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Wille doesn’t know for certain why the man stands out to him from the sea of yellow shirts surrounding him. It could be the luscious curls bopping on top of his head, the bright laugh that carries over even from a distance or just the infectious joy he seems to radiate. Whatever it is, Wille can’t keep his eyes off of him.
Which would be fine, if it weren’t for the fact that the mass of people around him is trying to move forward and Wille should be moving along with them. But he can’t help stealing a hopefully inconspicuous glance to his left, taking a step forward and not looking where he’s going. Which means he stumbles and steps on the heel of the person walking in front of him, receiving a glare when he braces himself on the person’s shoulder. Wille shoots them an apologetic smile and with a deep breath fixes his gaze forward, decidedly not looking around to see if anyone – if he – saw his fumble.
The supporter march moves forward and Wille does his very best not to keep glancing around to try to find the man among the fans again. It seems the universe has different plans for this walk though, as suddenly the head of curls is only a few people away from Wille – and if Wille isn’t completely imagining things, the man is shyly smiling at him. He shoots a tentative smile his way and god, if the way the man’s cheeks turn a little pinker as he lowers his gaze isn’t the most adorable thing Wille’s seen all day.
Wille tries to keep his step steady, but there must be a crack in the asphalt that almost makes him trip again. Him losing his footing absolutely has nothing to do with another, bolder, smile from the cute stranger who’s now marching almost right next to him. Wille feels his face grow warmer and he’d like to blame the relentless heatwave for it, thank you very much. It’s just because the temperatures have been in the high twenties all week, not because a very attractive man is currently looking at him with an amused smile playing on his lips, the sun overhead making his eyes sparkle.
He’s almost relieved when the man looks ahead, joining the chant as they near the stadium. The relief lasts for all of thirty seconds when Wille realises that they are indeed nearing the stadium and there is a very good chance he’s never going to see his gorgeous man again. Maybe he should weave his way to him, to ask where in the stadium he’s sitting and if he’d maybe like to grab a beer after the match. (He can’t go up to a stranger and just ask for their number, that would be much too straightforward and Wille is self-aware enough to know he wouldn’t get a word out of his mouth if he tried something like that.)
However, before Wille can act the man gives him one more bashful smile and follows a line of people to the left. Wille pulls out his phone hastily to check the details on his ticket, only to find out the entrance he’s supposed to take is to the right. When he lifts his head, the cute stranger is nowhere to be seen. With a sigh Wille follows the signs to the right turnstile and tries to cheer himself up with the thought of at least 90 minutes of football ahead.
After a quick stop – or as quick as it can be with thousands of people around – at the concession stand, Wille makes his way down the stairs to his seat. Precariously balancing a beer in one hand and popcorn in the other, he shuffles past the few people already sitting on his row. The seats next to his are still empty and he hopes whoever comes to occupy them won’t be as rowdy as the couple he had the misfortune of finding himself next to during the previous match.
As the clock ticks closer and closer to the kick off, the stands start to fill with people. When the players run out to the pitch for their warm up, Wille joins the chant, a little nervous that the seat next to his remains empty. Surely all the tickets to this section have been sold out, it’s the one reserved for their national team supporters after all. Wille finds himself wondering where the cute guy from the march might be sitting. He did come to the stadium with the supporter club after all, he must be in one of the few sectors on this side despite seemingly going to the other side of the stadium.
What if he doesn’t have a ticket? The horrible thought suddenly strikes Wille. What if he just walked to the stadium with the rest of them to soak up the atmosphere, he knows sometimes people do that even when they haven’t managed to secure a ticket. Damn, Wille really should have found a way to talk to him earlier, he could’ve offered—
“Excuse me, could I pass? That’s my seat,” a voice startles Wille from his thoughts.
When he looks up, he almost chokes on the inhale as his brain catches up with the source of the sound. Smiling at him is the cute man from the march and oh, he’s even more beautiful up close. The grin on his face reveals a set of perfect white teeth, his plump lips moving to apparently form some kind of words Wille isn’t registering because what are the odds of this gorgeous man indeed having a ticket, and on Wille’s row of all places?
“Uhh, if you could…” the man says, sounding a little unsure as he stands there and oh, right, Wille needs to move. Like, right now.
With speed he didn’t know he’s capable of, Wille unfolds his body from the slightly awkward hunch he’d settled into on the plastic seat and leans back when he’s on his feet to let the man pass. With a grateful smile the man shuffles past him, brushing his arm against Wille’s stomach as he goes and the accidental touch should not be sending sparks all over Wille’s body the way it does.
The man takes the seat next to Wille’s, gracefully sitting down while balancing a cup of soda in his hand. Wille follows suit, flipping his own seat down and with much less finesse plopping down again. He keeps his eyes on the pitch, watching as the players finish their stretches, definitely not paying any attention to the cutest guy sitting right next to him.
“So, who’s your favourite?” The question comes so unexpectedly that if the space he was sitting in wasn’t so cramped, Wille might have jumped a little.
He turns to look to his side and finds the man smiling at him behind the rim of his cup.
“Oh, uhhh, Blackstenius,” Wille answers, tripping over his words just a little.
The man nods approvingly and Wille feels pleased with himself, as if this was a test and he’d just aced it. With some weird giddiness coursing through him, he returns the question.
“Hmmm, I do like Blackstenius as well. But I think,” he turns to show the back of his jersey to Wille, “she’s my favourite. We have the same last name and everything.”
Wille can’t do more than dumbly nod, his eyes tracking the man’s form as he smooths the jersey to sit better on his frame. It’s a little big on him, something Wille finds endearing.
“What’s the first name though?” he hears himself asking, hoping the guy won’t notice the way his cheeks must have turned a little redder. “Yours, I mean. Not hers.”
A bemused smirk dances on the man’s lips as he looks at Wille, definitely noticing how flustered he suddenly feels, Wille thinks embarrassed.
“Simon,” comes the answer.
“Wille,” he offers before the man can ask. Before Simon can ask. Simon Eriksson. The name suits him, Wille decides.
For a while they chat about the matches so far, about who’s impressed them the most so far. Wille learns Simon’s friend has connections to the national team and she’s helped him get tickets to all the matches so far though, a little mournfully, Simon tells him that if Sweden advance he doesn’t have a ticket to the semifinal because she’s used up her quota. Wille tells him how he was supposed to be here with his brother, how they’d planned their whole vacation around the tournament only for Erik to have to call it off at the last minute when he had to jump in to cover someone at work.
The conversation flows easily, much to Wille’s surprise. He’s not usually this good at talking with complete strangers. Maybe it really is Simon’s enthusiasm and clear knowledge of the sport that makes it easier for him to participate in the conversation, the match acting as an easy topic to discuss.
Time flies by and before Wille knows it, the kick off is just minutes away. Next to him, Simon drinks the last drops of his soda and Wille hides behind the rim of his own cup as he watches the way his throat moves. He swiftly lowers his gaze when he notices Simon looking at him from the corner of his eye, most definitely catching the way Wille is staring.
“What?” Simon asks, amusement clear in his voice as he turns to look at Wille properly.
“Your, uhh, flag. I like it,” Wille mutters. And he did admire the blue and yellow paint on his face earlier, thinking to himself how it made Simon look impossibly cute. There was just something about how into this all he seems to be, going all out with his attire.
“Oh! Would you like one as well?” Simon asks excitedly. Wille doesn’t need to think about it for more than a millisecond when he nods. He thinks he’d like anything Simon is willing to offer.
With a happy nod of his own Simon shifts in his seat and pulls two pencils out of his pocket. “Hold this for me,” he says as he hands the yellow one to Wille.
“Hmm, let’s see,” he continues as he studies Wille’s face. His brown eyes are warm as they roam Wille’s features and he really hopes he doesn’t imagine the long second they seem to linger on Wille’s lips. “Okay, turn your head a bit, look straight ahead,” Simon instructs and Wille complies.
From the corner of his eye Wille sees Simon shuffle to the edge of his seat and then curl one leg under himself as he twists his body to face Wille. Wille flinches a little when Simon lifts his hand and gets to work. The pen is surprisingly cool against his heated skin and it definitely tickles, something he didn’t expect. The tip catches against his skin and Simon curses under his breath, the next ‘damn’ a bit louder when out of pure instinct Wille turns his head a little.
“It’s a big smudged now,” Simon says, but his tone is amused more than anything else.
“Sorry,” Wille is quick to apologise, because he didn’t mean to ruin Simon’s work.
“It’s fine, let me just,” he says, then licks the pad of his thumb and brushes it against Wille’s cheek to clean the excess colour. Wille momentarily forgets how to breathe.
“Okay, this isn’t going to work out. Can I just…” But Simon doesn’t finish the question and it’s all the same, because Wille isn’t sure he could even answer when Simon gently takes hold of his chin and tilts his head. His fingers are soft against Wille’s skin, though it also feels like Simon’s touch is currently setting him on fire.
The next thing Wille registers in his limited field of vision is Simon’s tongue peeking out between his teeth as he moves even closer to Wille and starts to draw a line across the one already adorning Wille’s cheek. Simon’s breath ghosts over Wille’s face as he focuses intently on his job and Wille’s entire focus is suddenly shifted on the warm air grazing his skin.
“Give me the other one, please,” Simon says, still holding on to Wille’s face as his other hand moves down in front of Wille. It takes Wille a moment to understand he means the pen.
He takes the blue one from Simon and almost drops the yellow when he presses it on Simon’s waiting hand. Wille can’t really see what he’s doing when he places the cap back on the first pen, and he hopes Simon isn’t paying attention to how Wille’s fingers are shaking just a little.
With equal amount of concentration as before Simon gets to work on drawing little yellow rectangles around the blue cross on Wille’s face. It feels like time has stilled, and the only thing Wille can hear is Simon’s breathing despite the stadium being full of people. Wille can’t be sure, isn’t certain any of his senses currently work the way they’re supposed to, but it sounds like Simon’s inhales and exhales might be a bit shallow.
“There! All done,” Simon suddenly exclaims and scoots back on his seat, uncurling his leg and shaking it to get the blood flowing normally again. “Beautiful,” Simon states quietly.
“Well, you did it so…” Wille says, resisting the urge to dance his fingers over his cheek to feel the flag painted there.
“Oh, I didn’t— That’s not— Uhh, yeah,” Simon mutters and there is definitely a rosy blush sitting on the top of his cheeks that wasn’t there the last time Wille could look at him properly.
“Wish I could see it,” Wille muses, knowing that by the time he gets to the hotel later he’ll have sweated enough to ruin Simon’s handiwork.
“Oh! We can make that happen,” Simon says and pulls out his phone from his pocket. He directs the device towards Wille and tells him, “Pose.”
Wille blinks, then catches on what Simon’s doing. He tilts his head and hopes the smile spreading on his face doesn’t distort the paint too much.
He can’t actually hear the shutter noise over the roar of the audience, but knows Simon is done when he lowers the phone and swipes through the photos he’s just taken. “There, this one’s the best,” he decides and flips the phone so Wille can see the screen.
He squints, feeling only a little embarrassed when he sees the goofy grin on his face in the picture Simon is showing him. But the flag on his face is pretty, clearly indicating that this isn’t the first time Simon’s painted someone’s face.
“Thank you, it looks amazing,” Wille says honestly, and swears he sees the pink on Simon’s cheeks grow a shade deeper in real time.
He hands the pen he’d been holding back to Simon and the other man sticks them back to his pocket. Wille’s about to speak again but it’s right at that moment when the teams walk to the pitch and he forgets what he was about to say, mirroring Simon as they both turn to look and clap at the players lining up on the grass.
“If you are able to, please rise for the national anthem of England,” sounds from the stadium speakers and Wille scrambles to his feet. He lets the anthem wash over him, fidgeting with his fingers where they’re clasped in front of him, always unsure of what to do with his hands in moments like this.
“If you are able to, please remain standing for the national anthem of Sweden,” the next announcement says and Wille stands a little taller. He takes in a breath and starts to sing with the others, “ Du gamla, Du fria, Du fjällhöga nord.”
And then he promptly forgets the rest of the words as soon as he hears Simon’s voice. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his life. Angelic doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s obvious the boy knows how to sing. Everything about the way he holds himself, how he breathes, how he stays perfectly in rhythm tells Wille Simon definitely knows how to sing. And suddenly Wille wants to hear him sing more, never wants this song to end.
But the anthem is short and only a beat late he joins the other supporters in clapping themselves and for the players as they start to sit down. Wille tries to wrap his head around what is happening on the pitch, but his mind is still trying to process hearing Simon sing.
“What?” Simon asks again with a laugh that sounds a bit self-conscious and Wille can’t have that.
“Nothing. No, I mean— You have a lovely voice,” he manages to say.
“Thank you,” Simon replies, trying to hide the smile tugging on his lips.
The referee blows the whistle and the ball is in play. Wille turns to fix his eyes on what’s happening at the field, the game immediately sucking him in. There isn’t even two minutes on the clock when the ball is behind the back of England’s goalkeeper and Wille springs to his feet along with the others around him. He shouts and pumps his fist in the air and notices Simon jumping next to him, an ecstatic look on the man’s face.
They grin at each other as they sit back down, gasping and hissing and cheering as the game moves forward. Every once in a while one of them offers a short commentary on what is happening, but for the most part they simply live and breathe the match. And when a little over twenty minutes later Sweden scores again Simon matches Wille’s whoop as they’re on their feet again, cheering for the goal.
“Your favourite!” Simon shouts over the deafening roar, pointing at Wille’s jersey and Wille nods excitedly, happy to see his favourite player’s name up on the scoreboard.
The game mellows down for a while, but Wille can feel his heart rate spike when Sweden nearly score a third goal right before the half-time whistle. Simon grabs his arm and groans almost painfully when England’s goalkeeper gets her hand in front of the ball. With a sigh both of them slump against their seats when the referee blows her whistle to signal the break.
Starting to feel his backside go numb, Wille stands up and stretches his legs. “I’m gonna go get another drink,” he tells Simon.
The other man nods. “Yeah,” he replies a little distractedly, sweat beading lightly on his forehead as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and reaches down for his cup, frowning when he finds it empty. “I’ll be here,” he mumbles and sets the cup back on the floor.
Wille nods in turn and makes his way up the stairs, beelining for the nearest concession stand. The queue isn’t as long as he feared it would be, and soon it’s his turn to place an order.
“A beer and a— two hotdogs, please,” he asks for, before adding quickly, “and a Coke too, please.”
He adds two water bottles to the order too and shortly after he’s handed a tray with the food and drinks. Moving carefully through the crowd in the concourse he finds the entrance to his section and only has to dodge one person flying down the stairs, protecting the precious items on the tray by pulling it towards his chest.
It seems a lot of people in their section have had the same idea as him, because most of the other seats on their row are empty and with very little effort Wille makes it back to where he’s sitting. Simon lifts his head and, noticing his full hands, flips Wille’s seat down for him. Wille gives him a grateful smile and brings the tray down to his lap.
“Here, for you,” he says when he hands the soda to Simon. The other’s eyes widen when he sees Wille’s offering.
“You didn’t need to,” he stammers, the condensation of the cup wetting his hand. He wipes it on his shorts and takes a sip. “I’ll pay you back,” he rushes to say next.
Wille shakes his head. “It’s fine, my treat.”
“No, really, it’s so expensive here, let me,” Simon insists.
“You can offer the next round,” Wille says, using the figure of speech he’s used many times before. Though, he thinks, he really wouldn’t mind having another drink and a snack with Simon.
“This is for you too,” Wille suddenly remembers, picking up the hotdog and handing it to Simon. “I figured you’d be hungry too. The marches always start so early and I only had lunch earlier and—” Wille cuts himself off when he realises he’s rambling.
“You really didn’t need to,” Simon tells him but he definitely looks happy when he takes a bite of the snack and is that a moan he just let out?
“I hope it’s fine, I didn’t know how you liked yours,” Wille says after a moment when he remembers how to talk again, nodding at the already half-eaten hotdog Simon is holding.
“It’s perfect, really. The best hotdog I’ve ever had in my life. Thank you,” Simon assures him with a soft smile.
Wille feels the heat return to his cheeks at Simon’s words, or maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at Wille, eyes all sparkly and warm and looking at him so intently. Something pleasant blooms behind Wille’s ribcage, the feeling spreading through his body like liquid honey.
Simon rolls the wrapper of his hotdog when he finishes eating and drops it in the empty soda cup. Wille swallows down the last bits of his snack right as the second half of the match starts, admittedly a bit busy watching Simon eat to pay attention to his own food.
The second half starts much like the first finished and Wille feels himself relax. Every once in a while he glances to the side, most times finding Simon completely engrossed in the game. Once or twice he catches the other quickly turn his head when Wille looks his way, pointedly fixing his gaze on the ball. But Wille doesn’t miss the smile on his face, nor the way it seems to have grown a bit bigger each time Wille lays his eyes on him.
The blissful euphoria of winning the match that had started to settle over him is rudely broken a few minutes after England’s substitutions. Before Wille can really understand what happens, Sweden’s goalkeeper is digging the ball out of the net. It’s fine, Wille tells himself, they still have a one goal lead. It’s not as comfortable as before, but they’re still winning.
That is, until just minutes later, England scores again. Wille curses, and just like Simon next to him, buries his face in his hands, mindful of the paint on his cheek.
“It’s okay, there’s still ten minutes to go, we can score another,” Simon mumbles quietly and Wille nods, wanting to believe it’s going to happen.
But it doesn’t, and after the added time the scoreboard shows the result as 2-2.
“Well shit,” Simon exhales, sliding down on his seat to stare at the sky.
“Yeah,” Wille agrees. “Guess we’re really getting value for our money,” he tries to joke, even though he’d much rather be celebrating a win by now.
“As long as this doesn’t go into penalties,” Simon says, shuffling to sit back up and take a sip of his soda.
“Not a fan?” Wille asks.
“Definitely not. I can’t take the stress,” Simon explains, laughing a little. And Wille gets it. Watching the penalty shoot-out is always nerve-wracking, even if his team isn’t involved. But it’s especially nerve-wracking when his team is involved, and Wille definitely hopes it doesn’t come to that tonight.
But, despite the teams’ best efforts, it does come to that. No matter how roughly the players throw themselves into every single challenge, battling for the ball like their lives depend on it, resulting in bloody noses and what must be countless bruises, both goals stay untouched.
When the referee once again blows her whistle to signal the end of the extra time, Wille sighs.
“No,” Simon whines next to him, dropping his head in his hands again.
Wille lifts his hand and gently rubs Simon’s upper back, feeling the tense muscles under his fingers. Then he realises what he’s doing and with lightning speed pulls his hand away. Fuck, that was totally inappropriate, he shouldn’t have—
His spiraling thoughts grind to a halt when Simon raises his head and his hand finds Wille’s, giving it a squeeze. And then he doesn’t let go, instead using the connection to pull Wille to his feet. Right, people are standing to see better, Wille notices with such a delay that he fears he might have actually missed something important happening on the pitch.
“I don’t know if I can watch,” Simon whispers next to him, gripping Wille’s hand a little tighter and now they’re definitely standing closer than Wille would normally be comfortable with someone he’d met about 120 minutes ago.
“You can, I’m here for you,” Wille hears himself say and he’s not sure if his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest because of the nerves or because of what he’s just said.
Simon doesn’t reply, he simply intertwines their fingers even tighter. Wille looks down at their joined hands, then back up to Simon’s face, finding the man chewing his lower lip. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes seem to be asking ‘is this okay?’. Wille nods and despite the situation soon about to unfold on the field, finds himself grinning. Simon releases the lip between his teeth and mirrors Wille’s expression before turning to look at the players standing in the middle of the pitch.
Wille feels himself slightly tremble and if you asked, he’d say it’s because the first player is placing the ball on the penalty spot, ready to take her shot. The entire stadium falls silent, though Wille swears he can hear the nervous breaths Simon is inhaling next to him, followed by the groan when England’s player easily nets the ball.
A moment later their laboured breaths are drowned out by their section erupting in cheers when Sweden’s first player scores her penalty. Simon shakes their hands excitedly and Wille grins wider. England score two more penalties and it looks like the shoot-out will be extremely even. That is, until Sweden’s third shot goes just wide of the goal.
Simon bonks his head against Wille’s shoulder, frantically muttering ‘no no no’ under his breath. Wille lets his free hand give Simon’s bicep a gentle squeeze, hoping to reassure the man. He very much does not spend the next shot thinking about how nice Simon’s arm had felt when his fingers wrapped around it.
Sweden score the fourth penalty easily and Simon jumps, letting go of Wille’s hand. Before Wille can mourn the loss of contact Simon’s arms are wrapping around him, his mouth right next to Wille’s ear as he cries out of joy. On instinct Wille circles his own arms around Simon’s middle, swaying them a little with how excited he feels.
Simon’s arm stays around his shoulder when he pulls back a little to turn towards the pitch again. The smile on his face is pleased, and Wille feels his own morph from bashful to content as he keeps one arm wrapped around the other man’s middle.
He sucks in a deep breath when England’s fifth player steps behind the ball and notices Simon close his eyes. A few seconds later he’s pumping his fist in the air again when Sweden’s goalkeeper stops the ball, giving Simon a little shake. The man snaps his eyes open and Wille beams at him, because their team is still in the game.
The next second it hits him though: Sweden must score this penalty in order to keep the shoot-out going. Simon seems to realise the same thing. “I really can’t watch,” he mumbles and buries his face on Wille’s chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
Wille’s breath stutters and this time he’d be okay with admitting that it has nothing to do with what’s happening on the pitch and everything to do with this beautiful man burrowed against him. And he’s very much fine with it. So fine, actually, that he completely misses Sweden’s player sending the ball to the back of the net. Only the ear-shattering noise around them tells him Sweden have kept their hopes alive, so busy was he trying to commit to memory the way Simon’s warm breath feels against his chest, the way he seems to fit against Wille’s body perfectly.
Simon lifts his head and Wille’s breath hitches when he sees his eyes glisten. “Sorry, this is dumb,” Simon laughs hoarsely when he pulls back enough to wipe away the tears. Wille shakes his head.
“No, it’s not,” he says. Even when he’s emotional Simon looks gorgeous. “I love… that you feel this all so deeply,” he almost whispers.
Simon looks up at him with wide eyes and Wille’s drowning in the dark chocolate shade of them. It feels like the air around them crackles and somewhere at the back of his mind Wille absently wonders if a thunderstorm might be approaching, giving them respite from the heat still beating down even this late in the evening.
He’s snapped out whatever trance they’ve fallen, Simon flinching against him when a synchronised sigh sounds around the stadium. They both turn their heads to see their goalkeeper grin with the ball in her hands, obviously having stopped the shot from the English player.
“If she scores this…” Wille says, watching as Sweden’s goalkeeper pats the player walking towards the penalty spot on the back.
“...we’ll be in the semifinal,” Simon finishes breathlessly.
The stadium falls so silent you could hear a pin drop as Wille’s eyes bounce from the ball to the player standing behind it to England’s goalkeeper. He feels Simon’s fingers dig into his shoulder and Wille huffs a breath to move away the hair hanging on his forehead, threatening to obscure his view. Then he wraps his arm tighter around Simon’s waist and holds his breath.
And then they’re jumping up and down so hard it feels like the stands under them might buckle, screaming so loud their voices are definitely raspy the next day. Sweden have done it. They’re in the semifinal.
All thoughts of possibly two more games of football fly out of Wille’s mind when he feels Simon smack his lips against his cheek. Hot and wet and soft and gone already when Wille’s mind catches up with what’s happening.
Simon’s pulling away from his arms, a bashful smile on his lips, now slightly stained blue and yellow where they’d touched Wille’s cheek. But his gaze isn’t sheepish when he meets Wille’s surprised eyes, this time definitely lingering on his lips a moment before he lowers it. No, it’s like there’s almost a challenge in his eyes. As if he’s saying ‘this is how far I’m going, what are you going to do?’.
Almost acting without him thinking about it, Wille’s fingers lift up to take hold of Simon’s chin and tilt it up, so their eyes meet. Slowly, giving Simon time to back away, he moves his thumb to brush over Simon’s lips, parting them slightly as he wipes away the face paint. Simon’s Adam’s apple bops when he swallows thickly.
All of a sudden Wille feels something wet trickle down his face and arms and it makes him jump. Simon is looking down on himself with a similarly bewildered look, the tips of his curls dripping with something wet and his shirt starting to cling to his chest.
“What the hell,” Wille exclaims when he realises what it is. He looks at the person standing behind them on the next row and sees her blushing while holding a cup of beer in her hand. A cup which now is very much empty.
“Sorry!” she says, but doesn’t actually look all that apologetic when she shrugs.
“Did you just pour beer on us?!” Wille demands to know even though it’s obvious that’s exactly what’s happened. “Look at the state of him!” Wille points at Simon, who is looking a little drenched.
“No! It was an accident, these cups are damn slippery,” she explains.
No they’re not, Wille thinks as he crouches down to prove it and retrieves his own cup that’s been long since abandoned. “They’re not, they’re just fine,” he argues as he straightens, bumping his arm into Simon’s and his grip slipping. And somehow, despite his cup being half-empty, the contents slosh and in horror he watches as more beer spills onto Simon’s jersey.
“You were saying?” the girl asks with an amused tone.
But Wille doesn’t hear her anymore, too busy staring at the damp patch growing even bigger on Simon’s chest.
The girl must say something more as Wille hears Simon mutter ‘you have a good night too’.
“I’m so sorry,” Wille stammers out, his hands twitching to somehow help Simon even though he doesn’t know how. He watches as Simon pulls the shirt away from his skin, waving the hem in the hopes that it would make the fabric drier. It doesn’t.
“It’s okay,” Simon replies. Then he bursts out laughing, and soon Wille joins him.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten someone’s drink all over me,” Simon explains, wheezing in between bouts of laughter.
Wille drops the cup and pushes a hand over his face, raking his hair back. It’s definitely a little sticky with the liquid on it, though nowhere near as bad as Simon’s. It’s ridiculous, that this is how this magical night ends. Getting soaked in beer just as he was about to—
“I’m gonna go find a bathroom to wash the worst off,” Simon announces, the shirt now stuck to his chest so that Wille can see the outline of the toned muscles underneath it.
“I’ll help you out,” he tells Simon.
Simon smirks and takes Wille’s hand, lacing their fingers as he pushes past Wille and starts to pull him towards the stairs. Wille trips over his feet but quickly rights himself and follows Simon up and down into the concourse, dodging the people heading for the exits.
They find a bathroom that’s suspiciously empty, but Wille doesn’t have time to ponder about that fact more when Simon comes to a stop in front of a sink. He waves his hands to get the faucet going and cups some water into them before splashing it on his face.
Wille watches as Simon brushes his hands through his hair, wetting the already damp curls even more. And oh, this look is very good on him, Wille thinks as he watches Simon try to arrange his hair and eventually give up. He meets Simon’s eyes in the mirror before the other man lowers his gaze to take in the state of his jersey. With a shrug he grabs the hem and pulls the shirt off over his head, making his hair stand a little.
Wille blinks and grabs the sink in front of him, distantly noting that Simon can definitely see the way his mouth hangs open and his tongue wets his lips without his permission as he watches Simon’s reflection in the mirror. This time it’s Simon meeting his eyes and he smirks, his lips curling up in a knowing smile. He keeps looking at Wille as he rinses the jersey under the stream. Wille sees in the mirror how a blush creeps up his neck, a warm sensation starting to pool low in his belly.
“The smell won’t stick to the fabric so badly,” Simon explains, as if Wille cared about what he’s doing with the shirt. Wille hums in response, turning to press his back against the sink and drink in the sight before him.
Simon wrings the jersey to get most of the water out, then sets it to the sink ledge to wash his hands. When he’s done and dried his hands, he tucks the definitely very damp shirt under the waistband of his shorts, uncaring of the fact that it’ll definitely drip all over his pants too.
“Well, this is definitely a night to remember,” Simon says, turning to face Wille, moving to close most of the distance between them. Then his smile slips a little, the bright light in his eyes dimming. “Wish the semi wasn’t sold out.”
Right, Simon had told him earlier this was the last match he had a ticket to. Wille doesn’t even have to think about it when he says, “I have an extra ticket.”
Simon blinks, then lets out an incredulous laugh. “You do?”
Wille nods eagerly, hoping Simon will say yes to what he’s about to suggest next. “I could— If you’d—” he takes a deep breath and locks his eyes with Simon’s. “Would you like to go with me?”
Simon’s grin splits his face and his arms cross over Wilhelm’s shoulders when he says, voice low, “I’d love nothing more.”
Wille feels himself smile so hard his cheeks are hurting and takes in the way Simon’s eyes are dancing with mirth. “Great. Guess I’ll need your number so we can figure out where and when to see in Geneva on Tuesday then.”
Simon hums, his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Wille’s neck. “Or you could walk me to my hotel and we could figure it out in person,” Simon suggests.
Wille nods. “Yeah, I could definitely do that,” he says, voice breathless as he leans closer towards Simon.
And then Simon drops his arms and pulls back, but grabs Wille’s hand and entwines their fingers once again. “Let’s go then.”
It takes Wille a second or two to recover from Simon not being wrapped around him anymore, but then they’re stumbling out of the bathroom. Simon still shirtless, both of them all huge smiles and giggles as they keep looking at each other, recalling the events of the night and talking excitedly, if a little breathlessly, about what might happen next.
Yes, Wille thinks, definitely a night to remember. Hopefully the first of many with this amazing man tugging his hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat as he shoves Wille impatiently inside his room when they finally make it to Simon’s hotel in the early hours of the next day.