Chapter Text
The party was in full swing, the kind of event that would make headlines the next day. The mansion in Paris buzzed with life—music thumped through the walls, laughter echoed in the halls, and the pool shimmered under the neon lights like a liquid mirror. Neymar was at the center of it all, as he always was. He’d danced, laughed, and toasted to nothing in particular, his smile as bright as the flashes of cameras that followed him everywhere.
But now, sitting at the edge of the pool with a half-empty glass of whisky in his hand, he felt... hollow.
The noise around him blurred into a distant hum, as if he were underwater. His friends were still inside, their voices carrying through the open doors. Rafa, his sister, was dancing with a group of girls, her laughter ringing out like a melody. He should have been there with them, laughing, joking, living up to the persona everyone expected of him. But instead, he was here, staring at the water as if it held the answers to questions he couldn’t even articulate.
He took another sip of the whisky, the burn in his throat doing little to chase away the emptiness in his chest. His phone buzzed in his hand, and he glanced at the screen. Dozens of notifications—photos from earlier, messages from people he barely knew, reminders of a life that felt increasingly like a performance. He swiped them away, his thumb hovering over Leo’s name in his contacts.
They hadn’t spoken in weeks. He wanted to call, to hear Leo’s voice, to tell him... what? That he was tired? That he was lost? That he didn’t know how to be the person everyone expected him to be?
The thought made him laugh, a bitter sound that drowned in the noise of the party. He set the glass down and leaned forward, his reflection staring back at him from the water’s surface. “If you stare into the abyss, it stares back at you,” someone had once said. He couldn’t remember who, but the words echoed in his mind as he swayed slightly, the alcohol making the world tilt.
And then, without warning, he lost his balance.
The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the ground. Neymar reached out to steady himself, but his fingers grazed the wet edge of the pool, and he fell backward. The water was cold, a shock to his system, and for a moment, he floated there, staring up at the sky. The lights from the party danced above him, blurring into streaks of color.
Then his head hit the edge of the pool, and everything went dark.
---
It was an annoying white light that woke Neymar. It wasn’t the sun, it wasn’t the reflection from the pool, it wasn’t anything he could immediately identify. His head was pounding as if someone had decided to use his skull as a samba-enredo drum, and he closed his eyes again, trying to remember how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the party in Paris, the loud music, the bottles of champagne, the shrill laughter of some friend whose name he couldn’t even recall anymore. And then... nothing. Just a hazy void.
When he opened his eyes again, the light was still there, but now he realized it was coming from a large window, with white curtains swaying gently in the breeze. The room was... different. It wasn’t his room in Paris, nor the one in Brasil. It was simpler, yet cozier. The walls were light, with a few paintings he didn’t recognize, and the bed was big, with soft sheets that smelled like something familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Neymar tried to sit up, but the pain in his head made him recoil. "What the hell happened?" he muttered, running a hand over his forehead. That’s when he noticed: he was only wearing boxers. Boxers that, by the way, weren’t his. They were too plain, too basic for his taste. "Where the hell am I?" he said out loud, looking around as if the room could answer.
He decided lying down wasn’t going to solve anything. With what felt like Herculean effort, he got out of bed, feeling the cold floor under his feet. The room had a large mirror in the corner, and he approached it, still a bit dizzy. When he saw his reflection, he stopped. Froze. "What the fuck is this?" he yelled, almost involuntarily.
The man in the mirror was him, but at the same time, it wasn’t. His face was thinner, his eyes slightly more sunken, and his hair... his hair was longer, curlier, almost like back in his Barca days. And the beard? Gone. He was clean-shaven, as if he had traveled back in time a good few years. "I’m dreaming, right? This is a nightmare. I must’ve drunk too much, and now I’m having a psychotic break," he talked to himself, squeezing his face with his hands as if trying to wake up.
But he didn’t wake up. The reflection was still there, staring back at him with the same look of disbelief. Neymar took a step back, almost tripping over the rug. "Okay, okay, calm down, Ney. Breathe. This is just... I don’t know, a prank? A reality show? Someone’s filming me, right? Where are the cameras?" he said, looking around as if expecting to find a production team hiding behind the furniture.
Nothing. Just silence and the breeze coming through the window. He decided he needed water. Or more alcohol. Anything that would help him process what was happening. He went to the bathroom, which was equally strange. Skincare products he would never use, a toothbrush that wasn’t his, and a scent he couldn’t quite place but found... pleasant. Familiar, again.
As he washed his face, he tried to remember something, anything that could explain this situation. But his memory was a black hole. "Alright, Neymar, you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure this out. Just don’t panic. Not yet," he advised himself, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "First, clothes. Then, answers."
---
Neymar had known. He’d known from the moment he woke up in that strange room, wrapped in a sheet like some kind of ancient Greek philosopher who’d had one too many drinks, that something was terribly wrong. The headache, the unfamiliar surroundings, the reflection in the mirror that was him but not quite him, it all added up to a reality he wasn’t ready to face. Yet, what was he supposed to do? Panic? Scream? Call for help? No, Neymar Jr. didn’t panic. He adapted. He always had. But even he had to admit, this was pushing it.
The sheet clung awkwardly to his shoulders as he shuffled down the hallway, his bare feet cold against the polished wooden floor. The house—no, the apartment—was massive, modern, and tastefully decorated in a way that screamed money but also restraint. It wasn’t his style, but it wasn’t not his style either. It was confusing, much like everything else about this situation.
He paused at the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. Leo Messi was there, sitting at the counter with a cup of mate in one hand and the remote in the other, flipping through channels on a small TV mounted on the wall. The Argentine looked... comfortable. At home. Like he belonged there. And maybe he did, but Neymar couldn’t wrap his head around why he was there too.
“Leo?” Neymar’s voice cracked slightly, betraying the calm facade he was trying to maintain. The sheet slipped a little, and he quickly yanked it back up, feeling ridiculous but refusing to show it.
Leo glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Morning,” he said simply, his tone flat, almost bored. He took a sip of his mate, his eyes flicking back to the TV as if Neymar’s presence was the most mundane thing in the world.
Neymar blinked, his brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. “Uh... morning,” he replied, hesitating in the doorway. He wanted to ask a million questions— Where am I? Why are you here? Why do I look like I’ve been photoshopped back to 2015? —but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he opted for something safer. “You, uh... you sleep well?”
Leo raised an eyebrow, finally turning to look at him properly. “Not really,” he said, his voice still calm but with an edge that made Neymar’s stomach twist. “You came in late last night. Again.”
“Oh.” Neymar shifted uncomfortably, the sheet tangling around his legs. “Right. Sorry about that.”
Leo didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at him, his gaze piercing, as if he could see right through the sheet, through the confusion, through the act Neymar was desperately trying to keep up. Finally, he sighed, setting the mate cup down on the counter. “You should get dressed,” he said, his tone softer now but still distant. “We have that meeting with the sponsors at noon.”
“Right. The meeting.” Neymar nodded, as if he had any idea what Leo was talking about. “I’ll, uh... I’ll do that.”
He turned to leave, but Leo’s voice stopped him. “Ney.”
Neymar froze, his heart pounding. “Yeah?”
“Don’t forget the ring this time.”
Neymar looked down at his left hand, where a simple gold band glinted in the morning light. His stomach dropped. “Right. The ring. Wouldn’t want to forget that,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
As he hurried back down the hallway, his mind raced. A ring. A meeting. Leo’s cold, detached tone.
Neymar’s steps quickened as he moved down the hallway, the sheet dragging behind him like a reluctant shadow. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more chaotic than the last. A ring? A meeting? Leo acting like... like we’re... He couldn’t even finish the thought. His chest tightened, and he felt the walls of the corridor closing in on him. The air seemed thinner, harder to breathe, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He looked down at his left hand again, at the gold band that gleamed mockingly under the soft light of the hallway. It felt heavy, impossibly so, as if it were made of lead instead of gold. He twisted it nervously, trying to pull it off, but it wouldn’t budge. It was like it had fused to his skin, a permanent reminder of a life he didn’t remember living.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He stopped walking, leaning against the wall for support. His legs felt like they might give out at any moment. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. I’m still drunk. I’m—”
His thoughts were cut off by the sound of Leo’s voice drifting from the kitchen, calm and steady, as if nothing in the world was wrong. That only made it worse. Leo’s normalcy was a stark contrast to the chaos raging inside Neymar’s head, and it made him feel even more out of place, more like an intruder in his own life—or whatever this was.
He needed to get out of there. Now.
Without thinking, he bolted toward the staircase at the end of the hallway, the sheet tangling around his legs as he ran. He stumbled, catching himself on the railing just in time to avoid a face-first collision with the steps. “Merda!” he hissed, his heart racing even faster. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Leo to appear behind him, asking why he was acting like a lunatic. But the hallway was empty, silent except for the faint hum of the TV from the kitchen.
Neymar took the stairs two at a time, the sheet billowing behind him like a cape. He felt ridiculous, but the panic surging through his veins overrode any sense of dignity. He needed to get back to the room, back to where he’d woken up. Maybe if he went back, he could figure this out. Maybe he could wake up. Maybe—
His foot caught on the edge of the sheet, and he lurched forward, barely managing to grab the railing again to stop himself from tumbling down the stairs. “Porra!” he swore loudly, his voice echoing in the stairwell. He yanked the sheet free, his hands shaking as he tried to keep it from tripping him again. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was sweating, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
He burst into the room he’d woken up in, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it as if it could keep the world out. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. The bed was still unmade, the sheets twisted and thrown aside, a testament to his earlier confusion. The mirror on the wall caught his reflection, and he looked away, unable to face the stranger staring back at him.
The ring on his finger felt like it was burning now, a constant, inescapable reminder of whatever nightmare he’d stumbled into. He twisted it again, harder this time, his fingers slipping as he tried to pull it off. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, his voice rising in desperation. But it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck, just like everything else in this twisted version of reality.
Neymar slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, the sheet pooling around him like a deflated parachute. He buried his face in his hands, his breathing still uneven, his mind racing. “What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “What the hell did I do?”
Neymar’s breathing was still ragged, his hands trembling as he sat on the floor, the sheet tangled around him like a cocoon of confusion. But the panic wasn’t letting up. If anything, it was getting worse. He needed answers, and he needed them now. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, that could explain what was happening. And then it hit him: his phone. Where was his phone?
He scrambled to his feet, the sheet slipping off one shoulder as he lunged toward the bed. He dropped to his knees, peering underneath it, and there it was an iPhone, the latest model, lying face down on the floor as if it had been tossed there in a hurry. “Finally, something familiar,” he muttered, grabbing it and pressing the power button.
The screen lit up, and Neymar froze.
It wasn’t his lock screen. At least, not the one he remembered. Instead of a photo of himself, something flashy, something that screamed *Neymar Jr.*, there was a picture of him and Leo. They were standing side by side, arms around each other’s shoulders, wearing Barcelona jerseys and holding the Champions League trophy. Their smiles were wide, genuine, and there was a warmth in the photo that made Neymar’s stomach twist.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that he didn’t remember this moment. Not at all. He remembered winning the Champions League in 2015, of course. He remembered the celebrations, the photos, the feeling of holding that trophy for the first time. But this... this was different. The jerseys were different. The stadium in the background was different. Even the way he and Leo looked together was different. It was like a memory that wasn’t his.
“What the hell?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating for a moment before he swiped to unlock it. The photo disappeared, replaced by the home screen, but the damage was already done. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of something that made no sense at all.
And then it hit him: the ring, the photo, Leo’s cold but familiar tone earlier... It all pointed to one impossible conclusion. “No. No way. This can’t be real,” he said out loud, his voice rising in panic. He stared at the phone, at the photo that was now his lock screen again, and felt a wave of nausea wash over him.
Without thinking, he threw the phone across the room, as if getting rid of it could make the reality it represented disappear too. It hit the wall with a loud thud and landed on the floor, the screen still glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. Neymar stared at it, his chest heaving, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear.
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t real,” he repeated, like a mantra, as if saying it enough times could make it true. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t working.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the phone on the floor, its screen still glowing faintly. The photo of him and Leo stared back, their smiles frozen in time, mocking him. It was too much. Too real. Too... wrong.
With a shaky breath, he crawled over to the phone, picking it up with trembling hands. The screen was cracked now, a thin web of lines spreading from the corner where it had hit the wall. He ignored it, swiping to unlock it again. The home screen was cluttered with apps he didn’t recognize, but one thing stood out: the browser icon.
“Okay, Ney. Think. Just... think,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. He opened the browser, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. What should he search for? Something familiar. Something that would ground him.
He typed his own name first. Neymar PSG.
The results loaded almost instantly, but they weren’t what he expected. The first article was from 2017, its headline bold and glaring: Neymar Rejects PSG’s Record-Breaking Offer, Chooses to Stay at Barcelona.
“What?” he whispered, his brow furrowing. He clicked on the article, skimming through it quickly. It talked about how he had turned down a massive offer from Paris Saint-Germain, choosing instead to remain at Barcelona. There were quotes from him—or at least, from a version of him—talking about loyalty, about unfinished business, about wanting to win more trophies with Leo.
His stomach churned. This wasn’t right. He had gone to PSG. He remembered it vividly. The transfer, the press conference, the jersey with his name on it. It had happened. He was sure of it.
He closed the article and scrolled further down. The next headline made his heart skip a beat: Barcelona Star Neymar Spotted Partying Again Amidst Tensions with Club. The article was recent, dated just a few days ago. It mentioned how he had been seen at a nightclub in Madrid, how the club was “concerned” about his behavior, and how his relationship with the fans was becoming strained.
“This is insane,” he muttered, his voice rising slightly. He clicked on another article, this one from a few weeks earlier: Neymar Involved in Another On-Field Altercation at Bernabéu. The piece detailed a heated argument he’d had with a Real Madrid player during a Clásico, complete with photos of him yelling, his face twisted in anger.
None of this made sense. He didn’t remember any of it. Not the fights, not the nightclub, not even staying at Barcelona. It was like someone had rewritten his life, and he was the only one who noticed.
He kept scrolling, his hands shaking more with each article. And then he saw it. The headline that made his blood run cold: Neymar and Lionel Messi Tie the Knot in Private Ceremony in 2018.
The phone slipped from his hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud. He stared at it, his mind racing, his chest tightening. The article was still visible, the photo beneath the headline showing him and Leo standing together, wearing matching suits, their hands clasped as they smiled for the camera.
“No. No, no, no,” he whispered, his voice breaking. He grabbed the phone again, scrolling through the article frantically. It talked about their “love story,” how they had kept their relationship private for years before finally deciding to make it official. There were quotes from teammates, from friends, even from his parents, all talking about how happy they were for the couple.
His vision blurred, the words on the screen swimming together. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. He wasn’t married to Leo. He wasn’t even... He didn’t even...
The room spun around him, the walls closing in. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. He dropped the phone again, pressing his hands to his temples as if he could physically stop the thoughts racing through his mind.
And then, everything went black.