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The match seems to last forever. At first it feels normal. Better than normal, even.
They hit the ground running and dominate the game for the first twenty minutes, but at some point the thunder and the flashes of lightning drown out the cheering fans and the rain washes them all off the field, back to their locker rooms.
Flo hasn’t played yet, is not going to be subbed in until the second half of the game, so he is still mostly dry while his teammates are soaked to the bone, leaving wet trails on their way back through the tunnel. He sits in a corner, listening to the coach’s analysis of the game so far and keeps his hands tucked under his thighs to stop himself from biting his nails. It’s a nervous habit and he’s going to be nervous for quite a while longer, he knows. He will be fine the moment he steps onto the pitch, where he can move around and be active and play, but he wasn’t made to watch from the sidelines.
The coach concludes his speech with some encouraging words, urging them to keep going with the same energy. Then there’s a few minutes where they are left to their own devices while they wait for the go-ahead to get back on the pitch. His teammates are chatting and strategizing and drinking water and Flo gets dragged into a discussion between Jo and Nico about the pros and cons of VAR-technology when he feels someone deliberately bump into his shoulder. Hard.
It’s Jamal, walking past him and turning back to give him a big smile when Flo turns around in irritation.
Something happens, then, something that Flo still finds difficult to describe, even though it’s been happening more and more frequently since the tournament started.
It’s as if there’s an invisible rope tied around his rib cage, just a little bit too tight, so he never forgets that it’s there. And Jamal is holding the other end of the rope in his hands, giving it a tug every once in a while. Flo crosses the room without having to consciously move his legs until he is standing in front of Jamal, who is slumped against the wall. He gives Flo another smile, but it’s clear to see that he’s feeling restless, ready to get back into the game. He is still wearing his wet shirt and it’s clinging to his shoulders and collarbones.
Outside, there’s another crack of thunder.
„Flooo… Can you please make this stop?“ Jamal asks, when his teammate has stepped close enough so he doesn’t have to raise his voice.
„Sorry," Flo shrugs. „I’m not actually in control of the weather, you know?“
„Oh, you’re not?“ Jamal tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. „I guess I’ve been seriously overestimating you.“
„Maybe a little bit.“
They’re almost whispering, which is weird, because nobody’s close enough to listen in, not that they would care to.
They’re not even having a conversation, really, Flo thinks. They’re just saying any stupid shit that comes into their heads while standing a little bit too close. This has been happening more and more frequently as well.
„It’s okay,” Jamal decides, „You still have other talents.“
„Is that so?“ Flo looks up to meet his eyes and time stops for a second.
That’s one of Jamal Musiala’s many talents, he thinks. He can make time slow down and sometimes it stops completely while he’s surveying his surroundings and plotting a path through the opposing team's defense, accounting for a million shifting factors and probabilities and ending up exactly where he was meant to be. Maybe he does it for fun sometimes, as well. Maybe that’s why it feels as if they’ve been friends for so long, when that’s not actually the case. Maybe they’ve been spending years in between training sessions and plane rides and bus journeys, just playing FIFA and watching Netflix and staring at each other’s faces until they’ve memorized every minute detail. Maybe that’s why his chest hurts whenever they’re not together.
Jamal is now counting off Flo’s talents on his fingers.
„You’re good at table tennis, you always catch spiders and put them outside instead of killing them…“
„That’s not a talent!“
„There’s certain people on this team who would disagree!“ Jamal laughs. „Aaaaand I’ve heard you’re a decent football player, too.“
“So I’ve been told. Maybe I can show you some moves, if this fucking rain ever stops and I get a chance to play today.”
In that exact moment time starts again and someone yells for them to get ready to go back outside. The thunderstorm has passed and the rain has calmed down for now. Maybe Flo really does have powers that he wasn’t previously aware of.
The room explodes with noise and activity, everyone rushing to tie their shoes and readjust their shin guards and hunt for misplaced items.
Just like that, the nervousness and the excitement are back with a vengeance and Flo feels as if his bones are vibrating. He wants to run and can't help but be a bit jealous that Jamal gets to go back to playing right away, instead of biding his time on the bench.
“Let’s go!” He says and grabs Jamal’s shoulder, pulling his hand back when he realizes that he is still soaking wet.
“Put a dry shirt on, man!” He laughs, and Jamal is suddenly even closer than before. He grabs Flo and pulls him forcefully into a hug of sorts, keeps him pressed against his chest until he’s damp as well. They are so close that Flo cannot see anything but the skin behind Jamal's ear, cannot feel anything except his warm breath where it brushes the side of his face. He is aware that he probably shouldn’t like this as much as he does. Jamal is squeezing him too hard to be comfortable and he can feel both of their hearts beating much too fast.
In just a few seconds they will be back outside, in the real world, where the laws of physics reign supreme, where time is tracked and measured and split into tiny fragments, where all that matters is winning and losing.
“Fuck you!” He says, his voice a bit muffled from where he’s speaking into Jamal’s neck. “Now I’m wet, too.”
Jamal just hums in a way that makes it clear that this was exactly what he was hoping to achieve.
Still, Flo doesn’t make any effort to disentangle himself from Jamal’s long arms until the first of their teammates start filing out of the room. He pulls away and as soon as they’re not touching anymore, there’s cold air hitting his skin and all the noises in the room seem amplified, as if an invisible pair of earmuffs had been removed from his head.
He watches in a daze as Jamal changes his shirt in record time and feels a bit awkward, despite the fact that he’s seen him without a shirt more times than he can count.
When he’s ready to go, Jamal takes one last deep breath and his eyes dart around the room before settling on Flo. He looks very young in that moment, looks seventeen again, his eyes big and dark. He looks nervous.
Completely on impulse, without a thought in his head, Flo grabs his hand and squeezes it.
“You’ll score,” he promises. “You’ll score, and we’ll win.”
He says it with such confidence that Jamal doesn’t even talk back. Just nods his head and lets himself get pulled out of the room by his hand.
They’re still holding hands when they’re halfway down the corridor, but then the same realization seems to hit both of them at exactly the same second and they let go of each other, suddenly hyper-aware of all the people around them. They catch each other's eyes and both start laughing, only stopping when they walk up the stairs to the pitch.
Outside, the sky is still grey with rain clouds, and their opponents are waiting for them.