Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shower is cold. The tiles too. Maybe not a good place for his naked butt.

He tries to be quiet- the rushing water doesn’t cover all of his cries. But it does numb his mind- a little- enough.

—

“Where is he?”

Silence. The team is silent. No one’s happy- of course they wouldn’t be. They were so close, only to have it ripped away at the last possible second.

But that’s not what’s on Martin’s mind.

No, his mind might as well have been a thousand miles away. His mind is with a five-foot-something Belgian who disappeared down the tunnel at half-time and hasn’t come back since.

His mind is on the fact that everyone is sitting there staring at him, as if one of their team members isn’t missing, as if this isn’t a problem.

Usually when one of them was injured or upset, they would take care of each other. Last week, Leo held him until he sobbed himself to sleep over his ankle. And now, Leo is gone.

“Find him.” Martin barks, making some of the boys flinch, “Please” He adds belatedly.

—

He slams his head against the wall, reveling in the way the dizziness distracts him. And then it just hurts, and he’s crying harder.

He knows the match isn’t over when he crawls out of the shower. Still hears the stomping on the roof above him, the screams from down the tunnel. And so no one notices when he runs, clad in sweats, sneaking out the back door.

It’s not cold out, not in September, but Manchester is miserable. The perfect backdrop for his escape.

He gets as far from the stadium as he can manage. Just walks in a singular direction until the buildings become shorter and shorter and he hasn’t seen another person in at least ten minutes. His legs burn from the pace, lungs hurting from how hard he pants. It’s been raining all day, but the rain can barely touch him anymore, not when he’s already soaked to the bone, not when he’s as far from his own legs as the moon from the earth.

The bar is not nice. By any standards. The few patrons inside in the middle of the night (probably morning at this point) barely look as he stumbles to the dark end of the bar. The bartender pours him a shot, no questions asked. He downs it.

Leo doesn’t drink. Not regularly, definitely not during the season. He feels the burn of it all the way down, but by the second shot goes easier, and by the third he can barely feel it. Barely feel anything.

His head slams again, this time onto the bartop. He can hear someone muttering over him, but he doesn’t lift his head.

—

“Martin- It’s me- I- Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to the team- t-to you. I know how- how m-much it meant- I’m sorry- Just- I-I don’t want to bother you- sure- I- I’m too much of a fuck up- don’t de-deserve you- You shouldn’t- Fuck- Please don’t hate me- I’m- I have to go- But I don’t want you to hate me- Please, Martin.”

He doesn’t get the voicemail until the next morning. His phone died while the team was out searching for Leo, and now- now it was too late.

If only Leo could’ve held on.

Chapter Text

Aaron’s used to being the silly funny guy. Used to people thinking that’s all he is.

It’s cold, London in December, of course it’s cold. The chill in his bones has nothing to do with the cold, because under his hoodie, pulled all the way over his head, under his big puffy jacket, he’s still frozen.

It’s loud: cheers, chants, music, screaming children, joyful singing. Stuff he’s used to- stuff he should be used to. There’s nothing louder than when your ears burn as your own fans scream at you from the other side of the net.

Martin isn’t coming. He knows he isn’t coming. Can feel it deep in his chests while the minutes tick by. Can feel the sting of knowing he used to be the one there and now he’s forgotten at the fair like a middle child.

It doesn’t hurt as much as it maybe should. He’s gotten used to being disappointed. He shoves the second ticket in his pocket, holding off of throwing it away for some stupid reason, some stupid hope.

He’s not recognized as he makes his way in, the sounds get louder, the crowd gets thicker, and no one pays attention to the tall guy stumbling by himself.

He barely lasts two minutes before he’s pressing himself to the side of some stand, out of the crowd. His lungs burn.

He hadn’t been to London for months at this point, not for more than a matchday. Moved away and never looked back- didn’t try to. No one cares anymore once you’re gone, he’s moved enough times to know that.

And maybe it’s his karma. Martin giving him a taste of his own medicine. Or more likely, there’s no higher force at play. More likely he’s not important enough for even God to care.

It’s not like Martin owes him anything. No, it’s his fault- he’s the one who wasn’t enough- Martin shouldn’t have to come and take care of him, baby him because he can’t deal with being alone.

He wanders some more, eyes red rimmed and puffy, so he looks down and doesn’t talk to anyone- wouldn’t want that story going around along with all the others.

He remembers Martin’s words, six months ago when they bought the tickets, when Aaron already knew how this story was gonna go. “Trust me. It’s all going to work out, Aaron.”

He huffs a laugh- It never works out, not for him.

Martin was supposed to be the hurt one. The little guy that Aaron could wrap up in his arms and make promises to. Martin was the one with the crappy childhood, the one who was abandoned by every club he loved, Martin was supposed to need him.

He posts an instagram story- tags the location and everything. Beats himself up about how petty it is, how he shouldn’t want to make Martin feel shitty- but he does, so he doesn’t take the story down.

It’s funny though, how after everything, Martin gets to keep it all. Martin gets the spot, will likely get the championship the way things are going. And Aaron’s the one left in the dust, relegated again, always in the backseat.

He considers crashing his car, on the way back- cause maybe then Martin would care. And then he laughs through his tears, dry, humorless.

Martin doesn’t call. He’s viewed his story, knows he’s here, but he doesn’t call.

Of course not, when has being petty ever worked for Aaron. It was never gonna end any other way, except him looking like the loser. Like always.

He realizes belatedly where he’s driving. Realizes that he never got a hotel, because why would he when Martin’s house was right there. Realizes he set himself up for failure all along.

Martin’s car isn’t in the driveway- must’ve had better plans. Aaron parks on the street, stumbles up to the house, key in his pocket- because no matter what, he kept it.

The lights are off. Doesn’t bother turning them on. Just ambles up the stairs, collapses in Martin’s- their- bed. Curled up in a ball like the needy little boy he is.

Chapter Text

“We found the guy who did it.”

“Finally,” The prince rolls his eyes, “I hope he didn’t think he’d get away with stealing from the royal family.”

“Riccardo, sit down for a moment.” His handler, friend, loyal advisor, whatever you want to call it, was the one to bring him the news. Jorgi’s eyes are somber.

“So, what’s the punishment?” He doesn’t sit, “Is it going to be public? It should be, for all the trouble he put us through.”

“Richy.” Jorgi rarely raises his voice, “Sit down. Please.”

His stern words are enough to pull Riccardo’s attention, but he doesn’t sit.

He looks Jorgi in the eyes, using his height to his advantage. Feeling halfway between a scolded toddler and a soon-to-be king.

Jorginho sighs, “It was Ben.”

Richy’s world crumbles. Heart sinking- no, burning, in a full body, visceral reaction to what Jorgi just said. The worst part, he thinks, is that he without a doubt believes him. Ben. His Ben.

“Riccardo.” Jorgi’s voice is far, far away. “Riccardo, if you want to see him we have to go now. Before your father returns.”

Riccardo turns away, but really, Ben is everywhere in this room- in this whole palace. There is nowhere he can run.

“Richy,” Jorgi’s arm is on his shoulder, light, like he knows just how close the prince is to bolting, “You’ll regret it if you don’t go.”

He whirls around, frantic, “They’re going to execute him.”

Jorginho’s pained expression is all he needs to see.

—

The dungeon is cold, murky. It’s not the first time he’s been down here, but it’s different. Usually, it’s Ben by his side, ready to protect him from whatever monsters he finds. Today it’s another nameless, faceless guard.

Ben still has his armour on. Sans, of course, the sword that Riccardo gifted him for his birthday, nearly a year ago now.

He spots Riccardo through unsettlingly blurry eyes. His arms quake as he attempts to push himself up. He falls back once before finally rising to his full height.

Riccardo wants to scream. He supposes he has never seen Ben at a moment of weakness, unless you include the times in Riccardo’s plush bed, but it was mostly the prince doing the falling apart. It’s more jarring than he thought.

“Richy.” His voice is hoarse, and only now that he’s into the torchlight can Riccardo see the blood dripping from his nose.

“You- Ben- Why would you-?” Riccardo made a plan on his way down here. He was going to be strong, cold, like the prince he should be. But, like all the times before, he can’t put on a front for Ben.

“I didn’t.” Ben is unflinching as ever. Cold, because he’d never let himself truly be weak.

“Ben, your fingerprints were all over the necklace. They found it in your room.” Riccardo winces, “Is that why you would never let me see it? Hiding all sorts of secrets in there?”

“I did not do it, Riccardo.” He’s not pleading, Ben does not plead, never begs, the high pitched edge in his voice must have been imagined. “Listen to me. Just this once, please listen.”

Riccardo just stares, waits for any explanation at all that could tell him why Ben was the one on the other side of that cell.

Ben glances at the guard, someone who presumably used to be under his control, someone who used to respect him.

“Wait outside,” Riccardo orders, “We’ll be done in a minute”

“But-”

“Go.” And so he does. And then after the heavy door clicks shut and locks again, “God, Ben.

“Riccardo, my love, you need to run.”

His eyebrows furrow, and then he huffs a laugh, “Don’t you think the whole caring act is done, Benjamin?”

“It’s not- I was never acting, not with you.” Ben runs a shaky hand through his hair, “Your father knows about us. He had me framed.”

“He didn’t. He wouldn’t.” Riccardo takes a step back, “You’ve gone insane, I think”

“He does and he refuses to have a gay son become the king.” Ben whispers the last part, like he knows how fast the tears will spring to Richy’s eyes. “Think about it, Richy, I have ears everywhere. He found out and decided that I had to go.”

“The lengths you would go to to cover up your crimes.” Riccardo murmurs, “And to think I thought you were honorable. We all did.”

“You can still trust me, Richy. You’ve always trusted me.” He coughs, wet and painful even to hear, “His next plan is to have you eliminated if you don’t become the king he wants you to be.”

“And what? You propose I leave? Break you out of prison and go on the run together like some fairytale?” Riccardo slams a hand onto the bars, making Ben- Ben of all people- flinch. “Your story makes no sense. He has no other heir.”

“He has Declan.” Ben states, matter of fact. “You’ve said it yourself, he wants Declan to be the king.”

He takes a deep breath and continues in Riccardo’s silence, “For the record, I’m not asking you to break me out of here. I beg of you to run before it’s too late. Save yourself.”

“You expect me to believe you’re telling me this out of the goodness of your heart.” Riccardo screams, “Of all the lies you’ve told, these have to be the most cruel.”

“I’m warning you, Richy. I’m trying to save you if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.”

“And I warned you. If you broke my heart there would be hell to pay.”

Chapter Text

“I FOUND HIM.” The shout is pain and bliss to his ears, too loud, not loud enough, “OVER HERE.”

A hand smooths over his hair, tugging a little as it combs through the dry blood.

“You came.” He mumbles sleepily, he hears their tears, no word passed between them as they take in his injured state. It doesn't matter. His team found him.

Someone tugs him off of the pile he’s crumpled in on the floor and onto their lap, they hold him so tight, like he might disappear again if they let go. He welcomes it with tiny whimpers. The bad dream is finally over. They’re going to take him home now.

Declan must have gone for help. It’s the only way the team could’ve found him. He hadn’t seen his friend since they were taken- gunshots making him think the worst- but clearly he had escaped. Martin thanks God for that.

He burrows further into the warm chest of whoever’s holding him. Lets the rise and fall of their chest lull him back to sleep. He’s going to be okay.

—

His head is pounding, he rolls around a little- or tries too, but the rope around his wrists is too tight and he can’t get any momentum.

Wait- that isn’t right. He shouldn’t be tied up. They found him- he’s supposed to be home.

The cold floor is the antithesis of what he thought he’d be feeling when he woke up. He longs for his warm bed.

He hears a door open and close- ignores it this time. He tries to look around, gathering what he can through his blurry vision- the wood floor, dim light- it’s a church, his mind supplies.

There are shoes in front of him now, just inches away from his face. He doesn't dare to breathe. Maybe if he ignores it this vision will go away too. There’s ringing in his ears now- loud, like one continuous bell- It’s so much worse than the silence.

A hand runs itself down the side of his face. The features of his captor- or savior- are still obscured. And then a blindfold is tied around his eyes, gently, but still. Must be his captor then.

The ringing stops- everything stops. He doesn’t even hear the man leave- doesn’t hear a thing. Just his own thoughts- bouncing painfully around his skull.

He tries to say something- scream, plead, whine even, but his lips are dry and stuck, so nothing comes out.

Nothing comes to him. Not the strange man in the clean leather shoes. Not the visions of his team- maybe only a splitting pain at the thought of them. No noise, no light. He can hardly feel anything anymore with how tightly his limbs are bound.

It’s fine. The team will come. Maybe not yet- but they have a game tomorrow (or is it today, now?). Someone will miss him.

All at once he remembers the splitting pain in his ankle- the rope leaving pressure on where it hurts the worst. Worse is the pain of knowing no one will miss him- no one will even know he’s gone.

—

He comes back to him the next morning- or night- even with the blindfold removed, the church is so dim. If it’s Sunday by now, shouldn’t someone be coming?

He’s moved to a seated position by strong hands, rough with use.

“What are we going to do with you?” The voice is English- to be expected in the heart of London, the tone is warm, but there’s an underlying something that Martin can’t quite place. “My first idea was another career ending injury, but that didn’t work out so well last time, did it?”

Martin starts to scream then, finally breaking through his own body.

The man, the blurry form, continues as if he can’t hear him, “I learned a bit about hypnosis recently. Did you know that it can make someone so susceptible to suggestions that they might, for example, give up everything they’ve ever worked for.”

“Wha- Why are you doing this?”

The man leans down, clear even in Martin’s view, “Because, darling Martin, you have something I want.”

He knows that voice, knows the part of his dark hair, the way his jaw juts out, all of it. It’s Declan.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the vision to go away. It’s almost worse than the one from before- how could his mind be so cruel?

“Of course, we’ll have to break this again as a security measure, you understand?” The figure- Declan- reaches for Martin’s ankle. He begins to scream again, even before the overwhelming, white hot, whole body pain starts.

Chapter Text

Dubai in January- well it’s like Dubai in any other month: hot.

The sun beats down on Kai as he runs his laps around the training field. It was slightly cooler when he started- since the sun wasn’t up yet. But now he considers ditching his long sleeves, maybe ditching his shirt all together.

The sun hits him like a truck, over and over and over again. He doesn’t know how many laps pass, one after another, around the entire field, until there’s sweat dripping everywhere- dried immediately by the heat and turning him into a sticky mess. He pants, unsure he can go any further, forces himself to do just one more lap- and another after that.

By the time the team starts to trickle on the field, tank tops on, ready to go- Kai realizes belatedly that he missed breakfast- Kai is ready to collapse.

He stands straight- he slipped his long sleeve from under his t-shirt a while ago- acts as if he just got here- hope his coaches don’t see how he’s red in the face, struggling to stand on shaky legs.

Training is brutal. The six mile run did nothing to acclimate him to the heat. The higher the sun rises in the sky, the more he feels it burning him, weighing him down through every pass.

He all but collapses when they’re finally, finally done. On to recovery and tactics and team bonding- not a moment to spare.

The ice bath burns everything, but does nothing to cool his red cheeks- hints of a farmer's tan already peaking out. He sits there far too long- uncomfortable, but unable to get himself out.

He meanders through the rest of it- trying to keep his focus laser sharp- to be the player they bought him to be. His body though, tired and itchy all over, doesn’t give his head a rest. If he can’t even do this, then he’s really not worth it.

He can hardly touch his dinner- the food is too warm, his stomach is turning all sorts of ways. He nearly falls asleep at the table.

Everything here is the antithesis of London. His room pumped full of cold air, freezing like the tundra- and you’d think he would appreciate it. The way his body hasn’t seemed to cool since he got here. But it just makes him itch to get out of there.

It's surprisingly easy to sneak onto the pitch. Dubai is too big, too empty for anyone to notice Kai.

He can hardly move his muscles without feeling the sting of his stupid sunburn, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing a bag of balls.

He forgot his shoes, but he’s not going back now. Blades of grass scratch and sting his feet, dry and hard. He takes penalty after penalty, left foot, then right, starting over when he misses until he hits ten in a row. It takes longer than it should- hours, probably, of him screaming in frustration, voice echoing to nowhere.

When he gets it right he starts over from a new spot, further out, more to the left. And then he switches, pushing himself on each one.

Until he just collapses, laying on the coarse grass, eyes fluttering shut, willing that this time it worked- that he’ll finally prove himself.

—

It’s even hotter the next day. That’s the first thing he notices. He didn’t get up for his early run, but he’s still out there while the other lads are still at breakfast.

His feet protest the most as he tugs his boots on, ties them extra tight as if telling his soles that they aren’t allowed to hurt- not now.

He bikes his warmup. People trickle in, joining him. Ben makes a comment about how red he is. Kai just shrugs.

They play a scrimmage, the pink jersey adds an extra layer to his already overheating body. The other players blur together. He pants in the first minute, feeling like one of his dogs. He shifts, trying to keep up, to push further. Ends up on his back.

—

“Shit, Kai.” Someone’s mumbling above him, “Scared me pretty bad, eh?”

His eyes crack open. It’s Leo. Leo’s arms on his, rubbing up and down. Everywhere he touches immediately feels better.

“Leo?” He groans, taking in the boy's sad smile.

“I think you got some sort of heatstroke. Not a surprise since you haven’t eaten all week.” He keeps his town light, but Kai can hear the disappointment behind it. “I’ve got you though. Salve for the burns, and the trainers gave you an IV for the dehydration.”

“You didn’t hav-” Kai starts, only to be cut off.

“Kai. I’m not going to let you hurt yourself.”

“I wasn’t. I wouldn’t do that.” He argues, glad though that Leo doesn’t stop his ministrations either way.

Leo doesn’t answer, which pisses Kai off even more.

He pushes himself up, ignoring the immediate dizziness, “Stop pretending you care. You don’t even like me! And you don’t know anything.”

Leo sighs and pushes him back down. He doesn’t need to speak to convey his disappointment. No, his eyes do that for him.

Kai wants to yell again, but it’s as if the fight has left him. He couldn’t get his limbs to move if he tried.

Chapter Text

“You’re bleeding.” Granit’s eyes are concerned, raking Mikel from top to bottom.

“I’m- What?” He grumbles, twisting and turning to try to see what the younger man is talking about.

“Here, hold still.” Granit’s fingers are soft around his middle, he pulls up Mike’s sweater where the red is seeping through.

But there’s nothing on the other side, no injury, no wound.

“Must not be my blood.” Mikel shrugs, wrapping his arms around Granit now that he has him close.

He hums, letting himself fall into Mikel’s embrace, “Where’s Martin?”

If Granit is Mikel’s number two, then Martin is number three.

“Off to bed, I think. The job wasn’t so easy today.”

“You should’ve let me go, darling.” Granit complains, “No need to risk yourself, hm?”

“We all made it out alive, didn’t we?”

—

The hallway is quiet when he limps in. He can’t sleep right when his side is burning like it is. Figures he might as well get a drink. Anything to help him sleep.

The liquor cabinet seems to be further than usual as he ambles down the hall. He tries to keep quiet, even though he knows Granit and Mikel are on the other side of the house. He winces anyway when his body pitches over and slams into the wall.

“Fuck.” He groans with a bite to his lip. Forces himself upright. Keeps going.

He ends up drinking straight from the bottle, right there on the floor. But it’s the middle of the night, so he gets a pass.

The first swig burns. He hisses as it makes its way through his body, not doing much of anything.

He shivers, his wrist throbbing where it never healed properly from a break a couple years ago. That was before Mikel found him. When he was out on his own- between working for the group in Madrid and- best not to think about that- he takes another drink.

He lets his head fall forward.

He broke his wrist while stealing documents. Got caught, got his wrist snapped, got away, barely.

Mikel found him a few months later and brought him into the organization. Things have been better since then anyway. He chugs a little more, thinking of the man down the hall.

The pain in his side doesn’t dull, even as the lightness in his head takes over the rest of his senses.

Granit has always been kind to him. Too kind, maybe, to the scrappy quiet kid who moved into his house, took his place, in some ways. Doesn’t matter though.

They make quite the team. Martin laughs hoarsely- except he only feels ripples of pain. He keels over, coughing.

“Shit” He grunts, looking at the watery vodka-blood mixture he hacked up onto the floor.

He grits his teeth, trying to push himself up. Get something to clean his mess. He can’t- Mikel can’t see this.

The kitchen is too far for him to crawl, not when his wrist hand limply and his opposite side feels like a gaping wound with a brick shoved inside of it.

His head pounds as he rips off his t-shirt, uses it to clean the mess he made.

And then he realizes that he needs to make it back to his room.

He drags the bottle back with him- just in case. It wouldn’t be the first night that it rocked him to sleep.

Everything aches, white-hot and sharp, when he finally finds his feet. Using everything in his reach as a crutch, he finally makes it back to his room. He tries to keep quiet, but the whimpers find their way out, every step, every godforsaken movement bringing new waves of horrible shooting pain.

His bed is waiting, welcoming, pulling him in. The one thing that’s been there for him this whole time. That and the vodka.

—

“Jesus.”

The kitchen’s a mess when Granit walks in the next morning. He’s briefly concerned that someone broke in the middle of the night. But Mikel was snoring next to him when he woke up, so at least everything of value is safe.

He checks on the kid next. He showed up out of nowhere, a step behind Mikel. Granit almost killed him that first night, when the boy woke him by sneaking around in the middle of the night. He would’ve too, if Martin hadn’t put a knife to his neck first. Mikel always finds the crazy ones. Starting with him, he supposes.

Martin’s in his bed. Laying in a pool of blood.

“Fuck.” Mikel’s behind him. Peering over his shoulder at the boy, almost looking peaceful.
“It really wasn’t my blood.”

Chapter Text

“I have to keep him safe.” He shouts. “Erling is not going to stop. It’s the only way.”

“You’re an idiot if you actually think that Ben. It’s so reckless! Lord knows what kind of trap you’re running into. You’ll probably get yourself killed!” Leo’s yelling at him, hands thrown to the air, but Leo’s not really listening. He made up his mind before Leandro had any idea what was going on.

“I need to go. It’ll be dark soon.” Ben tries to hurry off, but Leo catches him first.

“Martin won’t thank you for putting yourself in danger. You’re only hurting yourself here.”

He shrugs him off, heading for the door.

Leo’s right. It is reckless, but Ben doesn’t care if Martin thanks him. Ben doesn’t give a damn what Martin thinks at all.

The cape brushes the ground as he hurries along- probably Erling’s then, a little token he gave Martin after he fucked him. It won’t matter when he’s flying anyway.

He brought one of Martin’s crowns with him. It was hidden away, tucked to the top of the shelf, probably spelled so no one would find it. But Ben’s been breaking Martin’s spells since they were kids, and willpower is a hell of a weapon anyway.

It’s a windy night, fitting, as he flies over England. Erling will probably be having dinner, maybe tipsy and warm from the wine. Ben imagines his surprise, before his face amounts to nothing and he falls into his plate of food like the pig he is.

Ben can’t take them all down, obviously. It really is a foolish mission. But that’s not what matters, not what he’s thinking about as the wind whips his face and tussles his hair.

The Manchester chapter sent them a notice yesterday. A thinly veiled declaration of war that had Mikel pacing behind his locked office door. That’s why Ben needed to go. To protect his friends.

If he says it enough, he can convince himself that’s what this is really about.

Martin will have noticed he’s gone by now, when he didn’t come to bed. His face unwittingly draws a sneer at the thought. Poor little Martin, no one to warm his bed.

Anyway, it’s really killing two birds with one stone. Manchester would never be so daring without the Norwegian oaf at their helm, so the ‘war’ will shrivel up and disappear.

All he has to do is kill Erling Haaland.

—

What he didn’t account for, was Martin.

Martin sitting beside Erling in his bedroom. Heads bent together in the torchlight.

Ben would scream, he would, but he won’t give himself away, not when he’s come so close.

Mikel told him to use the spell only for emergencies.

Mikel told him how dangerous it would be, how it would hurt- kill even- any opponent he wielded it on.

Everyone told him not to go that night. Everyone told him that it wasn’t worth it, that they should fight back when they’re stronger, when they have more weapons, more people, more.

It doesn’t stop Benjamin.

For a moment, after he says the words, everything is silent. Erling looks up at him, sees the crown dangling from his hands, eyes filled with recognition, with not much else.

And then it’s not quiet anymore. Then it’s fire, and screams. It’s Martin's eyes snapped to his in an instant. Those big blue eyes, swirling with hurt, shock, and whatever else a traitor feels once their plan is revealed.

And then he’s collapsing. All magic has a price after all. Erling already paid his. It’s Ben’s turn.

He, again, doesn’t account for Martin. Not for the way he kneels by Ben’s side, gripping his hand tight.

“Ben. Oh my God, Ben.” Martin sobs, “You didn’t- Why?”

“It was us or them.” He croaks, even though it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

Chapter Text

“I’m so tired.” He mutters as they stumble out of the gym, heading towards the parking lot.

“Lift wasn’t even that bad today.” Willo’s practically bounding across the parking lot.

“Speak for yourself. I almost collapsed.” Leo jokes, trying to keep his tone light, even though he did really.

Martin ruffles his hair, “You get to go home now though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugs, peeling off in the direction of his car, waving in response to the smattering of goodbyes.

He almost falls asleep on the road. Only the jarring honk of a horn saves him from smashing into the barrier. He’s awake after that. At least enough to get home.

Except home is cold, and sterile and it’s not home, not really. It’s where he goes to exist when he’s not at the club. But it’s not the warm hug he wanted. He leaves the lights on.

Even the hottest shower possible can’t reach the chill he holds beneath his skin. He can barely drag himself out of there, not with the way his limbs feel heavier than the weights he used them to lift, not even he ran all day on weak legs.

Sleep doesn’t even feel good anymore when he gets it, so might as well skip that step. He lays in bed clad in just a towel, staring at the stupid overhead light and the hazy blue it casts over everything.

He would cry if he could. But the tears won’t come unless he forces them, and he’s not in the mood to do that. Even if all he wants is to let it out.

If there was someone to call he would do that too, but the minutes tick by, and anyone he feels willing to bother slips out of his grasp.

The sweats he pulls on are cozy, at least, even if the purple jumper doesn’t match the pale orange joggers. No one’s gonna see it anyway.

There’s a text from Gabi waiting on his phone, which he ignores in favor of pulling all the blankets from his bed. But then it’s too cold without them and the bed isn’t soft enough and the hood is bothering him so he pulls it over his head but that’s not comfortable either and he lays on his side but he misses his pillows so-

He stumbles downstairs, the softest biggest blanket in his hand. He flops onto his couch, deep and comfortable. The blinds are open- light from the streetlamps and passing cars adding a little glow to the room. It’s good. He’s good.

He wraps himself up, arms around his middle, wishing the tears that now sit just behind his eyes would finally just fall, if only so they’ll leave him alone. His lip quivers.

It hurts so bad, cause now, even when he’s comfortable and responsibility free- it’s all still lurking there under the surface. Like he will never, ever, be anything without this pain following him like a shadow.

At that moment, he just wants it to end. A blissful sleep, where he doesn’t wake up until it’s gone and over and he’s okay. Or maybe he doesn’t wake up at all. He tries to banish the thought as soon as it comes- but it was there anyway.

He wants his mom. What a thing for a nearly thirty year old man to want- but that comfort, that simplicity, the home cooked food, the language he knows- he craves it so badly that his palms burn.

The ceiling changes colors all night- the blanket starts to overheat but still he doesn’t move. Just lets it go, lets everything wash over him. The time changes around him- people somewhere, moving, getting ready for the day, or sleeping through the night- while he doesn’t even exist really, stuck in an isolation chamber of his own making.

His morning alarm is ringing from upstairs- back to training, then. At least there he has a purpose, no matter how bad it can suck while he’s doing it, at least he’s not alone.

—

Gabi meets him at the door, an arm slung around his shoulders, a pat to the top of his head. He steers him towards the cafeteria- for breakfast- he says.

Leo lets himself be led, just this once.

Chapter Text

It’s hard as it is to make a comeback.

It’s harder when everyone he knows is two hours to the north, harder when he no longer knows how to act without the spotlight, harder when he has no control of his own career.

Harder when he doesn’t deserve it.

He jogs through the neighborhood. It’s hilly, not like London at all. There’s a purpose to his exercise. The further he goes, the more his legs burn, but also, the lighter his head gets.

Twelve kilometers in, he’s flying, never better. And when the fourteenth hits, and everything starts to burn again, he’s ready to collapse here right on the sidewalk, but he goes on anyway.

He does sixteen total, and then another half on the loop back to his house.

He left the back door unlocked, crashes inside and heads immediately for the shower.

It started one day, or maybe it already started long before that. He just realized it one day, when it was freezing outside and he could feel it through his layers, he realized how close he was to falling apart- how one thread could get pulled and he’d crumble to dust.

And so he makes a plan. A notebook with a carefully scribbled list, a plan for how he’s gonna get his life back.

It starts with the extra training. Hours in the gym, even more on the pitch. And then there’s the runs, the extra abs. He transitions his diet- protein and vegetables only.

For the first few weeks he feels great. Southampton welcomes him. And then it’s not enough.

The vegetables are cut out, the portions get smaller and the runs get longer. His new keeper coach is more than happy to stay late, kicking balls for him to save.

Bruises appear all over his body- even more than before. He sees them like tokens of his hard work, never prouder.

He slims down, takes more pictures- doesn’t do much else.

It’s everything. He makes it his everything. He needs to.

And when it stops working, he makes it harder. Longer runs, tripled bruises. He starts skipping breakfast, even though it makes training that much worse.

The winter is miserable. The problem with shedding all his fat is that he can barely handle the long training sessions without the sun.

His runs triple even, when the sun goes down earlier, he stays out even later. And even though the team's performance doesn’t improve, his does.

And it does. He runs faster, reflexes better, all the extreme training. It’s everything he wanted.

Until it’s not. Until he can’t make it through a training session, let alone a game.

Until he’s collapsing in bed the moment he gets home, unable to move.

Until he’s confronted by Martin.

The Norwegian appears on his porch one day, gives him the whole laundry list of what he’s seen. Of how he can’t do this to himself anymore.

Aaron punches his fist through the living room window.

Martin, to his credit, doesn’t run. Just cleans the shards from his hand and holds him as he sobs.

And after training the next day, after sitting on the sidelines in the cold. He sits in the middle of the pitch and thinks.

It’s freezing, but he stays out there anyway. Not even moving, not training, not running, nothing. The sun is setting but he stays right there.

The team left him long ago. Doesn’t matter anyway, he’s not who they want, not who they need right now.

And he realizes right then,
He doesn’t want this anymore.

He drives to London in the middle of the night.

Martin’s key isn’t hidden in the plant like it used to be. But he doesn’t have to wait long.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He confesses, “Why can’t anyone see that.. That I’m tired. Why do I always screw it up for myself? Can’t you just- just frame me to the wall and keep me out of trouble?”

Martin just slides open the door and lets him in.

----

He doesn’t notice the first time. Comes home and his living room lights are on- not normal, but maybe he forgot to turn them off.

The second time, his bed is unmade, the shower floor wet even though he had showered at the club that day. Maybe there was a leak.

It keeps going, a hoodie missing one day, doors opening to rooms he never uses in the middle of the night. It’s strange, but what’s he supposed to do?

He comes home early one day, bandage around his knee from a training move gone wrong. He’s got orders from Mikel to stay in bed, so that’s where he settles after his warm shower.

David likes to think he’s got good reflexes, but it takes him suspiciously long to react to the shatter from downstairs. He can’t place it, where the loud noise came from, but he stumbles down the stairs anyway, sluggish from the pain meds.

The living room window is shattered, pieces scattered around the floor. He steps on one, dripping blood everywhere.

“Fuck.”

He can’t clean it properly with his knee like this. He can barely bend down as it is. He tapes some plastic over the window, pulls the shard from his foot, takes another pain pill and goes to bed.

He wakes up, hazy and warm. There’s a new bruise on his neck when he looks in the mirror, and last night sort of comes flooding back- at least the shattering part- it’s foggy after that.

Except he doesn’t remember cleaning the floor. The glass is gone, the blood too. And the window is taped up nicely. He must’ve done it in his drugged state the night before.

He doesn’t train, so he’s back early again. But the doors unlocked. He sneaks in quietly, almost afraid to enter his own house. But the downstairs is all clear. And he sets his water bottle and bag down before checking upstairs.

It’s clear there too.

He sighs in relief- must’ve forgot to lock the door is all. He was a bit off this morning.

He heads back down, grabs his stuff and then it’s back up, acting like his knee doesn’t kill him the entire time.

He chugs his water as if that will get rid of the pain, and then he curls up in bed.

—

He wakes up, feeling like he was hit by a truck. For one, he’s naked, covered in little marks and bruises. And for another, his head is pounding from the light pouring in through the window- and it’s two hours past when he was due for physio.

He doesn’t know what happened, just that he’s in a lot of pain.

It’s hours- and lots of apologies to Mikel and the trainers- later, when he gets the text.

Aaron Rambo: ‘Thought you might want these. You were begging for it after all. See you tonight.’
Aaron Rambo: Attachment 12 images

—

He does go home eventually. Takes the long way, which doesn’t even matter because Aaron is sitting in his living room anyway, staring at him.

“Hello, David.”

“What the hell, Aaron? What is-”

Aaron shushes him lowly, stepping forward to wrap his arms around him, a hand squeezing his butt.

He squeaks and tries to pull away- but when did Aaron get so strong?

“It’s okay, David. I’ve got you.” Aaron whispers, rocking him back and forth.

“Let me go. Please, Aaron.” He struggles.

Aaron tuts at him, “Oh, David. You don’t want those pictures getting out do you, baby?”

David freezes.

“Thought so, baby boy. It’s okay, I’ll keep you out of trouble.” Aaron rambles in his ear, “Frame you up on the wall and keep you safe.”

Chapter Text

They’re known for their corners. It’s what they do best, getting in the box, in the goalies head, throwing themselves in places they maybe shouldn't be- anything to get the ball where they want it.

The flag goes up, indicating another one. They’re goalless in the 64th- Arteta is pissed from the sidelines. Willo can hear him yelling, even though no one's listening- too busy getting set and shoved while Bukayo places the ball.

Another corner, another chance. It’s the same as always, Ben all over the goalie, Kai waving his elongated limbs around wildly. Martin watches from off to the side a little, commanding and directing; waiting to run back if it doesn’t go their way.

Willo takes it all in with deep breaths, he angles himself ahead of a blue defender at Martin’s behest, uses his body to loom over the little man, eyes locked on the ball.

It’s soaring, over, over, towards the back post, he watches it, the beautiful curve, waits for someone to hit it, for it to go in. But no, it’s coming for him. He angles a bit to the side, wrapping around the defender who tries to pull him down, and then he’s angling his head back and slamming the ball straight in.

—

Everyone sprints for him. Or for the fans, a few of them take off towards the corner to celebrate. But Gabi’s locked in on Willo. Willo who scored them a beautiful goal, Willo who’s not getting up.

His eyes are open, unsettlingly white and unmoving. Martin meets him on the other side, shakes the younger man’s shoulder slightly. Gabi screams for help.

The physios have to drag him away, not an easy task, the way his eyes are locked to Willo’s, his hand clasped to his wrist- not moving.

“Não está respirando” He shouts at the people crowding him, boots dragging up bits of grass as they yank him back.

There’s a stretcher that follows the physios. The squad stands in a tight circle around them as they lift Willo onto that ugly orange board. Hands squeeze Gabi’s back and shoulders.

“You’ve got to keep your head, man.” Ben whispers to him as if Willo isn’t being carried off the field. As if Willo was breathing right then, while he had to finish a goddamn football match.

It’s autopilot until the whistle. Mikel doesn’t take him off- maybe he doesn’t look as shaken as he feels- and he doesn’t ask, doesn’t clap, just runs down the tunnel.

The training room is Willo free. He just about crumbles to the floor when one of the physios tells him that no, Saliba isn’t here and no, they don’t know if he’s okay- they aren’t even sure where he was taken.

The locker room isn’t much better. He shrugs hands off him, straight for Mikel and the staff.

He’s pointed in the direction of a hospital named with English words he doesn’t know nor care to translate.

They look at him like an alien at the front desk. He’s family. He insists he is. Willo is his everything, doesn’t that make him family?

He stands across from reception, glaring at the barrier keeping him from his Willo. He’s fuming. The adrenaline left over from the game seeps out of his pores. He can hardly stand still with all that energy just sitting below the surface of him.

The hand on his elbow makes him jump and jerk away, nearly knocking an elderly lady over. Mikel leads him through white hallways. He floats along with wide eyes.

Willo is in this little room with clear windows looking out. The curtains aren’t drawn, and Gabi wants to yank them shut himself.

They aren’t allowed in the room- probably aren’t technically allowed in the hallway even, but lord help anyone who gets in their way.

Him and Willo are supposed to be the wall, not on the opposite sides of one. The doctors tell Mikel that he’s on a respirator, and then they start throwing more words, trauma, internal damage, coma- Gabi tunes them out, couldn’t understand them if he tried.

He quickly realizes that looking at Willo is worse. Still as he’s ever been, seriously, even in sleep Willo is a ball of energy, kicking and turning and taking the covers until Gabi’s ready to push him off the bed. He wishes for that now- for anything except this: hands by his sides, eyes closed, expression blank behind all the tubes and wires, not even a twitch. Even the rise and fall of his chest is too slow, too choreographed.

“When will he- he’ll wake up?” Gabi asks aloud, not tearing his eyes away for even a moment.

“We do not know, Gabi.” Mikel pats his shoulder. “He will- soon he will, okay?”

“I am going in.”

—

It’s the middle of the night- maybe the early morning. His phone died a long time ago. Mikel went home to his family, wife and kids. Gabi doesn’t dare leave Willo’s side. Not again.

His eyes are bleary, and tears falling from the exhaustion and the worry and the sight of his Frenchman. The sight that hasn’t changed in all the hours he’s spent glaring at it.

He whispers a prayer then. To the God that Willo doesn’t even believe in. He prays in Portuguese, accent thick, more tears falling onto his clasped hands. He recognizes his savior, prays for Willo to be the one he saves.

He barely recognizes the slurred words when he hears them. Or rather, the one word, repeated in its own sort of prayer.

“G-gab-y”

He can barely recognize the shape of it, the way Willo says his name- he’s always said his name in his own way- it’s weak, and sounds all sort of wrong- like Willo can’t properly form the words. Gabi squeezes his hand and sobs.

Chapter Text

Everything's splitting. Two rows of boxes become four, all the colors and boxes and containers blending into one ugly blur.

Kai has to put a hand on the shelf, steady himself. He tries to blink away the extra shelves, but the dizziness doesn’t fade. He hauls himself upright and grabs about eight different boxes. If he can’t read the labels, he might as well get a variety.

He throws them on the counter at checkout, mostly because he can barely keep himself upright anymore.

“They’re for my- girlfriend.” He stutters out to the bored convenience store employee. They don’t answer and Kai pays and stumbles out the door.

—

Two lines. Bright blue.

And the next test has two crossed red ones, and another says ‘pregnant’ outright.

He sobs on the bathroom floor surrounded by the circle of them.

His socked feet slip across the floor on the way to the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea and then pours it down the drain when he reads the box and sees how much caffeine is in it. Then he throws the box against the wall.

There’s no new messages on his phone.

—

He’s out as soon as the team finds out, relegated to sitting at home on his couch and watching the team win without him.

It’s not like he’s that missed. On the other hand, he misses them like crazy. Misses the football, misses the hugs and the team dinners.

He doesn’t go out. Has his groceries delivered right to his door and doesn’t eat most of them anyway.

His body doesn’t look any different. Which, it’s only been two months and he doesn’t really know when he’s supposed to see something, but what if other people see it. What if someone sees, what if Declan sees? Hell, Kai doesn’t even know if he himself wants to be a mother. What would Declan think?

So he stays in, and eats his pasta and ignores any texts he gets from his friends at the club. He’s not one of them anymore, he can’t be.

—

No one knows why he’s out. The news tells him that much. It’s good, because that means the cashier at the stupid convenience store didn’t blab about the worst night of his life.

—

He starts getting sick about a month in. All hours of the day, but mostly in the middle of the night. He’ll wake up and his stomach will roll until he can’t stay in bed and ignore it any longer. The first few times, he pukes on the carpet before he even realizes what's going on and then pukes again from the smell.

Only then does he go to the doctor. And the whole time he gets chided for waiting so long, he might not be showing yet, but he’s told over and over again what a risk he caused, how he couldn’t hurt the baby.

He feels like a bad mother already, even though his baby’s barely the size of an avocado at this point.

—

He hasn’t heard from Declan in months. It’s like whatever they had, whatever happened that month together, he disappeared without a trace, like he never even existed.

Kai smashes his phone and doesn’t get a new one.

—

He returns to that same store to pick up some prenatal vitamins and medication that his doctor prescribed. He’s not any less afraid of going out, especially now that his boobs are fuller, and his tops stretch across his chest. But he is terrified of the doctor.

He’s not dizzy this time, nothing blurs the vision of Declan standing right in the middle of the snack aisle.

He dips down one of the others, slouching a little so that his head doesn’t peak over the top.

Declan sees him anyway, greets him with a clasped hand and calls him mate. Kai wants to cry.

He doesn’t say much else, disappears out the automatic doors and doesn’t look back.

—

Kai can barely handle stairs anymore, by the time his 7th month hits and his belly peeks out across the rest of his body. He moves onto the couch, and only gets up to throw up and pee.

The baby kicks now, kicks him like crazy in the ribs and the stomach in the bladder, all night long. Definitely the kid of a footballer, then.

Knowing the baby’s there, alive and well in his lower abdomen, doesn’t do anything to dull the constant pain in both his belly and his heart.

—

His water breaks on a Tuesday. The team is away in Manchester. He drives himself to the hospital, even though the contractions wracking his body make him want to drive the car into a tree.

He wishes he gave birth immediately. Wishes it was quick and easy, a bit of drugged up pain and then some cries and it’s over.

His baby was not easy, he- Kai finds out it's a boy- kicks and screams his way out of there. Like he knows just how much he’s screwed things up and doesn’t want to face the consequences.

He doesn’t hold him, just stares and the ceiling and wishes, wishes that he was anywhere else.

Chapter Text

It might have been foolish to try. There was always going to be someone looking, someone wondering where he had gone. They had told him the last time they had sent him out, ‘represent us well, we’ll know if you don’t.’

And it’s true. The kingdom of Madrid knows everything. There is truly nowhere that Martin can run where they won’t find him. He might as well turn back now and hope no one noticed he was gone.

At least there he was fed decently and more importantly, warm. Here in the woods, there was none of that. He couldn’t even start a fire without fear that the guards were one step behind him, looking for an opportunity to pounce.

Of course, he’s running for a reason, a good one. Even if they’ve taken everything the poor boy had to his name, they can't take this, he won’t let himself be sold.

The nights are the worst, just like they were in the castle. If he was lucky, he’d be left in his damp chamber, but most nights, he’d be tied to the bed of a different diplomat, “entertaining” as they called it. No, Martin would rather live the rest of his life on the cold forest floor.

The problem of food was, well, a problem. They hadn’t fed him much at the castle as it was- to keep his shape, they said. He hadn’t eaten for days before he finally got his opportunity to run. It was his punishment for “not performing well enough”.

So the empty cavern of his stomach wracks his entire body. Every step is agony, every thought tinged with an undercurrent of hunger. He can feel his ribs, jutting out just above where his stomach loudly begs, for something, for more.

He considers if eating his own arm would make the pain better or worse. That’s one of the last thoughts he had, before the all consuming rattle took over, nothing but divine empty need in his head now.

He hopes he made it far. It’s unlikely, considering his condition, but he’s nothing if not a fighter.

He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t much care, as long as it’s far far away. He’s barely able to take in the surroundings, before he collapses down to the wet forest floor.

—

“Just a little farther.” Someone mumbles, mostly to themselves. Martin can’t place the accent, can only tell that it’s Spanish. He begins to thrash in their grasp.

They don’t let go, and Martin’s blurry eyes don’t do much in the way of helping his escape, he continues to fight anyway.

“Stop that.” The voice resigned, “I’m not going to hurt you, stupid boy.”

“Let me go,” His limbs are so heavy, he can hardly move them any longer, and his voice- he would kidnap himself too if he sounded that weak.

“I’m trying to help.” The voice states, like it’s a command, “Not that you would know help if it kicked you in the face.”

“I won’t go back.” He spits.

The voice chuckles, low and warm, “No, I suppose you won’t.”

He leaves him on a low pile of blankets. Martin isn’t sure when they went indoors, and his eyes don’t want to cooperate either.

“Drink.” The man holds a cup of delicious water to his lips, he wants to swallow the whole thing down in one go. It’s ripped away before he can. His pleas sound weak even to his own ears.

“What did they do to you, boy?” Hands trace his body, light. Martin jerks away, scrambles far as he can on shaky limbs.

“I told you before, I won’t hurt you.” The man shakes his head, turning away, “Shall we get you something to eat?”

Chapter Text

He thought they had it. But that’s the curse, right? That's Arsenal.

Three second places finishes in a row and they’re in the same position they’ve sat in before. It shouldn’t hurt as bad the third time, right?

Wrong.

Ninety minutes felt like years, the scoreline falling apart as the team follows suit. Clock ticks by, frown lines deepen. Mikel has to sit at the end. He gave up a long time ago.

Southampton was the final fixture. They’re already relegated, so maybe second isn’t so bad. Aaron doesn’t even celebrate the clean sheet against his old team. He’s a better man than Mikel gave him credit for. Another failure to add to the list.

Martin might be one of the stronger ones- another surprise. He shakes the winners hands and doesn't let losing tears fall. Kai’s still crumpled on one end of the field.

Leo did his usual disappearing act, Mikel can’t bring himself to care. It’s over, anyway.

The Brazilian’s have their own circle, everyone’s arms around little Gabi. Gabby J already decided he’s leaving. Mikel wonders if the others know.

He can’t blame anyone, for not accepting this, for leaving. What’s a team that can’t win? They had every opportunity. All they had to do today was draw. Hell, Mikel can’t accept it himself.

He wonders if this is it. Should he give up his career? Give up on trying to make something when he was never going to have a chance? How could a captain of a failed career do any better as a manager?

Martin finds him with skinny arms and tired eyes, holds his waist tight and doesn’t even try for English.

Declan’s the most diplomatic, of course, always playing both sides. Mikel hopes bitterly that the boy never wins, and then remembers they’re on the same side. They clap for the away fans together.

The locker room’s silent, save for wet sobs in every corner. Mikel takes one sniff of the despair and heads for his interviews. Martin blocks the path.

It’s worse, when he catches Bukayo’s face. Mikel wants to shove his way out, wants to never see again if it means never having to experience the sight again.

They’ve lost so many friends, so many players gone, so much bitterness and nothing to show for it.

He can’t even say the words, to explain how he failed these boys, year after year, after year.

Even Ben isn’t as unflappable as he seems. He falls apart too, locked in the arms of yet another heartbroken boy.

Riccardo might not have experienced the first two, but he takes this the hardest anyway. Mikel wants to wrap him back up and send him somewhere he can be happy; it won’t be here. He settles for a pat on the back.

He can’t give a speech, he refuses, flat out, when Carlos whispers in his ear. He wants out of here. Now. Wants to run like he’s still 18 and trying out a real stadium for the first time. He wants the grass in his toes, ball at his feet, nothing to play for but being.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to live, even, when he looks out and sees the hearts he’s broken, when he knows they’ll never be good enough.

Martin starts it. Grabs his hand and wraps his other arm around the next, and it travels around- arms holding each other tight. Touch starved boys in need of a hug, in need of the love that the sport will ever give. Mkiel’s heart breaks all over again.

But they’re there, together, like a twisted family of nationalities and positions. They hold so tight in that moment.

Nothing can break us, Martin tells them, nothing. Others chip in, ‘once a gunner, always a gunner’, the passion, arsenal in their hearts, a family, truly, and this loss won’t do them part.

Chapter Text

He gets the letter in the mail. A cream envelope, normal sized but heavy and full. He doesn’t know how long it's been in there- rarely checks his mail.

There’s no name along with the return address and Martin’s already late for work. He leaves it on his counter.

It’s unsurprisingly still there that night, sitting like a beacon on his granite countertops.

He opens it while his tea steeps. The thick cardstock and scrolling font makes Martin roll his eyes. He doesn’t even need to look at the signature to know who it’s from.

His ex boyfriend. The king of fucking Germany.

He should have known

Kai is requesting his presence for some bullshit event- literally Martin has no idea what, it’s written in German and he never did get a grasp on the language.

But the second paper, that’s what makes him pause. Written in Kai’s tiny scrawl, outlining exactly what will happen if Martin doesn't attend. His blood runs cold as he reads what Kai has listed. Wishing it was unbelievable, but really, this is typical Kai behavior- and the worst part is Martin knows he’s not bluffing.

Killing him might’ve been kinder.

—

It’s two wakes later that he’s escorted into the palace, a guard on either side like he’d try to run. Even if he thought he’d make it, Kai already threatened his entire family- something he’s seen him make good on several times. Martin practically led him right to them.

He should have known he would never truly get out. Kai never lets go once he has something he wants.

What he wants now, is apparently a ridiculously themed wedding.

The great hall is full of guests, a proper Havertz feast, Martin’s pushing into one of the chairs right at the front, just in time to see the show.

Kai in the frilliest of outfits, as if he’s an 18th century Frenchman and not a modern day royal.

And the man on his arm, just barely shorter than Kai and particularly large- broad shoulders, muscular chest, biceps and thighs nearly bursting out of his just-a-little-too-tight suit.Perfect to be paraded around on someone's arm.

Martin can’t help but roll his eyes.

—

The wedding is to take place next week. Martin’s outfit has been custom made- a gift from Kai. He didn’t get to speak to the man himself, thankfully- who knows what Martin would’ve done to him (probably strangled his pale neck).

Each day is set with a full list of activities for their 500 something guests, as if no one here has a job or a life. No, they only exist to do Kai’s bidding- Martin included.

Today they’re going hunting.

It’s a bit overdone and outdated for Martin’s taste, but he presumes it’s a good excuse for ‘Toni’ to show off his muscles while Kai looks like a pretty little helpless princess.

Martin just knows better.

But nothing with Kai is ever optional, so he goes hunting. Wears the clothes Kai had left on his bed and plays the amicable ex.

It’s well and good. Martin doesn’t partake in the shooting, of course. He lurks towards the back of the pack, waiting for the moment he gets to go home.

Kai finds him first.

“Martin! I’m so glad you made it.” He gives him a kiss on each cheek and squeezes a lot tighter than necessary. Toni lingers a step behind him, as if ready to pounce. Martin barely spares him a glance.

“Yes! So glad to be here!” He exclaims faux-cheerfully.

Kai narrows his eyes, “We’ll have lots of fun together this week. I’ll make sure of it.”

Martin tries to suppress his shiver.

—

He thought he finally escaped the ex and his shadow, until the shadow becomes his. Antonio’s following him through the woods. Martin can hear his every footfall, every shift across the crunchy leaves. Maybe the guy doesn’t know just how well trained Martin used to be for his job.

Martin lets him come. He expects harsh words and warnings, maybe some twisted manipulation passed straight from Kai’s mouth. He doesn’t expect the rifle to his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, coming here.” Antonio’s voice is low.

“Ask your betrothed.” Martin answers flippantly, staring right into the black orbs passing for eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t forced me to play his games, just as you’re doing now.”

“Kai doesn’t play games.” He shoves the gun further into Martin's chest. There’ll be a rifle shaped bruise tomorrow, he’s sure. “The only one messing around here is you. Stay out of my life, and my husbands.”

Martin huffs a laugh, “I would if I could.”

He turns to go, but a rough hand finds his shoulder first. He’s whipped around and shoved back, and then-

“I wonder if you’ll like how it feels to be haunted by the past.”

He hears it before he feels it. Two shots. The first rips through the fat above his hip, his body is thrown with the force. The second hits the complete other side, closer to his shoulder. He laughs again as his body hits the ground- and then there’s nothing.

—

Martin isn’t.

Isn’t dead that is.

Maybe it was what Kai wanted, or maybe Toni acted alone. It doesn’t matter.

He briefly wonders if they’ll need a body to confirm he’s gone. He laughs then.

Antonio isn’t nearly as good of a shot as he thought. But either way. He’s left here, left for dead, and as long as he’s gone his family will be safe.

And he laughs again,
Cause they have no idea what it’s like to be haunted.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The nightmares are nothing new. It’s just that when they come in waves, all night long, one after the next, keeping him in a cycle of restless sleep and terrified wakefulness. It’s just that he was at the club late last night, training and meetings lasting until nearly 9pm. By the time he had dinner and rocked himself to sleep for the first time, it was like he had barely slept at all come his 5 am alarm.

The gym work is painful. He’s sluggish and tight and can’t lift anything heavy for the life of him. He nearly knocks something over or crashes into someone more than once by purely tripping over his own feet.

And every correction feels like a personal attack. Even his teammates can see what he’s so plainly doing wrong- which, at this point, is everything.

He reminds himself that they’re trying to help. That they just want him to improve. That they’re not trying to psych him out and take his position. He pushes himself harder anyway.

A coach grabs him towards the end. One of the strength guys. They go off to the side and he tells Leo that it’s okay to have one bad day, that they’ll need to talk if something more is going on.

Leo finishes his workout in silence. Runs out before the team talk at the end.

The bathroom is like a home and a trap all at once- reminiscent of much worse times. He curls up in one of the stalls and lets his breath come hot and heavy until he’s somewhat able to think normally, although no matter what his hands won’t stop shaking.

Ben slides in as he’s leaving,

“You alright, mate?”

“Yes!” Leo chirps, “Yeah, sorry, all good. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ben starts to say something else, but Leo’s already gone down the hall.

—

Training is excruciating. Leo longs for nothing but a day off. But on those days, he knows all he’ll want is to be back here, doing something, having a purpose. It’s a vicious cycle.

Mikel yells at him the whole way. Regular training stuff, sure, but it’s every move, every pass called into question. He can’t even run without hyperfocusing on his form and praying that no one has any complaints about that. Can’t they see that he’s trying?

He pushes harder. It’s this or the alternative. He can’t give Mikel a reason to hurt him.

He remembers belatedly that he’s not there anymore. They don’t do that here. He keeps going all the same.

Ben shouts at him for passes, nudges him when he walks by, all beautiful smiles and working limbs. Leo wants to hammer a ball right through his face. He scrubs a hand over his own at the thought, hangs his head in shame at himself- even if no one else heard.

The rest of the training is too slow and too fast. His melted mind picking up balls flying straight by him, or having him sprinting without thought, going through the motions until he doesn’t know how many reps he’s done and when to stop. Not like his body will tell him anything. That information is locked up somewhere else. Somewhere he hasn’t had access too for a long time.

—

He lingers and picks up balls and cones and walks back in with Mikel, asking him low questions: Did I get the height on that pass? What about my passing? Is there something I can do better, some tangible thing I can work on that will make this mess in my head feel actually possible? Can I have something of my own? Something to control?

I did good, right?

Mikel gives him appropriate critiques and pats. He feels no better when he’s dropped off at the locker room door, like a kid at kindergarten. But he moves through that too. Doesn’t collapse on the floor or curl into a ball or whine about how bad it hurts, how much shame he feels over God knows what. He takes off his boots and gets through it, same as everyone else.

—

Ben finds him anyway, of course. No one has more experience with a mopey tired Leo.

He wraps him in a hug wordlessly, giving no chance for Leo to squirm away, though he tries anyway. It’s borderline too tight, too much, but Leo feels something in him relax anyway. Something he’s been missing.

“Nightmares again?”

Leo sighs, “Yeah. The stuff from Lommel.”

“You were just a kid. I can’t believe-” He cuts himself off, though he doesn’t stop from squeezing Leo impossibly tighter. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

Leo lets out a breath as if he’s amused, “Until I’m not good enough anymore. Or, whenever they realize that I never deserved it in the first place.”

Chapter Text

“Jesus, man, what the hell is that?”

He didn’t pay it much attention at first. Sure, it hurt when the defender's knee slammed into his back, leg sweeping to take out one of Ben’s. But that was weeks ago. He sat out of training for a few days and that was that.

“Ben, your whole leg is purple.” Declan points out. “You have to feel it.”

“I don’t feel anything. It’s not a big deal.” He slides his pants on and walks out.

It isn’t.

—

It doesn’t become a problem until it does, until he can’t get up or even move or reach his phone. Until every single nerve in his body is consumed by white hot pain from which there is not escape.

Then comes the fever and chills, which have Ben wishing he’ll die in his bed before however long it takes for someone to discover him.

He stares at the ceiling for the longest time. Nothing to take his mind off the pain, except his own mind. It’s fine, he reminds himself, it’ll pass.

Around 11, Martin shows up at his door with coffee, thankfully one of the few that knows where his spare key is hidden. He screams when he sees Ben lying there

It’s just an injury, he tells them when the ambulance arrives. They take him to the hospital anyway.

The doctors tell him he’s bleeding internally. Lots of big words and things he tunes out.

Surgery. Risky surgery. Necrosis. Long recovery.

All from a stupid tackle. It only got a yellow. He played the rest of the game, for fucks sake.

What choice does he have though?

—

They act like it's an emergency.

White coats and solemn faces put him under that same day while his teammates pace the waiting room. He doesn’t know how long he’s out. Just that when he wakes up back in his stupid ICU room, groggy and numb all over. There’s only a sleeping Martin Ødegaard by his side. He falls back asleep too.

He lets the nurse feed him pain pills as he takes in what the doctor says. Martin’s awake now, grasping his hand like they might take him away again. He doesn’t believe it. Rips off the blanket to look at where his leg used to lie. Now there’s the stump of his knee and then vast white hospital sheets.

Martin looks away. Ben asks if this is a joke.

The nurse gives him this pitying look like she knows something he doesn’t. They took one of his legs, and no one will look him in the eye. They put him into surgery, told him he’d be okay. And after all that, he’s still infected. Still damaged. He tunes them out again.

Martin’s reluctant to leave. Ben wants to throw him out of the room, but he can’t do it physically and yelling at him would only make Martin want to stay more. Stupid.

He tells him he’s fine. Just to get a moment's reprieve. Seriously, a guy can’t mourn his career in peace?

He doesn't, though, get that moment. He gets waves of teammates like a swampy flood. Hugs and flowers and bullshit. He wants to punch someone, something. He forces his hands to still in his lap. Forces himself to take platitudes from people with two legs and everything he’s ever dreamed of. He can’t even call them teammates. Not anymore. Ben doesn't have a team. Ben doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

“I can’t feel anything.” He shrugs, plays it off, if only to get them to please just leave him alone.

He never asked anything of anybody. All he wants, now, is the same as everything he ever wanted, and without that. He doesn’t want any of it. He doesn’t.

He’s left always wanting, for a dream he only just got to taste, and now he’ll never get.

Chapter Text

“I have nowhere else to go, Granit, please.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I have things going on, Martin. A life here. I can’t just drop everything to take care of you again.”

Martin sniffles into the phone receiver, “Okay. Yeah, sorry”, and then he hangs up.

He feels shipwrecked. Body destroyed, not even good enough to do the one thing that brought him here. He might know every corner of the campus like the back of his hand, but the instructions, the map, drowned with their conference championship hopes.

He doesn’t exactly have nowhere to go. It’s just that the perpetually too cold dorm room might push him right over the edge he’s been teetering on for months.

Now with the season over and his friends back home for winter break, all that exists for Martin is the looming graduation and retirement from the sport he thought he’d play forever.

He doesn’t have a home to go back to. It’s not a two hour drive back to the place he was born, the place he’s always known like it is for the rest of his teammates- former teammates. Even before his four years here, he didn’t have anything like that.

So he wanders campus and gets lost even though this is supposed to be the one place he belongs. Carries himself on tired legs, everywhere but the one place that ever felt his.

It’s not yours anymore. Nothing here belongs to you.

It’s cold. Northern winters, sun setting before dinner. Martin drags himself around and around, hoping maybe someone will show up to save him.

Except his time is up. He’s not worth it anymore, after every training, every early morning and late night, every ounce of energy and everything he had to give. No trophy. Nothing left.

The degree is the goal, right? People go to college to learn, not to kick a ball. Except he learned everything he needed to know about the world long before he got to university. The ball was always it for him.

And now all he’s left with is a degree in business and nowhere to go use it. All he has is hopes that maybe some professional club will pull him in. Maybe he can fuck around in the MLS and live his dream. Maybe.

But the calls don’t come and the sun sets further. He ends his exploration of his place, his one and only home, even if he’ll be thrown out on his own and not allowed back come spring. He ends at the pitch.

Scales the fence like he’s done a million times and finds a ball left under a bench. The nets are up, season over, closing time, but he kicks around anyway.

If no one wants him for what he’s best at, then why would anyone want just another guy with a business degree.

The salvation never comes, no teammates wander by and take pity, no recruiters are lurking just outside the training pitch, no one but him and the ball and the shadows.

It was a good run. Being someone, being a collegiate athlete, finally making someone proud. He had a good run. It’s over now.

No one is coming to save him.

Chapter Text

I didn’t mean to go that far. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would.

Competition is everything, to an athlete. Practices, warm ups, hell, even every single meal we eat- It leads up to one thing: competition.

The games, the smell of victory and the damp weight of loss. Being better than the next guy, even when he’s your teammate. It doesn’t matter. You’re the best and no one else matters anymore.

Maybe that's why I started to lose it. It’s not my fault, right? It’s the pressure. Working your whole life for something until someone decides that your body, your mind, isn’t good enough. You lose. Game over.

I didn’t mean to hurt him. I would never do that. I’m a good person. Everyone has always said so.

It’s not my fault, it’s wired into my blood. I’m an athlete- I’m going to be physical.

I’ve made a career of lunging at things, kicking anything that’s in my way. I can’t turn that off when it’s a body instead of a ball.

Why would they put us up against each other? They should’ve known.

I liked David. That’s the thing that’s keeping me up. I’m not sorry that I’ll win now, not sorry to take my rightful place back. But it’s got to hurt, and for that I feel a little bad.

It’s human to want revenge. And David took what’s mine.

I had no choice but to take it back. It was mine in the first place, after all.

He came for me first. I reacted. I didn’t mean to let it get this far.

I went over there to talk. He’s the only one that gets me and I was having a bad night. Another bad night.

I didn’t mean to yell, it’s just that I could see the way he was pitying me, I could see it in those big brown eyes. I just didn’t fall for it like everyone else.

So I was angry, and he was so close. It took nothing, barely even a stretch when I reached out. The crack felt so good, reverberating through my bones, I didn’t mean to go any further, it’s just that it felt so good.

It’s hard not to compete. One spot on the pitch, and two of us. I’m a competitor, always have been. I can’t not compete. I have to win.

It wasn’t even about revenge. I swear. I went there to talk. Because David’s my friend. He made the first move. He stepped towards me. I was just defending myself. He’s even more competitive. It’s his fault. Always aggressive, David.

The blood’s still under my fingertips. I want to rip them off just to make him go away.

I didn’t mean to. I promise. I’m sorry.

I can’t help it.

I’m sorry. It went too far, I know.

I see what’s mine and I take it.

Chapter Text

“Hello? Leo?” Martin calls out. Kai echos him and Ben wanders a few feet ahead, looking behind every tree as if Leo might be hiding there.

Ben sighs, hot breath puffing into the crisp air, “He can’t have gone far. He could be back by the car, right?”

“We’re in the middle of the woods. He could be anywhere.” Martin shudders.

“He’s got to be here.” Kai’s unconvincingly small voice pitches in.

“Maybe I should go back and look? He could be waiting for us there.”

Martin grabs Ben’s arm, “We’re not splitting up.”

They wander on, slowing more and more as the sun sets lower and lower. They might as well be going in circles. Leo had the map.

“What’s that?” Kai points ahead, a cabin looming, blocking what's left of the sunset, lit from behind like a halo.

“We shouldn’t.” Ben murmurs, but he’s as tired as the rest of them and the dark building looks inviting in its own way.

“We can’t look for him when we’re this tired.” Kai presses on and they follow. None of them notice the dusty red trail leading them right that way.

They see it on the steps though. Martin jumps to avoid it, but the blood is already on the soles of Kai’s boots.

The warmth draws them on though, even when they know they should run the other way. It’s dropped below freezing outside.

And, “What if it’s Leo?”

Ben’s voice is shaky. He can’t tell if he hopes it is or isn’t. They slip open the creaky door.

The blood pools right inside the door. They slink around it and the very door slams shut behind them. Kai screams and Martin laughs, even though his skin has gone pale and he eyes everything warily.

“Hello?” They hear the thickly accented croak, but no one can place where it’s coming from. They split off around the tiny building, “Is anyone out there?” And then, quieter, ”Just kill me already.”

Ben’s blood curdles underneath his skin.

He’s the first to find Leo.

Mouth agape, eyes bulging from the sight. Leo on his knees, wrapped in thick chains. He can’t even tell where the blood is coming from, just that there’s a lot of it. He doesn’t scream though, he doesn’t even make a sound, just rushes to Leo’s side, not even listening to the words falling out of Leo’s cracked lips.

He’s yanking on the chains, trying to pull them off even as Leo screams for him to stop. He calls for the other boys to come and help, they need to go. Now.

“Oh, Ben. They aren’t coming.”

He doesn’t recognize the man, can’t even place the accent in his confusion.

“Who are you? Let him go.” Ben shouts.

The man laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard, “Don’t you mean let you go?”

He reaches for Ben. The Brit pulls away, abandoning Leo in favor of the corner. The man just laughs, a sure step forward as Ben takes another away. Like a game of cat and mouse.

He’s nearly at the door, and he doesn’t want to leave Leo, but he has to get out, get help. He makes a run for it and doesn’t make it far at all.

“Didn’t even have to touch you. Silly boy, slipping in a pile of your friend's blood.”

“What do you want from us?” He spits, blood covering him like his own personal horror movie,

The man shushes him, almost cradling him as he wraps him in his own bindings. Ben struggles to no avail. The movements are careful, practiced.

“Oh, Benny, I know you want to save them.” It’s whispered like a prayer. Leo moans from where he’s laid out, “Which should I play with first?”

Chapter Text

“It’s not your fault. I promise, I just- I can’t do this right now.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The words haunt his every step. To training and back, and especially in their bed at night.

It might not be his fault, but Fabio’s gone.

-

“It never should’ve happened. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to scream. It absolutely should’ve happened. It’s all ever wanted to happen. Their kiss, lip on lips, Gabi leaning down to meet Fabio’s perfect face, hands on his cheeks.

He regretted it the next day, Fabio did. They blamed it on the win and the adrenaline and they moved on. It was just a kiss. It never should’ve happened.

-

“This can’t happen again.”

It happens again, and again, and again after that. They couldn’t stay away, and Gabi would never say no. Best friends, and only that, except they become best friends that kiss and sometimes best friends that fuck- only with the light off and only when Fabio asks first.

Everyone knows and no one does. They’re best friends. They love each other, that’s all.

Fabio knows how much Gabi loves him.

“It’s already forgotten.”

-

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The thing is that Fabio knows. He doesn’t want to hurt, but it does everytime he walks away. He can’t trust his best friend anymore, not when he keeps saying it’s the last time.

He comes and he goes, around and around Gabi, like a moth to a flame, except Gabi can never fully pull him in.

“You won’t. You’ll never hurt me.”

-

“I don’t need you.”

He does. Gabi does. Fabio might not need him but Gabi needs. And on those nights he gets it. The words can’t erase his actions, nothing can change where hands gripped thighs, mouth’s met in the middle.

He says it anyway. Takes off the pressure.

Fabio is his shoulder to cry on, his best fucking friend. And, in exchange, he’s not needed. Fabio doesn’t need him. Wants, maybe, but he’ll never need, not the way that Gabi does.

-

“I’m leaving.”

He’s heard it before. Fabio’s going home at the end of the night, he’ll never stay, not the way Gabi wants. But this is different. He’s leaving. Portugal calls and Gabi’s one more speck of kicked up dust.

“You can go.” He says.
“Please stay.” He means.

But, again, Fabio always does what Fabio wants. Chooses a new club, a new life, and forgets the one Gabi was trying to build.

-

“Why don’t you want me?”

He shows up in Porto. An address given to him by Jorgi of all people. Just another reminder that Fabio’s not his.

“It’s not your fault, Gabi. I’m sorry.”

-

“It meant nothing to me.”

He doesn’t call and Gabi pretends not to check.

Fabio was never his to begin with.

Chapter Text

It’s a new rule. Implemented at the start of the season. Arsenal isn’t a stranger to it, at this point, it feels like they’re getting the cards on purpose.

Willo heard from Declan, saw the effects on Leo. But nothing can truly explain how it feels, strapped to a bench, fully naked and waiting.

It’s cold, because of course it is. He’s shivering and uncomfortable, ready to jump out of his own skin. It feels like he’s been here for hours. The match must be over by now.

But no one comes, so maybe it isn’t. He tries to wonder how they’re doing. Tries to focus on his team, but the longer he lies there, the worse the anxiety gets, and the less he can focus on anything at all.

His body thrums with it all, shame and grief and anger and exhaustion. He wants to break everything, he wants to move and to cry and to be free. Maybe the waiting is part of his torture.

He wants his family, his team, anyone, to come and hold his hand and tell him it will be okay. He’s going to be okay. Leo was, Declan was. It’s just part of the rules now. He does what the PGMOL wants and he gets to go home.

It’s just that he doesn't know exactly what it is. No one’s allowed to say, and the rule is so new, he sits there and dreams of the worst.

Nothing could compare to how it actually happens.

The door opens and closes, the match must have finally ended and now he faces his punishment.

Cold hands roam over his ass and upper thighs, almost surgical. He shudders and jerks.

“Hold still or it will hurt worse.” The voice is emotionless, English, and unrecognizable. Willo does as it asks.

The hands leave, replaced with a burning sensation on his lower back. He has to grit his teeth not to squirm. The voice doesn’t give any explanation to what it’s doing. But whatever cold substance made him feel like that is taken away.

The real burn that replaces it is much worse, not like the chemicals, this is white hot shooting pain through his whole body. He can’t imagine anything hurting worse- he can smell his own burning flesh. They’re branding him.

And it doesn’t end, not until his body is weak and sweaty, collapsing on the bench. He’s out of screams, throat hoarse and breaths painful.

The brand is gone and the hands are back, touching his bum again, and it feels unnecessary, like a violation on top of the ones he’s already facing, but he can hardly move, let alone protest the glove now breaching his hole. It doesn’t feel good, not when he’s felt so much pain, not when he didn’t ask for this. He fights not to cry, just to keep one thing for himself, as if they haven’t already broken his body and his mind.

The tattoo gun brings new pain and he breaks even more, if possible. It seems silly now that he tried to hold back from crying. He was always going to give them exactly what they wanted and nothing less. He hears the buzz, loud in his ears, and then he feels it. He never wanted one, never wanted his body to be covered with something so permanent. But it’s too late, the needle is piercing his skin, tracing over the already burning lines left from the brand. It’s a new kind of pain, one that has him blacking out in a pile of his own drool and tears.
-

He wakes up, still on the padded bench, but the ties are gone. He shifts around, accepting that it’s finally over. He can go home. Only when he moves can he feel the pain, not just his lower back- enough on its own to nearly knock him out again- but also the ache in his hole, the squelching noise it makes when he stands.

There’s a mirror now on the side of the room, allowing him to see his new marking: a red card, complete with the PGMOL logo, the ref's name, and the date. Now permanently marked with the worst day of his life.

Chapter Text

“Jesus. You said it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not. Barely hurts at all.

Ben gawks at him, “Leo, you’re bleeding through your shirt.

Leo twists to look, and his shoulder is indeed bleeding right where the defender spiked him in their game earlier.

“Oh.”

“Let me see.” Ben sighs, he was used to this behavior- at Brighton it was much worse.

Back then Leo would never have come to Ben at all. Ben would find him later, when he was shaking in some corner or bathroom or closet, when blood soaked through his sleeves and Ben had to beg him to let him see, let him help. Leo could’ve been so sick he could hardly move and still train until he fainted, but the worst was what others did to him. He was the team's punching bag- for years, he was abused until he didn’t know right from wrong, didn’t know to ask for help. Ben had to initiate the transfer himself, just to get Leo out of there.

So some blood on his sleeve might not matter, it might be a stupid injury on the pitch, but Ben will never, ever, let Leo go through any of that again.

The ‘wound’ is fine, bruised in the shape of cleats. He’s worried a little because the blood hasn’t stopped, but a bandage covers it fine. Leo’s all good, even lets Ben place a stupid kiss on it with minimal protest.

-

Leo’s dead on his feet. Ben can see from afar the way his dark eyebags hold up equally tired eyes, the way every kick of the ball looks forced, looks like it takes superhuman effort. And then there’s the coughs, every once in a while. It hurts just to look at him.

“Leo.”

“I’m fine.”

Ben pulls him off to the side, “Fuck, Leo, what happened to you?”

“I’m just a little sick.” Leo shrugs. Ben actually sighs in relief. Sickness he can deal with.

Sickness is nothing compared to the hangovers, compared to him on pills- body worse than ever, pain like no other- not that he’d ever admit it. The mental struggle, the anger and the sadness and the torture of every move. That’s what he told Ben, after months and months of rehab. The thing is, it must’ve been worse than he ever let on.

“Let me get your PJ’s on. Do you want another shower? Or straight to bed?”

Leo just nods, so Ben puts him in bed- dinner will be sorted later. He strips off his shirt and that’s when he sees it.

“Shit, Leo.” There’s a new bandage around the wound from last week. Except it’s doing nothing to sop up the mess of blood that’s already there, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“D-din’t wanna bother you.” He murmurs weakly.

Ben has to take a breath just to keep himself from yelling. He peels back the bandage, wipes up some of the blood.

Leo turns and looks at his own arm, “Oh, that’s not good.”

Ben chuckles, dry and low. He pulls open the first aid kit he bought for Leo a long time ago, uses a tourniquet to slow the bleeding and when he does, it reveals how it’s just that much worse. The wound is infected- obviously why Leo is so sick.

“Jesus, baby.” Ben whines, and he looks up at Leo, who’s staring at the wall, eyes unfocused and tired. “Okay. I’ll fix you up. Take care of you, hmm?”

Leo hums back, barely there with how quiet he is.

Chapter Text

“There’s no other option.” Mikel sighs, “I’m sorry, Emile, but you’ll have to decide on one of these clubs. We can’t keep you here, but we’ll work out some options. I know it’s not ideal, but we’re doing this for you. For your career.”

He’s up and out of the room before the coach can finish his spiel. He’s shaking so bad, hands and legs- his whole body pitches to the side when he tries to take a step. But he makes it- somehow fights his way along every step. No idea where he’s going, just that it has to be out of here.

He’s known- known so deep in his soul that this was coming, but the words, hearing it.

We can’t keep you here.

It feels like being punched in the gut repeatedly. Over and over and over again, by people he trusted- loved.

That’s when he collapses.

The place that was his home- gave him everything and he gave all he had back in return. They don’t want him. The dream is dead.

He feels the floor- cold- and the sobs that wrack his body, burning and painful like nothing he’s ever felt. He tries to pull himself to a ball, as if holding himself will calm him any. Really it only makes it worse, and he’s shaking so bad that he can’t even maintain the shape.

We’re doing this for you.

“Hey. Emi?” The touch is light, not panicked, in sharp contrast to the way Emile jerks away. His head slams back onto something hard, adding sharp pain and dizziness to his list of issues at the moment.

“Okay, hey. It’s me, Em.” Bukayo’s voice cuts through some of the panic. “Can you hear me?”

If sobbing harder is an affirmative, then Emile responds, but really the realization that Bukayo of all people is seeing him like this. Bukayo, who has always been perfect, who has everything he’s ever wanted.

“Get off. G-get off me.” He screams, even though Bukayo’s hands haven’t been on him in a while.

“Emile, breathe.” He feels hands on his knees, holding firm, so even when he tries to get away he’s still stuck there, under Bukayo’s hands. “Hey. Okay, breathe with me, yeah? In and out, Emile.”

He does, somewhat begrudgingly, but it’s his best friend- no matter what. A breath in that has his chest hurting with the pressure and one out that feels like a relief. He knows Bukayo can feel it all, feel his chest rising and falling, shuddering with every movement, and the shaking- he becomes cognizant of it again, how even with Bukayo’s sure hands pressing him down, his legs still shake like crazy

But it’s getting better. Bukayo breathes and he follows. One clear breath in, followed by shaky gasps.

“Sorry” He hiccups. Finally getting his shit together enough to wipe his eyes and look up. And Bukayo is worried, big eyes and low eyebrows, locked on Emile. He blinks and looks down.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Let’s get you out of here.” Bukayo’s arms slide under his armpits, pulling him up like a toddler. And only then does Emile realize that he had a complete breakdown in the lobby.

“No wonder they don’t want me.” He mutters quietly.

Bukayo takes him to the locker room- empty, since the squad is all at lunch.

“What happened, Em?”

He pinches his own thigh, just to keep the tears from falling out of where they sit behind his eyes, “I’m sorry”

“Idiot, you have nothing to apologize for.” Bukayo sits next to him, close enough to feel his warmth, “Just talk to me.”

“They don’t want me. B, I’m leaving before the end of the summer.”

“Oh, Emi.” Bukayo throws his arms around him, one coming up to cup Emile’s cheek, brushing some of the tears away. Emile just sniffles into Bukayo’s shirt, lets him hold him tight while he still can.

Chapter Text

“It can’t get any worse, right?” Martin jokes as he limps along, half being dragged by Ben.

“We need to get to the door, Martin, hurry.” He’s breathless and Martin is trying. He’s been trying, but the factory he works in has been making him sick for years, all while he was trying to work harder. He limps along anyway.

Ben knows where he's going, despite never having been here, but it’s good because Martin’s in no place to give directions. He fights his way forward, ignores the sharp pain of his burning leg. If he looked down, which he doesn’t, he’d see skin burned to the bones, ivory jutting out. Really he doesn’t know how he’s still moving, only that he doesn’t look anywhere but forward.

They reach the back door, blocked in by burning planks.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, immediately pivoting, scanning, planning, and then mumbling under his breath, “You weren’t supposed to be here

“What?” Martin bends over and coughs before he can hear a response, “The box exit. You know? Where the-”

“Yeah, okay. Come on.” Ben goes back to pulling him along, faster now. Around them there’s creaking and groaning to go with the small fires that illuminate everything a little. Ben’s sharp angles look so serious like this.

“Hurry! The building’s about to collapse.” Ben warns, and suddenly his face doesn’t matter so much. A sharp thud sounds all around them. Martin wants to cover his ears, curl up. Ben won’t let him, keeps tugging at a pace much too fast for Martin’s barely there leg.

The conveyor that sends boxes out is broken, has been for weeks, but Ben takes a spare tool to the door and gets it open enough.

“Okay. Okay you first.” Ben herds him forward. Deft hands lift him onto the conveyor, “You can crawl, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay,” Martin goes, white hot pain with every drag of his body against the belt, but he goes anyway, forces himself through the door, even if it scratches him the whole way.

And on the outside, blinding light and a big drop.

“Fuck, Ben!”

Ben really is right behind when he pushes Martin right over the ledge. He collapses with a splat, pain taking over his whole body and then there's nothing.

-

“Martin, hey. We got you, just wake up, baby.”

He tries to turn away, but he can’t move at all. Instead, he blinks his eyes open.

“Fuck, when did daylight get so violent?”

Ben laughs wetly, “Thank God you’re okay. I never would have forgiven myself if-”

“Hey, it's not your fault.” Martin coughs, “The company- I can’t believe what they were doing to us. Probably burned it down for insurance, or worse it was just caused by some machinery failure.”

“No- Martin, baby, I did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You weren’t supposed to be there. I- I’m so sorry, Martin.”

Chapter Text

“You’re up. Good.” Mikel’s voice rings through the haze.

Martin blinks his heavy eyes awake. The hospital ceiling is the same as when he blinked to unconsciousness hours before. Only difference now is the faces looming over him, Mikel and Granit.

“Granit?” He croaks. Mikel hurries to fill a cup with water upon hearing his voice.

“Hey.” He sighs, “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” He groans, “Did they fix it?”

Mikel looks nervous, “Martin. I-”

“They didn’t?” He interrupts, forcing himself to a seated position.

“Listen, Marty, let him talk.” Granit chastises.

“They fixed it. Just not the way they thought they would,” He takes a deep breath, “You’re gonna be okay, Martin, It’s just that- you- you won’t be able to play the rest of the season, maybe the start of next as well.”

“What? But the surgery was supposed to fix everything.”

Granit looks at his big doe eyes, his own grim expression reflected back, “Hey. It’ll be okay. It’s happened before, yeah? You’ll come back better than ever.”

Martin throws off the blankets and looks at his stitched together ankle. It looks bad.

He throws his head back with a groan, “When can I go home?”

“They’re keeping you here, Martin. For at least a week.”

“Why? I don’t need this! I want to go home.” It sounds petulant to his own ears, but he’s not above begging, not with these two.

“It’s for your own good Martin. You need to recover.”

“I can recover at home.”

Granit sighs, “Not when you’re like this. Martin, we don’t trust you to take care-”

“Don’t, Gran.”

“No, he needs to hear.” Granit argues, “We’re worried that you’ll hurt yourself. It’s too much of a risk. They’re going to keep you here until we’re sure you’re okay. And then you’ll stay with Mikel.”

“And you have this all decided? Like I’m some child. Fuck off. I don’t want your help, either of you.”

“Martin, It’s for your own-” Mikel explains.

“Get out. Both of you, out.”

“Mar-”

“OUT.”

Chapter Text

“You had another one last night?” His roommate asks as he shovels cereal into his mouth. Kai’s just asking because he cares, but it annoys Leo nonetheless.

“No”

“I heard you, Leo. It sounded bad- worse than normal.”

“Well it wasn’t. I’m fine.”

“It’s extra stressful this week with exams. Maybe you should take the day off work, yeah? We can hang out a bit.”

“I don’t need a day off!” He snaps, “I need to go to work and get paid and not fail these exams so I never have to see him again!”

Kai reaches a long arm across the table, nearly knocking over Leo’s tea in the process of grabbing his hand. Leo takes it, even though his anger hasn’t fully faded.

“What was it about? If you don’t mind talking, I think it could help.”

Leo sighs, “I- I don’t know. He was chasing me, and then- It was like I was reliving the- wedding, or almost wedding- except I couldn’t move. I was just stuck. I couldn’t move down the aisle and I was being choked by my dress- God, imagine me in a dress- and he was yelling. In front of everyone. No one would look at me- Like they were embarrassed for me. He said I- I was a bad wife already, and we weren’t even married. It just- it hurt so bad and worse was I believed him. I mean really, really believed it.”

He takes a breath and suddenly Kai’s at his side, wiping his tears.

“But- I can’t even. It wasn’t that one that had me screaming and stuff. I- I got up and when I went back to bed it was like- he was there. We were having sex- sorry- and he was telling me how beautiful I was and I really believed that too. I knew it was a lie and I loved it anyway, and so I gave myself to him, fully- Kai, the things he did to me. It wasn’t even a dream really, because he really did that. I really lived that.”

“Leo, it’s not true. You are beautiful, so beautiful. And you didn’t deserve any of that. Not at all.”

“It’s like I’m haunted by the lies that I loved and the actions I hated. When will it stop, Kai? When will I finally be free from him?”

“I don’t know, Leo, I don’t know.” He rocks him in his arms, while Leo sobs.

Chapter Text

“Gio”

He can’t respond. He can’t. It’s like he’s underwater. He can hardly breathe with the enormous weight on his chest, how can they expect him to speak?

“Gio.” A slap to his face, white hot pain and gasping breaths that make all the hurt from earlier seem like nothing. His chest not only heaves, it burns with the effort.

“Wake up.” He wants to scream, to be left alone with his pain. Everything would be better if he didn’t have the fight, the mental on inside of him, his own brain shouting just as loud as the voice of his torturer.

“He’s awake. Stupid boy thinks he can ignore us.” Make that torturers. Plural.

“This should help.” A laugh, more like a cackle, and then his stiff neck is wrenched in ways it shouldn’t go. He feels thrown and dizzied by the move, even if he’s as scrapped down as before. Whatever they shove in his mouth, it’s too big. Too painful, but he can’t cry out and so the locks are strapped behind his head and he’s now muzzled, as if he could have screamed anyway.

“Knock him out again. If he’s not gonna give us anything, we have more tests.” His legs kick pitifully against their bindings and everything fades back to black.

-

His throat hurts. Scratchy and raw and ridiculous. He hasn’t made a noise in days, probably.

He comes to on the floor in the dark. Typical place for him to be. The brick doesn’t even hurt him anymore when he slams his head back down, small mercies.

“Hello?”

That’s new. He ignores the voice. About time he started hallucinating, since he’s been trapped here for- he realizes he lost count and doesn’t remember when.

“Hey? Are you okay?” The voice is genuinely concerned. He gives a closed mouth smile despite himself.

The hands, though, are cold as him. Not a nice thing to dream of. He cracks an eye open and gets an eyeful of the creature in with him. He’s never shared before.

“Hey, you okay? What is this place?” He’s scared, the boy, trying to hide it but not well. His voice basically cracked on the last word.

Gio can’t answer. He would. That’s the thing. How could he not? When this boy with fluffy hair and light eyes is looking at him like he’s the only hope left in the world. Maybe he is. He wishes he could be.

He wishes he could tell him what to expect, not to scream or it’ll be worse. He wishes he could volunteer himself when they come to take him. Because they will. They’ll take this boy and strip his dreams and hopes and the light in his eyes. They’ll take him and at best turn him into a machine. At worst, he’ll be Gio.

He might have no voice, nothing left, but all he wants in that moment, the only thing he’s wanted in a long time is to scream for this boy, for this caricature of himself.

“I’m Brendan. What’s your name?”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t do it.”

“I saw you, Gio.” Erling sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s exhausted. ‘With my own two eyes. I’m sure they caught you on the cameras too.”

“I didn’t.” He shouts, making Erling flinch. He almost wants to take it back, almost. “You must’ve seen someone else because I wasn’t there.”

“It was you, Gio. Just- tell me why. They haven’t- they might not know yet. I don’t have to tell them.”

“Tell them what?”

Erling slams a big hand down, “Stop lying.”

Gio flinches at the tone, recoiling ever so slightly. “I’m not! Seriously! I learned about the break in at the same time you did. It wasn’t me.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. What else would I expect from you though?”

“Erl- What?”

The older man sighs, hands on his hips, “I wasn’t lying about not telling them. But you’ll have to do something for me.”

“Are you blackmailing me? What the fuck man.”

“You would know all about blackmail, right Gio?” Erling takes a step towards him, “It was you that got your coach fired, after all. Gregg, was it?”

His breath is hot, coming out in puffs that hit Gio’s face with every word, “I bet you think you can get out of this one. You can’t. Not when I tell them what I saw.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Erling smiles, sinister, “Oh, Gio. It’s okay. I won’t tell. You’ll just have to do one little thing for me.”

Erling takes another step forward, now crowding Gio’s space. His hands grip his waist, hard. “Let me go, Erl. Stop.”

He doesn’t, and that’s when Gio starts shoving. It doesn’t do much, not when Erling towers over him. He doesn’t know why he even tried blackmail, when he could obviously take what he wanted either way.

What he wants is Gio’s pants off, Gio on his knees. He tells him this in low pants, executing it as he does, forcing Gio to bend to his will.

Gio’s screaming, kicking, not that it does much, not when Erling slaps him hard and everything starts to go foggy, not when there’s a hand around his throat and a bulge in front of his face.

“What the hell?”

He croaks, wet and gross, can see the panic in Erling’s eyes, “Help, Jude-”

Gio barely manages to squeak the words out. But it’s enough. Jude’s shoving Erling back, and the second he’s released, Gio curls up to cover himself, closes his eyes tight and wishes this was a dream.

“Asshole… You stupid fucking- You won’t get away with this.” Nearly every word is punctuated by some slam or grunt or smack. Gio tries to tune it out. He tries.

Eventually he feels hands, curls up further, tries to get away.

“Gio. Oh, It’s me.” Jude’s voice doesn’t release any of the tension, but he doesn’t fight when he gets picked up. Doesn’t know if he could even if he wanted to.

“I got caught red handed, I guess.” It comes from the floor with a chuckle, then a cough.

Jude doesn’t respond, just carries Gio away.

Chapter Text

“It’s not going to be easy. He’ll be out for a while with the injury, and even after that, it’s the club's decision when he’s allowed to come back.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?” Martin asks. They’re standing in the lobby of the rehab center- rehab. Real rehab. The drug kind, not the kind he’s been in for his ankle, although apparently Gabi is gonna need that too.

They’re talking, him and Mikel, discussing what happened, as if it’s just another day, just an average injury. Wilo tunes them out, and when that doesn’t work, he storms away.

-

“It started months ago.” He finally admits, a weight off his chest. “I got a knock in some stupid game. My knee. I didn’t mean for it to get any further, I just- We weren’t playing well and the team- they needed me. I couldn’t risk the trophy by sitting on the bench for weeks. I did what I had to do.”

The therapist nods, takes in his story. He can tell she doesn’t agree. Can practically feel the judgment radiating off her.

“Did you feel like that a lot? That your team's success relied fully on you?”

He wants to scream, to tell her that’s not what he said, to tell her he’s not supposed to be here. He doesn’t.

-

Rehab is one of the hardest things he’s done. Keeping up the act 24/7, trying to pretend he’s not fiending for one of the little pills that used to keep him pliant and happy and upright. He let it get too far, maybe, but he really is hurt. His knee reminds him with every step how necessary the pain management was.

He needs to get out of here. It’s been months, he knows it has, even if the days blend together in a haze of pristine white.

“Hello.” He says pleasantly, trying not to wince as he sits down. At least they let him see a physio now. At first, it was just simple wrapping from a doctor, resting and getting through his injury like everyone else- like a normal person. Now at least he can work lightly in the hospital’s training room, his range of motion is coming back, if nothing else.

“Hi Gabriel. How have things been since I last saw you?”

He wants to snort, things are always the same around here, what with the ridiculously tight schedule they’re kept on. “Good. I feel good.”

“Have you gotten any work on that hobby we talked about?”

“I painted yesterday. I don’t think it’s for me.”

“Why not?”

He laughs that time, unable to hold it in, “I’m not going to sit on my ass and paint or knit or whatever the hell it is you want from me. I’m an athlete. My hobby is training.”

“Don’t you think that’s why you’re here in the first place? That you pushed your body too hard and it cracked?”

He does let out a scream of frustration that time, unable to hold it in. Back to square one.

-

The pitch is wet, soaking wet. Everyone has been slipping and sliding all day. Gabi watches on, in prime position, ready to go. He’s learned some things the past few months. How to keep his performance up even while injured, how to hide the pain. Two white pills keep his leg from feeling anything, but he needs one of the green ones before each half if he wants his mind to stay in it.

He doesn’t see the ball coming, not a surprise, he’s not at his best, even if he keeps acting like he is. When the attacker follows, in a flash of blue, he’s spurred into motion, planting and turning and then collapsing all in a heap. They score, and then the whistle blows.

He pushes himself up, or tries. The second his bum leg gets any pressure on it, it brings him back down again. Wilo rushes over, he can see him in his periphery, even as the rest of it starts to go blurry.

He tries to get up again, only to get shoved back by strong hands on his shoulders. He pushes back at whoevers keeping him down, shoves with all his might. He realizes after that it’s Ben now lying on the ground ahead of him.

His vision swims, head like a whirlpool, as he tries again to get up, this time managing to stumble to his feet with as little weight on his right leg as possible. He limps forward, still not feeling anything- it must be okay. It has to be.

He reaches for Ben, but someone pulls him back. He pushes at them too, hard, losing his footing as well, so they tumble to the ground together. And then he’s struggling out of their hold, pushing and kicking and wiggling until the arms let him go. He lands an elbow on the man's sternum, again, hard.

And when he looks back it’s Wilo on the ground gasping.

-

“Why haven’t you asked to see your teammates?”

“What?”

“They’re here. Every day someone is here, asking for updates, begging to see you. Why haven’t you asked about them? Do you feel ashamed after what happened?”

“I don’t- I-” He stammers, because the truth is, he hasn’t felt ashamed. He hasn’t thought about what happened at all.

“Gabi. I know you’re trying to get out of here. There’s a title to be won and you want to be there. But you’re doing no one any favors showing up all broken. You tried that once and it failed.”

Gabi opens his mouth to protest.

“Something is wrong. You have to admit that. Admit what you did, that you made a mistake and you hurt yourself and people you care about in the process. That’s the only way to start healing.”

“I- I didn’t- I forgot about them.” He murmurs, trying and failing to hold back his tears, “My- my family- my- My Wilo. I forgot.”

The therapist doesn’t say anything. Her silence urges him on.

“I keep thinking about the sport. Thinking about being there for my team- to play. I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking about hurting them. I- I did- I literally punched my favorite person in the world and I never-”

Sobs break his words into an incoherent mush.

“You were being selfish.” She says gently. “You turned to drugs instead of people who could help. You stopped acting like yourself. It makes perfect sense, you’re not alone in that Gabi.”

“But I’m- I was a captain- I was supposed to be the strong one. I was doing it for them.”

“Were you?” Her voice is soft, even if her words cut like a knife, “Maybe it started for them, but, Gabi, did you really take those pills everyday- several times a day- to help your team, or did you take them to help yourself?”

That brings on a whole new wave of gut wrenching sobs. He couldn’t hold them in if he tried.

“What have I done?”

-

“Hey.”

Wilo smiles, but it’s tight and guarded.

Gabi breathes in and out, slow and steady enough, “I’m sorry.”

The Frenchman doesn’t answer, lips tight in a line.

“I- I’m an addict, Wilo. And I didn’t even know it. They brought me here strapped to a hospital bed, like some kind of- no- I know you know this. You were there. I just- I didn’t find out until later.”

He peaks a glance up. Wilo’s eyes are still on him.

“I spent months trying to say the right things. To get out of here. I didn’t even realize what I was doing- who I hurt.”

Wilo grimaces, it’s the only change in his stoic expression. Gabi looks back down at his hands. Wilo doesn’t owe him anything.

“I’m sorry. For pushing you, and ignoring you, yes. But mostly for not coming to you when I needed help. For not being the person you needed. I can’t take it back, but I can be better. And I will be. I’m trying to be.”

Wilo pulls one of his hands from where he’s picking at his own nails, holds it tight between two of his own.

“Okay. I- okay.” His accent is thick with emotion, and he doesn’t say anything else for a long while, just holds Gabi’s hand tight and stares down.

“I missed you.” Gabi’s voice breaks, and he lets the tears fall, knowing now there’s no point in holding them back.

Wilo squeezes his hand again, before leaning down over them, head bent like a prayer. “I missed you too. The real you.”

Chapter Text

They’re in this ridiculous corn maze- more like a corn labyrinth. As if the long day of training, the two hour gym session, the film watching, wasn’t enough. Now they have to do team building.

Leo knows they’ve been playing like shit- he’s been playing like shit. They need practice, but don’t they also need rest?

He’d give anything for the soft warmth of his bed, drifting off in the low light of his lamps, maybe a window cracked open to let the cool breeze in, another excuse to curl up in warm blankets and fluffy socks. He can practically feel it.

Someone nudges his shoulder roughly, “Keep moving.”

‘Moving where?’ He wants to scream. No one would put it past Mikel to trap them in here with no exit.

He falls to the back of the pack, fine, no one’s speaking back there anyway. And so he trudges along like the good soldier he is. Dead on his feet, maybe, but a fighter nonetheless.

“You okay?” Jorgi asks, a pat on his shoulder to match.

“Yeah. Just don’t get the point of this.” He grumbles.

The look on Jorgi’s face makes him want to take it back.

“We do these things for a reason, you know.”

“Right, of course.” Leo smiles, tries to placate, cover up for his mistake.

He has to remind himself more and more these days. Be the happy guy, don’t complain, don’t give them any reason to doubt your commitment. It’s hard when he doubts his own commitment even more.

You love this. He repeats it over and over in his head as they move along, corn in every direction. This is your dream. It’s what you always wanted.

This is what you always wanted. A wrong turn, he’s back at the front as they shift to go the other way in one big pack.

This is your dream. Corn and teammates surround him from all sides.

Don’t give them a reason to cut you. He drops to the back again.

Positive, be positive. Laughs dryly only a second after everyone else.

“Alright, mate?” Ben this time, nudging into his side.

“Yeah, ‘course” He smiles with no teeth.

Ben nudges him again, walks by his side for just a moment before he’s pulled up towards the front, someone else demanding his attention.

His eyes flutter shut. You’re okay, he reminds himself.

He doesn’t know when he stops walking, just that his body aches as much while standing still as it did with every step, and his heart aches more when he looks around and realizes it’s just him and the moon.

“Guys?” He calls, but his voice comes out low and he doesn’t want to try again, sound that weak again.

He finds his way forwards, stumbling only a little. Everythings the same as before, just lonelier. Footprints don’t form on the dry Earth. He just goes forward, choosing right or left on a whim, choking back sobs when he hits a dead end, and curses when he loses hope all over again that he’ll ever find his way out.

He keeps going, of course he does. It’s all he’s ever done. How could he stop now? When the end feels so in reach?

It’s not though. Nothing even close. He screams, and that doesn’t feel any good either. Then he prays.

He wants out. Not just of the maze. He wants out of his skin, out of this life, out of the feeling where the one thing he always loved sucks the most and all that makes him feel right are calls with his mom and his bed in the few hours he gets between work and work.

This is what you wanted, he reminds himself again. You love it. You have to love it.

Otherwise, what was it all for?

He again can’t tell when he stops pushing. He can’t even tell where he ends and the corn begins, only that he’s cold and a nap sounds really good.

“Who told you that you can rest?” A voice tuts from above him, “Come on, Leo. Just a little more.”

He’s not sure he has anything left to give. He takes Mikel’s hand anyway.

Chapter Text

It’s Halloween.

Not really a thing in England, but certainly one at Arsenal. The hood of his shark onesie keeps getting caught under the foam roller.

Everyone’s dressed up, Ben included. He’s finally past the point of feeling too cool to do these things. He didn’t even flinch when Wilo shoved the costume in his arms. It feels like a win.

Everything does, these days, when he holds his feelings in that place in his stomach. So he takes a lolly when it’s offered and actually sucks it while they wait for the film session to start.

He loves this holiday. Maybe he loved it last year and forgot when the day came to a close, or maybe it’s new. The way he wants to smile, just remembering what today is. The way everything seems fun and happy and the light transfers on to himself like an autumn sun.

He wants to do it again next year, and maybe in a few, take his kids trick or treating.

The thought hits him like a truck. The future.

It feels like being off crutches after months of injury. Freeing and different and terrifying.

“You wanna take the kids trick or treating later?” Gabi nudges him, the joke clear in his voice, “Ethan wants you there.”

Ethan protests, doesn’t take it for what it is. An invitation, reaching out to Ben, at his expense. Gabi makes it sound like a joke so he won’t be disappointed when- if, he reminds himself- Ben doesn’t show.

He gives a tentative nod, “You’re going out?”

“Staying in. At my place. There will be candy for the kiddos, though.”

“And some for me, I hope.” He jokes, and breathes out a sigh of relief when Gabi laughs instead of questioning it.

“Depends. Ethan, you gonna take it all?”

“I’m seventeen, not a child.” He grumbles.

Sure sounds like a child to Ben.

-

Wilo goes with him, of course. He must’ve known about it before, and Ben can’t tell if he’s mad he hid it or glad he let Gabi ask- let Ben repair that bond for himself.

“Ready?” He asks, already swinging his legs from the car.

“Yeah.” Ben smiles, feeling fake, even though he really is ready as he’ll ever be.

It’s loud, but not too loud. Not a house party, not a gathering of random people, nothing to be afraid of.

Wilo pulls him back before he can go all the way in, “I’m here, okay? If you need anything, just grab me?”

Ben kisses his cheek and pushes himself over the threshold.

Leo spots him first, from the circle they’ve made in the living room- practically the whole team on couches and chairs and the floor, talking, laughing, drinking. Still in costume, of course.

“Hey” His best friend pulls him down to sit before Ben can specify that he hates the floor. He can hear Wilo chuckling behind them.

“Want a drink, Ben?” The Frenchman interrupts. They said they weren’t going to be obvious- he asked Wilo not to be obvious, but all the sudden he wants him to sit here too, to stay by his side.

He pushes the panic down, “Just water, please.”

Leo pulls him into his side, like he knows. He doesn’t, but it’s Leo and it feels good to be close again.

“Long time no see, Benny” Leo whispers. They saw each other this morning.

He rests a head on Leo, his hands wrapped around his legs. He lets the music, the words, the laughter and joy, wash over him.

“I’m glad you came.” Gabi stands over him.

“Sorry it was ever in doubt.” He gives a tight lipped smile, wrapped in guilt.

Gabi sits next to him, takes his hand and squeezes. A walking contradiction, Ben thinks, this big guy, so full of emotion, and yet so soft, sturdy.

They don’t need words. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say- Ben doesn’t either- or maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s enough, either way.

No one questions the quiet of his corner, the quiet of Ben himself and the way it seems to spread. If anything, they join in need of somewhere to hide out, and Ben’s happy to have them. Ruffled hair and soft hugs. They come and leave like a wave. Ben lets himself be the shore.

“They love you, you know?”

Wilo, again.

“Yeah, I know.”

He settles too, and Ben lets himself wrap around- not discreet.

“You okay?”

“I’m alive.”

“And well?”

“And getting there.”