A part of a team
It’d been a week since Kylian joined Real and it hadn’t been as much of a disaster as it could’ve been. The tension was still high in the locker rooms, but it was nowhere near as bad as it’d been on the first day.
Unlike what Kylian had expected, the relationships between players where surprisingly fluid, with well-established, strong dynamics. It was a team still learning to hold its own after having lost so many veteran players, but he could really appreciate the way in which the transition had been done.
Their midfield was stacked with strong players, to the point where it felt almost unbelievable, considering Modriç and Kroos’ departure. Jude had to be the one he got along with the most, apart from his fellow French. That was surely just thanks the British’s natural charisma, (Kylian was sure he’d be able to make friends with a rock if he so wished), but it didn’t mean it didn’t fill him with relief, to feel at ease with someone like that.
Among the forwards, Vinicius and him had certainly hit it off a lot more than he’d foreseen. The Brazilian was, after all, a really friendly guy. His laughter was contagious and he was always down for having fun. Kylian appretiated the good vibes, despite their dialogue being sometimes limited (respectfully, how was Vini’s Spanish so bad if he’d been in Spain for so long?)
The rest of the team had not been far from friendly either. Kylian really appreciated the way the all mercilessly teased Antonio, or poked at Rodrygo’s eagerness to win and prove his worth all the time, despite having been at Madrid for a while now (which greatly reminded Kylian of himself a few years back). He liked Militao’s laid back nature, and Fede’s kindness of heart.
While Madrid wasn’t home yet, it could be. He could find his place among the players, he just needed to also perform on the pitch.
His first chance came with a game against Grizzi’s team, the Atlético. If he was honest with himself, Kylian had to admit that he’d rathered play against an opponent of perhaps less caliber, but at least he had a good chance to prove himself. He couldn’t blow it.
The day of the match was hot and uncomfortable. Four PM in Madrid’s summer felt like an illegal time to do any sort of physical activity under the sun, but Kylian was determined to leave an impression. He was by far the most nervous one in the hall leading up to the stadium, but he felt as though it was justified, this was, in every way, a bigger game for him than anyone else. His teammates tried to cheer him up a bit and get him to relax, but it was of no use. His vision was blurred and ears were ringing, so he barely heard their words of reassuring and encouragement.
That’s why he almost missed when Vinicius grabbed his hand and smiled at him, with his ridiculously large grin, to whisper “Que Deus nos abençoe”.
And somehow, that was enough to get him out of his trance, as if someone had just drenched him in cold water, all because he knew those words. He knew someone who had also whispered them before every match, sometimes to Kylian, sometimes to others. Someone who he’d been nearly obsessed with. Someone who he dearly missed, maybe more than Sergio, maybe even more than Achraf.
Vini’s well-intentioned smile had nothing to do with the ones Ney had sent his way, and Kylian certainly didn’t see him the same way he saw the older forward, and yet he had somehow completely shaken him to his core.
It must’ve shown on his face, because Vinicius squeezed his hand and furrowed his eyebrows, opening his mouth to ask him something, probably if he was okay.
He never got to, though.
“Mon pote!” Griezzman. Giggly and warm and sporting a ridiculous, flagrant pink hairdo, yelled at him from across the corridor. Vini shot him a quick smile and walked away, leaving Griezzman to continue his hellos. “C’est incroyable de te voir ici. Bienvenu! Ahhhhh” his eyes wrinckled at the end, a sign of joy as he screamed in excitement. He looked older, aged. Happy, though. Kylian supposed some people were just meant to exist as little rays of sunshine that smiled and laughed. He liked him, just as he liked Vinicius. They were what he hoped to be a lot of the time. He wasn’t sure if he was as successful as them, though. He supposed not.
“Ah, ouais. Tu m’as manqué. Je suis content de te revoir aussi, mon frère”. It was true, he’d missed him and now they were rivals in La Liga, where he’d always wanted to play. So long looking forward to this moment and now that it’d arrived, nothing had made him more relieved than seeing a friendly face.
“Don’t think we’ll let you off easy, okay?” Antoine winked at him. “But bonne chance, of course, though I have an inkling you won’t be needing it”.
Kylian laughed nervously, but the blue-eyed Frenchman ended up being right. Despite the cheering being cautious when his name was announced to enter the stadium, it was overwhelming and passionate, unanimous, when he scored his goal. He hadn’t been expecting Vini’s bold pass from where he dribbled surrounded by defenders, but the Brazilian had found a way to send him a pretty decent assist, considering the human barrier it had to go over. It was a hard hit, but Kylian had nothing if not good finishing, so putting all his pent-up worry and need into a kick, he slotted it right past the goalkeeper.
He didn’t even celebrate out of shock. He was engulfed by a sea of exhilarated teammates, who chanted in victory along with the crowd, yelling their guts out, pulling at him from everywhere.
He didn’t register it until he got home later that night. They’d won 3-1, and after some celebratory singing and dancing (he never thought Antonio had such moves in him) in the locker room and some press, he headed to his unfamiliar apartment, had dinner, called his brother and got ready to sleep. It wasn’t until he was tucked in and succumbing to the drowsiness of sleep that it truly sunk in. He’d done it. He’d broken the ice.
He hadn’t been named man of the match, that’d gone to Fede, who’d provided an assist and a goal, but he’d taken his first step at Madrid, he’d started the race. Now he just had to keep running, and for the first time in a while, it no longer felt so hard.
That night he dreamt of Brazilians, Paris and stadiums that chanted his name. But somehow, it was mostly of Brazilians. Maybe it was because there were several in his team, but there was another one specifically…
…………………………………………………….
Obviously, he’d watched the match, sitting on Leo Messi’s Barcelona home’s living room floor. With his son and Luis’ daughter slumped by his side, he felt a weird mix of emotions bubbling in his chest. Regret, pride, longing, he didn’t even know anymore.
Leo’d been quite happy for Kyks, and Luis had laughed at him and mocked his culé pride, chastising him for supporting their eternal rival team. It’d all been in good nature.
Neymar wished he was as good of a person as Leo. Wished he could be just… genuinely happy for Mbappé, who he’d once been so close to. In a way, he was, but not fully. Not as Kylian would’ve been for him when they were still close.
Neymar sighed. He was nothing but a bitter, old man who’d been upstaged by his younger mate. It wasn’t exactly envy what weighed his chest down, more like defeat. He’d been nothing but a bittersweet phase in Kylian’s career and that’s how the Frenchman would remember him: a nuisance, a temporary fix while he waited for his grand arrival at his oh, so beloved Real Madrid.
He sighed again, slumping a little further down. Davi glanced at him momentarily and then sank in a little into his side, as if offering comfort. Neymar chuckled softly and kissed his head. An image of a shellshocked after scoring Kylian replays on the TV, as Militao crashes into him in in excitement, followed by the rest of the Real team. He looked away, not sure why. Something gnawed at his chest and he grabbed the remote to turn off the TV. The black of the screen reflected his own image back, almost accusingly, and Neymar didn’t feel any better. He was a man of many regrets.