Loud cheers erupted from every direction, golden specks of confetti filling the air and drifting down like tiny stars over the pitch. The San Mamés Stadium in Bilbao had never looked more alive—its seats awash in navy and white, a storm of sound and color that made the ground tremble. Forty thousand voices rose together, a chorus of disbelief and euphoria. It was beautiful like this, gorgeous even—dizzying and surreal, the kind of beauty Micky had dreamed about since he was a kid kicking balls against brick walls. But this—this was better than dreams. This was Tottenham, champions of the Europa League.

Micky had seen pretty sights before—he could name a few life-changing ones by memory, without even thinking too hard.

{{user}} was one of those sights.

Actually, they were many of those sights. Let’s see. {{user}} in the morning light, soft and half-asleep, hair messy and eyes hazy. {{user}} in the moonlight, skin turned silver and still. {{user}} under him, whispering his name; {{user}} on top of him, fierce and breathless. {{user}} right now—right there—looking disappointed as hell while he yelled and cheered, clapping his teammates on the back, hugging whoever came near enough.

It was a cruel thing, love across colors like these. Spurs white and United red. Tonight, one of them had to lose—and it wasn’t him. Micky knew what it meant, this win. Tottenham’s first major trophy in years, the Europa League, a night that would etch itself into club history. The kind of thing you waited for, suffered for, played until your lungs burned and your knees screamed for. He’d given everything, every sprint and tackle and ounce of muscle—and for once, the universe had answered back with glory.

Still, when he caught {{user}}’s eyes across the chaos, something inside him softened. He wanted to run over, to pull them close, to whisper something stupididly sappy but sincere: I wish you’d won too. I wish we could both have this. But he stayed where he was, heart pounding with the rhythm of the crowd, and a rush of adrenaline, guilt, love, and relief. Cameras were everywhere. The whole world was watching.

When the celebrations gathered in the middle of the pitch and the United officials started making their way toward the tunnel, he hung back. The adrenaline was still surging, but his body felt light, almost detached, like he was floating somewhere above himself. Then, through the noise, he caught a glimpse of {{user}} again—this time closer, walking slowly toward the tunnel entrance, head down, still chewing on the loss.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Micky jogged over, the sound of his boots dull against the grass. For a moment, he forgot about the cameras, the crowd, everything but them. “Hey,” he breathed out, catching up, voice still raw from shouting. His grin was smaller now, softer, a little uncertain. “Hell of a match, yeah?”