Work Text:
February 4, 2026
Predazzo welcomed Paweł with a silence that never exists on television. Broadcasts always show flags, lights, fans, and tension, but a few days before the Olympics began, the town was calm, as if taking a deep breath before the effort. The Olympic Village lived at its own pace: someone was dragging a suitcase, someone was talking on the phone at the entrance, someone was nervously checking the forecast on their phone, as if that would change anything. The Pole had the impression that everyone had come here in pairs. Or at least with someone. With a coach, a physical therapist, a teammate. He, of course, had his own team too, but there was one person missing - the one with whom he usually shared everything, from morning stress to evening silliness.
Manuel didn’t make to the team.
That sentence had been running through his head for a good two weeks now, though he’d never said it out loud like that. They talked about it differently, more lightly. It didn’t work out this time, I got in shape too late, that’s the nature of the sport. Fettner joked that at least he didn’t have to pretend to like Italian vending machine coffee and tiramisu, but his husband knew him well enough to see what lays beneath the irony.
He was furious. At the federation, at the coach, at the system. Not at Paweł, never at him, but that anger had to find an outlet somewhere.
On Wednesday evening, they called each other as usual. Manuel was sitting somewhere in Innsbruck, in their apartment, with a glass of wine and the look of a man who absolutely wasn't following every report from Predazzo online.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Relax. No one’s panicking yet... Give us two days.”
Manuel flashed his trademark crooked smile.
“Do you miss me?”
“I’m not going to feed your ego.”
“Too late, I’m already feeding myself.”
They talked for a long time, but when the call ended, the silence in Wąsek's room seemed louder than before.
And then, for the first time, a really unwanted thought flashed through his mind: Manuel, without competitions, without tension, without a daily schedule, had too much free time. And Manuel, with too much free time, always tended to be… creative. It wasn’t about anything specific. Rather, it was about stories from before their wedding, before their relationship. Stories he knew from others. About that period when his precious Austrian man was more of an afterparty legend than a good ski jumper.
Paweł trusted him, of course he did. It’s just that jealousy doesn’t always ask for permission.
×
February 16, 2026
Manuel arrived in Predazzo on Monday morning. Officially as a fan, unofficially as a companion, which in practice, however, meant no official jacket, no accreditation, no accommodation paid for by the federation with his teammates, and that strange feeling of being on the sidelines of something that had been his dream his whole life - or at least for the last four years.
He didn’t tell Paweł this outright, but as he drove up in their well-maintained red Audi, something began to gnaw at him. They were supposed to come here together, both as competitors. This was supposed to be his spot on the team, his competitions.
And yet he’s just a guest.
It was chilly in the parking lot in front of the hotel; the air had that distinctive Alpine scent of lingering snow and wet asphalt. Manuel adjusted his sunglasses, more out of habit than necessity. He was wearing a plain black coat, jeans, and a bag slung over his shoulder - he looked relaxed, almost carefree.
Paweł saw him first as he was leaving the hotel with his phone in hand, still sorting something out with the physical therapist, when he suddenly froze mid-step. Fettner was standing a few meters away, leaning against a car, as if he’d been there for hours, waiting for his husband.
For a second, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. Two weeks with no touch is supposedly nothing, and yet long enough for everything to feel more intense now. The brunet slowly took off his glasses, with that half-smile of his that always balances between irony and tenderness.
“Well, look at that,” he said, pulling the Pole toward him without the slightest hint of embarrassment. “My future medalist.”
“I haven’t won anything yet...”
“Relax. I already have a silver, so statistically you’re safe.”
It was meant to sound light, playful, but Wąsek heard something else too. That shadow, that bitterness that Manuel couldn’t quite swallow, because he should have been here long ago, competing alongside him. And yet there he stood, not even wearing his branded clothes.
Paweł took a step back and looked at him more closely. His husband looked good - he always looked good - but now he looked almost... too good. Well-rested, clean-shaven, smiling, smelling of cologne, as if he hadn’t just spent weeks offending half of the Austrian ski jumping world.
“How was the trip?” asked the blond man, still keeping his hand on his beloved’s sleeve, as if he thought that his man might vanish at any moment.
Manuel shrugged.
“I felt like a tourist. No checks... no one weighed me, measured me, or checked if my zipper was properly fastened. I’ll tell you, it was a luxury feeling.”
“Sounds like a vacation.”
“Kind of,” he smiled to himself instinctively. “Just without a medal at the end.”
So they laughed like that, a little too loud, a little too fast, and for a moment everything fell back into place, as if the recent past had been nothing but a bad dream. Except that one of Paweł’s thoughts, stubborn as a splinter under the skin, wouldn’t leave him alone.
Manuel is here. Not as a competitor, not as a rival. He has time, free evenings. A clear head. In reality, he’s alone, because training and preparations will start soon, and they’ll have to go their separate ways; in fact, after the competition, the Austrian even has no obligation to visit him.
And Slovenians have a habit of not leaving anyone alone.
Paweł knows he should trust him. And he does trust him, but he also knows the history that relentlessly follows his husband like a shadow - years of being everywhere, with everyone, without much consequence. Flirting treated like a side hobby, intimacy like something that comes easily and disappears even more easily.
And his Slovenian bestie is... just Anže Lanišek.
Warm, open. With that smile that promises trouble before anyone can even name it. Wąsek really liked him; they got along well. He knew the man had a family he loved more than life itself, but something inside wouldn’t let him forget about… well, what exactly?
“What?” Fettner, who was still by his side, tilted his head, catching his gaze. “You’re looking at me like I have something on my face.”
“No, nothing, sorry...”
“Paweł...”
That one word was enough. Paweł let out a breath.
“It’s just…” he began, then stopped, because in his head it sounded stupid, jealous, immature. “Just don’t disappear from my… from my sight today, okay?”
Manuel fell silent for a split second. He wasn’t offended, he wasn’t joking. He just looked at him, tilting his head slightly again.
“You think I came here for a party?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Hey, I know what you meant,” the Austrian replied more quietly, smiling warmly as he ran his thumb over both of his husband's hands he managed to grab. “Remember, I came here for you... And no, I’m not going anywhere, you have me all to yourself today. At least until you win a medal and start ignoring me for interviews!”
Paweł rolled his eyes, but the tension that had been weighing him down just a moment ago slowly eased.
×
From the very start, the first round had a certain orderliness to it. The wind was steady, the startgatw set high and motionless, as if the technical delegate had exceptionally agreed to a fair and exciting competition. The competitors in the first group took off one after another. As Paweł sat on the gate, Manuel, who was sitting in the stands among the Polish fans, could feel nothing but a tightness in his chest. He shouldn’t have been so worked up - after all, it wasn’t his jump.
And yet, when his husband took off from the takeoff, the Austrian instinctively stood up from his seat.
The flight was clean, smooth, carried by the air as if on a string. The landing was soft and confident. No struggle, no nerves. There was no euphoria on the blonde man’s face, just focus and a slight smile. A brief nod to himself, as if he’d checked off the first task on his plan. Kacper, in the second group, delivered a solid jump - perhaps not as spectacular, but strong enough to put Poland in a high position. After the first round, everything was still up for grabs. Austria, with Hörl and Embacher, held a slight lead, but the margin was razor-thin.
The second round definitely raised the temperature in the stands. Wąsek looked even more focused. The wind began to shift slightly, but it was still fair, pushing everyone without exception from behind toward the landing. He took off more aggressively, flew farther, and landed more confidently than before. As if he wanted to remind himself and the fans that they were still capable of challenging the World Cup’s dominant forces.
Fettner didn’t realize he hadn’t been sitting for several minutes. He stood with his hands resting on the railing, tracking every inch of that jump as if he himself were trying to keep him in the air. A moment later, Kacper jumped even further, but, unfortunately for Poles, Stephan did the same, and after two rounds, Poland trailed Austria by twenty points. The gap seemed insurmountable, but everyone kept in mind how Hörl was capable of botching his jump spectacularly under pressure. Everything was set to be decided in the third round.
That’s when things started to go wrong. The flags by the hill changed their angles, and the wind became less predictable. Paweł sensed it even before he sat on the gate. His third jump wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t as good as the previous two. He had to work and correct his shape in the air, and yet he landed simply correctly, without a mistake, but without that spark that had given them the edge earlier. As he walked off the landing area, he knew he left a few meters in the air, and now everything depended on Kacper.
Snow began to fall just as the competitors from the second group were lining up for their jumps. At first it was light, almost decorative, then with each jump it grew denser, and the wind was shifting directions more and more noticeably. The judges suspended the competition just before Kacper’s final jump.
The minutes dragged on mercilessly.
The Austrian paced around his chair like a seal in an ice hole, sitting down, standing up, leaning against the railing again. This feeling of helplessness was more acute in him than during his own jumps. Damn it, since when had he been rooting for Poland so much?
The jury finally showed the green light, despite the raging snowstorm. Kacper set off, and the Polish fans gathered around Manuel held their breath, bracing themselves for the worst. Right from the start, it was clear this wouldn’t be a flight, but a struggle and a fight for every meter. The wind caught him almost immediately; his skis moved erratically, and his shape lost its fluidity. He landed far too close.
There was no longer any panic on Paweł’s face. As soon as he saw that his teammate had been allowed to jump, he said goodbye to his medal and, quite simply, felt sad.
But those dramatic conditions didn’t improve one bit; the snow was still falling thickly, the wind was blowing sideways, and the next competitor didn’t even make it to the startgate. The jury’s deliberation took a long time, but a decision was finally announced.
The third run is canceled; the results after two full runs stand.
For a moment, the stands fell silent, as if everyone were trying to understand what had just happened. The Poles around Fettner began discussing among themselves that they should have called it off, that would have meant a medal, while others mentioned that maybe now FIS would make it up to us for that damn Pyeongchang... And then the scoreboard updated, finally displaying the results.
Austria first.
Poland second.
Norway third.
They have a silver medal.
×
Paweł stood motionless for a moment, as if unsure whether he should celebrate yet. He knew that if the third round had been held, everything could have fallen apart. He also knew that his two jumps were the best in the entire competition. The snow swirled more and more fiercely, the decision still hung in the air... And then it was announced. Third round is canceled.
First there was a buzz, then a shout, and then a full explosion. The Poles erupted with joy, the Austrians right next to them, flags flying everywhere, hugs, disbelief, while the Norwegians were still trying to make sense of it all. After a brief conversation with Sandro Pertile, Kamil literally shot toward him and lifted him into the air like a trophy.
“We did it!” he shouted into his ear.
Only then did it sink in for Paweł - they really did it. They won a medal. A laugh burst from his throat, loud and uncontrollable. His hands were shaking; he didn’t recognize himself. Someone was patting him on the back, someone else was squeezing his shoulders; everyone were shouting and congratulating him. The world was spinning faster than the snow over the hill.
And then he saw him.
Manuel came down from the stands faster than he should have, squeezing through the crowd without looking to see who he was bumping into. As if everything else had suddenly become unimportant, as if in all that chaos, only the two of them existed. When they stood face to face, Wąsek was still laughing.
“It’s strange, you know?” he asked, but the smile didn’t leave his face.
Fettner looked at him intently, as if he wanted to memorize every detail of that moment.
“What?”
The Pole shook his head, taking off his beanie to run his fingers through his own hair.
“I’m happy. God, I’m so happy…” he laughed again, almost helplessly, and looked up at the sky. “But it’s like… not quite what I thought it… would be?”
Manuel was quiet for a moment. The commotion around them continued; someone nearby was singing one of the drunkard songs he learned in Poland, and someone was crying.
“You did your part,” he finally said calmly. “Twice, perfectly. It’s not your fault that the snow decided to cause an apocalypse…”
He raised his hand and patted him on the shoulder, then, quite naturally, moved his hand lower, wrapping his arm around his waist. Paweł burst out laughing.
“Manuuuu…” he mumbled, feeling his face burn.
“What’s the matter?” he raised an eyebrow innocently, smiling broadly. “My husband just won Olympic silver. I have every right to celebrate!”
This time, there wasn’t a trace of rivalry in him, only pride. The blonde couldn’t hold back; the emotions that had been boiling inside him for the past few minutes spilled out in a single movement; he grabbed Manuel by the edges of his coat and pulled him in for a brief but intense kiss, then immediately looked up at him with the most sincere smile he could muster.
“I’ve got a medal!” he laughed into his shoulder, because he hugged him the moment he realized what he just done in front of everyone. “Do you get it? An Olympic one, the real deal!”
“I noticed,” Manuel replied, laughing too. “And you almost broke my ribs with all that excitement—”
“Don’t exaggerate!”
“I’m not exaggerating! But if this is how you celebrate a silver one, I’m afraid to think what would happen with gold...”
Paweł pulled back slightly, looking at him with a twinkle in his eyes.
“With gold, I’d kiss you on the podium.”
The Austrian smiled broadly.
“And what’s stopping you now…?”
And before Wąsek could answer, the older of the two pulled him in for a kiss, just as quick and full of emotion. The blonde groaned softly, partly amused, partly embarrassed.
“You really can’t help but show off, can you?”
“Not when I’m proud,” Manuel replied without hesitation. “And I am. Damn proud! Besides, you started it!”
Wąsek laughed again, this time more calmly, and rested his forehead against his husband's shoulder.
“Paweł! Paweł! Over here!”
Microphones and cameras appeared faster than snow, and Fettner sighed theatrically.
“Well, look at that. Five minutes ago you were saying this was weird, and now you’re going to pretend it was planned and that was your goal...”
“Shut up,” the Pole hissed, smiling broadly at one of the cameras.
And as he walked off toward the interviews, Manuel simply adjusted his collar, too tenderly for a live broadcast.
“Go get what's yours,” he said more quietly. “I’ll be watching.”
×
The little get-together was supposed to be really intimate. A few people, beer, wild grass which the Slovenians always had ready for such occasions. The window was ajar so they wouldn’t suffocate from the smoke rising from the bong, but it was foggy inside anyway. At first, they sat scattered around the room, talking about the competition. Someone joked about the conditions; someone else claimed that the snow had a personal grudge against the Germans, and that was why they lost.
Manuel sat relaxed, his legs stretched out in front of him, his cheeks slightly flushed, as were his eyes. He laughed loudly at jokes he would normally have considered mediocre, gestured a lot - he simply let his guard down now that it was all over.
After a moment, Zajc, the only one sitting at the table in the three-person room, leaned over to the nightstand and pulled out a small case, which he immediately placed in front of him. When he opened it, a poker set appeared inside.
“So, gentlemen, shall we play?”
Domen raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“What?”
“Poker, of course.”
“But you don’t even know the rules.”
“But you do. Peter said he taught you so you wouldn’t lose to us,” Timi replied with absolute seriousness.
Laughter rippled through the room like a wave, from the person in question all the way to the Austrians sitting against the other wall. After a moment, everyone gathered around the table, sitting on the windowsill, chairs, suitcases, and whatever else they could find. They started innocently, just a few rounds.
Manuel lost the first hand.
“Shit,” he muttered, shifting slightly in the chair he managed to snag before the others.
“Oh,” Anže said, glancing around the group. “Maybe we should play for stakes now?”
“Please, just not some stupid bets,” Domen groaned.
“Strip poker?” Timi blurted out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Silence fell over the room, followed immediately by an outburst of laughter. Tipsy Stephan spread his arms, glancing at Jan sitting next to him.
“Go ahead. I’m not shy.”
Kraft snorted, rolling his eyes.
“We already know that.”
And so it began. They traded cards and chips in the second round, trying not to lose before the others, which wasn’t easy after so many drinks.
“T-shirt,” Timi ordered, as if he were the one setting the rules, though he smiled triumphantly at the oldest player at the table.
“This is rigged,” Fettner muttered, but he pulled the shirt over his head anyway. “Remember, I’m just a guest here!”
“All the more reason to chase you,” Anže replied calmly, winking at him playfully.
The laughter grew louder, the rules less clear, and the bottles emptier. Someone mixed up the colors, someone tried to bluff with a black jack that God knows where he conjured up. The Slovenians started losing too, so at one point half the table was sitting shirtless, just a bunch of sweaty athletes playing cards, with messy hair and eyes glistening from alcohol. But Manuel was still losing.
“You know, Fetti… this is starting to look suspicious,” Stephan said, looking at the veteran of his team.
“It’s a strategic move,” Manuel replied.
“In just your pants…?”
“It’s a psychological tactic.”
Another hand, after which the Austrian’s belt landed on the table.
“Okay, this is personal now,” muttered Manuel, now sitting in just his boxers, with the expression of a man who has absolutely everything under control.
He didn’t.
Anže leaned over the table, deep in thought; Timi was trying to count something on his fingers, forgetting that their opponents shouldn’t see him doing that; Domen was laughing so hard he choked, Jan tried to help him, ignoring Stephan’s hand wandering up his leg, and poor Kraft sat on the other side of the table, on the windowsill, watching them with his sweatshirt draped over his knees.
“The next hand will be the deciding one,” announced the dissatisfied brunet. “I’m bored already.”
“You’re such a whiner, Stefan, but... Oh, I know, maybe we’ll play for our dignity?” replied Embacher excitedly.
Fettner shifted in his chair, completely unmoved.
“Gentlemen, calm down. It’s just a game—”
Just then, the door opened. The doorknob clicked softly, and a cooler breeze from the hallway swept inside. The laughter at the table didn’t stop abruptly; someone said something else, someone snorted, but the sound didn’t echo off the walls of the room.
Standing in the doorway was none other than Paweł. He didn’t look angry, or even particularly surprised. For a split second, you might have thought he’d just come to check if the partygoers needed a refill of alcohol. His gaze slowly swept across the room. First over the table - cards, bottle caps, scattered coins, then over the chairs, sweatshirts, T-shirts, a belt carelessly tossed over someone’s backrest. Next, over the torsos and faces. Naked, sweaty, clearly excited.
Finally, his gaze settled on Manuel, who was sitting in nothing but his boxers. It wasn’t until a moment later that he noticed Anže leaning over the table, quite close to his husband. Too close, if you were looking from the doorway.
The moment was brief, but long enough for a few unwelcome thoughts to take root in the Pole’s mind.
Fettner smiled reflexively, still high on the game with his friends (and other stuff), unaware of the change in the room’s atmosphere.
“Oh, our Olympic champion has arrived!”
Wąsek looked at him more closely, without a smile.
“I see you’re having a good time,” he said so calmly it was unnatural.
Domen shifted back in his chair, clearing his throat quietly; Timi stopped shuffling the cards; and Stefan looked up, curious about how things were unfolding.
“We’re playing poker,” Anže said, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender. “Nothing more.”
Paweł merely nodded. The same polite gesture he used in interviews when he didn’t want to comment on a question.
“Sure.”
He said quietly and simply took a step back, closing the door behind him. Dryly, almost silently, without a slam or a shout. For a moment, no one moved; some even stopped breathing. Manuel felt something sink inside him, as if the air had suddenly thickened and pulled all his organs down with it.
“I’ll be right back,” he said quickly, the smile gone. He picked up his pants from the floor, pulled them on hurriedly without looking at anyone, and left the room, fastening his belt as he went.
It was much quieter in the hallway.
The Pole hadn’t gone far; he was standing a few meters from the door, his back against the wall. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on the floor; he looked as if he were trying to get his thoughts in order before they spiraled out of control.
The dark-haired man stopped a few steps away from him.
“Paweł…?”
He didn’t lift his head until a moment later. There was no anger in his eyes, and that was the worst sign for the Austrian. He would have preferred anger a hundred times over.
“It’s not what you think…” he began cautiously.
“I didn’t say I was thinking anything,” the blonde man replied quietly.
Manuel hesitated, averting his gaze to the side.
“It was poker, strip poker— I just lost—”
“I can tell.”
That calm tone again, without a hint of reproach. Just weariness. Paweł also looked away for a moment.
“With him?” he asked finally.
Fettner furrowed his brow in confusion.
“With whom?”
Finally, the Pole looked him straight in the eye.
“With Anže.”
At that moment, Manuel felt that this wasn’t about the cards, or the boxers, or the half-naked team behind the door. It was about something worse and much older.
“Do you think that…?” he began, but trailed off.
Paweł sighed briefly and softly.
“I know what you were like.”
There was no accusation in it, only a memory.
“I know what people say about you.”
That hurt more than the older man had expected. He took a step closer, positioning himself so they could look each other in the eye.
“I was an idiot…” he said calmly. “I often had stupid ideas, but not this time…”
Wąsek was silent.
“I’m not playing over you,” the Austrian added more quietly. “I never would.”
Only then did something shift in Paweł’s gaze.
“I don’t like your past,” he finally admitted, almost in a whisper.
The brunet nodded.
“Neither do I.”
There was more truth in that brief exchange than in all the laughter that had come before. The silence that fell between them was no longer a sharp edge. It was a burden, but one they could bear together.
“Were you afraid?” Manuel asked after a moment.
The Pole didn’t answer right away. He looked at the walls beside him, as if wondering whether it was even worth answering.
“Yes.”
Paweł didn’t step back when his husband took another step closer. He just stood there, still tense, but no longer resistant.
“I don’t want you to be afraid,” Manuel said calmly. “Even if it’s my fault that you have reasons....”
The blonde man raised his eyebrows slightly.
“But it’s not just your fault...”
“I know,” he sighed quietly. “But I’m the one who gave people a reason to talk. And I’m the one who sometimes forgets that you hear it...”
Paweł looked at him for a long time. He wanted to trust him; after all, they’d been together for four years now, and not once had Fettner let him down in that regard.
“When I walked in…” he began slowly, as if afraid of the consequences, “it wasn’t about the boxers—”
Manuel nodded.
“I know.”
“It was that for a second I felt like an outsider, I mean— well... Like I didn’t know who you were when I’m not around...”
The Austrian swallowed nervously.
“I’m your husband,” he replied quietly, fiddling with the belt on his pants. “Even when I’m an idiot in my boxers at the poker table, I’m still your husband...”
The corner of the younger man’s mouth twitched, and Manuel reached out, but not abruptly. He stopped his hand at the level of the other’s, giving him space to decide for himself. Paweł hesitated only a moment before allowing their fingers to intertwine in a gentle clasp. The warmth was immediate. Familiar.
“I don’t want to be jealous,” admitted Wąsek. “It wears me out.”
“You can be,” replied the brunet gently. “Just not alone.”
As he said this, he moved closer. He didn’t embrace him right away; first, he rested his forehead against his temple, lightly, as if checking his temperature. Paweł exhaled, and the tension drained from his shoulders slowly, like water running down a windowpane.
“You’re stupid,” he muttered.
“I know.”
“And you have terrible luck with cards.”
“I know that too.”
Paweł finally lifted his head and looked at him, now without a trace of that stiffness, which had been replaced by a defiant smile.
“And you’re mine.”
Manuel smiled too.
“I am.”
The Pole pulled him close first, firmly but without desperation. He simply needed to feel that he was really here. Fettner embraced him cautiously, as if he knew it was the best thing he could do at that moment, and what he really wanted. They stood like that for a long moment in silence.
“Are you going to put on a shirt?” Paweł finally asked.
“I can’t, I’m still losing… but maybe if you come back with me…” replied the Austrian, murmuring softly into his shoulder.
“I’m coming back. Someone has to make sure you don’t lose your wedding ring.”
This time, their laughter was shared, sincere, and lighthearted.
When they walked back into the room, the scene was even more absurd than before. Stephan, half-naked, was now sitting dangerously close to Jan, as if the chairs in the room had suddenly ceased to exist. Hörl pretended to be focused on the cards, but he was rearranging the young Embacher’s chips with a tenderness that didn’t fit his usual reserve at all. Timi stood in the corner with his accordion, playing something that sounded like an unidentifiable Slovenian folk song.
Domen watched the Austrians showing each other clear signs of love with growing distaste.
“Are they always like this?” he muttered to Stefan, who was sitting off to the side, still on the windowsill, clearly exhausted and mentally already outside the room. And Stefan just shrugged.
“Sometimes worse.”
Prevc sighed quietly in response.
“I need normal people.”
“I’d like that too,” Kraft replied dryly.
As soon as they walked inside, Manuel took off his pants again and sat back down at the table. This time with his husband. Timi stopped playing.
“So?” he asked suspiciously. “A drama? A breakup? Am I supposed to play something sad?”
“No,” Wąsek said casually, smiling to himself. “You can play something cheerful.”
Anže looked at his friend, then at Paweł, then back at Manuel.
“So,” he said innocently, “shall we play for stakes now?”
His gaze lingered meaningfully on the boxers of the oldest of the Austrians. Stephan burst out laughing, moving even closer to Jan and whispering something in his ear; Timi stopped playing mid-chord. Manuel rested his elbows on the table and looked at the cards with feigned seriousness.
“No,” he said calmly, shuffling his cards in his hand. “Now we’re playing for dignity.”
“Oh, you’ve already lost that,” Domen said, and laughter rippled through the room.
Paweł leaned back more comfortably in his chair; under the table, his hand found the brunet’s thigh, not provocatively, not demonstratively. It simply stayed there.
Manuel flinched slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. The Pole merely raised an eyebrow with absolute innocence. The cards were dealt.
“Focus,” Jan muttered to the young Embacher, who was clearly not focused.
“I am focused,” Stephan replied, not taking his eyes off Hörl.
“On the game, you idiot, or you’ll be the one getting undressed next.”
“And you’re trying to tell me you have a problem with that?”
Another hour passed amid laughter and half-conscious bluffs. Zajc kept trying to announce the winner before the hand was over. Domen and Stefan finally found common ground in commenting on the chaos at the table like two exhausted teachers on a school trip. Manuel looked at his cards and sighed heavily.
“I can't believe it.”
“What?” asked Paweł, glancing at his beloved’s hand.
Fettner slowly laid his cards on the table, and silence fell; everyone leaned in to see what he had.
And then they burst out laughing.
“Again!?” Timi shouted.
“That’s statistically impossible…” Kraft said, glancing at each of his friends in turn.
“He’s really playing for dignity,” Domen muttered, twirling one of the chips between his fingers. “And he’s losing.”
The Pole didn’t take his hand from under the table; on the contrary, he tightened his fingers slightly around the brunet’s leg.
“I knew you weren’t lucky with cards, but really…?” he asked quietly.
Manuel looked at him with theatrical suffering.
“Fortunately, I’m not that unlucky in everything.”
He brushed his lips against the man’s cheek, then stood up, raising his hands as if addressing a crowd.
“Gentlemen,” he announced with dignity - or rather, a lack thereof - trying to pretend to be a serious orator. “Justice must be served!”
And with those words, he took off his losing boxing shorts and hung them on the back of a chair. Timi’s accordion came to life again, and Stephan leaned even closer to Jan, who this time didn’t even pretend to mind.
And the game went on...