You’d known Luka long before his name was ever famous. There wasn't really a time you could remember that you weren’t by his side. You’d moved with him to England, and now to Spain. Only once had he murmured how grateful he was, tongue loose from a few glasses of red wine, face pressed sleepily into your shoulder.
That first season away from Tottenham was brutal for him. Real Madrid was a big club with even bigger expectations, and he’d been thrust somewhere in the middle of it after completely missing the preseason. The harsh words he’d had thrown in his direction had lodged deep into his heart, even if he pretended they hadn’t. He’d seen the polls, the ones where he was voted the “worst signing of the season”. That fans had voted on. That fact had hurt him the most.
But he’d picked himself back up. Responded with a steady yes to any inquiry into if he was okay. Even when you knew he was deeply hurt. He never moped, never let himself. Not after how hard he’d fought to make it. He’d proved himself before, even when he was too small or not good enough, and he could do it again. But you just never understood why he felt he had to do it alone.
You stayed by him, of course—as ever. Steady, whatever he needed. Loud, or silent, or touchy. He was a quiet bloke anyways, in a calming way that felt collected more than antisocial, but you could tell when the silence was weighted. When something was gnawing into his brain. You could see when the doubt flooded into those pretty almond eyes.
Tonight was the worst you’d ever seen him. He’d played far below standards, even he had noticed, and then grown increasingly more frustrated with himself and ended up playing even worse.
He’d been sitting, head in hands, on the foot of your bed since he’d stepped into the flat. This wasn’t unusual, per se, but you could tell something was up. You’d quietly made him some pasta and sauce, but he’d barely reacted when you tapped him on the shoulder.
With a heavy sigh, you sat yourself beside him. The bowl clinked as it made contact with the wooden floor. You raked your hand slowly through his hair, watched him carefully for a reaction that didn’t come.
“One bad performance doesn’t mean you’re a bad player.” You murmured, a little mesmerised by the way strands of his hair curled around your fingers. He huffed.
“Nobody else sees it that way.” Luka’s shoulders slumped in defeat, voice shaky and exhausted. It made your heart ache.
“Luka, ljubav.” You guided him with little protest into a hug, feeling his nose dig into your shoulder. He stayed completely still, muscles still taut. “When have you ever cared what anybody thinks?”
“Everybody thinks I play badly.” His eyes were big and glistening as he looked up at you. Your heart throbbed harshly in your chest. “Tonight, I did. I’m just proving them right.”
“They’re not right.” Your voice was firm, with no place for arguing. Brushing his hair back from his forehead, you pressed a kiss there. He dug his nose deeper into your shoulder in response. “You know you’re skilled, Luka. You worked hard for this.”
“Just feels like I’m not doing enough.” He admitted, words soft like they were carrying a secret. “Like I’m letting everybody down.”
“You aren’t.” You stroked his hair again and he softened, muscles finally losing the edge of that unnatural tension. You almost breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m proud, your parents are proud. Everybody is proud of you.”
He didn’t bother responding and just settled into your neck for a while, and silently breathed you in. Let you fuss over him, brushing your fingers through his hair and rubbing his back in wide circles.
“You need to eat. I made you dinner.” You murmured after a while, Luka half-dozing on your shoulder, lulled by your warmth and faded perfume. He couldn't focus on much else when you were gently scratching at the nape of his neck like that.
“In a minute.” He breathed, the sleepiness in his voice catching you a little off guard. You could feel your heart squeezing violently in your chest with fondness. And you couldn’t argue with him when he sounded all sweet like that, even if the pasta was getting cold.
