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Jude nearly faints when he first sees it.
Gavi walks through the front door with his bag slung over his shoulder.
At first, Jude smiles at the sight of him. Gavi looks rumpled from training, but he’s still lovely. His brown hair is damp, clinging to his forehead in soft curls, and his shirt is slightly loose, exposing the collarbone Jude has kissed countless times. Even the way Gavi shuffles out of his shoes is endearing.
For a moment, Jude is caught up in watching him, a wave of warmth spreading in his chest. Gavi is all energy on the pitch, but here at home there is something softer about him. Something just for Jude.
But Jude’s eyes drop to Gavi’s hand, and the warmth turns to ice.
“What happened?” Jude questions, smile vanishing, eyes locked on the thick white bandage wrapped around Gavi’s right hand. It’s impossible to ignore, glaringly out of place against Gavi’s skin. “Are you okay? Did someone hurt you? What did you do?”
Gavi freezes, his good hand tightening around the strap of his bag. His gaze flickers briefly to the bandage before he pulls his arm closer to his body, like hiding it might somehow make it disappear. “It’s nothing,” he says quickly, but Jude knows him too well to be fooled.
“Nothing?” Jude repeats, his voice incredulous. “Your hand is wrapped up like you’re a mummy, and you’re telling me it’s nothing?” He closes the distance between them, reaching for Gavi’s arm. “Let me see it.”
Gavi steps back, his body language instantly defensive. “Jude, I said it’s fine,” he insists. He tries to keep his voice firm, but Jude can hear the strain in it. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”
“Fuss over you?” Jude exclaims. “Of course I’m going to fuss over you! You’re clearly hurt and you have the audacity to act like it’s no big deal.”
Gavi hesitates, eyes big and brown. He looks almost cornered, and Jude’s heart breaks.
“Why are you hiding it?” Jude asks. “Is it bad? Did something happen in training?”
“It’s nothing,” Gavi mutters. “Just a stupid accident.”
“Accident?” Jude’s mind races with worry. Injuries are an occupational hazard in their line of work— he knows that better than anyone. He’s dealt with his fair share of scars and sprains, and he’s seen teammates sidelined by worse.
Gavi himself has come home battered and bruised more times than Jude can count, but this? A hand injury? How did that happen?
Unless Flick is playing him completely out of position, Gavi isn’t Barça’s goalkeeper. He doesn’t need his hands to dive for balls or fend off shots, and yet here he is, knuckles wrapped up like he’s just been in a boxing ring. “What kind of accident?”
“I… I punched a wall.”
Jude blinks, certain he must’ve misheard. “You what?”
Gavi’s cheeks flush pink. “I punched a wall,” he repeats, his words barely audible. “I was pissed off after training, okay? I wasn’t playing well, and I… lost my temper.”
For a moment, Jude can only stare at him in disbelief.
Then, all at once, he loses his mind. “You’re such an idiot!” he blurts out, throwing his hands up. “Why would you do that? Do you know how easily you could’ve broken your hand?!”
Gavi looks sheepish. “I know it was dumb,” he admits. “I just… I wasn’t thinking.”
Jude sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but think back to the last time Gavi was seriously injured. To the long, agonizing months when Gavi’s ACL tear kept him off the pitch.
He remembers the crying, the grueling rehab, and the frustration Gavi had barely been able to hide. Watching someone as passionate and relentless as his boyfriend be forced to sit still had been brutal, and Jude never wants to go through that again. He doesn’t want Gavi to go through that again.
And yet, Gavi insists on putting himself in danger every time he steps onto the pitch. Jude has lost count of how many times he’s seen Gavi catapult himself at balls headfirst. It’s part of what makes the player that he is, but it also makes Jude’s heart stop every time he watches him play.
“I can’t believe you,” Jude says, shaking his head. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
Gavi sighs. “I don’t know. I was just mad.”
“Mad enough to punch a wall?” Jude counters. “You’ve got to learn how to handle your temper, love. This isn’t worth it.”
Gavi’s gaze drops to the carpet. “I know,” he says quietly, and Jude feels his anger ebb away completely. “We should— we should sit down.”
The heavy bag on Gavi’s shoulder gets dropped to the floor. He and Jude sit next to each other on the couch, legs pressed close.
Jude places a cushion in his lap. He gently guides Gavi’s injured hand to rest on top of it. “Does it hurt?” he asks, voice much softer now.
“Not really,” Gavi says, but Jude catches the slight wince when he adjusts his injured hand on the cushion. “It isn’t broken.”
Jude sighs, carefully lifting the bandaged hand for a closer look. He doesn’t rewrap it— there’s no point in undoing what the team doctor has already done— but he examines it closely, checking for any signs of pain that might have been missed. “How long will it be like this?”
“A few weeks.”
Jude lets out a deep breath. “At least it’s not broken,” he says, unsure if he’s trying to console Gavi or himself. He tenderly presses a kiss to Gavi’s knuckles, careful not to hurt him. “You’re still a bloody fucking idiot though.”
Gavi huffs a quiet laugh. “You already said that.”
“Well, it’s true,” Jude replies, though there’s no real heat behind the words. He leans back, pulling Gavi against his side. “Just… promise me you’ll be more careful, alright?”
“I’ll be careful,” Gavi says. “No more walls.”
Jude gives him a pointed look. He hopes, for both of their sakes, that Gavi means that. “Good.” He stands, tugging Gavi by his uninjured hand. “Come on, let’s go to bed. You need to rest.”
Gavi doesn’t protest, letting Jude lead them to the bedroom.
They’re both changed and curled up under the bed covers, the faint buzz of the AC filling the air.
Gavi lies sprawled against Jude, his head resting on Jude’s chest. His right hand is draped lightly over Jude’s heart, the weight of it so gentle that it almost makes Jude forget what happened earlier.
Almost. Jude will never forget the way his heart dropped to his ass when he saw the bandages wrapped around Gavi’s hand.
Jude’s arm protectively curls around Gavi’s back, holding him close. His fingers trace featherlight patterns along the planes of Gavi’s shoulders, and then up and down his spine.
“You scared me, you know,” Jude says. “I was really worried. For all I knew, you’d gotten into a fight with one of the coaches.”
Gavi snorts, the sound muffled against Jude’s chest. “As if I’d lose.”
“Oh, so you’d win a fight against a coach, but you somehow lose one to a wall?” Jude fires back, eyebrows arching even though Gavi can’t see them. “Impressive logic, really. Wall: one. Gavi: nil.”
Gavi shifts, lifting his head just enough to look at Jude. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Hey, if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.” Jude’s fingers resume tracing along Gavi’s spine. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s more ridiculous— you punching a wall or you thinking I wouldn’t call you out on it.”
Gavi groans. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m concerned about another thing though.”
“What?”
“You’re right-handed. How are you going to give me handjobs when your hand is all fucked up?”
Gavi smacks Jude on the head with his uninjured hand.