Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“..You know, when you look at Barcelona, when you hear that name, you know, you think of football. Real football, high-paced football, good football. And they have some of that, you know, in Lewandowski, in Yamal, in Cubarsi, in Pedri— but then you look at guys like De Jong and you just think.. how? How has a guy like that, who plays at that pace, made it to a team like that? How is he playing week-in-week-out over guys who are just better than him? You know, people online have been joking that he has some kind of blackmail on Flick, but honestly, I’d believe it at this point! The guy just isn’t Barça level, not in the slightest..” 

“..Frenkie de Jong. Don’t make me fucking laugh. Plays slow, thinks slow, defends slow— honestly, I’m starting to think he might be a bit slow up there..”

“..He’s a pretty boy, that’s what he is. He’s not captain material, not at all. Give the armband to Raphinha, or Lewandowski— hell, even Pedri! Just give it to one of the guys who deserve it, you know, the ones who have shown they’ll put their bodies on the line for the badge..”

“..He’s an overpaid diva, is what he is- no, don’t laugh, I’m serious! He’s being paid, what, a billion dollars a week, and he’s playing like it, like he knows the club can’t offset him ‘cause of his monster wages and his stupid stubbornness, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything! He’s a fucking prick, that’s what I think- a diva, a loser..” 

“..He’s pathetic. Should have been sold years ago, honestly..”

“..hasn’t contributed anything to the club, not in the five years he’s been there, it’s pathetic..”

“..one of the worst signings since Coutinho..”

“..no clue why they still keep him on..”

“..cares more about his billion-dollar mansion than sport..”

“..pathetic..”

“..honestly shocked he’s still got a spot..”

“..grifter..”

“..never captain material..”

“..just isn’t a leader..”

“..send him back to Holland, honestly, he’d fit in there..”

“..twenty-seven and still barely even as good as he was at twenty-one..”

“..can’t expect to win anything with a guy like that on the team..”

“..holding them back..”

“..just makes ridiculous decisions all the time..”

“..loser..”

“..moron..”

“..good-for-nothing bitch..”

“..stupid motherfucker..”

“..utter scum..”

“..aggravating just looking at him..”

“..brainless son of a—“

“..Frenkie?” 

When had his hands balled into fists? 

“Fren— Mr. de Jong, we’re here.” 

Shit. 

He can feel where his nails had been digging into his palms as he scrambles to his feet, shoving his phone back into his pocket. 

“Sorry.” His voice is too raspy, his throat too raw, like molten nails being poured down his throat. “I-I— fell asleep. Sorry.” 

His driver, Thijs, gives Frenkie an unreadable look as he slides the door open. He doesn’t say anything, though, never does- the man’s nearly sixty-five now, probably doesn’t have the energy to interrogate him now if he cared enough to want to. 

Thijs helps him down from the car and gives him a quick side hug, his eyes more than once drifting back to the blond as he returns to the driver’s seat. There’s a look there, one flickering in his eyes, that Frenkie knows, but can’t place; the feeling of it, of all the eyes now on him as he steps into the training grounds, makes his skin crawl like tiny bugs beneath his sleeves. 

“..Des will take in your bags. You are rooming with Matthijs, as per usual; dinner will be a bit later tonight, to allow the others more time to arrive. The first training session will be tomorrow morning, and it will be lighter, as not everyone will arrive by then..”

Frenkie nods along, the words not even making it in one ear, let alone out the other; they bounce off his skin and disappear into the air, mind too numb to process any part of the conversation buzzing around him. 

“Can I, uh, just- go to my room? I’m really tired.” 

“Sure. We just have a few media matters to discuss—“

“No, no, I- I really need to rest. I’ll do whatever you want tomorrow.”

He gets a hesitant sigh for that, both his and the team’s PR managers giving him the usual ‘fans come first’ talk that they all must have memorized at this point.

“I know, I know, I just- I’m not feeling great. I really just want to-“

“It will only take a little. You’ll be free for the rest of the evening, can do whatever you want. Just go in, talk to the manager, give a few of the guys some quick hugs. It’s just for the social media- you’ve been out for a while, Frenkie, this is your big return! Don’t you want to capture that?”

Frenkie lets his eyes flutter shut, just barely able to keep the sigh on his lips from slipping out. “Okay,” he mutters, “whatever.”

And, sure- the rational part of his brain is writhing in second-hand embarrassment, knowing full well that he’s doing nothing to shake the image of himself painted in the media every day, he knows that— but whatever it is that weighs on his shoulders, whatever it is that forces the air from his lungs whenever he tries to take a deep breath— it doesn’t let him think. 

His ribs ache, and his head hurts, and his damned ankle clicks every time he steps, the constant fluctuating between dull aches and sharp pains never seeming to relent. He should have healed months ago, and yet it barely feels as if it’s been a week. 

The worst part is that it’s always there, that itch, those questions— am i still good enough? when will i fall apart? has it already happened, is this all that’s left of me? will i ever be good enough again? 

Frenkie can’t place exactly where it started, that creeping doubt, but it’s certainly taken root. It hadn’t taken long for it to spread like a disease, crumbling his bones as he lay there, all but useless to stop it. 

He tries to drown it out, at first with the constant rehab, and then with the interviews, the talk show appearances, the press conferences. If he’s too focused listening to everyone else hate him, maybe his mind will stop doing the same.

And it does- it works, for a little, but as soon as the cameras turn off and the lights dim, it returns even worse, fueled by new anger and new insults to hurl at his skull. 

His ankle. The injury. It should have healed by now, should have been better months ago— that’s what the medical team had been saying for weeks. He was doing everything right, even the physios said so; so why wasn’t it getting better?

Fragile. That’s what he is; mentally, physically. The pain, dull but constant, is a constant reminder of that fact, of the sickening reality that he may never be the player he once was again. That he’s not good enough. 

It’s more than the injury, though; it’s the constant scrutiny from all directions, from doctors to physios to coaches to journalists to opponents, it seemed everyone had something to say about him; his mentality, his body, his weight, his personality, his ability, his commitment— it was all under constant scrutiny, held up to the light and peered at like a piece of fine art. But not treated like one, no, never. 

It’s the constant pressure that comes with being sidelined, with watching the team he loved, the club he gave everything for, begin to forget about him, looking at him no longer with a gaze of admiration, but of disappointment, of disapproval. He’s not what they thought he was, not what they wanted. That hurts more than any injury. 

That’s what runs through his head as the words in his native tongue flow around him, relentless, his mind craving nothing but his own bed. 

Nevertheless, Frenkie’s nothing if not professional, so he plasters on a smile and holds back the grimace his body urges forth, and he pats his teammates on the back and makes all the stupid small talk he can— “How’s the wife? Good? Great. Kids? Good? Great. Club? Good? Great.”— and he’s good at it, at pretending to be the old Frenkie again, at putting on that stupid grin even if it makes his heart clench, at keeping his voice light and airy and happy even if all he wants to do is scream until his voice is gone and his throat is raw. He’s good at that. 

None of the guys from the English clubs are there yet- Virgil, Matta, Mats, Justin, Cody, half of the rest of the team— it seems like every year, more and more of them find themselves across the channel, and Frenkie would be lying if he said he’d ever thought about it, about a move. Until now, maybe. 

He talks to Koeman for a little while, even if looking at his face makes him want to vomit, just a little. And he smiles for all the cameras, he gives every nameless, faceless videographer and social media manager and photographer a fist bump and a trademark grin, because no matter how much his mind may be sloshing around in his skull, all churned up and melted away, the world still spins- at least for everyone else, if not him. 

It’s all mechanical. He runs through the motions, but he’s not there. Not really. Not for them.

He wonders if anyone notices how he tenses at every back pat, or winces at every smile he’s forced to conjure up, or bristles when his name is called out in greeting. Do they see it? Can they feel it, too, the pain hiding just under his skin? Can they sense it, the hollow space behind his dim eyes, the way his shoulders sag as if carrying a weight he can’t bear? 

Do they notice, yet simply not care? Have they learned to look past it, to stall until they can get away, not wanting anymore to do with him than he does with himself? 

Not even the prospect of curling up in Matta’s arms in a day’s time, of falling to sleep with his head against his chest for the first time in what feels like ages and may well be, can lift his spirits. Tomorrow seems so far away, too far to grasp in his current state. 

“What’s my room number?”

He watches as the player relations manager— Maxi or Maxine or something— reads over one of the two hundred papers stuffed in her binder, and tries his best not to get irritated. He knows she’s got a lot on her plate, but it’s taking too long, too long, too long—

“312,” she says, a smile on her lips as always. “It’s a double, with-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Thanks.” 

He hates it, the way her face falls to a grimace, the way it’s his fault. “Well, ah, welcome back, Frenkie. It’s good to see you again.”

He nods, because he has to, because he always does, muttering a low ‘thank you’ as he turns. It’s not lost on him that he’s the first to leave the common area, the rest of the team all gathered around the snack bar, talking and reminiscing and laughing in ways he knows he can’t, not now, not with so many eyes on him, watching him, judging him. 

His luggage, all one-and-a-half bags of it meant to last the two weeks he’s here, is sat neatly at the door when he rounds the corner, twirling the card key around with his fingers. He sighs as he pushes inside, not wanting to risk having to talk to anybody else tonight.

The room feels strangely big now; he knows they’ve not done anything with the team rooms, but it still irks him, even if the change is only in his mind. It feels like everything irks him nowadays, like his usually all but nonexistent temper has been drawn tight for reasons not even he truly understands. 

He slings his bags onto the other bed, the one closest to the window; it’s instinctual, really. He and Matta both prefer the corner bed by the bathrooms, both enjoy the comfort of the tucked-away feel of it all. 

Matta. God, fucking Matta— the ache in Frenkie’s chest never fades, but when it’s Matta’s face he’s picturing, it subsides. Just a little. 

He hadn’t seen him much when he was injured, the younger man too busy with first the Euros, then preseason, then his move to Manchester— but he’d never stopped sending Frenkie gifts, each one attached to a small note of apology. Flowers, stuffed animals, recovery equipment, sweets, food, weird little gadgets off Amazon, odd mugs with stupid engravings that are probably supposed to be funny; if you can think of it, Matta’s sent it. 

And, sure, the gifts are nice- it makes him happy, knowing he’s thought of, knowing he’s cared for, even if Matthijs isn’t there. But that’s just the thing: He isn’t there. He’s in Munich, or Wolfsburg, or Zeist, or Amsterdam, or Manchester, or somewhere else with people who aren’t Frenkie, somewhere he can’t hold him close and tell him it’ll all be okay. 

The notes are all practically the same- love you, sorry i’m not there, missing you so much, thinking of you every day. It’s nice, sure, but it’s not the same. And Frenkie, being Frenkie, doesn’t say a word to him about it, about the ache in his gut whenever the doorbell rings and it’s just a new box arriving, full of something that’ll make him chuckle for a while before going on a random shelf to never be thought of again. He’d kept the first few in his room with him, but they only made the ache worse, so they, too, slowly migrated to obscure wings of his home. He doesn’t tell him on one of their many facetime calls, doesn’t tell him in one of the sixty million texts they send each other over the summer and into the early parts of the season, doesn’t say a word to anyone about any of it— about that ache, that damned ache. 

He never tells him. Of course he doesn’t. How could he? How could he possibly explain the void in his chest to someone who was busy with their own life, their own career, their own world? Matta was doing well— better than Frenkie could even imagine; the thought of burdening him at a time when he should be happy, of piling on all his own aches and pains, made him sick. 

And so, the ache inside grows.

He can deal with it; that’s what he tells himself. He will, because he has to, because he always does. And if the decreasing visits from his teammates, frequent in the early days of his hiatus before slowly beginning to shrink in number, brings that ache back, he doesn’t say anything. 

That’s what it is, anyway. An ache. And aches can be stretched, they can be rehabbed and iced and eventually disappear altogether. That’s what he thinks, at first. 

And then it doesn’t; it doesn’t fade, only worsens as the months go by with no improvement, months where the pain in his ankle never diminishes, months where he listens to media speculation on his commitment and his ability and whether he truly cares or not, as if Frenkie ever cared about anything less than a hundred percent, as if Barcelona, the city, the club, the team, wasn’t absolutely everything to him in every way possible. 

That’s what hurts the most— that he can give so much, can care so much, and it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. 

He’d learned that early on, before his teammates had all but stopped visiting altogether, before he stopped getting his hopes up when the doorbell rang, before he started turning up extra early for rehab so he could leave before the rest of the team got in for training; before he stopped going in on every off day, every rest day, before it’d sunk in that this pain would never fade, not completely; that it would always linger, a nagging reminder of that helplessness, of that isolation, of the rumors and the hate and the disappointment from the people he worked every day to be good enough for. 

And yet, he learns. He learns that there is no enough; that it will never be enough, because he will never be enough. 

Because no matter how hard he tries, he’s not what they want. He’s not who they look for anymore when lineups come out, he’s not the one whose name they chant, he’s not the one they write articles about or hold segments to talk about but for to lambast his lack of effort, or dedication, or care. 

Because, no matter how hard he tries, he isn’t good enough. He isn’t, and no matter what he does, he will never be good enough. 

He’s Frenkie de Jong, and he’s a washed-up old loser. 

———

Matthijs is exhausted.

First, he falls asleep in the car on the way to the plane, waking only to Joshua shoving a phone in his face, a snicker on his lips as he shows him the two-dozen pictures he’d taken of him, mouth agape, snoring like an old man. He finds it slightly less amusing, before promptly falling right back asleep again on the plane. 

But that’s only the start. The plane gets grounded for nearly two hours due to bad weather, leading to him waking up, thinking they’re in Utrecht, and almost getting off of the plane in the middle of the runway. 

He gets yelled at by security for a bit, but in his half-conscious state doesn’t really take any of it in, and is eventually allowed to return to his seat. Joshua, as usual, finds it hilarious and refuses to let him go back to sleep, too busy poking and jeering and throwing jabs every chance he gets. If he weren’t so desperate for some rest, Matthijs would probably be returning the banter, but he simply doesn’t have the energy for it now. 

It feels like he’s drowning in everything around him, in the expectations of his new club’s fans and the disappointment of his old’s, in the whirlwind of emotions he constantly finds himself swirling around in. It’s all teetering just on the edge of too much, but in this life, nothing can be too much. Because if you can be overwhelmed, that means you’re weak, and if you’re weak, that means you aren’t good enough. 

In all honesty, he loves international breaks. He’d never say that out loud, of course, not when he’d get crucified by all of his new club’s fans, but it was always a bit of a relief when that final whistle blows on the last game before the break, and everything, even if only for a moment, fades away. 

This time around, he was especially excited. He hadn’t seen Frenkie face-to-face for months, maybe once or twice since his injury, and the prospect of seeing him again was one that had him grasping to the straps of his duffel bag just a bit tighter. 

It would take years to list all the things he misses about Frenkie; of course, there’s the obvious, his hugs and his smile and his laughter— and then there are the things that keep Matthijs up at night, the things that have him reaching out when he’s home alone, imagining him in his arms. 

Like the way his hands always squeeze Matthijs’s when he’s laughing really hard, as if fearful he’ll drift away otherwise; like how his eyes shimmer when he’s listening closely, repeating everything back to you like he’s worried he’ll miss something; like when he’ll crawl into Matthijs’s arms when the younger man is asleep, somehow without waking him, and nestle himself against him like a cat. There’s so many things he can’t see, can’t feel, can’t love over a text or a video call, things nothing can replace. 

“You’re daydreaming about your boy again, aren’t you?”

Matthijs groans, slamming his window shut. “Shut up, Joshua.” 

The younger man smirks, leaning across the aisle with his head propped on his fist. “I was right, wasn’t I? You always get all.. airy, when you’re thinking about him.” 

“Fuck off,” Matthijs repeats, his voice a low warning. He may be airy when thinking about Frenkie, but he can also get pissed, especially when he hasn’t seen him for months, and he’s not afraid to take that out on someone else if they stray too far into his business. 

Joshua holds his hands up in mock surrender, letting out a sigh. “Woah. Look, I’m not trying to start a fight, man. You’ve just.. you’ve been off all season, so it’s good to see you happy, I guess.”

Matthijs merely grunts, tugging the shitty, too-thin plane blanket on his lap. It may be a privately chartered flight, but that doesn’t mean the amenities are all that much better.

“Dude, I’m serious. You’ve been all grumpy for months now, bro— you’d think your dog just died.” 

“Josh. Stop.” 

Joshua sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat, though Matthijs knows he’s not finished. 

“We- the guys and I are worried about you, man. I’m just trying to look out for you—“

“Yeah, well, I don’t need you to. Feels like I’ve given up enough for this club, don’t need everyone prying into my business on top of that.” 

And it’s mean, and he knows it, and yet he can’t find it in himself to care. Because, in all honesty, it’s true; he’d gone months without seeing Frenkie as the whole thing panned out, had spent precious off weeks signing papers and speaking with agents and meeting executives to watch as they tried to woo him. And Frenkie would lie, and he’d say he didn’t mind, but if Matthijs knows him— which he does— that was as far from the truth as it could be. 

The man wasn’t one to speak about his feelings much, and at times, the lies seemed to come eerily easy to his lips. But Matthijs knows how he works, and, even if the older man would hate hearing it, Frenkie was sensitive. He took things to heart, whether he should or not, and felt everything at a thousand percent; it was simply who he was, how he had always been. 

Frenkie had never been good with isolation. It was one thing to be stuck without Matta over the summer, but it was another entirely to be almost completely alone for months on end, only disrupted by meetings with physios and the extremely rare visit from a coach, a friend, or a teammate. And Matthijs hadn’t been there, hadn’t been able to comfort him as he ranted about how broken he felt or hold him while he cried about the idea of never playing for the team he loved again, hadn’t been able to do anything beyond words through a screen that he knew rarely did anything. 

It felt like a gut punch even thinking about it, and even if he knows there wasn’t anything he could do- he hadn’t had a few days free in a row in months- it still sends grumbling of guilt through his mind thinking about Frenkie, alone, hurting, and him not being there. 

Because Frenkie had always been there. Whenever Matta had been injured, for years, Frenkie would almost always be the first person at his bedside; and, sure, maybe they were different situations, but that didn’t make the guilt gnawing at his ribs like Virgil at a team barbecue any less painful. 

“I.. I guess I have been,” he sighs, glancing at his closed window. Joshua turns, looking surprised at his sudden willingness to talk. “I dunno. I’ve had a lot of shit going on.” 

“I get that, really do. Is it.. do you wanna talk about it?”

Matthijs sighs again, empty air the only thing he can form at the moment. “Nah,” he mutters, “thanks, though.” 

“Any time. Hey, we’ve still got an hour up here, so if you change your mind—“

“Yeah, I’ll- I’ll, uh, think about it.” 

Joshua gives him one of his usual toothy smiles, turning back to his phone and leaning back in his chair. Matthijs doesn’t think he could get back to sleep if he tried, his eyes no longer feeling heavy. 

He glances down at his phone, hoping for a message from Frenkie, but there’s nothing. He sighs, turning the screen off again and slipping the device back into his bag, pulling out the book he always had in his carry-on, yet never actually read. He doesn’t know why he opens it, hasn’t read a book in years, but he does. 

His eyes drift over the words, and he has to read the first page three times after he realizes he isn’t actually reading them, only skimming over. It makes his head hurt, all the words— that’s what he tells himself. It’s the book’s fault. 

So he puts it down, not yet made it through even the first page, and groans into his palms. 

It’s going to be a long hour. 

———

Frenkie wakes to a knock on the door. 

It’s.. strange, the reaction the sound brings. His first thought is, ‘another gift?’ before he sits up, taking in his surroundings, the sheets balled at his feet from a restless night of tossing and turning, and realizes where he is. 

He lets out a sigh, rubbing at his eyes as he glances at his alarm clock. It reads 6:30, and something in his heart strains for a moment. Matthijs should have arrived hours ago. 

He slings his legs over the side of the bed, not bothering to fix the mess of sheets he’d left behind as he pulls on the same shirt he’d worn yesterday, the pajama pants he has on feeling just a bit too scratchy against his legs. 

Frenkie’s never been a morning person. Not as a kid, not at Ajax, and certainly not now— he hates it, the way his joints crack and dried sweat clings to his skin, leaving him cold and nasty. He’d only grown to like it a bit more once mornings began entailing waking up in Matthijs’s arms, but he didn’t even have that today. He briefly wonders if the defender had gotten in on time, and merely had more important things to do, before forcing the thought from his mind. There must have been some kind of delay. There must have been. 

He tries to ignore the dizziness as he shuffles to the door, socked feet padding against the hardwood floors. It feels like he’s walking for ages before he finally leans against the doorframe and pulls it open, the click of the latch just a little too loud in his ears. 

“You’re late.” 

Matthijs winces, before smiling weakly and rushing forward, arms wrapping around Frenkie’s shoulders so tight he briefly worries his head will pop off. 

“Fuck. Frenk, I—“

“Don’t. Don’t— don’t talk. If you start talking then I- I won’t be able to stay mad at you.” 

Matthijs almost laughs, burying his face in Frenkie’s tousled hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I missed you so much. So much.” 

Frenkie gives in then, wrapping his arms around Matthijs’s sides and dragging him through the door. The defender barely manages to grab his suitcase and pull it in behind him before Frenkie’s slammed the door shut, crowding Matthijs back against the door and reaching up to grasp his neck. 

“..I hate you. You know that? I wanna be mad at you and I- I can’t. I hate that about you.” 

Matthijs snorts, pressing his lips to Frenkie’s forehead. “Sorry. You know me, I just can’t help being amazing.” 

Frenkie whines under his breath, pulling back just far enough to slip his hand into Matta’s, turning to drag him further into the room. 

“Woah, woah, hey— we’ve got two weeks, Frenk, don’t ruin me on day one.” 

Frenkie rolls his eyes, leaning up to press his lips to Matthijs’s. The kiss is almost bruising, and Frenkie hums as the younger man presses a hand to the back of his neck, teeth digging into his lip. He doesn’t want this to end, not now, not ever. Matthijs is forceful, as he always is, yet somehow simultaneously impossibly gentle. His free hand drifts down to his waist, giving his hip a slight squeeze before flattening out against his lower back, pulling him closer. 

“God, I missed you,” Matta mutters through heaving breaths, cut off only as Frenkie yanks him back down by the collar for another kiss. He’s all but sure he’d like to do this until he runs out of breath, until the both of them drop dead, wants to feel those fingers in his hair and those lips on his own and that tongue darting in and out until he’s old and gray— but Matthijs pulls away far too soon, lips coated with a sheen of saliva and cheeks burning bright red. Frenkie imagines he looks similarly like he’s just run a marathon, but Matthijs doesn’t give him long to think, his hands hooking beneath the blond’s thighs and hauling him up. 

Frenkie yelps, instinctively wrapping his legs around the larger man’s waist to keep from falling. Matthijs carries him to the sofa, slumping down and leaning forward to press his lips to Frenkie’s neck. 

The older man hums under his breath, squeezing Matthijs’s exposed neck with one hand and using the other to steady himself against his shoulder as he moves his knees to either side of his thighs, straddling him. It feels like a dream, all of it. 

And then Matthijs pulls back, far too suddenly, his eyes wide. 

“What? What— what’s wrong, what’d I do?” Frenkie rasps, pulling back with equally as much shock, panic flaring in his chest. “I-I didn’t—“

“..Frenk,” Matta starts, his hand drifting to the older’s cheek, “you’re crying,” he whispers, and his thumb brushes Frenkie’s cheek, coming away damp. 

And.. oh. Oh. He’s.. he’s crying. 

Frenkie winces, attempting to glance away, but Matthijs doesn’t let him turn his head. “Frenk, mijn leeuwtje, what’s wrong?”

“I— I don’t..” Breathe. He can’t breathe. 

He whimpers, despite the humiliation that the sound, that the weakness of it, sends coursing through his veins, burying his face in the nook of Matta’s neck. “I’m sorry, I—“ He croaks, struggling to swallow down a thick, growing lump in his throat. “I don’t—“ He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe—

Matthijs’s hands drift to Frenkie’s face, grasping at his jaw and lifting him from where he’s buried his head in his shoulder, moving his head to face him instead. “Frenk, baby, look at me. Look at me— you’re okay. I’m right here, yeah? Right here.” 

He again brushes the freshly fallen tears on Frenkie’s cheeks away with his thumbs, a look of worry glinting in his eyes. “Frenk. Talk to me, please.” 

“I-I just.. I missed you,” he rasps, screwing his eyes shut to keep the embarrassment from deepening, “And it’s been- it’s been so long, and I missed you, and now you’re here, and I.. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to feel—“

“Baby, look at me. You don’t have to feel any certain way— just feel. If you need to cry, then cry. I’m right here. You’re just- you’re overwhelmed, Frenk, and you have every right to be. I should have been there for you more and I—“

“No, no, you- you did all you could. You couldn’t come see me. I know that. You didn’t.. have time. You couldn’t.”

Matthijs sighs, pulling Frenkie into another kiss, this one far softer, far shorter. “I know,” he whispers, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to still feel angry about it. You shouldn’t feel like you’ve got to force yourself to feel any way ‘cause of me. You can still understand it and be hurt at the same time.” 

Frenkie sucks in a deep breath, lets it out, and then bursts into tears again. “I hate you,” he sobs, “I hate you, I want to be mad at you and I can’t, I can’t. Missed you. Missed you so much, you asshole.” 

Matthijs chuckles early, a few tears of his own springing forth, letting Frenkie bury himself in his broad chest like a cat in its mother’s fur. He knows he’s not the one who should be crying, and yet there always seems to be something about Frenkie that brought out parts of him he never knew existed. 

He shifts Frenkie from his lap, lying down on his side atop the sofa cushions and pulling the older man down with him, before once more wrapping him in his arms. 

They stay like that for a while, until Frenkie’s cries become dry sobs become deep breaths, until Matthijs dries his eyes against Frenkie’s sleeve and levels out his breathing in sync with the man he now holds close.  

“We- breakfast starts soon,” Frenkie eventually rasps, breaking the silence, even if leaving Matta’s arms is the last thing he wants to do, he can already feel his stomach rumbling. “I.. didn’t eat dinner last night.” 

Matthijs gives him a look that he can feel, even with his eyes still pressed to his chest. “Frenkie..”

“I know, I know, I just- I fell asleep, okay?”

Matta sighs, pulling back just enough to look down and meet Frenkie’s eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, pressing his lips to the top of his head nonetheless. “I still have to shower, I didn’t have a chance before my flight.” 

“We- can we shower together?”

Matthijs rolls his eyes at the hesitance in Frenkie’s face, but despite the joking nature of it all, the older man’s demeanor is still unsettling. Frenkie never hesitated like that, would never ask for something like that; he’d just do it. That was the kind of guy he was, he didn’t ask for permission at every turn as he now did. 

“Of course, Frenk. You know you don’t have to ask that. Always.” 

Frenkie hums, again averting his gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Matthijs is about to say something more, maybe ask a few follow-up questions, but Frenkie’s already clambering overtop of him and pulling himself to his feet, heading toward the bathroom. He limps a little for the first few steps, before evening out. He’s still favoring his ankle, and the realization sends a pang of guilt through Matta’s heart. 

He’ll have to bring that up later. For now, he just needs a shower. 

———

Anyone with eyes could see the change in Frenkie’s demeanor the moment Matthijs arrived. 

He goes from closed-off and standoffish to upbeat and laid-back in the blink of an eye, never more than an arm’s length away from the defender- they take the elevator together, get food together, find a slightly secluded corner of the dining hall to sit together, Matta’s head lying on Frenkie’s shoulder. 

It’s almost comical, just how quick the switch happens; the team notices it, too, if their constant jeers about the return of ‘Mister Sunshine’ are any indication. Frenkie ignores them all, far too focused on the way his skin sparks whenever he feels Matta’s breath on his neck. 

It’s only been six months or so, but it feels like an eternity— and neither of them are going to waste the time they’ve got. 

They’re going to make this everybody’s business. 

Sure, their relationship was all but common knowledge around camp, but it was a tightly guarded secret anywhere beyond. They were always careful, and that would never change— they try their best to be cautious in training, and the videography team labors over every second of every video posted to social media to make sure nothing sneaks in. And Frenkie appreciated that, truly— it just sucked as a reminder of what they must pretend to be. 

And they try not to be reckless, they really do- they even voluntarily go in different groups for rotational exercises in training to avoid the risk of distraction, of slip-ups. They may want nothing more than to be close all the time, but the team comes first, always. 

That doesn’t mean that they’re completely abstaining, though; whether it’s hidden touches in the dining hall or stolen kisses in the bathrooms, Frenkie’s sure half the team hates their guts by now. He catches Virgil wagging his eyebrows at him more than once in rondos after roaming eyes and Matthijs’s shouts distract him enough to lose the ball, and ends up having to explain his bright red face to Matthijs on the walk from the locker rooms to the dining hall. 

In all, though, they make it through the first day without any major issues. Training goes well as long as Matta can keep his eyes off Frenkie’s ass (and vice versa), and they don’t sit too close to each other during mealtimes, spread out enough amongst their other circles to keep from arousing suspicion. It’s habit, at this point, after so many years of hiding. It comes almost saddeningly naturally, the instinct to hide away, to muffle the overwhelming urge for closeness that never fades, no matter how much they ignore it. 

But they make it through. No matter how much they may hate it, they make it through however they must, because they must. 

They must. 

———

“..Frenk?”

“Shut up. Tired.”

Matta snorts, hand threading through damp locks. Frenkie’s hair always curls at the ends when it’s wet; he’s found it makes it easier to hold.

He can’t help it, the way his fingers linger over Frenkie’s smooth skin, brushing, resting. It’s addictive.

He lets out a low hum as Matta’s fingers rake over his scalp, bristling at the feeling and burying his face in his bare chest. 

“Frenk, it’s barely 19:00–“

“Don’ care. Fuck off. If you leave I’ll kill you.” 

Matta smirks, letting out a sigh as he lifts Frenkie’s hand to his lips and presses them against his knuckles. The smaller man all but mewls, shuddering at the touch. 

“I missed you,” Matta whispers, “so much. So, so much.”

“You’re such a sap,” comes the muttered response, and Frenkie scoots up the bed until he’s at eye level with Matthijs, before pressing their lips together. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of this, of the way the younger man tangles their legs together in a mess of sheets and skin and aching bones. 

“How do you have so much energy?” Frenkie groans, “you played a full game, like, two days ago.”  

“Slept on the plane,” he mutters, lips never leaving Frenkie’s temple, “and the ride to the airport.. and the ride from the airport. And for the two hours we were stuck in Manchester— honestly, I think I’ve slept more than I’ve been awake for the past two days.” 

Frenkie snickers, moving down to press his lips to Matta’s nape, sucking a bruise just beneath his collarbone. The younger man groans under his breath, the hand he’s had delicately placed on Frenkie’s hip for nearly an hour now tightening its grip. 

“You’re.. ridiculous,” he rasps, the smirk on his lips never fading. “Absolutely ridiculous.” 

Frenkie smirks. “You love it, though.” 

Matthijs rolls his eyes, rolling over until his chest is flat against Frenkie’s and he has the older man’s arms pinned over his head. “You know I do, you little shit. You know I do.” 

Frenkie snickers under his breath, leaning up to press a soft peck to Matta’s jaw. The smile on his lips is the first genuine happiness Matthijs has seen on his face in months, and it brings an impossible warmth to his chest. The bastard has always made him feel things, new things, strange things— and that doesn’t stop now, not even when he’s sure there can’t be that much more to feel. Frenkie always pulls something new out of him, no matter how long they’ve known each other. 

He sticks his tongue out, wriggling his hands free and wrapping them around Matthijs’s neck. “I think all the guys hate us already,” he mutters, “Devyne looks like he’s seen a ghost every time he looks at you.”

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t started groping me in the dressing room—“

“I was not—“

“Yes you were! Don’t act like I’m some kind of idiot—“

Frenkie rolls his eyes, kneeing Matthijs in the crotch and rolling the taller man off of him. 

“What was that for?” He cries, groaning in mock agony. Frenkie just snickers, pinching the skin of his thigh. “Aw, will you be okay? Is something broken? Don’t worry— your dick’s not big enough to have been in the way.”

Matthijs gives him a glare, bringing an arm around his neck and pulling him to his chest in a chokehold. “Take that back.” 

“This is coercion, I will not stand for—“

Matthijs shuts him up with another bruising kiss, wrapping his legs around Frenkie’s to keep him still in his arms. The midfielder groans, and briefly tries to wriggle free before seemingly coming to the realization that he’s never going to brute force his way out of Matta’s hold. 

“You’re such a bully,” he spits, sticking his tongue out in a weak attempt to antagonize him; Matta just smirks, his free hand slowly drifting down the blond’s body, reveling in how he shudders in his grasp. 

“M-Matta, what.. fuck—“

Frenkie yelps, a whine on the tip of his tongue as Matta’s hand moves slowly down his side, before pausing to rest at his thigh, where it gives his loose flesh a tight squeeze. Frenkie bucks his hips almost on instinct, glaring up at the defender through his thick lashes, and Matthijs finds something familiar growing in his chest. 

“God. You’re fucking adorable, you know that? Hot as fuck.”

Frenkie’s eyes widen, body beginning to still as the sudden shift in Mattijs’s tone sinks in. “Matta..”

“What? ‘s true and you know it,” Matthijs insists, inching his palm slowly closer and closer to Frenkie’s crotch, where only thin boxer shorts cover his pale skin. 

“Matta—“

“Shh. Shh, don’t think, baby. Don’t think.” 

Frenkie whines, the second time he’s made the noise that day— it makes his skin burn just as much now as it had before, embarrassment sinking into his bones and radiating from his skin as Matthijs holds him flush against his broad chest. 

Frenkie’s not small; at 1.81 meters, though, he’s not huge, either. He’s used to seeing most people in the locker room have to look down to speak to him, and so he’d learned to compensate in other ways, making his words and his message just as loud as someone twice his size. 

Matthijs is no different. He has nearly four inches in height over him, and who knows how much weight in muscle, so it’s all but useless to struggle against him. When they’d first met, they’d been practically the same size, yet once Frenkie’s growth had stunted, Matta’s had only sped up. He still remembers those early days well, when Matthijs was still not used to his own strength and could leave behind the odd bruise or scrape manhandling Frenkie, as he’d always loved to do. 

It would always horrify him after, though, seeing the marks on his skin- he cared like that, about the little things; they both did.

Whether it was Matthijs icing one of Frenkie’s bruises after a particularly bad challenge, or Frenkie patching up a scrape left on Matta’s cheek after a striker caught him just a bit too hard, they’d always been caring like that. It went both ways, and the both were always up to dote on one another for a little while, until the attention would become too much and they’d end up flip-flopping. 

There was a lot of that between them, the casual selflessness they both find comes to them so naturally. 

Frenkie felt a responsibility for Matthijs, had since they were little boys in the Ajax academy and the younger boy had latched onto him, homesick and anxious and as full of energy as anyone. He’d seen something in those eyes, a longing for a home, for the warmth he missed from back home, and he’d have given anything to provide it for that little boy. Even when he’d grown not to be so little anymore, he’d still give anything to see that big, toothy grin, that sparkle in those bright blue eyes.

Matthijs, on the other hand, had always been protective of Frenkie. The older boy had always been a bit scrawny when they were young, all too often a target of bullies and abuse from teammates and opposition alike, of coaches who thought he wasn’t big enough, or good enough, or fast enough— because he was, and Matta knew he was, even if Frenkie himself seemed not to sometimes. He’d found himself in more than a few brawls, both on the pitch and off, more often than not resulting from uttered slurs or whispered insults of the boy he held so dearly. 

And Frenkie would patch him up, because he always would, even if he was pissed off at his recklessness, even if he’d rant about his stupidity and the constant whirlwind of chaos he brought everywhere he went, because that was the man he was— the man he is. 

“M-Matta—“

“I’ve got you, mijn leeuwtje. Can I?”

Frenkie nods, swallowing down the growing lump in his throat as he curls his toes into the mattress. “J-just.. gentle? It’s been a while.”

Matthijs pauses, the rasping tone of the words hitting him straight in the heart. “Of course, Frenk, why would you think—“

“Sorry. Just- m-making sure. Dunno.” 

“Frenkie,” Matthijs sighs, pulling his hand back and bringing it to the aforementioned man’s chin, “I will always listen to you. You don’t have to be worried, baby. Know I.. it’s been a while, but I’ll never stop listening to you. I hope you know that.” 

Frenkie sighs, and nods, his eyes fluttering shut. “Touch me, Matta. Please.” 

And there’s a twinge of desperation there, a quiet pleading that has Matthijs’s heart pounding in his chest as he drifts his hands down Frenkie’s bare chest, to his sides, his waist, back up to his breastbone. He lets his fingers linger there for a bit, smirking at how Frenkie bristles under the grazing touch, his lips pressed firmly together.

“Matta—“ It’s a whine, high-pitched and desperate. 

“I know, I know. I’ll get there, be patient.”

Frenkie groans, kicking his legs out weakly in defiance. Matthijs only smirks, allowing his legs to free themselves and tangle in the sheets. 

“Fucking tease,” he huffs, biting back a yelp as Matta’s hands drift over his chest, pinching at his nipples and smirking as he arches his back almost painfully. “Dickhead—“

Matthijs grins, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought my dick was tiny.” 

“Fuck off—“

He’s again cut off by a whimper as Matthijs swiftly drops his hand back to his clothed crotch, giving the growing bulge between Frankie’s legs a harsh tug through the slightly damp fabric. “God. So needy, aren’t you?”

Frenkie glares at him again, and Matta finally peels off his boxer shorts, letting out a hum of approval as Frenkie’s cock springs free, resting delicately against his hipbone. 

“God, Frenk, the things you do to my head..” Matthijs growls, hand already moving to grasp at his length. It fits entirely in the defender’s palm, the sight sending a shudder through Frenkie’s body and a gasp from his lips. 

“Whose cock is this?”

Frenkie whines, bucking his hips once before Matta’s hands clamp down on his waist, stopping his movement. “Fucking- do something, please, M-Matta—“

“Oh, no,” comes the low, gruff mutter, “answer the question.”

Frenkie sucks in weak breaths, mouth open in a silent scream. “I-I don’t- I—“

“Whose cock is this, mijn leeuwtje?” 

Frenkie yelps as Matthijs’s hand clamps down around his length, gasping in air. “Y..yours! Yours, Matta, please..”

“Good boy,” Matthijs growls once more, the gruffness in his words making Frenkie shudder under his touch. He gives his now rock-hard length a few quick tugs, tearing weak whimpers and half-choked-out moans from his lips. 

“Love your pretty little lips, those pretty little sounds..” Matthijs grunts, running a finger up the bottom of Frenkie’s cock. He traces the veins, watches the man in his arms writhe and plead with a satisfied smirk on his face. 

“Yeah. This is what you needed, isn’t it? Someone to take the reigns, make you forget about everything, touch you ‘til you fall apart. This is what you need.” 

Frenkie nods, even if he doesn’t really hear the words all that well, too focused on the slow, lazy strokes of Matthijs’s hand, still not enough to coax him over the edge.

It’s not always like this, Matthijs’s voice so firm, his movements so unrelenting; he’s a giver, though, he always has been. At this point, Frenkie wonders if it’s in his blood.

It’s not always like this, but it can be; when they need it, when Frenkie really needs to let go and Matthijs is carrying too much stress on his shoulders and everything lines up just right, it can be. 

The pumps of Matta’s fist grow quicker, and Frenkie’s head falls back, lying limp on the defender’s shoulder as his mouth falls open in a silent cry. His eyes are screwed impossibly tightly shut, eyelashes fluttering as Matthijs’s movements begin to speed up more. 

“M-Matta-“ Frenkie cries, gasping out a moan as he bucks his hips up, feeling himself teetering on the edge, his mind whirling as if in a blender— and then it all stops. 

It’s a moment of ecstasy, like it always is, and then he’s gone; his mind is drifting, further and further with every second, held down only by the strong arms around his chest. 

“..Love you, love you so much. Love your little noises, god, love your body, Frenk..”

The words are distant, as if on another planet altogether- an echo, maybe.

It feels like a relief; it’s been so long since Frenkie’s been able to be like this, to completely separate his mind from everything and everyone, to let go— it was something only Matta could bring out of him, it was something even he didn’t truly understand. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed it until now; the vague aroma of Matthijs’s cologne wafting through the air, the feeling of warm skin and gentle kisses and almost-too-tight arms. 

For a few moments, nothing else matters. Not Barcelona, not the media, not the fans, not the team, not anything— only the fingers in his hair and the arm over his chest and the clouds muffling every inch of his mind. 

“I’ve got you. Take your time, mijn leeuwtje; I’ve got you.” 

And maybe, he thinks, he could stay like this for a while- drifting along with no real purpose, no destination, no meaning. He thinks he’d like that, to distance himself from the world for a little while, let it all fall away. 

He thinks he’d really like that.

Chapter Text

For the first time in Frenkie’s life, the feeling of a ball at his feet is a foreign one. 

Maybe it’s the ankle. Maybe it’s the time. Maybe it’s the nagging voice in his head, the one that speaks in the language he’s become oh so accustomed to— anger. Anger and fear and raw, unfiltered hate. 

Frenkie de Jong is no stranger to hatred. He’s felt it before, from himself, from angry coaches and angry fans and angry teammates, from boys he benched in his academy days and men he benched in the Champion’s League. It didn’t matter where he was— one thing in Frenkie’s life was always certain: whatever he does, it will never be enough; for him; for fans; for teammates; for friends and family and coaches and everyone else whose prying eyes dissect his every move, he will never be enough. 

He’s accepted that by now. And yet, with a ball at his feet and a crest over his chest, that used to all be an afterthought— it used to fade, even if just a little. 

Not now. Not anymore.

Now, the rumbling murmurs of distaste, the jeers and the jabs and the insults spat through gritted teeth— they don’t fade to the depths of his mind, don’t shelve themselves away as they once had; instead, with every slight twinge of his ankle as he ran, with every ragged breath as he struggled to get back into the rhythm, they grow. Oh, they grow. 

“Frenkie! Opletten!” Virgil’s always the loudest man on the pitch, no matter where they are, who they’re playing, what they’re doing. His words are harsh, in that strange, encouraging way he always is, but his captain’s familiarity is lost on him; instead, his voice blends in with the rest of them, of the screams and the shouts and the rage. 

“Frenkie! Open je ogen, verdomme!”

It’s a miracle he makes it to the sixty-eighth minute before his number flashes on the substitution board. 

———

“Frenkie—“

“Don’t. Don’t fucking— I don’t want to hear it.”

Matthijs sighs. He steps forward slowly, as though dealing with a wild animal; in a way, he supposes, that wasn’t too far off.

“Frenk. You didn’t play badly—“

“Yeah, well, I didn’t play well, either, did I? So what’s the fucking point? ‘Okay’ doesn’t mean shit if I can’t do anything!”

The older man yanks his headphones on and turns towards the window of the team bus, the bright orange lining the walls feeling more like a taunt than anything else. That damned color was everything to him, and yet it seems almost to be laughing at him now; it, too, knows the depths of the embarrassment that is his inability.

His eyes flit across the seats in front of him, catching on every detail, every small bump on the leather and the individual strands of thread that made up the fabric. Anything, anything to keep his mind from wandering back to those voices, to those damn voices—

“Frenkie. You played well.”

A huff. A snort. “Bullshit.”

Matthijs is in his ear, then, his forehead nestled in his neck. The younger man tries not to react, but he can feel the breath on his cheek, and he finds it hard to remain cold.

"It's true. You've been injured for months, Frenk- nobody expects you to come back at a hundred percent immediately. They'd be fools to."

Frenkie grinds his teeth together, unable to stop his hands from balling into fists. Matthijs is right, of course he is, the bastard— but that doesn’t ease his mind in the slightest.

It’s not about playing okay. It’s not about doing well. 

He needs to do better. He needs to be the best, or there’s no point; even then, he doubts it’ll be worth it.

The thought of being anything but perfect— being anything less than perfect— it eats away at his soul like a cancer, a parasite he just can’t shake.

And that fear— the fear of not being enough, not ever being enough, of never again hearing his name ring around the stands in the Cruyff arena, or the Camp Nou, or Montjuic— it claws at his soul, all but does away with what little sanity he has left. 

“..Frenk. You’re killing yourself like this,” Matthijs mutters, resting a hand on Frenkie’s nape, “You’re eating yourself alive.”

Frenkie goes silent, as he usually does when the man now staring into his soul makes a point like this, a point that he knows to be right. Matthijs is his anchor, his rock— but that didn’t mean his constant voice of reason wasn’t the most infuriating thing in Frenkie’s life.

His fingers tap a pattern on the leather bus seat, and his foot taps in tandem. His ankle throbs just a twinge at the motion, an impossible itch nestled deep in his bones, one that makes him shudder when the bus hits a bump or rocks to the side. 

Matta’s hand eventually slips from his nape to his thigh, not quite gripping, but not just resting. It hovers somewhere between, a touch just tight enough to keep him grounded and just light enough to keep him from feeling trapped. Matta’s always been good at that, at finding that happy medium between space and touch. 

Eventually, the bus stops, pulling into the lot of the team hotel with a screeching noise that has Frenkie about ready to peel his skin off.

As everyone else gets off, Frenkie lingers for a few moments, resting his head against the seat. Matthijs follows his lead, his eyes trained on Frenkie and his hands ever so lightly ghosting across the fabric.

“You can go,” the older man murmurs, “I just.. I need a second.”

The words come out weak, but Matta doesn’t seem to care. “Do you want me to?” He mutters, his eyes still glued to Frenkie’s temple. 

Frenkie falters a little, and for just a moment, the walls break. He wants Matta here— wants to curl into the man, wants him to hold him close and whisper the reassurance he needs, wants his voice to drown out the rest of the world and bury himself in his arms— and yet. 

And yet, the voices never quiet, not even as the post-match ache settles into his muscles. 

He doesn’t deserve this. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I.. you should go.”

Matthijs is still staring. It feels like he knows more than he lets on.

Still, he stands with a sigh, his hand giving Frenkie’s shoulder a squeeze as he grabs his bag from the overhead bin. He grabs Frenkie’s, too, and slings it over his other shoulder without so much as a word. 

He does that a lot. The knowing. The seeing. 

Frenkie hates it. 

———

“..I just don’t know what to do. He’s not himself— he hasn’t been since the first day of camp, and for who knows how long before that. I just— I don’t know what to do.” 

Matthijs drops his head back, slumping back against the wall of the hallway. Virgil hums, arms crossed, standing squarely across from him. 

“Have you tried talking to him?” He questions, his voice rumbling at what Matthijs thinks is the exact same pitch as the AC unit that’s just kicked on. “Sounds dumb, but that can help.”

Matthijs sighs, fidgeting with his hoodie strings. “I.. guess I have, yeah. Like, subtly. Frenk.. he isn’t all that much of a talker when he doesn’t want to be.”

Virgil nods sagely, the gears visibly turning in his head. He rests a hand on his jaw, his brow furrowed— he looks like the embodiment of a thinking face. In any other situation, Matthijs would poke fun at him.

“Try.. I don’t know, doing something with him. Go on a run, go to a restaurant, go to a park. Get him out of the football-intensive dome he’s in— if he’s overwhelmed, it could help to get some fresh air.”

The younger man raises an eyebrow, tilting his head just a bit. Virgil huffs and shakes his head, eyes glued to the wall to his left.

“..Alright. Yeah, I’ll try that.”

Virgil sighs, shooting Matthijs a small smile and clapping him on the shoulder as he turns toward his room. “Oh, and, Matta?”

“Yeah?” Comes the response, low and a little nervous, “what’s up?”

Virgil smirks. “Remember. Thin walls.”

Matta’s eyes widen, his jaw falling open. “Virg—“

He gawks as his captain jogs off down the hall, snickering like a schoolgirl. 

God, he hates this damn team. 

———

Frenkie is still in the shower when Matthijs returns to their room. 

His matchday kit is neatly folded at the foot of his bed, his boots overturned on the floor nearby. His suitcase is zipped up, sitting prim and proper next to the closet door. The bathroom door is ajar, light peeking out through the doorway, the sound of running water drifting through the cracks.

Matthijs kicks his shoes off, setting his bag by the foot of his own bed. He sits on the edge, his elbows digging into his thighs as he stares at the carpet, eyes unfocused and mind empty.

After a few minutes, the sound of the shower shuts off. Frenkie emerges, towel slung around his waist and hair dripping onto his shoulders.

He pauses a little when he sees Matta, before dropping his gaze. “Didn’t hear you come in,” he murmurs, and Matthijs just sighs, a twinge of a smirk on his lips. 

“You were in there for over an hour, Frenk,” Matthijs murmurs, not letting him change the subject, and he doesn’t miss the way the older man’s gaze drifts at the questioning.

He stands slowly, his bare feet padding softly across the floor until he comes to a stop behind Frenkie. Slowly, carefully, Matthijs slides his arms around his waist, his hands coming to rest over his stomach.

He feels Frenkie tense beneath his touch, before he seems to melt, just a little, his back resting against the taller man.

The silence is comfortable, if a little heavy. It sits between them like a blanket, a weighty comfortability that neither of them want to break.

It doesn’t last long, though. Eventually, Matthijs can feel Frenkie tense again, the walls going up again. He steps away from Matthijs, and the latter can do nothing but let him.

“I’m gonna get dressed,” comes the murmur, “It’s late.”

Frenkie disappears into the bathroom before Matthijs can respond, leaving the younger man to sit heavily on his bed, his hands clasped together and his mind racing.

Matthijs pretends he doesn’t see the puffy redness around his eyes. 

———

They sleep in the same bed that night, as they have for the past week, but it feels different. It’s as if Frenkie is trying to push himself as far to the outskirts of the mattress as physically possible, to make himself as small as he could, to obscure himself beneath the sheets like a burrowing hamster.

Matthijs watches the ceiling fan turn, the soft, barely audible whirring almost lulling him to sleep.

Almost.

He shifts a little, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes shift, his vision adjusting to the darkness as he turns his head to face Frenkie.

The blond is laying flat on his back, his body ramrod straight and his hands folded over his chest like he was in a coffin. 

His eyes are closed, and he almost looks peaceful. If not for the slight frown etched into his face, for the furrow of his brows, Matthijs could be fooled into thinking he was asleep.

He isn't, though. The tension in his face tells him everything he needs to know.

After a few moments, Matthijs scoots a little closer, until their sides are just barely brushing. Frenkie stiffens a little, but otherwise remains still.

"Frenk."

His voice is barely a whisper. Even still, the other man flinches, his eyes fluttering. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.

Matta reaches out slowly, his fingertips ghosting across his cheek. He feels the older man lean into his touch, just a little, and his heart stutters.

"Hey. Look at me. Please?”

Frenkie blinks, slow and hesitant, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Matthijs smiles sadly. "Hi."

Frenkie snorts, shaking his head a little. "You're a sap," he whispers, his voice low and gravelly and tired.

Matthijs laughs a little, scooting a bit closer. His hand shifts from Frenkie's cheek to his shoulder, the other man letting out a quiet huff.

“You’re proving my point, asshole.”

Matta doesn't answer, only humming a little. His thumb is rubbing circles into Frenkie's bare skin, his fingers brushing across the ridges of his collarbone.

He can see the moment the walls break. He can see the moment the cracks start, can feel the shift in the air as his facade shatters.

“..I can’t sleep,” comes the rasped murmur, “Matta, I..”

He cuts himself off with a whimper, and before Matthijs can stop him, his arm is over his eyes.

Matthijs shifts, leaning up on his elbow to better see Frenkie, whose breathing is beginning to pick up and who is trying so, so desperately to cover the telltale sign of tears.

“Frenk. Look at me— don’t hide. Please.”

“I can’t. I can’t do this,” comes the whisper, pitch heightening with every word, “I can’t, I can’t—“

His breath catches in his throat. Matta takes the opportunity to shift his arm away from his face, gently pulling him to his chest and tucking the shorter man under his chin.

"Shh, shh, hey— it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Frenkie's breathing picks up even more, his hands clutching the fabric of Matthijs' shirt. His nails curl into the fabric like a cat, as though fearful of letting go— of slipping. 

“Matta,” he croaks, “I.. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m doing wrong, I—“

“Nothing. God, Frenkie— nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong, I promise you.”

Frenkie shakes his head, a dry laugh slipping back his lips. “I don’t understand it,” he rasps, “I don’t.. they loved me, and now they hate me. I didn’t change, they didn’t change— so what changed? What did I do?”

Matthijs sighs, shaking his head slowly as his hand comes up to cup Frenkie’s chin. “Nothing. Frenk, that’s.. that’s football. One minute, you’re a hero, and the next..” He trails off, his eyes fluttering as he sucks in a breath, “that’s not a reflection of you, Frenk. You’re.. just struggling with confidence, and that’s okay. That’s not on you. You’ll get there, yeah? I know you will.”

And Frenkie hates it, the way Matthijs is holding him, the way he’s cradling him in his arms like an upset child— he hates it, the vulnerability of it all, and yet he wants to cling to it, wants to hold on tight and never let this slip away. 

Frenkie isn’t good at this. At being raw, at being anything but the carefully constructed, calm, collected man he’s built himself into— that’s who he was, who he is. 

Not this. 

Never this. 

And yet, as Matthijs’s hand runs up and down his back, soothing him, he can’t help but feel like this is the only thing he’s ever truly wanted, ever really craved. Like being in someone’s arms— in Matta’s arms— was where he was meant to be, always, forever. 

“..You’re allowed to rest, mijn leeuwtje. You can sleep.”

He doesn’t argue with that. He might want to— but he doesn’t. 

———

There’s a park a few blocks from the hotel. Vondelpark. Frenkie and Matthijs used to cross it every other day on their early-morning jogs, back in their Ajax days. 

They’ve both always been a bit strange about things like that, about familiarity. The two men were opposites in many ways, but sentimentality was not one of them. 

Sleep schedules, on the other hand? Yeah— no. 

“Fuck off, five more minutes..”

Matthijs groans, yanking the covers off of Frenkie, snickering as he squeals and flips him off, trying to grab the hem of the sheets to keep himself covered. 

“Come on. You need to clear your head, and we’ve got a few hours before training. It’ll be good for you.”

“I’m tired!” 

Matthijs rolls his eyes, flicking Frenkie behind the ear. “You’re such a baby. Come on, it’ll be fun! Like the good old days.” 

Frenkie huffs, taking a moment to sulk before sitting up, making sure every movement is dramatically slow, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You’re such a dick,” he mutters, shooting Matta a halfhearted glare, to which the younger man merely smirks. 

“Yup,” he affirms, “worst person in the world. Now get up, we’re going for a run.” 

Frenkie sighs, finally slinging his legs over the side of the mattress and dragging himself to his feet. His eyes are a faint red, lids slightly swollen from the night prior, but Matthijs doesn’t say anything as he sarcastically shoves past him and heads for the bathroom to clean up. 

“Love you too,” he murmurs, to which the older man shoots back an ever-so-kind, “go fuck yourself.”

———

Over the years, Frenkie has come to the conclusion that he has two sets of rules, two entirely separate lists of boundaries in his head: one for Matthijs, and one for just about everybody else. 

Because, had anyone else awoken him at five in the morning, yanked the covers down and mocked him for whining about it, Frenkie would have been irate, would have sulked about it all day and made it everyone’s problem— but it was Matthijs, and so all it took was him to slip into the bathroom as Frenkie fixed his bed-missed hair, lay his chin atop the older man’s head, and smirk into the mirror- and he was gone. All the bastard has to do is lay his eyes on him, and Frenkie will always be gone. 

Now, with the chill morning air hitting his face as he works the aches from his bones in the streets of Amsterdam, Frenkie’s finally made another conclusion: Matthijs could tell him to leap into a canal with rocks tied to his feet and clown makeup on his face, and he’d do it. He could ask anything of him, and he’d do it. 

“You alright?”

Frenkie glances up, his heart clenching as he catches Matthijs’s big, blue eyes. God, how he loves them. 

“Yeah. Sorry, just.. thinking.”

Matthijs hums, picking up the pace just a little. 

Amsterdam is never quiet; even this early, when the birds have yet to start chirping and the sun has yet to rise, there are sounds everywhere. Bicycle bells and laughter, angry shouts and car horns. 

Frenkie doesn’t quite know how to feel about the morning. For one, he likes the relative safety of the empty streets, of the cloud of dim fog that lingers, cloaking them from recognition, the adrenaline coursing steadily through his veins as he pumps his arms with each thud of feet against stone; and yet, he thinks, he’d still rather be curled in bed, basking in warmth, in safety. 

Above all, though, he likes being with Matthijs— and so, truly, he’d do anything. 

“There’s a cutoff up there,” the man mumbles then, words coming in shaky breaths, pointing to where a ramp connects the park up to street level, “we can loop around back to the hotel, if you want.”

Frenkie hums, considering the offer. It’s just past six, and training won’t start until eight. They’ve got time. 

“Nah,” he hums, “let’s keep going.”

And, God, Frenkie would do anything for the bug-eyed smile that Matthijs gives him as they jog on past the ramp, beneath a bridge, and onward. 

———

By the time they return to the hotel after their run, the rest of the team have begun to rouse, flocking to the food hall like moths to a flame. There are a few over-exaggerated wolf whistles and jabs as the two blonds enter, Matthijs shirtless and Frenkie in a thin tank top. Frenkie blushes. Matta doesn’t. Instead, he slings an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and smirks like he’s showing off a trophy, and Frenkie flushes an even deeper shade of red. 

“You’re such a dick,” he grunts, shrugging Matthijs’s arm off. All he gets in return is a snicker and a grin he can’t see, eyes instead glued to the carpeted hallway floor. “This is why everyone makes fun of us!”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” is the curt response as the pair file into the elevator, slumping against the walls, breaths coming quick and ragged. 

Frenkie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue his case as the doors slide shut. Somehow, it seems their impromptu run has managed to fry his brain enough to keep it from overthinking every look and word sent his way, and instead, they merely brush off his skin and fade away. He likes that. He likes that a whole lot more than the alternative. 

He’s about to say something more— exactly what, he’s not quite sure— when the sudden feeling of hands on his hips has his head snapping up, immediately met with that oh-so-familiar big-eyed smirk. In an instant, his stomach does a million flips all at once, Matthijs’s eyes glued to his lips. 

“Can I kiss you? I wanna kiss you.”

Frenkie huffs. “I’m honestly insulted you’re even asking th—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, though, of course, he doesn’t think hens have it any other way; Matthijs lurches forwards, lips pressing flush against Frenkie’s own, the hands on his hips slipping around his waist to rest at the small of his back. 

Frenkie swears the air leaves the room in a moment— all of his breath gone with it— as the warmth of Matta so close, so near, consumes him, has him gasping, has him reaching up to rest his hand at the back of the other man's neck. He feels Matthijs's lips pull up into a smile, the bastard, feels it as his tongue flits over his lip before it disappears, along with the rest of the world, for just a moment.

"Matta—" he starts, his breath hitching in his throat as Matta's hand slides up beneath his tank, coming to rest at the nape of his neck, "I, ah—"

"Mm?" Matthijs murmurs, lips pressed into his neck. It feels so good, so good, that Frenkie almost forgets how to formulate a thought, a coherent response, for a few long, glorious moments.

"I.. we—" he gulps, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut, "we shouldn't."

"..Mhm." Matthijs's tone is almost dismissive, but his lips never move from Frenkie's skin, nor do his fingers ever stop their soft circles against his back, their gentle caresses sending a tingling sensation straight down the blond's spine. "Why not?"

"Someone could— we might get caught, someone—" Frenkie whines, but he knows it's pointless. They've been at this long enough now; he knows damn well Matta can tell his words are all talk, a mere attempt to feign objection to the situation at hand, if only to feel less guilty about giving in.

It never works. Not when Matta has him in a position like this.

"Let 'em."

"Matta," Frenkie whines, and he feels him chuckle as it vibrates his chest. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then Matta's hands are moving, slipping to the front of his shirt, and his back is being shoved into the elevator wall, and a whimper falls from his lips instead of words.

"Come on, mijn leeuwtje, let me hear you, you always sound so pretty.." Matta whispers, lips now hovering over Frenkie's ear, and he can feel the blush spread up to his cheekbones, and he can't bring himself to care about it. He doesn't care, not anymore, not when Matta's lips are pressing against his again and he can feel the other man's grin through them.

All of a sudden, the elevator dings, and the scrape of the doors sliding open has the two reluctantly yanking away from one another.

Frenkie turns toward the sound of the ding, his head still hazy with want, but the fog clears when he sees the door open and who's on the other side.

Virgil is smirking.

Fucking shithead.

Matta, too, seems to have suddenly come back down to Earth, his hands dropping from Frenkie and his cheeks reddening.“You didn’t see shit,” he murmurs to their captain, who shrugs his shoulders.

“See what?” He shoots back, slipping into the elevator just as Matta and Frenkie exit, giving them both a sly smirk before the doors close.

They stare for a few moments, neither saying anything. They know they shouldn't.

Eventually, Matthijs cracks, chuckling and shaking his head. Frenkie groans, but it soon dissolves into a laugh, one he can't help as Matta takes his hand and pulls him towards their room, an exasperated sound that drains his lungs of the tension they’d been carrying. 

“You’re such a moron,” he sighs, “I hate you.”

“Love you, too.” 

———

Training, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, doesn’t go all that bad. 

Frenkie doesn’t spend the whole time fixating on that familiar twinge in his ankle, focusing on the pain every step of the way in the way he so often found himself doing nowadays. He doesn’t zone out during rondos, doesn’t drift during training matches.

He feels like he’s himself again, even if only for a few hours. He likes it. He likes it a lot. 

He likes that Virgil doesn’t have to scream at him to focus. He likes that Memphis isn’t shooting him dirty glares constantly. He likes that Ronald isn’t looking at him as though he’d just grown a third eye, like he’s some kind of anomaly— a freak. 

He likes that he can just.. play. 

The simplicity of it feels more than a little strange; but, for Frenkie, the small mercy of semi-normalcy is enough to lift his spirits. 

The rambling thoughts, the self criticism, the voices in his head screaming too slow, too late, too long, too much— they’re not gone, exactly, but they’re muffled. For once, finally, it doesn’t feel quite so impossible to tune them out.

The doubts aren’t gone, of course not— but they’re far enough away that Frenkie feels, for a short time, like he’s whole again. 

Maybe that’s enough for now. 

———

When Matthijs and Frenkie are together, few can understand them. 

It’s something that had started in their Ajax days. The academy had put a heavy emphasis on languages, making sure all players were fluent in at least English and Dutch by the time they were sixteen, and pushing them to learn even more— Spanish, French, Portuguese. 

It wasn’t hard, with all the different nationalities of players, to pick up bits and pieces. It was one of the things they’d first bonded over, Frenkie and Matta— their strange affinity for languages. 

They’d spend hours together in the evenings, talking in English, or Spanish, or French, filling in gaps and making flash cards like they were studying for a test. In a way, it was merely an excuse to hang out, but it had always been an escape for them both. 

At some point, that had morphed into conversations starting in Dutch, adding in Spanish injunctions, sprinkling in English words and French phrases— it was a strange thing, sure, but it had worked for them. It still works for them, sometimes, when they want to scramble their conversations enough to prevent others from peering in. 

“Don’t look at your phone.” He says mires, look. 

Frenkie looks up, sweat-damp hair hanging over his forehead, phone in hand. His eyebrows are knit tightly together, a perplexed look on his face. “Huh?”

Matthijs sighs. “You do that every time. Look at social media after training, after games, after recovery. Just let yourself relax, yeah?” Juegos. Games. 

A pause. A sigh.

“It’s.. it’s a habit.” Habit. English. 

Matthijs reaches over from his spot against his locker, placing his hand palm-up on Frenkie’s knee— not quite demanding, but urging. 

There’s a beat, and then another. 

Frenkie gives him his phone.

Matthijs doesn’t say anything as he slips it into his pocket, a wry smile on his lips. “You’re allowed to feel happy,” he murmurs, “you don’t need anyone else’s permission for that.”

Frenkie is quiet once more. Matthijs hates that, hates his silence, hates how un-Frenkie-like his entire demeanor is and has been for months now. “Frenk—“

“I know. I know, okay? I— I’ve heard it enough from every single person at Barca, I’ve heard it from my friends, I’ve— I’ve heard it already, okay? Whatever you’re gonna say, I’ve already heard it. I’m irrational and fucked-up and my brain isn’t—“

“..I was gonna say I love you.”

They’re far enough in a secluded corner of the vast locker room that nobody else heard the words. Nobody else sees how Frenkie’s resolve crumbles instantaneously, nobody else sees how his eyes flutter and his head sags and his lungs empty in a broken sigh. 

“I hate you,” he croaks. “I hate you, Matta. Y’know that?”

Matthijs laughs, pulling himself to his feet. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning over and brushing Frenkie’s foul-smelling locks from his forehead, “yeah, I do.”

His heart leaps into his throat when the older man looks up to meet his gaze, his big blue eyes filled with that same aching light that always seemed to make Matthijs crumple so easily.  

“You’re amazing. You’re amazing and beautiful and I love you, Frenk.”

Frenkie looks back down, yawns, and kicks him in the balls. 

It’s a start. 

———

Frenkie’s on him before they’ve even closed the door. 

He drops his bags by the coat hanger, crowding into Matthijs’s personal space with evidently little regard for much of anything in their surroundings, dragging him back until they’re slumped against the wall, breathless and swollen-lipped. 

“You’re insane.”

Frenkie flips him off, and dives back in. Matthijs laughs, and does little by way of protest as he slowly guides them both toward the bathroom, sweat still clinging to their skin in a gleaming sheet.

“You’re—“

“Shut up. Don’t talk.”

Matthijs laughs, but it’s once more swallowed by Frenkie’s lips, by his grasping hands and his scrambling fingers. He could easily slip free if he wanted to, but he sees no reason. 

When Frankie finally peels himself off Matthijs’s chest, his arms falling to his side and his reddened cheeks turning skyward, the younger man merely laughs, cupping his chin and staring at him with a stupidly fond smirk. 

“You tired yourself out yet?” 

Frenkie rolls his eyes, elbowing Matta in the ribs as he leans back against the sink counter. “Needed you,” he murmurs, “been fucking with me all day, I deserved this much.”

Matta smirks, leaning down and pressing his forehead to the older’s, lingering for a moment. He’s been doing that a lot lately, lingering.

“Whatever you need,” is all he manages to mutter out, reveling in the feel of Frankie’s shallow breaths against his cheek, just above his jaw.

The smaller man merely hums, before slipping from Matthijs’s grasp and leaning over to turn on the showerhead.

He moves his hands to the hem of his shirt, but Matthijs slinks up behind him and holds onto his wrists, stopping him. “Let me,” he murmurs, and Frenkie just about melts. 

“You’re so fucking corny,” he mutters, but lifts his arms to let Matthijs peel the fabric off of him.

He kisses his nape as he strips him down, not quite hard enough to leave marks. He kisses his shoulders, his shoulder blades, down the expanse of his chest. Frenkie hardly protests, leaning back against the wall, now damp with condensation as steam from the shower fills the room, a steady thrum of water hitting the tiled shower floor.

Matta is slow, methodical, as he removes his own shirt, his own sweats and briefs. He doesn't move quickly, doesn't rush; he lets Frenkie watch him, lets him take in every movement, every shift of muscles and flick of eyelashes.

"Like what you see?" He mutters, grinning slyly as he approaches once more, Frenkie's gaze burning into his skin.

He doesn't get a response, but he knows what the answer is, as he always does. He can see it in the way Frenkie's lips twitch upwards, in the way his eyes soften and the way he leans forward just a little.

Frenkie's arms are around his neck, then, his forehead pressed against Matthijs's cheek. His voice comes out low, barely a whisper.

"I missed you."

Matthijs smiles, and it feels like forever since he's truly been able to do so.

He presses a kiss to Frenkie's hairline, feeling the way the blond curls into him, the way his fingers twist into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Missed you so much.” 

Matthijs hums, nodding against the elder’s damp curls. “I missed you, too. Every day.”

Frenkie finally pulls away, and Matthijs finds himself almost missing the closeness already— but then Frenkie is looking at him, really looking at him, his gaze burning into his skin and setting his nerves alight.

He manages a slight smile, one Matta quickly returns as he watches him step into the shower, swift to follow.

The water is warm, but it feels cold on his skin compared to the heat of Frenkie's stare. It sends a shiver up his spine, has his toes curling against the shower floor, his hand reaching out to brush away the hair falling over those big blue eyes. 

Frenkie leans into the touch, cheek nestled in Matta’s palm, back against the wall. If Matthijs had any less self control, he’d be burning, desperate to press closer, to feel Frenkie beneath him, around him, everywhere; but instead, he remains still, hand resting on his cheek as the water drips down his arm.

It feels right.

Matthijs steps a little closer, closing the distance between them until there are mere inches left. Frenkie seems to sense his slight hesitance, as he always does, as he reaches up to brush their lips together in a chaste, gentle kiss.

"Not gonna break me.” Frenkie mumbles, eyes half-lidded and lips pulled into the ghost of a smirk, "you can touch me."

And Matthijs does. He always does.

He slips an arm around Frenkie's waist, tugging him close until they're pressed flush together. His other hand cups Frenkie's jaw, tilting his head up as their lips meet again, harder this time. Frenkie smiles into it, teeth dragging over his bottom lip in a way that makes Matta shudder.

He settles his hands just beneath his hips, letting out a low groan as he slowly lifts him by the thighs and presses him against the wall, held up only by Matta’s own body weight. Frenkie keens, his legs wrapping around the younger man’s waist.

"So fucking hot," Matthijs growls, voice low and rough as he drags his lips down Frenkie's jaw, nipping at the skin of his neck, "god, I wanna ruin you."

Frenkie whines, his eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head to give him better access, evidently unable to get out anything more than breathy noises. Matta grins, grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin.

He knows he shouldn't leave marks— not where people can see, at least— but he can't help it. Not when Frenkie is writhing beneath him like this, whining and whimpering with each movement of his lips.

"Matta," Frenkie gasps, his fingers tangling in his hair as he continues to suck marks into his neck, "Matta, please—"

The younger man chuckles, pulling away and pressing one last kiss to the darkening bruises before looking up to meet Frenkie's eyes, a small smile on his face. He doesn’t ask as he reaches over his shoulder to grab a bottle of shower gel, doesn’t need to say a word as he squirts some into his palm and lets his lips drift lower still.

Usually, he’d spend far more time riling him up, teasing and prodding until he’s desperate and whining and bratty— but not tonight. It isn’t what he needs, isn’t what either of them need. 

He kisses the expanse of Frenkie's chest, down his abdomen, his hand following closely behind. He presses his lips to the dip of his hipbone, to the spot just above the jut of his pelvis, and Frenkie keens.

"Matta," he breathes, and the other man smirks against his skin, "please, I—“

His words dissolve into a moan as Matta wraps his hand around his length, stroking slowly. His head lolls back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

"Beautiful," Matta murmurs, his free hand still holding up Frankie’s body as he presses even closer to him. “So fucking pretty, always so pretty.”

Frenkie whimpers, his fingers digging into Matta's shoulders. The younger man continues to pump his fist, his lips never ceasing their assault on Frenkie's neck. He sucks more marks into his skin, grazes his teeth over the spots where he can feel his pulse thrumming.

It doesn’t take long before Frenkie is squirming beneath him, his breathing growing heavier and his voice growing louder; Matthijs smirks, pulling away from his neck and kissing him hard.

Frenkie comes with a cry, muffled by Matta's lips on his own. His entire body tenses as he spills over Matthijs' hand, his thighs trembling around the other's waist.

"So good for me," Matta murmurs against his lips, "so fucking good."

Frenkie smiles, breathless and blissed out. He pulls Matta in for another kiss, slow and lazy. He tastes like sweat and shower gel and mint, and it feels so right that Matthijs thinks he could easily get drunk on it.

"I love you," Frenkie murmurs, pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against Matta's. “Fuck, I-I..”

Matthijs chuckles, pressing another kiss to his lips. "Shh. Don’t need words, I know. I know.”

Frenkie hums, eyes fluttering open. There are a million words swimming in their depths, all of them written plain as day on his face, and yet Matthijs doesn’t need to hear a single one. He can see it all, see everything, and it makes his chest swell with warmth.

The hunger in his eyes, though, hasn’t faded in the slightest. Matthijs steps back, letting him settle onto his own legs, not missing the way his knees wobble beneath him. 

"Y'know, I could.. Y’know—“ Frenkie mutters, biting his lip and staring down at the floor as he gestures to Matthijs’s body.

But the younger merely smirks, cupping his chin in one hand, thumb tracing over his bottom lip. He leans in close, letting his breath ghost over Frenkie's skin.

"Save it for later."

And Frenkie can do nothing but whimper and nod, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the touch like it’s the only thing in the world, like Matta’s hands are the only things that exist, that have ever existed.

Matta smiles, his lips pressed to Frenkie's ear. "I love you."

Frenkie doesn't say it back, but he doesn't need to. Not when he smiles, soft and small and so very genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners as they remain glued to the gap between Matta’s eyebrows. Not when he curls up against his chest, not when he wraps his arms around his waist and holds him there, not when his breathing evens out and he slips into sleep right then and there.

That, Matthijs thinks, is better than any words ever could be.

———

Matthijs has never been one to believe in magic.

He doesn’t believe in soulmates, or fairy tales, or any of that nonsense.

But, as he watches Frenkie clamber onto their shared bed, bare and still damp from their shower, hair frizzy and cheeks flushed, he can almost begin to understand why people might believe in divine intervention. 

Because it feels like fate, or destiny, or some other bullshit word for something Matthijs can't quite understand— but it feels right. It feels right, and maybe that's enough.

Maybe that's more than enough.

"Stop staring at me," comes the grumbled response, "fucking pillow princess.”

Matthijs laughs, rolling his eyes. They hadn’t bothered putting in clothes after they’d gotten out of the shower, hadn’t seen a reason to when they both knew damn well how they were planning on spending their night. 

"Don't pretend you don't like it," he mutters, grinning slyly. His fingers dance along Frenkie's bare chest, and he can feel the way he tenses and relaxes under his touch. He can feel the goosebumps rise on his skin as his fingers ghost over his chest, down to his thighs.

Frenkie squirms beneath him, eyes fluttering shut as Matta leans down to press kisses to his neck. He trails his lips across the expanse of his chest, relishing in the whimpers and gasps he elicits with each movement.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasps, leaning over him, “so, so beautiful.”

Frenkie lets out a breathless laugh, head tilting to the side. His cheeks are flushed, lips slightly parted. Matthijs thinks he looks absolutely gorgeous.

He doesn’t say it, though. Not now. Instead, he leans down and captures Frenkie's lips with his own, kissing him slowly. He feels the older man's arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, as he reaches to the bedside table and grabs the bottle sitting on the corner. 

He keeps their lips latched together as he pours a hefty amount of lube into his palm, his free hand still moving up and down Frenkie’s quad in a soothing motion. He pulls away then, leaning back and grabbing one of the pillows behind Frenkie, tapping his hip.

Frenkie complies easily, lifting his hips so that Matthijs can shove the pillow beneath them, propping them up. He smirks, leaning down and kissing Frenkie once more before settling between his thighs, his knees pressing against the sheets.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, “spread ‘em, let me see you.”

Frenkie seems to choke on air, a mewl spilling from his lips as he wraps his arms beneath his legs and pulls his knees up until they’re pressed to his shoulders, all but bending his body in half. 

Matthijs smirks, pressing a kiss to both of Frenkie’s ankles before dipping lower, fingers trailing past his navel, down to his entrance. He watches as Frenkie tenses, as his breathing hitches, as his eyes flutter shut and his fingers dig into the sheets.

"So fucking beautiful," he rasps, his gaze lingering on the way Frenkie's chest rises and falls with each shallow breath, the way his thighs tremble beneath his touch. "So pretty, mijn leeuwtje, so perfect.”

He dips one finger in first, just enough for Frenkie to feel it. He hears him whine, and smiles to himself as he pumps his finger in and out of him slowly, methodically.

"Matta," Frenkie groans, "don't— don’t tease,” he whimpers, but Matthijs pays little mind to his pleas, instead slipping in a second finger.

"I'm not teasing," he murmurs snarkily, "I'm admiring."

Frenkie makes an indignant noise, which quickly morphs into a moan as Matthijs adds a third finger, curling them slightly. His head lolls back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh, fuck, fuck—“

“God, you’re tight,” comes the rumbling mutter, “didn’t do this at all in Barcelona, then?”

Frenkie shakes his head. “No,” he croaks, “no. Could— could never do it like y-you.”

Matthijs laughs, shaking his head as he scissors his fingers. His cock is already achingly hard, but he ignores it, instead focusing on opening Frenkie up properly.

“Yeah. You're all mine, aren’t you? Know nobody else could do this to you, not like I can.”

Frenkie nods frantically, his thighs trembling with each movement of Matthijs's fingers. He keens, his back arching off the bed as Matthijs hits that sweet spot deep within him, his head falling back against the sheets.

"Matta," he cries out, "Matta, please—“

“Be patient,” the younger man orders, slapping the inside of Frenkie’s thigh. The blond jolts, a cry spilling from his lips.

He nods, breathless, his eyes fluttering shut once more. His hands are still gripping the sheets tightly, and Matthijs reaches up to grab one, lacing their fingers together.

"There we go," he murmurs, "you're doing so well. Just relax, yeah? Let me take care of you."

Frenkie nods, swallowing thickly. His cheeks are flushed a deep red, his pupils blown wide with desire.

Matthijs pulls his fingers out slowly, ignoring the whine that leaves Frenkie's lips at the loss— but it isn’t gone for long.

He grips Frenkie’s hand extra tight as he lines himself up, leaning down and resting his forehead on the sheets just beside his neck. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until his hips are flush with Frenkie's.

Frenkie chokes out a whimper, his hand clenching tighter around Matthijs's. His free hand comes up to clutch at his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

"Fuck," Matthijs groans, his eyes fluttering shut. It's been so long since he's felt this— too long. "Fuck, Frenkie, you're—"

"Please," the smaller man breathes, "please, I need—"

"Shh. I've got you, don't worry."

He keeps his movements slow, letting Frenkie adjust as he rocks his hips forward, relishing in the way his back arches off the mattress. He presses a kiss to his collarbone, to his shoulder, to his knuckles. 

"Matta," Frenkie moans, his legs wrapping around the other's waist. His toes curl, and his thighs are trembling, and Matthijs merely grins.

"God, you're fucking amazing," he growls, his thrusts growing harder, faster. He can feel Frenkie tensing around him, his nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck. I— ngh!”

Matthijs chuckles. "Such a pretty voice," he purrs, "sing for me, baby..”

Frenkie moans again, louder this time. He throws his head back, his eyes fluttering shut as Matthijs's name leaves his lips, over and over and over again, a mantra, a plea.

"That's it," Matthijs encourages, "god, you're so good. So fucking perfect."

Frenkie writhes beneath him, his breathing ragged and his voice strained. He's so close, they both are.

Matthijs reaches down between their bodies and takes Frenkie's cock in his hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts; the man beneath him seems to come undone then, his eyes rolling back as his climax hits him like a truck.

"Fuck," he gasps, "fuck, fuck, I'm—"

Matthijs growls, his grip on Frenkie's length tightening as the man beneath him comes undone, his seed spilling over Matthijs's hand and his own abdomen. He lets out a sound somewhere between a wail and a gasp, and the sight is enough to have Matthijs following him over the edge, his hips stuttering as he fills Frenkie with his release.

He collapses over him, their sweaty chests pressing together like a vice, but neither can bring themselves to care. Their breaths are ragged and heavy, and the sheets are a mess, and their limbs are tangled and their skin is sticky and covered in sweat— but they don’t care. None of it matters, not a single thing matters. 

It takes several minutes before either of them have regained enough sense to even speak, but Matta is the first to break the silence.

"I love you," he mumbles, his voice muffled by the fabric of the sheets his face is nestled in. Frenkie lets out a low laugh, which is quickly followed by a whimper as Matta slowly pulls out, before once more dropping back down, this time atop the bed instead of his body. 

He doesn’t respond, his eyes still shut loosely and his chest rising and falling as he struggles to get enough air into his lungs.

Matthijs, too, finds himself unable to summon the energy to speak, instead letting his eyelids flutter shut and his breathing even out, a smile on his face.

He's not sure how much time passes before Frenkie finally speaks, his voice hoarse and his hand resting on Matthijs's bicep. It’s either “thank you,” or “I love you,” but Matthijs can’t make out exactly what. It doesn't matter, though, not really.

Frenkie is warm beside him, and Matthijs wouldn’t trade it for the world.

———

Okay, so— maybe a run isn’t the best idea. 

Frenkie and Matta wake up later than they did the day prior, and they have to scramble to make themselves somewhat presentable before they bundle out into the wilderness that is Amsterdam Oud-Zuid. They’re both breathless by the time they get to the end of the first street, each contemplating turning back and crawling back into bed. They don’t. 

The sun is hidden behind lingering clouds, and the air is noticeably colder— and that’s not even mentioning the way Frenkie winces every time they sit down to rest. Matthijs merely smirks at that, which earns him a knee to the balls and a middle finger thrown from over the shoulder. 

They take a familiar route, one they’ve run countless times before, but it feels different today. The streets are emptier, the usual hum of the city muted by the early hour and the gloomy weather. The occasional cyclist whizzes past, the sound of their tires cutting through the quiet, but otherwise, it’s just the two of them, their footsteps echoing faintly against the pavement. They don’t talk much, the silence between them comfortable but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Frenkie’s mind no longer feels like a whirlwind, with his thoughts bouncing between the lingering ache in his body and the weight of everything else, instead focused solely on the rhythm of his breathing, on the steady thud of his feet against the ground.

They don’t make it far before they both agree, without words, to cut the run short. Their chests are heaving, their legs feel like they’re made of lead, and the idea of pushing through another few miles is laughable at best. Frenkie slows to a stop, leaning against a lamppost as he tries to catch his breath, while Matthijs bends over, his hands on his knees, his face flushed red from exertion. 

By the time they bundle back into the hotel, they’ve got an hour until breakfast, legs that feel like they’re melting, and barely enough energy to get themselves to the first-floor team-reserved lounge. 

Nobody else is there yet, thankfully, and they manage to find a secluded corner with a pale-colored sofa and enough pillows to rest a small army. 

“Someone will wake us up for breakfast,” Matta reasons, “We can shower after. Nobody will care.”

Frenkie heaves his body onto the couch, letting his head flop down onto Matthijs’s chest with a groan. The younger man doesn’t protest, his arm automatically slinging around Frenkie’s shoulders as he leans back against the cushions, his own eyes already half-closed. Their sweat-soaked clothes stick together uncomfortably, the fabric damp and cold against their skin, but neither of them makes a move to adjust. It’s not comfortable, not by a long shot, but it’s six in the morning, and they’re far too tired to care.

In truth, there are a million other places in the hotel that are far more suitable to sleeping than an old, lumpy couch. There are probably a million other places in this very room, many of them better, but, in truth, they couldn’t possibly bring themselves to care. 

Because Matthijs has an arm slung over Frenkie’s shoulder, his cheek nestled against his unkempt hair, and his heartbeat drums away against his ear— and, really, there’s nowhere in the world they’d rather be.

They fall asleep, and, for once, Frenkie doesn't fear the world that awaits him when he wakes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

art by the amazing reijndeers! (ao3 @oderchist)— thank you for inspiring me to write this chapter. <3