half awake in a fake empire
title half awake in a fake empire
rating pg-13
word count 5,741
pairing sami khedira/mesut ozil
summary mesut sustains a concussion that results him forgetting everything that happened for approximately two days before the injury.
Sevilla, away. It's March and they've been holding on to a precarious two-point lead over Barcelona since the second week of January, but Sevilla, Mourinho assures them in the locker room, are not going to make it easy for them. He doesn't say what the Barcelona result from earlier in the day is, he never does, but Mesut checks the scores on his phone as he adjusts his shin pads and sees that Barcelona's won 3-0 against Levante.
It's cold on the field. Mesut recites his Qur'an verses and shivers in the damp air. It's not yet raining but it might, and the grass is slick. Mesut jumps up and down in place a few times as he waits for the whistle, trying to keep his muscles warm, and he glances over his shoulder for Sami like he always does on the field.
Sami's not looking back at him, though. He's fiddling with his headband instead, and looking vaguely in Xabi's direction. Mesut frowns and turns back, glances over instead at the referee, who's checking his watch and lifting the whistle to his lips.
Mourinho was right, as usual- it's a tough game. Ten minutes in and it's a defensive deadlock. Mesut can't make space the way he usually does; he keeps trying to drag his defenders out wide but they aren't tracking him more than a few yards outside the box, and he can't get a good cross off, either. He looks for Sami to be on his inside, trying to get a quick one-two going, but Sami's hovering closer to midfield than usual, so Mesut has to try and loft the ball to Angel, instead, and he weighs it wrong, sends it out of bounds.
He hangs around in the defensive fifty for a while as Sergio tangles with Navas, goes down for a tackle just the right side of legal and hoofs the ball up to Sami. Mesut takes off, calling for the ball, and Sami puts it forward but Mesut's already overrun it and he has to track back, shield from the defender, and he picks up his head to give Sami a quick backpass but Sami's already moved just far enough out of position that Mesut's pass is tapped to nobody and Pepe has to come sliding in to keep it away from Negredo.
Just before the whistle, they get a good chance- Ronaldo inside the box, and it's not Mesut's cross but it was his pass to Angel seconds before. Cristiano heads it towards the goal and it beats Palop but hits the crossbar. Mesut clenches his fists and his nails dig into his palm. He looks back at Sami, just because it's habit, and they make eye contact for what seems like the first time all match. Sami's jaw is clenched and he's sweating despite the cold, his hair plastered to his forehead and neck. Then the ball comes towards Mesut and he looks away, chases after Alexis until the halftime whistle blows.
"We cannot draw," is what Mourinho tells them in the locker room. Mesut fidgets during the break. He drinks too much water and it sloshes in his belly when he jogs back out onto the field for the start of the second half.
That's what he remembers, after- the too-full feeling of water in his stomach. It's uncomfortable when he runs, and when they ask him after, that's all he can tell them, was that he'd had too much water.
He remembers hitting the goalpost, though- the two seconds right before are perfectly clear, how he saw the ball and was trying to get there to tap it in, just around Palop, but a Sevilla defender slid in at the last moment and Mesut had to jump over him, but he'd misjudged and was going too fast and the post was too close, and he'd realized what was about to happen just before it did. Then he just remembers being really, really dizzy.
There are faces around him when he opens his eyes. Cris is crouched near him and Iker has made his way up all the way from the other end of the field. Sergio is asking him something but Mesut can't hear properly, it's almost like his head's underwater. His vision is fuzzy, so he closes his eyes again and waits for his head to stop spinning, but it never does.
"Are you okay?" It's Faria's voice that cuts through the static.
"Yeah," Mesut says, even though he feels like throwing up. Rui gets an arm around his shoulders and helps him sit. Mesut's vision keeps slipping in and out- he can't tell where Iker's standing, because there are at least two of him in Mesut's field of vision. "'M fine," he insists, because they're in the middle of a match, they have to keep playing. He has to keep playing.
"You aren't," Rui says. One of the physios is on Mesut's other side, and they get him standing. He sways on his feet. "Come on." Rui slings one of Mesut's arms over his shoulder and the physio takes his other and they start to make their way off of the pitch. Mesut is moving slowly and he still can't see straight.
He doesn't know where Sami is, and it's making him feel like throwing up even more. He tries to turn around and look for him, but his head hurts too much when he twists his neck. "Sami," he asks Rui. "Where's he?" He's vaguely aware that his words are coming out too slow.
"On the field," Rui says, and they keep walking. They bypass the bench and head for the tunnel, to one of the exam rooms inside the stadium. Mesut has to stop on the way there, pukes into a trashcan just inside the tunnel, and he sees Rui and the physio exchange worried glances when he straightens up.
They win, 1-0, a goal from Angel in the 87th minute, but Mesut doesn't get to see it even on the television screen because he's too busy taking an impact test. He fails four out of four sections, his results so far below his base line that he can make out the discrepancy from ten feet away, sitting on the exam table.
There are questions at the beginning of the impact test that don't make sense to Mesut.
Do you feel anxious? Have you felt sad? Are you feeling depressed? Are you having memory problems from directly after the impact? Are you having memory problems from directly before the impact? Shortly before the impact? Shortly after the impact?
"Mesut," Rui says, sitting down across from him in the exam room. The physio is hovering over his shoulder. "Do you remember the impact?"
"Yeah," Mesut says. "Goal post. Tried to jump over the defender."
He has a headache down the right side of his head. It's throbbing and he just wants to lie down.
"Do you remember before that?"
"Not- specifics," Mesut says. He frowns, trying to think through his headache. He wrinkles up his forehead and that helps a little, for a second, and then it just hurts more. "I was playing a match, obviously."
"Where?" the physio asks.
It's like the answer is just out of reach. Mesut looks down at his shirt- black. Away. It's March, so maybe- "Sevilla?" he tries.
"Good," Rui says. He doesn't smile, though, and Mesut's stomach feels funny. "What training exercises did we do yesterday?"
"Uh," Mesut says. He tries to think- yesterday. Practice. Football. There are flashes of something, but he can't hold on to them long enough to figure out what they are. "I don't. I, uh. I don't remember, I guess."
"Are you still dizzy?" the physio asks.
"Yeah," Mesut says. "And nauseous. And I have a headache." He knows what the symptoms of a concussion are, and he knows that's what he has- he'd had one when he was fifteen, spent two days on the bench with a headache before jumping back in.
Rui and the physio stand up. "You're out indefinitely," the physio tells him before he can ask. "Until you can pass the impact test. You're looking at around a month, right now, which is at the far line of what's normal for a head injury like this."
"A month?" Mesut asks. "Last time- when I was younger, it was just two days?"
"A month," the physio confirms. "You need to go home and rest, and you need to come to Valdebebas early tomorrow for a check-in."
Rui waits for him outside the locker room, and Mesut changes as quickly as he can. They walk to the bus together in silence and the rest of the team is already there, waiting. Mesut sits down in the empty seat next to Sami and puts his head on Sami's shoulder, exhausted.
"What are you doing?" Sami hisses. He jerks his shoulder and Mesut picks his head back up, wincing at the stab of pain from his headache.
"I," he says. "What?"
"You can't do that anymore," Sami snaps.
Mesut frowns and pulls his knees up to his chest. He wants to lean into Sami and fall asleep, but Sami turns towards the window and puts his headphones on, so Mesut rests his forehead on his kneecaps instead, and barely dozes the whole way home.
Mesut sleeps for thirteen hours and wakes up with a headache. He stays in bed for a few minutes -his own bed, alone; Sami hadn’t tailed him home last night driving back from Valdebebas. Mesut had thought at first that it was because Faria had driven him home, but Sami hadn’t called or texted, either.
He calls Sergio. “Can you drive me? I’m not allowed.”
“Sure, man, come on over,” Sergio says, friendly as ever, so Mesut gets dressed and eats a banana, grabs his water bottle and walks across his lawn until he’s at Sergio’s front door.
“How are you doing?” Sergio asks as they get into his Audi. He’s wearing jeans and a terrible sweater, something chunky and knitted. Mesut slouches in the passenger seat.
“Headache from hell,” he grunts. Sergio hums in sympathy and keeps the volume down on the music as he drives.
They don’t have him take the impact test again when he arrives; instead the physios have him do things like stand on one foot with his eyes closed. He wobbles a lot, has to keep putting his other foot down for balance.
“Stay away from your cell phone, laptop, and TV,” the club doctor tells him. “No reading, no loud noises. If bright lights are bothering you, turn them off. Don’t write anything, either. Don’t do anything that will stimulate your brain more than it already is- what’s happening, Mesut, is that your brain is vibrating back and forth very quickly inside your head. You need to give it a chance to calm down.”
“Okay,” Mesut says slowly. “So I can sleep, stare at my walls, and eat?”
“Yes,” the doctor says.
“Can I come to the match on Sunday?”
The doctor sighs. “If you watch from the box and if you get a headache at all, you leave and get someone to drive you home.”
Mesut makes his way down to the training grounds after he finishes with the doctors. The team is running a passing drill and he's itching to join them, but he walks over to where the coaches are standing.
“Concussion, yes?” Mourinho asks.
“Yeah,” Mesut confirms. His head is pounding and the last thing he wants to do right now is speak Spanish. “I can’t do anything until I pass the test, so. They said a month, I think.”
“Okay,” Mourinho says.
“I’m sorry,” Mesut says, because he feels bad that he’s ditching his teammates like this.
“It’s not your fault,” Mourinho tells him. “You didn’t ask for it to happen. Focus on getting better, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Mesut says, and stands with him on the sidelines, hands in the pockets of his sweats, until practice ends.
He tells the team in the locker room after the wrap-up, that he’s out for a month and he has a concussion. They’re all sympathetic, patting his arm and offering to bubble-wrap his head. He laughs a little, but it's hard to try and look energetic, so he mostly just slumps against the lockers and lets them talk, doesn't say much back.
“Hey,” Sami says. He slides over to sit next to Mesut on the bench as the rest of the team hits the showers. He smells like sweat and grass. “Are you- are you okay?” He looks concerned, his eyes big.
“Well, it kind of sucks,” Mesut shrugs. “I have a headache and I can’t do anything, not even drive or watch TV, and I feel like I might puke all the time. But apparently that’s all normal.” His words come out slowly, even in German.
Sami reaches out and touches the side of Mesut’s head, just briefly. His hand is warm against Mesut’s hair. Mesut leans into the touch, but then Sami blinks, and his face closes off. He drops his hand and stands up.
“Sami,” Mesut says as he starts to walk away. His voice sounds small to his own ears, like a child’s. “Sami, can you- can I get a ride home with you?”
Sami frowns. “No,” he says. He grabs his towel and is in the showers before Mesut can ask why.
He hangs around and waits for Sergio to finish, and he tries to say something to Sami in the parking lot, but Sami just gets into his own Audi and drives off, his eyes obscured behind his sunglasses.
It takes Mesut almost a full minute to get his key into the lock and open his front door.
Once he's inside, he prays.
"Can I ask you something?" Mesut cradles his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he struggles with the cap of the bottle of painkillers the club doctor had given him.
"Sure," Sergio says. He's become Mesut's default over the past twenty-four hours, since Sami isn't answering his texts. "What's up?"
"Did me and Sami- did something happen? During the match? He's acting really weird and I don't- I don't remember anything, from before I," Mesut says. "Do you know?"
The cap pops off of the bottle and the rattling sound of the pills inside makes Mesut's headache throb. "During the match? Don't think so," Sergio says, thoughtful. "It was a pretty shitty match, not gonna lie I'm pretty jealous you don't remember it, but, you know. The kind of game where everyone was talking shit to everyone, so. I think anything that had happened then would've just stayed on the field, yeah?"
"Oh," Mesut says. "Were we okay in practice the day before? Me and Sami?"
"I think so?" Sergio replies. "Probably. Same as usual, I think."
"Oh," Mesut says again. "Well. Okay."
"Sorry," Sergio tells him. "Not much help, I know. Maybe get some sleep and talk to him? Also I'm under captain's orders to come over and take your phone away if I hear you've been texting. So you know."
"Mourinho's orders, you mean," Mesut corrects.
"Yeah," Sergio says easily. "I will, though. You gotta get better!"
"I know, I know," Mesut says. "No texting. Got it. Thanks, Sergio."
"Don't hit your head getting into bed," Sergio jokes, and he's laughing at himself when Mesut hangs up.
Sergio doesn't seem surprised when Mesut knocks on his door the next afternoon. "Hey," he says, and steps to the side to let Mesut in.
Mesut hasn't been to Sergio's house often- he usually spends days off at Sami's, or Sami spends them at his. It’s a nice place, though, big and open and decorated mostly with football memorabilia and signed photos of people Mesut assumes are flamenco singers. Sergio’s smiling in all of them, sometimes clearly in the middle of clapping and dancing.
“What’s up?” Sergio asks, leading him into the kitchen where he pulls out two water bottles and offers one to Mesut.
“Thanks,” Mesut says, taking it and unscrewing the cap. “Not much, just. Bored, you know.”
“You’re really not allowed to do anything, huh?”
“Nope. No TV, no phone, no computer, no nothing,” Mesut explains. “It’s like being sick, but worse.”
“Sucks,” Sergio says. He wanders towards the living room and Mesut trails after him. “Can you listen to music?”
“I think so,” Mesut says. “As long as it’s not too loud. Why?”
“Because clearly you came here for entertainment, so I have to entertain you,” Sergio tells him. “Sit,” he commands, pointing at the couch, so Mesut does. The cushions are squishy and he sinks into them, feeling comfortably engulfed.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Music it is. Can you- first, though, can you text Sami for me? Just see if he’ll come to mine tonight so I have some company?”
“Sure,” Sergio says, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. He taps out a text as he walks over to the stereo system, where he puts on a flamenco CD and turns the volume down so it isn’t too loud for Mesut.
“Thanks,” Mesut says, taking a sip of his water. “What is this?” He waves his hand around, indicating the music. It sounds mostly just like some guy wailing above a guitar. He doesn’t like it.
“Canelita," Sergio tells him. He points to the wall opposite the TV, where there’s a picture of him with his arm wrapped around a guy holding a guitar. “Him. I met him last year at one of the festivals.”
“You’re really into it, yeah?” Mesut asks. His headache is starting to come back. “Can you ask Sami to bring Advil when he comes? I’m almost out.”
“He hasn’t replied,” Sergio says. Mesut can’t really control the way his face falls. “Hey, I’ll make you a deal- you let me give you a flamenco crash course and I’ll let you give me a rap one-oh-one.”
Mesut closes his eyes. “Sure,” he says, his throat tight. “Sounds good.”
When he starts to remember, it’s in bits and pieces. Parts of the match come back first, in flashes as Sergio drives him to Valdebebas the next day for his check-in with the physios. He remembers the frustration, the missed shots. He remembers drinking too much at halftime, the water sloshing around in his belly during the second half. He remembers timing everything wrong, and he remembers feeling anxious. He’s not sure why.
The physios have him take another impact test, and Mesut fails it again. He feels nauseous again when he finishes it. “That thing is designed to make you feel like a piece of shit,” he grumbles to Benzema when the striker asks him how he’s doing. “All the squiggles and dots and counting backwards.”
Being at the practice fields and not practicing is bizarre and frustrating and Mesut can’t quite stand still. He bounces up and down on his does for a bit until Rui comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” he asks, smiling a little bit.
Mesut sighs. “It’s boring, though,” he says. Across the field, Mourinho blows the whistle for a new drill. “Hey,” he says to Rui. “Did we do keep-away boxes, the day before the Sevilla game?”
“Yes,” Rui says, and he smiles for real. “Yes we did.”
Mesut smiles back.
Mesut goes home and puts on his headphones. He lies down on his couch and pops a few Advil, closes his eyes.
He remembers talking to Sami, the day before the Sevilla match. Bits and pieces of the day are coming back to him, some flashes of action (he remembers Marcelo chasing Cris around the locker room for touching his hair in alarmingly vivid detail) but mostly he just remembers general things. Everything is fuzzy, like looking at a picture that’s pixilated to the point where the subject is barely recognizable.
Halfway through his playlist, Mesut remembers Sami- he remembers his stomach bottoming out and Sami slamming the door. Mesut stands up too quickly, rips his headphones off, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he pukes.
Then he turns on his cell phone, ignores the physios orders, and texts Sami. did we break up???
“Sup,” Sergio says when Mesut knocks. Mesut's pretty sure he could start just letting himself in at this point and Sergio wouldn't mind.
“Can you do me a favor?” Mesut asks. He’s dressed in real clothes for the first time since the game. Wearing jeans feels weird and stiff after three days of track pants.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Can you drive me to Sami’s?” Mesut asks. He’s felt unbearably anxious since throwing up, and his palms are sweating.
“Sure,” Sergio says. “Lemme grab my keys.”
The ride over is quiet. Sergio keeps the radio off and Mesut doesn’t say much, just rests his forehead on the window and jiggles his knee up and down because he can’t sit still. He gets a text from Sami halfway there, but all it says is you aren’t supposed to be texting.
Sergio lets the car idle in Sami’s driveway. “You want me to wait for you? Or if you’re gonna be here for a while, call me when you need a ride back,” he offers.
“Thanks,” Mesut says. “I might- I don’t wanna hold up your day or anything.”
Sergio shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Okay,” Mesut says. “I’ll call later?”
“Have Sami call,” Sergio tells him. “No phone, remember?”
“Sure,” Mesut agrees. Sergio looks at him for a minute, opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, and then shakes his head.
“See ya in a bit, then,” he says, and Mesut gets out of the car.
Mesut stands at the doorstep for a while, hands in his pockets. He hasn't thought much about what would do when he got here- Sami's text and refusal to answer the question is making Mesut even more antsy, making him think that they actually did break up, but he can't for the life of him remember why. He scuffs his toe on Sami's welcome mat and tries, but he can't, al he remembers is Sami going to his house after practice. He remembers the feeling of Sami's arm around his shoulders as hey sat on the couch, and he remembers the sound of the door slamming behind Sami as he let himself out, and he remembers the way his stomach felt, twisted, and he gags a few times, his eyes tearing up.
He's pretty sure that's just from the concussion, though, and he can't use it as an excuse to not go in, so he stops shuffling back and forth, takes his hands out of his pockets, and knocks.
"How did you get here?" Sami asks when he opens the door. He's wearing a black v-neck that stretches tightly across his shoulders and his hair is damp. He's not wearing shoes and he doesn't step aside to let Mesut in.
"Sergio drove me," Mesut says. "Why didn't you answer my text?"
"You aren't supposed to be texting," Sami repeats himself.
"Still," Mesut insists.
"Because it was a dumb question," Sami tells him.
"No," Mesut says. His headache is throbbing along the side of his head and this conversation is not making it any better. "No, Sami, I- Don't shut the door, asshole!" He reaches out his hand and pushes against the door that Sami's trying to close. Sami resists for a second, and then gives in. Mesut's momentum carries him over the doorstep, and Sami shuts the door behind him. "I'm serious, though- if you'd asked how I was or anything, you'd know-"
"I did ask how you were," Sami says, and Mesut remembers the locker room, Sami's hand on the side of his head, the blank look in Sami's eyes when he walked away.
"Once, and then you left without saying anything," Mesut says. "I didn't get to tell you- I'm not. I don't remember things," he says, and it sounds so crippling, to say it out loud. "Not like, everything, but. The day of the game, and the day before, mostly, I only have bits and pieces."
"Oh," Sami says. "Wait. So you don't-"
"I remember you walking out," Mesut says. He shoves his hands back into his pockets. "That's why I texted you."
"Oh," Sami says again.
"So," Mesut says. "Did we- you know."
"Yeah," Sami tells him, quiet, and his eyes look big in his face. Mesut squints a little to keep him in focus, so he can keep watching Sami's face, the careful way he rearranges it from hurt to nothing. "We did."
"Why?" Mesut asks. His voice cracks. He brings his hand up and rubs at his forehead for a minute. "I tried- I couldn't think of any reason- Sami, we were happy," he says. "I know I was- well. You know, at the beginning-" he waves his hand around a little. It's hard to say it, it's hard to talk about his family and his religion when Sami's in the picture, and so Mesut hadn't let himself even think about putting Sami in the picture for so long. "-but I chose you, so. We were happy?"
Sami presses his lips together, a thin line, and in the better lighting of his foyer, Mesut can see how pale he looks, the dark circles under his eyes. "You didn't, though," Sami says. "Not really." It's the voice he uses during press conferences after losses, flat and professional on top and all hurt and frustration underneath, just barely visible.
"Is that why?" Mesut asks. "Why didn't you say anything before?" He rubs his knuckles against his temple. "Sorry- bad timing, but do you have any Advil?"
Sami is silent for a minute, and Mesut wants to take it back, but his head is killing him and he knows he's at the point where the physios would tell him to lie down and rest, and that's not exactly an option right now, because he needs-
He needs to find out how he can fix whatever he fucked up.
"Yeah," Sami says, finally, and retreats further into the house. Mesut trails after him and waits in the kitchen, leaning on the island. Sami comes back with a bottle, which he slides across the counter.
"Thanks," Mesut says. He pops three. "Sorry, I just. Headache."
"It's fine," Sami tells him. He sighs and sits down at one of the barstools. "I didn't say anything before because there wasn't anything to say before. It was- do you remember anything? Specific?"
"No," Mesut says quietly. "Look, I'm. I just really remember feelings right now? And odds and ends of things, but I don't have any details yet and I don't know when I'm going to, but things have been so weird the past few days, not seeing you all the time, and it sucks, so whatever- happened, or whatever I said, just." He pauses. "How do I fix it?"
"It's not-" Sami says. "Mesut, it's not something you can just fix, okay?" He takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw. Mesut can see the tendons in his neck. "You said you couldn't be seen with me. In public. I asked you to go on vacation with me for a week, during the summer break, and that's what you said. You can't just make that go away."
For a long few seconds, Mesut thinks he's going to be sick again.
"Sami," he says. "I." He doesn't know what to say. "I can't- did I say anything else?"
"No," Sami tells him. "I left."
"Oh," Mesut says, and it's quiet for a minute. Sami's looking down at his hands, and he's pick at the loose skin around his thumbnail. Mesut wants to touch him, wants to reach out, and he still can't wrap his mind around the fact that he can't, that Sami isn't his anymore, because he has no recollection of it happening. "Sami, it's like- it's like I wasn't there. Because I don't remember. So can we- where did you want to go?"
"What?"
"On vacation," Mesut insists. "Where did you want to go? Where's your laptop, I'll buy the tickets now-" He spots Sami's laptop lying on the coffee table so he goes and gets it, has two travel websites open by the time Sami takes it away from him. "Somewhere warm?" Mesut asks. His words are coming out too fast now, so different from the slow way they've bubbled to the surface for the past few days. His heart is beating too fast. "Ibiza, maybe, all of the guys say it's nice there in the summer, we can go to the beach and see who gets more of a tan. Or Germany? We can just go home, that could be good too, or we could go somewhere really different, maybe America, go to Miami or something-"
"Mesut," Sami says, and Mesut falls silent. "This isn't something- you can't fix it by buying plane tickets," he says. "I'm not mad about not going on vacation- I mean, I am, but. You said you chose me, but then you said that you couldn't be seen with me in public, so clearly you have something deeper to work out, and I don't wanna be something you hide, Mesut. I can't do that."
Mesut lets Sami take the laptop from him and close the tabs with the travel agency websites open. "I don't want to hide you," he says, quiet. "Sami, you know I. You. I."
"Yeah," Sami says. "I know. But it's not enough."
Sami calls Sergio, who comes to pick up Mesut and drives him home in silence.
"Wanna order food or something?" Sergio asks when he pulls into the driveway, clearly uneasy about leaving Mesut alone.
"No," Mesut says. "No, I gotta- look, I gotta talk to my brother. Don't tell the coaches that I was on my computer, okay? Please?"
Sergio sighs. "Okay," he says. "But only for fifteen minutes or something and then you have to get some rest right after."
"Thanks," Mesut says, and goes inside.
Mutlu answers the Skype call right away. "Hey," he says, surprised. They usually schedule their conversations in advance. "What's up? How's the head?"
"Okay," Mesut says. "I only have a few minutes, though, otherwise I'll start feeling sick."
"Sure," Mutlu shrugs. "What's up?" He asks again.
"I need to tell you something," Mesut says. "I don't know how to tell Mom and Dad and I don't know if I want to yet but I have to tell someone otherwise I might fuck it up forever, and." And I trust you to love me anyway, he doesn't say.
"What is it, Mesut?" Mutlu asks.
"You know Sami?" Mutlu nods. "Okay. Well. He and I are- you know."
"I don't," Mutlu says. "What are you?"
"Together," Mesut spits out past the choked feeling in his throat.
"Oh," Mutlu says. He's quiet for a minute. Mesut closes his eyes. "Mesut, you're my brother always. But you can't tell Mom and Dad about it, not yet. You know they won't- well, it's hard, you know that."
"Yeah," Mesut breathes.
"This," Mutlu continues. "I'm gonna need a little while, Mesut. To understand. Okay?"
"Okay," Mesut says, and they end the call. He makes himself drink a glass of water and crawls into bed.
Sergio drives him to Valdebebas in the morning. "Okay?" He asks.
Mesut grunts. He's exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and he feels like he's stuck in an elevator, trapped in some sort of in-between space.
The physios tell him it's a few days yet until he can take another impact test. "You have to wait a full week from test to test, to allow room for improvement," they explain. They have Mesut follow a pen with his eyes, and tap his nose with both hands as fast as he can, and then they let him go out to practice, which is just wrapping up. Mesut stands next to Sergio when the team gathers for post-practice talks from Mourinho and Aitor, but he watches Sami the whole time, stares at him until Sami makes eye contact.
The rest of the team disperses once the coaches finish talking, but Mesut lingers until Sami finishes chatting with Karim. He stands there with his hands in his pockets and walks over to Sami when Sami looks like he's going to start heading in. "Hi," he says.
"You look terrible," Sami says.
"I know," Mesut shrugs. "Hey, can we talk? Please?" He reaches out and catches Sami's arm, stops him from walking away.
"I guess," Sami says. "Are you okay?"
"No," Mesut says, the whole truth for the first time since he hit his head. "I've had a headache for almost a week, I'm dizzy all the time, I'm still not allowed to do anything, and my brother's not speaking to me right now."
"Why- why isn't Mutlu speaking to you?" Sami asks.
"Because I told him," Mesut says simply. "About us."
"Why would you do that? Mesut, you didn't have to do that, we aren't even- anymore," Sami says.
"I had to," Mesut tells him. "Because it was the only way to make you see, 'cause you don't get it, I pick you, but I don't want- I don't want to have to give them up, but if that's what I have to do. Just. It was the only way to get you back, and I'm just really, really hoping it worked, because I don't have him right now and I don't think I can deal with not having either of you."
"Mesut," Sami says again, and Mesut bites his lip, hard. Sami reaches out, finally, and wraps an arm around Mesut's shoulders. "Mesut," he says again, tucking Mesut's head under his chin.
"Do you need a ride home from practice?" Sergio asks as the team heads towards the parking lot. Mesut glances at Sami.
"No," Sami says for him. "I'll take him."
"Okay," Sergio says easily, smiling at them both, and Mesut curls up in Sami's passenger seat for the first time in a week. Sami doesn't put his hand on top of Mesut's on the center console, but when Mesut tentatively asks him to come in as the car idles in his driveway, he says yes.
notes.
serious concussions are big deals! that said, i did no research on this, all of the 'medical' information is stuff that various doctors have parroted at me the two times i've had serious concussions. every concussion is unique and not all of them result in memory loss. sometimes people forget the impact, sometimes people forget things that happened right before, or right after. symptoms of concussions are headache, nausea, dizziness, depression, anxiety, double vision, and a whole host of other things. impact tests work in the following way: you take a baseline test before you've ever sustained a head injury. when a concussion is suspected, you take the impact test again, and if your results are below your baseline, you fail and you have some type of concussion.
also, i don't really know anything about mesut's relationship with his family. i made it all up, sorry if it's offensive to anyone.
rating pg-13
word count 5,741
pairing sami khedira/mesut ozil
summary mesut sustains a concussion that results him forgetting everything that happened for approximately two days before the injury.
Sevilla, away. It's March and they've been holding on to a precarious two-point lead over Barcelona since the second week of January, but Sevilla, Mourinho assures them in the locker room, are not going to make it easy for them. He doesn't say what the Barcelona result from earlier in the day is, he never does, but Mesut checks the scores on his phone as he adjusts his shin pads and sees that Barcelona's won 3-0 against Levante.
It's cold on the field. Mesut recites his Qur'an verses and shivers in the damp air. It's not yet raining but it might, and the grass is slick. Mesut jumps up and down in place a few times as he waits for the whistle, trying to keep his muscles warm, and he glances over his shoulder for Sami like he always does on the field.
Sami's not looking back at him, though. He's fiddling with his headband instead, and looking vaguely in Xabi's direction. Mesut frowns and turns back, glances over instead at the referee, who's checking his watch and lifting the whistle to his lips.
Mourinho was right, as usual- it's a tough game. Ten minutes in and it's a defensive deadlock. Mesut can't make space the way he usually does; he keeps trying to drag his defenders out wide but they aren't tracking him more than a few yards outside the box, and he can't get a good cross off, either. He looks for Sami to be on his inside, trying to get a quick one-two going, but Sami's hovering closer to midfield than usual, so Mesut has to try and loft the ball to Angel, instead, and he weighs it wrong, sends it out of bounds.
He hangs around in the defensive fifty for a while as Sergio tangles with Navas, goes down for a tackle just the right side of legal and hoofs the ball up to Sami. Mesut takes off, calling for the ball, and Sami puts it forward but Mesut's already overrun it and he has to track back, shield from the defender, and he picks up his head to give Sami a quick backpass but Sami's already moved just far enough out of position that Mesut's pass is tapped to nobody and Pepe has to come sliding in to keep it away from Negredo.
Just before the whistle, they get a good chance- Ronaldo inside the box, and it's not Mesut's cross but it was his pass to Angel seconds before. Cristiano heads it towards the goal and it beats Palop but hits the crossbar. Mesut clenches his fists and his nails dig into his palm. He looks back at Sami, just because it's habit, and they make eye contact for what seems like the first time all match. Sami's jaw is clenched and he's sweating despite the cold, his hair plastered to his forehead and neck. Then the ball comes towards Mesut and he looks away, chases after Alexis until the halftime whistle blows.
"We cannot draw," is what Mourinho tells them in the locker room. Mesut fidgets during the break. He drinks too much water and it sloshes in his belly when he jogs back out onto the field for the start of the second half.
That's what he remembers, after- the too-full feeling of water in his stomach. It's uncomfortable when he runs, and when they ask him after, that's all he can tell them, was that he'd had too much water.
He remembers hitting the goalpost, though- the two seconds right before are perfectly clear, how he saw the ball and was trying to get there to tap it in, just around Palop, but a Sevilla defender slid in at the last moment and Mesut had to jump over him, but he'd misjudged and was going too fast and the post was too close, and he'd realized what was about to happen just before it did. Then he just remembers being really, really dizzy.
There are faces around him when he opens his eyes. Cris is crouched near him and Iker has made his way up all the way from the other end of the field. Sergio is asking him something but Mesut can't hear properly, it's almost like his head's underwater. His vision is fuzzy, so he closes his eyes again and waits for his head to stop spinning, but it never does.
"Are you okay?" It's Faria's voice that cuts through the static.
"Yeah," Mesut says, even though he feels like throwing up. Rui gets an arm around his shoulders and helps him sit. Mesut's vision keeps slipping in and out- he can't tell where Iker's standing, because there are at least two of him in Mesut's field of vision. "'M fine," he insists, because they're in the middle of a match, they have to keep playing. He has to keep playing.
"You aren't," Rui says. One of the physios is on Mesut's other side, and they get him standing. He sways on his feet. "Come on." Rui slings one of Mesut's arms over his shoulder and the physio takes his other and they start to make their way off of the pitch. Mesut is moving slowly and he still can't see straight.
He doesn't know where Sami is, and it's making him feel like throwing up even more. He tries to turn around and look for him, but his head hurts too much when he twists his neck. "Sami," he asks Rui. "Where's he?" He's vaguely aware that his words are coming out too slow.
"On the field," Rui says, and they keep walking. They bypass the bench and head for the tunnel, to one of the exam rooms inside the stadium. Mesut has to stop on the way there, pukes into a trashcan just inside the tunnel, and he sees Rui and the physio exchange worried glances when he straightens up.
They win, 1-0, a goal from Angel in the 87th minute, but Mesut doesn't get to see it even on the television screen because he's too busy taking an impact test. He fails four out of four sections, his results so far below his base line that he can make out the discrepancy from ten feet away, sitting on the exam table.
There are questions at the beginning of the impact test that don't make sense to Mesut.
Do you feel anxious? Have you felt sad? Are you feeling depressed? Are you having memory problems from directly after the impact? Are you having memory problems from directly before the impact? Shortly before the impact? Shortly after the impact?
"Mesut," Rui says, sitting down across from him in the exam room. The physio is hovering over his shoulder. "Do you remember the impact?"
"Yeah," Mesut says. "Goal post. Tried to jump over the defender."
He has a headache down the right side of his head. It's throbbing and he just wants to lie down.
"Do you remember before that?"
"Not- specifics," Mesut says. He frowns, trying to think through his headache. He wrinkles up his forehead and that helps a little, for a second, and then it just hurts more. "I was playing a match, obviously."
"Where?" the physio asks.
It's like the answer is just out of reach. Mesut looks down at his shirt- black. Away. It's March, so maybe- "Sevilla?" he tries.
"Good," Rui says. He doesn't smile, though, and Mesut's stomach feels funny. "What training exercises did we do yesterday?"
"Uh," Mesut says. He tries to think- yesterday. Practice. Football. There are flashes of something, but he can't hold on to them long enough to figure out what they are. "I don't. I, uh. I don't remember, I guess."
"Are you still dizzy?" the physio asks.
"Yeah," Mesut says. "And nauseous. And I have a headache." He knows what the symptoms of a concussion are, and he knows that's what he has- he'd had one when he was fifteen, spent two days on the bench with a headache before jumping back in.
Rui and the physio stand up. "You're out indefinitely," the physio tells him before he can ask. "Until you can pass the impact test. You're looking at around a month, right now, which is at the far line of what's normal for a head injury like this."
"A month?" Mesut asks. "Last time- when I was younger, it was just two days?"
"A month," the physio confirms. "You need to go home and rest, and you need to come to Valdebebas early tomorrow for a check-in."
Rui waits for him outside the locker room, and Mesut changes as quickly as he can. They walk to the bus together in silence and the rest of the team is already there, waiting. Mesut sits down in the empty seat next to Sami and puts his head on Sami's shoulder, exhausted.
"What are you doing?" Sami hisses. He jerks his shoulder and Mesut picks his head back up, wincing at the stab of pain from his headache.
"I," he says. "What?"
"You can't do that anymore," Sami snaps.
Mesut frowns and pulls his knees up to his chest. He wants to lean into Sami and fall asleep, but Sami turns towards the window and puts his headphones on, so Mesut rests his forehead on his kneecaps instead, and barely dozes the whole way home.
Mesut sleeps for thirteen hours and wakes up with a headache. He stays in bed for a few minutes -his own bed, alone; Sami hadn’t tailed him home last night driving back from Valdebebas. Mesut had thought at first that it was because Faria had driven him home, but Sami hadn’t called or texted, either.
He calls Sergio. “Can you drive me? I’m not allowed.”
“Sure, man, come on over,” Sergio says, friendly as ever, so Mesut gets dressed and eats a banana, grabs his water bottle and walks across his lawn until he’s at Sergio’s front door.
“How are you doing?” Sergio asks as they get into his Audi. He’s wearing jeans and a terrible sweater, something chunky and knitted. Mesut slouches in the passenger seat.
“Headache from hell,” he grunts. Sergio hums in sympathy and keeps the volume down on the music as he drives.
They don’t have him take the impact test again when he arrives; instead the physios have him do things like stand on one foot with his eyes closed. He wobbles a lot, has to keep putting his other foot down for balance.
“Stay away from your cell phone, laptop, and TV,” the club doctor tells him. “No reading, no loud noises. If bright lights are bothering you, turn them off. Don’t write anything, either. Don’t do anything that will stimulate your brain more than it already is- what’s happening, Mesut, is that your brain is vibrating back and forth very quickly inside your head. You need to give it a chance to calm down.”
“Okay,” Mesut says slowly. “So I can sleep, stare at my walls, and eat?”
“Yes,” the doctor says.
“Can I come to the match on Sunday?”
The doctor sighs. “If you watch from the box and if you get a headache at all, you leave and get someone to drive you home.”
Mesut makes his way down to the training grounds after he finishes with the doctors. The team is running a passing drill and he's itching to join them, but he walks over to where the coaches are standing.
“Concussion, yes?” Mourinho asks.
“Yeah,” Mesut confirms. His head is pounding and the last thing he wants to do right now is speak Spanish. “I can’t do anything until I pass the test, so. They said a month, I think.”
“Okay,” Mourinho says.
“I’m sorry,” Mesut says, because he feels bad that he’s ditching his teammates like this.
“It’s not your fault,” Mourinho tells him. “You didn’t ask for it to happen. Focus on getting better, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Mesut says, and stands with him on the sidelines, hands in the pockets of his sweats, until practice ends.
He tells the team in the locker room after the wrap-up, that he’s out for a month and he has a concussion. They’re all sympathetic, patting his arm and offering to bubble-wrap his head. He laughs a little, but it's hard to try and look energetic, so he mostly just slumps against the lockers and lets them talk, doesn't say much back.
“Hey,” Sami says. He slides over to sit next to Mesut on the bench as the rest of the team hits the showers. He smells like sweat and grass. “Are you- are you okay?” He looks concerned, his eyes big.
“Well, it kind of sucks,” Mesut shrugs. “I have a headache and I can’t do anything, not even drive or watch TV, and I feel like I might puke all the time. But apparently that’s all normal.” His words come out slowly, even in German.
Sami reaches out and touches the side of Mesut’s head, just briefly. His hand is warm against Mesut’s hair. Mesut leans into the touch, but then Sami blinks, and his face closes off. He drops his hand and stands up.
“Sami,” Mesut says as he starts to walk away. His voice sounds small to his own ears, like a child’s. “Sami, can you- can I get a ride home with you?”
Sami frowns. “No,” he says. He grabs his towel and is in the showers before Mesut can ask why.
He hangs around and waits for Sergio to finish, and he tries to say something to Sami in the parking lot, but Sami just gets into his own Audi and drives off, his eyes obscured behind his sunglasses.
It takes Mesut almost a full minute to get his key into the lock and open his front door.
Once he's inside, he prays.
"Can I ask you something?" Mesut cradles his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he struggles with the cap of the bottle of painkillers the club doctor had given him.
"Sure," Sergio says. He's become Mesut's default over the past twenty-four hours, since Sami isn't answering his texts. "What's up?"
"Did me and Sami- did something happen? During the match? He's acting really weird and I don't- I don't remember anything, from before I," Mesut says. "Do you know?"
The cap pops off of the bottle and the rattling sound of the pills inside makes Mesut's headache throb. "During the match? Don't think so," Sergio says, thoughtful. "It was a pretty shitty match, not gonna lie I'm pretty jealous you don't remember it, but, you know. The kind of game where everyone was talking shit to everyone, so. I think anything that had happened then would've just stayed on the field, yeah?"
"Oh," Mesut says. "Were we okay in practice the day before? Me and Sami?"
"I think so?" Sergio replies. "Probably. Same as usual, I think."
"Oh," Mesut says again. "Well. Okay."
"Sorry," Sergio tells him. "Not much help, I know. Maybe get some sleep and talk to him? Also I'm under captain's orders to come over and take your phone away if I hear you've been texting. So you know."
"Mourinho's orders, you mean," Mesut corrects.
"Yeah," Sergio says easily. "I will, though. You gotta get better!"
"I know, I know," Mesut says. "No texting. Got it. Thanks, Sergio."
"Don't hit your head getting into bed," Sergio jokes, and he's laughing at himself when Mesut hangs up.
Sergio doesn't seem surprised when Mesut knocks on his door the next afternoon. "Hey," he says, and steps to the side to let Mesut in.
Mesut hasn't been to Sergio's house often- he usually spends days off at Sami's, or Sami spends them at his. It’s a nice place, though, big and open and decorated mostly with football memorabilia and signed photos of people Mesut assumes are flamenco singers. Sergio’s smiling in all of them, sometimes clearly in the middle of clapping and dancing.
“What’s up?” Sergio asks, leading him into the kitchen where he pulls out two water bottles and offers one to Mesut.
“Thanks,” Mesut says, taking it and unscrewing the cap. “Not much, just. Bored, you know.”
“You’re really not allowed to do anything, huh?”
“Nope. No TV, no phone, no computer, no nothing,” Mesut explains. “It’s like being sick, but worse.”
“Sucks,” Sergio says. He wanders towards the living room and Mesut trails after him. “Can you listen to music?”
“I think so,” Mesut says. “As long as it’s not too loud. Why?”
“Because clearly you came here for entertainment, so I have to entertain you,” Sergio tells him. “Sit,” he commands, pointing at the couch, so Mesut does. The cushions are squishy and he sinks into them, feeling comfortably engulfed.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Music it is. Can you- first, though, can you text Sami for me? Just see if he’ll come to mine tonight so I have some company?”
“Sure,” Sergio says, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. He taps out a text as he walks over to the stereo system, where he puts on a flamenco CD and turns the volume down so it isn’t too loud for Mesut.
“Thanks,” Mesut says, taking a sip of his water. “What is this?” He waves his hand around, indicating the music. It sounds mostly just like some guy wailing above a guitar. He doesn’t like it.
“Canelita," Sergio tells him. He points to the wall opposite the TV, where there’s a picture of him with his arm wrapped around a guy holding a guitar. “Him. I met him last year at one of the festivals.”
“You’re really into it, yeah?” Mesut asks. His headache is starting to come back. “Can you ask Sami to bring Advil when he comes? I’m almost out.”
“He hasn’t replied,” Sergio says. Mesut can’t really control the way his face falls. “Hey, I’ll make you a deal- you let me give you a flamenco crash course and I’ll let you give me a rap one-oh-one.”
Mesut closes his eyes. “Sure,” he says, his throat tight. “Sounds good.”
When he starts to remember, it’s in bits and pieces. Parts of the match come back first, in flashes as Sergio drives him to Valdebebas the next day for his check-in with the physios. He remembers the frustration, the missed shots. He remembers drinking too much at halftime, the water sloshing around in his belly during the second half. He remembers timing everything wrong, and he remembers feeling anxious. He’s not sure why.
The physios have him take another impact test, and Mesut fails it again. He feels nauseous again when he finishes it. “That thing is designed to make you feel like a piece of shit,” he grumbles to Benzema when the striker asks him how he’s doing. “All the squiggles and dots and counting backwards.”
Being at the practice fields and not practicing is bizarre and frustrating and Mesut can’t quite stand still. He bounces up and down on his does for a bit until Rui comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” he asks, smiling a little bit.
Mesut sighs. “It’s boring, though,” he says. Across the field, Mourinho blows the whistle for a new drill. “Hey,” he says to Rui. “Did we do keep-away boxes, the day before the Sevilla game?”
“Yes,” Rui says, and he smiles for real. “Yes we did.”
Mesut smiles back.
Mesut goes home and puts on his headphones. He lies down on his couch and pops a few Advil, closes his eyes.
He remembers talking to Sami, the day before the Sevilla match. Bits and pieces of the day are coming back to him, some flashes of action (he remembers Marcelo chasing Cris around the locker room for touching his hair in alarmingly vivid detail) but mostly he just remembers general things. Everything is fuzzy, like looking at a picture that’s pixilated to the point where the subject is barely recognizable.
Halfway through his playlist, Mesut remembers Sami- he remembers his stomach bottoming out and Sami slamming the door. Mesut stands up too quickly, rips his headphones off, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he pukes.
Then he turns on his cell phone, ignores the physios orders, and texts Sami. did we break up???
“Sup,” Sergio says when Mesut knocks. Mesut's pretty sure he could start just letting himself in at this point and Sergio wouldn't mind.
“Can you do me a favor?” Mesut asks. He’s dressed in real clothes for the first time since the game. Wearing jeans feels weird and stiff after three days of track pants.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Can you drive me to Sami’s?” Mesut asks. He’s felt unbearably anxious since throwing up, and his palms are sweating.
“Sure,” Sergio says. “Lemme grab my keys.”
The ride over is quiet. Sergio keeps the radio off and Mesut doesn’t say much, just rests his forehead on the window and jiggles his knee up and down because he can’t sit still. He gets a text from Sami halfway there, but all it says is you aren’t supposed to be texting.
Sergio lets the car idle in Sami’s driveway. “You want me to wait for you? Or if you’re gonna be here for a while, call me when you need a ride back,” he offers.
“Thanks,” Mesut says. “I might- I don’t wanna hold up your day or anything.”
Sergio shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Okay,” Mesut says. “I’ll call later?”
“Have Sami call,” Sergio tells him. “No phone, remember?”
“Sure,” Mesut agrees. Sergio looks at him for a minute, opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, and then shakes his head.
“See ya in a bit, then,” he says, and Mesut gets out of the car.
Mesut stands at the doorstep for a while, hands in his pockets. He hasn't thought much about what would do when he got here- Sami's text and refusal to answer the question is making Mesut even more antsy, making him think that they actually did break up, but he can't for the life of him remember why. He scuffs his toe on Sami's welcome mat and tries, but he can't, al he remembers is Sami going to his house after practice. He remembers the feeling of Sami's arm around his shoulders as hey sat on the couch, and he remembers the sound of the door slamming behind Sami as he let himself out, and he remembers the way his stomach felt, twisted, and he gags a few times, his eyes tearing up.
He's pretty sure that's just from the concussion, though, and he can't use it as an excuse to not go in, so he stops shuffling back and forth, takes his hands out of his pockets, and knocks.
"How did you get here?" Sami asks when he opens the door. He's wearing a black v-neck that stretches tightly across his shoulders and his hair is damp. He's not wearing shoes and he doesn't step aside to let Mesut in.
"Sergio drove me," Mesut says. "Why didn't you answer my text?"
"You aren't supposed to be texting," Sami repeats himself.
"Still," Mesut insists.
"Because it was a dumb question," Sami tells him.
"No," Mesut says. His headache is throbbing along the side of his head and this conversation is not making it any better. "No, Sami, I- Don't shut the door, asshole!" He reaches out his hand and pushes against the door that Sami's trying to close. Sami resists for a second, and then gives in. Mesut's momentum carries him over the doorstep, and Sami shuts the door behind him. "I'm serious, though- if you'd asked how I was or anything, you'd know-"
"I did ask how you were," Sami says, and Mesut remembers the locker room, Sami's hand on the side of his head, the blank look in Sami's eyes when he walked away.
"Once, and then you left without saying anything," Mesut says. "I didn't get to tell you- I'm not. I don't remember things," he says, and it sounds so crippling, to say it out loud. "Not like, everything, but. The day of the game, and the day before, mostly, I only have bits and pieces."
"Oh," Sami says. "Wait. So you don't-"
"I remember you walking out," Mesut says. He shoves his hands back into his pockets. "That's why I texted you."
"Oh," Sami says again.
"So," Mesut says. "Did we- you know."
"Yeah," Sami tells him, quiet, and his eyes look big in his face. Mesut squints a little to keep him in focus, so he can keep watching Sami's face, the careful way he rearranges it from hurt to nothing. "We did."
"Why?" Mesut asks. His voice cracks. He brings his hand up and rubs at his forehead for a minute. "I tried- I couldn't think of any reason- Sami, we were happy," he says. "I know I was- well. You know, at the beginning-" he waves his hand around a little. It's hard to say it, it's hard to talk about his family and his religion when Sami's in the picture, and so Mesut hadn't let himself even think about putting Sami in the picture for so long. "-but I chose you, so. We were happy?"
Sami presses his lips together, a thin line, and in the better lighting of his foyer, Mesut can see how pale he looks, the dark circles under his eyes. "You didn't, though," Sami says. "Not really." It's the voice he uses during press conferences after losses, flat and professional on top and all hurt and frustration underneath, just barely visible.
"Is that why?" Mesut asks. "Why didn't you say anything before?" He rubs his knuckles against his temple. "Sorry- bad timing, but do you have any Advil?"
Sami is silent for a minute, and Mesut wants to take it back, but his head is killing him and he knows he's at the point where the physios would tell him to lie down and rest, and that's not exactly an option right now, because he needs-
He needs to find out how he can fix whatever he fucked up.
"Yeah," Sami says, finally, and retreats further into the house. Mesut trails after him and waits in the kitchen, leaning on the island. Sami comes back with a bottle, which he slides across the counter.
"Thanks," Mesut says. He pops three. "Sorry, I just. Headache."
"It's fine," Sami tells him. He sighs and sits down at one of the barstools. "I didn't say anything before because there wasn't anything to say before. It was- do you remember anything? Specific?"
"No," Mesut says quietly. "Look, I'm. I just really remember feelings right now? And odds and ends of things, but I don't have any details yet and I don't know when I'm going to, but things have been so weird the past few days, not seeing you all the time, and it sucks, so whatever- happened, or whatever I said, just." He pauses. "How do I fix it?"
"It's not-" Sami says. "Mesut, it's not something you can just fix, okay?" He takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw. Mesut can see the tendons in his neck. "You said you couldn't be seen with me. In public. I asked you to go on vacation with me for a week, during the summer break, and that's what you said. You can't just make that go away."
For a long few seconds, Mesut thinks he's going to be sick again.
"Sami," he says. "I." He doesn't know what to say. "I can't- did I say anything else?"
"No," Sami tells him. "I left."
"Oh," Mesut says, and it's quiet for a minute. Sami's looking down at his hands, and he's pick at the loose skin around his thumbnail. Mesut wants to touch him, wants to reach out, and he still can't wrap his mind around the fact that he can't, that Sami isn't his anymore, because he has no recollection of it happening. "Sami, it's like- it's like I wasn't there. Because I don't remember. So can we- where did you want to go?"
"What?"
"On vacation," Mesut insists. "Where did you want to go? Where's your laptop, I'll buy the tickets now-" He spots Sami's laptop lying on the coffee table so he goes and gets it, has two travel websites open by the time Sami takes it away from him. "Somewhere warm?" Mesut asks. His words are coming out too fast now, so different from the slow way they've bubbled to the surface for the past few days. His heart is beating too fast. "Ibiza, maybe, all of the guys say it's nice there in the summer, we can go to the beach and see who gets more of a tan. Or Germany? We can just go home, that could be good too, or we could go somewhere really different, maybe America, go to Miami or something-"
"Mesut," Sami says, and Mesut falls silent. "This isn't something- you can't fix it by buying plane tickets," he says. "I'm not mad about not going on vacation- I mean, I am, but. You said you chose me, but then you said that you couldn't be seen with me in public, so clearly you have something deeper to work out, and I don't wanna be something you hide, Mesut. I can't do that."
Mesut lets Sami take the laptop from him and close the tabs with the travel agency websites open. "I don't want to hide you," he says, quiet. "Sami, you know I. You. I."
"Yeah," Sami says. "I know. But it's not enough."
Sami calls Sergio, who comes to pick up Mesut and drives him home in silence.
"Wanna order food or something?" Sergio asks when he pulls into the driveway, clearly uneasy about leaving Mesut alone.
"No," Mesut says. "No, I gotta- look, I gotta talk to my brother. Don't tell the coaches that I was on my computer, okay? Please?"
Sergio sighs. "Okay," he says. "But only for fifteen minutes or something and then you have to get some rest right after."
"Thanks," Mesut says, and goes inside.
Mutlu answers the Skype call right away. "Hey," he says, surprised. They usually schedule their conversations in advance. "What's up? How's the head?"
"Okay," Mesut says. "I only have a few minutes, though, otherwise I'll start feeling sick."
"Sure," Mutlu shrugs. "What's up?" He asks again.
"I need to tell you something," Mesut says. "I don't know how to tell Mom and Dad and I don't know if I want to yet but I have to tell someone otherwise I might fuck it up forever, and." And I trust you to love me anyway, he doesn't say.
"What is it, Mesut?" Mutlu asks.
"You know Sami?" Mutlu nods. "Okay. Well. He and I are- you know."
"I don't," Mutlu says. "What are you?"
"Together," Mesut spits out past the choked feeling in his throat.
"Oh," Mutlu says. He's quiet for a minute. Mesut closes his eyes. "Mesut, you're my brother always. But you can't tell Mom and Dad about it, not yet. You know they won't- well, it's hard, you know that."
"Yeah," Mesut breathes.
"This," Mutlu continues. "I'm gonna need a little while, Mesut. To understand. Okay?"
"Okay," Mesut says, and they end the call. He makes himself drink a glass of water and crawls into bed.
Sergio drives him to Valdebebas in the morning. "Okay?" He asks.
Mesut grunts. He's exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and he feels like he's stuck in an elevator, trapped in some sort of in-between space.
The physios tell him it's a few days yet until he can take another impact test. "You have to wait a full week from test to test, to allow room for improvement," they explain. They have Mesut follow a pen with his eyes, and tap his nose with both hands as fast as he can, and then they let him go out to practice, which is just wrapping up. Mesut stands next to Sergio when the team gathers for post-practice talks from Mourinho and Aitor, but he watches Sami the whole time, stares at him until Sami makes eye contact.
The rest of the team disperses once the coaches finish talking, but Mesut lingers until Sami finishes chatting with Karim. He stands there with his hands in his pockets and walks over to Sami when Sami looks like he's going to start heading in. "Hi," he says.
"You look terrible," Sami says.
"I know," Mesut shrugs. "Hey, can we talk? Please?" He reaches out and catches Sami's arm, stops him from walking away.
"I guess," Sami says. "Are you okay?"
"No," Mesut says, the whole truth for the first time since he hit his head. "I've had a headache for almost a week, I'm dizzy all the time, I'm still not allowed to do anything, and my brother's not speaking to me right now."
"Why- why isn't Mutlu speaking to you?" Sami asks.
"Because I told him," Mesut says simply. "About us."
"Why would you do that? Mesut, you didn't have to do that, we aren't even- anymore," Sami says.
"I had to," Mesut tells him. "Because it was the only way to make you see, 'cause you don't get it, I pick you, but I don't want- I don't want to have to give them up, but if that's what I have to do. Just. It was the only way to get you back, and I'm just really, really hoping it worked, because I don't have him right now and I don't think I can deal with not having either of you."
"Mesut," Sami says again, and Mesut bites his lip, hard. Sami reaches out, finally, and wraps an arm around Mesut's shoulders. "Mesut," he says again, tucking Mesut's head under his chin.
"Do you need a ride home from practice?" Sergio asks as the team heads towards the parking lot. Mesut glances at Sami.
"No," Sami says for him. "I'll take him."
"Okay," Sergio says easily, smiling at them both, and Mesut curls up in Sami's passenger seat for the first time in a week. Sami doesn't put his hand on top of Mesut's on the center console, but when Mesut tentatively asks him to come in as the car idles in his driveway, he says yes.
notes.
serious concussions are big deals! that said, i did no research on this, all of the 'medical' information is stuff that various doctors have parroted at me the two times i've had serious concussions. every concussion is unique and not all of them result in memory loss. sometimes people forget the impact, sometimes people forget things that happened right before, or right after. symptoms of concussions are headache, nausea, dizziness, depression, anxiety, double vision, and a whole host of other things. impact tests work in the following way: you take a baseline test before you've ever sustained a head injury. when a concussion is suspected, you take the impact test again, and if your results are below your baseline, you fail and you have some type of concussion.
also, i don't really know anything about mesut's relationship with his family. i made it all up, sorry if it's offensive to anyone.