TITLE : Fear
AUTHOR: Random
EMAIL :
PAIRING : Bergkamp/Ljungberg ... sort of
RATING : very much PG
DISCLAIMER: They belong to themselves. As far as I know they don't and never will act like this. Not making any money, don't sue. And the random Tottenham supporter is not based on a real person.
AUTHOR'S NOTES : Since I've been out of the country for most of the season and haven't had much of a chance to watch football, this isn't based on a real match or set of events. The Champion's League match this is based around is fairly AU as I'm fairly sure Bergkamp didn't actually miss an away match this season, let alone such an important one. But hey, creative licence.

'But we *need* you!'

Freddie's angry, but he's trying to hide it. Doing quite a good job, too. He's upset as well, hiding that less well, but overall the impression is mostly just one of calm, controlled passion.

Denis shrugs with forced calm.

'You've done it without me before,' he says. 'You'll have to do it again. I *can't*.'

'But *why* not?'

Freddie sounds almost desperate. There's a pause.

'I am afraid,' Denis admits eventually. Only it's not really an admission, because they both know it already. It's the whole reason for this argument.

There's a silence. Then Freddie sighs with exasperation.

'But it's *irrational*! And... and *unreasonable*! And... and... and it's just not fair!'

There's a momentary flash of anger in Denis' icy eyes. And then he shrugs in resignation.

'Perhaps not, Freddie. But I can't help it,' he says.

Freddie frowns, angry and frustrated, and then shakes his head regretfully and turns to go. Denis watches him quietly until he is almost out the door, and then suddenly blazes with temper.

'You think it's so easy? You think you can just tell me I'm being stupid, and somehow it'll miraculously *stop*? Let me tell you something, Freddie, it doesn't *work* like that! Did you not stop to think that maybe I tell myself that it's stupid? Because I *do*, Freddie! Over and over again! And do you know something? *It doesn't help*! Because I *still* can't!'

Freddie doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look back.

'God, Freddie!' Denis yells. 'Have you never been afraid of anything?'

Freddie doesn't answer.

***

At night, sometimes, Freddie goes where he can be himself, in the company of strangers. Of course, they recognise him - everything gives him away, his hair, his accent - but at night, sometimes, he doesn't care. He's even been caught on camera, once or twice, in a careless moment, but to tell the truth, it hardly matters. He's not some big-time celebrity. There's interest, of course, but not mania.

Sometimes, he thinks he's doing this to *find* himself, whatever that might mean. Now, all he wants is to lose himself. To escape into the music, and the movement of bodies.

Sometimes, he just likes to watch. There's something calming about how natural and beautiful men's bodies look when they're dancing together. But tonight, he doesn't want to sit and think. Tonight, he wants to bury the memory of his earlier argument in a haze of heat and movement.

Someone's pressing up close behind him. He turns and smiles *that* smile, teasing, not too interested, but warm and inviting... and sees with mingled dismay and excitement the sudden look of recognition in the other man's eyes. He doesn't want to be recognised, doesn't want to be found and dragged back to himself.

But the other man is smiling, not awed, or scared off, or even really impressed looking.

'Before this gets any further,' he murmurs with a grin, and Freddie holds his breath, 'I'd probably better mention that I'm a Tottenham fan.'

Freddie laughs, and the tension is broken.

Before the song is over, they are kissing.

***

Denis is angry at himself. He's letting the team down, again. And just when it matters. It's a crucial game, this time. Lose it, and they're out of the Champion's League. All the fans think they'll make the treble this year. But they've never won the Champion's League before. It's their dream, the one thing the still strive towards. So this is possibly the most important game of the season.

But he'll still miss it, if the only way to get there is by 'plane.

He remembers the fear, remembers the physical sensations of it, the sinking feeling, the sickness, the panic. The tightness across his chest which meant that he couldn't breathe that he was choking was closed in and choking and couldn't breathe and the panic made his thoughts go round in circles and dizziness pounded his head and sickness swept through him in waves until he was more scared of the fear itself than the thing that had triggered it.

People had thought he was dying...

Just the thought of it now is enough to make his chest tighten. He forces himself to breathe calm. He knows that however irrational it is, he *can't* fly again. He won't have to face it. He *can't* face it.

Usually Wenger tries to give him a couple of days off before international games, time to get there without flying. But an FA cup replay meant that there just wasn't the time. So he's going to have to miss the match.

He doesn't understand why Wenger puts up with him. Why he helps make all the extra arrangements, why he never even mentions the matches that he just can't get to... not to mention sticking by him through all his red-cards and terrible blazes of temper on and off the pitch.

*It's because you're good*, a voice at the back of his head whispers. *It's because you've scored 100 goals and counting for Arsenal. It's because when you play, you never let them down*

Denis sighs. It's true, all of that is true. But it doesn't help.

He's still angry at himself.

He almost wishes Wenger would just shout. Perhaps then he wouldn't feel so much like beating up on himself.

*Freddie shouted,* a nasty little voice at the back of his head reminds him, and he punches a fist into his other hand, suddenly bubbling with rage.

Freddie. He minds letting Freddie down the most.

Freddie's what you might call a bit of a loner. Oh, he gets on just fine with his team mates, joins in their goal celebrations, laughs at their changing room humour, comforts and is comforted after a disheartening defeat. But... but there's always something just slightly detached about him. And while the others go out for meals together occasionally, or meet up socially, Freddie just... watches. He's an onlooker. Not part of the group.

Not that he's an outsider, not that at all. It's just that he's a little... apart.

None of that was the thought that Denis was trying to have. It's just that... that he hates letting Freddie down. More than letting Wenger down. More than letting the team down.

It's Freddie he cares about. It's always been Freddie since the moment he joined the team.

He's just always been too afraid to admit what that might mean.

Denis grits his teeth. He hates being afraid. Afraid to fly, afraid to think outside the box, it all comes down to the same thing. It's going to hurt Freddie.

***

Freddie takes the window seat on the plane on the way back. It suits him best, he can ignore the rest of the team, and lose himself in his own thoughts.

They're out of the Champion's League.

And though he hates himself for it, his most prevalent feeling is one of relief. Playing in Europe, he'd felt out of his league - no pun intended. At home, in England, he knows he's playing for the best of the best. Out they're in Europe they still have such a lot to prove. Freddie's never liked playing like that, and he knows it. It's why he's never played such good football for Sweden as he has for Arsenal. He likes to be able to relax in the knowledge that he and his team-mates are up there with the best of them. Perhaps it's a form of laziness. Perhaps it's a form of fear.

In his mind, Freddie's writing a letter, or perhaps rehearsing a speech. The words won't come easily, and it'll be even harder later, if he decides to say any of it out loud, face to face. That's why he's doing this now, talking to Denis when he knows that Denis can't here.

This is what he's saying.

*You asked me if I'd ever been afraid of anything. And I have. Of course I have. And I shouldn't have said to you what I did, because my fears are no more valid than yours, I suppose. Do you want to know what I fear?

'm afraid of not being good enough to make the Arsenal first team. I fear that all my skill will be shown up for nothing. I fear that people will notice how much I rely on others in the team. Team work is all very well, but I only look so good because the people around me reflect on me so well.*

Denis will refute that. Freddie know he'll have to argue the point, and probably he'll lose. But still, that's the way he feels, sometimes.

*I'm afraid of letting the team down. I fear being dropped by them. I fear being abandoned. That's my biggest fear.

And then there are... other things. Personal things, you understand? I'm afraid of... afraid of being the same. I fear being one of the crowd. I need to be different, can you understand that? I suppose that's irrational too, but there it is. So I dye my hair, and I wear my own clothes, and I watch people, I watch people all the time, trying to see what they're thinking, about each other, about me. I fear what people think.

And at the same time, I fear... I fear being different. I'm afraid being noticed. I fear being the stranger, even though I wouldn't want to be one of the gang. I told you it was irrational. But there it is.*

A pause. A long pause, while he psychs himself up for this.

*And I'm afraid of being found out. No. That's not what I mean. I'm putting this badly. I can't say it... not even to myself...*

A deep breath.

*I'm afraid of coming out. I fear telling you this, what I'm trying to tell you now. I'm scared you'll turn away... *

***

For a moment, Denis is sure he knows what Freddie is going to say, and for a moment, his heart leaps.

Freddie draws a deep breath, and looks away.

'Denis... there's a man,' he says, and Denis almost catches his breath, because it's so close to what he was expecting, so close, and yet not close enough.

'I've never told this to anyone on the team,' Freddie says. 'Because... well, because I was afraid,' he says with a half smile. 'But there's a man. A man that I love. And I want to get closer. But I don't know how. Because... because I am afraid.'

He's not looking at Denis, still not sure of his reaction. Denis tries not to clench his fists or look away or give any other sign that he is frustrated, because he knows that Freddie will misinterpret.

'I don't know what I'm telling you all this, really,' Freddie says.

'Go for it, Freddie,' Denis says quietly. Freddie looks up.

'What do you mean?'

'Freddie, when it comes to... to love, never let your fear hold you back. When it comes to football too,' he adds with a smile, 'But most importantly when it comes to love. Or you'll always regret it. Believe me. I know.'

Freddie looks up at him, almost bewildered, and he smiles.

'You got his number, Freddie? Give him a call. If he's there, in your sight, and you don't say anything... the chance'll go. And the thing is... there'll be another Champion's League next year, you'll get another chance to make it right. But you'll only ever get one shot at this. Make it count. Go for it.'

Denis smiles, and it's a genuine smile. He wishes that someone had said this to him once, because now he knows that he's missed his chance with Freddie. And there might have been a chance. There might have been.

'Missed chances always weigh heavily on a striker's mind,' Freddie jokes, and already there's something changed about his attitude. He's more relaxed. Perhaps maybe even a little more confident. 'I never really thought of you as the agony-uncle type,' Freddie adds, and this time Denis laughs.

'Yeah, well. You should always listen to your elders,' he says, and then suddenly grips Freddie's shoulder.

'Good luck, Freddie,' he says. And he means it.