the big move.
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a/n: first joan fic wooo. also im finally back guys yay. genre: comfort/fluff. warnings: none.
summary: joan and you spend your first night in your new house talking about anything and everything to do with the move to fc barcelona.
The air in your new home smells faintly of paint and clean sheets. There are boxes stacked neatly in the corner of the room, half of them labeled in your handwriting, and the rest in Joan’s - his tidy, all-caps scrawl that always makes you smile. The walls are bare, the bedside table holds only a lamp and a glass of water, and yet somehow, it already feels like home.
You’re both lying on the bed, limbs tangled under the thin duvet, too exhausted to move but too content to sleep. Outside, the quiet hum of Sant Joan Despí floats through the cracked window. It’s strange to think this is real - that this house, just a few minutes from Ciutat Esportiva, belongs to you both.
Joan’s arm is slung lazily over your waist, his hand tracing slow circles against your hip. His hair is messy, soft from the shower, and his voice is still rough when he speaks.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You tilt your head toward him. “What does?”
“This,” he says, glancing around the room. “All of it. Being here. Knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow and drive to Barça training like it’s normal.”
You hum, running a hand through his hair. “You worked your whole life for this, Joan. It’s not weird, it’s what you deserve.”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It still doesn’t feel real.” He pauses, then adds softly, “I keep waiting for someone to tell me it’s a mistake. Like they mixed up the contracts or something.”
You laugh quietly, and he turns his head to look at you. His expression is gentle but uncertain, and you can tell there’s more sitting on his chest.
“You’re not here by accident,” you say firmly. “They saw you, Joan. They saw what you can do.”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice almost shy. “But it’s Barça. Everyone there is… ridiculous. The standard, the pressure, the fans. It’s not just football anymore. It’s-” He stops himself, exhaling. “It’s a lot.”
You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “And you’re ready for it.”
His fingers slide up to your shoulder. “Maybe. I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you promise. “You care too much to ever let that happen.”
He laughs softly, the sound muffled by the pillow. “You always make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is,” you say, nudging his side. “You train, you play, you stay kind, you work hard. That’s you. You’ve never needed anything fancy.”
He turns toward you fully now, the corners of his mouth lifting in that quiet way you’ve always loved. “You think I’m ready for this?”
“I know you are,” you reply. “And if you ever doubt it, I’ll remind you until you believe it again.”
Joan blinks a few times, eyes glinting in the dim light. He’s not someone who cries easily, but you can tell he’s feeling everything at once - ratitude, disbelief, nerves. You’ve seen him on bad days before matches, when he overthinks every goal he’s let in during training, but tonight feels different. It’s bigger.
He reaches up, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’d be here without you.”
“You’d still be here,” you say quietly. “Just maybe a little hungrier and less well-fed.”
That earns a laugh, and his body shakes with it. “You’re probably right.”
You smile against his chest, feeling him calm down little by little. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, strong and familiar.
After a while, the conversation drifts into small things - what curtains you should get for the living room, how the kitchen still smells like cardboard, whether the neighbors will be nice. Joan says he saw a couple of kids in Barça kits riding their bikes earlier and that he’s already nervous about being recognized when he takes the bins out.
You grin. “They’ll probably ask for your autograph.”
He groans. “I’ll have to practice my signature, then. I don’t want to look like I forged it.”
“You have such an athlete problem,” you tease. “Normal people just worry about recycling.”
“I’m still adjusting,” he admits. “Feels like just yesterday I was playing Segunda, and now I’m one of Barça’s keepers. It’s a jump.”
“You’ve earned it, Joan.”
He looks down at you again, his smile soft but steady this time. “You know what I’m actually excited about, though?”
You raise a brow. “What?”
“Being here. With you. Starting fresh. Not having to pack up and leave after a season ends. Just… building something that lasts.”
Your heart catches at that. You don’t say anything right away, just reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “We’re really doing it, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “We are.”
The silence that follows is comfortable. You can hear the soft hum of the fridge downstairs, the faint rustle of trees outside. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, slow and easy.
Then he adds, “I want to host dinners here. Get some of the guys over. Maybe Gavi will finally stop roasting me about my cooking.”
You snort. “Not if he tastes it.”
“Harsh,” Joan says, pretending to be offended. “You liked my tortilla.”
“I tolerated your tortilla,” you correct. “It was… edible.”
He gasps dramatically, pulling you closer until you’re both laughing, the sheets twisting between your legs.
When the laughter fades, you find yourself studying him in the quiet again - the slope of his nose, the tired creases under his eyes, the warmth that always seems to radiate off him. You think about the mornings to come: Joan heading out early to training, you making coffee and opening the windows, sunlight spilling over your new life.
“You’re going to be amazing,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away, just presses a slow kiss to your forehead and whispers back, “Only because I’ve got you.”
And when he finally falls asleep, the corners of his mouth still turned up slightly, you lie awake for a while longer, staring at the blank ceiling and letting it sink in. The house may still be empty in places, but your life here already feels full.
You reach over, turn off the lamp, and settle against him, your fingers still linked.
Tomorrow, Joan García will wake up as a goalkeeper for FC Barcelona. But tonight, he’s just your boy in a new bed, in a new home, dreaming of everything that’s still to come.
