Tender Comrade
by 4or5paragraphs
You had to watch Victor as much as Lilian did to see all of him. There was how he read the newspapers on the bus when everyone else was asleep, lines forming on his forehead as he took in the words everyone else knew to ignore. There was the look of pain on his face when another argument started up in the dressing room, right before he rose with a smile to try and stop things. How sometimes he would stand with his hand on the Barcelona crest over his space, digging his fingers into the wall as if he was about to be torn away. Victor needed help, Lilian knew, and Lilian always wanted to save those in need.
* * * * *
In German, Victor was told, tor meant goal. He used to think of his name as English, vic-tor-ee, but lately he couldn’t think of anything but German. Vic-tor. Vic-tor. Tor. Tor. What he didn’t want to hear. It echoed every time the ball went past his fingers. Vic-tor. His name was goal. It fit, ironically. He was the only footballer he knew that didn’t want goals.
Vic-tor. Vic-tor.
He tried to get it back, think of vic-tor-y, vic-tór-ia. But he couldn’t stop thinking about goals, goals that go in no matter what he did. Tor. He doesn’t know how to make it plural, but one was enough. If they went to Germany next season, he thought he’d have a breakdown.
* * * * *
Lilian was intentionally slow, deliberate in winning over Victor’s trust, but it happened fast despite his best planning. Victor grabbed for anything that might distract him. Lilian offered things he’d only been able to glimpse before, beyond Playstation and nightclubs. He didn’t even talk about their games, or at least he didn’t talk about them when he was away from his teammates. Victor reveled in that.
He went to Lilian’s for movies in French and Italian that he didn’t understand. They talked about politics that he only had a vague concept of, but he wanted to listen and Lilian loved to talk. Those hours grew in importance to both of them. Victor longed for conversations that weren’t about the season, and there were so many things that Lilian could tell him about.
Lilian just liked to see Victor smile. He always looked so sad.
* * * * *
"Tell me about Italy." Victor asked, turning to look at Lilian, the dimness of the television’s light not enough to hide the dark circles under Victor’s eyes, too much for someone so young, the slightly red hint to his eyes.
"Thinking of leaving?" Lilian looked at him over the clear rims of his glasses.
"No. No." Victor laughed and shook his head. "I won’t go anywhere, not by choice. I’m just curious."
"Shh, Victor." Lilian draped his arm around Victor, tugged him close. "Italy is lovely. Exuberant, beautiful countryside, passionate fans. You would enjoy it, I think."
Victor nodded, resting his head against Lilian. His eyes had the worried cast that Lilian wished would go away. Lilian tilted his chin up and kissed him softly. "But Catalonia, it’s much prettier."
* * * * *
"Tor."
"Hmm?" Lilian looked down at him, brow furrowed, squinting without his glasses.
"In German, you know, that means goal." Victor chewed his lip thoughtfully. "And that’s my name, you know? Vic-tor. And I think about that, sometimes. It’s in my name."
"Victor…"
"It used to bother me a lot." Victor curled his fingers against Lilian’s chest, pressing closer with a half-smile. "But this is the first time I’ve thought about it with you, and it’s not depressing, it’s just silly. The season is falling apart around me, but with you, I’m happy. And I know that we’ll win."
* * * * *
Victor was too old to cry now, so he slumped onto the bench instead, shut his eyes and wished he was anywhere but here. He thought of the mistakes he’d made and the shame he’d brought on the club, but especially on himself. It was over. They had lost in the end.
The summer stretched out in front of him, wide and threatening as soon as Victor pulled the T-shirt on over his head. Weeks as an ordinary man to go over how he’d gone wrong. Months of reading who might replace him in the papers. It had been hard enough when they were champions.
His steps echoed in the hallways. Today it was a heavy plod. Victor always believed there was something sacred about these halls. Perhaps, he supposed, he was being punished. Villagers used to think that every natural disaster or invasion was God’s displeasure. Did he anger these hallways?
His phone beeped and he looked at his bag dumbly for a moment before pulling it out, a modern intrusion on his medieval thoughts. He flipped it open to reveal its message.
Come over. L.
Just like that, short but properly punctuated, because that was how Lilian was. Victor shut his phone without a response and looked around the empty halls. To get away would be good. Although this was Barcelona. Everywhere he went would remind him of his failures. There was nowhere far enough to make him forget.
There was Lilian, though, and while Lilian couldn’t make him forget he could distract him. That was more than anything else could do. So when he left, he left for Lilian’s.
"Hey." Lilian smiled and ushered Victor inside. "I rented a movie, The Science of Sleep, didn’t you want to see it?"
Victor nodded dumbly, sliding his hands into his pockets. There was something calming today about the lack of memorabilia on Lilian’s walls. He had won everything possible but his hallway was decorated only by paintings. All his trophies and medals were kept in one room. Everywhere else there was no sign of his profession.
"Are you hungry?" Lilian pushed up his glasses with a finger and raised his eyebrow.
"A little," Victor murmured, not quite looking at Lilian.
"I’ll bring out something. Go sit down."
Victor shuffled into the other room and curled himself into the couch, folding his long body in on itself, legs under torso, unconsciously making himself as small as possible. This room, too, bore no signs of its owners occupation, decorated by sleek furniture and shelves filled with books and curiosities. Victor could almost imagine himself somewhere else, almost, if he didn’t feel the loss of the title pressing on him.
Lilian entered with a small tray and a bottle of wine. He passed a class to Victor and sat down next to him. "Don’t think about it," he said softly, draping his arm gently against Victor’s back.
"I don’t think that’s possible," Victor murmured, turning the glass around in his hands.
"It’s over," Lilian replied, scratching the back of Victor’s neck gently. "We did our best. It’s okay."
"I failed. If I’d-"
"We’re a team," Lilian interrupted.
"I could have been better." Victor curled against Lilian, seeking his reassurance as he had so often. "I could have done something. Anything."
"It’s not the end of the world." Lilian kissed the top of Victor’s head and filled his wineglass. "We’re still here, right?" At Victor’s reluctant sniff he ran a careful hand through Victor’s close-cropped hair. "There’s a world out there where this doesn’t matter. Football isn’t everything. Let it go. For now, here, we’re civilians. There’s so much we can do now that the season’s over."
Victor sighed and brought the wineglass to his lips. It wasn’t as easy as Lilian made it but he clung to his words anyway, imagined a world where none of it mattered and he was just Victor, 25 years old, just starting to figure out his life. He didn’t have the weight of a city and its dreams on his shoulders. He was just a young man like any other. It was almost impossible to picture. There hadn’t been a time when he wasn’t devoted to Barça.
"I’ll put on the movie." Lilian flicked a few buttons on his remote, then drew Victor to him and kissed his temple softly. "You’ll like this one."
You had to watch Victor as much as Lilian did to see all of him. There was how he read the newspapers on the bus when everyone else was asleep, lines forming on his forehead as he took in the words everyone else knew to ignore. There was the look of pain on his face when another argument started up in the dressing room, right before he rose with a smile to try and stop things. How sometimes he would stand with his hand on the Barcelona crest over his space, digging his fingers into the wall as if he was about to be torn away. Victor needed help, Lilian knew, and Lilian always wanted to save those in need.
* * * * *
In German, Victor was told, tor meant goal. He used to think of his name as English, vic-tor-ee, but lately he couldn’t think of anything but German. Vic-tor. Vic-tor. Tor. Tor. What he didn’t want to hear. It echoed every time the ball went past his fingers. Vic-tor. His name was goal. It fit, ironically. He was the only footballer he knew that didn’t want goals.
Vic-tor. Vic-tor.
He tried to get it back, think of vic-tor-y, vic-tór-ia. But he couldn’t stop thinking about goals, goals that go in no matter what he did. Tor. He doesn’t know how to make it plural, but one was enough. If they went to Germany next season, he thought he’d have a breakdown.
* * * * *
Lilian was intentionally slow, deliberate in winning over Victor’s trust, but it happened fast despite his best planning. Victor grabbed for anything that might distract him. Lilian offered things he’d only been able to glimpse before, beyond Playstation and nightclubs. He didn’t even talk about their games, or at least he didn’t talk about them when he was away from his teammates. Victor reveled in that.
He went to Lilian’s for movies in French and Italian that he didn’t understand. They talked about politics that he only had a vague concept of, but he wanted to listen and Lilian loved to talk. Those hours grew in importance to both of them. Victor longed for conversations that weren’t about the season, and there were so many things that Lilian could tell him about.
Lilian just liked to see Victor smile. He always looked so sad.
* * * * *
"Tell me about Italy." Victor asked, turning to look at Lilian, the dimness of the television’s light not enough to hide the dark circles under Victor’s eyes, too much for someone so young, the slightly red hint to his eyes.
"Thinking of leaving?" Lilian looked at him over the clear rims of his glasses.
"No. No." Victor laughed and shook his head. "I won’t go anywhere, not by choice. I’m just curious."
"Shh, Victor." Lilian draped his arm around Victor, tugged him close. "Italy is lovely. Exuberant, beautiful countryside, passionate fans. You would enjoy it, I think."
Victor nodded, resting his head against Lilian. His eyes had the worried cast that Lilian wished would go away. Lilian tilted his chin up and kissed him softly. "But Catalonia, it’s much prettier."
* * * * *
"Tor."
"Hmm?" Lilian looked down at him, brow furrowed, squinting without his glasses.
"In German, you know, that means goal." Victor chewed his lip thoughtfully. "And that’s my name, you know? Vic-tor. And I think about that, sometimes. It’s in my name."
"Victor…"
"It used to bother me a lot." Victor curled his fingers against Lilian’s chest, pressing closer with a half-smile. "But this is the first time I’ve thought about it with you, and it’s not depressing, it’s just silly. The season is falling apart around me, but with you, I’m happy. And I know that we’ll win."
* * * * *
Victor was too old to cry now, so he slumped onto the bench instead, shut his eyes and wished he was anywhere but here. He thought of the mistakes he’d made and the shame he’d brought on the club, but especially on himself. It was over. They had lost in the end.
The summer stretched out in front of him, wide and threatening as soon as Victor pulled the T-shirt on over his head. Weeks as an ordinary man to go over how he’d gone wrong. Months of reading who might replace him in the papers. It had been hard enough when they were champions.
His steps echoed in the hallways. Today it was a heavy plod. Victor always believed there was something sacred about these halls. Perhaps, he supposed, he was being punished. Villagers used to think that every natural disaster or invasion was God’s displeasure. Did he anger these hallways?
His phone beeped and he looked at his bag dumbly for a moment before pulling it out, a modern intrusion on his medieval thoughts. He flipped it open to reveal its message.
Come over. L.
Just like that, short but properly punctuated, because that was how Lilian was. Victor shut his phone without a response and looked around the empty halls. To get away would be good. Although this was Barcelona. Everywhere he went would remind him of his failures. There was nowhere far enough to make him forget.
There was Lilian, though, and while Lilian couldn’t make him forget he could distract him. That was more than anything else could do. So when he left, he left for Lilian’s.
"Hey." Lilian smiled and ushered Victor inside. "I rented a movie, The Science of Sleep, didn’t you want to see it?"
Victor nodded dumbly, sliding his hands into his pockets. There was something calming today about the lack of memorabilia on Lilian’s walls. He had won everything possible but his hallway was decorated only by paintings. All his trophies and medals were kept in one room. Everywhere else there was no sign of his profession.
"Are you hungry?" Lilian pushed up his glasses with a finger and raised his eyebrow.
"A little," Victor murmured, not quite looking at Lilian.
"I’ll bring out something. Go sit down."
Victor shuffled into the other room and curled himself into the couch, folding his long body in on itself, legs under torso, unconsciously making himself as small as possible. This room, too, bore no signs of its owners occupation, decorated by sleek furniture and shelves filled with books and curiosities. Victor could almost imagine himself somewhere else, almost, if he didn’t feel the loss of the title pressing on him.
Lilian entered with a small tray and a bottle of wine. He passed a class to Victor and sat down next to him. "Don’t think about it," he said softly, draping his arm gently against Victor’s back.
"I don’t think that’s possible," Victor murmured, turning the glass around in his hands.
"It’s over," Lilian replied, scratching the back of Victor’s neck gently. "We did our best. It’s okay."
"I failed. If I’d-"
"We’re a team," Lilian interrupted.
"I could have been better." Victor curled against Lilian, seeking his reassurance as he had so often. "I could have done something. Anything."
"It’s not the end of the world." Lilian kissed the top of Victor’s head and filled his wineglass. "We’re still here, right?" At Victor’s reluctant sniff he ran a careful hand through Victor’s close-cropped hair. "There’s a world out there where this doesn’t matter. Football isn’t everything. Let it go. For now, here, we’re civilians. There’s so much we can do now that the season’s over."
Victor sighed and brought the wineglass to his lips. It wasn’t as easy as Lilian made it but he clung to his words anyway, imagined a world where none of it mattered and he was just Victor, 25 years old, just starting to figure out his life. He didn’t have the weight of a city and its dreams on his shoulders. He was just a young man like any other. It was almost impossible to picture. There hadn’t been a time when he wasn’t devoted to Barça.
"I’ll put on the movie." Lilian flicked a few buttons on his remote, then drew Victor to him and kissed his temple softly. "You’ll like this one."