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„How what?“ There‘s a faint grin tugging at the corner of Franjo‘s mouth and he reaches out a hand, warm weight landing on Marco‘s shoulder blade.

„How do you do it?“ Marco complains, but wiggles closer. „I‘m getting so old.“

„Ugh, not you too.“

When he lifts his head a little, presses his nose into the side of Franjo‘s pec for a better vantage point, the furrow of Franjo‘s brow becomes obvious.

„Huh?“ Marco asks. It‘s too early, and his brain‘s still swimming in one too many beers for full sentences.

Franjo vaguely gestures at his phone, doesn‘t look like he‘ll elaborate, so Marco opens his mouth and bites - just a little, right next to Franjo‘s dark nipple, where the skin is smooth and invitingly warm.

„Hey!“ Franjo actually laughs, this time, and swats at him. He raises an eyebrow.

It comes out in a burst. „I looked like a baby!“ Franjo complains, thrusts his phone into Marco‘s face, too close to actually make out anything. „I look like a confirmand in his first suit! And why didn‘t you tell me my hair looked like that.“

Marco sits up, too, groaning a little when his stiff joints protest and the faint throbbing in his right temple flares up for a second. He plucks the phone from Franjo‘s hands, tries to blink the remnants of sleep out of his eyes. The picture‘s from the green carpet, and Franjo‘s smile is almost as wide as his face.

„Babe,“ Marco starts. They‘ve switched positions, almost, mirror image of a moment ago with Franjo hiding his face in Marco‘s shoulder, trying and failing to stop frowning at the phone. „I don‘t know what to tell you, but I don‘t agree.“

Franjo just reaches out and swipes to the next picture over. Marco‘s faced with himself now, the bright blue of his suit, his not-quite-so-artfully tousled hair. Before he can say something, Franjo swipes back. Then forth again.

„Be fucking for real,“ he mutters. „I mean look at you. You looked…“ he trails off there, swallows.

Marco grins, tips Franjo‘s chin up to glance a perfunctory kiss over his lips, a promise for later, when his mouth doesn‘t feel like the Kalahari desert anymore. „Oh, I know you liked how I looked.“ Franjo swats at him again.

„You‘re so full of yourself,“ he pouts, but his tone is light enough.

„For good reason. As evidenced by last night,“ Marco argues, still grinning, his thumb tracing feather light concentric circles on Franjo‘s chest. He waves the phone back into Franjo‘s line of sight. „Which should also be enough evidence to you that I decidedly did not think you looked like a confirmand.“

Franjo almost gives him a full grin back, then.

„Also,“ Marco adds. „You are young. And it would be very unfair if you found your perfect formal outfit within the first few years of your pro career. We all have to go through a bit of an awkward phase.“

„Go brush your teeth.“ Franjo snatches his phone back. „Then I‘ll show you my akward phase.“

This is how it went down: They‘d had what Marco would have described as a completely normal training camp day. Sure, upon reflection, after what happened - Franjo had let him take first go several times. He‘d volunteered for kitchen duty after he knew Marco was gonna cook. He‘d spent half an hour helping Marco look for the gloves he‘d set down somewhere, immediately forgetting about them again. Sure, Arnaud had seemed irritated and in a fairly bad mood all day, god knows why. Still, none of that could have prepared Marco for it.

They‘d finished dinner and played a round of Brändi Dog. Marco and Justin had won, thanks to a miscommunication between Franjo and Arnaud and Justin was still celebrating. Franjo stood, and Odi looked up at him, grinning. „Will you bring me another beer if you‘re going to the kitchen?“ Harmless. Franjo had nodded easily, no big deal.

Not Arnaud, though. He‘d gone red-faced, all huffy, and started packing up the game.

„You don‘t wanna play another round?“ Marco had asked, surprised, at the same time as Arnaud had snapped at him: „I can‘t believe you‘re making him get your beers now.“

„What?“ he‘d said, half because it took his brain a few beats to process what Arnaud had said and half because the hostile tone honestly took him by surprise. Even Justin had shut up, then, and for a moment the only sound was the plink plink plink of the game marbles knocking together in their little sachet.

„Don‘t play dumb,“ Arnaud had hissed. „You‘re taking advantage of him.“

It was so heinous that it shocked a laugh out of Marco. „What??“ was the only thing he could think to say, again.

Arnaud had closed the game box and stood, hands braced on the table top. Expression tight with atypical aggression, he‘d stared at Marco for a beat. „He‘s in love with you, you idiot. You have to have noticed he‘s in love with you!“

He hadn‘t noticed. Clearly. It must‘ve been so obvious on his face, that some of the tension immediately bled out of Arnaud, replaced with a kind of disappointed frown that somehow hit even harder.

„You‘re joking.“ Justin seemed just as taken aback as Marco felt.

Just then, Franjo walked in again. His face was unreadable, the few seconds Marco managed to look at him at least. He set down one of the beer bottles he was carrying. It wobbled slightly before settling, teetering on the edge of tipping over for a moment. It felt like a metaphor.

„He‘s not joking.“ Quietly, flat. Marco noticed he was clenching his hands into fists, then, and he forced himself to look up, unsure what his face was doing. He caught only the tail end of a fleeting look Franjo had thrown his way but even that felt so heartbreakingly vulnerable that Marco could barely stand it.

„Anyway. I‘m going to bed,“ Franjo mumbled. He was still clutching the second bottle tightly, eyeing it for a moment, confused. Then he thrust it towards Arnaud, who looked shell-shocked.

„Franjo…“ Arnaud started, but Franjo had already turned around and left the room.

„Shit.“ Marco was unclear on who had said it. It might have been him. Arnaud set the second bottle down and went after Franjo without another word.

Marco buried his face in his hands and sighed. The sofa shifted underneath him, then he felt Justin‘s hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, tightly.

„Damn,“ Justin chuckled. „What is it about you?“

Marco just groaned. „Oh, shut up.“ He peeked at Justin between his fingers. „Did you know?! You could‘ve told me!“

„No! I guess I‘m just too used to people fawning over you by now,“ Justin mused, eyes twinkling. He laughed when Marco threw a pillow at him.

„You‘re finding this way too funny,“ he complained and Justin reached out to pat his head.

„Poor baby,“ he grinned. Marco shot him a weak grin back and stood, stretching.

„I think I‘ll to call Gino,“ he said, staring out the window into the dark.

Marco takes his hand away immediately. "What?"

He sounds genuinely confused and it pisses Franjo off so much that he turns over, even though he's promised himself not to. Marco looks devastating wrapped in shadows, even with the stupid buzzcut and his hands hovering an inch over his own knees. "You're... pissed at me?" he asks, slowly lowering his palms to his thighs, then rubbing them up and down nervously. His tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth and Franjo can't see what his eyes are doing. He doesn't want to know.

"Is it true?" he asks and his own voice sounds foreign to him, cutting in a way he didn't know it could be. "What you said back there?"

"Is what true?" Marco's fingers twitch on his thigh, right beneath the hem of his shorts. The hair's standing up there, frizzy and static from his nervous hands. Franjo closes his eyes against it.

He forces the words out through the sudden dryness in his throat. Pretends to say them into the reddish dark behind his eyelids. "You're gonna ask Stella to marry you?"

"Oh." Even with his eyes still pressed close, Franjo knows Marco's holding himself very still now. He can imagine every line of poised muscle in that body to perfection, has seen it all - on snow and... not.

Humiliatingly, he can feel his eyes grow hot and he turns back over, back to Marco, and presses his face into his pillow. He never usually feels all that young in the team. They make him feel like an equal, most of the time, like they're seeing him as a skilled skier, more than someone barely out of their teenage years. Now though. God, does he feel like a stupid baby. "So it's true?" he asks again, as if it wasn't obvious already.

The mattress shifts under him a second time and then Marco is pressed against him everywhere, big spoon to his little. A strong arm winds around his middle and Marco's hand presses to Franjo's chest. Franjo wants to kick him in the shin, to throw him out. He wants to melt into his chest and let him feel the shake caught in his bones. He holds his breath.

Marco's lips find the nape of his neck. "Babe..." he sighs. "I thought you knew."

„How what?“ There‘s a faint grin tugging at the corner of Franjo‘s mouth and he reaches out a hand, warm weight landing on Marco‘s shoulder blade.

„How do you do it?“ Marco complains, but wiggles closer. „I‘m getting so old.“

„Ugh, not you too.“

When he lifts his head a little, presses his nose into the side of Franjo‘s pec for a better vantage point, the furrow of Franjo‘s brow becomes obvious.

„Huh?“ Marco asks. It‘s too early, and his brain‘s still swimming in one too many beers for full sentences.

Franjo vaguely gestures at his phone, doesn‘t look like he‘ll elaborate, so Marco opens his mouth and bites - just a little, right next to Franjo‘s dark nipple, where the skin is smooth and invitingly warm.

„Hey!“ Franjo actually laughs, this time, and swats at him. He raises an eyebrow.

It comes out in a burst. „I looked like a baby!“ Franjo complains, thrusts his phone into Marco‘s face, too close to actually make out anything. „I look like a confirmand in his first suit! And why didn‘t you tell me my hair looked like that.“

Marco sits up, too, groaning a little when his stiff joints protest and the faint throbbing in his right temple flares up for a second. He plucks the phone from Franjo‘s hands, tries to blink the remnants of sleep out of his eyes. The picture‘s from the green carpet, and Franjo‘s smile is almost as wide as his face.

„Babe,“ Marco starts. They‘ve switched positions, almost, mirror image of a moment ago with Franjo hiding his face in Marco‘s shoulder, trying and failing to stop frowning at the phone. „I don‘t know what to tell you, but I don‘t agree.“

Franjo just reaches out and swipes to the next picture over. Marco‘s faced with himself now, the bright blue of his suit, his not-quite-so-artfully tousled hair. Before he can say something, Franjo swipes back. Then forth again.

„Be fucking for real,“ he mutters. „I mean look at you. You looked…“ he trails off there, swallows.

Marco grins, tips Franjo‘s chin up to glance a perfunctory kiss over his lips, a promise for later, when his mouth doesn‘t feel like the Kalahari desert anymore. „Oh, I know you liked how I looked.“ Franjo swats at him again.

„You‘re so full of yourself,“ he pouts, but his tone is light enough.

„For good reason. As evidenced by last night,“ Marco argues, still grinning, his thumb tracing feather light concentric circles on Franjo‘s chest. He waves the phone back into Franjo‘s line of sight. „Which should also be enough evidence to you that I decidedly did not think you looked like a confirmand.“

Franjo almost gives him a full grin back, then.

„Also,“ Marco adds. „You are young. And it would be very unfair if you found your perfect formal outfit within the first few years of your pro career. We all have to go through a bit of an awkward phase.“

„Go brush your teeth.“ Franjo snatches his phone back. „Then I‘ll show you my akward phase.“