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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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And now, under the lights of the final, with the roar of thousands echoing through the night, it was no longer just a promise.
The roar didn't stop.
It didn't dip.
It didn't fade into the background like it sometimes did after league matches, when the adrenaline settled and the night slowly exhaled.
This was different.
This was the kind of sound that lived in the bones of a stadium. The kind that made the air itself feel like it was vibrating.
All around them, red and white flags waved in wild, uncoordinated waves. Scarves were lifted high. Some supporters were laughing, some were shouting, some were just standing there with tears streaming down their faces, hands over their mouths as if they still couldn't quite believe what they had just seen.
Two in a row.
Back-to-back European champions.
And not just that.
The treble… defended.
It was something almost unreal even to the people living inside it.
Francesco stood in the middle of the chaos for a moment longer, still wrapped in the embrace of his teammates, still feeling their hands on his shoulders, their arms around his back, the thump of their hearts against his chest as they laughed and shouted and let everything out.
Kanté's quiet laugh was right next to his ear.
Xhaka's voice was louder, booming, repeating the same thing over and over like he needed to hear it himself to believe it.
Giroud's grip around his shoulder was tight, almost crushing.
Cazorla was clapping and laughing, his eyes shining.
And just beyond them, he could see Mertesacker, the armband on his arm, both hands raised toward the sky as he turned slowly in a full circle, taking in the entire stadium.
For a few seconds, Francesco let himself be carried by it.
Let himself feel it fully.
The joy.
The relief.
The pride.
But then something in him settled.
A shift.
A grounding.
Because even in the middle of celebration, even in the peak of triumph, he saw the other side.
Just across the pitch.
Black and white shirts scattered.
Some standing still.
Some bent over with hands on their knees.
Some already on the ground.
And the noise over there was different.
Not the roar of celebration.
The sound of something breaking.
He looked at his teammates, still wrapped around him, still shouting and laughing.
Then he nodded once.
"Come," he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying.
They knew what he meant.
They all did.
This wasn't just about winning.
It never had been.
They broke from their circle slowly, still smiling, still glowing with the aftershock of what they had achieved, but their steps became calmer as they turned and began walking across the pitch.
Toward Juventus.
Toward the players who had just lost everything they had come here for.
As they approached, the contrast became clearer.
A few Juventus players sat on the grass, staring blankly ahead.
One of them had his shirt pulled over his face.
Another had his hands on his head, eyes closed tightly.
A defender stood still near the edge of the box, looking up at the scoreboard as if he couldn't understand how the numbers had ended up like that.
5–2.
A final.
On this stage.
It wasn't just defeat.
It was shock.
It was heartbreak.
It was the weight of all the near misses that came before.
Francesco slowed as he reached the first of them.
He placed a hand gently on a shoulder.
A squeeze.
No words at first.
Just presence.
Just acknowledgment.
One by one, Arsenal players did the same.
Kanté knelt beside one of the midfielders, saying something softly, offering a small, respectful nod.
Xhaka reached out to shake hands with another, his expression serious now, respectful.
Giroud exchanged a brief embrace with one of the defenders he had battled all night.
Cazorla patted a shoulder, offering a few quiet words.
And Francesco kept walking.
Because he knew who he needed to find.
Near the penalty area, just a few yards from the goal line, stood the man who had guarded that net all night.
Gianluigi Buffon
The veteran goalkeeper stood there with his gloves still on, his shoulders slightly hunched, his head lowered.
For a moment, Francesco just watched him.
Not as an opponent.
Not as a rival.
But as a legend of the game.
A man who had given everything to this sport for decades.
A man who had chased this one trophy for so long.
And now…
He stepped forward slowly.
Buffon didn't look up at first.
His eyes were wet.
His jaw tight.
The weight of it all written across his face.
Francesco reached out and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
Buffon looked up then.
Their eyes met.
For a second, there were no words.
Just understanding.
Just respect.
Francesco didn't try to say anything complicated.
He didn't offer empty comfort.
He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him in a firm, genuine embrace.
Buffon's arms came up after a moment, returning it.
Two competitors.
Two captains in their own ways.
One at the height of his journey.
One perhaps at the end of his chance.
"I'm sorry," Francesco said quietly.
Buffon let out a slow breath.
Then he shook his head slightly.
"No," he replied, his voice thick but steady. "You were better."
Francesco pulled back just enough to look at him.
"You've been an example for all of us," he said honestly. "For me too."
Buffon's eyes softened.
He gave a small, tired smile.
"Then make sure you keep winning," he said. "Make it worth it."
Francesco nodded.
"I will."
They held the look for one more second.
Then Buffon gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, a gesture of both respect and acceptance, before turning slightly, wiping his face with the back of his glove.
Around them, more exchanges were happening.
Mertesacker speaking quietly with one of the Juventus defenders, his hand resting on the man's arm.
Čech walking over to Buffon as well, two goalkeepers sharing a few words, a moment of mutual understanding that only they could fully grasp.
Kanté offering his shirt to one of the midfielders, who accepted it with a grateful nod despite the tears still in his eyes.
There were hugs.
Handshakes.
A few brief smiles through the sadness.
Because this was the other side of the game.
The part that didn't get shown in highlight reels.
The respect.
The humanity.
The shared understanding of what it took just to reach this stage.
But eventually, the officials began calling the players back toward the center.
The ceremony was about to begin.
The platform was already being assembled.
Medals waiting.
The trophy waiting.
Francesco took one last look at Buffon, giving him a final nod.
Then he turned and began jogging back toward his teammates.
As he did, the sound of the Arsenal supporters rose again, swelling, growing louder as they saw their captain heading back toward them.
They sang.
They shouted his name.
They sang the club's name.
They sang for the team.
For the journey.
For the history they had just witnessed.
Francesco slowed near the edge of the pitch, turning toward them for a moment.
He raised both arms.
Not in celebration this time.
In acknowledgment.
In gratitude.
The response was deafening.
And behind him, one by one, his teammates gathered again, forming around him, ready for what came next.
The medals.
The lift.
The moment that would be remembered forever.
But even as they stood there, waiting for the ceremony to begin, Francesco felt something settle deep inside him.
Not just pride.
Not just joy.
Something steadier.
Something stronger.
A promise kept.
A legacy continued.
And the knowledge that what they had built together was bigger than any single night.
They stayed there for a few more moments, gathered together just behind the halfway line, the stadium still shaking around them as if the night itself couldn't quite contain what had just happened.
Then Francesco turned, looking toward the end of the stadium where the sea of red and white was still in full voice.
Their end.
Their people.
The ones who had followed them across Europe, across seasons, through every cold away night and every tense home match. The ones who had believed when things were difficult. The ones who had carried songs in their throats for years waiting for moments like this.
He nodded once toward his teammates.
"Come," he said again, but this time there was a small smile on his face.
This time it was lighter.
They didn't need more explanation.
Together, the Arsenal players began to jog toward their supporters' end.
As they got closer, the noise rose even higher, if that was even possible. Arms stretched down from the stands. Flags waved. People shouted names from Francesco's, Kanté's, Giroud's, Mertesacker's with every name, every hero of the night.
Francesco slowed as he reached the front, stepping right up to the barrier that separated pitch from stands. For a second, he just stood there, looking up at them.
Really looking.
Faces painted.
Eyes red from tears.
Smiles so wide they looked like they might break.
Some older supporters who had waited decades for nights like this.
Some children who would grow up telling this story for the rest of their lives.
He placed a hand over his heart.
"Thank you," he mouthed.
The response was immediate, overwhelming. Chants burst again, louder than before, rolling down from the stands in waves.
Behind him, his teammates did the same. Kanté raised both hands and clapped above his head. Xhaka punched the air toward the fans. Giroud spread his arms wide, soaking it in. Cazorla waved and laughed, turning in a circle to take it all in again.
A steward passed forward a marker pen that someone from the front row was desperately holding out.
Francesco leaned down slightly as a young supporter that no older than ten or eleven are hold up a red Arsenal shirt, his hands shaking with excitement.
The boy's eyes were wide, almost disbelieving.
"Please," he said, his voice barely carrying over the noise.
Francesco smiled, a soft, genuine smile that cut through all the adrenaline of the night.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The boy swallowed. "Arif."
Francesco nodded, taking the shirt and the pen.
He signed it carefully, writing his name clearly across the front. Then he paused, looking at the shirt for a moment longer, before lifting it over his head and pulling off his own jersey.
The crowd let out a collective gasp.
He handed his match-worn shirt down to Arif, placing it gently into the boy's hands.
Arif froze for a second, staring down at it like it was something sacred.
Then he looked up, eyes shining, tears already forming.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Francesco reached out, ruffling the boy's hair gently.
"Keep believing," he said.
Behind him, more players were giving away wristbands, shirts, small pieces of the night that would live on in homes and bedrooms and memories forever.
But gradually, the stewards began to gesture.
Time.
The ceremony was ready.
Francesco gave one last wave to the supporters, one last look, one last moment to fix it all in his mind.
Then he turned and jogged back toward the center of the pitch.
The podium had been built.
A gleaming stage in the middle of the grass, banners already draped around it, the iconic trophy standing there on its pedestal, catching the light.
The UEFA officials had taken their positions.
At the center stood Aleksander Čeferin, flanked by other UEFA executives, all in dark suits, their expressions formal but carrying a hint of the magnitude of the occasion.
The stadium announcer's voice rolled out over the speakers, first in one language, then another, introducing the ceremony.
"Ladies and gentlemen… the presentation of medals for the finalists of the UEFA Champions League…"
A respectful round of applause filled the stadium.
Because this was still part of it.
Because reaching a final, even in defeat, meant something.
The Juventus players began to line up first.
Their heads were still low.
Their expressions still heavy.
But they walked forward with dignity, one by one, stepping up onto the podium.
Aleksander Čeferin greeted each of them with a handshake and a few quiet words as he placed the silver medals around their necks.
Some nodded politely.
Some forced small, tight smiles.
Some could barely look up.
When Gianluigi Buffon stepped forward, the applause grew louder, more respectful, almost reverent. The veteran goalkeeper walked up slowly, eyes still carrying that sadness, but also the grace of someone who had been at the top of the game for so long.
Čeferin placed the silver medal around his neck.
Buffon nodded, shaking his hand, holding that moment with quiet composure.
Then Juventus' coaching staff followed, including their manager, each receiving their medals in turn.
When they were done, they moved aside, forming a line off to the side of the podium.
Then it was time.
The announcer's voice rose again.
"And now… the winners… the champions of Europe…"
The roar that followed was deafening.
Arsenal.
One by one, the players and staff began to line up.
At the front stood Arsène Wenger, calm as ever, but with a softness in his eyes that told the story of everything he had built, everything he had endured, everything he had finally achieved on this stage not once, but twice in a row.
He adjusted his jacket slightly, then began to walk up the steps of the podium.
The applause for him was thunderous.
From Arsenal supporters, of course.
But from neutrals too.
From anyone who understood what it meant for him to stand there.
Čeferin shook his hand warmly, speaking a few words that made Wenger's lips curve into a small, appreciative smile.
Then the gold medal was placed around his neck.
For a brief moment, Wenger looked down at it.
Just a second.
Then he nodded, stepping aside.
Behind him, the coaching staff followed.
Each assistant.
Each staff member who had worked behind the scenes.
Each one receiving their medal, their own small piece of history.
Then the players.
One by one.
Bellerín.
Monreal.
Koscielny.
Van Dijk.
Xhaka.
Kanté.
Cazorla.
Giroud.
Each name called out, each one stepping forward, shaking hands, receiving the gold medal that glinted under the lights.
Each one turning, holding it up, acknowledging the crowd.
And then Francesco's name echoed through the stadium.
He took a breath.
One step forward.
Then another.
As he walked toward the podium, the sound changed again.
His name chanted.
Over and over.
He didn't try to hide the smile that spread across his face this time.
He walked up the steps, meeting Čeferin at the top.
The handshake was firm.
The words were brief but respectful.
Then the gold medal was placed around his neck.
It felt heavier than he expected.
He reached up, touching it lightly with his fingers for just a second, as if confirming that it was real.
Then he turned, raising one hand to the crowd in acknowledgment before stepping aside.
Only one more remained.
The captain for the night.
The man wearing the armband.
Per Mertesacker.
The tall defender stepped forward with that same composed posture, that same calm presence that had guided the back line in those final, crucial minutes.
The applause was loud.
Appreciative.
He walked up onto the podium, meeting Čeferin with a respectful nod.
The gold medal was placed around his neck.
And then came the moment.
Čeferin turned, reaching for the trophy.
The UEFA Champions League trophy.
Silver.
Large.
Iconic.
The dream of every club in Europe.
He lifted it carefully, then turned back toward Mertesacker.
For a second, everything seemed to slow.
The lights.
The noise.
The movement.
All of it narrowing down to that one moment.
As he handed the trophy over.
Into Mertesacker's hands.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
The trophy sat in Per Mertesacker's hands like something sacred.
Heavy.
Cold.
Alive with history.
His fingers tightened around the handles, his shoulders lifting just slightly as if he was testing its weight, feeling the reality of it settle into his bones.
Behind him, Francesco and the rest of the Arsenal players leaned forward just a fraction, eyes fixed on that moment.
On their captain.
On what they had just earned.
Per drew in a breath.
Then he turned.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Carrying the Champions League trophy with him as he stepped forward to the center of the podium, to the place where every captain dreamed of standing.
He reached the middle.
Stopped.
Looked left.
A sea of red and white, arms already rising, voices already building.
He looked right.
More faces. More flags. More tears. More joy.
Then he looked straight ahead.
And he smiled.
Not the quiet, composed smile he usually wore.
This one was bigger.
Warmer.
Filled with everything this moment meant.
He raised the trophy slightly.
Just enough to let the stadium know what was coming.
The players around him leaned in closer, arms already going up, bodies already leaning toward him, ready to explode into that shared release.
Francesco stood just behind his right shoulder, his hands already half-raised, his chest tight with anticipation.
"Ready?" Per called out, his voice carrying just enough for those closest to hear.
A chorus answered him.
"Yeah!"
"Come on!"
"Lift it!"
Per tightened his grip.
Then, with one powerful motion, he lifted the trophy high above his head.
The stadium erupted.
A wall of sound so loud it felt like it shook the ground beneath their feet.
Gold confetti exploded into the air from both sides of the podium, bursting upward in shimmering clouds that rained down around them, catching in the floodlights, turning the entire stage into a storm of gold and silver.
The players lost all restraint.
Francesco threw his arms up and shouted, his voice disappearing into the roar as he jumped toward Mertesacker, grabbing the side of the trophy for a second, pressing his forehead briefly against the metal before turning and being swallowed by his teammates again.
Kanté was laughing uncontrollably, clapping, jumping, his quiet joy now completely uncontained.
Xhaka roared, fists clenched, shouting toward the sky.
Giroud punched the air again and again, his face lit with pure, unstoppable pride.
Cazorla spun in place, arms wide, letting the confetti fall over him like rain.
Bellerín leaped onto the small platform edge, waving both arms at the supporters.
Monreal hugged Koscielny.
Van Dijk raised both hands high, turning toward the fans.
Čech lifted his gloves into the air, nodding firmly.
And at the center of it all, Per Mertesacker held the Champions League trophy above his head, his eyes shining, his entire posture radiating one thing:
Fulfillment.
They had done it.
Again.
Back-to-back.
The Champions League.
The treble.
History.
The music blared through the stadium, the Champions League anthem swelling into celebration, fireworks beginning to crackle and burst around the upper tiers as the confetti continued to fall.
Francesco took a step back for just a moment, letting the noise wash over him again, letting the sight of his teammates, of his captain, of the trophy itself sink in.
He reached up, touching his medal again.
Still real.
Still there.
Still theirs.
Then the celebration on the podium slowly began to settle into something else.
Still joyful.
Still loud.
But shifting.
Because now, new figures were beginning to emerge at the edge of the pitch.
Family.
Loved ones.
The people who had lived this journey from the other side.
The stewards opened the access points, and slowly, carefully, they began to come onto the field.
Francesco noticed them almost immediately.
At first just shapes.
Then faces.
Familiar faces.
His chest tightened.
There they were.
His parents.
Mike and Sarah.
Walking together, his mother already wiping at her eyes, his father's face a mix of pride and disbelief as he looked around at the scene.
And beside them.
Leah Williamson
She walked forward with her parents, David and Amanda, and her brother Jacob just behind her, all of them smiling, all of them looking like they were trying to take in everything at once and not quite succeeding.
For a second, the noise of the stadium faded in Francesco's ears.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that he could focus on that small group walking toward him through the sea of celebration.
He stepped down from the podium, medal bouncing lightly against his chest as he moved.
Leah saw him.
Their eyes met.
And then she was smiling in a way that said everything words didn't need to.
He reached them in a few quick steps.
His mother got there first.
Sarah wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him into a hug that felt like it carried years of support, years of belief, years of sacrifice.
"You did it," she said into his shoulder, her voice shaking.
Francesco held her just as tight.
"We did it," he corrected gently.
His father's hand came down on his back in a firm, proud pat.
Mike didn't say much.
He didn't need to.
The look in his eyes said enough.
Then Leah stepped forward.
For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other.
All the noise.
All the lights.
All the chaos.
And still that quiet little space existed between them.
"You okay?" she asked softly, even now, even after everything.
Francesco laughed lightly, breath still coming fast.
"I think so," he said.
Then he pulled her into an embrace, holding her for a second longer than usual, letting himself feel the reality of it all with someone who understood exactly what it meant.
Her parents greeted him next, warm smiles, congratulations, hands shaken, a few quick words exchanged over the roar of the stadium.
Jacob gave him an excited grin, pointing at the medal around his neck.
"Two in a row," he said.
Francesco grinned back.
"Two in a row," he echoed.
Around them, the rest of the Arsenal players were doing the same.
Families embracing.
Girlfriends running into arms.
Children being lifted into the air.
Photos being taken.
Laughter.
Tears.
Moments that would live forever.
But then, from somewhere behind them, a familiar voice called out.
"Hey! One more thing!"
Francesco turned.
Xhaka.
Grinning.
Already moving toward Arsène Wenger.
And then it clicked.
Of course.
Tradition.
Celebration.
Love in its loudest form.
"Come on!" Giroud shouted, already moving in.
A group of players converged around Wenger, who looked momentarily surprised but not entirely unprepared.
"Messieurs, what are you—" he began.
Too late.
They grabbed him.
Carefully, respectfully, but firmly.
One hand under each arm.
Another at his back.
Another at his legs.
"Ready?" Xhaka called out, laughing.
Wenger shook his head, but there was a smile breaking through now.
"Be gentle," he said, half-laughing.
"One!" someone shouted.
They lifted him.
Up into the air.
"Two!"
Down and up again.
"Three!"
Higher this time, Wenger laughing now, his arms out slightly as they tossed him up for the third time before catching him again safely, the entire group cheering around him.
Wenger straightened his jacket as they set him down, shaking his head, smiling in that quiet, satisfied way of his.
"Thank you," he said simply.
But they weren't done.
Because there was one more man.
One more moment.
Francesco turned toward Per Mertesacker, who was standing just a few yards away, still holding the trophy, still soaking in everything, his expression now softer, more reflective.
The end of a career.
He had told them at the start of the season.
This would be his last.
This would be how it ended.
Francesco walked over to him first.
Their eyes met.
No words needed.
Then Francesco reached out, grabbing him around the shoulders.
The others joined in instantly.
"Come on, Per!" Giroud shouted.
"Your turn!" Xhaka added.
Per laughed, shaking his head, but he didn't resist.
They set the trophy down safely beside the podium.
Then they gathered around their captain.
Hands finding their places.
Strong.
Secure.
"Ready?" Francesco said this time.
Per nodded once, smiling.
"Ja."
"One!"
Up he went, lifted high into the air, his long frame rising above them, his arms spreading out as he laughed.
"Two!"
Down and up again, higher, louder cheers surrounding them.
"Three!"
The final lift, the highest one, the one that seemed to hang in the air for just a second longer before they caught him again and brought him back down to the ground.
Per landed, still smiling, eyes shining.
He pulled Francesco into a brief embrace, then looked around at all of them.
At his teammates.
At his family.
At the supporters.
At the trophy.
"Perfect," he said quietly.
And in that moment, surrounded by noise and light and history and love, it truly was.
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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