I Never Cry
Rating: R.
Pairing: Dimitar Berbatov + Edwin van der Sar. Platonic love, that's why. Other couples implied.
Disclaimer: Bear with me, for this week I shall never get enough of Ed. Yet, the news that Berbatov was not even on the bench at the CL final and that the decision has influenced him to leave United cannot leave my mind. I think he is being unfairly dismissed, because he was the top scorer. So, a tribute to both of them.
Summary: Dimitar watched the game from the sidelines... Second person POV, focused on Berba. MASSIVE ANGST. Warned.
It's just a heartache that got caught in my eye
For you know, I never cry.
-Alice Cooper, "I Never Cry".
It hurts.
You have to admit it to yourself: it hurts, bad. It hurts as you walk out of the stadium like an offended lover, leaving your empty seat behind. A stranger. The one that doesn't belong there anymore.
You've never been that way, and Sir Alex knows it. He said that about it.
"Dimitar never complains. He understands."
Yes, you understand. You understood it perfectly when you were the hero of the day. Hat-tricks, wonders, praise for you. Half a golden boot for you, but that was because you were under pressure, fighting perhaps too hard to prove you could be the star of the league.
You understood when the new kid, Chicharito, arrived (you could never pronounce that name well). Yes, when he surpassed everybody's expectations and took your throne, when you were relegated to the bench, feeling out of your habitat there--even then you understood. The new blood, and it was for the good of the team. It isn't as if you're getting any younger. Of course, it hurt to read the news and see everybody's opinion was that Chicha was there to retire you. You don't want to retire. But, even then, you said nothing. You sat down and understood and clapped along with everybody and were not there to take part of the action.
But today, it cuts like bloody knife.
You told the press you wouldn't leave the club. You wanted to be there for the next title, even if you had to sit down and watch Chicha and Rooney do the job. They love each other, and you know it. That's why they work wonderfully. Lucky Mexican kid, so much luckier than you in every aspect. But you don't even shout that out to heaven. You just stay put.
Even as you're kicked out, like you're now.
You walk inside a pub and order a beer, sitting down next to the roaring fans from both teams--there are more United ones, this being London and all. They don't recognize you though.
It's ok.
The first goal by Barcelona finds its way into the net and that is when you can feel the small stabbing pain inside your heart.
You wanted to be part of this special day for very special reasons. Even though you know your being there wouldn't change anything, and you're not thinking about the game.
Then Rooney scores, and you smile. You smile because you don't wish them ill. None of them. It's your team. In spite of everything.
In fact, nothing would make you happier than to see them win. Even if that hurts too.
That was why you consider you being there doesn't change a thing. Because it's not just the game. You wanted to be there to have your last chance to...
Well, be with Edwin van der Sar.
It's a stupid crush, and you know it. It makes you feel ridiculous, because you know you're not the only one with a crush on him, for starters--you've seen the way Park looks at him before he goes into the showers, for instance. Or how Carrick is always on top of him, as if trying to convince him not to go and making a big fuss about everything he does.
However, you know both of them are in a state of resignation. You know Edwin belongs to Rio, and you wouldn't want to mess with Rio, would you? And anyways, they're happy. What's the point? So, you don't even try, like Carrick. You, once again, stay put, and leave your desire for him inside your hotel room, those feverish wanks wishing you were Rio and you got to share the goalkeeper's bed.
That is what hurts the most. Today was your last chance to share a game with him.
And you were not allowed.
Another loud cheer takes your mind away from your thoughts. Messi has scored. Messi has scored against Ed and then the camera shows him and you can see he's trying hard to hold back tears.
For a minute, you regret you've left the stadium. You want to be back there now, cheering for him, reminding him this is a great day for him and that he should never give up and everything...
And yet you stay. You're just too used to being calm.
What happened to the Berbatov mafia leaders used to kidnap and fight about?
Then the third goal gets there and the pub explodes, even though culés are a minority. You turn around. Many of the United fans are actually crying.
Did you cry when you walk out of the stadium? No. Did you cry when you listened to Rio and Edwin fucking, at a hotel, one night when you came back late from a bar? That you don't remember.
Now you're glad nobody seems to recognize you.
The last minutes are agony. A small spark of pride lights up when you think you could have made a difference, if you had been there...
The Barcelona fan that roars something in Catalan seems to remind you: But you're not there.
You look at the screen once more. Many of the guys are crying. Ed walks on to receive his medal, and even though he's calm, you can trace the sadness in his face, his lovely face.
You know he's not going to cry either. Chicha cries. Wayne cries. But not Ed. And yet, you wish you were there to hold him and tell him he can cry, and tell him you thought he's a great person and that you wish the best for him and enjoy having him close one last time.
If only the Premier League title day had lasted longer.
No. If only you were there to say it. Now... you'll never see him again. Not like a teammate, at least.
Deep inside, you know it. It was his last season. And, very likely, your last one too.
Your last day. His last day. And you, once again, swallowed everything you wanted to say because Dimitar never complains.
You leave the pub and walk away, oblivious to the Barcelona fans who've obviously listened to the good news and prance around with their flags and stuff. You want to find the way back to the hotel when, suddenly, a small voice calls you.
"Mr. Berbatov?"
You turn. It's a girl, wearing, strangely, a kit with your name.
"So nice to meet you," the girl is sad, looks like she cried, but smiles at you. "Could you... please... autograph?"
You take the marker she offers you, and she turns around and lets you sign over your name. Then she asks for a kiss, and you let het kiss you, and then...
"Oh god. Sorry for asking, I don't mean to be rude. Are you crying?"
Then you feel the cold drop on your cheek.
"Yeah," you answer. "Yeah. Something in my eye."
She smiles as if she knew. "You should have been there. Yes, I know."
You watch her walk away and you sigh. Yes, you should have been there.
Not to play, but to say goodbye.
You were not.
And it hurts.