Chapter Text
He glanced up from his biology textbook, taking a break to notice the rhythmic ticks of cicadas and the occasional rev of a gasoline-powered car in the alfresco outdoors of the outlying Spanish villa.
His phone, laying still on his desktop, vibrated abruptly as a phone call flashed on the screen.
"Joder." He muttered, taken by surprise by the sudden disruption of silence. The text LAMINE YAMAL glared on the upper centre of his phone screen as he picked it up, brring as if telling him to hurry up.
"Buenos días, Lamine, what is it?"
The maturing voice of the teenager on the other side of the line piped up. "Hola, Héctor! ¿Qué tal?"
"Bien, what do you want? Dime."
"Come to the pitch at 11, bring a ball. ¡Hasta luego!"
"Lamine—"
Beep. The line cut off before he could protest about how academically committed he is and how Lamine should be too.
"Hablaremos luego también." He grumbled, kissing his teeth. Leaving his unit on osmosis flat on his desk, he hastily stuffed his neon boots into a half-packed duffle bag and set off down the stony, gravelly road to the fading turfless football ground.
"Héctor! I've been waiting ages, tío!" Lamine runs up to him, lazily resting his elbow on his shoulder as they walk towards the centre.
"I'm two minutes overdue." He raised an eyebrow at the slightly shorter boy.
"Time is money, bro. You could've scored a goal in that time, starboy!" Lamine teased, earning an amused, yet flattered chuckle from Héctor.
He grabbed the ball from his bag and chucked it at Lamine, and receiving a slap on the arm in return. He dribbled the ball around, twisting and turning as Lamine grabbed at him, attempting to get it.
He glimpsed at the net, and took a shot.
"BOOM!" He shouted at the other, Lamine shutting his eyes at the loud noise, slapping him.
"Aguafiestas!" Lamine whined, then smiled. "Told you you could do it." As Héctor laughed, playfighting with him, a car pulled into the small parking lot next to the ground.
"¡Hola, señoritas!" A male voice called out.
"Ah, tío!" Lamine exclaimed, then, looking at Héctor, "I called up the others, too."
Héctor aimed his vision towards the boys exiting the sleek matte car, trying to fight off the thoughts teasing him about expecting someone to emerge.
Though he wouldn't admit it, his pupils did dilate when the someone eventually did, excusing it silently for the ever-so-irritating sunlight.
The boy driving the car, stepped out, locking it after slamming the door shut. Then, looking over, smiled with his eyes at Héctor.
"Hola, hermanito." He greeted with a small wave.
"MARC!!!" Héctor, seven at the time, shouted as hard as his little voice could manage.
Running after his friend, he hugged him, celebrating his goal, but apparently so hard, they fell tangled on the fresh, slightly dewy grass.
Marc giggled, getting up and then extending a hand to his companion. Rushing back into place, they got ready for another win for their team.
Guiu and Fort, the undefeated duo of their U8 team, known to carry with their quick speeds and accurate aim.
They worked as partners like bread and butter, complementing the other's skills with their own, receiving the attention and praise of the local media.
And now, staring face to face at seventeen, the dazzling sunlight revealed evident changes in both their features and builds, and unbeknownst to each other, where the sunlight could not disturb, laid changes in sentiments as well.
Héctor returned a smile, walking up to him.
"Que bueno verte, Marc."
"Tu también. You're acting weird." Marc laughed.
"No estoy..?"
"Okay." Marc ruffled his hair, then went to join Lamine. Héctor tried to not berate himself.
The increased chattering and clamour of people around the area signified early afternoon and soon they had become tired out from playing, and decided to grab lunch at a small restaurant nearby.
They pack themselves into this booth definitely not made for seven growing teenagers, and Héctor sits faced to Pau and to the right of Marc, who looks like he's about to be smashed into the brick wall of the little tapas bar, cause of death: squashed by sweaty schoolboys like a dying cucaracha.
Héctor had cooled down from playing by taking the last few rounds out, but a bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He narrowed his eyes, staring blankly at the table, mind running in circles as he couldn't find another thought but the blatant circumstance of how he was sat.
Héctor's thigh was practically adjoined to Marc's, so close he could virtually feel the other's heartbeat. Marc didn't seem to mind, playfully humming the tune of something along the sorts of Quevedo or Anuel as he checked his text messages.
Perhaps he wouldn't have minded if there were barriers to their contact, but on a classic scorching summer day in Catalunya, no one would be caught wearing long pants and sleeves, especially if you're out playing an exhilarating sport.
But covertly, Héctor was maybe just a little gratified with how things go, and possibly, perchance, would not be displeased if something like this happened again, as long as the object of the occurence was Marc.