Chapter Text
Charles moves to Paris when he is almost thirteen years old.
This proves to be significant, later.
A forgeiner can obtain French nationality by decree after residing in the country for five years under a residential permit.
However, the waiting period can be lowered to two years if they possessing significant skills that can be of use to France and have accomplished important developments in certain fields, such as sports.
According to the French Football Association, Charles ends up in the second category.
"But I don't want to go, maman. You said you'd come with us. Please." Charles pleads, nearing tears.
They've had this conversation a million times by now. He knows the stakes, he sat through all the long winded explanations at the doctor's office.
Growth hormone deficiency.
Meaning, basically, that he either gets a very expensive treatment which his parents can't afford or he's stuck here, small and easily breakable. His body won't cooperate with him in doing the one thing he wants to do: play football.
He can't pursue a career in this unless he gets treatment, the doctor remarked. There's no way.
And Charles wants to do it, desperately. He's never as happy as when he's in the pitch, running behind the ball and side stepping opponents as if they weren't there. There's nothing that compares to the euphoria of a goal.
However, there are still things he doesn't want to compromise.
(The juvenile divisions of Monaco FC are a welcoming place, somewhere he has learned to call home during his childhood. His friends from school. Lorenzo, who is already in college and can't leave. Arthur, who is still so so little, and his maman that needs to stay to take care of him.)
"Charlo," his papa answers "I know. I'd love to stay too, but you heard them. PSG is willing to pay for your treatment, love. We won't even be far, and maman and Arthur can move in when he's a little older. We'll be okay just us, right?"
"You will see, Charlito." adds his mother while caressing his cheek "You're going to love Paris. Just like Jules did when he was there."
His parents words do little to reassure him, but seeing their teary faces as they talk sparks a fire inside. He's going to make this all worth it.
"Okay." he says, with a certainty that shocks them given his tearfulness a minute before "I will go to Paris and I will bring you back the World Cup."
"You don't have to, bebe."
"I will."
Paris is... interesting, to say the least.
The kids at PSG seem a little afraid of him. They whisper behind him in the hallway, wondering about what in the world makes him so special, so worth the while for the club to be paying for his entire medical treatment.
Charles shuts them up pretty quickly.
He might be smaller and more fragile than them, but everyone shuts up when they know they have been properly beaten.
(And Charles is good at football, he knows he is.)
The only person that doesn't seem to fear him is the kid with the locker next to his, Esteban.
He's a couple of years older, has a kind smile, eyes that seem to sparkle when he does, and, most importantly, he doesn't treat Charles any different than the others. He's the closest thing he has to a friend these days.
"Do you miss home, Charlot?" Esteban asks after a particularly grueling training session, three months in.
"I miss my maman and my brothers." he answers truthfully "But I don't miss Montecarlo, no."
"How?" the other boy asks, and Charles notices how close his voice is to breaking "You seem so... fine. I've been here a whole year and I think of home every single day."
Not wanting to upset him more, Charles measures his next words very carefully: "I don't know. I have my goals, I guess. Paris is what I need to achieve them. What do you miss about home? Maybe we can recreate it here."
"I miss my grandma's food, a lot of the time."
"We can try to cook!"
"I've seen you try to make ramen. I'd rather not take my chances with anything more complicated."
"Fair." Charles concedes, defeated against the teasing smile in Esteban's lips "What else?"
"I miss my friends. I miss Pierre."
The mention of Pierre strikes Charles' attention. Esteban has mentioned him before, but only in passing. Pierre likes this... This is Pierre's favourite...
"Who is Pierre, exactly?"
"My best friend from back home. He's the greatest, you're going to love him. You two are pretty similar. You'll meet him when you get your first call up for the national team, eh? He's the best from our team back home, they always call him."
"The best?" Charles asks incredulously.
"After me, of course." he answers with a wink.
"You're an asshole, Ocon. And I don't think they'd call me for the French national team anyways."
"Why not? As much as it hurts me to say, you're the best of us. They'd be fools not to call you up, and France is still your best shot at the World Cup."
"We'll see about that. Still, I'd love to meet your friend. At least I'll see what you're missing."
Charles' first call-up takes a couple of years to get there, but when it does, it sends ripples throughout the PSG dressing room.
(The government had gotten in contact with his parents a few months before his fifteenth birthday to begin the paperwork in order for this to happen, so it's not totally a surprise. He expected it, just not like this.)
"Leclerc," his coach says, in front of everyone after a session at the gym "you've been called up for the U-17 national team. Pack up your bags, kid. Congratulations."
Charles can feel his teammates' eyes on him, sharp and agressive. Ready to attack.
(They'll say he's way too young, they'll say; he's not ready, no matter that he's grown almost eight inches and hasn't been injured in months. They'll look for anything to take him down.)
"See, Charlito? I told you you'd be chosen eventually." Esteban says after, when they're huddled together eating lunch in the cafeteria.
"You sure did, bastard." he answers, but his smile is fond "It's just bad luck you won't be there."
"I'll make sure to heal my ankle properly so I can be with you next time."
"No more injuries before an international break, Esteban."
"None, I swear!" Esteban answers, raising his arms as if to prove his innocence "Be nice to Pierrot, will you?"
"He'll be there?"
Pierre has moved on to Olympique de Marseille, Charles knows. He hears about him sometimes, about the rising star of French football.
"Yeah. Don't cause too much trouble with him, please." He says and tries to sound cheery, but there's something behind it that Charles can't quite figure out.
Charles finally meets Pierre on a sunny day on the pitch, the sun shining down on his golden hair and the ball at his feet.
Beautiful, he thinks, and with that he seals his destiny.