Chapter Text
They have been in the pub for less than half an hour, and already Dominik is bored. The atmosphere is lively enough for a Thursday night - the DJ’s songs are all in English but trendy and fast, and his second mai thai is sweating on a yellow napkin in front of him. But Ibrahima left to find the toilets five minutes ago, and still hasn’t returned.
Dominik misses him.
His absence has left him too much time to drink, and think, sifting around the prickly emotions nesting in his chest since the tear in his hamstring two weeks before. The only reason he dragged his abstinent boyfriend to the dim, noisy establishment anyway was to catch a break, to try and forget how not playing means that their on-the-pitch time together has been clipped, and that both his adrenaline and public-admiration reserves are critically low. The latter issue is more pressing than the former.
It isn’t a new predicament.
After just one year at Salzburg, his academy-mates had nick-named him “Hungarian Tinker-bell” and even when it translated poorly, he would respond to it like his name. He could never find a good enough reason to be embarrassed about what he knew to be the truth: he needs attention, the same way as air, water, football, and he wants Ibrahima’s now more than anyone else’s.
His boyfriend has been in the restroom too long.
“Do you know where is the bathroom?” Dominik asks out loud with his chin in his hand, and to no one in particular.
The first English-understanding person to hear and respond turns out to be the man in the barstool two feet away, who looks young, but has an English beer and a cup of ice near his hand. With his eyes, ears, and hands, occasionally mouth all occupied by Ibrahima, Dominik hadn’t noticed the stranger before, but once he looks, he can appreciate the smooth olive skin and chocolate-colored hair - he is even growing a mustache which is neat and thin. The man’s eyes are also the color of a confection, and are appraising Dominik in a way that inflates his ego dangerously.
“Toilets are just down that hallway there, where that line of folks is. Hope it’s not an emergency?”
“No, it is not an emergency,” Dominik says, though he feels the opposite. He stares longingly at the empty can of vanilla ginger-ale that his lover left behind. “I am just bored. Lonely, a little bit.”
“Don’t know how much entertainment you’ll find in the loo, mate. Reckon we could have more fun right here.”
The man scoots his barstool closer while he speaks, and Dominik blushes -- not because he is interested, but because he thinks the man is wrong. In the toilets he would locate Ibrahima, and Dominik can imagine it now, trapping his boyfriend in a tiny stall and pressing him up against it, scolding him for being away for so long, and kissing his mouth to muffle his giggles so other people don’t hear. He would have to raise onto his tip-toes to reach, and though Ibrahima could probably lift the door from its hinges, he would let Dominik man-handle him that way, he would. That would be far more entertaining than the conversation he is having with this stranger now.
Still, his boredom reduces by a fraction.
“What is your name?”
“I’m Brennan.” The man offers Dominik his hand, and shakes it. “Yours?”
“You can call me Dom.”
“Nice to meet you, Dom.”
“It is nice meeting you too, Brennan. Now tell me-what could we do? To have fun, here.”
The rest of the conversation escalates easily.
Dominik asks two more questions, bats his eyes one singular time and already Brennan is un-squaring his shoulders, licking his lips, and leaning his elbow on the bar to get closer, not subtly. Gosh, he thinks, men are so easy.
It wasn’t like this with Ibrahima.
The smoldering look and default charms had endeared him as a friend, but it was his loyalty, his intensity, other things that made his bubbly French boy desperate to change his status from his teammate to just “his”. Ibrahima had refused to be lured in, only to be kept at a distance by the shiny, golden-boy mirage, as mesmerizing as it was. He was determined to get to the unfiltered layer underneath.
The real him.
He’s not convinced that Brennan, or any other guy he knows, would be up for the challenge.
They wouldn’t have the endurance.
“So do all the lads in Hungary look like you, then? Or are you a special edition?”
Brennan has relaxed now, in his eyes Dominik sees all the familiar looks of an animal on the prowl, zeroed in on the mouth-wetting sight of it’s prey. The blatant hunger does raise the tick on his amusement, but the line outside the bathroom has shortened some. He runs his fingers through his hair.
“No, not all like me. Just in Székesfehérvár, I think, where I am from. Do you know it?”
“Oh, yeah?“ Brennan smirks. “Had a mate in uni who did a semester there, and I heard good things. If I visit, would you show me around?”
Dominik realizes, suddenly, that he should end their interaction here. A quick “I am not interested” or even turning around in his seat, could leave Brennan hanging, wandering about on his hypothetical eastern European voyage without a guide.
But his reserves are running on empty. And despite his best efforts, the uninterrupted flow of raptured flattery is causing something in his chest to spark from its embers.
A line is drawing itself, and it’s one that he’s toed before, with other partners.
He can’t predict how Ibrahima might react.
In fact, he isn’t sure jealousy is an emotion his boyfriend is even capable of - in the time they have known each other, he has never seen it. All of a sudden, its scarcity has increased the demand.
“You are from here, Brennan, a scouser.” He switches the subject, says the title with emphasis, angling his head toward him with his elbow on the bartop. “I can tell. But since I am new here, tell me something good about it.”
“I mean, it’s no paradise, and the weather’s shambolic, but it’s home, innit?” Dominik nods, and finishes the last of his drink. From the corner of his eye, he feels Brennan following his every move. “What brings you all the way here?”
Dominik explains about his amazing new job that grafted him into the city, somehow without mentioning Anfield. But after two more minutes, Brennan’s follow-up questions and east versus west europe jokes are teleporting him back into apathy. He’s yearning again for Ibrahima’s warm, broad chest he had been leaning against, his big hands on either side of him on the bar. If his boyfriend was here, he would ask to sit in his lap, Dominik thinks, as the metal stool is stiff against his healing muscle.
Then the man places his palm on the inside of Dominik’s thigh.
“So, you headed anywhere else tonight, Dom? Could come to mine for a bit, to chat some more.”
Dominik looks down at the hand on his leg, and bites his lip. He’s let this go on too far, and this guy, though he is nice enough, is not even all that enticing. He hopes his boyfriend will not mind that he wasted his time with him-- he is not even certain that he’ll bring it up.
The line, for now, will remain free of any toeprints.
“I am sorry,” Dominik tries hard to look apologetic, and not coquettish. It is almost impossible. He lets his bottom lip poke out only a centimeter. “I cannot.”
“Aw,” Brennan clicks his tongue, tapping his thumb over Dominik’s clothed skin. “You’re sure I can’t convince you? Said you were bored before, and you are here alone, after all.”
“Hmm, about this. I have a little … secret.”
The man’s dark eyebrows lift, a grin spreading over his face. Dominik is not sure why in English a “secret” implies good news, and not bad.
“Yeah? Let’s hear it then.”
Dominik rolls his eyes, and releases an exaggerated sigh.
“You have to come here, silly, so I can tell it.”
Dominik sits back with his elbows to the counter, inviting Brennan to lean forward. When he does, Dominik puts his right hand on his shoulder, and draws in close to his ear.
“My secret is that I come here with my boyfriend. And he is a very big guy, and strong. If he saw you, touching me like this, he will punch you maybe.” Dominik giggles, throwing his head back when Brennan stiffens. “But maybe not. Really I don’t know.”
“Bloody he-- where? Where is he?”
“Dominik? What is going on here?”
Together with the sound of his name, Dominik feels a presence behind him, making his pulse jump and fingers prickle. Brennan drops his hand and leaps back, knocking his knee against the bar and nearly jolting its glass bottles to the floor. Dominik flashes him a glittering smile.
“Szívem, we were just talking about you,” He reaches behind himself for Ibrahima’s hand, pulling it to curl over his chest. “This is my big, strong boyfriend I was telling you.”
The stranger swallows deeply, flitting his eyes around the room, and Dominik starts to feel bad for him, a little. But he’s far too focused on preventing his eyes rolling back at his boyfriend’s other hand, which is rubbing circles at the back of his neck.
“Hey, m’sorry mate, I-I didn’t know he was taken. He-he only just said it now, I swear--”
“No, I am sorry. About him,” Ibrahima looks genuinely perturbed for half a second. Then he turns his focus to Dominik, taking his chin in his hand and tilting so that their eyes meet. He passes his thumb over his beard, staring like he’s searching for something, and Dominik opens his mouth, trying to nibble at the tip. “When he drinks too much, he acts crazy.”
“Me? Crazy? I am not crazy, szívem. Or drunk! I am just talking here, to my new friend, Brennan. He has a mate who was working in Budapest, you know, yes?”
“He was studying there, but nah - this is messed up, man. M’done bothering yous, I’m going,” Brennan attempts darting from his seat but Ibrahima stops him.
“No, please, you finish your drink. Dominik - we are leaving.”
Dominik whines, reaching for the clear glass still on the counter and trying to slurp soggy pineapple chunks through the straw. His complaints turn to gasps when Ibrahima pulls him up from the chair and onto his hip, wrapping Dominik’s legs around his waist. The same frown persists over his eyebrows.
“Here, for your drink.”
Ibrahima slaps a crease-less bill onto the bar top in front of the man, whose eyes are still wide and averted, cheeks red. Dominik is impressed that he’s stood his ground, that he didn’t flee the moment Dominik mentioned a boyfriend, or the moment said boyfriend materialized behind them, six and a half feet and unreadable. Maybe Brennan is a brave guy. Or a stupid one. Even if he was a bit boring, when he turns them around toward the door, Dominik finds his dark curls over Ibrahima’s shoulder, and throws him a wink.
“What will I do with you, eh?” Ibrahima asks, rhetorically, like he has eyes in the back of his head.
Whatever you want to, Dominik thinks but doesn’t say, choosing to tighten his grip, squirm in his hold instead. The hands grasping his bottom squeeze tighter.
There are other patrons in the bar on their way out, and surely they are staring, but all he can see is Ibrahima, is all he can feel. Ibrahima who will keep him safe and warm, and make him shiver and laugh, make the painful, grating, lack he’s been feeling for a fortnight go away, at least until the morning. If he’s good, he might even take care of him when they arrive at his flat tonight, even though his lover doesn’t like to kiss when he’s been drinking, and that’s when Dominik likes kissing the most. He sneaks one now, then another, to the side of his neck, and Ibrahima’s skin tastes sweet, like his cologne. It’s hardly enough to hold him over, but Dominik relaxes, letting his head rest on his shoulder as they reach the exit.