the truth about you and me
by stickmarionette
La Masia doesn't just make footballers. It makes people.
In the end, the words come in one breath, rushed out one straight after the other in a tumble.
"I'm - I'm going to Arsenal."
There's no flicker of surprise in the brown eyes blinking at you.
"I've heard."
You lied to me. Leo doesn't say this, but you can see it in his eyes, hear it in the too-long silence before he speaks again.
"Arsenal asked about me too."
"You're not going, are you?"
Leo smiles, faintly. "No," he says, as certain about his own life as the day you first spoke.
You almost wish for some hint of the hurt and screaming reproach that you got from Gerard. (At least you'd know how to react to that.) This - well, it's very much like Leo, but -
"Are you going to ask me to stay?"
"No."
His grip on your hand tightens almost to the point of pain. A few years ago, maybe he would have looked down now, mumbled to his shoes, but some things have changed and his eyes are bright and a little hard on yours.
"Because I know you - "
- and we don't work that way.
* * *
Cesc kept telling journalists that they became friends from the first meeting, even though it's far from the truth.
* * *
It's Leo's first day, and he meets your eyes across the training ground, but only for a second before lowering his head.
You only wonder for the briefest moment who the tiny kid with the curious eyes and the floppy brown hair might be, and you don't speak until two months later -
- because this is who you are, and this is how you work.
* * *
They nicknamed him 'the mute' at first, because he never spoke, except to answer questions, and then only with one or two words.
He was some player, though. And if the coaches seemed to focus on him more than anybody else, well, the kid was abnormally small for his age.
(No one ever spoke about the injections, but they all knew not to tease him about his height, even before the coaches said so.)
* * *
The first time, you're about to play a cup semi-final for the under-14 B team. The changing room's buzzing with nervous chatter, except for the usual silent corner containing the small boy from Argentina. You're just as excited as everyone else, and maybe it's only pure chance that makes you glance at that corner and spot the glum expression on Leo's face, or what you can see of it through the mop of hair.
You'd like to think it's kindness that motivates you to ask after him.
The answer is so quiet you have to ask for him to repeat it twice. "I can't play."
As far as you know, he wasn't injured, so...
"Why?"
"Registration problem."
"Oh."
Some of the other guys from overseas had gone through the same thing, but you'd never heard of it lasting this long. Such a shame, you think. No wonder he's never been picked for a competitive game.
"That's really stupid," you hear yourself say, suddenly indignant. "We could use you out there."
The coach yelling for all the starters saves you from a sudden attack of embarrassment, and you turn to leave.
"...good luck, Cesc."
It's said in such a quiet whisper that you could have imagined it, but when you look back in surprise, there's a small smile half hidden by Leo's mop of hair that's definitely real.
"Thanks, Leo."
* * *
He could say 'remember that time, in Turin...' and they'd all know.
Friendship works in funny ways.
* * *
You regard international youth tournaments with a mixture of excitement and terror. Excitement because there's usually some travelling involved, and it's nice to play teams from different countries. Terror because the result somehow seems to weigh more heavily - you can imagine El Mundo Deportivo or Sport raving about the team's success, maybe not on the front page, but somewhere in the first 10.
Leo loves these tournaments, because he's not barred from playing in most of them. Turin is no different.
It's after dinner at the hotel, and everyone's bored out of their minds.
"Come on, it's not curfew for at least two hours yet. Has anyone got their Playstation here or something?" Gerard says, not looking particularly hopeful.
You exchange helpless looks with Victor and Toni, almost missing the rare sight of Leo looking up during a conversation.
"Um...I do," he mumbles, flushing and looking as surprised as everyone else at speaking up for once.
Gerard almost seems more sheepish than taken aback. But being Gerard, it doesn't take him long to get over it.
"Leo? That's great! Can we play? What games have you got?"
For one moment, you're worried that Leo's going to shrink back under the sudden attention, but he looks delighted.
"Of course you can. It's mainly football games, if you guys don't mind..."
You clap your hands together, grinning. "Mind? That's brilliant. Who's up for a tournament?"
Four hours later, the five of you are lying around in Leo and Victor's room with the lights down, trying not to breathe as the sound of the coach's heavy footsteps outside fade away painfully slowly.
That night, you learn that escaping being caught for breaking curfew is almost as good a bonding experience as Playstation tournaments, because when they finally dare to start breathing again, the still-horizontal Gerard puts his hand on Leo's arm.
You can hear the smile in his voice. "Friends?"
"Yeah," Leo replies, as firm as you've ever heard him.
* * *
Leo played his first official game six months after he joined. They were both 13. He was predictably brilliant, right up until the 67th minute.
That's when the tackle happened.
Cesc still remembers seeing the bits of bone sticking out of the skin of Leo's leg, and the world going red. He also remembers punching the bastard who had done it as hard as he could while Gerard yelled, and he definitely remembers the 3 game suspensions both of them got for fighting.
* * *
Gerard hugs you after you come out of the coach's office with ears ringing.
"The bastard deserved it," he says vehemently, before breaking into a grin. "Nice punch, by the way. Definitely worth the ban."
You can't help but feel perversely proud. And when you see Leo in one of the first team's treatment rooms, looking unnaturally small and pale in the large bed, you can't help agreeing with Gerard's assessment.
Leo cracks a smile when he sees you, but there are telltale signs of pain on his face.
"Hi, Cesc. Did you get yelled at?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't too bad," you say with your best cocky grin.
He doesn't look convinced. "You shouldn't have done it. It's my fault that you and Gerard can't play now."
The guilt on his already strained face is almost painful to look at. You feel the need to immediately relieve him of this ridiculous idea.
"Don't be stupid, it's fine."
Leo smiles, his expression shifting slightly from pained to contemplative.
"Why did you get so angry? This kind of thing happens all the time in competitive games, you know that."
You take a deep breath, and -
"He hurt you."
- what comes out isn't what you'd meant to say at all. You sincerely hope that the blushing isn't as widespread as it feels.
"Idiot," Leo calls you, but his eyes alight with something like affection.
* * *
Cesc dreamed about his days at La Masia. Most of the time it was things that never happened, and sometimes they were so vivid that it got increasingly difficult to distinguish the dream-memories from the real ones.
Leo was perched unsteadily on a tree branch 2 or 3 meters off the ground.
"Careful, you're going to fall," Cesc yelled.
Leo only smiled and shook his head. "Nah, it's fine - "
"It is not -"
" - you can catch me."
He wanted to ask Leo if it had really happened, but somehow could never get the words out.
* * *
In the under-14 A team, you lose 4-3 to Real Madrid. Leo cries in the dressing room and doesn't speak to anyone except when spoken to for 3 days.
Eventually, you corner him into having a conversation after lunch.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Leo looks away. When he speaks, it's so quiet that you have to strain to hear, but with a tone of absolute conviction. "I don't like losing."
But of course it's more than that. That's not how the two of you work, though, so you don't ask. There are safer things to say.
He flinches when you put a hand on his arm, stare determinedly trained on something in the distance.
"Are you okay?"
Silence, and then - "Cesc, when you played football on the street, what happened if you lost?" he asks suddenly.
"I didn't - alright, nothing serious, although we'd get teased for it for ages. Why?"
Leo stays silent for so long that you think he's closed up again, before finally looking you in the eye. There's something hard in his gaze that you've only ever seen on the pitch before. When he does eventually speak, it's as if each word is being ripped out of him.
"I-If you get beaten up for losing, you - you learn not to lose."
(It's more than that, of course. No one forgets life lessons taught by physical pain. It becomes an imperative for one's entire career.)
You hate the helpless feeling that comes from not knowing how to change that expression and that tone, because there's no one you can punch, and you don't always know what to say.
Maybe that's why you tentatively put your hand on his.
Leo looks surprised at first, before the blushing sets in. Then you lose track of his expression because he's hugging you so tightly it's hard to breathe, head buried in your shoulder.
"We're going to win everything together, Cesc. In that big stadium just over there."
You feel a little like you've just won the Champions League.
"Yeah, we are."
* * *
Of course, there are rules. (There are rules for everything.)
One of them is that one never talks about it.
They didn't - don't - have a language anyway. There are no words for whatever they were - are - only silence.
Life went on.
* * *
You win absolutely everything in the age division, ridiculous score lines and all.
(This is the point when you begin to realize that some of you are far too good to be tolling away in the youth teams, moving up every season by the standard calendar.
But the thought of doing something about it doesn't occur until a little later.)
Before the Copa del Rey final, Leo has an unusual attack of nerves. He's going to be playing with a face mask for his broken cheekbone, but that's not what's bothering him.
Even you don't know what to say this time. The disruption caused by Gerard's loud arrival in the dressing room is extremely welcome, although the coach would probably not agree.
"Gerard, stop making such a mess."
(You would never admit it, but sometimes, you resent being the Mature One.)
Gerard turns around to stare, surprised at your clipped tone. "What's going on?"
You incline your head at the ball of nerves.
"Oh come on, Leo, you're a genius," he says flippantly, complete with an eye roll.
This at least gets Leo to raise his head, looking embarrassed. "Gerard, I - "
"Geniuses can do anything. So we'll win."
The grin on Gerard's face and the certainty in his voice is infectious, and suddenly the whole team is grinning and cheering.
Of course, you win the game.
At the post-match party, Gerard mentions the call-ups for the Under-17 World Cup in a few months, and you feel an unfamiliar sort of excitement at the prospect.
Leo, unnoticed by his country's selectors, smiles a little wistfully at the idea.
"Isn't it weird? I only came to Barcelona because nobody in Argentina could pay for my injections. If somehow I could have stayed then maybe I would get called up."
You grin in a manner that might be described as cheeky and pat him on the shoulder. "Well, if you didn't move you wouldn't have met me."
"And all of us, don't forget!" Victor says cheerfully. "Besides, don't forget it's probably only Cesc who's going to get called up. You'll still have the rest of us for company."
Gerard laughs. "Yeah, we'll be enjoying our holidays while Master Fabregas here impresses all the scouts and gets himself a big move somewhere."
You had of course realized that scouts from other top clubs would be watching the tournament, but until that moment, it had never crossed your mind that such a thing would be relevant for you.
The idea of leaving had never come up before. But now it took root.
* * *
Cesc told journalists that it was his own decision.
It was. He had never hesitated and agonised so long about something, but in the end, he knew what he had to do.
Stay, and - well, he saw Andres moving into the first team and knew that there wasn't going to be an empty spot there for him to fill for a long time.
He had dreamt of winning on the pitch of the Camp Nou alongside Leo and Gerard and Toni and Victor, wearing the blaugrana shirt with the crowd cheering them on, emulating his hero Guardiola -
- but he was old enough to know that sometimes it's better to reach for the attainable glory rather than that which is all the more alluring because it's impossible.
(It came with being the Mature One.)
* * *
You're not sure why you say it.
"If you'd agreed to play for Spain, you could be coming with me."
Leo only shakes his head. "I couldn't say yes. You know why."
(Of course you do. There's never been a need for explanations between the two of you.)
His hand on your shoulder is unreasonably warm, the heat seeping through your shirt and spreading. It's a struggle to stay still, and to keep lying, if only by omission.
"Wish me luck?"
Leo heaves a long, uncharacteristic sigh as he buries his head into the cotton fabric covering your back. There's a wistful note in his murmur, but no bitterness. "You don't need it."
You try not to wince. Friends don't have secrets, but you can't bring yourself to tell this one. Not just yet. Somehow, though, a part of you suspects that Leo already knows.
* * *
The negotiations were careful, secretive and torturous, as these things sometimes are. Thankfully, Cesc didn't have to be directly involved, although his father kept him updated.
He regrets none of it, although there are the occasional moments of what if?
But then that's true of everything in life. If that precociousness of his was worth anything, it was learning early that sometimes, one has to compromise in life -
You don't always get everything you want.
* * *
The tournament goes very well at first, but Leo's phone calls from Argentina become a source of dread. You keep imagining that soft, even tone twisting in disappointment and anger, demands of why didn't you tell me and how long have you been lying to me echoing in your head.
Leo, you'd say, I'm sorry, but this is the only way forward for me, and you'd feel like a bastard.
After they settle the arrangements, there's a call from your new room-mate in London, an 18-year-old Swiss defender. He speaks perfect Spanish, made halting by a hesitation born of unfamilarity.
"Hello, this is Philippe Senderos."
* * *
They laugh about that first, awkward phone call now, him and Phil. They get along brilliantly, and Cesc sometimes wonders how much more difficult settling in would have been without him.
As it was, leaving was harder. Much harder.
* * *
"Why didn't you say anything?" Gerard is almost screaming, loud enough to make you wince, but it's the horribly betrayed look in the other boy's eyes that really shakes you.
Deep breath. "Sorry. I am. But you've got to understand, with Andres here - "
" - yeah, you can't get into the first team, I know," he says, suddenly deflating. "At least for you it's because La Masia turns up too many similar midfielders and not because of some stupid political reason."
You blink, completely blindsided. "What?"
"The new president apparently has it in for my dad. Nevermind, you watch, if it's true I'll be getting out of here soon."
His expression is defiance itself and you can't help a smile. "If you do, you could come join me."
"Yeah, yeah - hang on, have you told Leo?"
One glance at your face gives him the answer. "Oh God, you haven't. Better go do that before someone else does."
"Too late, I think," you say ruefully. Or maybe that's what you'd like to think. Maybe it would make the scene easier.
* * *
"Are you going to ask me to stay?"
"No."
His grip on your hand tightens almost to the point of pain. A few years ago, maybe he would have looked down now, mumbled to his shoes, but some things have changed and his eyes are bright and a little hard on yours.
"Because I know you - "
"Because I know you, and you're too good to be playing for the youth teams."
You shake your head. "So are you."
"I haven't proven anything yet," he says lightly. "Promise me something, Cesc."
Curiously, you're terrified. "Yeah?"
"If - if it's possible, sometime in the future, let's try to end up on the same team again."
There are a lot of things you could say in response, but none of them seem like a good idea. "Leo..."
He bites his lip, and gives you an anxious look. "I'm not saying you have to sacrifice your career, just - if our goals meet again, yeah?"
It's different roads for the two of you from now on, but who knows what will happen? This, then, is a promise you can make -
"I promise."
- and one you'll try not to break.
Sometimes, even the two of you need more than the gaps between words.
* * *
This is the story of you and me. And it's not finished yet.
* * *
It's infinite. This game is infinite. - Argentinian novelist Juan Sasturain
finis (?)
Author's Notes: Cesc Fabregas (now at Arsenal), Gerard Pique (now at Manchester United), Victor Vazquez (still at Barca B), Toni Calvo (newly sold off to Greek team Aris Salonica from Barca B), and Leo Messi (in the Barca first team) were part of the same age group youth team and rose up through the ranks together. They were all friends at La Masia (the Farmhouse), which is the name of the Barca academy system, named for the estate that the academy is housed in.
'Andres' is Andres Iniesta, also a La Masia product just a few years ahead of the above lot.
Other facts:
1) Arsenal did enquire about Messi.
2) Leo's nickname, and the fact that they didn't really speak to him until they discovered the shared hobby of Playstation on a trip to Italy (honestly, boys).
3) Leo couldn't play for his first six months because of permit issues, and got a very serious injury in his first official game.
4) Leo's growth hormone problem and having to come to Barca to pay for treatment. Also, him getting special attention from the coaches. Cesc is quoted as saying that they all knew but didn't mind.
5) Cesc and Gerard getting in trouble for attempting to protect Leo.
6) Messi has spoken himself about getting beaten up for losing games on the street as a kid. As for the psychological effect, I'm just extrapolating.
7) Cesc's stated reasons for leaving, and the whole thing about there being too many similar midfielders at Barca.
8) That Copa del Rey final. Incidentally, what Gerard says about Leo (geniuses can do anything) is almost a word for word quote for something he said when asked to comment on that goal Messi scored against Getafe.
9) Cesc's hero being Guardiola.
10) Leo being asked to represent Spain.
11) Phil's phone call to Cesc while he's at the U17 World Cup.
12) Gerard's problem with the Barca president.
Phew. Hope you enjoyed reading!
La Masia doesn't just make footballers. It makes people.
In the end, the words come in one breath, rushed out one straight after the other in a tumble.
"I'm - I'm going to Arsenal."
There's no flicker of surprise in the brown eyes blinking at you.
"I've heard."
You lied to me. Leo doesn't say this, but you can see it in his eyes, hear it in the too-long silence before he speaks again.
"Arsenal asked about me too."
"You're not going, are you?"
Leo smiles, faintly. "No," he says, as certain about his own life as the day you first spoke.
You almost wish for some hint of the hurt and screaming reproach that you got from Gerard. (At least you'd know how to react to that.) This - well, it's very much like Leo, but -
"Are you going to ask me to stay?"
"No."
His grip on your hand tightens almost to the point of pain. A few years ago, maybe he would have looked down now, mumbled to his shoes, but some things have changed and his eyes are bright and a little hard on yours.
"Because I know you - "
- and we don't work that way.
* * *
Cesc kept telling journalists that they became friends from the first meeting, even though it's far from the truth.
* * *
It's Leo's first day, and he meets your eyes across the training ground, but only for a second before lowering his head.
You only wonder for the briefest moment who the tiny kid with the curious eyes and the floppy brown hair might be, and you don't speak until two months later -
- because this is who you are, and this is how you work.
* * *
They nicknamed him 'the mute' at first, because he never spoke, except to answer questions, and then only with one or two words.
He was some player, though. And if the coaches seemed to focus on him more than anybody else, well, the kid was abnormally small for his age.
(No one ever spoke about the injections, but they all knew not to tease him about his height, even before the coaches said so.)
* * *
The first time, you're about to play a cup semi-final for the under-14 B team. The changing room's buzzing with nervous chatter, except for the usual silent corner containing the small boy from Argentina. You're just as excited as everyone else, and maybe it's only pure chance that makes you glance at that corner and spot the glum expression on Leo's face, or what you can see of it through the mop of hair.
You'd like to think it's kindness that motivates you to ask after him.
The answer is so quiet you have to ask for him to repeat it twice. "I can't play."
As far as you know, he wasn't injured, so...
"Why?"
"Registration problem."
"Oh."
Some of the other guys from overseas had gone through the same thing, but you'd never heard of it lasting this long. Such a shame, you think. No wonder he's never been picked for a competitive game.
"That's really stupid," you hear yourself say, suddenly indignant. "We could use you out there."
The coach yelling for all the starters saves you from a sudden attack of embarrassment, and you turn to leave.
"...good luck, Cesc."
It's said in such a quiet whisper that you could have imagined it, but when you look back in surprise, there's a small smile half hidden by Leo's mop of hair that's definitely real.
"Thanks, Leo."
* * *
He could say 'remember that time, in Turin...' and they'd all know.
Friendship works in funny ways.
* * *
You regard international youth tournaments with a mixture of excitement and terror. Excitement because there's usually some travelling involved, and it's nice to play teams from different countries. Terror because the result somehow seems to weigh more heavily - you can imagine El Mundo Deportivo or Sport raving about the team's success, maybe not on the front page, but somewhere in the first 10.
Leo loves these tournaments, because he's not barred from playing in most of them. Turin is no different.
It's after dinner at the hotel, and everyone's bored out of their minds.
"Come on, it's not curfew for at least two hours yet. Has anyone got their Playstation here or something?" Gerard says, not looking particularly hopeful.
You exchange helpless looks with Victor and Toni, almost missing the rare sight of Leo looking up during a conversation.
"Um...I do," he mumbles, flushing and looking as surprised as everyone else at speaking up for once.
Gerard almost seems more sheepish than taken aback. But being Gerard, it doesn't take him long to get over it.
"Leo? That's great! Can we play? What games have you got?"
For one moment, you're worried that Leo's going to shrink back under the sudden attention, but he looks delighted.
"Of course you can. It's mainly football games, if you guys don't mind..."
You clap your hands together, grinning. "Mind? That's brilliant. Who's up for a tournament?"
Four hours later, the five of you are lying around in Leo and Victor's room with the lights down, trying not to breathe as the sound of the coach's heavy footsteps outside fade away painfully slowly.
That night, you learn that escaping being caught for breaking curfew is almost as good a bonding experience as Playstation tournaments, because when they finally dare to start breathing again, the still-horizontal Gerard puts his hand on Leo's arm.
You can hear the smile in his voice. "Friends?"
"Yeah," Leo replies, as firm as you've ever heard him.
* * *
Leo played his first official game six months after he joined. They were both 13. He was predictably brilliant, right up until the 67th minute.
That's when the tackle happened.
Cesc still remembers seeing the bits of bone sticking out of the skin of Leo's leg, and the world going red. He also remembers punching the bastard who had done it as hard as he could while Gerard yelled, and he definitely remembers the 3 game suspensions both of them got for fighting.
* * *
Gerard hugs you after you come out of the coach's office with ears ringing.
"The bastard deserved it," he says vehemently, before breaking into a grin. "Nice punch, by the way. Definitely worth the ban."
You can't help but feel perversely proud. And when you see Leo in one of the first team's treatment rooms, looking unnaturally small and pale in the large bed, you can't help agreeing with Gerard's assessment.
Leo cracks a smile when he sees you, but there are telltale signs of pain on his face.
"Hi, Cesc. Did you get yelled at?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't too bad," you say with your best cocky grin.
He doesn't look convinced. "You shouldn't have done it. It's my fault that you and Gerard can't play now."
The guilt on his already strained face is almost painful to look at. You feel the need to immediately relieve him of this ridiculous idea.
"Don't be stupid, it's fine."
Leo smiles, his expression shifting slightly from pained to contemplative.
"Why did you get so angry? This kind of thing happens all the time in competitive games, you know that."
You take a deep breath, and -
"He hurt you."
- what comes out isn't what you'd meant to say at all. You sincerely hope that the blushing isn't as widespread as it feels.
"Idiot," Leo calls you, but his eyes alight with something like affection.
* * *
Cesc dreamed about his days at La Masia. Most of the time it was things that never happened, and sometimes they were so vivid that it got increasingly difficult to distinguish the dream-memories from the real ones.
Leo was perched unsteadily on a tree branch 2 or 3 meters off the ground.
"Careful, you're going to fall," Cesc yelled.
Leo only smiled and shook his head. "Nah, it's fine - "
"It is not -"
" - you can catch me."
He wanted to ask Leo if it had really happened, but somehow could never get the words out.
* * *
In the under-14 A team, you lose 4-3 to Real Madrid. Leo cries in the dressing room and doesn't speak to anyone except when spoken to for 3 days.
Eventually, you corner him into having a conversation after lunch.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Leo looks away. When he speaks, it's so quiet that you have to strain to hear, but with a tone of absolute conviction. "I don't like losing."
But of course it's more than that. That's not how the two of you work, though, so you don't ask. There are safer things to say.
He flinches when you put a hand on his arm, stare determinedly trained on something in the distance.
"Are you okay?"
Silence, and then - "Cesc, when you played football on the street, what happened if you lost?" he asks suddenly.
"I didn't - alright, nothing serious, although we'd get teased for it for ages. Why?"
Leo stays silent for so long that you think he's closed up again, before finally looking you in the eye. There's something hard in his gaze that you've only ever seen on the pitch before. When he does eventually speak, it's as if each word is being ripped out of him.
"I-If you get beaten up for losing, you - you learn not to lose."
(It's more than that, of course. No one forgets life lessons taught by physical pain. It becomes an imperative for one's entire career.)
You hate the helpless feeling that comes from not knowing how to change that expression and that tone, because there's no one you can punch, and you don't always know what to say.
Maybe that's why you tentatively put your hand on his.
Leo looks surprised at first, before the blushing sets in. Then you lose track of his expression because he's hugging you so tightly it's hard to breathe, head buried in your shoulder.
"We're going to win everything together, Cesc. In that big stadium just over there."
You feel a little like you've just won the Champions League.
"Yeah, we are."
* * *
Of course, there are rules. (There are rules for everything.)
One of them is that one never talks about it.
They didn't - don't - have a language anyway. There are no words for whatever they were - are - only silence.
Life went on.
* * *
You win absolutely everything in the age division, ridiculous score lines and all.
(This is the point when you begin to realize that some of you are far too good to be tolling away in the youth teams, moving up every season by the standard calendar.
But the thought of doing something about it doesn't occur until a little later.)
Before the Copa del Rey final, Leo has an unusual attack of nerves. He's going to be playing with a face mask for his broken cheekbone, but that's not what's bothering him.
Even you don't know what to say this time. The disruption caused by Gerard's loud arrival in the dressing room is extremely welcome, although the coach would probably not agree.
"Gerard, stop making such a mess."
(You would never admit it, but sometimes, you resent being the Mature One.)
Gerard turns around to stare, surprised at your clipped tone. "What's going on?"
You incline your head at the ball of nerves.
"Oh come on, Leo, you're a genius," he says flippantly, complete with an eye roll.
This at least gets Leo to raise his head, looking embarrassed. "Gerard, I - "
"Geniuses can do anything. So we'll win."
The grin on Gerard's face and the certainty in his voice is infectious, and suddenly the whole team is grinning and cheering.
Of course, you win the game.
At the post-match party, Gerard mentions the call-ups for the Under-17 World Cup in a few months, and you feel an unfamiliar sort of excitement at the prospect.
Leo, unnoticed by his country's selectors, smiles a little wistfully at the idea.
"Isn't it weird? I only came to Barcelona because nobody in Argentina could pay for my injections. If somehow I could have stayed then maybe I would get called up."
You grin in a manner that might be described as cheeky and pat him on the shoulder. "Well, if you didn't move you wouldn't have met me."
"And all of us, don't forget!" Victor says cheerfully. "Besides, don't forget it's probably only Cesc who's going to get called up. You'll still have the rest of us for company."
Gerard laughs. "Yeah, we'll be enjoying our holidays while Master Fabregas here impresses all the scouts and gets himself a big move somewhere."
You had of course realized that scouts from other top clubs would be watching the tournament, but until that moment, it had never crossed your mind that such a thing would be relevant for you.
The idea of leaving had never come up before. But now it took root.
* * *
Cesc told journalists that it was his own decision.
It was. He had never hesitated and agonised so long about something, but in the end, he knew what he had to do.
Stay, and - well, he saw Andres moving into the first team and knew that there wasn't going to be an empty spot there for him to fill for a long time.
He had dreamt of winning on the pitch of the Camp Nou alongside Leo and Gerard and Toni and Victor, wearing the blaugrana shirt with the crowd cheering them on, emulating his hero Guardiola -
- but he was old enough to know that sometimes it's better to reach for the attainable glory rather than that which is all the more alluring because it's impossible.
(It came with being the Mature One.)
* * *
You're not sure why you say it.
"If you'd agreed to play for Spain, you could be coming with me."
Leo only shakes his head. "I couldn't say yes. You know why."
(Of course you do. There's never been a need for explanations between the two of you.)
His hand on your shoulder is unreasonably warm, the heat seeping through your shirt and spreading. It's a struggle to stay still, and to keep lying, if only by omission.
"Wish me luck?"
Leo heaves a long, uncharacteristic sigh as he buries his head into the cotton fabric covering your back. There's a wistful note in his murmur, but no bitterness. "You don't need it."
You try not to wince. Friends don't have secrets, but you can't bring yourself to tell this one. Not just yet. Somehow, though, a part of you suspects that Leo already knows.
* * *
The negotiations were careful, secretive and torturous, as these things sometimes are. Thankfully, Cesc didn't have to be directly involved, although his father kept him updated.
He regrets none of it, although there are the occasional moments of what if?
But then that's true of everything in life. If that precociousness of his was worth anything, it was learning early that sometimes, one has to compromise in life -
You don't always get everything you want.
* * *
The tournament goes very well at first, but Leo's phone calls from Argentina become a source of dread. You keep imagining that soft, even tone twisting in disappointment and anger, demands of why didn't you tell me and how long have you been lying to me echoing in your head.
Leo, you'd say, I'm sorry, but this is the only way forward for me, and you'd feel like a bastard.
After they settle the arrangements, there's a call from your new room-mate in London, an 18-year-old Swiss defender. He speaks perfect Spanish, made halting by a hesitation born of unfamilarity.
"Hello, this is Philippe Senderos."
* * *
They laugh about that first, awkward phone call now, him and Phil. They get along brilliantly, and Cesc sometimes wonders how much more difficult settling in would have been without him.
As it was, leaving was harder. Much harder.
* * *
"Why didn't you say anything?" Gerard is almost screaming, loud enough to make you wince, but it's the horribly betrayed look in the other boy's eyes that really shakes you.
Deep breath. "Sorry. I am. But you've got to understand, with Andres here - "
" - yeah, you can't get into the first team, I know," he says, suddenly deflating. "At least for you it's because La Masia turns up too many similar midfielders and not because of some stupid political reason."
You blink, completely blindsided. "What?"
"The new president apparently has it in for my dad. Nevermind, you watch, if it's true I'll be getting out of here soon."
His expression is defiance itself and you can't help a smile. "If you do, you could come join me."
"Yeah, yeah - hang on, have you told Leo?"
One glance at your face gives him the answer. "Oh God, you haven't. Better go do that before someone else does."
"Too late, I think," you say ruefully. Or maybe that's what you'd like to think. Maybe it would make the scene easier.
* * *
"Are you going to ask me to stay?"
"No."
His grip on your hand tightens almost to the point of pain. A few years ago, maybe he would have looked down now, mumbled to his shoes, but some things have changed and his eyes are bright and a little hard on yours.
"Because I know you - "
"Because I know you, and you're too good to be playing for the youth teams."
You shake your head. "So are you."
"I haven't proven anything yet," he says lightly. "Promise me something, Cesc."
Curiously, you're terrified. "Yeah?"
"If - if it's possible, sometime in the future, let's try to end up on the same team again."
There are a lot of things you could say in response, but none of them seem like a good idea. "Leo..."
He bites his lip, and gives you an anxious look. "I'm not saying you have to sacrifice your career, just - if our goals meet again, yeah?"
It's different roads for the two of you from now on, but who knows what will happen? This, then, is a promise you can make -
"I promise."
- and one you'll try not to break.
Sometimes, even the two of you need more than the gaps between words.
* * *
This is the story of you and me. And it's not finished yet.
* * *
It's infinite. This game is infinite. - Argentinian novelist Juan Sasturain
finis (?)
Author's Notes: Cesc Fabregas (now at Arsenal), Gerard Pique (now at Manchester United), Victor Vazquez (still at Barca B), Toni Calvo (newly sold off to Greek team Aris Salonica from Barca B), and Leo Messi (in the Barca first team) were part of the same age group youth team and rose up through the ranks together. They were all friends at La Masia (the Farmhouse), which is the name of the Barca academy system, named for the estate that the academy is housed in.
'Andres' is Andres Iniesta, also a La Masia product just a few years ahead of the above lot.
Other facts:
1) Arsenal did enquire about Messi.
2) Leo's nickname, and the fact that they didn't really speak to him until they discovered the shared hobby of Playstation on a trip to Italy (honestly, boys).
3) Leo couldn't play for his first six months because of permit issues, and got a very serious injury in his first official game.
4) Leo's growth hormone problem and having to come to Barca to pay for treatment. Also, him getting special attention from the coaches. Cesc is quoted as saying that they all knew but didn't mind.
5) Cesc and Gerard getting in trouble for attempting to protect Leo.
6) Messi has spoken himself about getting beaten up for losing games on the street as a kid. As for the psychological effect, I'm just extrapolating.
7) Cesc's stated reasons for leaving, and the whole thing about there being too many similar midfielders at Barca.
8) That Copa del Rey final. Incidentally, what Gerard says about Leo (geniuses can do anything) is almost a word for word quote for something he said when asked to comment on that goal Messi scored against Getafe.
9) Cesc's hero being Guardiola.
10) Leo being asked to represent Spain.
11) Phil's phone call to Cesc while he's at the U17 World Cup.
12) Gerard's problem with the Barca president.
Phew. Hope you enjoyed reading!