(no subject)
title: thirty-one minutes
pairing: marc muniesa/victor valdes
words: 1300
rating: pg13
summary: marc gets sent off in his first-team debut.
A/N: for ibuyu .
He’s halfway off the pitch before it sinks in, what’s happened, and then his only thought is making it to the tunnel as quickly as he can. There’s a push at the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know what it is- tears, vomit- but he knows he doesn’t want to find out in the middle of Camp Nou.
He passes Pep but can’t look him in the eye. He wants to say, “Sorry,” or, “I didn’t mean to,” or maybe, “I should have been better,” but he knows it doesn’t matter, doesn’t trust his voice anyway. He feels Pep pat the back of his head, hears him yelling at the referee, but Marc’s eyes are focused on the dark mouth leading back into the tunnel, where he can be alone, where it is quiet.
Before he can reach it, though, figures in orange swarm at him. First Xavi, who pats his head but focuses on berating the referee. Samu is behind him, trying to pull Xavi back, and even while Marc appreciates them, he wishes there wasn’t such a fuss. This isn’t the kind of attention he’d wanted.
And then there’s Victor, who’s not yelling, who reaches out with one hand and draws Marc into him, presses Marc’s head into his shoulder. Marc takes a deep breath and can smell his skin, like grass and sweat; the scratchy fabric of his training top rubs against Marc’s cheek, and it distracts him for a moment, at least.
But then he opens his eyes and he sees the tunnel, and hears the crowd, and he pushes away.
Pep catches him again before he can get far. Marc stops, bends at the waist, trying to catch his breath, and Pep leans over him, his hand on the back of Marc’s head. He’s saying, “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, just go take a shower, don’t worry,” and Marc thinks he must look pretty bad for Pep to be speaking to him like this. But his kindness just makes Marc feel worse, the same drop of his stomach as if Pep had said, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”
He propels himself into the tunnel, the roar of Camp Nou slowly fading behind him. He’d played thirty-one minutes.
The locker room is deadly quiet and he watches the end of the game on a small TV on the wall, standing in the middle of the empty room.
They lose. Marc kicks a locker as the ref blows the final whistle, the clang echoing around the cavernous room.
When the other guys start to file in, they don’t seem disappointed. Marc gets it, he does, because the league is already decided and the game doesn’t mean anything, not really, not to the rest of them that have been playing all season, but it wasn’t anyone else’s debut and it meant something to him-
“Hey, they gave you a standing ovation, man!” Pinto says, slapping Marc on the back. “Not everyone gets that on their first shot out.” Marc tries to smile but knows he isn’t very successful.
The rest of the team passes by, tells him it happens, and it won’t be the last, and it’s as good a game as any to get a red, and the ref was crazy. And Marc tries to smile, tries to smile, tries to smile.
He finally gets into the shower. He makes sure to stay there until everyone else is gone.
When he’s clean and it’s quiet, Marc lowers himself onto a bench in the empty dressing room in front of an unnumbered locker, the temporary one he’s been given for the day. He’s facing into the room, and he can see the names on all the lockers around him- Puyol. Xavi. Henry. Eto’o. Alves. Messi.
He pushes a towel into his face, scrubs at it, tries not to scream.
“Hey.”
Marc freezes, the towel still covering the lower half of his face. His eyes flick over to the entrance of the locker room, and Victor’s there, lounging against the doorway, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“Hey,” Marc says. He stands up slowly, turning toward his locker to pull his clothes out. Behind him, he hears Victor come further into the room, his footsteps shuffling against the concrete floor.
“Kind of a rough first game, huh?” Victor says after a minute, and Marc bites his lip.
“You could say that,” he mutters. He pulls on a pair of boxers, but keeps his towel tightly around his waist.
Victor sits down on the bench a few feet away from Marc. He’s still in his orange training top but he’s changed into jeans. “Shit like that happens,” he says. “At least the game didn’t matter.”
At that, Marc slams his locker shut, throws his bag on the bench with a little too much force. Victor looks mildly amused. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Marc hisses, keeping his head down, not looking at Victor. When the older man doesn’t say anything, he says, “People keep saying that. ’It doesn’t matter.’ But it matters. To me it does.”
Victor keeps looking up at him, his expression blank, and when it continues to be silent, Marc says, “Fuck. Fuck,” and he kicks another locker, likes the ugly crashing sound it makes, kicks it again, harder.
And then Victor’s grabbing his arm, pulling Marc down next to him on the bench. “Well don’t hurt yourself over it,” he mutters. Suddenly there are angry tears pricking behind Marc’s eyes, and he shoves the heels of his palms into them, pushing until he sees spots. He feels Victor’s arm snake around his bare shoulder.
“I’m not- I’m not-“ Marc tries to say, but his voice catches, gives him away.
Victor laughs, but it’s kind. “Don’t worry,” he says, pulling Marc closer to him. “Do you know how many times I’ve done this for Andres?”
Marc takes a few deep breaths, clears his throat. “That was when he was twelve, though,” he says, and it makes them both laugh.
Victor squeezes him closer for a second, molding Marc into his side, and then he lets go, pulls his arm back and drops his hands into his lap. Marc sways toward him momentarily and then blinks, recovers, pulls back.
He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his damp hair. “It still sucks,” he says, and he swings his leg out, catching an open locker with his toe, but with barely enough force to make it swing shut.
Victor says, “Yeah, I know.” He looks over at Marc, smiles, and his eyes are warm, kind.
Then he reaches over until his hand is hovering right over Marc’s thigh, and Marc’s eyes widen. For a long moment, he forgets to exhale. Victor presses his thumb into the seam of Marc’s towel, right where it falls across the top of his thigh, sweeping his fingers over it, trailing across the rough fabric. He’s not touching Marc’s skin at all, but Marc can feel the heat of his hand.
As quickly as it happens, before Marc even breathes, it ends, and Victor stands up. “See you next time, kid,” he says, and Marc blinks heavily, gaping up at him. He’s grinning when he walks out, leaving Marc sitting there alone again, suddenly cold.
Eventually he finishes dressing and leaves. In the hall there are still reporters waiting to talk to him. “How do you feel about a red card in your first game?” one asks, pushing a microphone into his face.
He pauses, bites his lip. “It’s not an ideal situation,” he answers slowly. “But… my teammates were very supportive. They’ve made me feel better.” The reporter keeps looking at him, still holding the microphone out, so he says, “I feel good.” And he smiles.
pairing: marc muniesa/victor valdes
words: 1300
rating: pg13
summary: marc gets sent off in his first-team debut.
A/N: for ibuyu .
He’s halfway off the pitch before it sinks in, what’s happened, and then his only thought is making it to the tunnel as quickly as he can. There’s a push at the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know what it is- tears, vomit- but he knows he doesn’t want to find out in the middle of Camp Nou.
He passes Pep but can’t look him in the eye. He wants to say, “Sorry,” or, “I didn’t mean to,” or maybe, “I should have been better,” but he knows it doesn’t matter, doesn’t trust his voice anyway. He feels Pep pat the back of his head, hears him yelling at the referee, but Marc’s eyes are focused on the dark mouth leading back into the tunnel, where he can be alone, where it is quiet.
Before he can reach it, though, figures in orange swarm at him. First Xavi, who pats his head but focuses on berating the referee. Samu is behind him, trying to pull Xavi back, and even while Marc appreciates them, he wishes there wasn’t such a fuss. This isn’t the kind of attention he’d wanted.
And then there’s Victor, who’s not yelling, who reaches out with one hand and draws Marc into him, presses Marc’s head into his shoulder. Marc takes a deep breath and can smell his skin, like grass and sweat; the scratchy fabric of his training top rubs against Marc’s cheek, and it distracts him for a moment, at least.
But then he opens his eyes and he sees the tunnel, and hears the crowd, and he pushes away.
Pep catches him again before he can get far. Marc stops, bends at the waist, trying to catch his breath, and Pep leans over him, his hand on the back of Marc’s head. He’s saying, “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, just go take a shower, don’t worry,” and Marc thinks he must look pretty bad for Pep to be speaking to him like this. But his kindness just makes Marc feel worse, the same drop of his stomach as if Pep had said, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”
He propels himself into the tunnel, the roar of Camp Nou slowly fading behind him. He’d played thirty-one minutes.
The locker room is deadly quiet and he watches the end of the game on a small TV on the wall, standing in the middle of the empty room.
They lose. Marc kicks a locker as the ref blows the final whistle, the clang echoing around the cavernous room.
When the other guys start to file in, they don’t seem disappointed. Marc gets it, he does, because the league is already decided and the game doesn’t mean anything, not really, not to the rest of them that have been playing all season, but it wasn’t anyone else’s debut and it meant something to him-
“Hey, they gave you a standing ovation, man!” Pinto says, slapping Marc on the back. “Not everyone gets that on their first shot out.” Marc tries to smile but knows he isn’t very successful.
The rest of the team passes by, tells him it happens, and it won’t be the last, and it’s as good a game as any to get a red, and the ref was crazy. And Marc tries to smile, tries to smile, tries to smile.
He finally gets into the shower. He makes sure to stay there until everyone else is gone.
When he’s clean and it’s quiet, Marc lowers himself onto a bench in the empty dressing room in front of an unnumbered locker, the temporary one he’s been given for the day. He’s facing into the room, and he can see the names on all the lockers around him- Puyol. Xavi. Henry. Eto’o. Alves. Messi.
He pushes a towel into his face, scrubs at it, tries not to scream.
“Hey.”
Marc freezes, the towel still covering the lower half of his face. His eyes flick over to the entrance of the locker room, and Victor’s there, lounging against the doorway, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“Hey,” Marc says. He stands up slowly, turning toward his locker to pull his clothes out. Behind him, he hears Victor come further into the room, his footsteps shuffling against the concrete floor.
“Kind of a rough first game, huh?” Victor says after a minute, and Marc bites his lip.
“You could say that,” he mutters. He pulls on a pair of boxers, but keeps his towel tightly around his waist.
Victor sits down on the bench a few feet away from Marc. He’s still in his orange training top but he’s changed into jeans. “Shit like that happens,” he says. “At least the game didn’t matter.”
At that, Marc slams his locker shut, throws his bag on the bench with a little too much force. Victor looks mildly amused. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Marc hisses, keeping his head down, not looking at Victor. When the older man doesn’t say anything, he says, “People keep saying that. ’It doesn’t matter.’ But it matters. To me it does.”
Victor keeps looking up at him, his expression blank, and when it continues to be silent, Marc says, “Fuck. Fuck,” and he kicks another locker, likes the ugly crashing sound it makes, kicks it again, harder.
And then Victor’s grabbing his arm, pulling Marc down next to him on the bench. “Well don’t hurt yourself over it,” he mutters. Suddenly there are angry tears pricking behind Marc’s eyes, and he shoves the heels of his palms into them, pushing until he sees spots. He feels Victor’s arm snake around his bare shoulder.
“I’m not- I’m not-“ Marc tries to say, but his voice catches, gives him away.
Victor laughs, but it’s kind. “Don’t worry,” he says, pulling Marc closer to him. “Do you know how many times I’ve done this for Andres?”
Marc takes a few deep breaths, clears his throat. “That was when he was twelve, though,” he says, and it makes them both laugh.
Victor squeezes him closer for a second, molding Marc into his side, and then he lets go, pulls his arm back and drops his hands into his lap. Marc sways toward him momentarily and then blinks, recovers, pulls back.
He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his damp hair. “It still sucks,” he says, and he swings his leg out, catching an open locker with his toe, but with barely enough force to make it swing shut.
Victor says, “Yeah, I know.” He looks over at Marc, smiles, and his eyes are warm, kind.
Then he reaches over until his hand is hovering right over Marc’s thigh, and Marc’s eyes widen. For a long moment, he forgets to exhale. Victor presses his thumb into the seam of Marc’s towel, right where it falls across the top of his thigh, sweeping his fingers over it, trailing across the rough fabric. He’s not touching Marc’s skin at all, but Marc can feel the heat of his hand.
As quickly as it happens, before Marc even breathes, it ends, and Victor stands up. “See you next time, kid,” he says, and Marc blinks heavily, gaping up at him. He’s grinning when he walks out, leaving Marc sitting there alone again, suddenly cold.
Eventually he finishes dressing and leaves. In the hall there are still reporters waiting to talk to him. “How do you feel about a red card in your first game?” one asks, pushing a microphone into his face.
He pauses, bites his lip. “It’s not an ideal situation,” he answers slowly. “But… my teammates were very supportive. They’ve made me feel better.” The reporter keeps looking at him, still holding the microphone out, so he says, “I feel good.” And he smiles.