Chapter Text
“Let’s make a deal, shall we?” Marlene Becker suggests one afternoon.
It has followed many others of complete and total silence from Michael’s side, and he’s determined for it to stay that way. It’s mandated for him to be here not talk. He can challenge her silently until she breaks all he wants. It is noteworthy that she hasn’t taken the bait yet but at the same time it isn’t. She isn’t supposed to be phased by a mere staring contest. She’s very weird, that’s for sure. During the first ‘session’ she was dressed in a simple long-sleeved cream jumpsuit with dainty pearly earrings. After their third ‘session,’ she has started shedding that style of propriety, as if it’s a costume, and has adopted a looser style. Maybe that’s the costume, he doesn’t know.
She has many tattoos and piercings on her ears, always in rose-gold. Every single one of them. Even a helix, lost in the curls of her hair, is in rose gold.
Michael had read that many psychologists avoid body modifications of any kind to avoid triggering the people who come to them for one reason or another. Utter bullshit. Why would someone get triggered by someone else’s tattoo? How does even one get triggered? In all his research, Michael's questions where never sufficiently answered. He can explain to himself an emotional reaction—even an overly emotional one—but a trigger is a mystery to him. He knows the definition and understands how it affects people, but he doesn’t understand how uncontrollable it can get. Over something miniscule and unrelated no less.
Many times he has wanted to ask her, out of pure curiosity, but he hasn’t. He knows she takes in everything he does in that one hour sitting across from her, so he doesn’t want the first thing to tell her to be that. To admit a lack of knowledge. He has brushed up on all his books, arming himself with any shield possible in case there’s a trick up her sleeve and he spills.
As a response, deliberately slow, he raises an eyebrow. There’s a twitch in her mouth. He reacted, finally. That’s what that look is. Satisfaction. That’s called a hook, sweetheart. Be careful, it can cut your lip.
“Every time you come in here, we will play a game,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “If I win, we will have an actual session.” Michael fights the urge to scoff but it must be clear on his face. “If you do, you can stare at me in silence.”
He tries to imagine what it would be like if Noa didn’t wrestle him into coming.
“I don’t care if you think you don’t need it. You’re not going to Re Al like this. You’ll tarnish our image.”
Michael wanted to punch him. As if Noel Noa ever cared about other people’s opinions. Did Blue Lock ignite in him a love for public image? Did participating live in that environment made him believe in money? And if so, why is it Michael’s problem? It’s not only Michael’s problem though, and that brings him some sick satisfaction. Everyone in Bastard Munchen was mandated to go through some sessions. It was the manager’s idea since the players dealt with a high-pressure environment whose performance expectations were far above what they had calculated.
That’s an understatement. Little Yoichi proved to be a much better player than Michael anticipated and his obsession with football was intriguing. It is survival for him too but for completely different reasons.
Michael doesn’t know what to do, how to respond. On one hand, he wants to keep his promise to himself and end every session without having uttered a word. Not to mention that on the off chance he loses whatever game she chooses, he will have to talk to her. Sure, he can fabricate stuff, but he has a feeling that she would catch on and call him out on it. He doesn’t want to talk to her, to ‘open up about his past’. He wants the past dead and buried where it belongs. Unearthing his scarecrow of a father now after all this time won’t get them anywhere, there’s nothing to talk about, really. His suffering is what brought him to the world stage, that’s all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less. On the other, the offer she’s giving him is tantalising, simply because, at this point, they are practically losing an hour of their lives going nowhere. Besides, if his father is nothing then there’s no issue talking about him—aside from dreading it.
"What do you say, hm?" Becker’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. She has leaned back slightly, her expression passive, void, polite. The perfect image of nonchalance. But her eyes are burning. Burning with the knowledge that this is a hook.
Michael searches in the room, her posture, her face, her eyes, something that would be better than talking. Her legs are crossed on the knee; she has paired the black loafers that she must adore—she wears them every time—with magenta ankle-high socks today. Ness comes to mind, unwavering and stupidly loyal but lately very upfront and pushy. He will be so annoying if he finds out. Michael should have known that this would tip him over the edge.
“What’s the game?” he laments his promise to himself.
He expects her to smile victoriously, rub it into his face that she won but her smile is soft and relieved. “Wait one sec,” she says and dashes out of the room in a flash. “Bring your chair closer to mine,” she calls from somewhere in her house.
As he gets up to do so, he freezes. There, on the seat of her armchair, lies his notebook. The notebook she has been noting things in every session. The notebook she has somehow filled three entire pages off of silence.
His fingertips feel stiff on the back of his armchair and his palms are too hot. They’re sweaty. Ugh. He hates that. What the fuck has she realised when he didn’t fucking talk? A peek wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? And, besides, that’s himself we’re talking about. He’s entitled to himself. Although he wants to reject it, he knows through his studying that he can never have an objective perspective on himself so his conclusions may—might—not be one hundred percent accurate. The decision to snoop is made just as Becker’s voice filters in.
“Hope you don’t mind it’s a little too well-loved.”
Michael scoffs. He never understood the meaning of that phrase. What does ‘well-loved’ mean? Is there another way to be loved? Or to love? Isn’t love supposed to be something inherently good and pure? If that’s true, why is there a need to say that? To point out it’s well-loved. Ness uses that phrase all the time. About his clothes, specifically a light pink hoodie with chewed drawstrings and frayed sleeves—Michael had almost thrown it away once and literally got tackled—about his books, all of which are cracked at the spine and annotated with pens and pencils and highlighters of all colours, each with its own meaning and purpose, about his thrifted and chipped pots and pans, that cooked his first meal in his new apartment and still do.
Ness has always been a sentimental fool, crying at cheesy romance movies with predictable plot, shallow characters and guaranteed happy ending. Even when he knows what will happen—he can’t not know—he still cries and finds it moving and beautiful. Michael can almost picture his face after Michael has made some snide comment, ruining his moment because he can. It’s always funny when he does that; Ness will whip around and pout and if he’s upset, or watched the movie to not be upset, his eyebrow will lift, and he’ll bite back. It’s weird, seeing him fake his former self, the one Michael knows he can break down as he did once before.
As he turns to Becker, he almost bumps into the table she brought in. It has wheels on its feet, that’s probably why he didn’t hear anything, and it’s small and round. On top of it, there is a chess board made of light wood and from the piece of felt at the bottom of some pieces he can see, he can tell it has been used a lot. On some, the felt is fully attached but on others it’s folding under them. Some pieces have been glued back together, and the board is cracked at the side in some places.
“So, what’s the deal?” he asks, as he takes a seat across from her. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. Her face is a mask—he knows it’s a mask and not her genuine emotions because that’s her job—but there are tiny cracks on it. Her lips twitch slightly upwards as she fiddles with the mane of her king’s knight. Huh. She’s… happy? Excited? Satisfied?
He really hopes it’s none of them because he hasn’t agreed to anything.
“We will play a blitz—oh, that’s a three-to-five-minute match, by the way—“
“I know what it is,” Michael snaps, annoyed she assumed he didn’t.
Becker smiles and it’s annoying. “Didn’t mean to upset you.” She waits for a moment, forcing a huff and a nod from Michael, before continuing. “So, we’ll play a blitz game and, as I told you before, if I win, we have a normal session. Otherwise, and by that I mean, if I lose, you can stare at me all you want.”
“What happens if we draw it?” Michael asks.
Becker ponders over it for a moment and shrugs. “We flip for it.”
It’s an interesting proposal that’s for sure. But accepting it means accepting the possibility he’ll have to talk. She cannot force him to speak; if he doesn’t accept this he’ll never have to talk, and he can just wait until he can take his offer and leave Germany for good.
Something about her, though, makes him want to talk to her, wants to test her and her limits, like he did with Ness. He wants to tell her his childhood stories and make her weep. He wants to prove to her that this isn’t a ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ issue that can be resolved with a few conversations about ‘letting go’ and ‘understanding your worth’. Just imagining her crestfallen face is enough to tip the scale.
“Sure,” he says, looking at her.
Becker smiles wide at him and nods. She is so relieved that Michael knows he’ll have fun burning it all away. She plucks a pawn from his side and one from hers and puts her hands behind her back. Michael has seen this enough times to know they’ll be getting their colours. She presents her closed fists at him, and he taps her right one, getting white. Her eyes glanced at his arm as it approached but she didn’t react to his tattoo, nor does she make an indication that she’s going to touch him.
Many people, either in interviews or fundraiser events or events of any kind, really, had no sense of personal space or bodily autonomy, always grabbing him to see the crown on his hand and the blue rose on his neck, stroking over the lines, not caring it’s on his literal neck. Some even went as far as to push his sleeves up to his elbows or pull down his shirt to take a look.
Ness had told him to try holding his glass with his left hand because people are less likely to grab the hand of someone holding something, especially glass filled with colourful, stain-prone liquids. And that would probably deter the ones going for his neck because that level of daring comes from being allowed to do less. Well, Ness didn’t tell him, just snatched the drink out of his hand until Michael agreed and then he explained.
They both knew it worked and neither of them ever said anything about it.
He and Becker rotate the board to bring the white pieces to him, and as he’s fixing them on their squares—many of them were off centre from being rotated around—he realises something is very off, but he can’t figure it out.
“Okay, let’s get star—“ Becker says.
“Wait.” Michael knows he’s being rude, but this is literally driving him insane. Not that he cares.
All his pieces are where they’re supposed to be, there’s nothing missing. The crooked asymmetry of the folding board doesn’t really affect him. There is no glaring light reflecting weird on the still polished parts of the wood.
So, what the fuck is it?
He waves Becker off when she announces she’ll search for a clock for them to use.
Good. Now he can think in peace. Each pawn is lifted and studied meticulously. The knights are brought to the light to be inspected. So are the bishops. And the rooks. And the queens. None of them are shaped weird or are leaning in any manner. Lastly, he inspects the kings. They’re all fine. Sure, hers has a chipped cross on its head but that’s insignificant.
It hits him. It’s so stupid, he almost wants to kick himself.
One of the very first things he learned as he was teaching himself chess on Ness’ old tiny chessboard was setting up the board and the pieces. On his right-hand side there should be a white square but there’s not. Only when he places it back does he realise. Her king is standing on a black square. And she has black. The queen is supposed to be the one standing in her colour—fitting as she does the heavy lifting.
Frustrated, he clears the board, both sides of it, rotates it and starts putting the pieces back on. Properly this time. How could she play like this? Does she really have no idea about the game? Maybe his silence is going to resume.
Becker returns waving her clock around and upon seeing him she realises what happened and sends him a sheepish smile that she quickly covers with explaining how the clock works. He doesn’t snap this time; he doesn’t know how it works.
“Let’s start with a five minute one,” she suggests, and he shrugs. “I’ll start your clock.”
She presses the little button at the top and they begin.
He opens with his king’s pawn. She responds with her own and quickly they are playing an Italian. She stalls on her third move and plays a bad one, leaving her pawn to be taken.
She was the one that brought this game, she chose this one. That’s a silly mistake. He takes her pawn. She brings out her queen attacking his knight and he takes another one near her king with his knight, attacking both her rook and her queen.
Just as he was happy with his development and the lead he’d have, she takes a pawn and attacks his rook. He’s going to lose some pawns, but her rook is worth more. He protects his rook by bringing it next to his king.
He has already lifted his hand to take her rook in the corner, anticipating she’ll take the pawn his rook used to protect but instead she brings it up, checking him.
Oh, fuck her!
That’s what she was going for.
He had heard of the gambit before, but he hasn’t studied it. He either has to lose his queen, a massive amount of material or, straight up, lose the game. Either way, it’s futile.
He stops both their clocks—he’s not resigning out loud—and drops back onto his chair huffing, irritated and anxious.
He must talk now.
“That was the Blackburne Shilling gambit,” she explains, as if he doesn’t fucking know. “You took a risk by agreeing to this game. Had to respond with my own.”
Her explanation does nothing to calm him down, almost has the opposite effect but she doesn’t look triumphant, just her usual stoic self, picking up the pieces and putting them back in their place. She rolls the table next to her and takes her seat opposite him, her papers on her lap.
Michael jerks his head to the side, initiating the conversation that he dreads, her three filled pages are screaming to be doubled.
“How was your week?” she asks, with a soft smile.
It takes him aback for a moment. He had expected a lame question like ‘what are you feeling right now?’ or ‘what is your relationship with your parents?’ to which he’d like to say ‘Nothing’ for both but wouldn’t be true for either.
He doesn’t answer for a moment, and her infinite patience is grating on his nerves.
“It was fine,” he says eventually. Just because he agreed to talk doesn’t mean he’ll spill his guts.
Becker nods, slightly raising an eyebrow, waiting. “What did you do?” she asks.
“Had training every day with the team and then did my individual training. I analysed my performance of the day and then nothing really.”
“So, you stayed at the dorm.”
“Not exactly. I went with Ness for some shopping for his new apartment.”
“Ness?” she asks, taking out another paper. “That is?” she lets her voice trail off in question.
“A midfielder of our team.”
“Friend of yours?”
That is a very good question. After returning from Japan, whatever they are has remained undefined. He didn’t and still doesn’t know what they should be called. It’s not like much has changed. Ness still orbits him all the time but he’s more stubborn than ever; he practically manhandled Michael out of his room to go shopping. He has been true to his word; he doesn’t do what Michael asks of him, but he can tell he’s still being spoiled in a way.
Old habits die hard.
Michael stares at her for a moment. She has already seen through his hesitation. It’s no use denying it.
“I don’t know.”
“Because he’s more or less?”
“Definitely less.”
“You guys don’t get along?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Explain it to me.”
Michael falters. There are infinite and no words to describe Ness. To himself, he knows exactly what he is, where he begins and where he ends. How important or how unimportant he is. Because he’s both. And that’s the conundrum of Ness as a whole. He’s insignificant, gullible and at times annoying. But his presence has been something crucial to Michael; if he didn’t exist, Michael would have struggled to rise to the top. Could very well not ever get there.
Sure, Michael made him into that, but he did it, nonetheless.
So, Michael doesn’t like him but can appreciate his contribution? He commends his football skills but only that? He doesn’t really know.
“You can use as many words as you want,” Becker encourages.
“That’s not the problem.” Michael can feel his voice wavering.
“What is?”
She offers nothing more. He can tell what she’s doing—or more accurately, what she’s not—has seen Ness do it to many people before. By not giving an alternative he’s forced to clarify on his own. It could have been just their confusion but neither of them is stupid enough for that.
He’s backed into a corner. The only way out is through her.
“He’s nothing, really.”
Becker nods. “For you or as a person?”
“Both.”
“Why do you think he’s nothing as a person?”
Michael chuckles. “Figured you’d ask why he’s nothing to me.”
Becker smiles at him. “Would you rather we talk about that instead?”
“I don’t really care. He’s just… very malleable. Naïve and too honest. Like a dog that shows its belly too fast.”
“So, that is something that devalues him as a human.” Becker’s statement makes sense, and his immediate reaction is to nod but only its content makes sense. Her making it doesn’t.
“You don’t think that,” he says, and it sounds almost accusatory. Mostly because it is.
“You do.” Something in his face must have cracked because she speaks again, “I asked you why does he’s nothing and those are the reasons you gave me. Being human theoretically is being something so those traits of his are, for you, degrading him to nothing.”
She is stating these facts so unbothered and matter-of-factly that he’s stunned silent. He knows that logically she doesn’t believe what she is saying and that she is repeating what he said back to him, but it doesn’t sit right with him. She is not supposed to agree with him, but it feels like she is. It’s different from Ness’ total obedience, smiling all the time and nodding.
“We’ll talk about it next week,” Becker says, tone infuriatingly reassuring.
Michael glances at his watch and indeed their time has run out. Fucking finally.
“We’ll see.”
***
As he gets to his car, his phone pings.
Alexis Ness
16:38
Noa wants us in. Should I come get you?
Of course he’d offer. Michael sends him a quick text and settles into the driver’s seat. It’d be nice if someone else drove now but that would involve someone else around him which is not ideal.
Becker unsettled him today. Ness is not sub-human like Michael is. He is the epitome, the prime example of a human. He’s full of useless emotions and ideals that have no place in the real world. But that’s how humans function. That’s why he doesn’t. That’s why Ness could never be less than human; it’s something one is born as and the Ness he met with his new equipment and frequent calls home and pristine, unscarred skin was not born as.
Michael remembers a particularly funny outburst of his because of another driver.
He was handed a plushie and a stress ball and his phone was abducted before he even came through the door. Ness literally pushed him onto the pouffe and started babbling, pacing the room and raging about how incredibly stupid that guy was. That happened after they returned from Japan and after his declaration of independence. He was in a fit of rage and Michael admitted to himself that he was entertained.
It's not as bad as he thought it’d be. Ness hasn’t forced a deep conversation between them, nor has he asked why Michael said all those things. He can tell it’s eating at him, but he has respected that Michael doesn’t want to talk about it.
It’s still annoying, him talking back, but it hasn’t created a problem, so Michael has allowed his delusion.
He reaches the facility with his head still jumbled but if Noa asked for them there’s nothing he can do.
The whole team has assembled in the locker room where Noa always announces things. With a quick scan, he realises he’s the last to arrive. Ness is at the far left talking with Birkenstock who’s showing him something on his phone.
“Take a seat,” he hears from behind him, suppressing a flinch. Noa is always so fucking quiet; Michael didn’t even realise he was there.
Michael finds an empty locker wall to lean on and waits. Ness notices him and waves, returning to Birkenstock’s phone.
“I’ll need your attention, Ness and Birkenstock,” Noa says, curt and final. Both scramble and sit upright, Birkenstock’s phone quickly hidden in his pocket. Ha, serves them right. “Next month we will have some new transfers.” A murmur follows this, and he waits for them to quiet down again. “The Blue Lock project is encountering some internal problems and after some consideration, its pupils will transfer to the teams they had chosen until they have been dealt with.”
It’s not a murmur this time; it’s an uproar. Michael doesn’t even know how to react. He wants to laugh but also groan but also a burst of excitement pools in his gut. It’ll be fun meeting Yoichi on home turf.
Noa answers some of the others’ questions but Michael doesn’t pay too much attention.
“They will need help adjusting to their new environment since unlike you they will have to interact with the outside world.” Noa looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “So, a buddy will be assigned to them, much like exchange students are. Ness, since you have done this before, I will entrust this task to you.”
Many heads turn simultaneously to the back corner where Ness is standing, frozen in his spot. They all know something. But Michael doesn’t.
“Yes, but then I only had one person to look after,” Ness says, his voice slightly pitched. He looks nervous and his fight is futile but he’s always so damn stubborn.
“Of course,” Noa says, “it will be your responsibility, but you can ask anyone here for help who will give it to you.” It sounds like a threat and Michael knows it is since Noa’s eyes land on him as he finishes his sentence.
As fucking if.
He opts not to say anything though because there’s no escaping the lecture.
“That is all,” Noa says and leaves immediately.
Ness is still standing frigid, and his annoyance is quickly seeping onto his face. “FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” he yells, as soon as Noa’s footsteps cannot be heard anymore.
The locker room bursts into laughter and many sympathetic hands land on his shoulders, words of consoling that do nothing are murmured all around.
Michael lets them do their thing, mostly because he’d never do it but also because he learned something today. When did Ness do this before? And how does Noa know about it? Or even why?
Since there isn’t much to do after that so the team disperses quickly. Birkenstock and Mensah hang back, still talking with Ness who looks devasted. It’s quite funny actually.
“Do you wanna get some ice cream?” Mensah says in a voice Michael has been told is reserved for babies and dogs. Fitting as Ness is both, hence a puppy.
“I want to go hoooome,” Ness whines. The other two playfully whine at him until he relents. Weak. “Let’s get some and then I’m going home. You’re coming too,” he announces, pointing a finger to Michael.
“In your dreams,” Michael scoffs.
Ness whips his head around from where he had shoved it into his locker to gather his things, his nose miraculously missing the locker’s wall. Twitching eyes, filled with annoyance and despair, stab him. “Micha. I wasn’t asking.”
Michael can practically see the murderous intent oozing around him.
“Yeah, come on!” Birkenstock interjects. “You will be able to see Alexis crashing out in front row seats. It’s a ten out of ten, every time.”
Recently, Ness has started hanging out with other members of the team, usually when Michael is in a bad mood and doesn’t want anyone around him. It’s very inconvenient, really, because he cannot ask for things if Ness isn’t around to provide them at his beck and call. Not to mention that Ness feels the need to inform Michael of all their adventures when he returns. Apparently, they have been hanging out so much that Birkenstock recommends Ness’ foul mood to Michael as if he hasn’t spent four calendar years around him, as if they weren’t joined at the hip every day for the last three, as if Birkenstock knows Ness better.
Granted, Michael’s demise came from not understanding Ness fully but that never meant he didn’t know him. It means he interpreted him wrong, filed him under stagnant and traditionalist, forgetting it was Ness’ ideas that drew Michael to him. Michael had believed in the obedience he drilled into Ness to have consumed him and decayed any thoughts of rebellion; he believed in the loyalty Ness preached without realising.
That was a foolish mistake.
What is also a foolish mistake is Birkenstock proclaiming he is better than Michael when he’s so close to him. Michael’s knuckles itch.
He knows, however, that Ness can be so unbelievably annoying when not listened to in this post-rebellion façade he’s putting on.
“Oh my God, that was a good argument!” Michael gasps, faking shock, “Are you okay?”
Birkenstock deadpans at him, Mensah shakes his head in exasperation and Ness hides a snicker inside his locker. Michael considers that a win. Dramatically, he bows to the door, arm outstretched, and one by one they head out.
***
After two solid hours of rambling and four scoops of ice cream—Michael has no idea how his brain doesn’t hurt—Ness decides he has moped enough and offers them the chance to talk. He has chocolate residue on the side of his mouth, and his hands are fidgeting with a napkin that has seen better, brighter days. He’s eyeing Michael’s hand on the table and Michael dreads that he wants to fidget with it, so he puts under the table, making Ness visibly sag.
Birkenstock and Mensah, thoroughly amused by Ness’ antics yet seemingly adequately entertained, decide to drop the subject and ask the question Michael was saving for later.
“So, Alexis,” Mensah begins, “when did you do this again? The buddy thing,” he clarifies when Ness looks at him and blinks in confusion.
“Oh, it was back when I still going to school, in my last year, so when they asked for volunteers, I signed up.”
“That sounds like you,” Birkenstock remarks with a chuckle and Michael’s eye twitches.
“Have you kept in touch with your buddy?” Mensah asks.
Ness droops. “We had but we haven’t talked in a while.” He is so visibly sad over something so miniscule that Michael cannot help but pity him. “But here, this is him,” he says, turning his phone to the other two. Slightly annoyed he wasn’t shown first, Michael tries to tune in. He was there at the time, and he had no idea. “We met when we were both seventeen or so and after returning home, he used to visit me but now… we don’t talk.”
Then, the phone is given to him. It’s on Ness’ private Instagram profile, scrolled almost all the way down, and it’s a photo of Ness smiling at the camera with another boy who has his arm around Ness’ shoulders and a content smile on his face too. He looks to be very tall, towering over Ness, with dark skin and black hair and eyes. They are both wearing hoodies and the one the boy is wearing Michael has seen it on Ness multiple times, he never thought to question it. Something vile and familiar coils in the pit of his stomach.
“You could text him now,” Birkenstock says, sucking on his straw even though there’s no milkshake left, making so much unnecessary noise. Ness has asked him to get along with the rest of the team and Noa has short of ordered it but it’s a very bad day for Birkenstock who is doing his best to rattle Michael from within.
Why the fuck would Ness text him? There is no fucking need. If they lost touch, they lost touch and that’s it. They don’t have to revive a friendship that’s long been dead. Michael has access to Ness’ phone and there haven’t been any messages from that boy for a long time now.
“Come on!” Mensah says. “You seemed close in that photo, I think he’d like a message from you. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Have Mensah and Birkenstock conspired against Michael? He wouldn’t blame them after everything, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.
“Maxime was always very kind,” Ness says, fingers fidgeting again. Michael returns his phone to him—not before memorising Maxime’s handle—leaving his hand close… just in case…
Ness glances at it and smiles slightly at him and grabs the charmed loop he has threaded on his phone, playing with the miniature dragon on it. As good as ignoring it, then. His fingers are very bony, Michael notices. They seem deftly skilled and weirdly sturdy. Ness is always playing with them, cracking his knuckles, making odd shadow figures, scratching off the clear nail polish he puts on to stop chewing at them—he has stopped for some time now, but he likes the polish.
Suddenly, Ness unlocks his phone and opens WhatsApp, scrolling down frantically. The table has fallen silent, all eyes on Ness who’s now typing furiously. Mensah and Birkenstock exchange a surprised yet satisfied look while Michael is staring daggers at them. They just had to make this happen, huh? Ness sends the message and throws the phone on the table.
Nobody says anything.
Eventually, time passes, and the message is forgotten amidst their conversation.
Not by Michael, though.
***
Ness’ dorm room always had a sort of quiet buzz in it. Every time Michael entered it, calm washed over him—he’d never admit it to Ness of course, but he admitted it to himself. A sunset lamp that cast a gradient on a wall bathed the room in a warm light. Fake plants covered the frame of his window making it look like a portal to the sky since the room was on the second floor. Loose and scattered pieces of paper with drawings covered every inch of flat surface that wasn’t the floor.
That vibe now existed in a much bigger place. It was dulled down as there wasn’t much furniture around still—Ness has been as indecisive as ever—but the same soothing property existed. Two huge boxes sat in the middle of the ‘living room’—the place where Ness had put a huge pouffe and projector aimed at a white wall—crowned by some tools.
“I’m not helping you with these,” Michael declares.
“Wow, shocker,” Ness says, faking a gasp. “I just want you to sit on the pouffe while I assemble them.”
This is nothing new. Ness has asked him many times to sit with him while he’s doing chores. Laundry, both starting and finishing it, ironing and folding it, sweeping and mopping—he mops twice because ‘the first is for cleaning, the second for the aroma’—washing the dishes, dusting. Frankly, Michael has learned how to do many household tasks because of this since Ness usually stops whoever is talking to explain a step in the task. It looks like it happens without thinking so Michael usually doesn’t berate him for interrupting him.
It's not as if Ness waits for Michael to be available to do said chores but he claims to be much faster and the process less annoying when they do this.
Ness disappears in his little kitchen as Michael takes his designated seat. From what he can tell from the boxes, one of them is a large couch while the other is a plush armchair, both in a jade green colour suiting the light beiges of the room—namely the bookshelves next to the ‘TV space’ and later the coffee table he has ordered. He won’t be able to put them together, he thinks smugly, at least not the couch; Michael wants to see how much he’ll hold back asking him for help.
Reemerging from the kitchen with two Sprites and a bowl overflowing with chips, Ness sets them down to the stool he uses as a table and begins the assembly.
The armchair gets done fairly quickly with Ness narrating the entire lineage of Aegon the Conqueror from the Game of Thrones franchise to Michael, for the third time, but this time focusing on the differences between his two sister-wives—a fact he brushes over with alarming ease—Visenya and Rhaenys. There are moments like this when Michael wants to split his head open and study his brain.
Ness is so complex and incomprehensible to Michael that he can’t help but be reminded of earlier today.
“Ness?”
“A midfielder of our team.”
“Friend of yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because he’s more or less?”
He had responded with such ease at the time but now, looking at him struggle with a loose spring of the couch and listening to his undeterred babble, Michael cannot deny how human Ness really is. Of course, there is a question to be made about his malleableness which definitely stems from deep rooted issues but until now there is nothing debasing on him. Something that demotes him from humanity. But he wouldn’t go as far as to call them friends.
Friendship is a foreign idea that Michael cannot wrap his head around; like with most human relationships. It’s such a vague definition which could never apply to them. Sure, secretly, he appreciates Ness in the sense that if he weren’t there that fateful try-out day Michael may not have been able to get ahead. But that’s where that ends. There is no loyalty—from his side; Ness is unrefutably loyal to him. Granted, it’s misinformed, he’s loyal to the version of Michael that he knows, but even Michael can’t say it’s not genuine.
He does fit Michael like a glove though, a custom-made one. One that was precisely and meticulously tailored to fit his hand, a good and useful tool, keeping the cold away. He has learned where to stop and where to speak and when to compliment Michael easily to the point that Michael wonders how much of it is true.
A ping jostles him out of his train of thought. It’s Ness’ phone that was carelessly thrown to his lap before.
“Ah, Micha, can you check what it is?” Ness grumbles out, struggling with a screw for the back of the couch now.
With an eyeroll, Michael taps the screen to life and at the top of a million notifications sits a WhatsApp one, in English.
Maxime
21:47
Hey, Lex! Wow, we haven’t spoken in a while! Missed your notifs haha
How have you been?
Em and I…
That’s as far as the notification lets him see.
“It’s that dude from the exchange programme.”
Immediately, Ness drops the screw and the Hex Key and almost falls running to grab his phone. In pure delight, he opens the message and starts typing.
He’s way too excited for someone he dropped so long ago.
“Ah, he responded,” Ness whispers with childish glee.
Irritation bubbles inside Michael. What the fuck is it with this happiness? Was that Maxime that important to him? Then why did they stop talking? Ness doesn’t make a habit out of losing touch with people.
What the hell is he doing? He can just ask.
“So, what’s up with this guy? You’ve never mentioned him,” Michael asks, taking two chips from the bowl.
“Mm?” Ness hums and smiles, not looking up. Michael clears his throat and Ness’ head snaps to him with the smile softening. “Oh, um…” The top of his cheekbones darkens, a blush spreading all over his face. He glances between the phone and him and stammers out, “He’s a friend from long ago, you hadn’t met him. It was that year when you were grumbling about everything.” That earns him a thrown chip he catches with ease and pops in his mouth. “I used to be his buddy an—”
“Yes, I know all of that,” Michael snaps.
Undeterred, Ness asks, “Then, what do you want to know?”
What does he want to know?
“It’s just weird that I haven’t heard of this guy when you’re this excited about a text,” Michael says, forcing a smirk on his mouth that wants to snarl. Ness gets defensive about people—Michael usually, but there is the rare one here and there—so aggression won’t get him answers.
“I helped him settle in and meet new people. And through him, I also met some people. We were always at parties at his dorm. You have no idea how intense those parties got. They were amazing.”
Michael muscles through the random stories from the parties; there are a lot of them. Remembering back, Ness did used to be tired a lot in the mornings, but nothing was holding him back on the field, so Michael didn’t pay it any thought. Maybe he should have.
“—and honestly, thank God we weren’t there when Isabella was pouring the drinks that night because—”
Michael, tuned in at this point, asks, “Why weren’t you there? You said you were always at parties.”
That halts the monologue. Ness’ mouth flails open like a fish’s and looks away. He fiddles with his hands and his phone, the screen illuminating the flush that returned to his face. He coughs to clear his throat, but he doesn’t manage it completely.
“Well… you see… Maxime… and I— well—”
“Spit it out!”
Ness doesn’t meet his eyes. “We were in his room.”
They better had been in his room to fucking move furniture around. But they hadn’t been. Michael knows from his awkwardness that the furniture was involved but for a very, very different reason. Anger soars through him, and he tries to rein it, but he can’t. He can redirect it, though.
“That’s it? What did you think? That I’m stupid and think it’s gross or something?”
“No! No, no!” Ness rushes to say. “It’s just that we never talk about this stuff and it was a difficult time when we broke up so—”
Broke up? As in relationship?
“You were together.” Something unfamiliar and rotten festers in his chest. Something inexplicable and stupid and angry. It’s not that he thought Ness would remain alone for the rest of his life but knowing he has other options to put his loyalty in doesn’t sit right with Michael. Ness has a job, he can’t go philandering with others. And what’s worse of all? Michael had no idea.
“Yeah…” Ness says, crestfallen, probably remembering it and being sad about it. Michael wants to break something. He wants to break Ness. Break him down to the Ness that only cared about Michael’s performance on the field. Whose every waking thought was how to improve himself to improve Michael. Break this lover boy reminiscing his lost love.
But that Ness is gone. This Ness ‘won’t do as he says anymore’.
Michael stands up and heads to the upside down couch, wiggling between the wood and focusing his hands on the little annoying screw. Ness is gaping at him, but Michael has an insult about his slowness ready.
“Is that why you were glooming?” Michael says absent-mindedly.
“Sorry…” Ness says, “I didn’t think you noticed.”
There is a breathlessness to his voice that makes Michael wants to jam the Hex Key to his eye, but he refrains. He moves his head to give him an eyeroll, to convey how stupid that was, that of course he noticed and turns to the screw at the front.
“We were together for a long time, as long as he was here for sure and then some more. But… he is polyamorous, and I thought I could handle sharing.” Michael wants to throw him something. Why would Ness of all people think he could handle sharing is beyond him. “So, we talked about it, we had before too, but it got too difficult, and we went our separate ways.” Ness sighs heavily. “When he was here I didn’t mind all that much, I joined sometimes so it wasn’t—”
“Joined?” Michael asks, despite himself.
“With the other person,” Ness says casually and resumes as if he didn’t just drop a bomb, “and I truly was okay with it but coupled with being unable to see him… it was… yeah…” he lets his voice trail off and so does Michael.
He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He doesn’t want to talk about this person anymore.
He works in relative silence, Ness goes back and forth, putting the pillows inside their cases and washing the dishes. Eventually though he runs out of chores and settles on the pouffe, scrolling on his phone.
Michael is setting the pillows in their place when Ness gasps.
“What?”
“He’s—” His phone is trembling with his hands. “He’s coming to Germany.”
Michael’s iron grip on the last pillow is the only thing keeping him from dropping it—or throwing it. So, he will see this bastard in person. Unfortunately, so will Ness.
Ness’ smile, for the first time ever, is the last thing Michael wants to see.