Fic: five times Leo Messi fell in love [Leo Messi, Cesc Fabregas, Sergio Aguero, G-PG]
Title: five times Leo Messi fell in love
Rating: G-PG (gen or pre-slash, you decide)
Characters: Leo Messi, Cesc Fabregas, Sergio Aguero (with guest appearances by Gerard Pique, Deco and the Argentina World Cup squad of '06)
Disclaimer: All lies. Except for the facts, for which see end of fic.
Summary: Years later, they still talk about this game. Barcelona and Argentina, five games and five moments of pain, glory and joy as Leo grows up.
Notes: this is for guede_mazaka, who is lovely and talented. Happy belated birthday.
Youth Copa del Rey final: Barca Youth A v Espanyol Youth A
Years later, they still talk about this game. The youth coaches like the story because it makes everyone involved look good: 'Young Messi insists on playing despite having had his cheekbone broken by the same opponents a week ago and ordered to rest for two weeks. Gets out there wearing a protective mask and leads the team.'
(It's a nice story for the journalists.)
Leo likes the memory, too, but he doesn't talk about it.
If he did, it would be something like this:
They're only ten minutes into the match. It's 0-0.
"I can't even see the goal with this bloody thing on!" he yells at Gerard in frustration and takes the mask off.
The coach sees it and says nothing. Cesc and Gerard see it and the two of them begin snapping at the heels of any opponent who gets within contact distance. The constant feeling of a shadow at his back is familiar and comforting, and he doesn't even have to look to know who's there.
Cesc gets carded for his efforts. Gerard almost gets into a fight with someone twice his size. They've been getting in trouble for his sake for what seems like forever, and he's never been more thankful.
When he scores and everyone rushes at him to celebrate, Cesc shoves himself in front, shielding Leo's unprotected face from flailing arms. There are bruises forming on the exposed skin of his legs.
'Thank you,' Leo mouths the words, not trusting himself to speak.
Cesc only grins lopsidedly in response.
The rest of the game is a haze like most games are to him, nothing else but adrenaline and instinct. The fog only lifts when the coach calls him to the touchline and speaks to him quietly, easing him out of it.
"It's alright, Leo, we've got it, come off before you hurt yourself again."
They're 3-0 up, and there's only half an hour to go. Barring a horrible collapse - and he knows the guys on the pitch, has faith in their ability to defend that lead - they've won.
At the end, Leo runs onto the pitch to celebrate with the rest of the team. There's a lot of yelling, and the heady rush of victory makes him giddy even though he's been resting.
Cesc gives him the customary hug, only it isn't - he holds on so tightly Leo can barely breathe, before brushing careful, feather-light fingers over the skin healing above the broken cheekbone.
It's the lightest of touches, but to Leo it feels like one of his injections.
"Thank you."
Nobody knew at the time, but it was Cesc's last game in Barca colours.
(Maybe that's why he doesn't discuss it.)
Barca Youth A 4 - 1 Espanyol Youth A
World Youth Championship final: Argentina v Nigeria
The night before, they sit on Leo's bed and watch tapes of Nigeria's previous games, like they've been told to.
Ten minutes into the video, Sergio nudges Leo's knee with his own. "Hey, want to get out the playstation?"
In the face of Sergio's blinding smile, he hesitates, but only for a moment. "...okay."
They play Barca v Real, and Sergio lets him win. Not that he'd ever admit it.
"Not again! How did that goal go in? You lucky bastard..." He trails off, staring at Leo's hand, gripping the controller like a lifeline.
Not sure why he's doing it, really. (Just trying to breathe.)
"Leo. Leo, don't be like that," Sergio says, insistently cheerful voice wavering with something like worry before snapping right back to normal. "Come on, just go out there and play tomorrow like you normally do."
"I...I don't want to lose."
It feels like an enormous confession, somehow, even though that seems stupid. He can barely say it.
"Don't be silly, of course you won't."
"How can you know that?"
Beside him, Sergio lights up like the floodlights of the Camp Nou. "I believe it."
(Smiling and agreeing seems the only appropriate response.)
Belief keeps Leo going the next day, playing in an unfamiliar position, too far up the field, too isolated from the rest of the team and feeling horribly helpless even as he runs his heart out all over the pitch. They're not playing as well as the Nigerians, and there are few chances, but when he gets the ball he can only put his head down and force his way into the box, even though there's no pathway to goal.
Someone once told him that being a playmaker was about the creation of possibilities. So he draws a penalty, out of nowhere. Steps up and takes it, into the corner, he doesn't even need to look at the goalkeeper. It's about belief, isn't it?
They celebrate. Leo doesn't smile.
The Nigerians level and he can't see where another goal is going to come from, but then Sergio comes on - and they connect.
That's the thing about partnerships. Some things just work, and there's no need to question why he knows where Sergio is on the pitch at any moment - it just is, and if he believes in anything right now, it's this. So when Sergio asks for the ball, he doesn't think about it, just makes the pass even though surely nothing's open.
An impossible-looking run, and another penalty - this time it's Sergio creating the possibility, and Leo steps up yet again. He spares a look for the 'keeper this time.
The thrill sound of the final whistle seems to draw back a vein, letting anxiety, doubt and God, bone-deep exhaustion back into his body. Suddenly he can smell the well-trampled grass covering the pitch and hear the roar of the crowd. But then he's being engulfed by a sea of bodies, screaming in joy and relief, and it's easy to forget anything else exists.
"I told you!" Sergio shouts somewhere near his ear, voice loud and hoarse.
Wincing, Leo swats ineffectually at the other boy's stranglehold on his arm, grinning as if he might never stop, and blurts out words that have been hovering at the tip of his tongue for weeks.
"Come to Spain."
Argentina 2 - 1 Nigeria
Champions League Round of 16: Chelsea v Barcelona
After, Leo sits in a corner of the changing room, thinking -
It's going to take a lot to get all that mud out of his kit.
He's shaking, just a bit. (Hopefully no one will notice.) His mind is blank.
Someone's leaning over him. It's Deco, brows furrowed in concern. "Leo? Leo, are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm great," he says, voice flat.
He is, actually. There are bruises all over his body, but he can barely feel them, only the leftover adrenaline rush, the echoes of the baying crowd in his ears, and a single thought dominating above all else -
I want to do that again.
Leo's young, but he knows what football's like. Some people don't even get a game like that in their entire career. He's lucky.
It would be almost cruel to know that state, to know that one could play like that, and never reach it again. The possibility is there, though, and that's all he can aspire to.
It's an addictive feeling, this.
Chelsea 1 - 2 Barcelona
World Cup Quarterfinal: Germany v Argentina
Leo never thought he'd see Roberto Ayala cry. Everyone is either sobbing or just sitting there dead-eyed, like Roman. He can't even look at Masche.
The thought of finding Oscar to hide behind like he's done all this time in Germany is overwhelming, but his limbs won't move. So Leo huddles in on himself and tries to disappear. The first shuddering sob almost surprises him -
But then the dam breaks, the tears come (and it's almost a relief).
Through the walls of the changing room he can hear snatches of the celebrations going on outside, the whole magnificent stadium shuddering at the sound of the crowd. The stab of pain that he feels at those songs and chants is accomplished by a sudden rush of thoughts, tumbling over each other, hardening into determination and certainty.
He wants to come back, and wear the jersey again and again. He wants to lead the team, win the tournament, and bring the Cup back to Buenos Aires. He wants to see the celebrations, the parades, so many people crying and screaming in joy.
He wants to do it all for his country, because even after he left, he's never forgotten, never, and he never will.
It's not the first time Leo's looked at the albiceleste jersey and felt something momentous, almost horrifying. But now seeing it through eyes blurry with tears he can only think, with a sudden vicious conviction:
God, how beautiful. Like the sky back home.
Germany 1 - 1 Argentina (4 - 2 pens.)
Primera Liga: Barcelona v Real Madrid
This is what Leo does the day after the game:
He stands on the pitch, breathing in the sharp morning air, with the stadium rising endlessly into the sky like a living thing around him, and his hands shake with memory -
- walls of blue and garnet everywhere when he looked up -
- the sustained roar of a hundred thousand people, forming his name, Messi, Messi, Messi, disbelief and relief and joy echoing together -
Everything more vivid and breathtaking than it had been in his dreams.
Being here, armed with the memory of that moment, he feels like he can reach out and touch the ghosts of those who had stood on the same pitch and heard the same roar in years past.
(He could really get used to this.)
Barcelona 3 - 3 Real Madrid
finis.
Notes
+ Names: Oscar - Oscar Ustari, Masche - Javier Mascherano, Roman - Juan Roman Riquelme. I didn't feel comfortable using Sergio Aguero's nickname as his common form of address, so that's why it's not mentioned.
+ Facts curbed from articles: 1) All the games, including the first one, and youth coaches do indeed enjoy telling that story to journalists.
2) Gerard, Cesc and the rest of that youth team getting into scrapes to protect Messi.
3) Sergio, Leo, rooming together and playstation.
4) Messi’s breakdown in the changing rooms after Argentina v Germany, and his isolation at the tournament itself.
(So's the thing about him not smiling after scoring, although that's kind of trivial.)
+ The injection I mention is the daily injections Messi had to have between the ages of 13 to 16 to cure his growth condition.
Rating: G-PG (gen or pre-slash, you decide)
Characters: Leo Messi, Cesc Fabregas, Sergio Aguero (with guest appearances by Gerard Pique, Deco and the Argentina World Cup squad of '06)
Disclaimer: All lies. Except for the facts, for which see end of fic.
Summary: Years later, they still talk about this game. Barcelona and Argentina, five games and five moments of pain, glory and joy as Leo grows up.
Notes: this is for guede_mazaka, who is lovely and talented. Happy belated birthday.
Youth Copa del Rey final: Barca Youth A v Espanyol Youth A
Years later, they still talk about this game. The youth coaches like the story because it makes everyone involved look good: 'Young Messi insists on playing despite having had his cheekbone broken by the same opponents a week ago and ordered to rest for two weeks. Gets out there wearing a protective mask and leads the team.'
(It's a nice story for the journalists.)
Leo likes the memory, too, but he doesn't talk about it.
If he did, it would be something like this:
They're only ten minutes into the match. It's 0-0.
"I can't even see the goal with this bloody thing on!" he yells at Gerard in frustration and takes the mask off.
The coach sees it and says nothing. Cesc and Gerard see it and the two of them begin snapping at the heels of any opponent who gets within contact distance. The constant feeling of a shadow at his back is familiar and comforting, and he doesn't even have to look to know who's there.
Cesc gets carded for his efforts. Gerard almost gets into a fight with someone twice his size. They've been getting in trouble for his sake for what seems like forever, and he's never been more thankful.
When he scores and everyone rushes at him to celebrate, Cesc shoves himself in front, shielding Leo's unprotected face from flailing arms. There are bruises forming on the exposed skin of his legs.
'Thank you,' Leo mouths the words, not trusting himself to speak.
Cesc only grins lopsidedly in response.
The rest of the game is a haze like most games are to him, nothing else but adrenaline and instinct. The fog only lifts when the coach calls him to the touchline and speaks to him quietly, easing him out of it.
"It's alright, Leo, we've got it, come off before you hurt yourself again."
They're 3-0 up, and there's only half an hour to go. Barring a horrible collapse - and he knows the guys on the pitch, has faith in their ability to defend that lead - they've won.
At the end, Leo runs onto the pitch to celebrate with the rest of the team. There's a lot of yelling, and the heady rush of victory makes him giddy even though he's been resting.
Cesc gives him the customary hug, only it isn't - he holds on so tightly Leo can barely breathe, before brushing careful, feather-light fingers over the skin healing above the broken cheekbone.
It's the lightest of touches, but to Leo it feels like one of his injections.
"Thank you."
Nobody knew at the time, but it was Cesc's last game in Barca colours.
(Maybe that's why he doesn't discuss it.)
Barca Youth A 4 - 1 Espanyol Youth A
World Youth Championship final: Argentina v Nigeria
The night before, they sit on Leo's bed and watch tapes of Nigeria's previous games, like they've been told to.
Ten minutes into the video, Sergio nudges Leo's knee with his own. "Hey, want to get out the playstation?"
In the face of Sergio's blinding smile, he hesitates, but only for a moment. "...okay."
They play Barca v Real, and Sergio lets him win. Not that he'd ever admit it.
"Not again! How did that goal go in? You lucky bastard..." He trails off, staring at Leo's hand, gripping the controller like a lifeline.
Not sure why he's doing it, really. (Just trying to breathe.)
"Leo. Leo, don't be like that," Sergio says, insistently cheerful voice wavering with something like worry before snapping right back to normal. "Come on, just go out there and play tomorrow like you normally do."
"I...I don't want to lose."
It feels like an enormous confession, somehow, even though that seems stupid. He can barely say it.
"Don't be silly, of course you won't."
"How can you know that?"
Beside him, Sergio lights up like the floodlights of the Camp Nou. "I believe it."
(Smiling and agreeing seems the only appropriate response.)
Belief keeps Leo going the next day, playing in an unfamiliar position, too far up the field, too isolated from the rest of the team and feeling horribly helpless even as he runs his heart out all over the pitch. They're not playing as well as the Nigerians, and there are few chances, but when he gets the ball he can only put his head down and force his way into the box, even though there's no pathway to goal.
Someone once told him that being a playmaker was about the creation of possibilities. So he draws a penalty, out of nowhere. Steps up and takes it, into the corner, he doesn't even need to look at the goalkeeper. It's about belief, isn't it?
They celebrate. Leo doesn't smile.
The Nigerians level and he can't see where another goal is going to come from, but then Sergio comes on - and they connect.
That's the thing about partnerships. Some things just work, and there's no need to question why he knows where Sergio is on the pitch at any moment - it just is, and if he believes in anything right now, it's this. So when Sergio asks for the ball, he doesn't think about it, just makes the pass even though surely nothing's open.
An impossible-looking run, and another penalty - this time it's Sergio creating the possibility, and Leo steps up yet again. He spares a look for the 'keeper this time.
The thrill sound of the final whistle seems to draw back a vein, letting anxiety, doubt and God, bone-deep exhaustion back into his body. Suddenly he can smell the well-trampled grass covering the pitch and hear the roar of the crowd. But then he's being engulfed by a sea of bodies, screaming in joy and relief, and it's easy to forget anything else exists.
"I told you!" Sergio shouts somewhere near his ear, voice loud and hoarse.
Wincing, Leo swats ineffectually at the other boy's stranglehold on his arm, grinning as if he might never stop, and blurts out words that have been hovering at the tip of his tongue for weeks.
"Come to Spain."
Argentina 2 - 1 Nigeria
Champions League Round of 16: Chelsea v Barcelona
After, Leo sits in a corner of the changing room, thinking -
It's going to take a lot to get all that mud out of his kit.
He's shaking, just a bit. (Hopefully no one will notice.) His mind is blank.
Someone's leaning over him. It's Deco, brows furrowed in concern. "Leo? Leo, are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm great," he says, voice flat.
He is, actually. There are bruises all over his body, but he can barely feel them, only the leftover adrenaline rush, the echoes of the baying crowd in his ears, and a single thought dominating above all else -
I want to do that again.
Leo's young, but he knows what football's like. Some people don't even get a game like that in their entire career. He's lucky.
It would be almost cruel to know that state, to know that one could play like that, and never reach it again. The possibility is there, though, and that's all he can aspire to.
It's an addictive feeling, this.
Chelsea 1 - 2 Barcelona
World Cup Quarterfinal: Germany v Argentina
Leo never thought he'd see Roberto Ayala cry. Everyone is either sobbing or just sitting there dead-eyed, like Roman. He can't even look at Masche.
The thought of finding Oscar to hide behind like he's done all this time in Germany is overwhelming, but his limbs won't move. So Leo huddles in on himself and tries to disappear. The first shuddering sob almost surprises him -
But then the dam breaks, the tears come (and it's almost a relief).
Through the walls of the changing room he can hear snatches of the celebrations going on outside, the whole magnificent stadium shuddering at the sound of the crowd. The stab of pain that he feels at those songs and chants is accomplished by a sudden rush of thoughts, tumbling over each other, hardening into determination and certainty.
He wants to come back, and wear the jersey again and again. He wants to lead the team, win the tournament, and bring the Cup back to Buenos Aires. He wants to see the celebrations, the parades, so many people crying and screaming in joy.
He wants to do it all for his country, because even after he left, he's never forgotten, never, and he never will.
It's not the first time Leo's looked at the albiceleste jersey and felt something momentous, almost horrifying. But now seeing it through eyes blurry with tears he can only think, with a sudden vicious conviction:
God, how beautiful. Like the sky back home.
Germany 1 - 1 Argentina (4 - 2 pens.)
Primera Liga: Barcelona v Real Madrid
This is what Leo does the day after the game:
He stands on the pitch, breathing in the sharp morning air, with the stadium rising endlessly into the sky like a living thing around him, and his hands shake with memory -
- walls of blue and garnet everywhere when he looked up -
- the sustained roar of a hundred thousand people, forming his name, Messi, Messi, Messi, disbelief and relief and joy echoing together -
Everything more vivid and breathtaking than it had been in his dreams.
Being here, armed with the memory of that moment, he feels like he can reach out and touch the ghosts of those who had stood on the same pitch and heard the same roar in years past.
(He could really get used to this.)
Barcelona 3 - 3 Real Madrid
finis.
Notes
+ Names: Oscar - Oscar Ustari, Masche - Javier Mascherano, Roman - Juan Roman Riquelme. I didn't feel comfortable using Sergio Aguero's nickname as his common form of address, so that's why it's not mentioned.
+ Facts curbed from articles: 1) All the games, including the first one, and youth coaches do indeed enjoy telling that story to journalists.
2) Gerard, Cesc and the rest of that youth team getting into scrapes to protect Messi.
3) Sergio, Leo, rooming together and playstation.
4) Messi’s breakdown in the changing rooms after Argentina v Germany, and his isolation at the tournament itself.
(So's the thing about him not smiling after scoring, although that's kind of trivial.)
+ The injection I mention is the daily injections Messi had to have between the ages of 13 to 16 to cure his growth condition.