Chapter Text
you’re finally free from the sickness that kept you trapped in your dorm room for days—fever, dizziness, the kind of exhaustion that made even standing feel negotiable. you missed practices. missed games. missed the way his eyes searched for yours in the middle of the crowd.
so when you finally step into the stadium, wrapped in layers and stubbornness, it feels unreal. loud and alive. your head still feels a little light, your body not quite caught up to your will, but you’re here. and that’s what matters.
his final championship game.
every time it happens, it’s never planned. not once has there ever been a conversation about it, not even a joke. no ‘if I win or if I score’. it just happens, like his body knows where it needs to go long before the rest of him catches up.
the final goal cuts through the field so clean it almost looks scripted. the net snaps back hard. the whistle screams. the scoreboard flips. the stadium detonates into noise and movement and disbelief turning into celebration right in front of your eyes.
his team crashes into him instantly—hands grabbing, shouting, lifting him off his feet like they’re afraid the moment will vanish if they let go. you see him smile, bright and unguarded, the kind you haven’t seen in weeks. it hits you harder than the noise does. you feel it in your chest.
and then he looks up.
you know the second he sees you. his brows pull together, like he’s making sure you’re real, like he can’t believe you’re standing there after missing everything else. something in his expression breaks open, and that’s it. he’s gone.
he tears himself free from the pile, ignoring the shouts and hands grabbing at his jersey, already sprinting toward the sidelines like nothing else exists. sweat-soaked, hair wrecked, grin splitting his face wide enough to hurt. he’s yelling—your name, probably—but the crowd swallows it whole.
you scream back anyway, voice cracking, hands flying to your mouth too late to save your dignity. your heart is hammering like it’s trying to make up for lost time as you push forward, lungs burning, vision locked on him.
he doesn’t slow down.
he clears the barrier outright, lands rough, stumbles, laughs, and then crashes straight into you like gravity was optional. you squeal as the impact knocks the air from your chest, arms locking around his shoulders as his hands find your waist without thinking, lifting you just enough that your feet barely touch the ground.
you’re laughing. he’s laughing. the world narrows to heat and noise and the solid fact of him right here.
and then he kisses you.
it’s reckless and messy and full of adrenaline, mouth crashing into yours like he needs to anchor the win somewhere real. whistles explode from the stands. people scream. your brain shuts off entirely, replaced with the dizzy certainty that you made it—you’re here—you didn’t miss this.
when you pull back, flushed and breathless, reality rushes in all at once. cameras. staring. teammates losing their minds behind him.
and that’s when you decide to be cruel.
still gripping his jersey, still glowing, you turn to the crowd and cup your hands around your mouth.
“BEST BROTHER EVER!!”
confusion rips through the noise immediately. laughter erupts. a collective of gasps and “oh.” people shout over each other—“brother? no way”. someone drops something metal that clatters loud enough to carry.
you feel his body lock up before he even looks at you.
his hands are still on your waist. his mouth is still swollen from kissing you. slowly, he turns his head, staring down at you like he’s trying to decide whether the fever fried your brain permanently.
“…what,” he says, flat and dangerous.
you grin at him, radiant. “you’re such a good brother,” you yell again, louder, gesturing wildly. “SO proud of HIM!”
his jaw tightens, eye twitching a bit. his teammates are collapsing. the blonde brooding coach looks exhausted and terrified all at once.
he leans down, forehead pressing into yours, voice low and furious and mortified. “you are actually evil.”
you laugh, arms tightening around his neck. “relax. they’ll forget.”
“they will never forget,” he mutters.
you kiss his cheek anyway, quick and unapologetic. “worth it.”
he exhales hard and pulls you back in despite himself, arms firm and familiar, because embarrassment doesn’t override instinct. because no matter what you call him—
he still won.
and he still came straight to you.
“isn’t he the best?!” you shout again, pointing at him proudly as you start dragging him along the field. “that’s my brother! winning goal! captain of the team!”
you don’t stop there. parents. classmates. strangers. anyone within earshot. “MY BROTHER,” you repeat, slapping his arm like he’s a distant relative instead of the guy who kissed you senseless seconds ago. “isn’t he amazing?!”
the reactions are immediate and devastating. faces twist. smiles die halfway. one mom recoils outright. someone mutters, “that’s fucked up,”with zero shame.
you break, laughter ripping out of you so hard you have to bend forward, hands on your knees, chest aching. through it all, scaramouche keeps walking, jaw locked, expression dangerously blank.
his hand finds yours anyway.
grips it tight.
“he practices so hard,” you gush to a group of horrified students. “such a devoted brother. kisses me when he wins and everything.”
his fingers tighten. “keep talking,” he mutters. “i’m having a great time.”
“i’m proud,” you say sweetly.
“you called me your brother.”
“multiple times.”
someone gags. audibly.
by the time you reach the edge of the field, the damage is irreversible. whispers trail behind you. phones are definitely out. his teammates are either dying laughing or pretending they’ve never met him.
he slows, turning to face you with an expression that’s equal parts murderous and resigned, like this is the price of loving you. “are you done?”
you bite your lip, shoulders shaking. “depends who’s left.”
he exhales slowly, leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “i carried you for nine months. this is how you repay me?”
you snort, loud and ungraceful. “you’re not my mom.”
he straightens and keeps walking, tugging you along, thumb rubbing steady circles over your knuckles like muscle memory. behind you, someone whispers that you’re not his sister, and you feel the way his grip loosens just slightly.
you smile.
you missed weeks of his games, you didn’t miss the one where he ran straight to you.
and you’ll never let him forget it.
: : :
“surprise!!”
your voice comes out hoarse the second you reach the car, wrecked from hours of screaming and laughing and absolutely terrorizing him in public. you jog the last few steps, already smiling like you’ve committed to the bit and there’s no backing out now.
scaramouche slows instinctively.
it’s subtle, but you know him too well. his shoulders tense, his gaze flicking from your face to the car, then back to you again like he’s scanning for danger. he looks tired in that post-game way—sweat dried into his skin, adrenaline still buzzing—but there’s suspicion there too, sharp and deserved.
you don’t give him time to ask.
you grab the backseat door and yank it open with a dramatic sweep of your arm, presenting it like a magician revealing the final trick. the inside of the car is chaos in the most intentional way possible. balloons are crammed against the windows, some already half-deflated from being bullied into place. a banner is taped crookedly across the headrest, clearly measured with enthusiasm instead of accuracy. gift bags are piled haphazardly on the seat, tissue paper spilling out, confetti already loose and clinging to the upholstery like it’s claimed squatters’ rights.
“all for my best BROTHER ever,” you announce proudly, pointing straight at him like he’s just been crowned.
there’s a pause— not the funny kind. the devastating kind.
he just stares into the car, expression blanking out completely, like his mind is trying to process too many offenses at once. you can almost see the moment his soul disconnects. his jaw tightens, then relaxes, then tightens again. he swallows.
“…you’re enjoying this,” he says slowly, carefully.
you tilt your head, eyes wide, innocence so fake it borders on insulting. “what? i support family achievements.”
his gaze flicks around the parking lot immediately, scanning for witnesses. there are still people nearby—teammates lingering, a couple of classmates drifting past, someone mid-laugh who abruptly goes quiet when they notice the decorations. one guy squints at the banner, clearly trying to read it.
scaramouche steps closer to you, lowering his voice. “you put balloons,” he says, each word deliberate, “in my car.”
“our car,” you correct sweetly without missing a beat. “family vehicle.”
his eye twitches.
you lean in before he can recover, whispering loudly enough to still be a public hazard. “i even picked the colors carefully. very ‘winning goal, emotionally stable brother’ vibes.”
he drags a hand down his face. “i kissed you. on the field.”
you shrug. “siblings can be affectionate. don’t make it weird.”
someone behind you makes a sound that’s halfway between a cough and a choke.
his hand closes around your wrist then—not rough, not gentle, but unmistakably intentional. grounding. warning. familiar. he bends just enough that his mouth brushes your ear, voice calm in a way that absolutely promises retaliation.
“when we get home,” he murmurs, “you’re explaining this to me very slowly.”
your grin widens. “oh? are you grounding me?”
his lips twitch despite himself. “i’m considering disowning you.”
you finally look at him properly then, teasing easing just enough for sincerity to slip through. your eyes soften. “you won,” you say, quieter now, still bright. “i wanted it to feel loud. like you.”
something shifts in his expression. it doesn’t erase the irritation or the humiliation, but it settles underneath them, steadying. his shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“…thank you,” he mutters, almost too quietly to hear.
you immediately ruin the moment.
“anything for my brother!” you declare again, louder, looping your arms around his neck.
he groans—long, loud, deeply tired—but his arms come around you anyway, automatic and sure, pulling you in close like muscle memory never forgot its job. his chin drops onto your shoulder, breath warm, resignation heavy.
“i hate you,” he says flatly.
you beam. “best siblings ever.”
he stares up at the sky like he’s silently asking every god he’s ever doubted why this is his life now.
and still— he doesn’t let go.
“i love you.”
the words slip out quieter than anything else today, softer than the teasing, softer than the yelling, softer than the whole ridiculous brother act you’d been milking for your own amusement. this isn’t for the parking lot, for leftover cheers, for anyone hovering nearby. it’s for the tiny, fragile space between you and him, tucked safely behind balloons, banners, and all your loud nonsense.
scaramouche stills.
not dramatically. not like a scene. just enough that you feel it before you see it. his arms are still around you, his chin resting against your shoulder, but his grip tightens a fraction, anchoring himself, like he’s making sure you’re really here, really steady, really not about to vanish on him again.
he pulls back slightly, eyes flicking to yours, searching. he’s learned by now how to read you—the difference between playful, teasing, loud, and this. the real one. the one you don’t throw around casually.
“…what’s this?” he asks, low, suspicious, like love from you always comes with a trap.
you don’t answer immediately. instead, you reach past him and shift one balloon, then another, until the wall of color parts just enough to reveal what you’ve been hiding. neatly stacked boxes, crisp packaging, unmistakably the things he’s been “just browsing” for weeks—the gear he pretended didn’t matter, the items he thought you hadn’t noticed.
tucked carefully between them is a bouquet, blue, deliberate, perfect—his favorite.
his breath catches. subtle, quiet, but you hear it, feel it, as if it’s traveled from his chest to yours in a single beat. his eyes drop, then lift again, disbelief warring with recognition. his mouth opens, closes. his grip on you loosens just enough for his hand to slide down to your wrist, thumb pressing like he’s holding himself together.
“…you’re unfair,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges.
you tilt your head, watching his defenses crumble slowly, beautifully, one by one, even as he tries to hold onto them. this—this exact look—is why you planned it. the one he never shares with the world.
“you’ve been working so hard,” you whisper, letting your voice carry just enough warmth. “you won. again. and you always come running to me like i’m the finish line.”
he swallows, eyes flicking away for the briefest second, afraid, maybe, if he looks at you too long, he’ll betray everything—earnestness, vulnerability, the love he usually hides behind sarcasm.
“you didn’t have to,” he says. weak. a lie he can’t fully commit to even as he says it.
“i wanted to,” you reply, simple. nothing theatrical, nothing teasing. just truth.
he exhales, slow, deliberate, forehead resting against yours, balloons brushing his hair, the world narrowing until it’s only the two of you again. his voice is quiet now, stripped of all the sharp confidence he wears outside.
“…i love you too.”
his hand tightens around yours—not possessive, not dramatic—just certain. like the roar of crowds, winning goals, loud jokes, and chaos don’t even scratch the weight of this moment, hidden behind balloons, proof that he’s seen. truly seen.
and for once, you don’t ruin it.
you stay there. breathing with him. letting the noise fade, letting the win settle, letting love sit heavy and real between you. then—
“yay, best boyfriend!! let’s celebrate first with the team. you can drink and i can drive us both home. okay? this night is yours, captain!”
it comes out bright and loud, deliberately so, like you’re flipping a switch back on after something quiet and heavy passed between you. you throw your arms up like you’ve just announced a victory speech instead of a plan, grin wide enough to hurt your cheeks. the parking lot lights catch in your eyes, and for a second you look almost smug about it—like you’ve already decided how the night is going to go and no one gets a say but you.
scaramouche blinks at you.
once. twice.
he knows this tone. knows exactly what you’re doing. you always do this after moments like that—after sincerity sneaks up on you and sits too close for comfort. you joke. you cheer. you take control before things can turn too soft, too vulnerable, too much.
“…you’re serious?” he asks, brows lifting slightly. not disbelieving, just checking. he’s already halfway convinced because you never offer something you don’t intend to follow through on.
“dead serious,” you say immediately, nodding hard. “i’m stone-cold sober, fully licensed, and emotionally prepared to drag you out if you start singing with venti again.”
his mouth twitches despite himself. “hey. that happened one time.”
“one time too many,” you fire back. “and you’re the captain. you have an image to maintain. which means you drink, smile, accept praise, and i chauffeur you home like the supportive, stunning, generous partner that i am.”
you jab a thumb toward your chest, proud. dramatic and unmistakably you.
he exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh slipping out before he can stop it. his hand finds your waist again, thumb pressing there like it belongs, like it’s always belonged.
“you really thought this through,” he says, softer now.
“obviously,” you reply. “i planned this before you even won. i just didn’t tell you because you’d get annoying about it.”
“i am not annoying.”
you give him a look.
“…okay,” he concedes immediately. “i am annoying.”
his gaze drifts back toward the field where his team is still hanging around, loud and buzzing with leftover adrenaline, then returns to you. something shifts in his expression—gratitude mixed with relief. like the weight of the win finally settles when he realizes he doesn’t have to manage everything on his own tonight.
“you sure?” he asks, quieter. not about the driving. about him. about letting go for once.
you soften just a little, bumping your forehead against his chest. “go celebrate, captain. i’ve got you.”
that does it.
his arm tightens around you, pulling you into a brief, unguarded hug. no performance. no audience. it lasts just a second longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing it.
“…don’t disappear,” he murmurs into your hair.
you snort. “please. you’d find me in a heartbeat.”
he smiles at that, real and easy, then presses a quick kiss to the top of your head before finally letting go.
“fine,” he says, straightening as confidence slides back into place like armor. “but you’re staying close.”
“always,” you reply.
and as he turns to rejoin his team—shoulders squared, grin sharp, captain once more—you watch him go with a fondness that settles warm and steady in your chest.
this night is his. and you’re right where you want to be, just behind him, keys in hand, ready to take him home when the cheering finally fades.
: : :
tons of people circled him almost immediately, like gravity snapped back into place the second the whistle ended. hands slapped his back, arms hooked around his shoulders, someone nearly knocking the breath out of him as he was lifted clean off the ground. begrudgingly, he let himself be carried, forced to smile and nod and mutter thank-yous through clenched teeth as if gratitude were a chore he had to perform instead of something he felt. his brows stayed furrowed out of habit, out of embarrassment, out of that quiet discomfort he always had when too many eyes were on him at once—but it didn’t erase the way his laugh broke through anyway, genuine and breathless, dragged out of him whether he liked it or not.
xiao had one arm around his ribs like he was afraid he’d bolt. kinich was shouting something incoherent directly into his ear. ajaw was already yelling victory chants at no one in particular, voice hoarse and triumphant, while heizou and dahlia took turns hyping the crowd like this was a concert instead of a school field. they were loud, messy, electric with adrenaline, and scaramouche—despite himself—was glowing in the middle of it. you could see it even from where you stood. the way his shoulders loosened just a fraction. the way his smile stopped being forced halfway through. the way he tilted his head back and laughed when someone almost dropped him.
you stayed close.
not hovering. not clinging. just close enough that your fingers were still laced with his whenever the crowd shifted, close enough that you could reach up and tug him back down when they got too carried away. your phone was already in your hand, camera rolling, snapping pictures you knew he’d pretend to hate later but would absolutely keep. him mid-laugh. him half-annoyed, half-thrilled. him flushed and alive and so unmistakably happy it made something warm bloom in your chest.
you loved this version of him. not the sharp-tongued, guarded scaramouche who deflected affection like it was a threat—but this one. the one who pretended to hate attention while soaking it in anyway. the one who won and still looked like he couldn’t believe it.
someone bumped into you as the circle tightened, a girl you vaguely recognized from the stands, eyes flicking between you and him with open curiosity. she leaned in, voice pitched low like she was sharing a secret.
“you’re not actually his sister?”
you didn’t even look at her at first. you just lifted your phone again, angling it to catch scaramouche being hoisted up once more, childe screaming his name like a man possessed. only then did you glance over, lips curling into something amused and unreadable.
“maybe i am,” you said lightly.
her brow creased. “but you were holding his hand.”
you hummed, still filming. “siblings can do that.”
she hesitated, clearly unsatisfied. “he kissed you. like—earlier.”
that made you finally turn fully toward her, lowering your phone just enough to meet her eyes. you smiled, slow and sweet and absolutely unhelpful.
“maybe i’m not,” you added.
her mouth opened. closed. she looked back at scaramouche just in time to see him spot you through the crowd, his entire expression changing the second his eyes landed on yours. the furrow smoothed. the forced smile softened into something real. he reached for you without thinking, fingers hooking into yours like it was instinct, like it was where his hand belonged.
the girl made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sound of defeat.
“…right,” she muttered, backing off.
you didn’t bother correcting her.
scaramouche leaned down toward you as the team finally set him back on his feet, breathless and flushed, hair a mess, eyes bright.
“you filming?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“obviously,” you said. “this is historical footage.”
he rolled his eyes, but his grip on your hand tightened anyway, thumb brushing your knuckles in a way that was small and private and grounding amidst all the noise.
“send them to me,” he said. then, quieter, just for you, “don’t let them post the ugly ones.”
you laughed. “no promises, captain.”
his mouth twitched. behind you, the team kept celebrating. around you, the field stayed loud and alive. and right there, between tangled fingers and stolen glances, you stayed exactly where you belonged—close enough that everyone could see, close enough that only the two of you really understood what it meant.
and just like you promised, you’re the one in the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road even though your attention keeps drifting sideways no matter how hard you pretend it isn’t. the engine hums low, the city lights streaking past the windshield, and the car smells faintly like grass and sweat and the cheap celebratory drinks his teammates shoved into his hands before you dragged him away.
he’s in the shotgun seat, slouched back like all the bones finally drained out of him now that the adrenaline’s gone. his head is tipped against the window, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed in that way that means he’s still riding the high. he keeps smiling to himself, small and stupid and unguarded, like he’s replaying the night over and over in his head and liking every version of it.
“i love you,” he murmurs suddenly, voice soft and loose, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.
you don’t look at him right away. you keep your eyes forward, jaw tightening just a little, because this is rare territory. scaramouche sober is affectionate in flashes. scaramouche like this—warm, wrung out, emotionally cracked open—is something else entirely.
“yeah,” you say lightly. “i know.”
he snorts, turning his head toward you. “no, you don’t. like—” he gestures vaguely with his hand, words tripping over each other. “i don’t think you get how much. it’s insane. i’m actually insane about you.”
you glance at him then, just long enough to see the way his eyes are glassy, lashes clumped, emotions sitting way too close to the surface. there’s a tightness in your chest you pretend not to notice.
“you won a game,” you say. “not a war.”
“same thing,” he mutters, then laughs at himself, breath hitching halfway through. the laugh dies too fast. his lips wobble. and then—of course—his eyes fill.
you groan. “oh my god.”
“don’t,” he sniffles immediately, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “don’t say it like that.”
“you’re crying,” you point out. “in my passenger seat.”
“i’m emotional,” he corrects, voice cracking even harder, which absolutely does not help his case. “i ran to you after scoring. did you see that? i didn’t even think. my legs just—” he makes a helpless motion. “they just knew.”
you swallow, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. you did see it. you always see it. you just don’t say things like that out loud because then you’d have to admit how deep it goes.
“you’re such a loser,” you say instead.
he laughs again, wet and ugly and unashamed. “yeah. your loser.”
that one lands harder than you expect.
he turns more fully toward you now, seatbelt pulling taut across his chest, eyes locked on your profile like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the moment. his voice drops, not theatrically, not for effect—just quieter, sincere in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“thank you for staying,” he says. “for driving. for waiting. for letting me be… like this.”
you feel it then. the weight of it. how hard he tries to hold himself together most days. how rare it is that he lets himself unravel where someone can see.
“don’t get snot on my seats,” you mutter, blinking hard.
he laughs, then cries harder, pressing his sleeve to his face like a child. “you’re so mean.”
“and yet,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re still here.”
he hums, nodding, eyes closing as his head falls back against the seat again. his smile is lazy now, peaceful in a way that tells you he feels safe. like he’s already decided the night can end like this and it would still be perfect.
“i love you,” he repeats, quieter this time. less frantic. more sure.
you don’t answer right away. the road stretches on. the car keeps moving. his breathing evens out, hiccupping only once more before settling.
“…yeah,” you say finally, just loud enough for him to hear. “i know, and i love you so much more.”
and this time, he believes you.
: : :
“come, come—let’s get you home,” you coo, slipping an arm under his and hoisting him up like you’re trying to move a sack of very tall, very dramatic potatoes.
he makes a noise that’s half groan, half laugh, all dead weight, leaning into you without shame. the moment he’s on his feet, he clings, arm slung over your shoulders like he’s decided balance is no longer his responsibility.
“i am home,” he mumbles vaguely, blinking at the driveway like it personally offended him. “you’re here.”
“not what i meant and you know it,” you say, grunting as you adjust your grip. he’s heavier when he’s relaxed like this, all loose limbs and zero cooperation. “walk, captain. please. i am five seconds away from dragging you.”
“wow,” he mutters, offended but amused. “after everything i’ve done for this country.”
you snort, shuffling the both of you toward the porch. the house lights are on, warm and familiar, and there—like she’s been waiting the whole time—is your mom, standing with her arms crossed and a knowing smile already tugging at her mouth.
the porch creaks under your steps.
“mom,” you announce loudly, practically glowing, “he’s wrecked. captain just won the finals!”
you squeal it out like it’s the most important headline in the world, beaming as you tilt your head proudly toward the human weight glued to your side.
your mom laughs, shaking her head, then lifts both hands and gives you two exaggerated thumbs up. her eyes flick to him—his flushed face, the soft smile, the way he’s clearly one emotional breeze away from crying again.
“good job, captain,” she says warmly.
he straightens a little at that, summoning what dignity he has left. “thank you, ma’am,” he manages, voice slurred just enough to be embarrassing. then he leans closer to you and whispers, stage-loud, “i think your mom likes me.”
“i think my mom thinks you’re an idiot,” you whisper back, grinning.
“even better,” he hums.
you guide him up the last step, his shoes scuffing against the porch as he stumbles slightly. instinctively, he tightens his grip on you, fingers curling like the ground might disappear if he lets go.
and for a second—just a second—you let yourself feel it.
the win, everything and anything that happened tonight. the way he ran to you without thinking. the way he’s here now, trusting you to hold him up when he’s too tired to stand on his own.
your mom steps aside, opening the door wider. “get him inside before he melts into the floor.”
“on it,” you say, bracing yourself.
as you maneuver him through the doorway, he dips his head down toward your ear, breath warm, voice soft and sincere in that way that sneaks up on you.
“best night ever,” he murmurs.
you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.
“yeah,” you say quietly, hauling him inside. “i know.”
you snorted a laugh so hard you almost have to clutch the doorframe, watching the ridiculous sight unfold.
your dad’s got him under the arms, practically bench-pressing his torso, while your brother’s got both his feet like he’s hauling a body out of a crime scene. he groans dramatically the whole time, face scrunched up in pure betrayal.
“i do not consent,” he whines, voice muffled as his head lolls back. “this is kidnapping.”
“shut up,” your dad grunts, adjusting his grip. “you won the finals, you can survive being carried.”
“sir,” he pouts, offended, “i am a delicate man.”
your brother huffs, struggling a bit as his arms tense. “delicate my ass—he looks thin but he’s heavy, what the fuck?” he shoots you a look like you personally engineered this problem.
you wipe a tear from laughing too hard. “muscle weighs more than ego, apparently.”
“wow,” he mutters weakly, eyes half-lidded as he lets himself be hauled. “everyone’s so mean to me today.”
“you love it,” you say, trailing after them down the hall. “admit it.”
he cracks one eye open just to look at you, a lazy, fond smile tugging at his lips despite the pout. “yeah,” he sighs. “i do.”
your mom watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, amused and fond. “four years and he still acts like this,” she says, shaking her head.
“that’s because you all spoil him,” you reply without missing a beat.
“as we should,” your dad says firmly, hauling him a little higher. “he’s family.”
that simple sentence alone makes scaramouche go quiet.
no jokes. no whining. just a soft exhale as his head tilts to the side, eyes glossy now for an entirely different reason.
he reaches out blindly until his fingers find your wrist, squeezing once—gentle, grounding.
“love you,” he murmurs, voice thick.
you smile, heart warm, walking beside him as your family carries him down the hall like he belongs there. because he does.
: : :
you hover over him longer than you mean to, like moving away would break something delicate that only just settled into place. your fingers drift through his hair in slow, absent strokes, not fixing it so much as reassuring yourself he’s real and here and not still running somewhere under stadium lights. it’s damp with sweat, curls sticking up in stupid directions, and he looks wrecked in that soft, earned way—eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks warm, lips parted like he might fall asleep mid-breath if you stop touching him.
there’s a strange ache in your chest at the sight. the kind that comes from relief rather than fear. from knowing he made it through another game, another night where anything could’ve gone wrong, another stretch of minutes where your heart lived outside your body and wore his name.
“how’s your head, soccer archon?” you hum, smoothing a stray lock off his forehead and tucking it back like it belongs there. like he belongs here, under your hands, in your bed, safe.
he exhales, a lazy sound, sinking deeper into your pillows as if your voice alone weighs him down in the best way. “spinning,” he admits. “but in a good way. like… i don’t know. like everything finally shut up.”
that makes your mouth curve into a small smile before you can stop it. you adjust the blanket over his chest, careful, deliberate, suddenly aware of how quiet the room is compared to the chaos you left behind. no crowd. no shouting. no expectations. just the hum of the night and the steady presence of him breathing under your touch.
he’s quiet for a beat too long. too still. his gaze drifts from the ceiling back to you, and something shifts in his face—not drunk, not playful. present. bare.
“are you proud of me?” he asks.
the question hits harder than it has any right to.
your hand stills in his hair, fingers curling slightly like you need to grab onto something before the feeling gets away from you. it’s not the cocky version of him asking for praise, not the teasing grin or the smug tilt of his head. this is stripped down. this is the boy who ran off the field looking for you before anyone else. the one who cried in the passenger seat because the win felt too big to hold on his own. the one who pretends he doesn’t care but absolutely, painfully does.
for a second, all you can think is how unfair it is that he ever doubts this. how unfair it is that the world gets his confidence and you get the quiet fear underneath it.
you blink once, then scoff softly, a reflex, a shield. “proud?” you repeat like the idea is ridiculous. “kuni, i was screaming like a maniac in the stands. i think people thought i was possessed.”
his lips twitch, but his eyes don’t leave yours. he’s not laughing it off. he’s waiting. really waiting. like your answer might rearrange something inside him.
your chest tightens. you sigh and lean down, bracing your forearms on either side of him, close enough that your noses almost brush. close enough that there’s nowhere to hide from how serious you suddenly are.
“i’m proud of you every time you step on that field,” you say quietly. “every practice you drag yourself to when you’re tired. every stupid bruise you pretend doesn’t hurt. every time you lead them even when you don’t feel like you should.”
his throat bobs. you see it. he swallows, hard.
“but tonight,” you continue, slower now, choosing every word like it matters because it does, “tonight, you were incredible. you didn’t just win. you carried them. you shined.”
his hand lifts hesitantly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, and settles at your wrist. not gripping, just there. grounding himself. grounding you. the contact sends a quiet jolt through your chest that has nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with being needed.
“…yeah?” he murmurs.
you nod without hesitation, thumb brushing his cheek, lingering like you’re imprinting the moment into muscle memory. “yeah.”
whatever wall he was holding up gives way immediately. his eyes glass over, jaw tightening like he’s trying not to cry again and losing the fight anyway. he turns his face just slightly, embarrassed, but you catch him before he can disappear—pressing a kiss to his temple, warm and steady.
“hey,” you whisper. “don’t.”
he lets out a shaky breath, half laugh, half exhale. “i just—” he trails off, then tries again. “i don’t know why i care so much about what you think.”
the answer sits between you, obvious and heavy and tender all at once.
you smile, small and real, the kind you don’t show often. “liar,” you say gently. “you know exactly why.”
he huffs, eyes closing as he leans into your touch like it’s instinct. like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment. “yeah. okay. fine.”
his fingers tighten just a little around your wrist, like he’s afraid the feeling might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it. the vulnerability in that small gesture twists something deep in your chest.
“…stay here?” he asks quietly. not demanding. not teasing. just asking.
you don’t even think about it. you kick off your shoes, crawl into bed beside him, and let him tuck his face into your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is where he always ends up after everything loud and bright burns out.
“sleep,” you murmur, fingers tracing slow patterns along his back. “you earned it, captain.”
his breathing evens out gradually, body relaxing under your sheets, under your hands, under the quiet certainty of being loved without conditions or performance.
right before he drifts off, you feel his lips brush against your collarbone, soft and barely there.
“i love you,” he whispers.
this time there’s no drama. no jokes. just truth, simple and unguarded.
you smile into his hair, holding him a little closer. “i love you so much more.”