Khalifa glances outside too. "Okay."
They walk to the soccer field, and Khalifa shoos his brothers off the field. It's deserted in less than a few minutes, and they're alone underneath the orange-gray sky. There's sand and dust gathered in the air, puffs of it blocking the sun instead of rain heavy clouds. They're still in their school uniforms, and Ali can feel the rough cotton material starting to cling to his chest and back.
Khalifa jogs a short distance and returns with the ball, tossing it from one hand to the other before balancing it on one tip of his shoe to the other, the way they've been trying to master for years after watching Messi and Renaldo do it on TV.
"Toss it over, show off."
Ali needs to edge him on, else he won't get Khalifa's full competitive side. It's a tactic he'd discovered after years of observing and experimenting. He even gave it away to the few of their friends on the soccer team when they were prepping for a game and Ali was too nervous to keep the observation to himself.
So, Khalifa plays hard, and Ali plays even harder. His father had him signed up for soccer classes from a very young age, hoping he'd follow in his footsteps. Ali tries, forces himself to, and now he's kicking the ball hard from beneath Khalifa's steel grip and it sails through the air, pale sand puffing in its wake. It lands far, and there's a heartbeat of a moment before he runs after the ball like his life depends on it.
It kind of does, really, when Khalifa seems like a bullet sailing after him. But years of practice have Ali swerving from side to side until his foot connects to the ball, and he has it under his control now.
"I'm impressed," Khalifa says, bending over and grasping his knees to catch his breath, he glances up and there's sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead.
Ali's panting too, and he kicks the ball up and catches it in his hands. "Eat shit."
"I'm serious," Khalifa straightens up and approaches him. "You're improving."
It's so hot outside that Ali thinks he might start to hallucinate, and running around after a ball isn't helping. He takes another ragged breath. "Yeah?"
Khalifa's lips stretch outwards. "Yeah."
They decide to practice taking turns as goalies, alternating positions every now and then. This is what Ali's dad was so good at, before he left college, settled down, bones growing brittle with age. They don't have gloves around, but it's a friendly game, so they do without. Ali stands in front of the goal post, legs stretched and arms loose.
He blocks most of Khalifa's attacks, familiar with his techniques and faux passes. He's sweating and it's difficult to breathe but it's exhilarating, and he feels the week's stress melt away.
When they switch, he's a little slower at first, but soon he has Khalifa working up a sweat as well, kicking hard to one corner, harder the other. They're both out of breath a while later, the sun long passing its line on the horizon. It's dark with only a line of streetlights to aid their vision, even though the streets and houses have been around for years, decades.
"You stink," Khalifa says to him, as they lean against the fraying goal post.
"You smell even worse."
Ali feels Khalifa's shoulder press against his, fingers subconsciously tracing shapes onto his thighs. He can't help but recall Sunday, when Khalifa was tapping onto the same spot. He doesn't know if Khalifa knows that other boys don't act this way around others, that if they weren't alone Ali would push his hands away and call him names he doesn't really mean, that if he wasn't so tried and delirious with fatigue and spending time under the summer's heat, then he would push off the sand and talk about something else. But he's exhausted, and he can tell Khalifa is too, so he passes it as Khalifa simply not being in his head, not truly.
Khalifa's fingers are long and tan, stretching an inch or two past Ali's.
Finally, they dig into the sand, and Ali can feel normal again.
"So, you still haven't seen Edward Scissorhands?"
There's a shove on his shoulder. "You need to shut up about that movie. It's gay."
"You're gay."
Khalifa flips him off. "Let's go back, I need a shower."
Ali wants to stay over, spend as much time as he can with Khalifa because it only feels natural that he does. It doesn't make sense how they never saw eye to eye in middle school, how Khalifa and Ali would butt heads and argue over the silliest things. Khalifa would push him against the lockers one day, and Ali would shove into him in the cafeteria the other. It was a mess of who could annoy whom the most, a competition to see who could break the easiest.
And then one day Ali couldn't remember why. Why was he such a dick to Khalifa? When did it start? Who started it? He thinks it was child's play, mixed in with too much time to spend.
He left Khalifa alone, forgot to torment him, and things smoothed over until they slowly found themselves among the same circle of friends, sharing similar interests they'd never known about.
"Are you spending tomorrow with your dad?" Ali asks, as they walk the dimly lit path back to Khalifa's house.
"Easier that way," Khalifa says, "You know? With attending Friday prayers."
"Yeah."
"Do you have any plans?"
"Lunch with the family," Ali rolls his eyes, roughening the point of his shoe as he kicks it into the ground. "The whole family."
"Annoying, clingy cousin included?"
Ali groans. "It wasn't my idea to make a family group on Whatsapp. Now she won't stop texting me. I know it's not haram to text her, or even marry her, but I've known her all my life. And she's...not my type."
"Oh, yeah? I thought you'd be desperate enough to date anyone."
"Dating? What's that?"
Khalifa snorts. "Okay. But if you're always picky you'll never find a girl."
"Cause you're some kind of expert?"
"I'm more experienced than you are, that's for sure."
Khalifa's mother still isn't back when they find their way inside the house. Ali hangs out for a little longer.
He doesn't have to explain why he doesn't feel like praying, when Khalifa pulls out his rug from the corner of his room. Ali's tired, and sweaty, and none are viable excuses, but Khalifa doesn't ask, and Ali doesn't offer an explanation. He watches Khalifa disappear into the bathroom, come back with hair and skin wet, shirt rolled up to his elbows, and watches him cross his arms over his chest and bend to his knees. Ali's conscious tugs, for a second, but then he lets it go.
"Who's that?"
They're on Khalifa's bedroom floor, after he tucks the rug away, pretending to do their homework just in case his mother gets back from wherever she is (Ali forgets, which is shit of him, really) and decides to check in on them. "A girl I talked to on Twitter. She hates me now, though."
Ali laughs. "One with the ladies."
"Shut up, at least I've spoken to girls."
"Who you hate."
"I don't hate girls, I just don't click with any I've met yet. But one day, my friend, one day I'll find a girl and you'll think damn, I wish I could be him."
Ali laughs again, this time it's mocking. "Okay, but you might have to dig me out of my grave to see that happen."
Hi, hi, hi
I want to go back to Paris and visit the Louvre and eat crêpe by the seine after biking around pls
Thanks for reading, I've read this chapter ten times now probably
xx
