their own thing ────── brahim tries knocking some sense into you.
⌗ pairing : federico valverde x reader
⌗ tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. reader is friends with brahim—dare i say, they're best friends. NOT PROOFREAD ignore any grammatical errors!!!!
⌗ wordcount : 880
⌗ notes : something for good luck for tonight's match!! good luck bous i love you all but i love you most valverde <3 title and quote from gracie abram's in between, this fic is also based on the song!! ♡ masterlist.
“Do it!”
“No!”
Brahim groans, letting his body fall back into the cushion as you snuggle your back comfortable on the other side of the couch.
Let’s just say that the two of you have had too much to drink that night, celebrating a particularly tough win, are a little bit tipsy, and fully laughing at whatever stupid shit the other decides to bring up.
And of course, the topic of you and Valverde—Federico, as you and Brahim both address him—comes into your conversation.
Because, how can he not be the hot topic around?
Brahim is proud of himself, often can be found boasting about how perfect the two of you seem together. He saw the vision—the invisible red string connecting you and Federico from one ring finger to the other. He was, naturally, the one to set up the simple three-people brunch, cancelling his half at the last minute; he was also the one encouraging Federico to send you a text after, and the one who urged you to delete all those stupid dating apps filled with men barely over their previous lover.
And though you kind of—kind of—are grateful for Brahim’s involvement in trying to brighten up your stagnant love life, it can be embarrassing for you. You definitely do not appreciate it most times. Maybe because you and Federico are technically not together yet.
It doesn’t even feel like anything.
You’ve got a huge, fat, heavy crush on Real Madrid’s midfielder, and you aren’t even sure if he likes you back.
Brahim thinks you’re an idiot—but, really, when has he not thought that you’re an idiot?
“Okay,” he fishes his phone out of his left pocket. “I’ll give him a call, and” —
“No!” You jump—attempt to, at least—out to Brahim, but he raises his hand so that you can’t reach to snatch the phone away from his hand.
— “you’ll see! And you’ll see what I’m saying!”
You flop back to your previous position, rolling your eyes as a hiccup escapes your lips, your eyes travelling to the other side of the room.
There Federico is, laughing amongst people you mostly don’t know, looking more handsome under the dim lighting of the pub than you have ever seen him, his hair still tainted in white after dying them a few months back for winning the Champions League. Maybe it’s the alcohol in your system, trying to compel your mind into braving yourself to step into his vicinity and sweep him away, but once you look at him, you cannot look away.
Just as Brahim lets out a laugh, you can see Federico feeling his phone vibrate on the island. He turns it over to see who is calling, and presses on the mute button, placing it back on the cold surface.
“Dick,” Brahim elbows your torso and you try wiggling away from him. “Your turn.”
“This is stupid,” you mutter, this time fishing out your phone with a groan. You watch Federico, your vision blurring as you chug down the shot on the floor table before you.
Clicking on his name on your contact list, you see him visibly sighing, and you bite your lower lip. He follows the same step as he did: flipping the phone over, and scanning the name of this caller.
This time, his eyes widened. You see his back straightening, his shoulder broadening, and his throat clearing. He excuses himself from the seemingly important conversation, places one hand inside of his jacket before taking the call.
Brahim’s elbow digs into your torso as his giggles turn diabolical—you raise a foot to kick his knee away from him. The heat rises, then, from the warmth of the tonic in your stomach, up to your chest, then spreading to your neck and ears and face.
“Hey,” Federico’s voice reaches over to you—you see him looking around the room, scanning the crowd for you. When he sees you, he sends you a sweet smile, his crow feet digging deep into his skin.
He looks so gentle, so sweet. Like his smile could take away any pain simmering down on your life.
“Oh, Federico,” you shoot an attempt at not stammering. “Sorry— I was about to call my mom, clicked on your name by mistake.”
Brahim clutches his knee, and then his stomach, before rolling from the couch to the floor, giggling to the back of his hand.
“Are you leaving already?”
His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you answer with a hiccup. Federico maintains eye contact, as though not aware that Brahim is on the floor, dying with laughter when he proves his own theory right once again.
“Need a ride home?”
“No,” you shake your head, sighing in embarrassment, shooting back a shy smile.
“I didn’t drink,” he glances back at the group of people he was talking to. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
You are the first to break the held gaze, glancing down at Brahim before lightly kicking the small of his back. Brahim turns to you, his eyes glazed with tears from laughing too much at his victory.
“If you insist…”
You take a deep breath, blowing it out softly before glancing back up, meeting his eyes exactly where they were when you left them.
