Archive of Our Own

After the win against Newcastle, everyone was already focused on the next match against Rayo, getting ready to head off on international duty with their national teams.
Well, not everyone.

The atmosphere in the gym at the Ciutat Deportiva that morning was calm.

A small group of injured players were going through their usual recovery session: Jules, Alejandro, Frenkie and Andreas all knew that, during the international break, they would have to support their teammates from home. Each of them was dealing with their own injury, and by now they were used to spending their recovery sessions together: trying to lighten the mood with inside jokes, stories about their daily lives, or laughing about a prank Lamine had pulled on Gavi earlier in the locker room.

The other side of the gym, though, was quieter. Almost too quiet.

Away from the others, Joan and Eric stuck to their routines after the physical issues they had picked up during the Champions League match. For Joan, it was nothing serious: the tests had ruled out any injury, and the medical staff had recommended a couple of light sessions in the gym, just to be safe and make sure he would be ready for Sunday’s match against Rayo.

Eric’s situation, on the other hand, was different. He was dealing with muscle overload (hardly surprising at this point in the season, after playing almost every game since August and constantly switching between defense and midfield) Not that Eric ever complained about it. If anything, he was such a workaholic that he could play up front with Rapha and Lamine if Flick asked him to. Damn, he could go in goal if Flick asked him to.

But he wasn’t used to taking breaks. He didn’t really know what to do with it, especially now, with the season entering a crucial phase and everyone needing to be fit and ready to contribute.

Another reason Eric hated breaks (well, hated not playing) was that he couldn’t escape his own mind. There was nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. Chasing players around the pitch made it easier to avoid thinking about his “off-the-pitch” life. Which, in reality, meant only one thing: Joan.

His teammate? His friend? His… whatever they were right now? Eric didn’t have a word for it. Not one that fitted.

Of course, they were friends. They had been long before Joan joined Barcelona. They had played together during the Paris Olympics, in Spain’s youth teams, and even shared the pitch in a few friendlies with Catalonia.

But ever since Joan signed for Barça, something had shifted.

Eric had been glad to have someone closer to his age: he was too young to really fit in with the “family dads” like Rapha, Frenkie, Andreas or Robert, who spent their time talking about school schedules and their kids’ routines, things that probably wouldn’t cross his mind for another ten years.
At the same time, he was definitely too old to match the energy of Lamine and the younger group. He loved his younger teammates, he really did, but sometimes they were so loud and chaotic that he preferred to watch them from a distance, enjoy the show, and look for a quieter space.

Of course, he could always count on his best friends, Pedri and Ferran, but he was trying to stop being the third wheel in their relationship, letting them enjoy it without his constant presence. It had taken them years to understand each other and figure out their feelings. He would always be there for them, but lately he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was intruding, and he didn’t want them to hold back just because they felt sorry for him — or pitied his miserable (or, as his sister and Dani liked to say, “non-existent”) love life.

So yeah, Eric didn’t mind spending time with Joan, especially when they were away from the chaos of the Ciutat Deportiva, which really did feel like a city of its own, often overcrowded with both the men’s and women’s teams, as well as all the La Masia facilities and younger teams.

It wasn’t unusual for Joan to spend time at Eric’s place. In Joan’s opinion, it was far too big for just one person, with too many unused rooms, so he had basically started using that as an excuse to crash there a few times (more than a few). Sometimes after a late-night flight, sometimes after going out with their teammates, sometimes after Eric invited him to watch a basketball game at the Palau.

At some point, Joan had stopped looking for excuses and just started showing up, not that Eric ever complained. He was the first one not to ask for anything specific, just to have him around. He just wanted company. Like friends do.
The only problem was that friendship wasn't supposed to make his stomach twist every time Joan walked into a room.  

The first time Eric realized that his feelings for Joan were weirdly starting to change was before the derby against Espanyol at Cornellà. Joan usually hid his nervousness well. He said he didn’t care about what pericos thought, claimed he didn’t read the insults and threats under his Instagram posts, brushing it all off like it was just another regular matchday. But by then, Eric knew him well enough to see through it. Behind that fearless, confident goalkeeper façade, Joan was still fragile in his own way and for him this couldn’t just be a normal game. 

Eric had just finished filming some content with the social media team and by then all he wanted was to get out of his training kit, put some comfy clothes on, go home, probably watch some basketball game and rest before the match the next day.

When he got back to the locker room, it was almost empty. He’d taken longer than expected, and the only ones left were in the physio area, probably getting some treatment.
As soon as he walked in, he noticed Joan was the only one left—sitting under his locker, still wearing his gloves, staring at a random spot on the floor as if he had suddenly found the most interesting tile in the world.

Eric tried to pull him out of that trance, gently resting a hand on his shoulder and asking "Hey, are you alright?"

Joan blinked, finally acknowledging Eric’s presence and Eric felt like he was coming back from somewhere far away; he had registered his teammate's voice, lifting his gaze as he said: "Ah, are you still around here?"

"I had to record some social media stuff. And you didn't answer my question."

Joan shrugged, a little too quickly. “Yeah, I'm ok. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just asking.”

Joan let out a small breath, glancing away again. “It’s nothing. Just… tired.”

“Right." Eric didn’t sound convinced. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly against the lockers beside him. “Big game tomorrow.”

Joan huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. Just a regular one.”

“You know you don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

Joan went still. “I’m not pretending,” he muttered.

Eric raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring at the floor like it personally offended you.”

That got a real reaction, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of Joan’s mouth. “Shut up." Joan exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his glove. “It’s just… people talk.”

“People always talk. Even our very own supports talk bad about us”

“Yeah, well—” Joan hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s different.”

Eric didn’t interrupt.

“They don’t want me there,” Joan admitted, quieter now. “They make that pretty clear.”

Eric’s expression tightened slightly. “Since when do you care what they want?”

“I don’t,” Joan said quickly. "Not really, anyway." He looked down again, voice softer. “It’s just… it’s my first derby there. And I don't know how it’s gonna be.”

Eric nodded slowly “Yeah,” he said. “It’s gonna be loud, messy and awful. And they are gonna be evil and nasty. They will shout terrible things at you. But you are better than them. Way better. You are the best goalkeeper in the league and tomorrow you're gonna show it to them. It's their loss, not yours.”

"What if I fail? What if I completely miss an easy save? What if I screw up a back pass or I can’t see the ball properly on a free kick, or worse, what if I make a penalty foul and I ruin every -" Joan rattled on, mumbling through his words, his worst worries creeping up inside him.

Eric cut him off with a wry smile on his face: "Wait, now you're insulting me, it sounds like you don't trust my excellent defense ability and our skills. I'm almost offended." 

Joan turned his head at Eric, his eyes wide open panicking: "Oh no, no, of course not! I didn't mean that w-"

Eric let out a quiet laugh. "Relax, Joanet, I know, I was just teasing you." and then he said with a more serious tone, putting both of his hands on Joan's shoulders and looking into his eyes: "Listen, we are a team. If we lose, we lose as a team. The same thing goes when we win. It's never a one man show. I mean maybe some games with Lamine but he's out of this world. So, whatever happens tomorrow, just remember that you don't play for your own glory. And you don't play for them anymore. You play for us. You play for me and for Pau and Gerard and for every single person in this locker room who can see how good you are every day. I consider myself lucky to have the opportunity to witness your growth every training and every match. It's just your first season here but damn Joan, it seems like sometimes you forget how great you are. 'Cause you are. Never, ever, ever let anyone make you think otherwise."

Joan stayed still, eyes closed, like he was trying to hold onto every word Eric had just said.

“I think you might have a future as a TED Talk speaker,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Save me a seat when your football career is over.”

Eric looked at him for a long moment, expression softening instead of laughing it off.

“I’m serious, Joan.” His voice was quieter now, steadier. “Be vulnerable for once. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Silence fell comfortably between them.

Eric took it as a sign that Joan didn’t want to keep talking about it, that he wanted to let the conversation die there. So he started pulling off his training top, tossing it carelessly onto the bench beside him.

Joan was still sitting under his locker, still absentmindedly fidgeting with his gloves.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low — almost too low, like he didn’t want the words to exist too loudly outside his own head.

“Joking aside, thank you,” he admitted. “I think I needed this pep talk.” He let out a slow breath; eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s just…” He hesitated. “I grew up with them. They coached me. I got promoted from Segunda with them.” A humourless laugh escaped him. “I even kissed the badge. God, that was stupid.”

Eric didn’t interrupt.

“I know I made mistakes,” Joan continued quietly. “Both with and without them. But I also did good things. For the club. For them.” His grip tightened around the gloves in his hands. “And now they basically want me dead.”

The words hung heavily in the room. “And I don’t think I deserve that.”

He exhaled shakily, like finally saying it out loud had taken something out of him. Then, after a pause, he muttered, almost more to himself than to Eric: “You know what? They can all go to hell.” But even he didn’t sound convinced.

Eric raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced too. “I appreciate how ruthless you are on the pitch,” he said. “Really. The competitiveness, the aggression—you’d probably sacrifice your own teammates to save a shot.” That finally got Joan to glance up. “But off the pitch?” Eric continued, a grin slowly appearing now. “You have the intimidation skills of a golden retriever puppy trying to baby sit a litter of stray kittens.”

Joan gasped dramatically. “Hey! Now I’m the one who should be offended.”

Eric snorted, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Speaking of competitiveness... Do you want to come over? I can let you win a couple of FIFA games. Or 2K. Your choice.”

Joan blinked at him, looking genuinely confused. “What?”

Eric frowned. “What do you mean, what?”

“At your place?”

“Yeah, my place. You know, that four-wall thing you've already been to about a hundred times.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “At this point, you're over there two or three times a week. You probably know the house better than I do.”

Joan let out a small laugh.

“You definitely use my kitchen more than me. Evil place, by the way.”

“Yeah, but never the day before a match.” Joan pointed a finger at him. “You have that ridiculously strict matchday routine. Nobody's allowed to interfere with it. Otherwise you become completely insufferable.”

Eric gasped. “That is not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

“First of all,” Eric said, holding up a finger, “it's not strict. It's just organized. Very organized.”

Joan raised an eyebrow.

“And precise,” Eric added.

“There it is.”

“And second,” he continued, ignoring him, “I'm playing about a hundred and eighty minutes every week. I'd rather not pick up some stupid injury because I decided to do something reckless.”

“Sure.”

“And I think the fact that my goalkeeper is having a complete meltdown about his first derby against his former club is a pretty good reason to make an exception.”

Joan immediately shook his head. “I am not having a meltdown.”

“Sure, golden retriever.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I'm serious too.”

Joan tried to glare at him, but it lasted about three seconds before his expression softened. “it’s just” he muttered, looking down at his gloves again. He picked at the strap of one glove, avoiding Eric’s gaze for a moment. “You already have enough things to worry about. Training, matches, your weirdly obsessive routine...” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading. “And it's not like there's anything you can actually do about tomorrow anyway.” He shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I don't know. I just...” He hesitated. “I don't want to bother you.”

The teasing disappeared from Eric's face almost instantly. “Joan.”

Joan looked up.

“As if that's even possible.” Eric's voice was quiet now, but firm. “You're my friend. You're my teammate. You can bother me as much as you want.”

Something flickered across Joan's face.

“If it means that by tomorrow Barça's starting goalkeeper is ready to play and walks out of that stadium with three points, then it's absolutely worth it.”

A grin slowly appeared on Eric's face. “Not to mention we've got a Super Cup in, what, a week? And it’s my week’s birthday, so I would like an efficient goalkeeper as a present.”

Joan rolled his eyes.

“So yeah,” Eric concluded, nudging his shoulder. “Whatever it takes. I fully intend to have a trophy in my hands by the end of this month.”

He pointed at Joan as if that settled the matter. “And for that to happen, I need my goalkeeper functioning properly.”

Joan snorted. “I am functioning properly.”

“Debatable.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.” Eric grabbed his car keys and headed toward the door. “Look, this isn't some grand gesture. I'm being completely selfish here.”

Joan raised an eyebrow.

Eric shrugged. “You're our starting keeper. We've got a derby tomorrow and I really hope we'll be playing a final in a week. If getting you out of your own head for one evening helps us win, then I'm doing it for the good of the team.”

The words came easily. Logical. Practical. Much easier than examining why the thought of Joan spending the evening alone had bothered him in the first place.

“So stop pretending this is about bothering me when we both know you're mostly worried about getting humiliated at FIFA or any other game” Eric said, pushing the locker room door open. “You know the way, see you in a bit.”

Joan watched the locker room door swing shut behind Eric, while a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. The idiot hadn't even waited for an answer, as if he already knew Joan would come. Which, annoyingly, he probably did.

Later that evening, Joan found himself exactly where Eric had promised he would be: far away from Cornellà, far away from social media, and far away from his own thoughts.

The evening had slipped by more easily than he expected. They'd played a few games—Eric had absolutely not let him win, despite his earlier promises—argued over questionable referee decisions in some basketball highlights, and somehow ended up cooking dinner together. Or rather, Joan had cooked while Eric provided moral support from a safe distance away from anything involving knives, fire, or basic kitchen skills.

For the first time all day, Joan had managed to forget about tomorrow.

By the time they finished cleaning up the kitchen, it was already late.

"It's a little bit late, you can stay here if you want," Eric said, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. "I'll take the guest room if you'd rather have your own space."

The apartment had settled into that comfortable kind of evening quiet that only came after a long day. The dishwasher hummed softly in the background. A lamp in the living room cast a warm glow across the hallway.

It wasn't anything special. A normal evening in a normal apartment. And somehow that made it feel even more comforting.

"But—"

"I've slept in worse bedrooms and on far more uncomfortable beds back in Manchester, trust me. Ask Ferran."

That finally earned a laugh from Joan. A real one this time. Not forced, not polite: the kind that made his shoulders relax.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing. I mean, yeah, I should probably organize the other rooms better, but for now—". His gaze drifted briefly toward the hallway, the guest room had become a storage space months ago. There were still unopened boxes from his last move stacked against one wall. Random football boots and shirts he kept promising himself he'd sort through one day. 

"I wasn't talking about the sleeping arrangements." Joan said, almost like a whisper.

Eric frowned. Joan shook his head, smiling to himself "And you're supposed to be the smartest guy in the team? Oh, boy."

"I've genuinely lost count of how many times you've insulted me in the last ten hours."

"Yeah," Joan said, the smile lingering. "You probably deserved every single one."

The teasing faded from his voice as he looked down at the dish towel still hanging from his hands. "No, seriously. Thank you. For today." The words came out quieter this time, more hesitant, like he was afraid to break something just by speaking. Like admitting he needed help was somehow harder than facing an entire stadium that hated him. "For listening. For not letting me stay alone with my own head all day."

Eric's expression softened immediately. "Joan, you don’t have to thank me for something like this.”

"I don't think I realized how much I needed this." He looked up then, meeting Eric's eyes.

For a moment neither of them said anything. The basketball game had long been forgotten somewhere in the background. The television was still running, voices filling the living room, but neither of them was paying attention anymore.

Joan looked calmer, lighter and the nervous energy that had followed him all afternoon seemed to have finally settled. And seeing that should have been enough for Eric. It should have felt simple, a friend helping another friend through a difficult day. Nothing more, nothing less.

Joan stopped at the main bedroom door, his hand on the handle, like silently asking Eric the permission to enter, forgetting the main point of Eric insisting on letting him sleep in his bedroom. “Do you mind if I go straight to bed? I’m a little bit tired and you know, I would like to be well rested for tomorrow...” Joan said.

“Yeah, of course no problem at all. Well rested for my special breakfast on match day, remember it.” Eric chuckled.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

For a second neither of them moved, as if they were both waiting for something.

Then Joan smiled, a small one. Sleepy, he disappeared behind the door. The soft click echoed through the hallway but Eric remained there for a few seconds longer staring at the closed door, feeling ridiculous because Joan was literally a few meters away. And somehow that felt both comforting and unbearable.

Later that night, Eric struggled to fall asleep.

His room was only a wall away and Joan was -hopefully- sleeping in his own bed. And somehow that thought alone was enough to keep him awake. 

Joan was right there. He wasn't alone in his apartment, endlessly scrolling through comments he pretended not to read. He wasn't replaying tomorrow's match in his head over and over again. He wasn't carrying everything by himself.
Joan was safe. No angry comments. No hostile crowd. No pressure. Just a quiet room at the end of a long day, and for once, Eric had managed to help.

Eric should have felt relieved. Instead, he found himself staring at the ceiling. 

He rolled onto his side, then onto his back, then onto his other side. Nothing worked.

He was thinking about the way Joan had looked at him earlier, about how quickly his mood seemed to affect his own, about the fact that hearing Joan doubt himself had felt almost physically painful.

It was a strange feeling. A dangerous one. Because Eric knew this wasn't just a concern anymore. He cared far too much. He wanted to protect Joan. From the people waiting for him at Cornellà. From every insult he pretended not to read. From every doubt that kept him awake at night.

From the whole damn world, if necessary.

It shouldn't matter this much. Except it did, it mattered far too much.

The realization settled slowly, quietly, like water rising around him before he noticed he was already drowning.

At some point during the past few months, Joan had become important. Dangerously important.

Not in the casual way teammates become friends, not in the way people drift into your life for a season and then drift out again.

Not even in the way his previous relationships had happened, those had always come with an expiration date. Those brief relationships that had never really had the chance to become something permanent. Six months here. A few months there. Enough to matter, not enough to stay. Even when he'd cared. Even when he'd tried.

Manchester had felt temporary, Girona had felt temporary.

There had always been a part of him that understood life would move on eventually. Different cities. Different clubs. Different paths. It hurt, but it was survivable.

This was different. The thought came so suddenly that it almost made him sit up.

For the first time, Eric couldn’t picture the future without someone in it. Because when he imagined his future, Joan was there. Not for six months, not until the end of a loan spell, not until one of them changed clubs.

The thought appeared suddenly, without warning and once it was there, he couldn't get rid of it.

Joan was there.

There. Simply there, he was in every version of tomorrow his mind just created: at training, on away trips, celebrating victories, stealing food from his kitchen, showing up at his house unannounced because he couldn’t be bothered to drive back home after a late flight.

And suddenly the idea of losing that felt unbearable.

Eric squeezed his eyes shut. This was exactly why he needed to stop.

That was the problem. In his vision of life people weren’t supposed to become that important, not if you wanted to protect yourself, not if you wanted to keep them.

And suddenly he understood why he’d been feeling so restless all evening. It wasn't the derby or an imminent match day. It wasn’t even the way Joan’s smile somehow managed to improve his entire day.

It was fear. Pure and irrational fear. Because if he kept falling, eventually there would come a moment when friendship wouldn't be enough anymore.

And then what?

What if Joan didn't feel the same? What if things became awkward? What if every easy conversation disappeared? What if he stopped showing up at his house? What if Eric lost the one person who had somehow managed to become his favourite part of every day?

The thought made his chest tighten.

No. No he couldn’t risk that. Not for this, not for feelings. Not for something he wasn’t sure he understood yet.

Before he ruined what they already had. Before he started wanting things he couldn't ask for. Before friendship stopped being enough.

Friendship was safe. Friendship was enough. Friendship meant Joan would stay.

And if Eric had to choose between having all of Joan as a friend or risking losing him entirely...then there wasn't really a choice.

Eric knew what temporary looked like. He’d spent most of his adult life surrounded by it. Football taught you that nothing lasted forever. Not teammates, coaches, cities, sometimes not even clubs.

You learned not to get too attached. Or at least, not to build your future around things that could disappear with a phone call, a transfer window, or a contract negotiation.

Relationships had always worked the same way. There had been good people. People he had genuinely cared about. People he still wished well.

But there had always been an invisible expiration date hanging somewhere in the background. A few months. Half a season. Maybe a year if they were lucky.

Then one of them moved. Or football got in the way. Or life simply carried them in different directions. And Eric had always survived. It hurt, sometimes more than he liked to admit, but he survived. A part of him had never fully unpacked his bags. Never fully settled. Never fully believed those stories were meant to last.

Joan was the first person who made that impossible, the first person whose absence felt wrong even as a hypothetical. The first person Eric couldn't imagine filing away as a memory.

Six months. The number kept returning to him. Six months. Long enough to fall in love. Long enough to get hurt. Long enough to become attached.

And then what? The thought of Joan becoming another chapter in his life felt absurd. Impossible. Because every future his mind created somehow included him.

A laugh escaped him, a sad one. For someone who spent his entire career throwing himself into challenges, he was being remarkably cowardly.

But some risks felt too big. Some things were too precious. And Joan had somehow become one of them.

Outside, the city had long gone quiet, the digital clock beside his bed crept closer and closer to morning. Eventually exhaustion began to win.

Eric turned toward the wall separating their rooms. Just one wall. One stupid wall.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that things were different, that he wasn't afraid. That tomorrow would come and nothing would have to change.

So somewhere between exhaustion and sunrise, on the eve of the first derby of the season, Eric made himself a promise. Whatever happened, Joan would only ever get his friendship.

Nothing more. Nothing that could risk losing him. Nothing that could change what they already were.
He would keep this to himself, whatever these feelings were, whatever they became. Joan would never have to carry the weight of them. Eric could do that alone.

After all, friendship was something he knew how to protect.
Love...Love was another matter entirely. And maybe that was what terrified Eric the most.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of something ending.
He was afraid of wanting it to last forever.

The next day at Cornellà, Joan was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. He saved everything.

Every shot, every cross, every dangerous chance Espanyol managed to create seemed to end the same way—with Joan getting there first.

By the final whistle, he had been named Man of the Match.

As if that wasn't enough, Eric later caught him smiling at a young Espanyol fan leaning over the barrier, holding a handmade sign asking for his shirt. Hearts were drawn all over the poster in bright red marker. Joan stopped and signed it and walked away smiling.

Bless kids, Eric thought. They could see football the way it was supposed to be seen. He is trying to forget all the terrible things pericos shout at Joan since they stepped on the pitch for the warm-up, but Joan's performance silenced them and there was no better way for Joan to prove them wrong.

A week later, Barcelona lifted the first trophy of the season. Joan lifted his first trophy with them.

And as Eric watched him celebrate with his teammates, grinning so hard his cheeks must have hurt, he realized something unfortunate. Keeping his promise was already becoming a lot harder than he had expected.

A month later, football reminded them how cruel it could be.

Barcelona arrived in Madrid carrying momentum, confidence, and the feeling that things were finally clicking into place. They left with a 4-0 defeat. Nothing had gone right.

The first goal came from a mistake that would be replayed a thousand times by the next morning in both Eric and Joan’s head.

Then in the second half came the red card for Eric. 

By the final whistle, the scoreboard showed four goals for Atletico, the kind of result that makes you doubt yourself over and over until the next day.

The bus was already half full when the first players started climbing aboard. Eric had been one of the first: being sent off had its advantages, apparently. He'd showered quickly, changed, and disappeared onto the bus before most of the team had even entered the dressing room. He didn’t need anyone telling him what he already knew.

Now he sat alone near the back. Window seat, hood pulled low, his headphones on. The universal footballer's signal for “leave me alone”. He was still raging; he wanted to throw his boots against a wall and go back ninety minutes and do everything differently but now all he has is the sinking feeling that he’d let everyone down.

Eric wasn't listening to anything, the music was off and the headphones were just an excuse. A shield. One more thing standing between him and everyone else.

One by one, teammates filed past, some sat together, some stayed silent. Nobody seemed particularly interested in conversation, they knew losses had their own language, and silence was usually the only word everyone agreed on.

The city outside started moving as the bus pulled away from the stadium.

Lights blurred into long streaks against the glass, and Eric kept his head turned toward the window, still replaying everything in his mind, the mistake, the goal and the red card. Every second of it burned behind his eyes like it was still happening.

Then the seat beside him moved. Eric didn't look up immediately, he already knew who it was, somehow he always did. Joan sat down without asking. Without saying a word, just dropped into the seat and stared straight ahead.

A long silence stretched between them, the kind that didn’t feel empty or the kind that felt full of everything they weren’t saying.

The bus hummed quietly beneath them and for a while, neither of them spoke. Eventually Eric sighed and pulled one side of his headphones away. "You're supposed to be sitting with players who don’t get sent off for absolutely no reason.”

Joan shrugged. “They’ll survive."

Eric let out a humourless laugh. "Bold statement after tonight." The words came out sharper than he intended.

Joan didn't react. If anything, his shoulders sank a little lower. "The first goal was my fault." He said, almost whispering.

Eric closed his eyes. Of course that was where Joan's mind had gone.

"It wasn't."

"It was."

"It wasn't."

Joan finally turned toward him. "I basically let the ball slip under the foot and I misjudged the bounce, like a goalkeeper of Tercera Federación "

"It was a single mistake, it can happen."

"Well, it shouldn’t, it made me seem stupid. Or maybe it was just proof that I’m not a good goalkeeper and that's it."

The certainty in his voice made Eric look away, because he recognized it. It sounded exactly like his own thoughts. Exactly like the replay that had been running through his head ever since his own goal. Exactly like the voice telling him he should have passed it differently. Should have reacted faster. Should have been better.

"On the referee’s match report the own goal is mine," Eric said quietly.

“As if it mattered. We are still down 4-0 even if it was mine.”

Eric didn’t say anything, all the mistakes of the night sitting between them like a dead weight. The silence that followed stretched between them, quiet but not uncomfortable.

Eric kept staring out of the window like he could disappear into the glass, trying not to look at Joan because he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to keep holding himself together the way he was pretending to. His voice broke when he finally spoke. “This was supposed to be—” he stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “This was supposed to be a balanced game.”

“It’s never just a game,” Joan said quietly.

Something in Eric’s chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with football anymore.

He blinked once, then again. Too fast.

“No, not here and not now” he’s telling himself in his mind. But it was already too late. The frustration didn’t come out loud, it didn’t explode all at once.

It just… cracked, quietly, his breathing hitched once then again.

He pressed his lips together hard, trying to hold it in, like that would make it stop. It didn’t.

A tear slipped down before he could stop it, then another. He didn’t even try to wipe them away. His jaw clenched instead, like anger could hold it together where control couldn’t.

Joan noticed immediately. Of course he did. At first, he didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly closer, not touching, just there. Present.

Eric turned his face away completely now, hood hiding most of him, but not enough.

His shoulders tensed once, then collapsed slightly.
Silent tears now, no sound. Just the kind that happens when you’ve been holding everything in too long and there’s nowhere left for it to go.

Joan didn’t move away, he just stayed beside him, close enough that Eric wasn’t alone in it and far enough that he wasn’t forced to explain anything.

After a moment, Joan spoke again, softer. “You don’t have to carry it all like that.”

Eric shook his head slightly. “I do.”

“No,” Joan said simply. “You don’t.”

The bus kept moving. Outside, Madrid disappeared behind them. Inside, for the first time since the final whistle Eric let himself fall apart without anyone telling him to stop and didn’t realize he was shaking until it became impossible to ignore. Not dramatic and not visible from the outside. It was just a subtle, betrayed kind of trembling he couldn’t quite control anymore. He kept his face turned toward the window anyway. Like that could hide it like that could undo it.

Beside him, Joan stayed still for a moment longer, watching him. Not pushing. Not speaking. Just there, taking it in the way Eric had done for him so many times before.

Then, slowly, Joan moved, not suddenly, not hesitantly either. More like decisively, like he had already decided this the moment he sat down.

His hand came up first. It hovered for a fraction of a second above Eric’s shoulder, then settled there.

Warm. Firm. Real.

Eric’s breathing stuttered at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.

Joan didn’t squeeze or shake him. He just kept his hand there, grounding him without asking permission to do it. A quiet acknowledgement. I’m here. You’re not alone in this.

Eric swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the traffic lights outside. He tried to speak, but nothing came out properly.

Joan shifted slightly closer, careful now, more deliberate.

And then his other hand moved. Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached up toward Eric’s hoodie, the fabric tugging lightly, the hood sliding back, air suddenly colder against the back of his neck, more exposed.

Eric closed his eyes for a second, a reflex. Not to stop it but just enough to feel it.

Joan didn’t say anything about the tears, didn’t acknowledge them, didn’t turn it into something it wasn’t. His thumb brushed once, lightly, against Eric’s shoulder—barely a movement. But enough to keep him there.

“You don’t have to sit in it alone,” Joan said quietly.

Eric let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, but it broke halfway. “I’m trying not to think about it,” he muttered.

“I know,” Joan replied. Then, softer: “Stop trying.”

And Eric did it. not because it fixed anything, but because Joan didn’t ask him to be okay.

Eric finally turned his head slightly, not fully, just enough to feel Joan there beside him instead of the world outside.

Joan slowly moved his hands away, like he suddenly remembered where they are, who they are and who they are surrounded by. Their teammates, coaches, physios. People who knew them and worked every day with them. For a few reckless minutes, he’d forgotten all of it, that there was a world outside this seat, outside this bus and outside Eric. A world that would demand clarity, labels, answers, that didn’t leave much space for something undefined. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before letting go completely, like his body was trying to argue with his mind, trying to hold on just a little longer.

Both Eric and Joan’s head fell back, leaning against the headrest. Eric closed his eyes and for a moment there was nothing. No stadium, no mistakes, no red card. He was just exhausted and tired. 

A few minutes passed, then Joan shifted slightly closer through Eric’s side. Their shoulders almost touched, Eric didn’t move away and Joan hesitated for a second, like he was checking something unspoken between them and then carefully he leaned in, just enough for his shoulder to rest against Eric’s with a light pressure.

Eric kept his eyes closed, opening them felt like admitting way too much, Joan didn’t speak, didn’t ask anything and didn't try to fix anything. He just stayed there, present in the most uncomplicated way possible.
Eric let out a heavy breath, he let his shoulder pressed slightly into Joan’s without him meaning to. Or maybe he did. He didn’t know anymore. Minutes passed like that, no urgency and no expectation, Just the dull hum of the bus’s engine behind them, and the quiet fact that neither of them had moved away.

At some point, Joan’s hand found Eric’s sleeve, not gripping or holding, just a small point of contact to prove he was real.
Eric finally opened his eyes, enough to see Joan beside him and he tried to breathe normally again. Or at least, to pretend he was.

“Honestly” he muttered, voice lighter on purpose “Getting a red card is the only way I can get some rest. Hansi might think I did it on purpose because I always play full 90 minutes”. A small laugh followed the sentence. Too practiced. Too quick. 

Joan didn’t react immediately, he just looked at him. Not in a confused way and not in an amused way either. He leaned back, forcing a smirk. “Very modern football concept.” 

Eric was waiting for the usual response: a joke back, a push on the shoulder, something to keep it moving, but it didn’t come.
Joan shifted in his seat, turning slowly toward him and then he spoke. “Stop.” Just that, a single word.
Eric blinked. “What?”
“I said stop”.
The smile on Eric’s face faded for a fraction of second, then returned, weaker. “I’m joking”.
“I know”. Joan’s voice was calm. Too calm.
Eric huffed a short laugh. “Yeah, well it’s either that or I start rethinking about the ma-”
“Eric”. His name said by Joan cut through it. Not loud or harsh. Just firmly.
Eric went quiet and Joan was still looking at him, still not letting him hide behind distance or sarcasm or anything else.
“You’re doing it again”. Joan said in a stern way.
Eric frowned, he was confused. “Doing what?”
Joan took a deep breath before speaking. “The thing where you turn it into a joke so you don’t have to feel it.”

The words landed softly but precisely. Eric looked away immediately, it was a reflex. “That's not true,” he mumbled.
“Don’t. Joan said again.

The noise of the bus filled the space between them again. Someone was chatting a little bit louder, some of the youngest was scrolling TikTok with volume on, some of the medical staff was discussing some of the referee's decisions that night. But none of it reached here.

Eric swallowed, his voice came out quieter this time. “I’m fine”.
Joan didn't move, didn’t push. He just stayed there, looking at him like the truth was already obvious, like it had been obvious for a long time.
“You don’t have to perform right now”. Joan said eventually.
Eric’s shoulders dropped a little. “I don’t know how to not do that.” he admitted.
Joan nodded, like all that made sense, it wasn’t something to fix, just something to acknowledge or to understand. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Then don’t perform for me”.

Eric finally looked at him properly for the first time that night and he felt completely stuck.
The silence that followed felt exposing. Like Joan had gently peeled away every layer Eric usually hid behind and waited for him. No pressure, no expectations. Just patience.
Eric looked away first, toward the bus aisle, toward anywhere that wasn’t those stupidly understanding eyes. He stared at a patch of grass stuck to his trainers, at anything except Joan, because if he looked at him right now, he wasn’t entirely sure he could keep pretending, and pretending for him was usually the easy part. Pretending he wasn’t exhausted, frustrated and disappointed in himself.
Pretending he wasn’t carrying every mistake around like an extra weight on his shoulders.
Football taught you how to do that: you lost on Wednesday and you trained on Thursday.
you made a mistake in front of eighty thousand people and you have to forget about it a second later.
You got up, you moved on. You never stayed down for too long. That was the job, what people expected from you.
That was who Eric had always tried to be. Reliable, professional. The defender who could take criticism and keep going. The player who never made it about himself. The guy who was always okay. But tonight he wasn’t and somehow Joan had noticed immediately and he wasn’t trying to convince him everything was fine when it wasn’t.

His throat tightened again. He hated this. This feeling and the helplessness of It. The way one bad night could make him feel like he was failing everyone around him, the way every mistake seemed to stick to his skin and the way he could spend ninety minutes carrying a team through difficult moments and still only remember the one thing he got wrong. He swallowed, hard, but the knot in his throat didn’t move. 

“Eric.” Joan’s voice was soft, careful and it made everything worse. Because there wasn’t a trace of judgment in it, not even disappointment, or disagreement or minimizing Eric’s feelings. Just concern, the genuine kind. The kind Eric never knew what to do with.

Eric’s eyes burned, again. He laughed under his breath, a broken and exhausted sound. “This is embarrassing”.
Joan frowned immediately. “No, it’s not.”
“It is.”
“It's not.”
Eric shook his head. “It Is when You're twenty - five”
Joan snorted. “I’m pretty sure crying isn’t age - restricted”.

The corner of Eric’s mouth twitched, just slightly and then disappeared again. The weight returned, heavier this time. The own goal was still there, together with the red card and the team defeat. And for some reason the thing that hurt the most wasn't even his own mistake anymore. It was Joan’s. The image flashed through his mind again. The ball slipped under his foot and crossed the goal line. The immediate look on Joan’s face afterward.  That split second when confidence turned into doubt. Eric hated that image, more than the own goal and the red card: it was not the first and probably not the last of his career, so right now he didn’t care about it. Joan had been brilliant all season and he’d worked his ass off to get here. He deserved better than one mistake defining his night. 

The realization hit him suddenly. Sharp and unavoidable.
He cared too much, far too much. Not as a teammate, not anymore. The thought terrified him. Because caring this much meant there was always something to lose. And Eric was suddenly very aware of how much losing Joan would hurt. As a friend or as whatever they were, even if friendship wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
As the person who has somehow become the first person he looked for after every goal, and every match. The first person he wanted to tell things to and whose opinion muttered more than it should.

The exhaustion returned immediately after. Heavy. Relentless. He felt drained, completely drained. Like he had spent weeks (or months) holding something together and tonight his body has finally decided It was done helping.

For a moment neither of them spoke, then Eric felt himself lean. Barely. Almost unconsciously, as if his body had made the decision before his brain could stop it.

A few centimetres, nothing more. Until his forehead was resting against Joan’s shoulder. The movement was so small, so hesitant, like he was still giving Joan the chance to make a joke, to pull away or to pretend It hadn’t happened.

Joan did none of those things, he didn’t freeze, nor tense. He didn’t act surprised. The movement was so hesitant It almost broke Joan's heart, like Eric still wasn’t sure he was allowed, like he expected to be told no or to be too much. But Joan didn't move. As if Eric resting his weight against him was the most natural thing in the world.
Joan was trying to stay rational, Eric needed somewhere to fall, and if his side was the safest Place Eric thought of, then Joan was offering him all the space and time he needed.

Eric’s chest tightened again, this time worse. His vision blurred and he tried to fight the tears back, he hoped it would stop there. It didn’t. The tears came back before he could stop them. Silent. Exhausted. The kind that hurt more because they made no sound.

Joan still didn’t say anything, and somehow that was exactly what Eric needed. No reassurance or solutions, no empty promises that everything would be ok. Just permission to be tired, hurt, to stop pretending for five minutes.
Slowly, Joan lifted his hand, not to stop the tears or wipe them away, but to rest it gently against the back of Eric’s neck, warm and steady, Joan’s fingers slid into Eric’s hair, gently rubbing small circles at the back of his head. Eric closed his eyes, the gesture nearly undid him, There’s no pity in it, no awkwardness or discomfort. Joan wasn’t tolerating this version of him. He was accepting it. Completely. For someone who had built his entire life around being reliable, useful and dependable, being accepted on the one night he felt he'd been none of those things was almost unbearable.

A fresh tear slipped free, then another, while Joan's thumb brushed lightly against his neck, the gesture was impossibly gentle, protective and instinctive. A tiny movement that is enough to say “you don’t have to be strong every second of every day”. 

Silent tears soaked into the fabric of Joan’s hoodie. No dramatic sobs or loss of control. Just pure exhaustion finally finding somewhere safe to rest. 

And for the first time since the beginning of the season he let himself rest. Not against the bus seat, or against the weight of his own thoughts.
Against Joan. Against the one person who never seemed to ask him to be anything other than exactly what he was. And Joan, without a single word, let him stay there for as long as he needed.

Joan didn’t judge, didn’t pity him or run away. He simply let Eric rest there, carrying a little bit of the weight without asking for anything in return. As if it were the easiest thing in the world, as if taking care of this new version of Eric that he discovered tonight was as natural as diving for a crucial save in the 90th minute

Eric’s breath hitched and his eyes closed even tighter, trying to remember the last time somebody had held him like that. It must be a very long time. Eric hated crying, always had. Like it was a proof of being a fragile person, and fragility doesn’t match the stereotype of the perfect footballer.  

Joan’s hand on him was enough to anchor him, to tell him he wasn’t alone and It's okay to stop fighting for a minute or more.
Eric felt something unfamiliar. Relief. Small, fragile and temporary but it was real. 

And for the first time since the final whistle he heard from the locker room, he wasn’t carrying the weight of the night alone. 

March arrived faster than Eric would have liked. The season had settled into its usual chaos: matches every three days, recovery sessions, tactical meetings, flights, buses and matches again. It was the kind of schedule that left very little room for thinking. Usually, that was a good thing but lately it wasn’t working.
somehow no matter how busy he was, his thoughts always seemed to end up on the same topic but unfortunately that topic was sitting a few meters away from him.

Eric was supposed to be focusing on his exercises, it was the second time in two weeks span that his thigh muscle was bothering him, the relentless schedule was finally taking its toll. No matter how stubbornly he insisted on playing through everything, there came a point when even Eric had to accept that his body needed to be managed before it made the decision for him.

Instead, he found himself counting down the minutes until the Spanish national team squad announcement. Not because of himself: that ship had sailed a long time ago, and the moment his injury report landed on Hansi’s desk, he knew that even this time it wasn’t meant to be. And at this point he started thinking he’ll be out of the federation’s plans.
No, this time it was about Joan. Everyone knew he would be called up, the question wasn’t if. It was when.

For the first time Eric found himself looking forward to an international break. Not because he needed rest (but he did) or he wanted time away from football, that was basically his nightmare.
He needed time away from Joan. The thought sounded ridiculous even inside his own head, but it was true.
two weeks. Fourteen days. That was all.
Fourteen days without accidentally looking for him in every room, without waiting for his messages. Without noticing the empty seat beside him on the bus and immediately checking whether Joan had already jumped on it.
Fourteen days to remember what his life had looked like before a goalkeeper from a small village in the middle of Catalunya decided to become the centre of his universe.

Not that Eric would ever phrase it like that. His version in his own head sounded much more reasonable. Healthier. More mature. A reset. That’s all.

He’d focus on recovery, spend more time with his family and his sister. Take long walks in the middle of nowhere with his dogs. Catch up with friends he hadn’t spoken to properly in months. Finish that sport book that had been sitting untouched on his bedside table since January. Watch basketball. Anything. Just not Joan. No late - night texts about stupid reels seen on Instagram. No stopping by his house after training. No showing up to recovery sessions and immediately searching for a familiar face.

Distance. Eric needed distance. And perspective. Normality.
By the end of the international break, things would be back under control. The feelings would calm down and the attachment would fade. His brain would finally remember how to function properly. A sensible plan. A plan that definitely didn’t depend on completely avoiding the one person he thought about more than anyone else.

Eric was still mentally congratulating himself for this masterpiece of emotional maturity when one of the physiotherapists walked into the room.
“Joan” the physio grinned “You might want to check your phone”
Joan frowned. “Why?”
The grin widened “Oh I think you already know why”
For half a second Joan simply stared, then realization hit. And suddenly he was scrambling for his phone.

The recovery room erupted almost immediately: congratulations, cheers, a few sarcastic comments from teammates. Joan looked overwhelmed, smiling so hard it was impossible not to smile back. Before anyone could stop him, he was already dialling a number, probably his parents or his brother.

Eric watched him for a moment: the excitement, the disbelief, the way his entire face lit up. And despite everything, despite the ridiculous plan he'd spent the last ten minutes (or 10 days) building inside his head, a warm sense of pride settled somewhere in his chest. He deserved it, more than anyone. It doesn't matter if the matches scheduled are just two meaningless friendlies. 

Joan turned away slightly, already speaking into the phone, laughing softly into it. "Mamá?". His smile somehow grew even wider; it was impossibly bright. He deserved that moment, all of it. And Eric refused to become the shadow hanging over one of the happiest days of his life. Good he's distracted, he can leave. He grabbed his water bottle from the bench and headed toward the dressing room.

One step, then another. The corridor suddenly felt much longer than usual, quieter. Only the distant echo of voices and the hum of fluorescent lights followed him. He almost made it. Almost.

"Eric." He froze. For half a second, he considered pretending he hadn't heard. Just keep walking. Keep running away, like he'd been doing for weeks. Instead he stopped, closed his eyes and waited.

A few footsteps echoed behind him, not hurried, not angry. Just determined.

When Eric finally turned around, Joan was standing a few metres away, his phone was gone and his smile was too.

"You left."

Eric forced a shrug. “You were talking to your parents."

"So?"

"You should be with them."

Joan stared at him. "I wanted to be with you too."

"I'm happy for you," Eric said quietly. "You deserve it."

"Thanks." Joan smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's a shame about the injury. Luis probably would've called you up too."

"Yeah, sure." Eric snorted. "That's what everyone keeps telling me, but I don't believe any of you."

"Because it's true. You'll see this summer, for the World—"

"Joan, I don’t need your pity.” His voice came out sharper than intended.

Joan's expression hardened immediately. "It's not pity, I genuinely think you deserve a spot."

Eric looked away. "Yeah, whatever. It's not gonna happen."

Joan took a step forward. “You’ve been having an incredible season. You've earned every minute you've played. If Hansi asked, you'd probably take my spot."

A laugh escaped Eric. Humourless. “We are well covered with our goalkeepers”

For a moment neither of them spoke, then Joan frowned. “At least for once you can rest properly during the break.” Eric nodded, that should have been the end of it. But Joan insisted. “It’s been like 2 weeks and more.”

Eric froze. "What?"

"You can't look me in the eyes for more than a second." The words landed softly, which somehow made them worse. "You only do it during matches because, well you know" Joan shrugged. "You kind of have to since we play for the same team. even if it doesn’t seem like it."

"That's not true."

"Oh, yeah?" Joan crossed his arms. "It's not like you've been avoiding me or anything."

"I'm not."

"You're distant."

"I'm not."

"You're cold."

"I'm not."

Joan stared at him, then let out a frustrated laugh. "Do you know any other answer?" Eric remained silent. "Besides telling me I deserve the call-up."

That finally made Eric look up. Joan's jaw tightened."I'm not talking about football." The room suddenly felt much smaller. "I couldn't care less about football right now." His voice shook slightly. "We were fine, weren’t we?"

Eric's chest tightened. "We were."

"Then what happened?" Joan took another step closer. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Then tell me. I don't even know what this is anymore." Joan laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I just know it isn't the same as it used to be, and it hasn’t been for weeks” His eyes met Eric's again. "The way you look at me, the way you stop talking when I walk into a room, the way you always find me after a match and the way you pulled away after Madrid. I don't know what this is, but I know it’s authentic and you keep pretending it isn't."

Eric couldn't say anything back, because there was nothing to tell that wouldn't change everything. Joan looked away for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time, almost vulnerable. "I'm not imagining this, am I?"

 Eric closed his eyes. The answer was obvious. The lingering glances. The moments that lasted a little too long. The conversations neither of them wanted to end. The way Joan had become the first person he wanted to hug after every goal scored or after an important save from one of them. The first person he wanted to tell things to. The first person he missed before he'd even left.

"It can't be just me noticing." His voice cracked.

And suddenly, for the first time since Joan signed for Barcelona, Joan looked terrified. Not of the answer but of not getting one.

"I want it to be real, Eric." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Do you know what the stupid part is?" Eric stayed silent. "Today should've been perfect." Joan laughed quietly. "I got called up for Spain." His voice cracked. "I've dreamed about this since I was nine and I've been thinking about sharing this moment with you.” He looked at Eric. “This is one of the best days of my life but damn it.” He shook his head. "The only thing I want right now is for you to tell me I'm not making this up."

Eric's heart stopped, because Joan looked exactly the way he felt. Lost. Terrified. Scared.

"I feel like I'm going crazy." Joan swallowed hard. "And you keep ignoring it." His gaze dropped briefly between them. "Us. "You're acting like silence can turn us back into who we were. Tell me I'm not the only one who feels that whatever this is…it isn’t just friendship anymore.”

The word hung in the air, simple and terrifying at the same time. Eric closed his eyes. He knew. 

"Can you stop running away from your feelings?" Joan's question landed softly, no accusation or anger, just exhaustion."Can you stop running away from me?"

Eric's breath caught. "Joan, we can't—"

"Yes." For the first time, Joan interrupted him. "We can. I certainly can.” Then, more quietly he added "You can too."

The room felt impossibly silent. Joan took one final step, close enough now that Eric could see every detail of his face. Every trace of fear and every trace of hope.

His voice broke. "I want you to stay here with me. Please."

Eric felt something inside him crack, not painfully and not all at once. Just enough for the walls he'd spent weeks building to finally begin collapsing.

"Will you be there when I come back?" Joan asked.

Eric looks back at him now, eyes searching, something fragile and unguarded finally breaking through. Eric almost laughed. "You'll be gone for ten days, it’s not that you’re going to the moon or some-"

"Promise me. We will sort this out. Whatever it is, whatever you want to label it." Joan didn't smile, didn't look away. He was deadly serious."Look me in the eyes and promise me we will do it.”

He'd spent weeks running away. He hadn't stopped to consider that Joan might decide to run after him.

And suddenly Eric was tired, so unbelievably tired. Tired of running, tired of planning every step of his future. Tired of trying to fit himself into spaces other people had chosen for him.

From Girona to Barcelona, from loan spells to contract renewals. From proving himself to coaches, teammates, journalists, supporters. Working like a dog just to convince people he belonged. Barcelona had finally understood, Hansi had understood. Maybe one day De la Fuente would understand too.
But Joan? Joan had seen it long before any of them. Somewhere along the way, without Eric even noticing, he'd started seeing him too. Not as a footballer, not as a defender nor as a project. Just Eric.

And now Joan stood in front of him, in the middle of this maze of training rooms and football pitches, asking for something Eric hadn't even known he was allowed to have. Something beyond football, something beyond contracts and trophies and expectations.

Something worth building a life around.

Most people would have called it love months ago, Eric had needed far longer just to admit it existed. He had spent so many years trying to deserve love that he had never stopped to consider someone might choose to love him before he'd earned it. He knew how to earn respect. He had no idea how to receive love. 

He lifted his head to look Joan in the eyes, and for the first time, he stopped running. From himself. From his feelings. From what everyone expected him to be.

Because the goalkeeper standing in front of him—with his broad shoulders, his steady hands, and that shy smile that somehow disappeared every time he stepped onto a football pitch—made him feel something no stadium ever had. Peace. With himself, maybe even with the world.

He didn't know what tomorrow looked like, didn't know what would happen in a week, two months, or by the end of the summer.

For once, he didn't care. He only knew who he wanted there when it arrived and that person was standing right in front of him. Waiting.

The answer had been there all along: hidden, buried, denied. Maybe since the night before the Espanyol derby. Maybe since that bus ride to Madrid, when Eric had hidden his tears in Joan's shoulder and Joan had stayed anyway. Maybe in all those silences that had never felt awkward, only safe.

Whatever it was, it had always led here, to this moment. To them.

Eric inhaled deeply, his eyes were wet when he finally opened them.

Joan's hands were still holding his, as if they contained the most precious thing in the world. And maybe they did. Maybe, right now, the love they carried for each other was the most precious thing either of them had ever been trusted with.
For once, neither of them was willing to let it go.

Eric had spent years believing love was something you earned, with good performances, with sacrifices, with consistency, hard work and perfect timing. Looking at Joan now, he realized love had never asked him for any of those things. It had only asked him to stop running.

And for the first time in his life Eric allowed himself to believe he deserved a love that big. For the first time in months, Eric stopped thinking about how to leave.

Eric tightened his grip, leaning forward, he pressed a quick, trembling kiss to the bridge of Joan's nose, then he rested his forehead against his. And whispered the words that somehow felt like the anticipation of their future. And the beginning of everything together. 

"I promise."