(no subject)
title: with voices clear
pairing: leo messi/ibrahim afellay
words: ~9400
rating: r
summary: In December, Ibrahim transfers to Barcelona.
Leo has never been one to talk much.
Gerard and Cesc love to tell the story about when Barcelona first signed Leo, how he didn’t talk for a month, until they roomed together on some far away trip and bonded over video games. Leo doesn’t mind it; it’s true. He didn’t talk then because he was young and new and he was in a foreign country where he didn’t know anyone.
Now he doesn’t talk much, not in public, because he thinks the important things he has to say are easier and better said on the pitch. Reporters might complain that he’s impossible to interview or that his press conferences are boring, but Leo doesn’t care. If they think he’s not saying anything, they’re not paying attention.
In December, Ibrahim transfers to Barcelona.
He’s quiet, too, because he doesn’t speak the language, and his face is so young Leo is surprised when he finds out that Ibrahim’s older than him by a couple of years. The club sticks him with Gerard because Gerard speaks English and is outgoing, but Leo thinks he might be a bit much for Ibrahim, that first day.
“This is Ibrahim,” Gerard says unceremoniously, dragging him over to Leo’s locker.
Leo turns. Ibrahim is standing a bit behind Gerard, almost like he’s hiding behind him, but he smiles at Leo and holds his hand out. Leo says, “Hello,” and, “Welcome.”
Ibrahim’s hands are cold but his shake is firm. He starts to say something, and then stutters and turns to Gerard.
Leo can tell Gerard is trying not to laugh when he says, “He says to tell you that it’s an honor to meet you and he’s really looking forward to playing with you.”
Leo smiles at Ibrahim. It’s not exactly something he’s not used to hearing, but it’s nice nonetheless, nice like Ibrahim’s smile and the flush across his cheeks. “Tell him thanks,” he tells Gerard. “And I’m looking forward to playing with him too.”
“He didn’t say that to me, by the way,” Gerard throws in, as he pushes Ibrahim to the next locker, Dani’s.
“That’s shocking,” Leo intones. “Hey, tell him I’m sorry he’s stuck with you.”
Gerard says something to Ibrahim, but from the concerned look Ibrahim throws Leo, Leo doesn’t think it’s what he told Gerard to say. He laughs.
In practice Ibrahim stays close to Keita and Abi, and that makes more sense to Leo than putting him with Gerard. They speak in fast, quiet French; it sounds nice to Leo, quick and fluid and elegant, even though he doesn’t understand a word of it. Occasionally Ibrahim will look surprised for a moment and then throw his head back in a loud burst of laughter, and it’s the only time Leo can really hear him, see what’s he’s actually like; his mouth open, eyes squinted, shoulders shaking.
It makes Leo think he’d like Ibrahim, if he knew him at all.
When Leo gets back to Barcelona after Christmas, Ibrahim has started talking to the Spanish speakers.
“Hello,” he says to Leo, in the locker room. Leo looks up from his locker, not recognizing the voice right away.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles.
“How is your trip?” Ibrahim asks, speaking slowly, deliberately.
“Was,” Leo corrects, gently. “My trip was good.”
“Was,” Ibrahim repeats. His brow creases. “Was.”
“How was your holiday?” Leo asks, turning back to his locker. No answer comes, so he looks over at Ibrahim, and he’s staring at Leo, staring at his mouth. After a moment, Ibrahim shrugs, shakes his head, as if to say he’s run out of words.
Leo closes his locker and touches Ibrahim’s arm as he moves away. He thinks Ibrahim’s smile looks almost proud, as he turns away to finish getting dressed.
Ibrahim plays his first moments for Barcelona against Athletic, in San Mamés. It really is just moments; he doesn’t even get a touch on the ball. They tie.
“Good morning.”
Leo doesn’t have to look to recognize the voice now. “Good morning,” he returns.
“How was your night?”
“It was good,” Leo says, leaning down into his locker. “How was yours?”
“Good,” Ibrahim returns. He turns back to his locker, but suddenly he laughs, and Leo can’t help but join him.
Ibrahim gets his first start in a Copa match against Real Betis. Leo runs and runs and tries to find his crosses and tries to link up with him and tries and tries and tries. It just doesn’t work.
They lose. They snap their 28 game winning streak and they lose and Ibrahim is subbed off in the 78th minute.
Leo thinks about telling him he did well, that it will be different in a game that matters more, in a game where they’re sharp and more of the first team plays; but Ibrahim doesn’t acknowledge him in the locker room after, or on the bus or back at Camp Nou, so Leo doesn’t say anything. He gets it; he doesn’t like to lose either.
“Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I did. Did you?”
“Yes. My mother is here. We go to dinner.”
“I spent time with my family, too.”
“Is nice, yes?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
“See you later, Leo.”
“Bye, Ibi.”
They go into their second Copa match against Almeria up 5 to nothing, so Pep sits Leo. He doesn’t like it- hates it, actually- but everyone else is resting too, Xavi and Iniesta and Villa and Pique. Dani gets to play, but even Leo has to admit Dani has more energy than the rest of them combined.
Ibrahim starts up front with Bojan and Nolito and Leo can’t help but be jealous, watching them out there; not just because they’re playing and he’s not, but that it’s so easy for them, so little pressure, more fun than anything else.
Adriano puts them up by one at the half, and Thiago adds another as soon as the second half starts. Leo feels it, knows it in his bones, from the way Ibrahim is playing and the hunger in his runs and the power in his shots, that he can score today; and in the 68th minute he does, a blast from outside the box.
He looks stunned, throwing his arms in the air and running behind the goal, the rest of the team chasing after him. Leo finds himself on his feet, grinning and clapping with the rest of the bench, and Ibrahim looks towards them, his face split in half with a smile, still half-laughing in disbelief. Leo can’t look away.
“Congratulations.” Leo doesn’t usually approach Ibrahim first, unsure how much he understands, but Leo figures that’s one word he knows by now.
He’s still smiling, so wide it looks like it must be painful. “Thank you,” he says. His eyes shine with pride. He grabs Leo’s arm, squeezes, drops it when he realizes what he’s doing, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Thank you.”
Leo goes back to his locker, but out of the corner of his eye, he keeps watching Ibrahim. The smile never leaves his face.
Later, when he’s at home, Leo sees a post-match interview with Ibrahim; the reporter is Dutch and a translation scrolls along the bottom of the screen. The interviewer asks him what he thinks about those who say he hasn’t settled in at Barcelona yet, or can’t play their style.
Ibrahim smiles hearing the question, even as Leo feels himself getting annoyed. The reporter pushes the microphone in his face and he searches for words for a moment, looking small against the backdrop of the mixed zone, before he says, “I scored my first goal, looked up, what did I see? Messi applauding. Imagine what that means? You think I’m interested in other critics?”
“Do you think you’ve done well?” the interviewer asks.
Ibrahim scratches at his brow, lifts his brows. Even without subtitles, Leo could guess what he’s saying, but then he hears his name again and reads the screen. "I’m satisfied, I scored my first goal and if Messi applauds you, what else is there to want, really?"
Leo watches his face, so happy and sincere, and he can’t explain the feeling of pride that blooms in his chest; pride and something else, maybe, something bigger. Doesn’t try to place it, just rewinds to hear Ibrahim’s words again. What else is there to want, really? he’d asked; Leo wonders the same.
They go on international break. Leo meets up with the Argentina squad in Switzerland and he’s thrilled when they beat Portugal, even more so that he was able to contribute with a goal and an assist. It’s important to him, to be able to do well for his country as well as for his club, and if he’s honest it’s a bit relieving that no one will be able to doubt his performance for Argentina this time.
Afterward, back at the hotel, some of the other guys ask him to go out and celebrate with them, but he declines.
“Leo,” Javier says, that look in his eyes like he’s about to father Leo even though he’s only three years older. Javier’s still his captain, so Leo doesn’t say anything.
“I’m tired, Javi,” he says, and Javier pulls a face but tells the others to leave him alone.
Leo goes up to his room, stretches out on his bed. He wasn’t lying, he is tired. He’d played 90 minutes, which he knows Pep won’t be happy about, but it was important, for him and his country. Still, 90 minutes, week in and week out takes its toll, and he props his weary legs up on some pillows, flips through the channels.
Eventually he finds what he didn’t admit to himself he was looking for, highlights from the Holland game. They’d been played at the same time Leo was playing, and he doesn’t know what happened.
He sees that they won, but because Ibrahim didn’t score or assist, he’s not shown on the highlights reel much. He turns off the TV, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. He thinks, for a moment, about texting Ibrahim, even though that’s not something he’s ever done before; but he wouldn’t know what to say except hi, and he decides that would be weird.
In the end he falls asleep with his training clothes still on, wakes before the sun even comes up.
“How was Switzerland?” Ibrahim brings his socks and boots over to Leo’s locker, sits on the bench near him while he gets dressed.
“It was okay,” Leo says, shrugging. He grabs a training shirt off a shelf, pulls it over his head. The truth is he hadn’t seen much of Switzerland; never really got to see much of the places he travels for games.
“Great assist,” Ibrahim says, bent over lacing a boot.
Leo doesn’t know what to say to that, knows Ibrahim was playing while his game was going on, which means- what? Nothing, Leo tells himself, nothing.
He doesn’t know what to say, so- “How was going home?” Leo asks.
Ibrahim says, “Barcelona is home,” and Leo pauses, looks over at him, but he’s still bent over, tying the other boot. “It was nice to see old friends though.”
“Yeah,” Leo says. He’s suddenly forgotten what he was doing and he looks down. Socks, he needs socks.
Ibrahim stands up and he’s close to Leo, too close. He looks down at him and smiles. “See you out there,” he says.
Leo looks after him a beat too long, shakes his head as if to clear it. “Socks,” he mutters to himself. “I need socks.” Next to him, Dani shoots him a look.
Ibrahim finally gets to start a league game, at Sporting Gijon, along with most of the regular starters, Leo and Villa and Xavi and Iniesta. He’d looked thrilled, thrilled and proud, in the locker room before the game when Pep had read out the starting line-up; in the tunnel, before they went out, Leo had touched his elbow and started to say something, good luck maybe, but Ibrahim had looked at him like he already knew, so Leo just smiled and walked past him.
Maybe he had needed the luck though. Leo doesn’t know what it is, never knows what it is exactly, but they go down in the first twenty minutes and the rest of the first half is just terrible. And Leo hates to admit it, but Ibrahim just isn’t there, isn’t making the right runs and isn’t connecting with them up front.
He knows it’s bad when Pep subs Ibrahim out at the half; Pep never makes subs that early. Pedro comes in, and finally at 80 minutes Leo threads a pass to Villa, who manages to chip it long and high over the keeper and tie the game up.
Leo runs to Villa, says, “Beautiful,” grinning, and tugs his hair before Villa takes off, not celebrating because it’s his home team, and Leo doesn’t exactly know what that’s like but he understands. He walks slowly behind Villa, glances over at the sideline, where the bench is standing, applauding for Villa. Ibrahim, too, standing, applauding, even smiling, but Leo can see even from a distance the glaze over his eyes, the disappointment.
Villa walks by again, touches his head. “Thanks, Leo,” he says, and Leo pats his back, lets himself have one more glance back at the bench before the game starts and he takes off again, trying to be the hero.
They go to London. They lose to Arsenal.
Leo’s angry. He’s angry at everyone: his teammates for not getting it done and Pep for making the wrong choices and the referee for making mistakes and mostly at himself for not doing enough, not being enough.
Most of his teammates know him well enough by now to leave him alone, let him cool off. Villa offers him a half-hearted, “It’s only the first leg,” but Xavi leads him away and Leo doesn’t respond.
Ibrahim doesn’t play but he’s there; Leo notices him, vaguely, walking near him on the way out to the bus. His brows are furrowed; he looks a bit lost, confused as to what’s going on.
Leo doesn’t say a word while they travel, and when they get back to Camp Nou he heads inside to his locker to leave his stuff. Ibrahim’s locker here is next to his, and when he turns to leave he finds Ibrahim hovering there, looking at him.
“Leo?” he says finally, his voice a question Leo doesn’t have the answer to.
Leo just looks at him, dully, and then shakes his head and moves to leave. He sees Ibrahim’s hand come up, reaching toward him, and he almost pauses-almost-but Ibrahim drops it before he can do anything.
“Sorry,” Leo hears him say behind him, as he walks out. “Sorry.” He doesn’t turn around. He just wants to get home.
They beat Athletic and they beat Mallorca and they beat Valencia. It doesn’t make up for Arsenal, not at all, but it reminds Leo that he’s still himself and they’re still Barcelona and life goes on. Football goes on.
Ibrahim doesn’t play much; hasn’t played much since that Sporting game. He hasn’t said anything about it-Leo doesn’t know if he could-and there’s no indication that he’s unhappy, but it still pulls at something inside Leo, when he sees Ibrahim standing there at the touchline, waiting to come on at the 80th minute, or the 91st minute, his face determined and resigned at the same time.
They beat Zaragoza. Ibrahim doesn’t play at all for the second game in a row.
In the locker room after, he undresses silently next to Leo. Leo tries to think of something to say.
“What are you doing the rest of the weekend?” he says finally. He’s still careful with his pronunciation, speaks slowly, but Ibrahim seems to be able to pick up most of what he says now, most of what they all say.
It takes Ibrahim a few moments to acknowledge Leo is talking to him. He turns slowly. “Oh,” he says. “Um. My brother is out of town, no? To his home? So I do not know. I will maybe watch a movie.”
And Leo had forgotten what it must be like for him, because to Leo it feels like he’s been there so long, been there forever, but really it’s only been a few months and he can’t know that many people, especially hardly knowing the language, and Leo should have known.
Leo says, “Hey, we’re have a barbeque tomorrow. Me and Masche and Pinto, and maybe some others.” He hesitates, but he’s already started, so he says, “Come.” It’s an impulse; they have barbeques most weekends and they don’t usually invite others. It’s not like they’re excluding anyone; it’s just that this is what that group does together, just like Leo plays PES with Bojan and goes out to clubs with Gerard and has late dinners with Xavi and Villa.
A few lockers down, Gerard shouts, “Hey, where’s my invite?”
Leo and Ibrahim turn to look at him. Leo turns back to Ibrahim, says, loudly enough for Gerard to hear, “Some people can’t take a hint, can they?” He doesn’t know if Ibrahim understands completely, but he laughs.
“Wow, rude,” Gerard says, pulling his shirt off. “After all I’ve done for you? This is what I get?”
Leo rolls his eyes but he says, “Fine, you can come too. But no throwing anyone in the pool. Or hiding any of my appliances. Or stealing my phone and calling my mom.”
“Your mom likes me, though,” Gerard points out.
“I’m so lucky I didn’t inherit her bad taste,” Leo says.
“Okay, Leo, you’re not making me feel very welcome to your party,” Gerard says.
Leo laughs. He glances over at Ibrahim, who’s gone back to getting dressed in front of his locker, but he’s smiling so Leo knows he’s still listening.
“You’ll come, right?” Leo asks him, quieter now. Ibrahim looks over at him, and then above his head, like he’s thinking.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I will come.”
“Okay,” Leo echoes, smiling at him. He feels relieved and he doesn’t know why. “I’ll text you the address. Come over anytime in the afternoon.”
He goes to leave, touches the small of Ibrahim’s back as he walks by. Wonders if he’s getting in over his head.
Ibrahim shows up in the late, late afternoon, long after Leo had convinced himself he wasn’t coming after all. He’s wearing a nice black button up and khakis, a bit more dressed up than the rest of them, but Leo thinks he looks good, has to bite his tongue to keep from saying it.
Ibrahim holds up his hands, looking apologetic. “I didn’t know if I should bring something,” he says.
“Oh,” Leo says, surprised by his politeness, his slight embarrassment, surprised by the fondness it causes inside him. “No, no. We have tons of food. Too much, really.” He starts to lead Ibrahim through the house, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m glad you came,” he says suddenly. He shifts his eyes forward, deliberately doesn’t look at Ibrahim’s face.
But then he does, he does look at Ibrahim’s face, and it’s flushed red. He’s not looking at Leo. He rubs at the back of his neck, glances around the house. “Thank you for inviting me. Your house- it’s very nice,” he mumbles, and Leo tries not to laugh.
They go onto the porch and Leo introduces him to the people he doesn’t know, shows him to the food and gets him a coke. Leo’s already eaten, but he sits with Ibrahim while he eats.
“Gerard didn’t come, then?” Ibrahim asks, looking around the backyard.
Leo rolls his eyes. “No, he texted a few hours ago and said he forgot he had something to do. Pinto says he’s been tweeting pictures of books, whatever that means.”
Ibrahim laughs. “He’s a funny guy.”
“Not sure funny is the first word I’d use,” Leo mutters.
Ibrahim eyes him, putting a forkful of salad in his mouth. He chews slowly and then says, “You have known him a long time, no?”
Leo smiles, looks away from Ibrahim, over the trees in his backyard. “Ten years now,” he says.
When he looks back, Ibrahim is studying him, but looks away quickly when Leo’s eyes meet his. After a moment of quiet, he says, “I think he’s doing something to my phone. Everyday I charge it before practice, and everyday after practice it’s dead.”
Leo laughs loudly. “He does that to me all the time,” he says. “He switches out the batteries or something.”
They smile at each other and slip into silence, half listening to the chatter around them. Leo shivers; it’s getting chilly.
When the sun goes down and they can hardly see each other anymore, people start heading inside, reaching for jackets and saying goodnight. Leo walks some of them out, and it’s a little while before he realizes he hasn’t seen Ibrahim, wonders if he slipped out without saying goodbye. It doesn’t seem like him.
He sticks his head in each room, waving at Pinto, who’s teaching his daughter to play PES on his system, and he’s stopped to chat with Javier in the kitchen when he glances out the back window and sees a lone figure sitting by the pool.
“Aren’t you cold?” Leo asks, settling down next to him, crossing his legs. Ibrahim’s got his legs in the pool, his pants rolled up to the knee. He kicks them gently, sending waves rippling across the surface.
“Not much,” he says. He leans back on his hands, looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night and they can smell the ocean, can almost hear the waves on the beach just a few blocks away. Leo picks at his shoes, feels Ibrahim, warm and solid next to him, leans in the slightest bit. They don’t speak for a long time, except when Javier sticks his head out the door to say goodbye.
“My dad used to live here,” Ibrahim says suddenly. Leo glances over at him, but he’s still looking up at the sky, resting back on his wrists. He kicks a leg up, sending a surge of water out.
“In Barcelona?”
“Yes. Just for a few years.”
Leo’s heard him talk about his mom, his brother, but never his dad. “Where is he now?” he asks.
Ibrahim looks down, smoothes a hand over the cuff of his pants. “Dead,” he says shortly. Leo doesn’t know if the bluntness is because he doesn’t know any other words to say it or something else.
And Leo didn’t know about his dad, feels like he should have known. “I’m sorry,” he says simply, because he doesn’t know anything else to say and because he really is.
“A long time ago,” Ibrahim says, and he pulls his legs out of the water, letting them drip over the pavement before he starts to scoot back, to get up. Leo puts a hand on his arm to stop him. Ibrahim shoots him a questioning look, he sees it out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look over and he doesn’t explain. Can’t explain.
Ibrahim doesn’t ask him to. He stops, stills, and they sit there, arms pressed against each other, until Leo starts shivering and Ibrahim says he has to go.
Leo doesn’t talk to Ibrahim for a couple days after that. It’s not intentional; there’s just a lot going on with the second leg of the Arsenal tie looming before them, the pressure to make up for that awful night in London, pressure especially on Leo himself, after his display against Arsenal the year prior.
He doesn’t mind it, really; he doesn’t listen much to what the press has to say anyway, and if anything the pressure makes him even more motivated. Mostly it’s internalized, a determination to make up for his own shortcomings during the first game, for all their shortcomings.
So they practice, long and hard, and Leo practices even longer and even harder, running until his legs can’t hold him up, until his lungs burn, and then taking a break by practicing his free kicks and his corner kicks and his dribbling.
At one point he’s running drills with Pedro and Ibrahim, and he walks up to Ibrahim, says something off-hand- “If you wait a second longer I can drop back and then run into that cross”- and Ibrahim doesn’t seem to understand, or doesn’t acknowledge it, just walks toward Leo until they’re almost touching, and then he reaches his arms around Leo’s waist, squeezes lightly- the quickest of hugs, a touch of his cheek on Leo’s head, and then he’s gone. Leo turns, watching him, surprised at the random contact, but Ibrahim just says, “Okay, let’s try it,” and turns to get the ball again.
Ibrahim understood, he waits a second longer to cross and Leo stumbles right into the ball, guiding it easily into the back of the net. He shoots a smile at Ibrahim. “See?” he says. He wonders if he’ll get another hug, but Ibrahim just flashes him a thumbs up, turns to talk to Keita.
The next night Leo scores two goals and they beat Arsenal to go to the semi-finals of the Champions League. Ibrahim only comes on with 8 minutes left to play, but when he hugs Leo afterward, says, “Fantastic, fantastic,” his breath warm on Leo’s ear, there’s no hint of disappointment there. And Leo, for a moment, feels like he’s doing everything right.
But then they tie Sevilla, and half of them are injured or sore or just exhausted, including Leo who has pain in his knee and is suddenly unsure if he’ll be able to meet up with the Argentina squad in the next international break.
He sits at home, feeling sorry for himself; takes a nap, wakes up, looks at his phone. There’s a couple missed calls, from Juanjo, from Gerard, from his brother.
Juanjo’s message just says, “Call me back the moment you get this,” and his voice sounds tired and strained. It’s unusual for him; he’s usually the one cheering them up, urging them on. Leo calls him back.
“Where were you?” he says when he answers. His voice is scratchy, like he’s been sleeping, or yelling, or crying.
“Asleep,” Leo says. “I took something for my knee and it makes me drowsy. What’s going on?” He knows it’s something, hasn’t ever heard Juanjo’s voice sound that way before. He wonders, briefly, if his knee injury is worse than they thought.
“We just,” Juanjo starts, and the phone is muffled for a moment while he clears his throat a few times. A flare of panic rises in Leo’s chest. “I just wanted you to hear from me and not from the news or… anyone else.”
“What?” Leo asks. “Is it my knee?”
“No,” Juanjo says, “No, it isn’t you. It’s Eric.”
“Eric?” Leo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Abi? What about him?”
“Leo, we found a tumor on his liver. He’ll have to have an operation immediately.” Leo doesn’t say anything and doesn’t say anything. “We just… wanted to make sure you guys heard it from us and not on the news.”
“What does that mean, though?” Leo asks finally, feeling lost. “I mean… I don’t know what that means.”
“We won’t know anything until after the operation,” Juanjo says, and Leo suddenly understands why he sounds so tired, suddenly feels the same. Juanjo says, “I have to go, Leo. Take care of yourself, come see me tomorrow,” and Leo says he will, says goodbye numbly, stares at his phone.
After a few minutes he checks his other messages, holding his phone to his ear while he stares at the ceiling blankly. His brother’s message says he’d seen it on the news and was just checking in. Gerard’s message says, “Just seeing if they’ve called you yet. Call me back when you get a chance. Love you, brother.”
Leo presses his fingertips into his eyes. After a long time, he dials Abi’s number, isn’t surprised when he gets the voicemail. He leaves a bland message, something like, “I’m so sorry,” and “Let me know if you need anything,” nothing that actually means what Leo wants to say, but he’s never been good at this kind of thing, never been good with words.
He sits in the quiet of his house for a long time, when suddenly he thinks of Ibrahim. He wonders if anyone had called to check on him, knowing he was close to Abi. Leo’s fingers hover over his name and the call button, but in the end he thinks it would be even harder for them to talk over the phone, opts for the text message.
He types in, Did they call you? But it seems too impersonal, so he deletes. Types, Are you okay? But that one has the opposite problem. Types, Come over? Hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
At least an hour passes; Leo moves into the living room, turns on an old movie after he watches the sports shows for too long, after they stop making sense. He calls his brother back, and his mom just because, calls Gerard. He doesn’t hear anything from Ibrahim, and it’s late, right before he’s about to go to bed, when the doorbell rings.
He pulls open the door and Ibrahim’s there, looking sheepish, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Leo steps aside to let him in.
“I am sorry, it’s late,” he says. Leo waves him off. “I am lost,” he says.
It catches Leo off-guard, and he almost corrects him, Was, I was lost, but then he thinks maybe that’s not what Ibrahim meant anyway.
“Do you want some water? Or something else?” Leo says, starting in the direction of the kitchen. Ibrahim doesn’t say anything, but he accepts the glass of water Leo offers him, drinks it thirstily. Leo wonders how long he’s been driving around.
“You could have called,” Leo says. Ibrahim looks up at him blankly. “For directions,” he clarifies.
“Oh,” Ibrahim says. He looks around the kitchen, everywhere but Leo’s face. “I liked it, though. Just driving around.”
Leo nods. “Okay.”
Leo gets himself a glass of water as well, and they stand in the kitchen drinking and not looking at each other, each lost in their own thoughts. When Leo finishes his glass, sets it carefully in the sink, he says, “What do you want to do?”
Ibrahim looks at him, shrugs. “What are you doing before I come?”
Leo doesn’t bother correcting his grammar; he doesn’t need to learn tonight. “Watching a movie,” he says. “I don’t even know what it was. Something old.”
“I would like to watch a movie,” Ibrahim says, so they go in the living room and settle on the couch. The movie Leo had been watching is over, but he finds another one and Ibrahim seems satisfied with it.
A few minutes in, Ibrahim stands up and flips out the lights in the living. When he walks back to the couch and Leo looks up at him, he says, “The…” and gestures helplessly, pointing to the lights and the television screen.
“Glare?” Leo guesses. Ibrahim shrugs.
“I cannot see well,” he says, and he flops back onto the couch next to Leo. His face lands near Leo’s elbow, close enough so that if Leo shifted at all Ibrahim would be leaning on his arm. He doesn’t, but after awhile Ibrahim leans down himself, his face pressed against Leo’s arm.
Leo doesn’t look for a long time, but when he does, he realizes Ibrahim is asleep.
When the movie ends Leo is careful to slide out from under Ibrahim, slipping a pillow into his place. Ibrahim doesn’t stir, so Leo finds a blanket, throws it over him, and goes upstairs to his own bed, pretends it’s all normal and okay.
In the morning, he wakes up early, creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can, but it’s all for nothing because Ibrahim is already gone.
They have another international break.
Leo goes to the United States, to New York, and even though it’s cold and rainy he enjoys it because they have time to go out and do stuff and hardly anyone recognizes him. It’s been so long since he’s been able to walk down a street in broad daylight by himself and not have anyone screaming, chasing him, crying, and even though New York is huge and dirty and not exactly his favorite place in the world, he loves being another small anonymous nobody that everyone else ignores, if just for a few days.
They go to Times Square and they go shopping on Fifth Avenue. They go to Rockefeller Center, and they take pictures of the Argentina flag flying there; when Leo sees the Netherlands flag flying nearby, he snaps one of that too, dashes off a picture message to Ibrahim.
A few minutes later his phone buzzes. How cool! Ibrahim writes. How is New York?
Leo smiles, begins typing a reply-freezing, but I like it-when Javier appears beside him.
“Who are you texting?” he asks. He makes a grab for Leo’s phone, but Leo’s quicker, jumps away. His cheeks get warm even though he’s not doing anything that should make him embarrassed.
Javier stares at him, waiting. “Ibi,” he says finally. He looks down, back at his phone. “I sent him a picture.”
Javier doesn’t say anything, but Leo can feel him still standing there, so he looks up, demands, “What?”
Javier just smiles. He says, “Okay,” and he touches Leo’s arm, like that means something; Leo doesn’t know what but he’s certainly not going to ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says, and he finishes writing his text.
Ibrahim has a better international run than Leo; he scores and assists, and his team destroys Hungary. Argentina ties the United States and Costa Rica; Leo doesn’t get to play at all in the latter. He’d never admit it, but maybe it’s better; he’s exhausted.
Later, when they’re back in Barcelona, Javier asks him, casually, not meeting his eyes, “What’s up with you and Ibi, then?”
Leo won’t meet his eyes either, brushes him off with a, “Nothing, what do you mean?”
But Javier knows, and he waits, looks at Leo like who do you think you’re fooling?
So Leo says, “We’re friends,” shrugs, still doesn’t look Javier in the eyes because how can he?
Javier says carefully, “Well, good. I like him, you know.”
“Yeah,” Leo says, admits, “Me too.”
Javier says, “So what’s the problem?” and Leo wonders how he always knows, and has the right thing to say, guesses that’s why he’s captain of Argentina at 26.
“I don’t know,” Leo says, scratches at his calf, knows that isn’t good enough. “It’s like, sometimes I think that he thinks I’m this perfect person or whatever.”
Javier says, “That’s bad?”
Leo keeps his head ducked. He knows it sounds weird and he doesn’t expect Javier-anyone-to understand, but, “Well, what happens when he finds out I’m not?”
Javier looks at him and looks at him, like he’s never seen him before in his life, like he doesn’t understand, and then he says, “Oh, Leo,” and it’s fond; he laughs a little, shaking his head. “That’s kind of how these things work.” Leo's not sure he’s right.
They demolish Shakhtar but all anyone can think about, all anyone can talk about is that they’ll be playing Madrid next, two Champions League games on top of the league game and the Copa final. Four games in 18 days. Leo doesn’t care, not really; their opponent never matters much to him.
It’s Ibrahim’s first Clasico though, first Champions League final and of course first Copa, which will be his first final with Barcelona.
“The first one is unbelievable, no?” he says, sitting next to Leo’s locker while he puts his boots on. “Not just five goals but a beautiful game, a game you always remember.”
Leo nods. He knows it’s true, but the truth is he doesn’t dwell much over past games, not even the good ones.
Next to them, Xavi says, “I wouldn’t count on it being that easy again, kid,” and he catches Leo’s eye over Ibrahim’s head.
Leo laughs. “It would be nice, but no.”
Ibrahim nods, tugs at his socks. Xavi says, “No one should have to go through four clasicos in a season, much less in 3 weeks.” He looks down at Ibrahim, who looks back with wide eyes. “Don’t let it get you down too much, you know? It’s not going to be pretty.” Xavi looks back at Leo when he finishes, “I guarantee it.”
They don’t know how right he is.
After the league game, the first Clasico, Ibrahim sits next to him on the bus.
“That was…” he says, but trails off. He waves a hand around, looks at Leo with wide eyes. Leo doesn’t know if he doesn’t know the word he wants to say or doesn’t have words at all.
Leo’s not totally thrilled about the outcome, but he scored and they didn’t lose-basically won the league at the Bernabeu-so he can’t really be that upset. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window. “Just wait until the Champions games. Those will be even more…” and he trails off too, waving his hand around.
Ibrahim laughs a little. Leo can feel him shifting around, too wound up from the game to rest like Leo wants.
“You know what?” he says finally. Leo’s eyes snap open. Ibrahim’s not looking at him, he’s looking around the bus, but it’s clear he’s talking to Leo. “I think we should work on the crosses again. I think if we could get the timing right, we could really do something with them.” His words come easily, more easily than Leo has ever heard from him, and he does look at Leo, his eyes flashing, determined or hopeful or what, Leo isn’t sure.
Leo nods at him. “Okay,” he says. “We will.”
And so they do, they do practice them, until their legs hurt and sweat drips into their eyes, but they get the timing down to a science, practicing until Leo thinks he could run into one of Ibrahim’s crosses blindfolded.
But it isn’t enough. By the time Ibrahim’s brought in for the Copa final, in the 106th minute, they’re already down by one, and Leo’s legs are just too exhausted to keep up, to meet Ibrahim’s runs, to do anything. Leo tries, he really does-he doesn’t want to lose a Championship, doesn’t want Barcelona to lose this championship, not to Real Madrid, doesn’t want Ibrahim to lose his first trophy game with Barcelona, not that he’s thinking about that-but he can’t do it. They can’t do it, and they lose.
They have to stay on the pitch after, to get some second place medals, and at some point through his haze of disappointment Leo realizes Ibrahim is standing at his elbow, just standing, quiet and stoic, not looking at Leo or anything in particular. Leo remembers, vaguely, how he’d acted after the Arsenal game they’d lost, and he doesn’t blame Ibrahim for not trying to talk to him; doesn’t even want him to try, really, but there is a part of him, however small, that wants to do the opposite, talk to Ibrahim, tell him it’s just the Copa and it doesn’t matter. He would say it, if he could convince himself, first.
They get their medals, drag their weary bodies back to the bus. Leo slumps in a seat in the back, his head against the window, and he knows without opening his eyes when Ibrahim slides in next to him, from the bump of his knee or the smell of his shampoo, something, Leo just knows. And he’s glad, he feels relieved, that Ibrahim knows him and knows how he acts after these games and even though it might be stupid and it might make him an asshole, just a little bit, Ibrahim doesn’t care.
When they get on the plane, he follows Ibrahim to a row in the back. Even though they don’t have to sit next to each other, there’s enough seats to leave the middle ones open, Leo sits down right next to Ibrahim. Doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him, but drops his head on his shoulder, eyes sealed tight, and he doesn’t move until they’re back in Barcelona.
Leo sleeps like a rock and doesn’t wake up until it’s close to noon. They have the day off and he takes full advantage to mope, staying in his pajama pants and eating cereal on his couch while watching game shows all day. He doesn’t shower, doesn’t comb his hair, doesn’t bother to turn the lights on when it gets dark.
He’s dozing off on the couch when the doorbell rings. He lays there for a few moments, willing the person to go away, but they don’t, and so he hauls himself up and to the front the door, pulling it open and squinting into the light.
Ibrahim’s there, and he looks a lot better than Leo, in that he’s wearing real clothes and looks like he’s bathed recently. His eyes sweep over Leo’s pathetic form but he doesn’t react, just steps into the entryway and waits while Leo closes the door.
“What are you doing here?” Leo says finally. He pushes his hair out of his face, peers up at Ibrahim. Ibrahim isn’t looking at him and so Leo stares at his jaw, working as he thinks.
“I do not know,” he admits finally, glancing down at Leo before looking away again, shrugging slightly. He doesn’t apologize though, doesn’t look apologetic, and Leo studies his face, searches for words.
Ibrahim looks over suddenly, catches Leo staring but Leo doesn’t look away and neither does he. He takes a step closer to Leo, close enough that Leo can smell his cologne, can see his skin up close, smooth and soft looking. Leo lifts a hand to his own mouth, chews on the frayed edge of his sleeve. Ibrahim watches.
Ibrahim reaches for Leo, pulls his hand away from his mouth. His eyes remain focused on Leo’s lips, and he mutters, to himself or to Leo, it isn’t clear, “I need,” but he doesn’t finish the thought, and then again, “I need.” And now, like always, Leo doesn’t know if he can’t find the words or if that’s all he meant to say but it doesn’t really matter because Leo knows what it means anyway.
Ibrahim’s close enough that Leo can see his pulse working under his skin, at his throat, and seeing that Ibrahim has gone as far as he will, as far as he can, Leo steps forward, turns his face up, presses his lips against the pulse-point, right under Ibrahim’s jaw. He stays there, not moving, for a long moment, feels Ibrahim sigh, a giant exhale, his shoulders deflating, his breath warm against the side of Leo’s face.
Ibrahim’s hands come up, fist in the sides of Leo’s t-shirts, holding him in place while still not moving himself at all. Leo moves slowly, pressing his lips against the underside of Ibrahim’s jaw, moving along and up to his cheek, his temple, lifting himself up onto his toes to reach. Ibrahim’s eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed red. Leo kisses one corner of his mouth, the other, hesitates right over his lips, waiting, waiting for some sign from Ibrahim that this is okay and that he’s not alone here, that he's not out on this limb by himself.
Ibrahim’s eyes open when he realizes Leo’s stopped. Leo pushes himself up even higher on his toes, trying to make them eye level, but his legs are tired, sore, and he rests a hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder for balance. Ibrahim’s eyes flit back and forth, between Leo’s eyes and his mouth, and Leo feels his hand loosen in his shirt, slide over Leo’s hip, back and forth.
He says, “Ibi,” and that’s all it takes. Ibrahim’s eyes snap shut and his head angles, moving forward, and though Leo expects him to be as soft and tentative as always, he’s not; his lips meet Leo’s assuredly, sliding over them confidently, nipping at Leo’s lips. He pushes Leo backwards, until his back is against the wall of the foyer, and dips his head, letting Leo come off his toes and onto his feet.
He nudges his face into Leo’s, pushing him, asking for more, wanting more, needing more. More tongue, more taste, more and more and Leo is just trying to keep up, vaguely wishing he’d showered.
As suddenly as it started, Ibrahim pulls back, leaving Leo swaying forward, confused by the sudden absence of the other body. He observes Leo from under his lashes, his tongue coming out to swipe at his red and swollen lips. Leo thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, starts to reach out for him.
Ibrahim, though, mumbles, “I have to go,” and backs up, feeling for the door handle behind him, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on Leo, his other hand coming up to his mouth.
“Why?” Leo says quietly, and, “Stay,” but Ibrahim doesn’t say anything else, finds the handle and slips out the door into the dark.
Leo eventually peels himself away from the wall, makes himself go upstairs to shower. He wonders if he should feel bad, when he thinks of Ibrahim as he jerks himself off under the warm spray, his swollen lips and his dark eyes, but he doesn’t. He comes impossibly fast.
Ibrahim doesn’t talk to him in the locker room and only nods briefly when he calls comments out during practice. Leo thinks about texting him once or twice, but he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have any idea what Ibrahim’s thinking or if he did something wrong or what to do now. So he doesn’t do anything, has other things to worry about, the league, and Champions, and his own stats and his own life.
They go to Madrid for the third of the Clasicos, the first of the Champions League games, and Leo knows he’ll be glad when he doesn’t have to see this stadium anymore for awhile. The games have descended into ridiculousness, Leo knows, even while he’s playing it.
The game stops and starts and stops and starts and nothing happens until 61 minutes in when Pepe, who’s been trailing Leo like a shadow the entire game, gets sent off. Ten minutes later Ibrahim comes in, and six minutes after that Leo drops a pass back to Xavi, turns his head and sees him run around the defender, his head turning this way and that. Leo watches and suddenly he knows, sees the entire play unfolding in his head, and he starts his move.
He takes a few steps around the box, a midfielder pushing him around a little before abandoning him, passing him off to the backline. At that very moment Leo feels rather than sees Xavi make his move, sliding a pass to Ibrahim, who Leo can see out of the corner of his eye streaking up the sideline. All the practice they’ve done kicks in, and Leo waits for the precise moment he knows so well before he turns suddenly, sidesteps a defender and kicks into high speed, his legs pumping at full speed. Just like he’d known would happen, Ibrahim sweeps in a low cross at the very last second and Leo throws himself at it, kicking his legs out and making enough contact to send the ball right through Casillas’s legs and into the back of the net.
The stadium erupts, matching the inside of Leo’s head. He turns toward Ibrahim, pointing at him and seeing him throw his hands in the air in disbelief, running screaming to sideline where the Barcelona away fans are sitting. Leo launches himself at Ibrahim, and Gaby’s there too, and then the rest of them, and he lifts his face up to their fans, a writhing mass of screaming culés, standing in stark contrast the silent, stone-faced fans in white sitting below. He taps his crest, points up at them, because it’s all for them, as much as it’s for himself and for Xavi and for Gerard and for Pep.
He ducks his head down into his teammates, and all he hears is screaming, gibberish, and Ibrahim’s there next to him and he’s shouting something too, something Leo can’t hear or understand, but his face is split in a smile and he pushes his finger into Leo’s chest, into their crest.
Leo pulls away from the group, makes his usual dedication to his grandmother and then spends another moment celebrating with the fans, and when he turns Ibrahim is still there, still looking at him and smiling even as everyone else returns to their positions, and he points at him again, can’t help the smile so wide it’s hurting his face. He jogs to Ibrahim quickly, folds him into another hug but pulls away quickly.
Ten minutes later and it happens again. Busquets steadies a ball from him and he takes it casually, his eyes trained on the goal and he weaves in, past one defender, past another, two more falling away from him, and suddenly he’s right there, face to face with Casillas and he uses the side of his foot to tap the ball before he goes crashing to the ground, off balance, and watches as it rolls in easily.
He takes off again, toward their fans, toward Gaby, launches himself up. He’s screaming too, they all are, because they up two to nothing at the Bernabeu in the Champions League and it makes up for everything, the whole season, the Copa and Arsenal and every other thing. Leo feels Ibrahim behind him, his arm curling around Leo’s neck, and he leans back into, thinks it makes up for them, too.
In the locker room they’re playing music, dancing, shouting. Pep warns them not to celebrate too early, that they haven’t won anything yet, but Leo and all of them can see the shine of his eyes, the flash of his teeth that he can’t quite contain, and they know he’s proud and happy.
Leo’s stripped down to his underarmour and socks and he’s standing in front of his locker, singing along with Gerard who’s leading a raucous rendition of El Cant del Barca, standing on top of the bench. Dani’s standing in front of him, doing some kind of interpretive dance to it, and Leo can’t stop smiling even though it feels like his lips are about to split, like his cheeks might freeze.
He looks over and Ibrahim’s walked up near him, next to him, his face reflecting the same smile Leo knows is on his own, but his eyes are guarded, questioning. Leo looks at him for a second, still singing, before he reaches out, slings an arm around Ibrahim’s shoulders and pulls him close, until his side is pressed right against Leo. He looks him in the eyes as he sings and Ibrahim’s smile gets wider, wider until he laughs, bending forward at the waist, and Leo laughs too, leaning in until their foreheads touch, smiles all around.
Gerard yells, “Visca Barca!” And they all raise their hands, yell back, with voices clear, “I visca Catalunya!”
They stay close to each other, even as they don’t say much. They settle into seats next to each other on the bus, pressing their forearms together, staying calm while the rest of the bus rocks with excitement. Gerard’s still singing, beginning to lose his voice, and Puyol’s yelling over him. Xavi’s trying to talk on the phone and Dani and Adriano are trying to teach Victor one of their many celebration dances while staying in their seats. The younger kids, Andreu and Thiago and Sergi, who’d debuted, debuted at the Bernabeu in a Champions semi-final, huddle together, their eyes bright and faces overwhelmed.
Ibrahim and Leo sit, watching with quiet smiles, pressed together from shoulder to knee. Leo’s body hums with adrenaline and anticipation.
It’s late, so late, when they get back to Camp Nou, and Leo’s voice is almost gone, his legs are almost gone, but he says to Ibrahim, “Follow me home,” and Ibrahim nods like he already knew.
Leo doesn’t try to have sex with Ibrahim, not after the last time and his hesitation, but he does undress him slowly, holds Ibrahim down and traces his tongue over the lines of his muscles and bones until he’s shaking and begging, then closes his mouth over the head of his cock, presses his fingers into his thighs, lets him thrust up into his mouth until he comes, a babbling stream of what sounds like a mix of Dutch and French and English falling from his lips.
And he’s only a little bit surprised when Ibrahim flips them over, looms over Leo, drags his mouth over Leo’s cheek and jaw and throat, sucking on the sensitive skin below his ear, his hands traveling downward, skimming his nipples and his lower belly and dipping below his waistband until Leo can barely breath, pressing his face into Ibrahim’s neck. Leo comes into his hand, moaning quietly, and he feels Ibrahim smiling against his jaw.
Later, Leo’s dozing off, laying on his stomach, his head turned in Ibrahim’s direction. Ibrahim’s on his side, one hand ghosting over his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he says softly, and Leo’s eyes open slowly, studying his face. He doesn’t say anything else, but Leo knows what he’s talking about.
“It’s okay,” he says, because it is and he doesn’t need anything else from Ibrahim.
Leo reaches out with one hand, puts it in Ibrahim’s short hair, grabs a fistful and pulls gently before releasing it. Ibrahim turns his head so Leo’s palm rests against his lips. He shifts his eyes over.
“Leo, I-“ he starts, and his brow furrows. Leo is still, waiting. Ibrahim looks up at him, his eyes wide, unguarded, but he shakes his head. “I don’t know the words to say,” he says helplessly, shrugging, a shy smile pulling at his lips, under Leo’s hand.
Leo smiles, wide, so his eyes crinkle, and he pushes his hand against Ibrahim’s lips until he feels them purse under it, kissing his palm. “I don’t either,” he laughs, dropping his head back down into the pillow. “I don’t either.”
They tie Real Madrid at Camp Nou in the second leg of Champions. It’s not a win, and Leo doesn’t score, and Ibrahim doesn’t come in until the 93rd minute as a time-waster, but it doesn’t matter in the end because they’re both there when the final whistle blows, when they run to center-field to throw Abidal in the air, and later Pep.
Pep tells them to go celebrate with the fans, thank them for their support over the past few weeks, and they all take off in a walk around the Camp Nou, clapping for the fans even as they clap back at them.
Leo sees Ibrahim, off to the side, by himself, surveying the crowd at Camp Nou, a smile stretched across his face, and he bounds over to him, throwing an arm across his shoulders. He feels Ibrahim’s arm come up around his waist, feels him press his nose into his hair quickly, and then they take off, circling the perimeter of Camp Nou.
Leo points up at the fans and they point back down at him, their unlikely hero in blaugrana. He keeps one arm tightly around Ibrahim and with the other he lifts his crest, kissing it, and the fans sing their approval back at him, the cant raining down on him from every side. He grins, sings it back, raising his arm, looking at Ibrahim as he starts. Ibrahim joins him, his shining eyes meeting Leo’s own; they look over the fans shouting the words back at them, their arms around each other, and they sing their joy loudly, with voices clear.
pairing: leo messi/ibrahim afellay
words: ~9400
rating: r
summary: In December, Ibrahim transfers to Barcelona.
Leo has never been one to talk much.
Gerard and Cesc love to tell the story about when Barcelona first signed Leo, how he didn’t talk for a month, until they roomed together on some far away trip and bonded over video games. Leo doesn’t mind it; it’s true. He didn’t talk then because he was young and new and he was in a foreign country where he didn’t know anyone.
Now he doesn’t talk much, not in public, because he thinks the important things he has to say are easier and better said on the pitch. Reporters might complain that he’s impossible to interview or that his press conferences are boring, but Leo doesn’t care. If they think he’s not saying anything, they’re not paying attention.
In December, Ibrahim transfers to Barcelona.
He’s quiet, too, because he doesn’t speak the language, and his face is so young Leo is surprised when he finds out that Ibrahim’s older than him by a couple of years. The club sticks him with Gerard because Gerard speaks English and is outgoing, but Leo thinks he might be a bit much for Ibrahim, that first day.
“This is Ibrahim,” Gerard says unceremoniously, dragging him over to Leo’s locker.
Leo turns. Ibrahim is standing a bit behind Gerard, almost like he’s hiding behind him, but he smiles at Leo and holds his hand out. Leo says, “Hello,” and, “Welcome.”
Ibrahim’s hands are cold but his shake is firm. He starts to say something, and then stutters and turns to Gerard.
Leo can tell Gerard is trying not to laugh when he says, “He says to tell you that it’s an honor to meet you and he’s really looking forward to playing with you.”
Leo smiles at Ibrahim. It’s not exactly something he’s not used to hearing, but it’s nice nonetheless, nice like Ibrahim’s smile and the flush across his cheeks. “Tell him thanks,” he tells Gerard. “And I’m looking forward to playing with him too.”
“He didn’t say that to me, by the way,” Gerard throws in, as he pushes Ibrahim to the next locker, Dani’s.
“That’s shocking,” Leo intones. “Hey, tell him I’m sorry he’s stuck with you.”
Gerard says something to Ibrahim, but from the concerned look Ibrahim throws Leo, Leo doesn’t think it’s what he told Gerard to say. He laughs.
In practice Ibrahim stays close to Keita and Abi, and that makes more sense to Leo than putting him with Gerard. They speak in fast, quiet French; it sounds nice to Leo, quick and fluid and elegant, even though he doesn’t understand a word of it. Occasionally Ibrahim will look surprised for a moment and then throw his head back in a loud burst of laughter, and it’s the only time Leo can really hear him, see what’s he’s actually like; his mouth open, eyes squinted, shoulders shaking.
It makes Leo think he’d like Ibrahim, if he knew him at all.
When Leo gets back to Barcelona after Christmas, Ibrahim has started talking to the Spanish speakers.
“Hello,” he says to Leo, in the locker room. Leo looks up from his locker, not recognizing the voice right away.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles.
“How is your trip?” Ibrahim asks, speaking slowly, deliberately.
“Was,” Leo corrects, gently. “My trip was good.”
“Was,” Ibrahim repeats. His brow creases. “Was.”
“How was your holiday?” Leo asks, turning back to his locker. No answer comes, so he looks over at Ibrahim, and he’s staring at Leo, staring at his mouth. After a moment, Ibrahim shrugs, shakes his head, as if to say he’s run out of words.
Leo closes his locker and touches Ibrahim’s arm as he moves away. He thinks Ibrahim’s smile looks almost proud, as he turns away to finish getting dressed.
Ibrahim plays his first moments for Barcelona against Athletic, in San Mamés. It really is just moments; he doesn’t even get a touch on the ball. They tie.
“Good morning.”
Leo doesn’t have to look to recognize the voice now. “Good morning,” he returns.
“How was your night?”
“It was good,” Leo says, leaning down into his locker. “How was yours?”
“Good,” Ibrahim returns. He turns back to his locker, but suddenly he laughs, and Leo can’t help but join him.
Ibrahim gets his first start in a Copa match against Real Betis. Leo runs and runs and tries to find his crosses and tries to link up with him and tries and tries and tries. It just doesn’t work.
They lose. They snap their 28 game winning streak and they lose and Ibrahim is subbed off in the 78th minute.
Leo thinks about telling him he did well, that it will be different in a game that matters more, in a game where they’re sharp and more of the first team plays; but Ibrahim doesn’t acknowledge him in the locker room after, or on the bus or back at Camp Nou, so Leo doesn’t say anything. He gets it; he doesn’t like to lose either.
“Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I did. Did you?”
“Yes. My mother is here. We go to dinner.”
“I spent time with my family, too.”
“Is nice, yes?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
“See you later, Leo.”
“Bye, Ibi.”
They go into their second Copa match against Almeria up 5 to nothing, so Pep sits Leo. He doesn’t like it- hates it, actually- but everyone else is resting too, Xavi and Iniesta and Villa and Pique. Dani gets to play, but even Leo has to admit Dani has more energy than the rest of them combined.
Ibrahim starts up front with Bojan and Nolito and Leo can’t help but be jealous, watching them out there; not just because they’re playing and he’s not, but that it’s so easy for them, so little pressure, more fun than anything else.
Adriano puts them up by one at the half, and Thiago adds another as soon as the second half starts. Leo feels it, knows it in his bones, from the way Ibrahim is playing and the hunger in his runs and the power in his shots, that he can score today; and in the 68th minute he does, a blast from outside the box.
He looks stunned, throwing his arms in the air and running behind the goal, the rest of the team chasing after him. Leo finds himself on his feet, grinning and clapping with the rest of the bench, and Ibrahim looks towards them, his face split in half with a smile, still half-laughing in disbelief. Leo can’t look away.
“Congratulations.” Leo doesn’t usually approach Ibrahim first, unsure how much he understands, but Leo figures that’s one word he knows by now.
He’s still smiling, so wide it looks like it must be painful. “Thank you,” he says. His eyes shine with pride. He grabs Leo’s arm, squeezes, drops it when he realizes what he’s doing, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Thank you.”
Leo goes back to his locker, but out of the corner of his eye, he keeps watching Ibrahim. The smile never leaves his face.
Later, when he’s at home, Leo sees a post-match interview with Ibrahim; the reporter is Dutch and a translation scrolls along the bottom of the screen. The interviewer asks him what he thinks about those who say he hasn’t settled in at Barcelona yet, or can’t play their style.
Ibrahim smiles hearing the question, even as Leo feels himself getting annoyed. The reporter pushes the microphone in his face and he searches for words for a moment, looking small against the backdrop of the mixed zone, before he says, “I scored my first goal, looked up, what did I see? Messi applauding. Imagine what that means? You think I’m interested in other critics?”
“Do you think you’ve done well?” the interviewer asks.
Ibrahim scratches at his brow, lifts his brows. Even without subtitles, Leo could guess what he’s saying, but then he hears his name again and reads the screen. "I’m satisfied, I scored my first goal and if Messi applauds you, what else is there to want, really?"
Leo watches his face, so happy and sincere, and he can’t explain the feeling of pride that blooms in his chest; pride and something else, maybe, something bigger. Doesn’t try to place it, just rewinds to hear Ibrahim’s words again. What else is there to want, really? he’d asked; Leo wonders the same.
They go on international break. Leo meets up with the Argentina squad in Switzerland and he’s thrilled when they beat Portugal, even more so that he was able to contribute with a goal and an assist. It’s important to him, to be able to do well for his country as well as for his club, and if he’s honest it’s a bit relieving that no one will be able to doubt his performance for Argentina this time.
Afterward, back at the hotel, some of the other guys ask him to go out and celebrate with them, but he declines.
“Leo,” Javier says, that look in his eyes like he’s about to father Leo even though he’s only three years older. Javier’s still his captain, so Leo doesn’t say anything.
“I’m tired, Javi,” he says, and Javier pulls a face but tells the others to leave him alone.
Leo goes up to his room, stretches out on his bed. He wasn’t lying, he is tired. He’d played 90 minutes, which he knows Pep won’t be happy about, but it was important, for him and his country. Still, 90 minutes, week in and week out takes its toll, and he props his weary legs up on some pillows, flips through the channels.
Eventually he finds what he didn’t admit to himself he was looking for, highlights from the Holland game. They’d been played at the same time Leo was playing, and he doesn’t know what happened.
He sees that they won, but because Ibrahim didn’t score or assist, he’s not shown on the highlights reel much. He turns off the TV, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. He thinks, for a moment, about texting Ibrahim, even though that’s not something he’s ever done before; but he wouldn’t know what to say except hi, and he decides that would be weird.
In the end he falls asleep with his training clothes still on, wakes before the sun even comes up.
“How was Switzerland?” Ibrahim brings his socks and boots over to Leo’s locker, sits on the bench near him while he gets dressed.
“It was okay,” Leo says, shrugging. He grabs a training shirt off a shelf, pulls it over his head. The truth is he hadn’t seen much of Switzerland; never really got to see much of the places he travels for games.
“Great assist,” Ibrahim says, bent over lacing a boot.
Leo doesn’t know what to say to that, knows Ibrahim was playing while his game was going on, which means- what? Nothing, Leo tells himself, nothing.
He doesn’t know what to say, so- “How was going home?” Leo asks.
Ibrahim says, “Barcelona is home,” and Leo pauses, looks over at him, but he’s still bent over, tying the other boot. “It was nice to see old friends though.”
“Yeah,” Leo says. He’s suddenly forgotten what he was doing and he looks down. Socks, he needs socks.
Ibrahim stands up and he’s close to Leo, too close. He looks down at him and smiles. “See you out there,” he says.
Leo looks after him a beat too long, shakes his head as if to clear it. “Socks,” he mutters to himself. “I need socks.” Next to him, Dani shoots him a look.
Ibrahim finally gets to start a league game, at Sporting Gijon, along with most of the regular starters, Leo and Villa and Xavi and Iniesta. He’d looked thrilled, thrilled and proud, in the locker room before the game when Pep had read out the starting line-up; in the tunnel, before they went out, Leo had touched his elbow and started to say something, good luck maybe, but Ibrahim had looked at him like he already knew, so Leo just smiled and walked past him.
Maybe he had needed the luck though. Leo doesn’t know what it is, never knows what it is exactly, but they go down in the first twenty minutes and the rest of the first half is just terrible. And Leo hates to admit it, but Ibrahim just isn’t there, isn’t making the right runs and isn’t connecting with them up front.
He knows it’s bad when Pep subs Ibrahim out at the half; Pep never makes subs that early. Pedro comes in, and finally at 80 minutes Leo threads a pass to Villa, who manages to chip it long and high over the keeper and tie the game up.
Leo runs to Villa, says, “Beautiful,” grinning, and tugs his hair before Villa takes off, not celebrating because it’s his home team, and Leo doesn’t exactly know what that’s like but he understands. He walks slowly behind Villa, glances over at the sideline, where the bench is standing, applauding for Villa. Ibrahim, too, standing, applauding, even smiling, but Leo can see even from a distance the glaze over his eyes, the disappointment.
Villa walks by again, touches his head. “Thanks, Leo,” he says, and Leo pats his back, lets himself have one more glance back at the bench before the game starts and he takes off again, trying to be the hero.
They go to London. They lose to Arsenal.
Leo’s angry. He’s angry at everyone: his teammates for not getting it done and Pep for making the wrong choices and the referee for making mistakes and mostly at himself for not doing enough, not being enough.
Most of his teammates know him well enough by now to leave him alone, let him cool off. Villa offers him a half-hearted, “It’s only the first leg,” but Xavi leads him away and Leo doesn’t respond.
Ibrahim doesn’t play but he’s there; Leo notices him, vaguely, walking near him on the way out to the bus. His brows are furrowed; he looks a bit lost, confused as to what’s going on.
Leo doesn’t say a word while they travel, and when they get back to Camp Nou he heads inside to his locker to leave his stuff. Ibrahim’s locker here is next to his, and when he turns to leave he finds Ibrahim hovering there, looking at him.
“Leo?” he says finally, his voice a question Leo doesn’t have the answer to.
Leo just looks at him, dully, and then shakes his head and moves to leave. He sees Ibrahim’s hand come up, reaching toward him, and he almost pauses-almost-but Ibrahim drops it before he can do anything.
“Sorry,” Leo hears him say behind him, as he walks out. “Sorry.” He doesn’t turn around. He just wants to get home.
They beat Athletic and they beat Mallorca and they beat Valencia. It doesn’t make up for Arsenal, not at all, but it reminds Leo that he’s still himself and they’re still Barcelona and life goes on. Football goes on.
Ibrahim doesn’t play much; hasn’t played much since that Sporting game. He hasn’t said anything about it-Leo doesn’t know if he could-and there’s no indication that he’s unhappy, but it still pulls at something inside Leo, when he sees Ibrahim standing there at the touchline, waiting to come on at the 80th minute, or the 91st minute, his face determined and resigned at the same time.
They beat Zaragoza. Ibrahim doesn’t play at all for the second game in a row.
In the locker room after, he undresses silently next to Leo. Leo tries to think of something to say.
“What are you doing the rest of the weekend?” he says finally. He’s still careful with his pronunciation, speaks slowly, but Ibrahim seems to be able to pick up most of what he says now, most of what they all say.
It takes Ibrahim a few moments to acknowledge Leo is talking to him. He turns slowly. “Oh,” he says. “Um. My brother is out of town, no? To his home? So I do not know. I will maybe watch a movie.”
And Leo had forgotten what it must be like for him, because to Leo it feels like he’s been there so long, been there forever, but really it’s only been a few months and he can’t know that many people, especially hardly knowing the language, and Leo should have known.
Leo says, “Hey, we’re have a barbeque tomorrow. Me and Masche and Pinto, and maybe some others.” He hesitates, but he’s already started, so he says, “Come.” It’s an impulse; they have barbeques most weekends and they don’t usually invite others. It’s not like they’re excluding anyone; it’s just that this is what that group does together, just like Leo plays PES with Bojan and goes out to clubs with Gerard and has late dinners with Xavi and Villa.
A few lockers down, Gerard shouts, “Hey, where’s my invite?”
Leo and Ibrahim turn to look at him. Leo turns back to Ibrahim, says, loudly enough for Gerard to hear, “Some people can’t take a hint, can they?” He doesn’t know if Ibrahim understands completely, but he laughs.
“Wow, rude,” Gerard says, pulling his shirt off. “After all I’ve done for you? This is what I get?”
Leo rolls his eyes but he says, “Fine, you can come too. But no throwing anyone in the pool. Or hiding any of my appliances. Or stealing my phone and calling my mom.”
“Your mom likes me, though,” Gerard points out.
“I’m so lucky I didn’t inherit her bad taste,” Leo says.
“Okay, Leo, you’re not making me feel very welcome to your party,” Gerard says.
Leo laughs. He glances over at Ibrahim, who’s gone back to getting dressed in front of his locker, but he’s smiling so Leo knows he’s still listening.
“You’ll come, right?” Leo asks him, quieter now. Ibrahim looks over at him, and then above his head, like he’s thinking.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I will come.”
“Okay,” Leo echoes, smiling at him. He feels relieved and he doesn’t know why. “I’ll text you the address. Come over anytime in the afternoon.”
He goes to leave, touches the small of Ibrahim’s back as he walks by. Wonders if he’s getting in over his head.
Ibrahim shows up in the late, late afternoon, long after Leo had convinced himself he wasn’t coming after all. He’s wearing a nice black button up and khakis, a bit more dressed up than the rest of them, but Leo thinks he looks good, has to bite his tongue to keep from saying it.
Ibrahim holds up his hands, looking apologetic. “I didn’t know if I should bring something,” he says.
“Oh,” Leo says, surprised by his politeness, his slight embarrassment, surprised by the fondness it causes inside him. “No, no. We have tons of food. Too much, really.” He starts to lead Ibrahim through the house, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m glad you came,” he says suddenly. He shifts his eyes forward, deliberately doesn’t look at Ibrahim’s face.
But then he does, he does look at Ibrahim’s face, and it’s flushed red. He’s not looking at Leo. He rubs at the back of his neck, glances around the house. “Thank you for inviting me. Your house- it’s very nice,” he mumbles, and Leo tries not to laugh.
They go onto the porch and Leo introduces him to the people he doesn’t know, shows him to the food and gets him a coke. Leo’s already eaten, but he sits with Ibrahim while he eats.
“Gerard didn’t come, then?” Ibrahim asks, looking around the backyard.
Leo rolls his eyes. “No, he texted a few hours ago and said he forgot he had something to do. Pinto says he’s been tweeting pictures of books, whatever that means.”
Ibrahim laughs. “He’s a funny guy.”
“Not sure funny is the first word I’d use,” Leo mutters.
Ibrahim eyes him, putting a forkful of salad in his mouth. He chews slowly and then says, “You have known him a long time, no?”
Leo smiles, looks away from Ibrahim, over the trees in his backyard. “Ten years now,” he says.
When he looks back, Ibrahim is studying him, but looks away quickly when Leo’s eyes meet his. After a moment of quiet, he says, “I think he’s doing something to my phone. Everyday I charge it before practice, and everyday after practice it’s dead.”
Leo laughs loudly. “He does that to me all the time,” he says. “He switches out the batteries or something.”
They smile at each other and slip into silence, half listening to the chatter around them. Leo shivers; it’s getting chilly.
When the sun goes down and they can hardly see each other anymore, people start heading inside, reaching for jackets and saying goodnight. Leo walks some of them out, and it’s a little while before he realizes he hasn’t seen Ibrahim, wonders if he slipped out without saying goodbye. It doesn’t seem like him.
He sticks his head in each room, waving at Pinto, who’s teaching his daughter to play PES on his system, and he’s stopped to chat with Javier in the kitchen when he glances out the back window and sees a lone figure sitting by the pool.
“Aren’t you cold?” Leo asks, settling down next to him, crossing his legs. Ibrahim’s got his legs in the pool, his pants rolled up to the knee. He kicks them gently, sending waves rippling across the surface.
“Not much,” he says. He leans back on his hands, looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night and they can smell the ocean, can almost hear the waves on the beach just a few blocks away. Leo picks at his shoes, feels Ibrahim, warm and solid next to him, leans in the slightest bit. They don’t speak for a long time, except when Javier sticks his head out the door to say goodbye.
“My dad used to live here,” Ibrahim says suddenly. Leo glances over at him, but he’s still looking up at the sky, resting back on his wrists. He kicks a leg up, sending a surge of water out.
“In Barcelona?”
“Yes. Just for a few years.”
Leo’s heard him talk about his mom, his brother, but never his dad. “Where is he now?” he asks.
Ibrahim looks down, smoothes a hand over the cuff of his pants. “Dead,” he says shortly. Leo doesn’t know if the bluntness is because he doesn’t know any other words to say it or something else.
And Leo didn’t know about his dad, feels like he should have known. “I’m sorry,” he says simply, because he doesn’t know anything else to say and because he really is.
“A long time ago,” Ibrahim says, and he pulls his legs out of the water, letting them drip over the pavement before he starts to scoot back, to get up. Leo puts a hand on his arm to stop him. Ibrahim shoots him a questioning look, he sees it out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look over and he doesn’t explain. Can’t explain.
Ibrahim doesn’t ask him to. He stops, stills, and they sit there, arms pressed against each other, until Leo starts shivering and Ibrahim says he has to go.
Leo doesn’t talk to Ibrahim for a couple days after that. It’s not intentional; there’s just a lot going on with the second leg of the Arsenal tie looming before them, the pressure to make up for that awful night in London, pressure especially on Leo himself, after his display against Arsenal the year prior.
He doesn’t mind it, really; he doesn’t listen much to what the press has to say anyway, and if anything the pressure makes him even more motivated. Mostly it’s internalized, a determination to make up for his own shortcomings during the first game, for all their shortcomings.
So they practice, long and hard, and Leo practices even longer and even harder, running until his legs can’t hold him up, until his lungs burn, and then taking a break by practicing his free kicks and his corner kicks and his dribbling.
At one point he’s running drills with Pedro and Ibrahim, and he walks up to Ibrahim, says something off-hand- “If you wait a second longer I can drop back and then run into that cross”- and Ibrahim doesn’t seem to understand, or doesn’t acknowledge it, just walks toward Leo until they’re almost touching, and then he reaches his arms around Leo’s waist, squeezes lightly- the quickest of hugs, a touch of his cheek on Leo’s head, and then he’s gone. Leo turns, watching him, surprised at the random contact, but Ibrahim just says, “Okay, let’s try it,” and turns to get the ball again.
Ibrahim understood, he waits a second longer to cross and Leo stumbles right into the ball, guiding it easily into the back of the net. He shoots a smile at Ibrahim. “See?” he says. He wonders if he’ll get another hug, but Ibrahim just flashes him a thumbs up, turns to talk to Keita.
The next night Leo scores two goals and they beat Arsenal to go to the semi-finals of the Champions League. Ibrahim only comes on with 8 minutes left to play, but when he hugs Leo afterward, says, “Fantastic, fantastic,” his breath warm on Leo’s ear, there’s no hint of disappointment there. And Leo, for a moment, feels like he’s doing everything right.
But then they tie Sevilla, and half of them are injured or sore or just exhausted, including Leo who has pain in his knee and is suddenly unsure if he’ll be able to meet up with the Argentina squad in the next international break.
He sits at home, feeling sorry for himself; takes a nap, wakes up, looks at his phone. There’s a couple missed calls, from Juanjo, from Gerard, from his brother.
Juanjo’s message just says, “Call me back the moment you get this,” and his voice sounds tired and strained. It’s unusual for him; he’s usually the one cheering them up, urging them on. Leo calls him back.
“Where were you?” he says when he answers. His voice is scratchy, like he’s been sleeping, or yelling, or crying.
“Asleep,” Leo says. “I took something for my knee and it makes me drowsy. What’s going on?” He knows it’s something, hasn’t ever heard Juanjo’s voice sound that way before. He wonders, briefly, if his knee injury is worse than they thought.
“We just,” Juanjo starts, and the phone is muffled for a moment while he clears his throat a few times. A flare of panic rises in Leo’s chest. “I just wanted you to hear from me and not from the news or… anyone else.”
“What?” Leo asks. “Is it my knee?”
“No,” Juanjo says, “No, it isn’t you. It’s Eric.”
“Eric?” Leo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Abi? What about him?”
“Leo, we found a tumor on his liver. He’ll have to have an operation immediately.” Leo doesn’t say anything and doesn’t say anything. “We just… wanted to make sure you guys heard it from us and not on the news.”
“What does that mean, though?” Leo asks finally, feeling lost. “I mean… I don’t know what that means.”
“We won’t know anything until after the operation,” Juanjo says, and Leo suddenly understands why he sounds so tired, suddenly feels the same. Juanjo says, “I have to go, Leo. Take care of yourself, come see me tomorrow,” and Leo says he will, says goodbye numbly, stares at his phone.
After a few minutes he checks his other messages, holding his phone to his ear while he stares at the ceiling blankly. His brother’s message says he’d seen it on the news and was just checking in. Gerard’s message says, “Just seeing if they’ve called you yet. Call me back when you get a chance. Love you, brother.”
Leo presses his fingertips into his eyes. After a long time, he dials Abi’s number, isn’t surprised when he gets the voicemail. He leaves a bland message, something like, “I’m so sorry,” and “Let me know if you need anything,” nothing that actually means what Leo wants to say, but he’s never been good at this kind of thing, never been good with words.
He sits in the quiet of his house for a long time, when suddenly he thinks of Ibrahim. He wonders if anyone had called to check on him, knowing he was close to Abi. Leo’s fingers hover over his name and the call button, but in the end he thinks it would be even harder for them to talk over the phone, opts for the text message.
He types in, Did they call you? But it seems too impersonal, so he deletes. Types, Are you okay? But that one has the opposite problem. Types, Come over? Hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
At least an hour passes; Leo moves into the living room, turns on an old movie after he watches the sports shows for too long, after they stop making sense. He calls his brother back, and his mom just because, calls Gerard. He doesn’t hear anything from Ibrahim, and it’s late, right before he’s about to go to bed, when the doorbell rings.
He pulls open the door and Ibrahim’s there, looking sheepish, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Leo steps aside to let him in.
“I am sorry, it’s late,” he says. Leo waves him off. “I am lost,” he says.
It catches Leo off-guard, and he almost corrects him, Was, I was lost, but then he thinks maybe that’s not what Ibrahim meant anyway.
“Do you want some water? Or something else?” Leo says, starting in the direction of the kitchen. Ibrahim doesn’t say anything, but he accepts the glass of water Leo offers him, drinks it thirstily. Leo wonders how long he’s been driving around.
“You could have called,” Leo says. Ibrahim looks up at him blankly. “For directions,” he clarifies.
“Oh,” Ibrahim says. He looks around the kitchen, everywhere but Leo’s face. “I liked it, though. Just driving around.”
Leo nods. “Okay.”
Leo gets himself a glass of water as well, and they stand in the kitchen drinking and not looking at each other, each lost in their own thoughts. When Leo finishes his glass, sets it carefully in the sink, he says, “What do you want to do?”
Ibrahim looks at him, shrugs. “What are you doing before I come?”
Leo doesn’t bother correcting his grammar; he doesn’t need to learn tonight. “Watching a movie,” he says. “I don’t even know what it was. Something old.”
“I would like to watch a movie,” Ibrahim says, so they go in the living room and settle on the couch. The movie Leo had been watching is over, but he finds another one and Ibrahim seems satisfied with it.
A few minutes in, Ibrahim stands up and flips out the lights in the living. When he walks back to the couch and Leo looks up at him, he says, “The…” and gestures helplessly, pointing to the lights and the television screen.
“Glare?” Leo guesses. Ibrahim shrugs.
“I cannot see well,” he says, and he flops back onto the couch next to Leo. His face lands near Leo’s elbow, close enough so that if Leo shifted at all Ibrahim would be leaning on his arm. He doesn’t, but after awhile Ibrahim leans down himself, his face pressed against Leo’s arm.
Leo doesn’t look for a long time, but when he does, he realizes Ibrahim is asleep.
When the movie ends Leo is careful to slide out from under Ibrahim, slipping a pillow into his place. Ibrahim doesn’t stir, so Leo finds a blanket, throws it over him, and goes upstairs to his own bed, pretends it’s all normal and okay.
In the morning, he wakes up early, creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can, but it’s all for nothing because Ibrahim is already gone.
They have another international break.
Leo goes to the United States, to New York, and even though it’s cold and rainy he enjoys it because they have time to go out and do stuff and hardly anyone recognizes him. It’s been so long since he’s been able to walk down a street in broad daylight by himself and not have anyone screaming, chasing him, crying, and even though New York is huge and dirty and not exactly his favorite place in the world, he loves being another small anonymous nobody that everyone else ignores, if just for a few days.
They go to Times Square and they go shopping on Fifth Avenue. They go to Rockefeller Center, and they take pictures of the Argentina flag flying there; when Leo sees the Netherlands flag flying nearby, he snaps one of that too, dashes off a picture message to Ibrahim.
A few minutes later his phone buzzes. How cool! Ibrahim writes. How is New York?
Leo smiles, begins typing a reply-freezing, but I like it-when Javier appears beside him.
“Who are you texting?” he asks. He makes a grab for Leo’s phone, but Leo’s quicker, jumps away. His cheeks get warm even though he’s not doing anything that should make him embarrassed.
Javier stares at him, waiting. “Ibi,” he says finally. He looks down, back at his phone. “I sent him a picture.”
Javier doesn’t say anything, but Leo can feel him still standing there, so he looks up, demands, “What?”
Javier just smiles. He says, “Okay,” and he touches Leo’s arm, like that means something; Leo doesn’t know what but he’s certainly not going to ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says, and he finishes writing his text.
Ibrahim has a better international run than Leo; he scores and assists, and his team destroys Hungary. Argentina ties the United States and Costa Rica; Leo doesn’t get to play at all in the latter. He’d never admit it, but maybe it’s better; he’s exhausted.
Later, when they’re back in Barcelona, Javier asks him, casually, not meeting his eyes, “What’s up with you and Ibi, then?”
Leo won’t meet his eyes either, brushes him off with a, “Nothing, what do you mean?”
But Javier knows, and he waits, looks at Leo like who do you think you’re fooling?
So Leo says, “We’re friends,” shrugs, still doesn’t look Javier in the eyes because how can he?
Javier says carefully, “Well, good. I like him, you know.”
“Yeah,” Leo says, admits, “Me too.”
Javier says, “So what’s the problem?” and Leo wonders how he always knows, and has the right thing to say, guesses that’s why he’s captain of Argentina at 26.
“I don’t know,” Leo says, scratches at his calf, knows that isn’t good enough. “It’s like, sometimes I think that he thinks I’m this perfect person or whatever.”
Javier says, “That’s bad?”
Leo keeps his head ducked. He knows it sounds weird and he doesn’t expect Javier-anyone-to understand, but, “Well, what happens when he finds out I’m not?”
Javier looks at him and looks at him, like he’s never seen him before in his life, like he doesn’t understand, and then he says, “Oh, Leo,” and it’s fond; he laughs a little, shaking his head. “That’s kind of how these things work.” Leo's not sure he’s right.
They demolish Shakhtar but all anyone can think about, all anyone can talk about is that they’ll be playing Madrid next, two Champions League games on top of the league game and the Copa final. Four games in 18 days. Leo doesn’t care, not really; their opponent never matters much to him.
It’s Ibrahim’s first Clasico though, first Champions League final and of course first Copa, which will be his first final with Barcelona.
“The first one is unbelievable, no?” he says, sitting next to Leo’s locker while he puts his boots on. “Not just five goals but a beautiful game, a game you always remember.”
Leo nods. He knows it’s true, but the truth is he doesn’t dwell much over past games, not even the good ones.
Next to them, Xavi says, “I wouldn’t count on it being that easy again, kid,” and he catches Leo’s eye over Ibrahim’s head.
Leo laughs. “It would be nice, but no.”
Ibrahim nods, tugs at his socks. Xavi says, “No one should have to go through four clasicos in a season, much less in 3 weeks.” He looks down at Ibrahim, who looks back with wide eyes. “Don’t let it get you down too much, you know? It’s not going to be pretty.” Xavi looks back at Leo when he finishes, “I guarantee it.”
They don’t know how right he is.
After the league game, the first Clasico, Ibrahim sits next to him on the bus.
“That was…” he says, but trails off. He waves a hand around, looks at Leo with wide eyes. Leo doesn’t know if he doesn’t know the word he wants to say or doesn’t have words at all.
Leo’s not totally thrilled about the outcome, but he scored and they didn’t lose-basically won the league at the Bernabeu-so he can’t really be that upset. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the window. “Just wait until the Champions games. Those will be even more…” and he trails off too, waving his hand around.
Ibrahim laughs a little. Leo can feel him shifting around, too wound up from the game to rest like Leo wants.
“You know what?” he says finally. Leo’s eyes snap open. Ibrahim’s not looking at him, he’s looking around the bus, but it’s clear he’s talking to Leo. “I think we should work on the crosses again. I think if we could get the timing right, we could really do something with them.” His words come easily, more easily than Leo has ever heard from him, and he does look at Leo, his eyes flashing, determined or hopeful or what, Leo isn’t sure.
Leo nods at him. “Okay,” he says. “We will.”
And so they do, they do practice them, until their legs hurt and sweat drips into their eyes, but they get the timing down to a science, practicing until Leo thinks he could run into one of Ibrahim’s crosses blindfolded.
But it isn’t enough. By the time Ibrahim’s brought in for the Copa final, in the 106th minute, they’re already down by one, and Leo’s legs are just too exhausted to keep up, to meet Ibrahim’s runs, to do anything. Leo tries, he really does-he doesn’t want to lose a Championship, doesn’t want Barcelona to lose this championship, not to Real Madrid, doesn’t want Ibrahim to lose his first trophy game with Barcelona, not that he’s thinking about that-but he can’t do it. They can’t do it, and they lose.
They have to stay on the pitch after, to get some second place medals, and at some point through his haze of disappointment Leo realizes Ibrahim is standing at his elbow, just standing, quiet and stoic, not looking at Leo or anything in particular. Leo remembers, vaguely, how he’d acted after the Arsenal game they’d lost, and he doesn’t blame Ibrahim for not trying to talk to him; doesn’t even want him to try, really, but there is a part of him, however small, that wants to do the opposite, talk to Ibrahim, tell him it’s just the Copa and it doesn’t matter. He would say it, if he could convince himself, first.
They get their medals, drag their weary bodies back to the bus. Leo slumps in a seat in the back, his head against the window, and he knows without opening his eyes when Ibrahim slides in next to him, from the bump of his knee or the smell of his shampoo, something, Leo just knows. And he’s glad, he feels relieved, that Ibrahim knows him and knows how he acts after these games and even though it might be stupid and it might make him an asshole, just a little bit, Ibrahim doesn’t care.
When they get on the plane, he follows Ibrahim to a row in the back. Even though they don’t have to sit next to each other, there’s enough seats to leave the middle ones open, Leo sits down right next to Ibrahim. Doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him, but drops his head on his shoulder, eyes sealed tight, and he doesn’t move until they’re back in Barcelona.
Leo sleeps like a rock and doesn’t wake up until it’s close to noon. They have the day off and he takes full advantage to mope, staying in his pajama pants and eating cereal on his couch while watching game shows all day. He doesn’t shower, doesn’t comb his hair, doesn’t bother to turn the lights on when it gets dark.
He’s dozing off on the couch when the doorbell rings. He lays there for a few moments, willing the person to go away, but they don’t, and so he hauls himself up and to the front the door, pulling it open and squinting into the light.
Ibrahim’s there, and he looks a lot better than Leo, in that he’s wearing real clothes and looks like he’s bathed recently. His eyes sweep over Leo’s pathetic form but he doesn’t react, just steps into the entryway and waits while Leo closes the door.
“What are you doing here?” Leo says finally. He pushes his hair out of his face, peers up at Ibrahim. Ibrahim isn’t looking at him and so Leo stares at his jaw, working as he thinks.
“I do not know,” he admits finally, glancing down at Leo before looking away again, shrugging slightly. He doesn’t apologize though, doesn’t look apologetic, and Leo studies his face, searches for words.
Ibrahim looks over suddenly, catches Leo staring but Leo doesn’t look away and neither does he. He takes a step closer to Leo, close enough that Leo can smell his cologne, can see his skin up close, smooth and soft looking. Leo lifts a hand to his own mouth, chews on the frayed edge of his sleeve. Ibrahim watches.
Ibrahim reaches for Leo, pulls his hand away from his mouth. His eyes remain focused on Leo’s lips, and he mutters, to himself or to Leo, it isn’t clear, “I need,” but he doesn’t finish the thought, and then again, “I need.” And now, like always, Leo doesn’t know if he can’t find the words or if that’s all he meant to say but it doesn’t really matter because Leo knows what it means anyway.
Ibrahim’s close enough that Leo can see his pulse working under his skin, at his throat, and seeing that Ibrahim has gone as far as he will, as far as he can, Leo steps forward, turns his face up, presses his lips against the pulse-point, right under Ibrahim’s jaw. He stays there, not moving, for a long moment, feels Ibrahim sigh, a giant exhale, his shoulders deflating, his breath warm against the side of Leo’s face.
Ibrahim’s hands come up, fist in the sides of Leo’s t-shirts, holding him in place while still not moving himself at all. Leo moves slowly, pressing his lips against the underside of Ibrahim’s jaw, moving along and up to his cheek, his temple, lifting himself up onto his toes to reach. Ibrahim’s eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed red. Leo kisses one corner of his mouth, the other, hesitates right over his lips, waiting, waiting for some sign from Ibrahim that this is okay and that he’s not alone here, that he's not out on this limb by himself.
Ibrahim’s eyes open when he realizes Leo’s stopped. Leo pushes himself up even higher on his toes, trying to make them eye level, but his legs are tired, sore, and he rests a hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder for balance. Ibrahim’s eyes flit back and forth, between Leo’s eyes and his mouth, and Leo feels his hand loosen in his shirt, slide over Leo’s hip, back and forth.
He says, “Ibi,” and that’s all it takes. Ibrahim’s eyes snap shut and his head angles, moving forward, and though Leo expects him to be as soft and tentative as always, he’s not; his lips meet Leo’s assuredly, sliding over them confidently, nipping at Leo’s lips. He pushes Leo backwards, until his back is against the wall of the foyer, and dips his head, letting Leo come off his toes and onto his feet.
He nudges his face into Leo’s, pushing him, asking for more, wanting more, needing more. More tongue, more taste, more and more and Leo is just trying to keep up, vaguely wishing he’d showered.
As suddenly as it started, Ibrahim pulls back, leaving Leo swaying forward, confused by the sudden absence of the other body. He observes Leo from under his lashes, his tongue coming out to swipe at his red and swollen lips. Leo thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, starts to reach out for him.
Ibrahim, though, mumbles, “I have to go,” and backs up, feeling for the door handle behind him, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on Leo, his other hand coming up to his mouth.
“Why?” Leo says quietly, and, “Stay,” but Ibrahim doesn’t say anything else, finds the handle and slips out the door into the dark.
Leo eventually peels himself away from the wall, makes himself go upstairs to shower. He wonders if he should feel bad, when he thinks of Ibrahim as he jerks himself off under the warm spray, his swollen lips and his dark eyes, but he doesn’t. He comes impossibly fast.
Ibrahim doesn’t talk to him in the locker room and only nods briefly when he calls comments out during practice. Leo thinks about texting him once or twice, but he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have any idea what Ibrahim’s thinking or if he did something wrong or what to do now. So he doesn’t do anything, has other things to worry about, the league, and Champions, and his own stats and his own life.
They go to Madrid for the third of the Clasicos, the first of the Champions League games, and Leo knows he’ll be glad when he doesn’t have to see this stadium anymore for awhile. The games have descended into ridiculousness, Leo knows, even while he’s playing it.
The game stops and starts and stops and starts and nothing happens until 61 minutes in when Pepe, who’s been trailing Leo like a shadow the entire game, gets sent off. Ten minutes later Ibrahim comes in, and six minutes after that Leo drops a pass back to Xavi, turns his head and sees him run around the defender, his head turning this way and that. Leo watches and suddenly he knows, sees the entire play unfolding in his head, and he starts his move.
He takes a few steps around the box, a midfielder pushing him around a little before abandoning him, passing him off to the backline. At that very moment Leo feels rather than sees Xavi make his move, sliding a pass to Ibrahim, who Leo can see out of the corner of his eye streaking up the sideline. All the practice they’ve done kicks in, and Leo waits for the precise moment he knows so well before he turns suddenly, sidesteps a defender and kicks into high speed, his legs pumping at full speed. Just like he’d known would happen, Ibrahim sweeps in a low cross at the very last second and Leo throws himself at it, kicking his legs out and making enough contact to send the ball right through Casillas’s legs and into the back of the net.
The stadium erupts, matching the inside of Leo’s head. He turns toward Ibrahim, pointing at him and seeing him throw his hands in the air in disbelief, running screaming to sideline where the Barcelona away fans are sitting. Leo launches himself at Ibrahim, and Gaby’s there too, and then the rest of them, and he lifts his face up to their fans, a writhing mass of screaming culés, standing in stark contrast the silent, stone-faced fans in white sitting below. He taps his crest, points up at them, because it’s all for them, as much as it’s for himself and for Xavi and for Gerard and for Pep.
He ducks his head down into his teammates, and all he hears is screaming, gibberish, and Ibrahim’s there next to him and he’s shouting something too, something Leo can’t hear or understand, but his face is split in a smile and he pushes his finger into Leo’s chest, into their crest.
Leo pulls away from the group, makes his usual dedication to his grandmother and then spends another moment celebrating with the fans, and when he turns Ibrahim is still there, still looking at him and smiling even as everyone else returns to their positions, and he points at him again, can’t help the smile so wide it’s hurting his face. He jogs to Ibrahim quickly, folds him into another hug but pulls away quickly.
Ten minutes later and it happens again. Busquets steadies a ball from him and he takes it casually, his eyes trained on the goal and he weaves in, past one defender, past another, two more falling away from him, and suddenly he’s right there, face to face with Casillas and he uses the side of his foot to tap the ball before he goes crashing to the ground, off balance, and watches as it rolls in easily.
He takes off again, toward their fans, toward Gaby, launches himself up. He’s screaming too, they all are, because they up two to nothing at the Bernabeu in the Champions League and it makes up for everything, the whole season, the Copa and Arsenal and every other thing. Leo feels Ibrahim behind him, his arm curling around Leo’s neck, and he leans back into, thinks it makes up for them, too.
In the locker room they’re playing music, dancing, shouting. Pep warns them not to celebrate too early, that they haven’t won anything yet, but Leo and all of them can see the shine of his eyes, the flash of his teeth that he can’t quite contain, and they know he’s proud and happy.
Leo’s stripped down to his underarmour and socks and he’s standing in front of his locker, singing along with Gerard who’s leading a raucous rendition of El Cant del Barca, standing on top of the bench. Dani’s standing in front of him, doing some kind of interpretive dance to it, and Leo can’t stop smiling even though it feels like his lips are about to split, like his cheeks might freeze.
He looks over and Ibrahim’s walked up near him, next to him, his face reflecting the same smile Leo knows is on his own, but his eyes are guarded, questioning. Leo looks at him for a second, still singing, before he reaches out, slings an arm around Ibrahim’s shoulders and pulls him close, until his side is pressed right against Leo. He looks him in the eyes as he sings and Ibrahim’s smile gets wider, wider until he laughs, bending forward at the waist, and Leo laughs too, leaning in until their foreheads touch, smiles all around.
Gerard yells, “Visca Barca!” And they all raise their hands, yell back, with voices clear, “I visca Catalunya!”
They stay close to each other, even as they don’t say much. They settle into seats next to each other on the bus, pressing their forearms together, staying calm while the rest of the bus rocks with excitement. Gerard’s still singing, beginning to lose his voice, and Puyol’s yelling over him. Xavi’s trying to talk on the phone and Dani and Adriano are trying to teach Victor one of their many celebration dances while staying in their seats. The younger kids, Andreu and Thiago and Sergi, who’d debuted, debuted at the Bernabeu in a Champions semi-final, huddle together, their eyes bright and faces overwhelmed.
Ibrahim and Leo sit, watching with quiet smiles, pressed together from shoulder to knee. Leo’s body hums with adrenaline and anticipation.
It’s late, so late, when they get back to Camp Nou, and Leo’s voice is almost gone, his legs are almost gone, but he says to Ibrahim, “Follow me home,” and Ibrahim nods like he already knew.
Leo doesn’t try to have sex with Ibrahim, not after the last time and his hesitation, but he does undress him slowly, holds Ibrahim down and traces his tongue over the lines of his muscles and bones until he’s shaking and begging, then closes his mouth over the head of his cock, presses his fingers into his thighs, lets him thrust up into his mouth until he comes, a babbling stream of what sounds like a mix of Dutch and French and English falling from his lips.
And he’s only a little bit surprised when Ibrahim flips them over, looms over Leo, drags his mouth over Leo’s cheek and jaw and throat, sucking on the sensitive skin below his ear, his hands traveling downward, skimming his nipples and his lower belly and dipping below his waistband until Leo can barely breath, pressing his face into Ibrahim’s neck. Leo comes into his hand, moaning quietly, and he feels Ibrahim smiling against his jaw.
Later, Leo’s dozing off, laying on his stomach, his head turned in Ibrahim’s direction. Ibrahim’s on his side, one hand ghosting over his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he says softly, and Leo’s eyes open slowly, studying his face. He doesn’t say anything else, but Leo knows what he’s talking about.
“It’s okay,” he says, because it is and he doesn’t need anything else from Ibrahim.
Leo reaches out with one hand, puts it in Ibrahim’s short hair, grabs a fistful and pulls gently before releasing it. Ibrahim turns his head so Leo’s palm rests against his lips. He shifts his eyes over.
“Leo, I-“ he starts, and his brow furrows. Leo is still, waiting. Ibrahim looks up at him, his eyes wide, unguarded, but he shakes his head. “I don’t know the words to say,” he says helplessly, shrugging, a shy smile pulling at his lips, under Leo’s hand.
Leo smiles, wide, so his eyes crinkle, and he pushes his hand against Ibrahim’s lips until he feels them purse under it, kissing his palm. “I don’t either,” he laughs, dropping his head back down into the pillow. “I don’t either.”
They tie Real Madrid at Camp Nou in the second leg of Champions. It’s not a win, and Leo doesn’t score, and Ibrahim doesn’t come in until the 93rd minute as a time-waster, but it doesn’t matter in the end because they’re both there when the final whistle blows, when they run to center-field to throw Abidal in the air, and later Pep.
Pep tells them to go celebrate with the fans, thank them for their support over the past few weeks, and they all take off in a walk around the Camp Nou, clapping for the fans even as they clap back at them.
Leo sees Ibrahim, off to the side, by himself, surveying the crowd at Camp Nou, a smile stretched across his face, and he bounds over to him, throwing an arm across his shoulders. He feels Ibrahim’s arm come up around his waist, feels him press his nose into his hair quickly, and then they take off, circling the perimeter of Camp Nou.
Leo points up at the fans and they point back down at him, their unlikely hero in blaugrana. He keeps one arm tightly around Ibrahim and with the other he lifts his crest, kissing it, and the fans sing their approval back at him, the cant raining down on him from every side. He grins, sings it back, raising his arm, looking at Ibrahim as he starts. Ibrahim joins him, his shining eyes meeting Leo’s own; they look over the fans shouting the words back at them, their arms around each other, and they sing their joy loudly, with voices clear.