.ᐟ.ᐟ

the brunet sits on the other side of the pool, the water swishing around his shoulders, water droplets sticking to his skin. his hooded eyes inspect your face, and with the remnants of the spanish sun hitting the side of his face, he looks more like a god than just your boyfriend.

“why you sittin’ so far?” ferran’s voice is low, deep, sleep-ridden, and it sends a thousand tingles down your spine, up your neck. the effect that just his voice has on you, a little slurry, has your breath hitching in your throat. “i don’t bite, baby.”

“sure you don’t.” you huff indifferently, not moving an inch even though you have the urge to fucking pounce on your boyfriend. you can feel that familiar sense of warmth spread across your cheeks as you pull your lips into a small, shy smile.

and ferran just beams at you, feeling all accomplished in making you blush with his mere words and a flirtatious tone. suddenly, your swimsuit feels too snug around your shoulders. you can literally feel the material cling, your hair sitting in your neck.

“come to me, baby.” he tells you, and this time you obey. it is you, breaking through the carapace of your safe bubble. ferran looks rather ecstatic than lustful when you clumsily float over to him on the other side of the pool. his arms that were resting on the edge immediately find your waist to pull you to him as soon as you’re within touching-distance.

his arms settle carefully around your bare skin, through the swarm of frothy bubbles surrounding you. “you’re precious,” he says, a heartfelt smile on his face. so heartfelt, his eyes smile too. his fingers fondle with the strap of your swimsuit, a little teasing. it has your heart stuttering. “just perfect for me.”

“don’t push your luck, boy.” you giggle curtly, sliding his hand away before he can undo the knot. and instead of letting your hand hit his, ferran is quick to intertwine your fingers together. your sharp defiance is refreshing, and somehow it makes him surer that you’re the one for him; the one to share life with.

before you can even process what’s happening, ferran has you turned around. now you’re the one pushed against the poolside, the coping lightly scraping against your neck. your legs float awkwardly about, until your boyfriend hooks them around his waist to hoist you up.

and suddenly, he’s way too close to you. not that you’re complaining though.

“i’m always pushing my luck, baby,” ferran laughs, his face descending to yours. his breath smells like those strawberry ice lollies, the little red spots on his cheeks from the sun turn darker as the night looms above you. his voice drops lower, more quiet, more intimate. “you should know that by now.”

he gives your chin one last teasing pinch, tilting your head up before slotting his lips against yours. even under the water, ferran’s skin feels warm, soft. tender. you two join like two lost puzzle pieces, when his tongue swipes across your lower lip. his fingers dig deeper in his hold around your leg, and your hands travel to his back, letting your polished nails gently scrape along his tanned skin.

all you can focus on is the silence around you. it settles around you like a thick layer of dust, quelling the lively world around you, letting the world within your little bubble with ferran bloom.

“you’re a good kisser.” your boyfriend tells you once the melding parting of your lips has finished. your burning gaze lights up a match in the overflowing chamber of ferran’s heart.

“i know.” you tell him coyly, and ferran huffs indignantly.

“oh my god. you have a complex—” he smiles, giving your side a quick, fleeting pinch. gone before you can even realise.

your lips meet again in a nippy kiss. “i have given my girl a fucking complex.”

your nails stay digged in the skin of his upper back, but one hand snakes up to the curled up strands of wet, brown hair in the nape of ferran’s neck, giving the wet locks a firm tug. “just shut up and keep kissing me.”

he lowers his head to yours, lips a breath away from yours. “or else?” he asks, a little mischievous grin plastered on his mouth.

your stare goes from incisive and astute to pleading in no time. “please, fer, don’t make me beg.”

“never, baby.” and with that, the two of you dive back into the kiss, a little hungrier, a little bit more feral. it’s the way ferran’s body shields yours, the way his hands cradling your cheeks swallows you whole.

it’s the way he always needs to have his hands on you, it’s the melancholy he feels in the sockets of his eyeballs when he’s not near you at all times.

it’s in his kiss. the way this all translates into the delve of his tongue against yours, the scrape of his jaw against the soft of your cheek. it’s in your physical responses: the bright red scratches your nails leave behind on your skin, his shoulders and back, leaving your undisputed mark on your boyfriend, for everyone to see. 

it’s the very first breath ferran takes after coming up for air. seeing your face, smiling up at him, all sleepy and sated, water clumping your lashes together. “i love you, precious.”

the consequences of your night together face ferran the next day in the changing room.

“i see you, my man,” pedri claps the brunet on his tattooed back. ferran looks back with a questioning look in his eyes, totally unaware of the dull red lines on his back, between the ridges of muscle and swirly ink.

“what—?”

“you’ve been giving your girl a very good time.” 

ferran thinks back to your previous night, a faint smile blooming across his face upon remembering how you smiled so prettily up at him, your plush lips against his. he grabs his training shirt, thrown somewhere on the bench before swiftly tossing the article of clothing over his head.

“something like that.”

They won. 

The final whistle blew loudly across the field, and it felt like a thousand fireworks exploded inside of you. You didn’t know whether you were screaming, crying, or laughing. Everyone around you was going crazy, the red and yellow flags flying everywhere, and it all became a blur of emotions and celebrations. 

World Cup Champions. 

You rushed to the field, eyes focused on the way boys were celebrating and hugging each other with so much love and happiness it hurt. Everyone circled your boyfriend, emotions and gratitude over his winning goal, the one that finally happened when it mattered the most. 

You pushed through people, random staff members, families, and guards, not caring about anything or anyone besides your own champion. And Ferran stood there in the middle of it all—jersey soaked from sweat and water, hair wild and sticking out in all different directions, and that grin lightening his pretty face as he was receiving hugs from everyone. You pushed closer, waiting for him to notice you, seeing the way his eyes were scanning the crowd and now half paying attention to the people around, still oblivious to your presence. 

“Ferran!” You called, heart hammering wildly against your ribs. 

He turned fully towards you, eyes locking on yours instantly, and at that moment everything else faded into the background chaos. You both moved at the same time, his arms opened to catch you the moment you jumped into his embrace. He scooped you up in his arms, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around with a loud roar of happiness, while you wrapped yourself around his soaked body and clanged to him like your life was depending on it. 

“You did it.” You whispered against his neck, your tears slipping free. “You actually did it, baby!”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face with both hands, eyes wild and sparkling with pure and undeniable excitement, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. “We did it.” He corrected, voice rough with emotion. Then he kissed you—deep and breathless. For the first time Ferran didn’t care about thousands of cameras capturing every moment, knowing that you both would end up on every page online, or about anybody else needing his attention now. It was your moment. Your shared win, where you played a big part with the way you were so supportive of him through it all. 

His teammates whooped and cheered at the sight of you two, calling your names with teasing whistles, and he had to pull away from you to control himself. He wanted to stay more, wanted to say everything that was on his mind and everything he couldn’t hold inside, but the team was soon forced to move and to get prepared for the ceremony. 

Ferran groaned softly against your lips, forehead resting against yours. “I have to go.”

“I know.” You said, squeezing his hands. “Go get your medal, champion. I’ll be right here watching.” He stole one last quick kiss, smiling so brightly it made your chest ache, before jogging off with the rest of the squad.

You stayed on the sidelines with other families and friends, your hands clasped together in front of your chest, as the Spanish team lined up, ready to get the prize. When they placed that medal around Ferran’s neck, he looked straight at you in the crowd and mouthed “Te quiero.” You blew him a kiss, pride swelling so fiercely you thought you might burst, while happy tears kept rolling down your face.

Later that night you were back at the hotel. The celebration went on for a few more hours. All of the guys were way too ecstatic to leave each other as they all finally achieved the dream every player could only wish for. You saw them singing, dancing, laughing, and taking pictures with trophies and each other in a way that made them all look so young and innocent. They were just a group of boys whose biggest dream just came true. 

But the game was exhausting. The minutes were dragging so slowly, the rough play from the other team made the tension ten times worse, not to mention the emotional draining from nerves and feeling of responsibility in front of the country and millions of fans. 

You and Ferran stumbled inside of your room, a gold medal hanging from your neck and a trophy for the man of the match in his free hand. 

Ferran had showered, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing nothing but soft gray sweatpants. He sat on the edge of the bed, medal still gripped tightly in his hand, turning it over in his fingers like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

You watched him from the doorway, heart full. But then his shoulders dropped just slightly, but enough for you to notice the moment another wave of emotions hit him. His breathing hitched.

“Ferran?” You said softly, walking over.

He looked up at you, eyes soft and glassy with tears he couldn’t control or hold back. Ferran was not the person who talked about his feelings a lot, but over time he tried to teach himself to open up and to say things that made his chest heavy out loud. 

A single tear slipped down his cheek, then another.

“I…” His voice broke. He laughed through it, shaky and wet, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, like he hated it. “I don’t know why I’m crying. We won. I scored the winner. But all I can think about is… everything that came before. And now this…”

You knew what “everything” was. The missed chances, the lack of confidence, and the constant hate and pressure he received from people and the press all around the world. All those nights he couldn’t sleep beside you because his mind was trying to figure out what was wrong and why he couldn’t overcome the never-ending sequence of failures. All those times you told him how strong he was and that bad luck did not define his as a bad player. 

More tears fell, but he kept smiling—that beautiful, boyish smile that had always been your favorite. “It’s too much. It feels like a dream.”

You didn’t hesitate. You climbed onto the bed and wrapped yourself around him, arms tight around his neck, legs straddling his lap so you could hold him as close as humanly possible. He buried his face in your shoulder, one hand fisting gently in the back of your shirt like you were his anchor. You pressed your face against his neck, inhaling his scent, ghosting your lips over the warm and tanned skin. 

“I’m so proud of you.” You whispered, voice thick with your own tears now. You pulled back and pressed kisses to his temple, his damp hair, and the corner of his eye where a tear still clung. He let you hold his face, looking up at you like he was soaking in every single one of your words. “You fought through all of it. Every failure brought you here. You deserve this, Ferran. You deserve everything.”

He held you tighter, body shaking with quiet sobs that slowly eased into soft laughter. The happy one. When he pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed but shining, that glassy gaze locked on yours with so much love it stole your breath.

“I love you so much, mi amor." His accent slipped again as he pulled you flush against him, reaching up to hold the side of your face. You leaned into the touch, moving closer until your lips were barely ghosting over his.