O.s. Joaric. Espanyol vs Barça, 01/03/26.
Eric, as he finishes adjusting the mask on his bruised and slightly sore face, glances sideways at Joan’s locker, a few spaces away from his. The taller one is sitting on the bench, his gaze lost somewhere on the wall in front of him. His hands rest on his thighs, still.
That’s something Eric would normally ignore in another context, because he’s known for years that the goalkeeper gets very thoughtful and introspective before important moments like this, and, being honest, he trusts Joan’s innate calmness too much.
Seconds pass and he doesn’t take his eyes off him.
In the end, he huffs and walks toward him. The detail that makes him approach is the fact that they were minutes away from starting the match and Joan still hasn’t put on his gloves, which are abandoned on the locker room floor, as well as how downcast he looks. His eyes don’t have that playful and confident spark. He hasn’t spoken much since they got off the bus, if anything, he’s been completely silent.
Subtly, he reaches him and sits beside him, as if that had always been his place, which he knows is true. The closeness between them is noticeable, their shoulders are pressed together, as well as their legs. Eric can feel the warmth of Joan’s skin, which makes him swallow.
Then, wanting to get his attention, he does the first thing that comes to mind, knowing Joan would understand the message.
He moves his foot a little closer to the goalkeeper’s and taps it lightly with the tip of his sneaker. One, two, three. When he doesn’t get an immediate response, he rolls his eyes and taps him again. He’s about to step on his foot, until Joan moves his and does the same.
One, two, three.
Eric thinks, we’re idiots.
Even so, he bends down to unnecessarily adjust his laces and then crouches to position himself in front of Joan. He tries to be at eye level, attempting to communicate that way everything he knows Joan needs to hear, even though he knows the mask is a kind of barrier because it covers much of his facial expressions.
He gives him a small smile and places his hand on the other’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Up close he can see the whole cluster of emotions inside the goalkeeper; and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful that his best friend is so expressive, that just by looking at him once, he’s almost sure of what’s going on.
Joan looks at him and sighs, with an almost unconscious pout that Eric would die to kiss.
“Hey,” Eric murmurs, trying to distract himself from getting distracted by how beautiful Joan is. He keeps looking at him with a mix of tenderness and affection that only exists when they’re in their own world. “Is everything okay? You look a little lost, Joanet.”
The taller one shakes his head.
“I think I want to throw up,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose in a disgusted gesture. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this nervous before playing, Eric,” he confesses, placing his pinky finger on the back of the other’s hand.
Eric looks around, noticing how everyone was almost ready to line up in the tunnel, not paying attention to them. Joan looks in the same direction as him, his breathing a little unsteady and his brows furrowed. He reaches his free hand until he touches the goalkeeper’s soft cheek, forcing him to make eye contact.
“Listen to me, Joan,” he says, with so much confidence that it even surprises him. The younger one nods. “You know something?” Joan makes a small sound, urging him to continue. “You’re the best goalkeeper I’ve seen in my entire life. And I’m not saying it because you’re my best friend, you really are,” Eric says. He doesn’t want to get so soft, but he continues anyway. “Why do you think I insisted so much for you to come with us, huh?”
Joan laughs, blushing a little. “Everyone here trusts you. I know you’re playing against your former team and it’s complicated, but that doesn’t mean something is going to go wrong. The Joan García Pons I know always gives his all, no matter the opponent,” he smiles, brushing his cheek with his fingers.
“So, I want you to go out on that pitch and do what you know how to do: Save us and stop even the impossible. Okay? And if something goes wrong, it doesn’t matter. I know you always give your best effort and that’s more than enough for me to feel proud of having you here, as my goalkeeper.”
Joan looks at him. It’s such a strange mix of emotions that Eric would like to listen to him talk for hours about what he’s feeling right now, but he’ll settle for that small glimmer in the other’s eyes that he has already gotten used to labeling as his alone.
Joan’s eyes melt into a gaze so affectionate that Eric feels a terrible flip in his heart. The taller one takes his hand and squeezes it, thanking him silently.
“Està bé, capità,” Joan murmurs, in the end.
Eric gives him a small smile. He takes Joan’s white gloves and leaves them on the bench. Then, he gently caresses his cheek and, although he hesitates a little, leaves a small kiss on his forehead, trying to avoid hitting the younger one’s face with the mask. He stands up and offers him his hand.
Joan takes it, looking straight into his eyes and standing up with a more confident posture, being more himself.
Minutes later, when they’re already in the tunnel and the roar of both crowds seeps in from everywhere, Joan is in front of him, fully dressed in his kit and his gaze forward.
Eric steps a little closer, pressing against him.
“Joan,” he whispers in his ear, making the goalkeeper turn and look at him over his shoulder. He gestures with his eyebrows, indicating he’s listening. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Joan huffs and laughs with his eyes squinting, that small detail Eric loves so much and would go to war just to see it millions of times more. “I know,” he assures him, adjusting his gloves. “As long as you’re with me, I have nothing to fear.”
Eric gives him another shy smile, while he feels a warm sensation in his chest settle, until it stays there, floating through his whole body.
Joan turns fully toward him and pulls him into a hug. Eric immediately feels how the goalkeeper cradles the back of his neck with his gloved hand and how his other arm wraps completely around him at shoulder blade level.
He allows himself to release the tension in his shoulders under the warmth of the contact, feeling like he’s on a cloud. He wraps his arms around Joan’s waist, squeezing him and trying to give him that same sense of security he feels with him.
Joan kisses his temple before pulling away and seconds later, the referee signals for them to step onto the pitch.
With the image of Joan’s back adorned with the number thirteen, Eric sighs and fully focuses on the match ahead of them, having a good feeling about what’s going to happen.
