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Sae Itoshi had received an unusual invitation: to attend a family meal at Leonardo Luna's home.
His first reaction was to decline. Almost automatically, as he did with most social engagements that didn't involve football.
The second barrier was his manager, Giraud Dabadie, who—with a smile and a tone that brooked no reply—made it clear that he had no choice.""Public relations," he called it. "Connections. Image."
The third reason was inevitable: he would eventually accept. Because he always did. Because even Real Madrid stars had to give in, sooner or later.
And the fourth… The fourth was a little personal secret. He'd like to go to the April Fair.
Sure, his workouts were barely letting him breathe, and his schedule was as tight as a knot in his shoelaces. But if Leonardo had invited him, wasn't that a door that was half open?
A detail flashed in his memory like a late warning.
—Wait… didn’t Leonardo Luna’s family live in Seville?
His wife. His three daughters. Seville.
Sae paused for a moment, silent. And sighed. Sae Itoshi knew there was no escape.
He had accepted the invitation—or rather, he had been dragged into accepting—and now he had to keep his word. This wasn't just a family meal; it was an event in Seville, in the middle of the April Fair. The city was transformed during those days: lanterns, flamenco dresses, music that didn't stop until the early hours, and a vibrant energy that had nothing to do with the disciplined coldness of training in Valdebebas. The festivities were held one or two weeks after Holy Week and coincided, of course, with the bullfights in the Plaza de la Maestranza, a detail that Leonardo Luna—as Spanish as he was passionate—probably found impossible to ignore.
For Sae, however, it was all foreign. Exotic. Intense. And it required logistics.
That meant a train. From Madrid to Seville. A long, uncomfortable trip if not well planned. And Sae didn't tolerate discomfort.
With a resigned sigh and his arms crossed, he turned to his manager, who was checking emails on his inseparable electronic tablet.
"Book a ticket to Seville. In the best class, as always," he ordered tersely, without looking at him.
Giraud Dabadie didn't respond immediately. He smiled as if he'd been waiting all day for his star to give up, and with a nimble movement of his fingers on the screen, he began searching for options.
"Oui, sir. First class, window seat. Perfect time for you to sleep during the journey, Sae," he added with a French accent.
Sae said nothing. He simply looked down at the ground, silently acknowledging that He had just taken the first step toward the colorful chaos of Seville.
[🐰]
NO.
NO.
WHY HIM!?
Standing in front of the AVE train, wearing his casual airport uniform and a smile that was already giving him a headache, was Bunny Iglesias.
Bunny. Iglesias.
FC Barcelona's star striker, darling of the Spanish press, TikTok idol, highlight reel king, and, for Sae, the emotional equivalent of a kick in the shin in the 89th minute.
Bunny was a key figure in the Barça team from the start of the season: goals, assists, charisma, a favorite of the cameras, and… yes, one of the most promising talents in football. Just like him. Fair like him. But with less elegance and more… glitter.
What kind of cosmic joke was this? Was Seville not noisy enough? Could flamenco not be danced in peace without this Barça clown?
Giraud, who was standing next to Sae, turned his head very slowly as he recognized the player.
Bunny, as if life were a romantic comedy and the two of them were the protagonists destined to meet again, smiled with radiant enthusiasm.
"Oh! Sae, are you going to Seville too?" he asked with that nonchalant tone that could only come from someone who's never received a red card.
Sae didn't respond. He didn't even blink. He just frowned so hard it probably formed expression lines.
Giraud swallowed. The temperature had suddenly dropped five degrees.
—W-Well, Sae is going to Seville for… more personal reasons, Mr. Iglesias —he tried to say, like someone throwing a rope to two lions who are about to fight in the middle of a school parade.
Bunny continued to smile, delighted with himself.
And Sae… Sae already wanted to kill him. With a flamenco fan, with a tablao chair, with a look if it was possible.
Sae grabbed his suitcase with one hand, his headphones tangled in the other, and headed toward the AVE train car with the elegant—and lethal—gait of someone who had no time for nonsense.
Lunch was scheduled for three in the afternoon.
Three o'clock in the afternoon.
For Itoshi Sae, that was basically the late snack time In Japan, by that time they'd have already had dinner, washed the dishes, and been watching a relaxing TV series with the cat on their lap. But of course, the Spanish had a different notion of time… one as lax as their defense in certain games.
Before boarding the train, he turned his face slightly toward his manager, who was still following him like a professional and long-suffering shadow.
"Don't forget to ask the Japanese consulate to renew your passport," he said, in a serious tone, as if it were a matter of state.
Giraud nodded, already mentally jotting it down on his list of impossible tasks, when a familiar —too familiar— voice interrupted from behind:
"I'll take good care of him," Bunny Iglesias said, with a mischievous smile that masked a thousand intentions.
Giraud blinked.
And he began to pray.
To absolutely all the gods.
Japanese, French, Sevillians, footballers, and chaos. Even Maradona, just in case.
Because if he had learned anything in all his years of managing stars, it was that when two men like Itoshi Sae and Bunny Iglesias shared a closed, high-speed carriage, there were only two possible endings:
A miraculous truce…
Or a silent war with tense smiles and passive-aggressive comments all the way to Andalusia.
But what Giraud didn't know—and what would have made him faint right there—was that Leonardo Luna, in a display of goodwill and zero common sense… had also invited Bunny Iglesias to the family meal.
And the worst part: Bunny already knew. And he smiled as if he were the guest of honor on a soap opera.
[🐰]
Bunny Iglesias appeared as always: with questionable style but unbeatable presence.
He wore a black cap with a rabbit's face on the front—a design as ironic as it was intimidating—and, to top it all off, it had scars embroidered on the edges, as if the rabbit had emerged from a street fight and won. A Levi's shirt was unbuttoned at the forearms, tight jeans, and biceps that seemed to be asking for their own attention. People loved Bunny Iglesias. So did the cameras. And that, of course, deeply bothered Sae Itoshi .
Because to top it all off, Bunny had looked at him from top to bottom . With that relaxed, cheeky, almost... appreciative gesture?
Sae was already sitting in his seat—the window seat, of course—with the air of a prince in full exile. Immaculate white nightgown, perfectly coordinated black and white necklace and bracelets. Sae didn't like being disturbed. But even more, he was irritated that Bunny Iglesias looked at him as if he were the cover of a magazine and he was the guest critic.
— Dear passengers, the AVE train to Seville will depart shortly at 8:25. Stops: Ciudad Real, Puertollano, and Córdoba. Estimated time: two hours and thirty minutes. —the voice announced over the PA system.
Two and a half hours. Ninety minutes of pure tension, with the scent of expensive leather and restrained rivalry.
No one said anything at first. Silence. Only the low hum of the train and the faint creak of the wheels as it began to move.
And then, of course, Bunny spoke. Because Bunny always spoke.
"Have you ever been to Seville?" he asked, as if they weren't at war every Sunday since the season began.
Sae didn't turn around. He didn't even give him a raised eyebrow.
—No. It's the first time. Why?
"So you know it's the April Festival," Bunny said in a light tone, like someone commenting on the weather, but with the emotional weight of a penalty in the 94th minute.
"So?" Sae continued staring out the window, as if the Atocha landscape were infinitely more interesting than the Barça striker. "The Seville festivals are a place I want to go."
"So soon, huh?" Bunny replied with a little smile.
Sae didn't answer. But the way his jaw clenched said something like, "If this train had an emergency exit, I'd have thrown you out by now."
And there were two hours and twenty-nine minutes left. Of travel, of tense silence, and the latent threat that one of us would end up dancing sevillanas... on the other's ego.
For the next few minutes, Bunny Iglesias did what he did best after scoring goals and annoying Sae: talking into his phone's camera.
He had his Instagram live, greeting his fans enthusiastically, showing off the carriage (with filters, of course), responding to comments in that soft voice of his, and offering the occasional unexpectedly profound reflection on life, football, or the taste of AVE coffee, as if he were an existentialist philosopher wearing a rabbit hat.
Sae, meanwhile, gazed out the window at the scenery as if he could escape through it. He was already used to that contrast: his silence against Bunny's noisy world.
And then, it happened .
"Sae," Bunny said, leaning toward him a little. "Can we take a picture?"
Sae looked at him sideways. He wanted to say no. With all his might.
Because I knew Bunny Iglesias well. Behind that friendly smile and soft voice was a player full of storms. One who spoke with an honesty that sometimes hurt, who could be subtly condescending and then, suddenly, melancholic. Bunny spoke about football as if it were an open wound, and about life as if he hadn't yet decided whether he liked it or not. And while on the field they were natural enemies, off it… Bunny had that annoying way of slipping between other people's emotional walls without asking permission.
Sae sighed. Long. Deep. Tired.
—Just one.
The photo was quick. Sae looked at the camera with a "don't take me anymore" look on his face, while Bunny smiled as if they'd won the Champions League together.
A minute and a half later, the post was already online.
@bunn I found @itoshisae on the train! HEHEHE 🐰🚄✨
Five minutes passed.
Sae checked his phone, against his better judgment.
45.000 likes.
986 comments.
468 shared.
@fandelbunnysae: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
@oiwa-rei: IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL!
@alexis_ness ✅️: They are so cute together!
@barça4life: Is this a crossover? A miracle? A prophecy?
@uma54: KING, DON'T LET YOURSELF FALL INTO TEMPTATION!
Sae turned off his cell phone.
And Bunny, still smiling, whispered like someone adding fuel to the fire:
—We turned out very well, huh?
Sae thought of every possible way to change seats without being noticed. But it was too late. The silent war now had fandom .
And that fandom…
That damn fandom…
It already had a name.
#bunnysae.
With double “n”, with the same dramatic intensity with which the fans shouted for a ship that Sae had not signed, approved or legally authorized .
At that precise moment, Itoshi opened his phone, more out of reflex than necessity. A message lit up the screen:
Giraud: “The photo came out great, Sae! 😊”
Sae stared at him. As if the smiley emoji were a personal betrayal. 18 million euros a month. And it still wasn't enough to endure this. Not even all the Bernabéu's gold could protect him from the consequences of a smile misinterpreted on the internet.
Meanwhile, Twitter in Spain was burning as if the secret of the universe had been leaked.
Trend #1: #bunnysae
Trend #2: "Sae smiling 😳???"
Trend #3: “What’s going on on that train?”
There were fancams, edits with slow reggaeton music, gifs, fanarts… Everything in a matter of thirty minutes. The efficiency of the fandom was terrifying.
Sae slowly closed his phone. She held it as if it were radioactive. And then she looked at it.
Him.
Bunny Iglesias remained in his seat, half-reclined, with that “I didn’t do anything” smile that really meant “I did everything and I loved it.”
"What?" Bunny asked, innocent as a fallen angel... and landed straight in his nightmare.
Sae looked at him without saying a word. If looks could kill, the train would have a dead body and an extra stop.
[🐰]
They arrived at the first stop: Ciudad Real. Outside, the heat was rising as if they were already at the April Fair, and inside the AVE, the air conditioning was heroically fighting to keep the passengers from melting like ice cream at the brotherhood.
Bunny, in his unmistakable style, took off his cursed rabbit cap—the one that was half garment, half stylistic declaration of war—and began to fan himself with it, like an Andalusian lady at twelve o'clock mass.
Sae, for his part, was unfazed. He was focused on his tablet, like a Japanese Wall Street executive:
—Political news from The Country .
—Football results.
—Transfer rumors.
—Energy drink ads.
—And, of course, his latest Calvin Klein ad, where he appeared less dressed than logically possible.
Bunny glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. First at Sae's perfect profile. Then... at his own feet. And without thinking twice (though definitely he should have thought of that), he brought his eyes closer a little. Barely. Subtly. Disguising.
Sae looked down. His eyes, cold as dry ice, rested exactly where Bunny's feet were almost, almost touching his own.
Silence.
A break.
A tension that only fools and Twitter fans would miss.
Because among them something had happened . They didn't talk about it. They didn't mention it. It didn't exist out loud.
But they both knew it. Like two spies who shared a secret mission in enemy territory… And now they pretend that nothing occurred. Except one is fanning himself with a bunny hat, and the other is wearing designer underwear in half the city of ads.
And the train continued on its way. Two hours to Seville. And none of the air conditioning was going to cool that down.
[🐰]
An hour passed. The AVE continued its steady course southward, and the heat continued to persist, but the air conditioning had worked its magic. The entire car was immersed in a collective siesta atmosphere: heads resting, soft snores, mobile phones being carried around like babies in an incubator.
And in the window seat, Itoshi Sae, soccer idol and recent victim of the #bunnysae phenomenon, was sleeping.
Well… He was trying to sleep .
With his black silk mask firmly in place—which, by the way, had his initials embroidered in silver, because even when she slept, Sae was Sae—she lay back as if the train were his private first-class suite. Her legs stretched out, his arms crossed, the aura of a samurai at rest.
Sleep was important. Sacred. Vital. A moment of zen amidst the chaos of football and media. And everything was going well…
Until the castanets began.
— ¡Clac, clac, clac-clac!
— ¡Clac, clac, clac!
— And olé!
Sae frowned beneath his mask. He shifted. He tried to ignore it.
And then, the final straw:
—Velaíta de Santa Ana, Triana. Faroles sobre el río. Velaíta de Santa Ana, Triana. Faroles sobre el río, Triana. Faroles sobre el río. Puestecitos de avellana', Triana. !Y tú, del brazo mío..!
Bunny.
Bunny Iglesias. Sitting next to him. With a smile as big as his ego. Clapping along enthusiastically to the beat, a lot of noise , as if he were in the middle of a booth with rebujito in his hand and an invisible flamenco dress.
Sae slowly removed his mask, like a man who knows there is no salvation.
He looked at him.
Bunny continued singing, completely ignoring the international laws of good sleep for others.
—"Calentitos y buñuelo'", Triana. Qué negras tus pestañas, ay, niña. Que mira, mírame. Vamos a ve' la cucaña, sentraña'. ¡Triana y olé!
And then, unintentionally—or perhaps intentionally— Sae smiled.
A small smile, like someone remembering something they've already experienced. A resigned smile. Tired. Complicit. Because yes… Some things don't change, right?
And, as you'd expect in this digital spy age, three passengers in the car were already recording everything.
One uploaded it in stories:
@carla_lopez: "BUUNY SINGING SEVILLANO AAAAAAAAAAAAA 😭🔥🔥🔥"
Another made a TikTok with Rosalía's music in the background. And the third… uploaded a 12-second video to Twitter with the description:
"Sae trying to sleep while Bunny sings sevillanas to his boyfriend = Spanish marriage confirmed."
In less than 10 minutes: 25,000 likes. 6,000 comments. An edit featuring Sae as the bride in a white dress and Bunny as the groom dancing flamenco.
@phainon this should be a fanfic, waiteee
@tuxxx87 NOW I'M WRITE IT
Sae put the mask back on. But she knew there was no peace left.
And Bunny, still singing, whispered:
—We have to get into the mood, Itoshi. They're waiting for us in Seville with flyers.
Sae thought that, honestly, she wasn't paid enough for this.
And yet… It was okay. Some crazy things were inevitable .
[🐰]
And finally, after two and a half hours on the train, a failed attempt at a nap, improvised sevillanas, and a silent war of feet, Itoshi Sae and Bunny Iglesias arrived in Seville.
The city welcomed them as only Seville can: with 37 degrees Celsius. It was barely 10 a.m. The air was thick and bright, as if someone had baked it in a wood-fired oven, scented with orange blossom.
Sae got off the AVE with his Japanese-designed wheeled suitcase, black sunglasses and the aura of a man who already slightly regretted everything. Bunny, of course, jumped out as if the warmth nourished his soul. He stretched like a cat, put on his bunny cap like a crown of glory, and sighed happily:
— Aaah… Seville. It smells like fairs, heat, and grandma's croquettes.
Sae didn't reply. Her sweat had already made the decision to leave without permission.
Just at that moment, in front of the station, Leonardo Luna appeared.
—Ah, guys, you're here!
Leonardo was what some would call "impeccably annoying": tall, 27 years old, with blond hair cut short on the sides and a fringe neatly swept to the left. He dressed like he belonged on the cover of an Andalusian menswear magazine. And yes, at first glance, he seemed like the typical friendly guy who'd invite you for a coffee. But those who know him on the pitch know he's more dangerous than a poorly defended corner.
"My wife is already nagging me," he said with a half smile as he patted Bunny on the back.
Sae and Bunny bowed almost in sync, as if they had rehearsed:
—Mr. Luna!
"Bunny," Leonardo said warmly, "thank you for accepting the invitation."
Invitation?
Sae blinked.
Invitation...?
—No, no, thank you for being so kind, —Bunny replied with his good-boy smile... the one that always hides something.
Sae silently felt his blood boiling hotter than the asphalt beneath his designer sneakers.
Had Bunny been invited? By Leonardo? To the family meal...?
Him. The man who sang sevillanas to his on the train. The rival in a T-shirt. The bunny with biceps.
Sae gritted his teeth gently. He looked up at the blue, cloudless Seville sky. And he thought: “Please let a giant fan fall on me.”
Bunny, meanwhile, turned around with his typical innocent expression and winked at him:
—I didn't tell you, huh? Surprise.
Poor Sae. She just wanted a meal. A quiet afternoon. A passport renewal. And, maybe, a nap.
But instead, he found himself in Seville, at 37 degrees, with his rival at his side, on his way to eat with a whole family... who also had invited Bunny Iglesias.
The April Fair was just beginning. And so was the drama.
[🐰]
Sevilla.
Words aren't enough to describe it, but one still tries. A Roman, Moorish, Renaissance, Baroque, a mixed-race city, a seafaring city without a sea, a bullfighter without horns, devout and mischievous all at once. Seville is an open-air theater, and every street, every corner, seems like a scene frozen in history, art, light, and orange blossom.
For Itoshi Sae, accustomed to Japanese rigor, to silent temples and orderly matsuri where yukatas don't wrinkle even by accident, Seville was a perfumed, luminous, extroverted... and alive chaos.
From Leonardo Luna's car, with the air conditioning on full blast and the smell of sunscreen floating in the air, the city seemed to pulse.
The Giralda tower in the distance, golden in the Andalusian sun like a fiery spire. The Cathedral rose like a stone giant. The narrow streets of the Santa Cruz neighborhood, tangled like a labyrinth of shadows and flowerpots, sped past the car windows. And in the background, like an unauthorized soundtrack, the April Fair roared with its sevillanas, rebujitos, and laughter.
"There's the Maestranza, Sae," Leonardo said, pointing enthusiastically from behind the steering wheel as the car turned down a wide avenue. "And beyond that, María Luisa Park. Let's see if we can take you horseback riding."
Sae, in the backseat, just nodded, looking like someone who'd entered an alternate universe. It was as if everything he'd learned about Spain through football had been reduced to fairground dust.
"This... this isn't like Japan," he murmured, almost to himself, thinking of the summer festivals he used to go to with Rin as a child. There, there was silence, a gentle breeze, and traditional music. Here, there were lanterns, guitars, shouts, fans, and a woman dancing flamenco in the middle of a roundabout.
Beside him, Bunny Iglesias was delighted, his elbow resting on the open window and his bunny hat back on his head.
—Look, Sae. This is a mix of baroque art, Andalusian pride, and a little bit of madness with ham.
"And heat," Sae added, sweating, with a stoic expression.
—Of course. If it's not hot, it's not funny, —Bunny laughed.
Leonardo spoke, Bunny responded, and Sae listened. An explosive mix of Barcelona, Seville, and Japanese accents simmered inside the car like an emotional paella.
"And you haven't even seen anything yet!" Leonardo said with a smile. "Tonight I'm taking you to a booth. Important people. Singing, food, good company..."
Sae raised an eyebrow. Good company. As if he and Bunny weren't emotional time bombs stuck in a Seat.
But even so, he looked out the window. The palm trees swayed in the sun, the Guadalquivir River shimmered as if someone had sprinkled sequins on it, and the ephemeral city that sets up every April to celebrate life… was already enveloping everything.
There was music in the street. There were cameras, tourists, sevillanas, and polka-dotted flamenco dancers like brushstrokes of bright colors.
Seville was alive. And he, without fully understanding how, was there.
Beside him, Bunny smiled at him.
—Hey, Sae… do you know how to dance sevillanas?
"No," he replied.
—So tonight you're going to learn.
—…God forbid.
And from the front seat, Leonardo just laughed. Because in Seville, even the most tense rivals end up dancing. Even if it's reluctantly. Even if it's with a muscular rabbit at their side.
[🐰]
They arrived at Leonardo Luna's house, and if there was any doubt that football paid well, this mansion instantly dispelled it.
It was located in one of Seville's most exclusive areas, with streets named after bullfighters and sidewalks cleaner than a Japanese operating room. The entrance featured well-pruned palm trees, a marble fountain shaped like a golden ball (yes, a golden ball), and an automatic gate that opened to the rhythm of sevillanas in the background. The luxury had an Andalusian flavor.
Sae got out of the car silently, with the neutral expression of someone who's seen a lot... but maybe not so many pools shaped like soccer fields. Bunny followed, still wearing his elegant calm, his easy steps, and that bunny hat that contrasted ridiculously with the millionaire surroundings.
Leonardo parked with one hand on the wheel and the other on his phone, answering some messages from his wife with a look of “Yes, darling, I’ll do it now.” .
Then, from the front door, ran a small blond figure with a voice as cheerful as fairground bells.
"Daddyyyyy!" shouted a little girl with golden braids and sparkling green eyes.
It was Alba Luna, five years old and already a Sevillian princess. Leonardo caught his in midair with the practiced skill of a veteran striker.
—My girl! Have you been okay with Mom?
Alba nodded with the energy of someone who still has no debts, no matches, no advertising contracts with energy drinks.
Then, he looked with the shameless curiosity of children at the two strangers getting out of the car.
—And who are they?
Sae reflexively gave a quick, polished bow, so Japanese that the girl fell silent for two seconds.
Bunny, on the other hand, smiled at his and raised his hand as if greeting a fan in the front row.
—Hello, little one. I'm Bunny.
"Like a rabbit?" she asked, somewhere between fascinated and confused.
"Exactly," he replied, pulling down his cap to reveal the embroidered rabbit.
—How cool!
Sae, watching the scene, couldn't help but think of Rin when he was little. That same energy. That same inquisitive gaze. That same ability to read people in five seconds and decide whether they were trustworthy or not.
And Alba, it seemed, had decided that she did.
—Dad, can you play with me later?
"If you're not too tired," Leonardo replied, winking at the two guests. "But first, let's eat, your mother's holding a carnival in the living room."
Bunny and Sae looked at each other briefly.
The four of them crossed the threshold of the house, and were instantly greeted by a wave of warm air and the scent of incense. The living room was spacious, bright, and possessed the unmistakable charm of well-lived Andalusian homes: high ceilings, white walls decorated with colorful ceramics, a pair of ceiling fans slowly turning, and of course... a fine layer of dust on the antique wooden furniture that betrayed the fact that Seville is unforgiving, even with mansions.
Sae took a brief but careful look around. She noticed the paintings of Virgin Marys, the fans hanging on the wall, and a framed photo of Leonardo celebrating a goal... with a shabby hairstyle.
Bunny, more relaxed, took off his cap out of courtesy and put it under his arm, while Alba ran ahead announcing:
—They've come! They've come!
And then, she appeared.
From the stairs, María Luna, the eldest daughter, came down with all the solemnity and attitude of a fifteen-year-old teenager who already believes herself to be the director of the world's social networks.
Hair pinned up with colorful clips, cell phone in hand, sharp gaze. When his eyes caught sight of Itoshi Sae and Bunny Iglesias in his living room, she didn't waste a second. She opened Instagram. She recorded. She put on some trendy music. And she wrote:
“#saeitoshi and #buun at my house 😭🔥💃”
He gave it to publish. In less than three minutes: 8,492 views, 246 comments, 127 shares. And yes. National trend.
“The Luna family welcomes the stars of world football.”
“What is Sae doing in Seville?”
“Buun and Sae together again?”
“The Sevillian multiverse is real.”
"Maria!" Leonardo Luna's deep voice thundered as he lowered a tray of ham.
—You can't record guests, daughter. That's not done!
—Dad, they're famous... And they're on the couch at home! Do you know how many likes I have right now? Even Brazilians are following me!
Sae sighed. Bunny shrugged and winked at the girl.
—Just make sure I look good in the video, okay?
María let out a nervous laugh, while Leonardo silently prayed that this lunch wouldn't end up on TikTok dancing bulerías with Sae and Bunny in the background.
But of course… with that family, anything was possible.
At that moment, the domestic scene took a new turn with the entrance of Doña Fernanda, Leonardo Luna's wife.
With a confident stride and a high ponytail that swung elegantly, she appeared at the threshold of the living room dressed in tight sportswear, as if she'd just come from a Pilates session or from treating the back of half of Betis. A physiotherapist by profession, queen of the house by vocation, Fernanda possessed that irresistible blend of Andalusian charm and maternal authority that straighten your spine with a single glance.
Leonardo saw his come in and lit up as if he'd scored a goal in the Champions League final. Because yes, at the end of the day, the life of a footballer tends toward that fate: you fall in love with someone with character, you get married before 30, and you end up organizing family barbecues on Sundays.
Sae, as always, was impeccable. She stood, stood at attention, and gave him a Japanese bow so respectful it seemed like she was greeting an empress. Doña Fernanda smiled warmly, with a hint of bewilderment at such formality.
Bunny, on the other hand, was all affection:
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fernanda!" he said, planting two resounding kisses on his cheeks with that ease with which he entered any place as if it were his own home.
Sae watched silently, his large blue-green eyes squinting. Bunny shot his a sidelong glance. And yes, she knew him. She knew that expression: it wasn't discomfort… It was bewilderment wrapped in calculation. Sae wasn't uncomfortable, just processing.
The Spanish warmth, the physical contact, the effusive greetings… still seemed so different from his meticulous world of silence and distance.
Doña Fernanda, without giving it any importance, clapped his hands and spoke with a smile:
—Hi, guys! Thanks for being here. It's so nice to have you home. I've heard you're two gems... although I think one shines brighter than the other, huh?
Bunny burst out laughing. Sae tilted his head slightly, as if determining whether this was a joke or a friendly provocation.
And so, with the heat of Seville seeping through the windows, dust floating in the midday light, and singing echoing from the street, the most chaotic, public, and potentially viral meal of the year began.
[🐰]
The aroma of cooking wafted through the house like a savory melody: garlic, olive oil, freshly sliced ham, and that unmistakable touch of Andalusian stew, simmering slowly but reaching straight to the soul. In the kitchen, two private chefs dressed in immaculate whites orchestrated a culinary symphony: salmorejo, croquettes, a juicy omelet, fried fish, and eggplants with honey that seemed divine.
In the living room, the scene was calmer... outside.
Itoshi Sae sat upright on the beige leather sofa, glass of water in hand, as if it were sake. There was no ice. He didn't need it. Beside him, as if nothing had happened, was Bunny Iglesias, legs spread, elbow propped, and that lopsided smile that left it unclear whether he was about to tell a joke or declare war. And, between them, the most dangerous little person in the room: five-year-old Alba Luna, watching them with an inquisitive gaze that could have directed a documentary.
"So... you're friends?" he asked, with the innocent voice of someone who doesn't know they've just dropped an emotional atomic bomb.
Oh, Alba. If only you knew. If only you knew about the World Cup, the rainy game, the shoving, the shouting in the tunnel, the unanswered messages, and that damn Clásico from five months ago.
Bunny blinked, slightly surprised. Then he smiled with that signature expression, somewhere between charming and resigned.
—We are… friends with enmity in the field.
Alba frowned as if that made no sense at all.
—And what does that mean?
Sae, without taking his eyes off his glass, spoke with that calm voice that seemed to hide dynamite: "It means that someone you trusted, Miss Alba, left without warning."
"Oh," Alba said, as if she had just learned a great life lesson.
Bunny tensed for just a second. Just a little. Because he knew exactly what Sae was talking about. The game. El Clásico. Five months ago. One play. One missed pass. One decision that changed everything.
But now there they were, the three of them on that Andalusian sofa, smelling of oil and glory, with a little girl in the middle as an involuntary referee.
And from the kitchen, Fernanda shouted with his sweet accent:
—The food is served! Don't let it get cold, otherwise the salmorejo will lose its charm!
Sae got up first. Bunny followed. Alba ran ahead. And for a few seconds, because of the scent, the warmth of Seville, and the familiar murmur, it almost seemed like they didn't hate each other so much.
But just as they were about to cross the threshold into the dining room, the scent of salmorejo floating in the air like a temporary respite, Bunny reached out and grabbed Sae's wrist.
It was a quick, almost invisible gesture, but loaded with meaning.
"Sae." His voice was a strained whisper, as if the walls could hear.
Itoshi stopped. He turned his head just enough so that his usual gaze—that mixture of coldness and Japanese pride—met Bunny's eyes.
—You know I needed it. That contract with the Barcelona club… it wasn't an option, it was a way out.
The way out you didn't have. The subtext hung in the air, unspoken.
Sae looked at him without blinking, his tone flat, but sharp:
—I know. One more reason to want to beat you in the Copa del Rey. Or the World Cup. Or wherever.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. There was something in his tone more hurtful than any shout.
Bunny swallowed. He looked down. Not because he felt guilty, but because—though he'd never admit it—something in him had also broken that day, in that field, in the rain.
He slowly released Sae's wrist. He didn't say anything else. The contact dissolved like an unfulfilled promise.
And then, as if nothing had happened, Alba's voice echoed from the dining room:
—The ham's getting cold! Runn ...
Sae walked first. Bunny followed, his fingers still burning from the contact.
[🐰]
During the meal, the Luna house was filled with voices, aromas, and a certain elegant tension that floated between the cutlery. Everyone was at the table: Leonardo and Doña Fernanda at the head of the table, like modern Andalusian kings. To one side, Sae Itoshi and Bunny Iglesias, seated together by fate or the logistics of the dining room. Opposite them, the daughters: Alba, the youngest, in his flowery dress; María, the teenage Instagrammer; and, finally, making a somewhat late appearance, Rocío Luna, eleven years old with a sharp gaze, a self-confessed gamer who never let go of his console, not even at the table.
"Sorry for the delay," Rocío murmured as she sat next to Bunny, his silent hero since she saw him dancing on TikTok in a Pikachu shirt.
Bunny winked at her. Rocio hid a smile behind his hair.
Sae, meanwhile, sat upright, a glass of water in his hand, as if the back of the chair were part of his spine. He seemed uncomfortable, but not in a rude way. He was just him: always a little out of place, as if socializing was a game he couldn't be bothered to play.
"Thank you for being here, Itoshi," said Doña Fernanda, smiling with that Sevillian warmth that could melt steel. "My husband talks about you all the time. For your football genius."
A brief silence.
Even Bunny turned around, expectant.
Sae looked at her. She had that expression of hers, of someone who doesn't quite know what to do with a compliment, as if it had been handed to his wrapped in gift paper and without a card.
"Thank you, Mrs. Fernanda." His voice was dry but polite. Like a verbal bow. And that, for anyone who knew Itoshi Sae, was as if he had recited an entire poem.
Bunny blinked. Then he nudged his surreptitiously under the table, as if to say, Who are you and what have you done with the real Sae?
And it was true. Because Itoshi Sae wasn't kind. He wasn't warm. He was precise, brilliant, cold as a scalpel. Since childhood, he had been an unstoppable force, a prodigy with goals as clear as they were ruthless. His relationship with others was an equation: if you don't push me to be the best, you hinder me. It's that simple.
And yet there she was, with a napkin in his lap, saying “thank you” as if he were in a Jane Austen novel.
"The other way around," Bunny chimed in, saving the moment with a charming smile. "Thanks for inviting us."
His voice was soft, with that tone of an actor who knows exactly when to put on a smile, when to lower it, when to look sideways at Sae to make him uncomfortable.
The food was then served. The aroma was exquisite: fried fish, Russian salad, shrimp omelet, and cold gazpacho served in clay jugs.
Rocio, between bites, whispered:
—Hey, Bunny… can you help me pass this level next?
—It depends. Does it have bosses?
-Three.
—Then yes. —He winked at his again.
Meanwhile, Sae watched the spectacle with the same expression he would wear when faced with a poorly planned defense: moderate resignation. But… for a moment, just as the bread was passed from hand to hand and voices rose amid laughter and anecdotes, something in him relaxed. Maybe it wasn't a football field. But it looked like a team.
And that, even if he didn't say it, was also worth something.
At that moment, just when the atmosphere had filled with soft laughter and the smell of orange blossom seeping through the windows, Alba Luna, with the disarming honesty of children, blurted out the question. The one that no one dared to ask, but everyone, at some point, had thought:
—Bunny, what happened to your face?
The silence was immediate. Not uncomfortable, but dense, as if the air in the room had decided to hold its breath.
Bunny Iglesias had two prominent scars on his face: a vertical line running from the edge of his right eyebrow, past his eye, as if time had scratched it. Another, horizontal, crossed his cheek and extended to touch the bridge of his nose. And a third, less visible but still present, loomed on the left side of his neck, barely hidden by the collar of his shirt.
It was impossible not to see them.
And yet, Bunny always wore them like someone who has grown accustomed to the weight of a broken crown: without hiding them, without explaining them, without apologizing for them.
Sae looked up. Her blue-green eyes briefly met Bunny's. He knew that story. So did Leonardo Luna. And for that very reason, they both fell silent.
Bunny smiled. Her smile was like a coat of fresh paint over a deep crack: charming, but not restorative.
"This?" he asked, feigning surprise as he pointed at his face. "Hmm... Let's see. It was a minor accident."
He was lying. But it was a soft lie. A protective lie.
The truth was different. It was a car accident. A snowy road to Andorra. A family trip that turned into a nightmare. His younger brother laughed in the back seat. And that was the last time Bunny heard his laughter. The scars weren't from scissors. They were from twisted metal, broken glass, and a seatbelt that couldn't save everyone. Bunny survived. His brother didn't.
But that was no story for a five-year-old girl.
So Bunny, without changing his tone or gesture, continued:
"My little brother played with my grandmother's scissors. And... well." He shrugged. "I don't hold a grudge."
Alba's eyes widened.
—Scissors?! That's dangerous! You should scold him really hard.
Oh, Alba... If you only knew. If you only knew that that brother Bunny still mentions in the present tense is no longer here.
Sae looked away. He stared at the plate as if it might disappear into the salmorejo. He, too, had lost things. People. Rin Itoshi.
But Bunny's... it was different. Bunny carried it in his skin. In every crooked smile. And in that moment, under the warm light of the dining room lamp, with a little girl looking at him with pure innocence, Bunny Iglesias carried the weight of the past like someone who has learned to live with pain without letting it consume him.
"And now you're playing with scissors?" Alba asked, amused.
"Only in the country," Bunny replied, winking at her. And the table erupted in laughter, which thankfully drowned out the slight trembling of his hand under the table.
[🐰]
The meal passed in an unexpectedly warm harmony. The aroma of spices, olive oil, and freshly baked bread filled the dining room, while the laughter of Leonardo Luna's daughters wove a relaxed, familiar atmosphere. Sae Itoshi, however, seemed to be elsewhere.
Sitting up straight, the Japanese prodigy's eyes were fixed on his cutlery. He held the fork with precision, as if it were a surgical scalpel, but he didn't move it. He studied the knife, the plate, the reflection of the tablecloth in the metallic sheen. He wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but he was... distant.
Then Leonardo Luna noticed.
"Do you want me to get you some chopsticks, Sae?" he asked in a kind, almost fatherly tone.
Sae looked up. His blue-green eyes met his host's. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, as if he were considering a sharper response. But finally, he shook his head gently:
—No need. I have to get used to it anyway.
It was a short sentence, but loaded with nuances. Because Sae wasn't just talking about cutlery.
Leonardo nodded, understanding.
—You're going to Madrid tomorrow, aren't you? For the interview on RTVE.
"Yes." Sae finally put away his fork and poured herself some more water. "I have a room at the Hotel Alfonso XIII tonight."
—And the Japanese consulate?
"My manager is coming," he replied unfazed. "He'll just sign some papers."
—And then...? You're going back to Japan?
"In a few weeks." The answer was curt, almost reluctant.
Enough for anyone with a shred of intuition to feel the tinge of rejection. Sae had no interest in returning to Japan. That land no longer meant home to him. For him, Japanese football was a naive farce, devoid of ambition or real hunger, a child's game that never gave him what he needed to grow.
He'd said it before. He'd proven it even more on the field. His loyalty lay with progress. With victory. With Spain. With Europe.
And while he was answering, Bunny Iglesias was unknowingly listening to everything.
He didn't intervene, but his eyes moved subtly toward him. He'd learned to read Sae's silences almost better than his words. He knew that tone. That slight tremor that appeared when he spoke about things that no longer felt like him. Because Bunny, too, had places that no longer belonged to him, even though he once called them "home."
Sae looked down at his cutlery again. This time, he picked it up and began to eat, without saying anything else. The dining room filled with conversation again, but in his head, the murmur of a country that no longer inspired anything but disappointment continued to echo.
At that precise moment, like someone falling from a cloud of teenage wit, María Luna raised his voice from his seat with a mischievous smile on his lips and a napkin still badly folded in his hand:
—Wow! Have you ever seen a pasodoble?
The Japanese man didn't even look up from his plate. With the same stoic calm one displays during a spy interrogation, he replied:
—In some YouTube videos.
A break.
A silence full of danger.
Bunny raised an eyebrow. That was... interesting. Very interesting.
"Oh, really?" he said, with that half-smile that usually announced that something bad —or extremely funny— was about to happen.
And in a matter of seconds, as if they had connected telepathically, Maria and Bunny looked at each other. They looked at each other. really , like two evil geniuses in the middle of an artistic conspiracy.
"I have an idea," they both said at the same time.
Leonardo Luna raised his head. Fernanda narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Alba was already bouncing in his chair.
Sae, for his part, blinked slowly.
—No.
"Yes!" the two accomplices insisted, now in stereo.
—No.
"YES!" the three Lunas shouted in chorus.
And before he could protest again, Itoshi Sae, the prodigy player, the cold strategist of the field, the emperor of the European courts , was almost dragged to his feet by a determined teenager and a rival striker hungry for poetic revenge.
"Come on, Sae! Get up, tonight you'll experience true Spanish art!" Bunny declared theatrically, while Maria was already playing a playlist called "Fiesta Flamenca" on his cell phone.
And so it was that, amidst peals of laughter, poorly coordinated clapping, and a couple of olés shouted from the kitchen by Rocío, who had just left his gamer room, Sae Itoshi took his first step into the world of pasodoble.
Literally. One step.
Because the second one stepped on it wrong and almost knocked down Bunny, who, laughing, shouted:
—My goodness, this kid can't tell the difference between a zone marking and a Sevillana!
And in the background, Leonardo Luna simply poured himself more wine. Fernanda smiled resignedly. And the Sevillian dining room erupted in a scene that no one expected, but that everyone knew would be remembered for years:
The day Itoshi Sae was conquered… by the Andalusian elf.
Bunny watched the scene with an ever-widening smile, leaning casually against the patio door frame. At first, he had simply watched Sae make a fool of herself with samurai dignity in an attempt at a paso doble that seemed more like a pre-match warm-up choreography. But what Bunny no. It was not expected, under any circumstances, what would come next.
First, a neighbor appeared wearing a polka-dotted gown with curlers still in his hair.
"Is that Itoshi Sae?" he asked sharply, pulling his phone out of his pocket like someone pulling out a pistol in a Western duel.
"And that's Buun! The one from Real Madrid!" exclaimed a kid wearing a cap, who didn't hesitate to open TikTok and start recording as if he were narrating the Andalusian football apocalypse.
In a matter of minutes, the Luna family's yard became the nerve center of viral folklore. Young people appeared through the gate with the excuses of "I'm Rocío's cousin" or "I came to return Alba's Tupperware of croquettes," but all with their phones pointing, uploading stories, doing live streams, and tagging things like:
“It’s not every day you see Sae dancing sevillanas #andalusianvibes ⚽💃”
“Buun and Sae on my street, literally, I mean LITERALLY 💀💀 #iconic”
"BUUNSAE IN SEVILLE. SOMEONE MAKE A FANAAAAAAART 😭😭😭 #bunsae”
And then the unthinkable happened.
From the end of the street, like a glorious procession from a sacred derby, footballers began to appear. Some from Betis, wearing their shirts and sunglasses as if that would grant them immunity from ridicule; others from Sevilla, more determined to score goals with backheel moves. Even one or another player from the reserve team, one of those who wouldn't even appear in FIFA, appeared with star-like attitude:
—Is there a party or what?
And of course there was a party. Because it wasn't just an improvised pasodoble anymore. It was a bigger party, unplanned.
The neighborhood grandparents, who had initially only come out to complain about the noise, ended up rushing in. One brought a tambourine. Another, a bottle of aniseed that he used as a maraca. The grandmothers, without hesitation, put on Manila shawls, which no one knows where they got so quickly, and began to dance sevillanas with a skill that made TikTok itself pale.
—Antonio! Take the castanets out of the ham drawer!
And Antonio, 82 years old and with a cane that magically disappeared as soon as the applause started, rushed into the middle of the courtyard as if he were in the final of Got Talent .
Meanwhile, Leonardo Luna, with the dignity of an Andalusian movie star, rose from his chair, took his wife Doña Fernanda's hand with a dramatic bow, and said:
—My love, I think it's time to shine.
Fernanda burst out laughing, but let it carry her. And there they were: the elegant former soccer player and his physiotherapist wife, dancing sevillanas under the courtyard garlands, surrounded by an impossible mix of soccer players, neighbors, children, and grandparents who sang, clapped, or simply recorded everything.
Sae, meanwhile, remained standing in the midst of the chaos. With no escape. Trapped. Forced by life, by flamenco, and by fate to move his feet in time.
Bunny, dying of laughter, patted him on the shoulder.
—Welcome to Spain, my friend. Where the Champions League is played… with a fan.
—Shut up, Bunny Iglesias.
Sae's voice was dry, unadorned, like a stone thrown into a river. But Bunny, who had that damn smile that could melt the ice of the Poles and the pride of a samurai, didn't flinch.
—Do you want to dance?
—Absolutely not.
And there, amidst the bustle of the courtyard turned into a festival, with grandmothers dancing better than many influencers, Bunny committed the ultimate crime.
With the confidence of a bullfighter in the middle of a fight, he wrapped his hand around Sae's waist with a firm but gentle grip, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Sae, who was 6'11", could barely hide his flinch. Bunny, of course, at 6'11" and with that "I was born for the cover of GQ and also for drama" demeanor, looked down on him... literally and figuratively.
And as if fate had a TikTok account, María Luna was already recording everything live, pointing her phone while laughing like a soap opera villain.
—#BUNSAE DANCING. WE WON —she typed with the speed of a professional gamer, accompanying the video with a romantic transition with floating digital hearts and flamingos.
"Stop," Sae growled, not moving, like a soaked cat that doesn't know whether to scratch or flee.
"No way," Bunny replied, giving his a little spin as if she were a princess in a Disney movie... if princesses wore soccer cleats and had "I'm going to kill you later" expressions.
"You must soak up Spanish culture," Bunny whispered in a sweet, but clearly mocking, voice.
Sae clenched his jaw. Her dignity was hanging by a thread like a potato omelet.
—I've been soaked since I was fourteen when I came here, remember?
—Sure. But never with you soaked in me.
The phrase was so quick, so absurd, so shamelessly romantic that even Grandpa Antonio let out an "olé!" from the corner. Doña Fernanda hid his laughter behind a fan. Alba applauded, not quite understanding what she was celebrating.
And Bunny… well. Bunny twirled Sae around like they were dancing under a fairground moon.
Sae didn't know it yet, but the worst part wasn't that they were dancing. The worst part was that, for a second… He was smiling.
For Sae Itoshi, this was unthinkable. Literally unthinkable If someone had told his she'd end up dancing sevillanas in the courtyard of an Andalusian mansion, surrounded by dancing grandmothers, chickens escaped from the nearby coop, and two private chefs who were also up for some footwork, she would have called the Japanese national team's psychiatrist. But there she was. At four in the afternoon. 90-degree heat. Sae's perfect bangs were sweating from betrayal.
And up front, or rather, right up against the crowd, was Bunny Iglesias, smiling as if this were better than scoring a goal at Camp Nou.
"This is more fun than dying," Bunny muttered mockingly, still keeping pace.
"Shut up, or I'll step on you," Sae muttered, not looking up from his feet.
But it was too late. The pull was there. Not the one in the leg, but that romantic, silent, bastard pull that crept in between each turn and each flamenco handclap. One that had been hidden for months behind cross passes and glances at press conferences.
To Sae, Bunny was an irresponsible, self-centered FC Barcelona striker. His worst nightmare, disguised as laughter and bad jokes.
For Bunny… Sae was something else. A work of art with a scowl. The only man who could completely ignore him and still make him feel like the world stopped every time he looked at him with those blue-green samurai cat eyes.
And now they were dancing sevillanas, mere inches from each other. Bunny marked the pace with surprising grace, turning with his arms raised as if he'd secretly rehearsed it in front of a mirror. Sae, stiff at first, was beginning to give way. Not out of conviction, but because if a bull charges, it's better to move with the cape.
—One, two, three… and Olé! —Maria shouted from the side, recording EVERYTHING on TikTok with floating heart effects and the “Macarena” song in the background, for some mysterious reason.
Sae snorted.
—Is this necessary?
"To understand Spain, yes," Bunny whispered, moving a little closer. Too much closer.
—I'm Japanese. Not Spanish.
—But you're here. With me.
Sae opened his mouth to say something sarcastic. Nothing came out. The heat, the sweat, the music, and the proximity of Bunny Iglesias, who stood 191 centimeters tall and smelled of expensive cologne and Iberian ham, disconnected his sarcasm.
And then, the ultimate disaster: Sae turned with him . Well. Coordinated. Harmonious. A couple's turn that made even Grandma Rosario stop applauding for a moment and let out an excited:
—Oh, they're in love!
Sae stepped on Bunny.
Bunny didn't complain. He just laughed.
And in the midst of that Andalusian frenzy, with neighbors filming, hashtags burning, and the sun melting even the silverware... They danced. One was serious. The other was smiling as if he'd finally scored the most beautiful goal of his life.
[🐰]
But, like every good flamenco dream, the moment ended.
The meal was a success: croquettes flew, the salmorejo disappeared as if by magic, and even Sae tried a little ratatouille without looking like she was signing a surrender treaty. With our stomachs full and the sun setting very slowly—because in Andalusia, the sun bids farewell slowly—it was time to leave.
Sae said goodbye with that mix of samurai formality and a "I want to go sleep for twenty hours" face. He kissed Alba on the forehead, shook hands with Rocío (who compared him to a character from Genshin Impact ) and accepted, with elegant resignation, Maria's embrace.
“I hope we see each other again, Itoshi,” Fernanda said with a genuine smile.
"Likewise. Thanks for everything," Sae replied, with such an impeccable bow that Grandpa Ramón shouted from the gate, "Oh, that Japanese artistry!"
Leonardo Luna was already waiting in the car to take them to the Hotel Alfonso XIII, where expensive sheets and proper air conditioning awaited them. While the April festivities continued to roar through the streets—with sevillanas, palmas, fans, and flamenco dancers everywhere—Bunny got in the car, looked at Sae, and said:
—Who would have thought you could dance so well?
"Who would have thought you were still talking?" Sae replied without flinching.
The car started slowly, and from the door of the house, Fernanda waved goodbye to them, while María unleashed the nuclear bomb of the afternoon:
—Are you two?
Silence. A hen made a “koko” sound.
Alba, as if she had been waiting for this question all his life, turned dramatically, put a hand on her chest and declared:
—Let's just say they have the strangest relationship in the world. But in my mind, the fanarts , the fanfics from AO3, Instagram edits with Taylor Swift music... are canon to me.
Maria blinked.
—Canon… as in printer?
Rocio, who hadn't spoken all day, simply said:
—Don't go down that rabbit hole, sister. It's a fandom with no way back.
And meanwhile, in the car, Bunny took out his phone and said:
—Can you imagine if we searched for our name on AO3?
Sae looked at him in silent horror.
—Don't you dare.
Bunny smiled. He was daring now.
The car's engine purred softly as they traveled through the last streets of downtown Seville. The warm evening air drifted in through the open windows, laden with the distant echo of a flamenco guitar and the scent of orange blossoms. In the front seat, Leonardo Luna glanced at them in the rearview mirror. His gaze was calm, almost paternal, as if he knew he was driving not just two soccer players, but two key players in a story that even they didn't fully understand.
"You're great, really. Thanks for coming," he finally said, breaking the silence with his soft, Andalusian voice.
Bunny, arms crossed and sunglasses on, smiled like someone who'd already eaten dessert and was ready for another round.
"Thank you for the food and the impromptu flamenco show," she replied, with that mischievous spark that didn't go out even in 31 degrees of heat.
Leonardo nodded, but his gaze returned to the rearview mirror, this time directly at Sae.
—Real Madrid is playing Bayern Munich next week, right? A friendly.
Sae raised his eyebrows slightly.
—Yes. At the Bernabéu.
—They're not there... those German prodigies... What are their names?
“Michael Kaiser. And Alexis Ness,” Bunny answered before Sae could even open his mouth.
—That's it. A couple of monsters. It's going to be a great game. Good luck, Sae.
Sae didn't say anything, but nodded, just the right gesture to express his gratitude without seeming emotional. Bunny, on the other hand, let out a short whistle.
—It's going to be nice. Kaiser versus Itoshi. I'm betting on the Japanese, huh?
"You bet on me when you're bored," Sae replied, looking out the window.
The car pulled up elegantly in front of the Hotel Alfonso XIII, an architectural gem that looked like something out of a Moorish dream with marble columns, soft fountains and carved wooden doors that screamed luxury at every corner. A bellboy was already waiting at the entrance, as if he knew exactly who they were.
"I'll leave you here, guys," Leonardo said, stopping the engine.
Sae opened the door without another word and got out of the car. The afternoon sun bathed him golden as he stretched his body and picked up his suitcase. He dressed simply: a white T-shirt, dark pants, and training shoes. Still, he looked like something out of a magazine cover.
Bunny followed him down the stairs, his gait carefree and his smile plastered on his lips. He walked as if the world belonged to him, or at least as if it were the set of a movie he was starring in.
"Are you going to sleep, or are you just going to continue silently ignoring me for the rest of the day?" he asked, letting the question hang like it was a joke... even though it wasn't entirely.
Sae sighed.
—I'm going to do both, probably.
Bunny burst out laughing as Leonardo's car slowly drove away. At the hotel entrance, an older couple stopped to stare at them, muttering to themselves whether they were "the TikTok celebrities who danced sevillanas."
"Sae," Bunny said, leaning slightly toward him as they entered through the revolving glass doors, "if you win that game against Kaiser, I'll buy you dinner."
Sae raised an eyebrow, without slowing down.
—And if I lose.
—So you're inviting me.
—I'm not going to invite you to anything.
—Ah, then you win! Perfect. —Bunny snapped his fingers, satisfied.
The hotel lobby smells of freshly cut flowers and old wood. Sae was thinking only about the shower. Bunny, on the other hand, looked around as if she were already planning his next TikTok. And somewhere on the internet, there were probably already new fanfics with the hashtags #BunSae and #CanonParaMi floating among hearts and sevillanas.
[🐰]
The images were as clear as a fulfilled prophecy: Itoshi Sae dancing sevillanas with Bunny Iglesias. Not a montage. Not a filter. Not a deepfake. Real. Absolutely real. With the 4 o'clock Seville sun beating down on them, Sae's shirt slightly unbuttoned (because of the heat, of course), and Bunny holding his waist as if they were the protagonists of a romantic comedy filmed on Canal Sur.
And of course… the internet exploded.
First, it was Twitter where the video trended nationally under the hashtag #BunSaeBailando. Then came Instagram, where the fandom put on its emotional apron and cooked up memes, edits, reels with Rosalía's music, coplas, and even flamenco-tech remixes.
The star of the show was, of course, the post that Bunny Iglesias uploaded to his own Instagram profile: a slightly blurry photo—the fault of María, Spain's most emotionally sharp teenager—in which he held Sae with one hand on his waist and the other outstretched, as if they were the very same Antonio and Carmen in their football version.
@bunn"Who would have thought @itoshisae knew how to dance 💃✨️ #SevillanasPeroMakeItFootball"
The result was immediate and spectacular: 77,000 likes in ten minutes, 473 comments (and counting), 400 shared in stories with captions like “WE WON,” “canon in my heart,” and “Football is an excuse for romance.”
A fan account created a poll: "Who's leading the ship: Bunny or Sae?" and the fight was as close as a Barça-Madrid classic.
The comments were not long in coming:
@mariacruz_editz: “I knew it. I KNEW IT. There was always tension. This is like Slow Burn, but a Sevillian version. 👀👀👀👀”
@sabrina_lopez: “Sae moved as if she had a soul. ☝🏻☝🏻☝🏻”
@phainon: “Bunny is so in love, he dances better than he does on the field. Confirmed. 🗣🗣🗣🗣
@oppolus: “I've already written three fanfics, one with a happy ending, another with a tragic death, and an alternative one where they dance at the Bernabéu.😭”
@abuelafelisa: “I saw them with my own eyes, and that Japanese guy has more artistry than my brother-in-law at the Jerez fair.❤️”
And meanwhile, what was Sae doing? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sae was in his room at the Hotel Alfonso XIII, his phone face down, unaware that the world had officially paired him with Bunny, that the fanfics already had covers, and that, for some reason, he was now a trending topic on Spain, Japan, Argentina … and Filipinas .
All for a Sevillian.
All because of a 191cm tall idiot who didn't know when to stop smiling.
The clock struck 8:11 p.m. when Bunny Iglesias, his wet hair still plastered to his neck and a towel hanging from his waist with the confidence of someone who believes the world is his stage, emerged from the bathroom of the Hotel Alfonso XIII. The steam followed him as if he, too, had a personal entourage, and his face bore an expression as serene as it was satisfied. It was the face of someone who had absolutely nothing planned, but who trusted his luck and charisma to improvise whatever came his way.
The problem? I hadn't booked a room. Nothing. Zero. Not even an extra bed. Because of course, he was supposed to return to Barcelona that same night, according to the itinerary his manager had repeated to him at least seven times. But Bunny... well, Bunny looked at Sae during that family meal, danced sevillanas for him as if it were his patriotic duty, and thought: "I'm not leaving. Not yet."
So there they were. Sae, with the neutral expression of someone who's seen it all in professional football but nothing prepared him for a forgetful, nearly two-meter-tall striker showing up half-naked in his room, and Bunny, with a nervous smile and his torso still glistening with water, saying matter-of-factly:
—Uh… You know what? I don't think I made the reservation. But anyway, right? Everything can be arranged. Can't you talk to the front desk?
Sae closed his eyes. Very slowly. As if the entire universe weighed on his eyelids.
—Are you... are you telling me that you came to Seville in the middle of the April Fair, without a room, and you were planning on leaving... but you didn't... and now you're showering in mine?
"Exactly. See, you really understand how this works!" Bunny replied, giving a proud thumbs-up.
What followed was a silent, dense moment, where the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the tapping of a droplet still hanging from Bunny's chin.
Sae stood up. He put on his hotel slippers with stoic resignation and walked toward the reception desk as if he were about to sign a peace treaty after a senseless war.
[🐰]
Twenty minutes later, Sae returned. He'd dealt with forms, a confused receptionist, an extra charge for unexpected occupancy, and even a German tourist who thought he worked there.
When he walked in, Bunny was already dressed (miraculously), lying on the bed with a tangerine in his hand, staring at the ceiling as if it were Renaissance art.
—Well?
"You have a rollaway bed," Sae said, his voice deep.
—And it's next to yours?
—Across the room. Almost in the bathroom.
—Perfect! Don't worry, Sae. I won't snore tonight.
Sae didn't respond. She just sank down onto his bed, sighing deeply, as she considered that of all the things she had planned for that night—reviewing his RTVE interview, eating a light dinner, going to bed at 10:00 PM—none of them included sharing a room with an Andalusian striker who had turned his day into a mixture of comedy, chaos, and something resembling affection.
The worst part is… it wasn't that bad. Although I'd never admit it.
The dim light of the Alfonso XIII Hotel cast soft shadows on the walls, and the air conditioning hummed with an almost intimate calm. Sae sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he could hide from himself there. There was something about that room, about that shared silence, that drew him back to memories. The training sessions together in Madrid.
Those days that began with the coach's shouts and ended with muffled laughter under the locker room showers. The impromptu games in the rain, the tangled hands when no one was looking, the furtive kisses in borrowed rooms. The beds were shared not only out of lack of space, but out of necessity. The need to be close. The need to keep everything they felt to themselves.
And now he was there. With Bunny. In another room. In another city. In another time. But the past sat with them like a third, invisible guest.
Sae closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to bury it all. To bury the trembling of those teenage nerves. To bury what still, deep down, burned inside him.
Bunny watched him from across the room, leaning on one knee, his eyes fixed on his, as if he could read his soul, as if he'd never left.
—Sae… is something wrong?
The voice was soft. Almost a whisper.
Sae looked up, but didn't meet Bunny's gaze. His response was automatic, like a stone wall.
—No. Nothing. I'm tired.
But Bunny stood up. He approached slowly, barefoot on the carpet, unhurried but determined. He stopped in front of him, lowering his head slightly to look into his eyes.
—I know you, Sae.
And that simple "I know you" weighed more than any confession. Because yes, he knew him. He'd seen him at his best and at his worst. He'd seen him truly laugh, and also break down in silence.
And Sae… he didn't know what to say. Because in that moment, in that tiny space between them, with the lights dim and the world outside the hotel off, remembering was inevitable.
The air between them grew thick, as if every particle were charged with something neither of them dared name. Sae sat motionless, his fingers tightly interlocked, his shoulders tense. He could hear the floorboards creak softly as Bunny leaned in behind him.
And then, he felt it.
A kiss. On the nape of the neck. Soft. Fleeting. But enough.
Sae held his breath. As if moving, as if even breathing, would break something too fragile, too buried. She closed his eyes, and in a barely audible voice, he said:
—No...
It wasn't a rejection. It was more of a plea. Or a poorly disguised surrender.
But Bunny didn't move away. He didn't press. He just stayed there, close enough that the heat of his body made itself felt on Sae's skin.
They both knew there was something unresolved. Something weighing on them.
A story with broken pieces. A wound is still open. A battlefield in the form of a bed and memories.
Sae turned slowly, his gaze fixed on Bunny's. Green and blue, meeting as always, as before.
—Why today?
It took Bunny a second to respond. And when he did, his voice was low, almost shaky, but filled with a disarming sincerity.
—Because I wanted to take advantage of this opportunity. To see you... before you go to Japan. Before all the games, the spotlights, the excuses get in the way again.
A moment before the world. An attempt before goodbye.
Sae didn't respond right away. But his gaze spoke volumes: the fear, the desire, the rage that still hurt. And, deep down, the most dangerous thing of all: hope.
At that moment, as if the silence had become too unbearable, Sae leaned toward him and kissed him.
It was a direct, intense, inevitable touch. A kiss on the lips, dry and urgent.
"Idiot," he murmured against his mouth, his tone trembling between reproach and need.
Bunny didn't move away. Quite the opposite.
His lips sought Sae's again, this time more calmly, more tenderly, as if he wanted to soften the rough edges of that gesture laden with nameless emotions. He reciprocated the kiss with a trembling hand resting on the back of Sae's neck, clinging to the moment as if time were slipping away.
It was a bitter kiss, yes. But it was also a reunion. A silent confession. A crack in the armor.
And Sae, for once, didn't pull away. He didn't run away. She just closed his eyes and let the world stop there, in that instant, between them.
Bunny had his hands cheekily placed on the Japanese footballer's hips, smiling with that expression of his that always seemed like he was about to crack a joke.
“Itoshi…” she whispered, dragging out the name as if it were part of an indecent song.
Sae, above him, looked at him with those half-closed eyes, half annoyance, half “I don’t have the strength to resist today.”
"Iglesias," he responded with the same intensity, as if it were a challenge.
The air between them crackled.
And if at that moment, some fan of the BunnySae walked through the hotel door… Oh my goodness!
Because yes, they were in the same hotel. Yes, in the same room. Yes, on the same bed. And no, they weren't arguing about soccer tactics.
Any similarity with fanfics, edits, or Twitter threads is purely and completely indirect confirmation. Even if they swear it's not.
But between whispers, crooked smiles, and hands that knew only too well where to go… It was hard to deny the obvious.
[Space scene (post credit)]
The next morning, the Sevillian sun blazed through the window of the Hotel Alfonso XIII. Sae reluctantly opened one eye and let out a long sigh as she felt the warmth and familiar weight at his side.
Bunny was there, half tangled in the sheets, with one leg over him and a satisfied smile of someone who regrets absolutely nothing.
Sae, for his part, yes.
"Ah..." he muttered hoarsely, looking up at the ceiling as if asking the football gods for an explanation.
With slow, defeated movements, he got out of bed and went straight to the bathroom. He had a train to Madrid, an interview on RTVE, and, theoretically, a reputation to uphold.
But when he looks in the mirror…
-Shit.
There were hickeys .
One, two, three. Was that a bite? Was it shaped like a star? Where did Bunny learn to do that?
Sae placed a hand on his neck as if she could erase the marks with sheer force of will. Meanwhile, from the bed, Bunny's lazy, triumphant voice echoed:
-Good morning, Sae-chan. Are you running late for your interview or do you want another souvenir?
Sae closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He counted to ten.
But even that didn't erase the traces of war on the Barça striker.
[🐰]
During the interview on RTVE, Sae Itoshi maintained his usual composure: back straight, gaze serene, voice firm. He answered with Japanese precision, straightforward, without flourishes. He talked about football, discipline, and the upcoming match against Bayern Munich. Everything as expected.
Except for one detail.
A faint, barely visible violet shadow escaped from the makeup covering his neck. The camera panned slightly, and social media did the rest. Zoom, capture, forensic analysis In less than an hour, the hashtag#WhoBitedae?was trending.
Meanwhile, in Barcelona, Bunny Iglesias entered the Ciutat Esportiva (Barça Sports City), greeting Lavinho with his signature arrogant, disheveled smile. He had his headphones on, and something soft, melancholic was playing, probably a bolero he'd never admit out loud.
"You're late, Iglesias," Lavinho said, without looking up from the field.
"I arrived just in time to make history," Bunny replied, winking at him, still fresh in the memory of the previous night in Seville.
While he was training, notifications kept vibrating on his phone in his backpack. He didn't need to check it. He knew exactly what was happening. The networks were exploding.
In Madrid, the interview was ending. Sae was walking toward the exit, hands in his pockets. A young reporter ran up to him.
—Itoshi! One last question… Is it true you're in a relationship with Bunny Iglesias?
Sae stopped. She looked at his with his usual expression, as if assessing whether the question warranted an answer. Then, as if it were no big deal, he answered in a low voice with a hint of tiredness:
—Let's just say... we were practicing sevillanas.
And he left.
That night, on Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and even AO3, the fandom exploded. Football was a passion. And sometimes, it was also a meal, a pasodoble, a kiss, a bite, and a sevillana under the Andalusian sun.
THE END?