Chapter Text
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Steady. In and out. In and out.
Gavi wasn’t one to let his anxieties show. And he made sure his face didn’t betray the frantic hammering he felt in his chest. Especially not now. Not in the Camp Nou tunnel. Not with the cameraman zooming on his face. Not near the line of insufferable Madridistas.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, sandwiched between Pedri and Pau. Pedri fiddled with the cuffs of his kit, seemingly more composed. Seemingly. Gavi could feel the nervous energy radiating off his friend. In front of them, Marcus looked more focused than ever exchanging a silent nod with Ferran.
Gavi’s brow furrowed in what looked like a permanent scowl as he glanced towards their opponents. Their posture was one of regal, arrogant confidence. Courtois stood out. For his height, if nothing else. His gaze swept Gavi’s teammates with an unsettling coolness. Their defense kept closely around that fossil, Carvajal, looking smug. But it was the midfield and attack line that Gavi was most familiar with. He spent a lot of time studying each and every one of them. The way they move on the field. Their quirks. Their tactics. Their weaknesses. Gavi’s eyes quickly scanned them one by one. Tchouaméni, Valverde, Güler, Bellingham, Vini, Mbappé. They perfectly applied a mask of professionalism while the camera was here. Gavi couldn’t care less for that. He only allowed himself to crack a small smile when the mascots arrived. The atmosphere suddenly became lighter, as players would make small talk and say some encouraging words towards the little ones. Gavi linked hands with a nervous-looking boy.
The chatter around him died instantly when the referees gave the final command. All that remained was the deafening road of the crowd above. Gavi took a deep breath, tasting the glory to come. The transition from the sterile confinement of the tunnel to the blinding lights and rhythmic chanting sent a familiar rush of adrenaline through him.
The teams walked side-by-side, each player paired with a young child. They lined up, tension almost unbearable as the crowd chanted Cant del Barça solemnly. Gavi was mentally preparing himself as captains ter Stegen and Carvajal completed the coin toss. With the visitors winning the ball, the golden boy of English football, Bellingham stood over it. He wore that white shirt as if it were armor. He didn’t look nervous. He looked hungry. Gavi didn’t like that look. The referee’s whistle led the El Clásico underway.
The opening minutes were a blur of pressing and cautious possession. Pedri and Dani tried establishing their rhythmic passing game, but the Tchouaméni and Valverde duo kept suffocating them. In the 9th minute Militão stepped out of defense and found Valverde who bypassed the Barça press with a pass to Mbappé on the left wing. Mbappé took one touch to control and accelerated past Gerard. He cut inside, eyes locked on the post. He unleashed a low shot that seemed destined to skim past ter Stegen. Luckily, Pau saw the danger. He launched himself across the goal area and the ball slammed into his outstretched right boot, ricocheting toward the sideline. Gavi sighed, relieved.
The scare served as a warning. They responded by pushing their wingers higher. Lamine stepped up. In the 16th minute, the attack flowed through Pedri. Executing a signature pivot, he shielded the ball from Bellingham before threading a pass that found Lamine sprinting into the space between Militão and Huijsen. The Barcelona forward aimed for the far top corner. But Courtois took a single, powerful step to his left. Lamine’s curling shot clipped the tip of the Belgian’s glove. It was enough to deviate the trajectory. The ball sailed out for a corner.
Vini Jr. sprang to life in the 22nd minute. He received a high diagonal ball from Carvajal on the right. Eric scrambled to cover the central run, and Vini Jr. drove directly at Jules, who had shifted to cover space. The Brazilian employed a rapid step-over sequence, attempting to break the defender. But Jules didn’t lunge. Instead, he stayed perfectly parallel with the opponent, forcing Vini Jr. to take an extra touch. Just as the Brazilian tried to slip the ball past him, Jules hooked his left foot around, stabbing the ball away and rolling it back to ter Stegen. Gavi sighed in relief again.
Tension simmered. And in the 36th minute it culminated with a midfield collision. Marcus drifted centrally, drawing the Madrid center back out. He received the pass from Gavi and spun around attempting to exploit the gap Militão had left. Bellingham saw Marcus turn away and lunged across his legs. The tackle sent the Barcelona forward down hard, clutching his shin and rolling in pain. The referee immediately blew his whistle and pointed to the spot. He marched straight to Bellingham who immediately raised his hands in apology, protesting that he got a piece of the ball. The yellow card flashed despite the midfielder’s attempts to pacify the situation. Bellingham grimaced. Gavi couldn’t help but smirk at that pitiful display.
Right before halftime, Barcelona struck. Dani, near the halfway line, drew Carvajal out of position with a fake-pass, creating a small pocket of space. He slipped the ball to Gavi, who flicked it quickly back to Pedri, standing just outside the box. Pedri was acutely aware of the Madrid defensive line and saw Huijsen was slow to step out, leaving a sliver of space behind him. He also noticed Marcus already moving. Pedri sent the ball sailing over Tchouaméni’s head and dropping precisely in Marcus’ path. The Englishman took a single touch inside the box on his weaker left foot. Courtois rushed out, trying to cut the angle, but Marcus’ low, angled strike nutmegged the goalkeeper and nestled into the net.
The Camp Nou erupted in joy as blaugrana shirts converged on the Englishman. Gavi’s body was a blur of ecstatic motion as adrenaline surged through him. His hands found Pedri and Eric in the group hug. He roared passionately, mirroring his teammates’ own celebration. In the distance, Real Madrid players scowled. Good. It made the halftime break feel all that much sweeter for Gavi.
The second half began with the white shirts bursting aggressively out of the tunnel, driven by Alonso’s sharp determination. Gavi expected retaliation and was vigilant.
But Madrid’s response was too swift. Too brutal. Barely three minutes in, Valverde launched a long pass from the right flank. Mbappé used his body brilliantly, leaning into Eric to gain position on the edge of the box. As the Frenchman took his final touch to set up a shot, Eric got overzealous and clipped Mbappé’s trailing leg. The forward went down with a dramatic, flailing movement. Madridistas didn’t need much encouragement to whine. Gavi groaned when he heard the whistle. The referee immediately showed Eric a yellow card for the reckless challenge. Despite Eric’s protests, the decision was made. Penalty to Real Madrid.
Mbappé stepped up to take the kick. No longer hurt, of course… Ter Stegen sighed heavily, his eyes fully alert. Mbappé took a slow, methodical run-up, paused infinitesimally at the height of his stride, and smashed the ball into the top left corner. Ter Stegen guessed correctly, diving hard to his right, but the shot was too powerful to contain, kissing the net. Gavi groaned as the visitors celebrated vigorously. Asshats equalized.
Gavi knew they had to push back immediately. And their next attack was led by Lamine. Dani landed the ball to Ferran, who passed sharply to Lamine who was somehow free inside the box. Huijsen slid across with incredible speed just as Lamine made the shot. He deflected the ball for a corner. Gavi became increasingly more focused, burying the burning ache in his muscles and exhaustion away.
But the 65th minute made his efforts seem all too small. He lost a crucial air duel against Tchouaméni in the midfield. The ball dropped to Mbappé just inside the Barcelona half. Swarmed by defenders, Mbappé didn’t attempt to solo it. Instead, he passed to Güler who drifted wide to the right, seemingly unnoticed. Gerard advanced towards the midfielder, but it was too late. Güler struck the ball low and hard, slipping it right below ter Stegen’s body as he dove, and rolled into the net. Gavi groaned and punched the air in frustration.
He should have done better. He needed to be better. He needed to push himself more.
When Gavi received the ball near the halfway line, he attempted to drive through the center and ignite another attack. He shifted the ball quickly to his left, aiming to send it to Dani. Bellingham noticed Gavi threatening to break the lines, and lunged into the tackle with his momentum already carrying him. He missed the ball entirely. He even missed Gavi’s shin. Instead, his studs caught the side of Gavi’s knee as he planted his foot. It was the same knee Gavi injured back with Spain. Gavi instantly crumpled to the turf. His eyes screwed shut and his hands immediately clasped his knee tightly. His entire body tensed up, muscles seizing up and locking as the sharp pain seared through this entire leg. He let out a hissing groan that turned into a broken whimper without him even realizing it. The pain was too much.
Bellingham said something. Probably called him a diver. Probably insulted him. But the words didn’t reach him. Gavi’s mind blocked out all stimuli except for the ungodly pain that permeated every fiber of his being. He vaguely registered the referee’s whistle and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see white shirts arguing with the man. He didn’t expect to see Bellingham bending down next to him. A look of regret clouded his expression. Gavi blinked rapidly a couple of times. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or did Bellingham play it up for the cameras? Was this another Madridista textbook manipulation? He said something again, but Gavi couldn’t focus on the words. Like his brain could no longer translate sounds into his ears.
Bellingham abruptly stood up and turned around when the referee reached him. He produced the second yellow card, followed instantly by the red card. The Englishman froze momentarily, but otherwise didn’t protest. He tapped a couple of his teammates on the chest and slowly trudged off the pitch with the Camp Nou jeering him mercilessly.
The referee then turned his attention to Gavi. He said something, but Gavi still couldn’t make out the words.
’W-what?’ Gavi whimpered.
The referee’s eyes went wide, and he gestured towards the technical area. Not long after, the Barça medical team came to check up on Gavi. One of them said something, but it was in vain. The pain was excruciating. Gavi couldn’t focus on anything else. Pedri came and knelt beside him. He said something Gavi could only assume were comforting words. Pedri always knew what to say to make him feel better. Pedri’s fingers gently squeezed his shoulder. Gavi could only whimper back.
He felt himself being slowly, carefully lifted onto the stretcher. He faintly heard the crowd applauding as he was carried off. This isn’t how he should go off. He shouldn’t whimper and moan and cry in front of Culers. In front of fucking Madridistas. From the corner of his eye, Gavi saw Fermín entering the fray in his place. That stung. Fermín didn’t even glance in his direction. That hurt like a motherfucker.
In the medical room, Gavi was transferred to the examination table. Hands prodded expertly against his knee. Softer touches. Firmer touches. Both sent fresh waves of agony through Gavi’s leg. Then, mercifully, he felt a needle poking the fragile skin on his forearm. He knew what that meant. Painkillers. Thank god!
And true enough, the world became clearer as the precious medicine ran coolly in his veins. The searing pain was beginning to dull away. The doctor quickly ran a scan before a cold compress was placed on his knee to work against the swelling. The agony began to subside. Gavi was starting to feel like himself again. He even looked at the TV screen in the room and noticed that his team had equalized. Good.
But the good news didn’t last.
‘We will need to transfer you to a hospital,’ the doctor informed him with a hint of alarm in his voice.
A flicker of confusion crossed over Gavi’s features. ‘For more tests?’
’Yes. You will need an MRI,’ he stated simply.
‘But… I feel fine now.’ The painkillers did wonders. ‘Maybe if the swelling just…’
’Unfortunately, it’s likely we’re looking at a re-tear here,’ the doctor interrupted Gavi. ‘Given your previous surgery, we could also be looking at scar tissue, but to be absolutely sure, an MRI would be the next best choice.’
Gavi was stunned, jaw falling in one swift, undignified motion. ‘W-what… what does that mean?’
The doctor looked him dead in the eye. ‘Based on the pain and our scan, it’s likely that the stress of the collision caused another significant meniscal injury.’
Meniscal injury. Gavi was way too familiar with that term. It was what kept him away from football for so long. It was why he underwent surgery. It was why he had hell to pay during recovery. It was why he felt a chill up his spine. This couldn’t happen. Not again.
’It’s more a precaution,’ the doctor continued, tone clearly betraying it wasn’t a mere precaution. ’But we’d like to have you transferred to Teknon Medical Center for further investigation.’
Gavi felt as if all blood had been drained from his body. He broke into a cold sweat as he began to panic. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t miss matches again. He couldn’t go through the whole ordeal again.
‘Okay.’ It was the only sound he managed to produce.
The airy, weak note hung in the air, as the doctor nodded and left the room. A paralyzing wave of dread surged through Gavi’s veins, leaving his limbs feeling heavy and cold. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In and out. In and out. He couldn’t be vulnerable now.
The door flung open with a faint creaking sound. Gavi immediately turned his attention to it, hoping to hear some news from the doctor. Except… it wasn’t the doctor. It was Bellingham and someone else Gavi didn’t recognize. Both men stared for a split second, seemingly surprised to find the midfielder there. Like Bellingham hadn’t injured him…
The man and Bellingham exchanged a couple of words in English. Gavi didn’t understand everything, but recognized the man inviting Bellingham inside. He moved assuredly around the cabinets, finding a blister of pills and handing it over to the Englishman. He also handed a bottle of water from a nearby drawer and said something in English. Bellingham merely nodded. The man then gestured for Bellingham to sit on a chair, across the room from where Gavi was laying down on the examination table. The familiarity with which the intruder moved around made Gavi think he was part of Madrid’s medical team.
’You weren’t transferred?’ the man switched to Spanish and addressed Gavi.
Gavi bit his lips. ‘No,’ he spat out.
’Where is your doctor?’
Gavi’s eyes narrowed. ’I don’t know. He left.’ It wasn’t like he was about to talk with a random guy about his own medical team.
’I’ll go look for him,’ the man announced and spun around on his heels.
He left the room, the thud of the door leaving a heavy silence behind. Bellingham pushed the foil backing the blister pack until the small pill popped out and landed in his palm. Then he tossed it onto his tongue and lifted the water bottle, taking a long gulp to wash it down. Afterwards, he pulled out his phone, gaze fixated on the small screen as his thumb lazily brushed against it in rhythmic motions.
It was enough to make Gavi snap.
’What are you doing here?’ he snarled.
Bellingham slowly looked up at him. His expression was a mix of polite pleasantness and barely concealed self-reproach. Why? There were no cameras to play the bigger man for.
‘I hurt my man,’ he replied simply.
’What?’ Gavi yelped. A hot wave of fury washed over him at the words. He knew Madridistas were arrogant, but this was a whole new level of entitlement. They were nowhere near friends. Never would be.
’I hurt my man,’ Bellingham repeated, clutching his shoulder in a demonstrative fashion.
Gavi sighed as he realized what the Englishman was trying to say. ‘You hurt your shoulder (hombro). Not man (hombre),’ he scoffed.
‘Shoulder, right… Sorry,’ Bellingham replied quickly.
But Gavi wasn’t pacified by the small apology. This guy dared complain about pain? After he got Gavi out of the game? After he potentially ruined Gavi’s season? After his stupid decision might force Gavi into another long break from playing?
’Your Spanish is trash,’ he stated venomously. It was petty. But the frustration that was bubbling inside prompted him to be petty.
Bellingham scoffed. ‘Oh?’ he sounded amused. ‘Do you want us talk in English? If you’re more better than I in Spanish.’
‘I don’t care about English,’ he snapped. ‘I only care about someone losing their job for leaving you in here with me. It’s against the rules.’
Bellingham seemed to freeze in place for a split second, before his attempt at neutrality cracked visibly. A shadow of remorse passed over his features. ‘I won’t do you pain,’ he said softly.
Gavi huffed. It was harder to tell with the painkiller coursing through his body, but he could swear a vein was throbbing in his temple. ‘Too late for that,’ he hissed.
’I didn’t want doing that,’ the Englishman explained quietly. ‘I didn’t want to be so forceful.’
’You mean aggressive,’ Gavi tried to disparage the man, but the intent might have been lost in the language barrier.
’I didn’t want to be so aggressive,’ Bellingham repeated, firmly believing it to be a correction.
Gavi scoffed again. The Madrid player seemed confused at the reaction, but otherwise kept quiet. Bellingham returned his attention to his phone.
‘Yeah, you could also write an apology.’ Something inside Gavi just couldn’t let the matter go. Bellingham wasn’t confrontational. At all. Yet his mouth couldn't stop forming wave after wave of mockery. Maybe he was subconsciously hoping he’d make the Madrid player snap. Or maybe he was just craving to come on top after the tackle. Even if just through verbal aggression. Maybe he needed something to make him feel in control in this entire situation.
’Apology?’ the man parroted, confused.
’Yeah,’ Gavi scoffed again. ‘Like saying you’re sorry.’
Bellingham blinked. Comprehension dawned on him. He still seemed calm. ‘You want me say I’m sorry?’
’No,’ he cut in sharply. ‘I want you to write it down,’ he explained, pointing at the Englishman’s phone.
Bellingham’s eyes traveled to his phone then to Gavi then back to his phone. ‘Do you think I having your phone number?’ he asked incredulously.
‘You think I don’t know it myself, or what?’ Gavi retorted, an arrogant tone evident in his voice. ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, snapping his fingers. ‘Write it down.’
Bellingham seemed momentarily stunned, but quickly composed himself and tapped each number Gavi dictated. He was slow in his movements. Maybe he needed a second to mentally translate each number to English. Or maybe he couldn’t believe the request he was putting up with.
‘Good,’ Gavi mumbled when he was done. ‘Now you can write and send the apology.’
Bellingham looked up at him. Their eyes met. ‘Really? You want me to write apology?’ he asked, perplexed.
’Yes!’ his voice rose, betraying his impatience. No one outside seemed to have heard him though. Where the fuck were the doctors? Someone should lose their job over this.
’Okay,’ Bellingham replied absentmindedly and began typing slowly.
Gavi simply watched him, chest rising and falling as if he were still running on the pitch. Part of him felt weirdly vindicated. He was well aware that Bellingham might just be typing a long fuck you message, but the fact that he got the Englishman to comply made him feel good. Powerful. Avenged in some fucked up way.
‘I sent you a message,’ Bellingham finally announced after time seemed to drag on and on. His eyes never left the phone screen.
’Good,’ Gavi proclaimed tight-lipped, finally averting his own gaze. He chose to glance at the TV screen again. The score was still a 2-2 draw. But he bit his lips as he saw Pedri being shown a yellow card just short of the 90th minute mark. His friend looked utterly exhausted and upset.
The silence in the room stretched and thickened, transforming into a tense, palpable presence between the two men. It all ruptured when Bellingham cleared his throat with a dry, miserable little noise that sounded way too loud in the quiet. ‘So,’ he began awkwardly. ‘You will not see the message?’
The nerve on this fucking Madridista… The entitlement of these fuckers knew no limits. What gave him the idea that he could make demands here and now?
‘I don’t have my phone,’ he remarked, eyes not leaving the TV screen. His voice was shaking with barely suppressed rage. ‘I was bought here directly from the pitch. Or did you forget the tackle?’
That shut Bellingham right up. Good. On the screen, the match ended 2-2 even after injury time. Gavi sighed. If Bellingham saw the result, he made no effort to acknowledge it.
But luckily, Gavi would never get the chance to find out. Both doctors, one from the Real Madrid team and one from the Barcelona team, stormed back into the room. The two had clearly been fighting.
’… while you leave a player with a red card right next to the man he tackled,’ the Barcelona doctor mumbled angrily as he picked up some papers.
’I thought you had already initiated the transfer,’ the other man retorted defensively, raising his voice. ‘I thought the room was empty!’
’And you didn’t think to take him back,’ he pointed towards Bellingham, whose eyes widened in confusion, ‘when you noticed it was not?’
’My duty is to my patient, not to yours!’
They were both quite angry, and speaking fast. It might have been too much for Bellingham to follow along. Why else would he have that stupid look on his face? Gavi meant to open his mouth to say something, but the words died on his tongue when three other men entered the room. They were paramedics, Gavi realized. They began speaking with the doctor and retrieved the papers Gavi could only assume were related to the scan. A couple of seconds later, Flick stormed in, yelling at the Real Madrid doctor half in English, half in Spanish. The doctor began yelling back, while one of the paramedics began shouting at both men to calm down.
This time around, Bellingham wasn’t the only one that couldn’t follow the series of events. Gavi couldn’t either. Not because of any language barrier, but because he was beginning to panic. Each raised voice felt like a physical blow, and it made his throat constrict with fear. All coherent thought was scattered instantly as he struggled to control his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. In and out. In and out. His mind automatically conjured up thoughts of Fermín. It made his eyes sting. He blinked in a rapid succession to will away any tears that were threatening to form. He looked left and right in an attempt to hide his face as he fought back against his body that was betraying him now. As if not letting his gaze linger on anything for too long wouldn’t make him look suspicious. To his utter dismay, Bellingham caught sight of that. He eyed Gavi curiously. If Gavi could crawl under a rock right now, he would.
The paramedics converged on him, picking him up, and moving him to a stretcher. They spoke politely and softly to Gavi. Telling him to relax. Telling him where they were taking him. Telling him he would be fine. But Gavi could barely focus on them. He nodded, mumbled a thank you, and desperately tried to compose himself. Flick shouted something that he would be with Gavi soon. Gavi merely let a tired okay slip past his lips.
The paramedics were fairly gentle. They moved Gavi without jolting him around too much. Gavi was thankful for that. He could focus on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
’Gavi!’ The familiar voice reached him, soothing his nerves considerably. Pedri came running towards him, eyes wide with alarm and worry. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked as he followed closely next to the stretcher.
Gavi wished Pedri could come with him. He didn’t want to be alone. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied tensely. ‘They’re taking me for more investigations.‘
Pedri darted forward to hold the entrance door open for the paramedics before taking back his spot next to the stretcher. ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked, panting faintly.
’Not right now,’ Gavi replied. His voice was weak. Slightly shaky. He hated when his voice sounded like that. It showed he was scared. And people took advantage of that.
People except Pedri, of course. ‘Can you please keep me updated?’ he pleaded as they were rapidly heading towards the ambulance. A hint of urgency marked his words. ‘I’ll come pick you up. Whenever you need.’
’Yes,’ Gavi answered before his mind connected the dots with what was asked of him. ‘No, wait! I don’t have my phone.’
His friend’s momentum seized up, nearly throwing him off balance. His hand dove under his shirt, fingers working with a frantic energy as Gavi was lifted and placed in the back of the ambulance. Pedri pulled out Gavi’s phone and handed it over. ’Call me, okay? No matter how late it is.’
Gavi leaned forward to pick up the device. He shot his friend a small smile. ‘Thank you…’ His voice still wasn’t steady.
A paramedic let them know they had to depart. Pedri nodded and thanked him for taking good care of Gavi. Gavi watched as the closing doors sliced the view in half, then finally snapped shut with a sharp thud. He kept his eyes fixated on the spot where Pedri had been, as if he were trying to etch his friend’s concerned face in his memories.
‘This won’t take long,’ the paramedic reassured him. ‘It’s gonna be a short ride.’
Could he sense the bubbling panic inside Gavi? Or was giving him solace an instinctive reflex years of repetition the profession had distilled into him?
Gavi nodded and smiled. Hopefully politely enough. He clutched his phone tightly, instinctively, as he realized he needed to let his parents know. He brought the device to his face, unlocking the screen. Immediately, his eyes darted to the notification. Message from an unknown number. His heart made a little leap until he remembered he’d force Bellingham to apologize. And true enough, he did. Gavi stared at the text a while too long.
I’m sory that I ached you. I didn’t want to be so aggressive.
An impossibly small smile touched Gavi’s lips.