You Feel like the Ocean Being Warmed by the SunAuthor: firetruckyouxxRating:
Olivier Giroud/Antoine GriezmannGenre/Warnings:
Euros 2016, FluffSummary:
He’s never seen a more beautiful image.
It’s a little surreal, Olivier thinks, as the final whistle is blown, their ticket punched to the final, the chance to win the trophy at home for the second time. Not that he didn’t have faith in himself and his fellow countrymen, he did. He knew coming into the tournament they would get far, they had
to get far. Their country, the host country, expected nothing less. And for the sake of France, for the sake of their nation, they delivered.
Olivier stares up at the score as he paces towards the center of the pitch, the two on their side and the zero on the German side still surreal. Delirious with giddiness and excitement, Olivier can’t help the ridiculous grin he knows is plastered on his face. The dream he had as a boy is coming true.
Then, suddenly, a force hits him in the back and Olivier turns his head to find one of the most instrumental parts of their success plastered on his back, clinging on while giggling helplessly. Antoine’s hair is somehow both sticking to his face and sticking out everywhere and there’s beads of sweat rolling down his forehead and he smells truly awful, and yet Olivier has never seen a more beautiful site.
“We’re going to the final,” Antoine giggles into his ear, his smile lopsided and his lips chapped. “We’re going to the final.”
Olivier’s smile grows bigger and goofier. “We’re going to the final,” he repeats back, his chest growing tight as his giddiness grows.
“We’re going to be champions,” Antoine whispers as his lips brush up against Olivier’s ear, just loud enough so that Olivier can hear him over the roar of their countrymen, the songs of delight and triumph.
“We will be,” Olivier promises.
Antoine jumps off his back and into his arms, nestling his face in Olivier’s neck. Olivier clutches the back of his head and stares up at the sea of blue, red and white and believes.
“And you’re going to be the reason we win,” he whispers into Antoine’s hair, unsure he will hear him or not. It’s better if he doesn’t.
But Antoine takes his face out from where it’s tucked into Olivier’s neck and beams at him, bright and proud and so, so young. It makes Olivier feel both painfully old and painfully young, the weight of a nation on his shoulders, on their shoulders heavy and unyielding, building more each and every match. Olivier promises himself that he will see that beam again when they’re watching Hugo lift the trophy, when they’re holding up the trophy themselves, when they’re kissing the trophy together, the new age French attacking partnership.
A sea of people crowd them, kissing and hugging and celebrating, and Olivier loses Antoine in the crowd, even if he remembers how tight Antoine's grip was. He’s kissing Hugo’s cheeks, watching as his cheeks turn a bright red, when his eyes meet Antoine’s. Antoine beams at him, his whole face lighting up, and Olivier’s heart aches for him, for his happiness, for his body, for his everything.
He brushes it off as delirium, confusion in the excess of excitement. But later when Olivier is celebrating with the crowd, he sneaks a look at Antoine and his glee, babbling with Paul and feels his chest tighten once more, his body wanting to seek out Antoine’s closeness, his touch once again.
He tells himself it’s a temporary moment of madness but promises himself that the championship must be theirs, if only to see Antoine beam like the sun at him once more, because in reality, he’s never seen such a gorgeous image.