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From the beginning of the season, the relationship between William and Riccardo had developed in a way that was hard to explain to anyone looking from the outside. Within the Arsenal squad, they were frequently put in the same group for training, travel, and recovery sessions, much more because they naturally ended up seeking each other out than by any decision from the coaching staff. On the pitch, they worked almost on autopilot. William was intense, competitive even in the smallest drills; he demanded a lot, spoke loudly, gesticulated, and pressed the entire time. Riccardo was lighter in his demeanor but extremely attentive. He noticed details in people's behavior too quickly, especially William's.
Their proximity grew from a constant, gravitational pull toward one another's routines rather than grand romantic planning. They fiercely protected their own space and autonomy, yet they fell into recurring habits almost accidentally. Riccardo was naturally social and fluid, he frequented cafes, browsed bookstores, constantly had music playing, enjoyed long conversations, diverse restaurants, and a revolving door of fragmented interests. William, however, favored controlled, quieter environments. His hobbies were solitary, almost therapeutic, though he’d never admit it: extra training sessions alone, driving aimlessly through London late at night, watching old match compilations, or retreating to his apartment for hours of intense focus on competitive gaming or casual photography.
Slowly, these contrasting worlds bled together. It started with late dinners after matches, sharing recovery sessions at the training center long after they were required, and eventually evolved into Riccardo joining William’s late-night drives, the silence of the car filled with Riccardo's easy chatter and William’s quiet, grounding presence.
As the months passed, Riccardo started noticing patterns that no one else seemed to catch. William sought him out immediately after important plays. In moments of pressure, Riccardo was the first person he looked at. When he got irritated during matches, he accepted being calmed down by Riccardo more easily than by any other player. That messed with Riccardo more than it should have, considering William rarely showed obvious affection. He almost never verbalized his feelings.
His closeness came in presence, in intensity, in staying close without admitting he wanted to stay close. Sometimes he’d sit next to Riccardo on the bus for no reason. Sometimes he’d show up at the end of physiotherapy sessions just to talk nonsense while Riccardo finished his recovery, only to emotionally disappear for two days, as if he realized he had gotten too close.
Riccardo began to build insecurity around this, not because he doubted the bond between them, but because he didn't understand what it meant to William. Before big games, for example, William would get even more focused, more closed off, and more competitively aggressive, causing Riccardo to feel the distancing immediately. A few weeks before the title was mathematically confirmed, after a particularly intense training session, Riccardo was sitting alone in the locker room while the others were already leaving. William walked in to grab a backpack he had forgotten and noticed him.
"You're acting weird, non?" William said, the slight upward inflection of his French accent clipping the end of the sentence as his deep voice cut through the quiet.
Riccardo let out a short laugh, shaking his damp hair. "Funny hearing that from you, Wilo."
William leaned against the locker, crossing his arms and looking at him in silence for a few seconds before prompting, "Speak."
Riccardo hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes it seems like you disappear."
"What do you mean, disappear?" William asked, a slight frown appearing, his 'r' rolling softly in the back of his throat.
"There are weeks where you act like I'm the closest person to you here. We drive for hours, we sit in your apartment watching Maldini highlights until 2 AM... Then, out of nowhere, you shut everything down."
William looked away, his jaw tightening slightly as he grabbed his backpack. He hated feeling exposed. "I am focused."
"I know you are," Riccardo replied softly. Silence stretched between them before Riccardo ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "I just wanted to know if I'm reading things wrong."
That caught William off guard. He hated being emotionally confronted like that when it truly mattered. He lived his spirituality and deep emotions in solitude, wary of giving anyone the power to interpret him. He stood still for a few seconds before answering, his voice lower now. "If you were reading it wrong, Cala, I would not be here right now. C'est simple." It was the only answer Riccardo got, but strangely, it was enough.
On the afternoon of the day Manchester City drew with Bournemouth and mathematically confirmed Arsenal's title, several players were gathered in a private room watching the game on television. The atmosphere had been nervous from the start; no one could fake tranquility. William had been standing since the twentieth minute of the first half, unable to sit down. He paced from one side to the other, hands on his hips, talking to himself and reacting to every play as if he were on the pitch. Riccardo remained on the sofa, sometimes watching William more than the match itself.
When Bournemouth started to drop their defensive lines near the end, William almost lost it. "Go on, fuck... close it down," he muttered, pacing faster as City pressed.
Following a corner kick, everyone stood up, and William pointed at the television immediately. "Four-four-two! Four-four-two! Close the sides, putain!" Some players started laughing at his level of involvement, but no one could truly relax. Riccardo simply smiled, watching him, because that was the most genuine William possible: intense, passionate, completely surrendered, the armor he built to survive the emotional weight of his career completely stripped away.
The final minutes felt eternal until the whistle blew. 1 to 1. For a second, there was absolute silence, almost as if no one had processed it, and then the room exploded. There were screams, people jumping on the sofa, someone knocking a bottle to the floor, Gabriel Jesus yelling from the other side of the room, and players hugging uncontrollably. Riccardo barely had time to react before William turned immediately and grabbed him by the shoulders in a completely instinctive impulse.
"We did it," William said, his voice coming out hoarse, thick with his accent, and entirely real, without the pose.
Riccardo felt the impact of that statement more than the title itself because William didn't let go immediately. The two stayed too close for a few seconds in the middle of the celebratory chaos, William's face still very close, breathing heavy, his dark eyes shining in a way Riccardo rarely saw. A connection transcended words in that space, the kind of intense, psychological bond William sought without labels, lasting only until someone jumped on their backs and the moment broke.
Later, after the initial explosion, the squad began to scatter between family calls, videos, and impromptu interviews. Riccardo noticed William alone near the external balcony of the training center, finally quiet. He approached slowly, leaning next to him. "Has it sunk in yet?"
William let out a short laugh through his nose. "Not at all."
London was silent outside. For the first time that day, there were no screams, no cameras, no squad, just the two of them. William looked straight ahead before speaking, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "When I got here, I thought maybe I would never experience this."
Riccardo turned his face slightly toward him. "Me too."
Another silence settled between them, carrying the same comfortable, secure weight they shared during their midnight drives.
William rested his forearms on the balcony railing, glancing sideways. "And you still thought you were reading things wrong."
Riccardo lowered his head, laughing softly. "You make it very difficult."
William finally looked directly at him, and this time, he didn't look away. "Maybe I just don't know how to do these things right, Richy. C'est difficile for me."
The sincerity disarmed Riccardo completely because it lacked any rehearsal. It seemed rare, and precisely because of that, it seemed true. Riccardo moved a little closer, his shoulder lightly touching William's, understanding in that moment the delicate balance William maintained between his commanding public presence and the deep, often melancholic vulnerability he hid inside.
William didn't pull away, not in that moment, and not after. The shift in the air was palpable. The heavy, unspoken tension finally resolved into a physical reality as William turned, his large hand finding Riccardo's hip, the touch firm and grounding. He didn't need words to bridge the gap anymore. "Come with me," William murmured, his accent softening the command, and Riccardo didn't hesitate.
The drive to William’s apartment was swift, the usual comfortable silence replaced by a crackling anticipation. When they reached the familiar space, usually a sanctuary of solitary focus for William, the quiet control William typically exhibited vanished completely. As soon as the heavy door clicked shut, William pushed Riccardo against it. A desperate hunger took over immediately, bypassing any slow build-up. The weight of the moment, the months of unspoken tension and silent observation, hung heavy between them. They needed to cross the psychological barrier first, the realization that the carefully maintained distance was finally shattering.
William captured Riccardo’s lips, the kiss intense and demanding, tongues sliding together in a wet, messy exploration. Riccardo responded with the same fervor, his hands tangling in William’s short hair. The intellectual and emotional fluidity Riccardo constantly sought met a physical dominance that anchored him completely. William's imposing 192cm frame pressed flush against Riccardo, his broader shoulders and heavier chest trapping the Italian flush against the wood of the door.
William’s hands were heavy and urgent as they roamed over Riccardo’s body, sliding under his shirt. The heat of his palms sent shivers down the Italian's spine. The scent of him, a potent, intoxicating mixture of expensive cedar cologne, the lingering salty sweat of a long, emotional day, and pure, raw male arousal, filled Riccardo's lungs. "You think too much, Cala," William breathed against Riccardo's neck, his lips trailing hot, wet kisses down the jawline, the soft rolling ‘r’ vibrating against Riccardo's skin. "Arrête de penser."
"Make me stop, then, Wilo," Riccardo gasped, arching into the touch. His hands gripped William's broad shoulders, feeling the shift of powerful muscles under his palms, before letting his hands wander down to grip William's firm ass, pulling their hips flush together.
The friction between their clothed bodies was immediate and electric. Through the fabric of their jeans, Riccardo could feel the rigid, heavy length of William’s erection pressing aggressively against his own hard dick. A low groan rumbled in William’s chest at the contact. He grabbed the hem of Riccardo’s shirt and pulled it over his head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. His dark eyes instantly locked onto the exposed expanse of pale skin, the intricate ink wrapping around Riccardo's arms, and the light, alluring trail of dark hair descending down his stomach.
Riccardo fumbled with the hem of William's dark shirt, dragging it up and off to reveal William's broad, heavily muscled torso. His dark skin was slick with a fresh sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
In the quiet dimness of the bedroom, urgency gave way to a deeply sensual, exploratory closeness. Touching, tasting, and bridging the gap became the only focus. William’s calloused hands mapped the tattoos on Riccardo's chest before moving lower. He fumbled with the button of Riccardo's jeans, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet room. He shoved the denim down Riccardo's hips, dragging the black boxers along with them. Riccardo kicked his shoes off, stepping out of the fabric. His cock sprang free, a solid sixteen centimeters of stiff, weeping flesh that twitched eagerly against his pale thigh.
Riccardo reached out, his knuckles brushing against William's hard stomach before unzipping the Frenchman's jeans. He tugged the heavy fabric and underwear down in one pull. William stepped out of them, standing completely bare. His erection was imposing, a thick, dark eighteen centimeters that pulsed heavily in the cool air of the bedroom, a drop of pre-cum already gleaming at the slit.
They fell onto the bed, the mattress sinking under their combined weight. Riccardo, arching beneath him, felt a rush of pure freedom. Labels ceased to matter; he just craved the raw, unfiltered connection they shared. He knew William’s rough exterior served as an armor, a shield to protect a deeply sensitive heart, and they both genuinely deserved this release. He felt a profound sense of privilege seeing past the facade. William had been lonely, fighting his battles in silence, and Riccardo wanted nothing more than to be his safe haven, letting William know he was accepted exactly as he was.
For William, this offered an entirely different kind of release. Looking down at Riccardo's flushed face, his parted lips, and the slick cock resting against his stomach, he admitted his constant draw to men like this, strong, complex, intensely present. His internal struggles, the constant need for control, and the lingering scars from his past exposure had kept him fiercely guarded. He hated the idea of anyone having power over his body or narrative. With Riccardo, tension transformed into a shared strength rather than a weakness. He trusted him.
Their mouths found each other again, the taste of salt and desire heady. They engaged in a fluid exchange of energy, completely abandoning rigid roles. William's natural, heavy dominance met Riccardo's curious, adaptable responsiveness. William shifted, his broad, sweaty chest rubbing slickly against Riccardo’s. The friction of their damp skin squeaked softly over the heavy, musky odor of their arousal. William reached down, his large hand wrapping tightly around the base of Riccardo’s stiff penis, his thumb slicking over the weeping head.
Riccardo’s breath hitched violently, his hips involuntarily bucking upwards into the firm, hot grip. "Wilo..." he choked out, his head falling back against the pillows.
"You like that," William stated, more a fact than a question, his dark eyes watching the way Riccardo’s face contorted in pleasure. He stroked him slowly, deliberately, his other hand coming up to gently cup Riccardo’s jaw, keeping their gazes locked. "Look at me."
Riccardo forced his eyes open, his pupils blown wide. The raw hunger in William’s stare was devastating. William leaned down, replacing his hand with his hot, wet mouth. He took the heavy length of Riccardo’s cock deep past his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive glans. The contrast of the cool bedroom air and the suffocating heat of William’s mouth made Riccardo gasp loudly, his fingers tangling desperately in the dark hair at the nape of William’s neck.
They took their time, finding profound satisfaction in the explicit friction, the slide of sweaty hands over slick skin, and the wet, greedy sounds of oral intimacy before pushing further. When Riccardo pulled William back up, trading places to take William’s thick, aching cock into his own mouth, a guttural groan ripped from the Frenchman’s throat, signaling pure surrender.
The heat between them escalated, creating a collision of hard bodies and desperate souls, fulfilling a visceral need to be known and felt entirely. They moved together in a raw, frantic rhythm, trading slick strokes and bruising kisses until the tension shattered completely. William came with a hoarse shout, his powerful body going rigid over Riccardo, his thick cock spilling hot and messy across Riccardo’s tattooed stomach. Moments later, Riccardo followed, a wrecked sob tearing from his throat as he climaxed against William’s thigh.
In the quiet aftermath, they lay tangled together in the messy, sweat-dampened sheets. Their chests heaved in tandem, the musky scent of sex clinging heavily to the air. William rested his heavy head on Riccardo’s shoulder, offering a stark contrast to his usual need for space, leaving only the profound certainty of finding something rare, something real, a connection that had finally grounded them both.