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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Music began to rise again in the ballroom as glasses were lifted, toast were prepared. And all around them, the celebration of a lifetime was just getting started.
Then slowly the music didn't stop all at once.
It softened.
It shifted.
Like the night itself was slowly exhaling after everything it had held.
At first, nobody really noticed it happening.
The DJ lowered the volume between songs just a touch longer than before. Conversations grew a little clearer over the background music. The laughter that still filled the ballroom didn't disappear, but it settled into something calmer, warmer, more content.
They had already done the wild part.
The shouting.
The jumping.
The singing with arms around each other's shoulders.
The part where nobody could quite believe what they had achieved.
Now it was something else.
Now it was the part where it sank in.
Where people looked at each other across tables and smiled in a quieter way.
Where hands found hands.
Where memories started to form.
Francesco stood near one of the tall cocktail tables, a glass in his hand he had barely touched for the last ten minutes, just watching it all.
His teammates were scattered around the room, each in their own little worlds now.
Granit Xhaka still talking, though slower now, more reflective, his arm resting casually over the back of a chair as he spoke with Santi Cazorla, who nodded with that familiar soft smile, occasionally breaking into laughter when one of Xhaka's dramatic retellings got just a little too exaggerated.
A few meters away, N'Golo Kanté sat with a small group, listening more than talking, his humble grin still somehow exactly the same as it had been before any of this.
Near the dance floor, Héctor Bellerín and Alexis Sánchez were mid-conversation with a couple of staff members, their earlier energy now replaced by something more relaxed with shoulders lowered, movements slower, smiles softer.
And across the room, Olivier Giroud stood with his wife, one arm around her shoulders, leaning down slightly as she said something that made him laugh quietly to himself.
Francesco let his eyes drift from one scene to the next.
Everywhere he looked, there was something real.
Something earned.
Something human.
And for a moment, he just stood there, letting it all settle into him.
Leah appeared at his side without him even noticing at first.
She slipped her hand gently into his free one, her fingers threading between his.
"You've gone quiet," she said softly.
Francesco turned his head toward her, smiling immediately.
"Just… taking it in," he replied.
Her eyes followed his gaze around the room, understanding instantly.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "It's one of those nights."
"One of those nights," he echoed.
They stood like that for a few seconds, side by side, hands linked, just watching the people who had shared the journey.
At one of the larger tables, his parents were still talking with Leah's family as Mike and Sarah sitting close together, Sarah's face glowing with pride every time someone mentioned Francesco's name, Mike listening with that calm, steady expression he always wore, occasionally nodding as he spoke.
David and Amanda leaned in across from them, engaged, smiling, while Jacob that still somehow holding onto a bit of that earlier excitement was animatedly describing one of the goals again, his hands flying through the air as he tried to recreate the moment.
Francesco chuckled softly.
"He's not going to sleep tonight," he said.
Leah laughed under her breath.
"No chance."
Another song faded into a slower track, something softer, more melodic.
A few couples drifted toward the dance floor.
Not the jumping kind of dancing from earlier.
Something closer.
More intimate.
Wenger moved slowly across the room at that moment, pausing at different tables, shaking hands, sharing words, his face calm but with that quiet pride that said everything.
When his eyes met Francesco's from across the room, he gave a small nod.
Not a big gesture.
Not a speech.
Just that nod.
But it carried everything.
Francesco returned it instinctively.
Because he understood.
After a while, one of the club staff members gently stepped onto the small stage and tapped the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly, smiling out at the room, "before we begin to close the evening, we would like to invite you all to raise your glasses one more time."
There was a soft ripple of movement as people reached for their drinks again.
Francesco felt Leah's hand squeeze his slightly as they both picked up their glasses.
"To this incredible team," the staff member continued, "to their families, to everyone who has been part of this journey… and to a night we will never forget."
A murmur of agreement spread.
Glasses lifted.
Eyes met.
"To Arsenal," someone called from the side.
"To Arsenal," the room echoed.
The clink of glass filled the air.
Francesco brought his glass gently against Leah's.
Against his parents'.
Against the nearest teammates within reach.
He took a small sip.
It tasted like victory.
Like relief.
Like something that would stay with him forever.
The music returned again, softer now, but still present.
And for the next stretch of time, the celebration continued in this calmer, more intimate rhythm.
People talked.
They hugged.
They laughed.
Photos were taken as some serious, some ridiculous, some that would probably never leave private phones but would still be treasured.
At one point, Jacob insisted on a photo with Francesco and Leah together, dragging them toward a backdrop one of the club staff had set up earlier.
"Come on," Jacob said, already holding up his phone. "Champions need a proper picture."
Francesco laughed but obliged, slipping an arm around Leah's waist as they stood side by side.
"Ready?" Jacob asked.
"Ready," Leah said, leaning slightly into Francesco.
The flash went off.
And in that tiny frozen moment, there it was again.
Happiness.
Pure and simple.
Eventually though, as all nights do, this one began to wind down.
The DJ announced the final few songs.
The staff began quietly clearing a few empty glasses from tables.
People started checking the time.
Looking at each other with those small, knowing smiles that said: it's been perfect.
Francesco felt it too.
That gentle shift.
The realization that the night wasn't ending, but this chapter of it was.
One by one, families began to gather their things.
Jackets were picked up.
Clutches were closed.
Phone numbers exchanged between people who had met for the first time but now felt connected by something shared.
Leah's hand tightened slightly around his again.
"We should probably get going soon," she said softly.
Francesco nodded.
"Yeah," he replied. "You've got an early morning."
She made a face.
"Unfortunately."
He smiled.
They moved together across the room toward their families.
Mike was already standing, helping Sarah with her coat. David and Amanda were speaking with one of the club staff members, thanking them for the evening. Jacob was still mid-conversation with one of the younger Arsenal players, his excitement somehow still not fully drained.
As Francesco and Leah approached, Sarah looked up first.
"There you are," she said warmly.
"Didn't want to leave without saying goodbye," Francesco replied.
Mike stepped forward first.
He didn't say anything at first that just pulled his son into another firm embrace.
One hand on the back of his head.
The other across his shoulders.
That same grounding presence Francesco had felt his entire life.
"I'm proud of you," Mike said quietly.
Francesco swallowed slightly.
"Thanks, Dad."
Sarah hugged him next, her arms tight around him.
"You were incredible tonight," she said. "But more than that… you looked happy."
Francesco smiled.
"I am."
Leah's parents stepped forward after that as David shaking his hand firmly, Amanda giving him a warm hug.
"Take care of yourself," Amanda said kindly.
"I will," Francesco replied.
"And take care of our daughter too," David added with a half-smile.
Francesco glanced at Leah, then back at him.
"Always."
Jacob, of course, stepped in last, pulling Francesco into an enthusiastic hug.
"Best. Night. Ever," he repeated again.
Francesco laughed.
"I think we can agree on that."
Finally, it was just him and Leah again.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
They just looked at each other.
The music behind them now soft.
The ballroom slowly emptying.
The glow of the night still all around them.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked him again quietly.
Francesco nodded, brushing a small strand of hair away from her face.
"Yeah," he said. "I just wish I could walk you back myself."
She shook her head gently.
"You've got your team," she said. "You should stay. Enjoy it. You don't get nights like this all the time."
He smiled faintly.
"I know."
She leaned in and kissed him softly.
"Go celebrate with them," she whispered.
"I will," he replied.
They walked together with their families out through the lobby, where the night air greeted them again.
Outside, a line of taxis was already waiting.
The city was quieter now than it had been earlier.
The energy of the match long settled into the calm of late evening.
One by one, they said their final goodbyes.
Mike and Sarah got into their taxi first, Sarah giving one last wave through the window.
Leah and her family followed.
Before she stepped in, she turned back to him one more time.
"Text me when you get to your room," she said.
"I will," he promised.
"Love you."
Francesco's smile softened.
"Love you too."
Then she ducked into the taxi, the door closing gently behind her.
The cars pulled away one after another, taillights fading into the quiet city street.
Francesco stood there for a moment after they were gone.
Just watching.
Just breathing.
Letting the night settle around him again.
Then he turned and headed back inside.
The hotel felt different now.
Quieter.
The grand lobby that had been full of energy earlier now carried a softer calm.
A few hotel staff still stood at the front desk, offering polite smiles as he passed.
"Good night, sir. Congratulations again."
"Thank you," Francesco replied with a nod.
He didn't head straight for his room.
Not yet.
Because the night still had one more layer to it.
As he walked past the corridor toward the elevators, he heard it.
Laughter.
Familiar voices.
Coming from the direction of the hotel lounge.
He smiled immediately.
Of course.
He followed the sound, turning the corner and stepping into the lounge area.
The lighting was dimmer here which is low, as the warm lamps casting a relaxed glow across comfortable seating areas, a small bar along one side, and in the back corner…
A pool table.
And just beyond it, a ping pong table set up for guests.
Around them, a small group of Arsenal players had already gathered.
Jackets off.
Ties loosened.
Top buttons undone.
Still dressed for the formal part of the evening, but now completely at ease.
Xhaka was already lining up a shot at the pool table, cue in hand, tongue slightly pressed against the inside of his cheek in concentration.
"Don't choke now," Bellerín teased from the side, leaning casually against the wall.
"I don't choke," Xhaka shot back without looking up.
The cue struck the ball cleanly.
It rolled across the felt.
Clack.
One of the striped balls dropped neatly into the corner pocket.
"Clinical," Cazorla said with an approving nod.
Kanté stood nearby, smiling quietly, hands tucked loosely in his pockets as he watched.
Giroud was at the ping pong table with Elneny, the two of them in the middle of a surprisingly intense rally.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Quick feet.
Focused eyes.
Until finally, Giroud misjudged one slightly and the ball clipped the edge and bounced away.
Elneny threw his arms up in victory.
"Yes!" he laughed.
"Rematch," Giroud insisted immediately, already reaching for the ball.
Francesco stepped further into the room, the warmth of it hitting him instantly.
This.
This was the part he loved just as much.
The simple part.
The human part.
"About time you showed up," Bellerín said when he spotted him.
Francesco grinned.
"Had to say goodbye to my family."
Xhaka straightened up from the table and looked over.
"Good night?" he asked.
"The best," Francesco replied.
Cazorla gestured toward the empty cue rack.
"Come on then," he said. "Show us if you're as good with a cue as you are with a ball."
Francesco laughed as he walked over, reaching for one of the cues.
"No promises."
"Same rules as football," Bellerín added with a smirk. "No diving."
"Very funny."
They set up the next round.
Teams formed naturally—Francesco paired with Cazorla, Xhaka teamed with Bellerín.
Kanté volunteered to keep score, though he mostly just smiled and occasionally laughed when someone took things a little too seriously.
The first break sent the balls scattering across the table.
The soft clack of them echoing gently through the lounge.
And just like that, another kind of competition began.
Not the kind that filled stadiums.
Not the kind that made headlines.
But the kind that mattered just as much in its own way.
Friends.
Teammates.
Brothers.
Enjoying a moment they had earned together.
Between shots, they talked.
They joked.
They replayed little pieces of the match again, but now with laughter instead of tension.
"Honestly," Xhaka said at one point, lining up another shot, "when that third goal went in, I thought the stadium was going to collapse."
"I thought you were going to collapse," Bellerín replied instantly.
"Please," Xhaka scoffed, missing the shot by a fraction. "I never panic."
"Sure," Cazorla said, patting him on the shoulder as he stepped up for his turn. "We all saw your face."
Francesco leaned on his cue, smiling as he watched them.
At the ping pong table, Giroud and Elneny's rematch had drawn a small crowd.
Kanté wandered over between scorekeeping duties to watch for a moment, clapping softly every time one of them pulled off a particularly good return.
Time slipped.
Minutes blending into an hour.
The lounge gradually emptied of other guests until it was almost entirely theirs.
Just them.
The quiet hum of the hotel.
The soft clink of billiard balls.
The rapid tap of the ping pong ball.
And the low, easy sound of laughter.
At one point, Francesco stepped back from the table, resting the cue against his shoulder as he looked around at his teammates.
Really looked.
Xhaka arguing playfully with Bellerín about a questionable shot.
Cazorla smiling, eyes bright.
Kanté laughing softly.
Giroud celebrating a ping pong point like it was a last-minute winner.
Elneny shaking his head but grinning anyway.
And he felt it again.
That same feeling he had felt on the bus.
In the dressing room.
On the pitch.
Family.
Not just in words.
But in truth.
He pulled his phone from his pocket for a second and typed a quick message.
Got back safely. Still celebrating a bit. Love you.
He hit send to Leah and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Then he picked up his cue again.
"Your shot," Cazorla said, stepping aside.
Francesco nodded, stepping forward, leaning over the table, lining it up carefully.
For a second, everything else faded again.
Just the ball.
The angle.
The feel.
He struck.
Clean.
Precise.
The ball rolled exactly where he intended, dropping into the pocket with a soft, satisfying sound.
"Of course he does that," Xhaka muttered, shaking his head.
Francesco straightened up, grinning.
"Some habits don't change."
The lounge stayed alive for a while longer after that shot.
Not loud.
Not wild like earlier.
But alive in that softer, late-night way where every laugh felt a little deeper and every word carried a little more meaning.
They kept playing.
Rotating in and out of the pool table and the ping pong corner.
At some point, Bellerín tried to pull off a ridiculous trick shot, leaning halfway across the table, tongue poking out in concentration and completely missed.
The cue skimmed the ball, barely nudging it an inch.
The room erupted.
"Oh my days," Xhaka laughed, stepping back and clapping slowly. "World class."
"Shut up," Bellerín replied, though he was laughing too, straightening his jacket and brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "I was testing the table."
"Testing your ego," Giroud called from the ping pong side.
Even Kanté let out a slightly louder laugh than usual at that one, covering his mouth for a second as if surprised by himself.
Francesco leaned against the edge of the pool table, shaking his head, smiling in that easy, tired, content way that only came after a perfect day.
It was strange.
A few hours ago, they had been inside one of the biggest games of their lives.
Every movement under pressure.
Every second carrying weight.
Every pass, every shot, every decision judged by tens of thousands in the stadium and millions watching around the world.
And now…
They were here.
Arguing about trick shots.
Teasing each other over ping pong.
Laughing like boys in a rec room.
It grounded everything.
It made it real.
"Alright, last game," Cazorla announced eventually, glancing around at the group with a small, satisfied smile. "Winner takes bragging rights for the summer."
"Already got bragging rights," Xhaka said. "We're champions."
"Still want both," Cazorla replied easily.
They reset the balls one last time.
The cues clicked softly against the rack.
Everyone leaned in just a little, even though it was all in good fun.
That tiny edge of competitiveness never really went away.
It just changed shape.
Francesco took his place at the table again.
This time paired with Kanté, who insisted with a shy grin that he wasn't very good at pool.
"You say that," Bellerín said, pointing the cue toward him, "and then you'll pot everything."
Kanté laughed softly. "No, no. I promise. Not like football."
"We'll see," Francesco said, giving him a light nudge with his shoulder.
The final game unfolded in that same rhythm that light, playful, with bursts of mock intensity when someone lined up a crucial shot.
At one point, Kanté surprised everyone, including himself, by sinking a clean, difficult angle into the side pocket.
His eyes widened immediately.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, then laughed, looking around almost apologetically.
"See?" Bellerín said, throwing his hands up. "He hustled us."
"I didn't know!" Kanté insisted, still smiling.
Francesco clapped him on the back. "We might have to sign you for the pool team too."
"Too expensive now," Xhaka muttered.
More laughter.
More small moments.
More memories.
Eventually, though, even that last game came to an end.
The final ball dropped.
The cues were set back in the rack.
And a quiet, mutual understanding passed through the group.
It was time.
No one said it right away.
They just lingered for a few seconds in that comfortable silence that only existed between people who had shared something real.
Giroud stretched his arms above his head and let out a long breath.
"Alright," he said. "If I don't go to bed now, I might sleep through the next three days."
Elneny nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Same."
Cazorla smiled softly, looking around at everyone one last time.
"Good night, boys."
One by one, they started to break off.
Xhaka clasped hands with Bellerín, pulling him briefly into a one-armed hug.
"Good night, hermano."
"Good night."
Kanté shook hands with everyone, his usual gentle smile still in place.
Giroud clapped Francesco on the shoulder as he passed.
"Rest well, champion."
"You too," Francesco replied.
Cazorla gave him a quick hug, a hand on the back of his head in that affectionate, almost brotherly way.
"Proud of you."
Francesco smiled. "Right back at you."
And then, just like that, the group slowly dissolved.
Each player heading toward the elevators.
Toward their own rooms.
Toward the quiet that came after a night like this.
Francesco was one of the last to leave the lounge.
He took one last look around the room.
The empty pool table.
The ping pong paddles resting on the side.
The dim, warm lights.
The echoes of laughter still lingering faintly in the air.
Then he turned and walked out.
The corridor felt calm.
The carpet muffled his footsteps.
The elevator ride up was quiet, just him and the soft hum of the moving car.
When the doors opened onto his floor, the hallway was almost silent.
He reached his room, slid the key card in, and stepped inside.
For a moment, he just stood there.
The room was neat.
Still.
Almost untouched since earlier in the day.
His bag by the side.
His jacket folded over a chair.
The city lights visible through the curtains.
It felt like stepping out of a storm into complete calm.
He closed the door behind him and let out a slow breath.
The smile was still there.
Still soft.
Still real.
He moved through his routine quietly.
Shoes off.
Jacket hung.
Phone placed gently on the bedside table after a quick glance as Leah had already replied.
Proud of you. Sleep well. Love you ❤️
He typed back a simple response.
Love you too. See you soon.
Then he changed, washed up, and finally, finally let himself fall back onto the bed.
The mattress sank under him.
The pillow soft beneath his head.
And for the first time all day…
He let his eyes close.
The images of the night drifted through his mind in slow, gentle flashes.
The roar of the stadium.
The moment the final whistle blew.
Leah's arms around him.
His father's hug.
The laughter on the bus.
The ballroom lights.
The quiet pool game.
Every piece of it layering together into something that would stay with him forever.
His breathing slowed.
His body relaxed.
And within minutes, Francesco drifted into a deep, well-earned sleep.
Morning came gently, as soft light slipping through the curtains.
The quiet hum of the hotel waking up around them.
Francesco stirred slowly, blinking against the light as his body came back to him.
For a second, there was that familiar disorientation with where am I, what day is it.
And then it hit him again.
Everything.
A slow smile spread across his face as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling.
Champions.
He pushed himself up, stretching slightly, rolling his shoulders as the faint soreness of the match made itself known again.
A good soreness.
The kind that reminded him what he had done.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, moving toward the bathroom.
The routine felt grounding.
Familiar.
He brushed his teeth, splashed cool water on his face, watching his reflection for a moment in the mirror.
There was still a hint of tiredness in his eyes.
But also something else.
Satisfaction.
Calm.
Joy.
He changed into a fresh Arsenal tracksuit that clean, crisp, the badge sitting proudly over his heart.
Even that felt different this morning.
He took one last look around the room, grabbed his phone and room key, and headed out.
The hotel corridor was brighter now.
Quieter in a different way with morning quiet instead of night quiet.
He made his way down to the restaurant.
As he stepped inside, the smell of breakfast greeted him immediately.
Coffee.
Toast.
Eggs.
Fresh fruit.
A few of his teammates were already there, scattered at different tables.
Some looked more awake than others.
Some still half-asleep, nursing cups of coffee.
Cazorla was one of the first to spot him.
"Morning," he said with a smile.
"Morning," Francesco replied, walking over.
Xhaka sat nearby, stirring his coffee slowly.
"You look too happy for this early," he muttered.
Francesco laughed. "You look like you need another coffee."
"Three more," Xhaka corrected.
Kanté gave him a small wave from across the table, already halfway through a bowl of cereal.
Giroud sat with a plate of eggs and toast, scrolling through his phone.
"Seen the headlines?" he asked, tilting the screen slightly.
Francesco leaned in briefly, seeing images from the night before splashed across sports sites.
Photos of the team lifting the trophy.
Celebrating.
Embracing.
His own face caught mid-celebration, joy written all over it.
He smiled quietly and straightened up.
"Yeah," he said. "It's real."
They ate together.
Simple breakfast.
Easy conversation.
Some talking about the game again, but now in softer tones.
Some talking about their families getting back safely.
Some just enjoying the quiet.
One by one, more players drifted in.
Bellerín, hair slightly messier than usual.
Elneny, already cheerful.
A few of the staff.
Even Wenger appeared briefly, offering a calm "Good morning" and a small smile that said everything.
Time moved.
Slow.
Gentle.
And before long, it was time again.
Back to reality.
Back to London.
After breakfast, they returned to their rooms to gather their things.
Francesco packed quietly, folding his clothes, placing his boots carefully into his bag.
He took one last look around the room that had held the night of his life.
Then he zipped the bag closed and lifted it.
Down in the lobby, the team began to gather again.
One by one.
Bags in hand.
Still wearing their tracksuits.
Still carrying that shared glow from the night before.
Near the center of the lobby stood Per Mertesacker, tall and composed, the Champions League trophy held securely in his hands.
It caught the light from the lobby chandeliers, silver surface gleaming.
Even now, it still felt a little unreal seeing it there.
Belonging to them.
A few hotel guests lingered at a respectful distance, quietly watching, some taking discreet photos.
The players gathered around.
A few of them reaching out to tap the trophy gently, almost like making sure it was still real.
Francesco stepped forward too, brushing his fingers lightly over the cool metal.
Still real.
Still theirs.
"Ready?" Xhaka asked, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Francesco nodded.
"Ready."
They began to move.
Out through the hotel entrance.
Back onto the team bus.
One by one, they climbed aboard, settling into their seats again.
The trophy was placed carefully at the front, beside Mertesacker.
The engine started.
The doors closed.
And the bus pulled away from the hotel.
The streets of Cardiff passed by outside the windows, quieter in the daylight.
The stadium they had conquered standing in the distance as they drove past it one last time.
Some players looked out at it.
Some didn't.
But all of them carried it with them.
The journey to the airport was calm.
Quieter than the ride from the stadium the night before.
Some players talked softly.
Some listened to music.
Some just sat in comfortable silence.
Francesco rested his head back against the seat, looking out at the passing city, letting everything settle inside him.
At the airport, they moved through together as a group.
Staff guiding them.
Security handled quickly.
The trophy never far from sight.
And then, finally, onto the plane.
Back to London.
Back home.
As Francesco took his seat by the window, he glanced once more at his teammates filing in.
At the trophy.
At the life he was living.
He fastened his seatbelt and leaned back.
The engines began to hum.
The engines deepened into a steady, powerful hum as the plane rolled down the runway, faster and faster, the vibration beneath their seats building until.
Lift.
That familiar, gentle weightlessness.
The city of Cardiff slipped away beneath them, shrinking into patches of grey and green and silver as the plane climbed into the morning sky.
Francesco leaned his head back against the seat, eyes drifting to the window for a moment as the clouds began to gather outside, soft and endless.
For a little while, no one spoke.
It was that quiet, shared silence that came after something big had finally settled.
Seatbelts still fastened.
The low rumble of the engines filling the space.
The faint rustle of someone adjusting in their seat, someone else letting out a quiet yawn.
Across the aisle, Xhaka had already leaned his head back, eyes closed, one arm folded across his chest.
Bellerín sat a row ahead, headphones in, head gently bobbing to whatever music he had playing.
Kanté looked out the window on the opposite side, hands folded loosely in his lap, that same small, content smile resting on his face.
And a few rows forward, the Champions League trophy rested securely, positioned carefully beside Per Mertesacker, its silver surface catching the cabin light every now and then with a soft gleam.
Still real.
Still theirs.
The plane climbed higher.
The city disappeared completely.
Clouds stretched out in every direction.
And after a few more minutes, the familiar ding of the seatbelt sign switching off sounded gently through the cabin.
Almost immediately, there was a subtle shift.
Seatbelts unclicked.
A few players stretched.
Someone stood to grab something from the overhead compartment.
Phones began to come out of pockets.
Francesco reached for his own, unlocking the screen as signal returned.
A few notifications popped up almost instantly.
Messages.
Mentions.
News alerts.
But his eyes went straight to one name.
Leah.
His thumb tapped the message, opening it.
It had been sent about an hour earlier.
We just landed in London. Your parents are with us. Everyone's safe. Miss you already ❤️
Francesco felt a warmth spread through his chest immediately.
A small smile curved his lips.
He pictured it in his mind without even needing to see it as Leah walking through the arrivals hall with her parents, Mike and Sarah beside them, maybe Jacob still talking excitedly, still replaying moments from the night before.
Safe.
Together.
Happy.
He typed back quickly, his fingers moving easily.
Just took off not long ago. We're on our way back now. See you soon ❤️
He hit send and sat there for a second, still holding the phone in his hand.
That quiet sense of everything being in its right place settled over him again.
Outside, the clouds rolled past.
Inside, the cabin slowly filled with the soft murmur of conversation as more of the players woke up properly.
Giroud leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out slightly into the aisle.
"Feels different now," he said to Elneny, who sat beside him.
"Different good," Elneny replied with a grin.
Cazorla turned slightly in his seat to look back toward Francesco and Xhaka.
"Anyone else still feel like they're dreaming?"
"Ask me again when we land," Xhaka said without opening his eyes.
A few seats ahead, Bellerín pulled one earcup of his headphones off and looked back.
"You're not dreaming," he said. "I checked the trophy. It's still there."
"Good," Cazorla replied. "Would be awkward if we woke up and it was gone."
Laughter drifted softly through the cabin.
Nothing loud.
Nothing forced.
Just easy.
Comfortable.
The kind of laughter that came from shared understanding.
Francesco rested his head lightly against the window, watching the sky outside, his phone still loosely in his hand.
Every now and then, it buzzed again with more messages coming in from friends, old coaches, people he hadn't spoken to in years, all sending congratulations, all sharing in the moment in their own way.
He'd answer them later.
For now, he just wanted to sit in it.
To feel it.
To let the quiet of the flight carry him gently from one chapter to the next.
Time passed like that.
Clouds.
Sky.
The steady hum of the engines.
Occasional small conversations drifting in and out.
At one point, a member of the flight crew moved down the aisle offering drinks.
Some took coffee.
Some water.
Some just shook their heads and kept resting.
Francesco accepted a bottle of water with a quiet "thank you," taking a small sip before setting it down on the tray in front of him.
He glanced forward again.
At the trophy.
At Mertesacker sitting beside it, one hand resting casually on the handle as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Captain.
Leader.
Guardian of that moment.
Francesco's eyes lingered on it for a second longer.
Then drifted back to the window.
To the sky.
To everything that lay ahead.
The descent into London came with a soft announcement from the captain over the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent. We should be landing shortly."
There was a subtle shift in the cabin again.
Seatbacks upright.
Tray tables folded away.
Seatbelts fastened once more.
Outside the window, the clouds began to break.
Patches of land appearing below.
Roads.
Rivers.
Buildings.
London.
Home.
Francesco felt that small, familiar flutter in his chest again.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
Not just for being back.
But for what waited for them there.
The plane dipped lower.
The ground rose up to meet them.
And with a gentle, controlled bump, the wheels touched down.
A soft rush of reverse thrust.
A slight forward lean as the plane slowed.
Then calm.
Applause broke out in a few scattered places in the cabin that light, spontaneous.
A few players clapped along, grinning at each other.
"We're back," Bellerín said quietly.
"We're back," Francesco echoed under his breath.
The plane taxied to the gate.
Engines powering down.
The final ding.
Seatbelts unfastened again.
People stood.
Reached for their bags.
Stretched.
The doors opened.
And one by one, they began to step out into the jet bridge, back onto English soil.
The airport staff were already waiting.
Security cleared quickly, smoothly, guided with quiet efficiency.
There was a sense of expectation in the air now.
Something building.
Something waiting just beyond the glass doors.
Francesco could feel it even before he saw it.
They moved through baggage claim together, collecting their luggage from the carousel as it came around.
Boot bags.
Suitcases.
Training gear.
The usual pieces of travel.
Except this time, everything felt just a little different.
Because at the center of it all.
The trophy.
Still carried carefully by Mertesacker.
Still gleaming.
Still theirs.
"Ready for this?" Xhaka asked, lifting his bag from the carousel and slinging it over his shoulder.
Francesco glanced toward the exit doors.
He could hear it now.
Faint.
But growing.
A distant roar.
He smiled.
"Always."
They moved toward the exit together.
Staff walking ahead, guiding the path.
Security opening a clear route.
And then.
The doors slid open.
And the sound hit them.
A wave.
A wall.
A roar of voices that seemed to shake the very air around them.
Tens of thousands of Arsenal fans.
Waiting.
Packed into every available space outside the terminal.
Red and white scarves.
Shirts.
Flags waving.
Phones raised high.
Faces lit with pure, unfiltered joy.
And the moment they saw the players.
The moment they saw the trophy in Mertesacker's hands.
The noise exploded.
A surge of sound so powerful it seemed to roll through Francesco's chest.
"CHAMPIONS!"
"ARSENAL!"
"WE DID IT!"
Chants rose up instantly, thousands of voices joining together, echoing through the open space outside the airport.
Francesco stepped forward with the rest of the team, the sunlight catching his eyes for a second as he took in the scene.
It was overwhelming.
In the best possible way.
He saw children sitting on their parents' shoulders, waving scarves twice the size of their arms.
He saw older fans, eyes glistening, hands pressed to their mouths in disbelief.
He saw friends embracing, strangers hugging, people jumping up and down as if the match had just ended again right here in front of them.
He saw everything.
He felt everything.
Beside him, Bellerín let out a low whistle.
"That's… something else."
Xhaka shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face.
"Worth it," he said.
Mertesacker lifted the trophy slightly.
Just enough.
Just enough for the light to catch it.
And when he did.
The crowd erupted even louder.
A deafening, joyous, uncontrollable sound of pride.
Of celebration.
Of love.
Francesco felt his chest tighten for a second.
He lifted his hand, waving out toward them, his smile wide, genuine, unstoppable.
"Thank you!" someone shouted from the front of the crowd.
"Thank you!"
It spread.
Echoed.
Chanted back at them.
"Thank you! Thank you!"
Francesco's eyes softened.
He nodded toward them, placing a hand briefly over his heart.
Because he meant it just as much.
They had done it together.
Every step of the way.
And now.
Now they were home.
Champions of Europe.
Surrounded by the people who had believed in them from the very beginning. It wrapped around them like a second celebration, like another chapter in a story that would live on forever.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9