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Early September - Sophomore Year
The air was still warm, but not the suffocating kind of summer heat. It had started to shift, less sticky, more quiet. The kind of night where you could feel the end of summer closing in behind your ribs, like the last warm breath before a door slams shut. The pavement still radiated heat from the day, but it no longer clung to Lovino's skin. It just sat there, humming under his wheels as he rolled down the sidewalk, every crack in the concrete clicking sharply under the trucks of his board. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, and the frayed hem of his jeans brushed lightly against his ankles with each kick, the fabric worn thin from too many hours skating in the sun.
He coasted to a stop near the edge of the park, where the swing set creaked lazily, its metal chains swaying even though no one was on them. The grass was dry, the wind soft, and the single streetlight near the bench flickered like it was arguing with itself about whether to stay awake. The air smelled faintly of distant barbecues, warm tar, and the sweet, dying scent of cut grass clinging to the edges of summer.
Gilbert was already there, sprawled across the far end of the bench like gravity worked differently for him. One combat boot was hooked lazily over the armrest, the other foot planted on the concrete, knee jutted out like he owned the whole damn park. His head was tipped back, neck exposed, like he was trying to count stars through the haze of streetlight and skyglow. His silver-blond hair was damp at the edges, curled faintly around his ears, like he'd showered in a rush and let the breeze do the rest. A faint streak of grease still clung stubbornly near his temple, half-faded but unmistakable. His eyeliner was smeared under both eyes, not freshly applied, not even evenly worn. Just lingering there like warpaint, like he'd rubbed his face with an oily hand and never bothered to fix it.
The leather jacket he always wore was zipped halfway, the heavy black creased at the elbows and shoulders, fraying slightly at the cuffs. Even in the heat, he wore it like armor. Like habit. The scent hit Lovino the moment he got close, leather soaked with the ghost of motor oil, the sharp edge of some cologne that was probably swiped from a sample rack, and underneath it, something cleaner. Soap. Skin. Gilbert.
Lovino kicked up his board, caught it with practiced ease, and dropped onto the other end of the bench without saying a word. The seat was warm from Gilbert's body heat, and the vinyl cover creaked faintly under his weight. Gilbert didn’t shift, didn’t even look at him at first. Just let out a quiet breath, eyelids low like he was barely awake. Then, a smirk.
“You always look like you’re five seconds from passing out,” Lovino muttered, voice low, steady. His board leaned against the leg of the bench, forgotten for now. His hands disappeared into the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders hunched just slightly forward as he stared out at the empty path ahead.
Gilbert finally glanced over. His smile widened, lazy and smug. “It’s called being relaxed. You should try it sometime.”
“You’re not relaxed. You’re just lazy.”
Gilbert let out a soft hum. “Lazy and hot,” he said, and stretched like a cat, slow, spine arching, fingers lacing behind his head, shirt riding up just slightly at the hem. The soft clang of his boot dropping back to the ground echoed faintly.
Lovino snorted and rolled his eyes, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They fell quiet after that. Comfortable. The kind of silence that settled with them instead of between them. The buzz of the flickering streetlight above, the rhythmic creak of the swings in the distance, the hum of bugs thick in the grass, the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street, all of it filled the night in soft, familiar noise.
Their knees bumped once. Neither of them moved.
Lovino cleared his throat after a while, voice quieter this time. “Nonno asked who I was sneaking out to see tonight.”
Gilbert didn’t move at first. Then he tilted his head lazily toward the sky. “And what’d you say?”
“I said I didn’t know,” Lovino mumbled, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie sleeve with his thumbnail. He didn’t look at him. “But I think I lied.”
Something in the air shifted. Not the breeze, not the sounds. Just them.
Gilbert moved then, slow but deliberate. He sat up, arms dropping to rest on his knees, back curved slightly forward. He turned his head, not fully, but just enough to look. That full, quiet attention that made Lovino’s pulse trip in his throat. Heavy. Real.
Lovino felt it before he saw it.
“You’ve got something on your cheek,” Gilbert said, voice light.
Lovino turned to scowl. “What?”
But Gilbert was already leaning in. His fingers came up, brushing lightly across Lovino’s cheekbone, slow and warm. Too soft. Too careful. There was nothing there. They both knew it.
He didn’t pull away.
Neither did Lovino.
They were close now. Too close. Close enough to see the little crack in Gilbert’s bottom lip, the smear of eyeliner in the corner of his eye, the way his lashes caught the streetlight just enough to gleam. His hair looked silver in the light, not white, and his eyes were darker than they usually seemed, rimmed in black and shadow.
Lovino couldn't breathe. His heart was hammering—too loud, too fast. His fingers twitched in his hoodie pocket. His body told him not to move. His brain screamed to do something.
Gilbert tilted his head, just slightly. His thumb ghosted against Lovino’s jaw.
“Are you about to kiss me?” Lovino blurted out, the words sharp and too loud, like they’d jumped out of his mouth without asking.
Gilbert froze, eyes wide. “What?! No! There was—there was dirt!”
“There was no dirt!” Lovino shoved him in the shoulder, face burning. “You were totally gonna do it!”
“I was not!” Gilbert flopped backward dramatically, one arm flung over his face. “You panicked!”
“I didn’t panic!”
“You froze!” Gilbert was grinning again, eyes peeking out from under his sleeve. “Like a deer in headlights.”
Lovino bolted to his feet, grabbing his board like a lifeline. “You’re such a dick.”
“You leaned in!”
“Did not!”
“Wanted to!”
“DID NOT!”
Gilbert stood with that same lazy swagger, pulling his jacket tight around himself like he could zip away from the moment. “You’re blushing,” he said, voice smug.
“I’m going to throw you in traffic.”
But Lovino didn’t storm off. He hovered near the edge of the path, foot nudging the nose of his board, not looking back but not walking away either. Gilbert fell into step beside him without a word, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders brushing close. They talked like that, quiet, bickering, pretending. Shoulders touched twice. Lovino didn’t flinch. But the silence between their words buzzed differently now. Tighter. Brighter. Louder.
Next time, Lovino thought, staring at the path ahead, heart still drumming.
Next time, I won’t say anything.
Next time, I’ll let it happen.
Early September - A Week Later - Sophomore Year
The air smelled like oil, hot pavement, and whatever grass clippings had been baking on the curb since that morning. Lovino coasted to a stop at the end of the driveway, board rattling over a crack before he kicked it up and caught it without thinking. The motion was automatic now, like breathing. Behind him, the neighborhood was quiet in that end-of-summer way—just the distant hum of a car engine turning a corner and the steady buzz of insects thick in the grass. The sun was dipping low, bleeding golden light over the rooftops and spilling long shadows across the sidewalks. The heat clung to the concrete like something alive.
Gilbert’s driveway looked like a battlefield.
The Golf was jacked up on one side, tilted in defeat, its hood thrown open like a mouth mid-scream. Wires and tubes spilled from the engine like guts. Tools were scattered everywhere, wrenches, screwdrivers, a wrench roll half-unraveled, socket heads rolling loose in the grooves of the concrete. There was a black stain under the car that looked suspiciously permanent. The air shimmered above the asphalt, still holding onto the heat of the day like it had something to prove.
Gilbert was flat on his back under the car, only his legs visible, combat boots untied, one crossed over the other like he was lounging. His jeans were thrashed, threadbare at the knees, streaked dark from grease and dirt. The rest of him was hidden, but Lovino could already hear him muttering, low, sharp curses in German, rattled off like a prayer made entirely of frustration. His leather jacket, because of course he’d worn it, was flung over the open driver’s side door, the sleeves dangling down toward the ground, too hot for him to wear but still close, like he couldn’t part with it entirely.
Lovino crossed his arms and wandered up the drive, board tucked under one elbow. He didn’t say anything, he never had to. Gilbert always knew.
“Careful,” came Gilbert’s voice, muffled by steel and sarcasm. “You’re stepping into a sacred workspace.”
“This looks like something died out here.”
“Only my patience,” Gilbert grunted. A wrench clanked somewhere inside the chassis. “And maybe the suspension.”
Lovino crouched beside the tire, squinting at the black smear across the fender that looked more like a bruise than dirt. “You’ve been at this for three days.”
“Four. She almost turned over this morning. Progress.”
“She’s gonna explode.”
“Then I’ll die a legend.”
There was a pause. Then a sharp metallic crack, a loud thunk of impact, and a hiss of pain. “Scheiße! Fuck—ow—son of a bitch.”
Lovino didn’t even flinch. “What now?”
“The bolt finally moved,” Gilbert muttered through gritted teeth. “Right after I stopped pulling.”
“You hit your hand.”
“I smashed my knuckle,” Gilbert corrected, deeply offended.
More scuffling, then Gilbert slid out from under the car with the drama of a man returning from war. He sat up with a groan and cradled one hand against his chest. The back of his knuckle was scraped raw, smeared with red over grease. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through and hanging loose at the collar, the fabric stretched wide enough to show the curve of his collarbone. Sweat darkened the edges of his neck, and his arms, bare to the elbows, were streaked with grime and blotched from where he’d wiped them with the same rag now slung over his shoulder.
Lovino eyed the wound. “Jesus, you’re acting like you lost a finger.”
Gilbert held it up like he was showing off a trophy. “Mechanic’s badge of honor.”
“It’s a scraped knuckle, drama queen.”
“It hurts.”
“Good. Maybe next time you’ll stop using whatever garbage you find in a junk drawer.”
Gilbert flashed a grin through the pain. “Aw, worried about me?”
“Worried you’ll bleed on something important,” Lovino muttered, standing. Gilbert wiped his hand half-heartedly on the rag and leaned back against the fender like it wasn’t being held together by duct tape and spite. His silver-blond hair was a wreck, sticking up in tufts from where it had been plastered to his forehead, damp and uneven like he’d cut it himself in a bathroom mirror (he had). Grease marked the sharp line of his jaw, a streak near his cheekbone, another along his temple like a shadow. Somehow, his eyeliner was still intact, smudged in a way that made him look like he hadn’t slept in days, but in that cool, deliberate way that looked intentional.
“You just here to admire me or—?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lovino muttered. “Your car’s the only thing worse than your face.”
Gilbert laughed, low and smug, shifting like he was posing for some deranged mechanic pin-up calendar. One boot hooked against the bumper, arms folded behind his back, head tipped slightly like he was gauging how much he could get away with. The sun hit the edge of his profile and made the sweat on his neck glint like gold. He looked insufferably confident. Infuriatingly at home in his own skin. Like the heat didn’t bother him at all.
Lovino’s throat went tight. He glanced away.
“You wanna hand me the ratchet?”
Lovino kicked at the tool near the curb. “You mean the one you launched like a toddler?”
"She needed to cool off.”
He tossed it a little too hard. Gilbert caught it without flinching, eyes sparkling like he knew exactly what he was doing. After that, they fell quiet. Gilbert ducked back under the hood, swearing under his breath about rusted bolts and stripped threads, and Lovino leaned against the wall of the garage and tried not to stare. But he did stare.
At the way Gilbert’s shoulders flexed when he reached. At the way his shirt pulled across his back. At the smudges on his arms and the rise and fall of his breath. He looked alive like this. Unfiltered. Focused. The kind of beautiful Lovino didn’t know how to handle.
It had been a week since the bench. Since the almost-kiss. Since Gilbert had leaned in just a little too far and Lovino had stopped breathing.
And now? It was louder. Closer. Hotter. And unbearable.
Lovino’s fingers curled around the hem of his hoodie. His palms were slick. His heart thudded like it was trying to warn him of something too late. Gilbert was still talking, still laughing quietly to himself, but the words barely made it through the static in Lovino’s head.
“Oi,” Gilbert said, glancing back over his shoulder. “You good?”
Lovino blinked. “What?”
“You’re making your ‘I’m about to throw something at me’ face.”
“I’m not—” Lovino snapped, then paused. Took a breath. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
Gilbert tilted his head and grinned. “Yeah, but you keep showing up.”
Lovino stepped forward without warning, grabbed two handfuls of Gilbert’s dirty, sun-warmed shirt, and kissed him. It was hot. Rough. Not smooth or practiced. Their teeth knocked, and Gilbert made a muffled, startled noise into the space between them, but his hand dropped instinctively to Lovino’s waist, fingers spreading like he’d been waiting for this. The taste of sweat, motor oil, the heat of late summer clung between them. The air felt like fire. Lovino pulled back too fast, breathing hard. His face was hot. Everything was hot. “Don’t—don’t say anything,” he managed, voice too sharp, too loud.
Gilbert stared at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted like the words were already halfway to forming. And then he grinned. Slow. Crooked. Absolutely insufferable.
Lovino didn’t let him speak. He turned, snatched his board from the curb, and walked like he was being chased by something with teeth.
He didn’t look back.
But he could feel Gilbert behind him. Watching. Still stunned. Still smiling, l ike Lovino had just handed him something on fire.
Mid-October - Sophomore Year
The bleachers were miserable, narrow, dented strips of aluminum that groaned and clanged with every shift in weight. Cold radiated up through the metal like it had been hoarding it all day just to unleash it now, biting through the seat of Lovino’s jeans and crawling up his spine in slow, unforgiving waves. He sat stiffly, arms folded across his chest, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of his hoodie like it made any difference. It didn’t. The wind was relentless. It whipped in from the trees beyond the fence, sharp and bitter, knifing straight through the seams of his clothes like he was wearing paper. Every gust sent the hood of his sweatshirt tugging against the back of his neck, hair fluttering, ears stinging.\
Above him, the sky was flat and colorless, a washed-out slab of gray. The kind of October day that didn’t even try to fake sunlight. The field lights were already buzzing, casting hazy yellow bands across the turf. Their flicker stretched long over the field like searchlights, catching every exhale, every breath turned to steam in the sharp afternoon chill.
Out on the field, Gilbert moved like he was made for it.
He was everywhere, short silver-blond hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight, breath visible in fast puffs as he sprinted down the left flank. His red jersey clung to him, soaked down the spine and at the collar. There was a fresh grass stain up one thigh and a streak of dirt smudged under his eye like war paint. He didn’t stop moving, even when he wasn’t chasing the ball—gesturing, shouting, laughing through a taunt aimed at Mathias, who immediately shoved him in response. Gilbert shoved back harder, teeth bared in a grin that didn’t care about the cold or the bruises.
Lovino watched him. He always did.
Pretended it was judgment. Annoyance. Boredom. But his eyes tracked him every time he crossed midfield, flicking to the number on his jersey like they were tethered to it. Like he couldn’t help it.
The whistle blew sharp and clean, water break. Gilbert jogged toward the sideline, sweat clinging to the sides of his face. Antonio met him first, handing off a water bottle, tossing an arm around his shoulder as he said something that made them both laugh. Tim crouched to tighten his cleats, muttering in Dutch. Mathias called something obnoxious across the line, and Gilbert gave him a one-finger salute without breaking stride.
Lovino watched him glance toward the bleachers. Antonio pointed, subtle but clear.
Gilbert’s eyes found Lovino instantly.
Their gazes locked, brief, too brief, and Gilbert’s mouth curved up into a knowing, infuriating smirk.
Lovino looked away fast, ears burning. He tucked his hands deeper into his hoodie, like that would stop the flush spreading up his neck. He wasn’t cold. Not really. He just couldn’t feel his hands. Or his thighs. Or anything that wasn’t heat crawling across his face. When he glanced back, Gilbert was already climbing the bleachers, two steps at a time, cleats thudding on the metal. His cheeks were red from the wind, breath still heavy, chest rising and falling fast. Draped over one shoulder was the leather jacket.
Not just any jacket. The jacket.
Black leather, worn soft at the seams and creased at the elbows, sleeves just a little too long, zipper permanently half-busted on one side. The flannel lining peeked out around the edges, red, slightly frayed near the hem. It was unmistakable. He wore it everywhere. Even in the summer. Even in the heat. Gilbert’s armor. His constant. Lovino had never seen him take it off for anyone.
Gilbert didn’t say anything when he reached him. Just dropped the jacket into his lap like it belonged there. “You’re shaking,” he said, breath puffing white in the air. “Put it on.”
Lovino stared down at it. It was heavier than he expected. Warm, lined, still holding the shape of Gilbert’s shoulders. The collar was softened from years of wear, the leather warm from where it had been slung over his body minutes ago. It smelled like detergent and soap and something sharper underneath, motor oil clinging to the lining, the faint bite of sweat and something earthy Lovino couldn’t name. Something stupidly, unmistakably Gilbert.
He didn’t move.
“You’ll freeze,” Gilbert added, voice quieter now. Less teasing. More certain.
“I’m fine,” Lovino muttered, but his fingers were already curling around the sleeve.
Gilbert didn’t argue. Just looked at him, calm and steady, like he already knew how this was going to go. “You’re freezing.”
“You’ll get cold.”
Gilbert’s smirk came back, softer now. “I run hot.”
“Gross.”
“You love it.”
Lovino glared at him. But the jacket was already halfway on. It swallowed him. The hem brushed the tops of his thighs when he shifted. The sleeves slipped over his knuckles like gloves, heavy and warm. It creaked faintly when he moved, the flannel brushing against the worn fabric of his hoodie like a second skin. He felt ridiculous. And warm. And entirely seen.
Gilbert didn’t gloat. Just nodded, once, like a box had been checked. Like he’d just done exactly what he meant to. Then he turned and jogged back toward the field, steam curling from his mouth as he exhaled, sweat glinting along the back of his neck. Antonio let out a long, exaggerated whistle. Mathias, loud as ever, shouted, “What’s next, you gonna let him wear your boxers, Beilschmidt?”
Gilbert didn’t even look back. Just flipped him off over his shoulder.
The whole bench cracked up.
Lovino sat still, jacket pulled tight around him, eyes locked on the field like nothing had happened. He didn’t react. Didn’t smile. But he didn’t take the jacket off either.
The game resumed. The wind howled. The bleachers groaned under shifting weight, but the jacket held. Heavy. Real. Warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
When the final whistle blew, Gilbert didn’t run off the field. He jogged, slower now, breath labored, jersey clinging to his back. The rest of the team gathered near midfield, all high-fives and hollering, but Gilbert’s eyes went to the bleachers immediately. When he saw Lovino—still sitting there, still in the jacket, he slowed to a stop. Just for a second. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.
Lovino met his gaze head-on this time. Raised an eyebrow like what. Like yeah, I kept it. Like you gave it to me, and I’m not giving it back.
Gilbert opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Then, quieter now, just barely cutting through the buzz of the lights: “You look good in it.”
Lovino rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” But he didn’t take it off.
And Gilbert didn’t ask for it back. Not even when he climbed the bleachers again, settling onto the bench beside him with a quiet groan, knees brushing as he leaned back and looked up at the sky like he hadn’t just dropped something seismic in Lovino’s lap. Keep it,” he said eventually. Too casual to be casual. No smirk this time.
Lovino didn’t answer.
But he didn’t argue. He just sat there, shoulders tucked under a jacket that wasn’t his, pretending he hadn’t just been handed something he didn’t know how to give back.