Chapter Text
He wasn’t brooding, okay? He wasn’t. He was just upset that his team, his friends, his family for God’s sake, made it to the World Cup final without him. Which made him even more upset, because who’s that horrible person who doesn’t want to see his National Team win the most important competition out there? Marco Reus, injured BVB’s young star, apparently. Okay so maybe he was brooding, but he had all the reasons to, alright? He should have been with his teammates in Brazil right now, celebrating the greatest victory of all time – 7-1 against Brazil itself? That’s like woah – getting drunk with his boyfrie—no. He couldn’t afford to think about such things. Because for once, you don’t get drunk 5 days before the game of your life. That’s just stupid and Jogi would have kicked his ass so hard he’d have had trouble walking, let alone playing. And also because, well, Mario was not his boyfriend. Not anymore. When he left for Munich he took what they had with him. They decided to remain friends, of course they did. Marco couldn’t just forget about him right away. And they still had to see each other when BVB played Bayern and with the National Team. So they were friends, the lump in his throat at the word be damned. That’s why, it was 3 in the morning in Dortmund and he was still up texting his “friend”, despite the fact that he had to see his physio in less than 6 hours.
“Can you belieeeeveeeeeee it????? 7 goals marco!!! 7!!!!!!!!”
Mario had always been a fan of punctuation. Hardcore punctuation.
“I actually thought Andrè was going to die of happiness at some point ahah”
He was happy for the blonde, he deserved to show the world how much he was worth.
“U should have seen Miro in the changing-room :DDD HE CRIED!!!!!!”
Well, he would have done the same to be honest. Breaking Ronaldo’s record in his very country against his very team, that’s something you don’t even dream of accomplish in your career. And Miro did it. With those elegance and humility only he had.
“I bet he did, tell him I congratulate :)”
“You would have scored too, you know. If you were here tonight. I would have made you.”
Yeah but he was here in Dortmund, Germany. Very very far from South America.
“Yeah, I know. Now go celebrate with the lads :)”
“I miss you xxxx”
He did, too. A lot. But he locked that part of him somewhere very deep because he couldn’t let that boy with the golden heart ruin him even more. He shut off the phone and went to sleep.
He woke up next morning – or, to be accurate, 4 hours and a half later – with the worst headache of his brief life. He went to the kitchen to made some stupid orange juice Mario always said was good for their health. Stupid Mario. Pouring part of the liquid in a glass, he thought of all the little insignificant habits he caught from the younger boy. Like showering and then brushing his teeth, not the other way around as he used to do before Mario made his way into his life and changed it upside down. (“It just makes more sense if you clean your whole body and only then your teeth!” Stupid stupid Mario.) He drank the damn thing and went to the bathroom with a change of clothes, which was just sweatpants and a jumper he wasn’t totally sure was his own. But that was not the reason he picked it, alright? It was comfy and big on his shoulders and waist and it was July but Dortmund was still very cold in the morning, okay? Those were the only reasons. If it still smelled like that bloody D&G cologne, nobody had to know about that. After he had styled his hair in his signature quiff – he was Marco Reus after all – and laced his trainers not without feeling a bit of pain in his ankle, he went to his car. The headache was still there. Fucking Mario and his fucking useless juice.
He was in the car, outside Ilkay’s flat, because he couldn’t go find out about his return on the pitch alone. Ilkay was having a bad period, on his way back from that injury that made him miss the World Cup too (and also get the most awesome round belly a 23-year-old could ever have. The team would never made him forget it). He was the only company he could bare these days, they just hang at Marco’s house because it was bigger and quieter, sharing a couple of beers, watching the World Cup and pretending to be a hundred per cent happy for their teammates. And mostly watching Prison Break reruns. Ilkay knew exactly how he felt and that’s why he was bringing him to the physio. It should have been good news, but better bring somebody just in case. He remembered it all too well, how it had happened, the pain he had felt at the ankle. But above all, he remembered falling down on the pitch, touching it and thinking: “This is it. I’m not playing the World Cup”. He remembered being helped up, and watching the concerned faces of his teammates, all thinking the same thing, all knowing right away they were going to Brazil without him. He remembered Mario’s attempt to call him the days after, when he didn’t want to speak to anybody else but his mother. How he refused every single call and let every single message unanswered. He had felt deprived of his dream, of the only thing that kept him going after Mario left him for Bayern the year before. He had felt hopeless. He wanted to get back on the pitch. He needed it like oxygen. He needed to feel the rush of adrenaline that hit him before every match, the banters with his teammates in the changing-room, the yells of the mister when they slacked during trainings. That’s why Ilkay had to fucking get his ass in the car before he had a breakdown. A minute later he felt the passenger door opening and Ilkay I-don’t-shave-because-I’m-cool Gϋndoğan smiled at him. “Are you ready Reus?” “I was about to come up and kick your balls all the way towards my car, you asshole!” The other boy laughed, “You’re definitely ready.”
September. He could do September. It was just two months away. He didn’t care if getting back on the field in September meant missing the Supercup match against Bayern in August. He was coming back and he just wanted to go home and call his mother and tell her the good news. He dropped Ilkay home with the promise of seeing him on Sunday night, to watch the World Cup final together, and headed back home. Once inside, he dropped the keys on the counter (another habit, a bad one, he picked up from his ex-whatever) and threw himself on the big leather couch. He dialed his mother’s number and he had to wait approximately 0.3 seconds before she answered the call. “So??” she practically screamed in his ear and he smiled, “September mom,” he told her and he could hear the sigh of relief his mom made at the other end of the phone, “It’s great news, isn’t it, lyubov moya?” “Yeah mom, it is.” And it really was, for once. “When are you telling Mario?” “Mom.” “Marco,” she sounded upset, like every time they talked about him, “He’ll read it on the internet tomorrow.” “But I’m sure he wants to hear it from you.” Only his mother could make him feel guilty about Mario, honestly. “Okay, I’ll text him right away. Happy?” “Very. Have a good day, love. Bye.” And she hung up like this, without giving him the time to say it right back, like she always did. He decided to make some lunch first, mostly to clear his head, and found himself cooking that pasta with tomato sauce and olive oil Mario Gomez made for them, when he went to Thomas’ place with his Mario. Ah the irony. The pasta wasn’t as good looking as Mario Gomez’s, but it tasted like heaven and Marco thought that the months spent cooking for Mario, who couldn’t even make pancakes to save his life, were finally paying off. Which was, well, an unexpected turn-up. He even decided to clear the dishes, just to buy some more time. He was pathetic and he knew it. He was avoiding Mario because he didn’t know how to take the fact the Mario, indeed, missed him. He was having the time of his life and still missed him. After a year of radio silence and drunk calls and glances stolen on the pitch, he said he missed him. And Marco missed him right back, had missed him every single day, every single night since he left and he didn’t know how to handle it anymore. How to handle the fact that he still felt taken. That he couldn’t even fathom the idea of meeting new people because, who the hell was he fooling, he belonged to Mario and him only. And if he said it back, if he called Mario to tell him that he fucking missed him too, like he had to restrain himself from doing every other night, what would ever change? Munich would still be a long way from Dortmund and Mario would still have left BVB, him, for his career. Without saying “I’m sorry”. So Marco didn’t. He opened the message app on his iPhone and deleted the whole thread under Mario’s name (which was still “Sunny” with that yellow heart emoji Mario always attached to his I love you’s). He then opened a new one and wrote “I’ll be ready to kick your red and blue asses from September!! xx”, fished Bastian’s name out of his contacts and hit “Send”. Screw Mario. Screw his mom, too.
The rest of the week passed in a haze. On Sunday morning he was gloomier than ever. He had woken up and gotten out of bed just to crash on the couch without eating nor showering. He was about to call Ilkay to tell him he had forgotten he had other plans for tonight’s match, when the very guy sent him a text that read “I’m outside your door Reus!!! :-)”. He was just about to put the iPhone back on the small table in front of him, having chosen to ignore the text, when another one followed: “Oh and I brought bagels and coffee. I know u love me ;-P” Which might have been actually true because he was starving and free food was always welcome. Well food in general was always welcome. He got up unwillingly and went to open the door. He was welcomed by the bright smile of Ilkay and the awesome smell of coffee. “You look like somebody who hasn’t slept in days.” “Good morning,” he grumpily said while Ilkay made his way into the flat, “You actually didn’t, did you? Did you stay up late texting your wonder boy every night?”, Ilkay smirked, eyeing him from the couch and making him almost spit out his coffee. Almost. He didn’t like wasting free food. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” He blatantly lied. Marco didn’t know how, but every single person in his life had thought he was screwing Mario or something at some point. Which. Okay it was true, but they had been subtle about it when they still played together. Well, they were attached to the hips and arrived to training together every morning but they were just best friends alright? Not so subtle then. But it had been a year and Ilkay couldn’t still believe it. “Yeah Marco, as if I didn’t have to watch you go from I’m-shitting-rainbows happy to The-sun-just-disappeared-forever sad,” and Marco really didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the accuracy of what his friend just said. He chose the former. “You’re ridiculous,” “And you’re a fool if you think I didn’t notice how you changed Marco. I’m your friend. I see that you’re not okay and I’m having none of your bullshit.” Marco sighed heavily. He just really wanted to spend the day sulking and just being generally sad. Why he could never have nice things was beyond him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Ilkay must have seen the defeated look in his eyes because he nodded and said “I know you don’t. But you will, after I kick your ass at FIFA.” “Oh you wish,” he smiled. A game of FIFA with a friend was always the answer. They were professional players, after all.
He lost spectacularly. Apparently choosing your own team on FIFA wasn’t a good idea, because he had to watch his game-self comforted by his game-teammates after being horribly defeated by, in this very order, Chelsea (André never had to know about this), Schalke 04 (seriously Marco?) and Barcelona (which was at least expected). Mario had tried to teach him how to play back when he was still his Mario. (“You can’t be a pro and not being good at FIFA! It’s in the job description!” “Don’t tell Kloppo then, or he’ll fire me or something.”) But he had failed because Marco was still shit at it. Stupid fucking game and stupid fucking Mario for buying it. After two solid minutes of Ilkay’s special winning dance, which consisted of throwing his arms in the air and wobbling them – he claimed Mats and Erik taught him, some bullshit about being in the club of the Cool BVB Lads. Why was he not in this club was the real mystery here because, let’s face it, he was cooler than all of them together – they decided to cook something. The something here being the leftover pasta and chicken his mom brought over the day before. They were young and lazy, sue them. Marco fished a couple of beers out of his almost empty fridge and threw one at Ilkay. “You’re sulking again,” the younger said, “No, I’m not.” Marco answered, because really, he wasn’t. He was just anxious for the match. He had texted a bit with André and Mesut to know how they were coping and somehow both had told him to text Mario before the match. Which he was already planning on doing, thank you very much. He was going to text every single one of them, actually. He said Ilkay as much and the other lad just looked sad. “I wish I was there, you know,” he said fidgeting with the hem of his jumper, “not even to play, really. I just wish I was there with them to run on the pitch if we win or to let them cry on my shoulders if we lose, you know.” And Marco knew, he had spent the last couple of days jumping from one flight website to another to find the best solution from Dortmund to Rio, only to be remembered by the pain in his leg that he couldn’t, actually, go anywhere. “I know Ilk. I’m not even angry anymore that I didn’t get to play what should have been my World Cup, but. I wish I could be with them right now. I wish I could be with him mostly. He used to come here the day before a big match, he acted all big guy but he was always scared shitless,” Marco chuckled, remembering the ‘can I come overs’ and the ‘pleases’ whispered through the phone. Ilkay gestured for him to go on, and why the hell not? He had never really talked about all of this with anyone and Ilkay was a friend, a damn good one who was just trying to help. So he took a sip of beer and went on, “He gets all nervous and he just needs somebody to pet his hair and remind him he’s one of the best players alive. Because he tends to forget about it a lot. And I just. That was my job and. I don’t know Ilk. I miss him way too much for my own good.” He finished, and it was like some weight was lifted from his shoulders, because he felt lighter. Ilkay was looking at him with an expression that resembled pity, but it wasn’t quite that. “You know you should tell him,” Marco snorted but the other went on “you should tell him because you love him and that should be enough.” “But he doesn’t love me back.” Ilkay looked almost angry now, frustrated, “So what? Who cares. You should do this because you need to move on, whether with him or without him. You have to do this for yourself Marco, not for Mario. You need to start having a bit of respect for yourself. Promise me you’ll think about it.” Marco looked up and couldn’t hold back the single tear that escaped him, “When did you become so wise Ilk?” “I’ve always been wise, you idiot” Ilkay snorted and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard, “think about it, okay Wood?” “Don’t call me that, nobody does it anymore,” he answered, but nodded anyway and Ilkay looked satisfied. “Now, let’s go watch that thing with the hot blonde chick!” Marco was confused, “Which one buddy, you need to be a bit more specific?” “The badass with the dragons? C’mon the one who married the big muscular guy that looks like me?” Marco started laughing and threw himself on the couch, “Firstly, her name is Daenerys Stormborn, and secondly you look nothing like Khal Drogo”, Ilkay put his feet on Marco’s lap and looked at him dead in the eyes, “You know nothing, Marco Reus.”
They were both up, Ilkay was cursing from the kitchen, after saying they needed more beer to deal with the overtime. Ninety minutes had passed and both teams had yet to score. Germany was playing good, the guys were nervous, that much was obvious, but they were winning over ball possess. They were giving Argentina’s defense line a hard time and Manuel was absolutely flawless. Man of the match, in his opinion. Mario had replaced Miro during the second half (and if he cried on his friend’s shoulder when Klose exited the field and his career in the National Team accompanied by a standing ovation, that was going to remain between him and Ilkay). He could see Mario was focused, he could see he wanted to be seen by Thomas and Mesut. They were all giving their 100%, they were just facing a good opponent. For a brief moment he wished he had sent him more than just a ‘go get ‘em tiger!!’ because that was just lame and impersonal and not motivating at all. But he was a weak man. And he wasn’t even entirely sure Mario would have had the opportunity to read the text, so you know. Ilkay entered the room with a beer and a glass of what looked like vodka and coke. He handed Marco the beer and started sipping his drink, “This shit tastes like shit, shit.” “Why are you drinking it then?” Marco asked, repositioning himself on the couch just to stand up a second later as he saw the teams back on the field and ready to go. “I needed something stronger, Marco what if we lose”, his voice shrill. “We can’t lose okay? They’ll figure something out, Thomas will work one of his magic, I don’t know but we’re not losing, I’m telling you.” But his trembling hands weren’t so sure. The first 15 minutes passed and nothing happened. He had to take off his jumper because the air in the living room was getting way to heavy and hot. Ilkay was curled on the floor, rocking his glass still half full in his lap and mumbling ‘c’mon guys’ like a chant. The board marked 112’. Marco was praying for a goal at the very last minute of the overtime, because he couldn’t even bear the idea of going through the penalties without exploding. He thought of his brain and guts smeared on the walls of his living room and on the leather of his couch and no, somebody had to fucking score. And he did. In that very moment Mario Gӧtze, his Mario, scored the goal that made his National Team World Champion. Marco felt something heavy landing on him, Ilkay had practically jumped on his back, the drink abandoned somewhere. “HE DID IT MARCO, WE DID IT!” Ilkay screamed in his ear. And when he saw Rizzoli blowing the whistle, he realised they actually did it. He realised they were actually World Champion. He realised Mario kept the promise he made when he called him before hopping on the plane for Rio. He didn’t answer that phone call but he heard the message in the voice mail that said, with a sure tone, ‘I’m doing this for you, Marco Reus.’
Ilkay started crying when Phil lifted the Cup and they jumped and screamed, the paint Ilkay insisted to put on their cheeks with the colours of their flag smeared everywhere on their faces. They didn’t pay much attention to the TV, Marco was too busy performing that stupid dance of the Cool BVB Lads club. Ilkay took a video of the moment, murmuring something like “I’ll show this to Mats and Erik when they get back, because you deserve to be honorary member of the club” and laughing like a fool. They focused back in the TV just in time to see Bastian and Lukas fake-kissing and taking selfies together, like the idiots they were. He remembered having something like that with Mario in the past. And it was just like that, in that moment, that he saw him, with the new jersey with the four (four!!! Fuck you Italy!) stars and another one thrown on his shoulder, dancing with the others in circle around the cup. He was happy and always, always beautiful. And then somebody asked him to take a picture alone with this other jersey Marco had thought was the one from the match. But then he saw him opening it and posing with a proud bright smile and it was Marco’s. It was Marco’s number 21 jersey. Mario brought his jersey with him on the pitch. Mario was right there, telling him ‘I did it for you Marco’ and Marco loved him more than ever. Ilkay shoved him on the shoulder to make sure he was still breathing and then whispered in his right ear, “Are you going to tell him now?” And Marco didn’t have enough strength to scream the ‘YES’ that was flashing through his brain but he hugged Ilkay, crying and yes. Yes. He was ready to get his boy back.