Work Text:
It happened again. Thiago had gotten a hip flexor injury that would keep him out for almost seven games. Seven crucial games that could make or break Liverpool's season--and Thiago wouldn't be a part of any of them.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Most of all he wanted to punch Paul Tierney, but he was pretty sure the FA wouldn't allow him to do that.
He still came to watch the game, of course. But as Thiago watched his teammates walk out onto the pitch, ready to go, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should’ve been out there, playing the game. At the very least, he should’ve been fit.
Thiago’s face must’ve shown how much he was overthinking, because the next time he looked up from the ground Tsimikas was hovering over him. Tsimikas was only one inch taller than Thiago, but while Thiago was sitting down the difference seemed to be far more.
“You okay?” The Greek plopped down next to Thiago, flashing the Spaniard a corny, Hollywood-style grin. “Scowls don’t look good on you, ya know. Everything else does.”
“Vete, Kostas,” Thiago muttered, leaning against the seat. “It’s not worth your time anyways.”
Tsimikas frowned, his expression quickly morphing from jestful to serious. He pressed closer to Thiago, wrapping a brotherly arm around him. “Thiago, is something wrong?”
Thiago glared at Tsimikas in annoyance. The left back really could read him too easily. “What if I didn’t want to tell you?”
“Thiago, I know I’m a little…different compared to the others. Seriously, I own a nightclub, write and record my own rap songs, and I even started a man bun club.” Tsimikas chuckled at his own joke, pulling Thiago even closer to him. “But you’re one of my best friends. I’d hate to know something was bothering you and you wouldn’t say it.”
Thiago still refused to say anything, stubbornly staring at the scoreboard. Tsimikas wrapped both of his arms around Thiago, adjusting himself so that the Spaniard’s head laid on his chest. Thiago didn’t struggle—he actually found the position to be very comfortable.
“Rise up this mornin', smile with the risin' sun. Three little birds pitched by my doorstep.”
Thiago’s eyes widened in surprise. Tsimikas rarely sang, even when the rest of the team were singing together. In fact, they'd all thought Tsimikas couldn't sing a note until Thiago had come down with an ear infection. That day, Tsimikas had sung a poem that he'd written himself to a guitar tune. Of course he hadn't played the guitar, but it was the thought that counted.
“You know, considering how many injuries you've got, you're a world-glass player. Get it?” Tsimikas cracked up at his own corny joke. “Isn’t that a great one Thiago?”
“No, it’s not!” Thiago finally cracked, stiffening in his seat while glaring at a surprised Tsimikas. “You don’t need to rub it in, cabron! I’m completely useless when injured, it’s like my bones are made of glass and I can’t even go a whole month without getting injured. You’d all be better off with somebody who can actually last a few weeks without getting hurt.”
“Thiago Alcantara do Nascimento.” Tsimikas gasped, pulling Thiago even closer. “Never let me hear you say that again. You are not useless, even when you are injured.”
“I-I’m not?” Thiago gave up trying to fight back the sting in his eyes, letting the tears roll freely. He hadn’t felt this bad since the EFL Cup final where he’d gotten injured in the warmup.
Tsimikas shook his head vigorously, glaring at a passing cameraman who’d tried to take a picture of them. “Never. Thiago the player is great, but my main man Thiago? Heck, that’s even better. And do you know what I’d do if you said that again?”
Thiago shook his head, calmer now. “What?”
Tsimikas grinned again, handing Thiago a brown paper bag. “Then I’ll give you these arepas con huevos Lucho made and start cracking some good yolks.”