Chapter Text
“No.” Kylian says firmly, hands crossed over his chest – defiantly, but slightly petulant as well.
His jaw muscles constricted, mouth firmly closed, as he pushes his tongue – practically kicking his teeth with it nervously.
He isn’t happy. Sure, he saved PSG's ass with that last minute goal, penalty or not – a goal is a goal.
He should have expected this kind of plot of cosmic measurements.
A scheme plotted by evil minds from the darkest corners of the universe just so his entrance in 2023. will be as fucked up as it possible can.
He should have anticipated this kind of ridiculous situation. This was his first game after the World Cup and even though it’s been 10 days, that still isn’t enough for him to feel fine.
And now...
He is fucking far from fine.
He’s pissed.
He hears his coach sigh in exasperation. Kylian rolls his eyes, the tension in his jaw only increasing.
You may sigh all the want coach, I am not accepting that.
I practically own this forsaken club.
“Kylian... –“, his coach says, sounding a bit tired.
I am tired as well.
I lost the World Cup, even though I scored a hat-trick.
I don’t care.
“I said no, coach. I don’t care. He says it’s 2018/19? I wasn’t his only acquaintance then, alright? Put him on a plane to Argentina, let him celebrate with his boyfriend. A change of climate might cure his memory loss.”, Kylian yells, too invested in his own tantrum, despising the fact that he has to do something.
Especially when that something is an absolute absurdity.
A chuckle, followed by a question interrupts takes him by surprise.
“Our Neymar has a boyfriend, eh?”
Kylian turns around, only to see Nasser Al-Khelaifi, the president of the club, smiling in amusement.
Kylian bites his lips – they are a thin line now. He closes his eyes for a second, because –
God, what a fucked up day this is.
Kylian looks at the 49 year old Qatari businessman and sighs, rubbing his forehead in agitation.
“What? No, sir... I am not going to babysit him, alright?”, Kylian announces, straightening his back and lifting his chin high.
“Oh, dear, I think you are, Kylian... Your contract is quite powerful, yes, but still... you are under our control.”, Nasser smiles faking fondness. Kylian wants to smile as well – show his teeth and march off to Real Madrid with a middle finger pointed to Nasser’s face, but he settles for –
“Shove that contract up your ass then, boss. I can go wherever I want to!”, he yells. Nasser blinks a couple of times, as if some imaginary eyelash is poking his cornea. He sighs, nods and lifts his hand in the arm, before calmly, yet sternly saying –
“Enough.”
Kylian is already cursing him to Doha and back, in his thoughts, because he may be young and fiercely ill-tempered, he isn’t that stupid.
He bites his tongue, glancing at Cristophe who looks very pale and nervous.
“What is on 14th February, Kylian, my dear?”, Nasser asks suddenly as he approaches Kylian. Kylian stares at him, boredom mixed with hatred decorating his features.
Is he screwing with me?
“Valentine's Day?”, Kylian answers spitefully and of course, the former tennis player laughs a bit.
How fucking funny. Hilarious. God, I hate you all. So much.
“No. It’s your UCL’s first leg against Bayern München. I want Neymar ready. Fix him.”, Nasser says with a smile that is everything but not pleasant.
Kylian stares at his boss, before replying furiously as only he knows.
“Fix him? He’s not a vacuum cleaner! And if you didn’t figure it out by now, I’m not a doctor!”, he screams and crosses his hands again, getting in a rather defensive posture, expressing his stubborn unwillingness to participate in Nasser’s stupid proposal.
After all – it is stupid.
How does Nasser think Kylian babysitting Neymar will ‘fix’ him?
“Yes. But you two are our best players. And if he needs to be mentored by someone or better say reminded of football skills... who’s better to show him the invaluable knowledge than you, Kylian, my dear.”, Nasser says and Kylian starts laughing.
This is worse than Macron bringing him into that awkward hug and whispering some bullshit into his ear.
“You’ve got to be kidding me... he’s perfectly capable of playing football. And I’m not your dear! Also... He’s just... –“
“Has no memory recollections whatsoever of past 5 years? Kylian, it’s decided. He is under your care.”, the president of PSG says.
Kylian wants to jump out of the window. He glares aggressively at Nasser, then at his coach, then back at Nasser, before shouting –
“Why me? Why not... Verratti? He’s pretty damn chummy with him! Or... or... Marquihnos! Ha! Yes, they even speak the same language! You know why? Because they’re compatriots!”, Kylian allows himself to be sarcastic as well, because he is the best there is and everyone knows that.
However...
Nasser isn't one bit affected by Kylian’s aggression. He smiles.
Oh, that smile...
“He asked for you. From what I was told, he wants to see you. And at the pitch, he recognised you and was very disturbed by other players... –“
“Because Ramos was above him, hovering like a Reaper and staring at him. Every sane person would freak out. And... –“
“And enough. You’ve performed your little illusion of having some vote in all this, but let me be perfectly clear now. We, my boss and me, we pay you a lot of money to play. We want Neymar on that green grass doing what he is paid to.”
“You... come on, we... we aren’t really on good terms right now.”, Kylian practically whines now, because it is too much. Even his fucking birthday was depressing and now this?
Give me a bloody break!
“Ah, yes. Your little love quarrel, adorable I must say. You have three days off, then you bring him to the practice. Do your best, Kylian, I am counting on you.”, Nasser says and pats Kylian’s shoulder gently, before deciding to leave.
Go fuck yourself.
Then he turns around - as if he heard Kylian’s thoughts and winks at the talented striker and says -
“Oh... and His Highness Tamim al-Majd says hello.”
And Kylian just exhales audibly, because that is nothing but a royal -
'Go fuck yourself as well.'
Kylian roars in anger, ready to break every piece of furniture in Galtier’s office, ready to scream and throw stuff everywhere and lose it completely, but then his gaze falls on Cristophe and he whines -
“Coach... –“
But even Cristophe is relentless. He shakes his head. As a sign of "No can’t do, kiddo."
“You heard the boss, Kylian.”
Yes, he heard the boss. Kylian growls and kicks the chair.
“I can’t fucking believe this shit! Fuck! Not only did Macron grope me like a maniac in Qatar, I get that pitiful award that I can shove into my ass and now I’m officially Neymar’s fucking babysitter because the idiot managed to get his fucking head injured!”
“Fuck!”, Kylian shouts, before storming out of the office.
Kylian exits Galtier’s office and murmurs a never-ending chain of curses, as he goes to the main floor of the building. Hakimi, Ramos and Pémbéle are there waiting for him.
They are still pretty much shaken after Neymar’s accident. He was unconscious, Marquihnos was already freaking out, sweating profusely and Kimpembe needed to drag him away, so the doctors could approach.
Achraf and Sergio remained by Neymar’s side. Sergio, of course, had a good time laughing when Neymar finally woke up.
Neymar looked absolutely baffled, screaming like a banshee and cursing at unholy spirits that fucked with his brain.
“So... are the rumours true? Is he... demented?”, Achraf asks timidly. Kimpembe starts laughing.
“Amnesic, you moron! He has amnesia, not dementia!”, he says and Hakimi rolls his eyes and huffs. Sergio cuffs him at the back of his head and Kimpembe spots at Hugo Ekitiké who is approaching them.
“Oh, same shit.”, Hakimi murmurs.
“Neymar? No memory?”, Ramos asks, looking at Hugo who just finished his phone call, then at Kylian who is also supposed to bring some news.
“Yeah... yes.”, Kylian answers
“Mhm, Verratti and Marquihnos are in the hospital with Ney. They say he’s like around February 2019.”, Hugo Ekitiké announces with a grimace.
Kylian freezes. He closes his eyes, painfully, trying to supress the nausea and the ghastly, tormenting sensation that rush through his body at the mention of the date.
Fuck.
Seriously?
“Oh, fuck me sideways.”, he whines. He thinks his eyelids are suddenly too sticky and he blinks a couple of times, but there are tears in his eyes – and he sighs desperately.
Please don’t let it be that date.
“What?”, his teammates all ask in union. Kylian coughs to mask the pain away – the sudden and unaffordable, improper expression of emotions.
That is his... pattern.
Not mine.
I’m cold-blooded, cold-hearted.
I’ve got this.
“Nothing... just... fuck.”, Kylian says, shaking his head, as he fails to block the memory of once existing happiness he shared with... him.
Kylian is, as usual, at Neymar’s house. But this time, the environment is different, the atmosphere is simply... too peaceful and something in Kylian aches.
But the pain, it’s not like toothache – a horrid, dreadful acute pain that can lead person into insanity.
It’s not like a headache or a migraine – a pain so brutal, followed by multiple symptoms that annoy and mutilate person's state even further.
It’s not like a football injury, sudden and scary, because oh, what if it’s permanent, what if it’s about to produce devastating consequences.
It’s not a red alarm, a strained muscle, a sore spot, a bruise...
It’s something so different.
It aches because it feels so good. So peaceful, so right, so incredible... so unreal.
He never thought this is what he would want. Because he doesn’t want that, he needs it.
What if I lose this?
Something I’ve just discovered that I desperately need – what if I let it slip out of my fingers?
Kylian is at Neymar’s house, on the couch, watching at Neymar and his son, playing on the floor with two naughty Golden Retrievers.
At one moment the dogs rush out into the garden, but Neymar and Davi Lucca don’t despair, do not stop their fun – the 7 year old boy hugs his father and whispers something into his neck.
The smile on Neymar’s face – Kylian thinks he’s going to cry, because this is what beauty truly is, he thinks, he’s suddenly feeling so euphoric, so emotional.
It’s catharsis.
It’s Eureka.
It’s something he has never felt before.
A feeling of utter and peaceful satisfaction –
Contentment, fulfilment – he’s happy, wholesome.
Neymar stands up, ruffles Davi’s hair and keeps him close to his hip. Kylian smiles.
The blonde boy is so adorable.
Yet his father is simply beautiful.
Neymar approaches Kylian and before the younger man can even react, because he is lost somewhere in his own paradise, Neymar smiles at him.
“Let’s play some football.”, he says and slides into his lap. Davi Lucca giggles and leans at Neymar’s side, taking his hand into his. Neymar lets him, his other hand finds his way at Kylian’s nape.
Fuck, Neymar, you’re always so... good with touches.
“It’s cold outside.”, Kylian blurts out. Neymar shares a look at his son and they giggle together.
They both look at him like he said the stupidest damn thing.
Neymar rolls his eyes and kisses Kylian’s nose.
“My cute Kyky. You have so much to learn from me and Davi.”, he whispers and stands up, his son already demanding his father’s attention and he picks him up.
They look so gorgeous, so adorable, together.
The question is – do I want this – Me to be a father? Or do I want this – Neymar and Davi and me by their side?
“I didn’t say outside. Up with your lazy French ass, bichinho. Peal your pretty, firm ass from my couch. You’ve been glued to it since morning.” , Neymar jokes playfully.
“We'll cause chaos... we’ll break things... –“ , Kylian tries to reason with the Brazilian, but ultimately fails.
“Kyky. Please. We kick the ball for a living. Besides.. it’s more fun this way.”
And Kylian yields to Neymar’s idiotic plan and... if Tuchel only knew how much shit they’ve broken that day, he would have already make a fuss to Nasser.
"Boss they are incapable morons.", Kylian imagines Tuchel's comment.
Two pictures, one vase – which Kylian finds ridiculous, because Neymar doesn’t even know where that vase came from, three plates – because he was lazy and didn’t clean the table after breakfast, couple of magnets from the fridge – because Kylian took a shot like Harry Kane, a huge chandelier and three lamps and then when the chaos was too much, then the horrific creatures from Brazil – they run away.
And leave Kylian to clear up the mess.
After, Neymar redeems himself with preparing Kylian dinner.
The following morning, Kylian wakes up before Neymar. He wanders through the house, traces of their inside football match still present.
He feeds the dogs, lets them out, because his uncle always used to say – It’s a crime to keep someone away from taking a shit and pissing.
Then he goes to check on Neymar. Truthfully, his intentions aren't that pure and innocent at all, he thinks about damping a T-shirt with water and slamming it into Neymar’s sleepy face.
He even thinks about finding a balloon and starting a war or simply jumping into his bed and pestering Neymar until he doesn’t beg for mercy.
But then, as he opens the door, he whimpers. He never thought about himself as an emotional, sappy, pathetic person.
And he isn’t.
But as he stares at Neymar, with Davi in his arms, as they sleep peacefully, nestled, cuddling together, he can only concentrate on Neymar’s relaxed features in his state of sleep and think about how much he loves him.
And then... he suddenly answers his own question.
I want this.