Page 17 of Contested

He’d made a jab about Sebastian’s kick.

Ignored.

The locker room moments were the worst of it. When they were alone together, Marcos would attempt to break the awkwardness, but Sebastian would just look at him once, sharp and quick, then look away, and that was all he got. Marcos had no idea what to do with a version of Sebastian that simply refused to engage.

It wasn’t as if Marcos needed Sebastian to talk to him, but Sebastian ignoring him hit differently from Sebastian hating him.

Marcos picked up his pace for half a block, letting the thought burn off under the harder rhythm. The footpath narrowed ahead, cracked near a tree root, and he shifted around it without looking down. Further up, a side street cut darker between two taller buildings.

Marcos turned into it.

He’d run this way before. It wasn’t his shortest route home, but he wasn’t ready to turn back yet. The street was quieter, tucked away from the brighter road behind him, with apartment entrances set back a little and a few small businesses closed along the ground floor. Pools of white light spilled from doorways and signs, leaving darker patches between them.

The next street he turned down was the same. The only difference was something moving ahead.

At first, Marcos thought it was someone leaning against a wall, maybe drunk, maybe waiting for a ride. Then the figure shifted wrong. One shoulder hit the brick, a hand braced there, and the person pushed off only to stumble another step.

Marcos slowed. The music kept going in his ears, too loud now. He reached up and pulled one headphone free.

The figure stumbled under a strip of light from an apartment entry.

“Sebastian?”

The figure lifted his head.

Even in the poor light, Marcos saw the expression before anything else. Annoyance first. Recognition second. Then Sebastian let out a groan so rough it dragged from his ribs and leaned his back against the wall.

“Mierda,” Marcos muttered and walked closer.

Sebastian looked different out of his training gear and the Mustangs’ colours. Loose forest-green pants hung from his hips, and a black jacket sat over a white shirt. His black hair was gelled up in a small wave over his forehead, slightly dishevelled. He wore glasses, too.

That threw Marcos. “You wear glasses?”

“Go away,” Sebastian mumbled, closing his eyes and waving Marcos on.

Instead, Marcos came to a complete stop and leaned his shoulder against the wall next to him. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Seriously. Just fuck off.” Sebastian’s voice was uneven and tired. He shifted against the wall, and the shift brought the side of his face under the light properly.

Bruising sat along his jaw. Another mark had started to darken below his eye.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Marcos pushed off the wall and stepped in front of Sebastian, watching him more closely. “Did you get in a fight?”

Sebastian stepped away from the wall and tried to push past him. A sharp exhale slipped out as his shoulder brushed Marcos’ arm. Marcos watched him take two uneven steps before cutting in front of him.

“Stop.” Marcos placed his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Just… stop.”

Sebastian met Marcos’ gaze. The eye near the bruise narrowed more than the other, and Sebastian’s brow furrowed. He rolled his head, then swatted Marcos’ hand away.

“What the fuck happened?” Marcos pressed again, and Sebastian sighed.

“A disagreement,” he muttered, seemingly giving up trying to walk away as he leaned on the wall again.

“And how many drinks did it take for that to happen?”

“I had one.”

“Okay,” Marcos said slowly. “So, you can’t handle alcohol.”