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Virgil van Dijk would be a complete idiot not to notice the change in Alisson. The keeper was shy by nature but passionate, and what he saw was exactly what he got.
If Alisson was excited about anything, every inch of him would radiate with pure joy, like the sun itself. If he was nervous or worried, the floor would cave in with his pacing. If he was angry…oh dear, God have mercy on the target.
But the absolute worst time had to be when Alisson was anywhere in the realm of disappointment. It loomed over him like a gray cloud—more precisely, a gray rain cloud. No, a whole freaking thunderstorm with lightning, hail and torrential downpour . In short, it was noticeable.
So when Alisson didn’t react at all to the four goals Manchester City rolled past them—none of which were solely his fault—Van Dijk wanted to raise a mile-long red flag over the Etihad. He tried to see past Alisson's movements and words, but everything about him screamed dull listlessness, even his hyper-expressive green eyes. The further the game grew on, the worse it became.
Even after having to rescue the team for conceding yet even more goals, Alisson didn’t scream in frustration or yell at the team. He remained silent, like a statue; the only time the smallest hint of emotion came through was when he saw Ederson after the final whistle. But that didn’t last long either, and with a slight nudge from Gakpo, Van Dijk guided a disoriented Alisson away from the pitch and towards the tunnel. As soon as they were away from the cameras, Alisson detached himself from Van Dijk, ignoring the Dutchman’s calls as he near-sprinted down the halls.
He’ll probably talk to the boss, Van Dijk decided. Grabbing his bag of beauty supplies, he headed towards the locker room. For all of City’s crimes, they had the best showers in the Premier League.
*
Van Dijk came out from the showers an hour later to see the locker room in chaotic confusion. Fabinho was going through the lockers, Firmino ran in from the halls, and Elliott was swearing under his breath. A sullen Klopp stood in the center of the room, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“What’s going on?” Van Dijk called out, approaching Klopp. He seemed the calmest out of the four people in the room, and that was a bad sign. “Did the FBI finally arrest Guardiola for fielding a robot?”
“Far from it.” Klopp shook his head, pointing towards Alisson's spot in the row of lockers. “Ali’s missing, and he’s not even in the broom closets.”
"What do you mean, Ali's gone?" Van Dijk shouted, louder than he wanted to. He couldn't help it—Alisson going missing was never a good sign. In fact, it was the polar opposite. It was easy to say that Alisson ran away to get attention, but Van Dijk knew that self-isolation was Alisson's way of dealing with emotions too big for him in a non-destructive manner. That was where the broom closets came in—they served as a safe space to hide from the world. But Klopp had already said that he wasn’t in the broom closets. The German was just like Shakira’s hips—neither one lied.
"He's completely gone, you first class onager!" Elliott exclaimed at the top of his lungs. The youngster had always been rather hammy by nature. "Rodri must have taken him."
"Nice April Fools’ trick, bro. I don't think Rodri's at fault for this one." Firmino handed Van Dijk a forest green, leather bound notebook. "But I found this in the hallway."
Van Dijk took the notebook with a small gasp. "Ali's poetry notebook? He never leaves it around, he must've left in a hurry."
"Why didn't Ali tell me he wrote poetry?" Fabinho wondered aloud. He took out a notebook of his own, light blue with yellow and green checks. "I would've shown him my own. We can swap poems."
Van Dijk shook his head and dropped the book in his backpack. "He wanted to keep it a secret, but I don't think we can keep it a secret anymore. I've got to go find him."
"Get Nathan to help you," Klopp advised Van Dijk. "Pep told me that they always switch the order of things in City. It's easy to get lost here."
*
Van Dijk didn't want to waste precious time getting lost in the Etihad. Thankfully, Ake was a lot nicer than Rodri, and soon the two were on the search for Alisson. That turned out to be a lot harder than expected, as Guardiola had built the players’ corridors of the Etihad to be a maze.
“He isn’t anywhere!” Van Dijk groaned after checking behind what seemed to be the twelfth dozenth door. “Why does your stadium have to be so big? I haven’t a clue where he is. ”
Ake shrugged, pointing to Van Dijk’s bag. “Well, you said he left a poetry journal. Maybe that’ll give us a clue where he bolted off to.”
“It’s private.” Van Dijk dug out the notebook, staring at it in contemplation. “But he won’t mind if I read it—alone, that is.”
Ake nodded, turning his back on Van Dijk and staring at the wall. “Whatever floats your boat.”
Van Dijk opened the journal and flipped to the latest page, double-checking to make sure Ake was still turned towards the wall.
Last time I checked the FIFA rules, a goalkeeper was a last resort.
Nobody said anything about central defense, fullback position and midfield too…
If you don’t want to do your job, fine
Just don’t blame it all on me when we’re losing
I’ve probably dived to all degrees in the circle
I stretched my body, contorted my body
Okay, fine, I made some mistakes—but at least I do my job most of the time!
How am I supposed to live, love, laugh in these unlaughable conditions?
I don’t want to face the press—on and off the pitch
“ The press, of course!” Van Dijk grabbed Ake by the wrist, dragging him down the halls. “Where are your press conference rooms? I think he might be there.”
Ake pointed towards the way they’d come. “To the left and on the third floor. Should I take you there?”
“Please do. I’m not looking forward to ending up in the wrong room.”
*
Van Dijk’s concerns turned out to be correct all along. There wasn’t one press conference room, there were one dozen —and that was on one side of the hall. Another set completed that number, which Ake told him Guardiola had labeled as “the hall of torture”. There were so many, all full-sized and elaborate, that Ake refused Van Dijk’s claims to “let Alisson see him first” and proceeded to open doors and search inside the rooms.
“Nathan!” Van Dijk motioned towards the thirteenth door in the hall, which was painted a slick, glossy black. “He’s in there.”
“How do you know? We haven’t even checked door three yet,” Ake reminded him. “Let’s do this in an organized manner—”
“I know Ali better than I knew any of my old teammates,” Van Dijk insisted, pushing open the door. “He’ll be in here. Could you stay out here?”
Ake nodded, pocketing the phone he’d been holding. “I’ve got to go attend Guardiola’s team meeting, anyways. But I’ll pick you up, okay?”
*
Van Dijk was pleased to find that this press conference room was a lot smaller than the others they’d checked. That made it rather easy to locate Alisson, vacantly staring into space in one of the press conference seats.
“Ah, I found you mijn jade!” Van Dijk exclaimed, a little cheerier than he’d wanted it to come out. He couldn’t help it; Alisson needed something, anything to break him out of this emotionless spell. “Nathan and I had to walk through Etihad to find you—and this place is not small. Now tell me: what’s wrong?”
Van Dijk froze as he realized the state Alisson was in. His shoulders trembled with every shallow, rapid breath he took, and the keeper was slightly hunched in on himself. He hadn’t even seemed to realize that Van Dijk was there—no wonder, considering how his vision might’ve been slightly blurred.
Great work, Virgil. First you let him run away, and now he’s got a panic attack? And where were you? In the showers.
Van Dijk took a deep breath, cutting off the voices in his head. He had to remain calm, otherwise he risked startling Alisson further. So instead of taking the direct route towards Alisson, Van Dijk slowly and calmly walked around the room and approached Alisson from the front row. Ignoring how small the space was between the chairs, he knelt in front of him. “Ali? Can you hear me?”
“Virgil? Is that you?”
Van Dijk had expected a delay in response, considering Alisson was showing all symptoms of a panic attack. In Alisson's case that usually involved temporary hearing impairment, but this time that didn’t seem to be a problem. “Yes, it’s me. Can I touch you?”
Alisson barely nodded, still not making eye contact with Van Dijk. Van Dijk, not sure how much contact the other wanted, settled for holding his hand.
“Okay Ali, you’re having a panic attack. But I’m going to help you,” Van Dijk clarified, ignoring the cramping in his legs. He could stand later—right now he needed to look as non threatening as possible. “We’re going to breathe now—in for four, hold for six, and out for seven. Bem?”
“ Bem.”
They went through the common exercise, with Van Dijk performing the counts. By four rounds, Alisson seemed noticeably calmer than before.
“Thanks,” he whispered, letting go of Van Dijk’s hand so the older man could take a seat. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Van Dijk insisted, stretching his calves in relief. In his five years of knowing Alisson, he’d got a lot better with his words. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? I don’t like to see my friends so miserable.”
“What’s not wrong now?! No matter how much I do, we still keep losing. It’s like I don’t have control over my life now. Everything’s slipping away between my fingers.” Alisson held up his hands, displaying the grass-stained gloves. “And you know how bad that is for a goalkeeper. I know the other guys are working hard, but…honestly, I can’t see it on the pitch sometimes.”
For once, Van Dijk didn’t know what to say to the keeper. Van Dijk himself had been massively subpar for most of the season, and he was quite aware that there were things he could do better. But hearing how much he’d hurt Alisson—avoidably—left him speechless.
"I don't know," Alisson sighed, leaning back against the chair. "Maybe I should give Caoimhin all my matches. That's the only thing we haven't tried yet."
"Okay, just hold on a second. I want to show you one of my best friends." Van Dijk scrolled through his phone, clicking on a picture. “Take a look. Who do you see?”
“I see you and I, side by side in training. We’re walking towards something, and—”
“No, no, no. I mean, I see that! But that’s obvious, mijn jade. ” Van Dijk tilted the picture so that it took up the whole of his screen. “I see a kind-hearted, protective, affectionate friend, who selflessly does his job every day without fail even though his teammates don’t help him like they should. I see somebody who, despite a nearly nonexistent defense, has as many clean sheets as the second-placed team in the league. I see one of the most passionate, hard-working players in our entire team.”
Slowly, afraid of scaring him off, Van Dijk wrapped his arm around Alisson's shoulders. Nearly as soon as he felt the touch, Alisson took Van Dijk’s hand, holding it tightly.
“I don’t see Ederson’s international competitor,” Van Dijk went on. “I see our Alisson Becker. And that’s who we want, need and love every day. ”
Van Dijk waited for a response. He never got one, as the Brazilian engulfed him in a silent, yet powerful hug. “ Eu te amo.”
*
Ake walked back down the “hall of torture” half an hour later. Only this time, there were four people following him, freaking out.
“We’ll check the stands, the offices and the administrative buildings,” Klopp announced, rolling up the map he’d held since Ake had come to get them. “No iota of Manchester will go unturned—and if we can’t find him here, we’ll search the whole of England. We’ll call the FBI, and—”
“Jesucristo, calm down boss !” Firmino cajoled him, taking the map from Klopp’s hands. “Ali’s still in the building, right Nathan?”
“You should’ve gotten Ilkay for this. He’s great for geography business,” Ake grumbled under his breath. Klopp had been ranting and freaking out the whole way, and it was starting to get on his nerves. “But yes, he’s still in the building. I think Virg found him behind the thirteenth door.”
“Unlucky!” Elliott called out, narrowly dodging a slap from Firmino. “Jeez, can’t you guys take a joke?!”
“Funny you say that. Thirteen was Alisson's number before he got the one jersey, and thirteen’s also the sum of our current jersey numbers. Ask Akanji, he knows math like a pro.” Fabinho stood in front of the mirror-like door. “Should we knock? I mean, I don’t want to see the wrong thing.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.” Klopp had already opened the door and taken a peek inside. “Look, they’re asleep.”
The five gathered around the door. Alisson had fallen asleep with his head on Van Dijk’s shoulder, holding the Dutchman close to him like a teddy bear. Van Dijk, who didn’t really like hugs, didn’t even try to fight Alisson's grip on him. In fact, both seemed quite comfortable.
Ake chuckled to himself, leaning against the doorway. “When Virgil sleeps, he’s like a dead log. I hope you don’t mind staying a while longer.”
“No problem. We have about an hour until we go back to the hotel, anyway.” Elliott took out a foghorn, grinning a devious grin. “And if he’s still sleeping, we have a cure.”