Work Text:
It was never something they sat down and talked about.
In the beginning, it was just two boys from England trying to figure out the madness of FC Bayern Munich. Michael had turned up from Crystal Palace with his hands jammed deep into his tracksuit pockets, hood pulled low, saying about five words a day. The German media immediately decided he was arrogant, but in reality, he was just quiet and keeping his head down.
Jamal was the opposite. He was the golden boy, floating around Säbener Straße laughing with the kit men, chatting up the coaches, and playing football like he was still on the concrete pitches in South London.
They shouldn't have clicked the way they did, but they ended up on the same wavelength straight away.
On the pitch, it was telepathic. Michael didn't even need to look up before whipping a ball into the box,he just knew Jamal’s dark curls would be right there. Jamal didn't need to call for it; he could feel Michael tracking behind him every time.
But by late 2025, the vibe shifted from just teammate’s chemistry to something way heavier and honestly a bit terrifying.
It was a rainy Tuesday in November when it really started hitting Michael.
Training had wrapped an hour ago, and the main changing room was empty. Michael was sitting on a wooden bench in the quiet lounge area, long legs stretched out, damp curls from the shower, lazily scrolling through TikTok on his phone.
The door pushed open and Jamal walked in wearing an oversized cream hoodie and dark joggers. He didn't ask if the bench was free—he just walked over, sat down ridiculously close, and dumped his head straight into the crook of Michael’s neck.
Michael went completely still. His thumb froze on his screen.
"I’m dead, Mike," Jamal muttered, his voice low and raspy, totally stripped of the energetic personality. "Vincent had us running high-intensity transition drills for ninety minutes straight. He's taking the piss."
Michael’s chest did a weird, heavy thud. Heat flared up right where Jamal’s forehead was pressed against his neck.
"You're soooo soft, Jam," Michael drawled quietly teasing, his South London accent flat.
Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Jamal moved. Fast as lightning, he threw an arm around Michael’s neck, snatching him into a tight headlock and yanking him down hard against his side.
"Who's soft?" Jamal grunted, a grin baked into his voice as he dug his knuckles right into Michael’s shoulder, holding him pinned with effortless strength. "Say it again, bro. Say I'm soft."
Michael burst out laughing, his quiet armor instantly cracking as he wrestled against the grip, tapping Jamal's forearm in useless surrender. "Alright! Alright, chill, man! You're not soft, let go!"
Jamal let out a smug chuckle, letting his hand slip from the headlock up to Michael's hair, giving his head a slow, mock-pat. "Good boy. That's what I thought."
He finally released him, but he didn't actually pull away. Instead, Jamal dropped his head right back down into the crook of Michael’s neck, letting his body go completely limp against him.
Michael shook his head, a genuine smile lingering on his lips as he dropped his shoulder so Jamal could rest easier. "Yeah, yeah... you're so tough, aren't you?"
"Shut up," Jamal mumbled, letting out a heavy exhale that fanned warm breath against Michael’s collarbone making him shiver .
Slowly, Jamal reached over and rested his hand flat on Michael’s thigh, right above the knee. Heavy, warm, and natural.
Michael’s breath hitched. He stared down at Jamal’s hand on his leg. *Why is he doing this?* Michael thought, his head starting to spin. *He doesn't do this with Serge. He doesn't sit like this with Davies.*
They stayed like that for twenty minutes. The rain was banging against the skylights above. Jamal’s breathing slowed down as he drifted off, completely trusting Michael’s weight. Michael sat dead still, terrified that if he twitched, the whole moment would shatter.
*He’s just affectionate,* Michael told himself, staring at the wall while his heart hammered in his chest. *He’s just a friendly guy. He’s from London too. It doesn't mean anything, fam.*
Deep down, though, Michael knew he was lying to himself.
Whatever line they’d drawn between friendship and something deeper didn't just blur over the next few weeks; it completely dissolved.
It was a freezing, silent Thursday night in late October. After a grueling late-night tape session at the facility, Jamal had naturally tagged along back to Michael’s place instead of heading to his own empty apartment.
While Michael stood at the kitchen island prepping fruit for a smoothie, Jamal was propped against the counter right beside him, half-asleep on his feet, his shoulder repeatedly drifting against Michael’s arm.
"Move over, Jam," Michael drawled quietly, keeping his eyes locked on the apple under his knife. "You're taking up the whole counter."
"I'm tired, Mike," Jamal mumbled. But instead of giving him space, he stepped in closer, sliding right behind him.
Before Michael could even register the movement, Jamal wrapped both arms loosely around his waist from behind, dropping his chin heavily onto Michael’s left shoulder. His chest pressed right against Michael’s back, his thighs and hips flushed tight against Michael’s ass, leaving zero space between them.
Michael froze, the knife staying dead still on the board. Feeling Jamal’s entire body pressed up behind him sent a sudden, dizzying wave straight to his chest. He felt his face instantly burning hot, and he was just thankful Jamal was stuck behind him and couldn't see the flush creeping up his neck or the sheer panic in his eyes.
"You lost or something, Jam?" Michael whispered, his South London accent barely a breath over the hum of the fridge.
"Warming up," Jamal murmured against his neck.
Then, lazily, Jamal’s hands began to slip upward, pulling up the hem of the hoodie and sliding his warm palms directly under the fabric, resting flat against the bare skin of Michael’s stomach.
Michael’s breath hitched, the heat of Jamal’s skin sending a sharp jolt through him. But then Jamal, entirely in a mood to mess with him, let his fingers drift higher. Squeezing playfully, his thumb flicked right over Michael's nipple.
A sharp, breathless noise escaped Michael's throat before he could catch that echoed loud in the still kitchen.
"Whoa, whoa, chill, man!" Michael blurted out, his voice cracking slightly as he squirmed, trying to elbow him back. "Move your fucking hands! What are you doing, fam?"
Jamal burst into a low, amused laugh right against Michael's ear, thoroughly enjoying the reaction. "Bro, you're sensitive as hell!" he snickered, backing his hands off and sliding them back out from under the hem. He dropped his arms back over the outside of the hoodie instead, hugging Michael loosely against his chest while still chuckling to himself. "I'm just playing w you, relax baby."
Michael’s heart missed an entire beat. Hearing that pet name slip so casually out of Jamal’s mouth sent a fresh spike of panic straight through him, but he forced his expression to stay totally blank as he was cutting another slice of apple with shaky hands, deliberately ignoring the word like it hadn't just made his stomach do a backflip .
"You're weird, fam. Proper weird."
Jamal didn't let go. He just tightened his hold slightly, humming a low, mindless tune right against Michael’s ear, completely unaware of the absolute chaos he was causing inside Michael’s chest.
On the team bus after away games, Jamal would bypass three empty rows just to squeeze into the small seat next to Michael. They’d share a pair of AirPods, listening to lowkey UK rap , knees touching under a shared fleece blanket.
Then came the hotel room in Madrid at 1:00 AM, the night before a massive Champions League away fixture. The room was completely dark, save for the soft moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains of their balcony.
Michael was lying on his back in his bed, staring up at the white ceiling, his mind racing with tactical setups, unable to catch a single minute of sleep.
The quiet rustle of bedsheets echoed across the room. Footsteps padded softly over the carpet. Before Michael could even turn his head, the side of his mattress dipped heavily. Jamal slid under Michael’s duvet without a word, cold feet immediately hooking over Michael’s ankles.
"Jamal? What are you doing?" Michael whispered into the dark, his heart instantly leaping into his throat.
"Can't sleep," Jamal rasped out, his voice thick with tiredness.
Jamal shifted closer, turning onto his side and dragging his pillow with him until his face was inches from Michael’s side. He reached out in the dark, his long arm sliding over Michael’s stomach, gathering the fabric of Michael’s t-shirt in his fist and pulling himself flush against Michael’s side.
Michael stopped breathing entirely.
The butterfly feeling wasn't just a flutter this time,it was a deep, consuming ache that made his stomach twist into tight knots. Jamal’s forehead settled right against Michael’s bicep, his warm, rhythmic breaths fanning straight through the thin cotton of Michael’s shirt.
"You overthinking the match, Akpovie?" Jamal murmured softly in the quiet room, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth over Michael’s ribs through his shirt.
Michael’s pulse spiked at the rare, soft drop of his full middle name. Pretending to be utterly offended, Michael dramatically shoved Jamal’s broad shoulder away, settling into a fake, heavy pout with his lips pushed out.
"Don't call me that, Jam," Michael drawled, leaning his head back into his pillow with a exaggerated huff. "Only my mum calls me that. You're soo annoying."
Jamal just chuckled—a low sound that vibrated warm in the dark room. Laughing at the dramatic display, Jamal immediately slid right back in, gathering the duvet with him and dragging Michael back down by his waist until they were locked flush together once more.
"Okay, okay pretty," Jamal laughed softly, his breath brushing warm against Michael’s jawline as he settled his forehead back into the crook of Michael’s neck. "Just Mike then."
Michael let out a low, defeated exhale, his playful pout softening into a subtle, hidden smile in the shadows, though he kept his cool front intact.
Jamal’s hand moved up slightly, his broad palm resting flat over Michael’s chest—right over his hammering pulse point. Jamal didn't comment on how fast it was beating. He just rested his hand there, holding him steady.
"Don't overthink it," Jamal murmured, his voice dropping into a sleepy whisper. "We've got them tomorrow, Mike. I've got your back."
Michael looked down through the darkness at Jamal’s quiet profile, the gentle stroke of Jamal’s thumb against his chest sending waves of goosebumps across his skin. He slowly lifted his own hand, letting his fingers rest over the back of Jamal’s hand on his chest.
*I'm so far gone,* Michael thought, his heart aching with a sweet, terrifying thrill as he finally let his eyes close, drifting off to sleep with the weight of Jamal’s hand holding his heart.
Then came the last strike the night at Michael’s house in December.
A proper blizzard had hit Munich, blocking off the roads in Grünwald. Jamal had come over after training to watch the Premier League evening games, sprawled out on Michael’s massive velvet sofa.
By midnight, the match was long over, the TV running on mute.
Michael was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the front of the sofa with a warm mug of tea. Jamal quietly slid off the cushions onto the rug right behind him. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching Michael’s chin, tilting his head back until their eyes met in the dim room light.
"Your hair’s getting long, Mike," Jamal whispered.
Michael couldn't even speak. His throat felt dry as bone. He stared up into Jamal’s dark eyes, holding a heavy intensity that made the room feel boiling hot despite the snow outside.
Jamal didn't pull his hand back. His thumb slowly stroked Michael’s jawline, lingering right over his bottom lip.
The silence stretched between them, thick and screaming with an unspoken question. Jamal leaned down slightly, his breath warm against Michael’s cheek, his eyes dropping straight to Michael’s mouth.
Michael’s heart was hammering so loud he was sure Jamal could hear it. He felt this desperate, terrifying urge to lift up and just close the tiny gap between them.
*He wants this,* Michael’s brain whispered. *He feels it too.*
"Mike..." Jamal murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
Before either of them could move, Jamal’s phone on the coffee table let out a loud, harsh buzz, lighting up the whole dark room.
Jamal blinked, the spell breaking instantly.
He pulled his hand back with a quiet, nervous laugh, reaching for his phone and rubbing his neck. "Ah... my mum’s checking if the roads are clear."
Michael turned his head back toward the quiet TV screen, his hands shaking slightly around his mug, his chest feeling completely hollowed out.
They pretended it never happened , Michael didn’t ask and Jamal didn’t explain so they just brushed it off. But from that night on, Michael was completely gone. He was falling, hopeless and unarmored, in love with his best friend. He genuinely thought it was only a matter of time before they finally admitted it.
But
The reality check hit him on a sunny afternoon in mid-February.
Training was done, and the vibes in the changing room were high ahead of a big Champions League game. Music was blaring, guys were shouting across the room, and Michael was sitting on his bench unlacing his boots with a faint smirk, listening to Serge tease Thomas Müller.
The heavy double doors pushed open.
Jamal walked in, but he wasn't alone.
Holding his hand, fingers tightly locked, was a ridiculously pretty girl. Long dark hair, beige coat, looking sweet and totally comfortable walking into FC Bayern’s private facility.
The noise in the changing room died down for a second before a wave of wolfish whistles and banter erupted from the older players.
"Oho!" Leon shouted, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "Look who brought her in!"
Jamal was beaming, cheeks flushed bright pink, eyes shining with a pride Michael had never seen on him before.
"Guys, shut up!" Jamal laughed, his voice high-pitched over the noise, squeezing the girl’s hand. "This is Maya. Wanted to show her around before we grab food."
Michael’s hands froze on his laces.
It felt like someone had just slammed a brick straight into his chest.
*Maya.*
Michael couldn't move. He sat completely paralyzed, eyes locked onto their intertwined fingers.
"Nice to meet you all," Maya said smoothly, giving the room a warm smile.
"Finally!" Serge chuckled, walking over to give Jamal a bro-hug and shaking Maya’s hand. "Jamal’s been talking about you for three months, man!"
*Three months.*
The words echoed in Michael’s head like a gunshot.
*Three months.*
While Jamal was resting his head on Michael’s neck... while he was wrapping his arms around Michael's waist in the kitchen... while he was sleeping against his chest in Madrid... he had been seeing her.
All those long, heavy glances that held Michael in place—the eye contact across quiet rooms, the low whispers promising things that felt far too soft for simple friendship, the touches —none of it was real. Jamal had fed him sweet words, blurred every line, and let Michael drown in the unspoken tension, all while knowing his heart was already anchored somewhere else.
Michael wasn't a slow burn. He was just a rehearsal.
It meant nothing.It was just Jamal being Jamal. Naturally affectionate, physical, loving his mate while his heart belonged to a girl.
Michael was just a comfortable wall to lean on when he was tired.
"Hey, Mike! Come here!" Jamal called out suddenly, waving him over with a massive smile. "Want you to meet her!"
A cold, sickening feeling rushed through Michael’s body. He wanted to throw up. Every instinct told him to run, to bolt to the showers and hide.
But he was Michael Olise. He was the unbothered, stoic guy. He had spent years building a mask of pure nonchalance. He couldn't lose it here over some delusional fantasy he'd made up in his own head.
Slowly, Michael forced himself to stand. He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulled his hood low, and walked over. His face was a total stone wall. Inside, he was burning alive.
"Mike, this is Maya," Jamal said proudly, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Maya, this is Michael. Told you about him—my brother on the right wing."
"Hi, Michael," Maya smiled, offering her hand. "Jamal talks about you non-stop. Good to finally meet you."
Michael looked down at her hand, forcing his own hand out to briefly shake it.
"Nice to meet you," Michael said. His South London accent was flat, dead, devoid of any emotion.
"We're heading to an Italian spot" Jamal beamed, looking down at Maya with so much affection it physically pained Michael. "Come with us, Mike! We'll get a table for three."
"Nah," Michael drawled, forcing a hollow, half-second twitch of a smile. "Tired, bro. Going home to sleep."
"Ah, fair enough," Jamal said, completely oblivious.
Then, right in front of Michael—standing two feet away—Jamal turned his head, leaned down, and kissed Maya properly on the lips.
Michael’s vision blurred at the edges. The sight of Jamal’s lips—the same lips that had been inches from his on the rug—pressed against hers completely ruined him.
"See you tomorrow, Mike!" Jamal called out, steering Maya toward the door.
"Yeah," Michael murmured to the empty air. "See you."
Michael didn't break down in the locker room, and he didn't break down in the car.
He drove home in dead silence, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
When he got into his house, he walked straight into the bathroom, turned the shower on full blast, and stepped under the burning water fully clothed.
The heat washed over him, but his head was spinning out of control, filled with images of Jamal smiling at her, Jamal kissing her, Jamal touching his face on the rug. The embarrassment and agony were suffocating.
Michael leaned forward, resting both hands against the wet tile wall, and thudded his forehead hard against the tiles.
*THUD.*
"Get out of my head," he whispered through gritted teeth, hot tears spilling down his cheeks, mixing with the shower water.
*THUD.*
He hit his forehead against the cold wall again, harder this time, desperate to knock the memories out. "Get out... just get out of my head, man..."
*THUD.*
He dropped to his knees on the wet tiles, burying his face in his trembling hands, his chest heaving as raw, jagged sobs tore through him. The weight of his own foolishness pressed down on his ribs until he could barely breathe.
*You idiot,* he swore at himself in the dark bathroom. *You stupid, delusional idiot. He doesn't want you. He was never like that.*
He stayed there until the water ran freezing cold, coming to a decision: To survive this, he had to cut Jamal Musiala out of his life completely.
The execution was cold and absolute. No tantrums, no drama. Just a massive iron wall.
It started the next morning. Normally, they were joined at the hip from 8:30 AM. When Jamal walked into the canteen, he spotted Michael sitting alone in a corner booth and walked over, tray in hand.
"Morning, Mike!"
Before Jamal could sit down, Michael grabbed his half-eaten plate and stood up, looking right past Jamal’s eyes.
"Done, Jam," Michael drawled, voice cold as ice. "Gotta go to the physio early."
Jamal blinked, caught completely off guard holding his tray. "Wait, really? Meeting's not for an hour—"
"Physio’s waiting," Michael cut in smoothly, stepping right past his shoulder without touching him, and walked out.
Jamal stood there alone, staring after him with a confused frown.
Over the next two weeks, it only got worse.
On the pitch, Michael was professional. Sharp passes, solid work rate. But the second the whistle blew, he walked the other way. When Jamal ran over to celebrate a goal, hands ready for their handshake, Michael just gave him a low-energy high-five and turned away to grab water.
In the changing rooms, Michael showered in record time and ghosted through the side door before Jamal was even out of the cold plunge.
No bus rides together—Michael sat next to Upamecano with massive headphones over his ears. No hangouts. When Jamal texted asking to watch Champions League games, Michael waited four hours to reply:
[Michael]:Nah busy resting.
Cold. Short. Total silence. Michael thought he was protecting his own heart. He had no idea his radio silence was driving Jamal completely out of his mind.
Jamal couldn't wrap his head around it.
At first, he tried to rationalize it. *Mike’s just tired. Mike’s stressed. He’s a quiet guy, he has off days.*
But after two weeks, the brutal reality hit him: **Michael was actively cutting him out.**
It wasn't a general mood. Michael was joking with Serge in the gym. He was laughing at Alphonso’s TikToks. He was totally normal with everyone else.
It was *only* Jamal.
Michael wouldn't look at him. Michael stepped away if he got close. Michael stopped answering calls.
Jamal lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling while his girlfriend slept beside him. His chest felt heavy, tight with a knot that wouldn't go away. He wasn't thinking about her, and he wasn't thinking about football. All he could see was the cold, blank look in Michael’s eyes when he’d walked right past him in the canteen."What did I do?"Jamal kept screaming internally. "Why is he doing this to me?"
The loss of Michael’s presence was a physical pain. He missed the banter, the flat voice calling him 'soft', the comfort of just having him near. Without Michael, everything felt grey and wrong.
Being around her only made it worse. She had no idea what was going on, completely blind to how badly Jamal was falling apart, but everything she did felt like a reminder.
When she walked into the room after a shower, drying her hair, the smell of cedarwood and pine filled the air. It was Michael’s body wash—the exact scent he always left behind in the facility showers. She’d probably just grabbed the bottle from the guest bathroom, but the smell hit Jamal like a physical blow. He froze on the couch, his whole body tense as his mind tried to turn her shadow into Michael’s.
Later, she sat across from him, talking about her day and asking what he wanted for dinner. Jamal didn't process a single word. Her voice was just background noise while his head spun. The way she held her hands, the way she leaned against the counter—it all just made him see Michael.
Then the frustration crept in, sharp and suffocating.
Because while Jamal was losing his mind over him—seeing Michael in her smell, seeing him in every corner of the room.Michael was actively shutting him out. He was putting space between them, acting like Jamal meant nothing to him anymore, and it was driving Jamal crazy.
She stopped talking, looking at him as if waiting for an answer.
Jamal didn't say anything. He couldn't. He just sat there, jaw clenched tight, staring at her as his heart hammered in his chest. The smell, the cold shoulder, the frustration of being locked out—it was all too much, twisting his heartache into an anger he could barely keep under control.
Jamal got desperate, spamming Michael's phone
[Jamal]:Mike where are you? Let's grab food after.
[Jamal]:Bro did you see the video review? Call me back.
[Jamal]:Mike please pick up. Did I do something wrong?
[Jamal]:Michael reply man.
Michael read every single message. It killed him, but he kept his phone face down, forcing himself to stay silent.
*He’s got his girl,* Michael lied to himself, wiping a tear in the dark. *He doesn't need me. He'll get over it.*
He was dead wrong.
The dam broke on a freezing Friday afternoon.
Training was done, sleet pouring over Säbener Straße. Michael was sitting in the quiet recovery room, ankles wrapped in ice, hood pulled low, just waiting out the clock so he could go home.
The heavy door was suddenly slammed open with a massive **BANG**.
Michael jolted, looking up.
Jamal was standing there. He hadn't showered. He was still in his muddy training kit, drenched in rain, chest heaving like crazy. But his eyes were what made Michael’s heart stop.
The polite, golden boy was totally gone. Jamal’s eyes were pitch-black, wild, and burning with a terrifying, desperate rage.
"Jamal?" Michael drawled softly, trying to force his calm mask back on, though his pulse was racing. "What are you—"
Jamal didn't say a word. He kicked the heavy door shut and turned the lock.
*CLICK.*
He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Michael by the front of his hoodie with both hands, and yanked him off the bench with scary strength.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, MICHAEL?!" Jamal screamed right in his face.
The raw volume rattled off the tiled walls. Michael gasped as Jamal slammed his back flat against the wall.
"Jamal, let go—" Michael stammered, totally losing his cool composure.
"NO!" Jamal yelled, his knuckles white as he gripped the fabric, chest breathing heavily against Michael’s. "NO! I'M NOT LETTING GO! YOU'VE BEEN IGNORING ME FOR THREE WEEKS!"
Jamal’s voice cracked violently on the last word. Tears spilled over his eyes, mixing with the rain on his face.
"You don't talk to me!" Jamal wept, his face inches away, shaking with pure desperation. "You don't sit with me! You don't answer my texts! You act like I'm fucking dead!"
Michael was pinned, heart hammering wildly. He’d never seen Jamal lose it like this. The sweet boy had completely vanished, replaced by an unhinged storm.
"Jam... bro, calm down," Michael croaked, reaching up to try and push Jamal’s wrists away. "We're at work, man, people are gonna hear—"
"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHO HEARS!" Jamal yelled, stepping closer and driving his knee between Michael’s legs, pinning him totally against the tiles. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT WORK! WHAT DID I DO TO YOU, MICHAEL?!"
Jamal’s head dropped forward, slamming his forehead hard against Michael’s chest. He let out a harsh, shuddering sob.
"What did I do?" Jamal whimpered into Michael’s shirt. "Why are you leaving me? I can't... I can't function without you, Mike. I can't play. I can't think. All I do is think about you ignoring me. Why are you doing this?"
Michael froze.
The agony in Jamal’s voice shredded Michael to pieces. Slowly, his grip on Jamal’s wrists relaxed, his long fingers moving up to hold Jamal’s arms.
"Jam..." Michael whispered, voice thick. "You've got Maya, bro. You don't need me hovering around."
Jamal’s head snapped up. His tear-streaked face was full of utter confusion.
"Maya?" Jamal rasped out. "What... what the fuck does Maya have to do with this?!"
"You love her," Michael said flatly, his voice cracking slightly as he looked away. "You brought her to the changing room. Kissed her in front of me. You've been seeing her for months. You're happy. I was getting in the way. I was feeling things I shouldn't be feeling... so I stepped back."
The room went dead silent.
Jamal stared at Michael. The wild rage in his eyes slowly shifted as realization hit him like a train.
"You..." Jamal whispered, breath hitching. "You backed off... because of Maya?"
Michael didn't answer. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold tiles, waiting for the embarrassing rejection.
"Michael," Jamal rasped.
Before Michael could open his eyes, Jamal’s broad hands shot up, cupping Michael’s face firmly. He yanked Michael’s head down and slammed his mouth onto his.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was messy, desperate, and fierce.
Jamal bit down on Michael’s lower lip with a possessive hunger, forcing his mouth open, kissing him with an unhinged energy that completely wrecked the room.
Michael let out a broken moan against Jamal’s mouth, his brain instantly short-circuiting. Every wall he had built over three weeks turned to dust.
Jamal growled into the kiss, his hands dropping from Michael’s face to slide firmly under Michael’s ass. With a sudden, powerful heave, Jamal hoisted Michael straight up off his feet picking him up in swift motion, slamming his back securely against the tiled wall.
Michael gasped, his instinct kicking in immediately as he wrapped his long dainty legs tight around Jamal’s waist, locking them in place. His arms flew around Jamal’s neck, fingers digging deep into his wet curls, pulling him closer and kissing him back with all the desire he'd been holding in.
Jamal didn't let him go for a second, holding Michael’s heavy weight against the wall with absolute ease, deepening the kiss, taking total lead until Michael was left breathless and squirming in his arms.
When Jamal finally pulled back an inch, their heavy breathing filled the cold air, Michael still hooked tightly around his waist.
Michael opened his dark, wet eyes. Jamal was looking up at him, chest heaving, hair a mess, lips swollen. His brown eyes were dark with an intense, possessive energy.
"You idiot," Jamal rasped, voice rough with emotion. "You absolute idiot."
"Jam..." Michael whimpered softly, his legs tightening around Jamal’s middle.
"I tried with her," Jamal growled low, moving one hand up to hold Michael’s neck, his thumb pressing heavy against Michael’s racing pulse. " FUCK I tried to be normal. Tried to do what I thought I was supposed to do. But every time I looked at her, every time I kissed her... all I was thinking about was you."
Michael’s heart did a massive flip.
"I broke up with her two weeks ago," Jamal whispered raspy, eyes locked on Michael’s trembling lips. "The day after I brought her to the facility. Because I couldn't touch her when all I wanted was your hands on me."
Michael’s breath hitched violently. "Jamal..."
"You thought you could just walk away from me?" Jamal growled softly, hoisting Michael a fraction higher against the wall, pressing their chests firmly together. "You thought you could cut me off and leave me? I went fucking insane without you, Mike."
Jamal leaned in, burying his face into Michael’s neck, biting down firmly on his collarbone and leaving a deep red mark.
"You're never pulling away from me again," Jamal commanded roughly into his skin. "Never."
Michael let out a low, shaky breath, burying his face into Jamal’s damp shoulder, his legs locked tight around his waist as he completely surrendered every piece of his armor to him.
"Alright, Jam," Michael whispered softly into the quiet room, holding him close. "Alright."