Youngest Putellas - platonic! reader

Summary: There was a shadow growing in the Putellas family, unnoticed, while everyone kept their attention on Alexia. Somehow, your mom's house and your city felt too small for both you and your sister.

Warnings: mentions of grief, angst, and just emotional stuff overall.

Word count: 4.5k

Info: This story is set before UEFA 2022. The reader has been in La Masia since she was a kid, went to Barça's A team but moved on loan to Real Madrid. She is about 21 here.

!! This is the fourth fic of the day! so there are three more!

Your relationship with your sisters was always troubled. It was the type of relationship that was demanding, laborious even, that didn't stand on its own easily.

It had always been like that, though.

You were 7 years younger than Alexia, 5 years younger than Alba. They were always very close, always telling each other stuff, always getting each other's backs.

Alexia and Alba were the kind of sisters who exemplified what sisterhood was all about. Alba would sneak into Alexia's bed in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep. She was the one Alexia turned to whenever she was struggling with friendships and didn't know what to do

They weren't sisters. They were friends. Best friends.

You, on the other hand, always felt just like their relative.

Someone who grew up in the same house, someone who just happened to have the same parents.

But when you were younger, it was easier, somehow. You didn't notice how the two girls always seemed to read each other's minds while you were left alone, wondering what they were thinking.

You always thought it was because they were so close in age, they were going through basically the same stuff, the same growing pains.

With Alexia, it was even more difficult, and you honestly couldn't see why. You both enjoyed football, you were introverted and socially awkward in the same way, you had everything to get along, but you just didn't.

Maybe it was because you two looked so much alike.

It was hard looking at one's mirror every single day.

Your mum always tried to bring you sisters together, and it worked sometimes.

Your relationship wasn't completely bad after all, it was just challenging. It was like both parts had to work hard to create a connection that clearly wasn't there.

..

You, foolishly, thought that getting into the Barcelona team would make it all easier, that it would bring you and Alexia together.

But it didn't.

Actually, getting into Barcelona was one of the worst experiences you have ever had. You had worked hard through La Masia to get where you were, to be called up to team A, but you were too young.

You had talent, but you let your emotions get the best of you on the pitch. On a good day, you would shine. On a bad day, you would let the ball slip out of your feet straight to the other team's defence.

The managers always made sure to tell you how different your game style was from your sister, the captain.

"You should learn from her, Y/n," they would say as you were hydrating on a very sunny day. "She has technique, she's composed on the pitch."

"You let your emotions guide you in the worst way possible."

"Alexia always has her head and heart in the game, you just have the heart."

They weren't wrong. Your play style was very different from your sister's. Alexia was collected on the pitch, it was like nothing could shake her. You weren't like that.

"I'm not made of stones" was what you usually said.

In the end, it was easy and good criticism.

You needed to be more mature, on and outside of the pitch.

Growing up as the youngest, it was all you would hear all the time. Most families say the youngest ones are the most babied, but in the Putellas family, the youngest was the one who had to grow up fast, trying to catch up to the older ones.

On the 2020-2021 season, you had an okay year. You had good games, bad ones too, but it wasn't nearly good enough for Barcelona. You were too young, still too immature.

But your contract wasn't close to the end, and Barcelona had no intention of paying the lease of a broken contract, so they gave you an option.

Going on loan to Real Madrid or just accepting you were going to be benched for the remainder of the season.

You left the office without a proper answer.

If you went to Real Madrid, you knew it would be a pure disgrace to your culer family, especially to your sister, but if you went there, you knew you would be able to play.

Real Madrid needed a few defenders, and you were good enough for them. Your second option was staying in Barcelona and just... not playing.

The Champions League was approaching. You knew you would never get there with Real Madrid, but you knew that if you got a medal for winning the UEFA with Barcelona, it wouldn't be by your own doing. The club had made sure you knew you would get zero minutes.

When you got home, Alexia, Alba and your Mom were already at the table, waiting for you to start dinner.

Normally, Alexia would give you a ride, but you asked her to go without you. Instead, you took the metro, considering and rethinking everything that was said in the meeting room.

Everybody was talking.

Alexia didn't talk about football, she never did with Mom and Alba. Alexia always said she needed people she could talk to about things other than football. People that made her feet like she was more than just a player.

Maybe it was one of the reasons why the two of you didn't get along much. Besides football, you didn't have the same interests.

You liked music, playing instruments, mainly piano, which you learned from your Dad.

He also loved it. He tried to teach Alexia, but he would say she only had coordination with her feet, then he tried Alba, who had the talent, but didn't care to practice, and then he tried you.

Third time's the charm, he said. You had the talent and the passion. You practised with him every night after he came home from picking up Alexia from training. He would sit you on his lap and teach you Catalan songs while Alba would sit at the foot of the piano, her doll in hand, playing house while Alexia would kick the ball against the wall.

It was messy, but everybody was together, everybody with their own interests.

But then Dad died. It was 2012. Alexia was only 18, Alba 16, and you were 11.

Alba and Mom cried a lot.

Alexia and you not so much, but that didn't mean you didn't feel it in your bones. It wasn't sadness.

Sadness would be too little to express the emptiness and the numbness that took over your body from such a young age.

You didn't understand death, but when you asked your Mom or grandma about it, it seemed like they didn't understand it either.

When Alba would cry, you would be the first one to come hug her, say that Dad loved her, and that he was watching over from wherever he was.

Alexia would come second, not knowing very well how to comfort someone, but feeling the weight of being the oldest.

After Dad, Alexia became, at the same time, more distant, but still more present.

She was still at home; she didn't move out, even though she could. She was playing for the A team at Barcelona and had played for Spain as well. She chose to stay.

During one night, while you were supposed to be asleep, you heard her and Mom talk. Mom said she was overwhelmed. Alba was getting in trouble, sneaking out, talking with people she shouldn't, then she talked about you.

You were surprised at first. You had tried your hardest to be the one who didn't cause problems, knowing Mom was missing Dad a lot, but she said she missed hearing you on the piano.

You hadn't touched it since Dad passed away, months ago. It hurt to even look at it.

You didn't wait to hear Alexia, you went straight to bed.

The next day, you woke up with Alexia on your side of the bed.

She was sitting there, her Barcelona jersey on. She told you you were going to play, that she wanted to hear a few songs.

You said no. You didn't want to play for anyone who wasn't Dad.

She ignored you. She dragged you out of bed. The room you shared with Alba still pitch black. She forced you down on the piano bench.

"Play," she demanded, her voice cold, icy.

You shook your head. Why was she doing that? Didn't she know it hurt?

"Now, petita," [young sister] she said again, more harshly.

You tried to get away, but she held you back.

You started playing. Maybe if you finished it, maybe Alexia would let you go.

As you were hitting the piano keys, the same way Dad taught you, you felt the heaviness in your chest changing to something different.

It wasn't lighter, just... different.

You didn't notice you were crying until you felt the tips of your fingers wet.

Water wasn't good for the piano. Dad never let any of you near it with anything liquid.

You should stop. Take a towel and clean it, but you couldn't. The song wasn't done yet.

So you kept going. Maybe if you finished it, then Dad would make himself known to you again, maybe you would feel the love people swore he left.

People always told you Dad had gone, but that he was still here, that he left parts of himself in each of his daughters.

But you didn't see Dad when you looked in the mirror, you didn't see Dad when you looked at your sisters. He was nowhere to be seen because he wasn't here anymore.

He wasn't going to come back.

The stupid piano would be here, and he wouldn't.

When you realised you were hitting the keys with more force than intended, and Alexia was calling you, shaking you, screaming your name.

"Para ya!" [Stop it!] she shouted. Tears were streaming down her face, she was sobbing, and her face was completely red. "Para, para ya!"

You stopped at the same time Mom and Alba ran downstairs, probably having heard the screams and crying.

Mom didn't know what to do. Alexia was crying hysterically, hands on her face, while you were crying too, but it was like your fingers were glued to the piano.

You weren't playing anymore, but they were there, on the exact keys they should be on to continue the song.

On one side of the room was the youngest daughter of Eli, a kid who had just lost her father and one of her greatest passions along with it.

On the other, was the older kid, who had just turned into an adult, but was still very much her baby.

Your Mom went to Alexia, hugged her tight, telling her to breathe. Alba went in your direction, gently taking your hands off the piano while cleaning your cheeks from the tears.

Dad should be here. He would know how to make it better. He should be here. He was the missing piece. Your family wouldn't be the same without him.

You cried on Alba's shoulder, her hand patting your back as if you were a toddler who scraped her knee.

She was murmuring something about also missing Dad, that it was okay.

But it wasn't. She knew it wasn't okay, too.

The chaotic Moment only escalated when Alexia got up from the sofa, getting away from Mom's arms.

She pointed at the piano, eyes full of hatred.

"Get it away from here, throw it in the trash, I don't want it here!"

You barely had time to process.

You freed yourself from Alba's arms before throwing the top half of your body on the piano, holding it tightly. It was cold against your naked arms, but you didn't mind.

It was yours to keep. Your memory of Dad. The piano was Dad.

"No! You can't do that," you said in between tears, looking betrayed at both Mom and Alexia. "It's mine, it's Dad's!"

Why were they doing that? They didn't want Dad in the house again? How could they see the piano and not feel Dad's comforting presence?

Didn't Mom remember how Dad would always sing a romantic song for her on Valentine's Day? Didn't Alba remember how Dad would play her favourite cartoon songs on the piano?

Had Alexia forgotten how Dad would always play Barcelona's anthem for her? Had they all forgotten what the piano meant?

Maybe they did remember. Maybe it was just too much for them to look at every day.

But it wasn't trash, they couldn't throw it away, not without erasing Dad's memory along with it.

"It can't be here," Alexia said between her teeth. "Dad's not here anymore, no reason to keep it."

"Girls, calm down, let's breathe," Mom said, trying to ease the situation, but it didn't work, because you and Alexia continued to argue.

You didn't remember what you said, you also couldn't remember what Alexia said.

What you did remember was how Alexia told Mom that she would move out if the piano wasn't gone.

Mom had just lost her husband, she couldn't lose her oldest kid, too. So she chose Alexia.

The piano was gone the next morning.

Now, sitting at the table, you looked to the corner of the living room, where the piano was some years ago.

You stared at it. It had nothing now, it was just a corner. Then you looked at the table, surrounded by what was left of your family.

"I'm moving to Madrid," you said, tapping at the table anxiously.

And that's when it all got so much worse.

..

Alexia didn't drive you to the airport; Alba did. She was smiling, but you could tell how she really felt about the whole situation; she didn't want you to go, didn't agree with it, but she understood why you were doing it.

Mom was still a mystery. The night before your flight, she helped you pack everything carefully, telling you that she was proud of you for following your own pace and for making a decision that she knew was best for your career. She filled your cheeks with kisses and tucked you in before she closed the door to your room.

The next morning, though, she prepared breakfast and cried over your eggs. You didn't say anything, just hugged her tight and told her you were going to be okay, that you were a few hours away. You were moving cities, not countries.

You had a final breakfast with your family, but you couldn't help but look up at the door, the back door everyone used instead of the front one, the door Alexia was supposed to walk through any minute because she was your sister and your captai,n and she needed to say goodbye, right?

You drank a cup of coffee and Alexia wasn't there.

You drank a second one, still no sound of Alexia's car.

When you were on your way to make the third, Mom held you hard. "She's not coming, petita."

"Oh," you said, putting your cup down. "Why? She's got training?"

Maybe she had something important. Ever since you agreed to go on a loan, Barcelona had blocked your access to the players' schedule, so you really didn't know.

Mom opened her mouth, then closed it.

You understood it right away.

Alexia wasn't coming because she didn't want to. Simple as that.

You nodded to Mom, trying to put on a brave face. She was already anxious that you were moving out to a city you'd never been in; she didn't need to know you were sad because your sister wasn't coming to say goodbye.

Your dumb, self-centred sister.

She did everything for her team, especially the youngest players, but couldn't seem to be there when you needed her the most.

You knew why, of course.

Alexia had treated it as some sort of betrayal when you told her you picked Real Madrid instead of Barcelona. You tried telling her, explaining that in Barça you were not getting any minutes as a defender, but she didn't listen.

She told you how selfish you were being, that you couldn't move away from them, that Mom and Alba would miss you—she never mentioned herself—then she talked about how idiotic you were for going to a "low-class club" that barely had won anything.

You told her to stop multiple times. Told her that you weren't asking her, you were just letting her know you were moving.

When she mentioned Dad, things escalated. She said how sad Dad would be to have one of his daughters play for a club he hated.

That was when you took your plate, still filled with food, and threw it on the floor, next to Alexia's feet. You aimed it so it wouldn't hurt her, of course. Your sister was getting on your nerves, but no need to draw blood.

You didn't remember what happened next. Alba took you to your room, Mom stayed in the kitchen, calming Alexia and cleaning everything up.

You felt bad for the plate. It was Mom's favourite.

..

Mom was crying as soon as you got to the gate, ready to fly. You had the plane ticket in one hand, your luggage in the other, and your backpack on your back.

Alba was holding Nala, the little family dog. If it wasn't for your mom, Nala would be the family member you would miss the most—sorry, Alba.

"I need to go," you said, smiling down at Nala and scratching her head. "I'll miss you, you behave for Mom, okay?"

Nala just looked at you, not understanding what goodbyes meant.

Alba held you tight when you went in for a hug. "Don't go all crazy in Madrid, please," she said. "I mean it, I've been twenty-one before, I know how exciting things can be."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm going there for work, not to party."

Alba giggled. "You sound just like Alexia."

She quickly realised what she had said and looked at you pitifully, whispering a small "sorry."

You waved it off before kissing Mom goodbye. "You take care of yourself," Mom said between tears. "Take a taxi and go straight to the apartment, don't talk to anyone at the airport and—"

"Mom!" you said, smiling a bit. "Calm down, it's okay, I know how to care for myself."

"You are too young," Mom murmured while fixing a string of hair that was out of place on your head. "Older kids are supposed to be the first ones moving, not the youngest... you're my baby."

"Mama, I'm not a baby."

"Don't talk to your mother like that," Mom huffed. "You always will be, you three."

Three.

Three Putellas Seguras were supposed to be here, not just two.

Then, your flight was called. You had to go now.

You gave them both another round of hugs. Parting was weird, it was like the goodbyes were never enough. In reality, they never were.

You turned around, waving at them before entering the gate and walking through the tunnel straight into the plane.

When you sat in your seat—window seat, yay—you checked your phone one last time before the flight took off.

There were some messages, some from friends and players at Barcelona, telling you to enjoy and make the best out of this moment.

Another one from Alba, a selfie with her, Mom and Nala saying "Mom's saying she misses you already."

But the one that got your attention was written under the name of Ale.

"Text me when you land. Don't trust those Madristas."

You smiled at the message because, of course, Alexia was paranoid.

But she was also telling you to be safe. It was the closest Alexia could get to "I love you."

Still, you didn't answer.

Alexia was still going to be Alexia, no matter what place in the world you would move to. She was cold, but warm when she wanted to be. She cared a lot, so much that she couldn't push herself to show it. Felt so much about everything, but still, decided to keep everything to herself.

That was who Alexia was. And it was hurting you.

You hurt her, too, you knew that. Maybe because you reminded her of Dad, maybe because the similarities between you two were too noticeable.

You weren't sure. Maybe you would never know.

Still, you wished your sister were here to say goodbye.

You sighed as you put on your earphones as the flight took off.

..

When you got to Madrid a few hours later, you felt like you had just opened a new chapter in your life. This was the place to make a difference for yourself, away from your sister's shadow.

Barcelona was her city. Madrid was yours now, even though you had just set foot in it. You would make it your place. You'd always felt like Barcelona wasn't quite right for you.

The memory of your dad–and the version of your family you should've had–always haunted those streets

Madrid was still pure of any of your sins. You had never played football on these streets. Never sneaked out to a party here. Alba had never taken you to get a tattoo hidden from Mom. Alexia had never taken you drinking on your 18th birthday here.

You were the only Putellas in Madrid. Maybe you didn't quite know what that meant, but it mattered. Somehow it did.

You were good enough to text Mom that you had gotten off the flight safely, and that you were already sprawled on the floor of your new apartment.

Mom called right away, demanding to video call so you could show her the apartment, which you did.

On the screen, the only faces were those of your Mom and Alba. It seemed like Alexia had decided not to show up at Mom's at all that day.

You decided to ignore it. While also keeping in mind that you had yet to text her that you had landed... well, maybe mom already told her.

You showed Mom and Alba your apartment. It was small, just one room, one bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. It was in an apartment complex for players, so you had already met a few of your teammates.

They seemed nice, not any of those weird stories Alexia had told you about them being snakes. Maybe Alexia had taken to heart all of those stories Dad told when they were younger. Dad was the most culer of them all, after all.

The next day, you got your training kit and were asked to see if everything fitted so they could take a few pictures of you for media day.

As soon as you put on the Real Madrid jersey, you cried.

You thought about calling Mom, or Alba, even Alexia, but you didn't.

You chose to move away, which meant dealing with things on your own.

That badge felt wrong on you, the colour white looked horrible on your skin, and the whole situation felt off.

What were you doing? Wearing these colours? Defending another team? Maybe Alexia was right, maybe Dad was very upset right now, maybe this wasn't the life he had envisioned for you.

But what was the life he expected of you? Being a benchwarmer in Barcelona? Being compared to your sister all the time? La Reina of Barcelona?

You didn't know what was expected of you. You also didn't know what you wanted. You thought you wanted to come to Madrid, but now the decision felt exactly as Alexia said it was—stupid.

..

Okay, everything was fine, actually, you thought to yourself as you were being guided into Real Madrid's training grounds. It looked nice and modern. You were scared of how it was going to look. You knew Real Madrid didn't exactly prioritise investing in the women's team.

You did some pictures and a lot of videos for their Instagram. In a matter of days, everybody knew that you went on loan. You had read the comments, people saying it was shocking to see a Putellas in white, others congratulating you for taking this difficult step.

You did some training on the pitch with the other girls. Their training was more focused on the individual players rather than on the team, which you thought was weird, but hey, who were you to say anything?

When you lay down to sleep that night, you texted Mom to let her know how everything was. It felt good to listen to her voice.

"How are you, petita?"

"I'm okay, Mom," you said. You weren't telling her that you cried your eyes out a few days ago because you couldn't make pasta the same way she did. "And you? How's Alba... Alexia?"

"I'm good, just missing my petita," your mom said, sadly. "But your sisters are being good to me. Alba has been taking me to pilates, Alexia always comes home after training to watch TV with me."

"I'm glad, Mama," you answered. "You should focus a bit on yourself now, you spent almost thirty years taking care of us."

"I like taking care of my girls," she said, "but enough of that, how's training? Have you made any good friends?"

The way mom said it, it looked like she was asking if you had anyone to share your lunch with during recess.

"Yes, Mama, I've been getting close to Teresa," you said. "She's nice, she lives in the complex too, she's showing me around Madrid."

"Oh, that makes me so happy!" Mom said. "You keep focusing on yourself, bebita, focus on your football, on your friends, I want you to feel good."

"I'm working on that, Mama," you said. "I need to go now, but I'll call you tomorrow!"

"One thing before we say goodbye, petita," Mom said. "Have you been calling your sister? I know you call Alba, but what about Ale?"

Not that conversation again. Since you moved to Madrid a few weeks ago, Mom had been prying about you and Alexia's relationship, asking if you had been talking. You knew she was asking that of you and not Alexia because you were way more open than Alexia could ever be.

"We talk, Mom," you lied. "Don't stress over us, okay? We love each other."

At least you hoped Alexia loved you.

Mom sighed. "Just... call her more often. She told me she misses giving you rides to training."

And with that, Mom ended the call, and you were left wondering.

Alexia absolutely hated to give you rides. She said it messed up with her morning routine, that you ate breakfast too slowly, that you always slammed her car's door, even though you didn't.

Maybe it was because Alexia didn't really express her feelings, maybe it was because you couldn't fathom someone missing you.

Still, it sat there, aching in a corner of your chest.

..

a/n: "El Cant dels Ocells" (The Song of the Birds) is a famous Catalan song. It's very pretty, you guys should listen to it!! <3

->I don't know where the idea of this fic came from. I'm reading some books where the author just writes whatever in their character's mind, so I tried to do this here. That's why the reader sounds so messy and confused, because she is haha.

->Also, I plan to write more about the reader's story. I know she'll end up in Arsenal at some point (I want to write something about Alexia and the reader against each other in the UEFA final hehe, but we'll see where we go.