Work Text:
Nobody ever listened to him.
Alisson smashed a bottle against his locker. The plastic canteen fell to the ground with a thunk that echoed around the locker room. He couldn’t care less.
Alisson was usually a quiet person, both on and off the pitch. He much preferred doing his job in the shadows than commanding everybody from the spotlight. He knew being vocal was important sometimes but it wasn’t for him, thank you very much.
Now he wished he was louder, scarier. He wished his teammates listened to him.
He’d sounded the alarm bells multiple times. He’d even taken to shouting, which hurt his throat, while organizing his teammates for setpieces. It was hopeless, because nobody ever took the time to consider if his words had merit to them. Nobody did—not Fabinho, not Van Dijk, not even Salah.
It was halftime.
They were 2-0 down at Brentford.
And for once in his life, Alisson Ramses Becker was mad.
He was mad at Van Dijk, who’d been nonexistent. At Nunez, for missing all those chances. At Konate, for scoring his own goal—even though Alisson knew he shouldn’t be.
One by one, the others bar Elliott, Tsimikas and Van Dijk filtered into the locker room. Alisson didn’t even want to face them, he was seething.
“Well…” Konate sighed. “That didn’t go as planned.”
You think? Alisson didn’t bother to say it.
Fabinho nodded. “We all played below our standards.”
He knew it was unlike him. But at this moment Alisson wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into Fabinho’s bald head.
We? There is no we. You played below standards. I saved your butts from being down by 6.
Salah shrugged, wrapping his towel around his shoulders. “Maybe you defenders should have listened to Virg. He’s the captain, after all.”
And where did THAT get us, Mohamed Salah? Alisson glared at the Egyptian, but he didn’t pay attention. As usual, nobody notices.
The bell rang, signaling that it was time for the second half. If Liverpool wasn’t goalless, Alisson would’ve sabotaged things so the match could stop.
Normally he would never think of doing that. But he was fed up with being ignored.
*
By some miracle, Alisson got his wish. Oxlade-Chamberlain—of all people—halved the deficit with a header. Alisson prayed to every saint he knew for an equalizer, something to quell the foreign rage inside of him.
And then Brentford scored a third, right before the 90-minute mark.
This was getting ridiculous.
The final whistle couldn’t come soon enough for Alisson. He wasn’t even disappointed—just fuming at his teammates.
“What the hell, Van Dijk?!” he yelled at the Dutchman. Van Dijk, who’d been reading on his phone, nearly dropped it with surprise.
“Ali, do you have a fever or something?” Van Dijk scanned Alisson for anything suspicious. “Were you even talking to me?”
“Virgil Van Dijk, what the hell is that? What in the name of the devil do you call that? A performance?” he roared.
Van Dijk blinked in confusion. “I know we didn’t play well Ali, but—”
“WE?! The hell, there is no we! YOU played like absolute crap.”
Salah looked up from his phone. “That’s pretty accurate, actually.”
“Oh, don’t even get me started on you, Mo,” the goalkeeper seethed. “You were absolutely shambolic out there. Even Ox played better than you today.”
“Really?” Salah shot back. “I can count at least five balls Ox missed. You didn’t do much better either, Ali.”
The world seemed to screech to a halt around Alisson. “Excuse me?”
“You could’ve saved the third goal if you tried, easily. If you’d spoken up you could have organized the defense.” The Egyptian didn’t even flinch as he said this. “Ali, I know you hate criticism—”
“What are you talking about?” At least Keita was on Alisson’s side. He stepped out of the showers, glaring at Salah. “You messed your own chances up, Mo. Ali had nothing to do with it.”
“Mates, MATES!” Robertson yelled from the bench. “You know the gaffer wouldn’t like this.”
Alisson glared at the Scot so hard, he shivered in his shoes. “The boss should be proud of me. It’s about time I got mad at you all for the nonexistent protection you give me!”
He stared at Tsimikas and Matip. “You two are absolute jokes, just like Virg. When will we get actual players who care about the game? Me, Lucho, Robbo, Darwin, and Caoimhin are the only ones here who give an iota of a damn about our dignity.”
“Like father, like son,” Fabinho whispered to Elliott. Alisson wanted to shoot a laser through him.
“Are you okay?” Robertson had the sense to ask. “You don’t usually yell like this.”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. As if switching off a light, all the rage drained from his soul. One by one Alisson’s heart sank as he registered all the things he’d said to his teammates.
“Ali?” A hand rested on his shoulder, and another on his head. He couldn’t tell who it was. “Are you okay?”
*
He’d run away to a broom closet. After a whole display of rage-induced self-confidence, he’d ran away and hid in a broom closet as usual. How pathetic.
“Ali! Are you here?”
Great. Alisson groaned, facepalming. They told the boss I’m missing, and they probably told him what I said, too. He’ll be so disappointed with me.
“Ali?” The door began to open. “Tell me if you’re in here or not.”
“Present,” he said weakly.
The door opened fully, letting in all the sounds and light in the stadium. Alisson could still hear the PA system blasting Brentford’s anthem “Hey Jude”, which had been written and performed by the Beatles.
How ironic.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Klopp, taking a seat on a bucket. “I just want to say, Ali: those goals were not your fault.”
“Mo thinks so.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because nobody listens to me, even when I speak up,” Alisson admitted, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so maldito quiet all the time, nobody hears me out even when I have something important to say.”
Klopp pulled Alisson into his arms. “I know just how you feel. Back when I was playing I was pretty quiet as well. When I became player-manager it took a while for them to listen to my verdict on things.”
“If I was like Hendo,” said Alisson, muffled by the gray puffer jacket, “maybe they’d listen to me.”
“No, this has nothing to do with you,” Klopp insisted. “The other guys need to learn to take you seriously during the matches. Just because you’re quiet doesn’t mean you don’t have valuable input. You could do better than some of those referees when it comes to the rules.”
“So can I yell at Virg if he doesn’t listen to me?”
This made Klopp laugh. “No, you can’t. But I will be having a talk with the others about listening to you. Your input is important Ali, and it especially will be if we’re going to make the top-4 this season.” He groaned, clutching his leg in one hand. “Now let’s get out of here, huh? My old legs are getting cramped.”
Alisson suddenly realized that his legs were cramping, too. He really needed to find better hiding spaces than broom closets. “Yeah.”