The long-awaited

It wasn’t until Madrid’s first match against Barça after his arrival that he was confronted once again by the memory, in the most literal sense of the word.

Gavi was a pushy kid, truthfully, Kylian found him quite annoying, both on the pitch (the damn demon was a genius at getting in his way) and off the pitch (why did he sport a grimace a 100%? Did it have to look like everyday was the worst day of his life?)

The rest of the Barça team, though? He thought they were surprisingly nice people, some of them even humble. He hadn’t had lengthy conversations with nearly any of them, but they’d either been sweet enough during basic greetings or he respected them too much to have any sort of negative opinion on them (why did Lewandowski look so cool all the time, seriously)

In stark contrast to the unbearable pain in his ass that Pablo Gavira was, though, he thought Pedri was actually a really chill guy. He appreciated his valiant efforts to keep the younger under control and he liked how he played. He was a polite man and a seemingly good person and that was good enough for Kylian.

He was also the only player from Barça who’d texted him when he transferred, which he’d thought was quite sweet. That’s why in the day of El Clásico, as they waited in the entrance tunnel to the field, Kylian had approached to make conversation.

“Hey, man. How you doing” he smiled nervously. He wished he wasn’t as awkward at first encounters as he was, thought if there was one thing his ego should be helpful for was this. And yet…

“Holaaaa” Pedri smiled and raised a hand which Kylian clasped as they hit shoulders in a half hug. The Canarian smelled good, exactly how the Frenchman would’ve expected. The sides of his eyes wrinkled quite a bit despite him being so young, which Kylian thought was a good sign, too– he must be good-natured--. ¿How you doin’, tío?
“Passing by, adapting to the team” he answered, looking down at his feet rapidly as he shifted his weight between his legs, to not stand too still, to not let the dynamic of the conversation falter.

“And succeeding at that, no? I’m seeing your numbers. Really impressive.” Pedri leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

“Oh, well. It’s an easy team to play with. Different from PSG. But I think that might be better than I thought.”

Pedri would hunch his back when listening, lowering his head and bringing his head forward as he nodded, paying rapt attention even if Kylian neither expected it nor thought it necessary (though he greatly appreciated it).

“¿Por qué?” a voice clamored down the hall: Gavi approached them, steps more akin to waddles, which Kylian would’ve considered almost cute if the youngster’s voice hadn’t been dripping in completely unprompted venom. “Because not everything is tailored only to be the Mbappé show?” he said, finishing off with a scoff as he stopped by Pedri’s side and latched to his side, grabbing the older Spaniard by the waist.

Ousmane, who was right next to them, opened his eyes wide as he side-eyed him and batted the back of his hand softly at him as a warning. “Dude, for real?”

Pedri, who had also comically rolled his eyes at his teammate’s appearance, did not hesitate to caress the hand Gavi had placed on his hip, but did give him a stern look.

“Feel free to join the conversation, man” he sighed sarcastically. “Can you not start off on the wrong foot with EVERY player we meet?”

Kylian held the hand of child he was going to walk onto the field a bit tighter, their palms uncomfortably sweaty, though he wasn’t sure anymore if it was the kid’s nervousness causing it or his own. -- Deep sigh, breathe in, breathe out, you need fucking friends – he thought to himself.

“It’s okay. The adrenaline from big matches gets to me, too. I get it. We all get cocky like that, sometimes” (He in fact, did not get, thought Gavi lived in a perpetual state of cockiness, and was sure he would never step down to a player’s level like that again in his career, but the situation was dire)

The chattering in the tunnel almost came to a stop, all the kids and players from both teams staring in utter shock at him, as if his reaction was the last thing they’d imagined coming out of his mouth.

From the corner of his eye he saw Eduardo tilt towards Aurélien, to whisper a barely muffled “Damn, that’s not something you see everyday” and Rodrygo and Vini (who’d looked ready to face Gavi with his typical “You got a problem, you son of a…”) look at each other in amused perplexity.

Thankfully, Gavi also seemed to be one of the most impressed with his answer, blinking rapidly as he stared at him from under his ever frowning brows. “O-oh. Yeah. Sorry. You know how I am.” He glanced quickly at Pedri, who nodded reassuringly. “I’m working on it”

“We’re sorry.” Pedri finished, as if they were a unit and not two completely different people. He giggled adoringly at Gavi, adding to the growing confusion Kylian felt. “Now finish it off with a handshake and you’re almost good”

Urged by his apparently impossibly closer teammate, Gavi extended his hand, which Kylian didn’t hesitate to shake. “Sure, bro.” he mumbled, in response to nothing, before turning to Ousmane, with the most exaggerated questioning look he could manage, as Pedri gently caressed the side of Gavi’s face in a swift motion of his finger before stepping away from him and directing his attention to his assigned kid, who at least seemed a lot more of out of the loop than Kylian.

Ousmane managed to hold himself together for a grand total of around two seconds before he exploded into laughter at Kylian’s facial expression and state. – Am I missing something? – was the only thing that had time to cross his mind while all the other players chuckled knowingly and they were ushered into the Camp Nou.

Loud cheering, lights coming from everywhere, chants of his name, insults towards him and the rest of his teammates, hazy introductions and reglementary steps, endless input from everyone, the frenetic energy of those around him, expectations... So THAT was how Camp Nou felt. Fuck. He felt himself concentrate, the tunnel vision he always developed during matches forming. Game on.

And yet.

Something in Kylian had stirred, so maybe that was the reason he subconsciously maintained half his brain on the iconic couple of ‘friends’ (?) during the entire match.

They were a lot more discreet on the field than they’d been on the tunnel, voluntarily or because they were concentrated on the game, Kylian wasn’t sure. They looked normal, like your typical teammates throughout almost the entire 90 minutes. Almost.

Pedri was good at reading the game and organizing his side, while Gavi was fearless and played every ball as if it was his last, with aggressiveness and zero regard for his own safety. In one of those plays, Kylian could only stand still and watch as the youngster threw himself to the ground, to steal the ball from Dani with his head. It was ridiculous.

Cranium mere centimeters away from the midfielder’s boot, he managed to not get kicked straight in the face, but the sole of the other’s shoe did scrape his forehead, raising some of his skin and causing him to bleed more than what the injury probably required.

The rest of his teammates looked actively worried, Lewandowski basically throwing himself to his knees to inspect the kid as the medical aid ran towards them, but Kylian could only look at Pedri.

Pedri, who was doing the worst job at faking nonchalance that he’d probably ever seen. He approached Barça’s number 6 up to a certain point, didn’t kneel like others. Staying by a safe middle of the commotion, Kylian could see him shaking slightly as he stealthily approached his hand to his chest, as if needing to breathe for a second after the scare.

Jaw tense. Eyes flickery. Pace unsteady. There was no doubt anymore. There was something definitely going on between those two. Either they were the two closest friends in the history of football or what seemed more likely, they’d transcended friendship and were a step beyond that.

Antonella’s voice rang in his ears, for the first time in months, a memory he’d wanted to suppress unleashed. -- And if not… maybe… consider other options. – he shook his head, trying to clear his head. -- Back at Barcelona, during Leo’s last year, he had a teammate who… had different tastes... –

Kylian glanced at Pedri, who seemed as distraught as he felt, despite both of them putting their best efforts to hide it.

He was gone for the rest of the match, and so was the other, despite Gavi being up and running again the moment the staff put a bandage on his forehead until he was subbed off around fifteen minutes later.

Tied to zero, the remaining half hour was nothing if not hazy. He participated, enough to not ghost the entire game but not enough to be an imposing part of his team or primordial in the development of the game. Or at least that was the case until Araujo, against the poor man’s will, fouled him inside the box, awarding Madrid a precious penalty five minutes away from the end of the game.

He was expected to be the shooter, and he was willing and ready to step up to the role (wether he felt tremendously jittery as he walked up to the designated spot was nobody’s business but his own).

He let the ball down, touched the cold grass, damaged from the game. The cheering and whistling was getting to his head. He felt like he was going to throw up any second, -- that’d be awfully embarrassing, lord let it not happen during my first Clásico – he prayed.

How long had he been crouching? It didn’t take that long to place the ball. Had he even taken that long? Probably not. – BUT WHAT IF HE HAD?! –

Despite the stress, the steps he took back were tentative at best (definitely not because he didn’t trust his own stability at that moment).

The ref wasn’t blowing the whistle. What was he waiting for? Oh, no. a fight had broken out between the stressed out players behind him. Goddamn it. Did they have to keep the uncertainty going for him?

Deep breath. What the fuck was going on. He was fucking Kylian Mbappé, the man who’d scored a hat-trick in a goddamn world final and an extra penalty that same game. This was HIS thing. Long exhale out. His mind cleared a little.

Antonella’s voice made sure to interrupt that second of clarity. -- Back at Barcelona, during Leo’s last year… -- why would she not shut the fuck up, seriously.

-- he had a teammate who… had different tastes... – For what felt like the fifth hundredth time during the game, Kylian turned his attention to Pedri. He knew he’d played with Lionel, the Argentinian had on a couple occasions spoken fondly of the young player and his grand potential. -- He isn’t open about it, but I swear he HAS managed to be happy… -- the Spaniard wasn’t paying attention to the commotion between the rest of the players. Gaze lost in the crowd, Kylian tried to see what he was focused on, scrutinizing the audience.

-- He’s got a boyfriend now and… -- and there he was. In the Barcelona bench, eyebrows raised, lips pursed softly, clearly preoccupied yet exuding a comforting energy, which the Frenchman immediately sensed was directed towards Pedri, who, despite having quite a presence in every game he played, looked rather small at the moment, as if there was nothing he wanted more than to finish the game and go back to his… his whatever they were.

To be honest, considering that blood had soaked through Gavi’s bandage, making him look like fucking Frankenstein or something, Kylian could understand if despite the kid’s best efforts at reassurance, Pedri didn’t feel completely soothed.

Kylian felt a pang in his chest. He wasn’t even sure why anymore. Sympathy? Shock at such a hideously (though somehow successfully) concealed couple? They were the first gay players he’d ever met, he realized. A shiver ran down his back, he didn’t consider himself to be homophobic at all, he was from Paris after all, quite an open place about these matters, but he’d never seen anything like it before in his line of work. How many more people knew about this? How must’ve they felt during the World Cup and all the controversy related to the LGBTQ+ community? Were they planning to be open about it at some point?

Would it be weird if he asked them about it? Back in the tunnel, even his teammates at Real seemed to be caught up on it, and the pair hadn’t shied away from demonstrations of love in front of him. It surely would be understandable if he asked for an explanation, right?

-- There’s nothing wrong with you – Antonella had said when she’d brought them up to him. -- And if not… maybe… consider other options… -- had she thought that- that he was like them? His breath shortened. He wasn’t- he wasn’t gay. He’d just not found the right person yet. Why would she ever propose such a thing? Did he have a tell, or something?

-- A tell for what?! – he chastised himself. He wasn’t going to hate crime the Barcelona players for liking dick, but it just didn’t apply to him. His eyes flew back to Pedri, who seemed to be taking deep breaths, more relaxed. A professional, as they all were. Maybe Kylian was scrutinizing him too much, seeing weaknesses where there weren’t any.

Why was he acting like this? It didn’t concern him at all, anyways. Loud whistle-blowing behind his back made him jolt, pulling him out of his own head as he turned just in time to see the ref raising his yellow card and pointing it at several players. (Vini, of course, Koundé, who’d apparently gotten heated up, too, and Carvajal for complaining)

They’d probably already reached the 88 minute mark out of pure time wasting when the referee finally blew his whistle to command him to shoot.

Breathe in, breathe out. -- he had a teammate who… had different tastes... – a little preparatory jump, product of the pent up adrenaline -- He isn’t open about it, but I swear he HAS managed to be happy… -- he begins his run, locks eyes with Ter Stegen, breaks the eye contact, slows down but doesn’t stop -- He’s got a boyfriend now and… --

“GOAAAAALLLLL” he heard the audience roar as his teammates crashed into him, exhilarated. He could tell he was running towards the corner of the pitch, should he do his usual celebration? It hadn’t been feeling like a Kylian Mbappé thing anymore, as if it were more part of the character he’d built for himself at PSG rather than him at the moment, the new version of him, the long-awaited one.

He didn’t even process it when he jumped backwards in the air and spun his hand before yelling a “SIUUU” that the crowd joined in on. THAT was the feeling he wanted. The input he got back from that unexpected interaction with the crowd was magical, almost. He wanted to feel like that all the time: so energized that he felt as though he could play an extra 90 minutes.

Nothing else was on his mind anymore. Not Pedri, not Gavi, not the way Antonella had muttered her little speech tenderly, as if she knew that it directly applied to him. Not the thought that it might-

The game was over for him at that point. The ref added minutes, but he did not process them in the slightest: he was in the tunnel, semi-jogging towards the Madrid staff, who were euphoric, clapping and congratulating him, endless pats on his back rooting him, stopping him from drifting away.

It hadn’t even been a good game, even if they’d won, but that’d probably be something to deal with the next day. Step by step.

He showered, he danced (he swore to God, he’d danced more with Real in the little time he’d spent with them than in the rest of his career combined) he felt his nerves go down and his mind settle a bit.

They were staying over in Barcelona for the night (apparently an unusual thing for them) and would be going back in the morning, so they were advised to take good rest and turn in early.

Or at least that was originally the plan.

Dinner was a joint affair between the French. Aurélien, Eduardo and Ousmane were beautiful company, the most familiar among all the new peers and environment. They were not (at all) his closest teammates from the national team, but they felt undeniably like home. They caught up, talked about their shared experiences, called some of their other teammates (both Giroud and Grizzi swore that they’d watched the match, but refused to pick a favorite among them), just hung out, relaxedly, exactly what Kylian felt that he’d been missing those last few months at Madrid: not just teammates, but friends.

It was the perfect ending to the evening, which also served to remind him why he’d been relatively polite towards Gavi in the tunnel before: to build these types of connections.

That’s why, a few hours later, after arriving at his hotel, he made sure to not forget to DM Pedri, out of courtesy and with his best intentions. Despite the odd internal turmoil the revelation of the relationship between the players had caused him, he still hoped to make friends with them, find his place among the La Liga athletes, starting with them.

Kylian:

hey dude

it was cool meeting yall today

hope to catch up soon

tell gavi I hope he’s okay hahah

Was it weird to ask to catch up after a three minute talk with what were supposed to be two of his most deadly rivals? He didn’t even know anymore. He’d felt good vibes, though. He couldn’t let it all go to waste. He puffed his chest. It was bold to put oneself out there like that, it anything this only proved that he had balls. Satisfied, he waited a few seconds to see if the other would answer. Shockingly, within seconds he had.

His blood froze. Fuck.

Pedri:

yea

u sure liked us quite a bit huh😐

u literally stared at us all the game man

it’s all over twitter

fucking hell, bro

how could u do this to us

...

Well. Shit.