Spencer reaches for the remote and I stop his hand in mid-motion. He looks at me questioningly, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The familiar smell of coffee and Spencer's after shave is in the air. Ice and snow.
"Explain it to me," I say, and Spencer looks at me questioningly.
"Explain what?"
"Well, this. Soccer. I don't get it. What's so great about chasing a round thing for an hour?"
"Ninety minutes," Spencer counters.
"Then so be it," I say, slightly annoyed, leaning back into the soft cushion, reaching for the turquoise pillow and pressing it against my chest, searching for support.

"Are you sure about this? I might as well turn it off and we'll talk some more?" he asks, concerned.
"No," I reply forcefully.
"I'm meeting with Alec later and I just want to understand. Understand him. Why he loves this stupid game more than me," I say in a loud angry voice. Raphael puts down his book and looks at me with interest. Spencer's facial expressions also speak volumes. They're worried.
"Okay. If that's what you want?"
"I don't think it's what Magnus wants. But it's what he needs right now. Right?" counters Raphael. His omniscience in all honor, but right now it's just too much for me.

"Mhmhm. I guess so," I reply, grumbling.
"Okay. So a game lasts ninety minutes. It's divided into two halves of forty-five minutes each. After the first half, the game sides are switched," Spencer calmly explains.
"Why?", I ask. I don't understand.
"To create a fair balance. The games take place outside. And to make sure each team plays in similar conditions, they switch sides. Because of the sun. So one of the goalkeepers always has backlight. So equal conditions for both. This also applies to the players. The goal of the game is to score goals. As many as possible and as nice as possible." Spencer smiles and starts a new game on the big screen in front of us.

We watch Alec proudly lead his team onto the field. Each player has a child on hand, and judging by their age, one of them could be his own. I try to analyze the boys' faces, but I don't spot any with Alec's distinctive features. One of the boys has blond chin-length hair like Yorick. But his eyes are gray instead of ice blue, and the funny little freckles above his nose and cheekbones are missing entirely.
"I wonder if his wife knows?" asks Raphael, and I nod mutely.
"Really?" comes incredulously from both of them and I focus on the game, at least as much as I can. Right now I don't want to think about his wife. At some point I have to face it all, but not now.

"What do I need to know?", I ask Spencer and again he switches from caring-concerned to professional-athletic.
"Blue is Alec's team, red is the opponent. You're watching a Champions League game here. Royal League. By the way, he's playing against his old club from Germany. Gross eh," Spencer explains with a laugh. I would laugh, too, if I knew how to keep my emotions in check. But right now, I'm finding that incredibly difficult.
"Kick off, kick a little, feel the opponent. But they have to be careful. From second zero, everyone is under tension and pressure." Me too, can feel it. The pressure in my chest, the increasing tightness, the feeling of not getting enough oxygen to fill my lungs and drive away the dizziness. The tightness of my body, the trembling of my hands and the chill on my skin.

"Some games are really lame. Nothing happens for ninety minutes. Other games are more interesting and then there are the really good ones, with fast rallies, fantastically targeted passes and incredible goals. These two teams don't give each other anything. You see how the players interact with each other? They look for their comrades, communicate with each other. The opponent covers superbly and makes it anything but easy for Chelsea. Alec is amazing. The positional play, how he moves across the field, he's present and his shot is well placed. That they took the lead is no wonder." Okay, Alec clearly has a new fan and now I know what Raphael meant. Spencer's cheeks glow a bright pink and his eyes sparkle with eagerness and enthusiasm. I've rarely seen him like this.

"And that's all? They run across the field and wrestle for the ball?" I ask incredulously.
"They don't do anything else in football. Or actually, they do. Football players run at each other weighing 152 pounds and tackle each other so hard the earth shakes. That's 335 pounds of Magnus. That's heavy as shit. Soccer has complex fucking rules. Offside alone. Many a player has despaired of this and often it was not clear at all. The offside trap is totally popular to play legally wrong. Because of that crap, goals have been given that have changed entire championships and destroyed careers," says Spencer indignantly. Told you so, Mister Drama himself.
"Why?", I ask ignorantly. My head is already buzzing from all the tricks and techniques, the parries and colorful cards. I've lost track of everything. Spencer snorts and makes a sweeping gesture. What's he up to?

"Offside is the devil among the rules of the game. A demon straight from the deepest depths of hell."
"And therefore a trap or what? Are they setting a leg like in kindergarten?", I ask. The sarcasm drips in long threads onto the cushion and Spencer can do nothing but respond by shaking his head.
"Magnus," Spencer groans in frustration, ruffling his blond hair. Strands come out of the knot and gently frame his handsome masculine features.
"The so-called offside trap is a tactical device the defending team uses to lure the opponent offside. By moving forward at the right moment when the attacking team passes, defenders allow the opponent's potential pass receivers to run offside." I didn't understand a word he said. And that's probably exactly how I look.
"What?", I ask moronically. Pass. I remembered that. But the rest, I don't know. White cotton clouds in my head and riding them are pink unicorns with rainbow colored manes.

"I don't get it." Frustrated, I bury my hands in my hair and feel so stupid. What could be so hard about this? Millions of other people understand the rules, don't they?
"Just the fact that you're trying to understand it shows me how important he is to you. Soccer is Alec's life and if you want to be a part of it, you should have some idea what he's talking about."
"I disagree," Raphael counters.
"Honey, Magnus doesn't have to..."
"Magnus doesn't have to do anything," Raphael interrupts his husband and I hear Spencer sigh deeply. He loves soccer, that feeling is deeply ingrained in his genes and blood.

"I have nothing to do with soccer. Yet you married me and I follow the games when I'd much rather watch a cooking show. Magnus doesn't need to know what a heel trap is, or that a foul by the opposing player is followed not only by a red card, but also a penalty kick. For Magnus and also for Alec, the important thing is that they know they love each other. Nothing else matters."
"That's not quite right sweetheart, a red card.... Never mind, but you're right, of course. Sorry Magnus," Spencer says. I don't blame him, because I wanted this, even though the last few hours haven't gotten me anywhere and my head still hurts.

"Honestly, I'm really trying to pull myself together. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours and my life has come crashing down all at once. I'm homeless because Jonathan kicked me out the door and probably already had the locks changed. I have nothing but the clothes from the party and the pitiful rest in my suitcase. Our whole apartment is filled with my stuff, clothes, jewelry, makeup.... Shit makeup. Fuck, I haven't even looked in the mirror yet. Why don't you guys say something? I must look like a stoned panda after three days without sleep," I state in horror and am already on my way to the bathroom. Spencer and Raphael both shout soothing words after me, but my mind is unable to absorb them right now. Syllables, scraps of words, no idea what sense they make.

The glare of the overhead lighting hurts my eyes, intensifying the headache, and the throbbing in my temples moves across my forehead into the top of my skull. Fuck, I feel like I've thrown up and barely dare to take a look in the mirror. My last total breakdown was ages ago, but the memory of it is not entirely fuzzy. It was winter and the first frost winds were blowing across the country. It was snowing and the swirling flakes reminded me of stars falling from the sky. The city was too warm and the snowflakes melted as soon as their fine texture reached the dirty asphalt of New York's streets. Jonathan and I appeared as a dream couple at the company Christmas party, laughing with my employees at the thoroughly entertaining jokes of a colleague, enjoying the aromas of the rich Indian buffet and dancing joyfully to pop music. This was all just a facade, a mask we wore throughout the evening and our acting got better by the minute.

It was the first Christmas after my one-night stand with Alec and the images of that night haunted me. Months later our relationship improved, we started going out again, spending more time together and I started working from home on Fridays. So nothing stood in the way of a punctual dinner together. At the time it felt right, but today I know that we were desperately trying to hold on to a feeling that had long since ceased to exist. The melody of our excitedly beating hearts had fallen silent, silence settled over us, crushing, heavy.Deep inside, I know that Jonathan is not the only one to blame for our situation. It's me as much, if not the bigger factor of the two of us. No, the one-night stand with Alec was not the result of a chain of strange entanglements or coincidences. We wanted each other, it was about the man behind the facade and his body. No other man in that dimly lit pub did I find as attractive and sexually inspiring as Alec. No one else awakened long-suppressed desires and promised peace as well as relaxation for a few hours before the glaringly bright reality came crashing down loudly on me.

I have no idea how to go on now. Rarely have I felt so empty and drained. That was many years ago, too. My head is packed with questions and newly acquired information. My mind is trying to sort it all out, find different drawers and clear a breath of the chaos that has been created. I wonder what Alec is doing right now. How is he preparing for our meeting? What will he tell me? How will I react to it? Can I carry this burden? I don't know, finally daring to look in the mirror and regretting it at the same moment. My skin frighteningly pale in the artificial light of the ceiling lamp, my eyes are reddened and the kohl has left a crumbly black trace. Yes, I look the way I feel. My hair leads a self-determined existence, looking dull and brittle.Luckily for me, Raphael indulges in the same vice, his passion for makeup at various queer events, is my salvation today. A small cheer escapes my throat, which still feels slightly rough and scratchy. I quickly find makeup remover wipes, wash cream and a tinting face cream in the cabinet behind the mirror. Briefly I consider also the Kajalstift to put ready, but after I found myself once with a fat purulent eye inflammation on the treatment chair of an ophthalmologist, I do without the flattering black line. The admonishing words of the aging doctor echo very clearly and loudly through my head. No, never again will I use another person's makeup pencil. At the thought of the danger of a repeated infection with bacteria-infested make-up, my stomach contracts convulsively. I don't need this experience a second time, and certainly not at the moment. Even though Raphael is one of the cleanest people on the planet, it's simply out of the question.

The cleansing cream is a boon for my skin, refreshes, revives the tired spirits and the warm water drives away the last heaviness. The small cut on my cheek burns slightly and on closer inspection, it is half as bad as it may seem. No scar will remain, not like the last time my face received special treatment. However, the repair of my facial skin is not enough to face the man of my heart. I smell of sweat and a slightly southern aroma, blades of grass. Of course, we were rolling in the lawn of the Herondale estate, oblivious. Nothing existed around us, no moon, no stars, no Jonathan, just the two of us.

A hot shower never felt so stimulating and energizing as this one. Hot and fast the water falls down on my body. My skin burns from the intensity and hardness of individual drops of water. It hurts and reminds me that I am alive. The empty hollow feeling in my chest is unrelenting. I don't know which is worse. The squeezing pain or the airless space between my ribs. My mind won't allow me to think about it any longer. It is images of Alec which suddenly float through my mind. Alec in the pub, dressed in a light blue shirt and his arms wrapped around roaring people. Alec in his team's jersey, the black letters on his back, a punch right in the face and the pit of his stomach. The dizziness in my head as his gaze met me. First London, then New York. Alec's words and his fingertips gossamer on my skin. I feel it, the pulsing and tingling, the lightness of my body and fabric leaving greedily willing flesh. In my crotch, the passion burns as hot as the water on my skin. It does not take long and my hand works to the images in my head, making me gasp and in the moment of ecstasy long-suppressed tears leave my eyes, mixing with the drops of my lust and the water on my body.

Leaning my forehead against the wall, I stand under the hot water jet, steam rises. White mist jets. They gently wrap around my quivering body, the blood rushes in my ears and briefly I have the feeling of losing control. Shakily I slide down the cold damp wall, the tiles at my back give me support, remind me that it is time to look forward. My life has never been wreathed in pink cotton candy and angels hovering around my head with their little feathery wings and nagging harps in their hands. Everything was a struggle, always and somehow.

For a while I sit on the floor of the shower, crying and enjoying the quiet in my head. No questions, no drama, no Jonathan, and most of all, no Alexander. Until a shadow looms over me, strong arms grab me and push me back under the warm water jet. Enclosed in an empty shell, the water, fogging steam and pain. My skin is cold and sharply I draw in the air as the first hot drops hit my body. Quickly the veil clears and I look over my shoulder, see Raphael and shame overtakes me. My cheeks glow, that should not be so. Stoically I turn and wish Alec was standing here holding a bottle of shower gel in his hand, not Raphael. My muscles ache and heaviness has crept back into my body. When did this happen?

"This is really uncomfortable for me," I say quietly.
"It doesn't have to. This isn't the first time I've seen you naked, remember that. Besides, since when are you ashamed of me?" asks Raphael, opening the bottle, which is clearly from his husband's stock. The fresh smell of sea and salt wafts into my nose and I smile slightly. The smell reminds me of Maine and a carefree time with my brother. I look forward to seeing him and his wonderful little family again.
"Well, here naked on the floor like this. That's not normal."
"Since when are we normal?" asks Raphael, his giggle snapping me out of my whirl of despair.

"Us? Never have been. The chaos triplets," I retort.
"Fuck, that was forever ago," comes guffawing laughter from Raphael. Yes, half an eternity. How could it have come to this? How could I have allowed us to drift so far apart? They took me in without batting an eye, gave me time to sort out the mental ballast and chaos inside me. I missed that, the intimacy and familiarity. Raphael, Spencer and Yorick are my family. In the last few years there has been too much work, too many cancelled meetings, postponed dinners. Too much of Jonathan's needs and drama. My fear of being alone, even though I have never, not one second in my life, been alone.
"Do you actually want to keep watching me shower, or why are you still here?", I ask. Not that it bothers me. Raphael is right, it's not the first time. Things like this used to be part of my everyday life. Getting dressed up together with Raphael before a wild night of partying, drinking alcohol and bitching about the bitches in the club.

"Handsome men I like to look at," he says with a wink, and I ved my eyes with a sigh.
"Especially the stoned panda ones with no sleep," he kicks again.
"Spencer," I yell out over the rippling water and almost immediately the door opens and a grinning Spencer stands in just that. He leans into the doorframe with his arms crossed, analyzing what he sees.
"Just like old times," he says with a laugh, and somehow he has a point. Raphael always took the most time to make his Anlitz presentable. He has always been the most vain rooster in our circle. We spent a lot of time together in the bathroom.

"Leave us alone honey," Raphael says conspiratorially and pulls his man into a heartfelt kiss. I take advantage of the time, rid my body of dirt and suds, wash my messy hair, and step out of the shower clad in a towel around my hips. Spencer, meanwhile, has moved on to kneading his husband's plump cheeks. The free time, both will use extensively. I don't begrudge them it. A child brings a lot of change to everyday life and it is not uncommon for couples to ignore physical affection.
"It's disgusting," I murmur and earn a giggle. Truly like the old days.
"I actually just wanted to let you know that your phone is screaming for its life," Raphael says, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, pulling open a drawer next to him and starting to probe through various tubes and jars, bottles full of bright glittery lacquer and a few other products. He finds a new unused kohl, holds it out to me knowingly, and I thank him silently.

"Must be Jonathan, right?", I reply questioningly. Raphael nods and I sense that something is on his mind. Nervously, he chews on his lower lip, dragging bright white sharp teeth across rosy flesh, and I relieve Raphael of his torment.
"Now tell me." Raphael exhales heavily.
"I hope you don't let him get away with this."
"Who?" Jonathan or Alec? It could be either of them, both of whom he's just trying to explain to me that their behavior was so inappropriate.
"Jonathan, of course," he replies reprovingly.
"He destroyed a piece of art worth whatever. Just like that. Out of revenge and anger. No matter what happened, how much you hurt him. Such a reaction is totally over the top. Sure, emotions boiling over and all that. But you can't just let that stand."
"That's what Ragnor said, too."

"And he's right. You need to go back to the apartment, get your stuff. Papers and important documents from your office and clothes. I mean, you can't just leave all that behind," he says, upset.
"I don't plan to," I placate Raphael and breathe a kiss on his cheeks.
"First of all, I'm going to fix this with Alec. I have no idea how I'm going to start the conversation or where it's going to lead, but I can't avoid it any longer. And neither can he. This has to stop. This hiding and pretending we don't give a shit. Shit, we're not. Clearly," I reply and Raphael silently hands me the jar of tinted day cream, which I had already placed on the shelf in front of the mirror.

With practiced movements, I spread the smooth mass on my cheekbones and forehead, the bridge of my nose and my chin. Raphael always chooses a suitable tone and this harmonizes perfectly with my skin. I feel good, Raphael next to me hums softly, screws the jar and hands me an unused kohl pencil without being asked. He too has changed his mind after my eye inflammation. I briefly consider, yes or no? I decide for yes. Fuck it. Alec has already seen me yesterday with made-up eyes and exciting outfit.

"Would you like mascara, too?" asks Raphael, and I suppress a protesting shake of my head so as not to accidentally poke the tip of the pen into my eyes. That would be extremely stupid and painful.
"No. I don't want to chase Alec away right away. It'll do like this. Thank you."
"Not for this," he waves it off.
"What am I going to wear, anyway? I have no idea what all is in my suitcase exactly," I muse, and as if on cue, Spencer bursts into the bathroom and holds out two different shirts and a pair of dark gray jeans to me.
"This isn't yours, is it?" he asks, holding a pale pink linen shirt in his other hand that is clearly not mine.
"No," I reply, turning my attention back to my face to create the perfect look for this meeting. I feel like I'm going on a date with Alec. In the process, we meet somewhere in a rancid pool hall. I read the message several times and still couldn't believe it. A pool hall. Who meets their one-night stand in a pool hall, please? Who meets with his one-night-stand at all? I don't know anyone, just me.
"This is so absurd," I say, watching Spencer nod in the mirror.
"Somewhat, yeah. But that's how it is now, and you're late," he says.
"I'll take the white one. All innocent."
"You and innocent," Raphael chuckles. Jerking, I rip the shirt from Spencer's hands and slip it over my body. It tightens slightly on my chest and upper arms.
"Not mine either," I say with a sigh, ruffling my hair. Surely none of this can be true. My two friends laugh at the portrait I offer them and frantically I get into the rest of my clothes. Luckily, the shorts and pants are mine.
"When life sucks..."
"... you just have to turn the music up," I complete the sentence and join in their happy laughter. This, right here, is me.