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It’s the first morning in May of Trent's summer-break. It feels exactly the same as almost every other summer break before international duty, like there’s too much time and too little activity.
The first day isn’t so bad. His brother comes over, they order take-out and binge-watch The Office. The next morning, they drive the dogs to Otterspool and walk along the promenade and Trent breaks his diet for the first time in months with a bag of chips from a standing caravan. He gets home and shuts himself into his house again— there’s little to do other than watch telly and feel the world spin around him. On the third day, Trent calls over his hair-dresser, gets a fresh fade in his living room, does two loads of laundry.
Jude texts him, Andy too. He feels ungrateful when he ignores the messages and sloths out on the sofa with the puppies. It’s a Sunday though, so he does Sunday things.
By the evening, he’s back against the washing machine, phone in hand. He can feel it whirling behind him noisily. Lots of unanswered phone-calls and text messages. He flicks through them— falling to one from Dominik.
Are you okay? It reads. Then, I could come over. I don’t fly until tomorrow morning.
It feels a little bit too much like giving in to his vices, but he calls him anyway.
“Trent?” Trent stays quiet, biting at a hang-nail on his finger. He can hear the rumble of Dominik’s engine in the background.
“Are you driving?”
“Yes,” Dominik says. “On blue-tooth, though. Do not worry.”
“Here?”
“I want to come and see you,” Dominik concedes, in that lovely way he does. “You weren’t answering my calls. I was worried.”
“You have a flight tomorrow,” Trent says back.
Dominik laughs. “You called me back.” He phrases it like a question, putting the ball in Trent’s court. He always does that. Making it seem like it’s Trent’s decision so that he feels less guilty.
Trent stares at his kitchen cupboard, frowning. “How far are you?”
“Navigation says twenty minutes.”
Trent swallows, hating how much those words relax him immediately and make him imagine that Dominik’s already here with him. Holding him up, warming him up, surrounding him. Making the house far less empty.
“Hurry up then,” he blurts out, at the same time as Dominik says, “I might get a speeding ticket for this.”
They both laugh, and it feels good.
Are you going to sleep here? Trent almost asks, but he stops himself. There’s no point staring a gift-horse directly in the mouth. Cuts the call, stands up to switch on the television so he can stare at the security cameras.
They’re in Trent’s kitchen not half-an-hour later. Dominik is cooking dinner, making use of Trent’s flashy yet hardly used appliances. They’ve done this before— Dominik choosing to drive to the Marks and Spencers only a mile away to pick up red-peppers and tomato paste and pasta. Dominik’s always very excited about this part. Trent prefers to watch, prefers not to think too much about how domesticated the whole thing is. About how Dominik knows that the pots and pans are in the second drawer to the left of the fridge or that the fancy tap pulses out piping hot water if you press it down twice.
His ex-girlfriend knew all of these things too. Mainly because she was the one who organised it all.
“You like the paprika?” Dominik asks.
Dominik’s unco-ordinated in the kitchen, sort of like he’s just making things up as he goes along. Trent supposes it’s gross that he finds it so endearing. There’s little elegance, little show— nothing like when he’s been in the presence of a lover in the past and there’s that underlying pretence of trying.
“Huh?”
Dominik’s looking at him, holding the wooden spoon up to his mouth. A splat of red lands on his white t-shirt.
“My mother’s recipe,” he says, watching Trent have a taste. “I used less. Didn’t know if you would like it as much.”
Trent frowns. “Trying to say I can’t handle the spice?”
He swallows and hums. It’s good, warming. Like those recipes you imagine the mum to make in those cheesy Christmas films when the children are sick with the flu and it’s snowing outside.
Dominik tuts softly. “Always take things to heart.”
“No I don’t.”
They move to the couch, switch on the television. They sit thigh-by-thigh, Trent thinks about how comfortable everything feels despite the heavy thumping of his heart which hasn’t stopped since they lost the league.
“Did you ever think we’d win it?” Dominik asks quietly after a few minutes.
“No,” Trent says. He stirs the sauce about in his plate. “It feels like that time we almost clinched it. Didn’t ever think it was gonna happen, to be fair.”
Dominik’s looking at him from his peripheral vision. “Really? Because I thought we might.”
“Well,” Trent says, wanting to hurriedly move the topic on. “Can’t turn back time, can we?”
Dominik’s face cracks, a cheeky look. “Are you always like this?”
Trent blinks. “Like what?”
Dominik smirks, but it’s more cute than sensual. A chink in Trent’s armour. “A sore loser.”
Trent throws a cushion at his face.
Dominik ducks. The plate wobbles on his lap and he grabs the cushion, holds it in front of him. “Gonna fight me?"
Dominik’s very different to all of the girlfriends he’s had in the past: there’s less questions, less answers. Dominik usually knows how Trent’s feeling because he’s experiencing it all himself. The ups and the downs that come with trodding off the field knowing you tried your best but in the end it was worthless.
His girlfriends never knew that. They always framed it like, there’s next season or you should be happy with what you’ve achieved so far. It was always followed by something soppy and meaningless— like sex could ever fill the hole left behind. Sometimes Trent thinks there’s not enough rationality in the world at all to make up for the way athletes feel when they’ve let things slip. The rationality never helped anyway— especially now, when he’s warm all over, the man on the other end of the couch reading him so well and yet not choosing to do anything about it just yet.
“If that’s what you’re asking for Dom, I’ll waste you,” Trent says with challenge, and if it was Mortal Kombat then yes, Dominik would be on the floor, writhing for Trent to go easy on him.
“Oh yeah?” Dominik grins wide and white, moving to put his plate on the coffee table, opening up his body so Trent can either push a foot to his chest or wrap around him.
“I will, promise you,” Trent knows he’s goading now, grin matching Dominik’s ever-widening one.
Trent falls into the wrestle, and the worries don’t fall away completely but he forgets about them for a second. It’s just him and Dominik, rolling around, acting stupid. Turning warm and breathless, bony elbows digging into soft parts of their flesh. It feels like those times back in secondary school except Trent’s much older, learning to be less reserved, a picture of a twenty-five year old man through a window on the floor with a grown man pushing him into the carpet.
Trent’s a sore loser, if Dom wants to see Wrestle-mania then Trent won’t hesitate to give it to him. Dominik puts a firm hand to his chest, face covered in a laugh. “Going to give up yet?”
Trent wriggles, resignedly breathless. Dominik’s face is so open and like never-ending sunshine, telling Trent in unspoken words that he’s enjoying the position they’re in. “Never,” Trent breathes out. He can feel Dominik’s dick pressing into his thigh-bone, already semi-stiff, but there’s no immediate need to do anything about it just yet. “Try harder.”
“Suit yourself.” Dominik doubles down, the coffee table shakes. Trent chokes out a laugh.
They make tea after, a proper brew: a splash of semi-skimmed milk and half a teaspoon of sugar. Trent’s got sore, worked out muscles from Dominik pressing down on top of him; sporting a softening semi from when their lips and groins met.
“I’m gonna make you love it eventually,” Trent says, flinging the tea-bag NBA style into the automatic bin on the other end of the kitchen. It lands with a splat against the plastic.
Dominik pulls a face, leaning up against the counter on his elbows. “The only people in the world who drink tea like addicts are the British. Everyone else is normal. Coffee is normal.”
“China,” Trent supplies, thoughtfully. Rain starts to pelt against the skylights in the kitchen, hard and heavy, long drips racing against each other on the glass. It makes Trent think of driving back from training when he was a kid, mud-stained and parched, fingers pressed to the window as he sought out the winner. “Don’t lie, if you were still in the Bundesliga you’d wanna be here instead?"
“For the weather?” Dominik points out cleverly.
“It don’t rain in Hungary?” Trent takes a sip, burns the tip of his tongue. Dominik’s turned over, back to the counter, staring up at the skylight.
“Not in summertime,” Dominik says, turning to look at him. “Romantic, is it not? The rain?”
Trent licks his bottom lip. “That what you want, yeah? Romance.” Usually there’s very little talking before they head up to bed, the routine so played out and normalised all it takes is a look or a well-placed touch. The night’s consisted of cold pasta, warm wrestles, hot brews: maybe in a rom-com this would be a cutesy montage.
“I miss it sometimes,” Dominik says. “Do you not?”
“Dates?” Trent presses. Dominik doesn’t understand, so Trent re-words to make it a joke. “Like dinner or something? A picnic in the park, rose-petals on hotel bed-sheets.”
Dominik shrugs. “You used to that?” Dominik asks in all seriousness, picking up his tea, taking a small sip. Trent matches him. “With your past missus?”
Trent’s own tea spills awkwardly out of the corner of his mouth. Both at Dominik’s terrible learned slang and the implication of the sentence. “Are you?” Trent coughs, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Not the picnics,” Dominik says, and then he grins lopsidedly. Nodding to himself as if remembering some faraway memory he’s not yet shared. “Had a few rose-petals stuck up my arse at one time.”
“Christ,” Trent whispers. He turns back to his tea, burning up on the inside. “Don’t wanna hear about your past escapades lad.”
They don’t date. They never have. There’s no time in the latter-half of a season for anything more than drives to and from training, hooked ankles in the cafeteria, a raised eyebrow for the delegation of who’s bed they might spend the Saturday night in. Trent never cared for the routine parts of relationships with Dominik.
Dominik puts his tea back on the counter, leans his head over on his shoulder. “Makes you jealous?”
Fuck.
Absurdly, Trent feels like laughing, so he does. It’s so awkwardly provocative. Dominik’s eyes are dark and glossy. His chest feels like it’s burning after a thousand press-ups. The ball back in his court.
Trent circles the rim of his cup with a finger, catching Dominik’s gaze as it looks over. It’s less than subtle, less than sexy with a mug half-full of tea but it still receives the desired effect. “Feels a little overdue.”
They barely make it to the bed, and Trent’s suddenly glad he left half of the pasta to go cold on the coffee table because he thinks he’d feel sick with adrenaline on a full stomach. Dominik lays him out on the sheets, undone from the morning, stripping him off his shirt, kissing promises into the skin of his stomach. “Where,” he breathes out, and then, “When.”
“Don’t care,” Trent says, arching up into the warmth of his mouth as it ghosts over the outline of his dick.
Dominik presses down on his thighs to get them to still, looks up at him through dark lashes. “I think somewhere fancy, do you not? We can afford it.”
“Fuck,” Trent says, watching Dominik lay out the flat of his tongue against the material of his joggers, wetting them in a way which is rather nasty. “Dom.”
It’s been over a week since they last were able to do this, and that time itself had been rushed. In between Villa and Wolves. Little grace and little care, hands awkwardly shoved down trousers to get each other off in the backseat of someone’s car— Trent’s rather desperate.
“Tell me?” Dominik shakes his head, using his fingers to distract Trent again by pulling his briefs down to his knees. “I do not know where, you’ll have to tell me.”
“Get on with it,” Trent begs mindlessly, kicking out his legs over Dom’s shoulders to encourage his slow, teasing movement downwards. He can’t think of anywhere— mind full of memories of Dominik’s warm, wet mouth interspersed with him in a tux buttoned up to the throat. It’s far too seductive and appealing of a thought-process to allow him proper brain-space for the question at hand.
“Shall I use google then?”
Trent grits his teeth, feeling Dominik lean down to lick up a bead of pre-come from the head of his dick. “I don’t care, you, just— suck me. Please."
The night melts afterwards into sounds and touches, but Dominik still refuses to let the ball go from between his teeth. Seems to suit him, really, this consistent question and dogging of answers from Trent. He gets like this sometimes, overcome with a one-track mind when it comes to something he wants. They probably wouldn’t be in this position if Dominik wasn’t.
It’s only when they’re both breathless against the sheets that Trent strings together a coherent sentence again.
“A date?”
“Yeah,” Dominik affirms, mumbling into Trent’s mouth. He moves down over his throat, even though both of their dicks are fast asleep and soft. “I think it’s time, do you not?”
“I guess.” Trent hisses softly when the hair on Dom’s thighs brushes against him in oversensitivity. He leans into the foolishness of the moment, because it’s right there. He can see a spot of his come on Dominik’s chin and the inside of his chest is warm. “Gonna treat me nice, yeah. Pick me up and that? Carry me over the threshold.”
Dominik smiles, lifts his head. His hand reaches round to dig his fingers into Trent’s bum, deriding in a way which is less offensive than it should be. “You the girl, then?’
The joke doesn’t fall flat but Trent withholds the laugh, choosing to glare instead. Dominik’s cute like this, so much so that Trent feels calm enough to resign himself to the mess of the situation he’s created for himself. Even in the haze of losses unsurmountable, he’ll take the small victories. And besides— Dominik is Dom. What Trent sees is what he gets and he’s learning to love it for what it is.
“Sure,” Trent says, bitterly.
*
Dominik hasn’t been on a date in over a year. It’s been a while— Liverpool’s not the type of city where he feels naturally romantic, it seems much more suited to hook-ups. The sky is grey, the water is misty-brown, the accents he hears when him and Trent venture outside are harsh and funny on the ear. Saxony was sort of romantic, he guesses, with its galleries and museums and old cobble stoned pathways.
But they're not in Saxony, they’re in Liverpool. So Dominik’s back at square one.
Trent’s nothing like the girl’s he took on dates back then. Dominik’s seen Trent in all of the dishevelled and revealing ways he supposes you’re not meant to see before a first date: sweaty and blurry-eyed, laid out on Dominik’s bed with sticky stuff between his legs. Maybe Dominik’s conservative at heart, maybe he wants to treat it like a real first date, like those you take with that girl you’ve been keeping at arms length for weeks because the thought of seeing her that first time makes your heart pump wildly.
He brings this up to Trent when they first see each other after the break. Not the girl-part, of course, Dominik’s got enough of a read on Trent to envision the reaction out of him.
“Liverpool can be romantic if you want it to be. Like any other place,” Trent replies. He doesn’t look away from the road. “Sorry it don’t compare to them oldie European towns.”
Trent changes the music in the car. It’s something he’s used to hearing in the training gym; rapping beats and Northern accents. Trent flexes his hands, the veins popping in his arms for a moment underneath the skin. Hands Dominik’s already had wrapped around his dick, large enough he could almost mistake them for his own.
Dominik bites the inside of his cheek, thinks for the second time that Trent’s not a girl. Dominik doesn’t want Trent to be a girl. He pulls out his phone, glances down, “What about The Art School?”
“Art School?” Trent echoes with a low laugh. “That real fancy joint near Sefton Park?”
Dominik doesn’t know where it is exactly, but it came up in the google search when he typed in expensive restaurants for first dates, followed belatedly by the words, private and romantic.
“Might be a stretch,” Trent follows up with, as they pull up into Dominik’s underground parking garage. “Can’t play it off as a dinner between teammates at a restaurant that intimate.”
They don’t talk about it for the rest of the evening, getting lost in the routine rigmarole of catch-up after most of the summer apart. They skip through the most awkward parts of the conversation, Trent obviously avoidant whenever Dominik tries to bring up international duty. Sometimes it’s like pulling blood from a stone with Trent, but Dominik finds that this is the part he enjoys the most. Watching Trent get comfortable and lay all his cards on the table with him, one by one, as if he’s got a bad hand.
Trent’s never had a bad hand, Dominik thinks. He could take the floor out from under him with his master plan and Dominik would let him.
They’re half a glass of wine into the night, Trent loosened up enough to ramble about his trip to Dubai with Jude in a few weeks, when Dominik brings it up again.
“Would it be your first time?”
“What,” Trent says. “In Dubai? Nah, did some recovery there for a bit a few years ago—“
“A date,” Dominik cuts him off, watching as Trent pauses in his movement to reach for the remote control. He licks his bottom lip, prepares himself, “With a man. Would it be your first time?”
Trent doesn’t react badly, but he does look away. “Yeah, would be that. Can’t say the opportunity came up before.” He doesn’t sound upset about it.
“No-one asked you before?” It’s a little flirty, a little suggestive. Trent’s so gorgeous Dominik would be surprised if he’s the only one who’s had a taste of him like that. Delving into the past isn’t something they’ve ever done before, because it often feels like he’s testing the limitations of Trent’s openness.
Trent shoots him a look, and then softens, changes track with, “It won’t be a normal date, you know that right. We can’t.”
Dominik knows, of course he does. Football’s got the same stance on LGBT as it does on racism: purely performative. It’s a completely pointless and roundabout discussion, instead Dominik thinks about opening the door for Trent on a date. If he’d appreciate flowers or if he’d scoff clumsily. About the fact that he knows absolutely nothing about how the two of them would work outside of the confines of four walls or the boundary lines of a pitch.
“Would you want it?” Dominik leaves out the, with me?
“If you want,” Trent shrugs. It's leaving the door-open just a touch enough that Dominik thinks about it for the rest of the night.
*
Sometimes Trent wishes dating was a bit more like playing football or chess. Planning ahead to disorganise and break the defence, seeing the whole view of the pitch or the board from above and creating gaps and enticing plays. It’s all a mental game, and Trent’s good at that, mainly because at the end of it, whether he won or lost, he can walk-away from the field of play and leave most of it behind. Dating is different. Mainly because, at the end of it, the other party looks over at you and expects you to tell them what’s next? Yours or mine? Again or never again? Now or later?
Him and Dominik have gone for dinner before, with the team, with friends, by themselves. There's very little change to their usual dynamic when it happens. Conversation flows easily with drink and food. A date is different. It means expectations. It either lies in the way of cheesy or pretentious, and Trent really doesn't want to shake up the routine so much he feels out of control.
“Do you like flowers?”
Trent waits for a beat, as if Dominik’s going to laugh or something, but then he looks over his shoulder at Dominik on the couch next to him, face a representation of only the purest form of curiosity.
“Flowers?” Trent asks, raising a brow. “Are you serious right now?” He carries on what he’s doing: organising the pawns, rooks, knights, and bishops. Ready to obliterate Dominik on the next round; claw back some of that self-respect he feels is falling through his hands through the continuation of this conversation. “You ready to go again?"
“I am serious,” Dominik says, with a small frown between his brows. “Do you not like them—“
“Taking this romance thing a bit too far I think,” Trent interrupts quickly over the strange feeling in his gut as he looks down at Dominik’s phone in his lap, a google search of florists in the West Derby area.
“Wow,” Dominik says. “Did it catch a nerve there?”
Sometimes Trent feels like a robot living in a human-world. Feeling human emotions for the very first time.
Trent glares, cheeks hot. “You’re getting on my nerves,” he moves the board closer to Dominik, claps a hand on his knee. “Play, come on.”
*
They play two-touch in Trent’s back-garden the next morning. The sun is hot and Trent’s wearing a vest-top which shows off his newly gained tan from a week laying out on a yacht off the Persian Gulf. The conversation hasn’t landed on the topic Dominik’s wanted it to yet and Trent seems pretty well-versed in the art of avoidance. They pass the ball back and forth with precision for the first half-an-hour, to knees, shins and calfs, until Trent’s gets over competitive and calls for skins versus shirts so they can practice defensively.
There’s a moment when Trent loses the ball to Dominik and they’re both pressed up against the goal-post, Dominik’s foot stuck on the ball between Trent’s thighs, Trent squeezing them closed so he can’t move forwards or backwards. Two warm bodies welded together without a hair between them. In so many ways this is the most romantic Liverpool’s felt to Dominik this whole time: in Trent’s back-garden, their plates from breakfast left on the porch, his scrappy British rap filtering outside from the television, a ball at their feet for no reason other than pure serotonin.
He wants this all the time. Plus the flowers. All the flowers. Because Trent deserves them.
It’s probably not the most sensible time for Dominik to bring it up again because Trent can make him suffer with an elbow to the face, but he’s willing to try anyway.
Dominik hooks a hand around his hip to whisper in his ear. “You don’t like flowers then, is that what I should expect.”
Trent pauses, breath rattling so loud Dom can feel it against his chest. “You still on that?”
“Yeah,” Dominik says, letting a slow grin come up over his face. “It’s our first-date, I think I’m allowed to want it to be special.”
“That’s not special, that’s pure cheese mate.”
“You talk about it as if it annoys you already,” Dominik says, and he’s wrestling closer, wrapping Trent up in his arms to get him to slip off the ball. Trent’s cleats dig deeper in the mud and his hand comes to clasp the post to keep his balance. “You are leaving me in the dark with these things.”
“That is so stupid,” Trent whispers, voice coming out low enough that Dominik feels like he’s made an impact. He shrugs back against Dominik, shoulders lifting up into Dom’s chin but not making any more moves away. “What’s a bunch of flowers got to do with a date anyway?”
“It’s got lots to do with it,” Dominik says, finally letting up on the ball because his leg’s getting cramp and easing away. They’ve both got a sheen of sweat along their foreheads and upper-lips and Trent looks more wayward that Dominik’s seen him all day; ran ragged in a way that only Dominik can manage in bed and not out on the pitch. “I only want to know what to expect,” he says as Trent bends to gather the ball, looking anywhere but at his face.
“You should expect dinner,” Trent says, finally looking at him in the eye. “It’s not either of our first rodeos now is it?”
Dominik's tongue feels thick in his throat when he says, "And?"
“We just go for dinner, innit. Treat it like normal."
“So, you don’t want the flowers?” Dominik finishes rather stupidly. His mind races with a thousand thoughts a second at the vision of Trent wiping his forehead sweat with the back of his hand. Nefarious thoughts too dirty for the middle of a day in July.
“I don’t want flowers, man,” Trent huffs softly, kicking the ball back at him so it touches the tips of his toes. He stands back with his hands on his knees in front of goal, tipping his head to the side. “Are we gonna go again, or is this you distracting me from the inevitable?”
Whatever the inevitable is, Dominik doesn’t understand. It makes Dominik question whether taking both him and Trent outside of this little bubble they’ve created for themselves would do more harm than good. It’s not been easy this whole time to get Trent on side, Dominik’s had to work harder than most, navigating the valleys of his open-closed personality to get a modicum of information.
Any day now, and he’ll slip up for the worst. So like all those post-match conversations where Trent flicks the tip of his ear until it turns cherry-red and mumbles, “Not a hill worth dying on lad,” Dominik decides to let it lie.
“Yeah,” Dominik says, unconsciously mirroring his position. “We can go again.”
Trent smirks at him. “Come on then? Come at me, give me your best.”
*
If Trent’s learned anything about playing football all these years it’s that a man’s mood can be switched in an instant, and the marker of a good player, at the very least, is the ability to keep it all under control until the whistle blows. On the pitch, it’s usually easy to manage— a swift tug on the back off a shirt, a pull away from the scrummage, a few words of bullshit wisdom. Maybe being vice-captain has actually done him some good because he’s generally better at controlling other people’s emotions. Off the pitch though, Trent’s not so great at it.
They’re three days into pre-season in the US when Trent figures that Dominik’s definitely trying his hardest to avoid them being left alone in a room together. It started somewhere after their tussle in the garden and touching down at their hotel in LA. Mind you, Trent likes the subtle quiet of the beginning of pre-season, he likes that everything’s light and easy without the pressure of points and mid-week games. Yes, Klopp’s gone, yes, Virgil’s back is a little straighter when he’s doing his motivational speeches, and yes, Trent’s sort of inside of his own head about the new season already. It’s life, though, he can’t re-build the bridges that have already been burnt.
Trent tries on the fourth day, ambushing Dominik outside of his and Cody’s hotel-room before breakfast with a hard flick of his finger against the bone next to his ear, “What’s up with you, then? Not seen much of you these past few days.”
“Ouch.” Dominik holds his ear and blows out a breath. “What did you do that for.”
“Because you’ve been ignoring me since we got here,” Trent says, grinning wide, half hoping he won’t have to try very hard to shake Dominik out of his state.
“It’s not on purpose,” Dominik says. “I am very tired after yesterday.”
“Can’t be tired with Cody as your roommate,” Trent says, bumping shoulders with Dominik as they walk towards the elevator. “Showered at eight, asleep by nine. Can’t fool me with that.”
“I stayed up.” Dominik pushes the button for the elevator, and Trent notices how close they are but Dominik doesn’t make any moves to get closer. “My mother called me, she doesn’t know the time difference here.”
“Taking your mum to bed instead of me, huh,” Trent says, trying for a laugh to get Dominik out of his funk, making the decision to touch him first. Dominik’s shoulders are tense when his fingers dig into the flesh. He leans in close to whisper in his ear just as the doors slide open. “I know I’m a jealous guy but that’s a little much.”
“That’s horrible,” is all Dominik gripes, pulling a face which doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Trent snorts, expecting Dominik to lean back into his touch. He doesn’t.
They spend the rest of the day dancing around one another, and Trent does his best to meet Dominik win for win. When Dominik avoids him in training, Trent sits next to Andy on the coach back to the hotel. When Dominik squeezes himself between Darwin and Alexis during dinner, Trent neglects to make him a post-meeting brew. When Dominik goes up to bed early, Trent stays up later than he’d like to play table-tennis with Mo. It’s a game he hasn’t played with Dominik before and he finds that he plays it well.
But it’s exhausting, too. He feels like he’s in a marathon race, expecting to turn and see the nearest competitor two steps behind him, only to be shocked by the appearance of them two steps in front.
*
The next morning it rains, and it strikes Trent like a bolt of lightning as he watches the drops race against each other against the coach-glass. This talk of flowers and romance. To Trent it had all felt like a jokey conversation made so Dominik could get a rise out of him in the heat of the moment. To Trent it all felt a little too predictable and inauthentic; he wasn’t one of Dominik’s girls back in Hungary, he didn’t need wining and dining.
Maybe half of it lies in the part of him that grew up in Liverpool where stuff like that between two men still isn’t acceptable in modern society, maybe the other half lies in the fact that Trent’s still getting used to being treated softly by another person. Like he matters.
Dating in the traditional romantic sense was something Trent pushed to the side when he and Dominik got together. It was the easiest and most convenient entanglement Trent’s had thus far. As far as Trent was concerned, as long as they were only sleeping with each other, the formality and the expectations could be left to the wayside.
There was enough of it in football, he didn’t need it with Dominik either.
It strikes him for the second time as he steps into the lobby of their hotel after training and spots a bunch of flowers at reception. Predictably, and nauseatingly, bright-red roses, like they could be any more stereotypical. Trent’s not very imaginative; he’s a simple lad. Hates the fuss and the pompous of sucking up to someone to get something out of it.
That’s why it’s so strange now—similar to the time after the season ended and he got over himself just to have Dominik back in his space again—how badly he’s willing to get over himself just to make Dominik happy.
As one of the training team is chatting to the receptionist, he steps over and pinches a flower from under their noses, feeling the petals come apart as he stuffs it into his jacket pocket. He’s strolling down the upstairs corridor when he spots Dominik jamming his key-card into his door. Now is the time.
“Domi. Reckon you wanna sleep over if I get Virge to give me the room?”
Dominik gapes at him for a moment. “What?”
“Mine,” Trent says, pointing at his door to explain. “Tonight. Captain’s orders.”
Dominik’s eyebrows raise. “If he allows it.”
“I’ll get him to,” is all Trent says as he opens his own door. “Don’t worry about that.”
Trent wishes the next part was easier than this one.
*
“I didn’t know whether you’d like it,” Trent says quietly, half-embarrassed, as Dominik stands by the door-jamb after spotting the petals all over the bed. Some of them have already bled into the white sheets, and Trent’s going to have to ask for extra in the morning. Dominik’s face is a blank picture that Trent can’t yet read.
“You don’t like it?” Trent pushes.
Finally, Dominik breaks his serious look and grins wide, the upturned curl of his mouth widening until he’s heaving with laughter so loud it almost reverberates off the walls. Warmth flushes all over Trent until he’s almost a puddle of embarrassment.
“Fucking twat,” Trent says. “Made me think you wanted me to be romantic and that, then I try to be and—"
Dominik makes another aborted sniggering sound, before he stops. Trent pauses, then Dominik’s walking over— and before Trent can think any more Dominik’s got a hand on his hip and is manoeuvring him near the bed, kissing him.
Dominik lets out a little noise into Trent’s mouth— another quiet huff. “I like it,” he murmurs as he pulls back. His eyes are fevered and dilated, hair already a mess. “It’s cute, thank you. I like it a lot.”
“Yeah?” Trent asks. There’s probably a more rational way to approach the next step, but he chooses to tug on Dominik’s hips instead, pulling him closer. “Had Virgil rip me a new one and all for this.”
Dominik smirks. "You and your funny words."
"What?" Trent laughs.
"Rip a new one," Dominik parrots back at him, shaking his head. "If I didn't love the sound so much, I'd need a translator."
"So?" Trent tries, sitting down on the bed and pressing his fingers into the sheets. "Gonna reward me then or what?"
"I don't think it will be so romantic if we fuck right now," Dominik replies, and Trent curls a hand around his knee to bring him down onto the bed beside him. "But if you are asking me."
Trent pulls him forward into another kiss. "Didn't do the flowers for nothing, lad. Don't really embarrass me now."
Dominik laughs into his mouth. Before he's shrugging off his shirt, the subtle muscles in his arms flexing. His stupid new tattoo overlain with a patch of dark hair. Trent follows him, and shrugs off his own t-shirt. He can feel the petals rubbing along his back, probably staining everything horribly ruby-red.
Well, this is it. The romance Trent was trying so hard to avoid. Everything feels the same as before, except the ever-so slight blush of gratitude on Dominik's face is something to behold. He tries not to hope the sex will feel tinged by that same romance too; he'll get too much inside of his own head if Dominik slows the tempo down. The first time they fucked Trent thought things couldn't possibly get any better-- that Dominik managed to quieten down that big, beast of insecurity within him with laughter and a language he couldn't understand.
"We go slow?" Dominik asks, putting his hands into Trent's boxers to hold his dick. He licks his bottom lip. "We don't have to do the whole thing."
Trent shudders at the manipulation. "If you fucking dare."
Dominik answers only by pressing his own hips down onto Trent's. The press of it makes Trent dizzy, and he licks across the palm of his hand absurdly to pull Dominik out of his own briefs and jerk him off. Dominik swears in Hungarian and drops his head down; and the angle is awkward as they pull each other off, but it's good. When it gets too much, Trent makes a pleading sound.
He struggles to move, but Dominik's heavier than he looks and presses him deeper into the bed.
"Fuck, Dom," Trent whispers desperately. "Gonna come too soon if you carry on."
"You can," Dominik says, curling his fingers tighter so Trent hisses softly.
"No," Trent shakes his head, "like I said-- didn't do this for nothing, did I?" With his other hand he reaches over the sheets for the bottle of lube, scrambling at the godforsaken petals to grab it. Dominik laughs at him, it eases the tension, and forces out a laugh too, "stupid fucking petals."
"Made me do this with you," Dominik mumbles into his mouth, and then he's doing what Trent's been waiting for him to do all night, slicking up his fingers, spreading him open. Inserting them so that Trent lets out a low, keening hiss.
"Should've opened up the mini bar for a tequila shot," Trent pants. His teeth dig into Dominik's shoulder as he sets a rhythm with his fingers, curving inwards. The low burn settles in his stomach; familiar and unsettling. "Ah-- fuck. Hurry up."
"Slowly," Dominik mumbles again, and Trent wants to slap him upside the head for a delirious moment. But then Dom's wrapping his free hand around his own dick, spreading the lube, easing open Trent's thighs. "But I can go fast if you want that."
"Yeah," Trent bites out. "Fuck the romance, just-- fuck, yes. Christ, Domi."
It's a sweet burn when Dom finally pushes in, and already Trent knows neither of them are going to last very long. They never do when it's been a while between the two of them, and maybe Trent should've popped a bottle of champers to ease the tension because the flowers on the bed and the sappy romantic talk isn't doing him any justice. He can smell it all around them; sweet, floral, spicy-- like a bottle of red wine spilt all over the sheets. Mixing with the salty tang of sex and sweat.
At some point, Dominik loses all sense of English like he usually does. Mumbling words of encouragement or suggestions in Hungarian into the dip of Trent's throat. The only audible distinction is that they sound softer, and between the deep thrusts, something in Trent's gut twists uncomfortably. He has a feeling what they might mean, but he chooses not to linger on the thoughts too much.
When Dominik's hand wraps around his dick, slick with spit, Trent shudders and comes almost immediately. Without a doubt, the most shameful orgasm of his life so far. He clenches his eyes so tightly he sees stars, and then Dominik swears again, grunts something low and suggestive in his native language, coming inside of him. For a moment Trent lies there boneless, wishing he was drunk enough to pass out. It's like a chess match and he's waiting for the next move.
"Was that okay for you?" Is what he opens his eyes to, Dominik leaning above him. He's sweaty all over, hair in tight curls over his forehead. Unfairly gorgeous in the dim moonlight.
"Trent?" Dominik asks after a few moments of silence.
"Yeah," Trent breathes out. He clears his sore throat. "What about for you? Flowers did their trick then."
Dominik's face screws up. "It's not the flowers," Dominik says. "It's you."
Trent was expecting as much, but it still sends an unwarranted shiver up his spine. He pats Dominik on the back. "You're heavy, lad." Dominik rolls off of him, and they both lay there, in the torn up petals with the smell of sex and dirty sheets for a moment. It's far from romantic, far from what should be considered a post first-date love-making session. Trent's worn out but too keyed up to find sleep just yet. They're in the middle of the Nevada strip, both their alarms with bleep at six sharp, they have training tomorrow and Trent will have a sore arse to contend with the entire day.
"Gonna have petals up my arse in the morning."
"I can help."
Trent elbows Dominik in the funny bone.
Trent knows he could bring up the words he knows Dominik was mumbling and whispering during that round, but he chooses to take the coward's route out for the time being. This was enough; contending with his own inner turmoil to show appreciation for Dominik in a moment where it really mattered. The rest will come naturally. He's sure of it. Beggars can't be choosers and Trent's still getting comfortable day-by-day.
"We should go to the beach when we get back home," Trent eventually whispers.
"The beach?"
"Yeah," Trent says. "There's a promenade not far from me, I take the dogs all the time. It's a cute place for a first-date."
Trent can feel Dominik's grin pressing into the skin of his bicep, it's enough of an agreement that he settles off to sleep.