I like them smart and fucked up

The humid air smelled like lavender, sea salt, and the impending grief of a departure.

You sat on the bench, swinging your legs. In your lap was a crumpled French-to-English dictionary, its spine cracked from three weeks of desperate use. You were leaving in twelve hours. The flight was booked, the suitcase was zipped, and the reality was finally sinking in.

A shadow fell over you, long and broad. You didn't need to look up to know it was Hugo.

He leaned against the railing next to you, his posture as disciplined as it was on the pitch. He was a creature of structure, of solid foundations. But tonight, his shoulders seemed heavy.

"Tu es prête?" he asked softly. (Are you ready?)

You looked up at him, squinting. You knew that word—prête. Ready. You shook your head slowly, your throat tightening. "No. Not... prête."

Hugo let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh. He reached out, his hand hovering over yours before he finally let his fingers brush against your knuckles. This was the torture of the last few weeks: the language barrier.

You had spent your vacation communicating in broken sentences, hand gestures, and long, comfortable silences. But the silence wasn't comfortable anymore. It was loud. It was a countdown.

"I..." You struggled, flipping through the pages of your dictionary. You pointed to a word. Triste. Hugo looked at the word. His expression didn't change, but his grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"Moi aussi," he murmured. (Me too.)

He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. Hugo wasn't a man of many words even in his native tongue, but the frustration of not being able to tell you exactly what he felt was visible in the hard line of his jaw.

"Listen," he said, knowing you wouldn't understand the complexities but needing to say it anyway. "Je n'ai jamais voulu que ce soit juste des vacances." (I never wanted this to be just a vacation.)

You caught the word jamais—never. Your heart skipped. "Hugo, I... I go home. Far... There's a possibility that you'll never see me again..." You gestured vaguely toward the horizon, toward the ocean that would soon sit between you.

He stepped closer, closing the gap. He was taller than you, but in this moment, he felt fragile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver charm. He pressed it into your palm.

"Pour ne pas oublier," he said. (So you don't forget.)

"I won't forget," you whispered, the English slipping out instinctively. You felt a tear escape, hot and fast.

Hugo’s thumb brushed the tear away. His touch was calloused and firm, the hand of an athlete who dedicated his whole life to soccer. But he couldn't defend this. He couldn't block the passage of time. He couldn't stop the taxi that would soon take you to the airport.

He suddenly pulled you into his chest. It was a crushing hug, the kind that tried to fuse two people into one so they couldn't be pulled apart. You buried your face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of his cologne and the salt air. You wanted to tell him that you’d find a way back. You wanted to tell him that three weeks felt like three years.

But you didn't have the words. And you didn't have enough time.

"Regarde-moi," he commanded softly. You understood that one. (Look at me.)

When you looked up, his face was inches from yours. The streetlights reflected in his eyes, making them look like deep, dark pools.

"If... if I..." He struggled, trying to find an English word. He shook his head, frustrated. He settled for the most basic truth. "You. Me. Is it really impossible?"

The question broke you. You wanted to scream no, but you looked at your lives—his career in the elite world of French soccer, your life thousands of miles away, the visas, the distance, the fact that you still needed a book to tell him you were sad.

"I don't know," you sobbed.

He leaned down and kissed you. It wasn't a movie kiss. It tasted like salt and desperation. It was the kiss of two people who were drowning and trying to share their last breath. It was a promise and a goodbye all wrapped into one.

When he pulled away, he didn't let go of your hands. He memorized the shape of your face, the way your hair caught the wind, the way you looked in the dim light of a French summer night.

"Au revoir," he whispered. (Until we see each other again.)

But as you watched him walk away into the shadows of the palms, both of you knew it was a lie.

He was sitting alone near the window — a young man with pale skin and hair that faded into soft magenta tips, his lashes long enough to cast delicate shadows when he blinked. His eyes — magenta, too — were bright and expressive even from where you stood, as if someone had lit a small star inside them.

He noticed you at the exact second you noticed him.

His expression flickered — surprise, then embarrassment, then a soft, nervous smile tugging at his lips. He tucked a piece of hair behind his ear even though nothing had fallen there. The gesture was small, almost shy.

You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

He was… distracting.

You ordered your coffee with a smile that felt too tight and took a seat across the room, turning your face toward the window to avoid looking back at him.

Except…you could feel his eyes on you.

Little glances.

Barely-there looks.

Like he kept checking if you were still real.

Every time you pretended to take a sip, you caught him looking away too fast, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or hide.

You wondered, fleetingly, who he was.

And why he looked at you like that — soft, curious, almost enchanted.

You brushed it off. You were just imagining it. Jet lag, probably.

You sipped your coffee and tried not to think about the boy with the magenta eyes.

The next day, he was there again.

Same window seat. Same warm drink cupped in his hands. Same soft smile when your gaze accidentally brushed his.

You ignored him. Badly.

And he kept looking. Also badly.

On day three, when you stumbled into the café half-asleep and decidedly unpretty, he straightened in his seat like someone had just pulled invisible strings attached to his back. And smiled. A real smile.

The kind that reached his eyes.

Like he was relieved you came back.

You pretended you didn’t notice the warmth blooming in your chest.

On day five, the inevitable happened.

You had just opened a book you weren’t actually reading when someone approached your table.

Your heartbeat jumped. You looked up. It was him.

Up close he was…pretty.

Soft jawline.

Eyes so bright they almost glowed.

And a strange sort of gentle intensity — like he noticed things most people didn’t.

He swallowed, ran his fingers anxiously through his hair, and said: “Hallo.”

You blinked. “…Hi?”

His smile grew, relieved.

“Darf ich mich setzen?”

He gestured to the chair across from you.

You had no clue what he said.

But he didn’t seem threatening, and he looked hopeful — painfully hopeful — so you nodded.

He lit up like someone had turned on the sun behind his eyes.

He sat. Carefully. Too carefully, like the chair might break under the weight of his nerves.

And then he spoke — rapid, soft German that sounded warm and musical in his accent, hands moving as if helping the story along.

You understood none of it.

But you nodded.

Smiled.

Forced a soft laugh when his own smile grew too bright.

He looked delighted.

Then he leaned forward, eyes shining with sincerity, and said quietly:

“Du bist… sehr hübsch.” You are… very pretty.

You didn’t understand the words, but the tone — the tone was unmistakable. Soft. Slightly shaky.

Affection pressed between consonants.

You blinked.

Nodded.

Smiled shyly because what else were you supposed to do when a handsome stranger spoke to you like that?

He inhaled sharply — like your reaction was a gift.

Your stomach flipped.

This became your new normal.

Every day, he approached you. Every day, he spoke in German — so passionately, so expressively — and every day, you nodded like an idiot who totally understood.

But even without the words, you understood him.

He was warm.

He was gentle.

He was animated, sometimes talking with both hands in a frantic swirl when he got excited.

He laughed easily.

Smiled constantly.

Looked at you like you were magic.

Then looked away like he wasn’t allowed to.

Sometimes his knee brushed yours under the table and he stiffened immediately — not pulling away, just blushing deeply as if the slightest contact scrambled his entire brain.

You found it adorable. Dangerously adorable.

But your favorite thing was how he listened — really listened — even to your nonsense.

The way his brows pulled together when you spoke English.

The way he leaned forward, studying your lips like he was trying to translate the shape of your sentences.

The way he smiled even when he didn’t understand a single word.

He didn’t try to correct you. He didn’t ask questions.

He just listened — like the sound of your voice did something to him.

And your heart started doing strange, warm things every time he appeared.

Some days, he walked you home.

You didn’t know how this began. Maybe you left at the same time. Maybe he timed it. Maybe it was coincidence — or maybe he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

The first time he asked — “Gemeinsam?” Together? — you nodded without knowing the meaning.

His face turned red so fast you almost worried. He rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward grin, then fell into step beside you.

He kept the pace slow, like he didn’t want the walk to end too soon.

Your hands brushed.

A tiny, tiny touch. He froze.

You pretended you didn’t notice.

He definitely noticed — eyes wide, lips parted, breath catching audibly — before he relaxed again, cheeks tinted rosy.

He looked like someone quietly falling apart.

You wondered if he always wore his heart so openly.

You wondered why you hoped he did.

And then came the day you saw him differently.

You were exploring the city alone, coat wrapped tight around you as the wind whipped through the streets. You wandered aimlessly, letting yourself get lost, until you stumbled across massive metal gates.

The sign read: BASTARD MÜNCHEN TRAININGSZENTRUM

You paused.

Soccer players rushed back and forth across the turf inside.

Shouts echoed.

Whistles blew.

The sound was loud, sharp, alive.

You should’ve walked away.

But then you saw him.

Alexis.

In uniform, sweating, hair sticking to his forehead, magenta eyes focused and burning like embers.

His jaw clenched as he sprinted.

Muscles flexed beneath his shirt, the lean lines of his body powerful and unexpected.

His breathing came out in visible white puffs, sharp and heavy.

He looked entirely different than the soft, smiling boy in the café.

He looked…beautiful.

And strong.

And alive in a way that made your pulse stutter.

You stared. Shamelessly.

Until he stopped mid-stride.

Until his eyes found yours across the fence.

Until he froze — like the world stopped for him, too.

His expression softened instantly.

Surprise.

Then warmth.

Then something fragile and overwhelming.

He jogged to the fence, breathless, chest rising and falling quickly.

“You…” he panted, pointing.

“…hier?” Here?

You panicked.

Smiled too fast.

Nodded too hard.

He brightened so dramatically you thought he might faint on the spot.

“Für… mich?” For me?

He pointed at himself, hopeful.

You didn’t know the words.

So you gave him a thumbs-up.

He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a choked sob — and pressed his hand against his heart as if steadying it.

That was the moment you realized he had feelings.

Real ones.

Soft.

Tender.

Messy.

And the dangerous part?

You felt something stir inside you in response.

Not full-blown feelings — but the spark of them.

The beginning.

A warm ache.

A small flutter.

Something you couldn’t brush aside anymore.

And he kept trying to ask you out.

And failing.

And trying again.

And failing again.

And falling apart a little more each time.

He tried four times before you realized he’d been trying at all.

The first attempt happened so naturally you didn’t even suspect.

It was late afternoon — golden hour — that warm glow that made the café look like something from a dream. You were already seated, tapping at your phone, when he rushed in with hair wind-tousled and a panicked sparkle in his eyes, like he thought you might not show up today.

He approached your table with a nervous energy you felt before he even spoke. “Hi…” he murmured, shyly — the English greeting he’d picked up from you.

Then he switched to his comfort zone, German.

“Willst du mit mir ausgehen?” Do you want to go out with me?

His voice trembled.

Just slightly.

Enough to betray how much courage it took him.

You didn’t know what he said.

You thought he was… offering you a pastry? A recommendation? A local dessert? He gestured vaguely at the table, and you, panicked by the long eye contact and the softness in his voice, nodded.

His entire soul left his body and re-entered with confetti.

He grinned — a wide, boyish, breath-stealing grin — and whispered something like,

“Wirklich…?” Really? and “Oh mein Gott…” Oh my god… and “Danke!” Thank you!

He left the café with the energy of someone who had just been resurrected.

And then he waited at a restaurant for an hour.

By himself.

In a nice shirt.

Because you’d unknowingly accepted a date.

He cried in the bathroom.

You didn’t know any of this yet.

The second attempt was even worse.

Not his fault.

Entirely yours.

He was walking you home — he did this more often now, instinctively falling into step beside you, his hands shoved in his pockets because he didn’t trust them not to reach for yours.

As you passed a bakery window, he inhaled sharply as if bracing himself for a punch.

Then, in a soft, trembling voice, he whispered: “Vielleicht… ein Date? Nur wir zwei?” Maybe… a date? Just the two of us?

Your brain, hearing tone not content, thought he was talking about the pastries in the window.

Maybe asking you to look.

Or maybe asking if you wanted to stop inside.

You nodded.

His heart exploded in slow motion.

He sighed — this long, shaky, relieved exhale — and his cheeks flushed warm pink all the way to the tips of his ears. He murmured something like,

“Sie sagt wieder ja…” She says yes again… as if he could barely believe his luck.

He bought flowers.

You didn’t show.

He placed the flowers on your usual café table the next day and sat with his head in his hands until his teammate dragged him away.

You didn’t know that either.

The third attempt was the most emotional one.

It was raining — the soft, mist-like kind that blurred the world into watercolor and made the city look romantic enough to break hearts. You were both standing under a shop canopy, waiting for the downpour to ease. The air smelled like petrichor and fresh bread from the bakery next door.

He was standing close.

Closer than usual.

So close you could see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

He swallowed, gathering courage.

“Kann ich dein Freund sein?” Can I be your boyfriend?

The words were heavy, trembling — the most vulnerable he’d ever sounded.

But all you heard was a string of pretty German syllables and a hopeful look.

So you nodded automatically.

His eyes widened.

Then filled with tears.

Actual tears.

Not dramatic ones.

Not chaotic ones.

Soft, fragile, quiet tears — the kind born from years of not being chosen for anything except obedience and loyalty.

He whispered, voice cracking,

“Danke… danke…”

as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear your answer.

You panicked because why was he crying??

What did you accidentally agree to??

Was he okay?!

He thought you were overwhelmed by emotion.

He held the sleeve of his jacket to his eyes, trying not to cry harder.

He walked home soaked.

From rain or tears — you would later learn — both.

The fourth attempt was when he started breaking.

And you saw it.

You didn’t understand it.

But you saw something in his eyes that day — something small and crumpled and scared.

It was near sunset, the sky painted with streaks of pink and orange that mirrored the magenta tint in his hair. You were sitting outside the café this time, wrapped in a light jacket, the air crisp around you.

He joined you silently.

No greeting.

No smile.

Just a soft, drawn look — cheeks pale, eyes dimmer than usual.

You didn’t like it.

“Alles okay?” you asked gently, the only German phrase you knew.

He smiled.

The fragile kind.

The kind that was meant to hide something but only revealed it more.

Then he asked:

“Bitte… gib mir eine Chance…?” Please… give me a chance…?

The words sounded like a plea.

Raw.

Soft.

Full of fear.

Your heart clenched.

You nodded because what else could you do when someone looked at you like that?

He stared at you — stunned — like your “yes” wasn’t a yes, but a miracle.

Like someone had reached into his chest and pressed sunlight against an old bruise.

He didn’t speak after that.

He just looked at you like he was afraid to breathe and scare the moment away.

And then he left early.

That was the moment you realized:

Whatever he felt for you… it was deep.

Much deeper than you’d thought.

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t want to analyze.

Not yet.

The fifth attempt was when everything finally made sense — and everything fell apart at the same time.

It began with his eyes.

Normally bright.

Normally full of sparkle.

Normally soft.

But that day — they looked dull.

Like something inside him had cracked.

He sat across from you, hands clasped together near his mouth, eyes fixed on the table instead of you.

He’d never done that before.

You reached for your coffee, trying to pretend the air between you wasn’t heavy with unspoken things. But before you could say anything, he whispered:

“Maybe… English…?”

His voice shook.

You blinked.

That alone startled you — because he never initiated English first. Ever.

He looked up at you.

And for the first time since you met him…

He looked defeated.

Then he asked — in quiet, broken, heavily accented English — “Can you… be with me? Romance… date… us… together?”

Your coffee nearly slipped from your hand.

The world muted.

Time slowed.

Everything rearranged itself in your mind.

Your confusion.

His blushes.

His nervousness.

His tears.

His dramatic reactions.

His joy.

His heartbreak.

And worst: The four times he thought you said yes…when you had no idea what he’d said.

He watched your face fall in slowly dawning horror.

And his shoulders slumped as if your silence alone was confirmation of his worst fear.

You finally exhaled — shaky, embarrassed, panicked.

That was when your brain finally put all the pieces into one very horrifying, very obvious picture.

The café.

The walks.

The hair tucking.

The cheek kisses.

His tears.

His nervousness.

His trembling voice every time he asked you something.

You felt all the air leave your lungs.

“I—I don’t understand German,” you blurted out, voice cracking.

“I haven’t understood anything you’ve said. Not a single thing. For months.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the moon was fake.

“No… German?” he whispered, like it physically hurt him to say it.

“No.”

“You—smile. You nod. Always. All the time!” His fingers tapped his chest in frantic little circles. “You look happy! You look… very cute happy!”

“I was panicking!”

“PANICKING???”

He looked personally offended — like you’d betrayed the laws of physics.

“Yes! I didn’t want to be rude!”

He made a noise.

Not a human noise.

Something like a wounded baby bird and a dying kettle.

“I ask you on date… many times…”

He held up one finger.

Then two.

Then three.

Then four.

Then a sad, shaky five.

“You say yes… EVERY time!”

You slumped into your chair, mortified.

“Oh, god.”

“Oh, god,” he echoed, dramatically rubbing his temples.

“I buy flowers… you never come. I wait at restaurant… you never come. I think—” he clutched his chest, “—maybe I am too much. Maybe she hates me. Maybe magic is fake.”

That part hit harder than it should’ve.

You felt guilt punch the breath out of you.

“Alexis… I didn’t know. I swear. I’m so sorry.”

His voice softened to something tiny and fragile:

“Is okay… if you do not like me.”

Your chest twisted, your heart stumbling over itself, and you reached out instinctively, placing your hand over his.

Warm.

Shaking.

Hopeful.

“I do like you,” you whispered.

“For real.”

He blinked.

Everything inside him stopped.

“You…” he swallowed hard, voice cracking, “…do?”

You nodded.

His breath left him in a single, trembling exhale — Then exploded.

“JA!!” YESS!! he yelled, leaping to his feet like a man possessed.

The café erupted.

Someone gasped, “Er hat ihr einen Antrag gemacht!” He proposed to her!

Another woman shrieked with joy.

An old man clapped so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

A teenager pulled out his phone to record.

A lady shoved a tiny bouquet of wildflowers into your hands.

“Glückwunsch!!” she squealed. Congratulations!

You sat there frozen, flowers in hand, confused.

Alexis panicked mid-celebration, waving his hands frantically:

“NEIN! KEIN ANTRAG! KEIN ANTRAG—KEIN RING—STOPP—HALT—BITTE—” NO! NO PROPOSAL! NO REGISTRATION – NO RING – STOP – STOP – PLEASE –“

But no one stopped.

Not even a little.

Someone even shouted, “KÜSS SIE!!!” KISS HER!!!

You wanted to sink into the floor.

Alexis covered his face with his hands.

“I want to die,” he whispered dramatically through his fingers.

“This is worst moment of my life and also best moment of my life and I hate it.”

You touched his arm gently.

He froze.

Then peeked at you between his fingers.

You held out your hand.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He lowered his hands, walked back to the table like a damp, confused puppy, and sat down. His cheeks were bright red, eyes watery, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles.

You leaned closer.

“Dating,” he repeated breathlessly.

“Not married.”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

Once.

Twice.

Then again, very slowly — the realization sinking in like sunshine into cold skin.

His voice softened into something sincere and trembling:

“Dating…”

His eyes glazed with emotion.

“You are… really… mine?”

Warmth fluttered in your chest.

“I’m yours,” you admitted quietly.

“If you still want me.”

His breath hitched.

His hand slid into yours — slowly, reverently, like he was afraid you might break.

“I want you,” he whispered.

“Since first moment.”

And then—

then he gently leaned his forehead to yours.

Not quite a kiss.

Not quite a hug.

Just a soft press of skin to skin, breath mingling, fingers tightening around yours.

Your heart pounded.

His did too — you could feel it.

He whispered against your skin:

“I promise… I learn English for you.”

A trembling exhale.

“So we never have… this big disaster again.”

You laughed softly, breath brushing his lips.

“And I’ll learn German for you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly — wide-eyed, overwhelmed, full of wonder.

“Really…?”

“Really.”

He melted.

Completely.

His thumb brushed your knuckles — slow, warm, terrified and bold all at once.

“I… so happy,” he whispered.

“So… so… so happy…”

You smiled, cheeks warm.

“Me too.”

He made another tiny squeak — this time of pure joy — and hid his face in his hands again.

And the café, wrongly convinced they had just witnessed a proposal, applauded one final time.

You and Alexis sat there together — blushing, laughing, shaking, overwhelmed — and for the first time…

it felt like something real had begun.

•Masterlist•

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

Nobody— absolutely nobody could've foresaw this outcome. Not even Hugo, who acutely understood the adjacent possible, could've possibly predicted this probability!

The irony of the situation really was the work of fate's quaint mockery, something that even Hugo himself didn't argue against.

Which was, to say the least, strange.

Besides the notion of Hugo having a crush being completely unbelievable, the fact that he didn't refute the teases of his teammates — not at all in denial like most would be with their feelings — that, might've been the strangest part of it all.

Just who could this mysterious being possibly be?

"Hey, Hugo?"

"Hm?"

The boy in question didn't so much as glance up from his book at the call of his name. Instead, he merely hummed in response, visibly preoccupied with whatever was written in the pages before him — a habit that came to be after their suspicions of his crush arose.

It's as if he physically couldn't put that book down!

"Do you— um," Renoir briefly cringed as he stumbled on his words, the embarrassment of actually voicing out his curiosity finally dawning upon him.

He cast a pitiful gaze to his teammates that had forced him up to the task, hoping they would be merciful even when he finished last in a childish round of 'turn around, touch the ground, bagsy not it'. But alas, their pointed looks of encouragement urged him to bite his tongue and steel his skyrocketing nerves.

"Doyouhaveatype?!"

"…."

That, promptly snapped Hugo out of the rose-tinted reverie he was living in. Had he heard that right or were all those maladaptive daydreams finally getting to him?

"I asked if you—"

"I heard." Hugo blinked, his lashes fluttering comically with disbelief as he processed the bullshit that just came out Renoir's mouth. So he did hear correctly after all.

"Oh… um, then— do you..?"

"….."

It seems he wasn't going to give up anytime soon, not with that hopeful glint in his eyes at least. Well, it certainly wouldn't hurt to entertain their curiosity… It's just a type, nothing more and nothing less. Just an ideal individual that he would be happy to be with— it really wasn't that big of a deal.

Heaving a deep sigh that had Renoir and the curious-eyed audience flinching momentarily, Hugo snapped his book shut and thought back on its plot — or more accurately — the female lead. A fictional being that he had taken a particular liking to.

"Someone who likes reading…"

Collective groans of disappointment were quick to fill the suspenseful air from before. Of course Hugo, the quiet guy with only disdainful things to say would have such a boring type.

"Around about this height." Standing up to his full height, he gestured to the approximate height he wished his ideal partner would be. A sight so unbelievably inconceivable from the usually reserved midfielder.

Oh?

Well, this was certainly new.

"Oh! And what else?" Charles, finding quaint interest in this topic, quickly hopped at the chance to take reigns of the amusing turn in conversation.

"Someone with this specific hair and eye colour." Proudly, he pointed to the specific colour he had — for some strange fucking reason — saved on his phone.

"Ideally someone who's got nose shaped like this—" he drew his ideal nose shape in the air and promptly began gesturing wildly to all the features he desired his type to have.

Hugo went on and on, and on.

The aloof boy was no more, not in the midst of listing out each and every detailed description of all his required traits and proportions.

They all knew he wasn't the nicest guy on the planet, the midfielder was a member of the new generation eleven, arrogance was a required part of who they were, but heavens! With the way he was motioning around his chest and rambling on about the exact, precise fucking measurement he coveted from this clearly non-existent person, Hugo might've gained the title for the World's Biggest Scum!

The guys who were victim to his explicit details could only bite their tongue with defeat. Hugo having a crush was one thing, but scoring whoever this chick was?

Im-fucking-possible.

"Oh, I would be quite pleased if they liked chocolate as well."

As if this cute and endearing trait would nullify all the other bullshit he was spouting just a second ago!

"Everyone! Hugo is secretly texting somebody!"

Charles' announcement was most likely another lie. The contrarian was rather fond of deceiving others despite it being a socially unacceptable thing.

And everybody here knew how much Charles lied, it was nothing new for the boy, the act came as natural as breathing for him. But… that did not, by any means, dictate that his lies weren't head-turners. Not this one. Especially not this one.

This lie, the one about Hugo secretly texting someone, obviously false, because who in their right mind would hear Hugo's strict list of required qualities and think to themselves, 'Oh! This guy just is the most dreamiest guy ever.'

Nobody. Absolutely nobody would.

Right, nobody would. And yet— somebody did.

Everybody watched with gaping mouths and bulging eyes as Hugo abruptly flinched in his spot and held his phone securely close his chest— a pathetic attempt to conceal whatever he was doing on it previously. Hugo looked the very image of a comically guilty criminal with his nervously darting eyes that sung of his unlawful act.

"…I can explain."

There was no need to defend himself. Everybody in the room universally could agree on that. After all, they were all men who shared the same thought. Hugo had somehow managed to get this chick's number despite his scummy behaviour.

Truly, the boy had achieved an incredible feat amongst all players his age.

If only they knew, Hugo was not texting this mysterious chick who somehow met his impossible standards. If only they knew just what kind of degenerate behaviour he got himself into…

"Hugo, want to come hang out with us? We're going to eat at this—"

"Nope." Hugo firmly declined their invitation and promptly began to pack his bags, clearly ready to leave practice and get some alone time to do his little hobby.

"What!? But you never spend time with us anymore!"

The boy could only roll his eyes at their desperation, just how pathetic were they seeking his attention like some maiden in love?

"I've ran out of money. So I can't come."

"You ran out of money?! HOW???"

"Sigh."

It wasn't a lie, Hugo really was low on funds, especially after everything he'd spent his earnings on. This was the same guy who had a strict standard, it was only natural of him to buy the best of the best for his…. yeah.

Well, anyway, that was besides the point.

Hugo had even taken up more modelling gigs than usual just to rack up his income, he couldn't afford to be cheap for his— in any case, his wallet was bleeding dry because of his hobbies and other stuff…

Heaving another deeply frustrated sigh, Hugo ruffled the tuffs of his short hair and prepared to berate his annoying teammates for the umpteenth time this week.

"Hey, cut him some slack. Unlike you guys, Hugo here has other, more important priorities." Turning to face the aloof boy with a mellow expression, Loki raised a friendly brow at him. "Isn't that right, Hugo?"

"…." Mirroring his expression, Hugo chewed on his lips as he processed the quaint enjoyment evident in Loki's expression. It's like, he knows…

Lashes fluttering, his eyes narrowed with paranoid scrutiny as Loki returned back to the information on his tablet. "Well, I'll be off…"

"Mhm, don't be late for tomorrow's morning practice."

"Yeah, yeah." Hugo huffed with mild annoyance, pulling his duffle bag over his shoulders and mentally cursing Loki for being so uptight. It looks like Charles' lax attitude was rubbing off on him—

"Oh, and Hugo?" Loki called out, voice curt and serious.

What now?! Stopping in his tracks, Hugo cast him a nervous side glance, his stomach churning with dread as he awaited for soul crushing news.

"Use protection." Not looking up from the tablet, Loki continued his business as if he hadn't just knocked the air out of every other member there.

"Huh."

Hugo blinked, face morphing into puzzlement as he took in Loki's advice. Just what would he need to protection for when— oh. Of course! He needed to use protection when doing his little hobby!

"I'll wear my blue light glasses." Hugo nodded appreciatively, unaware of the way Loki's face contorted with confusion at his misleading words.

Sigh.

It was… really bad, wasn't it?

The boy sighed self-deprecatingly, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he aimlessly walked down the familiar street. Thoughts of his unrequited love and his desperation to seek the tangible spirit of his fictional crush weighing down on his shoulders with heavier weight than his pr ever could.

Damn it.

There was no 'chick', no mysterious person who met his unfathomably high standards like his teammates thought there was.

That time Charles had caught him texting this mysterious person?

Charles had actually caught him reading a smau of his favourite character with himself. A texting, self-insert fucking fanfic of his fictional crush.

And what about the protection that Loki teased him for along with coming early to practice the next day?

That was actually because Hugo had gained a bad habit of sleeping late at night and waking up late as a result of it. Was it from supposedly sleeping with this chick?

No. It was not.

Hugo had developed a bad routine of reading self insert fanfics of his fictional crush late into the night…

But what about the time when his wallet has been bled dry from the 'priorities' Loki was berating others for not having!

Oh, that!

That, actually was because Hugo had spent a disgusting amount of money on merchandise and commissions.

The best of the best for his lover? As if.

That dime was spent on posters of his fictional crush, yumeship fanarts of his non-existent crush with himself, and figurines of said character….

Hugo was, to say the very least, down bad.

So down bad that he was actually on his way to the local bakery to buy a cake to celebrate the birthday of his fictional crush…

Just how bad had he fallen?

Really bad.

"Good morning Sir! What can I get for you today?"

Huh?

What was this?

A tender voice, soft and mellifluous, resembling a hymn sung only by the most divine of all beings reached his unsuspecting ears.

No seriously, what the hell was this?

Was this fate's cruel mockery playing him right in face again? Or was it his hysteria that had conjured up the most eeriest imitation yet of his fictional crush's voice?

No, Hugo shook his head firmly. He was already batshit crazy for being so down bad, this most likely was a withdrawal he was facing from the lack of fanfics— he's binge read all the existing ones already.

"Sir?"

"…Chocolate cake." Hugo refused to look up, he was here for one reason and one reason only. To get chocolate cake for the birthday of—

"What kind of occasion is it? Belated New Years or Early Valentines? Heh!"

Hugo, for all his nonchalance, couldn't resist his desires any longer, not when the sound of your titters resembled wedding bells. Not when the lilt that adorned your voice was the incarnation of temptation. How could he even think to refuse what his heart ached so desperately for?

Your smile greeted him first. Wide and toothy, framed by the curve of your soft lips, and above all, familiar. Like he'd seen it before, like he'd read of it before.

Hugo's heart tinged with jealousy at the kind words that got to touch them before him. His chest grew heavy at the sight of your lashes caressing the swell of your cheeks in place of his hands. And his legs weakened with envy at the thought of others witnessing the sight of your sublimity.

Just how long has he been searching for you, the incarnate of his fictional crush— the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires. You.

Your facial features— the curves of your nose, the arch of your brows, and the curve of your mellow eyes, it was you—

"No occasion—?"

"For our wedding. The cake's for our wedding."

"…." You blinked, huh?

"Marry me." He shamelessly grabbed your hands over the counter and encased them in his much larger ones. Lashes fluttering with desperation, he pleaded for you to return his love.

"Uh…. WHAT?!"