Football: (Just Keep) Following the Heartlines [Karim Benzema/Gonzalo Higuain] (part i/ii)

[crinklefries]

Title: (Just Keep) Following the Heartlines

FOR: _runningmascara

Ships: Karim Benzema/Gonzalo Higuaín, Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas ; (past/it’s complicated)-Yoann Gourcuff/Samir Nasri, Karim Benzema/Yoann Gourcuff, Sergio Ramos/Gonzalo Higuaín

Word Count: 19,100 lmfao I’m so sorry
Rating: PG-16 for sexual situations and language

Summary:
[and this fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone |
echoes of a city that’s long overgrown]

AU. A rapper with a broken heart and a broken past and his footballer neighbor who is there to (unknowingly) help him fix it.

Disclaimer: Not true, broseph.
Notes: This was written for _runningmascara for the footballslash fic exchange. It started off with "Oh I guess I'll help Benzema find friends and also love" and then morphed into the longest, most ridiculous, and possibly the best one-shot I've ever written.

I never ask for comments as a general principle to life, but if you happen to read (finish) this, leave me a line or two and tell me what you thought. I think it might be my favorite thing I've ever written, sorry Sernando.

That being said, happy holidays, my loves. I really really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it. :) ♥


january 2011.

It’s strangely poetic, boxes lined against clean, bare walls. Everyone likes to think that the summation of their entire existence doesn’t lead to a single point, a lone instance, where they’re alone in an empty apartment with their life wrapped carefully and taped inside cardboard boxes. The carpet is bright white and completely new. There’s a large, glass door that leads onto a sprawling balcony. He can see his entire neighborhood from here, the line of towering houses and curved lawns, expensive cars parked on wide driveways, all shut in by wrought-iron gates with golden curves at the top. He doesn’t recognize half of the people opening and closing doors, but he should. He stares at a space between the glass door and the empty wall. He stares so long that he thinks he could bore a hole into the plaster if only he had the power to do so.

This hadn’t been his choice. He had wanted a small apartment, tucked into the corner of the city. His parents had disagreed. Si vous allez vivre dans une ville, puis vivre dans la ville, they had said. They had boarded the plane with five of his eight siblings, helped settle his boxes around his unreasonably large house, cooked exactly a week’s worth of meals and stuck them in the refrigerator, given him a hug and a kiss, and promptly left.

Now he’s left with his entire life assembled together in short towers that loom precariously around corners that should exist, but which have since disappeared into myth. There are empty stretches of plain white, enough brown cardboard and tape to make his vision swim, and not a single piece of furniture in sight.

“Bienvenue á Madrid,” Karim mutters to himself.

He shrugs into a sweatshirt, laces up his sneakers, sticks his iPod in his pocket, and leaves.

His neighborhood is all smoothly paved concrete and sloped lawns. The houses are spread, but close enough together that the total distance from the gates to the cul-de-sac at the end of the looped street is barely enough to break a breath, let alone a sweat. The morning air is almost unbearably cold, but he doesn’t like running in the evenings and he hasn’t worked up the nerve to find any gym secluded enough where he won’t be recognized by at least someone. He adjusts the snood around his neck, pulls his hood tight over his head and tugs on the tip of his sleeves so that they cover his cold hands. In retrospect he should have brought gloves, but he hasn’t a clue which box they might be buried in.

Karim unwinds his earphones from around his iPod as he walks quickly through his neighborhood. There’s a park a block or two down, something he only knows because his mother had insisted on leaving him a map with the local parks, gyms, and recreational facilities on it. Être en bonne santé, Karim. Ne pas retrouver votre poids, his mother had worried. Karim had ignored her for the cake his father had bought for them from the nearest bakery as a housewarming present.

Now he sticks his earbuds in and scrolls through his various playlists until he finds his favorite workout mix. It’s part-rap and part-hip hop and not a single song that reminds him of his own. He prefers it that way.

He warms up on the way to the park, the walk there allowing him the chance to thaw before his feet even hit the grassy trail. By the time he stretches and begins jogging along the open path, he’s not cold anymore, but chilled. He clicks the volume button on the side and turns it up until French hip hop is blasting in his ears.

Karim runs at a steady pace. He’s not the fastest runner and he never has been, but he has enormous amounts of stamina. Once his music starts playing and his mind starts wandering, he can run for over an hour and forget to stop, although children pass him by easily on bicycles or just by playing tag. There was a time when he used to mind, but these days, running is the only thing that clears his mind at all. He likes the feel of the grass under his feet, the way his calves start to burn after a while and the feeling spreads through his thighs eventually. He likes feeling his heart beat rapidly, sometimes in his chest, other times higher, near his throat. He likes feeling overwhelmed by his whole body because then, and only then, does he forget to think.

He’s running longer than he anticipated to, his eyes glazed over as Tupac provides steady beats that his feet can pound to in synchronicity. He doesn’t notice the person jogging next to him until he turns a particular corner and his feet slip on an icy patch that he doesn’t even notice. His legs buckle from under him and an earbud tugs out and he’s cursing in a stream of French before his body goes crashing sideways.

He expects to feel the ground and sharply, but what he feels is the planes of another body, an arm wrapped around his side and, presently, loud, short bursts of laughter.

“Cuidado!” comes the voice just before Karim feels his body being dragged up.

His iPod’s fallen on the ground and he can hear Tupac shouting up at him, but Karim’s too busy scowling and massaging his ankle, which he hopes he hasn’t twisted.

“Are you okay?” the man next to him asks quizzically. It’s only then that Karim remembers that he’s actually fallen into someone and he looks up in embarrassment.

“Si,” he mutters, the only word coming to mind. His Spanish isn’t perfect by any means, but he can remember just enough from high school and online courses to get by. “Lo siento, I didn’t notice the ice.”

“You’ve circled around enough times, I’m surprised this was the first time you slipped,” the other man laughs. He’s taller than Karim, short, brown hair cropped in either waves or curls to his head. Karim can’t tell which it is. His face is pink, possibly from running as well. He has a scarf wrapped thickly around his neck and a Real Madrid sweatshirt with arms that extend past his wrists. He’s wearing shorts. It’s freezing cold and he’s wearing shorts. Karim tries not to stare pointedly.

“I forget to pay attention when I run,” Karim says with a shrug of his shoulder. He bends down to pick up his iPod. The other man shifts on his feet and when Karim straightens, he’s grinning and running his tongue over uneven front teeth. Karim blinks. He looks familiar, but he doesn’t know why.

He puts his iPod in his pocket again and one earbud in his left ear.

“Well thanks,” he nods to the stranger. He’s ready to finish his run, his body already tensed from anticipation. “And sorry again.”

Karim puts the second earbud in and takes off. His pace is even slower this time, he’s careful not to slip again. He’s been jogging for barely a minute when the other man catches up to him again.

“You’re not done running yet?” the other man says, motioning for Karim to take his earbud out. He feels a twinge of annoyance and considers ignoring him altogether, but the man’s eyes are large and round and he looks eager to talk.

Karim sighs and takes it out, figures he’s been running for long enough as it is.

“I was just going to finish this lap,” he says with a shrug. And then, because he feels pressured, “You?”

“I’ve passed you more than a dozen times, but you didn’t notice at all,” the stranger says with a grin. He wrinkles his pink face. “I’m almost done too, though. You new here?”

Karim blinks. “How did you know?”

“I run at the same time every day,” the man says. “I’ve never seen you around.”

“Oh,” Karim says. He rolls his shoulders. The cold wind nips at his face and he’s annoyed by how fast his body’s cooling down already. “Yeah. I just moved here.”

“Do you have a name?” the stranger eyes Karim in amusement. If he minds the monosyllabic answers, he doesn’t say anything.

“Karim,” Karim answers. He says it nervously, although he has no reason to be nervous, not in Madrid. “Karim Benzema.”

The other man grins, a genuine smile that lights up his face.

“Gonzalo Higuaín,” the man says and extends his hand. Karim takes it and shakes it.

“I like your music,” he then adds with a mischievous grin. Karim’s mouth opens slightly and his cheeks heat from the need to explain himself, but he doesn’t get a chance. Gonzalo’s speaking again with that same, quirky grin. “And by the way, I’m your neighbor.”

Gonzalo does live next door, as it turns out. As it turns out, there’s also a very specific reason that he’s running in the early mornings and that reason is-

“You’re a footballer,” Karim says, staring blankly at the taller man.

“That is what they tell me,” Gonzalo nods. They’re standing in his kitchen, since Karim’s is completely unfurnished. Gonzalo-“Call me Pipita, actually, I can’t remember the last person outside of my family to use my real name”-had walked Karim home and then had insisted he come over for breakfast after his shower. Karim hadn’t actually had any food that didn’t belong to a home-cooked four course meal in his refrigerator anyway, so he had said yes. Now he stands at Pipita’s counter with a muffin and a blank expression on his face.

“What team?” Karim eyes Pipita with mistrust. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe him, per se, but there are reasons he came to Madrid and the foremost of those was to get away. From footballers.

“Only the best one on the entire fucking planet,” Pipita says with pride. Karim stares. Pipita blinks. “No, really. No exaggeration.”

He points to his sweatshirt and Karim’s eyebrows nearly disappear into hair he doesn’t have.

“You play for Real Madrid?”

“That’s what they tell me!”

“You. Play for Real Madrid.”

“Unless they’ve changed their name.”

“Vous jouez pour Real Madrid.”

“Saying it in French doesn’t change the fact mon petit baguette!” Pipita grins and takes a large bite of an apple. It’s bright red and shiny and Karim stares at Pipita’s reflection in it. Either he’s starstruck or the wheels in his head are turning even slower this morning than usual. He’s going to go with the latter and hope for the best.

“Well I guess that’d explain why you look familiar,” Karim says. He shrugs and picks at the blueberries in his muffin.

“Do you watch?” Pipita asks.

“Not La Liga,” Karim answers. He stares at his muffin intently, as though debating the chemical properties of blueberries and sugar will make him forget the slow knot twisting in his stomach. He wants it to go away, but it’s been months now and he’s barely been blessed with a good night’s sleep, let alone a day without that familiar feeling gnawing away at him. “Ligue 1 mostly.”

“What team?” Pipita asks. He takes another bite of his apple and gestures widely. He seems to do this a lot, as though his words cannot possibly be emphasized by anything less than large gestures of his hands and body. “I was born in France.”

“You were?” Pipita doesn’t look French to Karim. Not even close.

“In Brest,” Pipita nods. There’s apple juice running down the corner of his mouth. It’s a bit distracting. “I was only there for a year so it’s not like I remember it. I can’t even speak French. Well I know a few words-”

“Like mon petit baguette?” Karim asks with a wry smile, the first he’s given to Pipita.

“Like mon petit baguette,” Pipita confirms.

“Wrong gender. Baguette is feminine.”

“Fuck,” Pipita scowls.

Karim smiles.

He breaks off a corner of the muffin. He tries not to analyze the fat content in his head, although one very tough summer and a year of internal training has him hard put not to. “Lyon.”

“What?”

“I watched Lyon, they were my team.”

“Fucking Lyon,” Pipita glowers suddenly. “I mean no offense, but that fucking team is-was the bane of my existence.”

“The Lyon curse?” Karim smiles. Pipita looks surprised. “We had reason to celebrate every year, I know some things.”

“Just not who’s on my team,” Pipita frowns.

Karim shrugs. He sticks a blueberry in his mouth and chews on it. His stomach growls, he’s clearly hungry, but he thinks of the protein shake he has packed back at his house and meal replacements and-fuck, all he really wants is a fucking muffin.

“Maybe you can teach me.”

He breaks off a chunk of the muffin and sticks it in his mouth. When he looks up at Pipita, the other man is smiling, genuinely this time.

“What, really? You’d let a stranger introduce you to the crazy world of Spanish football?”

Karim grins and swallows his mouthful. The sweetness spreads in his mouth and he’s a little giddy from it.

“You’re not a stranger,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a footballer.”

Pipita stares at him for just a second before he throws his head back and laughs.

The studio is directly across the city. This wouldn’t be a terribly big deal if the city he had to cross wasn’t fucking Madrid. Madrid, Karim discovers, is a really fucking big city. He hasn’t had a chance to buy a proper car yet and he doesn’t feel like risking the metro when he’s been here less than a week. Instead, he has a rental for the next week and a half before his appointment at the dealership. The rental is a sleek, black Audi with a built-in GPS. There’s an option to change the language from Spanish to French, which he’s thankful for because navigating Madrid traffic is difficult enough without attempting to do so in a language he has the proficiency of a high schooler in.

It takes him nearly an hour to get there, not including the time it takes to correct his direction after he gets lost in his own neighborhood. He’s lucky that the appointment is flexible or, at least, that the executive producer is well enough acquainted with foreign musicians new to the city to accept “sometime in the morning” as an appropriate time frame.

He pulls into the parking lot of a large building behind a busy intersection filled with businessmen and tourists at the cusp between “the morning” and “the afternoon”. It isn’t technically lunchtime yet, so Karim figures his arrival can be more or less construed as legitimate. He parks the rental in the designated spot, kills the engine, and folds his sunglasses into his pocket so that he doesn’t look like a complete tool. He has no papers with him, no form of authentication except what’s in his wallet and a passport tucked into the inside front pocket of his blazer. He’s wearing it on top of a graphic t-shirt and jeans, shoes that don’t match and a large, golden watch on his wrist. Clearly he’s not too worried about not looking like a tool, but he’s entering one of the largest recording studios in Madrid, so he’s sure it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

“Can I help you?” a beautiful woman with flowing-literally, flowing-brown hair greets him at the reception desk. Everything about the interior of the building is sleek, monochromatic in different shades of metallic and dark granite. Her name tag reads “Eva” and it’s displayed prominently on the breast of the little, black blazer she wears. Inside her blazer, her blouse is bright teal and she has her hair up in a ponytail that flows-literally, flows-onto her shoulders. She smiles at him, but it isn’t welcoming.

Karim blinks and sighs to himself as he recalls the Spanish phrases slowly.

“I am looking for Senõr Casillas?”

“Aren’t they all?” Eva says smartly. She begins typing something into the computer. “Name?”

“Karim Benzema,” Karim says. “I’m from-”

“Yes, the French rapper, I’m well aware,” Eva says with a curt little smile. Karim feels like asking her why she asked his name in that case, but he refrains, mostly because he’s entirely certain that this petite, beautiful woman wouldn’t hesitate to cancel his appointment entirely and have security escorted out if need be.

“Iker was expecting you a little earlier, you’re lucky he’s still in the building. He has lunch in a half an hour, so you’ll have to be quick. Through the sliding doors, take the elevator up to the second floor. Walk in past the double doors and turn down the hallway to your right. You’ll pass half-a-dozen sound booths-yes, half-a-dozen, don’t look so surprised, Mr. Benzema-before turning left. His office will be at the very end, large doors, engraved nameplate in gold that his brother insisted he get even though he didn’t want to. You can’t miss it. Any questions?”

Karim doesn’t think he would be able to ask one even if he wanted to, so he shakes his head.

Eva smiles that same, almost sinister smile at him. She extends a hand for him to shake. He takes it and she smirks.

“Welcome to Santo de Móstoles Música.”

There are more turns than Eva mentioned to him and Karim blames her entirely and not himself at all for the half dozen times he gets lost trying to navigate the winding hallways. As it turns out, there are sound booths and corners practically everywhere, so Eva’s directions are more confusing than a source of help. There’s wintry music blasting from speakers somewhere and Karim wrinkles his nose because Christmas music is bad enough in French in December, let alone in Spanish in January. He doesn’t know if someone’s recording it or if this is SMM’s version of elevator, company music, but either way he hopes the hallways end soon and deliver him from his misery.

He manages to find the large door to Iker Casillas’s office on his third try and he notes that Eva was at least right about the gold plaque hanging on the door-it would be impossible to miss.

He knocks, almost tentatively-what is it about being in a new city that drives people into shells?-and what he’s answered with is a bark, albeit one with very little bite.

“Adelante!”

Karim expects Iker Casillas to tower. He’s seen images, of course, because who hasn’t seen the iconic Santo de la Música engraved into every studio and music awards show from Madrid to Munich? Iker Casillas’ image is more prolific and only slightly less holy than the odd appearance of Jesus on slices of toast. So Karim expects him to tower, shoulders of his suit jutting out intimidatingly past his actual limbs, and sharp, black shoes that Karim can see his own reflection in.

Iker Casillas in person, however, is far less intimidating. He’s a lot smaller than Karim had expected, for one. He wears a lot more plaid, for another. His shoes aren’t black or shiny and barely match jeans with rips near the bottom cuffs. Karim stares.

“It’s been a complicated day,” Iker Casillas says, by way of explanation, first. He offers his hand with a good-natured grin second. “Karim, right? Iker. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s an honor,” Karim says. Iker’s handshake is firm. So is his stance and his gaze, although Karim’s not sure why this is particularly significant.

“Likewise.” Iker gestures for Karim to sit on a lush, leather couch. He himself closes the door and winds around his large, modern desk to sit in his large, modern chair. He looks completely out of place. It makes Karim grin. “I’m surprised you made it out of Paris without more tabloid coverage.”

“I was living in Lyon, actually,” Karim says with a shrug. If he shrugs, it makes it seem like he cares less, or at least that’s his theory. “I switch between Paris and Lyon.”

“Paris has the bigger music industry. Is there any reason you were in Lyon?” Iker asks. He’s genuinely curious, Karim can tell.

“Family,” Karim says faintly. It’s not the whole truth, but he and Iker are professionals, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Well SMM is more than pleased to have you,” Iker says smoothly. “We’ve been trying to diversify our talents beyond flamenco and the usual Spanish pop. French rap is definitely a change, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for it in Madrid.”

“I don’t expect to make a Euro,” Karim says with a wry smile.

Iker laughs and shakes his head.

“You clearly don’t understand what studio you’re signing with yet,” Iker says. His laugh dims into a challenging smile. “But you will.”

It’s a threat and a promise and Karim believes both.

Madrid sprawls with life at all times of the day and night. Karim tries to ignore it long enough for Pipita to become concerned. The other man is plenty busy, rarely home because he’s training, playing matches, or traveling to training and matches. He’s gone every other weekend and frequently during the middle of the week. Karim mostly notices because it’s hard not to when Pipita’s face is one of the most well-known in Madrid. He’ll run to the market and see thos familiar features looking up at him from Marca constantly, accompanied by one or more exaggerated headlines about him and his teammates. It’s bemusing, but he’s used to it, in a sense.

At first, Pipita misses morning runs frequently throughout the week. Karim doesn’t particularly mind. He likes the time to himself. Then, he comes more consistently, begins meeting Karim before the sun’s even peeked out over the edge of the sky, even on days that he has morning practice.

“It conditions me for the rest of the day,” Pipita explains with a laugh. “Ronaldo’s always going on about the size of my ass, I’m going to take him for his money.”

“You bet him about your ass?” Karim asks, amused.

“Well Sergio did,” Pipita admits. Then brightens. “But he feeds me, so it’s basically the same thing.”

Sergio, Karim learns, is Sergio Ramos, sometimes right-back, sometimes center-back, sometimes unwitting striker of Real Madrid. Pipita talks about him almost constantly. By their third week of running together, Karim knows Sergio about as well as he knows Pipita. The other man refers to him as his “Mejor Amigo”, but Karim has his doubts.

By the end of January, Karim waits for Pipita in the mornings and Pipita shows up at his front door, in sweats and running shoes no later than 6:00 AM, every day. This, too, Karim doesn’t particularly mind.

march 2011.

He lays down three tracks in three months and calls it progress. Eva calls it “slow-as-shit” and Pipita calls it “well-you’ll-get-there-eventually”. Karim calls it frustrating and this is the definition Iker agrees with.

He’s in the recording studio, headphones fit tightly against his ears. They squeeze the sides of his head. He’s forced himself into sobriety and his head hurts. There’s a tap on the window and a young man with large, round eyes and black hair that flips out in a way that makes him look vaguely like a really hot lesbian, signals the countdown.

3-2-1-

He puts his fingers down and the green light goes on. Karim closes his eyes and focuses on the beats thumping in the room around him. He hears an introduction of chords and French-techno beats that he composed himself months back and has the distinct urge to tap his feet. This is followed distinctly by the urge to erase everything, call production to a halt, and make a rapid career change.

Too late.

He belts out the lyrics as he’s memorized them, a rhythm easy and simultaneously harsh on his tongue. They’re forced at first, too much thought and not enough feeling. He frowns. He stops after the first chorus and lets the music fill the silence. He takes a breath and presses his palms to his eyelids until he sees dots. He forces himself to clear his mind, to push a familiar face to the back where he can’t reach it.

The music stutters and he covers his headphones with his hands, pressing them harder against his ears. They’ll leave marks, but he doesn’t care. His words start again and this time they flow smoothly. His mouth forms the raps almost faster than he can say them. He spits them out, grinds them through his teeth, and feels more alive than he has in months. The red light flickers on almost too soon and he can see a thumbs up through the window from Mesut.

The intercom crackles on.

“That was great,” the young man says in slow, broken Spanish. He has a thick German accent and looks perpetually lost. He isn’t. Karim likes him. “But it is little, ah, forcing? At beginning.”

Karim nods.

“Again?” he asks.

“Por favor,” Mesut smiles.

Karim nods again and, this time, relaxes.

“We won,” Pipita grins. He’s flushed and vaguely swaying on his feet, clearly exhausted. It’s almost midnight and he’s at Karim’s front door. Karim answers in sweatpants and no shirt because he hadn’t been expecting anyone.

Pipita raises an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Congrats,” Karim says, genuinely. Then he frowns in confusion. “No?”

“Oh,” Pipita nods. His face curves into a bright, pleased smile. “So come out with us.”

“Us?” Karim asks.

“The boys,” Pipita grins. “I told you I’d teach you about them, didn’t I?”

“It’s midnight,” Karim points out.

“Exactly,” Pipita agrees and shoves him inside his house to get dressed.

Footballers, Karim discovers, are a loud, borderline-obnoxious, borderline-drunk breed. There’s a tall loud one named Álvaro, a dumb loud one named Raul, two just loud ones named Marcelo and Pepe who honestly seem to be interchangeable, the infamous Sergio, and a blond named Guti who keeps trying to feel Karim up, presumably because he thinks it’s funny. They’re all dressed in nothing less than the flashiest clothes and most expensive shoes and seem immune to the cameras as they’re easily let through the front doors of whatever club Pipita’s dragged them to.

All of them speak too loud and too fast until they’re swimming in drinks and Karim’s handed something so clear and so clearly high in alcoholic content that he can feel his liver shrink at the very smell.

“I don’t drink,” he tries to tell Sergio, who seems to be the one plying everyone with drinks, but Sergio just laughs and shakes his head. Pipita leans in and whispers something into his ear. Sergio colors and grins, leans back and replies in the other man’s ear. Everyone else is already too drunk to notice, but Karim isn’t and so he does.

Guti tries to engage him in conversation.

“What do you mean you haven’t fucked anyone in months?” the blond’s bright blue eyes are electric and bright in the hazy, popping multicolored lights of the club. He looks a touch shocked and a bit frazzled. He leans into Karim drunkenly.

“I have been with anyone since my last-” Karim catches himself here and shrugs. “-relationship.”

“Fuck. That,” Guti pronounces clearly.

Karim blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck that,” Guti emphasizes, then laughs, leaning heavily into Karim’s shoulder even more. He gestures behind their group toward a cluster of well-dressed women eyeing them. “I mean fuck that. Them. Whatever.”

Karim’s unsure, but after watching Pipita and Sergio whisper close together and unabashedly share touches and looks for an hour, he doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea after all.

He leaves with a blonde-it’s always a blonde. Pipita doesn’t think he sees him and Sergio kissing in the corner, but he does.

Karim fucks the blonde twice and lies awake that night, unsatisfied. He has a certain, recurring image in his mind he can’t get out and he feels like throwing up.

At five in the morning, his phone lights up with a text message.

He shifts his body over to his bedside table and drags his iPhone toward him. He reads the message and just like that, he’s awake. He reads the message, stumbles into the bathroom and heaves into the toilet.

That’s how it begins. Again.

before.

It begins at Christmas, like most things.

He’s ten years old and playing at the end of the street for lack of anywhere better to play, because he’s Algerian and that’s barely enough to qualify his family as a group of human beings. His friend’s late, a small boy with a mischievous smile and fast words named Samir.

There’s another boy walking by, trailing his parents with a small football in hand. He’s wearing a Christmas sweater with Père Nöel knit carefully on it. He has a scowl on his fair face, shocking dark hair that frames high cheekbones and large, expressive brown eyes. He’s beautiful.

Just before he turns the corner, he looks up. He stares at Karim, who stares back. Next to him, Karim feels a tug on his elbow. Samir.

“Qui est-ce?” Samir asks. «Who’s that?»
Karim shrugs.

The beautiful boy smiles.

Fourteen years later, Karim still can’t forget that boy, although, apparently, Yoann has no trouble forgetting him.

april 2011.

It’s against his better judgment. Most things are against his better judgment, but especially this.

He speaks rapidly into the phone, the trace of a smile on his face. It’s light and takes up more space than he means for it to. Pipita’s on the couch they bought last weekend because the Argentine had finally gotten tired of coming in to Karim’s empty house.

[ “I don’t know how to furniture shop,” Karim had told him, point-blank.

“You look at furniture and pick what you like, what’s to know?” Pipita had insisted. He had that look, that stubborn one, the one that’s accompanied by crossed arms and furrowed eyebrows just to prove how much he means it.

“Everything,” Karim had replied.

“Vous es un idiot,” Pipita had countered in perfectly butchered French.

“Tu es terrible en français,” Karim had snorted.

Pipita had won, but that hadn’t really been a surprise. ]

There are at least three gaming systems lying on the floor in front of a massive plasma TV, all in various states of being suffocated by wires. Pipita’s managed to hook up one of them-Karim has no idea which one-and is playing FIFA. Currently Barcelona’s losing to Real Madrid, much to Pipita’s loud delight.

“Non, je ne sais pas.” «No, I don’t know» he says, shaking his head. He leans against the counter to the empty bar in the living room and watches his friend. “Quand? Non, dites-moi.” «When? No, tell me.»

“Don’t you know it’s rude to talk in a language I can’t understand?” Pipita whines from the couch. Karim’s about to answer when the other man’s eyes widen.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck no no no-” he springs up from the couch, controller in his hand, and scoots toward the television. Karim raises an eyebrow in concern.

“Non, Yoann, juste mon ami.” «No Yoann, just my friend» he says, with a slight shake to his head. “Il est Pipita. Rappeles-tu? Je t’ai dis sur lui.” «It’s Pipita. Remember? I told you about him.»

“Fuck you, Dani Alves, you piece of shit!” Pipita curses at the screen. He groans and falls back onto the couch dramatically. Then he twists around to face Karim. “I heard my name, who are you shittalking me to?”

“Ouais,” Karim grins. Yoann sounds annoyed on the other end, but Pipita’s making faces at him and trying to crane over the edge of the couch to reach for his phone. Karim back up out of the way. Pipita scowls and tries to extend his arm further. His face turns red from the effort. “Non-écoutes, Yoann, je dois aller.” «No-listen, Yoann, I have to go.»

“Yoann?” Pipita perks up. “Who’s Yoann? Yoann the footballer? Who’s Yoann?”

Karim ignores him with a small smile.

“Téléphones-moi plus tard? Non, je n’oublierai pas. Tu me manques aussi. Au revoir.” «Call me later? No, I won’t forget. I miss you too.»

As soon as Yoann ends the conversation, Pipita’s arms drop. He looks exhausted from the effort. Karim snorts and looks at the television.

“You let them tie you?”

“No, you let them tie me,” Pipita says emphatically.

“What did I do?”

“You distracted me. With your French. Fuck you. And your French. Who’s Yoann?”

“Va te faire foutre,” Karim says, ignoring the question again. He leaves his cell phone on the counter and takes a seat on the couch next to Pipita.

Pipita scrunches his body into a somewhat proper sitting position, although he’s still half sprawled against Karim’s side.

“What?”

“Fuck you,” Karim grins. “In French.”

“Mon dieu!” Pipita exclaims. He grabs his controller and shoves it at Karim while he reaches for another one just lying on the floor in the middle of the mess of wires. “What a terrible mouth you have on you. We’ll have to wash it out with Orangina.”

“Where have you been learning your French stereotypes?” Karim snorts. He stops the game Pipita was playing and scrolls through the teams listed. He pauses at Lyon and remembers Yoann’s voice. His heart skips a beat at the same time his stomach clenches. He moves past them and settles on Lille.

“Wikipedia,” Pipita says promptly. He scrolls through and picks River Plate this time. “And Sergio.”

Karim rolls his eyes. “I should have known.”

They play a leisurely game, at least until River Plate scores a hat trick and Karim’s left cursing loudly in French. Pipita’s cackling into his side and Karim manages to jam enough buttons on the controller to get one in past River’s keeper.

Pipita scowls this time and shoves his elbow into Karim’s side.

“Joder!” Benzema curses in Spanish.

Pipita stops long enough to turn and stare at Karim in pleased surprise.

“The French can be taught!” he exclaims.

Karim snorts and nods at the screen.

“And the Argentines can be beat.”

He rounds off his first goal with a hattrick in the time it takes Pipita to realize his mistake and by the time the referee blows the whistle, the score is 5-4 to Karim, but it doesn’t matter because they’re both too busy laughing into one another’s shoulders.

He lays down two more tracks, this time within a month. They’re fast with harsh melodies, but he sounds like he’s singing about something, like he’s rapping for a reason or a purpose. He sees Mesut tapping his fingers along to the beat one day and it makes him smile. Iker says he looks inspired. Karim thinks he feels inspired, but he also thinks he’s deluding himself.

Yoann calls him again and he pinches the bridge of his nose and answers the phone. He sounds lighthearted and happy, but that feeling in his stomach grows heavier.

It’s a little hard to breathe and it’s because he isn’t dealing with it at all. He pushes it to the back of his mind, like most things, and says hello.

“Bonsoir á tu aussi, Yoann,” «Hello to you too, Yoann» Karim says breathlessly. “Comment va-tu?” «How are you?»

Sergio calls him one day to invite him to watch the team train. Karim’s at the grocery store, cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear. He’s looking at two different cans in confusion and wondering how he can possibly tell which bean will taste different from the other. He blinks at the cans and puts both into his cart.

“You want me to what?”

“Come to training. Pip won’t shut the fuck up about you and you never come out with us, so come watch us practice.”

“Is this a ploy to force me out with you guys tonight?” Karim asks skeptically. Now he’s staring at two different melons. They look identical, but the labels tell him otherwise.

“Most likely, yes.”

“You don’t know how to lie do you?”

“Mostly likely, no.”

Karim snorts and puts the melons back. He moves toward the aisle with all of the pasta and carbohydrates because at least those he can identify and make. Theoretically. Spain confuses him.

“It’s open practice,” Sergio says on the other end of the line. “We’ll go for a few drinks after, it’ll be good for you.”

“How do you know what’s good for me?” Karim asks quizzically. He doesn’t know why he asks these things because Sergio, like Pipita, never gives him an answer he likes.

“Pipa talks a lot.”

Karim shakes his head. “Don’t I know it.”

Watching Real Madrid practice is a bit unlike anything else Karim’s ever experienced. Valdebebas is a monolith of Real Madrid history, much like everything else Real Madrid, Karim is quickly coming to discover. He remembers watching Yoann and Samir practice from the stands, one in white and the other with a bright purple bib over his Olympique Lyonnais training shirt. Olympique Lyonnais is an immense emblem in Lyon, but Karim thinks he never understood the importance and gravity of football until Pipita introduced him to Real Madrid.

They don’t let him sit in the stands. He stands awkwardly near benches where the reserve goalkeepers in yellow talk to him and ask him too many questions for his liking. There’s a tall young man with extremely tall hair who introduces himself as Callejón.

“I’ve listened to your music,” Callejón grins at him as they both watch the rest of the team play five-a-side.

“That’s impossible,” Karim frowns.

“Because it’s Madrid?” Callejón’s grin widens. It takes over his face and somehow his hair stands even taller than it had a minute ago. “Don’t underestimate Madrid, Karim Benzema.”

He pats Karim on the shoulder as their coach-José Mourinho, a man with an intimidating scowl and somewhat sardonic tendencies-yells for him. He looks back at Karim with a smile as he jogs over to his team, bright orange bib nearly blinding in contrast to the white Real Madrid training jersey.

“Also, don’t underestimate Sergio Ramos.”

Karim realizes, only too late, that Callejón’s words were not just advice, but deep and philosophical life lessons. Sergio’s idea of a “few drinks” include another hot, Madrid nightclub with too many lights and too many bodies pressed close together. The group of them sit in a corner and have to lean in close together to hear shouts any quieter than the highest decibel processed by human ears. Once again, they’re plied with drinks until everyone’s somewhere near the upper end of the alcoholic’s version of the Kinsey scale. Sergio’s on the dance floor, body pressed close to a tan woman with long, dark hair. His hands are on her waist and her bright, white teeth are showing a little too much. He leans forward to murmur in her ears and Pipita downs a shot next to Karim.

Karim looks over at his friend and, for the first time since he’s known him, he thinks that Pipita looks something less than deliriously content with life. He tries to hide the flickers of disapproval on his face, but Karim’s too well-acquainted with the same thing. He can see the cracks in Pipita’s mask because he’s learned to spot them in himself.

“Hey, do you, uh-” Karim leans over to Pipita, then stops, embarrassed.

“Yeah?” Pipita’s eyes are still on Sergio, but he’s listening.

“Dance?” Karim hopes it doesn’t sound half as bad as he thinks it does.

Pipita seems to consider this. He shakes his head slightly and tears his eyes away from Sergio. He downs another shot and grins.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

They end up on the dance floor, somewhat close together. There are women surrounding them, which obviously makes it okay. Karim’s not a very good dancer, but even his body starts to sway to the trashy Europop. He grins as Pipita laughs and dances closer to him. They both look ridiculous, but neither of them seem to care. There’s a blonde on either side of Pipita and one with arms wrapped around Karim’s back. He’s not even drunk, but he thinks he might be channeling it.

Suddenly, the music transitions from one technobeat to something else.

Karim freezes at the sound of his own voice.

“What’s wrong?” the blonde pressed against him asks in his ear, but he shakes his head. His face is hot. He hates listening to himself.

It takes Pipita all of a minute to realize this too. At first it’s all grins and gesturing to everyone to shut the fuck up and listen to the French rap blasting over the expensive sound system. Then he sees Karim’s face and stops.

Karim shakes his head in embarrassment and that’s when Pipita grabs his upper arm.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” he says. Karim protests, but Pipita ignores him. He signals to Sergio that they’re leaving, but Sergio’s too busy with his conquest. Karim can feel Pipita’s shoulders tense, but once they’re out in the warm Madrid air, it doesn’t matter so much.

“Fuck, it’s like I’m with an international celebrity,” Pipita laughs, leaning into Karim as they both walk down the block. They’re looking for a corner to motion for a cab.

“Is that what you say to yourself everyday?” Karim asks. His shoulders are still tense, his stomach tight from being so self-conscious. He’s possibly the world’s worst celebrity. Pipita manages to flag down a taxi and they both pile in. They give the driver their addresses and Karim rolls down the window to get some fresh air.

He sticks his head out and breathes in deeply, once, twice, three times.

“Hey, are you okay?” the other man asks, concerned. He’s pressed close to Karim’s side and Karim can’t breathe.

He shakes his head no.

“Yoann,” he mutters.

Pipita looks concerned. He puts a hand on Karim’s shoulder, as though he can shake him from whatever pain he’s in.

“What about Yoann, Benz?”

It reminds him of Yoann, Karim thinks.

To be fair, though, everything reminds him of Yoann.

before.

They were French, so of course they called themselves Les Trois Mosquetaires. Samir and Karim had known each other longer, but Yoann was the one who commanded their attention. He was forceful from the beginning, a young, beautiful boy with a strong personality. When he fluttered those eyelashes, it wasn’t just Samir and Karim who would fall over themselves for him, but nearly everyone-at school, at the playground, even adults.

He had the money, sure, but it was more than that. Yoann had imagination, he had creativity, he loved football with a passion that was unrivalled by anything else anyone else could do. He joined Olympique Lyonnais’s youth squad at a young age and convinced both Samir and Karim to try out with him. The three of them were selected over dozens of other boys their age. They were invincible, they were unbreakable. Yoann and Samir were his entire life and he was theirs.

What he and Samir had was special, but what he and Yoann had was special too. Sometimes, when Samir would have extra practice or when his parents, professors by profession, would keep him home to finish his homework, Karim would ride his bicycle over to Yoann’s house. He’d climb up through the window and they’d lay on Yoann’s bed, Karim’s head against Yoann’s chest and Yoann’s body half hanging off the edge of his bed, and listen to CDs.

Yoann preferred pop, but Karim loved rap. He would lay there and compose rap after rap off the top of his head. Yoann would laugh in that way that would make Karim’s chest contract and face light up. After a while, Yoann stopped laughing and really started listening.

One day, he pushed Karim’s head off his chest and sat up.

“What are you doing playing football?” he had asked, eyes narrowed.

Karim had frowned, had sat up as well because he felt like he had angered Yoann, somehow.

“What do you mean?” he asked nervously. “I’ve been scoring, you’ve seen-”

“No, not that,” Yoann waved his hands impatiently. “What are you doing playing football when you should be rapping?”

Karim looked at Yoann skeptically.

“Rapping?”

“Merde! You have a talent here, don’t you see, imbécil? Stop kicking around a stupid football and do what you love.” Yoann had taken Karim’s face in between his hands and laughed, but he had looked earnest, in the way he did when he truly believed in himself or in an idea.

“Who’s going to listen to me rap?” Karim asked, disbelieving.

“Everyone, mon dieu. Listen to yourself, you sound like my mother. Everyone’s going to listen to you one day, Karim. You’ll be played all around the world. Here, Paris, Munich, London, Madrid. You won’t be able to go into a club without hearing yourself.” Yoann’s eyes had glazed over and he had gestured widely as though he could see it, as though he could truly see the future. Karim, cynical though he was, had watched Yoann and thought, for just a moment, that he could see it too.

He thinks he realized it the year Samir went away. His parents had been transferred to England-Manchester, specifically-to teach a one-year seminar course at the university there. Yoann threw the party.

They were teenagers, so of course there was everything there shouldn’t be-too much alcohol and too many hormones. Samir found himself dancing with classmates and Karim found himself watching Yoann through alcohol-induced, heavy lidded eyes. He didn’t think he was obvious. He thinks, later, it must have been obvious that he was drunk or Yoann was drunk or that they were both, just drunk.

He thinks, in retrospect, it must have been obvious that the lack of Samir had something to do with it.

They ended up in Yoann’s parents’ room, drunk and on top of each other, pushing at clothing until strong planes of chests and not-yet-toned stomachs glowed pale in the dim light. They never made it very far. Yoann pinned Karim to the bed and tugged his jeans off, pressed a hand through his boxers until Karim was writhing on the bed, one hand clenched in Yoann’s hair.

Yoann took him into his mouth and gave him his first head, but it wasn’t romantic. He thinks it was never supposed to be romantic, he was never supposed to develop those feelings. But then Samir left and Yoann and Karim found themselves alone more and more often.

The first time they slept together, Karim’s heart had pounded loudly in his chest the entire time. After they had both finished and come down off of their highs, when they were lying on top of the covers, Karim’s body tucked close to Yoann’s, his head on Yoann’s chest, the other boy had laughed.

“We’re not gay or anything, you know. We just. Have needs and shit.”

He had laughed easily, like it had barely meant a thing at all.

Karim had laughed too, because not laughing would have been too obvious.

He had closed his eyes because he had known, even then, how fucked he was.

He thinks, now, that he had known, even then, how fucked he’d been since the first day he laid eyes on Yoann Gourcuff.

may 2011.

His first mistake is telling Pipita that he’s done recording his album. He’s nervous enough as it is, twelve tracks in five months and he doesn’t know if he’s recorded anything with feeling, let alone story. Mesut assures him that it’s wonderful, but Mesut also thinks recording Christmas songs in May is a wonderful idea, so Karim isn’t completely sold on trusting his word.

Pipita’s thrilled. He had been moping around his house on his free days, ever since Real Madrid went out to Barcelona during the semi-finals of the Champions League. He had come home and smashed his FIFA game with a hammer the first weekend and Karim had spent two days feeding Pipita and nursing him back into some semblance of human. For the first time in weeks, he sounds genuinely happy.

“Really? Hey, can I come? Can Sergio come? Sergio really wants to come, I think you should say yes and let Sergio come.”

Karim snorts.

“When have I ever had a choice in the matter?”

“Never.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I’m not,” Pipita says. “I’m clarifying.”

“Want to clarify over dinner?” Karim asks. He has leftovers in his refrigerator he needs to get rid of and he has since learned that Pipita is a veritable disposal for any and all foods.

“Are you feeding me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I’m not,” Pipita says. “I’m clarifying.”

They decide to come on a Friday. Sergio lounges on Karim’s couch for a full hour while Pipita makes the most elaborate breakfast known to man and Karim tries not to choke on his protein shake from nerves.

“When you become a famous rapper, can I say that I knew you first?” Sergio asks lazily. He’s flipping through the channels, legs dangling off the couch. “Don’t forget the little people, asshole, make sure to take me clubbing.”

“Does he ever think of anything else?” Karim asks Pipita. The Argentine shrugs, incredibly intent on making the perfect Spanish omelet. Karim cranes his head over toward his couch. “Do you ever think of anything else?”

“Nope,” is Sergio’s response as he continues and stops on Animal Planet to watch a morning special on puppies. “Remember what I said. My career ends when I hit thirty-four, I’m going to need someone to mooch off of.”

Karim downs his drink and winces from the aftertaste.

“And your solution is me.”

“You’re French, but you’ll do,” Sergio gives a thumbs up from the couch.

“Who’s the asshole now?”

“Mmm,” is Sergio’s response. He grins at puppies rolling around on the ground together. “Still you.”

Karim drives them both in his Audi-he had decided, at the end of his lease, that he liked his model so much that he wanted to buy it-cutting through Madrid traffic easily now. He gets to the studio in plenty of time. He cuts the engine and parks in a spot designated for recording artists.

“Fucking fancy,” Sergio lets out a low whistle as the three of them climb out of the car. They enter the building and Eva has to keep herself from visibly rolling her eyes.

Karim gives her a small smile-they’ve made peace, him and Eva. Every once in a while, she’ll even give him simple directions and a half-smile that isn’t completely sardonic. It doesn’t happen often, but they’re a work in perpetual progress.

Sergio eyes her appreciatively and even Eva looks somewhat interested, so Karim hastens them toward the elevators as fast as he can. Pipita doesn’t seem to have noticed, although the way his hand encircles Sergio’s wrist tells Karim otherwise. He’s still waiting for Pipita to admit their relationship to him, but he supposes being a gay footballer is even more taboo than being a gay rapper, so Karim waits and never addresses it.

They find the sound booths easily and Karim taps on the window of his usual one. Mesut is concentrating on another artist, but he looks back and smiles when he sees Karim. He gives a short little wave before returning to his duty at hand. They walk through the hallways to the mixing studio, which is just down the hallway from Iker’s office.

“What’s that?” Sergio asks, typically. He peers around Karim’s shoulder at the engraved gold plaque across the hallway.

“Iker Casillas’ office,” Karim says. Pipita’s eyes widen just as Sergio lets out a low whistle.

“The Iker Casillas? Santo de la Música? Fuck, he signs the best new artists. What are you doing here?” Sergio asks. Pipita nudges his side. Karim rolls his eyes. “What are the chances Niña Pastori’s going to walk in? Is my hair okay? Should I fix it?”

“Work on your personality first,” Karim smirks.

Sergio pointedly ignores him and sets about fixing his hair. The door to the mixing studio opens and, much to Karim’s surprise, it isn’t Khedira, but Iker himself who emerges.

They meet at the door, blinking in surprise.

“Karim, we were just running through your tracks,” Iker says, extending his hand. Karim takes it to shake in greeting. “They sound good, although the last one needs a touch up. You taper off near the end of the third refrain.”

“Sure. I brought a few friends to listen. Is that okay?” he asks.

“As long as they don’t leak them,” Iker says with a smile. He’s not wearing plaid today, although there’s a signature scarf wrapped around his neck. His suit jacket is a little big on him and he’s still wearing jeans. He looks more composed than usual, which, Karim thinks, must mean he’s expecting another potential recording artist.

Iker adjusts his scarf particularly. Then he actually sees Pipita and Sergio.

Karim’s not sure who does the double-take first-Iker or Sergio. He thinks it’s simultaneous, the way Sergio’s eyes widen at the same time Iker’s mouth drops open. Next to them, Pipita looks pleased, but confused.

“Sergio Ramos and Gonzalo Higuaín?” Iker blinks. “These are your friends?”

“Not by choice,” Karim mutters. Pipita shoves a finger against his side and he tries his best not to squirm in front of his boss.

“You know who we are?” Sergio asks, coolly. He’s using that tone Karim hates, the tone that’s trying to be too smooth and ends up sounding particularly toolish. Karim rolls his eyes and this time, Pipita joins him. Sergio knows his answer already, he’s just fishing now.

“I’ve been a Madridista since I was born,” Iker smiles. It’s a bit nauseating, the diameter of Sergio’s smile. It’s not ungenuine and that’s possibly worse. Pipita stiffens next to Karim and Karim squeezes his elbow without thinking. “My grandfather’s a socio. I try to go to every game, but sometimes business takes me elsewhere.”

“Running the world of music stops for no man,” Sergio laughs. It’s charming. Pipita’s fingers find Karim’s and they squeeze so tightly that Karim feels his hand losing feeling at the tips.

“Not nearly as important as wearing that escudo,” Iker says with a smile. His eyes glint with feeling. He means it.

Sergio touches the place where Iker’s heart is. Iker looks surprised. Sergio touches people, it’s his way of connecting, Karim knows. Iker doesn’t. He blinks and Karim can see color creeping up his neck.

“It isn’t about wearing it,” Sergio says softly. He withdraws his hand and Karim thinks he can feel it himself.

Pipita turns his head, but he doesn’t miss the way Sergio and Iker look at one another.

june 2011.

It happens almost too fast for him to realize it. It’s a text message in the morning, a text message at night, a phone call in the afternoon when he’s bored. He keeps his phone in his front jacket pocket and when he’s in the studio and it vibrates against his chest, he knows it isn’t Pipita or Sergio or even Iker.

“Tu n’as pas répondu.” «You didn’t answer.» Yoann’s voice is sharp and bitter on those occasions when Karim can’t answer because he’s re-recording or taking an interview with a magazine.

“Je travaillais.” «I was working» Karim answers, apologetically. He has no reason to apologize, but he feels bad anyway. Something twists in his chest, but Yoann is never forgiving about it.

He flickers between happiness and nausea. It’s a familiar feeling, a tug-of-war between what he wants, what he thinks he wants, and what he gets. One day, he logs onto his Facebook. He has thousands of mentions from fans, but what he sees is a message, a simple one, from Yoann to Samir. He feels it again, that hot, debilitating swoop that cripples his ability to think. He almost deletes his Facebook.

He doesn’t. Instead, he tells Pipita to change his password for him. Pipita does and never asks why.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Pipita asks one day. It’s the beginning of June and his flight home is the next day. They spend the day lounging around Karim’s house, alternating between playing FIFA and picking at what food is left in Karim’s fridge.

Pipita gets restless and suggests they go for a walk. It’s nice outside, so Karim doesn’t mind. Pipita wears a graphic t-shirt of a Hollywood legend he’s never watched, a shirt he borrowed from Sergio. Karim wears a gold chain around his neck because he thinks he’s funny.

“We both look like assholes,” Pipita says as they pass a young mother pushing her baby in a carriage.

“It’s probably something we should just embrace,” Karim grins. He stops them both just outside of the park and takes out his phone. He’s terrible at this, but he tells Pipita to lean in close.

He takes the picture on the count of three. Pipita’s face is half out of the frame, but is covered by an enormous smile anyway. His arm is around Karim’s shoulder. Karim’s holding his fingers up in a peace sign. His head is almost tilted back onto Pipita’s shoulders. He purses his lips, although he looks like he’s going to laugh. He always looks like he’s going to laugh with Pipita.

He posts it to his Facebook account without thinking.

Bonjour, hola, hello, salam. Avec mon bon ami, Gonzalo Higuaín ou “Pipita”.

He doesn’t really think much of it until he receives a text.

From: Yoann Gourcuff

“Juste” des amis, non? Bien essayé.
«“Just” friends, no? Nice try.»

It happens, just like that, an old familiar feeling, the panic at Yoann being angry at him, for whatever reason. Karim breathes in harshly through his nose, covers his face with his hands while Pipita rolls the football they’ve been playing with to a stop.

He looks at Karim sympathetically.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Pipita asks. “It’s Yoann.”

Karim runs a hand over the smooth skin of his head. He shakes his head, but his body says it anyway.

“Hey, Benz?” Pipita says. Karim looks up just as Pipita flicks the ball up in the air. He catches it with his foot and lets it down gently on the ground. Karim shakes his head, but Pipita shrugs. He lets out a low sigh and stretches his arms above his head.

“I like Sergio more than he likes me,” Pipita says with a sad smile. He passes the ball to Karim and Karim catches it with the tip of his shoes, just like he used to when he played. “Your turn.”

before.

They grow up. Isn’t that how the story always goes? Samir comes back and Yoann becomes even more devastatingly beautiful and they grow up. Karim stops attending football, but Samir and Yoann don’t. It’s a joke that they have with each other, a bond over the love of a sport Karim loves too, just not as much. They’re still Les Trois Mosquetaires, but the smile Yoann gives Samir and the smile Samir gives Yoann is different from what they share with him.

Yoann never sleeps with Samir, but Karim doesn’t think it’s for lack of wanting to.

Both Yoann and Samir are called up into the first team at Lyon. They’re ecstatic. Of course they’re ecstatic. They’re happy and they’re drunk on Yoann’s porch. Samir laughs and leans into Yoann and Yoann’s hand finds its way onto Samir’s back. He’s drunk enough to not notice, at first, but then Yoann slips his hand under Samir’s shirt. He laughs, uncomfortably, and then picks himself off the porch.

When he tells Karim and Yoann that he has to call his girlfriend, Karim knows from the way Yoann looks-stricken and completely hurt-that he hadn’t known either.

Samir stumbles away and Yoann looks at the lines in his palms, as though just by willing, he can change them to read something else.

Karim puts a hand on Yoann’s shoulder and this time, he’s the one who whispers in Yoann’s ear.

“Vien avec moi.”
«Come with me.»

Yoann’s parents aren’t home-they’re never home-so they don’t make it up to his bedroom. They fuck against the stairs and Yoann pounds into him hard, makes the stairs dig into Karim’s back until he’s bruising and nearly crying out from pain. Yoann’s the one with the wet face, though, so Karim lets him take his body, abuse it the way he needs to and when his body goes limp on top of Karim’s own, Karim strokes his hair and lets Yoann breathe in heavily against his neck. Karim presses a kiss to Yoann’s hair and Yoann shakes his head and jerks away.

He knows then, but it doesn’t stop him.

It never stops him, and that’s the entire problem.

Samir moves back to Manchester, but this time for good. He transfers to Manchester City, a team he had a one-year love affair with, so many years ago but never forgot. Yoann is heartbroken. He’s not a teenager anymore and self-destruction is out of the question, but he’s gay and he’s heartbroken and for a famous football player, that almost amounts to the same thing.

Karim manages to start his own career. He has talent, just like Yoann said he did, and it’s not hard work, charming audiences with his music. He feels alive when he’s in front of the crowd, when he’s belting out lyrics like they come to him naturally, which they do. He feels an energy deep inside, he grows bigger than himself so fast he can barely keep up.

But there’s always Yoann, and that’s the entire problem.

It doesn’t happen fast and quick. It happens slowly, in excruciating progression, until Yoann has complete control of his heart and body and Karim doesn’t remember how to breathe on his own anymore. He has a house in Lyon and a house in Paris and concerts in multiple cities in between on the weekends. Yoann has games during the week and on most Saturdays. They barely see each other and it’s like a knife twisting in Karim’s gut. He craves Yoann, waits for his phone call, sits in his hotel room with his hands covering his face and barely listens when Samir calls to talk to him.

He’s in love, he realizes, and it’s the hardest fucking thing because Yoann is too, just not with him.

Samir comes back home for the holidays one year and Yoann stops calling Karim for an entire month. They barely speak, let alone fuck. Karim thinks, this is the end of a relationship, and Yoann says, it never was one.

They’re at a Christmas party at the Nasri household when Karim sees Yoann catch Samir under mistletoe.

This time, Yoann moves forward. He catches Samir’s face in the palm of his hand, looks at him in a way that’s so familiar to Karim he can feel it in his toes. This time Samir hesitates, but doesn’t move away.

That’s when Karim knows.

He’s in love, Karim realizes, and it’s the hardest fucking thing, so he packs every single thing he owns, tells his parents, and moves to Madrid.

He never tells Yoann, but Yoann knows. Yoann always knows.

PART II