the only ship that makes sense
sy: when you find yourself jealous over the viral videos of doué and karchaoui taking over social media.
a/n: this took me longer to finish than i expected for reasons i honestly can't explain, i felt a little silly writing it, but i hope you guys enjoy it. i have a feeling you will ♡
sorry if there are any writing or translation mistakes
⋆ ˙ ⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆⋆ ˙ ⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆⋆ ˙ ⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆
You realize you're jealous by the ridiculous way you're holding your phone.
Your fingers are gripping the phone case so tightly that the sides have turned white, your thumb scrolling TikTok up and down, always going back to the same video, as if something might change if you watched it again. The hotel room is dimly lit, with only the bluish glow of the screen illuminating your face and the headboard with his country's flag carelessly tossed over it. Outside, the muffled noise of the crowd fills the streets even in the middle of the night; horns, shouting, the distant echo of an anthem being sung slightly off-key.
The clip appears once again: Doué laughing with Karchaoui on the training ground, their shoulders brushing by accident, him saying something the microphone doesn't catch, but her laugh is far too clear. The comments keep coming, hitting like a punch.
“MY SHIP IS ALIVE 🔥”
“They look so good together, my God”
“I shipped them before, but now?!”
“The way she's looking at him 😭”
You scroll so fast the words blur together, but they keep throbbing in your head. Ship. Perfect together. Looking.
You hated that quiet part where no one knew about the two of you. At first, you'd even found it kind of romantic, like a little secret shared only between you both, protected from the world. Friends and family knew, of course. His sister always gave you that "I know everything" look whenever you appeared on a video call. His mother asked the kind of questions you only ask someone you already consider family. Your own friends had memorized his match schedule by now, gotten used to you disappearing halfway through conversations to "check something really quick" and coming back with sparkling eyes.
But to the internet, to those same social media platforms now inventing couples and narratives, you were just "another fan." Whenever you showed up in a photo or video, you were always blurred in the background, an anonymous face among many.
You swallow hard and lock your phone screen, tossing it onto the pillow beside you with a little more force than necessary. Suddenly, the room feels smaller, stuffy, as if the air isn't circulating properly. The open suitcase in the corner, with his team's shirts folded on top of your clothes, seems to be silently judging you. It had been his idea to bring you to the World Cup with his family, "so you can see everything up close, with us," he'd said during that video call that ended with both of you smiling at the frozen screen, neither wanting to hang up.
You run a hand over your face, take a deep breath, and stand up. You need to get out of that room.
The hotel hallway is quiet, save for the distant sound of a television tuned to some sports channel. You know the way by heart; you've walked that route so many times in the last few days that the bland patterned carpet already feels like part of your memory.
His room is almost at the very end. You recognize the door without even really looking, by the jacket hanging on the hook and the faint beats of a playlist he would never admit to listening to in public, but one you've already memorized. Your heart gives a small jump, sending a wave of nerves climbing up your chest.
You think about turning back. About making up an excuse tomorrow, saying you fell asleep early, that the time difference got to you. But your hand is already lifting and knocking twice against the wood before you can obey the urge to retreat.
It doesn't even take five seconds. The music lowers, the sound of footsteps approaches, the doorknob turns.
He opens the door with his hair still damp from the shower, wearing an oversized white T-shirt and some random athletic shorts. The scent of fresh soap mixes with the subtle fragrance you recognize instantly, as if your body had memorized it before your conscious mind ever did. He smiles the moment he sees you, that slightly crooked smile that always seems a little surprised it worked.
"Thought you'd already passed out" he comments, leaning a shoulder against the door as he opens it wider for you to come in.
You shrug, pretending not to notice how he's standing too close, how the warmth spilling from the room seems to pull you inside.
He looks at you for a second longer than usual. It's subtle, but you know that look. Doué always notices the little things: when you change your nail polish, when you wear your hair differently, when your voice drops half a tone because something's bothering you. Now, his eyes linger on your face, then drift down to your tense shoulders before returning to your eyes.
"Come here" he says, that's all, but his voice softens in a way that makes something inside you lower its guard on reflex.
You step inside. His room is almost a mirror image of yours, but with details that are unmistakably his: football boots resting by the wall, an open backpack stuffed with wrinkled clothes, half-empty water bottles scattered around. On the bed, the jersey from his last match lies tossed over the blanket, still carrying that mixed scent of sweat, grass, and deodorant. The television is playing some highlights from today's game, muted.
He closes the door with a soft click. When he turns around, you're already standing in the middle of the room, unconsciously hugging yourself, your nails digging into the hem of your sweatshirt.
"Are you okay?" he asks, taking a few steps toward you. It's not invasive, but he doesn't keep too much distance either. Just enough for you to catch his scent more strongly, to notice the lingering drop of water still clinging to the line of his jaw.
You hesitate. What you want to say is, "Yeah, everything's great, I just came to say hi," but the words feel too big, too heavy to make it through your throat. So you do what you always do when you don't want to be read so easily: you turn your face slightly away, pretending to be interested in the television.
"I'm fine" you answer in a tone that even you know isn't fooling anyone. "Just... tired"
He stays quiet for a moment. You can feel his eyes on you, studying you as if he were analyzing a match, searching for a gap in the defense. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
Your body reacts before you can stop it. Your shoulders stiffen, the air grows heavy again. You frown, still trying to keep up the act.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes another step closer until only a few inches separate you. You can feel the warmth of his skin, almost like a magnetic field pulling your body toward his. His hand lifts slowly, fingers lightly brushing the fabric of your sweatshirt sleeve in a touch that could be accidental, but isn't.
"Tell me" he asks, simple, but with that way he has of mixing affection with persistence. "You came all the way down here in the middle of the night. Something's up."
You bite your lip, looking away toward the jersey tossed onto the bed. The image of the clips, of Karchaoui laughing beside him, comes back as if someone hit play inside your head. You try to swallow it down, try to look indifferent. But when you open your mouth, the words come out a little sharper than you intended.
"Must just be internet stuff, right? No big deal. Just... a new ship."
He blinks, confused for half a second. And you regret it immediately. But you've already said it. Now the word is hanging in the air between you: ship.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in irritation, but like someone putting together the pieces of a puzzle.
"A new ship..." he repeats slowly, as if tasting the syllables, trying to understand where you're going with this. "Oh."
You feel your face heat up instantly. You turn away, pretending to adjust a cushion on the armchair, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. Your fingers tremble a little, but you try to make up for it by gripping the cushion tighter, as if it's just another absent-minded gesture.
"Forget it" you mutter. "It's not important."
His laugh comes out low, almost like a breath.
"Then why do you look ready to fight the entirety of TikTok?" he teases, moving close enough that his knee lightly bumps yours when you sit on the edge of the bed.
You close your eyes for a second. The whole thing is almost ridiculous: you, in a luxury hotel during the World Cup, fans celebrating outside, and the only thing occupying your mind is an internet ship.
"I'm not..." you begin, but the sentence dies when he leans down slightly, lowering his face until it's level with yours.
His eyes are there, so close, so attentive. You can see the reflection of the TV in his dark irises, the small glint in the corner, as if he's holding back a smile.
"You are" he says with calm certainty, almost amused. "You're jealous."
The word lands like a revealed secret. You know it's true, but hearing it out loud makes everything feel so much more exposed. The urge to deny it clashes with another urge, even stronger, to cross your arms and say, so what? In the end, what comes out is a strange mix of both:
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't tease. Doesn't make light of it.
His eyes soften in a way that disarms you instantly. He sits down beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight, making you lean unconsciously toward him. The distance between you shrinks even more until your shoulders are almost touching.
"If you are" he begins, his voice low, almost rough "I think it's kind of cute."
You roll your eyes, but you can feel the corner of your mouth threatening to give in, just a little.
He takes advantage of the small opening. His right hand lifts slowly, fingers tracing a light path along your arm, from your wrist to your elbow, a touch that sends a shiver through your skin beneath the fabric.
"I'm serious" he continues, turning more fully toward you. "Do you really think I didn't notice? You spent the entire dinner tonight scrolling on your phone and making that face."
"What face?" you protest, even though you know exactly which one.
He imitates it, forcing an intensely focused expression, brows furrowed, lips pressed together. The caricature pulls a short laugh from you despite yourself. He brightens at the sound as if that had been exactly what he was trying to get from you.
"That one" he confirms, returning to normal. His fingers have stopped at your elbow now, drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your sweatshirt. "You can tell from a mile away when you're upset about something but pretending you're not. The only person you fool with that is yourself."
You sigh, finally letting your body relax a little, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact is small, but it sends a warm shiver down your spine. He doesn't pull away. If anything, he moves closer, as though fitting you into the exact place beside him where you're meant to be.
"It's just..." you begin, choosing your words carefully. "I know it's stupid. It's the internet, it's people who don't know anything, it's... video edits with dramatic music over them and captions written in all caps. But..."
He waits a moment, his fingers now leaving your arm, gliding up the curve of your shoulder until they reach a strand of your hair. He gently wraps it around his finger, distracted, as if playing with your hair is the most natural thing in the world.
"But it hurts anyway" he finishes quietly.
You nod, the movement almost imperceptible. Your eyes stay fixed on his hand playing with your hair, on the contrast of his tan skin against the strands, something you find far too beautiful for reasons you can't explain.
"It hurts because..." you draw in a breath, swallowing the word that doesn't want to come out. "Because I like you. And I can't exactly comment, stop shipping them, he's mine."
He falls silent for a second. You feel his chest rise and fall slowly, very close behind you now, because at some point he'd shifted and you'd shifted with him until you were nearly pressed together. His chin lightly brushes the top of your head when he tilts his face down, searching for your eyes.
"But you can tell me that" he replies, so close that the warmth of his words brushes your skin. "Here."
The room seems to shrink until there's nothing left but the bed, the two of you, his scent, and the silence filled with the noise of your own heartbeat. Your hand still rests on your thigh, tense, fingers half-curled. His free hand slowly lowers, carefully settling over yours, his fingers touching yours one by one until they fully intertwine.
The gesture is simple, but there's an intensity to it that leaves you dizzy. His fingers squeeze yours gently, as if saying I'm here without needing words.
His eyes stay locked on yours, steady, unwavering. There's something determined there, something that blends affection with a kind of quiet urgency, as if he's been waiting a long time to say what's about to come next.
" I'm yours" he says, without hesitation, each syllable carrying a gentle weight. "It's not a ship, it's not a fan theory, it's not an edited video with sad music. I. Am. Yours."
The last three words settle over you like an embrace. You feel your defenses giving way one by one, as if someone has finally unlocked a door you've been holding shut with your whole body.
He continues without looking away:
"The internet sees two seconds of me talking to someone and invents an entire story. You saw everything. You were on the bus when I was nervous before the first match. You were on the call yesterday when all I could talk about was how much I missed your voice." His fingers tighten around yours a little more firmly, as if trying to carve the words into you in a way you'll never forget. "You were here today, cheering for me in that ridiculous jersey I love. You're who I want to be with after the game. You're who I'm with right now. That's what's real to me."
His words go straight through you, warm and far too sincere for you to doubt them.
Your eyes sting, but you don't let the tears fall. Instead, you lean forward slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft and warm, carrying that familiar scent that's already become home to you.
He welcomes you without hesitation. His arm releases your hand for only a second, just long enough to wrap around your waist and pull you closer. His other hand slowly rises to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he gently strokes the sensitive skin there.
You fit together as though you've practiced this thousands of times.
Your body relaxes against his, your forehead still resting on his shoulder, your nose brushing lightly against the curve of his neck. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with his scent as if it's the perfect antidote to everything that had been bothering you.
"I don't like feeling this way" you murmur, your voice muffled against his skin. "It makes me feel stupid."
He sighs, low and soft, followed by a gentle kiss pressed to the top of your head. His lips linger for a second longer, like a silent promise.
"It's not stupid" he replies, his thumb gliding over the back of your neck in a soothing motion that feels almost hypnotic. "It's human. And... I kind of like it."
You lift your face just enough to look at him, your faces now so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.
"Like what?" you ask suspiciously.
He smiles slowly, that small smile somehow full of meaning.
"I like knowing you care that much. That you want me for yourself." He pauses, tilting his head slightly. "I'm jealous too, you know."
"Oh yeah? I've never seen edits of you getting annoyed in the comments over someone."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and reaching you through the way your bodies are pressed together. The arm around your waist tightens slightly, as though emphasizing what he's about to say.
"Because I'm not jealous of the internet. I'm jealous here" and as he says it, he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a moment. "When someone makes you laugh louder than I do. When you keep talking about some random football player. When you forget to text me because you're busy with something and I end up staring at my phone, waiting."
Your heart flips strangely, a mix of guilt and affection.
"I don't forget about you" you reply, barely above a whisper. "Never."
He opens his eyes, and there's so much in them. Affection, longing, a trace of vulnerability. That you have to take a deep breath again.
"I don't forget about you either" he says, sounding almost like a confession. "Not even when I want to. Not when I'm giving interviews, not when I'm on the pitch, not even when I'm just... breathing."
He lets out a small embarrassed laugh at his own exaggeration, but he never looks away. His hand continues stroking the back of your neck, slow and steady.
The mood between you shifts subtly.
The jealousy that had burned uncomfortably before becomes something else entirely: a different kind of warmth, sweet and lingering, settling over the two of you like a blanket. The physical closeness that has always existed suddenly feels charged with possibility.
He glances at your lips for a second. You notice. And instead of pulling away, you move a little closer. Your lips meet slowly, as though they already know each other far too well for haste. He doesn't pull you in abruptly. Instead, the hand at the back of your neck guides you carefully toward him in one smooth motion, as though he's afraid of startling you if he moves too quickly.
The first contact is soft, almost a testing touch.
Your lips brush together, warm and light. Your stomach twists with that familiar sweet nervousness you always feel whenever he kisses you after spending too long wanting to. You sigh softly against his mouth, and that tiny sound seems to be all the encouragement he needs.
The kiss deepens slightly. It's not urgent, not rushed, but it's full, full of everything you didn't say on the way here, of every insecurity you kept to yourself after seeing those videos, of the quiet and overwhelming reality of loving someone this much. His hand slides from the back of your neck to the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek and tracing the line of your jaw with almost reverent gentleness.
You kiss him back, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, slowly finding the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. When your hand touches his side, you feel the muscle tense slightly beneath your fingertips. He lets out a quiet breath against your lips, leaning in a little more and surrounding you with his warmth.
The world narrows even further.
There are no more cheering crowds, no edited clips, no strangers in comment sections. There's only the taste of his kiss, the scent of him filling the air, and the feeling of his hands holding you as though he never wants to let you go.
When you finally pull apart, it's because you need air, not because either of you wants to.
His nose still brushes yours, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. His hand remains on your face, his thumb slowly tracing the corner of your mouth as if he wants to memorize the feeling of that kiss forever.
"You know that..." he begins, his voice low and slightly rough "if it's up to me, there's no other ship that makes sense, right?"
A small laugh escapes you, his words settling through your chest like honey.
"Tell that to the comments" you tease, your forehead still pressed against his.
He thinks for a second, his gaze getting lost in yours as if he's already planning something.
"I can tell the whole world that" he replies with calm determination. "Honestly, it's overdue."
Your heart starts racing.
"I'm serious" he insists, the arm around your waist pulling you a little closer until you're sitting sideways on his lap, one leg brushing against his. "I brought you here with my family. My mom already treats you like you're her daughter. We talk every single day. I just kissed you because I physically can't not kiss you when you're this close..." he pauses, taking a deep breath. " And the internet thinks I'm with someone else. That's not fair to you. Or to me."
You lower your eyes for a moment, letting his words sink into every corner of you.
The fear of being exposed, of becoming a target, of seeing people comment on something that until now had belonged only to the two of you, clashes with another feeling pounding just as strongly inside your chest: the relief of not having to pretend you're "just friends" every time a camera appears.
"I don't know if I'm ready to read everything people are going to say" you admit honestly, your finger playing with the hem of his shirt. "But..." you take a deep breath. "The part where we don't have to pretend anymore... I like that."
He smiles, and this time the smile is open, relieved.
"Then we do it our way" he concludes. "No need for a huge post or kissing pictures if you don't want to. We start slowly. One picture here, another there. Your name when I talk about someone special in an interview. Just... less secrecy. More truth."
You think about all the nights you've spent scrolling through your timeline, looking at pictures of him with the team, with his family, and skipping over the ones where you were somewhere in the background, cropped out or blurred. You think about how much it hurt seeing edits of him with someone else beside him, someone the whole world seemed convinced "fit him better."
And then you look at the way he's holding you now, so naturally, as though your place has always been right here.
You look into his eyes, which don't leave yours for even a second and his hand still resting against your face, warm and protective.
"Okay" you whisper, a smile finally breaking free completely. "Slowly. Our way."
He doesn't celebrate out loud. Instead, his smile softens, and his eyes become slightly glassy in a way that maybe only you would notice. He leans in once more, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, brief but full of affection.
"Our way" he repeats against your mouth.
You settle more comfortably against his chest, resting your head in the space between his shoulder and neck. He adjusts himself against the headboard, pulling you with him until you're practically lying on top of him, one of your legs tangled with his without a second thought. His hand lazily traces patterns along your back while the other remains intertwined with yours, your fingers fitting together perfectly.
The television continues showing match highlights in silence.
Outside, the horns and cheers still echo through the city.
But inside the room, it's a different rhythm entirely: the cadence of his breathing, the synchronized beating of your hearts, the comfortable silence that settles after important things have finally been said.
"What if they post another edit tomorrow?" you ask, your voice sleepier now, though a trace of curious insecurity still lingers.
He presses his lips to your forehead, leaving a lingering kiss there, as though sealing some invisible agreement.
"Let them post it" he replies with a calmness that surprises you. "Let them ship whoever they want. They don't know that while they're doing that, I'm here... like this."
To prove his point, he tightens his arm around your waist and pulls you even closer, which feels almost impossible. You laugh softly, your chest overflowing with a warmth that feels good.
The jealousy is still there. Maybe it always will be, at least a little. But now it's mixed with something bigger. Something that smells like soap and grass and home. Something that makes it impossible to doubt him when he whispers, "I'm yours," against your ear.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and think that if the whole world wants to tell stories about him with other people, let them.
Because the story that actually matters is this one:
Him, stretched out on a hotel bed in the middle of the World Cup, holding you in his arms, kissing your forehead as though that were the most important goal he's ever scored.
