Work Text:
Like any person his age, Jude’s favorite hobby is scrolling through his phone.
He likes a few pictures, chuckles at a few memes, and rolls his eyes at the hate posts about the England squad. Unsurprisingly, most of those came from users from Argentina.
The sound of the front door pushing open snaps him out of his doomscrolling, and just in time too. Jude was a few seconds away from replying to a particularly nasty comment from a Messi fan.
Jude tosses his phone aside. He leaves the bedroom just in time to hear Gavi come inside.
“I’m here!” Gavi exclaims. He’s been in a great mood since he won the World Cup. Who wouldn’t be?
“Hey!” Jude makes his way down the hallway. “How was the barber’s?”
Jude is genuinely relieved Gavi finally ditched that old barber of his— the one responsible for some truly shite haircuts in the past.
Gavi had mentioned needing to go to a different place because he had something ‘different’ in mind. Perhaps an undercut or a perm— every young Spanish bloke these days seems to be sporting a perm.
So imagine Jude’s surprise when he sees Gavi with a freshly cropped haircut that is a loud, unmistakable, shade of neon bubblegum pink.
“Oh my days.” Jude rubs his eyes to make sure he isn’t going mad. “What happened to you?”
“I dyed my hair pink because we won the World Cup!”
Jude blinks, baffled. He looks at the pink hair, then at Gavi’s ecstatic face, trying to connect the dots. “Why?”
“Lamine said he’d grow a beard and a moustache and Pedri said he’d go blond if we won!”
Jude is even more confused. “Is this a Barça thing?”
“No, Cucu said he’d get a tattoo of Luis de la Fuente on his body.”
Jude is grateful Gavi didn’t go that route. He loves Gavi with every fibre of his being, but he won’t be able to look at that sexy little body again if he has that old manager’s face permanently inked onto it. The pink dye job is actually a mercy.
“First you go blonde and now your hair is pink,” Jude says. What’s next, baby blue? Purple? Rainbow? “Do you actually want to be a K-pop star?”
Gavi pouts. “What, you don’t like it?”
Jude inspects the bright crown of pink. His boyfriend has soft, beautiful, healthy brown hair, and yet he chooses to ruin it with all sorts of chemicals. “You remind me of Griezmann.”
Gavi narrows his eyes, trying to parse the footballing and fashion implications of that statement. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Jude deliberately chooses not to answer that. He experimentally runs his fingers through Gavi’s deep-fried hair. “You seriously look like a K-pop star. You trying to perform at the next World Cup half-time show?”
Gavi shudders at the memory of all the American corporate nonsense. “Please, no more half-time shows,” he says. “Half-times are stressful enough.”
“What stresses me out are your surprise new hairdos.” The last time Gavi bleached his hair, Jude had to constantly remind him to use conditioner. “If you’re going to do something wild with your hair, at least tell me beforehand, yes?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gavi asks cheekily. “Besides, Ferran and I made a pact to go bald when Barça wins the Champions League.”
“Then I really hope you lot don’t win the Champions League ever again.” Jude loves Zinedine Zidane, but he doesn’t want his boyfriend to look like him. “I’ll personally make sure of that!”
Gavi shows him the middle finger.