Fic: Sublime
AO3
Summary:
Ava Silva is 19 when she moves away from her native Portugal to join a football club in a small town in Andalusia. Beatrice has just turned 21 and is playing for that same football club.
On the pitch, they have an immediate connection. Off the pitch, they become friends and soon fall for each other.
You see: Ava Silva will be a legend of the game, a once-in-many-generations star for her country; Beatrice will be one of the most important players in her generation, the one everyone wants on their team. But before all of that, they were just Ava and Beatrice, young and with so much to learn, and falling into a once-in-a-lifetime love.
.
Prologue
Beatrice stands at the mouth of the tunnel leading out to the football pitch, taking in the atmosphere of the half-packed stadium, breathing in the cool evening air, letting the expectant noise from the fans on the stands wash over her. She’s distracted from her contemplation as the other team lines up next to her, led by none other than their talismanic captain.
Ava Silva.
Beatrice looks over at Ava, who catches Beatrice’s eyes before her gaze travels down to the captain’s armband around Beatrice’s left arm.
“That armband looks good on you,” Ava comments lightly.
Beatrice glances at the approaching match officials before inclining her head towards Ava. “Likewise,” she returns with a small smile.
Ava favours her with a cheesy grin before turning to the officials and striking up a conversation with them. Beatrice shakes her head good-naturedly.
Beatrice met Ava when they were just twenty-one and nineteen years old, respectively, playing for a small club in Andalusia that was, at the time, newly promoted to Spain’s first division and fighting for a spot in the Champions League. That was almost a decade ago, two Euros and two World Cups have happened since then.
Now here they are, at an invitational tournament in southern Spain, preparing for the upcoming Euros which will be held in the same country in the summer. Now Beatrice is twenty-nine, Ava is twenty-eight, both of them captaining their respective national teams. It feels almost like they’ve come full circle.
Beatrice’s journey to getting the captain’s armband for her national team is as different from Ava’s as it is possible to be.
Ava is Portugal’s star player, their once-in-many-generations hero, akin to Brazil’s Marta or Australia’s Sam Kerr. She broke into Portugal’s senior national team as a teenager, was given the captaincy in her early twenties, and led the team to many near-impossible victories over bigger footballing nations.
Beatrice, on the other hand, played for England in her youth until circumstances prevented her from doing so. In her early twenties, she was able to switch to Switzerland for her senior national team career. She was often the captain in her club teams, but it wasn’t until two years ago that she was offered the captaincy for Switzerland. She almost refused--Switzerland isn’t her birth country and she wasn’t sure whether the Swiss fans would accept her as captain--but in the end, with the help of her loved ones, she decided to take it as an honour.
The announcement for the players’ entrance rings out across the stadium, pulling Beatrice out of her reverie. She follows the match officials towards the pitch, walking in-step next to Ava until they have to separate at the touch line so their teams can line up facing the west stand.
The national anthems are sung, Portugal’s first then Switzerland’s. After, Ava leads the Portuguese team to shake Beatrice’s and her teammates’ hands, then the teams separate to take the starting eleven photos.
And then it’s time for the coin toss.
Beatrice walks towards the halfway line where the match officials are waiting for the team captains. She meets Ava there, unable to help her smile at the wide grin Ava was sporting. They shake hands and exchange pennants, then listen to the referee recite the rules of the coin toss.
The mood--between Beatrice and Ava, among them and the officials, in the stadium around them--was light. Easy. For all that this match is a preparation for one of the biggest tournaments of their lives, the current tournament they’re playing in is still an invitational one. They’re playing a friendly match.
So Ava teases the Swedish referee, pretends to confuse Sweden and Switzerland, jokingly asks for the coin toss--which fell in Beatrice’s favour--to be redone. The match officials laugh with Ava. Beatrice pretends not to be amused by her antics.
Soon enough, the match kicks off.
Portugal plays a 4-3-3 formation with Ava as the false nine, playing at the hole just behind the centre forward position. It means that Beatrice, playing just in front of the defenders in Switzerland’s 4-1-3-2 formation, is the one tasked with guarding Ava.
Ava Silva is notoriously hard to guard. She’s slick, tricky, and--as one pundit once put it--seems to dance around defenders like a superpowered being with the ability to phase through solid objects, all the while with the ball at her feet.
Beatrice, however, has a not-so-secret advantage. All those years ago, in the club where they first met, Beatrice was Ava’s constant partner when practicing one-v-one’s. Of course, Ava’s technique has improved greatly since then, but Beatrice likes to think that she has kept up.
Ava ends up scoring, in the end. It starts off of a free kick, then Ava runs towards Switzerland’s box, receiving and passing the ball in one smooth motion, runs further inward, receives the ball again, turns, fakes a shot that sends a defender tumbling, then finally shoots the ball right at the upper corner of the goal, too far for the keeper to save.
There’s only so much you can do against an unstoppable force.
Fortunately, football is a team sport.
Beatrice is in her element as she directs her teammates, making sure the backline behind her remains organised, passing to an open teammate who can drive forward or pass to another teammate. Finally, she sees an opening; she switches play to one side, kicking the ball long, high, and accurate to a waiting winger, who crosses the ball into the box, to be headed into goal by their centre forward.
The game ends 1-1 at full time. Beatrice thinks it’s a fair reflection of both teams’ performances.
She shakes teammates’ and opponents’ hands until, eventually, she comes face to face with Ava.
“Hey, Bea,” Ava says softly.
“Hi,” Beatrice returns. She extends her hand to shake. “Good game.”
Ava rolls her eyes, swats away Beatrice’s hands, and goes for a hug. Beatrice allows herself a moment to pull Ava closer before she lets go and stands back.
“I miss you,” Ava says, always too honest. "It's been too long."
It draws the same honesty out of Beatrice. “I miss you, too.”
Before either of them can say anything else, they’re interrupted by another player, so Beatrice moves on.
There’s a team huddle. Beatrice listens to their coach as the woman gives a brief rundown of the things they did well and the things they could improve on. They disperse after, with Beatrice and the other players going to the stands to greet the fans.
Somehow, like a satellite pulled into a planet’s orbit, Beatrice finds herself standing next to Ava.
“There’s Shannon and Mary,” Ava points out their old friends in the stands. She mimes something at them.
Beatrice waves at the couple, noting that they’ve brought their two kids with them. They were teammates, back in that small Andalusian club where Beatrice met Ava. It was the two of them, Shannon and Mary, and Lilith and Camila. The latter two are currently playing a match with the Spanish national team in another city in Spain. Beatrice feels grateful that Shannon and Mary chose to watch the Switzerland vs Portugal match, even if it is only because the venue is closer to where the couple lives.
“They say that they’ll meet us at the restaurant,” Ava says. “There’s too many people here and the kids are grumpy.”
Beatrice did agree to a plan, organised by Shannon, for herself and Ava to meet up with Shannon and Mary and their kids. But she has to ask, “You got all of that from miming at them?”
“Of course,” Ava says. “I’m very good at charades.”
Beatrice gives her a look.
Ava shows her phone, grinning cheekily. “They texted me.”
“It’ll be nice to catch up,” Beatrice says, catching Ava’s eyes.
Ava holds her gaze. “Yes.”
They’re interrupted by a fan in the stands asking for a selfie and their shirt to be signed. The fan chats with them as they sign.
“Will you two be coming back to the OCS?” The fan means the old club where they met. “You two were so good for us, together in the midfield.”
Beatrice looks at Ava stiffly. Ava lets out an awkward laugh, but she turns to reply to the fan. Beatrice lets her do the talking. Beatrice can discuss tactics and gameplans to no end, but Ava has always been better at chatting with the fans.
“Well,” Ava starts, “I’m quite happy with where I am right now, and I’m sure Beatrice feels the same for herself, but,” she looks back at Beatrice, her dark eyes shining under the floodlights, “never say never.”
That sends Beatrice’s thoughts into a tailspin, and she distractedly goes through the motions as she takes selfies and signs shirts for fans.
She’s done entertaining the fans calling her name long before the ones calling out Ava’s have calmed down. Beatrice doesn’t blame the fans; Ava is a star, a supernova, a haloed being.
“I’m gonna head in,” Beatrice tells Ava. “I’ll wait for you inside and then we can go meet up with Mary and Shannon together.”
Ava gives her a coy smile. “Okay.”
Beatrice nods at her. Ava gives a little wave with her fingers. Beatrice smiles helplessly before spinning on her heel and heading for the tunnel.
She stops at the mouth of the tunnel, looks back at Ava, who seems to glow as she talks to the fans.
Beatrice doesn’t know what it is--maybe it’s the dinner with Mary and Shannon, maybe it’s the fact that they’re in southern Spain--but her mind rewinds to their time at the OCS. She remembers having just turned twenty-one and meeting Ava, immediately drawn to her thirst for life. She remembers being twenty-one, being on the receiving end of Ava’s longing gazes, too caught up in her past to recognise them for what they were. She remembers being twenty-two, regretting how blind she was, wishing she could turn back time.
But that was years ago. She cannot regret any single thing that happened then. She’s very happy with her life now.
Beatrice allows her gaze to linger on Ava for a moment longer, then she walks into the tunnel to wait for her inside.
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Olá! 😊
Something a bit different, how about a prompt based on this fanart for Luciano and Afonso?
https://pin.it/F85GBnV
That's adorable!
The old time travel accident where Luciano falls into a vortex and travels to centuries in the past. With a bit of magic Arthur manages to communicate with him and assures he's working on bringing him back. All he had to do is stay alive.
"wow great help Arthur" Luciano roll his eyes. Now he was in somewhere in Portugal during 1140. In a suit (he had come for a reunion with Port) and with no phone signal. Couldn't get worse.
Except it can. And he falls into a trap in the forest. He hangs by his legs on a tree and a short figure approaches him. A boy in armor and holding a sword.
"Afonso?!"
The boy blinks surprised, he hits him with the hilt of his sword.
"Ai!"
"Silence Mouro. How do you know my name? Where's the rest of your army?" Afonso lifts his tie hanging over his face with the blade "tell me now before I take your skin off!"
"Only if you let me go!"
"Never!"
"Then I won't say anything."
"Then you will die Mouro"
"first of all, my name is not Mouro. Second, you can't do that!"
"Why not?"
"Because...you will get in trouble" Luciano purse his lips, thinking about something "I'm a knight just like you!"
Afonso lifts a brow "what?"
"Yes! I got ambushed my bandits and lost my horse and my sword."
Afonso lowers his sword "you can't be a knight! Your clothes are weird."
"I'm a special unity"
"who's your lord then?"
Oh shit. Luciano bites his lips thinking, it was hard to do it while hanging from a three
"It's.. Daemon"
"Daemon?"
"Daemon.. Targaryen?"
"....are you celtic?'
"yes!"
Afonso then slices the ropes. Luciano falls into the ground with a thud.
"You're safe now fellow knight" Afonso straights himself, holding his sword "I will guide you back to your Lord!"
"Thanks kiddo" Luciano groans, his back hurts.
"what's your name?" Afonso asks.
"oh.." Luciano can't really say it. He worries it may screw this timeline "it's...a secret"
"I see" Afonso nods agreeing, his eyes shining and he's curious about this strange knight.
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“I wanted to make you a holiday dinner, but I forgot I can’t cook…”
With engport because they make me feel.thingss.
If you dont mind of course
engport make me feel things too i get it. and i most certainly do not mind indulging in that ;)
Thought
"I wanted to make you a holiday dinner," Arthur says, his face doing its best to not fall, "but I… sort of forgot I can't cook…"
"But you can cook. You have cooked," Henrique replies—a claim made in light of the food that has been waiting patiently for his return from work, and the decorated dining room that hosts it.
Amongst the dishes there's freshly cooked fish—cod—his favourite!—and roasted ham and vegetables, cabbage, potatoes, and even a light wine-tickled sauce. The rest of the bottle calls to him. Heck, Arthur has even prepared sprouts, stuffing and those funny things he calls 'pigs in blankets'. All of that in itself is special to Henrique, who, after so many hours of working, is dying to sit down with a glass, good food, and his perfect company.
Yet, Arthur has gone above and beyond to surprise him this year. The placemats are blessed with sparkling strands that seem to flicker under the light not only overhead but of the candles as well, red wax slowly dripping down towards the table. A small but very real christmas tree seems to have sprouted in one corner of the room. Christmas crackers and their terrible jokes within taunt them. And those little things have made the day all the more special.
Really, Henrique had been ready to leap at Arthur, possessed by an invisible sprig of mistletoe, but he had been stopped by Arthur's unusual and highly unexpected comment.
Now the food is starting to cool down.
"Why don't you think you can cook?" he asks the other, who has started to pour them both a glass of wine. They honestly both need one. "You've been cooking pretty successfully for as long as I've known you."
Arthur doesn't deny it, but the small wince on his face is far from an agreement, too. "I just wanted this to be special," he says, "but I think the sauce is fucked, the vegetables are overdone, the potatoes are nowhere near as fluffy as they're supposed to be and the fish looks—"
"—looks lovely." Henrique takes a glass away from Arthur to avoid a spillage and, just as the other goes to protest something, he sets his hand on his shoulder and slowly brings him in for a hug he has waited all day for. "You," he goes on, "have worked hard all morning for this, and you've made my day, querido.”
His husband, however, does not see it that way. “So much went wrong,” he presses, pulling away again. “I’m still tempted to order us a takeaway. You know, start a new, easier holiday tradition…”
“And waste all your effort?” Henrique replies, incredulous. “Not on my watch.”
“But what if it’s all tastes as shit as it looks?”
“Hey, no. No. It doesn’t look shit. If anything, the only shit thing going on in this room, Arthur, is your stinky, stinky attitude, mister,” the brunette chides, albeit lightheartedly. It earns a huff. That is... better than nothing. “Listen,” Henrique continues, “I love the things you do for me. Things like this. It’s the thought that counts—you taught me that, remember?”
Even though Arthur nods, however, Henrique is not so convinced.
Seeing him worry in this way—to see him be so self-conscious about the things that Henrique admired about him—is not enjoyable by any means. Especially after a long shift, a long morning, a long drive home. He just wants the other to be happy, and for them both to enjoy what little remains of Christmas Day together.
The thing is, see, Arthur really can cook. He cooks anything from a full roast dinner to homemade pies to winter stews to foreign fancies—and it is rarely a disaster. Henrique loves coming home from a long day at the hospital to Arthur’s food, just as Arthur loves coming home from a long day at work to Henrique’s food when he had those precious days off. And he knows that Arthur knows that. He knows that Arthur knows of that specific mutual love they share.
Perhaps Arthur just needs a nudge as opposed to a serious talk. Perhaps his day has just been long, too (Henrique can’t imagine the stress that could have gone into such a wonderful, big meal like that, after all) and all he needs is the reassurance that his work in the kitchen has paid off.
That should not be so hard to do. The various aromas of quality fish and steaming honeyed vegetables just, ughh, he is so hungry…
But before he can eat, there is clearly something he needs to do. So he takes the other’s hands in his, and says:
“You can cook, Arthur. You cook and you bake, and you do it so well when you’re in that amazingly sweet mood to do so. And even if you didn’t or couldn’t do those things,” Henrique emphasises, “I wouldn’t love you any less. You’re still my Arthur. And my Arthur—my dear, dear Arthur,” he says, their bodies so close that their noses nearly touch and he can see himself in Arthur’s eyes, “has made us a lovely festive dinner that… I’d quite like to eat before it gets cold. If he still wants to join me.”
There is a heavy pause. An exchange of glances. And then…
“Okay.”
“Just ‘okay’?”
Arthur lightly scoffs, a smile stretches feebly onto his face. His hands settle on the other’s waist and Henrique has to fight a temptation to kiss him. “It’s a very nice speech, sweetheart,” he concedes, “so yes, ‘okay’. I suppose we can eat something..."
“Good,” Henrique replies, satisfied. "And I bet it'll all be perfect."
He presses a kiss to the other’s forehead to mark the end of the matter, and just like that, a pleasant dinner, which turned into a fun and cosy evening, which turned into a rather eventful night, got underway without further incident.
Safe to say that by the end of it all, Arthur was feeling much, much better about himself.
(And his cooking, of course.)
[ final wordcount, 976 words; prompts list found here! ]
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