Fic: Fates Worse than Death
Title: Fates Worse than Death
Author: firetruckyouxx
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1690
Pairings, Characters: Lionel Messi/Neymar (could be read as gen or pre-slash)
Genre/Warnings: Angst, post-World Cup, pre-slash
Summary: Set after the World Cup final, the only phone call Leo can even consider taking is his.
Author's Note: For fc_smorgasbord's challenge. The prompt: A fate worse than death. This was supposed to be a drabble and I just…
The minute the final whistle is blown, time slows down, yet Leo feels dizzy at how fast everything comes at him. He barely can remember watching the Germans dance and sing with the golden World Cup, the one that Leo so desperately needed to win, according to everyone of the sports world (or really just the entire world, if he’s honest), in their hands, the first time in twenty-four years that is has been rightfully (depends on the definition if you ask Leo) touched by German hands. He doesn’t remember receiving the Golden Ball, which weighs heavy in his hands, or the comforting hug that he receives from Antonella as she whispers words of comfort in his ear. He hears but doesn’t listen.
The only thing Leo can remember is devastation, simply because it is not so much a memory but more of a present feeling, one that he can’t help but wear on his sleeve, just under the captain band that feels like a thousand tons as it still remains clasped around his arm, even now that he is in the privacy of his hotel room.
Kun left a little bit earlier, giving Leo some space, much like everyone seemed to be, even Antonella, who preferred for him never to grieve alone when he lost games with Barcelona or at Copa America. This time, however, after losing on the world’s largest stage, everyone thinks Leo wants to be alone.
Leo doesn’t even know if he wants to be alone. Hell, he can barely even remember his first name. The only things on his mind are a replay of all the wasted opportunities, all the missed chances, and more importantly, Philip Lahm raising the trophy that Leo has been dreaming about since he could ever remember.
His phone rings out on the nightstand over and over again, but the shocked numbness that has washed over his body has blocked out all the sounds around him. It buzzes over and over again and eventually whoever is in the room next to Leo, Higuaín and Ángel, probably, smack the wall over and over again but Leo still can’t hear the pounds, doesn’t feel the bed shake with the wall. Eventually, the pounding stops and Leo starts to wake up.
He looks at phone, how it lights up every other second. He thinks he should probably just turn off. Closing himself from everyone is easier than having to face them, to explain to everyone why his header did not go in, or why none of his goal attempts found the back of the net. He didn’t want to face anyone because he didn’t have any of the answers that they were looking for. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Instead of turning off his phone and just going to bed, willing the worst night of his life to end, he scrolls through his missed calls list and his text messages. Every person he’s ever given his phone number to seemed to text him. Xavi called him six times and texted a worried message asking him if he was alright, Iniesta called twice but did not text. His mother and father called both once and his brothers and sister all called multiple times and texted. All of his Barcelona teammates texted their support, none of them accusing. Leo thinks he even sees a blue dot next to Cristiano Ronaldo’s name in his iMessages.
There is one in particular that caught his eye for some reason, that stood out from all the rest. Call me? is the message under the name. Leo opens the conversation but there are no more new messages.
He scrolls up the top of the conversation and pressed the “Call” button.
Neymar picks up on the first ring.
“Hey,” the younger forward breathes into the phone, like he didn’t expect him to call.
Leo opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out. His mind is blank yet so busy. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a stand still on the busy road of the world, with cars rushing past him but not even moving at all. He hates it, he hates it so much. He just wants it all to end.
“I would say I know how you feel, but I really don’t,” Neymar says, probably to break the silence. He always hated silence, Leo thinks; he never stopped talking during practice, always telling stories or making jokes, even in the beginning when his Spanish wasn’t the best and only Dani could really understand him. They are polar opposites in so many ways but so similar in others. “My team didn’t even make it to the final, so.” He laughs bitterly and Leo thinks he’s too young to sound like that, to know what pure heartbreak and helplessness feels like. Leo thinks he himself is too young to as well. “I had to watch from a screen while my team got slaughtered. Tied for the second worst loss in the history of Brazilian football.”
Leo listens as Neymar lets out a shaky sigh.
“Fucking Germans,” Leo hears himself say, didn’t even really know he said it until Neymar begins to laugh wildly but Leo can hear the note of hysteria in his laughter. Leo chuckles a little bit too against his will because nothing should be funny right now. Nothing should be funny for a long time, he thinks.
“Don’t tell anyone this,” Neymar hiccups out after most of his laughter subsides, “but I was rooting for you. Not even the Argentines, just you, really.” He giggles again. “I think that’s treason though so…”
“Are you drunk?” Leo asks because honestly, he’s curious.
“Probably?” Neymar hiccups again. “Dani gave me something to drink but wouldn’t tell what it was so I’m not sure, but knowing Dani, I should probably have alcohol poisoning by now.”
“Nice.”
A silence falls over them as Leo struggles to find words to say, to try to find an excuse for not winning, something to tell Neymar that would help ease the pain that Leo feels. The silence is occasionally broken by Neymar’s soft hiccups and quiet giggle that follows them. In times like this, it’s not hard for Leo to remember that Neymar is only a kid, still so young. He’s fucking twenty-two for god’s sake.
“How’s your back?” Leo asks instead because it’s easier.
“Hurts,” Neymar says, “but I’ll live.”
“That’s good,” Leo murmurs and the silence settles over them again. He can hear Neymar’s heavy breath come through the line and Leo starts to think that they don’t need words anymore.
“I miss you,” Neymar blurts suddenly and it hits Leo like a ton of bricks, even if Neymar bursts into hysterical giggles after the statement. Leo stays silent though since he doesn’t know if he can even speak; he can barely breathe. “Do you miss me?” He sounds so petulant and desperate and Leo hates himself for liking the tone.
“Yeah, of course,” he manages to choke out and he wants to jump out the window because Neymar is drunk and he’s twenty-two and Leo has a serious girlfriend and a kid for Christ’s sake, and this is not okay. Under no circumstances will this ever be okay. Leo can see Xavi’s face of disapproval in his mind and he sighs. “Neymar, I--”
“You know what I can’t seem to decide on?” Neymar asks rhetorically, cutting off whatever Leo was going to say (Leo doesn’t even know what he was going to say). “I can’t decide which one of us has it worse: getting hurt in the quarter finals and then watching your team get crushed in their own country in the semi-finals and the third place match, and become national disgraces or get so close to winning the World Cup and then losing in extra time to a header from a substitute who is a fucking kid.”
Leo feels numb again; he can barely breathe. He can’t decide if being on the phone with Neymar is making it easier or harder to breathe. Both, probably. “Neymar,” he chokes out, as if physically pains him form words, which, yeah, it probably does.
Neymar laughs again but this time it is so bitter that Leo pulls away the phone to still make sure it is Neymar and not someone else on the phone. “Guess both of us have fates worse than death, huh?” he bites out so coldly that Leo unconsciously shivers, in a good or bad way, he doesn’t know.
“Didn’t know you were a poet,” Leo chokes out, trying to lighten the mood, trying to take away some of the tension that is making it almost impossible for him to breathe.
“Only when I’m drunk,” Neymar replies heavily.
Another heavy silence falls over them and Leo considers hanging up the phone because he can’t think right now yet this conversation has given him some kind of clarity he cannot even begin to describe. He’s about to open his mouth to offer a good-bye to Neymar but he beats him to the punch, saying, “You need some sleep. Trust me, it helps.” And Leo believes him.
“Okay,” he whispers into the line and then it’s dead. Leo wants to cry and scream and laugh and to throw the phone and to just stop breathe but he lets a heavy and shaky breath out instead, running a shaky hand through his hair.
His phone beeps one more time in his hand and Leo drops his eyes. His lock screen is lit up and all there’s a message from Neymar that says, See you tomorrow?
Okay, is the reply.
Leo crawls into his bed and when his head hits the pillow, his vision fills with blackness and Leo doesn’t know if it terrifies him or if he’s welcoming the eternal darkness. But despite the darkness, Leo can Neymar’s voice repeat in the back of his head “I miss you” and Leo begins to think that the fate worse than death thing can get better in time, especially if he doesn’t have to face his fate alone.
Author: firetruckyouxx
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1690
Pairings, Characters: Lionel Messi/Neymar (could be read as gen or pre-slash)
Genre/Warnings: Angst, post-World Cup, pre-slash
Summary: Set after the World Cup final, the only phone call Leo can even consider taking is his.
Author's Note: For fc_smorgasbord's challenge. The prompt: A fate worse than death. This was supposed to be a drabble and I just…
The minute the final whistle is blown, time slows down, yet Leo feels dizzy at how fast everything comes at him. He barely can remember watching the Germans dance and sing with the golden World Cup, the one that Leo so desperately needed to win, according to everyone of the sports world (or really just the entire world, if he’s honest), in their hands, the first time in twenty-four years that is has been rightfully (depends on the definition if you ask Leo) touched by German hands. He doesn’t remember receiving the Golden Ball, which weighs heavy in his hands, or the comforting hug that he receives from Antonella as she whispers words of comfort in his ear. He hears but doesn’t listen.
The only thing Leo can remember is devastation, simply because it is not so much a memory but more of a present feeling, one that he can’t help but wear on his sleeve, just under the captain band that feels like a thousand tons as it still remains clasped around his arm, even now that he is in the privacy of his hotel room.
Kun left a little bit earlier, giving Leo some space, much like everyone seemed to be, even Antonella, who preferred for him never to grieve alone when he lost games with Barcelona or at Copa America. This time, however, after losing on the world’s largest stage, everyone thinks Leo wants to be alone.
Leo doesn’t even know if he wants to be alone. Hell, he can barely even remember his first name. The only things on his mind are a replay of all the wasted opportunities, all the missed chances, and more importantly, Philip Lahm raising the trophy that Leo has been dreaming about since he could ever remember.
His phone rings out on the nightstand over and over again, but the shocked numbness that has washed over his body has blocked out all the sounds around him. It buzzes over and over again and eventually whoever is in the room next to Leo, Higuaín and Ángel, probably, smack the wall over and over again but Leo still can’t hear the pounds, doesn’t feel the bed shake with the wall. Eventually, the pounding stops and Leo starts to wake up.
He looks at phone, how it lights up every other second. He thinks he should probably just turn off. Closing himself from everyone is easier than having to face them, to explain to everyone why his header did not go in, or why none of his goal attempts found the back of the net. He didn’t want to face anyone because he didn’t have any of the answers that they were looking for. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Instead of turning off his phone and just going to bed, willing the worst night of his life to end, he scrolls through his missed calls list and his text messages. Every person he’s ever given his phone number to seemed to text him. Xavi called him six times and texted a worried message asking him if he was alright, Iniesta called twice but did not text. His mother and father called both once and his brothers and sister all called multiple times and texted. All of his Barcelona teammates texted their support, none of them accusing. Leo thinks he even sees a blue dot next to Cristiano Ronaldo’s name in his iMessages.
There is one in particular that caught his eye for some reason, that stood out from all the rest. Call me? is the message under the name. Leo opens the conversation but there are no more new messages.
He scrolls up the top of the conversation and pressed the “Call” button.
Neymar picks up on the first ring.
“Hey,” the younger forward breathes into the phone, like he didn’t expect him to call.
Leo opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out. His mind is blank yet so busy. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a stand still on the busy road of the world, with cars rushing past him but not even moving at all. He hates it, he hates it so much. He just wants it all to end.
“I would say I know how you feel, but I really don’t,” Neymar says, probably to break the silence. He always hated silence, Leo thinks; he never stopped talking during practice, always telling stories or making jokes, even in the beginning when his Spanish wasn’t the best and only Dani could really understand him. They are polar opposites in so many ways but so similar in others. “My team didn’t even make it to the final, so.” He laughs bitterly and Leo thinks he’s too young to sound like that, to know what pure heartbreak and helplessness feels like. Leo thinks he himself is too young to as well. “I had to watch from a screen while my team got slaughtered. Tied for the second worst loss in the history of Brazilian football.”
Leo listens as Neymar lets out a shaky sigh.
“Fucking Germans,” Leo hears himself say, didn’t even really know he said it until Neymar begins to laugh wildly but Leo can hear the note of hysteria in his laughter. Leo chuckles a little bit too against his will because nothing should be funny right now. Nothing should be funny for a long time, he thinks.
“Don’t tell anyone this,” Neymar hiccups out after most of his laughter subsides, “but I was rooting for you. Not even the Argentines, just you, really.” He giggles again. “I think that’s treason though so…”
“Are you drunk?” Leo asks because honestly, he’s curious.
“Probably?” Neymar hiccups again. “Dani gave me something to drink but wouldn’t tell what it was so I’m not sure, but knowing Dani, I should probably have alcohol poisoning by now.”
“Nice.”
A silence falls over them as Leo struggles to find words to say, to try to find an excuse for not winning, something to tell Neymar that would help ease the pain that Leo feels. The silence is occasionally broken by Neymar’s soft hiccups and quiet giggle that follows them. In times like this, it’s not hard for Leo to remember that Neymar is only a kid, still so young. He’s fucking twenty-two for god’s sake.
“How’s your back?” Leo asks instead because it’s easier.
“Hurts,” Neymar says, “but I’ll live.”
“That’s good,” Leo murmurs and the silence settles over them again. He can hear Neymar’s heavy breath come through the line and Leo starts to think that they don’t need words anymore.
“I miss you,” Neymar blurts suddenly and it hits Leo like a ton of bricks, even if Neymar bursts into hysterical giggles after the statement. Leo stays silent though since he doesn’t know if he can even speak; he can barely breathe. “Do you miss me?” He sounds so petulant and desperate and Leo hates himself for liking the tone.
“Yeah, of course,” he manages to choke out and he wants to jump out the window because Neymar is drunk and he’s twenty-two and Leo has a serious girlfriend and a kid for Christ’s sake, and this is not okay. Under no circumstances will this ever be okay. Leo can see Xavi’s face of disapproval in his mind and he sighs. “Neymar, I--”
“You know what I can’t seem to decide on?” Neymar asks rhetorically, cutting off whatever Leo was going to say (Leo doesn’t even know what he was going to say). “I can’t decide which one of us has it worse: getting hurt in the quarter finals and then watching your team get crushed in their own country in the semi-finals and the third place match, and become national disgraces or get so close to winning the World Cup and then losing in extra time to a header from a substitute who is a fucking kid.”
Leo feels numb again; he can barely breathe. He can’t decide if being on the phone with Neymar is making it easier or harder to breathe. Both, probably. “Neymar,” he chokes out, as if physically pains him form words, which, yeah, it probably does.
Neymar laughs again but this time it is so bitter that Leo pulls away the phone to still make sure it is Neymar and not someone else on the phone. “Guess both of us have fates worse than death, huh?” he bites out so coldly that Leo unconsciously shivers, in a good or bad way, he doesn’t know.
“Didn’t know you were a poet,” Leo chokes out, trying to lighten the mood, trying to take away some of the tension that is making it almost impossible for him to breathe.
“Only when I’m drunk,” Neymar replies heavily.
Another heavy silence falls over them and Leo considers hanging up the phone because he can’t think right now yet this conversation has given him some kind of clarity he cannot even begin to describe. He’s about to open his mouth to offer a good-bye to Neymar but he beats him to the punch, saying, “You need some sleep. Trust me, it helps.” And Leo believes him.
“Okay,” he whispers into the line and then it’s dead. Leo wants to cry and scream and laugh and to throw the phone and to just stop breathe but he lets a heavy and shaky breath out instead, running a shaky hand through his hair.
His phone beeps one more time in his hand and Leo drops his eyes. His lock screen is lit up and all there’s a message from Neymar that says, See you tomorrow?
Okay, is the reply.
Leo crawls into his bed and when his head hits the pillow, his vision fills with blackness and Leo doesn’t know if it terrifies him or if he’s welcoming the eternal darkness. But despite the darkness, Leo can Neymar’s voice repeat in the back of his head “I miss you” and Leo begins to think that the fate worse than death thing can get better in time, especially if he doesn’t have to face his fate alone.