Fic: Growing up (Leo Messi/Bojan Krkic)
Title: Growing up
Summary: with the arrival of so many canteranos into the team, Bojan starts to question a few things, Leo amongst them.
Pairing: Leo Messi/Bojan Krkic
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: PG-13, at most.
Wordcount: barely under 2,000
Disclaimers: this isn’t real, because I made it all up in my head, and I’m not getting any money out of it (more’s the pity!).
A/N: for sebastiona, for raising Plot Bunnies and slipping one of them into my purse for me to take home… :)
Growing up
“It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Hm?” Thierry looks up to you from the lacing of his boots and raises his eyebrows. “What is, mon petit?”
“This,” you say, gesturing at the field in front of you.
Thierry sprawls elegantly on the grass by your side and looks at what got your attention.
Jeffren and Gai are laughing, trying to keep a ball from Marc, who after struggling for a minute decides to give a shout and enlist the help of Andreu Fontás and Albert Dalmau. The boys play roughly, like puppies, pushing and manhandling each other, the ball never forgotten, even when Andreu attempts to lift Gai into the air and Marc and Albert take advantage of the opportunity to gang on Jeffren.
“They make me feel old,” you say, so lost in your thoughts you’re not even sure you’ve said anything.
Thierry laughs at this, throwing his head back, his grin impossible to resist, as always. You pout a little, but then he puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you towards him, still chuckling, and you go along with him willingly and place your head in the curve of his neck.
“Ah, mon petit,” he says, in that tone, half-joking, half-serious, with which he likes to impart his wisdom, “now you know how I feel…”
You smile, reluctantly, because yes, you are starting to understand how he feels (about you, amongst other things). You can feel the blend of jealousy and pride when you look at these boys (some of them almost your age, but with far less experience). You feel torn between wanting to help them make it big, and fearing for your own position when they do. ‘Will one of them be the one to make people forget about me?’, you wonder, snuggling closer to Tití’s chest to make him forgive you all the times he must have thought the same of you.
The ball escapes Gai’s control (aided in its flight by the tip of Piqué’s boot, because Geri just gravitates towards trouble) and the boys tear up after it, clearing your field of vision.
And then you see them.
Standing a little way away from everyone else, faces serious, completely focused on what they are saying and unaware of anything else. Pedrito listens, nodding from time to time, and venturing a question here and there. Leo talks, gesturing, with a level of self-assurance of which no-one would have believed him capable two years ago; for a moment, you swear you can see the captain’s armband over his shirt again, like in LA.
Thierry respects your contemplation for well over a minute, and then nudges you a little.
“Hey… you’re going to burn a hole in Pedro’s forehead, and then you’ll have to pay his brand-new 75 million clause…”
You laugh and look back at Tití, who is smiling at you.
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.
“Something on your mind?” the Frenchman prompts you, although the answer should be obvious.
“Isn’t there always?” you sigh.
“Ah, then I should have said, “Someone on your mind?” instead, non?”
You blush, push away from him and rub at the back of your neck. You don’t mind Thierry’s teasing as much as you mind Geri’s, for example, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel foolish when the subject comes up.
“When are you going to do something about it?”
You turn back to look at your friend. You could have sworn it was Tití you were talking to, but he has just asked what Geri has been telling you since he landed in Barcelona last summer. But it is Thierry, giving you a comically enquiring face.
“Never,” you reply, turning back to the field. Leo seems to be explaining something to Pedro that requires the eighteen-year-old to stand so close to the Argentinean your teeth hurt, you are gritting them so hard.
“And why not, mon petit?”
You shrug, not taking your eyes off Leo’s hands, which moving to explain what you suppose are the positions of defenders.
“Because,” you answer, feeling it’s self-explanatory.
Leo has just finished his explanation and Pedrito is nodding enthusiastically to show he’s understood, answering Leo’s rapid-fire questions like a bright schoolboy showing off in front of a teacher.
Is this the boy from two years ago, who was so withdrawn that one practically had to ask Deco for an appointment to talk to him? Is this the mop-haired kid who walked everywhere with his headphones (blaring truly horrible music) and couldn’t understand why people would want a picture of him, or an autograph?
Is this the boy you wanted to hug every time you scored a goal, every time he scored a goal, every time you played together, every time you won, every time you lost, every time you were in the same room? Is this the boy you wanted to kiss every time you saw him?
Leo looks away from Pedro and straight at you, and you feel your heart doing an awkward little flop; that he catches you looking at him has happened too many times now, so you know the best thing is to try not to look caught and just smile casually. He smiles back, sweet and oblivious as usual, and your heart again tries some impossible acrobatics inside your chest.
Yes, he is still that boy. Only that now he is also so much more than that.
The lesson seems to be over. Reluctantly, Pedrito walks away, setting his sights on Xavi and attaching himself to the midfielder in less time than it takes for Leo to cross the field and sit by your side.
You squirm on the grass and throw a pleading look to Tití over your shoulder. You’re charming, you know that, you can make all your teammates laugh (even Ibra, with your shamefully accented Serbian), and photos of you are plastered across hundreds of computer desktops owned by teenagers all over the world, but when Leo is looking at you, you have trouble stringing two words together.
“Right,” the Frenchman says, giving Leo a bottle of water, “I’m off to do some running, then, since you’re here to keep Bo company…”
You stare at his retreating back, mouth open in a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. This is worse than all of Geri’s unsubtle attempts to push you into Leo when you’re in the showers, or to get Dani to swap rooms with him and then ‘accidentally’ spilling water on one bed so you and Leo would have to sleep together on the other (that particular attempt ended up with Geri sleeping on the floor). You trusted Thierry to be kind, patient and to let you keep doing nothing.
You hear Leo sigh and turn back to look at him, forgetting immediately all about Tití and how he’s now joking with Eric.
“Alright?” you ask, seeing him play with the bottle of water in his hands.
“I miss Deco, sometimes.”
This comes so out of the blue you can’t even answer.
“Why?” you ask at last. You’ve almost forgotten about the Portuguese, except to remember him in a flash of jealousy now and then.
Leo shrugs and then gives you a slightly crooked smile.
“I saw you just now, with Thierry…” He shrugs again.
You close your eyes. You remind yourself there’s nothing wrong with being an affectionate person, with giving and receiving hugs, with looking for peace in a simple shared physical gesture. You think of how you and Tití must have looked a few minutes ago, and blush.
“Tití and I are not…” you say, stumbling over the words, over the shame.
“No, I know you’re not,” Leo tells you, putting what he must hope is a calming hand on your forearm (your heart again tries to beat its way out of your ribcage). “You’re friends. Like Deco and me.” He squeezes your arm softly, and smiles when you force yourself to look at him, cheeks burning. “Or did you think that Deco and I were…?”
You look away, blushing entirely too much to continue this conversation. You didn’t think… you hoped not… but Deco was so protective of Leo, was so careful with him, was the only person Leo really ever opened up to…
“No, no, of course not,” you mutter, sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.
“You did?” asks Leo, as if you had just admitted to it. “And you didn’t mind?”
“Mind?” you ask in return, not sure now of where this conversation is going, or where it started in the first place.
“You know, *mind*…” Leo frowns at nothing in particular. “Like think it’s weird, or disgusting…”
“No!” you protest. “Of course not… why would I think that?”
“Many people think that.”
You can’t see who exactly it is he’s looking at, with that soft little frown, but whoever they are (and whatever they said), you want to tackle them in a way that would make Puyol proud.
“I don’t,” you say forcefully. “There’s nothing wrong with liking someone… anyone.”
He turns back to look at you, whether surprised at the strength of your voice or at what you’re saying, and you blush again and look down at the grass.
So close, and yet so far… what you wouldn’t give to be like Geri, with his boisterous gestures and that smile, so sharp it hurts, with his way of not caring what people think and the marks on his neck when Cesc comes to visit!
“Really?” asks Leo, and waits until you nod, still keeping your head down. “That’s… good.”
You smile, because you’re so in love with Leo you’d kiss him in the middle of the Camp Nou if you could, but you can’t really say he’s good with words. Then again, neither are you, especially when he’s involved.
“You want to go out to dinner tonight?”
You freeze. Then, very, very slowly, you raise your head. Leo is staring ahead, looking as if he hasn’t spoken in the last couple of hours, and you’re almost convinced it was your wishful mind (which does have an Argentinean accent) saying those words, except for that quick brush of red across Leo’s cheekbones that wasn’t there a minute ago.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, curling your fingers into the carefully trimmed grass and wishing Leo to look at you, just look at you and show you you’re not dreaming this.
“OK,” he says, not even blinking.
“Argentinean?” you suggest, growing bolder on a wave of excitement and disbelief; besides, you know Leo loves his churrasco and knows the best Argentinean restaurants in town, where they treat him like a long-lost son rather than like a client.
“Alright,” he says, and now it’s him who is smiling and looking down between his feet, it’s him who looks too embarrassed to meet your eyes.
“Great!”
A ball flies a few inches above your head and Gai rolls on the ground in front of you. You laugh at his mussed hair and at Marc’s triumphant cry, and jump to your feet, suddenly full of energy.
“Tonight, then?” you ask Leo, before turning to the melée.
“Tonight,” he answers, standing too.
You both run after Marc, who squeaks in disbelief and loses the ball to one of Leo’s unbelievable moves, and then Geri is also joining the battle and you’re fighting to receive Leo’s pass and you spot Pedrito looking at you and pass him the ball, and now Puyol’s after him and you almost run into Pep, who is smiling, and Maxwell crashes into you… you find yourself sprawling on the grass, at Thierry’s feet, breathless with laughter.
Tití grins back at you, gives you a hand up and you both run after Eric, who has the ball now.
You don’t feel old anymore.
Summary: with the arrival of so many canteranos into the team, Bojan starts to question a few things, Leo amongst them.
Pairing: Leo Messi/Bojan Krkic
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: PG-13, at most.
Wordcount: barely under 2,000
Disclaimers: this isn’t real, because I made it all up in my head, and I’m not getting any money out of it (more’s the pity!).
A/N: for sebastiona, for raising Plot Bunnies and slipping one of them into my purse for me to take home… :)
Growing up
“It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Hm?” Thierry looks up to you from the lacing of his boots and raises his eyebrows. “What is, mon petit?”
“This,” you say, gesturing at the field in front of you.
Thierry sprawls elegantly on the grass by your side and looks at what got your attention.
Jeffren and Gai are laughing, trying to keep a ball from Marc, who after struggling for a minute decides to give a shout and enlist the help of Andreu Fontás and Albert Dalmau. The boys play roughly, like puppies, pushing and manhandling each other, the ball never forgotten, even when Andreu attempts to lift Gai into the air and Marc and Albert take advantage of the opportunity to gang on Jeffren.
“They make me feel old,” you say, so lost in your thoughts you’re not even sure you’ve said anything.
Thierry laughs at this, throwing his head back, his grin impossible to resist, as always. You pout a little, but then he puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you towards him, still chuckling, and you go along with him willingly and place your head in the curve of his neck.
“Ah, mon petit,” he says, in that tone, half-joking, half-serious, with which he likes to impart his wisdom, “now you know how I feel…”
You smile, reluctantly, because yes, you are starting to understand how he feels (about you, amongst other things). You can feel the blend of jealousy and pride when you look at these boys (some of them almost your age, but with far less experience). You feel torn between wanting to help them make it big, and fearing for your own position when they do. ‘Will one of them be the one to make people forget about me?’, you wonder, snuggling closer to Tití’s chest to make him forgive you all the times he must have thought the same of you.
The ball escapes Gai’s control (aided in its flight by the tip of Piqué’s boot, because Geri just gravitates towards trouble) and the boys tear up after it, clearing your field of vision.
And then you see them.
Standing a little way away from everyone else, faces serious, completely focused on what they are saying and unaware of anything else. Pedrito listens, nodding from time to time, and venturing a question here and there. Leo talks, gesturing, with a level of self-assurance of which no-one would have believed him capable two years ago; for a moment, you swear you can see the captain’s armband over his shirt again, like in LA.
Thierry respects your contemplation for well over a minute, and then nudges you a little.
“Hey… you’re going to burn a hole in Pedro’s forehead, and then you’ll have to pay his brand-new 75 million clause…”
You laugh and look back at Tití, who is smiling at you.
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.
“Something on your mind?” the Frenchman prompts you, although the answer should be obvious.
“Isn’t there always?” you sigh.
“Ah, then I should have said, “Someone on your mind?” instead, non?”
You blush, push away from him and rub at the back of your neck. You don’t mind Thierry’s teasing as much as you mind Geri’s, for example, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel foolish when the subject comes up.
“When are you going to do something about it?”
You turn back to look at your friend. You could have sworn it was Tití you were talking to, but he has just asked what Geri has been telling you since he landed in Barcelona last summer. But it is Thierry, giving you a comically enquiring face.
“Never,” you reply, turning back to the field. Leo seems to be explaining something to Pedro that requires the eighteen-year-old to stand so close to the Argentinean your teeth hurt, you are gritting them so hard.
“And why not, mon petit?”
You shrug, not taking your eyes off Leo’s hands, which moving to explain what you suppose are the positions of defenders.
“Because,” you answer, feeling it’s self-explanatory.
Leo has just finished his explanation and Pedrito is nodding enthusiastically to show he’s understood, answering Leo’s rapid-fire questions like a bright schoolboy showing off in front of a teacher.
Is this the boy from two years ago, who was so withdrawn that one practically had to ask Deco for an appointment to talk to him? Is this the mop-haired kid who walked everywhere with his headphones (blaring truly horrible music) and couldn’t understand why people would want a picture of him, or an autograph?
Is this the boy you wanted to hug every time you scored a goal, every time he scored a goal, every time you played together, every time you won, every time you lost, every time you were in the same room? Is this the boy you wanted to kiss every time you saw him?
Leo looks away from Pedro and straight at you, and you feel your heart doing an awkward little flop; that he catches you looking at him has happened too many times now, so you know the best thing is to try not to look caught and just smile casually. He smiles back, sweet and oblivious as usual, and your heart again tries some impossible acrobatics inside your chest.
Yes, he is still that boy. Only that now he is also so much more than that.
The lesson seems to be over. Reluctantly, Pedrito walks away, setting his sights on Xavi and attaching himself to the midfielder in less time than it takes for Leo to cross the field and sit by your side.
You squirm on the grass and throw a pleading look to Tití over your shoulder. You’re charming, you know that, you can make all your teammates laugh (even Ibra, with your shamefully accented Serbian), and photos of you are plastered across hundreds of computer desktops owned by teenagers all over the world, but when Leo is looking at you, you have trouble stringing two words together.
“Right,” the Frenchman says, giving Leo a bottle of water, “I’m off to do some running, then, since you’re here to keep Bo company…”
You stare at his retreating back, mouth open in a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. This is worse than all of Geri’s unsubtle attempts to push you into Leo when you’re in the showers, or to get Dani to swap rooms with him and then ‘accidentally’ spilling water on one bed so you and Leo would have to sleep together on the other (that particular attempt ended up with Geri sleeping on the floor). You trusted Thierry to be kind, patient and to let you keep doing nothing.
You hear Leo sigh and turn back to look at him, forgetting immediately all about Tití and how he’s now joking with Eric.
“Alright?” you ask, seeing him play with the bottle of water in his hands.
“I miss Deco, sometimes.”
This comes so out of the blue you can’t even answer.
“Why?” you ask at last. You’ve almost forgotten about the Portuguese, except to remember him in a flash of jealousy now and then.
Leo shrugs and then gives you a slightly crooked smile.
“I saw you just now, with Thierry…” He shrugs again.
You close your eyes. You remind yourself there’s nothing wrong with being an affectionate person, with giving and receiving hugs, with looking for peace in a simple shared physical gesture. You think of how you and Tití must have looked a few minutes ago, and blush.
“Tití and I are not…” you say, stumbling over the words, over the shame.
“No, I know you’re not,” Leo tells you, putting what he must hope is a calming hand on your forearm (your heart again tries to beat its way out of your ribcage). “You’re friends. Like Deco and me.” He squeezes your arm softly, and smiles when you force yourself to look at him, cheeks burning. “Or did you think that Deco and I were…?”
You look away, blushing entirely too much to continue this conversation. You didn’t think… you hoped not… but Deco was so protective of Leo, was so careful with him, was the only person Leo really ever opened up to…
“No, no, of course not,” you mutter, sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.
“You did?” asks Leo, as if you had just admitted to it. “And you didn’t mind?”
“Mind?” you ask in return, not sure now of where this conversation is going, or where it started in the first place.
“You know, *mind*…” Leo frowns at nothing in particular. “Like think it’s weird, or disgusting…”
“No!” you protest. “Of course not… why would I think that?”
“Many people think that.”
You can’t see who exactly it is he’s looking at, with that soft little frown, but whoever they are (and whatever they said), you want to tackle them in a way that would make Puyol proud.
“I don’t,” you say forcefully. “There’s nothing wrong with liking someone… anyone.”
He turns back to look at you, whether surprised at the strength of your voice or at what you’re saying, and you blush again and look down at the grass.
So close, and yet so far… what you wouldn’t give to be like Geri, with his boisterous gestures and that smile, so sharp it hurts, with his way of not caring what people think and the marks on his neck when Cesc comes to visit!
“Really?” asks Leo, and waits until you nod, still keeping your head down. “That’s… good.”
You smile, because you’re so in love with Leo you’d kiss him in the middle of the Camp Nou if you could, but you can’t really say he’s good with words. Then again, neither are you, especially when he’s involved.
“You want to go out to dinner tonight?”
You freeze. Then, very, very slowly, you raise your head. Leo is staring ahead, looking as if he hasn’t spoken in the last couple of hours, and you’re almost convinced it was your wishful mind (which does have an Argentinean accent) saying those words, except for that quick brush of red across Leo’s cheekbones that wasn’t there a minute ago.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, curling your fingers into the carefully trimmed grass and wishing Leo to look at you, just look at you and show you you’re not dreaming this.
“OK,” he says, not even blinking.
“Argentinean?” you suggest, growing bolder on a wave of excitement and disbelief; besides, you know Leo loves his churrasco and knows the best Argentinean restaurants in town, where they treat him like a long-lost son rather than like a client.
“Alright,” he says, and now it’s him who is smiling and looking down between his feet, it’s him who looks too embarrassed to meet your eyes.
“Great!”
A ball flies a few inches above your head and Gai rolls on the ground in front of you. You laugh at his mussed hair and at Marc’s triumphant cry, and jump to your feet, suddenly full of energy.
“Tonight, then?” you ask Leo, before turning to the melée.
“Tonight,” he answers, standing too.
You both run after Marc, who squeaks in disbelief and loses the ball to one of Leo’s unbelievable moves, and then Geri is also joining the battle and you’re fighting to receive Leo’s pass and you spot Pedrito looking at you and pass him the ball, and now Puyol’s after him and you almost run into Pep, who is smiling, and Maxwell crashes into you… you find yourself sprawling on the grass, at Thierry’s feet, breathless with laughter.
Tití grins back at you, gives you a hand up and you both run after Eric, who has the ball now.
You don’t feel old anymore.