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Happiness was never something that arrived equally for everyone. While some people seemed to stumble upon it without ever looking, others spent their lives chasing pieces that never quite fit together. They learned to treasure brief moments of contentment, knowing they were often borrowed rather than owned.
Perhaps that was the price of happiness. Perhaps every triumph demanded something in return, asking for a sacrifice that wouldn’t reveal itself until much later, when the joy had already settled into memory.
Life was rarely altered by the moments people expected to remember. It wasn’t the grand speeches or impossible decisions that changed everything, but the smallest incidents, the ones that appeared insignificant until they had already reshaped the future.
A single misplaced touch. A hesitation that lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Ten minutes at the end of a football match that nobody imagined would haunt them long after the final whistle.
The butterfly effect was built upon a deceptively simple idea: that the smallest actions often produced the greatest consequences. Football seemed to obey the same rule. A pass that arrived a fraction of second late, a clearance that failed to travel far enough, or a brief lapse in concentration could become the difference between victory and defeat.
Such moments were almost laughably insignificant while they unfolded, yet they gained their weight in retrospect, when there was nothing left to do except wonder how differently everything might have turned out had just one of them gone another way.
The Egyptian national team learned that lesson against Argentina.
When the referee blew the final whistle, there was nothing left to hope for. Ninety minutes of relentless effort had ended in defeat, leaving behind the familiar ache of knowing they had come so close only to watch it slip away.
They had emptied themselves on the pitch, chasing every loose ball, contesting every challenge, refusing to surrender until the very end. It was precisely because they had given everything that defeat settled so heavily upon them.
The dressing room bore little resemblance to the one they had left before kick-off. The speakers that usually filled the room with music after a victory remained untouched in the corner, and the laughter that had become almost routine was nowhere to be found. Jerseys clung to exhausted bodies, damp with sweat, while others had already been discarded onto the benches without much care.
A few players stared silently at the tiled floor, replaying the match in their minds. Others spoke in low voices that faded almost as soon as they began.
Salah tried nonetheless. He moved from one teammate to another, offering quiet words of encouragement and reminding them that one defeat didn’t define a team that had fought as hard as they had.
A handful of players nodded, some managed tired smiles, but the room never truly responded. It wasn’t that they doubted him. Disappointment simply had a way of drowning out optimism, especially after a loss that had felt so painfully within reach.
Out of everyone in the dressing room, the defeat settled most heavily on Mostafa.
He sat in silence long after the final whistle had become a memory, unable to bring himself to meet anyone’s eyes. Every save he had made throughout the match had already faded into the background, overshadowed by the ones he had failed to make.
No matter how many times he replayed the final minutes in his mind, he never arrived at a different conclusion. His thoughts lingered on split-second decisions and shots that had slipped just beyond his reach.
If only he had reacted a fraction sooner.
His fingertips had come agonizingly close, yet the ball had still crossed the line. In his mind, that single moment had stolen victory from Egypt, replacing the celebrations they had dreamed of with a silence that now weighed heavily on every corner of the dressing room.
“I think I’m going to shower first,” he murmured eventually, forcing himself to stand. “I’m exhausted.”
Nobody questioned him. Exhaustion was written across every face in the room, and if anyone noticed the way he avoided looking at them before disappearing down the corridor, they were kind enough not to mention it.
The showers were empty when he stepped inside. Steam slowly gathered against the mirrors as he turned the water on, and for a while he simply stood beneath the stream without moving, allowing it to wash away the sweat that clung stubbornly to his skin.
He wished guilt could be rinsed away just as easily, but every passing second beneath the water only anchored it deeper within him.
Closing his eyes only brought the match back to life. He found himself studying every movement with the desperate hope of discovering the moment where everything had begun to unravel, even though he already knew no answer would satisfy him.
Being a goalkeeper meant living with that uncertainty. A striker could miss five chances and still become the hero with the sixth, but a goalkeeper was judged by the one save he failed to make. Mostafa had always understood that reality but facing it was another matter entirely.
Mohamed’s eyes followed him until he disappeared around the corner. He remained where he was for another minute, absentmindedly folding his jersey while he waited for the room to grow distracted. Once he was certain no one would pay attention to his absence, he quietly made his way toward the showers.
After making sure the showers were empty, Mohamed quietly stepped inside. Water rushed steadily from one of the shower stalls, the sound filling the otherwise deserted room. He found himself smiling faintly despite everything. Mostafa always disappeared whenever guilt became too heavy to carry, and Mohamed had learned long ago that the quickest way to find him was simply to follow.
He walked toward the occupied stall and rested his hand lightly against the door before knocking twice.
“Mostafa.”
No answer came.
“I know you’re in there pretending the water is somehow going to solve everything.”
Another few seconds passed before Mohamed allowed himself a quiet laugh.
“And before you start convincing yourself that this was your fault, let me save you the effort.”
Still nothing.
“You stopped Messi’s penalty today,” he continued, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the shower. “Do you have any idea how many goalkeepers dream of saying that? You made save after save and kept us in that match until the very end. If anyone walks out of that stadium with their head held high, it should be you.”
Inside the stall, Mostafa rested his forehead against the cool tiles and closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized how tightly he had been clenching his jaw until Mohamed’s voice drifted through the door. It didn’t erase the guilt that had settled inside him, nor did it convince him that the loss no longer mattered, but Mohamed had always known how to keep those thoughts from swallowing him whole.
“You always know what to say,” he admitted at last, his words barely louder than the water surrounding him.
Mohamed smiled despite knowing Mostafa couldn’t see it.
“I don’t always know what to say,” he replied. “I just know you.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of water striking the tiled floor. There was something strangely peaceful about standing on opposite sides of a locked door, separated by little more than a few inches of wood and every expectation the world had placed upon them.
Moments like these had become the root of whatever they were building together. They stole conversations whenever they could, lingered on late-night phone calls until sleep claimed one of them, and arrived at the training ground before sunrise simply to spend a few uninterrupted minutes in each other’s company before the rest of the squad arrived.
None of it resembled the kind of relationship either of them might have dreamed of when they were younger, yet neither of them would have traded those moments for anything else.
Perhaps that was what love looked like when it was forced into the shadows. It existed in whispers instead of declarations, in lingering glances instead of lingering touches, and in the quiet certainty that someone would always come looking for you when the world became too heavy to carry alone.
They both understood that what they shared couldn’t remain hidden forever. Whether it ended because they chose different paths or because someone else discovered the truth first, neither outcome seemed particularly distant.
Even so, the uncertainty of tomorrow had never been enough to convince them to let go of today. Choosing each other had never been the difficult part but living with everything that choice demanded was.
When Mohamed finally stepped away from the door, he hesitated for only a moment before quietly saying, “Don't stay in there too long. They’re probably already wondering where we disappeared to.”
Mostafa laughed softly for what felt like the first time since the match had ended.
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
Satisfied, Mohamed made his way back toward the dressing room before anyone had the chance to notice he had been gone.
A few minutes later, another knock echoed through the showers, this one louder and far less patient.
“Mostafa!” Emam called from the other side. “We’ve got ten minutes before the bus leaves, so unless you’re planning on spending the night in there, hurry up.”
“I’m coming,” Mostafa answered, reaching for his towel.
By the time the team boarded the bus, most of the players had already surrendered to the exhaustion that followed ninety minutes of relentless football. A few leaned their heads against the windows, others scrolled aimlessly through their phones, while the quieter ones simply stared out into the night, each of them retreating into thoughts they had little desire to share.
Mohamed had taken one of the seats near the middle of the bus. His sports bag rested beside him, saving the empty seat from anyone else who might have claimed it, while a pair of earbuds sat loosely in his ears without any music playing through them.
His hair was still damp from the shower, the strands curling slightly as they dried, and the cool water had washed away the sweat clinging to his skin. The thoughts that had followed him home, however, remained exactly where they had been.
Losing to Argentina had hurt. Any defeat on football’s biggest stage was bound to leave its mark, but Mohamed had spent too many years in the sport to let a single match define him. He had lived through victories that felt impossible and defeats that lingered for weeks. He had even endured the humiliation of scoring two own goals in two different matches, accepting them for what they were.
Sometimes football rewarded you. Sometimes it didn’t. That was a reality every player eventually learned to live with.
But, the thoughts refusing to leave him belonged elsewhere.
His thoughts drifted back to the match against Iran, the one everyone had come to call the Pride Match. Even now, the memories refused to fade. He could still picture the stands awash with color, hear the chants rolling through the stadium, and remember the banners raised high above the crowd.
Before the players had even made it back to the dressing room, social media had already erupted with thousands of reactions, each one louder than the last.
None of it should have caught him off guard. He had spent his entire life in Egypt and understood better than most how little room society was willing to make for someone like him.
Knowing that reality, however, did not make it any easier to witness so much hatred laid bare. It settled quietly inside him, leaving behind a weight that followed him long after the tournament had moved on.
The same question found him again, just as it always did. Would life have been different had he been born somewhere else?
He never allowed himself to dwell on it for long because the answer changed nothing. Egypt was home. It was where he had taken his first steps, where he had fallen in love with football, and where every dream he had ever chased had begun.
Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help wondering how different life might have been if the person he loved hadn’t been something he was expected to hide.
His thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, toward Mostafa.
He wondered what his life would look like five or ten years from now, and the answer came far too easily. Mostafa would probably be standing beside someone else, smiling the same way he always did, building a life that Mohamed would only be able to watch from a distance.
The thought settled heavily in his chest. They had never spoken about what would happen once football was no longer enough to keep them close, but they didn’t need to. They both understood that the life waiting for them outside those stolen moments would have no place where they could exist together.
With nothing else to do, Mohamed opened his phone and mindlessly scrolled through the apps he had already checked more than once. Messages came and went beneath his thumb until another notification appeared, this one immediately catching his attention, and despite himself, the corners of his mouth lifted.
Mostafa
Hey, something happened?
Even from two rows behind, Mostafa had noticed.
He resisted the urge to turn around. Doing so would only earn them curious looks, and they had become far too practiced at avoiding those. Instead, he lowered his gaze to his phone and typed a reply.
I’m alright. Just exhausted, that's all.
The three dots appeared almost immediately, disappearing and returning twice before another message finally arrived.
Liar.
Mohamed let out the quietest laugh of the evening, lowering his head as he shook it.
Back at the hotel, sleep refused to come.
Mohamed had lost count of how many times he had turned over in bed, hoping that a different position might finally quiet his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, the same thoughts found him again, slipping through the cracks of his exhaustion with frustrating ease.
His mind kept circling the same thoughts with exhausting determination, returning to them so often that they gradually lost the uncertainty that had once accompanied them. By the time he closed his eyes, they no longer felt like questions about the future, but quiet conclusions he had already begun to accept.
This won’t last.
He let out a slow breath before pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, hoping the darkness would somehow still his thoughts.
Beside him, Abdelmonem slept peacefully, his breathing steady enough to remind Mohamed just how awake he still was. He reached beneath his pillow for his phone only for the screen to light up in his hand before he even unlocked it.
Still up?
There were times when Mohamed wondered whether Mostafa knew him better than he knew himself. No matter how carefully he buried whatever troubled him beneath forced smiles and casual conversations, Mostafa always seemed to notice the smallest shift in his demeanor.
It never mattered whether his laughter sounded a little quieter than usual, whether his replies arrived a few minutes later than they normally would, or whether a thoughtful silence lingered a little too long. Pretending had never worked where Mostafa was concerned.
His thumb hovered above the keyboard as he stared at the message without replying.
On any other night, he would have already been reaching for the hoodie draped over the chair beside his bed. Throughout the tournament, these late-night escapes had quietly become a tradition between them.
Whenever the hotel finally fell silent and the rest of the team drifted off to sleep, one of them would send a message, and before long they would find themselves sitting somewhere no one else thought to look.
Sometimes they spent hours talking about football, their families, or the future they rarely dared discuss in daylight. Other nights they barely exchanged a dozen words, content simply to exist beside one another while the city stretched endlessly beneath them. Those quiet hours had become Mohamed’s favorite part of every trip because they were the closest thing either of them had ever known to normal.
Tonight, however, the thought of facing Mostafa filled him with a hesitation he had never experienced before. He was afraid that if the younger man looked at him for long enough, he would recognize the fears Mohamed had spent months pretending he no longer carried.
His phone vibrated once again.
Come outside. I’ll be waiting on the rooftop.
A helpless smile spread across Mohamed’s face as he stared at the screen, knowing that Mostafa had sent the message with complete confidence that he would come. He was right, because no matter how much Mohamed tried to convince himself otherwise, refusing had never truly been an option. With a quiet sigh, he climbed carefully out of bed, making sure not to wake Abdelmonem before slipping on a light grey hoodie over his training clothes.
The corridors were almost completely deserted at that hour, with only the soft hum of the lights and the distant sound of the elevator breaking the silence. Rather than waiting for it, Mohamed pushed open the stairwell door and climbed slowly toward the rooftop, taking his time with every step as though delaying the conversation would somehow make it easier.
The cool night air greeted him the moment he stepped outside.
Mostafa was sitting alone on one of the benches overlooking the city, his curls hidden beneath the hood of an oversized black hoodie despite the pleasantly mild weather. Mohamed had never understood why he insisted on wearing it when the weather hardly called for it, especially after years of teasing him that it made him look like a teenager trying to appear mysterious. Mostafa, naturally, disagreed every single time.
Deep down, however, Mohamed knew he would probably miss that ridiculous habit if it ever disappeared, because somewhere along the way it had become one of the countless little things he had fallen in love with.
The rooftop door clicked shut behind him, drawing Mostafa’s attention. He turned around, and the smile that appeared on his face came so naturally that Mohamed found himself smiling back before he even realized it.
There was something about that smile that always managed to put him at ease. It carried none of the disappointment that had weighed so heavily on everyone in the dressing room only a few hours earlier. Instead, it was warm, familiar, and filled with the quiet affection that Mostafa reserved for moments when nobody else was watching.
Mohamed walked toward the bench, returning the smile with one that was noticeably smaller, though no less genuine.
Mostafa shifted slightly and patted the empty space beside him, inviting him to sit.
Lowering himself onto the bench, Mohamed instinctively left the familiar distance between them, a habit they had perfected long ago without ever speaking about it. They sat close enough that their shoulders would brush if one of them leaned a little too far, yet far enough that anyone who happened to pass by would see nothing more than two teammates sharing the quiet after a difficult match.
Their relationship had always existed within that careful balance, forever caught somewhere between what they longed to do and what they could safely allow themselves to do.
For several minutes, neither of them felt any urgency to speak.
Below them, the city continued moving as though nothing had happened. Cars drifted through the streets in long ribbons of light, a siren echoed somewhere in the distance before gradually disappearing, and the wind rustled the leaves of the trees surrounding the hotel. Mohamed welcomed those ordinary sounds, grateful that they asked nothing of him while his own thoughts demanded far too much.
“Still thinking about the match?” Mostafa asked after they had sat in silence for a while.
Mohamed shook his head. “Not really.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Mostafa as he looked at him with an expression that was far too knowing to fool.
“You’re still a terrible liar.”
“I didn’t know you could tell.”
“Oh, I can.”
He studied Mohamed’s face for a moment before lifting a hand and gently tapping the space between his eyebrows.
“You always get this little crease whenever you’re thinking too much.”
His fingers lingered only briefly before he withdrew his hand, yet the warmth of that small touch lingered on Mohamed’s skin.
It never failed to amaze him how attentive Mostafa was. While most people noticed the louder parts of someone’s personality, the victories they celebrated, the smiles they wore in public, or the jokes they shared in crowded rooms, Mostafa somehow noticed everything that usually went unseen.
He picked up on the restless tapping of Mohamed’s foot beneath the table, the sighs he tried to hide before anyone could hear them, and even the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows whenever his thoughts became too heavy to carry.
Being understood so completely frightened Mohamed more than anything, but it was also the safest he had ever felt in another person’s presence.
He gave a weak smile before backing to let Mostafa’s hand slip away even though he knew he would miss the touch once it’s gone but he couldn’t risk anything.
“I’m alright,” he said quietly. “It’s not exactly my first disappointing tournament.”
“I know.”
Mostafa’s voice softened before he leaned back against the bench, his eyes wandering across the lights scattered below them.
“I never thanked you.”
Mohamed frowned.
“For what?”
“For all of this.”
He gestured vaguely toward the city, although Mohamed understood immediately that the skyline had very little to do with what he meant.
“I don’t think I would’ve made it through this tournament without you.”
Mohamed instinctively opened his mouth to argue, but Mostafa smiled and continued before he could interrupt.
“I’m serious. Half the tournament was spent convincing myself that I’d let everyone down after every mistake I made, and somehow you were always there before I even had to ask for you.”
A quiet laugh escaped him as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“You probably got tired of listening to me complain.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know,” Mostafa replied with a smile. “That’s exactly why I’m thanking you.”
He leaned his head back, his gaze settling on the stars that were barely visible above the city lights.
“It still doesn’t feel real.”
“What doesn’t?”
“The World Cup.”
His smile returned almost immediately.
“A year ago I was watching Messi on television, and yesterday I was standing on the same pitch trying to stop him from scoring. Sometimes I still can’t believe any of this actually happened.”
Mohamed smiled.
“You also saved his penalty.”
“I did,” Mostafa answered with unmistakable pride before laughing to himself. “I’m definitely bringing that up every chance I get for the rest of my life.”
“I was going to say twenty years.”
“I think the rest of my life sounds much better.”
Mohamed couldn’t help laughing.
Mostafa continued talking as though he had been waiting all day to tell someone every thought that had crossed his mind. One memory naturally led to another until he was speaking about training sessions, teammates, ridiculous conversations in the dressing room, and small moments that had already begun turning into stories they would laugh about years from now.
Mohamed listened with the same quiet attention he always gave him. There was something comforting about hearing Mostafa speak because his voice had a way of filling every empty corner of Mohamed’s mind before his own thoughts had the chance to return.
The questions that had followed him into bed remained, for a little while exactly where they belonged, far enough away that he could almost pretend they no longer existed.
Without either of them acknowledging when it had happened, Mostafa’s hand gradually drifted across the bench until their little fingers brushed. They simply allowed their hands to remain where they were, close enough to feel the other’s warmth while still looking like nothing more than an accidental touch to anyone who might have seen them.
Mohamed lowered his eyes to their hands before drawing in a slow breath.
“Do you ever think about the future?”
Mostafa turned toward him, his expression immediately growing more thoughtful.
“What do you mean?”
Mohamed remained silent for a few seconds while he searched for words that suddenly felt much harder to say than he had expected.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Five years from now, I guess.”
Mostafa let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as though the question itself amused him. “I’m still trying to figure out tomorrow,” he admitted, resting his elbows on his knees. “Five years is a long time, Mohamed.”
“I know, but I mean... what will you do after football?”
“I’ll probably end up coaching somewhere, or maybe I’ll become one of those retired players who spend every television appearance talking about how football was better back in their day.”
A grin spread across his face before he added, “although I’d definitely remind everyone that I saved Messi’s penalty every chance I got.”
Normally, Mohamed would have laughed. He would have rolled his eyes and teased Mostafa for refusing to let anyone forget that save for the rest of his life. But, tonight, the joke never came.
He simply looked ahead, his attention fixed on the city lights stretching endlessly beneath them, while his fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the bench they were sitting on.
Mostafa watched him for a moment before the smile slowly disappeared from his own face. It was unlike Mohamed to let a joke pass unanswered, and that alone was enough to tell him that whatever had been weighing on his mind was far more serious than he had first imagined.
“This isn’t about football, is it?’
Mohamed lowered his gaze to their hands and noticed that, without either of them realizing it, they had drifted close enough for their little fingers to brush again.
“No,” he answered quietly. “It isn’t.”
Mostafa waited, giving him all the time he needed. Over the years he had learned that Mohamed rarely spoke about the things that frightened him, and trying to rush him only pushed him further into himself. If there was one thing Mostafa had become good at, it was waiting.
Mohamed drew in a slow breath before finally finding the courage to voice the question that had been haunting him ever since the match against Iran.
“Do you ever think about getting married?”
The smile vanished completely from Mostafa’s face.
His eyes remained fixed on Mohamed for several seconds before they slowly dropped toward the floor, and although the silence that followed lasted only a short while, it felt painfully long to the man sitting beside him.
Mohamed searched his face for an answer before a single word had even been spoken, but all he found was hesitation, and somehow that frightened him more than any reply could have.
Mostafa understood exactly what he was asking.
Marriage had never been the real subject of the conversation. The future was. He had always known that one day life would demand answers they had spent years avoiding.
He loved Mohamed with a certainty that had never once wavered, but loving him had never been the difficult part. What frightened him was the thought that, sooner or later, the life they had built together in stolen moments would collide with everything else he held dear.
His parents had sacrificed too much for him to reach this point, football had become inseparable from his identity, and his faith remained a part of him that he had never questioned.
For years, those parts of his life had existed peacefully alongside one another, each occupying its own place without ever demanding that he choose between them. Mohamed’s question, however, forced him to acknowledge the possibility he had always avoided, that there might come a day when keeping both would no longer be possible.
“It’s alright.”
Mohamed forced a small smile, although it barely resembled one.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“Mohamed...”
“You really don’t.”
He withdrew his hand, folding both of his together in his lap as if he suddenly needed something to hold on to. “We’re not teenagers anymore, Mostafa. We both know that one day people are going to expect more from us than late-night conversations on rooftops.”
His voice remained calm, but every word carried a tiredness that Mostafa had never heard before.
“Ever since the Iran match, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happens when football isn’t enough to hide us anymore. I keep wondering whether one day your family will ask you when you’re getting married, or whether someone will introduce you to a girl, and eventually it’ll just... make sense.”
He looked down, letting out a quiet breath before continuing.
“I keep asking myself whether you’ll wake up one morning and realize that loving me costs too much.”
Mostafa felt something tighten painfully inside his chest.
He had spent the entire tournament believing he was the one who needed comforting after difficult matches, never realizing that Mohamed had been carrying fears far heavier than defeat.
Without thinking, he reached for Mohamed’s hand before the older man had the chance to pull away completely.
“Mohamed,” he said softly, waiting until his partner finally looked back at him, “I wish I could promise you exactly what our lives will look like five years from now. I wish I could tell you that everything will somehow fall into place and that none of this will ever matter.”
A faint smile crossed his face, carrying more sadness than happiness.
“I can’t promise that because I honestly don’t know.”
They stayed silent for a while as the wind swept gently across the rooftop, carrying with it the distant sounds of traffic that continued far below, and while the city remained completely indifferent to the conversation unfolding above it.
“What I do know,” Mostafa continued, giving Mohamed’s hand the gentlest squeeze, “is that every decision I’ve made these past four years has been with you somewhere in the back of my mind. If this wasn’t worth it, I would’ve walked away a long time ago.”
Mohamed listened without interrupting.
“I don’t stay because it’s easy,” Mostafa said, his voice barely louder than the breeze surrounding them. “I stay because every single day I wake up and decide that you’re worth whatever comes with it.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside Mohamed, reaching a place his own thoughts had failed to reach for weeks.
“As long as that choice belongs to me,” Mostafa whispered, “I’m choosing you.”
Mohamed smiled then, a real smile this time, small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely, yet beautiful enough to remind Mostafa why he had fallen in love with him in the first place.
Mohamed’s eyes stung as he looked at Mostafa, the tears gathering there refusing to fall. He had known that Mostafa loved him. Four years together had given him more than enough reasons to believe it, yet there was a world of difference between knowing something in your heart and hearing it spoken aloud.
His fears had never come from doubting Mostafa’s feelings. They came from everything that existed outside of them.
Every time a fan posted a picture standing a little too close to Mostafa, Mohamed caught himself wondering whether one day that person would become someone else entirely. Whenever a relative asked about marriage or his mother joked about finding him a bride, he found himself imagining a future in which he no longer had a place. He hated those thoughts because he knew they were unfair, but no amount of reasoning had ever been enough to silence them.
Sometimes he wondered whether his jealousy had become unreasonable, but loving someone while knowing that the world expected them to choose a different life had never left much room for rationality.
A small smile finally found its way onto his face.
“I love you too.”
The words escaped him without much thinking, carrying with them a weight that neither of them had fully understood until that night. They couldn’t hold each other, they couldn’t close the distance between them, and they couldn’t kiss the way either of them desperately wanted to. Instead, they remained exactly where they were, allowing their little fingers to brush once more as though that tiny gesture alone was enough to say everything they were forced to leave unsaid.
By the time the first rays of sunlight began stretching across the horizon, they both knew it was time to leave.
Mostafa stood first, glancing toward the rooftop door before turning back to Mohamed.
“I’ll go down now,” he said quietly. “Give me a couple of minutes.”
Mohamed nodded.
Watching Mostafa disappear through the doorway never became any easier, even though they had repeated the same routine countless times throughout the tournament. A few minutes later, his phone vibrated.
You can come down now.
A smile tugged at Mohamed’s lips as he slipped his phone back into his pocket before making his way downstairs. He returned to his room as quietly as he had left it, and lay back beneath the covers with the faint scent of the cool morning air still clinging to his clothes.
The questions that had kept him awake for most of the night hadn’t disappeared completely. The future remained uncertain, and nothing they had said on that rooftop could change the world waiting for them back home.
Even so, Mostafa’s words lingered in his mind long after he closed his eyes, and for the first time in a week, they were louder than every fear that had tried to convince him they would never make it.
Sleep came easily after that.
The journey back to Egypt felt far longer than it actually was. Between the flights, the long hours of waiting, and the constant presence of cameras following them from one terminal to another, neither Mohamed nor Mostafa found much of an opportunity to speak.
They spent most of the trip pretending to sleep or listening to music through their earbuds whenever they happened to sit close enough to notice one another. Even with the exhaustion settling into every muscle, returning home still brought a quiet sense of relief. No matter how complicated life became there, home was familiar, and familiarity had always been comforting.
The airport was already overflowing by the time the team arrived. Hundreds of supporters had gathered behind the barriers, chanting their names, waving Egyptian flags, and holding handmade signs that thanked them for everything they had accomplished during the tournament.
Although they had fallen short of the trophy, reaching that stage of the World Cup had given the country something to celebrate, and every player could feel that pride reflected in the faces waiting to welcome them home.
The walk through the terminal was slow, interrupted every few steps by requests for photographs, shirts, and autographs. Children stretched notebooks over the barriers, hoping to collect a signature, while parents proudly lifted them high enough to be seen.
Some supporters handed the players small gifts, folded letters, and drawings that had clearly taken hours to make. Mohamed accepted every one of them with the same quiet smile, thanking each person who reached out to him, while Mostafa’s laughter carried effortlessly through the crowd as he moved from one group to another.
Once everyone had climbed aboard the open bus waiting outside, the celebrations continued along the streets. The roads leading toward the North Coast were lined with supporters leaning from balconies, standing on rooftops, or honking from passing cars as the convoy drove by.
The players waved almost constantly, their arms beginning to ache long before the excitement around them showed any sign of fading.
As they always did whenever cameras surrounded them, Mohamed and Mostafa naturally kept their distance. Every now and then their eyes met across the bus before one of them looked away again, careful not to linger for too long while thousands of phones followed every movement they made.
Mohamed’s attention drifted elsewhere until he noticed Mostafa reaching for one of the shirts left on the bus. For a moment, he thought nothing of it, assuming the goalkeeper was about to give it to one of the children standing behind the barriers. He had watched players do it countless times before, and Mostafa himself had already signed shirts and posed for photographs with dozens of young supporters that morning.
He watched the shirt arc over the crowd before landing in the hands of a young woman standing a few rows back.
She looked stunned for only a moment before pressing the jersey against her chest as the people surrounding her burst into cheers. Mostafa laughed, pointed in her direction with an easy grin, and lifted his hand in a quick wave before turning back toward the opposite side of the road to greet another section of supporters.
The exchange lasted only a few seconds. Mostafa had probably forgotten about it before the bus reached the next intersection, but Mohamed hadn’t.
His eyes lingered on the crowd long after the bus had moved on, although he was no longer seeing the supporters gathered below. The image repeated itself with frustrating clarity every time he tried to think about something else.
He knew there had been nothing unusual about what had happened. Players gave away shirts after matches all the time, and Mostafa had every right to celebrate with the people who had spent hours waiting to welcome them home.
None of those thoughts managed to quiet the uncomfortable feeling tightening across his chest.
Mohamed quietly made his way toward the back of the bus, resting both hands against the railing as the wind rushed past him. He hoped the cool air would clear his thoughts, or at the very least carry away the uncomfortable weight that had settled somewhere beneath his ribs.
The celebration continued around him without interruption, the laughter of his teammates blending with the chants rising from the streets below, yet every sound seemed strangely distant, as though he had been separated from the rest of them by an invisible wall.
He hated how easily his mind returned to that moment. Mostafa had probably given the shirt away without thinking twice about it, just another spontaneous gesture toward a supporter in a crowd of hundreds, and there was no reason for him to believe it meant anything more than that.
Even so, he couldn’t stop seeing the young woman smiling as she held the jersey against her chest, nor could he ignore the quiet voice asking why it had been her when so many children had been reaching toward the bus only moments before.
The promises they had exchanged the previous night still echoed in his mind, although they no longer brought the comfort they had only a few hours earlier. Every reassurance seemed to lose a little of its certainty each time that image replayed itself behind his eyes.
Mostafa had promised that he would choose him.
Mohamed believed that he meant every word.
But belief had always been easier than silence, and silence left far too much room for doubt.
Once the bus came to a stop in front of the hotel, Mohamed stepped onto the pavement with the rest of the team, pausing every few steps to greet the supporters who had managed to make it through the security barriers.
He signed a handful of shirts, accepted a letter from a little boy wearing the national team’s jersey, and smiled politely whenever someone asked for a photograph but none of it felt genuine.
The lobby buzzed with conversation as teammates laughed about the journey home and discussed their plans for the short break ahead. Normally he would have joined them, offering the occasional joke before disappearing to his room, but that morning he excused himself with little more than a tired smile
The elevator doors closed in front of him, shutting out the noise below, and he welcomed the silence as though it were the only thing capable of understanding him.
Although Mohamed tried hard to hide how angry he was, Mostafa hadn’t missed the shift in his mood. It was as clear as broad daylight that something had upset him, yet Mostafa couldn’t pinpoint exactly what had happened to make him so furious.
The room was empty when he stepped inside, and for the first time that day he was grateful for the privacy. He tossed his travel bag onto the floor before running both hands through his hair, hoping the simple movement would somehow clear his mind.
He tried to convince himself that he was overreacting, but reason rarely stood a chance against insecurity.
Only the night before, Mostafa had promised that he would always choose him, and those words had felt unshakable at the time. Now they seemed painfully fragile because one careless gesture had been enough to convince him that, given another choice, his boyfriend might one day stop looking at him with the same tenderness.
He pulled his shirt over his head and disappeared into the bathroom, allowing the shower to run far hotter than usual. Steam slowly filled the room, softening his reflection in the mirror until he could barely recognize the person staring back at him.
The water washed away the exhaustion of travelling, but it failed to quiet the questions circling endlessly through his mind. He wished certainty could cling to him as stubbornly as jealousy did because one always seemed determined to replace the other.
Several floors away, Mostafa had been pacing across his room for almost ten minutes. He replayed the afternoon from beginning to end, searching every conversation and every small interaction for an explanation that refused to reveal itself.
Mohamed had barely looked at him after they arrived, and the distance between them felt so unfamiliar that it made him restless. He reached for his phone again, hoping this attempt would finally receive an answer.
The first call rang until it disconnected.
The second ended exactly the same way.
He frowned at the screen before typing another message, erased it halfway through, and started again. Nothing he wrote sounded right because he still had no idea what he was apologizing for. Worry settled deeper inside him with every passing minute until remaining inside the room became impossible.
Throughout the tournament, the rooftop had become the only place where they could exist without pretending quite so much. The memory of those late-night conversations drew him there, and he found himself heading upstairs while dialing Mohamed’s number once more, hoping this time the call would be answered.
The buzzing phone echoed through the bathroom just as Mohamed reached for a towel. He glanced at the screen without much interest, discovering a string of missed calls followed by several unanswered messages.
He had every intention of ignoring them until another notification appeared asking him to answer the phone, and a new call followed almost immediately.
After staring at the screen for several seconds, he finally accepted it.
“What is it?”
Mostafa fell silent for a brief moment. Something in that voice immediately told him this was far more serious than simple exhaustion.
“I wanted to check on you,” he said carefully. “You looked upset when we got here, and you’ve been ignoring me ever since. Is everything alright?”
“I’m just tired.”
“You don’t sound tired.”
A quiet sigh escaped Mohamed before he leaned against the bathroom counter and closed his eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that twice now, and I still don’t believe you.” The goalkeeper hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Can you come up to the rooftop? There are supporters outside the hotel filming everyone, and I’d rather talk there.”
“I don’t feel like talking.”
The answer arrived so quickly that it caught the goalkeeper off guard. He rested one hand against the rooftop railing, searching for the right words while the sounds of supporters gathered outside the hotel drifted up from below.
“If I did something, at least tell me what it was,” he said quietly. “I’ve been trying to figure it out since we got here.”
Mohamed lowered his head, his grip tightening around the phone. Part of him wanted to explain everything, while another part wanted Mostafa to understand without being told because admitting the truth aloud felt embarrassingly childish.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Confusion slowly gave way to frustration. Mostafa had spent the last half hour replaying the entire day inside his head, and every memory ended exactly where it had begun.
“I can’t fix something if I don’t know what I’ve done.”
A tired laugh escaped Mohamed, although there was no amusement behind it.
“Maybe you should think a little harder.”
“I have been thinking.”
“Clearly not enough.”
Mostafa rubbed a hand across his face before taking a slow breath, doing his best to keep his voice steady despite the frustration beginning to creep into it.
“I’m trying to understand you.”
“Then start by remembering this morning.”
“I am remembering this morning.”
Mohamed closed his eyes again because hearing that answer somehow made everything worse.
“I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.”
He ended the call before Mostafa could reply.
For a long time, Mostafa remained standing on the rooftop with the phone still pressed against his ear, listening to nothing except the empty silence that followed.
He searched his memory once again, revisiting every smile, every conversation, every supporter who had approached the team throughout the day, yet no answer presented itself.
Eventually he made his way back to his room with the same uncertainty weighing on him, leaving his phone beside the pillow in the hope that another call might come before sleep finally claimed him.
That evening, when Mostafa stepped into the hotel lobby, he found Mo Salah chatting with a few members of the coaching staff. They exchanged a few words about the journey before the captain mentioned, almost absentmindedly, that Mohamed had already left earlier that afternoon.
Apparently, he had told everyone that he missed his family and wanted to spend a couple of days with them before training resumed. The explanation sounded ordinary enough, yet it left an uncomfortable knot in Mostafa’s stomach.
He simply stood there, for a while, trying to process what he had just heard. Whenever one of them left before the other, they always exchanged a message first, even if it was nothing more than a quick I'm heading home.
It had become one of those small habits they had built over the years without ever speaking about it, and the silence now felt heavier than any argument they had ever had. Whatever had happened between them had clearly hurt Mohamed far more than Mostafa had realized.
Careful not to attract anyone’s attention, he smiled and told the captain that he would also be leaving in the morning because he wanted to spend some time with his own family.
Nobody questioned the explanation. After weeks away with the national team, everyone was eager to return home, and players drifted in and out of the lobby carrying suitcases and exchanging promises to meet again before the next training camp.
He lingered downstairs for a while, laughing politely whenever someone included him in a conversation, although he barely heard a word that was being said. His thoughts kept returning to Mohamed, to the unanswered calls, and to the conversation that had ended far too abruptly this morning.
He excused himself, finally, and made his way back to his room, deciding that pretending to enjoy anyone’s company had become far more exhausting than being alone.
His suitcase lay open on the bed exactly where he had left it that morning. He began folding his clothes one by one, more to occupy his hands than because he was eager to pack, until his fingers brushed against another bundle of fabric resting near the bottom of the case. He pulled it free without thinking, only to find himself staring at the jersey he had worn against Argentina.
His movements came to a halt.
The memories returned almost all at once. He remembered throwing one of his spare jerseys toward the crowd, and remembered hearing his teammates laugh later as someone mentioned that the media had already begun circulating photographs of the moment. One of them had joked that a lucky supporter would probably frame it on her bedroom wall.
His eyes remained fixed on the jersey in his hands as his mind drifted back to the morning, replaying the supporter catching the shirt before returning to Mohamed’s expression on the bus. Only then did he realize they had never been separate memories at all.
Everything seemed to fall into place so suddenly that he felt almost foolish for not seeing it earlier. He had spent the entire day searching for some terrible mistake, convinced that he must have said something unforgivable, while the answer had been sitting quietly inside his suitcase all along.
A quiet sigh escaped him as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.
“So that’s what this was about.”
There was nothing romantic about throwing that spare jersey into the crowd. He hadn’t aimed for anyone in particular, and whoever caught it had simply been standing in the right place at the right time.
However, he understood why Mohamed had been hurt. The past few days had left them both carrying fears, and what had seemed like a meaningless gesture to one of them had become something entirely different in the eyes of the other.
He looked down at the shirt folded across his lap before running his thumb absentmindedly over the crest stitched onto the fabric. This was the jersey he had worn when he saved the penalty against Argentina, the one he had planned to keep for the rest of his life because no match would ever mean quite the same thing again. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as an idea quietly settled into his mind.
He folded the jersey with far more care than before and placed it at the very top of his suitcase.
Tomorrow, he would find Mohamed, not to argue or prove a point, but to remind him that there had never been anyone else to choose.
Mohamed had no desire to go home.
His family had been expecting him ever since the team landed, and he knew his phone would soon fill with missed calls asking when he planned to visit, but he really couldn’t bring himself to face anyone. Every smile would demand one in return, every question would require an answer, and he simply didn’t have the energy for either.
Rather than driving across the city, he headed toward the small apartment he had rented years ago, a place whose existence only one other person knew. Within those walls, the world always seemed quieter, as though life itself agreed to leave him alone for a little while.
He had hoped that a night’s sleep would put everything into perspective. Unfortunately, morning brought no clarity. The memory of the shirt returned every time his thoughts wandered, and each attempt to dismiss it as something meaningless collapsed beneath another wave of doubt.
He knew he was allowing his insecurities to dictate the narrative, yet understanding that fact did little to loosen their grip.
A woman could openly admire the goalkeeper without anyone questioning it, and one day she could offer him everything Mohamed never would, and that possibility alone was enough to keep his chest painfully tight.
He hated the direction his thoughts always took. Love wasn’t measured by what society considered acceptable, nor did it become less genuine because other people refused to understand it.
Fear, however, had never been particularly interested in logic. It seized the smallest uncertainty and patiently shaped it into certainty, whispering that happiness rarely stayed where it was least expected.
The apartment remained silent throughout the morning. Curtains softened the sunlight spilling across the living room, and the untouched cup of coffee on the table had already begun to grow cold. Mohamed stayed curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling while convincing himself that he would eventually get up.
A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.
He closed his eyes for a moment and released a quiet sigh before making his way toward the door. Usually, a knock at that hour meant the security guard had come upstairs to deliver a package or pass along a message from the reception desk.
On any other morning, he would have answered without a second thought, but the idea of speaking to anyone now like an impossible task.
Another knock followed.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and crossed the apartment. As soon as the door opened, surprise washed across his face.
Standing in the hallway was Mostafa.
Surprise washed across Mohamed’s face as he stared at the goalkeeper standing in the hallway. A carefully folded jersey rested in his hands, and the nervous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth suggested he had rehearsed this moment more than once on the drive over.
Mohamed blinked in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
The goalkeeper offered a small, almost apologetic smile before lifting the jersey slightly.
“This belongs to you.”
A frown settled across Mohamed’s face.
“What?”
“The shirt I threw into the crowd yesterday wasn’t the one of those I wore during the match,” the goalkeeper said gently. “It was one of the spare jerseys we always bring for supporters.”
His grip on the jersey tightened trying to gather the courage to part with it.
“This one is different,” he said quietly. “I wore it against Argentina. It’s the jersey I had on when I saved the penalty.”
Mohamed lowered his eyes to the shirt in his hands, and understanding dawned on him little by little. Footballers exchanged shirts after matches all the time, but some jerseys were kept for years, framed on walls, or tucked carefully into wardrobes because they carried memories too valuable to part with.
A World Cup jersey already belonged to that category, and one worn during the match in which he had denied one of the greatest players in history from the penalty spot belonged somewhere beyond it.
Only then did Mohamed realize they were still standing in the hallway. He stepped aside without saying anything, allowing Mostafa to enter before quietly closing the door behind him.
Mostafa remained standing while Mohamed sat down on the sofa, still unable to take his eyes off the folded jersey.
His voice came out almost as a whisper. “Why are you giving me this?”
The goalkeeper smiled with a tenderness that reached his eyes.
“Because if I’m going to give the most important jersey I’ve ever worn to anyone, I want it to be yours.”
Mohamed looked down, suddenly finding it impossible to meet his gaze. Shame settled quietly beside the jealousy that had consumed him since the previous morning.
He had spent hours convincing himself that he was already being replaced, while the man standing in front of him had crossed half the city carrying the most valuable shirt of his career.
“I thought...” he began before the words caught somewhere in his throat.
“I know,” Mostafa replied softly.
He finally crossed the room and sat beside him, leaving only a small space between them before gently taking both of Mohamed’s hands into his own.
“You thought I was choosing someone else.”
The older man swallowed and nodded once.
“I wasn’t.”
The certainty in the goalkeeper’s voice left no room for doubt.
“I’ve told you before that I love you, and saying it once was never going to be enough because you deserve to hear it as many times as you need. If life ever forced me to choose, I would still choose you. Nothing that happened yesterday changed that, and nothing about a shirt thrown into a crowd could ever change the way I look at you.”
Mohamed felt his chest tighten for an entirely different reason now. His fears had spent months convincing him that love always arrived with an expiration date, yet the man sitting beside him had quietly spent those same months proving the opposite.
A faint smile finally appeared on his face as he shook his head.
“I really do spend far too much time inside my own head.”
The goalkeeper laughed quietly.
“You do.”
Mohamed looked up immediately, pretending to glare at him. “I was about to say something nice.”
“I know,” Mostafa replied, unable to hide his amusement. “I just couldn’t resist.”
For the first time since the argument, Mohamed laughed without forcing himself to do so. The sound filled the apartment so naturally that it seemed to sweep away whatever heaviness had settled there the night before.
“I thought...” His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “I thought maybe you looked at her and realized how much easier your life could be.”
“I didn’t even see who caught the shirt.”
Mohamed let out a quiet laugh. “I know that now.”
Mostafa studied him for a moment before asking, “then why didn’t you tell me what was really bothering you?”
“I wanted to.”
His eyes drifted to the folded jersey resting between them.
“I just... every time I tried, it sounded ridiculous in my head.”
“So you decided to torture both of us instead?”
A reluctant smile tugged at Mohamed’s lips.
“That wasn’t exactly the plan.”
“No?”
“I was hoping I’d wake up this morning and realize I’d imagined the whole thing.”
“I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time I convinced myself it didn’t matter, the same thought came back.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I was scared.”
The goalkeeper’s fingers tightened gently around them.
“I know.”
“You always know.”
“I do.”
His thumb brushed absentmindedly across Mohamed’s knuckles, making their eyes met, and for the first time since the argument, none of them looked away.
“I missed you,” Mohamed admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mostafa brushed a loose curl away from Mohamed’s forehead before letting his hand settle against his cheek. He smiled when Mohamed leaned into his palm almost immediately. Mohamed closed his eyes for a moment, holding onto the feeling as though he could make up for every day they had spent apart.
“I missed you too.”
The distance between them disappeared little by little until their foreheads rested together. They remained like that for a few moments, smiling at nothing in particular, simply enjoying the privilege of not having to hide anymore.
When their lips finally met, the kiss was slow and unhurried. It carried months of separation, late-night phone calls, crowded training sessions, and countless moments spent pretending not to know each other quite so well.
They stayed on the couch for a long while, talking between kisses about everything and nothing at all. Mostafa absentmindedly brushed his fingers through his lover’s hair before letting his hand settle comfortably at his waist, content simply to keep him close.
Every familiar touch seemed to erase another layer of the distance that months of travel, and crowded hotels had placed between them.
Eventually Mohamed glanced toward the bedroom before looking back at him with an amused smile.
“I don’t think this couch was designed for two footballers.”
Mostafa laughed. “Probably not.”
He stood first, offering his hand without a word.
Mohamed accepted it immediately, intertwining their fingers as naturally as breathing.
They made their way toward the bedroom between quiet laughter and lingering kisses, leaving the folded jersey resting safely on the dresser.
The room looked exactly as they had left it months ago, and the familiarity of it settled over them almost instantly. After weeks of hotel rooms, crowded hallways, and the constant need to keep their distance, closing the bedroom door behind them felt strangely unreal.
For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no one waiting outside, no cameras following their every movement, and no reason to pretend they were anything less than what they had always been to each other.
Mohamed rested his forehead against the goalkeeper’s and smiled as another gentle kiss found his lips.
“I missed coming home,” he whispered.
Mostafa’s smile softened.
“So did I.”
His hand slipped naturally to Mohamed’s waist before he leaned in again, his lips brushing against his with the quiet familiarity of someone who had memorized every part of him years ago.
One kiss melted into another, each lingering a little longer than the last, quietly making up for months they had spent apart without ever being able to touch like this.
Mohamed smiled against his lips.
“I forgot how unfair this is.”
Mostafa frowned in amusement.
“What is?”
“You.”
“What did I do this time?”
“You always kiss me like you have all the time in the world.”
A quiet laugh escaped Mostafa as he rested his forehead against Mohamed’s once more.
“For the first time in months,” he murmured, “maybe we finally do.”
There wasn’t any need to hurry. Their laughter drifted softly through the room whenever one of them bumped into the edge of the bed or struggled to pull a shirt over his head without breaking the kiss that neither seemed willing to end.
Mostafa reached up to brush a loose curl away from Mohamed’s forehead before letting his fingertips wander slowly along his shoulder until they settled at the small of his back.
“I missed looking at you without worrying someone might walk in,” Mohamed admitted.
Mostafa smiled, drawing him a little closer.
“I missed touching you.”
His voice had dropped to little more than a whisper.
“I missed everything.”
Mohamed answered with another lingering kiss, smiling as he melted into the familiar warmth of his lover’s embrace. After everything they had carried throughout the tournament, being held by him again felt almost enough to convince him that, for one quiet morning at least, the world outside could wait.
With that, Mohamed gently guided Mostafa backward until the back of his knees met the edge of the bed. The goalkeeper sat without taking his eyes off him, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Mohamed lowered himself in front of him.
He unzipped Mostafa’s trousers, revealing the unmistakable evidence of just how much he had missed this. Slowly, he pulled the fabric down before letting his fingertips brush teasingly over the outline hidden beneath the boxers, drawing a low groan from the man sitting before him.
It wasn’t only Mohamed who had spent months longing for this moment.
Taking his time, Mohamed eased the last barrier between them away before trailing slow kisses along the length of Mostafa’s cock. He teased him deliberately, never rushing, savoring every quiet reaction he managed to draw from him.
The familiar bitterness that lingered on his tongue only fueled the warmth already spreading through his own body, making the growing ache trapped beneath his shorts impossible to ignore.
He lifted his gaze until it met Mostafa’s, refusing to look away as he continued. There was nothing shy about the way they looked at each other. Mohamed’s eyes were dark with affection and longing, carrying the quiet possessiveness of someone who had spent months missing the person he loved.
In moments like these, the rest of the world disappeared, leaving only the certainty that they belonged to one another.
A soft moan escaped him as he continued, taking his time and savoring every second they had been forced to live without. The warmth became almost unbearable, and before long the goalkeeper’s hands slipped naturally into Mohamed’s curls, his fingers threading gently through them.
“Oh, fuck,” Mostafa breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You have no idea how many nights I lay awake wishing we’d finally get to do this again.”
Mohamed smiled at the confession, his hands tightening instinctively around Mostafa’s thighs. They both knew there would be faint marks by morning, but neither of them cared. Months apart had left them craving every reminder that they had finally found their way back to each other.
When Mostafa felt himself getting too close, he rested both hands gently on Mohamed’s shoulders, encouraging him to stop because he wanted the night to last for as long as possible.
Mohamed looked up at him with a sheepish smile, his cheeks slightly flushed.
The goalkeeper laughed quietly before taking both of his hands and helping him back to his feet. Their lips found each other again almost immediately, the kiss deeper than before yet no less tender, carrying longing, relief, and the fact that neither of them had ever stopped choosing the other.
Mostafa guided Mohamed toward the other side of the bed without ever breaking the kiss, his hands resting gently at Mohamed’s waist until the back of his knees met the mattress.
Mohamed lay back willingly, smiling against Mostafa’s lips as the goalkeeper hovered on top of him, leaving slow kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, and the bridge of his nose before reaching for the hem of his shirt.
He pulled the shirt over Mohamed’s head with unhurried, careful movements, his gaze lingering on the body he had missed for months.
His lips found the other man’s collarbone, where he left gentle bites before trailing lower across his chest and stomach, pausing every so often to press another lingering kiss against his skin.
Before continuing, Mostafa slipped a pillow beneath Mohamed’s neck, making sure he was comfortable before leaning over him once more.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion as he brushed another kiss just below Mohamed’s ear.
His lips wandered across every familiar inch of Mohamed’s body, drawing quiet gasps that gradually turned into breathless moans until the room was filled with nothing but uneven breathing and the rustle of the bedsheets beneath them.
Mostafa had long ago memorized every part of Mohamed that was especially sensitive. He smiled to himself before teasing one of his nipples with slow, playful kisses, occasionally grazing it with his teeth while his hands continued exploring the other’s body with gentle familiarity.
A soft moan escaped Mohamed’s lips as his fingers disappeared into Mostafa’s curls, holding him close without ever trying to rush him.
No matter how many times they had been together, the goalkeeper’s touch always seemed capable of unraveling him completely, leaving him wanting more with every passing second.
As Mostafa continued teasing Mohamed’s nipples with gentle bites, his hands slowly worked Mohamed’s shorts down until they pooled around his thighs, allowing his cock to spring free.
The first brush of their bodies against each other sent a jolt racing through Mohamed’s spine, making him arch almost immediately beneath Mostafa’s touch.
Mostafa gradually lowered himself until he reached Mohamed’s cock. He began by teasing him with slow, unhurried licks along the length before deliberately pulling away again, choosing instead to leave a trail of kisses and soft bite marks along the inside of Mohamed’s thighs. Every small reaction only encouraged him to take his time.
Mohamed’s increasingly breathless moans made it impossible to mistake what he wanted.
Smiling to himself, Mostafa finally gave in, taking him into his mouth while dragging his tongue slowly along his length.
He had missed this intimacy more than he had ever admitted aloud. He loved the quiet sounds that escaped Mohamed, the way his body responded to every touch, and the helpless little whimpers that slipped free whenever the sensations became too much for him.
When Mohamed felt Mostafa’s tongue moving even farther down, his eyes flew open. The goalkeeper had already spread his legs wider to give himself more room, his tongue lazily circling Mohamed’s rim.
Mohamed sucked in a sharp breath as he carefully lowered himself until he felt the first brush of Mostafa’s tongue against him. The unexpected warmth sent a shiver racing through his body, his muscles tensing before melting again almost immediately.
His fingers instinctively tightened in the sheets, and he had to bite back a shaky exhale as he lowered himself a little more, overwhelmed by the slow, deliberate pace. Heat crept up his neck when he felt the goalkeeper’s grin against his skin, the smug expression obvious even without looking.
By the time Mostafa finally looked back up, Mohamed’s eyes were already glistening.
He reached down almost absentmindedly and tapped the goalkeeper’s shoulder, silently asking him to stop for a moment.
Mostafa lifted his head with a small smile, wiping the corner of his mouth before leaning over Mohamed once again.
Rather than giving him what he wanted immediately, he stole another lingering kiss, letting it deepen until Mohamed was smiling and sighing against his lips at the same time.
“I n...” Mohamed began, his words dissolving beneath another kiss. He laughed quietly before trying again. “I need it.”
The goalkeeper smiled against his skin as he pressed another kiss to his collarbone.
“Need what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“I’d still like to hear you say it.”
Mohamed let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head as another shiver ran through him.
“Mostafa...”
The goalkeeper looked at him with unmistakable affection, still smiling as though he already knew every word that would follow.
“Please.”
That single word was enough.
The teasing expression softened immediately. Mostafa leaned forward to kiss his forehead before reaching toward the bedside drawer, where the condoms and the bottle of lubricant had remained untouched since the last time they had shared this room.
It had been a long time since they had last been together like this, so Mostafa knew he needed to take his time. He had always been careful with Mohamed, and hurting him, even unintentionally, was something he could never bring himself to do.
He coated one of his fingers with lubricant before gently parting Mohamed’s legs again, making enough room between them.
“If it hurts, tell me, alright?”
Mohamed nodded. He had always loved how attentive Mostafa was whenever they were together. It reminded him of their first time, when they had both been shy and slightly intimidated by the intimacy of it all. Four years later, his body still remembered every touch as though no time had passed between them.
The first finger made Mohamed gasp, his hands immediately clutching the bedsheets beneath him. He had expected the initial discomfort after so many weeks apart, yet the burning sensation still caught him by surprise.
Mostafa moved with deliberate slowness, allowing his finger to ease the tension from Mohamed’s body before adding a second one only after he was certain his lover had begun to relax.
He leaned down to scatter gentle kisses across Mohamed’s face while continuing to prepare him. Looking at Mohamed beneath him, he felt his heart swell with a love that still surprised him after all these years. He had never imagined he could care for another person this deeply.
His fingers knew exactly how to draw soft moans from Mohamed, whose eyes began to glisten again as Mostafa carefully added a third finger. He wanted to be absolutely certain that his partner was relaxed enough before they went any further.
Mostafa leaned down once again, kissing away the tears gathering at the corners of Mohamed’s eyes.
“Are you ready?” he murmured against his lips.
Mohamed answered with a small nod, already too breathless to trust his own voice.
After putting on a condom, Mostafa positioned himself carefully before beginning to push forward with slow, measured movements. A quiet moan escaped him almost immediately as weeks of longing finally gave way to the closeness he had missed so desperately.
Mohamed’s head fell back against the pillow the moment he felt him, his fingers tightening around the sheets as helpless moans escaped his lips.
The room gradually filled with little more than uneven breathing, quiet gasps, and the faint sounds of them moving together.
Mostafa never rushed. Every movement remained gentle, giving Mohamed enough time to adjust while never letting go of his hand.
“Faster,” Mohamed whispered after a while, his voice trembling. “Go faster.”
That was all the Mostafa needed to hear for him to quicken his pace while reaching down to wrap a hand around Mohamed, matching his movements to every reaction he drew from him.
He could already tell they were both getting close.
Mohamed’s breathing became increasingly uneven until he finally let out a shaky gasp.
“Mostafa...” Another moan interrupted him before he managed to finish. “I’m... so close.”
Mostafa held his gaze as he continued, his movements never losing their rhythm. The sight of Mohamed beneath him, looking at him with so much trust and affection, was enough to push him to the edge as well.
A few moments later, they both came together, their names falling from each other’s lips as the room settled back into silence.
Neither of them moved for a long while. Mohamed took slow, steady breaths as he lay beneath the goalkeeper, who eventually settled beside him and searched his face with a tired smile.
Mohamed’s eyes were rimmed red, although they still carried the same warmth that had made Mostafa fall in love with him years ago.
They smiled at one another without saying anything.
Having someone who loved you unconditionally, someone who chose you every single day despite how complicated life had become, felt like finding peace in a world that rarely offered it.
After taking a quick shower together, they climbed back into bed. Mostafa wore one of Mohamed’s oversized shirts with a pair of black shorts, while Mohamed insisted on sleeping in the goalkeeper’s jersey and his usual grey shorts.
It was still early in the day, and after everything that had happened, a short nap sounded perfect.
Several hours later, Mostafa woke to the familiar sensation of fingertips lazily tracing circles across his chest. Mohamed had always done that whenever something was on his mind and he was too shy to ask for it directly.
“Oh, sorry,” Mohamed said quickly when he noticed Mostafa was awake. “Did I wake you up?”
Mostafa smiled sleepily.
“It’s alright. It’s already late anyway.”
Mohamed only hummed before burrowing a little deeper against his chest.
“Is there something you want?” Mostafa asked quietly.
Mohamed sat up so quickly that it made the goalkeeper laugh.
“What is it?”
“Can I...” Mohamed hesitated before smiling sheepishly. “Can I ride you while I’m wearing this jersey?”
Mostafa blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected request. He didn’t mind in the slightest, although he couldn’t help wondering whether Mohamed was still tired after everything they had shared that morning.
“Are you sure?” he asked gently, searching his face for even the smallest hint of hesitation.
Mohamed nodded eagerly.
“I’ve wanted to do it ever since you gave me the shirt. I was just too caught up in everything this morning to say anything.”
Mostafa’s expression softened.
“You know I’d never mind.”
As soon as he heard those words, Mohamed pushed the duvet aside and leaned over to place a gentle kiss on Mostafa’s lips before pressing another against his collarbone.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” he murmured with a playful smile, “if I were the only one walking around with marks.”
Mostafa shook his head with a fond smile before reaching up to brush a stray curl away from Mohamed’s face. There was something endlessly endearing about the way Mohamed looked at him, a mixture of teasing confidence and quiet vulnerability that never failed to make his heart soften.
Mohamed slipped Mostafa’s shirt over his head before scattering slow kisses across his chest, leaving colorful marks in their wake as he settled comfortably on top of him. He then pushed the goalkeeper’s shorts down before taking off his own shorts, letting it fall carelessly to the floor once he had found a comfortable position.
“Ah, so you’re driving?”
Hearing that, Mohamed could swear he heard the smirk in Mostafa’s voice, sending a shiver down his spine. It was what he had been planning, but hearing the other say it sent an extra thrill through him.
After taking a long breath, Mohamed slowly lowered himself onto Mostafa, allowing himself time to adjust. It no longer hurt the way it had earlier, his body already familiar with the sensation, yet a delighted moan still escaped his lips as he settled completely.
He began to move at an unhurried rhythm, gradually finding the pace that made him shiver with pleasure. He scooted up and dropped his weight onto Mostafa’s stomach, then slid back until his lover’s cock was nestled along his crack.
When Mostafa tried to thrust up, Mohamed gently bore him back down into the mattress with a slow, purposeful grind.
“Okay!” Mostafa’s thighs flexed helplessly, his hands flying to cup Mohamed’s thighs. “Okay, you drive.”
Mohamed rocked into it, then away, sinking down. He touched his tongue to the corner of his open mouth, panting at the stretch and burn. The corners of Mostafa’s eyes pinched.
The pinch at Mostafa’s eyes evolved into a full wince of pleasure, a sight that hit Mohamed right in the gut. He moved faster.
Before long, he reached that familiar point that always unraveled him, and Mostafa’s hands instinctively found his waist, guiding him gently until they both felt themselves drawing closer once again.
Neither of them managed to hold on much longer, and they reached their climax together for the second time that day.
Cum covered Mostafa’s stomach as it also dripped from Mohamed, who rested his head against his lover’s chest, breathing heavily into the hollow of his collarbone. They both remained still for a while.
“We’re both messy again,” Mohamed chuckled as he lifted his chin slightly to look into Mostafa’s eyes.
The other hummed softly. “Hmm, we can always take a shower again,” he said, drawing invisible circles on the bare back of his boyfriend.
As he rested his head against Mostafa’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, Mohamed felt that the familiar sound grounded him, as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving nothing but the warmth surrounding him.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Mostafa tightened his embrace before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Mohamed’s head.
“You never have to thank me for staying,” he replied softly. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Mohamed smiled to himself as his eyes drifted shut. The tension that had lingered in his shoulders finally melted away, and he relaxed completely against the man he loved.
He had spent years believing that love was something people argued about, feared, or hid from the world. Lying there with Mostafa’s heartbeat beneath his ear, he realized it could also be something much quieter.
Love didn’t arrive with easy answers. It was written patiently, one ordinary day after another, in every promise kept, every fear forgiven, and every morning they chose each other again.
Outside, Cairo carried on with its usual noise and restless energy, but inside the apartment, time seemed to slow.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, they allowed themselves to enjoy the rare luxury of peace, knowing that sooner or later the world would come knocking again. For now, however, it could wait.