Chapter Text
Christmas 2031
Mark never much enjoyed the festive season until he lived with Seb. Something about Aussie summer festivities, set against the pervasive Americanised, and snow-covered, picture on TV didn’t ever settle in his soul.
With Seb in the picture, it was almost comedically easy to switch tracks. German Christmas is— well, where a lot of Western traditions began, apparently, from the tree, to the tinsel, to getting pissed at the markets with all the little wooden huts. Seb’s family leaned in every year: food, and songs, and ‘Santa’ sacks on Christmas Eve morning— and a warm welcome, one that Mark knows isn’t confined strictly to Germany, or the German people, but one he always received from Seb’s people, from pretty much the minute he rocked up.
These days, of course, Christmas looks a lot different all over again.
This year, Robbie’s hit what Mark’s sister, and both of Seb’s dubbed ‘the sweet spot’ when it comes to Christmas. Fun though it was to watch him tear into gifts with chubby toddler hands, and thereafter care about nothing more than the box said gift arrived in, it hits different now he can really get his head around the ‘magic.’
As with most things in parenthood, Christmas morning, and the opening of presents, serves as its own teaching moment. Robbie’s completely starstruck when Mark finally opens the door to reveal the tree he helped decorate, the stacks of neatly-wrapped gifts underneath, and a fire burning merrily in the hearth. He dashes into the room, flanked as always by Meg, and Mark exchanges a fond look with Seb in the doorway before he scoops their little monster up in his arms mid-stride.
“Slow your roll there, mate,” he says, grinning as Robbie giggles and squirms, tries to fight his way free. “Remember what we talked about?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright then,” Mark says, “what was it?”
“Ummmmm…” With Mark’s arms crossed firmly under his bum, Robbie’s free to indulge his recent, hilarious, habit of gripping his own chin whilst he thinks. “We have to take turns?”
“Good job,” Seb says. He slips in close to ruffle Robbie’s mop of hair, and if there’s anything in the world to help Mark feel festive, it’s having both his son and his husband in close proximity. “Do you want to be in charge of giving them out?”
As always, when given a Job, Robbie is more than happy to get stuck in. Mark gets to settle into the give of the couch, Seb tucked under one arm, as their own personal pocket rocket runs back and forth to the tree, delivering gifts to both dads on rotation. His enthusiasm is gorgeous, yet more-so whenever he clocks that it’s his turn up next, and starts practically vibrating with excitement.
Each time he opens a gift of his own, it’s a whole display. Every “WOW!” threatens the structural integrity of the walls, and sends Meg fucking barmy, leaping about and biting at the paper Robbie’s pulled free. It takes a Herculean effort to keep him on-task, but Mark doesn’t mind it. How could he, when his son is so happy, and he gets to exchange the odd smug look with Seb, safe in the reminder that they’re raising a good kid, as opposed to one who’s shitty, ungrateful, and borderline-psychotic..?
There are, of course, far more gifts for Robbie than there are almost for Mark and Seb combined, which eventually runs ‘take turns’ into the ground. The last one is the biggest of all, hauled out from beneath the tree with all Robbie’s strength, and forced to wait another minute or so for opening as he sounds out the label with Seb’s help: Frohe Weihnadhten von Onkel Fabian und Tante Maya.
“What’ve you got there, bud?” Mark asks, and only narrowly avoids chucking his coffee all over himself when another ear-splitting shriek of delight goes up.
“COOL!”
Seb glances sideways at Mark across the couch. “I think it might be ‘cool.’”
“Yeah,” Mark says, one eye on Robbie, Meg, and the resultant mountain of paper piling up. “Knowing your brother, though, that could mean anything from a chemistry set to a vacuum-packed puppy.”
Fortunately enough (at least in the latter), it’s neither of those things. Rather, Mark’s forced to admit that his Jäger-swigging, can-kicking goof of a brother-in-law has actually come up roses this year. Packed inside the box Robbie opened is stashed a shiny new ‘football’ (as an Aussie, it pains him; as a husband, Mark has long-since abandoned the fight), a for-assembly goal net, and a red and white cap that draws far more innate enthusiasm from Robbie and Seb than Mark can truly comprehend.
Now he thinks back on it, he vaguely remembers discussing this with Fab and Maya back in October: ‘football stuff’ for Christmas, an active backing of Robbie’s obsession du jour, tucking in next to Seb to watch Bundesliga runs on Sky. They’d both figured he lost interest when the season wrapped up— but if it turns out not, Mark figures it’s a NET-positive. Far better than having a kid addicted to sugar, or whatever that fucking— Robox game is.
“This has been lovely,” Seb says, far more ‘businesslike’ than a man in shorts, slippers, and a Superman t-shirt has any right to act. “But now I need to eat. Robs, hast du hunger?”
“Ja,” Robbie replies— but his eyes linger on the goal net, the shiny football, and Mark realises this is the point where he steps in.
“Get to, kiddo,” he says, heaving off the couch. “Let Papa make breakfast, and we’ll put that up in the yard, hey?”
“Yeah!”
Watching Robbie sprint towards the hall in search of shoes and, God-willing, a jacket, it takes Mark a few seconds to realise Seb, at his side, is deeply amused.
“What?” he asks, at which point Seb simply steps closer, looking up, seeking a kiss Mark happily delivers.
“Oh, nothing. Just that I was really hoping that’s what you’d offer to do.”
“Yeah, you would,” Mark says, a smile pulling up both corners of his mouth. “You know, you’re gonna have to pull your weight there at some point. When’s the last time you even put your hands on a tool?”
“Mark, not now,” Seb says, smirking. “Robbie’s still awake.”
Fucking—
“Get out of here and feed us,” Mark says, and if he gives Seb’s arse a good pinch before he departs, that’s nobody’s business but theirs.
**
The Footy Phase, as they dub it, doesn’t let off with the packing up of the Christmas tree.
School starts again in early Jan, and the morning routine now involves an additional step: whosever turn it is to take Meg out for a piss has to equally indulge a kickabout - that is, moving with great dramatic flare around a football, whilst not accidentally tripping their four year-old son into the dirt.
If he’s being honest, and although he always knew it was coming, it makes Mark feel his age in a way he really hasn’t, up until now. He’s in his fifties, and raising a kid. It’s not like he can’t handle it - he absolutely can, but at certain points, even the difference between his stamina and Seb’s is pretty staggering.
It’s relentless, is the point. Kids Robbie’s age enjoy things to a degree that’s fucking incomprehensible to folks without children of their own, and it likely doesn’t help that he comes from fairly obsessive stock. Every evening’s the same as morning - he’s no sooner in the door before the school uniform comes off, and the clamouring starts for one or both of them to join in. Most times they do. The times they can’t are usually primed to elicit a monumental (if thankfully temporary) strop.
He’s testing boundaries, Mark knows. It’s developmentally normal— but then so too is having more energy than either of his parents can keep pace with. Monday to Friday, at least, he has school to soak up the excess. Mark doesn’t realise that weekends are about to become a Problem until Oscar’s due to drop the kiddo back after a playdate, and his devastated sobs can be heard from inside the house.
“Christ,” Mark says, stood on the doorstep as Oscar carries the still-screaming four-year-old over from the car. “What’d he do, shut his hand in the door again?”
“Not quite,” Oscar says. Once upon a time, Mark would’ve expected to see nothing but horrified shellshock on the bloke’s face. Having a little kid around full-time, though… it’s amazing how quickly you get used to this shit. “Overstimmed, I think, or maybe under, then over.” He shakes his head, a slight smile on his face. “Lando calls it the ‘JFC Party Bucket.’”
“What does ‘JFC—‘ y’know what,” Mark says, as he works it out, “never mind. What set him off?”
“Jigsaw,” Oscar reports, wincing in sympathy as Robbie goes pretty-well prone in Mark’s arms. “Didn’t want to sit still, so Violet told him off. Between the pair of them, all the pieces went flying, and, well—“ He nods towards Robbie. “There you go.”
“Hell of a way to spend your Winter Break,” Mark comments, then winces himself when he remembers: “Christ.. Seb isn’t back home for an hour.”
“Back luck,” Oscar says, then: “D’you mind if I don’t stay? Got much the same as this going on at home, and Lando said if I don’t get my arse back, he’ll pierce his ears just to wear my nuts as studs.”
“No worries.” Back in sight of his home, in his dad’s arms, Robbie has wound down to smaller whimpers, and Mark reckons the worst is probably over with. “Thanks for everything, mate. I’ll see you Tuesday at the track.”
Having Oscar and Lando just up the road, when they’re not spending holidays at their place in Monaco, is a blessing in more ways than one. Them being family notwithstanding, little Vi is the best playmate for Robbie Mark and Seb could’ve asked for. She’s fearless, sassy, never afraid to put Robbie in his place. The only stopgap is, other than a fearsome obsession with horses, she’s not even remotely interested in sports.
It frustrates Mark more than anything, his own inability to keep up. It sets his mind to productivity, to seeking out a solution without asking his husband to do half the work for him.
“How’re you feeling?” Seb asks two nights later, when they’ve packed Eintracht Frankfurt’s future striker off to bed, and can finally collapse on the couch. “I hope not too sore?”
“I don’t think there’s enough bubble baths here, in future, or back in the Roman fucking Empire.”
“Poor old guy,” Seb says fondly, reaching over to card his fingers through Mark’s silvering hair. “You stand down next weekend, yes? I’ll run around with him.”
“Yeah,” Mark says, “about that.” He turns on the couch so he can gauge Seb’s reaction. “Been doing some research into Sunday footy clubs. What d’you think about signing him up?”
“Hmm?” Seb muses, laying his ankle over Mark’s where they’re slouched. “There is really a club for kids as young as him?”
“Yeah,” Mark says. “Age four to six is called the ‘Minis,’ or something. Reckon he’d like it?”
“I think he’d love it,” Seb says, as he stifles a yawn. “I mean, it only makes sense, right? If only for a few months, until he decides he wants to— ice skate, or something.”
“Yeah, alright,” Mark snorts. “He’ll be doing that with a spectator-dad only.”
“Wuss.”
“I’ll remind you of that,” Mark says, eyes shut and deeply sleepy, “when I break a hip, and you’re forced to wipe my arse.”
Two days later, following some fairly explosive consent from Robbie, Mark fills in the online form, pays the fifteen quid of registration fees required, and signs the kid up. Come Sunday morning, the kid's up with the birds, throwing himself onto Mark and Seb’s bed long before either of them are properly awake.
“It’s today! Football’s today!”
“Yep,” Mark manages, as Seb rolls over and groans unintelligibly into his pillow. “Well remembered, mate.”
“Can we go yet? Is it time to go?”
“Robbie, es ist—“ Seb checks his phone. “— five-thirty in the morning. If you don’t sleep some more, you won’t have any energy left to play.”
“I will,” Robbie insists, “I’m not tired.”
“Of course not,” Seb says, then looks at Mark across the pillows. “Do you ever wish we were iPad parents?”
“Only like once or twice a day.”
It’s pointless trying to make Robbie sleep again now, so Mark compromises with Bluey, and another ninety minutes cat napping on the sofa until Seb appears to make breakfast. Come eight-thirty they’re setting out, and twenty minutes later are stood in front of a huge outdoor sports centre, tiered plastic seating along one side, and maybe a dozen kids already on the pitch.
“Daddy?”
Feeling Robbie’s little hand tugging on his jacket, Mark looks down. “What’s up?”
“Why is the grass blue?” He’s eying it very skeptically, and Mark has to think on his feet, not expecting to explain the concept of coloured Astroturf before 9AM on a Sunday.
“They made it specially,” he says, “so you don’t get those green marks on your shorts when you slide-tackle.”
“Won’t I get blue marks instead?”
“— well yeah, I guess you might.” Damn kids and their selective logic. Inspiration strikes suddenly, when he clocks anew what colour shorts Robbie chose from his drawer before leaving. “That’s why you’re wearing blue, though, hey? So even if they’re there, they won’t show.”
This seems satisfactory enough for Robbie, because the next words out of his mouth aren’t an argument. They are, however, inevitably, another question.
“Can I go and play now?”
“In a second, liebchen,” Seb says. He’s looking up and over the crowds, Mark notices, assessing the social terrain. “Let’s go and meet your coach first, yes?” He puts an hand on Mark’s arm. “Love, can you find us some seats?”
“Roger that,” Mark says, just glad to have been given a job. If this feels slightly overwhelming to him, he can only imagine what it’s like for the kids, so he ruffles Robbie’s hair with a smile. “Have fun, buddy. Knock ‘em dead, yeah?”
“At least let him say hello first,” Seb murmurs, amused, then gives Robbie a gentle nudge. “Alles gut, Robs, auf gehts.”
In the stands, where free seats are rapidly diminishing, Mark eventually selects two spare on the end of a row, to the left of an enormous bloke in a Rangers FC hoodie.
“D’you mind, mate? Need both of them if possible.”
“No worries, pal.” Mark supposes his accent makes sense - of all the folks to throw a ‘mate’ or a ‘pal’ on the end of greeting a stranger, it tends to come down to Aussies/Kiwis, or the Scots. “First time?”
“Yeah,” Mark says, settling in his seat. “First time ever, actually. We’ve not done weekend clubs before now.”
“You get used to it,” the bloke says. “Weather’s shite this time of year, but sit on this end, and you’ll miss the worst of the wind.”
“Good tip,” Mark grins, and the bloke grins back.
“Aye, I’m full of ‘em.” He offers Mark a hand the size of a baseball mitt. “Davie.”
“Mark.”
“Sound.” Davie shifts in his seat, and Mark happens to catch a glimpse of a skinny cushion beneath him.
“Is that—?”
“Oh aye,” Davie says. “You’ll want to bring your own if you’re smart, like. Every fucking day I spend on these seats takes another inch off my arse.”
“You don’t say?” Mark offers, amused, and Davie grins back.
“Creature comforts, and that. Still, ‘s good to see the wee boy have a fuckabout, and the old lady isn’t moaning either way.” He nods down towards the pitch, where all the kids - a mix of ages, and genders - have gathered around the coach. “Which one’s yours?”
“My ‘old lady,’” Mark asks, “or my ‘wee boy?’”
“Both?” Davie shrugs. “Or whatever you’ve got, pal, I couldnae care.”
Mark smiles slightly, his amusement, and honestly relief, mostly internal.
“Husband and son,” he confirms, then points downwards. “Pair of blondes, both in blue shorts.”
“Fair enough,” Davie says. “That’s our Tommy, in the red. Lisa’s the ginger in four coats.”
“Smart woman.” Having ‘made contact’ with at least one other parent, the sportsman, manager, and father in Mark knows what else he should be digging for. “So, any other pearls of wisdom? Robbie’s not five yet; any of those bigger lads likely to foul him on purpose?”
“That wee prick there,” Davie says immediately, pointing towards a kid at least four inches taller than the others. “Diesel Cartwright. Proper bastard.”
“His folks named him Diesel?”
“Aye, it’s fucking tragic.” Davie shakes his head. “Be easy to feel bad for the kid, if he hadn’t chinned Tommy last season for ‘stealing his goal.’”
“That’s…” More than Mark had anticipated, to say the least. He’d figured there’d be some competitive kids, some combative parents, but the longer he looks at Diesel, the bigger and scarier he seems compared to Robbie. “Fuck, alright. Doesn’t the coach get involved?”
“What, Elliot? He’s wet as a fish’s sleeping bag.” Davie points again, this time to a bloke who barely looks old enough to buy cigarettes. “Sound lad, fine, but Cartwright Sr. runs rings around him.”
“Which one’s he?” Mark asks, completely unsurprised when Davie indicates a solitary, smug-looking bloke in a black gilet.
“Fella there,” he says. “Fergus Cartwright - rich as fuck, pure wanker.”
“Sounds like a champ.”
“Nah, you’d better heed this,” Davie says, and with some considerable effort twists in his seat to look Mark in the eye. “Us up here, we’re spectators. You think your man’s ever gonnae use that seat next to you, you’re fucking daft.” With the flare of some kind of oracle, he lifts a whole arm to gesture downwards, to where Seb, Lisa, Fergus, and the other half of the parents have gathered, right up against the touchline. “All the power, all the fights you’ll see - for real, like—“ He leans close to Mark, then, blue eyes bugged, as Mark is forced to ask himself whether they’ve signed up for a club here, or a cult. “That’s their business, pal. Not ours.”
“… right,” Mark says. “Okay. Noted.”
As Davie settles back into his seat, clearly satisfied, Mark casts a proper eye over the crowd below. At the front of his mind is what he knows to be true: this is kids’ football, a chance for Robbie and a bunch of potential friends to run off steam.
At the front of his gaze, however, is Fergus Cartwright approaching Seb, like he’s smelled new blood. Mark has no way of knowing what’s said, only that, visible from even this distance, Seb drops the hand he’s just consented to shake, with a look on his face Mark very much recognises.
“Hey, Davie?” Mark says, at length. “You said that Fergus bloke rules the roost, right?”
“Aye,” Davie says. “Always has.”
“Yeah,” Mark says, watching with a sense of foreboding as his husband steps straight-fucking-up to the line, gaze set. “Yeah, that… might prove to be a bit of a problem.”