PERFECT SILENCE !
michael olise x f!reader
masterlist
:: michael has never been good with words, especially after a loss. thankfully, you know that sometimes love is found in the silence.
author note :: GUYS france lost, this is heartbreaking, ughhh. but anyway enjoy this fic bc all i thought abt was michael. maybe a des one will come tmrw 👀👀..
The final whistle echoed around the stadium. For a moment, nobody in blue moved. Unfortunately the scoreboard didn't change.
Spain 2.
France 0.
That was it.
Months of preparation, weeks away from home, and the ninety minutes that couldn't be replayed.
Michael stood still near the edge of the pitch, his hands resting on his hips as he stared ahead. The cheers from the Spanish supporters grew louder with every passing second. Their players ran across the pitch, hugging each other and celebrating the secured spot in the World Cup Final.
Around him, French players slowly began walking away. Some stood with their heads down. Others applauded the travelling supporters who had believed in them until the very end.
Michael swallowed hard. He hated this part. Losing was one thing. Having to stand there and watch someone else celebrate on the same pitch was another.
A teammate walked past, patting his shoulder. Michael nodded once. He didn't trust himself to say anything. Instead, he made his way toward the French fans.
The applause they gave the team somehow made everything hurt even more. They were still chanting, still waving flags, and still thanking them.
Michael clapped back quietly before disappearing down the tunnel.
The hallway beneath the stadium felt strangely empty. Boots clicked against the concrete floor, staff members walked quickly from room to room, while some players spoke under their breath.
Michael barely noticed any of it. His mind kept replaying everything. The missed chances, the misplaced passes, the moments where he wondered if he'd made the wrong decision.
He knew football wasn't won or lost by one player. He knew that. But it didn't stop him from wondering what he could've done differently.
By the time he changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, the dressing room had grown quieter. Most of the conversations had stopped. Everyone was exhausted. Physically and mentally.
Twenty minutes later, he finally stepped outside. The night air was cooler than he expected. The crowd outside the players' exit had thinned, but cameras were still waiting.
A few reporters called his name.
"Michael!"
"What happened out there tonight?"
"Can we get a quick word?"
He kept walking. Not because he was being rude. He just didn't have anything to say. I mean what could he possibly tell them? That he was disappointed? Everyone could already see that.
He continued walking till he spotted you.
You were leaning against the passenger side of his car, one of your hands tucked into the pocket of your jean skirt.
The second your eyes met his, you gave him a small smile. Just enough to let him know you were there.
You didn't rush over. You knew better.
Instead, you waited until he reached you. "Hi."
Your voice was quiet but gentle.
Michael looked at you for a second before letting out a tired breath. "Hi."
You stepped closer. Without saying a word, you wrapped your arms around him. The hug only lasted a few seconds. But it was enough.
His arms settled around you automatically, holding you just a little tighter than usual before letting go.
You looked up at him. "Ready?"
He nodded. "Let's go home."
The drive began exactly the way you expected, quiet.
Michael adjusted the mirrors, started the engine, and pulled out of the stadium parking lot. The radio stayed off and neither of you reached for it.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was just awkward.
Streetlights flashed across the windshield as the city slowly passed by. Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
You watched the passing lights through the window before glancing over at him. His jaw was tight. His expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know him. But you knew him.
You noticed the tiny things.
The way he pressed his lips together whenever he was thinking too much. The way his shoulders stayed tense. The way he blinked a little slower when he was exhausted.
You wanted to say something. Anything. You wanted to tell him how proud you were. That one match didn't define him. That he'd given everything.
But those words weren't what he needed right now. Michael had never been someone who processed disappointment out loud.
About ten minutes into the drive, his right hand slowly left the steering wheel. Without looking away from the road, he rested it gently on your thigh.
The familiar gesture made your heart ache. You looked down at his hand. Then quietly placed yours over it. His thumb moved once, just a small stroke against your leg.
He wasn't pushing you away. He was simply telling you, in the only way he could right now.
The rest of the drive passed in silence but not as awkward as before.
When you pulled into the driveway, Michael didn't move right away.
The engine had already been turned off. The house sat dark and quiet in front of you. He stared through the windshield for another few seconds.
Eventually, he let out a slow breath. "Come on."
Inside, the rented house felt strangely still. Michael slipped off his trainers near the front door before dropping his keys into the bowl on the hallway table.
The soft clink echoed through the house.
You watched him run a tired hand over his face before saying, "I'm gonna shower."
His voice was barely above a mumble.
You nodded. "Okay."
He looked at you for a second. Like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he simply turned and headed upstairs. A few moments later, you heard the shower start.
You stood alone in the kitchen. Opening the fridge almost felt automatic. He hadn't eaten since hours before the match. Win or lose, he always came home starving.
Except tonight.
Still, you took out the leftovers from the night before and reheated them anyway.
The smell filled the kitchen, but the house stayed quiet. The shower kept running. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then nearly thirty.
Your eyes drifted toward the ceiling. You frowned slightly.
When the shower finally stopped, you quietly set the plate on the counter. A few minutes later, Michael walked into the kitchen.
Fresh hoodie, grey sweat pants. He looked cleaner but he didn't look any less exhausted.
His eyes landed on the plate. "You made food."
You gave him a small smile. "I figured you might be hungry."
He stared at it for a moment. Long enough that you thought he might actually sit down.
Instead "I can't." The words came out quietly. Almost apologetically.
You looked at him. "You should eat something."
"I know."
His voice cracked ever so slightly with exhaustion. "I just.."
He shook his head. "I can't."
You didn't push him. You simply nodded. "Okay."
He looked relieved that you hadn't argued.
"If you get hungry later," you said softly, "I'll warm it up again."
He gave you the smallest nod. "Thanks."
He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, took a few absent-minded sips, then quietly screwed the cap back on. "I'm gonna lie down."
"Okay."
He disappeared upstairs once again.
A few seconds later, the bedroom door clicked shut. You stayed where you were, leaning against the kitchen counter. The untouched plate of food sat between your hands.
You looked up toward the ceiling. You knew Michael. He wasn't shutting you out. When he was ready he'd come back to you.
For a while, you stayed downstairs. Not because you didn't want to be with him. Because you did. More than anything. But you also knew Michael. If he wanted company, he would've asked you to come upstairs with him.
So instead, you quietly cleaned the kitchen. You wrapped the untouched plate of pasta in cling film before sliding it into the fridge. Maybe he'd eat it tomorrow. Maybe not.
You wiped down the countertops, rinsed the glasses in the sink, folded the blanket that had been left over the sofa.
Little things.
Anything to give him some time.
Every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the staircase.
You glanced at the clock. Nearly forty-five minutes had passed.
You let out a small breath before turning off the kitchen light. "Okay," you whispered to yourself.
You slowly made your way upstairs. The bedroom door was slightly open. You knocked softly anyway. There was no answer so you gently pushed it open.
The room was lit only by the glow of the bedside lamp. Michael was lying against the headboard, one knee bent, his phone resting in his hand.
You couldn't tell if he'd actually been looking at his phone or just staring at it.
He looked up when you walked in your eyes met. Neither of you spoke.
You offered him a tiny smile while he gave you the smallest nod.
You disappeared into the bathroom to change, returning a few minutes later wearing one of his oversized T-shirts and a pair of shorts.
Without saying anything, you climbed into bed beside him.
Close enough that your shoulders almost touched. You reached for your own phone, more for something to do than because you actually wanted to scroll.
The room stayed quiet.
Your thumb moved across the screen, but you couldn't even remember what you were looking at. Every few minutes, you'd glance over. Michael hadn't moved much. His eyebrows would pull together every now and then.
His thumb stopped scrolling altogether. After another ten minutes, he let out a quiet yawn.
You smiled to yourself.
He looked over, catching you. "What?"
"Are you tired?"
"No."
You couldn't help the tiny laugh that escaped. "You literally just yawned."
He looked away, unsuccessfully hiding the tiny grin on his face. "I didn't."
He locked his phone. You kept absentmindedly scrolling. A few minutes later, you felt gentle fingers wrap around your wrist.
You looked up seeing Michael carefully slide your phone from your hand.
He locked it before placing it on your bedside table beside his own.
You blinked. "My phone."
"You don't need it."
You smiled.
He looked at you for a second. Then quietly lifted the blanket. "C'mere."
The word you'd been waiting to hear all night. Without hesitation, you scooted across the mattress until you were tucked against his side.
The second you settled there, his arm wrapped around your waist.
He rested his chin gently on top of your head as the room fell quiet again.
After a long moment, his voice broke through it. "I'm sorry."
You frowned immediately. You tilted your head back just enough to look at him. "For what?"
His eyes stayed fixed somewhere behind you. "For today."
"Michael.."
"For not talking."
His voice was barely above a whisper. "I know I wasn't.."
He searched for the word. "Much company."
Your hand slowly came up to rest against his cheek. His skin was still warm from the shower. "You don't have to apologize."
"I do."
"No."
You smiled sadly. "I know you."
He finally looked down at you.
"You were upset."
He swallowed. "I didn't know what to say."
"You didn't have to say anything."
You gently brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I wasn't waiting for you to talk."
He looked at you.
"I was just waiting for you."
His expression softened completely. "I don't like when you get this version of me."
"What version."
He let out a quiet breath. "The one that loses."
"The one that comes home like this."
He let's out a unamused laugh, "The one that can't even eat dinner."
You shook your head before he could keep going. "I get every version of you."
He stayed quiet.
You smiled softly. "The one who wins."
You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of his jaw. "The one who loses."
Another kiss. "The one who's quiet."
A third. "The one who's exhausted."
Another. "And every version in between."
His eyes closed for a second. Like he was letting every word sink in. When they opened again, they looked a little less heavy. "You really mean that?"
You looked at him like it was the easiest question in the world. "Michael."
You cupped his face with both hands. "I didn't fall in love with you because you win football matches."
A tiny smile appeared. "I fell in love with you because you're you."
He stared at you. For a long time. Then, without saying another word, he buried his face against your neck.
You immediately wrapped your arms around him. Holding him just as tightly as he was holding you.
You felt him let out the deepest breath he'd taken all night. "I love you so much."
His voice was muffled against your skin.
You smiled, your fingers gently running through his locs.
You kissed the top of his head. "I love you so much too."
He stayed there for another minute before he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to your lips. The kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words.
"Thank you."
You smiled. "You don't have to thank me."
A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No, thank you for knowing when to leave me alone."
"I'll always know."
He nodded. "I know."
He pulled the blankets a little higher around the two of you before instinctively pulling you closer until there wasn't even the smallest space left between you.
You laughed quietly. "Comfortable?"
"Mhm."
He pressed one final peck against your lips.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
And as you lay there, listening to his breathing, you realized something. You couldn't take away the loss, you couldn't change the scoreboard, you couldn't replay ninety minutes.
But you could be the place he came home to.
