It's Mai's birthday!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
I don't remember how to work livejournal very well so bare with me on this.
This is a silly story about how Fede was charmed by Pocho Lavezzi.
*
Fede’s first national team call-up is an exciting affair.
Independiente’s first team stand up and applaud him during training the next day and Fede blushes to the roots of his hair when the Mister claps him on the back, looking proud.
“First team, Fede,” Pisano says during stretches, shaking off Lucero, who’s trying to rest his elbow on his head, “it’s so exciting! You’ll get to meet Messi!”
They all briefly fall silent, contemplating the wonderfulness that’s Lionel Messi, until Ruso breaks the silence
.
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s Messi he’s looking forward to seeing. I seem to remember you having a life-sized poster of a certain Independiente player that you guarded with your life,” he says, grinning like it’s a lot more illicit than what actually happened.
So maybe, Fede had a poster of Kun when he was younger; in fact he’d had several, which was entirely normal for a kid his age. Okay, he also had Kun’s picture in his locker in the dressing room. And in the drawer next to his bed. Honestly, it’s not like Fede had a crush or anything.
“Did you have a crush on Agüero, Fede?” Villalba joins in, much to everyone’s delight.
“He did!” Ruso says, to raucous laughter. Fede wants to kill him.
“Did you want to have his babies?” Pisano pipes up.
“You’re 150 cm tall, what business do you have talking about babies?” Fede replies on automatic and everyone bursts out laughing, the conversation derailed to Pisano’s height, or lack thereof.
Ruso beams at him across the field and Fede shakes his head at him, causing his grin to grow. Fede wouldn’t put it past him to mention Kun at least twenty more times today.
Honestly.
He was surrounded by children.
*
But Fede is excited to see Kun. Well, first and foremost, he’s excited to play, but seeing Kun Agüero is an incredible added bonus.
His arrival is predictably nerve wracking. He’s not sure where to go or who to talk to or where to leave his things, which for a brief moment leaves him standing in the middle of the hotel lobby, blinking at his surroundings.
“Oh hey, you’re new!” comes a voice behind him. It turns out to be Pocho Lavezzi, bouncing on the balls of his feet and eating a big red apple.
“I suppose I am, at that,” Fede says automatically, extending his hand. Pocho takes it in a warm handshake, his eyes twinkling behind his bushy beard. “I’m Fede Mancuello, from Independiente.”
“I’m Pocho. And I’m not helping you with anything now, you’re Independiente!” It’s obviously a joke, but Fede fakes a frown anyway.
“As expected from someone from San Lorenzo! No manners at all!”
“Don’t let Zaba hear you say that! He’ll beat you up.” Pocho’s grin grows in delight and after a beat of silence both of them burst out laughing. “But I suppose you’re looking for Kun then?”
“Ah, I suppose so. Do you know where he is?”
“Predictable!” Pocho throws his hands up. “Nobody wants Pocho, nobody cares about Pocho, they all want either the Kun or the Messi, Pocho might as well be chopped liver!”
They’re attracting curious stares now, as Pocho’s display grows louder and more dramatic
.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fede says, barely withholding laugher, “I’ll find you after I say hello to Kun, how about that? We’ll drink some mate and you can tell me about all the great things Pocho has done.”
“That’ll be a short list then,” someone says behind them, and Fede would know that voice anywhere.
“Kun!” is all he manages to say before he’s swept into a hug. Kun kisses both his cheeks. Twice.
“Finally, someone with sense around here! I’ve been waiting for you to arrive, chiquito,” Kun says, speaking so quickly Fede can barely get a word in. “How are things at home? Is Pablo still working at the front gate? How’s everyone doing?”
Fede gets pulled along by Kun, doing his best to answer the questions, and he barely has time to wave at Pocho, who’s watching them go, shaking his head.
*
Fede keeps his promise though and finds Pocho after Kun’s done with him. He’s sitting on the hotel balcony, with some sort of colorful drink almost empty in front of him, fiddling with his phone. Fede drops into the seat next to him and waits patiently for him to finish. Pocho jumps and lets out a little scream when he notices him.
“When the fuck did you get here?” he says. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“You looked so tranquil with your cocktail, I didn’t want to interrupt you?”
“So Kun is done with you, and now you’re here with Pocho, second best?” Pocho pouts and it’s unexpectedly cute, because he looks like a child despite his shaggy beard.
“Exactly,” Fede smiles innocently back. He’s charmed by this man, despite himself. “Or rather, Messi came in from press work.”
“Ahh,” Pocho nods sagely, “you got thrown out for the booty call then?”
“Even I know they’re in love, Pocho, don’t be so vulgar” Fede says and they burst out laughing again, Fede doubling over to hide his giggles in his hands and Pocho with his head thrown back, pounding his fist on the table.
“Right, right,” Pocho says finally, wiping his eyes. “What sort of mischief shall we get up to then?”
“No mischief,” Fede shakes his head, “you’re not allowed to get me into any trouble. Instead,” he grabs a thermos out of his bag, as well as two mate cups, “instead, we’ll be good old men like your nickname, and you can tell me all about Pocho, second best.”
Pocho beams at him, grips the cup in his hands like a child as Fede pours. Then, he starts talking.
I don't remember how to work livejournal very well so bare with me on this.
This is a silly story about how Fede was charmed by Pocho Lavezzi.
*
Fede’s first national team call-up is an exciting affair.
Independiente’s first team stand up and applaud him during training the next day and Fede blushes to the roots of his hair when the Mister claps him on the back, looking proud.
“First team, Fede,” Pisano says during stretches, shaking off Lucero, who’s trying to rest his elbow on his head, “it’s so exciting! You’ll get to meet Messi!”
They all briefly fall silent, contemplating the wonderfulness that’s Lionel Messi, until Ruso breaks the silence
.
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s Messi he’s looking forward to seeing. I seem to remember you having a life-sized poster of a certain Independiente player that you guarded with your life,” he says, grinning like it’s a lot more illicit than what actually happened.
So maybe, Fede had a poster of Kun when he was younger; in fact he’d had several, which was entirely normal for a kid his age. Okay, he also had Kun’s picture in his locker in the dressing room. And in the drawer next to his bed. Honestly, it’s not like Fede had a crush or anything.
“Did you have a crush on Agüero, Fede?” Villalba joins in, much to everyone’s delight.
“He did!” Ruso says, to raucous laughter. Fede wants to kill him.
“Did you want to have his babies?” Pisano pipes up.
“You’re 150 cm tall, what business do you have talking about babies?” Fede replies on automatic and everyone bursts out laughing, the conversation derailed to Pisano’s height, or lack thereof.
Ruso beams at him across the field and Fede shakes his head at him, causing his grin to grow. Fede wouldn’t put it past him to mention Kun at least twenty more times today.
Honestly.
He was surrounded by children.
*
But Fede is excited to see Kun. Well, first and foremost, he’s excited to play, but seeing Kun Agüero is an incredible added bonus.
His arrival is predictably nerve wracking. He’s not sure where to go or who to talk to or where to leave his things, which for a brief moment leaves him standing in the middle of the hotel lobby, blinking at his surroundings.
“Oh hey, you’re new!” comes a voice behind him. It turns out to be Pocho Lavezzi, bouncing on the balls of his feet and eating a big red apple.
“I suppose I am, at that,” Fede says automatically, extending his hand. Pocho takes it in a warm handshake, his eyes twinkling behind his bushy beard. “I’m Fede Mancuello, from Independiente.”
“I’m Pocho. And I’m not helping you with anything now, you’re Independiente!” It’s obviously a joke, but Fede fakes a frown anyway.
“As expected from someone from San Lorenzo! No manners at all!”
“Don’t let Zaba hear you say that! He’ll beat you up.” Pocho’s grin grows in delight and after a beat of silence both of them burst out laughing. “But I suppose you’re looking for Kun then?”
“Ah, I suppose so. Do you know where he is?”
“Predictable!” Pocho throws his hands up. “Nobody wants Pocho, nobody cares about Pocho, they all want either the Kun or the Messi, Pocho might as well be chopped liver!”
They’re attracting curious stares now, as Pocho’s display grows louder and more dramatic
.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fede says, barely withholding laugher, “I’ll find you after I say hello to Kun, how about that? We’ll drink some mate and you can tell me about all the great things Pocho has done.”
“That’ll be a short list then,” someone says behind them, and Fede would know that voice anywhere.
“Kun!” is all he manages to say before he’s swept into a hug. Kun kisses both his cheeks. Twice.
“Finally, someone with sense around here! I’ve been waiting for you to arrive, chiquito,” Kun says, speaking so quickly Fede can barely get a word in. “How are things at home? Is Pablo still working at the front gate? How’s everyone doing?”
Fede gets pulled along by Kun, doing his best to answer the questions, and he barely has time to wave at Pocho, who’s watching them go, shaking his head.
*
Fede keeps his promise though and finds Pocho after Kun’s done with him. He’s sitting on the hotel balcony, with some sort of colorful drink almost empty in front of him, fiddling with his phone. Fede drops into the seat next to him and waits patiently for him to finish. Pocho jumps and lets out a little scream when he notices him.
“When the fuck did you get here?” he says. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“You looked so tranquil with your cocktail, I didn’t want to interrupt you?”
“So Kun is done with you, and now you’re here with Pocho, second best?” Pocho pouts and it’s unexpectedly cute, because he looks like a child despite his shaggy beard.
“Exactly,” Fede smiles innocently back. He’s charmed by this man, despite himself. “Or rather, Messi came in from press work.”
“Ahh,” Pocho nods sagely, “you got thrown out for the booty call then?”
“Even I know they’re in love, Pocho, don’t be so vulgar” Fede says and they burst out laughing again, Fede doubling over to hide his giggles in his hands and Pocho with his head thrown back, pounding his fist on the table.
“Right, right,” Pocho says finally, wiping his eyes. “What sort of mischief shall we get up to then?”
“No mischief,” Fede shakes his head, “you’re not allowed to get me into any trouble. Instead,” he grabs a thermos out of his bag, as well as two mate cups, “instead, we’ll be good old men like your nickname, and you can tell me all about Pocho, second best.”
Pocho beams at him, grips the cup in his hands like a child as Fede pours. Then, he starts talking.