t-one day until i'm back in the midwest
a few things. first of all, i've recently been swept up by the winds of change (oh lord, i really did just write that sentence) and have been seriously considering changing my username to caeg, which i find lovely in an ugly sort of way. it means 'key' in old english. i'm not sure if i'll go through with it but it's been prickling at the back of my mind for the past two or so days. we'll see, i guess.
also, i've been getting increasingly annoyed with having two separate journals, one for fic and one for myself, which is ridiculous because i only created onthose-strings because i was getting annoyed with people friending me solely for fic (which didn't make sense in the first place because i kept all of my fic public, but that's neither here nor there). anyway, i think i'm going to try and start posting fic here again. i'm going to leave onthose-strings public because i may well still hate having fic here (and also because i'm lazy and don't want to go through and re-archive everything).
SPN tonight. thoughts, anyone? (briiiiiii.)
oh right, this weekend is superbowl sunday. go packers! jaja um. i don't really follow pro american football much, i prefer it at the university level, but my dad's inexplicably a packers fan so imma go with that, and also they have really amazing fans. every single home game gets sold out, no matter who they're playing. and they're good, obviously, so. seems like a sweet deal to me. /fairweather fan. my main use for superbowl sunday is to go to a bunch of parties and eat free food. it'll be a good time.
obligatory suarez picture! seriously, i am so infatuated. he is adorable! does he ever stop smiling? don't answer that, i like my illusions. (i still really, really want to fix his teeth, though.) also okay i only watched the first half of liverpool in real time on wednesday but i have since watched the second half and damn, boy. damn. allow me to direct your attention to this video of all of his touches from the match (no i did not make it). so lovely.
and now for some fic! (leaving this one locked for the moment while i sort out what i'm diong with my journals, may become public in the future.) written for drbillbongo, happy birthday :)
"Are you still thinking about Llorente?"
Mourinho frowns. "Yes," he says, reaching up to rub at his forehead. He's had a tension headache for the better part of a week. "Don't tell the press. Or Valdano, we're not starting a bidding war for him."
"Of course not," Aitor replies. He hovers in the doorway until José looks up. "Are you going home?"
There are stacks of paper surrounding José. He's got a DVD of Adebayor's recent performances, as well as Real Sociedad's last three matches, waiting for him to go through. Higuaín's latest recovery report is buried somewhere underneath a folder of Lyon stats and analysis that he's been meaning to go through for a week now. "Not yet," he tells Aitor. He reaches for one of the Real Sociedad DVDs. "I'll lock up, you can go."
Aitor steps into the room and puts a Styrofoam cup of coffee on José's desk. "See you tomorrow," he says, and lets himself out.
José goes home every night. He keeps an extra suit jacket in his office, but he always goes home and slides into bed next to his wife and kisses his kids before he leaves for Valdebebas in the morning.
"You don't drink coffee?"
Practice after the Copa del Rey semifinal is light. José's an intense man, but he knows what he's doing. He sends his team off to do a warm-up lap and when they get back, he's going to have them work through some static positioning drills and then start talking tactics. The last thing he wants is to tire out an already tired team. He rubs his eyes. "I drink ice water when I need to stay awake," he tells Aitor. His assistant has a clipboard out and isn't wearing gloves.
"I'll keep that in mind," Aitor winks. "But I hope you won't need it for much longer."
José pulls his snood up over his chin. "I hope so too," he says.
They beat Sociedad. Oezil assists Benzema in the first half and Cristiano finally, finally pokes in Alonso's cross in the 80th minute.
José shows up to his office early on Monday. He picks up his Lyon folder and heads for the film room. He's got at least two hours before the team starts trickling into the locker rooms.
He's halfway through last year's Champions League elimination, Lyon against Bayern Munich, when Aitor comes in. "You're early," José says, but he picks up his jacket from the seat next to him. Aitor sits.
"So are you," he answers. "On to Lyon already?"
"They're our priority, right now," José replies. "That's where we focus. Champions League."
His headache is coming back. On the screen, Muller misses a header. "Adebayor will have that," Aitor says. His voice is low and easy. José relaxes, just a bit. Just enough that his neck won't feel quite so stiff by this evening.
They make it through the first half of Lyon against PSG in Ligue 1 before Aitor check his watch. "We should head down," he says, standing. He offers his hand to José.
"I have grey hair, but I'm not decrepit," José tells him, getting up without taking the proffered hand.
"Far from it," Aitor agrees.
"You played here," José says. It's a question, but he doesn't ask.
"Yes," Aitor answers anyway. "Under Del Bosque."
"Don Del Bosque," José muses. "How do you feel about breaking his curse? Or do you like upholding his legacy?"
Aitor snorts. "I want to win as much as you do," he says. José raises his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkles, and his ever-present headache throbs gently. "Well, maybe not as much, maybe that's just you and Guardiola."
"So it would seem," José shrugs. He hasn't spoken with Pep in a while, but he assumes that some things never change.
"Do you talk about anything but football?" Aitor asks. He's halfway to grinning, so José laughs.
"Not when I can help it," he says. "I try to leave work at work."
"Hard sometimes," Aitor says. "Let me buy you a drink?"
They go to a small bar that's tucked away, nowhere José would've ever gone by himself. Aitor knows the bartender, and they slide into a booth at the back of the room. Aitor gets beer; José opts for whiskey.
"You talk," he says.
And Aitor obliges, telling him about Basque country and his family. After a while, José starts doing more than just nod along.
"It's nearly one," he observes. "I should go, I have to get across town."
"You can stay at mine," Aitor offers. "It's just around the corner."
It's not just an offer for a room, José isn't stupid. He also knows that it doesn't have to be an offer for anything more. Aitor shrugs. His posture is open and his face is relaxed. José calls his wife and thinks that it's a good thing he keeps the extra jacket in his office, after all.
The guest room is nice. José doesn't sleep in it. When he wakes up, Aitor's drinking a cup of coffee. There's a glass of ice water on the table, waiting for him.
"Thanks," he says, his voice gruff with sleep. He takes a sip of the water and shakes his head.
"Not a problem," Aitor tells him. "Any time."
They get a few appraising glances as they pull into the parking lot one after another, but José isn't worried. He knows what Cristiano and Kaká got up to last weekend.
also, i've been getting increasingly annoyed with having two separate journals, one for fic and one for myself, which is ridiculous because i only created onthose-strings because i was getting annoyed with people friending me solely for fic (which didn't make sense in the first place because i kept all of my fic public, but that's neither here nor there). anyway, i think i'm going to try and start posting fic here again. i'm going to leave onthose-strings public because i may well still hate having fic here (and also because i'm lazy and don't want to go through and re-archive everything).
SPN tonight. thoughts, anyone? (briiiiiii.)
oh right, this weekend is superbowl sunday. go packers! jaja um. i don't really follow pro american football much, i prefer it at the university level, but my dad's inexplicably a packers fan so imma go with that, and also they have really amazing fans. every single home game gets sold out, no matter who they're playing. and they're good, obviously, so. seems like a sweet deal to me. /fairweather fan. my main use for superbowl sunday is to go to a bunch of parties and eat free food. it'll be a good time.
obligatory suarez picture! seriously, i am so infatuated. he is adorable! does he ever stop smiling? don't answer that, i like my illusions. (i still really, really want to fix his teeth, though.) also okay i only watched the first half of liverpool in real time on wednesday but i have since watched the second half and damn, boy. damn. allow me to direct your attention to this video of all of his touches from the match (no i did not make it). so lovely.
and now for some fic! (leaving this one locked for the moment while i sort out what i'm diong with my journals, may become public in the future.) written for drbillbongo, happy birthday :)
"Are you still thinking about Llorente?"
Mourinho frowns. "Yes," he says, reaching up to rub at his forehead. He's had a tension headache for the better part of a week. "Don't tell the press. Or Valdano, we're not starting a bidding war for him."
"Of course not," Aitor replies. He hovers in the doorway until José looks up. "Are you going home?"
There are stacks of paper surrounding José. He's got a DVD of Adebayor's recent performances, as well as Real Sociedad's last three matches, waiting for him to go through. Higuaín's latest recovery report is buried somewhere underneath a folder of Lyon stats and analysis that he's been meaning to go through for a week now. "Not yet," he tells Aitor. He reaches for one of the Real Sociedad DVDs. "I'll lock up, you can go."
Aitor steps into the room and puts a Styrofoam cup of coffee on José's desk. "See you tomorrow," he says, and lets himself out.
José goes home every night. He keeps an extra suit jacket in his office, but he always goes home and slides into bed next to his wife and kisses his kids before he leaves for Valdebebas in the morning.
"You don't drink coffee?"
Practice after the Copa del Rey semifinal is light. José's an intense man, but he knows what he's doing. He sends his team off to do a warm-up lap and when they get back, he's going to have them work through some static positioning drills and then start talking tactics. The last thing he wants is to tire out an already tired team. He rubs his eyes. "I drink ice water when I need to stay awake," he tells Aitor. His assistant has a clipboard out and isn't wearing gloves.
"I'll keep that in mind," Aitor winks. "But I hope you won't need it for much longer."
José pulls his snood up over his chin. "I hope so too," he says.
They beat Sociedad. Oezil assists Benzema in the first half and Cristiano finally, finally pokes in Alonso's cross in the 80th minute.
José shows up to his office early on Monday. He picks up his Lyon folder and heads for the film room. He's got at least two hours before the team starts trickling into the locker rooms.
He's halfway through last year's Champions League elimination, Lyon against Bayern Munich, when Aitor comes in. "You're early," José says, but he picks up his jacket from the seat next to him. Aitor sits.
"So are you," he answers. "On to Lyon already?"
"They're our priority, right now," José replies. "That's where we focus. Champions League."
His headache is coming back. On the screen, Muller misses a header. "Adebayor will have that," Aitor says. His voice is low and easy. José relaxes, just a bit. Just enough that his neck won't feel quite so stiff by this evening.
They make it through the first half of Lyon against PSG in Ligue 1 before Aitor check his watch. "We should head down," he says, standing. He offers his hand to José.
"I have grey hair, but I'm not decrepit," José tells him, getting up without taking the proffered hand.
"Far from it," Aitor agrees.
"You played here," José says. It's a question, but he doesn't ask.
"Yes," Aitor answers anyway. "Under Del Bosque."
"Don Del Bosque," José muses. "How do you feel about breaking his curse? Or do you like upholding his legacy?"
Aitor snorts. "I want to win as much as you do," he says. José raises his eyebrows. His forehead wrinkles, and his ever-present headache throbs gently. "Well, maybe not as much, maybe that's just you and Guardiola."
"So it would seem," José shrugs. He hasn't spoken with Pep in a while, but he assumes that some things never change.
"Do you talk about anything but football?" Aitor asks. He's halfway to grinning, so José laughs.
"Not when I can help it," he says. "I try to leave work at work."
"Hard sometimes," Aitor says. "Let me buy you a drink?"
They go to a small bar that's tucked away, nowhere José would've ever gone by himself. Aitor knows the bartender, and they slide into a booth at the back of the room. Aitor gets beer; José opts for whiskey.
"You talk," he says.
And Aitor obliges, telling him about Basque country and his family. After a while, José starts doing more than just nod along.
"It's nearly one," he observes. "I should go, I have to get across town."
"You can stay at mine," Aitor offers. "It's just around the corner."
It's not just an offer for a room, José isn't stupid. He also knows that it doesn't have to be an offer for anything more. Aitor shrugs. His posture is open and his face is relaxed. José calls his wife and thinks that it's a good thing he keeps the extra jacket in his office, after all.
The guest room is nice. José doesn't sleep in it. When he wakes up, Aitor's drinking a cup of coffee. There's a glass of ice water on the table, waiting for him.
"Thanks," he says, his voice gruff with sleep. He takes a sip of the water and shakes his head.
"Not a problem," Aitor tells him. "Any time."
They get a few appraising glances as they pull into the parking lot one after another, but José isn't worried. He knows what Cristiano and Kaká got up to last weekend.