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The air in Germany is different.
It was something he found himself thinking about often, and still he doesn’t quite know why. Maybe it’s the weather, which always seems to be downtrodden, or maybe it’s just the emptiness, but it always feels just a little bit different than Amsterdam always had. Then again, maybe that was just Amsterdam.
He found himself now more than ever wishing he’d chosen differently. Would life have been better in Barcelona? Would it have been better there? Would it have been better with Frenkie by his side? Of course it would— everything was always better with Frenkie at his side.
He tries not to think about it as much as he can, he really does- but he finds his hands straying to his phone, to the blonde’s picture on his screen, fingers tapping away at a ‘how are u? 🙃’ so often he thinks it may be an instinct at this point.
Tonight, though, he doesn’t get a response.
That doesn’t sit right with him— Frenkie always messaged him back, even if it was just a ‘good! you?’ or a ‘good! can’t talk now, sorry 😔’
And yet, now, there was nothing.
Matthijs sighs, shoving his phone into his pocket after several long minutes of silent waiting, the only other sound being the random German talk show he’d put on an hour prior. He’d long ago tuned it out.
He finds himself wandering aimlessly around the kitchen, struggling to find anything that wouldn’t take a substantial amount of time to make. There were meal prep kits and ingredients— Matthijs and Frenkie had loved cooking together, and he’d kept it as a bit of a hobby- but nothing quick. Nothing he could scarf down in the next thirty minutes.
And so he sighs, grabs a bottle of water and shuffles back to his living room within the walls of his too-open, too-big house. Matthijs was like that, always had been- he wanted to be with people, with his friends, his family, the people he loved.
Right now, he wants Frenkie.
He wants to pull the blond into his arms and press his lips to his scalp and tangle a hand in his hair, to kiss him until he was breathless and red and exhausted. He wanted to hold him tight and whisper into his ear and feel his breath against his ear as he struggles to keep his emotions at bay— something he’d never succeeded at, not with Matta. He knew his tells, knew the key to the lock that was his heart, and he knew how to bend his walls until they broke and then shower him with unrelenting affection, so much that he didn’t know what to do with it all.
Frenkie had always been like that— reserved, quiet— and while Matta loved it, of course he did, he loved everything about Frenkie- he loved watching him fall apart even more. Loved watching his face go red as he breathed far too heavily, his arms pinned at his sides, sweat running down his face. He loved when he begged him, when the feelings and the emotions welled up so much that they turned into tears. The good kind, the happy kind. Happy Frenkie was his favorite.
‘hey! can u call tonight? missin you :(‘
His fingers are gliding across the screen before his mind has caught up with his words, and he doesn’t make any move to stop it when he presses send.
He doesn’t want to be alone tonight. Alone with his thoughts, alone with the pouring rain, alone with his loneliness. He doesn’t think he can do that. Not tonight, not again.
He never gets that call back.
———
It’s nearly midnight when the phone rings.
Matthijs wasn’t asleep, he couldn’t be- he’d spent hours scrolling aimlessly through his Twitter burner account, looking at stupid yet adorable pictures of random puppies and shit. His mind was utterly fried, and yet he couldn’t sleep, a strange feeling curling in his gut that doesn’t seem to want to leave.
He barely even notices the screen darken, his eyes heavy and lidded— and then he sees the name at the top of his screen, and his heart drops.
Sergi. He only call ed when.. when—
“Hello?”
The line is quiet for a moment, before someone clears their voice. “I.. I’m really, really sorry for calling so late, but- have you heard from Frenkie?”
And then, just like that, his world is spinning.
“..What? What’s going on? What do you mean-“
“Fuck. Fuck! He- we haven’t seen him since training this morning. He got.. he got hurt in the small-sided games and he left super quick and- and nobody’s heard from him since. He didn’t show up for his physio check-in, he didn’t come to the captains’ meeting- he’s.. he’s gone, Matthijs, we..”
“But- wh- is he-“
“Pedri went to his house, he wasn’t there. Nobody.. nobody can find him.”
Matthijs doesn’t mean for the phone to slip from his grasp.
Matthijs had been eleven when the Cruijff story came out. He’d been too young to fully grasp it then, to understand why there was suddenly so much more security at Ajax games or why there was a security guard at every academy game. He hadn’t understood it then.
As he’d grown, he’d come to understand it more; being a footballer didn’t mean safety, didn’t mean immunity to that gut-wrenching fear he now feels settling into his bones. It simply meant that it would be in the papers if it did happen.
“Are.. are you sure? Have you tried-“
“We’ve called him, texted him, everything. His car’s not in the lot, and it’s not at his house.”
“Can’t you call the police? If he-“
“No. He’s.. not officially a ‘missing person’ until-“
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck— Call.. call.. I’m coming.”
“How fast can you get here?”
“Two hours. If- if I get a flight now, I can-“
“Okay. Okay, you- can you-“
“I’ll be there. Tell me if- if he.. if you-“
“I will. Thank you, Matthijs.”
He doesn’t bother responding. His finger is on the ‘end call’ button before the first choked breath can come out— Frenkie’s gone. Nobody knows where he is. Frenkie is gone.
It’s raining outside.
He thinks that’s hilariously fitting— he’s scrambling to put on whatever clothes he can get his hands on, brown shoes and a yellow jacket and blue shorts for five-degree weather and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care because Fremkie’s gone, Frenkie’s not here, Frenkie’s—
His hand is on his bedroom door when the banging starts.
It’s frantic, uneven and panicked and all he’s thinking is he needs whoever it is to leave because he needs to get to Frenkie, he needs to find him— he’s bounding down the stairs, two or three at a time, his shoes untied and his jacket only over one shoulder and he’s throwing open the door and dear fucking god—
“..Oh my god.”
The first thing he can see in the dark is the hair. Bright blond, drenched with rain water, head hung low.
He can feel his heart jostle around in his chest, and then he’s throwing himself forwards, he’s wrapping his arms around limp shoulders and providing his shoulder for his head and hauling him into his embrace.
“Are you okay?”
It’s the first thing he says, once his mind has cleared and his mouth decides to work again.
“‘s my ankle again,” is what he gets in response, and he sounds so utterly broken that it takes all of Matthijs’s strength not to collapse right then and there. It’s guttural and broken and fractured into a million tiny little pieces.
He slowly walks them over to one of the chairs on his porch, not caring about the pouring rain or the looming thunder, because he’s here, he’s here, he’s here-
“They said ‘s torn. They.. It’s bad. It’s really bad. I don’t.. I don’t know, I don’t-“
“Frenk. Look.. look at me, schatje, please. I-“
“It hurts. It hurts.”
The older man’s heart is beating rapidly through his chest, his nails digging into Matthijs’s shirt. “Don’t wanna be out again,” he croaks, “don’t wanna.. I don’t wanna. I can’t. I can’t, they’ll get rid of me, they’ll-“
“No. No, they won’t, you.. God, Frenk, c’mere. I know- it hurts and- and it sucks but you’re okay. You’ll be back. You’ll-“
“Don’t let go,” Frenkie gasps out. Matthijs had attempted to stand, the wind picking up and stinging his face with tiny raindrops. “Frenkie, it’s gonna freeze out-“
“Don’t let go. Please, don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” It’s a whispered promise, one carried away in the harsh winds. His jacket is blowing from his body, and both of them can feel the temperature dropping rapidly as the rain comes down harder and harder every second.
“It’s gonna get cold here soon. You’re lucky you got here when you did, it’s- this storm’s gonna get pretty nasty soon. Let’s get you inside, okay?”
Frenkie doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t object when Matthijs hauls him into his arms bridal style, ensuring extra carefulness around his ankle as he walks inside. The wind pulls the door shut behind them on its own.
“I’ve got you,” Matthijs mutters. The wind is howling outside, and he’s extra careful that all the doors and windows are locked before he carries Frenkie’s half-limp body up the stairs.
By the time he’s laying him on his bed and stripping off his outer layer of soaked-through clothes, slipping off his shoes and his socks, and making extra sure he didn’t jostle his ankle- which he now saw was bruised and swollen- the elder Dutchman’s eyes are almost glazed over. His lips are nearly blue, his fingers pale.
“..Christ. Frenkie, how—“
“Walked. Fr.. from the..”
“..The airport? The airport that’s a half an hour walk away? Frenkie, you-“
“I wanted to see you,” is all he gets in response. It’s almost a sob, and then he’s opening his mouth again. “I.. I just wanted to see you, and I didn’t have my phone or- or my wallet and I needed to see you. I needed you, Matta, I..”
“I know. God, Frenk, I.. I know.”
He puts the back of his hand to the blond’s forehead, wincing at how cold he feels. “Here. I.. Let’s get you under the blankets, it’ll warm you up.”
Frenkie simply lets out a near-silent puff as Matthijs lifts the covers, tucking them beneath Frenkie’s side so they wrapped tight around him, so they clung to his skin.
He watches, in real-time, how Frenkie’s eyes begin to clear, how the fog fades from his mind; it’s slow, but not unnoticeably so. Matthijs uses the time to text Sergi an update— which is little more than a ‘i’ve got him, he’s here, he’s okay,’ before swiftly returning to Frenkie’s side.
He clambers onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged by the smaller man’s head and running his hands slowly through his hair. His eyes blink shut, then flutter open, and then shut again.
“Hey,” Matthijs mutters, “you with me?”
Frenkie nods, his movements stiff and slow. “I.. I-“
“I know. God, schatje, I know.”
“It.. I was- I-I was just.. running. And then I couldn’t anymore, and it hurt, Matta, it hurt so bad.”
His eyes are rimmed with tears that threaten to fall any second, and his arms are wrapped right around Matthijs’s shoulders, pulling him down further onto the bed until their eyes are level.
“Fuck,” Matthijs mutters, “you’re.. you’re freezing, Frenk.”
Frenkie shakes his head vigorously, burying his face in the fabric of Matthijs’s shirt. “I don’t want.. It can’t be over. It can’t.”
“It isn’t. They.. Nothing’s going to be over, Frenkie. Barca love you, you know that, and so does everyone at the national team. Nothing is-“
“Laporta hates me. He- He’s been tryin’ to sell me for months and now I’ve fucking handed it to him on a silver fucking platter and- it’s over. It’s over, Matta, I—“
“Shh. Hey, hey— shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Frenkie grasps at Matthijs’s shirt, grabbing fistfuls of fabric in his tight grip as he presses himself to the younger’s body. “It can’t be over.”
It’s like he’s trying to crush himself against Matthijs’s chest, his tears drenching the sheets beneath them.
“Here,” Matthijs sighs, slowly billing them both up to a seated position. “How about we get you in the bath? Can get the big tub runnin’ if you want. It’ll warm you up, help you.. relax.”
Frenkie nods, not a word slipping past his lips this time- only small, choked sobs.
Matthijs pulls him up, again scooping him into his arms bridal style. The en-suite bathroom was nice, had a big shower and a tub opposite it— but that wasn’t where they headed.
Instead, Matthijs leaves his room and heads into the hall, toward the door he hadn’t opened in far too long.
He’d had one of the closets, a large one, converted into a.. a spa room, almost- it had a sauna and a jacuzzi and recovery tools, but he hadn’t had the guts to use it as of late.
It had always been Frenkie’s favorite spot- he’d spend hours in the sauna when he had the rare time to visit during the season, his toned chest and his long legs and his damp hair and—
“Hey. Hey, you’re okay, it’s okay.”
He’s torn from his thoughts by Frenkie’s whimpering, slowly setting him down on the seat of the large tub. “Alright,” he sighs, “I’m gonna help you get the rest of your clothes off. Is that okay?”
Frenkie’s head falls forwards against his chest as he nods, a low hum slipping past his lips. He’s slipping again, and Matta can see it.
“Hey- hey, stay with me, schatje. Stay with me.”
Frenkie hums, blinking back more tears as Matthijs helps him shimmy out of his damp shirt and his soaked-through joggers, all the way down until every part of him was bare.
Matthijs, mere hours ago, had wanted nothing more than to have Frenkie in front of him, in his bed, in his arms— and yet, now, the sight of him naked doesn’t make a single thought flicker in his mind. He’s honestly just scared— scared of the emptiness in Frenkie’s eyes, of the void expression on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he mutters, pressing his lips to Frenkie’s nape as he turns on the water. It’s a big tub, made for up to four people to fit, so it’s going to take a while for the water to reach up to the seat where Frenkie sat. It rises up past his feet first, his bruised, swollen ankle, and Matthijs is thankful for the low sigh that slips from Frenkie’s lips as the warm water coats his throbbing bruise.
“Ma..Matta?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get in in a second.”
Frenkie snickers, leaning his head back and reaching toward him like a toddler asking to be picked up. “Wanna.. Wanna hold you.”
Matthijs holds Frenkie’s hand in his own as he strips himself down, his own clothes similarly soaked-through, all the way down to his boxers- but he stopped there. He wasn’t going to try anything, and he needed Frenkie to know that.
When he slowly settles down on the seat beside him, the water’s already up to their knees— well, up to Matthijs’s knees, and to Frenkie’s upper shins.
Frenkie’s arms snake around Matthijs’s waist, his lips pressing against his neck and trailing up to his cheek. “Needed.. I needed you. So bad. Don’t.. It was stupid, leavin’ like that. Without.. without tellin’ anyone. But.. I don’t regret it, ‘cause.. ‘cause you-“
“I know,” Matthijs sighs, “I know. You’re a stubborn idiot, I know. You.. you scared me, you know that? Me, Sergi, Pedri- everyone back at Barça was panicking.”
“I.. Why?”
“Because you- you disappeared! Frenkie, I thought that it was- was the fucking ‘78 Cruijff situation all over again. I thought.. I thought you’d been hurt, or- or worse.”
Frenkie’s face falls. “..Oh. I.. I wasn’t-“
“I know. You weren’t thinking, and- and I’m not mad at you. Not even a little. Because you flew for two hours and then walked for over half an hour in a thunderstorm to get to my house and I- I couldn’t possibly be fucking mad at you, Frenk. Never.”
Frenkie hums under his breath, clearly a buffer to stop the sobs that threaten to spill over. “I’m so.. I can’t lose Barça. I can’t lose my friends, I can’t go to- to fucking Manchester or- or-“
“You won’t. Frenk- you have a contract, and they can’t force you out. The fans won’t let them, the- the players won’t let them. Your teammates are your friends, they won’t let that happen, and nor will Xavi. Nothing is over, Frenkie.”
“But- but the Euros, they-“
“Fuck the Euros. Fuck everyone, none of that- none of it matters. What matters is that you’re okay, and that- that you heal. And if that happens in time for the Euros, great- if not, fuck it.”
“I.. but- but all I want is to play with you,” he croaks. “I wanna.. I wanna feel that again. Wanna know you’re on the pitch with me, wanna know you’re there and that.. we’re a team again.”
“Frenkie,” Matthijs breathes out, his breath warm against Frenkie’s cheek. “We will always be a team. Doesn’t matter what shirt we’re wearing. It’s.. it’s been you and me since seventeen, and it’ll be that way until we’re old and gray and fuck anyone who thinks otherwise.”
Frenkie sniffles, leaning forwards and swirling a finger along the surface of the water as it continues rising.
“Come here,” Matthijs sighs, his lips grazing over the back of Frenkie’schand as he pulls him close. “I’ve got you.”
“I.. really hate you sometimes. Y’make me feel so much.. so much.. so much. And it’s.. it feels so wrong, ‘cause.. ‘cause I’m supposed to do that for you, right? I’m the one who-“
“You’re allowed to let yourself be taken care of, Frenk. We.. we’ve gone over this, schatje.”
Frenkie whines, grasping at Matthijs’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I.. It just feels.. it’s.. weird. Feels wrong, but I know it isn’t but it still feels like it and I-I don’t understand why. I don’t wanna feel like this.”
“..I know. I.. I know, Frenk. When you spend that long taking care of people, it’s hard to put yourself first. But you’re so fucking important, to me and- and so many other people. So fucking important, Frenk, and I’ll do whatever I need to prove that to you.”
Frenkie whimpers, shuddering as the water passes his waist. He holds onto Matthijs a bit tighter.
“Matta..?”
“Yeah, schatje?”
“..Please?” He blinks twice, his deep blue eyes rimmed with tears.
Matthijs sighs, cradling Frenkie’s head in his hands and pressing his lips to his. “I’ve got you. I’m right here, Frenk- I’m right here.”
Frenkie nods, muttering incoherently into Matthijs’s skin as his nails dig into his hips. The younger Dutchman sighs, slowly lifting Frenkie over his thigh and settling him on the seat between his legs, arms wrapping around his torso as his lips trail from his collar to his nape.
“You’re gonna be back even better,” he mutters. Frenkie shudders, leaning back against Matthijs’s chest, head hanging limp.
“I.. I don’t know.. I don’t know why- why everything feels like.. like so much. It’s so much, it’s- it’s all so much.”
“You’re overwhelmed, Frenk. And.. and that’s okay- it’s okay to take a step back, to.. relax, take a break.”
Frenkie huffs. “No time to take a break.”
Matthijs sighs, pressing the back of his hand to Frenkie’s forehead. “You’ve warmed up,” he mutters, pressing his lips to the back of his ear and reveling in how he shudders in his embrace.
“I’ll always be here. And- and so will the Barça guys, ‘cause they’re your friends, Frenk. Even if something does happen with the board, nothing will change that.”
Frenkie nods, desperately wanting to believe his words.
He moves to pull himself upright, yelping as he shifts his weight to his ankle. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck-“
“Whoa, whoa— I’ve got you.”
Matthijs is on his feet in seconds, taking on nearly all of Frenkie’s weight. “Sit. You’re.. you’re gonna hurt yourself even more, Frenk, you-“
“It wasn’t.. It wasn’t hurting earlier. Why wasn’t- why—“
“Adrenaline, Frenkie. I.. I need you to relax for me, okay, schatje? I know it’s- it’s a lot right now, but I need you to work with me.”
Frenkie whines, but obliges, allowing Matthijs to slowly help him back onto the seat. “I’m gonna help you get clean, and- and warm and then we’ll get you to bed, alright? It’s getting late.”
Frenkie, evidently past the point of forming coherent sentences, merely nods, his hand drifting aimlessly over the surface of the water, swirling tiny patterns around Matthijs’s body.
“I know,” Matthijs croaks, but it’s a lie. He doesn’t feel like he knows anything right now— he’d never seen Frenkie like this, this distant, this dazed— and he was scared shitless.
He doesn’t like how limp he is when he touches him, how empty his usually infinitely-sparkling eyes are, how lifeless his face seems to be almost perpetually. He doesn’t react to Matta’s touches like he always does, he doesn’t laugh or shove him or call him names. He doesn’t look like Frenkie, he doesn’t look anything like him.
By the time Matthijs has managed to get him mostly cleaned off, washing away the mud caked into his skin and the grass in his hair and the sweat that seems to coat his entire body, Frenkie seems practically unconscious. Matthijs just hopes it’s sleep and nothing worse.
He checks his temperature with the thermometer from his medical bag twice before he lifts him out of the tub, dressing himself quickly so as to ensure Frenkie could grab at him, at the fabric of his clothes, like he always likes— and he does, collapsing into the fluffy towel Matthijs holds out for him, drying his hair and then his neck and then slowly working his way down his body, Frenkie’s eyes never once fluttering open.
“Frenk, god. You fucking idiot, you.. you poor thing. You’re probably so tired, yeah? Here- I’ve got you.” It feels like he’s talking to a toddler. But Frenkie bristles at the words, nestling his head against Matthijs’s neck, which is more movement than he’d gotten in a while— so he must be doing something right.
He does manage to get Frenkie dressed— in Matta’s clothes, that is, because Frenkie’s are soaking wet and laying in a heap on the floor— so the pants are a bit too long and the shirt’s a bit big and Frenkie looks somehow even smaller in them, his blue eyes hidden behind his screwed-shut lids as Matthijs slowly maneuvers him under the bed.
He shudders as the duvet wraps around him, a low hum— or maybe it’s a purr?— slipping out of his mouth and it takes every bit of strength Matthijs has no to yank him into his arms right there. Instead, he slips into the bed beside him, arms slowly snaking around his waist as tiny snores fill the room.
Frenkie is out before his head hits the pillow.
———
The bed is empty.
That’s the very first thing Matthijs notices- there’s a warm empty space beside him. He can feel his heart banging against his ribs as that fact sets in.
“Frenk?” He calls, sitting up quickly. His hair is still damp, so it isn’t quite sunrise yet. “Frenkie?!”
“I’m here!”
The voice is distant and muffled and yet Matthijs has to flop back down on the bed when he hears it, has to give his heart a few minutes to stop beating so damn fast.
God. This can’t be healthy.
He doesn’t think about that, though- not as he’s dragging himself to his feet and pulling on a robe and stepping into his slippers, yawning into his arm as he trots down the stairs.
Frenkie’s in the kitchen, wearing another of Matthijs’s robes as he holds his head in his hands atop one of the seats at the island counter. Matthijs sighs.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like a fucking idiot.”
Matthijs sighs again, this time heavier, as he leans against the counter opposite Frenkie. He has a mug in front of him, and his head is hung, eyes not visible.
“..Why?”
“‘s humiliating, fuck you mean ‘why?’ I was acting like a fucking baby last night, like a- a kid with attachment issues! I don’t even remember half of it, and what I do remember I- I really wanna forget. So- so just.. leave me alone, yeah?”
Matthijs hums under his breath, reaching across the counter to lay his hand on Frenkie’s. The older man doesn’t fight it.
“You feel like an idiot because you were vulnerable?”
“Oh, fuck off. What are you, my therapist? No, it’s ’cause I was a baby about it. I-I made you- carry me around and- and hold me and-“
“And I wanted to do those things. And.. And you needed them, Frenkie, and there’s no shame in that.”
“Then why’s shame all I’m feeling? I’m a captain, for fuck’s sake, I’m supposed to- to look out for people, not the other way around!”
Matthijs hums, narrowing his eyebrows. “..Remember when I hurt my shoulder? Back at Juve.”
“‘course. Visited you in the hospital, didn’t I?”
“You did. Do you remember what you told me?”
Frenkie narrows his eyes down at his mug, biting his lip. “Matta..”
“‘You don’t need to act strong. You’re in a hospital bed, Matta, you’re hurting. You’re allowed to do that. You’re allowed to be afraid.’ That’s what you said to me.”
“Ma-“
“So why’s it any different? Why am I allowed to hurt, and I’m allowed to be afraid, and I’m allowed to not always act strong— but you aren’t?”
Frenkie huffs, finally raising his gaze. His deep blue eyes pierce into Matthijs’s soul- they always had.
“You need to give yourself the same grace you gave me, Frenk. You need to let yourself heal, physically and- and in every other way because you deserve that, too. And you keep bottling everything up and then act surprised when it spills over, but that’s.. that’s the only natural progression, Frenk. If you don’t talk to anyone, if you don’t tell anyone anything, it’ll all spill over eventually. That’s what happened tonight. You.. you spilled over, and you needed someone there, and I will never, ever hold that against you. You’re always there for me, for everyone else— so.. so, now, it was my turn to be there for you.”
“..João’s pissed at me. And- and Pablo and- Sergi, and Pedri, and Lewa and Ilkay and- and everyone’s pissed, Matta, I..”
“No, they aren’t. They’re worried. They’re not angry. Frenkie- come here.”
Frenkie huffs, hobbling around the island and letting his forehead rest against Matthijs’s chest.
“Frenk?”
“..Huh?”
“I will always, always hold you and- and carry you around and bathe you whenever you want. Just.. maybe next time, you can be more conscious? And a warning would be nice.”
Frenkie snorts. “You’re such an asshole, you.. asshole.”
“Whoa. Double asshole.”
Frenkie drags his fist down Matta’s chest in a faux-attack, snickering. “‘m gonna punch you in the face.”
Matthijs smiles, sad and lopsided but still a genuine smile nonetheless. “..Frenk, I.. I’m serious. I want to care for you. It makes me happy, when.. when I’m making you happy, and I wanna do that. I wanna make you happy, ‘cause that’s the best fucking feeling in the world.”
“..I.. I don’t understand. You.. like it when I pile all my shit on you?”
“No. I love it when you trust me enough that, even when you’re half-conscious and it’s raining and thundering you still come to me and- and trust me to take care of you. And I will. I always, always will. I just hope that you.. you’ll talk to me more, so it won’t get to that point again.”
Frenkie sniffles. “I will,” he croaks. “I will. I promise, I.. I was just- there- you had so much going on with- with Bayern and I was- I was.. I don’t know.”
“I know. Sometimes it’s- it’s hard to know all that, but I want you to know that you’re the most important person in the world to me. More important than- than Bayern and any of that, ‘cause you’re you. So.. Talk to me, yeah? I will always pick up.”
Frenkie nods, biting his lower lip- it’s the only action that keeps the tears from falling- and slipping his hand into Matthijs’s.
“I will,” he promises. “I will.”
“Good. That’s.. that’s good. Now- now how ‘bout we go back to bed, alright? You’re exhausted, and it’s early, and I wanna cuddle.”
Frenkie snorts, clambering into Matthijs’s embrace and letting himself be wrapped in strong arms, arms that are careful not to jostle as they lift him up and carry him away and set him down on a soft mattress, arms that grab both his hands and lace their fingers and pin them above his head and lips that leave bruising kisses against his own, leaving him gasping and pleading and moaning.
Arms that wrap around his torso and pull him backwards, until they’re back-to-chest, Matthijs’s legs curling around him and his head buried in Frenkie’s nape and his lips on his collar, his neck, his ear.
A voice that says, “I’ve got you,” and a tone that makes him believe it. Eyelashes that tickle his skin as dark eyes that care so much flutter shut and breath that feels too warm against his cheek.
A voice that says “I love you,” and a mind, his own mind, that lets him believe it.