Mario Is Alright With This

Mario is alright with this.
Davide is whining like a baby by his side, jumping nervously and biting his nails while he looks around in search of God only knows what. “I can’t believe I’m late,” he’s repeating obsessively, like a mantra, “I can’t believe I’m late and I can’t believe it’s your fault!”
“You didn’t seem so upset this morning,” Mario laughs, pinching Davide's hip under his shirt and then caressing him lightly, smiling even more when Davide’s cheeks become red and he moves away, embarrassed.
“Stop doing it!” he mutters, massaging his hip – like Mario would believe he actually hurt him, yeah – “It’s no wonder no one relies on you, Mario, you’re so irresponsible!”
Mario laughs again, bending over just a little, to kiss Davide's neck, and Davide almost slaps him to make him stop the flirting, the very moment Casiraghi comes out of his office and starts screaming “You two! You’re late!”, ordering them to run around the pitch and stop only when he says so.
The air is freezing cold and all their teammates are already working in the midfield, looking at them like they’re aliens or something; Davide’s running beside him. “You’re so stupid,” he’s saying, and “I hate you,” and Mario knows he’s lying.
Mario smiles. He is alright with this.