Page 30 of Contested

He took a step back, but Sebastian followed, his hand stretching out to run down Marcos’ forearm and rest on his wrist again.

“For what?” Sebastian asked, his tone a little harsher now.

“Leaving,” Marcos mumbled. “Coming here. Whatever I did today.”

“Whatever you did?” Sebastian’s hand pulled away, and his lips pulled tight. “Right. And then you come here and do this. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ayúdame,” Marcos said quietly. “I don’t know what I did.”

Sebastian’s face changed, but only for a second. “I’m just a fag, right?” His fingers balled into a fist again, and Marcos’ eyes darted down to them, but he didn’t move.

Sebastian’s words were sharp in the air, and a sharp twist made itself known in Marcos’ chest, feeling as though something was trying to dig into it.

“I never said that.”

“I heard you.”

“You heard wrong.” Marcos took a step forward. “Please.”

The word came out fractured, and the sharpness on Sebastian’s face wavered. His fingers loosened, and he closed his eyes. Marcos watched him, trying to find the right words to say, but he didn’t know what they were. So, he said the only thing he could think of.

“I did kiss back.”

Sebastian’s eyelids lifted and, as they both stood there searching each other’s eyes, Marcos felt as though they were both fifteen again, standing at a club fundraiser their junior teams had organised.

They had both been dressed nicely. Both looked as though they were out of place. Marcos remembered the collar of his shirt sitting too tight against his neck and Sebastian standing beside him in stiff pants and a button-up that made him look even more annoyed than usual. Their parents had been somewhere behind the camera, laughing with people from the club, while the photographer waved them closer together against a white backdrop that had already started sagging on one side.

Sebastian had stood with his hands at his sides, shoulder close enough to brush Marcos’ if either of them breathed too deeply. The space between them had sat wrong without the usual shove or insult filling it. Marcos had looked sideways and Sebastian had already been looking back. They had stood much like they did now, their breathing laboured, eyes wide. The rivalry didn’t sit between them that night. There was something else. Something Marcos never understood.

Until now.

The moment Sebastian kissed him, something clicked, and he had spent the past week trying to figure it out. Now, here he was, and it was all stupidly clear.

Despite the bruise Sebastian gave him and the aching in his face. Despite the deep red on Sebastian’s knuckles and the dent in his stomach from Marcos’ shoulder. Despite the years of bloody fighting.

Marcos liked Sebastian.

And that was a big fucking problem.

“Well, that’s pretty obvious now,” Sebastian muttered, shifting his weight, dropping his gaze to his hands. “But on the field—”

“I said, ‘We have this game in the bag,’” Marcos said, a chuckle slipping out.

Sebastian stared at Marcos, biting his lower lip. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I still think I deserved it.” Marcos shrugged. “Besides, I’ve been hit harder. Barely felt it.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Lồn.” He reached to Marcos’ face, fingers gently gliding across the bruise, causing Marcos to wince. “Barely felt it, hey.”

Marcos grinned, though it slipped from his face, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I should’ve stayed. Or talked to you. I just… I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

Sebastian’s hand cupped under Marcos’ chin, tilting it. “What do you want?”

“To not think about it.”

Sebastian gave a slow nod. “Then don’t.”

He leaned in, though not all the way. He closed his eyes and waited. Marcos watched him. The way the television light danced on his clear skin and reflected off his glasses. How his hair fell straight over his forehead. How his long, dark eyelashes quivered as they shut.