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Gavi is running late.
Sarah had him— yes, him and his introverted ass— stay behind to film something she swore would do numbers on TikTok.
Gavi, who has a daily average screen time of fifteen hours a day, has never heard of that ‘trend’ in his life— but you never know with Sarah and the rest of the media team. He has no idea what they’re thinking most of the time.
Cursing under his breath, Gavi runs toward the elevator with urgency. He still needs to change into his kit.
His sneakers squeak against the linoleum as he skids into the empty elevator. Every second counts, and he knows he’ll get an earful from Hansi if he’s late for the Clásico. Even though it isn’t his fault Sarah made him stand in front of a camera.
Gavi can feel the elevator descend to the ground floor. They may have done well in the summer friendly, but this is the first actual Clásico of the season. Gavi’s first since his injury.
The elevator halts on the second floor, which would’ve been fine if the elevator doors didn’t slide open to reveal Jude Bellingham.
It’s undoubtedly Bellingham, standing there a head taller than Gavi and still in his training kit.
Gavi’s face sours. He and Bellingham have only met twice and their second meeting was anything but friendly.
At least Bellingham’s Madridista cronies aren’t with him. Gavi can’t think of anything worse than sharing an elevator with multiple Madridistas. Society has progressed past the need for Madridistas.
Bellingham looks just as surprised to see him. His eyes go wide and his mouth forms a ‘o’ shape. He stays rooted to the spot, like he’s debating whether he should enter a closed space with Gavi or stay put.
Gavi wordlessly steps aside. He isn’t fond of Bellingham, but he isn’t going to deny him access to the elevator. He doesn’t need to play mind games. He’ll beat Bellingham on the pitch fair and square.
Bellingham reluctantly steps inside. He must’ve been busy doing media too, being the new “face of Madrid” and all.
Gavi doesn’t envy him. He’s seen how big of a fuss the media makes every time Bellingham takes a breath. He would actually feel bad for the other boy if he wasn’t so irritating.
"Hey,” Bellingham greets.
"Hey," Gavi responds, tone wary. He doesn’t like small talk; or any talk for that matter. He prefers to communicate with other players by jumping on them and giving them hugs, and there is no way he is hugging Bellingham.
They exchange glances but say nothing more for a moment. The elevator hums as it continues its slow descent.
Gavi glances at the time on his phone, and then the floor indicator.
Then the elevator jolts. Gavi, age twenty and perfectly healthy, nearly gets a heart attack. His soul nearly evacuates from his body when the elevator comes to a sudden stop, the white fluorescent lights flickering over him and Bellingham.
“What the Hell?” Bellingham instinctively grabs the metal bar behind him to stabilize himself. “What just happened?”
Gavi presses the button for the ground floor. Nothing happens.
Hoping for a miracle, Gavi presses it again. And again, and again, and again. Bellingham lets out a squawk of displeasure.
“What are you doing?” Bellingham questions, slowly detaching himself from the metal bar. “Press the emergency button. It’s there for a reason.”
Gavi presses said button, but not because Bellingham told him to. He’d rather die in an elevator than take orders from a Madridista.
Fortunately for both him and Bellingham, a crackling voice comes through the speakers. "Elevator maintenance, how can I help you?"
"This is Gavi.” And Gavi feels like a character in a shitty Hollywood movie. “I’m here in the elevator with Ju— with Bellingham. We’re stuck.”
Bellingham appears beside him. “Any idea how long it will take to fix this? We have a match to play.”
Gavi frowns at the demanding tone. Is being an asshole a requirement to sign for Real Madrid? It seems that everybody who signs for them gets possessed by the evil spirits of the Bernabéu.
“We're sending someone over now. It shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes,” the tinny voice tells them. “Please do not panic.”
Gavi isn’t panicking. He’s just pissed off.
"Great," Bellingham says, sarcastic. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. "Just in time for the match."
Gavi leans against the opposite wall. As far away from Bellingham as physically possible. "This sucks."
“Why are you complaining? This is your club’s fault.” Bellingham narrows his eyes at Gavi. “This wouldn’t have happened if you guys had money to repair your facilities.”
“Camp Nou is literally under construction now,” Gavi retorts, always ready to defend the club of his life. Why did he have to get stuck with Bellingham of all people? If Gavi had to share a confined space with a Madridista, he would’ve chosen Dani— who actually isn’t that bad when he isn’t in a Los Blancos shirt.
Gavi supposes it could be worse though. Bellingham isn’t as bad as Vinícius, and he is certainly much better company than Ceballos the hair puller.
“And who are you to talk about club facilities? Have you seen your stadium?”
Bellingham looks confused. “What’s wrong with the Bernabéu?”
“It’s ugly.” Maybe it was made like that on purpose to match its players. “It looks like an air fryer.”
“At least my team knows how to play football,” Bellingham says, not denying that his home stadium looks like an air fryer. “When was the last time you lot even won a Clásico?”
“We won the most recent one.”
“Oh yeah, the friendly.” Bellingham rolls his eyes. “Congratulations on winning meaningless matches. Somebody should give you the Pre-Season d’Or.”
“Can you even win matches without the help of referees?”
Bellingham glares at him. "Excuse me? We beat you last season, remember?"
"And we beat you the season before that.”
“Whatever,” Bellingham says, rolling his eyes. He rests his back against the elevator’s cool metal wall. “I’m focused on my club and what we’re doing. I don’t even care about this ‘rivalry’ or whatever you call it.”
Gavi can’t believe this guy. “You don’t know anything about Barcelona.”
“I know enough,” Bellingham replies. “I don’t have to be from La Masia to know ball.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You La Masia kids think that everybody who plays for Real Madrid is a bad person,” Bellingham explains. “Don’t say you don’t—“ Bellingham cuts him off when Gavi opens his mouth to argue. “I know you think that. Your little friend Fermín does too.”
Gavi is used to taking shit from people like Bellingham. He won’t, however, let those people talk shit about his friends. “Don’t talk about Fermín.”
“Why?” Bellingham asks. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“No, dummy. Fermín has a girlfriend.” He and Berta are very happy together. “And he’s my best friend.”
“I thought Pedri was your best friend,” Bellingham says. “You two are always together.”
“I can have more than one friend.” Is Bellingham friends with his teammates? Who is he close to? Vinícius? Valverde? Old man Modric? “You do know that’s possible, right?”
“Viní thinks you and Pedri are boyfriends.”
Gavi chokes on his own spit. “What?”
“We have a bet going on in the dressing room,” Bellingham shares, as if Vinícius having opinions about Gavi’s love life is a normal occurrence. “Half of the team thinks you and Pedri are a thing.”
Gavi’s face goes red. “You think Pedri and I are together?”
“I said half of the dressing room thinks you’re a thing,” Bellingham says. “I’m part of the other half.”
“You made a bet involving me?” Gavi sputters. He knew Madridistas were scummy, but he didn’t think they were this scummy. Why are they talking about his (uneventful) love life? Don't they have anything better to do? “You people are insane.”
“So what is it?” Bellingham asks. “Are you and Pedri together?”
Gavi is not dignifying that with an answer. “I’m not telling you shit!”
“So you are together.”
“We aren’t together! Pedri is like my brother!” That’s like incest! Gavi can’t believe he’s having this conversation with Bellingham. “He doesn’t even like guys.”
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Is it just Pedri who doesn’t like guys?” Bellingham asks. “What about you?”
“Why are you asking me personal questions? We aren’t close.”
“So that’s a yes,” Bellingham says. “You are into guys.”
“Why?” Gavi’s face gets hotter. “Is that a problem?”
“Jesus, Gavi, I’m not a bigot.” Bellingham looks around the small confines of the elevator before lowering his voice and saying, “If it makes you feel any better, I like blokes too.”
Gavi can’t say he was expecting that. Bellingham doesn’t strike him as gay… or bisexual or whatever. He seems like the type to have multiple girlfriends.
Gavi can hear his mother’s gentle voice in his head reminding him to not judge a book by its cover. “Okay,” he replies, because what else is he supposed to say? Congratulations on liking cock?
“It’s— my family and friends know,” Bellingham shares. “And my teammates.”
“Same.”
They awkwardly stand there, neither of them willing to continue the conversation.
Fermín would know what to do in this situation. He’s always been more talkative than Gavi. Pedri too, because Pedri is nice and doesn’t have any enemies.
Bellingham has decided to go on his phone. The reception in the elevator is nonexistent so Gavi knows for a fact he isn’t actually texting anyone.
Gavi looks at the time on his own screen. He sighs when he sees that they’ve only been in here for five minutes.
He wills himself to ignore Bellingham’s existence, which is near impossible considering how small the elevator is.
You can do this, Gavi mentally tells himself. It’s only twenty-five more minutes.
It takes longer than twenty-five minutes.
They’ve given up on standing, butts now planted on the elevator floor while they wait to be rescued.
Gavi doesn’t speak to him. He and Bellingham sit in silence, the tension between them palpable in the confined space.
Gavi’s mouth twists into a pout. He was injured for so long and he was finally going to play in a Clásico, but then the faulty elevator and fucking Bellingham just had to ruin it.
At least Bellingham isn’t ugly, Gavi thinks. The other Madridistas are so hideous, Gavi gets jump scares every time he looks at them. He thinks of Vinícius’ face and shudders.
By comparison, Bellingham’s looks aren’t so bad. Gavi can give him that. He's tall and dark and handso— no, Gavi isn't going to call him handsome. The best he can do is ‘not repulsive’.
“What were you doing on the third floor anyway?” Bellingham asks, sticking his nose into Gavi’s business. “Shouldn’t you be in the dressing room with the team?”
“The social media team made me film a video.” He has no idea why Sarah chose him over Robert, who filmed TikToks on his own accord before moving to Barcelona. Like most people his age, Gavi can spend hours lying in bed watching TikToks. Starring in them, however, is another story.
“You don’t look happy about it.”
“Why should I? Those things take forever.” Gavi’s frown deepens. “I want to focus on football.”
“Same.”
Gavi stares at him disbelievingly. “You? No way."
“What? You think I enjoy doing media?”
“You model underwear in your free time.” Willingly. Gavi would rather go bald like Iniesta than pose in nothing but his underwear.
Bellingham raises an eyebrow. "How do you know that?" he questions. “Are you a fan?”
“What?”
“How do you know that about me?” Bellingham questions. “Do you stalk me, Gavi?”
“What?” Gavi's cheeks heat up. “I don't stalk you.”
“Then how do you know that about me?”
Gavi sputters. “I– it came up on TikTok!” It isn't Gavi's fault. He liked a TikTok of him marking Bellingham and the damn algorithm decided that Gavi needed to see more of Bellingham— including but not limited to edits of him posing in just his underwear. “Those videos show up all the time!”
“Videos?” Bellingham echoes. “So you watch multiple videos of me?”
Gavi is not going to answer that question. He is not going to answer any of Bellingham's questions. "I am not talking to you."
Bellingham snickers. “Too late for that, mate.”
“Don't call me that,” Gavi snaps, feathers ruffled. Bellingham is getting on his last nerve. “I'm not your 'mate'.”
"Are you always this high-strung?" Bellingham asks. “I'm trying to make this less awkward for the both of us."
In an ideal world, Gavi was going to play his first Clásico after his injury. He was going to mark Bellingham and make sure he didn't score any lucky goals again. He isn't supposed to be chatting with him in a broken elevator. “Let’s just not talk.”
Bellingham scoffs. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Gavi says, but louder.
Bellingham just has to have the last word. “Fine.”
Gavi scowls, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. The silence is thick, broken only by the dull hum of the elevator’s stalled machinery.
“Fine,” he says, because he too wants to have the last word.
They manage to last fifteen whole minutes without talking.
Gavi tries to pass the time by flicking through his phone, but there isn’t much he can do with no reception.
Bellingham is the first to break. “You’re really gonna sit there and sulk for the rest of the time we’re in here?”
Gavi pointedly doesn’t respond.
Bellingham scoffs. He can’t keep his mouth shut. “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
Gavi shoots him a withering glare. “Didn’t we just agree we’re not talking?”
“I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Be bored out of your mind quietly then.”
Bellingham leans back against the elevator wall. “You have plenty to say when we’re on the pitch. What’s the difference now?”
“I don’t waste my breath on pointless things,” Gavi snaps. “Especially not with Madridistas.”
“Right, of course. You save all your energy for those desperate fouls and tackles.”
Gavi can’t even be angry in peace. “Do you ever stop talking?” he questions. “Do you get off to the sound of your own voice?”
“Are you sure you want to know what I get off to?”
Gavi clenches his fists, but forces himself to take a deep breath. He can’t let Bellingham win this one. “You think I want to stay here and talk to you?”
“You’re the one who’s got his knickers in a twist!” Bellingham shoots back. “I’m just trying to pass the time.”
Gavi does not wear knickers, and even if he did, they wouldn’t be in a twist. He angrily glares at the floor. He refuses to let Bellingham get under his skin.
His eyes drift toward the panel on the wall, still showing they’re stuck between floors.
“So, what do you do when you’re not training or getting into fights on the pitch?” Bellingham asks.
“I hang out with my friends,” Gavi says testily. “Do you have those?”
“For your information, I have plenty of friends.”
“Are they all as annoying as you?”
“You’re so easy to rile up,” Bellingham says, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. They’re nice lips, though they’re in need of a touch of lip balm. “Your temper is as short as you.”
“I’m not short.”
“You’re shorter than me.”
“You’re not that tall,” Gavi argues, even though he is shorter than Bellingham. “Who do you think you are? Courtois? Go stand in goal if you’re so big.”
“That would make headlines,” Bellingham says. “Jude Bellingham as a goalkeeper.”
“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” Gavi rolls his eyes. “You’re obsessed with being in the headlines.”
Bellingham leans back against the elevator wall. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that Gavi can’t read. “Not really.”
Gavi raises his brows, skeptical. “Yeah, right. You love being in the spotlight. You’re always giving interviews and doing videos.”
Bellingham lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Mate, I hate that stuff.”
Gavi blinks, caught off guard. He doesn’t even yell at Bellingham for calling him ‘mate’. “What?”
“Yeah,” Bellingham says, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as if recalling bad memories. “That shit is exhausting. Everyone’s watching, expecting you to say the right thing, but it feels like no matter what you say, it’s never enough.”
Gavi stares at him, genuinely surprised. “I thought you liked being the center of attention.”
“I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t have a choice.”
Gavi shifts in his spot. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you didn’t enjoy it.”
Bellingham lets out a sigh. “Yeah, well, people like to make their assumptions. I mean, I get why. The media stuff is part of the job, but it’s not my favorite.”
“So what is?” Gavi asks, curiosity creeping into his voice before he can stop it.
“Playing, obviously. Being out there on the pitch. Winning. That’s what I love. But all the extra stuff? The cameras, the interviews, the social media posts… It gets old. Sometimes I just want to be left alone, you know?”
Gavi knows. He may not be as big of a name as Bellingham, but he gets it. “I can barely walk outside without getting recognized.”
“Same,” Bellingham says. “The fans are great, but some of them can be…”
“Crazy?” Gavi offers.
“Crazy,” Bellingham accepts. He stretches his legs out in front of him. “That’s something we agree on.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Me too.” Bellingham’s face, usually so cocky and self-assured, looks more serious now. Thoughtful, even. “It’s… different from before. It wasn’t like this at Dortmund.”
Gavi doesn’t respond immediately. He’s not a talker, not in situations like this. But he does know how to listen. So, he waits.
Bellingham seems to take that as a sign to keep going. “Dortmund was a big club, yeah, but nothing compared to the attention here. Madrid is on another level. I feel it when I’m with England too. It’s like the whole world is watching all the time, waiting for me to fuck up.”
For the first time since he met him, Gavi feels like he and Bellingham have found some kind of common ground. “That’s tough.”
“It is.”
Gavi finds himself softening, just a little. Bellingham may be a Madridista, but he’s human too. It’s easy to forget that when they’re on opposite sides of the pitch, but it’s different when they’re alone together in a cramped elevator.
“Do you like it here in Spain?”
“It’s not all bad. The team is great, the weather’s nice, and the food here is better than Germany for sure. And—” Bellingham smirks, “—I don’t mind beating you.”
Bellingham just had to ruin the moment. “Savor the moment while you can. It isn’t happening again.”
“Viní has probably scored already,” Bellingham says, because he’s an asshole who likes to make Gavi angry on purpose. “I bet he scores a brace before halftime.”
“You're delusional,” Gavi refutes. “If anyone’s scoring that, it’s Lamine.”
Bellingham chuckles. “I can’t believe you guys are relying on seven-year-olds to carry you.”
It’s not the ideal scenario— Gavi can’t count the number of child labor jokes made at Barcelona’s expense— but what else can they do? Unlike Bellingham’s satanic club, they don’t have the money to buy the best players in the world. They have to make them themselves. “He’s seventeen.”
Bellingham shudders. “God, I feel so old.”
If he’s old, then so is Gavi— who is only a year younger. “You’re twenty-one.”
“I feel like I’ve aged ten years since I signed for Madrid.”
Gavi stares at him. “Does Pérez allow you to say things like that?”
“He’s not here, is he?”
That gets a laugh out of Gavi. To Bellingham’s credit, that was funny.
“So, what about your team?” Bellingham asks. “You guys seem close.”
“Most of us played together as kids.” Gavi thinks about him and Fermín. He thinks about Lamine and Cubarsi and Bernal. About all the kids who came before and the kids who will come after. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s more than nice,” Gavi tells him. ‘Nice’ doesn’t begin to cover it. “We’re a family.”
“Every club says they’re a family.”
“I mean it. We are a family,” Gavi says, resolute. “And we’re more than a club.”
“It’s like La Masia made you in a lab,” Bellingham snorts. “You live and breathe Barça.”
Gavi takes that as a compliment. He didn’t know Bellingham was capable of giving those to him. He is about to open his mouth to say something when the elevator lights flicker.
“Shit,” Gavi curses when the lights cut off entirely, plunging them into complete darkness.
He can hear Bellingham shift beside him, but the pitch black around them makes the cramped space feel even smaller.
“Wasn't me,” Bellingham tries to joke. It falls flat on its face, like when a Madridista dives on the pitch.
Gavi gets on his feet, the disorienting dark making his pulse quicken. Is this how he’s going to die? In a plummeting elevator after sharing his last words with Jude Bellingham? “What now?”
“Hang on,” Bellingham says, and a second later, the white glow of a phone flashlight pierces the blackness.
Gavi pulls out his phone too, flicking on his own light, the two beams of light cutting through the pitch black elevator.
They stand there holding their phones up, looking at the dark space. The shadows of the elevator walls loom around them, making the four walls even smaller.
Gavi presses the emergency button again, harder this time. “The lights went out,” he says quickly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “We’re stuck. How much longer do we have to wait?”
There’s a pause on the other end, followed by the sound of someone typing or shuffling through paperwork. “Yeah, we’re having some electrical issues. That might be why the lights cut out. We can’t see you through the cameras right now.”
“What do you mean you can’t see us?”
“The cameras are down too. But don’t worry, we’re working on it. Just sit tight.”
“How long is it going to take?” Gavi asks, impatience creeping into his tone. He glances over at Bellingham, who’s watching him but not saying anything.
“Hard to say, honestly,” the voice on the other end replies. “Could be a few minutes, could be longer. Just hold on.”
Gavi grits his teeth, pressing the button again. “We’ve been holding on for a while already.”
There’s a sigh from the other end. “We’re doing the best we can. Just stay calm, okay?”
The speaker cuts off before Gavi can lose his temper. He exhales sharply, letting go of the emergency button and turning back to Bellingham, who still hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor.
“Well, that was helpful,” Gavi mutters, taking a seat on the floor beside Bellingham.
Bellingham shrugs, his phone still casting a white glow between them. “At least they know we’re stuck without any lights on. Could be worse.”
“Could it?” Gavi asks, more to himself than to Bellingham.
They sit in silence, side by side in the dark. It feels like time is stretching out, the quiet between them growing heavier with each passing second.
“I guess we’re missing the whole match.” Bellingham shifts, his leg brushing Gavi’s in the tight space.
Gavi glances at him, noticing how the shadows from the phones’ light make Bellingham’s face look sharper, more defined. Like the attractive bastard is at one of his modeling photoshoots.
“Yeah,” Gavi says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “I guess we will.”
“My mum is probably worried sick right now,” Bellingham says. “She’s no doubt freaking out because I’m not playing.”
“You live with your mom?”
Bellingham nods.“Yeah, she moved here with me when I came to Madrid.” He smiles, but it’s a different kind of smile than Gavi is used to seeing on him. This one is genuine, warm, even. “She keeps me grounded, you know? Makes sure I don’t forget where I came from.”
The words catch Gavi off guard. It’s strange, seeing this softer side of Bellingham. “What’s she like?”
Bellingham’s smile deepens. “She’s strong. Like, the kind of strong that you don’t mess with.” He lets out a little laugh, shaking his head as if recalling a memory. “She can be scary when she needs to be, especially when it comes to protecting me and Jobe. She’s the reason I’ve gotten this far. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
There’s a pause before Gavi speaks again, his voice more thoughtful now. “I get that. My mom is everything to me.”
“I am not the least bit surprised that you’re a mama’s boy.”
Gavi thinks the ‘like me’ went unsaid. “I’m close with my dad too. And my sister, Aurora.” They’re probably watching the match at home, wondering why Gavi isn’t on the pitch. “She’s older, always looks out for me. We’re all really close.”
“I bet they’re proud of you,” Bellingham says. His voice is as soft as his eyes. “All of them.”
Gavi glances away for a moment, then nods, feeling a warmth spread through him. “Yeah. They are.” He hesitates, then meets Bellingham’s gaze again. “I’m sure your family is proud of you too.”
It feels almost surreal, being stuck in an elevator with Jude Bellingham, talking about their families like this.
The darkness around them makes everything feel closer, more personal, their words lingering in the small space between them.
Gavi’s pulse is quick, his breaths shallow, but it’s not from panic. It’s this closeness, the heat coming from Bellingham beside him, their bodies almost fused together, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Neither of them make any attempt to move away.
They’re not looking at the walls, the floor, or their phones anymore. They’re looking at each other.
Bellingham’s voice breaks the silence first, the sound gentle, almost hesitant. “Gavi.”
His name sounds different in Bellingham’s mouth, and it’s not because of his English accent.
Time feels like it slows down, and Gavi doesn’t realize until now how close their faces are. It’s like the four elevator walls have shrunk around them, the distance between them dissolving in slow motion.
Their breaths mingle in the silver of space between them, warm and shallow. Gavi’s mind goes blank, wiped clean of everything except the awareness of Bellingham right there, inches away.
He doesn’t remember who leans in first, or if they both move at the same time, but suddenly, their lips meet in a kiss.
It’s awkward. Gavi’s lips press a little too hard, and Bellingham’s stubble scrapes against his skin like sand. A big hand brushes against his face, not quite tender, more accidental, because neither of them know what to do with this sudden closeness.
The kiss deepens slowly, growing more confident with each passing second. Gavi becomes hyper-aware of every little detail— the wetness of Bellingham's mouth, and the way his chapped lips move against Gavi’s with growing boldness.
Gavi’s fingers finding the fabric of Bellingham’s training kit. He grips the front of it tightly, as if holding on will somehow keep this moment from slipping away.
The kiss grows more urgent, and Gavi can’t stop himself from leaning into it, wanting more. His body relaxes into it, the tension coiled in his muscles earlier melting away as Bellingham tilts his head and deepens the kiss. More tongue, more spit, more, more, more.
The world outside this tiny elevator vanishes. No cameras. No pressure. Just the two of them in this fleeting moment. Gavi feels like he’s floating, losing track of how long they sit there with their lips locked.
When Bellingham pulls back first, Gavi feels the loss immediately. His eyes are lidded, his lips moist, and it takes everything in him not to lean forward and kiss him again.
Bellingham’s face is still close, his breath hot on Gavi’s lips, and for a long, silent moment, they just look at each other.
“Gavi,” Bellingham’s voice is rough. “That was…”
Before Gavi can figure out what to say, the elevator’s speaker crackles to life overhead, startling both of them. “We’ve located the problem,” the tinny voice announces. “Help is on the way. You’ll be moving shortly.”
The elevator suddenly jolts into motion, moving downward, and the overhead lights flicker back to life, bright and sterile.
Gavi blinks against the sudden brightness, still dazed from the kiss, his lips tingling with the memory of Bellingham’s. He swallows hard, trying to pull himself together, but his heart is still racing, and the weight of what just happened between them lingers in the air like a raincloud.
The elevator doors slide open, and they snap their heads to see Barcelona and Real Madrid’s respective squads staring back at them.
“Gavi!”
“Jude!”
“Are you okay?”
“Does anybody need medical attention?”
Gavi is immediately met by the concerned faces of his teammates and the Barcelona coaching staff. Fermín is the first to reach him, which is impressive considering his injury.
“Pablito!” Fermín tackles him in a bear hug. “We heard what happened. Nobody wanted to play until you two got rescued.”
“Who won?”
“It was a draw,” Fermín says, hugging Gavi tighter. “Nobody scored.”
Gavi would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. Whether he’s playing or not, he always wants Barça to win against Madrid.
Speaking of Madrid, Bellingham is surrounded by his own team. Apparently, the forces of evil are capable of affection— Mbappe, Vinícius, Valverde, and the other Madridistas are all crowding over Bellingham, fussing over him like he’s an injured baby bird. Both Ancelotti and his eyebrows look relieved.
“What happened?” Fermín asks, helping Gavi to his feet and leading him out of the elevator. “Did you and Bellingham try to kill each other?”
Gavi missed the most important match of the season. The one game he couldn’t afford to miss, and he was stuck in an elevator making out with Jude Bellingham. “We almost did.”
Hansi’s hand lands on Gavi’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” The words feel heavy on Gavi’s tongue. The tongue that was just in Bellingham’s mouth.
“Gavi!” Lamine, Cubarsi, Hector, and the other kids come to Gavi’s side. Lewy and Iñigo hover over them like tired chaperones.
Gavi’s eyes drift toward Bellingham, standing across the hallway with his own group. Their eyes meet for a brief second, and Gavi feels something stir in his chest. It’s not disappointment anymore, or even guilt.
He missed the match, he missed the Clásico, and he should be furious.
And yet, as he looks at Bellingham— no, Jude —he realizes he’s not that upset about it.