fic: The Weakness In Me (?/Yoann Gourcuff, PG)
Title: The Weakness In Me
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, French National Team
Pairing: ?/Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen the way I wrote it. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Committing dishonourable deeds out of desperation is an ancient tradition in the history of mankind.
Word Count: 2,256
A/N: This was originally written as a 1,000 words fic for the "World Cup" challenge at footballverse and voted second place by the members. After the challenge ended I expanded the story because I felt that the topic warranted it.
Warning: Implies and mentions verbal abuse, bullying and mobbing. If you've read about the scandal in the French National Team, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you don't, do scroll down to the end of the fic and read the note first.
Thanks a million to jennis_footie for the very helpful beta and her tireless patience with me. *glomps* All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. You may not steal them and use them in your fic. ;)
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
Committing dishonourable deeds out of desperation is an ancient tradition in the history of mankind. When our backs hit the proverbial wall, some of us would not hesitate to resort to the lowest measures imaginable and gladly sacrifice someone else just to get out of trouble relatively unscathed. Our prehistoric ancestors probably didn't take long to make that discovery, and the custom has defied progress and evolution until today.
And I'm doing my best to keep the tradition alive.
What I've done isn't illegal enough to get me into prison, but if it all came out I wouldn't be damned just once but probably ten times over.
It's common knowledge that footballers are only allowed to have relationships with their wives and girlfriends, and that affairs are strictly forbidden.
However, there are things you can't control, predict, or avoid because they have never followed the laws of reason. They just happen, and even though you cannot be blamed for them, you have to face their consequences.
And so it happened that I'm having an affair. With a teammate.
The affair is so secret that only two people know about it, but whereas one of them is me, the other one is not the teammate in question, unfortunately.
You might wonder why I'm calling it an affair. Doesn't the word 'affair' imply the active participation of more than one person? Yes, of course it does, but let me assure you that in my head Yoann Gourcuff is quite active, if you know what I mean. (I know this isn't a joking matter, but when you're left with nothing but a choice between laughing and weeping, what would you do?)
In any case, the other person who knows about this (admittedly rather one-sided) affair is a third teammate, and if you consider the tension within our squad and the private feuds of some players and their cronies, you'll see the problem.
It didn't surprise me that he was the one to find out about me. When you're that desperate to save your declining career, you keep an attentive eye on everything that goes on in your dressing room in search of people to exploit for your causes. Things that might escape your teammates' notice won't escape yours.
So one day, he approached me in private and told me in no uncertain terms (though with a false sympathetic smile that could have fooled me into thinking the bastard actually cared about my well-being) that he would use his knowledge to make my life hell if I didn't do exactly what he ordered me to do.
I didn't deny or confirm anything, but I knew about his position in the team. My version of things would not matter as soon as he opened his mouth to the others, and I didn't want to risk my own position and the chance of being a part of the starting line-up.
This, of course, is not an excuse. I could have said no and faced the consequences like a man, especially since I was perfectly aware of what would happen if I submitted to this less than subtle act of blackmail. My teammate and his close friends in the squad had never made a secret out of their immense dislike for a particular colleague, and I didn't need a university degree to figure out what I would be required to do.
But when it comes down to it, we're all cowards who would rather team up with a bully than become the target of everyone's contempt. And thus, in a perfect example of dramatic irony, I ended up as the main tormentor of the person I secretly loved while telling the press and everyone who asked me that I didn't notice anything about any scandal in the squad because I was just watching DVDs.
I'll never forget the way Yoann looked at me when I threw one of his books out of the recreation room window in execution of the first job I was assigned. It took all my willpower not to run out of the room, down the four sets of stairs, and to the backyard of the hotel to bring back the book and offer a thousand apologies with it. Instead, I simply left the room while Yoann's protestations were drowned in the laughter of our teammates.
There was nothing he could do about it. True, he could have reported the incident to Domenech, but that would have made him look absolutely ridiculous. The coach would probably have told Yoann not to bother him with this childish behaviour and try to sort out the problem with his teammates like a grown-up man would do.
The fact that Yoann kept quiet about it and the nature of our coach (who was far too busy sorting out the problems we'd created for him and didn't have time to check up on what we did during recreation hours) played right into our hands.
My blackmailer and his cronies placed ridiculous room service orders in Yoann's name and toppled over laughing when the midfielder tried to explain politely to the hotel waiter that he had not ordered any of what he was served while at the same time he was probably boiling with rage inside.
They somehow managed to get a couple of rather ugly toads into the hotel and ordered me to put them into his bed, his tooth mug, and the glass of water on his bedside table.
They made me order gay porn channels for him and switched on his television whenever he was not in the room to give him a nice welcome when he would return.
They sneered at him whenever he walked by, calling him a faggot and making rude remarks and comments about the way he looked. I didn't join in, but more than once I caught myself thinking that everything would have turned out differently if Yoann was actually gay and I had known it.
One night, his roommate and I were told to put pink nailpolish on his toes while Yoann was asleep and place a shitload of different shades of lipstick in his bathroom cabinet that would all fall on top of him when he opened the door.
Gradually, his reaction to what we did to him changed. Whereas he was pretty vocal at the beginning, yelling at us and cursing us in every way possible (though never resorting to physical violence), at some point he merely endured everything with a stoic look on his face and tried to spend as little time with us as possible.
He didn't try to get back at us. He didn't tell the press about us. He was above us in every way, and I suppose he didn't even hate us for what we did, he just pitied us.
Sometimes I wondered if he'd forgive me if he knew the real reason for my behaviour. I didn't think so; I wouldn't have forgiven me if I were him.
When the World Cup finally started and Yoann avoided us completely, sitting alone during meals and staying in his room when there was no training, I felt confident that my teammates would finally be satisfied, stop their bullying, and leave me off the hook.
Little did I know.
The day before our second group game against Mexico, my roommate told me about the failed meeting with Zidane. The coach had actually been interested in the players' tactical suggestions at first, but when the topic of leaving Gourcuff out of the squad had come up, Domenech had smelled a rat and declared the conversation finished.
The bully and his cronies fumed. I don't know what they'd expected, but it was obvious to me that they had grown too full of themselves. The coach, even though he didn't manage to control the team, still had complete power of the line-ups and substitutions and was under no obligation to consider anyone else's opinions in the matter. Their meeting plan had been too obvious and therefore not good enough.
Now they needed me to get my hands dirty for them and deal their victim the final blow.
I refused at first. Yes, I actually plucked up the courage to stand up against them. I probably didn't do it well because all I got in response was some chuckling and the question whether I'd lost my balls somewhere. So I had to say it again, more firmly this time, and make them realise that whereas I wasn't opposed to some mild teasing (though I knew perfectly well that I had overstepped that boundary long ago), what they were asking me to do went too far. That was when my blackmailer, never one to give in easily, grabbed my arm, hauled me out of the room, and presented me with my choices, which were more than limited, to say the least.
In the end, I gave in. Carrying out my teammates' orders, I put booze into Yoann's duffel bag so his roommate could 'accidentally' stumble over it, discover its incriminating contents, and run straight to Domenech. He might have sensed what was going on, but he also knew that his control over the team was hanging by a thread, and he couldn't afford any more leniency. Despite Yoann's desperate affirmations, he stayed on the bench for the full ninety minutes against Mexico.
I didn't play either, and I was almost grateful for it. I wouldn't have been able to stand a minute on the pitch knowing that I had kept my teammate off of it. Regret and guilt were feeding on me like starving tigers, and when my teammates dragged me off the bench at half-time I realised I had just missed the entire first half of the game and would probably miss the second as well.
I couldn't go on like this. The thought of going home with the knowledge of having actively betrayed my country and sabotaged my team weighed heavy on my conscience as well as my heart. However, no matter how much I wanted to set things right, I didn't know how. The mere thought of facing Yoann frightened me and made me feel sick.
The night before our last game, I pulled myself together and managed to get him alone. I had no definitive plans, hadn't concocted any useful sentences in my head. All I knew was that if we were eliminated from the World Cup the next day and sent home in shame, if we were to never play together again anymore, the least I could do was to come clean, apologise, and hope not to get skinned alive (even though that was probably what I deserved).
When I entered his room, knowing that his roommate was still playing games with some of the others in the recreation room, I found Yoann sitting on his bed, reading a magazine. He looked up at me, his face darkening in recognition, and I threw my cards on the table before he could speak.
He didn't interrupt me at any point or show any reaction until I had finished. When he realised there wouldn't be any more humiliating truths, he leaned back, arms crossed in front of his chest, and just stared at me. I knew what he was thinking. Why should he trust me? Why should he believe a crazed, impossible confession like this and risk even more humiliation by doing so?
"Say something," I implored him when the silence became too much.
"Why did you tell me?" Yoann finally said, his voice quiet.
"Because it's the truth."
"Maybe, but why tell me?"
"Because…" I hesitated. Because I wanted him to forgive me? Clearly, but I sure as hell didn't expect it. Because I wanted him not to hate me? Again, clearly, but just as unlikely. "Because I can't go on like this," I finally said. "I want you to know why I did it. Do what you want with that. Tell the others, treat me like shit, it won't change what I think about you."
Yoann lowered his gaze. "I used to like you a lot," he said quietly. "A lot."
I swallowed hard as the true meaning of his words hit me. "I… I don't blame you if you hate me now." It took all my willpower to get the words out. God, what a fool I’d been.
"I would be right to." He let out a sad sigh. "But I don't. I can't."
I was still staring at Yoann in disbelief when the door flew open and his roommate returned, prematurely ending our conversation.
The next day we were eliminated from the tournament.
On the plane back home, I demonstratively sat next to Yoann, doing my best to distract him from the events of the last group match against South Africa so he couldn't beat himself up about the undeserved red card. Every once in a while during the flight I glanced around and relished my teammates' scornful glares.
Yoann hasn't forgiven me yet, but I can't blame him for that, and I'm clearly not expecting any miracles to happen. I was baffled enough when, during the flight back home, he offered me the chance of a fresh start by suggesting we put this doomed World Cup behind us. The least I can do now is dedicate the rest of my life to convincing him that he was right to make that offer, and never give up hope that one day he might be more than a friend to me.
Note: The mobbing scandal concerning Yoann Gourcuff has been the subject of several articles in newspapers and football magazines, but for those who haven't heard about it, here's a quick summary of the alleged events: A large majority of the players in the French national squad are making Yoann Gourcuff's life hell because the fact that he's well-educated and well-mannered and prefers reading books to spending hours and hours in front of the Playstation doesn't wash with them. Among the players who are actively bullying Gourcuff and treating him like a leper are Thierry Henry and Nicolas Anelka as well as Franck Ribéry, who has become the main target of criticism due to his performances. [source] Allegedly, Zidane scheduled a meeting with Ribéry, Henry, William Gallas and Patrice Evra to plot a new tactical strategy, and the players then set to remove Gourcuff from the starting line-up. The plan went wrong when Domenech realised that Zidane was behind the tactical suggestion as he had undermined the coach's plans as an active player in 2006 already. [source] Yoann Gourcuff, a very shy person, is visibly affected by the way he is treated. During an interview, he cringed when Anelka and Ribéry walked past behind him, "like the best pupil in the class shies away from the bully of the school to escape a blow to the back of his head". [source]
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, French National Team
Pairing: ?/Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen the way I wrote it. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Committing dishonourable deeds out of desperation is an ancient tradition in the history of mankind.
Word Count: 2,256
A/N: This was originally written as a 1,000 words fic for the "World Cup" challenge at footballverse and voted second place by the members. After the challenge ended I expanded the story because I felt that the topic warranted it.
Warning: Implies and mentions verbal abuse, bullying and mobbing. If you've read about the scandal in the French National Team, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you don't, do scroll down to the end of the fic and read the note first.
Thanks a million to jennis_footie for the very helpful beta and her tireless patience with me. *glomps* All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. You may not steal them and use them in your fic. ;)
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
Committing dishonourable deeds out of desperation is an ancient tradition in the history of mankind. When our backs hit the proverbial wall, some of us would not hesitate to resort to the lowest measures imaginable and gladly sacrifice someone else just to get out of trouble relatively unscathed. Our prehistoric ancestors probably didn't take long to make that discovery, and the custom has defied progress and evolution until today.
And I'm doing my best to keep the tradition alive.
What I've done isn't illegal enough to get me into prison, but if it all came out I wouldn't be damned just once but probably ten times over.
It's common knowledge that footballers are only allowed to have relationships with their wives and girlfriends, and that affairs are strictly forbidden.
However, there are things you can't control, predict, or avoid because they have never followed the laws of reason. They just happen, and even though you cannot be blamed for them, you have to face their consequences.
And so it happened that I'm having an affair. With a teammate.
The affair is so secret that only two people know about it, but whereas one of them is me, the other one is not the teammate in question, unfortunately.
You might wonder why I'm calling it an affair. Doesn't the word 'affair' imply the active participation of more than one person? Yes, of course it does, but let me assure you that in my head Yoann Gourcuff is quite active, if you know what I mean. (I know this isn't a joking matter, but when you're left with nothing but a choice between laughing and weeping, what would you do?)
In any case, the other person who knows about this (admittedly rather one-sided) affair is a third teammate, and if you consider the tension within our squad and the private feuds of some players and their cronies, you'll see the problem.
It didn't surprise me that he was the one to find out about me. When you're that desperate to save your declining career, you keep an attentive eye on everything that goes on in your dressing room in search of people to exploit for your causes. Things that might escape your teammates' notice won't escape yours.
So one day, he approached me in private and told me in no uncertain terms (though with a false sympathetic smile that could have fooled me into thinking the bastard actually cared about my well-being) that he would use his knowledge to make my life hell if I didn't do exactly what he ordered me to do.
I didn't deny or confirm anything, but I knew about his position in the team. My version of things would not matter as soon as he opened his mouth to the others, and I didn't want to risk my own position and the chance of being a part of the starting line-up.
This, of course, is not an excuse. I could have said no and faced the consequences like a man, especially since I was perfectly aware of what would happen if I submitted to this less than subtle act of blackmail. My teammate and his close friends in the squad had never made a secret out of their immense dislike for a particular colleague, and I didn't need a university degree to figure out what I would be required to do.
But when it comes down to it, we're all cowards who would rather team up with a bully than become the target of everyone's contempt. And thus, in a perfect example of dramatic irony, I ended up as the main tormentor of the person I secretly loved while telling the press and everyone who asked me that I didn't notice anything about any scandal in the squad because I was just watching DVDs.
I'll never forget the way Yoann looked at me when I threw one of his books out of the recreation room window in execution of the first job I was assigned. It took all my willpower not to run out of the room, down the four sets of stairs, and to the backyard of the hotel to bring back the book and offer a thousand apologies with it. Instead, I simply left the room while Yoann's protestations were drowned in the laughter of our teammates.
There was nothing he could do about it. True, he could have reported the incident to Domenech, but that would have made him look absolutely ridiculous. The coach would probably have told Yoann not to bother him with this childish behaviour and try to sort out the problem with his teammates like a grown-up man would do.
The fact that Yoann kept quiet about it and the nature of our coach (who was far too busy sorting out the problems we'd created for him and didn't have time to check up on what we did during recreation hours) played right into our hands.
My blackmailer and his cronies placed ridiculous room service orders in Yoann's name and toppled over laughing when the midfielder tried to explain politely to the hotel waiter that he had not ordered any of what he was served while at the same time he was probably boiling with rage inside.
They somehow managed to get a couple of rather ugly toads into the hotel and ordered me to put them into his bed, his tooth mug, and the glass of water on his bedside table.
They made me order gay porn channels for him and switched on his television whenever he was not in the room to give him a nice welcome when he would return.
They sneered at him whenever he walked by, calling him a faggot and making rude remarks and comments about the way he looked. I didn't join in, but more than once I caught myself thinking that everything would have turned out differently if Yoann was actually gay and I had known it.
One night, his roommate and I were told to put pink nailpolish on his toes while Yoann was asleep and place a shitload of different shades of lipstick in his bathroom cabinet that would all fall on top of him when he opened the door.
Gradually, his reaction to what we did to him changed. Whereas he was pretty vocal at the beginning, yelling at us and cursing us in every way possible (though never resorting to physical violence), at some point he merely endured everything with a stoic look on his face and tried to spend as little time with us as possible.
He didn't try to get back at us. He didn't tell the press about us. He was above us in every way, and I suppose he didn't even hate us for what we did, he just pitied us.
Sometimes I wondered if he'd forgive me if he knew the real reason for my behaviour. I didn't think so; I wouldn't have forgiven me if I were him.
When the World Cup finally started and Yoann avoided us completely, sitting alone during meals and staying in his room when there was no training, I felt confident that my teammates would finally be satisfied, stop their bullying, and leave me off the hook.
Little did I know.
The day before our second group game against Mexico, my roommate told me about the failed meeting with Zidane. The coach had actually been interested in the players' tactical suggestions at first, but when the topic of leaving Gourcuff out of the squad had come up, Domenech had smelled a rat and declared the conversation finished.
The bully and his cronies fumed. I don't know what they'd expected, but it was obvious to me that they had grown too full of themselves. The coach, even though he didn't manage to control the team, still had complete power of the line-ups and substitutions and was under no obligation to consider anyone else's opinions in the matter. Their meeting plan had been too obvious and therefore not good enough.
Now they needed me to get my hands dirty for them and deal their victim the final blow.
I refused at first. Yes, I actually plucked up the courage to stand up against them. I probably didn't do it well because all I got in response was some chuckling and the question whether I'd lost my balls somewhere. So I had to say it again, more firmly this time, and make them realise that whereas I wasn't opposed to some mild teasing (though I knew perfectly well that I had overstepped that boundary long ago), what they were asking me to do went too far. That was when my blackmailer, never one to give in easily, grabbed my arm, hauled me out of the room, and presented me with my choices, which were more than limited, to say the least.
In the end, I gave in. Carrying out my teammates' orders, I put booze into Yoann's duffel bag so his roommate could 'accidentally' stumble over it, discover its incriminating contents, and run straight to Domenech. He might have sensed what was going on, but he also knew that his control over the team was hanging by a thread, and he couldn't afford any more leniency. Despite Yoann's desperate affirmations, he stayed on the bench for the full ninety minutes against Mexico.
I didn't play either, and I was almost grateful for it. I wouldn't have been able to stand a minute on the pitch knowing that I had kept my teammate off of it. Regret and guilt were feeding on me like starving tigers, and when my teammates dragged me off the bench at half-time I realised I had just missed the entire first half of the game and would probably miss the second as well.
I couldn't go on like this. The thought of going home with the knowledge of having actively betrayed my country and sabotaged my team weighed heavy on my conscience as well as my heart. However, no matter how much I wanted to set things right, I didn't know how. The mere thought of facing Yoann frightened me and made me feel sick.
The night before our last game, I pulled myself together and managed to get him alone. I had no definitive plans, hadn't concocted any useful sentences in my head. All I knew was that if we were eliminated from the World Cup the next day and sent home in shame, if we were to never play together again anymore, the least I could do was to come clean, apologise, and hope not to get skinned alive (even though that was probably what I deserved).
When I entered his room, knowing that his roommate was still playing games with some of the others in the recreation room, I found Yoann sitting on his bed, reading a magazine. He looked up at me, his face darkening in recognition, and I threw my cards on the table before he could speak.
He didn't interrupt me at any point or show any reaction until I had finished. When he realised there wouldn't be any more humiliating truths, he leaned back, arms crossed in front of his chest, and just stared at me. I knew what he was thinking. Why should he trust me? Why should he believe a crazed, impossible confession like this and risk even more humiliation by doing so?
"Say something," I implored him when the silence became too much.
"Why did you tell me?" Yoann finally said, his voice quiet.
"Because it's the truth."
"Maybe, but why tell me?"
"Because…" I hesitated. Because I wanted him to forgive me? Clearly, but I sure as hell didn't expect it. Because I wanted him not to hate me? Again, clearly, but just as unlikely. "Because I can't go on like this," I finally said. "I want you to know why I did it. Do what you want with that. Tell the others, treat me like shit, it won't change what I think about you."
Yoann lowered his gaze. "I used to like you a lot," he said quietly. "A lot."
I swallowed hard as the true meaning of his words hit me. "I… I don't blame you if you hate me now." It took all my willpower to get the words out. God, what a fool I’d been.
"I would be right to." He let out a sad sigh. "But I don't. I can't."
I was still staring at Yoann in disbelief when the door flew open and his roommate returned, prematurely ending our conversation.
The next day we were eliminated from the tournament.
On the plane back home, I demonstratively sat next to Yoann, doing my best to distract him from the events of the last group match against South Africa so he couldn't beat himself up about the undeserved red card. Every once in a while during the flight I glanced around and relished my teammates' scornful glares.
Yoann hasn't forgiven me yet, but I can't blame him for that, and I'm clearly not expecting any miracles to happen. I was baffled enough when, during the flight back home, he offered me the chance of a fresh start by suggesting we put this doomed World Cup behind us. The least I can do now is dedicate the rest of my life to convincing him that he was right to make that offer, and never give up hope that one day he might be more than a friend to me.
Note: The mobbing scandal concerning Yoann Gourcuff has been the subject of several articles in newspapers and football magazines, but for those who haven't heard about it, here's a quick summary of the alleged events: A large majority of the players in the French national squad are making Yoann Gourcuff's life hell because the fact that he's well-educated and well-mannered and prefers reading books to spending hours and hours in front of the Playstation doesn't wash with them. Among the players who are actively bullying Gourcuff and treating him like a leper are Thierry Henry and Nicolas Anelka as well as Franck Ribéry, who has become the main target of criticism due to his performances. [source] Allegedly, Zidane scheduled a meeting with Ribéry, Henry, William Gallas and Patrice Evra to plot a new tactical strategy, and the players then set to remove Gourcuff from the starting line-up. The plan went wrong when Domenech realised that Zidane was behind the tactical suggestion as he had undermined the coach's plans as an active player in 2006 already. [source] Yoann Gourcuff, a very shy person, is visibly affected by the way he is treated. During an interview, he cringed when Anelka and Ribéry walked past behind him, "like the best pupil in the class shies away from the bully of the school to escape a blow to the back of his head". [source]