(no subject)
one
It’s a bizarre detail to focus on but it’s all he can see and Pep needs to focus on something, anything, anything that will help him keep himself together.
His hands against Leo’s ribcage. He can’t tear his eyes from the sight. He’d never thought much about his hands; strong enough, with long fingers; but now they just look oversized and dark against pale, smooth skin. Leo’s skin. He spreads his fingers farther and it’s just garish. Obscene. He can’t look away.
He flexes his fingertips. The skin below them dips and stretches. Pep can feel Leo’s bones, his bones, his thumb right against them, the ones that guard Leo’s heart and his lungs. Leo groans, Pep thinks he might be screaming himself but it’s just in his head, the room is silent. For a long time Pep will only remember these little obscenities, grimy fingers that leave marks, dirty grout above the bathroom sink, spots on the sheets. Leo deserves more.
It didn’t start in Zurich, but it ended there.
Zurich is nice. Cold. It always is this time of year, but there’s something Pep likes about the cold weather, at least there in the Alps; it makes everything feel clean. Fresh. He can breath deep and his lungs won’t hurt.
It’s been nice, the last few years, being able to take a delegation from Barcelona to represent the best in the world. Some coaches resented having to interrupt practice and their schedule to attend, essentially, a glorified party, but not Pep. Pep believes in taking your accolades where you can get them, enjoying them when they come.
They knew Leo would win. Pep knew it; Xavi knew it; and they all knew that Leo knew it, even though his only reaction was to blush, purse his lips, and turn away whenever anyone asked him about it.
Leo comes down to the lobby before the ceremony and he’s in this ridiculous purple velvet jacket. Pep wonders briefly if he knows who Hugh Hefner is; he doesn’t ask. He thinks about how Leo dressed only in sweat suits when he first came to Barca; Pep wonders if he can take any credit for this change in Leo, too. He decides not, but his heart swells with something anyway.
“Lionel Messi,” Ronaldo says, and Pep smiles to himself. On the screen, Xavi is smiling too. Pep wishes he could give it to both of them; he remembers the year before, he was standing where Ronaldo is now, dreading so much the opening of that envelope.
Leo ambles up to the stage. The year before Pep had stood to the side while he spoke, and he could literally see Leo shaking; he’d stumbled over his words, and later, he’d looked at Pep with horror in his eyes, so much that Pep had thought something was really wrong, and he’d said, “I forgot to thank Xavi and Andres.”
He looks calmer now; Pep expects he won’t forget to thank his teammates this time, but he’s still more than a little surprised by what Leo says, what he does.
He gives his general thank yous and then he turns away from the camera, towards Xavi, still sitting in the front row where he’s always been. “I want to share this trophy with my friend, Xavi. It’s my pleasure to play with you. You deserve to be up here too.”
On the screen, Pep can see out of the corner of his eye that they're showing a close up of Xavi, the tiny proud smile there, but Pep doesn't get a good look because he can't take his eyes off Leo.
It’s not just that it’s a nice thing to do; not just that Leo’s not a man of many words and the elegant dedication is a surprise. It means more than that; Pep has spent four years trying to show every member of his team, but especially Leo, that none of them are anything without the others, and it’s so clear now that Leo knows that, and that maybe Pep doesn’t need to worry about him after all.
Maybe Leo can still shock him.
There are tons of people around. There have been all day, but it's like Pep is just noticing for the first time; all their families, all the staff they've brought; he doesn't get a second to talk to Leo for almost an hour after the ceremony ends, and even then it's just to pull him down a hallway before they board the plane home, still well in sight of the group.
"Leo," he says, and his head spins because it's finally quiet. Leo's shed his jacket and Pep holds on to his shirt sleeve. Leo looks up at him and Pep can't find the words to recognize what he did.
"Congratulations, Leo," he says finally, and allows himself a small smile. Leo raises his eyebrows, laughs a little; like he was expecting something else. Pep is still holding onto his sleeve but if either of them notice they don't do anything about it.
"Thank you," Leo says, and doesn't meet Pep's eyes; still shy. "Congratulations, too," he adds, half a second later. Pep had almost forgotten he won something.
Someone peers around the corner; one of the airline staff. "Five minutes," he calls down to them, and Pep nods his acknowledgement. He realizes then that he's holding on to Leo like he's going to slip away, and he lets go suddenly, rubs his hand over his head.
"Your speech," he says, dragging his hand over his face. "It was -- unexpected."
Leo looks uncertain. He gives a nervous laugh. "You know I hate speaking," he says. "Did I say something strange?”
"No," Pep says quickly. He wants to reach out and touch Leo again, steady him, reassure him, but he forces his hands still at his sides. "I meant I liked it. It was -- it made me very proud, I suppose."
Leo looks up at him sharply, eyes dark. Pep should look away now, walk away. He doesn't.
Leo steps closer to him, and it's terrible; Pep can see the rest of their group not twenty meters down the hall, he can hear the murmur of the waiting area.
And then he makes his big mistake. He takes a step back, until he brushes the wall behind him, and he says, "Not here." Not here, he says, and Leo hears what it means - somewhere else.
"Where?" he asks, his voice low. Leo knows when he’s won.
Pep stares at him, frozen, and wonders if there's a way to take this back. If he really wants to.
"Boarding!" someone calls down the hall. Pep thinks it's Xavi's brother. He takes a few clumsy steps toward him, but Leo is still there, waiting, holding Pep back without touching him.
"Later," Pep says. His neck is hot. "We'll talk later."
Leo's eyes don't leave him, and it's not until he gives a short nod that Pep lets himself turn and walk quickly into the lobby, out to the tarmac. It's cold in Zurich. He needs the air.
In the plane he stays in the front, away from his players. "With the adults," he jokes to Sandro, and feels sick to his stomach.
Sometime in the middle of the flight the photographer asks him to go back and take pictures with the players. Pep moves slowly, and doesn't look at Leo as he passes by his seat. He rests against the armrest of the seat across from Xavi, and when Leo follows him he tries to move over, make sure they're not touching.
Leo stoops in the aisle, rests a hand on Pep's leg to steady himself. He looks calm; happy. Pep figures there's no reason he shouldn't; he's not doing anything wrong.
When they're done taking pictures Gerard starts with the champagne again, and Pep moves to go back to his place up front. "Back to the boring section for me," he says lightly, stepping around Leo, trying not to touch him.
"Bye," Xavi says. Pep looks back, flashes him a smile. He catches Leo's eye.
"Later," he says. Pep holds on to the backs of seats as he walks forward. He does not stumble.
The road to Santpedor is so familiar he could probably drive it in his sleep. It almost feels like that's what he's doing; he's so tired, his head so cloudy. He’s barely slept since before Zurich. He has many chances to turn back. He does not.
He's not taking Leo to Santpedor, of course.
Pep gave him the day off but it was still early when Pep heard from him. He should have expected it. You can come over, Leo had texted him. Pep didn't answer, and so, after awhile, another text. No one's here.
He should have called. If he were braver, he would have called. No, Leo, he responded instead, long minutes later. He can't go to Leo's house; doesn't know how to be among his things, doesn't want to know what the bed he sleeps in looks like, doesn't want to know what's in his refrigerator.
Then where? was the response, instant. Nowhere, Pep's mind shouted. Nowhere and never.
He doesn't know how he even remembered it, the little hotel just off the highway, somewhere between Barcelona and Santpedor, closer to the latter. He had to look up the name, and he only let himself do it by convincing himself it was out of curiosity. There was no plan.
Where? His phone, relentless.
I could come there, is the next message, and that's all it takes before Pep is sending him an address.
His phone rings as he's exiting the highway and he only answers when he sees it's Leo. Maybe he's lost. Maybe he's changed his mind.
"Where are you?" he asks in place of a greeting. He sounds tired but restless all at once. Pep knows the feeling.
"Getting off the highway," he says mechanically.
"I'm waiting," Leo says, sharp, and hangs up.
It's not that bad a place, Pep thinks as he parks. Not seedy, not the kind of place you'd expect bad things to be happening, necessarily. Leo sends him a room number and he wonders if he took the time to try and cover it up; paying in cash, hiding his face. Maybe he doesn't care. Pep can't tell if he does.
The door's propped open with the lock, and Pep pushes in. It's dim; the room is empty. The door to the bathroom is closed and light spills from underneath. Pep lets the door close loudly behind him and turns on a lamp next to the bed, kicking his legs up and relaxing for a moment. As if this is normal.
The bathroom door opens and light frames Leo, outlining him in the shine, blurring out his features. He's in a white t-shirt and sweatpants. He looks small; young. Pep is in dress pants and a sweater.
"How did you even find this place?" Leo asks. He's drying his hands on a towel and when he's done, he tosses it behind him, onto the bathroom floor. Pep tries not to cringe.
Leo climbs up onto the bed, near Pep's feet, resting on his knees. "It's on the way to my parents' house," Pep murmurs, watching Leo watch him.
"Oh," Leo says. He puts a hand on Pep's ankle. Pep's felt sick and nervous since Zurich, but he doesn't now. It's just Leo. It's just them.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Pep asks. It makes him feel old, and a little bit patronizing.
"You really have to ask?" Leo's smiling now, private. Pep could laugh but it would be a defense.
"I don't know," he says instead, honest. "I don't know what I have to do."
Leo's face grows serious, it makes him look older, makes Pep not feel so bad. "You don't have to do anything," he says, and he moves toward Pep, and Pep lets him.
Leo is almost reverent with him; careful and deliberate. Pep thinks if anything it should be the other way around, but out of the two of them he's never been the one in charge. Leo doesn't let him do anything; he undresses himself, pulls Pep's clothes off soon after; when Pep tries to touch him, he pushes his hands away.
"Don't," he says, his lips against Pep's chest, when Pep drags blunted nails down Leo's side, reaching for him.
"Why?" Pep asks. His breathing is already ragged, short. "Let me."
Leo sits up, leans back. Pep misses his weight. Pep thinks he shakes his head, just a little, and then he slides a finger into his mouth, and then two, and Pep knows what he's doing, he groans, he reaches out but touches nothing.
"Let me," he says again, dangerously close to a gasp.
Leo rests one hand on Pep's stomach, the other disappearing behind him, and he leans over Pep. "No," he says softly. His eyes widen slightly and Pep thinks imagining it happening right above him might even be worse than seeing it, doing it himself. "I've waited..." Leo says softly, and he doesn't finish the thought but Pep knows what he means. And Pep could tell him, I've waited too, longer than you think, but he doesn't. There are still lines he will not cross.
Instead he relaxes back and watches; if this is what Leo wants, this is what Leo will get. There can be no regrets because it will not happen again, Pep knows that already. So he watches, commits it to memory; the look of concentration on Leo's face, the slip of his skin, the feel of him, tight around Pep as he sits back, almost painful but Pep does not make a sound, does not pull away, because he cannot afford to.
Leo moves so slowly and Pep tries not to hurry him along, tries not to interrupt him. Pep fists his hands in the sheets, grinds his teeth so hard it makes his head hurt. He watches Leo; it's a strange moment but he thinks, suddenly, that Leo shouldn't be doing this; that it's his day off, that he should be resting, not working so hard, and he's sure to be sore.
Pep stills him by touching his wrist, braced against Pep's side; when he looks up, distracted, Pep uses the opportunity to flip him over. Pep expects him to argue but he just sighs, soft, and relaxes back into the pillows and it's just that, that tiny non-movement, that breaks Pep, the sight of Leo underneath him, compliant and tired and happy, it's too much, and Pep moves fast, faster and faster, he braces his hands against Leo's ribs and watches until he can’t anymore.
This is all that will ever happen, Pep knows. Knows it has to be worth it. For Leo, too. When he's done, he pulls out, spits in his hand, takes hold of Leo, and Leo shuts his eyes, makes a noise low in his throat, almost like it hurts. Maybe Leo knows this is it too.
Pep slides his hand, willing to go slow, willing to drag it out because he knows that's what Leo wants. He leans in, his forehead against Leo's cheek, sweaty but still cool to the touch, and he kisses him, soft, searching. Then it's over, Leo spilling over his hand, twisting helplessly against him.
They dress in silence. It presses heavily against Pep's shoulders, sinks like a rock in his gut.
Leo's ready first. He looks at Pep, his face unreadable but not blank, and Pep doesn't know what to do now. He doesn't do anything.
"I'm gonna go," Leo says finally. His hand is already on the doorknob. He hesitates like there's something else, but there isn't. There is nothing else. "See you tomorrow," he says, and just like that he's gone. Pep's guilt is intensified by the wave of relief he feels as the door closes gently behind him.
He goes in the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He lets it get scalding hot, keeps splashing, until his face is red and tender. The grout above the sink is black with dirt and it makes Pep feel sick; when he turns, back into the bedroom, he can see the discolored sheets peeking out underneath the faded comforter. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this is exactly the kind of seedy place where you'd expect bad things to happen.
Leo deserves better.
*
Maybe the worst part was that it happened so late in a game that Barcelona was going to win regardless. Pep knew as soon as the Atleti defender swooped in; when Leo rolled down his sock, revealing an ankle the size of an orange, Pep already expected he’d be seeing the worst.
By the time Pep got close to him, his hands were covering his face. Pep tried to talk to him, little nothing words of encouragement, but he didn't get anything in response, just raspy breaths and shaking hands. No indication that Leo even knew he was there.
In the physios room he'd been laid over a doctors table, his head turned away from the door, so when Pep came in, he could not see Leo's face. Kun was already there; holding one of his hands, ducked close to Leo and talking softly. He straightened when Pep pushed in, and eyed him carefully, as if he didn't trust Pep.
"I'll call you later," Kun said to Leo. Pep saw how tight Leo's grip was on his hand; he looked away until Kun was gone.
"How does it look?" Pep asked. Emili was there, and Juanjo of course. One of them was wrapping Leo's ankle and he kept cringing on the table. Pep thought of taking his hand, but didn't; he didn't touch Leo at all. Leo's cheeks were dry but blotchy.
"A sprain, at least," Emili said. "Hopefully that's all."
Pep nodded at him. He looked over his superstar player, curled on the table like a little boy. "Leo," he said, and Leo finally looked at him with reddened eyes. Pep knew there was nothing he could say to make Leo feel better; not unless he could tell him he'd be fine, back to playing the next day, and it wasn't true.
"Let's go home," he said instead, offering a hand to help Leo sit up. But Leo didn't take it. He took a deep breath, set his jaw, and swung himself up on the table, reaching for a crutch. Pep stared at him, surprised yet again; when Leo finally looked at him, Pep could swear his lip curved up, in the tiniest of smiles.
*
Pep doesn't know what happened until Alexis comes off.
Some kind of skirmish, but there always is lately; it is, after all, a Clasico. Leo had ended up on the ground but that's all Pep knew, and then Alexis came out, collapsing on the bench, and Tito had leaned in to talk to him but Pep hadn't paid attention, standing at the touchline, making sure they wouldn't let this game slip away. Not here.
It's almost the end when he returns to the bench, settles in next to Tito. He looks so pale these days; Pep doesn't know when to worry. He feels selfish for wanting him here, wanting him at all the games.
Tito leans in. "He stepped on Leo," he says, mildly, like he's commenting on the weather. "Alexis says he stomped his hand, while he was down."
Pep freezes. Stares at his friend. So pale. "What?" he asks.
Tito blinks at him, tilts his head, the suggestion of a warning. "Pepe," he says. "I'm only telling you because the press is sure to ask."
Pep makes a noise, acknowledgement or thanks, something, and he turns back to watch the game. Really he's watching Leo. He's fine; Pep can see that. Running, a look of complete determination his face. Pep squints at his hand but he's too far away to see anything. There's no reason, nothing, for the white hot rage that bubbles in Pep's chest.
In the press conference he tells the truth, that he didn't see what happened, that he's sure the camera shots speak for themselves. Once he's done it's straight to the locker room, eyes trained on the number ten on the wall, and Leo sitting there below it.
He's laughing. His hand is in his lap, forgotten, he's laughing with Pinto, and why shouldn't he be? Pep has to keep reminding himself that they won.
Pep stalks over to him, snatches his hand up; maybe too hard, because he flinches, the smile disappearing from his face. Pep doesn't pay attention; he only see the red marks across the back of his hand, already fading into bruises in the valleys between his knuckles.
Pep takes a deep breath; he shakes his head to himself before he drops Leo's hand, gentler now. It might be the first time he's touched Leo since the hotel, but he isn't sure. "Are you all right?" he asks. He knows how many pairs of eyes are on him.
Leo flexes the hand a little, grimaces. "It hurts," he says, and shrugs. "I'll live."
Pep lets himself look at Leo, maybe just a moment too long. Then he nods curtly. Before he leaves, he remembers to congratulate them. It really was a job well done; for now, Pep can shoulder the bad parts himself.
It's late when they finally get back to Camp Nou, and Pep's incredibly tired, but he stops by his office to drop off some notes and video regardless. He should be surprised when Leo follows him, but he isn't.
He sighs and drops into his chair when he notices Leo there, lurking in the doorway, a bag slung over his shoulder. Leo takes it as an invitation and walks in, closing the door behind him.
"Are you sure your hand is alright?" Pep asks him before he can say anything. "We could still catch a doctor before everyone's gone."
Leo laughs and gives him a strange look. "You know they already looked at in Madrid," he says. "Just bruises."
Pep knows he's right and nods tiredly. Leo settles into a chair across from him and Pep can see how tired he is too; wonders why he stayed.
He doesn't ask, afraid to hear the answer. "You played well," he says instead, peering into the space above Leo's head as if picturing it. "Really, very well."
He looks back at Leo's face and Leo quirks a lip, amused. "Thank you," he says. And then, "Do I get a reward?" He says it evenly, and if it were anyone else it wouldn't be an innuendo.
"Leo," Pep says, a warning in his voice, bracing his hands against the desk. And then Leo's standing over it, leaning in to him.
"Come on," he pleads, and his voice is light but Pep knows he's serious. "We won another Clasico and I survived a brutal attack." He's too close now, his lips curving and Pep shouldn't be looking at them; he hesitates a beat too long and then Leo’s lips are against his, cold and chapped, familiar, and it snaps him out of the reverie. He moves his chair back. Leo looks smug.
"Leo," he says again; his voice is tired, incredulous. He thought they were on the same page after that first time but obviously he'd been wrong. "It's not going to happen."
Leo's face falls sullen, but he backs off. "Why?" he asks flatly.
"You know why," Pep says, dragging a hand over his face. There's a clock above the door and it's nearing 3 a.m.
"I don't," Leo says, face set. Pep knows Leo can out-stubborn him and it's so ridiculous, so late, and Pep can barely even look himself in the face already --
"Because you're 24," Pep says, ticking the reasons off on his fingers, one by one. "Because you're my player, Leo, and I'm your coach. Because you're the best player in the world, and if anyone ever found out -- Leo, it would be over, everything would --"
"No one will find out," he says, but his voice is meeker now even while his eyes are still stubborn. He shifts, changes tracks. "It's my life."
"Exactly, Leo," Pep says, and his voice is sad because there is something sad about it, about both of them. "It's your life. And it's going to be brilliant, and I'm not going to ruin it."
Leo looks down at his lap. His hair is getting longer now, falling over his forehead. It makes him look young and soft. But when he looks up again, his eyes are flashing. He's angry, and Pep gets it; he deserves that.
"I'm sorry," Pep tells him, for what it's worth. "This is my fault, completely. I haven't been fair to you."
Leo purses his lips, like he's holding something back, but Pep is used to that. Leo's allowed to keep secrets from him; he should.
Pep clears his throat; he slides back into his coach role, confident he won't have to leave it again. "You all right to get home?" he asks, standing, looking down at Leo in his chair.
Leo flexes his hand again, standing and shouldering his bag on the other side. "'m fine," he mumbles, voice and face equally blank. "It only hurts a little."
Pep nods. He walks Leo to the door. "Good night," he says. "Sleep well." Leo doesn't respond. Pep watches him walk down the hall, until he disappears around a corner. He doesn’t look back.
*
“We have fallen many times. As a team and as a country. And we stood up again, and we will keep doing it. Many, many, many other times. Our country is so small that from a bell tower you can see the neighbor's bell tower. That's how small it is.” Pep stood up, the thrumming in his ears drowning out the sound of the Madrid press room erupting into chaos. He knew his players were waiting in the dressing room, and so Pep shook off the tension in the room and went to find them. Time to focus on more important things.
He heard them before he saw them, their voices carrying down the hall, getting louder as he got closer. They were shouting, sounding joyful and excited, and he tried to decipher if they’d heard his press conference, if they knew the storm that was about to erupt.
Pep stepped into the doorway. Carles saw him first, and a smile split his face as the noise stopped, waiting for everyone else to notice him. It went quiet, and Pep stepped forward to greet them, but before he could get a word in they burst into applause, hooting and hollering until Pep felt his cheeks getting warm.
“How did you hear it?” he asked, crossing into the room.
“We didn’t,” Carles started, and then Gerard interrupted, waving his Blackberry in the air in front of Pep.
“Our phones started blowing up on the bus,” he said. “We still haven’t heard it, only the summaries.”
“Well, I suppose it won’t be long until you hear the whole thing,” Pep told them, motioning that they should finish getting ready.
And they did start to move, but not before Carles, in a rare show of affection, threw an arm around his shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze, pride shining in his eyes. And Pep knew he wasn’t political, not like Pep, and it probably meant something different for him than it did for Pep - it probably meant something different to all of them - but it didn’t matter, and he was glad to see the captain’s understanding.
Gerard was next, of course, and for him the affection wasn’t unexpected, and he pulled his coach in roughly, his chin against Pep’s shoulder. “I’m glad you said it, so I didn’t have to,” he said in Pep’s ear, joking.
Pep laughed gently, but he was serious when he said, “You never have to stick up for me.”
Gerard pulled back, making a face. “I know I don’t have to,” he said, lightly, like it didn’t cost him anything, being the way that he is. But Pep knew it did.
The rest of the team stopped by him, on their way to their lockers or the pitch, some of them stopping to give him a word or a handshake or a hug, some of them just smiling, but all looking more energized than they had this morning.
Pep knew enough by now to expect that Leo would be hanging back, and he wasn’t surprised when Javier stepped around him, squeezing his arm, and Leo was there, looking up at him seriously.
“Ready to go train?” Pep asked, not expecting any words from him. But Leo just looked at him, and the room emptied, quieted. And then Leo reached up, towards Pep’s face. Pep imagined his felt Leo’s fingers, ghosting under his eyes, where Pep knew that dark purple bags hung; but later he couldn’t be sure Leo had touched him at all. Probably just the suggestion of a touch. Still, in his memory, he could feel it.
“You look tired,” Leo said softly. His hand dropped back down, and he looked at Pep expectantly.
It took Pep a beat too long to find the words. “I think we’re all tired,” he said, and tried to smile. The truth was that Leo didn’t look that tired; he looked the same as always, rested and full of energy. The many facades of youth. Pep watched him walk out of the room and tried to remember how that felt.
*
Every morning Pep wakes up and thinks about leaving. Again.
Every day, Pep goes to practice and wonders why he's still there. He watches Leo and wonders how he’s still living with himself, keeping this job, this life, like nothing even happened.
And every night he goes to sleep wondering if tomorrow will be the day he'll get the guts to do something. One way or the other, make a decision, for all of their sakes.
It helps -- or maybe it doesn't -- that Leo acts normal, like nothing happened. It's easier for Pep to focus on himself, on the mistakes he made, on the past. It doesn't feel as bad, when Leo is ignoring him, laughing with Javier, keeping his head down and working as hard as ever. It's almost like Pep imagined the whole thing.
He wishes, fervently, that he did.
But then every once in awhile - when they pause for a rest, for some water - he'll catch it, just for a moment. Leo looking at him. Not angry, never angry. It would make sense if he was, of course, Pep could handle that, Pep could understand that. But Pep hardly ever understands Leo Messi and this is not an exception. He just looks thoughtful, and maybe there's the barest hint of want on his face, but it's enough, and Pep sees.
It would be so easy. Just let his contract expire at the end of the year, disappear for awhile. Visit Italy, Greece, England. Sleep eight hours a night and nap in the afternoons.
It would be so easy, he thinks. Maybe tomorrow he'll decide.
He's scrawling on a legal pad, notes from practice to go over with Tito before the second leg against Bayer. There's a knock on his door, halfway closed.
"Come in," he calls.
Leo pushes the door open, leaning in the doorframe. He's in street clothes, wet hair hanging in his face. "Do you have a minute?" he asks.
Pep sets his pen down. He has no idea what Leo wants; they haven't spoken alone for a month, probably, not since that night after the Copa. "Of course, Leo," he says. "Come in."
Leo shuts the door behind him, and Pep should be wary about it but he isn't. Maybe because it's daytime and the training center is bursting with people; Pep knows Leo wouldn't try anything even if he wanted to. But mostly because it feels like there's nothing left to happen, that the worst has come and gone.
Leo flops into a chair with a sigh. "Everything all right?" Pep asks him.
Leo flashes him a smile, gone as quick as it appeared. "Fine," he says. "All good."
Pep smiles back at him. "Glad to hear it."
Leo reaches out, sliding his fingers along the edge of Pep's desk, focusing his eyes on them intently. Pep waits him out.
"You still haven't signed your contract," he says eventually, meeting Pep's gaze.
Pep raises a brow at him. "No," he says. "I haven't."
Leo studies him, heaves another sigh. "If it's because of me, then--"
"Leo," Pep stops him, holding a hand up. "It's not because of you."
Leo gives him a disbelieving look. "Liar," he says, his mouth curling into half a smile.
It's strange, because Pep never spends a lot of time talking to his players outside the pitch, but it feels like such a relief to have Leo here, in his office, joking with him; as if it's a return to old times, even though this was never something they did before. As if Pep missed this relationship with him, a relationship they never actually had.
"Don't talk to your coach that way," Pep says, but he's laughing.
"I'm serious, though," Leo says, smile fading. "If you're -- if this has anything to do with me, then just stop. I'm fine. I'm perfect. I want you to stay." He slides a hand along his jeans, smoothing the fabric over his leg. "I need you to," he ventures.
"Leo," Pep says, shaking his head. Embarrassed, because he really never expected this. "You don't need anything, I'm sure," he says finally.
"I do," Leo says, insistent. He brings a hand to his face, chewing on an already short nail, watching Pep. "I'm not going to -- whatever. I swear. You don't have to leave," he says around his hand.
"That's not, at all--" Pep starts, shaking his head that Leo could even think that Pep would leave to get away from him.
"You don't have to punish yourself, either," Leo says softly.
Pep quiets. In the hall he can hear people talking, a loud laugh, and from far away, someone shouting.
He decides not to respond to Leo; what could he say, anyway? "But what's left, Leo?" he says. "You all have given me everything. I can't ask for more." He means on the pitch, but of course they both know he could mean the same for Leo off of it.
Leo smiles; small, secret. He stands and throws his bag over his shoulder. "I think there’s still more to come," he says, “but I guess we’ll have to see,” and then Pep watches him go, again.
They’re leaving the locker room before Bayer. Leo’s the last one out, like usual, and Pep looks up at him from his notepad, distracted. His eyes are blank. Pep knows now it’s just focus. Like usual.
“Ready?” Pep asks him, half distracted, ready to go into the tunnel.
“My head hurts,” he says. Not what Pep was expecting. He stutter-steps back, looks at Leo more carefully. He looks fine. Normal.
He settles a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Do you need-“ he starts, but Leo’s already shaking his head. He knows where Pep is going.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He looks up at Pep, searching. “Can I have an aspirin?”
Pep studies him. He could rest him; they’re already up by two. But he’d been resting all weekend, suspended, and Pep knew he wouldn’t be happy.
He’s still looking up at Pep, not even impatient, and one of the techs is motioning at them to get out there. “Ask Juanjo,” Pep says finally. He decides it’s too late now; the refs are already checking kits, the anthem is about to start. He can pull Leo off in a few minutes, if he needs to.
Pep heads to his seat on the bench. He keeps a close eye on Leo. Like usual.
Leo scores first, and then he scores again. “Kid’s got a headache, he says,” Pep mutters to Tito. “So just a hat-trick, then, today.”
Tito laughs. “Whatever makes him feel better.”
When Leo comes off at the half Pep’s at his side. “How do you feel?” he asks, trying not to fuss. Still, they’re up five to one and there’s no reason for Leo to stay on if he’s not well.
Leo looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Fine,” he says, and shrugs. “What, two goals isn’t enough?”
Pep knows it’s a joke but he doesn’t laugh. He pauses, like he’s thinking, until Leo looks back at him. “Is it enough for you?” he asks, casual.
Leo’s eyes flash. He smiles.
Five goals later - three more of them Leo’s - the game ends.
Leo walks near him as he heads for the tunnel, and he’s just fucking beaming. Pep hopes his face isn’t that obvious, but it probably is. “Could have been six,” he says, when Leo is close enough to hear.
Leo just winks at him as he walks past, and for a moment Pep does watch the back of him, disappearing down the tunnel, bouncing his game ball like a basketball in front of him -- and then Pep jogs to catch up.
*
The first time Pep laid eyes on Leo, Leo was just a kid. Pep was practically a kid himself, even if it didn't feel like it at the time.
He settled into his seat at the Mini Estadi, a hat pulled low over his eyes. The man next to him did a double take when he looked over, but didn’t make a fuss; Pep was relieved.
“You seen this group before?” he asked after a few minutes of sitting quietly, eyeing Pep peripherally.
Pep shook his head no. He liked to keep an eye on the youth teams but there was enough going on in the first team lately to take all his attention, too much attention.
The man smiled. “You’re in for a treat,” he said. “Keep your eye on number six.”
Maybe it was self-involved but Pep’s eye was automatically drawn to number four, small and lanky and loud mouthed, something like a miniature version of himself.
It didn’t take long. Number four threaded a pass through to number six and he was off, skirting around defenders, seeming to run through limbs thrust in his path, tripping along with a kind of grace Pep never saw in the greats he plays with, much less an Infantil B kid.
He was gaping, maybe gasping, because the man next to him laughed. “See?” he asked. Pep didn’t respond; he’d barely recovered from the first time when they did it again. He shook his head helplessly.
“Gives you hope for the future, doesn’t it?” the man asked, watching Pep watch them.
Pep never took his eyes of the pitch, the kids there, Leo. “It does,” he murmured, heart racing for his club in a way he'd missed for a long time. “It does.”