Work Text:
Virgil knows that there is nothing more important in the world as the captain of a football team as great as Liverpool than being at every possible game in which Klopp does not rotate the main squad. After all, he should be the support figure that the young boys should draw inspiration from, feel safe, and ask for help when they need it. This is what he committed to when chosen by Klopp.
But now, sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed with a styrofoam cup of hot coffee clutched firmly between his two aching hands, Virgil begins to question his fitness for tonight's match against Arsenal. It's an FA Cup match that will define their progress to the next stage. Normally, he is there for these matches. With a sniffle, Virgil tries to focus on taking slow sips of his drink and not on the fact that his heart is no longer beating in his chest, but in his head.
A knock on the door almost makes him drop the coffee on himself. Grunting, he scrambles to his feet and drags himself to the door, his sock-clad feet barely able to take decent steps. Virgil peers through the peephole at the top of the door and sees his brother on the field, Joe Gomez, standing in front of the door, hands behind his back. Sighing, Virgil pushes the handle down and opens the door.
"Dude, it's been thirty minutes since- whoa. Dude, what happened to you?" Gomez raises an eyebrow as he examines Virgil's face closely.
“I'm not-” Virgil clears his throat, trying to make his voice come back and sound firmer. "I'm not quite in the best shape."
"Bro, I'm sorry, but you can't go to the match like that." Joe leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, frowning. "You're going to faint on the field. And you're going to make Alisson nervous. And all of us."
"Ridiculous." Virgil scoffs, making a waving motion with his hand. "I'll survive. Hendo survived that time, you told me."
"Hendo is Hendo. You are a child with low immunity."
"I'm older than you, though." Virgil dodges when Joe tries to put his palm on his forehead. "Quiet that hand of yours. I don't need a thermometer. I'm fine. What did you come to tell me?"
Joe sighs and mutters a "stubborn idiot" under his breath. "Klopp wants to talk to you and a few others from the team. It's about today."
"Of course. I'll be right down." And with that, Virgil goes back into the warm room and closes the door, shivering from the brief thermal shock he received. He coughs a little into his fist and goes into the small bathroom, turning on the light.
Maybe Joey is right, he definitely doesn't look good. His eyes are swollen and lidded, and he looks a little more hunched over his shoulders than he normally is. And he feels pain. A tearing pain when swallowing. But, he takes a deep breath and leaves the bathroom, turning off the light. He will play no matter what. Taking his cell phone, he leaves the room and puts the key card in his pocket, heading to the elevator.
The makeshift meeting room in the hotel lobby is already full when he arrives. Virgil puts his hands in his pockets, feeling them hurt, as he looks for his usual place between Trent and Alisson. He receives some looks from his boyfriend and his friend, as well as a poke on the foot from Konaté, who looks at him with concern.
"Son." Klopp puts a hand on his shoulder from behind. It's cold. Virgil almost leans into the touch. "You will not play."
"What?" Virgil coughs and Alisson immediately places a warm hand on his thigh. "Why not? I'm in conditions to play."
"Virgil, for God's sake-" Alisson begins, before being gently silenced by Klopp.
"Virgil, my boy, you know you're a handsome man and you never seem to have a hair out of place." Klopp's hand shifts to the back of Virgil's head and it's so cold against his warm skin that the Dutchman sighs. "Today you're far from looking like that. You're going to rest. We're not sending you home, but you're staying at the hotel."
"But-" Virgil tries to argue, but he knows all is lost when he feels the pressure of Klopp's hand on the back of his head increase. He sighs and drags his feet on the floor. "Of course, gaffer."
"Ali, help him back to his room and make sure he's comfortable." Klopp commands and Virgil watches the Brazilian give a small nod. The hand on the back of his head is replaced by Alisson's equally cold hand, which gives a gentle pull on his forearm to make him stand up. A few murmurs of "good luck" and "get well, captain" are heard.
Virgil refuses to speak, his forehead resting against the cold metal of the elevator's interior. It seemed like Klopp had a magic finger as he definitely felt worse than when he came down. The only thing comforting him at the moment is Alisson's thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. He opens one eye. Those worried blue orbs are staring at him and he feels guilty for worrying his boyfriend.
"Sorry."
"Sh." Alisson silences him with a firm grip on the hand he holds. "There's no reason to apologize. It's normal to be sick."
"Not in the way I get sick."
"Having low immunity doesn't make you weaker." Alisson begins to guide him out of the elevator and down the empty hallway. "You just need to be more careful."
Virgil almost throws the entire weight of his body onto the poor goalkeeper, who huffs in concern when he realizes that Virgil can barely walk without looking like a staggering drunk. Damn it. Virgil sees the black dots dancing in front of his eyes. He definitely has a fever and is very, very sleepy.
"Virgil!" Alisson's voice sounds louder and he forces himself to open his eyes wider and straighten up, even though his back hurts like hell.
"What?"
"Your key card, angel." Alisson says tenderly, rubbing his knuckle gently against Virgil's cheek. "I need to open the door."
"Oh." Virgil reaches into his pocket and struggles a bit with the lack of mental clarity before pulling out the small white plastic card and handing it to Alisson. "Here."
A beep is heard and Virgil is once again being pulled into the room, which still has some of the wonderful heat that makes Virgil's fingers slowly regain sensitivity. He is carefully pushed back until his butt meets the soft mattress, covered by a thick quilt. Alisson's hand wraps around the back of his head and, before Virgil can ask what the goalkeeper is doing, he feels their foreheads touch. The temperature contrast is stark.
"Shit." Alisson swears in Portuguese and Virgil snorts a hoarse laugh. "You have a fever. It doesn't seem very high, but you're definitely staying in here."
Virgil pouts as Alisson unzips his jacket and carefully slides it off Virgil's body. He is stripped of the rest of his clothes, left in just his boxers. He shivers from the cold.
"Where are your pajamas?" Alisson asks, rummaging through a small shelf in the corner near the window, where some of Virgil's clothes and personal utensils are.
"Somewhere in there." Virgil mutters weakly. Even talking hurts.
"Found it."
As if he were a child, Virgil is dressed by Alisson, who takes great care to ensure that he doesn't make sudden movements that could leave him dizzy. After being dressed, Virgil's hair is released from its usual bun and he watches Alisson place the black hair elastic on his own wrist.
"I know you hate it when your hair gets gelled when it's down." Alisson sighs, helping Virgil lie down on the bed and pulling the quilt to accommodate him under it. "But making your hair presentable would require making you take a shower or wash it in the sink, and it's too cold for me to do that to you, the way you are."
"It's okay. Thank you." Virgil murmurs, sinking into the mattress, the warmth welcome.
"I'm going to go to the kitchen and see if I can get you something. Maybe some soup. Do you feel like eating anything specific?"
"I can't eat anything." Virgil says, opening both eyes as little as he can without hurting them with the light. Huh. When were they lit? "My throat hurts if I swallow."
"Hm." Alisson smoothes the quilt over Virgil. "I'll see what I can bring."
Alisson leaves the room, turning off the lights and leaving Virgil alone. The Dutchman notices that his cell phone is in his pocket. Taking it out, he tries to see the messages the boys are sending in the team's parallel chat. They seem excited, especially Quansah. Shit, Virgil should have been there with them. Virgil shouldn't be lying in this stupid bed with some stupid disease fucking up his shitty immune system. He can't even find the strength to type anything on the keyboard, it seems like his mind is not connected to the rest of his body. Defeated, he leaves his cell phone under his pillow and closes his eyes, waiting for Alisson to return.
When Virgil wakes up, he notices that he is sitting on the bed, wearing another pajama shirt. It seems to belong to Alisson, as it smells like him. The goalkeeper is standing inside the bathroom, wetting his hands under the sink jet. When he returns, he is visibly worried. There's a wrinkle between his furrowed brows.
"You were sweating. Shit. Your hair, the back of your neck, your back, all covered in sweat. By some miracle the bedding stayed intact." Alisson holds out the same cup of coffee that Virgil was sipping earlier. He doesn't even know how much time has passed. "It's water. There's paracetamol in there."
Slowly and already expecting the pain, Virgil drinks the entire content of the cup containing paracetamol drops. A bitter water that makes the hairs on Virgil's arms stand up. When handing the cup back to Alisson, he is surprised when a small plate with yellow dough is put in his lap. Alisson, in turn, pulled out a small stool to sit next to Virgil.
"It's mashed potatoes." Virgil sighs when Alisson speaks. "I know it hurts for you to swallow, but the only thing in there that wasn't very solid was this. Please, Virgil?"
The Dutchman nods, allowing himself to be fed by his careful boyfriend. The pain when swallowing is suppressed by the potatoes being warm and Alisson is attentive enough to give him small portions on the spoon, letting him chew and finish eating what was in his mouth without putting pressure on him. A tightly folded paper towel is used to clean Virgil's mouth and a kiss is pressed under his eye.
"Do you want to go to the bathroom or something?" Alisson asks, getting up and taking the plate and stool away. When Virgil denies it, he says: "Then sleep. I'm leaving now. If you need to, call Klopp, Cody or Pep. Your cell phone is right under the pillow where your head is. I love you."
"I love you too." Virgil mutters. Again, he is left alone.
Virgil dreams in white. Feverish nightmare, probably. As if he was falling. A white and endless tunnel, making him feel off the ground and butterflies in his stomach making him shiver. He wakes up when he feels completely floating. He manages to open his eyes wide this time. The paracetamol possibly took effect, making him less lethargic, although he still felt sick as hell. Grabbing his cell phone under his pillow, the first thing Virgil does is look up the score. Yes! Liverpool beat Arsenal 2-0 and went to the next stage of the Cup. Posting something on his Instagram, Virgil settles back into bed, waiting for Alisson to come back to see him.
Fortunately, his silent prayers are answered and soon Alisson is entering the room and placing Virgil's key card in the holder next to the door. He looks happy, his cheeks flushed from the cold and a relieved smile stretching his lips when he notices that Virgil looks less sick.
"I won it for you." He murmurs, kneeling down next to Virgil's bed and kissing one of Virgil's hands. "For you."
"I know." Virgil leans over and rubs his nose on Alisson's forehead. "Thank you so much, my precious."
They both remain in a comfortable silence in that position, before Virgil breaks it and speaks shyly:
"Can you do that again?"
"What?"
"That thing about putting your forehead against mine."
With a low laugh, Alisson leans over and touches his forehead to Virgil's again, who shivers at the colder skin against his. Virgil grabs both of Alisson's hands tightly and closes his eyes. There's no place he wants to be right now other than here, with his angel watching over him.