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It was over. They had lost.
We were so close.
Kylian Mbappé, drenched in sweat after 120 minutes of the most intense battle of his life, shivered from the cold.
A warm, soft kiss was pressed to the back of his neck, and then Olivier Giroud pulled away apologetically, blue eyes soft and sad as he turned away to console their other teammates.
With the warmth of Olivier’s kiss fading away in the cold, empty stadium that roared with cheers, Kylian felt the aching numbness re-settle in his heart, his bones. Dimly, he registered people milling around him, touches on his skin that were probably meant to be comforting. Later, he would realise that he had snubbed the President of the Republic in front of the entire world – not that he cared, really – but for now, his mind was a complete blur.
Again, he would later remember the words and touches he had shared with Leo Messi, his club teammate, the living legend finally crowned world champion after all these years, but right now, the world swam before his eyes.
The medal ceremony meant nothing. They’d been through it before; second place just wasn’t good enough. He hadn’t been good enough, not enough to secure them the victory they had fought so desperately for.
His mind was a chaotic blur of hostile colours and sounds, and then he saw it with sudden clarity. The Cup, the one they were meant to bring home, that precious dream they had just missed by the skin of their teeth. His heart dropped. He felt so empty, so hollow like someone had taken a knife to his chest and gutted him until there was nothing left inside.
He turned away, just as Zinedine Zidane had done so 16 years ago.
....
At long last, they were given leave to return to the privacy of their locker room, where they could mourn their loss in peace, away from prying eyes and leers and jeers.
Kylian sat down in a corner, not caring that the floor was cold and dirty, and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t deal with reality right now.
But his team would never leave him alone, not for too long. Kylian heard footsteps approaching, and opened his eyes.
It was Antoine; of course it was Antoine.
“You were amazing out there, Kyks.” he said, eyes bright and blue and sad, and still so proud. “Whatever else, you deserve to be proud of yourself.”
Numbly, Kylian let Antoine pull him into a hug, inhaling his familiar sweat and musk, feeling the soothing warmth of his chest, his arms. They both needed it.
Then it was Paul, who had long ditched his VIP seat to come and kiss and cuddle with his boys. Paul’s words, not Kylian’s.
“No apologies from you tonight, or ever, mon gars. You were phenomenal. I’ve never seen football played like that in my life, nor Zlatan, nor anyone alive, dead, even. You made history, you made the stadium come alive. Hold your head high.”
Kylian’s eyes burned with unshed tears, as he swiftly buried his face in Paul’s chest, the older man wrapping long, firm arms around him, soothing hands coming to rest on his back.
Ousmane, Benji, capitaine, Lucas and Théo, Aurélien … Kylian felt himself shake, tremors running through his entire body, even as he tried to suppress them and get his body back under control – goddammit, he was Kylian Mbappé Lottin, the second man to score a hat trick in the World Cup finals, youngest man to… only footballer to… He should have his body perfectly under control, and yet, and yet!
“I wanted to win with this team. I wanted to win with everyone here.” And the tears that had been welling up in him for hours finally came, and he should probably feel ashamed of crying in front of his whole team when he had walked away from this tournament with yet another trophy for himself; the team that had just lost, older players who were not getting any younger and players his own age who had never won a World Cup.
He smelled him before he felt him, that comforting swirl of spicy, fragrant cologne which always made his stomach flutter, even now, especially now.
“Olive…” he breathed. And, not caring that he was there with the rest of the team, he spoke from his heart, feelings accumulated over weeks, months and years spilling out in a rush. “I wish we’d won it together. I mean we did, four years ago, but… but…” he trailed off. “Olivier,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw. “Even though we lost, I just want to say… I’m so happy to have played with you for the past few years. I feel so lucky, so blessed, to have broken more records together with you.”
Olivier cracked a wry smile, one that lit up his handsome face, mesmerising as always. “The feeling’s mutual, kid. Thank you for making it possible.”
Kylian felt like a child again, but he was tired, and weary, and he had just lost the most important match in the world, in his life, because he had wanted to win with this team, these people, all together.
He didn’t care that he had made history again. Football wasn’t about fighting alone – it never had been.
“Please, Olivier. Kiss me again?”
Olivier Giroud’s beautiful blue eyes widened, soft pink lips forming a perfectly shaped o in his surprise.
Behind them, Didier Deschamps exhaled, fond and weary all at once.
“Go for it, lads. You’ve more than earned this.”
And so, in the spirit of their Republic and the revolution that had founded it, Kylian Mbappé and Olivier Giroud defied the laws of Qatar as they embraced, finding each other at last.