rowena-ravenclaws-diadem - Tumblr blog

rowena-ravenclaws-diadem · 11 days

Text

Baby Jr | One

— Friendly Banter

Series summary: The teasing, fleeting touches became much more on the night Carlos won, the sexual tension between you two reached a breaking point. Perhaps it was that night, or the many nights that followed, but you were pregnant with his child, putting you in a difficult situation.

Series Masterlist

pairing: carlos sainz x reader

Warnings: allusions to smut but no actual smut yet

wc: 2.9k

Note: here it is, the first chapter of many more to come. lemme know what you think, feedback is always appreciated.

You had caught the eye of a certain Ferrari driver from the moment you joined the team. He always looked at you in fascination, having the urge to find a way to figure you out but that's all it was for the longest time. Until it wasn't.

Carlos Sainz vividly remembers the first time he set his eyes on you. He was on his way to leave the headquarters in Maranello while you were on your way inside. Carlos' gaze was watchful, almost heavy with judgment as you hurried in through the doors with more items in your arms than you should've been able to carry.

He almost stopped you to ask who you were, but he noticed the badge clipped onto your jeans, media personnel. You had already passed him before he could read your name, and shook his head knowing that your name was the more important detail compared to your role.

You hadn't noticed him that day, but he noticed you.

He didn't see you again until the new season came around, having almost forgotten about your brief encounter at the end of the previous year. He had to do a double take once he saw you setting up the cameras for some content he was supposed to record along with his teammate.

It was a simple video that required the drivers to answer a few questions sent in by their fans, something that should've been easy since they've done it before. But he couldn't focus on anything but you. Given that you were the ones asking the questions, reading them off the short stack of cards you had in your hand, he wasn't outed for being distracted.

Knowing the drivers still had a busy day ahead of them, you began packing up the items once the video was filmed. Keeping your eyes locked on the task, you expected the drivers to be led away by their PR managers, so you were surely startled once you heard a voice acknowledging you.

Carlos stayed back, and roaming your gaze for a split second behind him, Charles had left. You knew who he was of course, after all you followed the sport for many years before you were given the opportunity to work for one of the teams.

"I don't think we properly met, I'm Carlos." He extended his hand out and you gladly accepted, shaking it while introducing yourself. You found it sweet that despite being one of the two faces of the team, he still introduced himself like you didn't know who he was.

As a junior media employee who was still relatively new to the team, you were informed in advance that you would rarely be interacting with the drivers.

So it wasn't surprising that while working in the same team, you rarely saw Carlos in person. Working under Silvia—the head of communications—you would usually be the one tasked to edit the challenge videos, creating enough content from various footage to keep the fans engaged. The few times you did see him in person was to conduct media challenges that the team planned every once in a while to give the fans a chance to know the drivers underneath their helmets.

As the season went on, you found that you were indeed given the wrong information; you did in fact meet the drivers again and again. You were given many opportunities to travel with the team, and it would've been absurd if you denied those opportunities—not that you had a choice since you were needed at almost every race.

You were glad to experience the thrill of Formula 1 from the front row seats, able to watch all the sessions in the weekend itself but also be a part of the journey with the drivers that not many people get to see.

It was inevitable to befriend many people along the way, especially with their welcoming nature despite some news outlets suggesting otherwise. Formula 1 could be considered as one giant family that obviously had issues every once in a while but no one outside of the sport could relate to them like each other. Especially since it was described like a traveling circus by a few drivers.

While you had befriended many other employees whether it was within your team or others, you also spoke to the other eighteen drivers often.

But no other driver invaded your thoughts like Carlos did.

You didn't know if you were overthinking it all, but you believed that Carlos was a tad bit too friendly compared to Charles or even any other driver for that matter.

Whether it was a compliment that left you a blushing mess, a lingering look that followed you until you left the room, or even a small graze of his fingers against your back while crossing your path, you couldn't think of anyone but him lately.

You heard a Monégasque accent calling your name and you slowed your pace, allowing him to catch up to you as you greeted without needing to look to see who it was, "Charles"

"Here, it's still hot," he was holding two disposable cups of coffee in his hands, extending one towards you.

You gestured to your own hands, carrying one too many things again.

He sighed, "I still don't know how you do that." He stopped walking as he neared a surface to put down the cups. "Here, give it to me," he spoke but didn't let you make a decision as he grabbed the various folders, a clipboard, and a tablet from your hands. You were still holding on to a tripod and a camera but he freed up one of your hands so you could hold the cup.

"I will have to let you know, that tablet you're holding, is very valuable to the team," you stated, mainly in a joking manner because you knew he wouldn't do anything to it.

"Oh is it now? What's on it?" Charles asked once you resumed walking, this time sipping on your coffee before answering his question. "First, perfect," you hummed, gesturing towards the cup. "Second, it has all the schedules for meetings, interviews, and everything that you or Carlos could possibly need a reminder for during the weekend."

He gasped, almost offended, "I do not need reminders for anything during the weekend, not like Carlos does."

Despite how it may seem, your role didn't entail being a driver's assistant. In fact your job was to manage a few social media accounts and create content that included the drivers as much as possible but every now and then you also helped the company keep the public images of the drivers reputable.

Lately, Carlos had been finding reasons to talk to you, and most of that time would be spent reviewing his schedule multiple times throughout the day.

"He can be a little forgetful sometimes," you commented but Charles shook his head.

"A little? He needed you to remind him what time the race was."

You grimaced, knowing Charles was correct. "Well, you're his teammate so you know him better than I do."

"Yeah, I guess I'll ask him, thanks for the coffee," Charles stated as you two entered a meeting room. There were still fifteen minutes before it started, but you preferred to use that time so you could prepare yourself for all the notetaking it usually required. Since you were still a fairly new employee, you wanted to absorb all the information like a sponge.

Confused, you responded back, "you're the one who got the coffee."

He placed the items he was holding on the table, then noticing the time on his watch, a brief gasp overtaking his expression. "Thanks for the company then, I'll see you later," he playfully winked like he always did before leaving the room.

Moments later, a knock distracts you from reviewing the previous notes and stats from the last meeting. Thinking it was Charles, you ask, "did you forget somet- oh, Carlos."

"Are you busy?" He asks as he leans his forearms on the back of a chair. Shaking your head you respond, "not really, what's up?"

"I forget how crazy the crowds can get outside, so can I stay here for a few minutes?" You smile, "of course you can, come sit." He rolled a chair out and sighed in relief after finally getting off his feet.

Carlos closed his eyes for a moment relishing in the moments of silence in his hectic life. It didn't last long as you hummed a random tune which you usually did while working. It was so faint but since it was completely silent otherwise, Carlos' ears perked up as he heard it.

Instead of looking for the moments of silence he thought he needed earlier to even do a simple task as breathing, Carlos leaned forward with his usual watchful gaze focused on you. "Are you planning on more ways for us to make a fool out of ourselves?" He asked.

You chuckled, "I would never do that." Carlos gave you a look that indicated he didn't believe you.

"The last challenge was planned by you, no?" He countered and when you sheepishly smiled, he knew he was correct.

"You know, Charles is right," you spoke after a few moments of silence.

"How so?" He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head for a moment that almost caused you to lose track of your thoughts. You've gotten better at keeping yourself calm and collected around Carlos lately, but you still took a little moment to appreciate how his muscles flexed in the full sleeved shirt he wore.

"There's a team debrief happening in about five minutes where you're needed, and it's a bit of a walk so I'm wondering if you're gonna reach in time." To confirm your words, he glanced at his watch, raising his eyebrows when he realized you were spot on.

"You know my schedule so well now," he couldn't help but comment, chuckling as he did so.

"Only because you forget it," you retaliated.

"Maybe I do that on purpose," he stood up, once again stretching to the point where the hem of his shirt raised a bit, revealing a sliver of skin that your gaze immediately shifted to. While you might've gotten better, you still needed a bit more practice every now and then. Carlos chuckled when you didn't have a response right away, knowing you were distracted but he didn't feel the need to expose you just yet.

As he pulled his shirt down, your eyes snapped to his, finally coming up with a response "and almost get me fired for making you late?"

He shrugged, "maybe." You knew he would never do such a thing that would jeopardize your job, so you shrugged off his comment.

"Go now, Sainz" you urged, waving your hand to emphasize your point.

"I'm going, I'm going, relax, cariño." You could hear his laugh as he left the room, and you didn't focus on the papers in front of you until his footsteps had faded away.

It was just friendly banter, you reminded yourself even after hearing the nickname he gave you. Sometimes your conversations were borderline flirtatious, but it was still fine. Until it wasn't.

As the year progressed further, you were no longer just an employee with a career in motorsport; you were a member of the team that celebrated each high while consoling and sticking together during the lows.

While your job wasn't directly connected to the race, nor could you help in changing the outcome like the mechanics and engineers could, you helped uplift the mood in the room on multiple occasions.

Which is why when Carlos stood on the top step of the podium, claiming his first place trophy that would eventually become a part of a larger collection, you felt like you won.

The spray of champagne reached the crowd of his team waiting below the podium. A laugh bubbled up your throat as Carlos tried to aim the spill of the drink in the team principal's mouth standing on the floor a few feet away from you.

A proud smile grew on your face as you watched the drivers and a representative from your team that collected the constructors trophy gathered together on the top step to take a photo.

The celebrations continued in the team garage, since both drivers made it on the podium. The energy buzzing through each member was noticeable, knowing that this win would be celebrated until the next. After the team photo was taken, the champagne popped once again.

A few people were able to get away from becoming soaked, others were being targeted. Charles managed to slip away, but Carlos couldn't. He happily accepted the spray, soaking his race suit further after the podium.

His eyes however, darted across the crowd and landed on you. Standing just out of reach of the champagne shenanigans but still close enough to celebrate, Carlos decided to pull you even closer.

Grabbing the bottle from the nearest person, he covered the top and shook it. Releasing his thumb, he let the fizzy drink spray out, directing it at you this time. "Carlos!" You shrieked, but laughing nonetheless.

Once satisfied, he took a sip from the bottle, his gaze fixed on you as yours moved down to his neck, watching his Adam's apple bob while he swallowed. Passing the bottle to you, you moistened your lips before tipping it up and sipping the cool champagne.

His attention was diverted as Charles had found another bottle of champagne, deciding to drench his teammate even further after the celebrations began to die down. You smiled as Carlos tried to run away, dodging the alcohol, but it quickly dropped once he used you as a shield.

"Oh, no, no, no," you held your hand out at Charles who smiled mischievously, stopping in his tracks right in front of you.

"You are a part of the team," he commented, and you almost ignored his words as you felt Carlos' hands rest on your waist from behind, feeling his breath on your neck.

The heat of your thoughts was ruined when Charles decided to rain champagne down on you, cooling you off instantly. "Charles," you groaned, knowing that it would be an excruciatingly long process to wash all the champagne out of your hair, especially if it began to dry soon.

The team began to disperse, rightfully so as everyone wanted to change out of their champagne soaked clothes, you included. Trying to wring out as much liquid as you could, you muttered a curse under your breath. This was the first time you ever experienced a win like today.

Speaking of, the winner of the race was standing off to the side, shirtless. Carlos had removed his fireproof top but still had his race suit zipped down to his waist and placed a cap on his head backwards to keep his hair out of his face.

You parted your lips and watched his back muscles flex as he moved around, then hastily looked away as he turned. You kept wringing your shirt as he moved past you, and despite the fact that there was enough space for him to pass you without touching you, his fingertips brushed over your back, down to your waist. He lingered on your hip for too long, but he didn't say anything, only smiled when you inhaled deeply.

You had returned to your hotel room and immediately rushed towards the shower. The champagne from earlier had dried, creating an unpleasant sensation as a layer of tackiness remained behind. Washing away all the sweat and champagne, you sighed in relief, standing underneath the shower for a few extra minutes to release all the soreness in your muscles.

You still felt the buzzing excitement of the day running through your veins as you dried and dressed yourself, but you were also exhausted, ready to climb into bed and drift away into the safety of your dreams.

That plan was interrupted as you heard a knock on the door. Pulling your shirt over your body, you peeked through the peephole, smiling when you saw him standing on the other side.

"Oh hello, don't tell me you forgot your room number," you greeted Carlos as you opened the door.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, he was transfixed by the sight of your hair, still wet from your shower, dripping down to your shirt beginning to cling to your body.

"I think I did, tell me you don't remember it either," his voice dropped an octave, and his stare was no longer calculating, but rather enticingly seductive.

"And why would I do that?" You almost whispered, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him.

He stepped forward, leaning one arm on the doorframe while his gaze glanced over you to briefly look inside the room. "I'm sure yours is big enough for two people."

The corner of your lip turned up at his words, knowing it was just a ploy to let him in. The realization that he desired you just as much as you had grown to want him dawned on you as you stared at him standing in front of you.

Trapping your lip between your teeth for a moment, instantly attracting Carlos' gaze towards them, you nodded.

"Let's check," you stepped back, pulling him inside by the collar of his shirt.

——

Taglist is open!! Lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3

@xoscar03 @pierregazly @rowena-ravenclaws-diadem @lilymurphy03 @gay-hoes-blog @ilovethefruits @lewlew44 @luvvtrent @hc-dutch @fwhore1 @khaylin27 @lillyssh-tposts @thatgirlmj @ladyoflynx @tcfanmania @customsbyjcg-blog @sltwins @nonstopbookworm @glitterquadricorn @charizznorizz @mrs-bunny @moonliightbabes @likedbygaslyy @booksandflowrs @teamnovalak @formula1mount @gaviymarcsbride @gotthemilk-69 @bwormie @llando4norris @ellesssssxzxz @arian-directioner @lou-bean28 @depressedgiftedburnout @halleest @amberpanda99 @borapsycho @cosmoscoffeee @mycenterfold @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sugarvibez @mehrmonga @aadu2173 @bokutos-babyowl @teenwolf01 @presidentdangdang @mrswolffs-blog @khaylin27 @amyfelix14 @seasonswinter @amalialeclerc @amandadesantasworld @ystrolllll @xisab @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @pedrohoe04 @yagirlhayes @teamnovalak @jadaaasworld @mmack23 @shimmermotorsport

867 notes · View notes

rowena-ravenclaws-diadem · 1 year

Text

white-hot forever ★ jf11

genre: friends to lovers, small injury trope, flashbacks, angst, sad? if you want it to be, stubborn!reader, miscommunication (always), long distance (friendship) relationship, fluff at the end, slight slight mention of alcohol, teenagers in love but they don’t know it yet

wc: 7.6K!

about: you didn’t realize how quickly your life would spin out of control when he leaves to play football in another country, and you definitely couldn’t have predicted his going-away gift either.

a/n: this took me forever! It’s my longest writing ever, even for other fandoms. Also, I know João doesn’t go directly to england very young in his career. It’s just for the sake of the story. I’m sorry if there are typos — it’s hard to proof read long works. As soon as I got so far into it, I was worried it was too confusing. I hope you all like it!

I recommend listening to the entire album ‘running’ by cafuné

i miss you - kacey musgraves

nostalgia - tae

luna (moon of claiming) - cemeteries

——

“You’re so stupid… so so so stupid,” you say while he stands (not too well) at your door. His knees are already bruising a deep purple, grass cuts along his outer thighs, with a flushed face trying to say ‘sorry’ but it not being able to come out of his throat. He just looks to you for help.

You were there at the game. He was tackled towards the end of the first half, and you were sure he was done. Anyone in their right mind would have told him to stop, to take a break, but he showed back up in the second half, playing with an expression only you came to know was with pain. He was good at masking things with other people — not with you.

“Why didn’t you go to the trainers? Oh my god,” he stumbled a bit when he tried to walk in. He winced, placing his hand on your shoulder. You look up at him.

“Where did you go?” He asks, completely avoiding your question, looking past you to observe the room. It was a mess, a plethora of scribbled on books, detailed sketches with your own annotations thrown on the ground, and he realized that maybe you grew flustered at the sight of him because of that. He would leave but his own pride forced him over here — and he wasn’t exactly too keen on going now after he made all the effort to get here with only one functioning leg.

“I think you forgot that I have mid-terms, you idiot,” you walk him over, your statement evident in the way your flat looked, “and my first one is tomorrow.”

He grimaced, stopping to look at you, “sorry, I shouldn’t have told you to come then.” He does look genuinely sorry, and also guilty for even coming to your house, but he’s so used to you coming up to him after the game, that he was struck with panic when you weren’t there — especially when he was in this condition.

His whole teenage life, he grew accustomed to seeing you on the sidelines, waving to you when he’d score a goal, talking about the match for hours after. He would do the same when you used to play. He would come and support you just as much. He loved having someone who he could talk to about the game; you were more intellectually inclined than his own friends. Where he could nerd out to you his own thoughts, as if he were a coach and you a player, and vice-versa.

He knew for a long time you were going to quit. You always said so yourself. Football wasn’t as open to you as it was to him — it was harder, and as much as he pleaded with you, that you could go so far, it wasn’t an option: medical school was. He hates that your roads diverged like this because in some weird way he believed you two would be doing this forever. The thought of the future never really dawned on him. Other than the fact that it was always going to have you in it.

“It’s alright. I needed to stop stressing about the tests for a bit anyways, but you still should have gone to the trainers before coming here.”

“The trainers suck,” he pleads, an afterthought, a stupid excuse, his eyes large. It was true to a certain extent. It baffled him how his club couldn’t hire real trainers but you sufficed, you always did. He would take this any day of the week. “And you’re the only one who actually understands these stupid injuries…”

You huff out because you know he’s right, forcing him to sit down on the couch. “You only tweaked your knee, João.” You look at it again, it’s inflamed from the contact a few hours ago, and by watching the play happen, when he landed he must have done it awkwardly, straining one of the ligaments. If he wasn’t crying, you knew it wasn’t too bad, but everything in the knee hurts like hell, no matter the injury, so you sympathized with him.

But it was funny; he didn’t need you for something like this. Any sane person would just put ice on it, and he knew from being an athlete that that was exactly right. Maybe he wanted you to examine it further? But you weren’t a doctor yet and you didn’t know and…

You grab a stray pillow and tell him to lay back. You elevate his knee with it, touching his flushed thigh. He’s still a bit sweaty from the game, his hair sticking to his forehead, his neck a little red, along with his sun kissed skin. You see his stomach heave slightly up and down under his jersey. He has that pouty look on him — you think it’s because they lost the game, but João wouldn’t dare to tell you the real reason.

Over the countertop you find him watching you make an ice bag and he doesn’t look away when you catch him either. You roll your eyes, wondering why you became friends with him in the first place. He liked to just look at you sometimes, and it made you flustered, almost angry in the sense that he didn’t seem to have many boundaries. To you, this relationship should have many boundaries, but it didn’t, and it teetered lines you never thought would even be drawn. Alas, he was a very pretty boy. Smart in the way that left you a bit breathless after bickering. Kind in the way where he would drop everything to help you. Too smart, too kind, too pretty.

But he always had a ‘girlfriend’. There was always an unsuspecting girl wrapped around his finger. You never blamed them. He was a sweet talker, handsome face, athletic. Everything ideal, he was. It drove you insane seeing them talk to him with their high pitched voices and smitten eyes. Not to mention how much they hated you. He always defended you, but selfishly, it wasn’t enough. Selfishly, you wanted his attention all the time. You wanted to be the only girl he thought about.

But it’s not like you were going to act upon your feelings anyways. You knew if it was unrequited, you couldn’t be friends anymore. There was no way you could bottle the shame. Everything that you could talk with him about was as friends, and you were content with that — even if it meant not kissing him whenever you wanted, or touching his exposed skin, or playing with his hair.

You inch around the kitchen isle to where he is laying on your living room couch, smiling up at you like you were his savior. He winced, sucks in a breath when you move his knee to keep it elevated at the right angle before placing the cool compress on its swelling expanse. He breaths out a ‘thank you’, for this very mundane task and your own heart swells too and you think you need your own ice bag. Possibly a whole box you could throw on yourself. His hand brushes over your arm innocently and it makes you freeze, blood pulsing through your ears.

You find the seat across from him, gathering some of your study materials so you can look at that instead of the boy in front of you. The one who is very bored so you know all your attempts to ignore him will go disregarded.

See it to him to gather conversation from nowhere and now you’re talking again. He’s worried about his future again.

“You’re going to get scouted soon, I know it.” You say, not looking at him, instead trying to fidget with the papers across from you on the table. He’s advanced heavily in his academy, and he was still so young. He had been given opportunities before but they were for small clubs, and he already talked about it: if he was going to move away from his family — though he says this with an emphasis on family, it including you— that it would only be for a large club, someone worth his wages and worth the strain of leaving his life behind.

He laughs a bit at your assertion. You were always his number one fan and hyped him up far larger than he believed he was.

“Don’t worry, when I go pro, you’ll get all my jerseys,” he smiles, watching with adeptness how you try and focus on other things (literally your mid-terms) while he’s there —your heart beat too loudly in your ears. He’s always loved how it seems like you can’t stop talking, especially to talk back as if you were an old married couple, when he’s there.

“I don’t just want that! I don’t know why you think I’m so materialistic,” you sigh, knowing that you weren’t going to get anything done with him here. He kind of had that ability.

“Obviously I want you to make it…I probably want it more than you…” you start,

Before he can say anything though, you exclaim, contradicting your previous statements, “only because I need a part of that paycheck since I helped you—“

“Shut up…” he groans out, wanting to playfully hit you in the head like he normally does but you’re across the table and he’s got this thing stopping him from moving on his knee. You would kill him.

——

The next couple of weeks were barred by vicious study, so you weren’t too involved in his business. Though he did like to show up unannounced and ask for a diagnoses of his perfectly fine leg. It was all a ploy to annoy you, and you wouldn’t have guessed what was happening was actually happening.

He kept it from you for awhile. It was only when he finally got up the courage to tell you he needed to speak seriously, did your heart sink.

“You were right.” He starts, brushing the hair out of his face, “I got offered a deal with an English club.”

“Really? You’re lying!” you didn’t really know how to express your excitement, and hugging him was never an option before, too scared to be vulnerable. Besides, he was always the first to initiate that kind of contact. But the invisible rules of your friendship didn’t matter in the moment. You wrapped your arms around his sides, cheek hitting his chest.

Pulling back was the hard part. His eyes stuck on yours, smiling that beautiful smile, with a red tint to his cheeks. He looks so genuine. He looks so happy. You’ve talked about this for years, ever since he was twelve. As soon as he grasped the concept of professional football he strived for it.

“You’re not actually joking, right?” You start to feel your eyes swell up.

“No—no, I leave tomorrow.” The way his voice turned sour at the last word, like he already knew your reaction.

“Tomorrow? Tomorrow? When did this happen? I’m so confused— tomorrow?”

“You were so busy with finals, I— I didn’t want to tell you.” He looks to the ground, his hands moving up to try and persuade you but he’s already given up.

“That’s bullshit, João.” You try to rack your brain on how this could have happened. How quickly he could have been given an offer without you knowing about it. Were you really that closed off the past few weeks? Did you do something to upset him? Your nerves were in a frenzy, your heart palpitating. You were trying to process everything that came with this decision. It meant him, gone. Gone from the constant franticness of your life that he held up like soldier. You were being dramatic, but everything in your life has been him.

“I know, I—“ for the first time in a long time, he’s speechless. He’s always quick and witty, proficient in the art of fucking with you. He looks up. All of a sudden he’s ashamed. It was a sharp contrast to how he showed up. He’s hesitant, stumbling over his words because he doesn’t know how to start the next ones. You brace yourself.

“I’m going to do something and I want you to forget about it after I board that plane.” He states, coming a step closer, almost to the point where his feet touch yours. Though not without stalling, you nod, following whatever he says, especially because it sounded so important to him. You decide to trust him, like you always have, and set aside your new found anger. You shouldn’t make it about you, anyways. Loosing him because you couldn’t get over the fact that he made a mistake would kill you inside. But also, he was enamoring when it was just the two of you so close.

You didn’t expect your first kiss with him to be stolen. Honest to God you believed you would kiss him, if it were to ever happen. It is intoxicating for the brief moment his lips were on yours. They’re soft and warm just like you expected. He held your cheek in his hand, igniting goosebumps on your arms. You don’t even really know it’s happening until he’s pulled back from you. His hand slides down to your neck. You feel dizzy, unsure if this is real or not. He doesn’t really look relieved either, like maybe somehow if he kissed you it would heal him. But it doesn’t and he squeezes your shoulder, more in a friendly way. You’re so confused, you go along with what he’s feeling. You’re burning red.

“I leave at eight in the morning.” Twelve hours from now. You can’t even retaliate, still stuck on the idea of his kiss and what it meant. “Just—forget about that, okay?”

“Okay…” you agree shakily. All this news left you too shocked to question him, and really, you wanted to talk more about his moving than what he just did — worried about his immediate rejection.

“You got an offer…for the whole season?”

He nods his head, takes a step back from you. Bewilderment, is the word you would use. He’s so quick to change the subject.

“I’m sorry for waiting to tell you.”

And he never gives a good reason.

——

“No FaceTime,” you say, heart tugging in your chest. If you had to see him again, his real, beautiful face, you wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Really?” He says, he’s moving about — probably moving in. “And you don’t want to see my amazing, first class, top league face again?” It’s only been a day, and yes, you miss him, but for far more complicated reasons.

You hate him so much. How could he not understand why you’re so apprehensive? He was probably so focused on what’s ahead of him, that it didn’t matter what he left behind, and you felt crude saying it. It wasn’t true.

He told you not to talk about it — that it left when he did, so how could he speak so fondly — how could he speak like he normally does?

“No, I’m sick of your face actually,” you counter, heart hammering and voice failing.

Good job for bringing it back up. You both were avoiding it, but it seemed a little too much like it was easy for him, or maybe you were just so hopelessly obsessed that it hit harder.

“That’s alright,” he whispers, “I won’t keep you longer. You have studying, don’t you?” This is the first time he’s ever been the one to end the conversation on his own accord. You’re taken-aback, but relieved you didn’t have to breathe in this one-sided tension any longer. That having to pretend over the phone was even too much to handle. Hearing his voice reminded you of peaceful summers between the beach and football fields; where sand stuck permanently to your body when the afternoons drew on, yellow sun pelting its light, and he would force you to play with a raggedy old ball on an awfully cut green lawn.

He was always the object of your affection. He was always there, always so perfect.

When his family would go on vacation, he would bring back small tokens. Sometimes they were as sincere and thought out as a religious bracelet, or as childish as a stuffed animal. He liked to give gifts. It was his love language, and you never told him how much it truly meant because you could never express in good words without crying.

“Yeah, I do,” you croak out.

“I miss you already—called you before my parents…” He’s close to the phone, as if he were there in person. As if he took a couple steps, lifted your chin up so you would listen properly. You want to tell him to stop. He shouldn’t say such sweet, domestic things, things that made your heart skip a beat.

One time, only a few years ago, somehow you and him ended up in Madrid on a random July day. Looking back at it, maybe your parents shouldn’t have given you so much freedom, and time alone but they did because João was always kind around them; a bit two faced if you asked your younger self. Sometimes when he’d make fun of you for stupid things you’d threaten to tell his parents how rude he was to women, and he’d shut up real quick, ruffling your hair in the process for being a tattletale.

You wanted to go to some famous book store, record store? You don’t remember; only everything else you weren’t supposed to.

As adventurous as he was, it led to a full day there. A lull to it when he’d stop you to go into every store to showcase his quote “amazing” end quote, grasp of the Spanish language.

“I should have just came here alone!” He’s dragging you along the cobble stone streets, and his grip on your wrist is making you weak in the knees. Truth be told, all this extra time you were spending with him made the concept of friendship worse. It started to tear the lines apart for you. The words ‘for you’ were the worst ones, because you just knew he didn’t reciprocate, that he saw you as a sister, and nothing else.

“You can’t be in this city alone.” He looks back at you, stopping to look at your puffy cheeks, a little red in the face because you’re a bit dazed from walking so much in this heat. The sunlight makes your eyes glitter. Your hair falls perfectly in front of your ears and he’s practically holding your hand so he feels ridiculous. Like, how could he justify seeing you this way and still act like a complete idiot?

As soon as the moment comes where there’s a beat, where everything stops around you two, it vanishes when a little girl, barely five, comes between the two of you. She looks up at you expectantly, and you cock your head. He lets go of your hand. Yours falls back to your side and you try not to think about it.

Joao talks first, asks her where her parents are. He speaks so sweetly you can’t help but watch him, his eyes seem to sparkle, the smile he usually uses with you plastered on his face. She only shrugs, comes closer to him and hugs his right leg. He looks up to you, confused on what to say to this girl. She looks fine, not crying for her mother nor father. She just showed up, and now you and him had to bear the responsibility.

You pout back, insistent on telling him this is his fault — that if he hadn’t dragged on, you’d be back home by now.

He places his large hand on her head, almost like how he does with you, and it makes your face heat up. He bends down, as much as he could with her snug to his body, tries to look her in the eye and ask again. She looks at him with adulation, smiling but never answering his questions. It makes you happy the way João gets frustrated, looks to you, but still responds to her nothingness with an endearing attitude.

There’s a nearby fountain where he decides to sit with her, a more touristy part of the city with families and children. He liked to take the back roads where he got to see the most beautiful thing, you, and hear the hum of the city dwellers as background to the euphonious sound of your voice as you bicker with him endlessly.

He pats the seat next to him for you. You’re standing only a few feet from him with your arms crossed and wary eyes. The sun was starting to set and you were worried she wouldn’t find her parents in time. But he urges you to sit next to him, so you do.

“Have you ever thought about having kids?” He asks, watching how the little girl’s eyes diverge from scene to scene as people walk by. You try not to look at him, but the glowing sun that creeps down below the horizon paints his face a golden color you’ve never seen before. It’s partly because he’s so relaxed, not invoked by a particular topic but just talking for the sake of talking.

You hesitate. “Yeah,” is all you let out. It took you off guard. It was embarrassing recalling the times you actually thought about the future because they were unrealistic to the point where he was in them.

He shifts his full attention to you, “How many?”

“Ugh, why do you care?” You try to go back to the usual banter, the immaturity of your relationship. You instead choose to watch the people go by. He cocks his head, hair falling perfectly. “Come on…everyone knows.” He has that awful smile, the one you can’t deny.

“Fine, how many do you want?” You spin the question around. The little girl is still next to him, watching the water splash in the fountain. Her eyes follow the stream. She’s entranced by it.

“Two. Girls.” Your jaw drops.

“Don’t make fun of me— okay, I’ve thought this out.” He’s immediately defensive, puts his hands up in the air like he’s committed a crime.

“No way, you don’t want a boy?” You ask. Secretly, you always thought of him as a girl dad. Most of your surprise came from the fact that this was similar to your dream, and it freaked you out.

“Of course I’ll want a boy! But I’ve always wanted daughters and I want them to both play football,” he smiles, turns to look at the mystery child. “I never thought that,” you respond, heart skipping a beat at the mention of the sport.

“And…?” He trails off, expecting your answer. The wind picks up, and he watches your hair whip in front of your face as you contemplate an answer.

“Same as you,” you say. He has to strain to hear you because of how quiet your voice became.

The day dissolved into nothing really. The girl’s parents came rushing up to you after that, exclaiming their apologies. The mother says you look like a good couple. You both heavily deny it like the world would end if it were true.

The only thing you could think about was the conversation. It made it harder, made your feelings even stronger.

“I-I miss you too,” you say, tentatively. There’s a quiet that settles over the line. He doesn’t want to say goodbye and you don’t either.

Awkward. Confusing. Stop saying these things. “Talk to me after your first training. Of course— if you don’t think you’re too much of a hotshot by then,” he laughs, and it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still so tense.

——

When you decided to tell João that you quit football, it was a miscellaneous day on the beach. Both of your families wanted to spend the day there, but you both were far away, to the point where they couldn’t see the two of you. He urged you to find pretty rocks and shells, and whenever he found one that shimmered pink or purple he would give it to you.

“We have too many. They’re falling out of my hands!” At this point he was picking them up while you had opened your palms. One would say you both were too old to be doing this, but you never cared. You liked doing childish things with him.

He agrees, and you plop down on the sand, laying your collection in front of you. He settles across from you, so much energy in him.

“You’re okay?” He asks. He knows you’ve gone through these continuous injuries the past year, and he’s always felt it his duty to check up on you. Your close friends didn’t play the sport so they never understood like he did. Sometimes you hated how much he cared.

You hum to tell him everything’s fine. The sun burned your skin in a good way.

You go on to sort the shells, and João would give you feedback on which ones he likes. “Maybe I’ll make a necklace out of them.” You say, delaying what you actually wanted to talk about. He smiles, his bronze skin glowing from the rays. The smell of the ocean heightened his appearance somehow, creating an aesthetic, a filter, over him.

You wanted to use a lot of words to ease the pain. That didn’t happen. You tell him plainly.

He’s not surprised nor outraged by your news. He saw it coming. While he was off to play at an academy, you were stuck on the same team you’ve been with since you were fifteen. After every game, when you’d have those post-match talks, you would always talk about how frustrated you were with the sport. How limited opportunities you could garner.

For a few months you had an awfully misogynistic coach who drilled you to the ground. He wished he could do something but he was only sixteen.

While scouts showed up to his games, you were playing on fields for twelve year old boys.

He was always so grateful that you supported him in return. If he were in your shoes, he would stop talking to himself, to be honest. He liked to brag about his winnings, and over the years he realized that being friends with you he gained modesty other teenagers his age didn’t receive. He was so incredibly lucky, and he wanted to show you everyday. He wanted to give you gifts, but boundaries allotted him not a lot, because really all he wanted to gift you was himself.

You just seemed so indifferent to him romantically. It really humbled him.

His other friends loved to make fun of him for it. They knew, as much as João tried to forget about you by smothering himself in awful one sided relationships, you were the only one he was going to confide things to. They would make fun of him at every game, when they’d see you amongst the crowd.

It wasn’t as easy as asking for your number like with everyone else. You’ve known each other for so long, he couldn’t change his friendship talk to relationship talk when you were the most stubborn person he knew. Not when he valued you, respected you in a way he did no one else. He also wasn’t going to end this friendship just because his little crush hurt his ego.

“It’s sad for a little while, isn’t it?” He says while you play with the sand between your fingers. There’s not a lot to say. The crashing of the waves are deafening.

“I love it, but I just can’t do it anymore.”

“I’m going to go into sports medicine, I think—I’m not sure—“

“So you can be my trainer?” He’s so happy. He’s happy with whatever decisions you make. It makes your heart burst that he’s so supportive.

——

Maybe he should have left quietly. That was his goal anyways. It was a very in the moment decision. Something he told himself he shouldn’t do, but you got the best of him. He saw you in that moment, so pretty and kissable it was like all his morals collapsed. The way your eyes lit up, your hair a mess. You two were alone. And he panicked. He doesn’t think you felt the same as him — that if he was able to kiss you, it would be his one chance and he could still be friends without ruining anything. Though the friend part, he felt he could see the future in the way he was certain you both would drift apart. Basically, his plan was to run away like a little boy, and by God did he miss you the moment he touched down in England. He wonders if he didn’t kiss you, he wouldn’t feel things so strong. He created a ghost that would haunt over him.

When the first game of the season rolls around, he’s desperate. You’ve been on and off, responding to his text messages late and speaking swiftly on calls. Guilt always rises in him, but he thinks you’ve decided to forget because at least you’re still talking to him and you don’t mention it— and that’s all that matters.

He’s adamant about getting you here. He knows he’s going to start the game and to not have you here would be an offset to the tradition of always, always coming.

He gets a bad feeling when he realizes you never talk first. It’s always him calling you — but he still does.

He greets you sickly sweet like he always does and you never match the energy. A lot of the times you’re like this; it’s just who you were, opposites in a way. He can’t tell the difference between your usual self and not at this point. It doesn’t help that he can’t see your face. Maybe he didn’t regard himself as someone who understood facial cues well, but at least he saw your face, and it helped, and it would’ve made the pit in his stomach lessen.

“The season is starting soon—“

“Yes, I know but—“

“You have to come. I’m sure I’m starting and we can finally see each other again—“

“I can’t come, João,” you bite the inside of your cheek. You want to feel numb. There’s short silence where he’s confused.

“I mean— whatever it is— money isn’t an issue. It’s never been! I’ll pay for everything—

“That’s not it.” He still doesn’t mention the kiss, as if it didn’t hold any value to him. And you try not to cry.

“Seriously, I’ll pay—“

“I got this internship, and I can’t take days off to see you. Not yet, at least, it’s very strict right now.”

He stops his blabbering.

You did really get a job. Maybe you’re using this more as an excuse. Maybe you could get out a day to go see him. A part of you was anxiety ridden to go, and this was your fallback. You don’t know when you think you’d be ready to see him again, but it wasn’t now. Not when you felt like you were going insane thinking about him as soon as you’d wake up in the morning and as soon as you fell asleep. How would going to England make it better? Only worse.

“I’m so happy for you, I-I…” he doesn’t know what to say. He feels a little choked up, that what he prophesied was happening in real time.

“I’m sorry.” You think you’ve said this at least a dozen times over the past weeks. It’s becoming a habit. The bouncing around the elephant in the room was really irritating.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. I wouldn’t want you to miss just because you have to see me play some stupid game.”

You loved when he played down his level. Obviously, it wasn’t some stupid game and he wasn’t playing in the amateur leagues anymore. You found yourself smiling on the phone with him.

——

You think you fell in love with him at sixteen.

His parents and brother were gone for the weekend. You think you both were supposed to be studying but there was a match on the television that you both wanted to watch. It was probably a derby, a huge game.

At this point, you wanted to dismiss your faltering voice and beating heart every time you saw him as a case of teen nerves.

You tried to stop him, because you knew his parents would find out, but he still grabbed the alcohol from the top cupboard, a huge smile on his stupid face.

You supported the other team just to spite him, and he was loosing hope every time you screamed in his face that his team sucked. And he drowned his daft, silly sorrows in the liquid, messing up his young brain. He was very tipsy.

It was dark out now. The light from the television reflected off his face. He was sulking by the second half, pouting while putting the drink up to his lips haphazardly. You don’t know why, it must have been because he was sleepy, but his head finds your lap. You almost jolt up by how sudden it happened. You saw the mop of his hair, felt the heat from his cheek on your thighs, how relaxed his body looked. He starts saying gibberish, and your hands fall into the strands of brown.

You never interpreted it from him as more than too much alcohol combined with a late night. But it sure did make dealing with those nerves harder, especially because you could physically feel his heartbeat and his breathing, soft and slow.

“You know that girl I’ve been seeing? She-she keeps texting me,” he slurs out.

“Right now?”

“Hmph…my phone keeps blowing up. S-so annoying.”

You try to defend her.

“She just really likes you.”

“Too much,” he mumbles. You’re both watching the game, but not really, too focused on the conversation.

“She probably doesn’t want you hanging out with me.” You reason, it’s how it’s always been and how it always will be. Once he finds ‘the one’, you’ll probably be pushed out from his life.

“I like hanging out with you more than anyone else.” Your stomach drops. You hate that he’s not facing you while he says it.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m n-not drunk,” he stutters.

Of course, he meant it in a ‘i see you as the sister I never had way’. He’s never made a move and falls for girls he shouldn’t. He drifted asleep on your lap while your heart couldn’t stop pounding in your ears. You think it’s the turning point where you can’t stand to be second to others, where you itched to be his number one in everything.

——

You really did grow apart for awhile.

There were times where you would go days without talking with him. And you would mope seeing all the new friends he was making while you were stuck daydreaming about your childhood. Everything reminded you of him. You were trapped in memories and he was having the time of his life.

You feel there isn’t much to talk about. You think most of your conversations just flowed better in the moment when you had his full attention. Long distance didn’t work and it sounds funny because you weren’t in an actual relationship, just smitten.

And even if you were too overwhelmed with life to text him, you would still watch all his games.

But sometimes you couldn’t ignore him for fear of losing him forever.

“My mom—she wants to see you.” He sounds sickly, sad.

“She’s with you?” You thought you’d notice if his family went to go see him, but you guess you’re not really caught up in his life anymore.

“Can we FaceTime? Please?”

“I look awful, João. I just had class and I—“

“You think that matters? I just want to see you.” You thought his mother did, but you didn’t mind. Every time you talk to him you further destroy your mental stability, constantly talking to someone you’ll never get to have. You agree, hesitant.

He’s had a pretty bad streak as of late. His first few games were good. He managed an assist on his debut, and two more goals in the next three games. It solidified his place in the league. You couldn’t be more proud, but you couldn’t bare to watch his post-match interviews. You just remembered the kiss every time.

But all good things came to an end eventually, and his last two games were not the prettiest. These were the moments where you would be there for him, but you weren’t. You tried not to feel horrible about it, but you did.

You see his pixelated face on the screen, handsome as ever. He looks so tired. His under-eyes are red. He’s also freaking shirtless which never helps. All you see is his collarbones and that’s not even PG rated, you swear.

Your face must be burning pink.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he responds. It looks like he’s ready for bed. You think he’s in his living room but you’ve also never been to his place. “How are you?” He rubs his eye.

“I’m alright.”

“That’s it? What have you been up to? I want to know everything.” His voice comes in and out. It’s hard to distinguish, but you think his eyes are working overtime trying to take in your being. You also think you see his mom in the background but you don’t ask to see her yet. Obviously this needed to be addressed first. She wasn’t rushing to talk to you like he said anyways.

“I’ll tell you when you buy me a plane ticket. When’s your next game?” It’s not true. You knew the exact date already but you stupidly try to act nonchalant.

You were going to lose him if you didn’t go.

He’s speechless for a moment.

“Mom? Is it okay if she sits in the box with everyone?” He turns his body, his neck and jawline on full display; his perfect glass-like skin making it hard to concentrate. Fuck.

——

You’re here?

Yes, next to your parents

I know, I saw I just wanted to hear it from you

He was just done warming up with the whole team. It was so different watching him here. It’s like everything you’ve imagined for him but better.

He’s stupid. He shouldn’t be on his phone in the locker room right before a game.

You talk with his mother for awhile. She’s been here for only a week. She tells you of how he’s acclimated, how hard it’s been. You figured. Though she jokes that it’s because you haven’t been here, and you fake laugh. You can’t tell what she’s actually thinking, and you’re so raw and vulnerable from when he last left you.

The game goes on like it always has. Like it has since he was a kid. When his team scores you cheer and sometimes you yell his name out when he does something good. He doesn’t hear you, but the gesture was enough.

When the whistle blows, he stays behind to clap around the stadium for the fans. You don’t know what compels you, maybe it’s habit, but as the fans leave up the stairs, you go down them. You hit the rail barricading the stands from the field when he comes closer. He catches your eye, smiles so bright. You haven’t seen him in over a month, and that’s the longest you’ve been apart ever.

“Have you gotten shorter?” he comes into earshot. The players are still on the pitch, the fans not even gone yet. You scowl. Those are the first words that come out of his pretty mouth?

Your arms are over the rails, and both his hands clasp over one of yours. He’s tired, chest heaving, but so happy to see you, smiling through the pain. You want to retreat your hand. It’s so unfamiliar. You don’t.

“Nothing better to say? I should go back.”

“Don’t. Was my Mom annoying you?” His eyes crinkled up. He looked like a dream.

“No, she’s actually more fun to hang around than you…” You don’t actually know how Joao and you get anything done when you speak this way to each other. “…she doesn’t leave me confused.”

You weren’t meant to say that. It came out with no filter. “I-I I didn’t—“

“Let’s go.” He lets go of your hand and makes hand movements as if you were suppose to jump the barricade to get to him.

“No—“ Instead, his places his hands on your side, like he’s had some sharp demeanor turn when he said those words.

“Just bring your leg up, it’s not that tall,” you groan. “Please, ” he adds. You wonder who’s watching what’s happening. It’s pretty embarrassing. But you do what he’s asked because you’re here for him after all.

You bring your leg up over the rail, his hands still on you like you didn’t use to play football and have coordination skills. You laugh because of how stupid this looks, pulling your other leg over to place both feet on the soft grass.

He takes you inside the hallway that leads to the dressing room, but further so you have privacy. He’s pulling you by your wrist, just like he usually does. He looks irresistible in his jersey. He looks like every time you’d ease his injuries after a game. So breathless, heading to your commands, but this time you’re following him like the stranded puppy.

You decide to initiate the dreadful conversation.

“If it didn’t mean anything, the kiss, then that’s okay. I’ll always want to be your friend.” You press yourself against a wall. He’s watching you. He gets to see you fully, what you’re wearing, how pale you’ve gotten, notices you cut your hair. He looks more nervous than he did at the start of the match.

“No, It-it meant everything.” His tongue wets his lips.

“It’s hard for me to say this, I never wanted to leave. I-I thought I could kiss you, and there wouldn’t be consequences, because I was leaving. It’s selfish, so so selfish and I’m sorry…” There’s a long pause. You know he wants to say more so you let him. You also need time to process this.

“I never thought you would ever like me in that way— I still don’t—you’re way too good for me. You’re so smart, like a million times smarter than me and you have a life that doesn’t have to involve me anymore. I only did it because I thought it would be the only time, and you’d forget about me soon enough.”

“I couldn’t forget about you.” You look up at him, desperately following the way his eyes move between you and the wall behind you. He chuckles in disbelief before he sees how serious you are.

“You actually picked the worst time to kiss me, you idiot! You can’t tell me you’re leaving and then just kiss me!”

“I know, I know…”

“Can you at least give me your shirt as a prize for enduring this?”

He laughs, agreeing, but he realizes this conversation wasn’t really over. He didn’t ask the one thing he’s wanted to forever.

When he pulls off his shirt to give it to you, just like he promised, you see the deep purple bruise on the side of his abdomen, stretching over the semblance of his v-line, tight muscles, and up to the point where it’s nearly touching his broad chest. As much as you liked when he wore undershirts, the English sun during the first few games of the season was far too hot for it, and you thanked the weather a little bit for this view.

“I got it during the first game—still there.”

He pauses, “You weren’t here to heal it.”

You laugh, “you can’t heal bruises, dummy.” You know he’s joking and he hates when you give answers he obviously knows already. He gives you a sarcastic look. “I mean, you can ice it, even elevate it but I don’t know how you’d do that if it’s on your stomach—“

“So, you like me back?” He asks suddenly. It’s not really sudden. You guess he’s been asking for a long time.

“Yes,” exasperated, “since forever. I—“

He’s done hearing your talking, hearing your voice for the past ten years. He takes it upon himself to get even closer, closer to the point where your lips touch and you breathe in everything him. All his sweat and cologne mixing with the vivid colors that lace your imagination at the feeling of his soft lips. Your arms are stuck to your side, paralyzed, while his find their way on your waist, pulling you closer. His touch makes every nerve in your body scream, and you can’t believe any of this is real. His jersey falls to the floor in his desperate attempt at filling the space he himself created after he left that day.

He rests his forehead against yours, panting, mostly because he just played a game, but also because he’s kissing his best friend, who looks dazed with pink lips and glazed eyes. There’s a moment of clarity in him, where he asks if that was okay and he peels away from you.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless, a stupid response. “That was more than okay.”

Please, please, like and reblog! It helps me so much!!

558 notes · View notes