Work Text:
I wanna cry and I wanna love
But all my tears have been used up
On another love, another love
All my tears have been used up
On another love, another love
All my tears have been used up
On another love, another love
All my tears have been used up
Up
“What’s he like?”
“Hm?” Neymar scrolls his phone idly while doing reps on the exercise bike. Two minutes pass and he offers no reply, makes no acknowledgment of even having heard outside that first hum. Ugh. Fine.
“…Leonardo’s coming.”
“What, where?” Ney rushes to pocket his phone so fast he nearly drops it. He looks behind the gym’s door to see that it is, just as it has been the entire afternoon, empty. He pouts and calls Kylian a son of a bitch under his breath in Portuguese, but hey, at least Kylian has his attention.
“So. What’s he like?”
“Who?”
“Messi.” Who else? Kylian’s been waiting to get Neymar alone and ask this question since Al Khelaifi confirmed to them Messi was indeed coming a couple of days ago.
“Oh, Leo?” He says it with a fond sigh. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
If shaking hands before and after games and exchanging awkward greetings while sipping on champagne at award shows counts, sure, they’ve met. “I want to know what he’s like. As in, as a person. Personally.”
“He’ll be here in two weeks. Get to know him yourself.”
“The picture of helpful, aren’t you?”
“Ey, watch your tone, Kyky.”
“At least give me something, dude.”
“What kind of something are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Something. I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with him.”
Neymar squints at him. A cheeky smirk appears on his face. “You’re nervous.”
“What? No—”
“You are. We’ve had so many players come and go. You’ve never asked me this.”
“Messi isn’t some random player.” It’s fucking Messi. Kylian was convinced up until a few weeks ago he’d never get the chance to play with the guy because, since he was a kid, Messi was Barcelona and Barcelona was Messi.
Neymar laughs. Kylian’s fingers twitch. He’s not appreciating getting patronized. It’s a genuine question.
“I’m serious, dude. The media’s gonna do their best to pit us against each other.” The papers do it with anyone of a semi-high caliber who signs for Paris. He can only imagine the bombastic headlines journos will cook up to take advantage of the clicks he and Messi’s names together will generate. Orgasm worthy for a tabloid columnist. “I don’t want problems.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Neymar knows a thing or two about how terrible the press here can be. “He’s a normal guy.”
“What, that’s it?”
Neymar shrugs.
“It’s Messi.” Kylian presses, in an effort to get Neymar to reveal more.
“That’s the thing. He only thinks in terms of I’m Messi when he’s on the pitch. Outside of it, personally, he’s a normal guy. Shy as fuck. Quiet. Never makes a fuss.”
Kylian finds it hard to believe for someone of Messi’s stature. There’s gotta be more to it. Something Neymar’s keeping hidden, a secret dark side. Surely all those reports coming from Spanish papers about Messi being a dictator in training, demanding the team cater to him, and requesting salaries higher and higher have some truth to them. The media loves hyperbole, but behind every dramatic article, there’s at least a small kernel of reality. Besides, to be as big as Messi and not have an ego? Scientifically impossible, as far as Kylian is concerned.
“And,” Neymar’s voice goes softer, impossibly fonder. “He’s good.”
“Good? At what? At football?”
Ney shakes his head. “I mean, that too, but… he’s just good. He’s a good guy… In all the ways I’m not and then some.”
It’s rare to get self-reflection out of Neymar. He prefers to divert attention during a tough conversation, change the topic, and diffuse the situation with a joke that leaves everyone groaning half because it’s in bad taste and half because it has no right to be that funny.
Kylian is stricken. He’s played with Ney for years, he’s grown up alongside him. The only other time he’s heard this loving, honey-sweet tone is when the man talks about Davi who is his literal son.
He thinks about it until he goes to bed later that evening.
Messi is good.
What is that even supposed to mean?
For the first few months, Kylian fails to understand Neymar’s description. Yes, Messi is polite enough, and he’s quiet, scarily so in fact, but he can’t see how any of that makes Messi, or rather Leo, good.
He’s good at football. (Not as good as expected, if Kylian’s honest. He’s in the right places at the right times and it’s easy to connect with him because, at the footballing level, his brain seems to work on the same plane as Kylian’s, most of the time at least, but his shots keep hitting the post and he seems lethargic.) He declines most invitations to clubs and parties. He’s introverted. And… in two months' time, that’s about all Kylian’s learned about him.
“He won’t talk, man,” Kylian tells Ousmane.
“Don’t take it personal,” his friend’s voice is a little grainy over the phone. “He’s shy. It’s how he is.”
Kylian rolls over on his bed and stares at the ceiling. “What, he didn’t talk to you at first either?”
“No—”
“So it is a me thing then.”
“It was different here. He was captain. They bought me for a lot of money and I was nervous as hell. He made me feel welcome. I think he saw it as his duty.”
“A work relationship-only kind of guy then? Doesn’t do friendship with teammates?”
“I wouldn’t say that…” Ousmane pauses a bit. “Has he been rude to you or something?”
Kylian shakes his head though he’s alone in his room “A little cold? I guess? But maybe it’s because he’s an introvert. I don’t know.” He sticks around Ney the most, as expected, but he also clicked instantly with Marco. Even Ramos talks to him more than Kylian.
“This is bothering you,” Ousmane observes. His tone is neutral, but to Kylian’s ears, it reads as an attack.
“It’s not, I mean… yeah,” he admits after a good few seconds of stuttering. He can’t explain it himself, why his relationship with Messi has become a niggling fixation. “I don’t want chemistry issues. We have important CL games coming up. I’ve never had problems meshing with anyone on the team before.”
“I’m sure you don’t have a problem with Leo either. He’s a good guy.” There it is again. Kylian wishes he could teleport to Barcelona through the screen and shake Ousmane back and forth to demand an explanation for what this ‘good’ is supposed to mean. “I’ve watched a game or two. You connect well.”
“We do.”
“But?”
“But he’s half asleep man…Sometimes I forget he’s in the dressing room at all. He won’t join in on team celebrations after games, and he won’t fight with refs when he’s fouled and it’s not called… Feels like he doesn’t give a crap, at times, not gonna lie.” It comes off as arrogant in the mean part of Kylian’s brain.
Ousmane sounds uncomfortable all of a sudden. “…He might be a little down,” he says slowly.
“Down?”
“Like, depressed.”
No. Surely not. Leo’s quiet but not sad. Kylian sees him in training, crinkling his eyes at Neymar’s jokes and laughing when Marco pretends to tackle him. He talks to the rest of the team just fine. He talks to Kylian just fine too. They’re just not friends. They’re colleagues. A bit extreme to diagnose him with depression over that, no?
“That’s not it.”
“The way he got kicked out of here wasn’t pretty.” Kylian can almost hear Ousmane’s shrug.
“Well, I can’t go telling him I think you’re depressed because you won’t talk to me as much as I’d like, can I?”
Ousmane laughs. “Never said that. Try to look at things from his perspective. Our president won the elections by promising he’d keep Leo, you know? We were all told he was gonna stay. Then last second the contract is impossible and they notify us there’s going to be a lame-ass press conference to say goodbye to him.”
Yeah, Kylian can see how that would be shit. But players leave clubs all the time. A few years back there were even reports Messi wanted to leave Barca on his own. Depression is a serious thing and Kylian doesn’t think he’s got the right to play psychologist for a teammate he’s not even close to.
“He’s played for Barca since we were in grade school, bro. He’s hopeless at any languages bar Spanish and some Catalan. You can’t expect a guy like him to get fully comfortable in Paris within a few months. Give it time. He’s a good guy, I promise.”
The first time Messi sheds the alien skin and becomes more of a human in Kylian’s eyes is, ironically, when they are backstage at the Ballon d’Or ceremony and he’s about to receive his record-breaking seventh.
He’s wearing this glittery suit and though he looks good, he also looks tiny and Kylian comes to accept that yeah, the shyness isn’t arrogance, it’s nerves.
“It’s on straight, right?” he asks his wife, Antonella, fidgeting with his bowtie.
“Yes it’s on straight,” she says, exasperated, because that’s the fifth time in five minutes he’s asked that question. She fixes the lapels of his jacket, smoothing them out.
“My hair—”
“You look great Leo.” They smile at each other like they’re teenagers in love and Kylian isn’t sure if he should call it cute or disgustingly saccharine. “I’m going now. If you get nervous during your speech look at me. Or one of the kids.”
“Mateo will make me laugh.”
“Ciro too. Stick to Thiago and me.”
She squeezes his hand and kisses him and Kylian averts his eyes not cause he’s a prude but because he feels like he’s intruding on a private moment. Soon Antonela is gone and they’re left alone backstage, waiting for their cue to come out.
All of Leo’s earlier nervous blabbering is gone. Now he bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet and stares blankly at the curtains of the waiting room.
Kylian is nervous himself — it’s his first time making podium — but he’s never had a problem with speaking or appearing in front of audiences. If he were in Messi’s position, doing this for the nth time, there’s no way he’d be this nervous. It’s almost fascinating, how despite years at the top Messi isn’t jaded at all. How he still appreciates awards he’s won once, twice, six times before with childlike innocence.
“You’re probably used to all this by now, aren’t you?” Kylian bites the bullet and asks.
“Oh, not really.” He nudges his bow tie again and Kylian, pitying him, steps toward tim to knock his hands away to straighten it himself.
“Thanks,” Leo mumbles. Kylian sees an opportunity to keep the conversation going. Taking advantage of Leo’s nerves is a bit of a dick move, but he’s got to break the ice somehow.
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“Winning seven Ballon d’Or.”
“…It’s nice.” Damn. Could he have given a drier reply?
“Only nice?”
Leo takes the hint and actually elaborates. “I appreciate getting recognized. It feels good.”
“Give me the real answer, bro. Not the media training one.”
Leo stares at him for two beats, long enough Kylian’s scared he’d been rude and pushed too far, but he responds after all. “I love it. But not as much as I love getting team awards.”
Damn, isn’t it a major luxury to be able to say he has more than tried both?
“I wanna win one too. Really badly,” Kylian admits.
“You will,” Leo says with such confidence and finality it knocks the air out of Kylian’s lungs. Many many many people have told him that from a very young age. Nothing has ever hit as hard as this and Messi isn’t even his idol. “You’ll win more than one.”
“Reckon I’ll win more than you?”
There’s a competitive glint in Leo’s eyes, but he only smiles like he finds Kylian’s ambition cute. “Sure. How old are you again?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You have loads of time then.”
“At my age, you already had a couple.”
“And I’d have traded them all for the world cup you won on your first try. Still would,” he says more quietly. “Careers are different. You’ll get your flowers.”
One of the event coordinators pokes her head inside the room and yells five minutes!!!
A string of curses so colorful is muttered under Leo’s breath Kylian can only stand there in shock at what he just heard. Leo catches the expression on his face and laughs the way he laughs at Neymar’s jokes. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m terrible at giving speeches in front of audiences.”
“Rocket man rocket man!” Leo’s middle child yells at him when they’re backstage after the awards have been handed out to drop them off again.
“Mateo,” Leo scolds. “Kylian has a name.”
“Sorry, Mr. Kylian. You take off fast so I call you rocket man.”
It’s better than Donatello that’s for sure.
“You’re really cool,” says Leo’s oldest son, Thiago, who’s doing a much better job of staying calm.
“Thanks, kid.”
“Not as cool as papi.”
“Mateo—”
Kylian starts to think Ousmane was both right and wrong.
Leo is shy and nervous, more so than you’d expect from well, Messi, but that’s it. He’s not depressed. Sure, Kylian will catch him staring at nothing during lulls in practice, his shots continue not to go in, much to everyone’s frustration, and more than once he’s forgotten where he is and brought his mate to practice in the case embroidered with the Argentina and Barca crests instead of PSG branded stuff. But it’s normal. He’s fine. His relationship with Kylian improves and, unlike Neymar, the guy isn’t unstable and wishy-washy. In fact, Kylian has never seen a more consistent person in his life.
They get knocked out of the CL, and the season goes pretty badly, but Kylian’s not too assed about it. The plan is to move to Madrid as soon as possible anyway. He loves Paris, he grew up here, and getting the team their first modern European trophy would mean a lot. At the same time, however, he knows, has known for years, that PSG’s management is hopeless. His game is stagnating, his goals seem further than ever, and they’re Europe’s laughing stock.
Nah, he’s not assed about the losses, because all they’ve done is fully convince him to commit to the move he’s wanted since he was a kid, to go to an actual winning club and make history with them.
Everything is set up, he’s even calculating how he’s going to pack all his shit in his head when things start to get… complicated.
“They’ve lost their minds,” he tells Mom. “We talked to Perez. Everything’s been decided. I’m… this isn’t fair. ”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom says and she seems pissed. Since he was little, she’s been the kind of parent who bends over backward and then some for their kid. She’s fought tooth and nail for every opportunity Kylian has gotten. To send him to a good school even when money was sparse, to find him a good youth club, to get him in the public eye through Monaco, to give him the biggest stage possible to shine. The best diets, the best healthcare, regular visits with physios from the moment it became evident Kylian had a talent he wanted to pursue...
She can’t do anything now. No one can do anything.
The fucking president has called Kylian personally, multiple times. They’re telling him the league will collapse, they’re telling him people will be out of jobs, they’re telling him certain political powers will be pissed and no one can be sure of the consequences and it will all be his fault.
“Why did you really stay?”
Kylian looks at Leo’s back like he’s seeing the guy for the first time in his life. The sun is setting over the training grounds. They’re walking a lap around the practice pitch, just the two of them. Leo’s a good training partner when Kylian feels like getting work done because he’s meticulous and rigorous. His whole body aches after today’s session, but it’s the good kind of ache that leaves him satisfied and knowing he’s had a productive workout.
Leo pauses, no longer hearing Kylian’s footsteps on the turf. He turns to face Kylian, a little sheepish.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“It’s fine,” Kylian says automatically. “I don’t mind. Wasn’t expecting it, I guess.”
“I’m curious,” Leo says, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“How come?” Kylian says lightly. “Don’t the seventy million net a year contract and sporting director competencies convince you?”
Leo sighs. “I know what it’s like, you know.”
What? He’s sure picked an inconvenient day to speak in code.
“Having to do something for reasons outside of your control, I mean.”
“I chose to stay here,” Kylian says, and it sounds like a lie even to himself.
Leo squints at him and presses his lips together. Damn it. On top of everything else, he just has to be stupidly observant too.
“Okay, so maybe Macron called me once or twice...”
“How many times?”
“Twenty-four.”
Saying it aloud makes it dawn on Kylian how ridiculous that sounds. Leo whistles.
“And did Nasser tell you Madrid has to pay your seven hundred million euro release clause?”
“That’s oddly specific.”
Leo laughs, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes. “Because it’s what Barca tried to do to me.”
“Oh.” He’s never known the specifics of that situation.
“I had half a mind to leave after twenty-twenty. The sporting management kept making bad decisions after bad decisions all the while the papers were making me out to be a dictator who controlled my teammates on strings. Felt like it would be better for everyone. I was stagnating, the team was stagnating, and at that point, one’s gotta let go. I didn’t want to, I… hate change and Barca was… but I thought it would do us all good, in the end. You know that feeling?”
Kylian feels like he needs to sit down, one because it’s his first time hearing Leo speak so many words at once, and two, because holy shit, this man just described Kylian’s situation to a tee as if they’re from parallel universes.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. It’s exactly the same.”
Except Kylian’s only twenty-three. He’s not won Paris anything major yet. He’s already changed clubs once. He’s never been an academy kid here. In fact, they spent a boatload of money on him when he was a teen.
Leo meanwhile…
The way he got kicked out of here wasn’t pretty.
“When your name gets big, outside factors start coming into play. Don’t beat yourself up over it too much. Look at the bright side, if you think the media here is bad, wait till Marca gets their hands on you”
Has he noticed Kylian’s been down? Why is he doing this?
he’s just good
“Fleecing Al Khelaifi helped me swallow the pill a little, not gonna lie,” Kylian jokes, feeling suffocated by the serious atmosphere.
“About that, I know I only scored like four goals last season, but please don’t sell me, sporting director sir. If I have to move again I think I’ll kill myself.”
“You got jokes, man. Where do you hide these jokes?”
“In the same pocket Argentina’s gonna hide you in a few months.”
“You wish.”
“—what do you two even talk about?” Achraf asks as he’s driving Kylian home later that evening.
Kylian closes out of his Instagram DMs and faces his friend.
“Say that again? I wasn’t paying attention.”
“With Messi. What do you talk about?” There’s a note of teasing in Achraf’s tone Kylian’s not quite understanding.
“Stuff. I don’t know.” He tends to tell Achraf everything, but he doesn’t feel like sharing this. “Regular topics.”
Achraf snickers. “Power to you, dude. He’s so boring to me. Like I’m talking to a piece of wet cardboard.”
“You don’t talk to him.” How would you know, is kind of implied. Kylian’s weirding himself out. He shouldn’t be getting this defensive, not with his best friend. And yet.
“Why would I? He’s so dry. Lucky he’s good at football.”
“He’s alright, actually,” Kylian says.
Achraf pauses. He’s always seemed to have a quiet, inexplicable contempt for Leo. It even shows on the pitch. They rarely pass to each other even when open and well within view. “Yeah?”
“He’s chill.” Kylian rolls his shoulders.
“To me, being around him, when I even notice he’s there, is like someone’s draining my batteries. He’s quiet, constantly. We’ll be celebrating having a nice time and he’ll be in his little corner with a blank look on his face. Never participates. Never invites us out or anything.”
“Ney says he’s just shy.”
“Neymar thinks the sun shines out of his ass and wants to get in his pants—”
“Dude—”
Achraf raises his hands off the steering wheel for two beats as if to excuse himself. “He’s more loyal to Messi than his girlfriend all I’m saying.”
“Well, he’s right. About Leo.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Achraf hums. “Are we going to that restaurant or not?”
They start off the season well enough. Galtier doesn’t convince Kylian, and Campos fails to deliver on his promise of hiring a competent striker (yet again) so Kylian is forced to fill the role (yet again). Kylian doesn’t like how his own game is progressing but hey, at least they’re winning and, Paris be damned, EDF time soon rolls around.
His perception of Messi goes topsy-turvy for the millionth time.
Before the final, as he scrolls Twitter and moments and comps of Leo from previous games fill his homepage, he feels like a kid asking their parent for McDonald's only for mom to go, we have McDonald's at home and drop an unseasoned two euro vegan burger on their plate.
Kylian doesn’t know Leo at all, because the Leo he has at home is not this.
Leo at home is sleepy, half-assed, sometimes running sometimes not. If he misses a shot he’s a little frustrated but he shrugs it off. When he scores he hugs whoever gave him the assist and walks off. After the game, he’s gone. No clapping at fans no nothing.
No, this is the actual Leo. The one who naturally leads, who takes the team on his back and empowers, who takes initiative, who sings with the supporters loudly after games and glows every time he scores. Who fights for and with his teammates, who pulls goals out of thin air, who grabs the win by its tails and doesn’t let go until he’s got it safe and secure.
It’s not that he doesn’t play well for Paris. It’s not that he doesn’t try, despite what the media pushes to convey. It’s that this version of Messi cares. He has a goal, a purpose. Ambition beyond playing well for the sake of it.
Yes, it’s only been a year and a half that they’ve played together now, but Kylian’s never seen Leo like this, not on a single occasion.
Ousmane’s right, he thinks.
Throughout the final Kylian can’t stop staring at Leo. They greet each other before kickoff, but during the match, the man has flipped the switch. He shows none of the EDF players he’s had for club teammates any mercy. Argentina’s coach surprises them by putting Angel on the left, and most of the game is a total mess.
Somehow Kylian scores a hattrick, but it’s for naught as they lose on pens anyway. He is sure they’ll lose the second it comes to penalties. Emi Martinez is the right kind of asshole for shootouts while Hugo, with all due respect, has always been quite bad at them. After sinking his own his brain, despite his best efforts, is already working on accepting the loss.
That’s why, when Montiel scores, the first thing Kylian finds himself doing is looking at Leo.
Leo who’s collapsed on the turf as if he’s Atlas and the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. Leo who’s engulfed by teammates in the span of two seconds as the Argentines celebrate their first world cup in decades.
A year or two ago he might have found the Argentine team’s quasi-worshipping of Leo weird. Yeah, he played well, but what was so special about the guy to warrant deity treatment? old Kylian would’ve thought. Now, in some odd way, he gets it.
“You don’t have to look at me like you killed my dog, you know,” Kylian says, extending his hand.
Leo stops his walk on the treadmill to give him a firm handshake. “Nice to see you,” he says. “Was your break good?”
“Mhm.” Though he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, he’d needed it. “Yours?”
“…So good.”
“Of course it was. Say it with your whole chest, man.”
“It was.”
“I saw some pictures. A lot of people came to the parade.”
They talk a little longer, about how sunny it was on the bus and how it had been a while since Leo had gotten so drunk, and how much the people had appreciated it.
“We’re really different, aren’t we?”
“Huh?”
“When I lost in 2014, I didn’t talk about it to anyone, for three months.”
Kylian snickers. “Sore loser.”
“Nevermind. You’re not a sore loser. You’re just terribly adjusted.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah? What in god’s name possessed you to come here at six in the morning? Weren’t you having hamstring issues?”
“Says the guy who came back from a two-month injury in two weeks.”
“I’m not thirty-five, am I?”
“So you’re calling me old—”
“No, I mean— stop laughing! It’s not funny—”
“I have to play well,” Leo says finally, dropping the joking tone.
“You’ve been playing well. After that freekick I almost kissed you—”
Leo shakes his head. He looks like the praise went into one of his ears and out the other.
“Don’t you care? At all?”
Champion’s League down the drain. Coupe de France down the drain. Sloppy in the league. Their club season could not be going worse.
Leo digs his heel into the turf. He stands against the wraparound wire fence of the training ground, scarf pulled up so it covers half his face. He’s got on gloves, and long sleeves, and compression leggings, they’ve been running around for hours, and he’s still shivering.
“I—”
“Not the media training answer,” Kylian reminds.
Leo’s shoulders drop. “Is it bad if I say no?”
It’s pretty bad. Kylian didn’t want to stay this year — he’s still pissed about the loss, about being completely invisible.
“It’s not that I’m not frustrated. I hate losing. But… I was prepared for it mentally, I guess.”
Like Kylian during the penalty shootout in the final then. Leo’s stance is closed off, his body language protective. It’s as though they’ve gone back to the beginning of their first season together all over again.
Kylian frowns at him. “What do we have to do to get the real Leo out?”
“What do you mean?”
“At the world cup. I’ve never seen you like that here.” Outside of reruns of old matches on TV.
Leo smiles a little. “I don’t have the energy to be like that all the time.”
“Why not? You were for Barca.” Do it again, he’s trying to say.
“At your age, sure,” he says. “But there’s only so many times you can do something before it starts to feel repetitive.”
Kylian doesn’t like that answer.
“He’s mentally strong, I have to hand it to him.”
“Doesn’t give a shit at all that they whistle. Christophe even tried to advise him to greet them more so they’ll stop and he said nah,” they’re talking about Leo, Kylian realizes. Leo who’s in the room but can’t understand a lick of proper French and has no clue he’s being talked about.
They’re two of the few teammates who don’t speak Spanish and hence have never had a proper conversation with Leo outside of shouting vamos at him. To make matters worse, they’re third-stringers who can’t even link up with Leo on the pitch. It’s no wonder they’re talking like this.
“They have a right to, don’t they? He takes all their support for granted. Never has the decency to speak to them.”
“Dude. He doesn’t speak to us. At least Ney tries with French. He’s just here to get paid.”
“You’re right. I mean, look.” Kylian looks. Leo is in his dressing area, switching his boots for regular shoes, clueless. He notes Kylian’s gaze and offers a tired smile. He’s pale, paler than usual. “All the time in the world and he’s never bothered to say a word to us. Changing room was so much more fun without him here.”
“The way shit’s going, they’ll run him out by next month.”
It’s light-hearted gossip. It shouldn’t be making Kylian so uncomfortable.
He drags Leo out of the dressing room by the neck, making up some random story about Sergio asking for him.
It comes to a head one random afternoon.
The season is about to end with a whimper, and they’ve got two games left two games that, if they lose, could see them closing out the year trophyless.
Leo’s looked off all day. He’s been diligent with training since the end of his suspension, never being late nor making use of extra break days. Kylian can’t blame him. The text informing them of the uncancelled practice session did come quite late.
“Looks like Mr. Saudi’s got another plane to catch,” Achraf whispers to Kylian while they’re doing warm-down stretches.
A good twenty meters away, Galtier is saying something to Leo. Their coach pats Leo’s back before the latter, looking a little green around the edges, picks up his bottle of water and heads for the changing rooms, walking faster than usual.
“Those doe eyes of his are a real hazard,” Achraf continues. “He’s got Christophe wrapped around his little finger.”
Leo doesn’t return in the ten minutes it takes for training to officially end. In fact, more teammates disappear in the form of Sergio and Marco. Though Kylian tries to distract himself, he can’t shake the green tint of Leo’s skin from his mind.
Without really thinking, he finds himself walking to the training facility’s second-floor bathroom, the one Leo likes to use because it tends to be cleaner, and he hears the voices after not even entering the hall.
“Dio. Can’t we do anything to make it stop?” That’s Marco.
“I don’t think so.” And Sergio.
Kylian winces as their conversation is punctuated by the sound of retching.
Inside, Kylian finds, besides Sergio and Marco arguing, Leo curled up in one of the stalls. Puking, breathing hard, puking again.
“Jesus,” Kylian says. “What’s going on here?”
“He says he ate something bad,” Marco snitches immediately.
“Yes low IQ Italian garden gnome, go ahead and broadcast it to the whole country. Let’s call le parisien and let them know while we’re at it—”
“He already saw anyway—”
“Relax. I’m not gonna tell anyone.” Kylian winces as Leo retches again. “Flush it. Having it in front of you will only make you wanna puke worse.”
Leo’s reaction is delayed, but he does indeed flush the toilet before facing away from it, sitting against the stall, and breathing like he’s run a marathon.
“Sorry,” he says and doesn’t elaborate. For a good minute, no one elaborates.
“Right. Can someone please tell me what’s happening?”
“…I went to a restaurant I’d never been to yesterday and—”
“Okay, flea, I’mma stop you right there. I’m not buying that,” Sergio says and doesn’t let Leo talk when he tries to protest. “Your stress-puking is back, isn’t it?”
Leo freezes.
“Stress what now?”
“Puking, Marco. Throwing up. Vomiting—”
“I know what puke is, genius—”
“Yeah, well, that guy.” Sergio points his finger in Leo’s direction. “Had a puking problem, way back. Used to act up during games even. Press was all over it.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of that.”
“See, even the zygote’s heard of it, Marco.”
“Sorry I don’t spend all my time reading gossip columns you overgrown Spanish caveman—”
“Not stress-puking,” Leo interrupts. “It’s a diet—”
“I know for a fact it’s not a diet thing, Leo,” Sergio says seriously.
“How?”
The bathroom’s air is stuffy. Kylian moves to close the door.
“…Geri—”
“Son of a bitch,” Leo mutters. He actually sounds pissed off. Kylian has never, not once before heard him pissed off.
“In his defense, we’d won Euros a second time and we were drunk as fuck. I also asked him first.”
“…Why?”
“Ran into you having a nice meeting with the Bernabeu’s toilets once and got curious, sue me.”
“It’s none of his business.”
“Yeah, well, you made it his business by telling a big-mouthed pea brain like him.”
“So you didn’t eat something bad?” Marco asks, confused.
“Nope.” Sergio helps Leo up and holds him up by the shoulders. He looks even tinier than usual. “The idiot’s been stressed and he won’t tell anyone why. Junior even told me Thiago said he was worried.”
Leo face goes green all over again. He starts muttering something about bad dads and too-kind kids. “Oh no,” says Sergio. “Keep it together, flea. You’re not gonna make some poor cleaning lady wipe your puke off the floor, are you?”
“Not helping,” Leo says, now looking guilty.
“I still don’t get it,” says Marco unhelpfully. “Are you fine now or do we have to go to the hospital—”
“No—”
“Actually—”
Kylian decides to intervene. “How about you—” He refers to Sergio. “Go get Leo’s clothes from the changing room so he can get dressed and go home and you—” Marco stands up straighter. “— bring him some water or juice or a drink to replenish all that liquid he just lost? I’ll wait with him here.”
He pries Leo from Sergio’s grip gently and helps him stand.
“Why do you get to—”
“Because your bickering is giving us all a headache. Go. Please. Now.”
Surprisingly they listen. Soon the bathroom is left in blissful silence. Leo sighs in relief. “I can stand on my own,” he says and makes a pointed display of letting go. Kylian gives him space. “Thanks for that.” He looks embarrassed, the flush on his cheeks splotchy.
“I could tell they were suffocating .”
Leo closes his eyes like the bathroom’s fluorescent lighting hurts, or like he’s very tired and nods minutely. “Sorry about all this. I don’t know why they’re making such a big fuss of it.”
“They’re worried about you.”
“Dunno why they care so much either.”
There are a million answers to that question. They’re your teammates. They’re your friends. They’re kind people. You’re fucking Messi. They care about you. What comes out is: “You’re a good guy.”
Leo huffs. Then he clears his throat and goes to wash out his mouth.
“How long has it been? Since the puking came back?” Kylian asks awkwardly.
“I’m not lying. Changing my diet did help it go away.”
“But?”
“But it came back a few years ago. Was a stress thing after all.”
“This is going to sound rude, but what’s there to be stressed about?” Leo leads a better life than ninety-nine point nine percent of people. He’s got endless money, all the fame in the world, and a beautiful family. The stresses of a footballer are minuscule compared to those of regular people
“Exactly,” Leo says, surprising Kylian. “There’s nothing. I should be fine. But… this sounds super dumb… it’s, it’s uh… like I’ve forgotten how to stay happy for more than a month straight?”
“Right. And why do you think that is?”
“You want the non-media training answer?”
Kylian nods.
“They kicked me out of my home and apparently I’m incapable of loving more than one thing of the same type in one lifetime.”
It seems Leo Messi has a flair for the dramatic.
“Paris is not so bad, bro.”
“It’s not. It’s not and that’s what frustrates me. You’re all so nice and the fans tried to welcome me and yes some parts of this place smell like piss but the city itself is beautiful and yet, here I am, feeling like shit and playing shitter.”
Kylian’s sensing a lot of bottled-up emotions here. He says nothing and opts to observe as Leo smiles to himself bitterly. “It’s funny. I was always scared to move because of how the kids would adapt. Turns out I’m the problematic one. I’ve been a terrible dad lately. God. Anto has probably cursed me to hell and back. They always get wrapped up in my messes.” At this point, he’s talking to himself. “Sorry. You owe me nothing hearing this.”
“I’m the one who asked.”
“Still. You’re not my therapist. I could be your dad—”
“Erm. Not quite, bro.”
“— I should know how to take care of yourself.”
“Don’t talk to me about age,” Kylian says. “No shame asking for help—”
Before he can finish he’s being shoved forward as the bathroom door opens.
“I brought three types of water, gatorade, apple juice, green tea, and electrolyte boosters,” Marco yells, the bottles flooding from his arms.
Sergio shoves him to the side. “I brought your clothes. You’re the messiest fucker in existence pun not intended.”
Kylian doesn’t expect to bump into him. After he disappeared from the celebrations on the pitch so early it was bordering on rude, Kylian was convinced Leo would evaporate from the Parc and likely Paris as soon as he could book a flight out. He doesn’t dwell on it much, rather allows himself to get whisked away by the rush of happy teammates and a record eleventh league title and top scorer yet again! Yeah, they lost this final game, but Kylian’s not one to stew in negativity. He has many things to look forward to. Being back with the EDF. The summer. Holidays. Rest. More training. Getting bigger and better. Yes, his life is an endless tree of possibilities.
In fact, he gets swept away in the heat of the moment and joy of celebration a little too much because he only realizes he’d forgotten every belonging, including his phone and wallet, in the Parc’s dressing room after he’s already gotten into Achraf’s passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt.
“I’m sorry man. I’ll only be two seconds.” Achraf groans but promises to wait for him.
Kylian rushes past security — he more than has that privilege — and barges into the dressing room to find it, surprisingly, not empty.
“What are you doing here?”
Leo looks at him with the expression Sergio describes as the ‘brown Bambi eye attack’.
“Grabbing my stuff,” he says and shakes the kit in his hand as if to emphasize his point.
“Right…” Kylian says, making for his own cubby. Sure enough, his wallet and phone are right there, lodged in the corner reserved for his extra socks. Got them, he texts Achraf quickly so the guy doesn’t get impatient. Then he pockets his things and turns to leave. Leo’s still crouched in his locker, trying and failing to fold the shirt he must’ve swapped with one of the Claremont Foot players so it will fit into his already overstuffed bag.
Kylian feels bad for him, so instead of leaving, he walks towards Leo and takes the shirt from his hands. “You’re never going to get it to fit like that,” he says, staring at the crumpled excuse for a folded garment in disappointment.
“It won’t fit anyway. I already tried.”
True enough, even after Kylian has masterfully folded the kit into minuscule proportions, he can’t get the zipper of Leo’s bag to close.
“Told you,” Leo says levelly. “I have three kids. I know how to fold clothes.”
See, now Kylian needs this shirt to fit if it’s the last thing he does. It feels like a challenge and he never backs down from a challenge. “Let me just—”
“Leave it,” Leo presses softly. “I’ll hold it.”
But Kylian isn’t giving up. He shoves the shirt harder into the bag, only to be met with resistance. “Man, what have you stuffed in here? Rocks?”
“Nasser’s weird trophy,” Leo says and it wasn’t funny at all, his voice is so dry there was no way Leo meant for it to be funny in the first place, but Kylian laughs, hard.
“Why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
Kylian only laughs more. Sure enough, right under Leo’s own spare shirt, Kylian finds the miniature Ligue 1 trophy they were all given and ‘Nasser’s weird trophy’, aka the top assist man award.
“It’s not Nasser’s weird trophy. It’s the top assist provider award. The league awards it.”
“Not that. The one under.”
“There’s more?”
Yup. There’s an award that says Messi with his number and the PSG logo engraved.
“See? It’s like that gold bar he gave me for winning the world cup.” Yet again, he says gold bar like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever been given. This guy. “Not that I didn’t appreciate it but it was a bit much.”
“What did you do with that, by the way?”
“The gold bar?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know.”
Fitting for a man who, at this point in his career, is given trophies for existing.
“Do you throw them out? They probably mean nothing to you.”
“A trophy is a trophy,” Leo says. “I have to be grateful for it.”
“Even for the gold bars?”
“You didn’t throw out your PSG all-time leading scorer trophy, did you?”
Hell no. He loves that cartoonish thing and he doesn’t care how childish that makes him seem. “But you’re different. You have seven ballon d’ors at home.”
“You keep mentioning them.”
“I can’t help it, man. Seven. That’s crazy.”
Leo shrugs. It’s like that night backstage at the Ballon d’Or ceremony all over again. Leo is so used to people mentioning his achievements and signing his praises, it has begun to sound disingenuous. Kylian has felt it himself after the world cup final. People praised him left and right, applauded his hat trick — the first of its kind in history — called him the boy with the world at his feet, and it all felt so meaningless when he would’ve gladly traded all three goals for even a one nil win.
“Watch you win another come October.”
Leo shakes his head. “You might win yourself.”
“No way,” Kylian says . He’s still trying to fit that shirt in the bag. Currently, he tested out the ingenious idea of using it to plug the hexagonal gap in the league cup.
“You’d deserve it.” Kylian pauses. It isn’t a wild statement to make. He’s had a great season individually. In his own head, he knows he fits the criteria when it comes to personal performance. No, it isn’t a wild statement at all, but it felt surreal and absurdly pleasing coming from Lionel fucking Messi. (Who, despite being Kylian’s teammate and indeed, a normal guy, manages to often leave him starstruck.) “You’ve helped me out a lot this season.”
This guy.
“What am I supposed to say to you? You’ve assisted half my goals.”
“Only because you’re always in the right place to score and you’re a good finisher.”
“Still.”
“It was an honor playing with you, Kylian. With and against.”
“Dude.” Kylian finishes with the bag, finally managing to zip it shut, and looks up at Leo in full big brown eyes mode. He wonders if the guy realizes what he’s doing at all. “Why are you getting all sappy on me?”
“It’s our last time playing together.”
“Yeah?” The downcast tone of that makes Kylian sad and he was not in the mood for sad. “Wait till we draw Barca in the UCL again. I’m gonna score another hat trick on your ass.”
Leo smiles, endeared and regretful simultaneously. “I’m not going to Barca.”
Huh. “…Fine. Where ever you are going.”
“I doubt you’ll be playing much in Miami.”
Kylian freezes. He’s saying…But, that’s, in essence, retirement.
“You can’t be serious.”
Leo only nods.
“Why?”
“I’ll try to go back to Barca but, honestly, I think the ship has sailed. It won’t end well for anyone.”
“So go somewhere else.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? You’re Messi.”
“Remember what we talked about? That time in the bathroom?
Oh.
I’m incapable of loving more than one thing of the same type in one lifetime.
Kylian’s expression softens.
“I need a break," Leo says though Kylian hears I need to be happy again loud and clear.
“Good luck, then.” They hug and Kylian remembers why he hugged Leo about five times in five minutes after that freekick, he’s so damn huggable.
“And you?”
It’s Kylian’s turn to scratch his head sheepishly. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he ignores it.
“I don’t know what to do, actually.”
More buzzing.
“You want my advice? The non-media training version of it?”
“Hit me.”
“I’d prefer you went to Barca. But that’s complicated for various reasons, so if you’re going to move, just go to Madrid. Won’t be able to root for you but you deserve a proper sporting project.”
“Hah. I should frame this. Lionel Messi, Barca legend, recommends a player go to Real Madrid. They’ll burn coffins of you in Catalunya.”
Leo raises his hands in mock surrender. “If Barca could afford you we’re the better choice all the way. Left-wing all free and Xavi to coach you. Too bad you’re a Madridista.”
“Those fourteen champion’s leagues are too sexy to resist.”
Leo doesn't seem impressed. “There will always be time to do a Figo.”
They end up leaving together. At the door, Kylian doesn’t see Achraf’s car, and one look at the phone he’s been ignoring reveals the guy needed to leave for an urgent talk with his lawyer.
“Leo?”
“Hm?”
“...Happen to have extra room in your car?”
“Only if you don’t mind Mateo calling you rocket man.”