Chapter Text
Thiago was never one for settling in.
He didn’t move around much— Barça, Bayern. Now, evidently, Liverpool.
It just wasn’t something he’d gotten good at, ever had to get good at. He let his playing do the talking, and usually avoided his teammates.
The minute he walked into Liverpool’s training ground, though, he knew that wouldn’t be an option. There were people, players and coaches and staff alike, talking and laughing. Leaning against walls, sitting on benches. He pulled his mask up a bit higher on his nose.
He knew he didn’t necessarily have to wear one- everyone got tested daily, the windows were all open. Most people still did anyway, though, and he did so mostly to avoid people’s stares.
He knew he was good- he knew he was coming into a team that needed him, and that, to an extent, he needed. His last years at Bayern hadn’t been bad, not at all- they were simply uneventful. He was an uneventful man, to a certain extent, but it had gotten too dull even for him.
When you’re at a club like that, winning becomes an expectation. Why wouldn’t it be, when you’re playing clubs with numbers in their name every week. The fuck even was a Paderborn?
He nods to one of the doormen, who gestures up the stairs. It was weird- here he was, in the most successful club in the country, and it felt underwhelming.
Barcelona wasn’t extravegant, per se, not grand. But it was home- it was where he’d dreamed of playing since he joined La Masia at fourteen.
It hadn’t worked out- of course he hadn’t. He was good, very good- but when you’re fighting for a spot against Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets, Mascherano- what was he meant to do?
Bayern had been.. different. Barcelona was competitive, it was impossible to make friends in a team like that. There were tight-knit groups, and if you didn’t fit right in, you were- more or less- out.
Bayern was the opposite. Nobody was in groups, and everyone was constantly looking over their shoulder. Guardiola hadn’t done much to ease the situation when he’d come in, so it had gotten out of control.
It calmed down after a while- he didn’t really make friends, though. Lewandowski was nice, asked about Barcelona a lot. Only really talked to Thiago, actually, clearly wasn’t massive fan of the team either.
So walking into Liverpool, immediately getting handshakes, nods, smiles— nah.
He makes a beeline for the manager’s office, and hopes nobody tries to talk to him.
———
It didn’t feel real.
21, emblazoned in red and white. He couldn’t count how many times he’d had this dream before, but this time it wasn’t. This time Jordan Henderson was standing beside him, welcoming him to the team, saying he’s excited to have him on board. Jürgen Klopp’s there, patting him on the back and speaking in rapid-fire English that his brain can’t quite process quick enough.
By the time he gets back to his temporary hotel suite, his new training gear in a bag over his shoulder, he’s practically in tears.
Everything he’d ever wanted, ever worked for. It was all there, laying out in front of him.
God, he hoped he didn’t throw this away.
———
“Liverpool are interested.”
“Hilarious. Now read out the list.”
“I am. This is the list.”
As his agent pushes a piece of paper over to him, his brain doesn’t really register the words on the page.
“You- nah. You’re fucking with me.”
He pushes the paper back, and his agent rolls his eyes. “Kostas. Olympiacos are already considering an initial offer.”
His eyes widen, and he leans back in the rickety old chair, staring up at the ceiling.
“Fuck.”
———
“I’m Kostas. I watched you for Bayern- Thiago, yes? Alčantara. Good name- rolls off the younger. Alčantara.”
Thiago sighs. Less than ten minutes into his first training session, and here come the idiots. “Hello.”
He tries to focus back on the hall at his feet, but the man clearly doesn’t get the message as he continues talking, his mouth running a million miles a minute.
When Thiago continues his juggles, booting the ball high and catching it behind him with his calf, the younger man’s eyes go wide.
“Whoa. Are you, like, Brazilian, bro? That’s crazy.”
“Yes.”
“…Wait, really? I was joking, aren’t you Sp-“
“My father’s Brazilian. I grew up in Spain.”
“Whoa. Hut don’t Brazilians usually have, like, a ton of names? All long and shit?”
Thiago sighs, settles the hall onto the floor. “Sometimes.” He mutters. “Don’t all Greek people where white robes and sashes and worship Zeus?”
Kostas’s mouth drops, and Thiago picks up the ball and walks away without another word.
Okay. Odd case- but Kostas could work with that. He liked a challenge.
———
The Greek brat had worked his way straight into everyone’s hearts within a week.
His laugh was loud, not quite shrill but teetering on the edge of it. Thiago kind of hated it. Kind of.
Thiago stuck mostly around the older guys- Bobby, Adrian, Fabinho. Adrian was nice, but he was nice to everyone. Flaco was strangely tidy, which Thiago supposed is the reason behind his ‘hoover’ nickname, aside from the obvious on-the-field reference.
Bobby was sweet, didn’t really talk much. Thiago could do that.
As much as he tried to isolate his place in the team, work up chemistry without having to work for it off the pitch, the little Greek man seemed to be constantly bugging him.
He didn’t do it with other people- he was very affectionate with everyone, but didn’t go up to them daily, ask about their week, or their moth, or their year.
Kost- the Greek prick, though, seemed to be hesitant when talking about himself. So far he knew he had a brother and two dogs, but that was it. Didn’t know where he was from. (Yes he did. Lefkonas. A village in Serres, Greece. He’d googled it when he was bored.)
He’s usually the first one to morning trainings- always is. Even here, when half the guys show up at least a half hour early, he’s always early.
If training’s at 7, he’s there at five-thirty. If it’s at eight, he’s there at six.
He shows up at his normal time, expecting to simply kick a ball around and warm up before heading into the locker room.
Imagine his surprise when he jogs out to the pitch, ball under his arm- and someone’s there. No, not just someone.
Jesus CHRIST, was he following him?
There’s a light drizzle overhead as the figure turns around, but even through it he can see the bags under his eyes, the flash of panic that spreads across his face before he turns his back.
He doesn’t go over to Kostas, honestly expecting him to come over himself- but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, booting a ball into the post, then another, then another.
He finds himself staring at him occasionally. He has long sleeves and pants, despite it being relatively mild. At one point, he readjusts his sleeve, and Thiago can see the entire length of his arm- it’s completely red, more than just from the cold. It looks like someone raked steel wool down his arm.
He pulls it back down before he can get a better look, and Thiago goes back to what he’s doing.
By the time the others start to show up, the Greek man is gone, the only evidence he was ever there the ball discarded in the back of the net.
When training starts, Kostas bounds out of the locker room, perfectly normal. Except he doesn’t go up to Thiago, not once, a new record. His bright smile doesn’t look fake in the slightest, every laugh perfectly level, every ball hit completely normally.
It’s jarring. It’s like he’d seen a ghost that morning, a hallucination. Because there’s not a remnant of him in the way the Greek bounds around the pitch, wide grin permanently etched on his face.
He doesn’t look at Thiago. Not once.
———
It doesn’t happen again. Neither of them bring it up, either- how would they? ‘Hey, saw you on the pitch early the other day. You looked like a corpse, are you okay?’
Nah, he was definitely not doing that. And Kostas seemed content to pretend it never happened, quickly returning to his usual routine of jumping on Thiago’s back, plopping his tray in the cantine down next to him and rambling all through lunch.
It’s weird. Thiago comes to expect it, so when one day he simply doesn’t show up, he can’t shake the feeling of uncertainty that washes over him.
“Hendo?” He jogs up to the captain in training, scratching the back of his neck akwardly. “You know where Kostas is?”
Jordan sighs. “Came up with Covid. Shit sucks.”
He doesn’t feel.. sad, per se, maybe a bit pitiful. The virus is no joke, he knows that for sure. But it wasn’t like he missed him, that was dumb.
———
“Eyyyy, miss me, bro?”
Thiago snorts as an arm wraps around his neck. He will forever say that he and the Greek are the same size, and you could fight him on that- but now, when the younger man was in books and sweats and Thiago was naked from the waist up and barefoot, he felt like a toddler.
Thiago just huffs, shrugs the hand off and gets dressed. Kostas yawns, playfully flicking his ear before turning his back and jogging out to the pitch.
He wasn’t happy, not- not really. Hut it felt.. kinda okay to have him back.
———
“Try to be hopeful, yeah?”
Thiago’s head snaps to the side. Andy and Trent are walking away from the physiotherapy hall, looks downcast. Kostas had to be subbed before half on internationals, and Thiago had watched him barely be able to get off the field on his own.
Thiago wasn’t worried. Just- just a little concerned.
“Hey. Any news?” Nat calls from behind him, and he silently thanks the Englishman for preventing him from having to ask the question himself.
“They’re thinking’ about two, maybe three months.”
“Fuck. That bad?”
“Yeah. Didn’t say much else, though.”
Thiago doesn’t say anything, just shoved his stuff into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, heading out to the parking lot.
But he doesn’t go to the parking lot. He lies to himself the entire time, says he just wants to check on him. Make sure he’s okay. It’s a teammate thing, not a- a friend thing. Obviously.
“…Thiago?”
He glances up, sees the down face of his Greek teammate, and all his hesitations fade away. “Uh, sorry. Just- wanted to see how you were doing, yeah?”
Kostas smiles weakly, but it’s not really a smile. “I’ll be fine. Could be worse, no?”
“I wish I had half your optimism.” He muttered, a slight smile briefly flashing across his face before disappearing.
“How’re you getting home?”
Kostas opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “That’s.. I didn’t think of that.” He mumbled, and Thiago sighed. There go his afternoon plans of going home, drinking mate and sleeping in.
“Up.”
Kostas looks up, eyebrow raised. “Wh-?”
“Do I gotta carry you? I’m drivin’ you home, c’mon.”
Kostas’s eyes light up, and he grabs the crutches from beside the bed as Thiago helps him up. The Spaniard looks more than a little pissed, but Kostas knows he wouldn’t have offered had he not genuinely wanted to- Thiago wasn’t like that.
“I’m, uh- staying at a hotel nearby. Not far.”
Thiago hummed in response. “Okay.” He says. Kostas seems surprised- and grateful- that he doesn’t ask any further questions as he’s helped into the passenger seat of Thiago’s Porsche, before the Spaniard stuffs his crutches and his bag in the back.
“Oi, get your feet of my console, bro!” Thiago groans. Kostas just flashed him a wide grin as he put his feet down and leaned his chair back.
Thiago rolled his eyes- this was gonna be a long drive.
———