blueaetherr

[blueaetherr]

[blueaetherr]

to anyone missing my writing please know i am also missing my writing

[blueaetherr]

🤩🤩🤩🤩

[blueaetherr]

⭐︎You move me

with JUDE BELLINGHAM⭐︎REQUESTED BY ANON!

synopsis: A chance encounter in a quiet Madrid studio turns into something neither of you expected—but everything you didn’t know you needed.

Madrid mornings had a rhythm of their own��slow and golden, with the hum of scooters in the distance, early cafés clinking glasses, and the sun climbing steadily over the terracotta roofs. Your alarm always went off at 6:15 a.m., just before the city fully woke. By 6:30, you were sipping matcha in your tiny balcony kitchen, watching the light shift through your lemon tree.

And by 7:00 a.m., you were at the studio.

The yoga studio wasn’t flashy. Tucked into a side street off Calle de Fuencarral, it was all soft lighting, eucalyptus towels, and high windows that cracked open to let in the scent of the morning bakeries nearby. You loved it here. Your sanctuary, your routine. Your breath.

What you didn’t love were the last-minute sign-ups.

So when you saw a new name on the roster for your 7:15 a.m. “Strength + Flow” session—a name scribbled in barely readable all caps by your receptionist, Mari—you frowned.

JUDE. No last name. Just Jude. Paid in cash.

Tourist, you thought. Or worse—a gym bro who’d been dragged in by someone’s girlfriend. The class was already half full when you walked in, barefoot, with your water bottle tucked under your arm and your hair in a loose bun.

“Good morning, everyone,” you said softly, settling at the front. “Today’s flow is going to challenge your core, your breath, and maybe your ego a little. Sound good?”

Scattered chuckles. Nods.

Then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Tall, brown skin glowing under the skylight, wearing a white tee that was already clinging slightly to his collarbone from the Madrid heat. He looked around, then his eyes landed on you. And he smiled—soft, a little crooked, warm enough to melt a glacier.

You blinked.

He raised a hand, almost like an apology. “Sorry, am I late?”

“No,” you said, voice even. “Just in time.”

He walked to an empty mat in the middle of the room, offered a polite nod to the woman beside him, and dropped into a seated position.

His form was… not bad.

You noticed the way he carried himself. Not stiff like a beginner, but not fluid either. Like he was used to his body obeying commands, but not like this. His limbs were longer than most, his frame broader, but he moved with control. Athletic.

You inhaled.

“Let’s begin.”

The flow started slow. You watched him carefully through the mirrors—his focus, the way his brow furrowed during transitions, the slight tremble in his legs. You walked around the room giving corrections, adjusting shoulders, lengthening hips, and when you got to him, he looked up at you like you were sunlight in human form.

“Lift through your ribs,” you murmured, fingers just grazing the side of his torso.

He nodded, exhaling through parted lips.

You hated that your heart fluttered a little.

By the end of the class, half the room was drenched in effort. Your tank top stuck to your back. You guided them all down to their mats for savasana, your voice like silk.

“Let go of your thoughts. Let go of your tension. This moment belongs only to you.”

Eyes closed. Silence. Calm.

But you could feel his presence even then.

After class, people lingered for water and soft goodbyes. Jude took his time rolling up his mat, moving slowly, like he didn’t want to leave.

You were wiping down a block when he approached.

“Hey,” he said. Up close, he smelled like fresh cotton and something you couldn’t name. Expensive. Masculine.

“Hi,” you replied, glancing up.

“You’re good,” he said, nodding to the studio. “Like, really good.”

You smiled, but kept it polite. “Thanks. You move well—for a beginner.”

He grinned. “I’m not a total beginner.”

“Football?” you asked, arching a brow.

He chuckled. “Um yea guilty.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That accent. You're—British?”

“Birmingham, yeah.”

“Ah,” you nodded, teasing. “That explains the tight hamstrings.”

He laughed, full and boyish. “Alright, no need to call me out like that.”

You handed him a towel. “I call it like I see it.”

He took it from you, brushing your fingers slightly. “Well, thanks. For the class.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

But he didn’t leave right away.

He stood there, tapping the towel against his palm. “Listen… I’m kinda new here. Moved a few months ago. Still figuring it all out.”

You tilted your head. “Madrid’s not too hard to love.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, eyes on you now. “Especially the people.”

You didn’t look away. “Flirting with your yoga teacher is bold.”

He smiled. “So it’s working?”

You paused. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say no either.”

Your silence was its own answer.

Jude started showing up every week.

Sometimes twice.

He never asked for a selfie, never mentioned football, and didn’t tell you his last name until your third conversation at the café across the street when he finally said, “You don’t really know who I am, you know?”

You sipped your matcha. “You’re Jude. You do yoga and can’t touch your toes. That’s all I need to know.”

He laughed, shook his head, and leaned back like he hadn’t felt this relaxed in years.

It became your rhythm—his voice in your class, his teasing after, his smile as familiar as sunrise.

One night, after a particularly rainy Madrid evening, he offered to walk you home.

You were quiet at first. The kind of quiet that felt full, not awkward.

Then he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at you.

“I like you,” he said.

You blinked. “I know.”

He chuckled. “No, I mean—I really like you.”

You felt your stomach flip.

So you stood on your toes, kissed him softly, and said, “I know that too.”

It wasn’t a whirlwind.

It was better.

Slow mornings in bed with sunlight between the sheets. Grocery runs where he insisted on buying too many strawberries. Whispered conversations on your balcony about life and football and fear. Your yoga mat always next to his now, at the studio and at home.

He watched you teach with stars in his eyes. You watched him stretch his hamstrings with exaggerated grunts just to make you laugh.

He kissed your forehead every night before bed like it was routine.

You weren’t just in love.

You were safe.

[blueaetherr]

3 years ago, we almost lost our club. Since then, we have had a handful of coaches, bought players, sold players, had backlash from pundits & other fanbases and even our own fans. It’s not always being easy nor perfect, yet through all the highs and all the lows, we’ve somehow become the only club in history to complete the full set 💙

Forever and always, up the blues and London will always be blue x

[blueaetherr]

OUR HISTORY MAKERS 🤩💙

[blueaetherr]

chelsea champions 😭🥳

[blueaetherr]

Champions league we will see you soon💙💙

[blueaetherr]

oh chelsea how i love you

[blueaetherr]

colours

pairing: kylian mbappe x fem!reader [she/her]

warning(s): none

summary: the one where kylian enjoys every colour on the reader

"What's your favourite colour?"

Weirdly, it was a question Kylian got a lot, both from being famous and just as a random query. It was asked in his social media comments, during some Insta lives he routinely did, or even asked by kids simply out of curiosity or when he was getting to know someone for the first time. It was a question both frequently yet rarely asked depending on the setting and people around him.

And on this particular day it was brought up by his partner, Y/N, as they were sat in their back garden enjoying the peace of nature and absence of disruption, slowly swaying and rocking on the swing chair.

"What?" Kylian let out a small laugh as he turned to his partner. He took off his sunglasses so he could see her properly, tilting his head. "What has you thinking about what my favourite colour is right now?" 

Curiosity—curious, like every other kid that has asked him the same question before—was on his mind, curious as to why Y/N was asking that question; so particular and personal. They have been together for some time now so he found it very random to bring up out of the blue.

"I've realised that I actually don't know," she shrugged. Y/N was a spontaneous person, in mind, soul and body but especially mind meaning thoughts, opinions and questions chose to come to mind at the most inconvenient times. She turned her body towards Kylian, leaning her cheek against her palm. "I don't think you're really attached to one colour so it's hard to guess. So I'm going to ask... what's your favourite colour, Kylian?"

"Okay, okay!" Again, Kylian had to laugh just a little bit more. It was the determination in Y/N's voice and tone that got to him. "Right, uh, let me think about it..."

Kylian had to really take his time thinking about his answer. In truth, the way Y/N didn't know his favourite colour, he too was clueless about the answer—he just didn't know. When he really did have the chance to lean back and think about it, it all depended on many factors, such as the occasion, his mood and even Y/N herself.

The first colours that came to mind were red and blue. PSG and France colours and Kylian favoured both of them on Y/N—a clear sign of her association with him. She repped those colours from time to time yet enough for Kylian to express such pride over his girlfriend. In times of support when she was at his games or during their intimate moments, he always found so much pleasure and contentment whenever she wore those colours.

Distancing her person from his own, he thought about pink; Y/N's favourite colour, her colour, something Kylian caught a sense of the moment he stepped into her childhood bedroom some years ago. It was her adolescent years yet it still managed to follow her into adulthood, from the primal makeup choices like blush, the accessories she wore or even her favourite album cover being Over It. Pink wasn't as present now compared to before; regardless it remained Y/N's personality—bright and expressive, and everything Kylian fell in love with.

But sometimes Y/N liked to venture away from the bright and expressive and found black and white. The combination was the dress code she had for working in corporate, the mix Kylian could comfortably buy for knowing Y/N would always be pleased with his purchases because you can never go wrong with black and white. To Kylian, the combo was a simple reminder of everything she worked hard for and the fact that if they were both dressed in white and black, she would gracefully outdress him.

Though the colour grey also remained a strong contender as his favourite. It was her cosy colour, their cosy colour. Whenever the couple were lounging together at home, whenever it was game night with family and friends – all in sweats, beanies and hoodies galore, setting the tone right for movie nights, a lazy day or a walk around the neighbour. In simple, perfect for their domestic leisure time together, where the focus was on one another and they could kiss and mess around as they pleased.

And just like red and blue, Kylian really loved green and yellow on Y/N. Nature's colours, and suited her perfectly—always and currently. The green grass in their back garden resting softly against her whenever she sat in it, the afternoon sun complimenting her skin complexion far more than enough, her green and yellow sundress highlighting her natural figure that only Kylian got to see and know truly.

"Honestly, I don't have one," Kylian exhaled deeply, shrugging with a smile, "Like, every colour works for me." i like every colour because they work so well for you.

Y/N's face settled into a frown, unimpressed. Was it wrong for her to expect more from such a simple question? "That's such a boring answer." She glanced around quickly before her eyes landed on Kylian's vest. "I'm just going to say it's white."

"Then I guess it's white," Kylian rolled his eyes before bringing Y/N closer to him, allowing the two to continue swaying and rocking in the swing chair as they shared a few laughs together. 

And Kylian didn't feel the need to argue with Y/N's words. His favourite colour was red, blue, pink, black, white, grey, green, yellow—if anyone was to ask him sometime soon or later, he could say one, a few or maybe even all of them. It didn't matter when they all suited his girlfriend just right.

[blueaetherr]

most important part of the writing process actually is when you loop a single song on max volume and stare at the word document and imagine the characters doing things for 14 hours. this is known as getting in the zone

[blueaetherr]

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

IT MAY TAKE ME A MONTH TO PUT OUT A CHAPTER BUT AT LEAST IM NOT USING AI TO WRITE IT

[blueaetherr]

⭐︎ Not yet but soon

with JUDE BELLINGHAM . blurb

synopsis: When Jude casually calls you his wife in a live interview, the internet is like huh?? You’re panicking, he’s unbothered.

You were lying on your couch, robe on, green face mask setting, a bowl of strawberries in your lap and one sock half-off your foot. Pure chaos and comfort. A cozy Sunday.

The TV was on, but muted. Jude’s new interview was playing on a loop on every sports network and social platform—you figured you’d catch it live.

You were in the middle of texting your best friend about brunch plans when it happened.

Interviewer: “You’ve been glowing lately. Life’s treating you well off the pitch too, yeah?” Jude (smiling in that too knowing way): “Yeah, life’s good. My wife keeps me grounded.”

Record scratch. You blinked. Paused.

“...my wife keeps me grounded.”

You sat up so fast, your bowl of strawberries nearly went flying.

WIFE?!

The group chat popped off within five seconds like they were waiting to pounce, texts like WIFE!!?? to tell him to chill to am i a bridesmaid or what???

You buried your face in your hands. “Jude,” you groaned, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up.

He looked unbothered on screen, all charm and soft curls and casual ‘yeah, my wife’ energy like you hadn’t spent months dodging rumors and keeping things private-ish.

Your phone started buzzing again—this time, it was him. Speak of the devil.

You answered without a hello. “Are you mad?”

He chuckled. “So you saw it?”

“I heard it. Wife?? Babe, we’re not married.”

He paused, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d panic, walk it back, say it was just a slip. But instead, he said—

“Yeah, but… we’re basically married, aren’t we?”

You opened and closed your mouth. “That’s not how it works!”

“You have a drawer at my place, I have one at yours. My mum calls you her daughter already. You know my bank PIN.”

“Okay—first of all, I only know your PIN because you forget it under pressure. Second of all, the world thinks we probably eloped in Vegas now!”

He laughed again, but it was softer this time. “Sorry, babe. It just slipped. Didn’t realize it’d blow up that fast.”

You sighed, flopping back onto the couch, phone pressed to your ear. “I’m wearing a face mask and eating strawberries like a fool while the world thinks I’m somebody’s wife.”

There was a pause, and then, just barely. “You’d make the prettiest wife, though.”

You froze. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be sweet after making me panic.”

Jude snorted. “Too late.”

Then, quietly. “I’ll say it again one day. The real way. Just not with cameras around.”

You felt your heart melt and your stomach flip, all at once.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

A beat of silence.

“Still wanna come over later? I’ll cook.”

“Will my husband be there?”

“Stop,” he groaned, laughing. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not a chance, Bellingham. Not a chance.”

[blueaetherr]

I want a big boy give me a big boy

[blueaetherr]

👑.

[blueaetherr]

prayers to kylian man 🙏🏾

[blueaetherr]

VERDANT REMINDERS •────── iamquaintrelle

# pairings: kylian mbappe x black reader one shot (spring series)

# summary: The weight of Real Madrid’s expectations is suffocating, and Kylian feels every bit of the pressure. His form is off, the criticism is loud, and doubt lingers in the air like an unshakable storm. But when he returns home, his girlfriend has something planned—a treasure hunt, each clue leading him through memories of his journey, reminding him of the roots that made him who he is. Surrounded by green—the color of growth, renewal, and resilience—Kylian finds his way back to himself.

# tags: @kmlottin @9kylian @szariahwroteit @snowseasonmademe @peyiswriting

The whistles echoed through the Bernabéu like a physical thing, cutting through the air, piercing the skin. They came in waves – first when the lineup was announced, louder when he misplaced a pass, building to a crescendo when he missed that chance in the 78th minute.

You'd been with Kylian long enough to know his tells. The slightly too-rigid posture as he walked down the tunnel. The overly bright smile he forced for the cameras. The way he kept his head perfectly still, refusing to give the press anything to analyze, to criticize, to tear apart in tomorrow's editorials.

Mbappé Flops Again. The €200M Man Fails to Deliver. From Prince of Paris to Madrid Misfit.

The headlines were already writing themselves in your head, cruel and precise and exactly the kind of thing he'd be confronted with in the morning. The same stories that had been circulating for weeks now, growing louder with each match where he didn't score, didn't assist, didn't transform into the savior Madrid had been promised.

"You don't have to wait, you know," you told him as he finally emerged from the locker room, hair still damp from the shower, eyes carrying the weight of another difficult match. "We can skip the mixed zone."

"Non," he said, that stubborn set to his jaw that was so familiar. "Is... part of the job."

His English always slipped when he was stressed, the careful fluency he'd built over the years giving way to fragments and fillers. Somehow, that was worse than the loss – seeing him struggle with the words, with the confidence that had always been his most natural gift.

"Then I'll wait," you said simply.

His smile flashed, brief but genuine. "Merci."

The mixed zone was brutal. Questions about his form, his fit in the team, his relationship with teammates. The Madrid press showed no mercy, not even to the golden boy they'd spent years coveting from Paris. Perhaps especially not to him – the price tag around his neck growing heavier with each scoreless match.

"Uh... is difficult moment, but we keep working, you know?" Kylian's voice carried that forced lightness. "The team is... how you say? Adapting still. We will be better."

"Some are saying the tactical system doesn't suit you," a reporter pressed. "That you were better in Paris where the team was built around you."

You saw the flash of irritation before he masked it. "Non, is not about system. Is about... um... time. Chemistry. We need time."

"Time is something Madrid fans aren't known for giving," another voice called out.

Kylian's smile tightened further. "Then maybe they need to learn, no? Great things take time. This is... how you say... process."

You watched from behind the barriers, heart aching at the strain in his shoulders, the tension around his eyes. This wasn't the Kylian who'd set Ligue 1 on fire, who'd helped bring a World Cup to France, who'd dominated at PSG with such effortless joy. This was a man carrying the weight of impossible expectations, drowning in the pressure he'd once thrived under.

When the interviews finally ended, he found you immediately, his hand reaching for yours like an anchor in a storm.

"You did great," you assured him as you walked to the car.

He snorted softly. "My English was terrible."

"Your English was fine." You squeezed his hand. "And your answers were perfect."

"Perfect would be scoring two goals," he muttered. "Then no need for answers at all."

Later, in the car, the silence wrapped around you both. His fingers tapped restless rhythms on the steering wheel – another tell. Kylian never could sit still when his mind was racing.

"They don't know what they're talking about," you said finally.

He huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Ah, but maybe they do, non? Six games. Only one goal." His accent thickened with emotion. "In Paris, would be... um... four, five goals by now."

"Madrid isn't Paris," you reminded him gently.

"Clearly." The word was sharp, bitter in a way Kylian rarely allowed himself to be.

"You knew it would be different."

"Different yes. Not... impossible." He shook his head, frustrated. "I play same position but feels like... um... different sport completely. Everyone wants different things from me. Coach says stay wide, teammates want me central, fans want goals. Is too much... contradiction."

It was the most he'd said about his struggles since the move, the frustration finally spilling over after weeks of carefully measured responses.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. Not the comfortable quiet you'd built over your years together, but something heavier, filled with the things he wasn't saying.

I made a mistake. I should have stayed. I'm not good enough for this.

You could read the thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them. Had watched them building over weeks of adaptation struggles, tactical confusion, and now the fans turning – the very fans who'd plastered his name across their backs just months ago, who'd celebrated his signing like a religious event.

Football was a fickle god, and Madrid perhaps the most demanding temple of all.

At home – still too new to feel completely like home, boxes lingering unpacked in corners – he headed straight for the shower. Again. As if he could wash away the match, the whistles, the doubt.

While he was gone, you picked up one of those boxes, digging through it until you found what you were looking for: a small green turtle figurine, the one his mother had given him before his first professional match. His lucky charm that he'd somehow forgotten to unpack in the chaos of the move.

You placed it on his nightstand, a small reminder of who he was beyond the current struggles.

Your phone lit up with a notification. Another article. Another analysis of what was "wrong" with Kylian Mbappé. As if he were a machine malfunctioning rather than a human being adjusting to a new country, new teammates, new expectations.

You silenced it, mind already turning to the plan you'd been forming for days. The one you'd almost implemented after the last match, before he'd scored that beautiful goal against Sevilla and you'd thought, hoped, that it might be the turning point.

But tonight's performance, and more importantly, tonight's reception from the fans, had made it clear: your plan couldn't wait any longer.

Opening your notes app, you reviewed the final details. Everything was in place. Tomorrow would be the day.

When Kylian finally emerged, wearing the old PSG shorts he still slept in (though he'd deny it if anyone asked), his eyes were clearer but still carrying that shadow.

"You found him," he said, spotting the turtle figure.

"He was missing the action."

Kylian picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. "Maman would say I need all the luck I can get right now."

"Your mother would say exactly what I'm about to say – that you don't need luck, you need to remember who you are."

His smile was small but grateful as he set the turtle back down. "And who is that, according to you?"

"The most stubborn, talented, hardworking person I've ever met." You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. "The boy from Bondy who never let anyone tell him what he couldn't do."

"That boy feels very far away sometimes."

"Then we'll find him again."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You have too much faith in me."

"Or just the right amount. Come to bed," you said softly. "Big day tomorrow."

His eyebrow arched slightly. "We have day off."

"Exactly."

He didn't ask for clarification, too drained for curiosity. Just followed you to bed, his body curling around yours automatically, seeking comfort he wouldn't verbally request. His breath against your neck gradually slowed, deepened, but you knew he wasn't sleeping. Knew his mind was still replaying every missed chance, every misplaced pass, every whistle.

"Hey," you whispered into the darkness.

"Hmm?"

"Remember what you told me after the World Cup final? When you scored the hat-trick but still lost?"

His body tensed slightly. "I said many things. Was very sad day."

"You said that sometimes the path isn't straight. That the journey matters more than the destination." You turned in his arms, finding his eyes in the dim light. "That green was your lucky color because it means growth."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You remember this?"

"I remember everything about you, Kylian Mbappé." You pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Even the things you forget about yourself."

His arms tightened around you, and finally, finally, some of the tension drained from his body. Not all of it – you weren't naive enough to think words alone could fix what was happening – but enough that when he finally drifted off, his breathing evened out into genuine sleep.

Tomorrow would be better. You'd make sure of it.

******************************************************************

"Where are we going?" Kylian asked for the third time, amusement starting to edge out the confusion in his voice.

"It's a surprise," you repeated, eyes on the road as you drove out of Madrid, away from the city that was both dream and pressure cooker.

"You know I don't like surprises."

"You love surprises," you corrected. "You just like being the one giving them, not receiving them."

His laugh was small but real – the first genuine one you'd heard since before the match. "Is not true."

"It's completely true. Remember my birthday last year? You couldn't even wait until midnight to give me my gift."

"Was good gift!" he protested. "The necklace with the—"

"The turtle charm, yes." Your hand automatically went to your throat where it still rested. "Very subtle, babe."

His smile widened, some of the old Kylian peeking through. "Is my... um... brand, non?"

"Your 'brand' is being impatient and excitable and unable to keep surprises to yourself."

"I keep surprises!" His indignation was playful, another glimpse of the man beyond the struggling football star. "Remember Christmas?"

"You mean when you accidentally sent me the confirmation email for my present?"

"That was... technical error. Not my fault."

"And Valentine's Day?"

"How was I supposed to know you would find reservation?"

"You left it open on your laptop!"

His laughter filled the car – real and rich and unrestrained. "Okay, maybe little bit bad at surprises."

The banter carried you through the drive, lighter topics pushing away the heaviness of last night. That was part of the plan too – reminding him that there was a world outside of football, outside of the Bernabéu and its whistles. That he was more than his performance on a pitch.

When you finally pulled up to your destination, his expression shifted to confusion again.

"This is... a farm?"

"Not just any farm," you said, putting the car in park. "Come on."

The small property was quiet in the midmorning sun, just as you'd arranged with its owner. Leading Kylian through the gate, you watched his face carefully, waiting for the moment of recognition.

It came as you rounded the corner and the fields stretched out before you – verdant and vibrant under the Spanish sun, so similar yet different from the ones he'd grown up seeing.

"Bondy," he said softly, almost to himself.

Not quite Bondy, of course. You couldn't transport him back to the Parisian suburb where he'd first kicked a ball. But you'd searched until you found something similar – a community garden project outside Madrid, where local kids could come and play, where green spaces were preserved against the urban sprawl.

"The first stop," you confirmed, taking his hand.

A woman approached, right on schedule. "Monsieur Mbappé," she greeted in careful French. "We are honored."

Kylian slipped automatically into the role of visiting star, the practiced smile and gracious demeanor he'd perfected over years of fame. But as the woman led you through the gardens, explaining their program for local youth, you saw that smile become more genuine.

"We have many children from... um... how you say... difficult backgrounds?" the woman explained. "Like where you grow up, yes? They need place to be children."

"To dream," Kylian added, his gaze sweeping over the gardens. "Very important."

"Yes!" The woman beamed. "Dreams are most important."

Especially when you reached the small football pitch at the center of the property.

"This is where the children play," she explained.

Kids from the neighborhoods where having a safe place to play was a luxury, not a given. Kids like Kylian had once been, before talent and hard work and opportunity had changed his trajectory.

"They are coming today?" he asked, eyes on the worn goal posts.

The woman nodded. "In one hour. They do not know you are visiting."

His smile then – the real one, the one that lit his entire face – was worth every phone call, every arrangement, every secret plan you'd made over the past week.

"I need a ball," he said simply.

The woman produced one immediately, as if she'd been expecting this request. Kylian took it with reverent hands, testing its weight, its feel. Then he was moving, feet dancing across the small pitch, body finding its natural rhythm with the ball.

You sat on a nearby bench, content to watch. This was Kylian in his purest form – just a boy with a ball, finding joy in the simplest version of the game he loved. No tactics, no expectations, no price tag.

When the children arrived, their shock and excitement nearly bowled him over. But Kylian was in his element now, organizing impromptu teams, demonstrating tricks, praising their efforts with the same enthusiasm he'd received from his own childhood coaches.

"Did you see that?" he called to you after a particularly impressive goal from a shy boy who couldn't be more than seven. "Future star!"

The boy beamed under the praise, standing taller. You recognized that transformation – had seen it in old videos of Kylian himself, the moment when belief takes root, when potential becomes possibility.

For two hours, Kylian was simply a player again, a mentor, a dream made flesh for these children. And when it was time to leave, his eyes were clearer than they'd been in weeks.

"Thank you," he said to the woman running the program, voice thick with emotion. "For what you do here. Is... beautiful work."

"Will you come back?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "Many times."

The second stop was closer to the city, a small museum you'd managed to get private access to for an hour. Not one of Madrid's famous institutions, but a specialized exhibit on loan from Paris, featuring the immigration stories of athletes who'd changed their sports.

"Why are we here?" Kylian asked, brow furrowed as you led him through the quiet gallery.

"Look," you said, stopping in front of a familiar display.

His father's old jersey – not from his professional days, but from the refugee team he'd played with after leaving Cameroon. Next to it, a photo of a young Wilfried Mbappé, eyes fierce and determined despite the circumstances.

"How did you...?" Kylian's voice trailed off, genuine shock registering on his face.

"I pulled some strings," you said simply. You'd actually pulled many strings, called in favors, made promises, all to get this particular exhibit extended and modified to include his family's story.

"My father doesn't talk about this time much," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the worn fabric. "Was... difficult for him."

"But he survived it," you reminded him. "And then he raised you to be strong enough for anything."

Kylian's hand found yours, squeezing tightly. "He would say I am being... um... dramatic. Is just football, not real struggle."

"Your father would say that perspective matters. That knowing where you come from helps you navigate where you're going."

"You sound like him," Kylian said, a smile touching his lips.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Highest compliment."

You moved through the exhibit together, Kylian studying each piece carefully. Stories of athletes who'd crossed borders, learned new languages, adapted to different sports cultures. People who, like him, had faced the challenge of being both outsider and centerpiece simultaneously.

"I never think about it like this," he admitted as you prepared to leave. "About how many others walked this path."

"You're not alone," you said simply.

"No," he agreed, his hand warm in yours. "I am not."

The third stop was the most difficult to arrange, but the most important.

"We can't be here," Kylian said immediately as you approached the small, empty training pitch on the outskirts of Madrid.

"We have permission," you assured him. "For one hour."

The facility wasn't Real Madrid's official training ground – that would have been impossible to secure privately. But it was a pitch where the team sometimes held community events, where youth teams practiced, where the grass was maintained to professional standards.

And waiting for you, just as arranged, was a single figure.

"About time you showed up," Zinédine Zidane said, a ball at his feet and a slight smile on his usually serious face.

Kylian froze beside you. "Zizou?"

"She is persistent, your woman," Zidane said, nodding toward you. "Called me every day for a week."

You'd actually called for two weeks, leaving messages, sending emails, pulling every possible connection until the legendary player and former Madrid manager had finally responded.

"Go," you urged Kylian, giving him a gentle push. "I'll wait."

For a moment he seemed torn, looking between you and his idol. Then he stepped forward, drawn to the pitch and the ball and the man who'd walked the exact path he was currently struggling down.

From your spot on the sideline, you couldn't hear most of their conversation. Just fragments carried on the breeze – mentions of pressure, of expectations, of adjustment periods. You watched as they passed the ball back and forth, Zidane demonstrating movements, positions, the subtle adjustments that could mean everything in a system like Madrid's.

"The spaces are different here," you heard Zidane explain. "In Paris, you had freedom. Here, you must find the green zones."

"Green zones?"

"The spaces between their structure. Where you can be free."

They moved across the pitch, Zidane showing Kylian specific areas, specific movements. The lesson wasn't just tactical, you realized. It was psychological too – about finding freedom within structure, about adaptation rather than transformation.

"Madrid wanted you for what you are," Zidane said, voice carrying on the wind. "Not for what they could make you. Remember this."

More important than the tactical advice, though, was what you could see happening in Kylian's body language. The tension gradually releasing, the movements becoming more fluid, the joy of simply playing – just playing, without the weight of €200 million and a stadium's expectations – returning bit by bit.

At one point, Kylian executed a particularly beautiful move, dancing past an imaginary defender and finishing with precision. Zidane's approving nod seemed to light something in him – confidence rekindling, belief returning.

"You see?" Zidane asked. "This is Mbappé. This is what Madrid needs."

When they finally finished, Zidane placed both hands on Kylian's shoulders, speaking intently. "The whistles," you heard him say. "They are part of Madrid. I heard them too. They mean they care."

"Funny way of showing it," Kylian replied, but his tone was lighter now.

"Madrid fans are... passionate," Zidane said with a slight smile. "They will love you when you find your way. And you will find your way."

Whatever else he said made Kylian nod, the motion firm and resolute.

"Thank you," Kylian said as they approached, his voice carrying something it had been missing for weeks. Hope, maybe. Or determination.

Zidane's smile was slight but genuine. "It is nothing. Just remember what I said, yes? About the green zones."

Green again. The color of growth, of renewal, of the journey forward.

"I will remember," Kylian promised.

The final stop wasn't planned, not exactly. But as you drove back toward the city, Kylian directed you to turn off on an unmarked road, leading to a viewpoint overlooking Madrid as the sun began to set.

"How did you know about this place?" you asked as you got out of the car.

His smile was secretive. "I explore when I can't sleep."

The thought of him driving these roads alone at night, searching for something – peace, perhaps, or perspective – made your heart ache. But today wasn't about that ache. Today was about reminding him of his strength, his journey, the green path of growth that had brought him here.

"Thank you," he said as you stood side by side, watching the lights of Madrid begin to sparkle in the dusk. "For today. For... everything."

"I didn't do much," you demurred. "Just made some calls—"

"Non." His hand found yours, firm and warm. "You remembered. When I forgot."

You looked up at him – this extraordinary man who carried the dreams of millions, who sometimes forgot he was just one person, just human. "That's what we do," you said simply. "Remember for each other when we forget ourselves."

His kiss was gentle but held something new – or rather, something old, something that had been missing in recent weeks. The confidence that was so essentially Kylian, the belief that had carried him from Bondy to the biggest stages in the world.

"At training tomorrow," he said after a moment. "I will look for green zones. Will play like... me. Not what I think they want."

"That's exactly what they want. The real you."

"Maybe." His smile was thoughtful. "Or maybe they must learn to want what I am, not what they imagined."

"Both can be true."

He nodded, considering. "Both can be true. Like I can be from Bondy and from Paris and now from Madrid too. All together."

"Exactly."

"Is not easy path," he admitted. "But when did I ever want easy path?"

"Never," you confirmed. "Not since I've known you."

"Green," he murmured against your lips.

"Hmm?"

"My lucky color." His smile was soft in the gathering darkness. "For growth."

"And for finding your way home," you added, "no matter where you are."

Madrid glittered below, beautiful and demanding and still not quite home. But standing there with him, watching the city that both challenged and called to him, you felt something shift, settle, strengthen.

The path wasn't straight. The journey wasn't over. But tonight, at least, the weight seemed lighter on his shoulders.

And sometimes, that was enough.