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Losing was never a good feeling.
It wasn’t the end of the world, not with several games still to play in the Champions League. And they would certainly still advance out of their group. Hell, Barcelona would probably end up winning their group. Still, losing to Manchester City in the last few minutes was not something that any of them were happy about.
Leo sat on the bench with his head down in his hands, fingers pressed against his eyes. He kept replaying his final shot over and over in his head. Kept remembering the way his leg pulled back, remembering how he struck the ball, remembering the way Bravo’s fingertips had pushed it wide… Over and over he watched it happen, and each time he tried to think of what he could have done differently.
He could have hit it harder, added more power instead of finesse. Could have changed the angle, aimed for the upper corner instead of the bottom. Maybe he could have used his right foot instead, chipped Bravo when the other started to come out.
Or he could have passed the ball.
He could have passed the ball to Ney. Ney, who was wide open on the far post. Ney, who was screaming his head off and waving his arms. Ney, who at this very minute is stomping around the locker room angrily.
Yes, Leo could have passed the ball to Ney.
But Leo didn’t pass to Ney. He didn’t pass to Luis. Didn’t pass to Andrés or Busi. He took the shot instead. He took that shot that he had made thousands of times before. But he missed. Not only that, Bravo was able to throw it out quickly to Kun. And ten seconds later, Kun did what Leo couldn’t. He thundered a shot from twenty yards out and the ball didn’t stop until it hit the back of the net.
And so Leo sits on the bench with his head in his hands. He’s only barely aware of Masche sitting down next to him, nudging his foot. “Stop beating yourself up,” Masche mutters, his nudge turning into a kick until Leo sits up. “We’re fine. You’re fine.”
Leo sits up wearily, legs splayed. “Are we?” he asks, toeing off first one boot and then the other. His socked feet slip on the floor, leaving little streaks of sweat in their wake. “I should have passed.”
Masche scoffs. “Yeah? And who’s to say that Ney would have made it? You don’t know.” He looks over at their teammate who is still stomping around like a child. “He might have missed too. Bravo’s still one of the best keepers around. He knows all of Ney’s tricks, just like he knows all of yours.”
Leo takes a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before he lets it out slowly. It doesn’t make him feel better about his shot, but it helps dissipate some of the pressure in his chest. “Had to be City,” he grumbles, kicking his cleats away so that he can stretch out his legs. His one knee is aching and he rubs it slightly, wishing he had a bag of ice. “Can’t we have someone new? Why does it always have to be them?”
Masche shrugs, scratching his head. “Just our luck,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that Leo means the opposite. “But, at least it isn’t all bad,” he continues, grabbing his water bottle from beside him to take a mouthful. “Get to see Willy and Zaba and Nicolás.”
Leo looks at him in surprise, waiting for a minute to see if Masche will say anything else. “And Kun, of course,” he adds when Masche just goes back to drinking. “How could you forget Kun?” His heart starts to beat faster just saying his name, and he forces himself to calm down.
Masche smiles. “I didn’t forget, I just thought it was already understood.” He elbows Leo a bit in the ribs, poking him until he squirms away and smiles back. “Tell him I said hey, eh?”
Leo laughs, heart still fluttering, and starts stripping off his socks and shinguards. He tosses them into a pile to be cleaned, adding his shorts and jersey there too. “I don’t know that he’ll be happy to hear anything from you,” he jokes, remembering how many times Masche had tackled Kun during the game. “He’s probably bruised black and blue with all the times he hit the ground.”
Masche rolls his eyes. “Eh, like you aren’t? How many times did they take you down?” He looks at a few of the bruises blooming on Leo’s calves, pausing to squint at Leo’s feet. “Who stepped on you?” he asks curiously. “Get that taken care of after you shower.”
Leo shrugs, grabbing his towel. “I don’t remember,” he says honestly. “It was early in the game sometime. Hurts,” he admits, looking down at the bloody scrapes on his left foot. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He wraps the towel around his waist and then drops his briefs into his pile of dirty clothes. “I bet Kun and I are only awake for like an hour before we both pass out,” he says, feeling the fatigue starting to seep into his bones.
Masche laughs. “I’ll bet you a drink that it’s closer to ten minutes than it is to an hour. But good,” he says, pointing his now empty water bottle at Leo. “You need your rest.” After a minute he tilts his head. “Kun does too,” he admits grudgingly. “He’ll probably get better rest at yours as opposed to a hotel room.”
Leo stares at him, trying to decide if that’s a joke. But Masche’s already crossed the locker room to go strip off his own kit, so Leo shrugs and heads for the showers.
When he comes back, he feels better already—the dirt and grime having washed down the drain along with some of his fatigue. And despite the loss and his terrible miss, he starts to feel that little bubble of excitement that comes with knowing he’s seeing Kun soon. He gets his foot bandaged first and then dresses quickly, pulling out a plain white t-shirt to go with his jeans. His sneakers he sets by his bench and then sits to start putting on his socks.
They give him a little trouble, though, and he’s struggling to get the one over his now-bandaged foot when sudden shouts draw his attention.
“Fucking Agüero,” Ney yells, having apparently finished stomping around. He’s back from the trainers himself, having gotten a brace for his knee. “Why doesn’t he just fucking go play for Independiente already?” He’s apparently talking to Luis, but the other man just shakes his head and continue to get dressed. “Needs to take his fat ass back to fucking Argentina like the washed-up player that he is.”
Leo feels his blood start to boil. He yanks his sock on roughly, ignoring the way it pulls at the bandages. “Stop it,” he says, his voice cutting through the room and silencing the rest of the chatter. “Don’t talk about him like that.” He knows Neymar is upset, knows that Kun’s partly to blame for their loss, but he doesn’t want to hear anything more.
Neymar slams his cleats down on the bench next to him. “What? It’s true,” he retorts, still raging. “He’s nothing. He should go—and that’s if Argentina even wants him anymore. We all know he’s done shit for them—“
Leo jerks his shoes on and stands up. “Stop it!” He points a finger at Neymar, his hand shaking. There are spots flashing in front of his eyes, but he couldn’t care less. “Don’t you say that, don’t you ever say that,” he says, the words coming out in a whisper. “You have no idea what he went through—what we went through.”
Neymar’s anger starts to fade, regret starting to fill his expression. “Leo,” he says, sighing. “Look I’m sorry I brought it up, but we all know you would have been better off without—“
Leo cuts him off. “Don’t you say another word.” He realizes his hand is still pointing at Neymar and he drops it to his side, fingers clenching together into a fist. “Don’t you say one more fucking word.”
The locker room is silent around them.
Leo squeezes his nails into the palm of his hand. “If you say one more fucking word, I swear to God that I will *never* speak to you again.” He’s whispering again, but it doesn’t matter because it still travels perfectly well throughout the room, weighing heavily on the rest of them.
Leo’s never said anything like that before in front of them. He’s never given an ultimatum like that, no matter what the press has reported or what rumors have been spread.
But then again, nobody has ever crossed the line that Neymar has just crossed.
Leo doesn’t wait for Neymar to apologize or nod, doesn’t wait for someone to try to diffuse the situation. He turns and slams his locker shut, still trembling with anger. Masche has appeared next to him, towel around his waist, having apparently been fetched out of the shower, but Leo pushes him out of the way so that he can get head for the exit.
He needs to leave before he falls apart.
***
“Good going,” Luis says, sitting down heavily on his bench. “Had to bring Argentina into it, didn’t you.” He looks over at Neymar disapprovingly. “Couldn’t have just said he sucked for Manchester? That the goal was lucky? That his hair is stupid? That his head looks like an egg?”
Neymar sits down too. “Alright, alright,” he admits, “Argentina… that was a mistake. I didn’t mean to… you know… mention that sort of thing.” He rubs his eyes. “Obviously it’s a touchy subject. I get that.”
Masche scoffs. “You get that?” he asks, walking over to loom in front of Neymar. He’s still dripping water onto the floor, and there’s a little bit of soap shining on his arm. “You have no fucking idea.”
Neymar groans. “Masche,” he says, waving a hand. “You think I don’t know anything about losing with Brazil. Have you forgotten my World Cup?” He shakes his head. “Look, I mean, I didn’t mean to talk about Argentina, I’m sorry.”
Masche looks up at the ceiling as if he’s asking God for patience. Then he looks back at Neymar. “You’re an idiot,” he says frankly. “You’ve just insulted the thing that means the most to Leo and you think saying sorry to me makes it all okay?”
When Neymar opens his mouth, Masche shakes his head. “It’s not about the World Cup, kid. It’s not even about Argentina. It’s about him.”
“About Leo?” Luis says, resting his elbows on his knees.
Masche shakes his head again. “No,” he says frustrated. “It’s about Kun.”
“About Kun?” Neymar repeats. He laughs. “Well, then I don’t feel as bad anymore.”
Masche just looks at him. “Well, you should,” he finally says quietly. “You should feel bad. You should feel sorry. Because you have no idea what’s between Leo and Kun, and with that attitude, you never will.”
Neymar opens his mouth to argue but Masche surges on.
“I said it wasn’t about Argentina, and I meant that. It’s not *really* about what you said about Argentina, even though Argentina is and will always be part of me and Kun and Leo. We’ll carry those losses and that pain forever, and I think you know that. But for you to just speak so dismissively about Kun… I’m surprised Leo didn’t hit you.”
Neymar taps his feet against the floor and rubs the brace on his knee. “He wouldn’t hit me.”
Masche raises an eyebrow. “He would if you said one more word against the person he loves most in the world.”
Luis sits up straight. “Oh,” he says, his face softening. Then he winces. “We didn’t know.”
“So yeah, go ahead. You can say anything you want against Kun,” Masche says, taking a step towards Neymar. “But you should know that without him, everything would be different. Because Leo’s wanted to give up before. He’s been so tired, so hurt, so unbelievably exhausted that he’s cried and cried and cried. He’s made himself sick with worry, turned himself inside out to please people, gone to of his way not to complain about anything…”
Masche leans in until he couldn’t be closer to Neymar.
“But Kun’s been there every step of the way with Leo. For years. He’s mopped up Leo’s tears, wiped his face, held him in his arms, sung him to sleep… He’s the reason that Leo is who he is today. He’s the reason that we’re all still lucky enough to be able to enjoy Leo’s football. He’s the reason that we still see Leo’s smiles, hear his laughter, watch his joy.”
Neymar’s sinking more and more into his seat, looking sad and embarrassed.
“And you said he was *nothing*,” Masche says.
The locker room is silent around them, the rest of their teammates listening to their conversation now, not even pretending to go about their business.
“I was angry,” Neymar says, rubbing his knee again. “I—I—,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll apologize to him. And to Agüero.” He tilts his head. “I didn’t understand, Masche. I really didn’t. I wouldn’t have ever said anything like that in front of him, if I had known…”
Masche tightens the towel at his waist. “Just understand this,” he says. “You can’t have one without the other.” He watches Neymar nod and sighs. “Without Kun, there is no Leo.” His words echo throughout the locker room, and then he turns and heads back into the showers.
Neymar drops his head into his hands.
***
Leo doesn’t remember leaving the stadium.
He doesn’t remember driving home.
He doesn’t remember getting past the gate, pulling up to the front door, getting out of the car and walking to the door…
The first thing he becomes aware of is Kun sitting on the couch. That’s funny, because Leo doesn’t remember seeing any other cars in the lot. But it must be Kun, because the second thing he becomes aware of is Kun’s voice, a soothing, “Leo? Leo? Are you alright, Leo?” that keeps repeating over and over.
Kun’s arms are warm around him, holding him tightly, and somehow they’re both on the couch when Leo doesn’t even remember walking across the room. Leo can only shake his head, close his eyes tightly, try to continue to breathe even though his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.
One of Kun’s hands is sliding across his back, rubbing gently, traveling up into his hair to card carefully through the dark strands. “Just breathe, Leo,” Kun keeps saying, keeping his actions rhythmic until Leo starts to calm down. And then Kun presses a kiss to the side of his head. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “You’re alright. I’m here. Everything is going to be fine.”
Leo concentrates on Kun’s hand, Kun’s lips, on the heartbeat he can feel beating steadily against him. When he feels he can speak, he clears his throat. “I was angry,” he mutters, his voice scratchy like he’s been yelling even though he hasn’t said a word. “I was so angry.”
Kun kisses his head again. “About the save?” he asks, always knowing Leo’s sore spots, but still being brave enough to talk about them. “It was just unlucky, Leo. You know that. You can’t dwell on it. Barcelona is still going to go through so you need to think about the next game.”
Leo keeps his eyes closed. “The save, yes,” he says, remember his miss again. “But mainly after—,” he says, his anger starting to bubble up inside him. “Because—,” he breaks off and shakes his head, clutching Kun to him like a lifeline.
Kun is quiet then, merely stroking through Leo’s hair, not showing any signs of stopping or getting up. He just holds Leo close, kissing his head here and there, trying to soothe him. “I know. It’s alright,” he repeats, sinking back into the couch and pulling Leo with him. “Just relax,” he whispers, wiggling until both of them are comfortable. “Relax with me, okay?”
Leo nods, his eyes still shut, afraid if he looks into Kun’s loving gaze that the tears will finally come.
“Everything’s okay when you’re with me,” Kun says gently, tucking Leo’s head under his chin, letting Leo’s lips press against his throat. He continues to play with Leo’s hair, combing the dark strands this way and that, scratching his nails against Leo’s scalp in a way that feels unbelievably good.
Leo snuggles into him willingly, knowing what Kun says is true, knowing that Kun always makes things better. Kun always has and he always will. And as Leo feels himself finally completely relax, he can’t help but laugh. “How do you always make me feel better?” he asks into Kun’s chest.
He honestly doesn’t know how Kun does it, doesn’t know how Kun always knows what to say.
Kun laughs too, his breath warm against Leo’s hair. “I just know you, sweetheart.” He toys with Leo’s hair some more. “You want to tell me exactly what happened to set you off?”
Leo’s rage has faded away and now he just feels tired and embarrassed. “Ney said something about you and I just, kinda exploded at him,” he finally whispers, apparently too quiet for Kun who pulls his head away to look at him.
Kun raises an eyebrow. “Was it really that bad?” he asks. “He was probably just mad about losing, no?”
Leo rolls his eyes. “I just,” he tucks his head back into Kun’s chest. “I don’t like it when people say things like that about you.” He sounds childish now, and he can’t help think about the way he’d lost control—the way he’d spoken to Ney in front of everybody. “They don’t know you.”
Kun hums. His hand strokes through Leo’s hair again, the other sliding up and down Leo’s spine, fingers catching on Leo’s shirt. “And if he was genuinely sorry would you forgive him?”
Leo laughs. “Yes,” he says, trying not to sound sullen. He raises his head out of Kun’s chest again. “I can’t *not* forgive him… We’re teammates—friends, and good friends at that… If he was really sorry I’d let it go. So long as he doesn’t say anything like that ever again.”
Kun’s eyes are laughing at him, even though his lips are pressed together calmly. “Good,” he says, ducking down to kiss the corner of Leo’s mouth. “Because he texted me before you got here and told me what happened. And then he apologized and said he’d apologize to you too when you’re speaking to him again.” He kisses the other corner of Leo’s mouth, and then drags his lips up Leo’s cheek to kiss next to one of his eyes. “So everything’s fine again.”
Leo blinks at him. “Ney texted you?” He links his hands behind Kun’s neck and then tilts his head as Kun starts to kiss under his ear. “And he apologized?”
Leo can feel Kun’s lips twist into a smile.
“Of course he did,” Kun says, pulling back to look at Leo. He looks completely at ease. “He told me what he said about Independiente and Argentina, and he said he didn’t really mean it and he was very sorry.” He purses his lips. “Then he said my hair was stupid, but that he still liked me in general.”
Leo feels himself starting to smile without meaning to.
“So, I’m just thinking out loud here, but everything’s alright, sweetheart, eh?” Kun asks, yawning a bit. “I mean, clearly he wouldn’t know good hair if it grew on his head, so I don’t really take that last thing seriously.” He pulls Leo closer into his chest again and then yawns louder. “But we’re fine. You’re fine.”
Leo yawns in response, snuggling against Kun. He can already feel his body relaxing, body sinking into the cushions as Kun’s warmth seeps into him in the most delightful way.
And then Kun’s hand starts to card through his hair again, nice and slow, and Leo nuzzles against him drowsily.
His last thought is that he definitely owes Masche a drink.