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1️⃣ The Locker Room
After the win, the room is chaos. Music too loud. Someone banging a kit bag like it's a drum. Water bottles flying. Sweat and deodorant and victory all mixed together.
AB de Villiers finds Virat Kohli without even looking, like he just knows where he'll be
Virat's chest is still heaving. Heart banging against his ribs like it wants out. He hasn't come down yet. He never does quickly. Wins stay in him like strong alcohol.
AB grabs his face with both hands, grinning like an idiot.
"I love you, man."
He says it loud, careless, like it's just another word for what a shot.
The boys start yelling and someone whistles and it all blends into this big messy sound that feels like it could lift the roof off.
Virat laughs and shoves him away.
"Shut up."
But he's smiling too wide. Because the chase felt like running into fire and coming out untouched. Because AB hit shots that bent the rules of physics. Because for a few overs, they weren't players. They were something gone wild. Something unstoppable.
AB moves on. Hugging someone else, yelling with victory. Alive in every direction at once.
And here's the thing, Virat doesn't hold onto the words. They feel like champagne foam, loud and fizzy and gone before you even taste it.
"I love you" in a locker room is just... noise. "I love you" means we did it. It means you madman, how did you do that. It means this is ours.
Nothing more.
Later, when it's quiet, he sits alone for a second and the silence feels weird, like after a storm when your ears are still ringing but the sky is empty. He replays the last over in his head, the crack of the bat, the crowd rising like a wave, AB at the other end calm like this was nothing.
He doesn't replay the "I love you." Because that one didn't sink in. It just skimmed over him, like a stone over water, touching but not staying on the surface.
Because love, to him, isn't loud like that. It isn't shouted over music. It isn't said with a grin so wide it hides everything.
Love, in his head, is.....
Something that stays after the lights go off. After the runs don't matter. After the applause fades. If it can't survive silence, what is it really?
It sits in your chest like a bruise you press just to check if it still hurts. And this didn't bruise.
This was nothing to believe in.
2️⃣ The Interview
The press room is too bright, like they've turned the sun indoors and aimed it straight at his eyes. AB de Villiers sits there like he's at brunch, elbows loose on the table, smiling that soft half-smile that usually means trouble.
Backstage, the team crowds around a small TV. Someone's chewing too loudly. Someone else is recording it on their phone like this is better than the match itself.
Virat Kohli stands in the back with his arms folded, acting like he just happened to be there, like he didn't move closer the second AB's name popped up on screen.
A reporter asks, "If you had to trust one person with the last ball of your life, who would it be?"
"Virat," he says. "Always him. I love him too much to give that job to anyone else."
The chaos at dressing room should have been expected.
"OHHHHHH."
"Last ball of your life, bro?"
"Love him too much?"
Someone throws a ball at Virat. Another teammate fake swoons and falls onto the couch. Virat feels his ears get warm.
"Shut up," he mutters, but he's smiling despite himself.
On screen, AB just shrugs like he didn't say anything unusual.
"He knows," AB adds, almost casually. "He knows I love him."
The teasing turns feral.
"Do you know, Virat?"
"CONFIRM IT!"
"Say it back!"
Someone throws a towel at him and it lands on his shoulder and he doesn't even shake it off because for some reason his chest feels tight, like someone pulled a string inside it and forgot to let go.
Because this wasn't a locker room shout. This wasn't like last time. This was said slowly. Into a microphone. With cameras. With thought.
But still, love, in his head, isn't a line you drop for laughs. It isn't something you polish and send out into the world where it can echo and trend and get clipped into a reel. It isn't something you hand to reporters like a headline.
Love should feel... private. Messy. A little ugly. Like something you protect with your body.
This felt too easy. And easy things don't last. He knows that. Cricket taught him that. Life did too.
He tells himself it's just AB being AB. Just charm. But when AB says, "He knows," something inside him stumbles.
Because does he know?
Does he really?
Or does he just pretend not to look too closely because if he does, he might see something real there and then he'll have to deal with it. He hates that his stomach flips slightly. Hates that for one stupid second he imagines AB meaning it in a way that isn't funny.
Not "I love him, bro."
Not "I love that idiot."
Just... I love him.
The thought lands in him like a coin dropped into deep water, and he can't hear where it hits the bottom. And that scares him more than the teasing. Because if it means something, then it means he wants it to mean something. And wanting that feels like standing without pads in front of a fast bowler and that fast bowler is bowling a toe-crushing yorker.
But at the same time , standing here while the boys chant his name like he's in a schoolyard, he feels something softer under the teasing.
Like there's a message hidden inside the joke.
But then someone yells, "Virat bhai, wedding when?" and the room collapses into laughter again.
And the moment breaks.
He rolls his eyes. Flips the TV off.
"Idiots," he says.
But later, when he's alone in his room, the press conference plays again in his head, why was AB looking like he had no trouble saying something that could have other implications? Did he....the thought was too absurd to even think about.
So Virat stares at the ceiling and tells himself it was for the cameras.
Tells himself real things aren't said that easily.
Tells himself he didn't feel that flicker in his chest.
Tells himself a lot of things.
And believes none of them fully.
Because if it's real, it shouldn't need an audience.
And if it's real... it shouldn't be this easy to laugh at.
Right?
3️⃣ The Protective
It's one of those weeks where the world feels slightly tilted and he can't tell if it's the pitch or just him, where the bat feels like it's made of wet wood and the ball keeps finding the edge like it has memory, like it remembers exactly where to go to hurt him, and every time he walks back to the pavilion the noise isn't loud but it is sharp, thin, cutting, the kind that slips under skin and stays there.
And every time he opens his phone, it's like walking into a room where people stop talking but you know they were talking about you.
Virat Kohli tells everyone he's fine because that's easier than explaining why his chest feels like it's packed with gravel, why every quiet moment stretches too long, why even brushing his teeth at night feels like standing alone in a stadium where everyone is booking at you.
He stops checking his phone but the headlines still reach him, through teammates, through accidental glances at screens, through the way people say his name with a small pause before it now, and the doubt grows legs and walks beside him everywhere, whispering that maybe this is how it ends, this is it.
Late at night, when the room is dark and the AC 's mechanical sound is the only sound, his phone lights up.
It's from AB de Villiers.
Ignore the noise. I love you. You're bigger than this.
There's no joke attached to it, no "man" to make it safe, no crowd to blur the edges of it, just the words lying there on the screen.
He reads it once and then again and then again because part of him is waiting for the trick, for the punchline that never comes, and instead the words just sit there quietly, like a hand extended to help you but there's no pressure to take it.
And that should make it easier.
It doesn't.
Because his head right now is a house with broken windows and too many punched walls inside it, and when someone tries to hand him something warm, he doesn't know where to put it.
He wants to believe it. God, he wants to....wants to believe that someone can look at him when he feels stripped of all the things that usually make him impressive and still choose him without hesitation, without condition, without calculating what they get in return.
Love, in this state, feels unreal. Like someone offering you clean water when you're convinced you deserve to stay thirsty.
After all, love is something earned through performance, through numbers on a board, through proving over and over that you are worth the space you take up, and if the numbers disappear then what exactly is left to love.
He types back slowly, thumbs heavy.
Appreciate it, brother.
He stares at the message before sending it and for a moment he types love you too and the words sit there glowing, and his chest tightens because saying it back would mean admitting that he believes it, that he trusts it, that he thinks someone might stay even when he is not at his best.
And that idea feels like stepping onto a frozen lake in the dark, knowing that if it cracks there will be no warning, he'd drown and no one will know.
So he deletes the second line and sends the safer one and locks his phone and places it face down like if he won't see it, it won't matter.
The truth is he doesn't know how to accept love that asks for nothing.
Because the monsters in his head are demanding and loud and cruel and familiar and he's fought with them for so long. But he doesn't know how to fight something that isn't trying to hurt him. Someone that simply says I am here even when you are losing feels unreal, almost suspicious, like it must be tied to something he hasn't noticed yet.
And still, as he lies there staring at the ceiling, the words replay in his mind not demanding but present, and he hates that they make his throat tighten, hates that part of him wants to believe that someone could stand beside him in this version of himself — the uncertain one, the doubting one, the one fighting shadows he doesn't show anyone — and stay without needing a reason.
He tells himself it's just a teammate being kind in a bad phase. Right now, he can't imagine why anyone would choose to stand in that wreckage with him... for no reason at all.
4️⃣ The Travel Day
Travel days always feel a little unreal, like everyone is moving but nobody is really awake, like the team is a herd of oversized schoolboys dragging suitcases pretending they're not exhausted.
The RCB boys are spread out across the airport, someone arguing about who took whose neck pillow, someone filming a stupid reel near the boarding gate, someone already asleep with his mouth open.
And somehow, like always, AB de Villiers and Virat Kohli end up walking side by side without deciding to.
They're laughing too loud about something stupid, bumping shoulders on purpose, AB trying to trip him with a trolley and failing, Virat pretending to shove him into a pillar and missing by inches, both of them grinning like schoolboys who escaped class.
It's easy like this.
They walk past a big wall with bright Kannada letters painted across it, curved and bold and completely unreadable to both of them.
AB slows down first.
"What does that say?" he asks.
Virat squints like the translation is hidden somewhere.
"No clue," he says. "Probably 'don't stand here.'"
AB pulls out his phone, types something fast, then looks at him with that smile that usually means he's about to make trouble.
"Guess," AB says.
Virat snorts. "How am I supposed to guess, genius."
"Just guess."
Virat folds his arms, playing along, feeling normal, steady.
"Welcome to the airport?" he tries.
AB shakes his head slowly, then steps closer, close enough that their shoulders touch without it being obvious, close enough that Virat feels the warmth through fabric.
"It says 'I love you.'"
He says it lightly, dramatic even, like he's announcing it to an imaginary crowd, like it's just another joke in a long list of jokes.
Virat laughs instantly because that's what he's supposed to do.
"Of course it does."
But the butterflies hit anyway. Quick. Sudden. Like someone opened a window inside him and let something warm rush through before he could shut it.
It definitely doesn't mean anything. It's a joke. A coincidence. A random wall in an airport written in a language neither of them can read.
It's AB being AB.
And still, standing there with the sign behind them and the team a few steps ahead and the air thick with the smell of coffee and jet fuel, he feels the words land somewhere different. Virat feels warmth creep up his neck, not embarrassment exactly, just awareness, like suddenly he's standing too close to a fire and only just realized it.
He tells himself he's being stupid.
Tells himself he's reading into it because he's tired
But the truth is simpler and more uncomfortable.
It feels good.
It feels stupidly good.
Like sugar melting slow on his tongue when he hasn't eaten all day.
Like sunlight on his face after weeks of grey.
Like being chosen in a way that isn't about cricket or scores or form or reputation.
Just chosen.
And that thought makes his chest tighten because it's too close to something he's not sure he's ready to name.
He could joke harder.
Could push back.
Could walk ahead and break the moment cleanly like snapping a twig.
Instead, he stays there, shoulder brushing shoulder, heartbeat slightly off rhythm, pretending the flutter inside him is nothing more than travel nerves.
Because it definitely doesn't mean anything.
It can't.
But when AB nudges him and says, "See, even the city agrees with me," and laughs like it's harmless, Virat feels that warmth spread again, slow and reckless, like something trying to grow where he usually keeps things trimmed down.
And for once, he doesn't crush it.
He doesn't ask what it leads to or what it costs.
But he lets himself enjoy the way it feels anyway... just for a second longer than he should.
(A/N: It actually was written 'welcome to Bengaluru' but look at AB's mischief)
5️⃣ The One He Finally Believes
AB de Villiers has already retired by the time it happens.
He's in the stands this time, not in pads, not waiting at the other end, just watching like the rest of the world, except it isn't the same for him because this franchise was never just a team to him, it was unfinished business, a dream that kept slipping through their fingers season after season.
It's the final of season eighteen.
And when the last ball is bowled and it's done actually done — and Royal Challengers Bangalore have finally won, the stadium doesn't just erupt, it explodes, it cracks open like the sky couldn't hold it anymore.
Virat Kohli doesn't move at first.
He just stands there.
Because it feels too big.
Too loud.
Too long coming.
And then it hits him all at once, like a wave that waited years to crash, and his knees give slightly and his chest caves in and he's crying before he even understands he is, hands on his face, shoulders shaking, the noise around him turning into something distant and underwater.
It feels like nothing else.
That's the only way he can think to describe it.
It feels like the first breath after being held under for too long.
It feels like every almost and every heartbreak and every "next year" finally dissolving in his mouth.
And in the middle of it, absurdly, a thought slips through —
is it possible for something to not feel like anything else in the world.
Is it possible to reach a point where comparison just... stops.
He hears his name somewhere in the chaos but it sounds far away.
And then suddenly there's another presence beside him, close, urgent, breath uneven.
AB.
He must have run because he's breathless, chest rising fast, hair slightly out of place, eyes wide and shining like he's carrying the same weight and the same release all at once.
Virat lifts his head properly and for a second everything else blurs because those eyes are right there, close enough that he can see the wetness in them, close enough that the world narrows to just that face, and damn they are beautiful in a way that feels unfair, in a way that makes his own breath stutter like he has been sprinting again.
Is it possible to feel like you've run a marathon even when you're standing still.
Because that's what it feels like.
His heart is pounding from the match, from the win, from the years, but now it's pounding for a different reason too and he doesn't even have time to separate them.
The cheers are still roaring, fireworks probably exploding above them, teammates screaming and hugging and collapsing in piles of red.
For a moment he thinks nothing could compare to this.
Nothing.
Not the applause.
Not the trophy.
Not the validation.
But AB is looking at him like he's part of the victory, like this moment belongs to both of them, like years of almosts are standing between them and finally letting go.
And then it happens so fast it almost feels imagined.
Something soft touches his lips.
For a second Virat doesn't even move.
It's like his brain stalls out completely, like every thought in his head trips over itself and falls flat because this was never supposed to happen outside the messy privacy of his imagination.
And then it hits him all at once.
The warmth of it.
The reality of it.
The fact that AB de Villiers the same man he has watched for years, just kissed him.
Right there.
On the field.
Under lights that have watched them lose and try again and lose and try again.
His eyes go wide first, properly wide, like someone just pulled the ground out from under him.
And for a second the noise drops out entirely and all he can feel is that softness, that impossible closeness, the reality of something he only ever let himself think about in half-formed, guilty flashes late at night.
His wildest fantasies didn't even get this specific.
Didn't dare to.
And here it is, in the middle of a stadium, under lights, after the win of a lifetime.
He actually laughs, a short breathless sound because his chest feels too full, like someone poured champagne straight into his lungs.
"Did you...."
He stops halfway because obviously he did, Virat's lips are still tingling like they remember the exact shape of it.
His hand runs through his hair in that messy way he does when he's overwhelmed, and he's smiling now, helplessly, like a kid who just got handed something he wanted for years but never thought he'd actually get.
Because how do you explain the feeling of a man suddenly stepping out of your daydream and becoming real in front of eighty thousand people and a sky full of fireworks.
His heart is still racing like he's sprinting between wickets.
Except he's not moving.
He's just standing there staring at AB, half laughing, half stunned.
"You just—"
Another laugh escapes him.
And the look on his face is pure disbelief wrapped in happiness, the kind that feels reckless and boyish and completely unguarded, like a secret he carried for years just burst open under stadium lights and he doesn't even care who saw it.
When they part, barely, foreheads brushing, AB's voice is low and steady and nothing like a joke.
"I love you, Virat."
No grin hiding behind it.
Just his name placed carefully inside the sentence like something precious.
And this time it doesn't bounce off.
It doesn't skim the surface.
It sinks straight through him, past the old doubts, past the fear that people only stay for performance, past the monsters that once told him he wasn't enough without the numbers.
Later, when the trophy finally reaches him and he closes his hands around it, Virat just stands there for a second.
The metal is cold. Real in that stubborn way long dreams are, the kind that take years before they finally sit in your hands.
He almost laughs under his breath because there was a time he thought this moment would always stay just out of reach.
But the trophy isn't the only weight he feels tonight.
Because somewhere in his chest, quiet and warm, three words are sitting there too.
I love you, Virat.
Words he used to brush off.
Words he didn't know how to hold.
Believing them took time.
Longer than winning this cup.
But standing here now, arms full, heart fuller, he realizes he finally made it to both.
and when I'm six feet under and the bugs are eating my heart, all they taste is you