On Saturday, Marco, a contractor in his forties who lived in the other apartments, was celebrating his birthday and had invited everyone over. That same day, there was also the Portugal vs Sweden match, and most of them (Aaron first among them) had already said since Friday that they’d definitely be there to watch it.

When José arrived at the apartments in Zaventem, a bottle of wine tucked inside a bag, he didn’t expect this much noise or this many people. Contractors didn’t usually do things like this. Everyone knew it was a waste of time, and above all, money—even if they earned well. Still, Marco had the energy for it. His wife and their two young kids had left for the night, gone somewhere else to sleep. Mrs. Marco didn’t want to hear anything about football, as she’d said before leaving and wishing them goodbye right before kickoff.

Things settled down around nine, when the match started. Everyone squeezed onto the three two-seater couches in the living room, or onto chairs and stools. Some had even sat down on the carpet. On the table in the middle, there were beers and all kinds of pizza, and across from it stood a solid wooden unit with a large TV on top.

There were more people scattered around: some in the kitchen talking, others wandering about. In total, around twenty people had stayed.

José had taken a chair. For the first half, he was fine. In the second, though, his ass started to hurt and his back was killing him.

The others were completely absorbed in the game when José stood up to stretch. He walked toward the kitchen. Two people were there, scrolling on their phones. He passed the kitchen door, then a bedroom, and finally stepped into the bathroom near the end of the narrow hallway. He closed the door behind him.

He walked up to the toilet, lifted the lid, and pulled down his pants.

How much beer had he had? Not much. But he’d drunk a lot of water. Those damn pizzas always made him thirsty. Same with meat.

When he finished, he washed his hands thoroughly and dried them. For a moment, he caught his reflection in the mirror and looked at himself. He needed a haircut. He’d trimmed—and eventually shaved—after Anna told him to, but he hadn’t gotten a proper cut. He also needed sleep. He’d always had natural dark circles under his eyes, but today they were at their worst.

He opened the door and sighed. He stepped out, about to close it.

“Didn’t go well in there, and that’s why you’re sighing?”

He froze.

No. No. Why? Why did he hear that voice everywhere?

And why could he recognize it so easily?

He turned his back to the bathroom door, shut it, and looked at the short man leaning casually against the white wall of the narrow hallway, a little further down.

“Do you need any help?” Carlos smiled. In his hand, he held a plastic cup of water. He brought it to his lips and drank. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his eyes fixed on José.

José swallowed dryly as he watched his lips—noticed how the upper one was thinner than the lower—through the plastic cup. Why did the cup have to be plastic and not paper?

He was a bit drunk, that's why he was noticing things. He needed to calm down. He was a bit drunk. It was ridiculous to be thinking like this.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you need help.”

José exhaled. Help with what? He didn’t say it out loud. He just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“No, thanks,” he said, moving to leave.

Carlos stepped in his way, their bodies crushing lightly in the narrow hallway.

“Hey, what’s the rush? Where are you going?”

José knew how close they were. But his legs, his body, didn’t step back this time like before. He could feel them trembling. The alcohol was casting its own spells.

“Nowhere. I’m going back to the others.”

Carlos raised one eyebrow. The right one. The one that used to have an earring, the tiny hole still barely visible.

“I think… you’ve been avoiding me these past few days.”

José scoffed quietly, rolling his eyes, then looked at him. “Why would I avoid you?”

“I don’t know.” Carlos pursed his lips slightly. “We used to work together. Now you keep telling me to leave and you ask David or anyone else for help. And between us… I mean, sure, everyone’s good—but David?”

José’s gaze lingered on Carlos’s lips. They glistened. Distracting. Was it the lighting? The water? The pizza? He almost laughed at himself, but nothing came out.

“It just happened,” he said, and tried again to leave.

Carlos blocked him again. There was no space to pass in that narrow hallway.

“This time, I haven’t been drinking.”

José looked at him. His eyes widened, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. The sound of the match roared in his ears.

Carlos’s hand lifted slowly, hesitantly. Like in slow motion, José felt something light, almost ticklish, touch his temple, then trail gently down to his cheek. He didn’t move. Didn’t do anything.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again almost immediately. He didn’t know where to begin. His mind wasn’t working. His eyes were locked onto those damn light brown eyes in front of him. Everything around them had suddenly gone silent.

He had never felt like this before.

Or maybe he was fooling himself.

He knew how this would end. Just like that night. José wasn’t gay, he knew it. Neither was Carlos. They both had girlfriends.

He felt like a ship being tossed, the sea grabbing hold of it. But tonight, maybe just tonight, maybe just this once, if he sank, he wouldn’t mind.

Carlos slid his hand behind José’s neck and pulled him closer. His gaze dropped slightly, but never left his eyes.

When their lips brushed, José shivered. He felt his heart pounding through his entire body, the sounds around him fading even more. He could hear Carlos’s breathing—and his own. And he could smell him. That familiar scent, like the sea—he’d smelled it before, in the locker rooms.

Carlos’s lips pressed more firmly this time.

José froze. His body felt paralyzed, his eyes wide, unable to look away from Carlos.

“Close your eyes,” Carlos whispered.

José opened his mouth to protest.

“Trust me.”

He looked at him. In that moment, he could pull back. He knew it. Just like he had that night at the company party.

If he pulled back now—if he had pulled back then—his life wouldn’t change.

He closed his eyes.

He felt Carlos’s lips on his. At first, he did nothing. Then slowly, he let go. He gave in. To the scent, to the hand at the back of his neck, to the texture and warmth of Carlos’s lips against his own.

For the first damn time, he was kissing Carlos.

He knew he shouldn’t.

And yet, in that moment, he thought of nothing. Not Anna, not anyone. No image, not even the faintest trace of a thought crossed his mind.

It was just him and Carlos. Carlos the white flag. Carlos with the brown eyes. Carlos with the full lips that moments ago touched that plastic cup—and now touched his.

José had been drinking. But not much. And that was the worst part.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Carlos rose slightly onto his toes, deepening the kiss. The football commentator in the living room blared at full volume—no one could hear the sounds of the two men kissing.

Carlos’s tongue brushed against his lips, then slipped inside without hesitation.

José felt his head burn, something inside him stirring—

“GOOOAAAL!”

They both jerked back at the same time, pulling apart. José saw the two people in the kitchen rush toward the living room.

Carlos turned toward the noise, then looked back at José and smiled.

José frowned. He didn’t know what to say.

“Are you drunk?” he asked finally the most random question he could think of.

Carlos kept smiling. Then he raised his eyebrow, the one with the tiny hole. “Who knows,” he said, taking another sip from his plastic cup. He hadn’t let go of it this whole time. “Maybe,” he added with a smile, before turning and heading back to the living room.

José frowned even more.

No way. He was holding water. He didn’t smell like alcohol. He’d said he hadn’t been drinking this time. And José hadn’t even seen him drink all night. Okay, he hadn’t been watching him constantly, but he was almost certain Carlos hadn’t had a single drop.

He bit his lips.

What the hell had just happened again?

Or rather—

what had he just allowed to happen?