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There were plenty of unspoken rules in the French national team. Nobody woke Barcola before his alarm. Nobody questioned the fact that Kanté collected everyone's abandoned water bottles after every training session. Nobody touched the last baguette on the table—it belonged to Dembélé. And nobody sat to Kylian Mbappé's right.
Nobody except Michael Olise.
At first, no one paid much attention to it. Then someone joked that the dictator had apparently found himself a right-hand man. The nickname stuck.
1. Every team had its own rhythm. Its own style. Its own way of winning. You couldn't really blame desperate players from weaker teams for doing whatever it took to get a result for their country. Michael Olise had been repeating that to himself for over fifty minutes, watching Paraguayan players barrel recklessly into his teammates.
Especially one of them.
His fists clenched automatically as Kylian hit the ground yet again. France's captain pushed himself back to his feet wearing that same infuriating smile, as if nothing had happened. Michael couldn't understand how he managed to stay so calm. His own hands were itching to put number twenty-three through the turf. The referee's whistle blew. Another shove. Another argument. When three Paraguayan players started closing in around Mbappé, Michael suddenly felt a very real urge to switch sports and try professional wrestling instead. He wrapped an arm around Kylian's waist and pulled him back while Saliba dragged Galarza away.
"Don't."
Kylian shot him an irritated look.
"I'm not hiding behind everyone else."
Michael only tightened his grip.
"Kylian, the last thing we need is you getting booked."
"I'm just defending myself."
Even so, he let Michael guide him away from the crowd.
"They're grabbing you like they're trying to hurt you," Michael muttered, jaw tight. "You're their target, Kyky."
"Good."
Kylian shrugged.
"Let them focus on me while the rest of you score."
"Not happening."
Michael didn't even hesitate.
"I'm not letting them get anywhere near you."
Kylian raised an eyebrow. Michael was staring straight ahead, still refusing to loosen the arm around his waist despite the fact that they were already well away from the confrontation. His lips were pressed into a thin line. Kylian glanced down at the stubborn hand resting against his side before looking back up at Michael's face. With a quiet sigh, he reached up, cupped the back of his neck with both hands for a brief moment, and gently forced him to meet his eyes.
"Relax." A grin spread across his face. "The dictator's right-hand man isn't allowed to get a yellow card either."
Michael's ears flushed bright red.
"I'm not your right-hand man."
"Mhm."
Kylian started walking back toward his position.
"Sure."
"Stop walking backwards," Michael called after him. "You'll end up getting yourself sent off."
Kylian turned just enough to continue walking backwards more dramatically, batting his eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.
"Is my face really that hard to look at?"
Michael rolled his eyes. Kylian laughed and finally turned around. Olise watched him until he reached his position again.
2. Lunch was one of the most chaotic parts of the day. All the players gathered around the table covered with food. In theory, everyone had their own portion assigned by the nutritionists. In practice, however, a surprisingly complex barter system had developed among the team. How Dembélé managed to end up with four baguettes on his plate remained one of life's great mysteries. How Mbappé managed to get a second serving of carbonara, on the other hand, was painfully obvious.
"Michael, pass me the salt."
Before Kylian even had the chance to reach for it, the salt shaker was already in his hand.
"Thanks."
"Michael."
"Hm?"
"Pepper."
"Thanks."
"Michael."
"Hm?"
"Can you pour me some water?"
"I already did."
Olise pushed the full glass toward him.
"Oh... thanks."
Kylian reached for it without a second thought. Sitting beside them, Dembélé and Doué exchanged a knowing look.
"How much do you want to bet he'll start feeding him next?" Ousmane asked, leaning conspiratorially toward his teammate.
Doué looked between the two of them for a moment.
"I'm not betting."
"Why?"
"Because the chances of him actually doing it are too high."
"Fair enough."
The doors to the dining room opened, and Deschamps walked in holding a folder.
"Kylian," he called, looking around for the team's captain.
"Yes, coach?"
"Real Madrid sent over some documents for you to sign," he explained, handing him the papers. Then he glanced at Kylian's plate. "Where did you get that much pasta?"
Mbappé innocently shrugged.
"That's the portion they gave me."
"Sure it is." The coach sighed, sending an amused look toward Olise. "Don't choke, dictator."
Mbappé immediately turned his attention to the documents. He pulled a pen from his pocket and began scanning through the pages, signing wherever necessary. After a few minutes, Michael lightly nudged him.
"Finish that later. Eat now."
"I can do both."
"Your food is going to get cold," Olise pointed out.
Kylian finally looked up from the papers and gave him a mischievous smile.
"Then feed me."
"What?"
"My hands are occupied."
He lifted the documents slightly before pouting at Michael with exaggerated innocence. Olise went quiet. He looked at the papers in Kylian's hands. Then at his plate. For a brief moment, he looked like he was genuinely considering the problem. Dembélé elbowed Doué.
"He is actually thinking about it."
"I can't deal with them."
Michael picked up his fork and twirled some pasta around it. Mbappé immediately froze. It was a joke. It was supposed to be a joke. But the fork was already in front of his mouth.
"Open."
Kylian instinctively did. Only after swallowing a few bites did he fully process what had just happened.
Michael, completely unfazed, simply turned back to his own plate. The captain of France stared at him for a few seconds longer, and then a satisfied smile slowly appeared on his face.
3.Michael Olise was known for his nonchalant attitude toward everything happening around him. It didn't mean that he didn't care about victories or defeats. He simply never felt the need to scream in celebration after scoring, throw himself at his teammates, or celebrate every goal as if they had just won the World Cup.
Until today.
The ball hit the back of the net, and Kylian Mbappe turned toward him with the most beautiful smile Michael had ever seen in his life. Suddenly, all of his usual restraint stopped mattering. When Kylian opened his arms in a silent invitation, Michael didn't even remember when he had started moving. One second he was standing there, and the next he was wrapped in the striker's strong embrace. Then, guided by an impulse he couldn't have explained even to himself, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to Kylian's forehead. It was only when he pulled away that he realized what he had just done. Kylian let out a quiet laugh, never taking his eyes off him, as if the gesture amused him more than the goal itself. A moment later, the rest of the French team reached them, turning their quiet moment into the familiar chaos of hugs, shouting, and pats on the back.
The locker room was crowded and stuffy. The players were laughing, joking, and celebrating after the win. As usual, Michael had agreed to let his teammates use his playlist. Which meant he was now sitting off to the side, slowly packing his things and waiting until he could reclaim his phone. His eyes kept drifting toward Kylian. To be fair, it wasn't exactly difficult. The team's captain was right in the middle of the chaos unfolding around them. His loud, infectious laughter carried over the music and reached Michael anyway.
"Are you keeping an eye on our dictator?" Barcola asked as he walked past.
"He's currently the loudest thing in this room," Olise pointed out.
"Doesn't look like it bothers you."
Bradley said it with a familiar smile before heading toward the showers.
Almost immediately after he left, Kylian somehow appeared next to Michael. He dropped onto the bench beside him with a loud, dramatic sigh.
"Michaellllll," he whined, dragging out the name. "Ousmane says I lost my dictator aura by celebrating goals today."
"Mhm."
"You're supposed to say that's not true. That I looked very charismatic."
"Do you want me to lie to you?"
Olise glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
"Hey," Kylian protested. "Even dictators are allowed to celebrate with their soldiers."
"Of course." Michael closed his bag. "I'm going to shower."
Kylian let out another exaggerated sigh.
"Michaellllll."
"What?"
"He says I looked like a five-year-old."
Olise glanced over his shoulder. Kylian was making the most offended expression he could possibly manage.
"You did."
Michael said it with complete seriousness, causing Kylian to make a wounded noise as if he had just been personally attacked.
"Ow."
"A very adorable five-year-old," Michael added after a moment of consideration. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. If he had turned around for even a second, he would have seen Kylian's face immediately turn bright red. Unfortunately for Mbappé Dembélé had noticed. And, even worse, he had already taken a picture.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes." Ousmane grinned, already tapping away at his phone. "This is going to be my new wallpaper."
4. To say that Michael was having a bad day would have been an understatement. The shadow of the Morocco match had followed him since the moment he woke up. He wasn't afraid of them on the pitch. Of course they were a great team, but Olise trusted both his own abilities and the strength of the French national team. Off the pitch, however, he felt like he had already lost.
For the past few days, the media had talked about almost nothing except two best friends meeting on opposite sides of the pitch. Every few hours, another video of Kylian and Achraf from their time together at PSG appeared online. Interviews. Training sessions. Private jokes. And then came the edits. Music. Slow motion. Hearts in the comments. Michael rolled his eyes every time one of them appeared on his screen. Achraf was Kylian's friend. He had every right to be. Michael would never try to question that.
That didn't change the fact that every time he saw another video presenting them as the stars of some great love story, something unpleasant tightened beneath his ribs. It was irrational. And that was exactly why it annoyed him so much.
After training, Michael didn't even notice when he ended up in Kylian's room, lying on his bed with the captain of France curled against his side. Their bodies were pressed closely together because of Mbappé's initiative, but Olise had no intention of complaining.
"Look."
Kylian's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He held his phone right in front of Michael's face. The screen showed one of those very edits. Specifically, the moment when Mbappé had complained that Hakimi had played some game without him. Michael didn't care what game it was. What interested him was the fact that, in the video, Kylian looked like he was practically sitting in Achraf's lap.
"They keep showing up everywhere," Mbappé explained, amused.
"You're about to play against each other. The algorithm is probably losing its mind." Michael answered dryly, hoping the topic would end there.
Apparently, Kylian had other plans.
"I know. I've been texting him about this match for a week."
"A week ago you didn't even know if both of you would make it this far."
Kylian pushed himself up on one elbow and looked at him indignantly.
"It was obvious we would." A moment later, he dropped his head back onto Michael's shoulder.
"I haven't seen you this excited about a match in a long time." Olise pointed out.
"I'm excited about seeing Arra, not about the match." His smile softened. "Honestly? I'm terrified of it."
Michael immediately stopped thinking about everything else.
"Why?"
Kylian looked at him, confused.
"Because I haven't seen him in so long, Mikey. When I lived in Paris, we saw each other every day. Now it's once every few months."
Michael shook his head.
"That's not what I'm asking." He tightened his arm around Mbappé's waist, pulling him closer, and rested his chin against his hair. "Why are you scared?"
He felt Kylian's body tense slightly. For a moment, there was silence.
"Because I want to win."
This time, his voice was much quieter.
"And that means he has to lose." He sighed. "I know he won't hold it against me. He's too good of a friend for that. But I will."
Kylian paused.
"The last thing I want is to be the reason he's hurt."
Michael didn't even notice when his hand moved behind Kylian's ear, his thumb gently brushing over his skin.
"Kyky... you're a good friend too. The best one Achraf could have."
Mbappé stayed quiet for a moment, as if weighing every word. Then he smiled.
"Hmm... probably."
A short pause.
"After all, I am amazing."
Michael let out a laugh.
"Humility is definitely your strongest quality."
For a few minutes, they stayed like that in silence. Kylian's phone had long since been forgotten on the bedside table. Michael's eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Then Kylian spoke again.
"When I see him, I'm going to kiss him."
Michael felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over him.
"Huh? You're going to kiss him?"
"Yeah."
Mbappé shrugged.
"Because I'll be happy."
He looked at Michael's completely confused expression and smiled wider.
"I can kiss you too, though."
"What?"
"I can kiss both of you."
"There's no need for that," Michael mumbled.
"I can't leave out my right-hand man."
"I'm not your right-hand man."
"Mhm."
Kylian placed his head back on Michael's shoulder.
"We'll see tomorrow."
A few minutes later, his breathing evened out. He was asleep. Michael stayed still for a while longer, staring at the phone lying on the bedside table. The screen was still frozen on a frame from one of the edits. Kylian and Achraf smiling together. He turned the screen off. None of those videos showed this.They didn't show Kylian falling asleep curled against him.
5.They won. Two–zero.
The atmosphere on the national team bus was the kind that always followed a victory. Music blasted from the speakers, Dembélé tried to sing along even though nobody could recognize the song, and the others burst into laughter every few minutes. Only two players were still missing before they could leave.
Michael stood by the entrance of the bus, silently watching the crowd of journalists surrounding the French captain. For several minutes, every question had revolved around the same topic. Hakimi. Friendship. Rivalry. Kylian answered calmly and diplomatically. He praised the Moroccan team, talked about their incredible tournament, and emphasized how much he respected Achraf both as a player and as a person. The reporters, however, did not let go. They sensed a story they could sell. They only needed one poorly chosen word.
Michael clenched his jaw. It wasn’t his place to interfere. Kylian had been dealing with the media better than anyone for years. That was why he stayed where he was. Until he saw Mbappé rub his eyes again. He blinked a few times, answered another question, but his voice was noticeably quieter than it had been moments before. That was enough. Michael moved. Without a word, he stepped between Kylian and the journalists. One hand wrapped around his waist, the other grabbed his wrist.
“Come on.”
Kylian didn’t even try to protest. He let himself be led through the crowd, and a familiar, tired smile appeared on his face.
A few minutes later, they both entered the bus. Désiré was still playing music, and Dembélé was putting all his effort into completely butchering the lyrics of the song. Michael walked over to the speaker, pulled his phone out, and turned the music off.
“Hey!” several voices protested.
“Quiet.” He said it calmly. One word was enough.
The bus immediately fell silent. Michael returned to his seat. Kylian dropped down beside him and almost instantly rested his head on his shoulder. Less than a minute later, his breathing evened out. He was asleep.
Michael instinctively adjusted his position, then took off his jacket and carefully draped it over Kylian’s shoulders. Slowly, the bus grew louder again. Not like before, but every now and then someone laughed too loudly or raised their voice a little too much. Each time, Michael gave the person responsible a short, meaningful look. It was enough. Dembélé leaned over the seat with his phone in his hand.
“Just one picture.”
Michael looked at him, then calmly adjusted the collar of his jacket, covering more of Kylian’s face.
“Leave him.”
“Come on. I don’t even want you in the picture.”
Michael pulled the jacket slightly higher. Dembélé raised his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. Sorry for invading the dictator’s privacy.”
“Mikey is already getting into the role,” Tchouaméni laughed.
“He has to protect his superior,” Désiré added. “Does being a pillow also fall under the duties of the right hand?”
The whole bus erupted into laughter. Michael didn’t answer. He only adjusted the collar of the jacket one more time, making sure Kylian was comfortable, then closed his eyes as well. Maybe they were right.
+1
After returning to the hotel, Michael slowly started getting ready for bed. He took a shower, changed into something more comfortable, and was brushing his teeth when his phone buzzed on the sink.
Kyky
Heeeey
Wanna watch a show with me?
Exactly three minutes later, Michael was already standing outside Mbappé’s room.
The door opened almost immediately. Kylian was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, with a towel draped over his shoulders as he dried his still-damp hair. The moment he saw Michael, his face lit up with that familiar smile. Michael had long liked to think that it was a smile meant especially for him.
He walked inside as if he had been doing it for months and immediately dropped onto the bed. Without a word, Kylian tossed him the remote, then turned toward the wardrobe, searching for something that could pass as pajamas. Michael would have been lying if he said he was actually looking through Netflix’s recommendations. Every few seconds, his eyes wandered back to Kylian. His freshly washed skin still shone with traces of water. His muscles, relaxed after the match, stood out beneath the warm light of the bedside lamp, especially his thighs, built through years of endless sprints. Michael only looked away when Kylian finally pulled on an oversized shirt and, apparently giving up on his search, decided that shorts were no longer necessary. If he noticed Michael’s gaze, he didn’t comment on it. He simply sighed contentedly and lay down beside him, immediately moving close enough that there wasn’t even a sliver of space left between their bodies.
Not that Michael was complaining.
After a short internal struggle, he agreed to watch Drive to Survive. Only because Kylian had spent the past few weeks stubbornly trying to convince him to give a sport based on driving cars in circles a chance. Michael had never been particularly good at resisting those brown eyes. To his own surprise, after the first episode he actually found himself somewhat interested. Every few minutes, Kylian added another comment or patiently explained another rule. Why a pit stop could last only two seconds. How drivers knew when to come into the pits. Why some chose hard tires while others went for soft ones. Michael listened carefully. Not because he understood everything. He simply liked that Kylian thought it was worth explaining all of it to him again. He didn’t even notice when his hand ended up resting on Kylian’s thigh. His thumb traced slow circles over his skin, more out of instinct than conscious thought.
After a while, Mbappé’s voice grew quieter. His head slowly slipped lower and lower against Michael’s shoulder until eventually he rested his entire weight against his chest. He was asleep. Michael looked down at his face and felt an involuntary smile appear on his lips. He had no idea what he had done in a previous life to deserve the chance to lie in the same bed as Kylian Mbappé. He didn’t need to know.
Carefully, he pulled him a little closer, making sure he was comfortable. He could feel the warmth of Kylian’s skin beneath his fingers. Every now and then, his gaze returned to those full lips. He was beautiful.
Michael didn’t even pretend to himself that he didn’t notice. He noticed every detail. The freshly washed hair, the warmth of his skin, the muscles built through years of training, and the lips that seemed to invite a kiss. He wanted to. He wanted it more than he was willing to admit to himself. But that was exactly why he stayed still.
Kylian wasn’t someone he wanted to kiss simply because the opportunity appeared. He wasn’t someone he wanted to touch just because he could. Michael didn’t want their first kiss to happen because they were tired after a match or because the moment simply happened. He didn’t want their first time crossing that line to be nothing more than desire. He wanted everything that came after to mean something. Until Kylian called him his boyfriend, Michael had no right to take that step.
That didn’t stop him from admiring him. It didn’t stop him from gently running his fingers over Kylian’s thigh. It didn’t stop him from enjoying the simple fact that Kylian was falling asleep curled against him.
After some time, his own eyelids started to grow heavy. He adjusted Kylian’s shirt one more time and wrapped his arms around him a little tighter. Before he finally drifted off to sleep, Michael came to one conclusion:
Being the right hand of a dictator like that wasn’t the worst fate he could have been given.
Bonus
The dining hall was filled with noise, as usual. The entire team had gathered around one table, so chaos was inevitable. The biggest commotion, to absolutely no one’s surprise, was caused by Dembélé and Mbappé. With a rarely seen level of seriousness, they were debating what movie they should watch that evening.
“Why ruin your mood with some tragedy?” Kylian complained, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It at least has some action, unlike a fucking documentary about the life of turtles,” Ousmane replied. “Who watches that kind of thing willingly?”
“I do.”
“You’re not normal.”
“Whatever. I’m not watching anything with someone this ignorant.”
Kylian leaned back in his chair. Michael, sitting beside him, didn’t even look up from his breakfast. He only instinctively stretched an arm behind Mbappé’s back, steadying him in case he leaned too far back.
“Good.”
“I’ll watch it with my boyfriend.”
Several people around the table immediately looked up. Michael frowned. Wait. Kylian had a boyfriend?
“He’s the only one who can survive two hours of this torture,” Dembélé continued as if nothing unusual had happened.
“He doesn’t think it’s torture,” Kylian argued.
“He does.”
“He doesn’t.”
He turned toward Michael.
“Right?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t think it’s torture?”
Michael stared at him for a moment.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
A short silence followed.
“I’m... your boyfriend?”
Kylian frowned.
“Yes?”
This time, the silence spread across the entire dining hall. It was broken by Dembélé’s laughter.
“You didn’t know?” he asked between laughs.
“Wait, you seriously sleep with the dictator?” Doué exclaimed, covering his mouth with his hand.
“I don’t...” Michael looked completely lost. It didn’t help that Mbappé started laughing as well.
Olise looked between him and the rest of his teammates. Some were nearly crying from laughter, while others exchanged confused looks.
“We’re together?” Michael finally asked.
Kylian smiled, genuinely amused.
“Of course.”
Michael continued staring at him in confusion, so Mbappé kept going.
“We eat together. We train together. We sleep together,” he started counting on his fingers. “We spend literally ninety percent of our day together. Doesn’t that sound like a relationship?”
“Well, but...”
“What?”
Michael looked around the room, suddenly aware of everyone watching them.
“Come on.”
He sighed, stood up, and grabbed Kylian by the arm. The older man obediently followed him. Once they were out in the hallway, Michael finally let go and turned to face him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kylian frowned.
“Because it was obvious.”
“To be in a relationship, you have to ask the other person.”
“So you cuddle every single one of your friends in their sleep?”
“No.”
“Do you watch shows in bed with every single one of your friends?”
“No.”
“Do you stroke every single one of their thighs?”
Michael immediately looked away.
“No.”
“So when, according to you, were we acting like just friends?”
Michael hesitated.
“Well... we weren’t acting like friends...”
“Exactly.” Kylian interrupted him immediately, as if he couldn’t believe Michael had just proven his point himself.
“Let me finish.”
“I can’t. You just said it yourself.”
“I was going to say that we weren’t acting like friends... but we still weren’t in a relationship.”
Kylian let out a long sigh. He rubbed a hand over his forehead.
“Jesus...”
For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, as if he was genuinely trying to understand Michael’s logic.
“You slept with me.”
He raised one finger.
“You hugged me.”
A second.
“You touched me.”
A third.
“You kissed my forehead.”
A fourth.
“You fed me pasta.”
A fifth.
“And you genuinely thought only friends did all that?”
“No.”
Kylian looked at him questioningly. Michael sighed.
“That’s why I didn’t do anything else.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?”
Kylian’s voice was much quieter this time.
“I’ve never kissed you.”
“...”
“I’ve never slept with you.”
“...”
“Because in my head, that was reserved for the moment when you were actually my boyfriend.”
Kylian stared at him for a long moment. Slowly, a smile appeared on his face. Not the smug one he used when teasing Dembélé. Something much softer.
“Michael...” He shook his head, laughing quietly. “You really waited?”
Michael nodded.
“I thought that was what you were supposed to do.”
Kylian looked away and let out another quiet laugh.
“God...” For a moment, he said nothing. Then he looked back at Michael. With a kind of admiration Michael had never seen from him before. “You really waited?”
Michael shrugged slightly.
“I wanted to do it right.”
The corners of Kylian’s mouth twitched.
“Idiot.”
He said it with so much affection that it sounded more like a confession than an insult. Slowly, he stepped closer. He wrapped his arms around Michael’s neck and for a moment simply looked into his eyes.
“You could have told me.”
“You could have too.”
A smile appeared on Kylian’s face.
“I guess we’re both a little stupid.”
Michael didn’t get a chance to answer. Kylian leaned in and gently brushed their lips together. Just that. A short, careful kiss. As if he was making sure he really was allowed. Olise froze completely. This was actually happening. He no longer had to look away when Kylian changed beside him. He no longer had to control his hands, making sure they didn’t linger on his skin a little too long. He no longer had to remind himself that it wasn’t time yet. For the first time in months, there was nothing telling him to stop.
Kylian pulled away a few centimeters. He looked at him with quiet amusement.
“Well?”
Michael answered only after a moment. Not with words. One hand wrapped around Kylian’s waist, the other rested against the back of his neck. This time, he was the one who closed the distance between them. He kissed him again. This time intentionally. Without hesitation.
He had known for a long time that Kylian was beautiful. He knew it every time he saw his genuine laughter. Every time he watched him patiently talk to fans. Every time he fell asleep curled against Michael’s side, trusting him completely. But only now did he understand that the most beautiful thing about him wasn’t his eyes or his smile.
It was the fact that Kylian had been waiting for him just as patiently all this time. Michael deepened the kiss naturally. He pulled him closer, as if he wanted to make up for all the missed opportunities of the past few months. Kylian immediately responded, smiling into the kiss. They only pulled apart when they ran out of air.
“Kylian...” Michael breathed.
“Hmm?”
“We’re in the middle of a hallway.”
“So?”
“Someone could see us.”
Kylian shrugged.
“Let them.”
And before Michael could protest, he kissed him again. Olise laughed quietly against his lips.
“You really are impossible.”
Kylian pulled back just enough to look directly into his eyes.
“Was I right?”
Michael sighed, pretending to be defeated.
“You were right.”
“We’re together?”
“We’re together.”
The same triumphant smile appeared on Kylian’s face, the one he had been wearing for months whenever he called Michael his right hand.
“I knew it.”
Michael only shook his head, unable to hide his own smile. Apparently, along with the title of boyfriend, he had also received an official promotion to right hand of the dictator. He had no intention of appealing.