Chapter Text
From the moment he missed that free kick Leo had felt like he was watching everything through a thick layer of fog.
The final whistle, the Germans celebrating, him having to climb those damn stairs not once but twice. The golden ball - player of the tournament - meant absolutely nothing as he had to walk past the trophy he truly wanted to feel beneath his fingertips twice.
Neuer's hand on his shoulder, probably meant to be comforting, felt like it was pushing him deep into the ground. "Buon partido."
Mechanically Leo nodded. Even though there had been nothing good about this game. But at least he tried to comfort Leo.
Leo's own teammates, looking just as hollow as him, couldn't even look into his direction as he walked back up to their bench, careful that no camera would catch how he carelessly dropped the golden ball onto one of the seats, to be completely forgotten. Someone from the team would probably get it and send it to Barcelona later.
Right now, he just wanted to vanish. But he couldn't. They still had to get their silver medals. He still had to keep face and be a leader for his team. A team that he had dragged against their will towards this final - or so it has felt sometimes.
They had felt disjointed sometimes and Leo was just glad that Germany hadn't treated them like they had treated Brazil.
The medal around his neck felt like it weighed a thousand tons, like his feet would not carry him back down the many many steps. From both sides fans tried to grab him, but he kept his eyes firmly to his feet.
Back down on the pitch most of his team had already vanished down the tunnel, none of them wanted to watch Germany lift the trophy. It was not like Leo wanted to either, but there was something he had learned about sportsmanship and the way he would be crucified if he didn't, so it was better if he at least pretended to.
With a heavy heart he watched Phillip Lahm get handed the trophy. It could have been him. If he had played better, it would have been him.
Finally he turned towards the tunnel, away from the many cameras, of which several were surely still pointed at him. He needed to go, get away, vanish, maybe have a good cry, before the public could have a piece of him again. Before he could face the press, before he could think about diplomatic answers to their questions.
He stumbled more than he walked in his sudden hurry to get away, not watching where he actually was going.
Therefore he missed the three steps downwards, his body too tired and heavy to catch himself before he fell and the world went dark.