Chapter Text
A fine drizzle fell over Paris that night. Neon lights blurred into hazy splashes of color against the glass; in late autumn, this romantic city turned chilly and damp.
The news of his injury, along with endless speculation, flooded his feed. Messi set the phone aside. The instant the screen went dark, the room plunged into silence. He still remembered the grand welcome two months ago—the Parc des Princes swallowed by a wave of heat, red, white, and blue smoke engulfing the stands. The faint tremor of the pitch as fireworks detonated had caught him off guard, for a moment even washing away much of the sorrow of leaving Barça.
He had just closed his eyes when a notification chimed. It was the national team group chat. A few young players had heard he’d miss the next Champions League match and teased him to come watch theirs instead. He sent a quick voice message, told them he was heading to Madrid to see a doctor, but would try to catch their game if he could. Suddenly, a message from Neymar popped up at the top of the screen—he was already downstairs.
Messi pushed himself up from the edge of the bed, carefully adjusting his stride on his injured leg as he walked. Ney was deeply worried about his injury and insisted on coming over to check on him.
"Leo!" Neymar exclaimed the moment he stepped inside. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"It's just a contusion, nothing that serious."
Neymar walked straight into the living room as if it were his own home. As soon as he sat down, he leaned over to Messi's leg, tentatively pulling up the hem of his sweatpants. "God, I thought I'd see a brace or something."
With eyes crinkling into a smile, the Brazilian launched into a non-stop chatter about today's training session, the sudden drop in Paris temperature, and the upcoming away match in the Champions League.
They had only spent four years together at Barça. Now, another four years had passed, and somehow they had found each other again. The thought brought a gentle smile to Messi's lips.
He couldn't help but recall an even younger Neymar, who used to sit at the dinner table angrily reading aloud online comments he'd found, furiously typing out replies to snap back at people in the comments. In this regard, Messi was entirely different. He rarely paid attention to the latest media trends; after all, no matter how sharp or novel the attacks seemed, they were always the same old rhetoric, and he had long grown used to it.
For instance, the recent caustic tone of the French media was clearly aimed at him, subtly blaming him for playing the full ninety minutes for Argentina in every World Cup qualifier. Such accusations had surrounded him since he was nineteen; he was almost tired of seeing them.
The news of his absence from the upcoming Champions League match hadn't been officially released yet. If these rumors reached Neymar, he would probably end up dealing with the media all over again. Messi sighed softly.
Neymar, who had been chatting animatedly, noticed Messi's distraction. He paused, resting his curly hair against Messi’s shoulder.
"Ney... I was thinking," Messi spoke slowly. "How about I go to Germany with you this time?"
The night in Leipzig was even colder still, and the match went far from smoothly. Returning to the hotel near midnight, Neymar set their schedule for the next day. Messi set his alarm, intending to go straight to sleep. But a sudden, sharp ache rippled through his left leg, forcing him to get up and hunt for the physical therapy device. Letting the heat ease the ache, he idly switched on the TV to pass the time.
The sports channel was broadcasting a replay from the same Champions League round: Ajax's away victory over Borussia Dortmund. Hearing the commentators mention the updates to the Ajax squad alongside his national teammates Lisandro and Tagliafico, Messi was instantly drawn in. Having won by four goals in the first leg, Ajax played this match with relative ease.
Paris, on the other hand, had endured a grueling match earlier that day. Neymar had even picked up a yellow card, venting his frustration to Messi after the game.
Good thing I came, Messi thought. Neymar really wanted him here, and he knew it.
His vision blurred as the number twenty-one defender in red and white pulled off a precise slide tackle. Cheers and boos erupted simultaneously from the broadcast. The glow of the screen flickered quietly in the room, sealing away the relentless sound of rain outside. Messi had already wrapped himself in the quilt and closed his eyes.
When he woke, the Leipzig sky was overcast. Neymar texted to say the schedule had changed, so they’d just take a walk nearby. Messi decided to grab breakfast on his own before meeting up with him, saying nothing about the fact that his left leg felt even heavier going downstairs than it had yesterday.
It wasn't quite pain, just a slight discomfort when moving the joint. Adjusting his center of gravity, Messi slowly walked out of the hotel. Stepping through the revolving door, he stumbled, nearly bumping into the person ahead of him. The person grabbed his arm, steadying him. Messi mumbled a thank-you, only to meet a pair of unyielding eyes.
"Licha! What are you doing here?" Messi froze.
His young national teammate was wearing a mask, exhausted eyes peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. "Aren't you supposed to be in Madrid seeing a doctor?"
The tone was unfamiliar, yet the hand holding him still conveyed a familiar warmth. Still bewildered, Messi blinked. "You..."
"Leo?" Neymar’s voice came from behind. Having just parked, he walked over holding two cups of coffee, taking in the tense atmosphere between them. "Um... are we still going?"
"Go get your luggage, Leo." Lisandro didn't break eye contact.
Messi looked at Neymar in confusion. The Brazilian merely made a face, then nodded with a look of sudden comprehension before heading back toward his car.
The chilly November air of Germany brushed against his face, making Messi’s knee feel stiff. He moved his leg cautiously. The subtle movement made Lisandro tighten his grip. "Like I said, we are going to see the doctor right now, Captain."
Hearing himself addressed as Captain in a situation like this felt strangely unsettling. Plunged into utter bewilderment, he turned back toward his room.
Messi had very little luggage. Lisandro sat to the side without rushing him, watching in silence as he zipped the suitcase shut. Messi stole a glance; the young man’s face was pale, with faint dark circles under his eyes.
"Scaloni sent you?" Messi asked after a moment of thought.
"Yeah." Lisandro unzipped his backpack. "Breakfast for you."
Messi took the neat brown paper bag; it was still warm to the touch. "How did you know I was staying here?"
"Lea told me." Lisandro opened his own sandwich as well.
"Didn't you just finish a match yesterday? What time did you get to Leipzig?" The sausage tasted delicious, and Messi took a satisfyingly large bite, unable to resist asking further.
"I took the first train out."
Messi lit up his phone screen; it was not even nine in the morning. Feeling a little guilty, he said, "My plane is waiting at the airport. I was originally planning to fly to Madrid this afternoon. Ney even said he’d show me around this morning..."
"Guess he had the whole day planned already." Lisandro packed up his bag, stood up, and put his cap back on. "Let’s go when you’re done eating, Leo."
He grabbed Messi's suitcase and headed for the door without looking back. Messi put on his coat and followed behind him.
The November sky over Germany hung heavy with lead-grey clouds, with only a few faint shafts of sunlight struggling to break through. The plane cut through the clouds, drops of water sliding diagonally down the windowpane. Inside the cabin, there was only the low hum of the engines.
"Leo? I'm here. What's wrong? Are you in Madrid already?" Paredes replied quickly. A sudden barrage of notifications chimed, and Messi scrambled to mute his phone, casting a nervous glance at Lisandro. The exhausted young man was still fast asleep.
"Lea, what on earth is going on with you guys? Why did Licha come to Leipzig?" Messi typed rapidly, a flicker of irritation rising in his chest. Paredes called him directly. Feeling a bit restless, Messi unbuckled his seatbelt and shuffled quietly to the far end of the sofa before answering.
"I honestly have no idea, Leo. It wasn't me," the voice on the other end sounded just as anxious. "A couple of days ago he asked me how your injury was doing. I told him since you were going to Germany anyway, it shouldn't be anything too serious. He actually seemed pretty happy back then."
"But he was really angry with me today," Messi felt the confusion inside him swelling. Happy? Happy was the last word he’d use to describe Lisandro today. "Scaloni asked him to come take care of me and take me to the doctor. He's so exhausted he just fell asleep."
"Who told you... Scaloni sent him?" Paredes sounded equally bewildered now.
"Then it was you guys who sent him?"
Silence fell over the other end of the line. Messi thought he heard a few low chuckles before Paredes finally spoke: "Leo, I've got something to take care of, talk to you later."
Maybe it was the flight, Messi’s left knee felt increasingly sore and swollen after ending that useless phone call. He slowly fitted the therapy device onto his leg, his eyes drifting over to the person beside him. Lisandro was still wearing his cap, the shadow of the brim concealing his expression.
Messi remembered the match at the Monumental two months ago. After the game, he stayed behind for pitch-side interviews and lagged at the back of the team. Returning to the dressing room, he found Lisandro waiting for him. He had thought Lisandro had something important to ask, like transfer advice, but that day they had only chatted about the weather in Paris.
Lisandro wasn't a talkative person, Messi thought, just like himself when he was younger.
The young defender preferred answering criticism on the pitch, a trait Messi admired greatly. Even though Lisandro hadn't secured a spot in the starting eleven yet, he remained a hundred percent focused in training, showing no mercy in small-sided games. Both Messi and Di María had almost been tackled by him.
But was silence really a good thing for a player? Messi didn't know. He considered himself a good listener and hoped his younger teammates could open up more, because he wanted this brand-new national team to be a happy place.
Messi’s thoughts drifted back to this year's Copa América. After the victory in the final, his teammates had all rushed over to him. Wrapped in a light, weightless sense of bliss, he embraced everyone, before suddenly noticing Lisandro watching him quietly from the side. For a fleeting second, Messi felt as if he were back in the days when he wore the number 30 shirt. Wrapped in layers of joy as the Camp Nou roared around him, Ronnie would run toward him amidst his bewildered gaze, bending down for Messi to leap onto his back.
That was many years ago. Over the course of more than a decade, Messi had seen off one doting senior after another until the captain's armband finally wrapped around his left arm. At that moment, twenty-three-year-old Lisandro was looking at him with quiet expectation, so Messi lifted him off the ground with all his strength. The young man immediately wrapped his arms tightly around the back of his neck. Messi had once been nearly crushed by the heavy weight on his shoulders, but that day, the weight on his arms only made him feel more fulfilled.
That night, he had uncharacteristically drunk himself into a stupor, waking up the next day with a splitting headache. The gold medal was still beside his pillow, while Kun, wrapped in a bedsheet, lay on the floor mumbling in his sleep. In the dining hall, everyone looked hungover, excitedly sharing the strange places they had woken up in that morning. Messi couldn't help but feel a subtle sense of wonder—he had somehow woken up tucked neatly under the covers in bed, his clothes and belongings sorted, and there was even a flask of warm tea and a neatly wrapped sandwich on the nightstand. Such thoughtfulness had made him assume all along that a familiar backroom staff member had taken care of him. But today, he found himself reaching a different conclusion.
This morning's sandwich had been spread with chimi-churri sauce, still warm when handed to him. Messi didn't know how Lisandro had rushed onto that first train, nor how he had managed to find an Argentine deli in an unfamiliar city.
The young players on the national team always treated him as someone who needed protection, and Lisandro’s particular attentiveness felt like a feather brushing across his heart. But was he really making them worry that much? Messi couldn't help but blame himself a little.
"Leo?"
The plane had already passed through the clouds, pale sunlight pouring into the cabin. Lisandro rubbed his eyes as he woke up.
Hearing his voice, Messi pulled down the shade and sat back down beside him. "Do you feel better after a nap?"
His eyes were still rimmed with red, but he nodded anyway. Messi’s physical therapy device chimed to signal the end of its timer. Lisandro frowned slightly, sitting up and pulling up footrest.
"Didn't your team doctor in Paris tell you..." He knelt on one knee in front of Messi, his tone serious and deliberate, "...that keeping your leg down would make the bruising worse?" Then he grabbed two cushions, gently placing them under Messi’s calf and ankle before restarting the therapy device.
Messi lowered his eyes and reached over to grab the water glass on the table. A sudden sharp pain shot through his knee, making him reflexively pull his hand back. Lisandro pursed his lips tightly, watching him quietly, then got up, picked up the glass, added some hot water, and handed it over.
"Why on earth did you come to Germany anyway?" He looked at the real-time flight map; they still had an hour before landing. "Did Neymar ask you to come?"
"No..." Messi unconsciously rubbed his sleeve with his fingers. "I just wanted to keep him company."
"Is that so?" Lisandro suddenly took off his cap and turned to face Messi. "Then you really love playing football with him, don't you, Leo?"
Messi was caught off guard, and the young man leaned in closer. "If Paris had lost yesterday you’d blame yourself, wouldn’t you?"
The cabin's air conditioner continuously blew warm air, making Messi's throat feel dry. The pumping sound of the therapy device grew starkly prominent. In the dim light, he couldn't quite read the stubborn look in those eyes. Very few people had ever spoken to him in such a sharp manner, let alone thrown a question he couldn't even refute—and the person across from him didn't seem to expect an answer anyway.
The person beside him leaned back against the sofa again. "Was the Paris match against Leipzig good yesterday?"
"Yeah, it was alright," Messi cradled the cup of warm water, still caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. "I watched the replay of the Ajax match last night, too. You played really well."
Lisandro was silent for a moment before letting out a soft sigh. "Leo, do you have any idea how worried we've all been about you these past few days... That's why I came to see you."
Is that so? Then why were you happy when you first found out I was coming to Germany?
Messi looked at the familiar, gentle eyes and brows in front of him, swallowing the question in the end.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the consultation room, Madrid’s sky was a brilliant, unblemished blue. Sunlight flooded the room, washing over the polished floor. In a corner, the centrifuge vibrated with a steady, low-frequency hum, separating the blood just drawn from Messi’s arm. The lingering scent of evaporating alcohol coated the room’s silence in a cool stillness.
Sitting on the examination bed, Messi pressed a cotton swab against the blood draw site. In front of him lay the freshly printed MRI report: a flare-up of his hamstring tendinitis, accompanied by a contusion on his left patella. Though there was no significant structural damage, the relentless cycle of matches and travel had made the deep-seated old injury stubbornly persistent, while high-altitude flying had induced joint effusion, bringing a sharper, more acute pain.
Messi quietly scanned the complex medical terms, the image of Lisandro’s tense expression during the physical exam floating back into his mind.
Maybe I really shouldn't have gone to Germany. A faint ripple of regret brushed past his heart.
"Licha, step outside for a bit. The doctor’s coming in for the injection therapy soon. There’s a waiting area out there."
"Can’t I stay during the procedure?" Lisandro walked over to the bed, flipping through the doctor’s orders.
"You can... but I’m used to being by myself," Messi said hesitantly.
The pain of a needle piercing skin was something Messi knew all too well. He had learned to give himself injections at eleven years old—the whole world knew that. He had long forgotten how it felt the first time he injected growth hormone into his own thigh; he only remembered people constantly praising his bravery for such a young age. Gradually, he grew accustomed to being strong whenever he faced things alone.
"Besides, the aspiration needle is long... You don't need to stay and watch," he added.
As if he hadn't heard a word, Lisandro dragged a round stool over to the head of the bed and sat down.
A knock sounded on the door, and the doctor pushed a tray cart inside. Glancing in mild surprise at the young man beside the bed, he reminded him not to touch the sterile drape and said he could sit on the other side.
When the disinfection began, Messi closed his eyes, just as he always did. But this time, along with the cold antiseptic against his knee came the warmth of another hand. He opened his eyes—Lisandro was holding his hand, his brows tightly furrowed as he stared at the aspiration needle in the doctor’s hand.
The gnawing, dull ache of joint fluid being drawn out devoured his sensitive knee. Unable to bear it, Messi turned his head away. Catching sight of the young man’s expression—looking as though he were the one about to undergo the procedure—he felt a slight urge to laugh. "Don't be nervous, Licha." Lisandro shot him a helpless glance.
"Aspiration complete. Next is the plasma injection. Hold on for a few more minutes, Leo, it’ll be over soon," the doctor said, unwrapping another syringe.
Messi moved his leg slightly, burying half his face in the pillow. The clock on the wall ticked clearly beside his ear, and he felt Lisandro’s grip tighten ever so slightly.
The final dose of PRP was slowly pushed into the joint. A heavy silence and suppressed breaths gradually unfolded in the room. The doctor pushed the cart out, the door shutting with a faint click as the footsteps in the hallway faded into the distance. The thirty-minute observation period was long and peaceful, the sky outside the window already painted in rich shades of orange and pink.
"I’m sorry, Leo, I shouldn't have talked to you like that this morning," Lisandro spoke softly. "Maybe... I was just exhausted from the match yesterday, so my tone wasn't great."
"It's fine. The Champions League is really tiring, I know." Feeling the dull ache pulse deep inside his knee, Messi turned to look at the exhausted young man beside him, who looked ready to collapse. Lisandro was still sitting on that round stool, the overwhelming fatigue from non-stop travel wrapping around him, making his voice sound raspy.
Messi blinked. The young man's fierce look from this morning replayed in his mind. He had never seen this usually gentle teammate show such an intense side. Those almost forcefulness-laden words had caught him off guard, and the excuse of match fatigue couldn't fully answer his confusion.
"By the way... Licha, is there friction between you and Neymar? Was it back during the Copa América final? You know, you can talk to me if there is."
The person beside him was inspecting the bandage on his knee and looked up blankly. "Leo, why are you asking all of a sudden?"
"Because you seemed to unhappy with him today," Messi phrased his words carefully.
Lisandro looked at him, bewildered. "How so?"
"No? That's good then. Um... I thought you were unhappy about me going to Germany with him."
"I was just really worried," Lisandro frowned slightly again. "Because your leg is injured, but Lea said you were still going out to have fun with him."
"It was my own decision to go."
The young man let out a sigh. "I know, Leo. It's not Neymar's fault... I just feel like sometimes you care too much about others."
Messi chewed on those words. Lisandro’s soft hair fell loosely over his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes not yet faded. It was almost impossible to connect this person with the spirited defender under the broadcast lights last night.
"And what about you?" He looked intently at the person in front of him.
For the first time, a flicker of evasion crossed Lisandro’s eyes. The question lingered unanswered between them. Through the double-paned glass, the distant traffic hum felt dull and heavy, a car horn seemingly stretched out forever. In the end, he simply rubbed his forehead without saying a word.
"Licha," the confusion lingering in Messi's heart softened into quiet helplessness. He patted the back of the young man’s hand gently. "I'll have the driver take you to the hotel in a bit. Get a good night's sleep, and head back to Amsterdam tomorrow."
The young man obediently lowered his eyelashes, letting the warmth on the back of his hand linger a moment longer. The dusk pulled a long shadow at his feet, its edges blurring softly into the evening light.
Half an hour later, Lisandro still insisted on heading to the airport, so Messi had no choice but to say goodbye to him from inside the car.
"Either way, Leo," the young man leaned through the car window to embrace him, "I was really happy to see you today."
"Me too. Safe travels, see you in a few days with the national team."
Lisandro turned and walked into the terminal while Messi’s car remained queued in place. Watching the figure vanish into the bustling hall, he suddenly remembered what Paredes had said on the phone.
...He actually seemed pretty happy when he first found out you were going to Germany.
Messi looked out the window without thinking any further. The horns of evening rush hour intertwined with the night breeze, as Madrid’s last tender ray of sunlight silently washed over their shadows.
TBC