(no subject)
we are we're not
sergio agüero&leo messi
~2100
pg
footballkink2 prompt for agüero/messi based on this quote: Aguero (Atletico): "Leo asks me the whole time: which club will you go to, you'll tell me first, right? I say that if I know, he'll know."
Sergio walks down the hotel hallway slowly, ignoring the dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, he should be happy, happy to share good news with his friend-
His friend.
Leo.
Fuck.
He knocks on the door and then takes a step back, fighting the urge to flee. Leo opens it with his head down, fiddling with his phone.
He doesn’t say hello, which Sergio guesses is normal since they just saw each other at dinner half an hour ago. “I think my phone is-I’m not getting texts. Do you know how to reset it?”
Sergio grabs at it, his hand sliding across Leo’s, warm and dry. He swallows. “Just-here, take the battery out.” He removes it and then pushes it back in, waits for the screen to light up. Leo grabs it back, looks at it and shrugs, tossing it on the bed.
He turns back to sit at the chair in front of his laptop, leaning over the bright screen and squinting.
“You need glasses,” Sergio says, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. He leans over, hands on his knees, takes a deep breath.
Leo doesn’t notice. “I do not,” he mumbles. “My sister uses tiny font.”
Sergio wants Leo to close his laptop, now, because he doesn’t know when the news will break and he definitely doesn’t want Leo seeing it on the computer before Sergio tells him. That-that would probably be worse than the news itself.
“Leo,” he says, and Leo grunts, his nose still close to the screen, reading. Sergio tries again, “Leo,” and finally Leo turns to look at him, says, “What,” exasperated.
Sergio raises his eyebrows and clears his throat, and it seems like Leo gets it because he turns in his chair and looks at him, full on.
“You wanted to be the first to know when I knew where I’m going next season,” Sergio starts, and he hopes he’s imagining the nerves in his voice. “Well-"
He can see it, the moment Leo realizes what Sergio’s telling him. He doesn’t really react, not a lot, but his eyes shift, and the look of concentration he was directing at Sergio slides into a practiced blankness.
Sergio doesn’t continue, and after awhile, Leo asks, “Well?” And Sergio should have expected it, that Leo would make him say it out loud, make him own up to it, but it makes him angry suddenly, that he feels nervous instead of good and that he feels like Leo is judging him instead of being happy for him.
“Well, I signed for Real Madrid,” he says, defiantly, setting his jaw. Leo just looks at him, doesn’t say anything, and Sergio tries to read his expression-is he mad? Disappointed? Just bored?-but he can’t, and as close as he likes to think he is with Leo, that’s not really unusual.
“So you’re the first to know,” he says finally, standing up and brushing his pants off, making to leave. “Just like you wanted.” He moves slowly because part of him thinks-wishes?-that Leo is going to stop him, tell him to stay and find a movie on television and then Leo will fall asleep ten minutes in, snoring softly in Sergio’s ear. But Leo doesn’t say anything. He lifts his head, keeps his eyes on Sergio’s face, but he’s silent. Blank.
Eventually Leo’s laptop pings with a message and he turns back. Sergio glances around the room, unable to decide if this went better or worse than he expected. He sees Leo’s phone on the bed, the notification light flashing, and he picks it up, sets it down next to Leo gently on his way out of the room.
He thinks he hears Leo say, “Thanks,” quietly behind him, but he can’t be sure.
Sergio gets to the bus the next morning before Leo and he’s glad, because he doesn’t want to have to figure out if he should sit next to him or ignore him or what. He sits in their usual row and he’s surprised when Gonzalo flops down next to him.
“I heard the news!” he says with a smile, and Sergio should have known it would be out by now, but he’d slept late and not looked at the internet. Gonzalo claps him on the back. “Madrid’s just collecting the whole selección at this point,” he grins, as Angel slides into the seat in front of him.
He extends a hand, which Sergio takes hesitantly. “Welcome to the team, man,” Angel says, and Sergio smiles, relaxing back. This is the kind of reception he’d been waiting for.
Fernando joins them and they talk about the team, about what it’s like to train with Mourinho and what kind of captain Iker is and about how Sergio’s going to have to be nice to Sergio Ramos. Through his laughter, Sergio sees Leo clamber into the bus, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his hair. Sergio sombers, but no one notices.
“Now we just need to get Leo,” Gonzalo calls, and Leo’s head snaps up, sees them all sitting together, Gonzalo in Leo’s usual seat. Sergio cringes inwardly at the joke, the whole situation.
Leo pretends he didn't hear. Sergio watches him sink into the seat next to Javier, drop his head on the captain’s shoulder.
Maybe six years isn’t that long, but Sergio knows Leo well enough to know that he’s really all these different people mixed up into one.
There’s the shy, awkward kid that most people who don’t know him very well see. There’s the surprisingly sharp and funny guy that comes out once he gets to know someone. And then there’s Lionel Messi the player: confident, fearless, creative, stubborn.
That’s why it doesn’t surprise Sergio, when they practice and are as seamless as ever. Leo still drops passes to him without even looking, still runs into his crosses like it’s second nature, and the only thing that’s different is that once Batista blows the whistle, Leo ambles over to lounge on the sideline with Gaby instead of ducking his head close to Sergio’s and whispering something that will make Sergio bark with surprised laughter.
Argentina’s first game. Sergio doesn’t start; he gets subbed on in the 82nd minute, when they’re already up two.
On the bus afterward, he leans against the window with his eyes closed, wonders if this is how it’s going to be, if that would be enough.
He senses someone standing over him, opens one eye and sees Leo next to their row, hesitating. He has two sandwiches in his hand. When he sees Sergio looking at him, he says, “Ah… should I…?”
But Sergio’s not in the mood, shuts his eyes and snaps, “I don’t know, Leo, should you?”
He hears Leo’s footsteps shuffling away a moment later and tries not to feel bad. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a sandwich lying on the seat next to him, but the window is cool under his cheek and he just wants to sleep.
They win the last game of the group stages to move on to the quarterfinals and Sergio is sent to the mixed zone for post-match interviews. He’s smiling, happy, of course he's happy, but he's also gritting his teeth because it’s his first interview since the Copa began and he knows exactly what question is coming.
“You gave a beautiful assist to Leo Messi tonight. What’s it going to be like playing for the biggest rivals in the world next season?”
Sergio swallows, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and even though he knew it was coming, his mind is suddenly blank. “Leo and I,” he starts, looking around like someone is going to help him. The reporter just stares. Sergio shrugs. “Leo and I have been friends since we were seventeen,” he says. The reporter keeps waiting, and the microphone is too close to his face. “We’re not blanco and blaugrana,” he says finally. “We’re albiceleste.”
But the truth is that he knows Leo is blaugrana, at least part of him, and as for himself, he’s not sure yet what he is.
Later he sees an interview with Leo where they ask him the same question and pretends his breath doesn’t catch while he waits for Leo to answer.
Leo scratches his head and his eyebrows go up; like always, his gaze flits around, looking everywhere but the camera, and his voice is soft, lilting. “Kun’s a great player,” he says. “He’d do well anywhere.”
It’s not much, but Sergio still wishes Leo would say it to his face.
Sergio’s different than Leo in that he’s really the exact same guy, on and off the pitch: stubborn, determined, maybe a little hot-headed.
It happens during the quarter final. Sergio doesn’t exactly see what, but Leo’s on the ground, bowed over, clutching his leg, and Gonzalo is up yelling in someone’s face, some Paraguay player Sergio doesn’t know and Sergio just sees red; before he knows what’s what, he’s in front of the guy, screaming, pushing into him and his fists are clenched, swinging-
But then Leo’s there, behind him, his fingers digging into Sergio’s arms as he pulls him off. Sergio’s struggling, trying to get away, back to the other player, because even through the haze of anger he can see the angry stud marks running down Leo’s leg, but Leo doesn’t let go, drags him away.
“Kun!” he’s yelling. He grabs Sergio by the face, holds him steady, makes him look Leo in the eyes, so close their foreheads are touching. “Stop, Kun. Calm down.”
Sergio still protests, fights to get away because in his head he still sees Leo bowed over, and the medics are still hovering behind him and he can’t think…
“Kun,” Leo says again, and his fingers are digging into Sergio’s shoulders, stilling him. Sergio breathes. “This isn’t what we need, okay? I need you here. Next to me. Not getting sent off. Okay?” His voice is firm and his eyes are pleading.
Sergio breathes. He stares at Leo, and for a long moment he doesn’t see anything else, hear anything else. Then he nods curtly, and Leo lets him go, studies him for a moment before he seems satisfied and drifts away.
They win. Later Sergio will wonder why Leo can’t be like that all the time, just say what he wants, what he needs, so then Sergio can do that for him, but Leo is Leo and Sergio is Sergio and that’s the way they’ve always been.
At dinner that night Sergio sits next to him, the space he’s been avoiding, and Leo looks up, vaguely surprised, but he doesn’t say anything. Sergio let his leg rest up against Leo’s, careful to avoid the bruised and red stud marks snaking up his shin, and Leo doesn’t move away.
Leo pushes his plate away at the same time Sergio does and they go up to Leo’s room without a word. They sit in the same places as last time they’d spoken, really spoken, Sergio on the edge of the bed and Leo in the desk chair, but this time turned toward Sergio, leaning toward him.
“I just didn’t know what to say,” Leo says when it’s quiet and dark and Sergio’s looking at him for answers. “I want you to be happy and celebrate but I’m not the person to do that with. Not for this.” He rubs his palms on his thighs and leans back. “I mean, I can’t even wish you luck,” he says, his lip half quirking, but he doesn’t look happy.
“I don’t need luck from you,” Sergio says, and they laugh more to break the tension than anything else. Leo moves to sit near him on the bed, but not close enough that they touch.
“I guess I just hoped you’d come somewhere closer,” he says lightly, kicking his foot out towards Sergio’s.
“Well, hey, at least I’m not moving further away,” Sergio offers in return, and his hand snakes out until their pinkies are touching.
Leo looks up at him suddenly and his face is drawn again. “But you are,” he says softly. It’s enough to make Sergio shift closer, until they’re lined up from ankle to shoulder, Leo solid and familiar against his arm.
After it's quiet for a long time, Sergio asks, “Remember the Olympics?” He knows Leo does, probably better than he does. Sergio only remembers it in flashes; the hot sun, his skin sticky with champagne, the scratch of his voice as he sang until it gave out, the way Leo looked with a flag draped around his shoulders and a never-ending smile stretched over his sunburned face.
He feels Leo nod against him.
“We’re going to do it again,” he says.
“Okay,” Leo says, and his head keeps nodding against Sergio’s. “Okay.”
sergio agüero&leo messi
~2100
pg
footballkink2 prompt for agüero/messi based on this quote: Aguero (Atletico): "Leo asks me the whole time: which club will you go to, you'll tell me first, right? I say that if I know, he'll know."
Sergio walks down the hotel hallway slowly, ignoring the dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, he should be happy, happy to share good news with his friend-
His friend.
Leo.
Fuck.
He knocks on the door and then takes a step back, fighting the urge to flee. Leo opens it with his head down, fiddling with his phone.
He doesn’t say hello, which Sergio guesses is normal since they just saw each other at dinner half an hour ago. “I think my phone is-I’m not getting texts. Do you know how to reset it?”
Sergio grabs at it, his hand sliding across Leo’s, warm and dry. He swallows. “Just-here, take the battery out.” He removes it and then pushes it back in, waits for the screen to light up. Leo grabs it back, looks at it and shrugs, tossing it on the bed.
He turns back to sit at the chair in front of his laptop, leaning over the bright screen and squinting.
“You need glasses,” Sergio says, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. He leans over, hands on his knees, takes a deep breath.
Leo doesn’t notice. “I do not,” he mumbles. “My sister uses tiny font.”
Sergio wants Leo to close his laptop, now, because he doesn’t know when the news will break and he definitely doesn’t want Leo seeing it on the computer before Sergio tells him. That-that would probably be worse than the news itself.
“Leo,” he says, and Leo grunts, his nose still close to the screen, reading. Sergio tries again, “Leo,” and finally Leo turns to look at him, says, “What,” exasperated.
Sergio raises his eyebrows and clears his throat, and it seems like Leo gets it because he turns in his chair and looks at him, full on.
“You wanted to be the first to know when I knew where I’m going next season,” Sergio starts, and he hopes he’s imagining the nerves in his voice. “Well-"
He can see it, the moment Leo realizes what Sergio’s telling him. He doesn’t really react, not a lot, but his eyes shift, and the look of concentration he was directing at Sergio slides into a practiced blankness.
Sergio doesn’t continue, and after awhile, Leo asks, “Well?” And Sergio should have expected it, that Leo would make him say it out loud, make him own up to it, but it makes him angry suddenly, that he feels nervous instead of good and that he feels like Leo is judging him instead of being happy for him.
“Well, I signed for Real Madrid,” he says, defiantly, setting his jaw. Leo just looks at him, doesn’t say anything, and Sergio tries to read his expression-is he mad? Disappointed? Just bored?-but he can’t, and as close as he likes to think he is with Leo, that’s not really unusual.
“So you’re the first to know,” he says finally, standing up and brushing his pants off, making to leave. “Just like you wanted.” He moves slowly because part of him thinks-wishes?-that Leo is going to stop him, tell him to stay and find a movie on television and then Leo will fall asleep ten minutes in, snoring softly in Sergio’s ear. But Leo doesn’t say anything. He lifts his head, keeps his eyes on Sergio’s face, but he’s silent. Blank.
Eventually Leo’s laptop pings with a message and he turns back. Sergio glances around the room, unable to decide if this went better or worse than he expected. He sees Leo’s phone on the bed, the notification light flashing, and he picks it up, sets it down next to Leo gently on his way out of the room.
He thinks he hears Leo say, “Thanks,” quietly behind him, but he can’t be sure.
Sergio gets to the bus the next morning before Leo and he’s glad, because he doesn’t want to have to figure out if he should sit next to him or ignore him or what. He sits in their usual row and he’s surprised when Gonzalo flops down next to him.
“I heard the news!” he says with a smile, and Sergio should have known it would be out by now, but he’d slept late and not looked at the internet. Gonzalo claps him on the back. “Madrid’s just collecting the whole selección at this point,” he grins, as Angel slides into the seat in front of him.
He extends a hand, which Sergio takes hesitantly. “Welcome to the team, man,” Angel says, and Sergio smiles, relaxing back. This is the kind of reception he’d been waiting for.
Fernando joins them and they talk about the team, about what it’s like to train with Mourinho and what kind of captain Iker is and about how Sergio’s going to have to be nice to Sergio Ramos. Through his laughter, Sergio sees Leo clamber into the bus, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his hair. Sergio sombers, but no one notices.
“Now we just need to get Leo,” Gonzalo calls, and Leo’s head snaps up, sees them all sitting together, Gonzalo in Leo’s usual seat. Sergio cringes inwardly at the joke, the whole situation.
Leo pretends he didn't hear. Sergio watches him sink into the seat next to Javier, drop his head on the captain’s shoulder.
Maybe six years isn’t that long, but Sergio knows Leo well enough to know that he’s really all these different people mixed up into one.
There’s the shy, awkward kid that most people who don’t know him very well see. There’s the surprisingly sharp and funny guy that comes out once he gets to know someone. And then there’s Lionel Messi the player: confident, fearless, creative, stubborn.
That’s why it doesn’t surprise Sergio, when they practice and are as seamless as ever. Leo still drops passes to him without even looking, still runs into his crosses like it’s second nature, and the only thing that’s different is that once Batista blows the whistle, Leo ambles over to lounge on the sideline with Gaby instead of ducking his head close to Sergio’s and whispering something that will make Sergio bark with surprised laughter.
Argentina’s first game. Sergio doesn’t start; he gets subbed on in the 82nd minute, when they’re already up two.
On the bus afterward, he leans against the window with his eyes closed, wonders if this is how it’s going to be, if that would be enough.
He senses someone standing over him, opens one eye and sees Leo next to their row, hesitating. He has two sandwiches in his hand. When he sees Sergio looking at him, he says, “Ah… should I…?”
But Sergio’s not in the mood, shuts his eyes and snaps, “I don’t know, Leo, should you?”
He hears Leo’s footsteps shuffling away a moment later and tries not to feel bad. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a sandwich lying on the seat next to him, but the window is cool under his cheek and he just wants to sleep.
They win the last game of the group stages to move on to the quarterfinals and Sergio is sent to the mixed zone for post-match interviews. He’s smiling, happy, of course he's happy, but he's also gritting his teeth because it’s his first interview since the Copa began and he knows exactly what question is coming.
“You gave a beautiful assist to Leo Messi tonight. What’s it going to be like playing for the biggest rivals in the world next season?”
Sergio swallows, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and even though he knew it was coming, his mind is suddenly blank. “Leo and I,” he starts, looking around like someone is going to help him. The reporter just stares. Sergio shrugs. “Leo and I have been friends since we were seventeen,” he says. The reporter keeps waiting, and the microphone is too close to his face. “We’re not blanco and blaugrana,” he says finally. “We’re albiceleste.”
But the truth is that he knows Leo is blaugrana, at least part of him, and as for himself, he’s not sure yet what he is.
Later he sees an interview with Leo where they ask him the same question and pretends his breath doesn’t catch while he waits for Leo to answer.
Leo scratches his head and his eyebrows go up; like always, his gaze flits around, looking everywhere but the camera, and his voice is soft, lilting. “Kun’s a great player,” he says. “He’d do well anywhere.”
It’s not much, but Sergio still wishes Leo would say it to his face.
Sergio’s different than Leo in that he’s really the exact same guy, on and off the pitch: stubborn, determined, maybe a little hot-headed.
It happens during the quarter final. Sergio doesn’t exactly see what, but Leo’s on the ground, bowed over, clutching his leg, and Gonzalo is up yelling in someone’s face, some Paraguay player Sergio doesn’t know and Sergio just sees red; before he knows what’s what, he’s in front of the guy, screaming, pushing into him and his fists are clenched, swinging-
But then Leo’s there, behind him, his fingers digging into Sergio’s arms as he pulls him off. Sergio’s struggling, trying to get away, back to the other player, because even through the haze of anger he can see the angry stud marks running down Leo’s leg, but Leo doesn’t let go, drags him away.
“Kun!” he’s yelling. He grabs Sergio by the face, holds him steady, makes him look Leo in the eyes, so close their foreheads are touching. “Stop, Kun. Calm down.”
Sergio still protests, fights to get away because in his head he still sees Leo bowed over, and the medics are still hovering behind him and he can’t think…
“Kun,” Leo says again, and his fingers are digging into Sergio’s shoulders, stilling him. Sergio breathes. “This isn’t what we need, okay? I need you here. Next to me. Not getting sent off. Okay?” His voice is firm and his eyes are pleading.
Sergio breathes. He stares at Leo, and for a long moment he doesn’t see anything else, hear anything else. Then he nods curtly, and Leo lets him go, studies him for a moment before he seems satisfied and drifts away.
They win. Later Sergio will wonder why Leo can’t be like that all the time, just say what he wants, what he needs, so then Sergio can do that for him, but Leo is Leo and Sergio is Sergio and that’s the way they’ve always been.
At dinner that night Sergio sits next to him, the space he’s been avoiding, and Leo looks up, vaguely surprised, but he doesn’t say anything. Sergio let his leg rest up against Leo’s, careful to avoid the bruised and red stud marks snaking up his shin, and Leo doesn’t move away.
Leo pushes his plate away at the same time Sergio does and they go up to Leo’s room without a word. They sit in the same places as last time they’d spoken, really spoken, Sergio on the edge of the bed and Leo in the desk chair, but this time turned toward Sergio, leaning toward him.
“I just didn’t know what to say,” Leo says when it’s quiet and dark and Sergio’s looking at him for answers. “I want you to be happy and celebrate but I’m not the person to do that with. Not for this.” He rubs his palms on his thighs and leans back. “I mean, I can’t even wish you luck,” he says, his lip half quirking, but he doesn’t look happy.
“I don’t need luck from you,” Sergio says, and they laugh more to break the tension than anything else. Leo moves to sit near him on the bed, but not close enough that they touch.
“I guess I just hoped you’d come somewhere closer,” he says lightly, kicking his foot out towards Sergio’s.
“Well, hey, at least I’m not moving further away,” Sergio offers in return, and his hand snakes out until their pinkies are touching.
Leo looks up at him suddenly and his face is drawn again. “But you are,” he says softly. It’s enough to make Sergio shift closer, until they’re lined up from ankle to shoulder, Leo solid and familiar against his arm.
After it's quiet for a long time, Sergio asks, “Remember the Olympics?” He knows Leo does, probably better than he does. Sergio only remembers it in flashes; the hot sun, his skin sticky with champagne, the scratch of his voice as he sang until it gave out, the way Leo looked with a flag draped around his shoulders and a never-ending smile stretched over his sunburned face.
He feels Leo nod against him.
“We’re going to do it again,” he says.
“Okay,” Leo says, and his head keeps nodding against Sergio’s. “Okay.”