Chapter Text
The first time Kun meets Lionel Messi, he doesn’t know who he is. This is not unusual. The Argentina U21 team is a privilege most people don’t get to receive, but it isn’t superstardom or your name splattered across billboards. Leo is just Leo, and Kun is just Kun, and they’re talking about Nike shoes at a crowded table full of their mutual friends.
They forget about each other when they stop talking, in the visceral way of teenage boys and spoiled cats. Kun leans over to drape himself half in Lucas’ lap, Leo ducks to hear something Pablo is telling him.
That’s how it starts.
*
The second time Kun meets Lionel Messi is when he slots him a back pass, clumsy and impossible to control. Leo brings it down to his feet like it’s the easiest thing on the planet, taps it in past Oscar almost as an afterthought.
Kun stands stock still, watching his back as he walks away. A small, hunched over silhouette against the blue Argentinian sky.
He takes a deep breath and runs after him.
*
They room together for the U21 World Cup, somewhat unwillingly, because they were both secretly hoping for Oscar. The other guys take the piss, just a little.
“The two kids of the team rooming together!” “I bet it’s so they can hold hands when they’re scared of the dark!”
Kun laughs, shrugs it off. He’s been playing as a pro for Independiente since he was 15, lived through the dark underbelly of Buenos Aires. To his knowledge, he’s never been a kid.
He’ll hold Messi’s hand though, if he asks. Won’t even tease him about it.
He doubts Messi will. The guy barely even speaks, much less asks for help.
The first night they room together, they watch each other warily over the space between their beds. It’s like clockwork: Kun will look up and catch Messi looking away, and then watch him until Messi almost catches him staring. Back and forth.
Finally, Messi lets out a sigh of frustration, roots around in his bag for something before finally dangling the PS controller between them like a peace offering.
“Do you play ProEvo?” There, finally a language Kun can understand.
“Yeah,” Kun says, and then adds: “I’m pretty good though, don’t be mad when I beat you.”
“Dibs on Argentina.”
They play all night. Kun is pretty good, but Leo is better.
It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.
*
They exchange numbers after the tournament ends, buoyant on their shiny new trophy and pure adrenaline. Kun scribbles his number on a piece of paper, uses Leo’s golden boot trophy as a hard surface.
Leo laughs and laughs, a weird hiccupping giggle along with a smile that lights up his entire face. Kun pokes his cheek and frowns playfully, has a brief thought and squashes it immediately.
He doesn’t expect Leo to call, and he doesn’t.
He isn’t disappointed. He isn’t.
Kun has a league to win, he doesn’t have time for cute boys with hidden smiles and feet made of gold.
*
La Doble Visera is the most beautiful stadium. It’s even more beautiful, lit up before a derby, a sea of white and red, the noise of a thousand voices raised in familiar words, unbearably loud.
Solo le pido a Dios, que Agüero juegue para siempre
The Doble Visera calls out his name and Kun feels like he’s flying. In that moment, he’s sure; he’ll play for his team forever, will bring them joy and trophies, and score goals that’ll shake the stadium to its cement roots. He never wants to leave this behind, not for anyone.
Y que juege en Independiente, para toda la alegria la gente
Twenty minutes later, one of the opposing players slams into him, sending his skinny frame flying. It’s fine, he’ll get up and play on, simple and boring, and nothing he hasn’t done a thousand times before.
His leg snaps under him like an old dry tree branch.
Kun looks down.
There’s red on the green grass and for a moment he thinks it’s confetti. Somebody screams. It’s not until Lucas is by his side, calling for a medic, that Kun realizes it’s him that’s screaming. He closes his mouth.
Then, the pain hits.
*
que Agüero juegue para siempre
*
The fracture is complicated and cruel. The doctors do all they can, the physios encourage him, the club pours money they can’t spare into his recovery.
Every time his eyes stray to the huge ungainly cast that spans from his hip to his toes, he gets angry. He avoids looking at it, but it’s so huge and ugly that he can’t help it. So he’s just always angry instead.
To their credit, the club doesn’t drop him.
Instead, they pay for his expenses and promise to pay his salary up until the end of the season, and they establish a fund to help him after. Oscar brings Kun’s jersey to every game for the rest of the season, lays it on the soft grass behind his goal. The fans chant his name even though Kun isn’t playing.
Lucas visits him in the hospital. He sits by his bedside, and then slithers into bed with him after a moment of consideration. Kun finally allows himself to break open and cry.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. They were supposed to be crying from joy at their win.
They weren’t supposed to be crying because Kun can never play football again.
*
The doctors are worried. His family is worried. Kun knows this, but he can’t exactly bring himself to care. He almost doesn’t speak, except in one word answers.
“Yes.” “No.” “Maybe.”
They think he’s depressed. They’re probably right. The stitches in his leg keep itching and he tries not to scratch them, tries not to look at them too long, because he starts imagining the steel bolts and plates hidden under his skin, in places where his bones used to be.
One day, the phone rings.
“Kun? I’m sorry. It took me a while to find your number.” It’s Leo.
Kun thinks about that pass, the effortless way Leo had tapped in that goal and feels a flash of jealousy so strong it almost makes him sick. Or maybe it’s the painkillers; they’ve been fucking with his stomach lately.
“Kun?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry about your leg.”
“Me too.”
Then they lapse into silence. Kun listens to Leo breathe on the other side of the ocean, counts the cracks in the plaster for the hundredth time today. Usually, he’d be the one to fill the silence with chatter and jokes, anything
to make Leo laugh. Now, he’s content to sit in silence.
His leg is a dull, throbbing pain. He’ll have to ask them to up his dosage again.
“That’s all I wanted to say,” Leo says, eventually. “Bye, Kun.”
“Bye.”
And that’s the end of it.
*
Kun doesn’t expect Leo to call again after that, but he does. Once a week, usually on Wednesdays, but sometimes on Thursdays, always at noon. The first few weeks, Kun doesn’t talk much. Leo fills the silence instead.
He talks more in those few weeks than he probably has in his entire life. Or so Kun thinks. He doesn’t even know Leo, not really, not his favorite color, his favorite drink or the name of the pet he had as a child.
He does know how Leo’s pass feels when it lands on his toes with perfect precision. He knows what it feels like to send a ball into his blind spot without looking because he knows Leo will be there. He knows all of these things. He wishes they still counted for something.
They took out his stitches yesterday.
Leo keeps calling and he keeps talking; about the seagulls in Barcelona who’re determined to shit on him, about his funny friend Geri and the times seagulls did shit on him, and various other anecdotes from La Masia that have Kun smiling before he can stop himself.
Eventually, Kun starts talking back.
“I had my first physio appointment today.” “How was it?” “Shit.”
“I walked two steps today.” “How was it?” “Hurts.”
“I walked the whole hallway today.” “How was it?” “Slow.”
“I came home today.” “How is it?” “Weird.”
And it is weird, getting winded halfway up the stairs, his parents rushing to help him when it’s the last thing he wants. It’s crying in the middle of the night, because the pills are too far away and he doesn’t want to wake anyone, and it hurts, it hurts .
It never stops.
Leo becomes his confidant, his phone call the brightest part of his week. They talk about everything and nothing for what seems like minutes, but when Kun looks out the window it’s already dark outside.
Kun still won’t watch Independiente matches, can’t. But there are re-runs of La Liga games on one of the channels on his TV and he watches those sometimes. He never mentions it to Leo, how he watches his debut, the blaugrana jersey drowning his form. He never tells him about watching his goals, crying out with joy alongside him as he celebrates.
He tries not to dwell on the ugly jealousy that rises in him, the phantom ache for the familiar touch of a ball hitting his boot. Some nights he’s not sure if he wants to be Leo or if he just wants to be there, playing alongside him and watching his magic up close.
Months pass. His parents start making noises about him going back to school, finishing high school like a normal kid, not a crippled ex-footballer with thirty career goals under his belt.
It’s so boring.
He’s complaining about it to Leo on their weekly phone call when Leo surprises him (he does that a lot).
“Come stay with me in Barcelona, for a while,” Leo suggests and Kun is left speechless. “I just moved into a new apartment and there’s plenty to do here.”
“I don’t think I can do that. The plane ticket alone…” Kun won’t allow himself to use the money for anything other than his family’s needs. A plane ticket to Barcelona costs money they can’t afford to lose.
“I’ll take care of it. They pay me well enough, trust me,” Leo says and he’s got that tone, kind of like he’s rolling his eyes at Kun in exasperation.
“But…”
“It’s lonely here. Please come?” he adds, and Kun just sighs, because how is he going to say no to that.
Two weeks later, his bags are packed and his family is waving him a tearful goodbye from the airport terminal.
When he steps off the plane in Barcelona, Leo is waiting.
*
Leo’s favorite color is sky blue, he’s unreasonably fond of a disgustingly
sweet grape soda they only sell in Barcelona and he still carries around a grainy picture of their old dog Diego.
*
Leo’s house is big and imposing, and all the lights are off. The walls are almost bare, there are no carpets on the floor and it’s as far removed from Kun’s family apartment in Buenos Aires as possible. The sight of it hits him with a wave of homesickness and he panics for moment. But then Leo comes to stand at his elbow, close enough that Kun can feel his quick breathing, and the feeling goes away.
“Sorry, it’s really empty. I didn’t have time to go shopping yet,” Leo says, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Leo, you don’t even have a couch,” Kun does his level best to sound as serious as possible even though there’s a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth.
“I kind of have a couch.”
“Two chairs with a blanket thrown over them don’t count. We’re going shopping tomorrow.” Kun had never shopped for furniture before, never had the means or the space, but he’s not going to let Leo live like this for a day longer.
“But training…”
“Training doesn’t go till five in the afternoon, right? So pick me up after. Bring your credit card. And also, ask your teammates where to go.”
“I’ll ask Geri-” “Nope, try again.” “Fine, Xavi then.”
*
Furniture shopping is at the same time harder and easier than what Kun expected. Harder, because he still felt like he should barter when there’s a number on the price tag higher than single digits and also, because he has to briefly sit down on the couch when he sees it’s price tag. Leo is suspiciously calm through the whole ordeal, unless there’s a sales person approaching them, in which case he hides behind Kun or the nearest lampshade.
Still, it’s easy in a way that all things with Leo are easy. When it boils down to it, they have similar taste in most things (which is why the couch is a sinfully comfortable orange monstrosity) and they have an uncanny ability for teamwork (Kun tries to charm the sales person with his sparkling personality and when it doesn’t work, Leo juggles a pillow and three lighting fixtures, impressing them into a discount).
At the end of the day, they not only have a couch, but two new beds, a kitchen table big enough to sit ten people (but no chairs), a set of pots, and five bedside lamps. Oh, and two bean bags shaped like footballs. Of course.
*
Neither of them are great cooks. In fact, the first two weeks they live entirely on leftovers Leo’s mom left behind, microwave dinners and lots of müsli. Week three, Kun decides he’s had enough and calls his mom, has her walk him through her most simple recipe.
Miraculously, it doesn’t end in disaster. Leo comes home from training and wolfs it down with compliments.
So Kun makes it every night for the next two weeks, consequently putting them off it for the rest of their lives.
Eventually, Kun amasses more than a handful of simple recipes. The kitchen becomes a space he’s comfortable in, arranged in a way that suits.
He reads the nutrition books that the club’s dietician lends him and bakes Leo cookies to take to the first training of the season. He means it as a joke, but Leo comes back with rave reviews from everyone. Apparently Xavi really likes the ones with apricot jam and is asking if Kun would be willing to bake some more for his birthday.
Kun’s still not sure how this became his life, but he’ll take it, basks in the look that Leo gives him every time he makes him a new Dulche de leche dessert.
*
“Hey, Kun, Dinho is coming for dinner today, is that okay?”
“...Dinho as in Ronaldinho.”
“Yes, of course, how many do we know?”
“He’s coming to dinner. FC Barcelona’s top scorer this season is coming to dinner.”
“Yeah. He wants to finally meet you and I think he lives mostly on takeout right now. Can he come?”
“You tell me that now, when I haven’t had time to go to the grocery store at all!”
“I can tell him to come some other day?”
“No, no, what are you talking about, bring him over so he doesn’t starve.”
After the phone call ends, Kun gives himself a moment where he questions the life choices that’d lead him to becoming his mother, and then goes off to defrost the chicken.
*
Kun decides to get into gardening, because he helps the old lady down the lane in hers and it doesn’t seem all that difficult. He plants twenty roses all around the house, excitedly reading the labels and imagining the beautiful blooms.
Half of them die in the first year.
He cries about it, a bit. Leo hugs him and tries to comfort him, and he never ever tells him that it’s stupid to cry over flowers, which Kun appreciates.
But after that, he slowly gets the hang of it. The roses bloom and the pictures don’t do them justice. The jasmine tree he plants starts growing and filling the air with its sweet scent. They eat lettuce and tomato from their garden for dinner.
Leo loves spending time in the garden and he often makes a beeline for the back porch after training. He and Kun sit on the straw patio furniture and drink a few beers, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers until night falls and the fireflies come out.
Sometimes, Leo lays with his head in Kun’s lap, quiet and calm, the tension in his frame disappearing as Kun strokes his fingers through his hair.
Kun still can’t believe his life sometimes, that Lionel Messi, whose face is splayed over a thousand billboards all over the world, should want to spend his afternoons in Kun’s garden, in his company.
He loves to see Leo play, loves the savage joy in it, the lit-up brilliance, but he’s also beginning to realize that he likes Leo best like this; soft and trusting, briefly belonging only to Kun and the fireflies.