— summary; you thought you could handle hugo in bed. spoiler alert: YOU COULDN'T.
— notes; im back from the dead and y'all can thank this beautiful french man. im down so bad for him it's not even funny. reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
❋ It's almost humiliating, really, how quickly everyone in the French U20 team notices that something is deeply, deeply wrong with you.
❋ Because normally, you'd be bouncing around the sidelines with way too much energy.
❋ But today?
❋ Today, you're walk into practice with the dead-eyed look of a soldier returning from war.
❋ Your movements are slow. Careful. Visibly painful.
❋ Stairs are now your mortal enemy.
❋ So is walking.
❋ And so is breathing.
❋ Meanwhile, beside you, Vivian Hugo looks completely normal.
❋ Same messy burgundy hair.
❋ Cool black eyes.
❋ Holding onto that stupid blank notebook of his.
❋ Which, in your opinion, is terribly unfair considering how worn out you look.
❋ And, as though to put a cherry on top of your ice cream cone of humiliation —
❋ The ENTIRE room goes pin-drop silent when you try to sit, slowly and carefully like an 89-year-old war veteran, and the most miserable, wounded sound leaves your lips as soon as your rear end makes contact with the hardwood bench.
❋ Oh.
❋ OH.
❋ Charles' eyes nearly pop out of his head; he's staring so hard.
❋ “OH MY GOD.”
❋ “Shut UP,” you hiss immediately, face burning.
❋ And he starts laughing, not even the polite kind of laughter that would be socially acceptable.
❋ He's practically hunched over at the waist, tears in his eyes, rolling on the floor laughing because your misery is apparently hilarious and so is the fact that Hugo apparently got laid last night.
❋ “NO, WAY, DID YOU AND —”
❋ And Hugo, calm and unflappable as ever, actually has the nerve to say, “Yes.”
❋ Why.
❋ You can only stare at him in horror as the room EXPLODES.
❋ One: That’s an insane answer.
❋ Two: He says it with absolutely no shame whatsoever while you’re silently praying for the ground to swallow you whole.
❋ You can almost feel the collective wave of sympathy emanating from the team, because now everyone and their mother knows why you’re moving like your bones are made of glass.
❋ The worst part is that you had been SO confident beforehand.
❋ You'd taken one look at this beautiful, 187cm midfielder and actually thought:
❋ How bad could it possibly be?
❋ The answer:
❋ Very.
❋ Because, apparently, Hugo does everything with absurd commitment.
❋ Football.
❋ Training.
❋ And apparently —
❋ That too.
❋ Which also brings you back to the present, and the consequences of your actions:
❋ Glaring absolute murder at Vivian Hugo while he calmly adjusts his gloves like he didn’t personally press you into the mattress twelve hours ago.
❋ “She said she could handle the physical exertion.”
❋ In the distance, someone chokes on water.
❋ “That was before I knew you were a monster, Hugo!”
❋ And that is when the screaming starts.
❋ And even Loki buries his face in his hands because this really wasn't how he pictured his morning going.
❋ “You are NEVER doing that again.”
❋ Hugo looks at you for exactly two seconds before calmly saying, “That statement is untrue."
❋ Charles makes a sound like a dying animal.
❋ And tragically . . .
❋ There's really nothing you can say to dispute him because you would absolutely let that man rail you again in a heartbeat.
— summary; drunk! you tries (and fails) to hit on a handsome guy at a fancy party.
— notes; reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
You’ve been to so many of these galas, and each time, they never cease to amaze you with how boring they are.
Rich people.
Rich people pretending not to compare net worths.
Rich people talking about football while clearly never having touched a ball.
Rich people asking your parents questions.
Rich people asking you questions.
“Oh, how you’ve grown!”
“So, what university are you planning to attend?”
“A pretty thing such as yourself must surely have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.”
Your parents are thriving.
They're famous football consultants, the kind that clubs and managers pay through their noses to engage.
It’s like they’ve come home.
On the other hand, you are this close to throwing yourself into one of the fancy crystal centrepieces.
But because you are good and decent, you do not.
You do, however, find the champagne.
In your defence, you hadn’t meant to get drunk.
You only took a glass because you were bored.
Then another, because someone hands you one.
Then another, because apparently, the very nice waiters like to refill your drink every five seconds.
By glass three, you’re tolerating the event.
By glass four, everyone is suddenly hilarious.
By glass five, you’re pretty sure that you’re having the time of your life in this ballroom.
You’re halfway through glass six — or was it glass seven? — when you look up and see —
Him.
Tall.
Burgundy hair.
Long eyelashes.
Dark eyes.
Expensive suit.
The sort of face Renaissance painters would start brawling over.
Standing alone while reading.
Because apparently, even at parties, Vivian Hugo is doing Just Vivian Hugo things.
Reading.
What kind of psychopath reads at a party?
And not even a book with words.
It’s completely blank.
You immediately become fascinated.
You don't even know his name.
You only know that he's ridiculously attractive.
And French.
And French.
(This bears repeating.)
Which somehow makes him even more attractive to your alcohol-soaked brain.
A terrible development.
For Hugo, that is.
He isn’t particularly interested in events like these.
Too much pointless conversation.
Too many people pretending that status is more important than results.
But, unfortunately for him, France’s football federation expects their rising young talents to make public appearances before the U-20 World Cup.
He's standing in a quiet hallway, reading his blank book.
There are approximately eighty-seven attendees.
Investors.
Scouts.
Former players.
Opportunists.
Journalists.
Eighty-eight attendees when he sees you — marching towards him with all the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
Not gracefully.
Slightly unsteady.
Wobbling, really.
Eyes locked directly onto him.
Stopping directly in front of him.
Stare.
He stares back.
Silence.
More silence.
More staring.
For a very long time.
Then . . .
“You're really hot.”
Hugo blinks.
Once.
“Thank you.”
“No, like, really hot.”
“Understood.”
“Unfairly hot . . . Like — Like an angel on the walls of Versailles.”
(You literally stole this from an Olivia Rodrigo song.)
(It is not an original thought.)
(But drunk you thinks that you are a poet.)
(The second coming of William Shakespeare.)
“. . . Thank you.”
“Hic — Do you know . . . You are the prettiest?”
“Yes. Statistically, I have received numerous positive comments regarding my appearance before.”
“You’re so hot when you talk all smart like that . . .”
“. . . Thank you?”
". . . Use more big words on me. It turns me on."
". . ."
Hugo isn’t even flustered.
Not even after you’ve called him hot about ten times in the past minute.
He's just analyzing the situation.
Like you’re a particularly interesting opponent in a particularly tricky football match.
Drunk female.
No apparent malicious intent.
Currently attempting courtship.
Methodology ineffective.
Fascinating.
“I like your eyelashes.”
“Thank you.”
“I like your hair.”
“Thank you.”
“I like your face.”
“. . . Thank you."
“I think we should make out.”
“Why?”
“Because you're — hic! — hot.”
“Those two concepts do not appear to be directly related —”
"Shhhh, angel boy. Less talky, more smoochy.”
Hugo has spent his life around football prodigies, world-class athletes, and tactical geniuses.
Nothing could have prepared him for someone with all the confidence and bad decision-making of a drunk raccoon.
What is the protocol for this?
Answer: None.
There is none.
Apparently taking his silence as consent, you grab his tie.
And try to kiss him.
Hugo tries to lean backwards.
You try to go in again.
Again, he quickly steps back.
Unfortunately, you are drunk and determined, and your last brain cell has deserted you about five glasses of champagne ago.
Hugo is now proving to everyone in the room just why he’s considered part of the New Generation Eleven when he starts performing defensive footwork and evasive manoeuvres in dress shoes.
(He is extremely lucky Charles is not here. Charles would have been rolling on the floor laughing, seeing this.)
Finally, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder to stop your advances.
“I believe you've had too much champagne."
“. . . Eh.”
“. . . Therefore, this is unsuitable.”
“You know what else is unsuitable? How horny I —”
Thankfully, your parents discover you hanging off Hugo’s arm before a) the paparazzi can see this and have a field day or b) the French PR team sees this and decides to file a harassment lawsuit.
Whichever one comes first.
The next morning, sober, you will wake up, remember exactly what happened last night, and scream into the nearest pillow for 20 consecutive minutes.
Until your brain cell returns to comfort you with exactly one (1) beautiful thought.
You don’t know his name.
He doesn't know yours.
You’ll never see him again.
Problem solved.
Except no.
Not really.
Because two weeks later, your parents have negotiated yet another contract deal.
This time with France, for the duration of the U20 world cup.
You're dragged along.
And when you step into the conference room —
You see him.
The exact same burgundy hair.
The exact same eyelashes.
The exact same blank expression.
And that’s when your soul leaves your body.
Because Hugo recognizes you immediately.
Immediately.
With no hesitation.
And kills you on the spot where you stand when he opens his mouth and says, “Statistically speaking, meeting again was unlikely.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Interesting.”
“Stop.”
And that's the exact moment you realize you're going to be working with him.
