraf asks, concern marking his brow with lines he’s too young for.
Kylian points at his shin even though it’s closer to his thigh. He’s grateful for his lie when Achraf’s hands make to massage him where he pointed. His fingers are cold, his fingertips are rough like he’s not getting a manicure every week. Kylian decides if he wants to chase the feeling building up. Fuck it.
“Higher, actually.” Kylian points to the right spot now. Achraf pauses a beat too long and okay, he wasn’t trying to start a game of chicken. He pulls his leg back as much as the space allows it but Achraf’s hands follow him.
“I can call the physical therapist in if you want it like, properly…” Achraf mumbles.
“You’re not calling anyone.” Kylian tells him, he’s surprised by his own tone but he’s tired of fighting himself. He closes his eyes and memorizes the rough fingers kneading, pulling. It feels so good and he wants either so much less or so much more.
..
Kylian scores goals because he’s great. Because he wants to win and because he can. He scores and he swallows the praise and love of the masses. He lets himself get folded into every embrace that will have him. When he sees Achraf running at him, mirth in his eyes, heat on his sweating brow, he swears he will score one more today. Two more. As many as it takes.
..
Achraf is making himself at home in Kylian’s kitchen, making himself a sandwich like they couldn’t just call it in. He puts too much mayo and scrapes it off. Puts too much tuna and then scrapes that off. He’s distracted like he can’t decide what he wants. Kylian may be projecting. He shuffles the papers in front of him on the kitchen island loudly to get his friend’s attention.
“You ever use one of these?” Kylian holds up the contract in his hand.
“What is it?” Achraf asks around a mouthful of sandwich.
“I swear they add another page every year, it has like covid tests and stuff now,” Kylian squints at one of the addendum paragraphs.
“What is it?”
Kylian can’t bring himself to say it out loud so just slides it over. Achraf’s eyes scan through it before giving up,
“It’s in French.” Achraf slides it back over without making any effort to make sense of it.
“It’s uh, for people to sign if I hook up with them? Nondisclosure?” Kylian mumbles, hopes he won’t have to repeat himself.
“You mean girls?”
“People.” Kylian corrects him too fast. It’s important to be clear.
“No, I haven’t used this.” Achraf finally answers, going back to make a second sandwich like he needs more calories to get through this conversation. Kylian watches his hands working: Achraf is using only his right hand to pile the ingredients on, not letting the knife go from his left.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No I just, don’t know why you’re showing me this. I’m not a lawyer.” Achraf says, picks up his sandwich and walks out the first door he sees. He’s usually more considerate and cleans up after himself but not now. Too bad the door leads only to the chef’s pantry with no path elsewhere, he’s trapped.
Kylian dials Delphine and follows Achraf to the pantry and makes sure the call is within his earshot.
“Yeah, no, I don’t need the NDAs. No, I understand. No, I’ll tell her myself.” Kylian thanks his lawyer for her diligence and hangs up.
“Happy?” Kylian asks, tries to get Achraf to look at him. Achraf’s poker face remains impressively unmoved.
“I wasn’t judging you.” Achraf finally says, “You have to protect yourself.”
“I’m trying to protect this.” Kylian gestures between them. He doesn’t want Achraf to feel cornered, physically or otherwise, so he backs out of the room. Achraf takes a while to follow him to the living room, probably cleaning up his sandwich stuff.
World Cup is coming up and they need to be solid before things potentially get tense when they’re competing against each other. Kylian hopes he’s been forthright enough about where he stands without sacrificing the out he wants to give his friend. He said people, he said there is no one else. He’s waiting, but he could also move along if he needs to. Their friendship is expansive enough to accommodate another angle, another feature, but they haven’t really reached a point to test it, yet.
..
Doha is hot in the day and cold at night and Kylian keeps forgetting how fast it changes and keeps having to steal jackets wherever he goes. He’s got on a red jacket, Moroccan flag on the chest, a little too much cologne soaked into the fabric. His sore mood is slowly giving way because yes, he was so close and yes, he’s not getting the Ballon D’Or without the trophy but next time it’s his. He doesn’t need to dream about it, the certainty of it is as clear as anything in his heart.
“I’m ordering food,” asks his heart. Achraf. Get it together, Kylian.
They’re leaving tomorrow, families left a day early. Achraf’s suite is a complete mess, like he’s been refusing room service for days. Sheets and towels are everywhere, blankets dragged into the living room area, empty glass Evian bottles and enough shoes to fill a store. It’s stuffy because he couldn’t figure out how to open the windows with the child locks on them. Off the bedroom is a large balcony that continues around a corner but privacy ends at the corner. Spotless white fabric on the lounge chairs and embroidered cloth on the table. Ice bucket with a puddle inside. Maybe Achraf has been declining room service.
“Fries, vanilla cake and diet coke.” Kylian finally says after he’s done projecting a mood onto his surroundings. He’s grateful Achraf doesn’t say anything about his menu.
“I’ve been rewatching your goals,” Achraf tells him while they wait for the food.
“You have a favorite one?” Kylian asks, biting a piece of his nail, practicing making light of his loss even as it stings him everywhere.
“I like them better when we’re on the same team.” Achraf pivots. Who knows why he brought it up.
The knock on the door echoes all the way out to the balcony. There is zero breeze so sound travels easily. Kylian thinks Achraf will go fetch the food, but instead he yells that the door is open. Two hotel employees walk in, one pushing a cart of food, the other carrying a hookah set-up with fancy velvet hose and gilded tips, a matching gilded basket for coals.
“You’re not smoking...” Kylian stares, incredulous.
“And you’re not eating cake.”
“I’m serious.”
“Aw, worried about my lungs?”
“Aren’t you?”
Instead of responding, Achraf wraps his mouth around the tip of the shisha hose, inhales deep and blows a ring of smoke which dissipates on the way before it gets to Kylian. It smells like pineapple.
“You wanna try?” Achraf extends him the hose.
“No.”
“You don’t want to know how it tastes?”
Kylian stares, lets their world tilt sideways a little with the innuendo. Why not. It’s the world cup and they’ve already lost.
“I’ve thought about it,” Kylian admits. Here’s their test.
“Okay.” Achraf looks away like he didn’t think Kylian would follow him here.
“I’m thinking about it now.” Kylian amends.
“Okay. Me too.” Achraf says, still squinting at the sun instead of the grave he’s digging for them both. The tip of the shisha is resting lightly on his bottom lip. It’s not clear if he’s still breathing. Air has become pineapple-scented.
Kylian shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He looks out into the horizon with the sun setting too slow. Daylight suddenly feels too exposing. What he wouldn’t do. You are so fucking hot and for what, Kylian thinks at Achraf, wishes telepathy was real.
Sure, Kylian will run his mouth to the edge but he won’t make the first move. If Achraf wants, he has to take the first hammer to his own home, its not Kylian’s to wreck.
When they’re done eating and ruining one set of lungs, they head back in even though the mess is giving Kylian a headache. He waits for Achraf to signal to him it’s the end and time to say goodnight, but he doesn’t so Kylian gets comfortable on the couch. He folds one leg under himself and stretches the other forward when his toes hit something under the coffee table. It’s a baby bottle, empty. He pushes till it’s out of his sight.
“Ever think we grew up too fast?” Kylian asks as Achraf sits on the floor doing stretches.
“Man, you’re still young.” Achraf laughs.
“You’re not?” Kylian doesn’t point out they’re the same age. Achraf looks pained but hides it fast.
“I’m trying to be.”
Kylian feels torn between laughing and like, a whole avalanche of sadness he doesn’t know what to do with. He kicks out with his outstretched foot till he gets the baby bottle again. It’s nice but it’s not fair. He toes the bottle till it rolls within Achraf’s sight line. Of all the ways to ruin the mood they were recklessly building.
“We’re negotiating,” Achraf says but Kylian doesn’t understand. He pulls out google translate and nods for Achraf to repeat himself.
“I will be not married, anymore, soon.” Achraf elaborates. Ah.
Kylian almost pretends not to understand again so he can hear the music again. He smells pineapples and musty towels. Someone is handing him the world cup trophy as Argentina sinks into the ocean.
“Say something,” Achraf throws his phone at him, first object he could reach.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Guess I was in denial.” Achraf admits, grabs a pillow to hug and steady himself.
“Does that help you?”
“What?”
“Denial.”
“I don’t know. At this point I’d rather just, if someone else decides things,” Achraf says, absently tracing the pattern of the rug.
“I think that’s what growing up is. Deciding things.” Kylian says, hopes it doesn’t land as lecturing.
Achraf nods sharply, wipes one eye with the back of his hand roughly.
“Come here,” Kylian pats the seat next to him.
“No. What are you gonna do?”
“Nothing! Do I look like a rebound?” Kylian wiggles his eyebrows and please let it be okay to joke again, shit’s getting too heavy for him since they came in from the balcony.
“You just said, out there,”
“I know, I’m sorry, I thought we were playing,” Kylian lies.
Achraf pulls the pillow he’s holding against his own face and lets out a scream. Good, good, let it out.
“I’m gonna kill you.” Achraf announces, voice deep and hoarse, and they’re back, baby.
Kylian does manage to impose a serious hug on his would-be murderer, tries to dig his fingers in between Achraf’s ribs to see what his heart feels like but the damn sweater he’s wearing is too thick.
“Get the fuck out please.” Achraf tells him, slapping Kylian’s cheeks with a kind of overwhelming affection. Kylian doesn’t overstay his welcome, takes the gift of the news with him.
..
W hen Kylian gets to his room, the smell of clean hits him before he turns on the lights and the visuals match the smell, sharp corners, crisp linens, not a molecule out of place. Kylian immediately misses the chaos of the place he just left. He takes off the jacket he’s wearing and drops it on the floor. No point in stealing it when it’s too small to zip up.
After a hot shower, he calls his mom who, instead of telling him how proud she is and how great he is, asks him how Achraf is doing. Good, good, really good considering, yeah. He’s this close to telling her how deep and how bad her son has fallen for the topic of conversation but it might make her fly right back down here. He needs space more than understanding.
On the way to the bedroom, Kylian gets some water from the minibar and grabs the jacket off the floor, takes it with him to bed. He can’t chase his friend’s scent on it anymore but still, maybe it’ll steady his dreams. When he’s plugging in his phone to charge he sees a just-missed call from Achraf—he immediately calls back but it goes to voicemail. Whatever it is, they’ll figure it out in Paris.
..
The sorest legs and heaviest hearts in the world, of course they don’t do well at their first match back but still, Kylian doesn’t see their exile slash vacation coming. It doesn’t exactly give him time to plan logistics but it’s still enough to book a pilot and leave the rest to an assistant to sort out. He texts said assistant: New York, NBA, good food, something fun. He texts Achraf: pack.
..
The plane seats have KM embroidered on the headrests. Achraf runs his fingers over the letters before turning and announcing,
“This is wasteful.”
“Shut up, you fly private too.” Kylian points out.
“Yeah, but I lease.”
“I’m trying to wine and dine you, don’t be ungrateful.” Kylian says, settles into his seat, dumping his electronics and mess of chargers into the table in front of him.
“Waste of wine too,” Achraf laughs and sits on the other side of the table.
“Say thank you!” Kylian kicks but misses Achraf’s leg.
Two hands on his heart, Achraf nods thank you.
..
Achraf is asleep by the time they’re at full altitude. On the downside, he doesn’t get to see how much more wasteful Kylian could get (caviar and lavender foam dessert). On the upside, Kylian gets to watch him sleep without anyone else seeing it, and if he did snap a photo or five, well. That’s his best friend. Who makes Kylian happy when he’s happy, sad when he’s sad, wild when he whispers into Kylian’s ear.
Kylian feels wild, that’s it— he got like and love mixed up somewhere along the way, he got want and need confused. He said once, shoot for the moon land on a cloud. Achraf is on a whole other galaxy though, and also, not a trophy, he reminds himself. Just the same, he wants to win.
..
Soon after they check in at the hotel in New York, Kylian barges into Achraf’s room with his spare key.
“You have any tricks for the jetlag?”
“Sleep a lot.” Achraf says, which explains how he slept through both the flight and the hour long slog through rush hour New York traffic.
“Okay grandpa, here’s redbull.”
“I’m not drinking that shit,” Achraf makes a face.
“What, you need mint on it or something?” Kylian cracks open the can and chugs it himself.
“I’m fine, let's go,” Achraf smooths his hands down his lap, pats his pockets. He slides a ring onto his pinkie finger, dabs some solid perfume on his neck and he’s ready to go. Kylian wants to rewind and watch all that again in slow motion.
“I have to change,” Kylian decides.
“How many fits did you pack?”
“I don’t know, two per day?” Kylian suddenly feels self-conscious, wants to say I’m not trying to impress you, but he is.
..
On the way to Brooklyn, Achraf looks up NBA stats on his phone with headphones on. Kylian goes through the restaurant options his assistant sent over. Italian, sushi, what else? He rolls down the window to escape Achraf’s oud cologne but then regrets it when the car is filled with weed and car exhaust.
The sidewalks they drive past look so alive: people walking, carrying groceries, climbing out from doors on the ground, towels drying on racks outside barbershops, kids on scooters, college students with heavy backpacks, yoga girls with their mats, boys passing a basketball between them, lady selling mangoes in plastic baggies, man selling suitcases and umbrellas, Starbucks with a line out the door, a jail with tired looking uniforms smoking outside, old man pushing a shopping cart. Kylian wishes they were staying here instead of uptown.
..
Their paparazzi tail goes from zero to hundred overnight, now there are shirts to sign and selfies to take outside the hotel. They have to increase security from two guys to six and Achraf is not happy about it. He says he wants to lay low (nap) while Kylian and Brice go out shopping.
Brice comes with him to the private viewing room at Tiffany’s, the way is cleared for them and they’re alone in the elevator with the elevator operator who looks like he’s from two centuries ago, top hat and everything. The employee helping them comes with a French translator which isn’t really necessary but Kylian doesn’t decline it. The velvet tray displaying the jewelry travels back and forth from their room and a third employee joins them when they get to ten carats. Kylian is looking for something specific and he knows it when he sees it. They leave the hotel address so the boxes can be delivered.
..
“I got you something too,” Kylian says as casually as he can despite practicing it a bunch in his head.
Achraf pulls the white ribbon delicately off the blue box, not looking up. He gets to the black box inside, slowly opens that too. It’s a lot of fucking diamonds to put on a men’s necklace.
“How much was this?” Achraf asks, looking kinda upset.
“Rude.” Kylian says, bites his lip, waiting.
“What is it for?”
“Happy birthday,”
“It’s not my birthday,” Achraf laughs but he’s coming around.
“Let me put it on, damn,” Kylian grabs the necklace from him and focuses intently on the clasp till it’s safely around Achraf’s neck, sitting perfect on his black sweater.
“Yeah, that works.” Kylian announces, but he can’t meet Achraf’s eyes.
“Where’s this dining you promised?” Achraf asks, fiddling with the necklace. He slides the necklace under his sweater so only the top of it is visible around his neck.
..
Kylian couldn’t get Achraf to go out go out in New York, too crowded, too loud, too much, Achraf had a whole list of nonspecific reasons at the ready, so it’s surprising when they do eventually end up at a club.
But it’s only after they land in Marrakech. Maybe he just needed home game advantage to be comfortable. And comfortable he is, Achraf. He’s on the DJ platform, cycling through local music and filthy reggaeton that at least some people here can probably understand even though they’re far from Tangier. Kylian is enjoying the role switch, fans and photographers are mobbing Achraf before they turn to him, so he can save his energy to observing and taking it all in instead of scanning for exit routes.
Lights are way too dim but then they go all red, all flashing—Achraf’s bopping his head, stepping side to side, a hand smoothing the shaved sides of his hair. His limbs are loose and at ease, it’s a rare sight. It costs little shame for Kylian to record a video of it on his phone. By the time Achraf comes back down to their cordoned off section, his shirt is stuck fully against his back with sweat, his smile is bigger than it’s been since they left Paris.
“Anything you want!” Kylian yells into Achraf’s ear, doesn’t care if he’s audible over the music. Maybe Achraf hears him, maybe he doesn’t.
..
Achraf picks the preserved lemon from Kylian’s plate, pops it in his mouth and sucks the bitter essence of it like he’s having a religious experience. Kylian watches him, then has to look down at his lap. He brushes off the bastilla crumbs onto the floor but then has a flashback to Achraf yelling at him about bread touching the floor. The crumbs are too small for him to pick back up so he just sends an apology heavenward. Achraf declines dessert but then eats all of Kylian’s. Achraf declines modesty and watches the bellydancers without averting his eyes. Kylian bites the inside of his cheek and wishes he had dessert to chase the taste of blood.
On their way out of the restaurant, a large entourage splits up to let a man approach Achraf. Kylian steps back to watch as they chat, his pulse speeds up in confusion when he sees Achraf bend at the waist and literally kiss the man’s hand but before he can react, the man reaches with the same hand to shake Kylian’s.
“I can’t formally congratulate you,” the man says in French, smiles and the entourage sweeps him away just like that.
“Explain,” Kylian asks, trying to remember if the back of the man’s hand he shook was still wet with Achraf’s kiss or not.
Achraf laughs at him but then has mercy, that was the king , he says.
“Was I supposed to kiss his hand too?” Kylian feels embarrassed, but to be fair he didn’t get a warning.
“It’s not a big deal,” Achraf says and grabs Kylian’s hand. Time pauses and space contracts as Achraf pulls Kylian’s hand to his lips and drops a dry kiss on it.
“That’s how you do it.” Achraf teaches him.
..
Kylian knows in principle why they’re at different hotels but he doesn’t get what the point was when they’re literally across the street from each other. He got the better end, near total privacy at the Royal Mansour, a personal butler who gives him a tour of his private gym and a drink menu the size of a book, his own pool and fountain where birds visit to drink and peck at the mosaic tiles in the early morning.
He doesn’t see Achraf until dinner time, then finds out he already had dinner with—it’s fine. Family is family. He can watch Kylian eat. He has the best sushi he’s had outside Japan and listens to Achraf thanking waiters who call him a hero and say prayers over his head.
They take a walk after, through the gardens leading to the hotel entrance, a busy road and the markets as their security respectfully blend into the background. Some twenty minutes into it, they arrive at an open plaza with parked motorcycles and lit cigarettes. Achraf stills in front of an imposing arched door. Kylian looks up at the attached tower with its intricate designs better seen in daylight.
“Can you wait five minutes for me?” Achraf says, taking off his shoes and handing them over. He then takes takes off his socks and puts them in his pockets before stepping through the arch towards a large fountain in the middle of a courtyard. Kylian makes to follow him.
“Can I come with?”
“No.”
“I’ve been to the one in Paris,” Kylian says, a little hurt.
“It’s different here. I’ll be quick.” Achraf promises, leaves him at the door. Kylian glances back at his security and is grateful when they don’t come any closer. An elderly man in a striped djellaba stares at Kylian through hooded eyes as they both stand by the door. Kylian greets him in the way Achraf taught him and the man smiles, hand on his heart. Kylian prays outside in his own way, for the best.
..
Kylian flies home alone, refreshes instagram for the festivities Achraf continues with. He eats an emotion soup of pride, carrots, longing, chicken, vicarious joy and a pinch of anxiety. All in all, the vacation brought them closer to each other and further away from clarity. Kylian hasn’t really had time to himself to build a safety net in case he needs it when Achraf comes back. They’ll be back in training soon.
..
“I’m back” reads a midnight text from Achraf.
Kylian calls him.
“Hey, you know how I feel right?”
Achraf hangs up and drives over.
..
“Are you leaving ?”
“Leaving where?”
“To Madrid.”
“Are you coming with?”
..
End.