fic: walking higher [Cesc Fabregas, Leo Messi, Sergio Aguero] (Gen, PG) (1/2)
Title: walking higher
Rating: PG
Characters: Leo Messi, Cesc Fabregas, Sergio 'Kun' Aguero (with a supporting cast including Pep Guardiola, Juan Roman Riquelme, Gerard Pique, Philippe Senderos, Alex Hleb and Giannina Maradona)
Disclaimer: Made up, except for the parts that aren't. See end notes.
Summary: At training, everyone's tiptoeing around Leo a little bit because of all the bullshit, but they really don't need to. He's just the same old Leo. Cesc, Leo and Kun go through the 08/09 season - growing up, moving on, and going places.
Notes: Last in the you and me series (both prequels written for cornerflag, although it stands alone just fine.
leo: may 2008
He stands on the Bernabeu turf, and holds himself still so he doesn't collapse to the ground, and blinks hard so that he can pretend those aren't tears forming in his eyes.
He thinks -
He thinks, it used to be different. Easier.
But it's no longer 2005, he's not 17, and it's not so simple any more.
Everything's changed. Maybe Leo's changed too.
He's stood bruised all over in the mud at Stamford Bridge, with the baying of the angry crowd getting louder and louder, heard his name cursed with ugly words, and felt nothing but joy with the adrenalin singing through his veins.
He's cried and shouted at no one and not spoken for days while struggling with injuries that seemed like they'd never heal.
He's sat there numbed by the random cruelty of penalties in Berlin, deaf to the stadium-shaking delirious happiness of the German supporters, and clenched his hands so hard he broke skin just to save the tears for later.
(In Maracaibo, it was a lot easier. Losing doesn't become less painful, but as with anything in football, hiding grief gets easier with practise.
He got a lot more practise as time went on.)
He's held his arms out and taken in the cries of the Camp Nou, those hundred thousand voices forming his name like a scene out of a dream he's never dared to have.
He's made friends, lost friends, been happy and devastated and completely lost.
And he's -
He's not sure, any more, just what it is he's doing. Or rather, he plays and plays but it's not the same, not like it used to be. He's angry and frustrated like never before. It's not just losing - that's bad enough - but the way they're losing. Nothing's going right.
(Sometimes it feels like nothing's gone right since Paris. He only thinks that when he's really angry, so it can't be true, but the feeling's there.)
Leo tells the press that Barca's dressing room is just like any other dressing room. It's even true. Everybody has good days and bad days. It's just that the bad days have become more like bad weeks. Months.
When the news about Rijkaard breaks, he gets five text messages in the space of ten minutes from Cesc, on top of the three he'd sent asking if Leo was okay right after the game in Madrid. They swing wildly from excitement to worry and right back again.
The last one says: It's Pep, man. You don't understand how amazing this is.
You're right, Leo thinks. I don't.
kun: june 2008
As places to live go, Madrid's not bad. It's not Buenos Aires, but Kun's beginning to realize that nothing will come close anyway, so that's okay.
The fans are really great, except when they're not. Even then, there are the old guys with kind eyes who tell him that it's not his fault when they see him out and about the day after a major thrashing, and the way they always have his back when he's getting kicked around.
He's got no real complaints.
The only thing - the thing that's really just beginning to bother him this year, if only because everyone keeps bringing it up -
Atletico are really good at scoring goals. They play great football. But they seem to be fucking experts at throwing it all away when it really counts.
And he knows part of it has to be his fault, because it's not like he's one hundred percent for every minute of every game, but that's not something he can control. He just runs and dribbles and use every damn trick in the book and whatever happens, happens.
What really scares Kun, in the end - the thing that makes him change the channel whenever a Liga highlights show comes on TV -
What if it's not enough? What if what he is isn't enough?
cesc: july 2008
And here Cesc thought it was going to be a good summer, especially after the Euros.
He's not childish enough to stop speaking to Alex entirely, but he does consider the idea - deeply, and for some time - just to watch Alex squirm. God knows the idiot deserves it.
Eventually, when Cesc does open his mouth again, what comes out -
"But why?"
- is controlled. There's no hint of a whine in his voice.
Alex makes a series of increasingly incomprehensible hand gestures. By the end he just seems to be flailing his arms, and both Cesc's eyebrows are climbing into his hairline. Typical Alex. Except -
"Why don't you ask Mathieu? He'd explain it better."
There's the problem. If he asks Mathieu (that same question, for God's sake, why?) the explanation would probably make sense. Too much sense. Mathieu always does, even when Cesc completely disagrees with what he's saying - he's scary like that.
(It's probably a trick worth learning.)
"But next year - "
Alex just looks at him, his face sad like Cesc's never seen it (except, maybe, in Paris) and shakes his head. "No. No more 'next year'."
Cesc's beginning to hate those two words himself. They're not really any kind of comfort when everything falls apart. Like it's normal for a team full of ridiculously talented young players to have the exact solidarity and reliability of a house of cards. Or maybe it is.
But if he really believed that, he wouldn't be here. (And there's no way Cesc would quit on Arsene like they did.) So he doesn't. Simple as that.
leo: july 2008
Pre-season's in Scotland again, just like last year. The weather's still perfect, the people still friendly. A lot of things are different now, though. No Rijkaard. No Deco. Ronnie -
The space where Ronnie should be beside Leo feels empty in a way that aches like the twinge in his hamstring when it's trying to say that his body's broken again. Leo's not capable of acting like it doesn't hurt, and his old team mates have all learned to read his body language by now. So it's not really a surprise that Sylvinho's the first one to say Ronnie's name to him, a couple of days in, while the two of them are ducking into a tent for a water break during training.
"Leo, you know - with Ronnie, what he did - "
He knows what Sylvinho's trying to say, carefully picking the words to avoid stepping on his feelings. He's thankful for the consideration, and there's even a cold, hard, and useful part of him that agrees with the sentiment, deep down. But -
There's no way he can hear this right now. For the larger part of him, Ronnie will always be warmth and shelter and brilliance so natural and so extraordinary as to remain out of reach forever.
Leo dumps half a bottle's worth of water over his head, closing his eyes against the spray and to avoid Sylvinho's expression. "Please. Please don't."
His hands settle firmly on Leo's shoulders between one breath and the next, not pressing down. The warm, reassuring weight is -
It makes the next exhale easier.
* * *
The game's only a friendly, except Leo doesn't think that way. All games are the same -
He plays like he breathes.
Scoring is nice.
Loud crowds are good.
The bruises hurt.
- and the first time Leo pulls on the number 10, it feels like stealing his big brother's clothes. The shirt seems too big, which is nothing new, but this time it feels different, as if the fact that it comes to almost the middle of his thigh is supposed to mean something.
When Guardiola hands him the armband, though, the weight on his chest lifts, and the no. 10 becomes just another shirt. His shirt.
It still has to be earned, of course.
Leo's never backed down from a challenge, no matter how big or scary or -
Or how much it might hurt.
* * *
He's distracted.
It's not like - he's usually a bit more professional than that. If Leo's going to let stupid things get to him, now's really not the time, since Guardiola somehow seems to know everything that's going on with the team, all at once, so he knows when Leo isn't one hundred percent even though he's spent most of his time sorting things out with Titi and then Samuel.
Then again, by the end of the first week, even the most thick-headed idiot in the press can tell something's not right. It's not everyday that Leo throws a fit in training, after all.
It's - it's embarrassing. He hates losing it, and the only thing worse is doing it in public, where it's just going to make things complicated for the whole team -
When Guardiola makes him stay back after training for the inevitable telling off, Leo can't even look him in the eye. It's an effort not to shrink back when Guardiola puts a gentle hand on his neck. The implied look up is - somehow - impossible to resist.
"I can't have you making everyone else worried and nervous. Tell me what's wrong."
There's something about the way Guardiola talks - not just absolute belief in whatever he's saying, although there's that too, but the sense that it's the truth.
It's more than tempting to go along with it - it's easy.
But. Leo doesn't trust easily, never has, and he doesn't like talking about himself. It's asking a hell of a lot, for him to tell this - this stranger what's really going on in his head.
(He's not Rijkaard. He's - he's not.)
"I don't - I'm just..."
One day, Leo will stop opening his mouth before he knows what to say. For now, he can only swallow back the rest of whatever was going to get blurted out, and breathe.
When he finally feels capable of looking at Guardiola's eyes instead of speaking to his chin, the gentle understanding in them almost makes him draw back.
"Tell me, and we'll deal with it."
The strange thing is Leo does actually believe him. Whatever's softening the steel in the man's voice at the edges is real.
Maybe that's good enough.
He takes a couple of deep, even breaths, rehearsing the words in his head. Guardiola's fingers flatten against his neck and his thumb strokes, very lightly, over the patch of skin there. It's strangely soothing. Makes it easier to talk.
"The Olympics. I. I want to go. I told the president ages ago, and now he." Things had been different back then, he know that.
(It was before everything went to pieces.)
But what's happened since then is just another part of the reason why he has to. "I need to - "
Guardiola nods, once. "Ah." His eyes lose their usual focus, and for a moment, it's as if he's left the room. Leo only realizes that he's been holding his breath when Guardiola nods again, sharply.
"You'll be in Beijing in time for the first game." It takes Leo a moment to realize that the sudden hammering is the beat of his heart, impossibly loud in his ears. His mouth's open again without checking with his brain first. Thankfully, Guardiola stops whatever would have come out by putting his other hand on Leo's shoulder. "It might take a while, and there'll be some complications along the way, but you'll be in Beijing. I can promise you that now."
It takes Leo a while to find words. "...thank you. Thank you. I don't know how to - "
When Guardiola smiles, he looks his age - like he could still be playing. "I want you to be happy, Leo. That's all. Trust me."
It's - still - a lot to ask for, but Leo can tell he's used to that.
* * *
Shanghai is unbearably hot, especially after Scotland. Leo's still happy to be here.
Or - maybe happy's not quite right. But this is where he needs to be, even if things are really complicated with the national team.
Thing is, Leo's entire family have been doing their best to keep him away from any Argentinian media that might mention his name for about two weeks. Usually it doesn't even bother him when people write stupid things, but his dad, Rodrigo and Matias - they know him. They knew this time it would get to him. So the effort is the kind of thing that makes Leo feel warm and really lucky.
He's online a lot, though, so it was never going to work.
It'd be better - he'd feel better, not as angry - if he could forget he read some of that. People can say what they like, and he really doesn't give a damn what most of them think...except.
People can say what they like, unless they accuse him of not caring.
Somehow, Leo's not Argentinian for them - or not Argentinian enough. And that's -
Well. He hates it.
Complaining about the media to Roman is probably one of those things Leo's not supposed to do, because of all that's going on. But he does anyway. Roman knows, better than anybody else, what it feels like.
And if talking to him in a public training session - letting the photographers take all the pictures they want of the two of them sitting together - feels a little like taunting the same people who've been writing lies about the two of them fighting for months? That's just fine.
Roman talks like Leo. Or maybe he means that the other way around. The point is, both of them mumble so quietly that the only way to have a conversation is to sit close.
(Sometimes, Leo stares at the frown lines etched into Roman's forehead and feels like he kind of maybe gets the guy.)
"They'll write anything, and it's not like you can change it. Let it be."
Normally he'd agree with that. But right now, it just seems like a step too far.
"I'm going to shut them up. I'm - Roman, come on, we're going to make them stop."
Roman heaves a long-suffering sigh, and - smiles, just a little. Enough.
The two of them - they're not friends, they'll probably never be friends, but there's - this. Understanding, sort of. Or more like a similar kind of focus.
It's not like Leo needs validation from anybody. But sometimes...sometimes, it's just nice to prove people wrong.
* * *
His dad calls with the bad news about the court judgment first. Barca haven't called yet, but that's only a matter of time. They'll want him to go back, and it's not as if he doesn't understand why, but.
Leo has to do this. That's just something they'll have to understand in return. Even Laporta has to see -
No, of course not.
When he's done laughing quietly to himself over that, he asks dad for Guardiola's number.
"I was wondering when you'd call," he says, when Leo's still trying to decide how to say hello. "How's Shanghai?"
"Really hot. Mister, you know why I'm - you know why."
Guardiola sighs. "I suppose I do. That's why I needed to talk to you, Leo. What do you want?"
That's the easiest question in the world, right now.
"I want to stay. Please let me stay."
There's a short pause, and Leo has just enough time to remember how much he hates phone calls before Guardiola replies.
"I promised, didn't I? Don't worry. Just stay put, I'll call when it's settled."
That's...a lot more than Leo ever thought he'd get. There's no maybe in there, no 'I have to ask the president'. He relaxes, just a little.
It's still not enough to stop him from clutching his phone too hard for the 5 hours it takes Guardiola to call back, though.
"It's done. You can stay."
Leo finds himself swallowing back a hello yet again, but this time with a very different feeling in his heart. It's the kind of gratitude he knows he'll always feel.
"Thank you. I won't forget what you did, mister."
Somehow, it's very easy to picture Guardiola's smile from the light tone of his voice. "See? I keep my promises. Enjoy it. Bring back a gold medal."
Leo grins. "You got it."
cesc: july 2008
Things change quickly in football. It's one of those facts of life that Cesc has always understood, just like the colour of the sky or how the game should be played. People come and go, and it's useless to try and hold on in the face of other things. Bigger things.
He's learnt that lesson enough times that it shouldn't even hurt any more. But somehow - somehow, it doesn't work out that way.
"No, no, you just swing the little one and press that big button to slide tackle. Here, like this. Dammit, Phil, it's not that hard."
Phil looks at his Wii remote like it's an alien contraption. "And I aim at one of your guys and press...A to pressure? This is far more complicated than the 2007 one we played on PS2."
"It's really accurate once you get the hang of it."
There's no hint of a pout in Cesc's voice, but there's certainly the possibility of one.
"So in the meantime, I'll just put up with you thrashing me?" Phil says reproachfully, but in his soft voice, it just sounds affectionate more than anything else.
Cesc can't help but smirk a little. "Well, you'll just have to get better fast. Don't want to make Maldini and Nesta look bad, do you?"
The little Nesta on screen actually has the ball, but Phil is clearly still trying to remember how to do a cross-field pass, which gives him - or, really, the little Cesc on screen - enough time to slide in and win possession.
"Oh. I was going to - never mind." Phil smiles self-depreciatingly. "I guess I'm just no good with change."
That's just the kind of thing he likes to say, but something about his tone this time - Cesc pauses the game.
"Hey, what's going on?"
They all joke about Phil getting frown lines far, far too early. There's a grain of truth in it - he's constantly worrying and stressing, not just about himself, like he was born a mother hen. Right now, he has the look of a man much older than he actually is, with the kind of doubt and anxiety that he shouldn't even know how to feel yet.
"You know. Arsene doesn't trust me any more." His voice is soft, but each word feels like an exploding firecracker to Cesc.
"No!" That's a shout. He's too worked up to be embarrassed about it. "That's not true. You know what the boss is like - he just wants us all to be successful."
First Mathieu, then Alex. He can't - not Phil too.
"Sure. Look at what happened against Liverpool, though. I don't - I'm not sure I trust myself any more. And the fans - " Phil cuts himself off with a vicious shake of the head.
"They'll come around."
"Maybe. I think...I need a change of scenery, just to get my head on straight again."
This is the thing about Phil: he really is the world's nicest guy, willing to put up with all kinds of shit for the sake of keeping the peace. But when he gets an idea into his head? That's it. And Cesc recognises that tone in his voice now, even if he doesn't want to.
What happened to the good old days, Phil? Beating Real in Madrid - remember that? Going to Paris?
He's not going to ask Phil to stay. It wouldn't be fair.
He's going to be mature about this. Professional. Because that's what he does. Never mind that his three best friends are leaving -
If the Euros taught him anything, it's that what he needs doesn't factor into it. Knowing what he can do, showing it on the pitch, and syncing it perfectly with what the other components of the team are doing - that's what it's really about.
Phil's always seen everything so clearly. It's going to be hard without him.
kun: august 2008
When the tabloids found out that Kun was dating Giannina and made an unbelievable fuss out of it, she sailed through it all as if wasn't happening while he freaked out. Just a little bit, mind. And he did it real quietly.
She had taken one look at his face and laughed. "You know it's only going to get worse, right? Buck up."
Kun's met all sorts of people since before he started playing for Independiente, but nobody else on earth is unshakable like Giannina. She's seen just about everything a couple of times over, after all, and none of it gets to her anymore. It's one of the many things he likes about her.
"She's cool. She'll keep you grounded," Osky had said after they all went out together that first time. And it's true. It's good to be reminded that as crazy as his life can be, it doesn't really mean anything. All he has to do is play football like he knows, and all the rest is just filler.
People can say what they like, but the truth is he's a good professional. Never parties too hard the day before morning training, never stays out too late the night before a game. He's not going to turn into one of those guys. It's just that his first year in Madrid was pretty fucking miserable. He likes having friends and family around, being surrounded by people-noise, and there was none of that.
So yeah, he reckons he's allowed to have a little fun sometimes, now that Madrid feels a little more like home. What was the point of trying so hard to make it as a professional if he can't enjoy the benefits at all?
All this means that 1) he reacts completely the wrong way when Gian tells him about the pregnancy and 2) she doesn't slap him or anything for it.
"....er." His mind goes completely blank and his mouth actually drops open. He probably looks like a gaping fish.
Gian rolls her eyes and bumps his shoulder, just a bit harder than she usually does. "God, you're an idiot. It's fine, don't worry. You're going to be a dad, it's all going to work out."
It's like when he first decided to come to Spain - he's scared and excited and maybe about to vibrate out of his skin any moment now. Except this time Gian is there with her arms to hold him together, and her laugh to keep him grounded.
"Oh wow, you're taking it so much worse than I did."
Sometimes, he kind of wants to punch himself. "No, no, I swear I'm happy, I swear. I'm just - "
Gian bites her lip. "Yeah. Me too," she says in a whisper, all quick, like the words are sneaking themselves out of her mouth. "But it's going to work out. You'll see."
* * *
Of course, she's right. It's still scary, but at least they don't have to worry about having enough money to provide for the baby or hire nannies when they need one, and both their families are completely delighted about the news.
The worst part might be the media insanity when they find out. And things at Atletico are just as crazy as ever, and -
Most of the time, it's okay. He just smiles and gets on with it. But sometimes - sometimes he thinks people only need to glance at him to know just how close he is to freaking out. That sometimes it seems like too much to take in.
* * *
At first, he thinks Shanghai will be good for him. Surely nobody there will care what he's going to name his kid, or if it was his fault Aguirre kept getting threatened with the sack last season.
He's wrong, and it really sucks for a few days, until Leo gets there and suddenly there aren't nearly as many people dying to ask Kun questions. It almost makes him wish that Leo would start talking to the Argentine media again.
Almost. Kun gets it - he'd be just as angry if he was getting the same treatment. And even if he didn't get it, he'd still support Leo over those guys. No matter how much they fawn over him, he knows who his real friends are.
At training, everyone's tiptoeing around Leo a little bit because of all the bullshit, but they really don't need to. He's just the same old Leo.
(The first thing he did when Kun went up to say hello at dinner was reach over and take off Kun's awesome sunglasses, rolling his eyes when Kun yelped in surprise.
"We're inside. There is no sun," he'd said over Kun's cries of mock-outrage, lips curving up in that weird little half-smile, as if a proper smile would be rude.)
Becoming a superstar hasn't changed him at all, so Kun figures nothing else is going to. He kind of envies that.
Leo came from the same place Kun did, where no one ever pulled their tackles and not cheating to win was reckless stupidity. He gets it, that it's not just a game - it's a meal ticket, it means you get beaten up less, it helps the family.
But Leo's struggles ended up different to Kun's. To him, happiness is still a game of football. Kun felt the same right up until he opened his eyes one day and really saw it - the first time someone offered him a Porsche or a house or even a girl if he'd just sign right here -
How every bit of it ends up tainted by the ugliness of the real world.
leo: august 2008
Leo steps out of the bathroom, wringing the wet strands of his hair together. It's getting long enough to be a bit inconvenient, and he's just thinking about getting it cut soon when he notices the background noise.
(A football game sounds pretty much the same everywhere.)
Kun's glaring at the TV, standing there with his back rigid and his fists clenched. As Leo watches, the no. 16 on screen in the blue and white strip misses another chance, right in front of goal. They both wince.
Most of the time, Leo forgets that Kun's so young, because he's got that confidence, that willingness to take on the world, the kind of thing that makes people look above age. But he's done a lot very quickly, and his world is a lot more complicated than Leo's, in a lot of ways.
These things add up. Leo knows that, even if he doesn't understand it. Carefully, he puts his hands on the stiff set of Kun's shoulders.
"Come on. Don't watch that, it never helps."
"I - I - " Kun cuts himself off viciously and takes a deep breath, holding it in for a long moment. His back tenses even more under Leo's hands.
Leo flinches back, arms dropping awkwardly to his sides. He can't help it - all the times they've stayed together, he's never made Kun more uncomfortable before. Whatever this is, it's new and it feels wrong.
"You can - you know you can tell me. Whatever's going on."
The words come out clipped and hurt-sounding. He knows that's not what Kun needs right now, but he can't help that either. If they can't talk to each other about this, who else is there?
Kun whips around to face him, and the look in his eyes stops Leo dead. The look in his eyes, and the brittle snap of his voice.
"What's wrong with me?"
This isn't - this isn't the guy Leo knows, the fearless, brilliant one, who only knows how to reach for more and better. The one who doesn't give a fuck about anything else.
"Nothing's wrong. It's just one game." And you don't need to me to tell you that, he wants to say, but that's not exactly helpful. "You know this stupid formation doesn't do us any favours. Don't beat yourself up over nothing."
"It's not nothing. I sucked in the first game too, don't even try and say I didn't. Bet you anything Batista's ready to drop me for the next game."
Times like these, Leo really hates not knowing what to say. It's not right for Kun to be like this, so he has to make it better, but empty reassurances just seem cheap. Kun doesn't need that from him.
Instinctively, he reaches out again, and this time Kun doesn't tense when Leo's hands land on his shoulders and pull him close, until his chest is pressed right up against Leo's and he can turn his head a little, feeling strands of Kun's hair brushing against his cheek.
Leo's never been good with words, anyway. He'll try, for Kun, because there's clearly something else going on and maybe he needs to tell someone about it. Maybe Leo'll even know what to say to make it better. It doesn't happen very often, but it's almost as satisfying as a goal in the Camp Nou when it does.
"Hey. Hey. So tell me what's really bothering you. It's not just the games."
Kun sighs into Leo's shoulder. "I wish. It's just…everything's changing. And. And I don't know."
"Not everything. We still get to play football for a living. That's pretty awesome."
And sometimes, stadiums full of people in a foreign country chant your name just so that the coach will think about putting you on the pitch. It's amazing and crazy, sure, but Leo can't imagine his life being anything else.
Kun lifts his face just enough for Leo to see him smile - not as brightly as he usually does, but at least it's a start. "It's not bad, yeah. And you - how do you do that, all the time? Make it all seem like no big deal?"
Leo watched Kun play for Independiente on his satellite TV back when he was just 15 years old. There are no babysitters in the Argentinean league - if you're old enough, you're good enough, and nobody will hold anything back when they're up against you. Kun went through all that and didn't just survive - he triumphed. He laughed and grinned and made grown men look like mean-spirited idiots.
"You've done it for longer."
"No. No, that's not the same at all," Kun says, and he sounds a bit frustrated.
Probably because they've had this conversation before, and Leo didn't get it then either. To him, there really is very little difference between a five-a-side game in the streets and a derby at the Monumental. It's only in the last couple of years that he's actually thought about why. (There's a reason for that, but he wants to be able to smile easily right now, so he's not going there.)
There are certain things that come with being an adult. Leo doesn't really like them, at least so far. Kun might be younger, but he's always been better at dealing with all that extra stuff.
People tell Leo that he's famous, a star, but he's never really understood what that's supposed to mean. They like his football, and that's nice. Kids smile at him on the street, and he smiles back. But in the end, he's only doing what he loves, as best as he can. Everything else only complicates things, and complicated things usually don't work out well.
"You know what it is? It's just you. The rest - it doesn't matter what everyone else expects, or anything else that's going on. Ignore all that."
Kun's laugh sounds like it had to fight its way out of his throat. But it's still a laugh. "You're gonna have to keep telling me that."
"Only until you believe it," Leo says, grinning. "Promise."
* * *
It's right before they have to play Brazil. The dressing room is buzzing, stifling hot, and Leo feels lighter than he has in weeks, because Kun's beaming like he used to, a hyperactive bundle of nerves next to him, barely sitting still through the team talk.
When they're ready to head out, Kun springs up like he's heading for the playground. "Come on, let's go and kick their ass."
They knock fists, and Kun gives him a hand up.
"It's about time we did." Leo smiles when he says it, but he's deadly serious. He takes a minute to meet Roman's eyes and nod, yeah, we know the game plan, let's do this, and then they're off.
* * *
Leo seriously doesn't care how they beat Brazil, as long as they do, but if he could choose, this is about perfect. He didn't get to score, but Kun got two, and that's almost as good, especially since he needed it more.
A superclasico always feels like a battle, which makes winning feel even better, and Leo's just standing there, listening to the chanting of the Beijing crowd and trying to cool down when he looks up and Ronnie's standing right there.
They spent a moment looking at each other, neither of them talking. There's an awkwardness that was never there before, and -
It's horrible.
Then Ronnie opens his arms, Leo automatically steps in between, and everything feels right again.
"Congratulations, kid," Ronnie says in an undertone, sounding like he means it, and this is why. This is why Leo will always think of Ronnie the same way, no matter what happened last year and the year before that.
They pull apart enough to look each other in the eye. Leo knows what he's supposed to say here. He's done it enough for guys like Cesc and Gerard, he can do it again.
"Good luck. You'll be great in Milan, I know it."
Ronnie grins. That's one thing about him that's never changed - he still grins like that, exactly the same as the first time they met.
"Thanks, little brother."
* * *
Going into the final, Leo knows it's going to suck. It's so hot that they're being given official water breaks, and everybody's worn out from the tight schedule. If it's a good game it'll be a miracle.
Not that it matters. It's a final. No matter what they taught him at La Masia, finals are there to be won. The how isn't as important.
In the tunnel, he has to catch Kun's restless hands in his own and squeeze hard, just to feel him relax that tiny little bit, and smile into his eyes, just to see him grin back shakily.
"Hey, remember the last time we played Nigeria in a final? Some guy scored two goals, can't remember what his name was…"
Leo laughs. It comes out pretty loud, and he's not sorry. "But some other guy came on and he was the one who won the penalty that turned the game. Who was that?"
"A guy who thought he'd be taller in four years time. Shows what he knew."
Kun's clear, ringing voice carries, and everybody else laughs too. Ahead of him, even Roman's chuckling a bit.
It feels like they're just heading out for practice, not playing a big final. And that's just fine with Leo.
* * *
It's just a game. Just a game. Losing wouldn't be the end of the world.
Sometimes it's tempting to believe that, when he's hurt and angry. But it's not true. For Leo, at least, it's a game, but it's life too. He can't explain it any better than that.
He's fought to come here and play and win. And -
It's strange, the way the happiness takes him apart, down to the bones, in the end.
It feels like he's won more than a game, even more than a final. Something in him was wrong, off, and now it isn't.
He can't wait for the season to start.
Part two: As much as Cesc tries to ignore it, training is a little weird without Mathieu and Alex and now Phil too.
Rating: PG
Characters: Leo Messi, Cesc Fabregas, Sergio 'Kun' Aguero (with a supporting cast including Pep Guardiola, Juan Roman Riquelme, Gerard Pique, Philippe Senderos, Alex Hleb and Giannina Maradona)
Disclaimer: Made up, except for the parts that aren't. See end notes.
Summary: At training, everyone's tiptoeing around Leo a little bit because of all the bullshit, but they really don't need to. He's just the same old Leo. Cesc, Leo and Kun go through the 08/09 season - growing up, moving on, and going places.
Notes: Last in the you and me series (both prequels written for cornerflag, although it stands alone just fine.
leo: may 2008
He stands on the Bernabeu turf, and holds himself still so he doesn't collapse to the ground, and blinks hard so that he can pretend those aren't tears forming in his eyes.
He thinks -
He thinks, it used to be different. Easier.
But it's no longer 2005, he's not 17, and it's not so simple any more.
Everything's changed. Maybe Leo's changed too.
He's stood bruised all over in the mud at Stamford Bridge, with the baying of the angry crowd getting louder and louder, heard his name cursed with ugly words, and felt nothing but joy with the adrenalin singing through his veins.
He's cried and shouted at no one and not spoken for days while struggling with injuries that seemed like they'd never heal.
He's sat there numbed by the random cruelty of penalties in Berlin, deaf to the stadium-shaking delirious happiness of the German supporters, and clenched his hands so hard he broke skin just to save the tears for later.
(In Maracaibo, it was a lot easier. Losing doesn't become less painful, but as with anything in football, hiding grief gets easier with practise.
He got a lot more practise as time went on.)
He's held his arms out and taken in the cries of the Camp Nou, those hundred thousand voices forming his name like a scene out of a dream he's never dared to have.
He's made friends, lost friends, been happy and devastated and completely lost.
And he's -
He's not sure, any more, just what it is he's doing. Or rather, he plays and plays but it's not the same, not like it used to be. He's angry and frustrated like never before. It's not just losing - that's bad enough - but the way they're losing. Nothing's going right.
(Sometimes it feels like nothing's gone right since Paris. He only thinks that when he's really angry, so it can't be true, but the feeling's there.)
Leo tells the press that Barca's dressing room is just like any other dressing room. It's even true. Everybody has good days and bad days. It's just that the bad days have become more like bad weeks. Months.
When the news about Rijkaard breaks, he gets five text messages in the space of ten minutes from Cesc, on top of the three he'd sent asking if Leo was okay right after the game in Madrid. They swing wildly from excitement to worry and right back again.
The last one says: It's Pep, man. You don't understand how amazing this is.
You're right, Leo thinks. I don't.
kun: june 2008
As places to live go, Madrid's not bad. It's not Buenos Aires, but Kun's beginning to realize that nothing will come close anyway, so that's okay.
The fans are really great, except when they're not. Even then, there are the old guys with kind eyes who tell him that it's not his fault when they see him out and about the day after a major thrashing, and the way they always have his back when he's getting kicked around.
He's got no real complaints.
The only thing - the thing that's really just beginning to bother him this year, if only because everyone keeps bringing it up -
Atletico are really good at scoring goals. They play great football. But they seem to be fucking experts at throwing it all away when it really counts.
And he knows part of it has to be his fault, because it's not like he's one hundred percent for every minute of every game, but that's not something he can control. He just runs and dribbles and use every damn trick in the book and whatever happens, happens.
What really scares Kun, in the end - the thing that makes him change the channel whenever a Liga highlights show comes on TV -
What if it's not enough? What if what he is isn't enough?
cesc: july 2008
And here Cesc thought it was going to be a good summer, especially after the Euros.
He's not childish enough to stop speaking to Alex entirely, but he does consider the idea - deeply, and for some time - just to watch Alex squirm. God knows the idiot deserves it.
Eventually, when Cesc does open his mouth again, what comes out -
"But why?"
- is controlled. There's no hint of a whine in his voice.
Alex makes a series of increasingly incomprehensible hand gestures. By the end he just seems to be flailing his arms, and both Cesc's eyebrows are climbing into his hairline. Typical Alex. Except -
"Why don't you ask Mathieu? He'd explain it better."
There's the problem. If he asks Mathieu (that same question, for God's sake, why?) the explanation would probably make sense. Too much sense. Mathieu always does, even when Cesc completely disagrees with what he's saying - he's scary like that.
(It's probably a trick worth learning.)
"But next year - "
Alex just looks at him, his face sad like Cesc's never seen it (except, maybe, in Paris) and shakes his head. "No. No more 'next year'."
Cesc's beginning to hate those two words himself. They're not really any kind of comfort when everything falls apart. Like it's normal for a team full of ridiculously talented young players to have the exact solidarity and reliability of a house of cards. Or maybe it is.
But if he really believed that, he wouldn't be here. (And there's no way Cesc would quit on Arsene like they did.) So he doesn't. Simple as that.
leo: july 2008
Pre-season's in Scotland again, just like last year. The weather's still perfect, the people still friendly. A lot of things are different now, though. No Rijkaard. No Deco. Ronnie -
The space where Ronnie should be beside Leo feels empty in a way that aches like the twinge in his hamstring when it's trying to say that his body's broken again. Leo's not capable of acting like it doesn't hurt, and his old team mates have all learned to read his body language by now. So it's not really a surprise that Sylvinho's the first one to say Ronnie's name to him, a couple of days in, while the two of them are ducking into a tent for a water break during training.
"Leo, you know - with Ronnie, what he did - "
He knows what Sylvinho's trying to say, carefully picking the words to avoid stepping on his feelings. He's thankful for the consideration, and there's even a cold, hard, and useful part of him that agrees with the sentiment, deep down. But -
There's no way he can hear this right now. For the larger part of him, Ronnie will always be warmth and shelter and brilliance so natural and so extraordinary as to remain out of reach forever.
Leo dumps half a bottle's worth of water over his head, closing his eyes against the spray and to avoid Sylvinho's expression. "Please. Please don't."
His hands settle firmly on Leo's shoulders between one breath and the next, not pressing down. The warm, reassuring weight is -
It makes the next exhale easier.
* * *
The game's only a friendly, except Leo doesn't think that way. All games are the same -
He plays like he breathes.
Scoring is nice.
Loud crowds are good.
The bruises hurt.
- and the first time Leo pulls on the number 10, it feels like stealing his big brother's clothes. The shirt seems too big, which is nothing new, but this time it feels different, as if the fact that it comes to almost the middle of his thigh is supposed to mean something.
When Guardiola hands him the armband, though, the weight on his chest lifts, and the no. 10 becomes just another shirt. His shirt.
It still has to be earned, of course.
Leo's never backed down from a challenge, no matter how big or scary or -
Or how much it might hurt.
* * *
He's distracted.
It's not like - he's usually a bit more professional than that. If Leo's going to let stupid things get to him, now's really not the time, since Guardiola somehow seems to know everything that's going on with the team, all at once, so he knows when Leo isn't one hundred percent even though he's spent most of his time sorting things out with Titi and then Samuel.
Then again, by the end of the first week, even the most thick-headed idiot in the press can tell something's not right. It's not everyday that Leo throws a fit in training, after all.
It's - it's embarrassing. He hates losing it, and the only thing worse is doing it in public, where it's just going to make things complicated for the whole team -
When Guardiola makes him stay back after training for the inevitable telling off, Leo can't even look him in the eye. It's an effort not to shrink back when Guardiola puts a gentle hand on his neck. The implied look up is - somehow - impossible to resist.
"I can't have you making everyone else worried and nervous. Tell me what's wrong."
There's something about the way Guardiola talks - not just absolute belief in whatever he's saying, although there's that too, but the sense that it's the truth.
It's more than tempting to go along with it - it's easy.
But. Leo doesn't trust easily, never has, and he doesn't like talking about himself. It's asking a hell of a lot, for him to tell this - this stranger what's really going on in his head.
(He's not Rijkaard. He's - he's not.)
"I don't - I'm just..."
One day, Leo will stop opening his mouth before he knows what to say. For now, he can only swallow back the rest of whatever was going to get blurted out, and breathe.
When he finally feels capable of looking at Guardiola's eyes instead of speaking to his chin, the gentle understanding in them almost makes him draw back.
"Tell me, and we'll deal with it."
The strange thing is Leo does actually believe him. Whatever's softening the steel in the man's voice at the edges is real.
Maybe that's good enough.
He takes a couple of deep, even breaths, rehearsing the words in his head. Guardiola's fingers flatten against his neck and his thumb strokes, very lightly, over the patch of skin there. It's strangely soothing. Makes it easier to talk.
"The Olympics. I. I want to go. I told the president ages ago, and now he." Things had been different back then, he know that.
(It was before everything went to pieces.)
But what's happened since then is just another part of the reason why he has to. "I need to - "
Guardiola nods, once. "Ah." His eyes lose their usual focus, and for a moment, it's as if he's left the room. Leo only realizes that he's been holding his breath when Guardiola nods again, sharply.
"You'll be in Beijing in time for the first game." It takes Leo a moment to realize that the sudden hammering is the beat of his heart, impossibly loud in his ears. His mouth's open again without checking with his brain first. Thankfully, Guardiola stops whatever would have come out by putting his other hand on Leo's shoulder. "It might take a while, and there'll be some complications along the way, but you'll be in Beijing. I can promise you that now."
It takes Leo a while to find words. "...thank you. Thank you. I don't know how to - "
When Guardiola smiles, he looks his age - like he could still be playing. "I want you to be happy, Leo. That's all. Trust me."
It's - still - a lot to ask for, but Leo can tell he's used to that.
* * *
Shanghai is unbearably hot, especially after Scotland. Leo's still happy to be here.
Or - maybe happy's not quite right. But this is where he needs to be, even if things are really complicated with the national team.
Thing is, Leo's entire family have been doing their best to keep him away from any Argentinian media that might mention his name for about two weeks. Usually it doesn't even bother him when people write stupid things, but his dad, Rodrigo and Matias - they know him. They knew this time it would get to him. So the effort is the kind of thing that makes Leo feel warm and really lucky.
He's online a lot, though, so it was never going to work.
It'd be better - he'd feel better, not as angry - if he could forget he read some of that. People can say what they like, and he really doesn't give a damn what most of them think...except.
People can say what they like, unless they accuse him of not caring.
Somehow, Leo's not Argentinian for them - or not Argentinian enough. And that's -
Well. He hates it.
Complaining about the media to Roman is probably one of those things Leo's not supposed to do, because of all that's going on. But he does anyway. Roman knows, better than anybody else, what it feels like.
And if talking to him in a public training session - letting the photographers take all the pictures they want of the two of them sitting together - feels a little like taunting the same people who've been writing lies about the two of them fighting for months? That's just fine.
Roman talks like Leo. Or maybe he means that the other way around. The point is, both of them mumble so quietly that the only way to have a conversation is to sit close.
(Sometimes, Leo stares at the frown lines etched into Roman's forehead and feels like he kind of maybe gets the guy.)
"They'll write anything, and it's not like you can change it. Let it be."
Normally he'd agree with that. But right now, it just seems like a step too far.
"I'm going to shut them up. I'm - Roman, come on, we're going to make them stop."
Roman heaves a long-suffering sigh, and - smiles, just a little. Enough.
The two of them - they're not friends, they'll probably never be friends, but there's - this. Understanding, sort of. Or more like a similar kind of focus.
It's not like Leo needs validation from anybody. But sometimes...sometimes, it's just nice to prove people wrong.
* * *
His dad calls with the bad news about the court judgment first. Barca haven't called yet, but that's only a matter of time. They'll want him to go back, and it's not as if he doesn't understand why, but.
Leo has to do this. That's just something they'll have to understand in return. Even Laporta has to see -
No, of course not.
When he's done laughing quietly to himself over that, he asks dad for Guardiola's number.
"I was wondering when you'd call," he says, when Leo's still trying to decide how to say hello. "How's Shanghai?"
"Really hot. Mister, you know why I'm - you know why."
Guardiola sighs. "I suppose I do. That's why I needed to talk to you, Leo. What do you want?"
That's the easiest question in the world, right now.
"I want to stay. Please let me stay."
There's a short pause, and Leo has just enough time to remember how much he hates phone calls before Guardiola replies.
"I promised, didn't I? Don't worry. Just stay put, I'll call when it's settled."
That's...a lot more than Leo ever thought he'd get. There's no maybe in there, no 'I have to ask the president'. He relaxes, just a little.
It's still not enough to stop him from clutching his phone too hard for the 5 hours it takes Guardiola to call back, though.
"It's done. You can stay."
Leo finds himself swallowing back a hello yet again, but this time with a very different feeling in his heart. It's the kind of gratitude he knows he'll always feel.
"Thank you. I won't forget what you did, mister."
Somehow, it's very easy to picture Guardiola's smile from the light tone of his voice. "See? I keep my promises. Enjoy it. Bring back a gold medal."
Leo grins. "You got it."
cesc: july 2008
Things change quickly in football. It's one of those facts of life that Cesc has always understood, just like the colour of the sky or how the game should be played. People come and go, and it's useless to try and hold on in the face of other things. Bigger things.
He's learnt that lesson enough times that it shouldn't even hurt any more. But somehow - somehow, it doesn't work out that way.
"No, no, you just swing the little one and press that big button to slide tackle. Here, like this. Dammit, Phil, it's not that hard."
Phil looks at his Wii remote like it's an alien contraption. "And I aim at one of your guys and press...A to pressure? This is far more complicated than the 2007 one we played on PS2."
"It's really accurate once you get the hang of it."
There's no hint of a pout in Cesc's voice, but there's certainly the possibility of one.
"So in the meantime, I'll just put up with you thrashing me?" Phil says reproachfully, but in his soft voice, it just sounds affectionate more than anything else.
Cesc can't help but smirk a little. "Well, you'll just have to get better fast. Don't want to make Maldini and Nesta look bad, do you?"
The little Nesta on screen actually has the ball, but Phil is clearly still trying to remember how to do a cross-field pass, which gives him - or, really, the little Cesc on screen - enough time to slide in and win possession.
"Oh. I was going to - never mind." Phil smiles self-depreciatingly. "I guess I'm just no good with change."
That's just the kind of thing he likes to say, but something about his tone this time - Cesc pauses the game.
"Hey, what's going on?"
They all joke about Phil getting frown lines far, far too early. There's a grain of truth in it - he's constantly worrying and stressing, not just about himself, like he was born a mother hen. Right now, he has the look of a man much older than he actually is, with the kind of doubt and anxiety that he shouldn't even know how to feel yet.
"You know. Arsene doesn't trust me any more." His voice is soft, but each word feels like an exploding firecracker to Cesc.
"No!" That's a shout. He's too worked up to be embarrassed about it. "That's not true. You know what the boss is like - he just wants us all to be successful."
First Mathieu, then Alex. He can't - not Phil too.
"Sure. Look at what happened against Liverpool, though. I don't - I'm not sure I trust myself any more. And the fans - " Phil cuts himself off with a vicious shake of the head.
"They'll come around."
"Maybe. I think...I need a change of scenery, just to get my head on straight again."
This is the thing about Phil: he really is the world's nicest guy, willing to put up with all kinds of shit for the sake of keeping the peace. But when he gets an idea into his head? That's it. And Cesc recognises that tone in his voice now, even if he doesn't want to.
What happened to the good old days, Phil? Beating Real in Madrid - remember that? Going to Paris?
He's not going to ask Phil to stay. It wouldn't be fair.
He's going to be mature about this. Professional. Because that's what he does. Never mind that his three best friends are leaving -
If the Euros taught him anything, it's that what he needs doesn't factor into it. Knowing what he can do, showing it on the pitch, and syncing it perfectly with what the other components of the team are doing - that's what it's really about.
Phil's always seen everything so clearly. It's going to be hard without him.
kun: august 2008
When the tabloids found out that Kun was dating Giannina and made an unbelievable fuss out of it, she sailed through it all as if wasn't happening while he freaked out. Just a little bit, mind. And he did it real quietly.
She had taken one look at his face and laughed. "You know it's only going to get worse, right? Buck up."
Kun's met all sorts of people since before he started playing for Independiente, but nobody else on earth is unshakable like Giannina. She's seen just about everything a couple of times over, after all, and none of it gets to her anymore. It's one of the many things he likes about her.
"She's cool. She'll keep you grounded," Osky had said after they all went out together that first time. And it's true. It's good to be reminded that as crazy as his life can be, it doesn't really mean anything. All he has to do is play football like he knows, and all the rest is just filler.
People can say what they like, but the truth is he's a good professional. Never parties too hard the day before morning training, never stays out too late the night before a game. He's not going to turn into one of those guys. It's just that his first year in Madrid was pretty fucking miserable. He likes having friends and family around, being surrounded by people-noise, and there was none of that.
So yeah, he reckons he's allowed to have a little fun sometimes, now that Madrid feels a little more like home. What was the point of trying so hard to make it as a professional if he can't enjoy the benefits at all?
All this means that 1) he reacts completely the wrong way when Gian tells him about the pregnancy and 2) she doesn't slap him or anything for it.
"....er." His mind goes completely blank and his mouth actually drops open. He probably looks like a gaping fish.
Gian rolls her eyes and bumps his shoulder, just a bit harder than she usually does. "God, you're an idiot. It's fine, don't worry. You're going to be a dad, it's all going to work out."
It's like when he first decided to come to Spain - he's scared and excited and maybe about to vibrate out of his skin any moment now. Except this time Gian is there with her arms to hold him together, and her laugh to keep him grounded.
"Oh wow, you're taking it so much worse than I did."
Sometimes, he kind of wants to punch himself. "No, no, I swear I'm happy, I swear. I'm just - "
Gian bites her lip. "Yeah. Me too," she says in a whisper, all quick, like the words are sneaking themselves out of her mouth. "But it's going to work out. You'll see."
* * *
Of course, she's right. It's still scary, but at least they don't have to worry about having enough money to provide for the baby or hire nannies when they need one, and both their families are completely delighted about the news.
The worst part might be the media insanity when they find out. And things at Atletico are just as crazy as ever, and -
Most of the time, it's okay. He just smiles and gets on with it. But sometimes - sometimes he thinks people only need to glance at him to know just how close he is to freaking out. That sometimes it seems like too much to take in.
* * *
At first, he thinks Shanghai will be good for him. Surely nobody there will care what he's going to name his kid, or if it was his fault Aguirre kept getting threatened with the sack last season.
He's wrong, and it really sucks for a few days, until Leo gets there and suddenly there aren't nearly as many people dying to ask Kun questions. It almost makes him wish that Leo would start talking to the Argentine media again.
Almost. Kun gets it - he'd be just as angry if he was getting the same treatment. And even if he didn't get it, he'd still support Leo over those guys. No matter how much they fawn over him, he knows who his real friends are.
At training, everyone's tiptoeing around Leo a little bit because of all the bullshit, but they really don't need to. He's just the same old Leo.
(The first thing he did when Kun went up to say hello at dinner was reach over and take off Kun's awesome sunglasses, rolling his eyes when Kun yelped in surprise.
"We're inside. There is no sun," he'd said over Kun's cries of mock-outrage, lips curving up in that weird little half-smile, as if a proper smile would be rude.)
Becoming a superstar hasn't changed him at all, so Kun figures nothing else is going to. He kind of envies that.
Leo came from the same place Kun did, where no one ever pulled their tackles and not cheating to win was reckless stupidity. He gets it, that it's not just a game - it's a meal ticket, it means you get beaten up less, it helps the family.
But Leo's struggles ended up different to Kun's. To him, happiness is still a game of football. Kun felt the same right up until he opened his eyes one day and really saw it - the first time someone offered him a Porsche or a house or even a girl if he'd just sign right here -
How every bit of it ends up tainted by the ugliness of the real world.
leo: august 2008
Leo steps out of the bathroom, wringing the wet strands of his hair together. It's getting long enough to be a bit inconvenient, and he's just thinking about getting it cut soon when he notices the background noise.
(A football game sounds pretty much the same everywhere.)
Kun's glaring at the TV, standing there with his back rigid and his fists clenched. As Leo watches, the no. 16 on screen in the blue and white strip misses another chance, right in front of goal. They both wince.
Most of the time, Leo forgets that Kun's so young, because he's got that confidence, that willingness to take on the world, the kind of thing that makes people look above age. But he's done a lot very quickly, and his world is a lot more complicated than Leo's, in a lot of ways.
These things add up. Leo knows that, even if he doesn't understand it. Carefully, he puts his hands on the stiff set of Kun's shoulders.
"Come on. Don't watch that, it never helps."
"I - I - " Kun cuts himself off viciously and takes a deep breath, holding it in for a long moment. His back tenses even more under Leo's hands.
Leo flinches back, arms dropping awkwardly to his sides. He can't help it - all the times they've stayed together, he's never made Kun more uncomfortable before. Whatever this is, it's new and it feels wrong.
"You can - you know you can tell me. Whatever's going on."
The words come out clipped and hurt-sounding. He knows that's not what Kun needs right now, but he can't help that either. If they can't talk to each other about this, who else is there?
Kun whips around to face him, and the look in his eyes stops Leo dead. The look in his eyes, and the brittle snap of his voice.
"What's wrong with me?"
This isn't - this isn't the guy Leo knows, the fearless, brilliant one, who only knows how to reach for more and better. The one who doesn't give a fuck about anything else.
"Nothing's wrong. It's just one game." And you don't need to me to tell you that, he wants to say, but that's not exactly helpful. "You know this stupid formation doesn't do us any favours. Don't beat yourself up over nothing."
"It's not nothing. I sucked in the first game too, don't even try and say I didn't. Bet you anything Batista's ready to drop me for the next game."
Times like these, Leo really hates not knowing what to say. It's not right for Kun to be like this, so he has to make it better, but empty reassurances just seem cheap. Kun doesn't need that from him.
Instinctively, he reaches out again, and this time Kun doesn't tense when Leo's hands land on his shoulders and pull him close, until his chest is pressed right up against Leo's and he can turn his head a little, feeling strands of Kun's hair brushing against his cheek.
Leo's never been good with words, anyway. He'll try, for Kun, because there's clearly something else going on and maybe he needs to tell someone about it. Maybe Leo'll even know what to say to make it better. It doesn't happen very often, but it's almost as satisfying as a goal in the Camp Nou when it does.
"Hey. Hey. So tell me what's really bothering you. It's not just the games."
Kun sighs into Leo's shoulder. "I wish. It's just…everything's changing. And. And I don't know."
"Not everything. We still get to play football for a living. That's pretty awesome."
And sometimes, stadiums full of people in a foreign country chant your name just so that the coach will think about putting you on the pitch. It's amazing and crazy, sure, but Leo can't imagine his life being anything else.
Kun lifts his face just enough for Leo to see him smile - not as brightly as he usually does, but at least it's a start. "It's not bad, yeah. And you - how do you do that, all the time? Make it all seem like no big deal?"
Leo watched Kun play for Independiente on his satellite TV back when he was just 15 years old. There are no babysitters in the Argentinean league - if you're old enough, you're good enough, and nobody will hold anything back when they're up against you. Kun went through all that and didn't just survive - he triumphed. He laughed and grinned and made grown men look like mean-spirited idiots.
"You've done it for longer."
"No. No, that's not the same at all," Kun says, and he sounds a bit frustrated.
Probably because they've had this conversation before, and Leo didn't get it then either. To him, there really is very little difference between a five-a-side game in the streets and a derby at the Monumental. It's only in the last couple of years that he's actually thought about why. (There's a reason for that, but he wants to be able to smile easily right now, so he's not going there.)
There are certain things that come with being an adult. Leo doesn't really like them, at least so far. Kun might be younger, but he's always been better at dealing with all that extra stuff.
People tell Leo that he's famous, a star, but he's never really understood what that's supposed to mean. They like his football, and that's nice. Kids smile at him on the street, and he smiles back. But in the end, he's only doing what he loves, as best as he can. Everything else only complicates things, and complicated things usually don't work out well.
"You know what it is? It's just you. The rest - it doesn't matter what everyone else expects, or anything else that's going on. Ignore all that."
Kun's laugh sounds like it had to fight its way out of his throat. But it's still a laugh. "You're gonna have to keep telling me that."
"Only until you believe it," Leo says, grinning. "Promise."
* * *
It's right before they have to play Brazil. The dressing room is buzzing, stifling hot, and Leo feels lighter than he has in weeks, because Kun's beaming like he used to, a hyperactive bundle of nerves next to him, barely sitting still through the team talk.
When they're ready to head out, Kun springs up like he's heading for the playground. "Come on, let's go and kick their ass."
They knock fists, and Kun gives him a hand up.
"It's about time we did." Leo smiles when he says it, but he's deadly serious. He takes a minute to meet Roman's eyes and nod, yeah, we know the game plan, let's do this, and then they're off.
* * *
Leo seriously doesn't care how they beat Brazil, as long as they do, but if he could choose, this is about perfect. He didn't get to score, but Kun got two, and that's almost as good, especially since he needed it more.
A superclasico always feels like a battle, which makes winning feel even better, and Leo's just standing there, listening to the chanting of the Beijing crowd and trying to cool down when he looks up and Ronnie's standing right there.
They spent a moment looking at each other, neither of them talking. There's an awkwardness that was never there before, and -
It's horrible.
Then Ronnie opens his arms, Leo automatically steps in between, and everything feels right again.
"Congratulations, kid," Ronnie says in an undertone, sounding like he means it, and this is why. This is why Leo will always think of Ronnie the same way, no matter what happened last year and the year before that.
They pull apart enough to look each other in the eye. Leo knows what he's supposed to say here. He's done it enough for guys like Cesc and Gerard, he can do it again.
"Good luck. You'll be great in Milan, I know it."
Ronnie grins. That's one thing about him that's never changed - he still grins like that, exactly the same as the first time they met.
"Thanks, little brother."
* * *
Going into the final, Leo knows it's going to suck. It's so hot that they're being given official water breaks, and everybody's worn out from the tight schedule. If it's a good game it'll be a miracle.
Not that it matters. It's a final. No matter what they taught him at La Masia, finals are there to be won. The how isn't as important.
In the tunnel, he has to catch Kun's restless hands in his own and squeeze hard, just to feel him relax that tiny little bit, and smile into his eyes, just to see him grin back shakily.
"Hey, remember the last time we played Nigeria in a final? Some guy scored two goals, can't remember what his name was…"
Leo laughs. It comes out pretty loud, and he's not sorry. "But some other guy came on and he was the one who won the penalty that turned the game. Who was that?"
"A guy who thought he'd be taller in four years time. Shows what he knew."
Kun's clear, ringing voice carries, and everybody else laughs too. Ahead of him, even Roman's chuckling a bit.
It feels like they're just heading out for practice, not playing a big final. And that's just fine with Leo.
* * *
It's just a game. Just a game. Losing wouldn't be the end of the world.
Sometimes it's tempting to believe that, when he's hurt and angry. But it's not true. For Leo, at least, it's a game, but it's life too. He can't explain it any better than that.
He's fought to come here and play and win. And -
It's strange, the way the happiness takes him apart, down to the bones, in the end.
It feels like he's won more than a game, even more than a final. Something in him was wrong, off, and now it isn't.
He can't wait for the season to start.
Part two: As much as Cesc tries to ignore it, training is a little weird without Mathieu and Alex and now Phil too.