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Trent lands the goal, and the whole stadium erupts into cheers. Mark runs with the rest of the team towards Trent and the English fans, yelling in exhilaration. Semis, here they come.
Within minutes, the whole bench is on the pitch, celebrating, the fans once more singing their hearts out. Instinctively, Mark finds Chenle, falls against him in a hug. The cheers and singing bleed into the background as his senses zero in on the solid weight of Chenle in his arms. He pulls back reluctantly, looking for the other's gaze.
‘Congrats!’ Chenle shouts, smiling, and it takes Mark a moment to understand why it feels off.
He wanted to score that goal.
Of course he did. There's been immense pressure on Chenle this tournament. Eight games—nine, now—without a goal. That'd affect any offensive player, and Chenle isn't just any player. He's one of the most ambitious guys Mark knows.
He grasps Chenle's hand, squeezes. ‘You, too, dude. You did great!’
Chenle smiles at that, but it's strained.
***
Chenle doesn’t usually take this long in the showers. Mark waits for him while the guys file out of the locker room. Scrolls on his phone, allows himself to bathe in the fans' praises on Twitter.
Finally, Chenle emerges, towelling his hair. Mark waits until he's dressed before addressing him.
‘You did well today,’ he says. Chenle turns around, wipes the last moisture from his brow.
‘Says the one who shot the goal.’ He says it without malice, only teasing. But from the stiff set of his shoulders to the edge around the corners of his mouth, Mark can tell. Can tell the other is upset.
Not at him. Chenle had been one of the first to hug him after he shot that goal in the 80th minute, had pressed a kiss to his cheek. It's himself that Chenle is angry at. Has been, for many games now.
Mark slides over along the bench until he's sat next to Chenle's locker.
‘You still did great,’ he reiterates. ‘It was so clear how much more comfortable you were today, too. You know there's a reason Gareth puts you up again and again, right?’ Chenle sighs, runs his hands through his damp hair. Still too tense to sit. ‘I mean it.’
‘No, yeah, I know.’ Chenle swears. ‘I just feel so stupid. First, I can't shoot a fucking goal, the thing I'm paid to do here, and now I can't even enjoy the win. Feel like a right idiot.’ He sighs. ‘Player of the year, my arse.’
After two years playing for England, he’s taken to their teammates’ accent. It’s cute.
‘C'mere,’ Mark says, standing and opening his arms. Chenle hesitates before coming closer, letting Mark draw him in. It’s a bit funny, because usually, this would be the other way around, Chenle taking care of Mark. And because Chenle’s taller than him, but not by so much that it'd be uncomfortable. As Chenle's arms settle around his waist, Mark raises his hand and carefully guides Chenle's head against his collarbone, running his fingers through the bleach-damaged hair.
‘You did well,’ he says quietly. Chenle tenses minutely before relaxing against him, exhaling slowly. ‘You are the player of the year. You did great today, too. Even if you didn't, that wouldn't change anything. Be kinder to yourself, Chenle.’
Chenle only hums, buries his head into Mark's hoodie. Mark lets his hand drop slightly to the other's nape and starts gently massaging him there.
‘You're so tense,’ he mumbles. ‘You should relax more. Are you coming out with us tonight?’
No response. Mark presses against a particularly hard knot at the base of his neck.
‘Hm?’
Chenle groans before pulling back, disentangling himself from the hug. ‘Have to, don't I?’
‘You should.’ Mark grins.
At that moment, a knock sounds and the head of their assistant manager pops up in the doorframe. ‘You boys coming?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mark says. ‘Be there in a sec.’
When he looks back at Chenle, the other is smiling wearily. ‘Thanks, mate. For being here.’
‘Of course.’
***
Mark doesn't usually drink—half for religious, half for muscle growth reasons—but that night, he allows himself a single beer. They are in Germany, after all. And they're going to the semi-finals. Long days are ahead.
They're not really going out, after all, the celebration happening in a private lounge at their hotel. But it is nice, atmospheric and discreet, and the beer is good. After the initial exhilaration, the vibes have somewhat mellowed by now—there's work tomorrow, and the real parties will come after the tournament is won. Hopefully. Mark sips at his beer and listens to Pickford and Mainoo discuss their vacation plans, when he spots Chenle heading for the bar.
‘Be right back,’ Mark tells the guys and walks over.
He meets Chenle at the counter. ‘Feeling a bit better?’ he asks.
Chenle shrugs, then smiles. ‘A bit, yeah. Thanks again.’ The barkeep serves him some kind of dark beer, and Mark raises his glass.
‘To us,’ he says.
Chenle laughs, clinking their glasses together. ‘To us.’
They drink in silence for a moment. ‘What about you? How are you feeling?’ Chenle asks.
‘Generally? Pretty good. I mean, life's good right now. Couldn't ask for more.’
‘All that prayer paying off,’ Chenle says, teasing.
Mark laughs. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
Chenle's phone buzzes on the counter, and he checks it briefly, brows furrowing. ‘The Dutch equalised,’ he says.
Mark didn't even know Türkiye had scored. ‘Who cares,’ he groans and takes another gulp of his beer. It's pretty bitter, as German beers tend to be. He doesn't want to imagine what Chenle's dark one tastes like.
‘I do,’ Chenle says, still focused on his phone. ‘We're gonna face the winner on Wednesday.’
‘I know, I know. But you'll have all the time in the world reviewing the game tomorrow. Right now, you should relax, man.’
Chenle doesn't answer, eyes on the screen. This guy has no work-life balance, Mark thinks idly.
In a spur-of-the-moment decision, he leans forward and grabs Chenle's phone right from his hands.
‘Hey!’ Chenle reaches for the phone, but Mark holds it over his head—and Chenle could get it back if he wanted; he’s taller than Mark—but he just slumps in his seat, frowning.
‘Remember what I said earlier? You need to relax more. Get some rest. We'll be working all day tomorrow.’
Chenle sighs. ‘I can't stand you sometimes.’
‘And yet…’ Mark winks.
A pretty shade of red flushes Chenle’s cheeks, and he looks away immediately. ‘You’re only proving my point!’
‘I have to be pretty good in bed if you’re willing to disregard your hatred for me that regularly,’ Mark says, laughing. It’s not something he would usually say, but that’s what not drinking inevitably leads to: a non-existent alcohol tolerance. He finds he doesn’t mind, particularly. Chenle looks pretty, like this.
‘I’m not talking to you anymore,’ Chenle declares, and, oh, he’s pouting. Something stirs in Mark’s stomach.
‘I can think of a few things we could do that don’t involve talking,’ he hears himself say, and laughs, because, okay, he shouldn’t be this tipsy from one beer. It’s kind of pathetic. Chenle laughs, too, before downing his beer.
Grinning, he asks, ‘Your place or mine?’