(no subject)
title: l'appel du vide
pairing: pep guardiola/leo messi
rating: r
words: 13100
summary: written for this footballkink2 prompt: They sleep together once- after winning el clasico, club world cup etc- and Pep being Pep, thinks it must never happen again (because of who they are, what the implications would be, age-gap, and you know, you shouldn't fuck your players really) Leo being Leo, doesn't see it the same way as him.
notes: thanks to cule4life, without whom i probably never would have finished this!
The worst part, the thing that really sinks Pep's heart when he thinks about it -- not often, never on purpose, usually late at night after too many glasses of wine with dinner -- is that first conversation he'd had with Leo, the first real one, just the two of them.
Pep called him through his dad. "I just want to talk to him," Pep told Jorge, "Just about his health. Mental and physical." Jorge knew him -- everyone in Barcelona did, but now he really knew him, now that Pep was coaching the B team -- and he understood, had put the phone down and Pep heard him, muffled, calling for his son.
Leo barely said a word the entire conversation, just quiet and fading "mhm"s to let Pep know he was still there. Pep intended to be forceful, but once he heard the sort of response he was getting, it softened into something else, almost pleading. Nothing about Leo's demeanor changed, and Pep was left with the feeling that he'd failed in getting through. Maybe that was it; the first moment. The first challenge. Still, it started something that makes Pep feel sick now, with the way things are turning out, because he'd presented himself as some kind of moral guidance, someone who was looking out for Leo, and he hadn't said it but the whole thing really was a chastisement of the older men, of Ronaldinho and Deco, maybe even Rijkaard, for pointing Leo down a path that would ultimately hurt him.
And now. And now. This isn't staying out all night, it isn't being late for practice, or drinking too much, or going home with strange women. It's worse, Pep knows.
Pep's never done anything. Since he started coaching at Barcelona, he's never done a single thing that anyone could call inappropriate, not with Leo and not with anyone else. It's not exactly a source of pride, but he has that knowledge tucked in his pocket, that if he wanted to -- no, if he tried -- he could have something with Leo, but he hasn't. It's not pride, because how could he be proud of it -- that he could ruin someone and he doesn't? Still, it's all that settles him, when he thinks about it. Not that often. Never on purpose.
*
Pep thinks by now Leo understands the politics of it all, how much power he actually has.
"I'm ready," he says, like he's never been more sure of anything in his life. "I've been training since the Copa ended, I swear. Ask Juanjo."
Pep studies him. He's tan, his hair is short, but it has been for years now.
"I don't need to ask Juanjo, Leo. If you tell me that you're ready, I believe you." Leo's jaw clenches, just a little, and Pep knows Leo doesn't trust him completely, but Pep doesn't trust Leo completely either. He knows that Leo will say anything to get to play, and Pep can't even blame him. He'd do the same, and he struggles not to admire Leo for it.
"So I'm starting, then?" Leo asks, not willing to leave it to veiled promises.
Pep has to make exceptions for some things. Sure, technically he chooses each lineup. Technically he has full control over the squad each day. Technically everyone sits some games. Technically, technically, technically. But Pep's been told, in private, in no uncertain terms, that Leo is to be made happy. That Leo's happiness is the priority, and Pep can't argue; hasn't he been working toward the same thing since that first phone call? The well-being of Leo Messi, and therefore, of Barcelona? Could he really convince himself it was all a means to an end?
"You know I don't release lineup decisions early," Pep says, standing and ushering Leo to the door of his office. He lays a hand across his shoulder, offers him what he thinks is a comforting smile. "You don't have to worry, Leo. Have I ever let you down?"
Leo still has that suspicious look in his eye, but finally he shakes his head. He turns to trudge down the hall, and Pep leans in his doorway, watching him.
"Leo," he calls, before he's too far away. Leo pauses and turns his head. "Don't forget it's just the Supercopa, all right? Don't kill yourself over this one."
For the first time that day, he gets a smile out of Leo. "Mister," he says. "You know me better than that." He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and disappears down the hall, so he misses Pep shaking his head, pushing his hand against his forehead to relieve the pressure there. Because he's right. Pep does know Leo better than that.
Pep knows the moment Leo gets sick, because Pep always has one eye on him, conscious of it or not. Always. And it's only been forty minutes, but he's hunched over with his hands on his knees, and then his back is spasming as he retches and Pep wants to roll his eyes, he wants to yell at Leo to get off the pitch, but all he does is watch.
He's still watching two minutes later when Leo picks the ball up at midfield -- not far from where he'd bent gasping a few moments earlier - and dodges past one, past two, past three, and then Pep stops looking, because he doesn't need to see. He's used to it by now, as much as a person can get used to someone doing the seemingly impossible, day after day, year after year. Pep already knows that Leo is stunning. He doesn't need the reminder.
"You have to let me take you off."
Leo looks up from where he's curled into himself on the bench, his eyes flashing, angry and maybe hurt. "I'm fine, mister, I just had too much water before we started."
Pep rolls his eyes but Leo's looking away already, thoughts on the second half. "I'm not stupid, Leo, please don't pretend like you think I am."
Leo's face softens and he looks back, almost ashamed. "I don't think you're stupid, mister, but I'm telling you the truth. I can play. We can win," he says, pleading. And the thing is that Pep believes him.
"You're going to tell me if you feel sick again," Pep tells him, a warning in his voice. "Swear it."
Leo's smiling already. He knows when he's won. "I swear."
Pep moves away from him. He wonders to himself if he'd be able to say no to Leo, if he did have the option; he's glad it doesn't make a difference.
*
Pep never made a habit of having one on one talks with his players. It could only lead to trouble, someone getting too much attention, someone not getting enough. He really only meets with them face to face when there's an issue, and there was one with Leo almost immediately that first summer, in Scotland during preseason.
It took Pep a long moment to figure out what was going on, because he'd never heard Leo shout before, and judging from the wide eyes around him, the players who had known him for longer than a few months hadn't either.
He'd been so small then - even smaller then than now- but he didn't hesitate in getting close to Rafa, yelling something in his face about a clumsy tackle, about how dumb he was, how close he'd come to hurting Leo, and then Pep got it and got over there, pushing Leo back.
"Leo," he said, and he knew his surprise was evident in his voice. "Leo, back off."
Leo allowed himself to be pushed back but his eyes remained on Rafa, flashing and hard.
Pep knew the rest of the team's eyes were on him, waiting to see how he would react when one the stars acted out, as if selling Ronnie and Deco wasn't enough of a signal.
"Go run laps," Pep said, keeping his voice hard. "And see me in my office before you go to the dressing room." He stalked away, his jaw set, and tried to figure out how to deal with the one superstar that allegedly didn't have an attitude problem.
After practice Leo slunk into his office, hair hanging in his face, a towel around his neck and flushed red from all the running Pep had made him do. He flopped into the chair across from Pep's desk.
"What happened?" Pep asked finally.
Leo glared up at him from behind his hair, shrugged.
Pep slammed his hand against the desk, the sound loud enough to make Leo flinch. The sullen look slipped off his face in favor of surprise.
"That's unacceptable, Leo," Pep said. He knew he was walking a fine line, knew his job as much as anything depended on getting the absolute best out of Leo Messi. "You are a professional and I expect you to act like one."
Leo raised his head enough to study Pep, as if assessing how serious he was. "Okay," he said finally. He sat up straight, his fingers tightly gripping the arm of the chair.
"You don't seem happy," Pep told him after minutes of silence.
Leo exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the wooden arms of the chair. It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but it was enough for Pep.
"Tell me why you're upset," he said, careful to sound caring and not patronizing. "You think we treated your friends badly?"
"I think you're treating me badly," Leo corrected, unexpectedly forceful.
Pep blinked. "How so?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Leo stared at him like he must be dumb. "The Olympics,” he said finally, disdainfully, but Pep could hear the hurt in his voice at the same time, the want.
"Oh," Pep said. He should have realized earlier, this wasn’t about Rafa at all.
"The club won't let me," Leo clarified, eyeing Pep, like by the club he really meant you. "Because of preseason."
Pep leaned back, studied him. Maybe it wasn’t the conversation he’d thought he’d be having, but Pep, ever the tactician, wondered if he could use this move to his advantage. "I went to the Olympics, you know," he said, spinning a pen round on his desk.
Leo looked back at him blankly, his hair still falling into his eyes.
Pep met his gaze evenly. "Leo, I promise you that I can be the best ally you can have in this club."
Leo stared at him, clearly confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I've been in your seat and I think the Olympics are a great experience," Pep said carefully. "And I'm willing to take on that fight for you, if -- and only if -- I can be sure that you're working your absolute hardest while you're here, that you're as committed to the cause as I am."
Leo tapped his fingers against the chair like he was considering it. "So if I work hard here--"
"And you have a good attitude," Pep interrupted.
Leo took a deep breath. "So if I work hard, and have a good attitude, then you'll...?"
"I'll take care of it," Pep finished for him.
Leo studied him, and for the first time his gaze wasn't clouded with anger, or resentment, or suspicion. "Okay," he said finally, and he wasn't smiling but he was brighter, looking at Pep like he actually cared to see him. He stood, holding his hand out for Pep, and Pep took it as a sign of acceptance, at the very least.
He was halfway out the door before Pep called for him again. "Leo," he said, and he waited until Leo turned back to go on. "If we're going through all this trouble, then you might as well win."
Leo shook the hair out of his face and grinned. By the time he came back in the fall, tired but happy -- and that made it worth the whole ordeal, for Pep, for all of them -- his hair was shorn short, and try as he might, Pep was never quite able to see him as that young kid in Scotland ever again.
*
The atmosphere in Monaco reminds Pep a little bit of when he used to play, when ultras still filled the stands of Camp Nou. There are still chants now, and sometimes the hymn is so loud it tightens his throat, but it's not like it used to be -- and that's good, Pep knows the horrible things they've done, the things they yell, but still he can't quite regret that his players get to experience it still, once in awhile.
Pep knows in the first five minutes that they can beat Porto, that they should win, the way he always knows as soon as he sees his team out there. If they're on, he knows no one can stop them; and if they're not he knows he's in for a tense 90 minutes.
But can and should never won any silverware and it's not until the 33rd minute that the tension eases when Leo -- Leo, who else -- intercepts a poor back pass and slides the ball into the goal easily to put them ahead going into halftime. Still, it's only one goal, and one goal is not enough, not for Pep, not for Leo and not for any of them.
It's all they get, though, until the very end when Cesc puts the nail in the coffin and Pep can finally relax -- can, but doesn't, because there are still two minutes left and extra time and this isn't the moment to sit back and relax and let anyone take this away from them.
But his team knows, and they hold on, and they hold on and then the whistle blows and they've done it again.
Tito's next to him. Tito's always next to him, and Pep turns to hug him while fireworks go off over their heads, and the players on the bench rush the pitch while Pep watches them over Tito's shoulder, and it's the best thing, it really is.
His first thought is for Tito and his second thought is for his players, but his third thought is for Porto, and he finds their coach, finds their captain, congratulates them. He knows what it is to be on their side, he's been there plenty of times, and maybe they don't care but for him the recognition is important.
Puyol finds him and pulls him into a hug. "You did it again," he says, yelling over the din of the stadium, and Pep wants to laugh because he didn’t do much besides watch from the touchline and worry.
"You did it again," Pep insists, speaking into Carles's hair, but the captain ignores him and claps him on the shoulder, and then it's an endless line, Xavi with a brief hug and Abidal with a longer one, and Gerard, looking tired but that huge smile stretched across his cheeks.
Leo doesn't come to him. Once Pep has a moment to breathe, he looks around and finds Leo instantly, standing away from the crowd, working a hand over his jaw and surveying the madness in front of him, from his teammates and from the stands. He almost looks detached, and Pep envies it briefly, even as he doesn't understand. If he could, he would stand next to Leo, quiet, and try to see what he sees, but he knows it would ruin the moment.
Instead he slides a hand around Leo's shoulders, bare except for his underarmor, a Porto jersey hanging from his waistband. "Congratulations, Leo," Pep says, turning to press his face into Leo's hair at the same moment Leo turns into his, face against his neck. Pep can feel his eyelashes as he blinks.
"Thank you," Leo says. Immediately his eyes are back out to the stadium, searching, searching for something that Pep couldn't begin to guess. He arm stays tight around Pep's waist, though, and so Pep doesn't leave.
After a moment Leo looks up at him, eyes bright, and he asks, almost teasing, "Are you proud?"
Pep can't match his lighthearted tone; the phrase jerks him back, makes him feel, not for the first time, like there's some joke that Leo's holding over his head and he doesn't quite understand it. "I'm always proud of all of you," he answers stiffly, "No matter the outcome."
Leo just raises an eyebrow, and he lets his arm drop. Pep wants to ask him a question, many questions, wants to hold him still and keep him there until he understands, but Manuel appears in front of him, taking Pep's face in his hands and Pep lets himself be pulled away, leaving Leo behind him, watching.
*
Rome.
That was it; the culmination of everything that Pep and all of them had worked for. With the league and the Spanish cup under his belt in his first season Pep almost felt selfish for how badly he wanted it, that third title and maybe the most prized of all; but looking at his players' faces he'd have felt worse if he didn't want it so much, with every bone in his body and every thought in his mind.
He always exhausted himself preparing for games, never one to leave something to chance, to miss a detail that could become important, but even for him the preparation for Manchester United had bordered on crazed, manic. Pep felt like he could write the book on them, like he could predict every moment of that game, so convinced he was of exactly how they would play, what they would do.
Even with his preparation, the feeling in his gut that he was prepared for every last thing -- plus the knowledge that he'd gleaned over the last year of his players and what they were capable of -- never in a hundred years did he think Leo would score the game clincher with his head.
Tito had shouted with laughter, even after they'd all calmed down, on the edges of their seats waiting for that final, delicious whistle. "He's a meter and a half tall!" he exclaimed. "What can't he do?"
Pep was barely listening, straining against himself for the moment he could run onto the field and congratulate his players, this team, this team. But the answer came easily anyway. "Nothing," he said, and there were no more words really. "Nothing."
Manuel was there next to him the second the whistle blew, crushing him so tightly he could barely breath to laugh, the word 'treble' hanging in the air, and Pep wasn't sure if it was in his head or someone was screaming it, or maybe both.
He found Ferguson and reached for his hand, but the older man pulled him in tightly, said into his ear, "The better team won," and then he was gone but it was a gift, and Pep tipped his head back to the sky, smile straining his face.
Leo found him. Pep didn't even see him, his eyes on the sky and the fans all the way up in the rafters, fans that came all this way for them, and then there were hands at his waist and a head pushing into his chest. Maybe if Pep had been wearing less layers he would have felt Leo's teeth against his torso, mouth stretched wide into a smile, but he could imagine it at least.
He was happy for Leo. Happy for all of them, of course, but Leo deserved this, this joy that he'd helped create so much of. Pep wasn't around at the time, but he knew about Paris, and he could imagine Leo's feelings on it, as much as he could imagine anything Leo felt; joy, of course, and pride in his team, but striped with regrets.
But there was nothing to regret in Rome.
Leo tipped his head up, his arms still around Pep's middle, and his face was close, and sweaty, and happy. "Are you proud?" he asked, and Pep thought it was bizarre; as if there was anything else he could possibly feel for this squad.
"A treble," Pep said, not really an answer but an answer enough. He leaned his forehead against Leo's, their eyes meeting close. "A treble!"
In his memory, that night is just flashes, that whole year really, passing in a blur, but he remembers this part clearly; the look on Leo's face when he'd asked, the flash across it as he answered, and watching Leo get pulled away, his eyes still clearly on Pep until someone stepped in the way and Pep could not see him anymore.
*
It’s always hard to say what it is exactly; fatigue, or injuries, or just a poor day. Either way nothing is going right and they’re heading into the last few minutes of injury time still tied at nothing, at Camp Nou, against Sevilla.
The thing is that it’s only October, and drawing at home in October shouldn’t be the end of the world - it isn’t the end of the world. Pep has lost many games over his life, many, many games, more important games than a home draw against Sevilla in October.
And yet the past three years have set them on a mountain of expectations so high that it’s difficult to keep perspective. Difficult even for Pep, and he knows better.
There’s a last gasp of a chance, right at the end; a penalty, a light at the end of the tunnel. Pep can’t even watch, maybe it’s cowardice or maybe it’s something else, but he turns away, only looking back when a skirmish delays and delays again.
The referee finally gets things under control. Leo pauses; he runs up; he shoots, and Varas saves, pushing the ball easily to the side. Pep thinks that’s about right, the logical conclusion to a game where nothing went right.
It’s not as easy for Leo. Pep can see it as soon as he walks off, the barely restrained fury on his face, but Pep doesn’t know who it’s for; the other side, the referee, himself. Pep would guess the latter. It isn’t the first time this has happened, and Pep knows it won’t be the last, but for some reason, this nothing day in October, it feels pretty damn bad.
Pep’s angry too. What to say to them - take your chances? Don’t be so sloppy? Don’t let them get into your head? He knows that they all know these things, that they don’t need to be reminded. It’s time like this that having been a player himself haunts Pep, because he knows that whatever he says isn’t going to help, but he also knows he can’t say nothing.
In the corner, Leo slumps, his face hidden from view. Pep has seen this before. Usually accompanied by shaking shoulders, by Gerard hovering nearby looking concerned and helpless. After the Inter match two seasons ago, Leo had followed Pep back to his office, eyes red and puffy but narrowed, and when they’d come upon one of the marketing posters - jo crec en la remuntada - Leo hadn’t ripped it from the wall but removed it carefully, peeling it from corner to corner, making sure nothing was left behind, and he’d folded it neatly before placing it into a garbage can outside Pep’s office, his stony face unmoving.
Pep never wants to see him look like that again.
In the end Pep just tells them, “It’s only October,” tells them to take the day off tomorrow. They look tired but not broken and it’s an important distinction. Except Pep still doesn’t know how Leo looks; he hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t even acknowledged that Pep is there.
Pep crouches in front of him, waiting until the room has cleared a bit, players heading off to the showers. Leo’s hair is short now, but he keeps his head so low Pep can’t see his eyes regardless.
“Leo,” he starts, unsure where he’s even meaning to go. “You can’t-“
“Tomorrow I’ll practice penalties,” Leo says, his voice clear, and when he looks up his eyes are dry and sharp. He shrugs. “That’s all.”
Pep sighs. He wants to say, I gave you tomorrow off. He wants to say, you don’t have to be the best at everything. He wants to say, it’s easier if you’re not.
Instead he says, “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest,” and then, “Now go take a shower, you stink,” and when Leo’s gone Pep sits in his place for a moment, his head in his hands.
*
Pep can’t remember when it happened exactly; sometime after the treble and before preseason, but other than that, he can’t place it. There were so many parties that summer, and Pep didn’t particularly care for the craziness but sometimes he wanted it, wanted to be with his players and celebrate.
This is what he remembers: Leo sat next to him. The party was loud and Pep was watching - something, or someone, and suddenly Leo was there next to him, pressed against him from shoulder to knee, and whatever it was, they watched it together for a moment, until Pep realized that Leo had turned his head and was now watching Pep.
“Having fun?” Pep called over the music and noise. Leo’s mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly, and it was all the answer he gave.
A few more moments passed, Pep studied his face, strangely serious given that they were at a party, given that there was nothing to be serious about, but still. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Leo said finally, leaning in enough that Pep could barely catch his words over the music.
“Here?” Pep asked, confused. He looked around the room; all the staff was there, coaches and the board and he didn’t understand why it suddenly bothered Leo. “Everyone was invited-“
Leo laughed then; Pep couldn’t hear it but he could see it. Leo leaned in again. “I don’t mean here. I mean at Barcelona.” Pep’s brow furrowed, and Leo leaned back enough to see his face before moving in close again to say, “I know what they did to you.”
Pep looked at him sharply. “Leo-“ he started, and then cut himself off. He knew that they all knew - some of them had been playing with him when it happened, and others had come more recently, but Pep was sure they’d all done their research on him. Still, it had never come up, and Pep didn’t expect it ever would.
Leo went on like he hadn’t noticed Pep’s discomfort with the topic. “I don’t think I could do it,” he said. “I think I’d turn around and never look back.”
Pep chewed his lip absently. He wanted to say, they would never do that to you, we would never do that to you, but it wasn’t something he could promise, not when he couldn’t be there forever. “You shouldn’t worry about that,” he called over the music instead.
Leo shrugged, like he wasn’t worrying about it, but Pep knew he brought it up for a reason. “I don’t understand how you’re here,” he repeated.
Pep took a deep breath. Of course he’d thought about it plenty, of course it had taken a long time before he could even think of coming back, but that wasn’t something he was ready to share with his players. Not with Leo, anyway. “What use is it to hold on to anger?” he asked instead. “It would only hurt me, and then I would miss out on this,” he said, gesturing around the club, the players gathered everywhere, their happiness spread throughout the room. “Is a grudge worth missing this?”
Leo looked out over the room too, but his jaw was clenched and Pep knew he wouldn’t - maybe couldn’t - understand. “It worked out well,” Leo conceded, “And I’m glad it did - of course I’m glad,” his eyes met Pep’s briefly, as if to make sure he understood, “But how can you be sure they won’t do it to you again?”
Pep was quiet for a long time, and Leo let him be. It was hot in the club, too hot to be pressed up against each other, but neither moved. Finally, Pep said, “You can never be sure of anything, Leo,” and the look on Leo’s face told him that wasn’t enough, but Pep never expected it to be. He wanted to tell Leo that he knows everything looks black and white when you’re 22, but the years move forward and the edges smooth out until one day you’re no longer young and everything is grey. But Pep knew Leo wouldn’t understand; not now, he couldn’t.
“You’ll get it when you’re older,” he said instead, nudging Leo with his shoulder to lighten the mood.
But Leo just looked at him sharply, his eyes dark. “I’m not that young,” he said, and in that second Pep believed him. The moment stretched, and then Thierry was there, swinging an arm around Leo’s shoulders and shouting about something he was missing. Still, Leo resisted long enough to look up at Pep, eyes serious, before he disappeared into the crowd.
*
He's shaking and he doesn't know why. Or he does; because they're in Japan, because they're the world champions of clubs, because they have five trophies and it isn't six but it's still enough for right now.
Pep slides a hand across a sweater on his hotel room bed, smoothing it out and creasing it over, folding carefully. He sets it in his suitcase, pausing to stretch out his neck as he straightens and then there's a knock on the door.
It's Leo, leaning in the doorway, a car of beer in his hand and a lazy smile on his face.
"Leo," Pep says, surprised to see him; he'd thought everyone was downstairs at the party. But maybe -- "If you're looking for Javier's room, I think it's two down." He leans out to point the direction but Leo doesn't move out of the way, and they're close.
Leo peers up at him before he answers, voice soft and blurred enough to make Pep wonder how many drinks he's had. "I'm not looking for Javi."
"Oh," Pep says. It takes him a moment too long to step back. "Do you want to - " he starts, and motions, pulling the door wider. Leo hesitates, but not for long, before he walks past Pep into the room.
There are clothes spread over the bed, but Leo pauses there anyway, and Pep moves a sweater and a pair of slacks out of the way so he can sit.
"What can I do for you, Leo?" he asks, reaching for another sweater to fold, to keep his hands busy.
Leo takes his time answering, pausing to take a drink of his beer and survey the room, tidy except for the clothes laid out for packing.
"Just wondering why you weren't at the party," he says finally.
Pep focuses on folding, making sure the creases are sharp and the sleeves are even, and he doesn't answer until he's done. "Just wanted a minute alone," he says carefully. "And to pack. But I'll be down soon."
Leo reaches out, finds a loose thread on one of the sweaters next to him and twists it between his fingers idly. He looks up with a sly smile. "Are you proud?" he asks. Pep should have expected it, but he didn't, and for some reason it causes a flare of irritation.
"Do you doubt it?" he asks, keeping his eyes down and his voice mild. But Leo doesn't answer and so he has to look over, where Leo's studying him from under his eyelashes.
Pep holds his gaze, unwilling to buckle first. Leo shrugs minutely rather than answering.
"Leo," he says, his voice ragged and tired suddenly, "This team could have lost 4 to nothing and I would still be proud to be its coach."
Leo just grunts, and Pep gets the feeling that the answer wasn't what he was looking for, but Pep can't imagine what that is.
"You should go back to the party," Pep tells him. "I'll follow you soon."
Leo looks at him sharply, suddenly. "Are you going to renew your contract?" he asks, and it's out of nowhere, it's not even the new year yet, and Pep knows the questions are coming but not now, and not from his players --
"Leo--" he says, but Leo's look cuts him off. "I've barely thought about it," he says, and it's not entirely truthful but he doesn't have any answers, so it's almost the same. "I promise, you'll know when I know."
"I want you to stay," he says bluntly. Nothing he hasn't heard before, but it's still nice, always nice to hear that you're wanted.
Pep shoots him half a smile. "I'm glad to know it."
"Aren't you worried about what will happen to us if you leave?" Leo asks, his voice light as if it's a joke.
"The team?" Pep asks. He grabs a pair of slacks and folds them over his arm, smoothing them down. "No, I'm not worried about the team." He keeps his head down. "Barca is bigger than you or me."
Leo purses his lips like he isn't sure, and Pep pauses after he lays the pants in his suitcase, doesn't pick up anything else to fold or pack away.
"I do worry about you, though."
"Me?" Leo asks. Sharp. He's offended, but Pep can't bring himself to care. "Why?" Leo pulls on the loose thread and Pep imagines the whole thing unraveling.
Pep tries to choose his words carefully. "You're special, Leo," he starts. "Not just how you play. But how you are." He looks at Leo, to see if he's listening, and it seems like he is but his face is blank. "And I think we have an understanding, you and me," Pep goes on. "But if I left..."
He trails off, but Leo just looks at him like he needs to keep going. "Look at what happens to men who are constantly told they're great," Pep says finally.
Leo raises his can to his lips, and over the rim his eyes flash with understanding, but also denial. After he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, he says, "You don't need to worry."
Pep shrugs. He stoops to grab a pair of dress shoes, half under the bed. "But I do," he says.
"Even if you leave," Leo insists. "There's still Puyi, and Xavi, and Andres--"
Pep straightens. "They won't be here forever either," he points out. "And what about when it's some young kid, from La Masia, or worse, someone we bought - is it going to be easy to listen to him, to acknowledge that he brings as much to this team as you do? When everyone else is telling you different?"
"Yes," Leo says, "Yes," and Pep gets the feeling that he's not thinking about it anymore, and maybe he's too tired, too drunk, maybe this wasn't the right time for this conversation, maybe there never would have been a right time. "You know how my family is," Leo says, and he's on his feet now, next to Pep, adamant. "They wouldn't let me --"
"That's what I worry about, Leo," Pep says. He keeps his voice mild. "That you'll rely on other people to keep you grounded and never on yourself. And other people will always let you down," he adds. Leo brow is furrowed, his eyes defiant, and he takes a step closer, close enough that he can reach out and grab Pep's wrist, hard.
"Even you?" he asks, surprisingly soft. It makes Pep smile, if sadly.
"Even me," he says.
Leo's gaze lingers, his grip tightens, and then he moves it so his fingers dig in to Pep's upper arm. Maybe Pep imagines it, but he thinks -- he thinks -- Leo isn't holding him still but pulling him, pulling him in, pulling him closer.
And he considers it. Just for a moment. Letting himself be pulled down, over him, this beautiful boy, and showing Leo, proving to him that no one is more likely to let him down than Pep. Letting everything unravel. He knows now that he wants it.
Instead he takes a breath, swallows, pulls his arm away. He takes a step back and regards Leo, whose eyes are burning, who is so still.
"You should go back to the party, Leo," he says, and he turns his back as if to grab more stuff to pack. He doesn't; he waits, and when he turns back Leo is gone, the room empty and the door half open, and Pep sinks into the space he vacated on the bed, still warm. He tugs on the loose thread on his sweater, but it snags and he can't pull it any further.
*
The first time they’d been to the Club World Cup it was different. Maybe in some ways there was more pressure then, even; trying to become the first team ever to win a sextuple, and Pep, still being their fairytale coach. Pep knew there were people waiting for the façade to crumble down, the truth to come.
“Gentlemen,” he said, surveying his group in the locker room before they went out. “If you lose today, you will still be the best team in the world.” They were leaning forward, almost every single one of them, eyes glistening while they waited for the punchline. “But if you win today,” he went on, looking at each of them, one by one, “You will be legendary.”
It was a good speech, Pep thought, but good speeches don’t win anything, and it felt like a punch to the gut when Estudiantes scored first, just before halftime.
Pep hurried them in the locker room, he drew them diagrams, he showed them what to do, but nothing happened. Nothing until Pedro, in the 89th minute, finally, finally equalized, and suddenly they had it; thirty more minutes to become legends.
On the bench behind him Tito was talking with the rest of the coaching staff about who should take penalties, but Pep couldn’t listen to that. He didn’t want it; he refused to believe it would get that far.
The second half of extra time started, still tied. Tito was calling him. “Pep,” he yelled. “Come on, we need to make a decision here.” Pep kept his toes on the touchline, watching the clock, watching his players. His mind flipping through them.
And then, Leo. Flying through the air, thrusting his chest into the ball, pushing it into the back of the net. And everything around them erupted.
Once they calmed down he walked with Tito back to the bench, their plans for penalties discarded on the ground. “He did it with the crest,” Tito said. He was beaming. “He scored with Barcelona’s crest.”
Pep’s throat was already tight, but he looked back out over the pitch and found Leo, smiled. Corrected his friend. “And his heart,” he said.
two
pairing: pep guardiola/leo messi
rating: r
words: 13100
summary: written for this footballkink2 prompt: They sleep together once- after winning el clasico, club world cup etc- and Pep being Pep, thinks it must never happen again (because of who they are, what the implications would be, age-gap, and you know, you shouldn't fuck your players really) Leo being Leo, doesn't see it the same way as him.
notes: thanks to cule4life, without whom i probably never would have finished this!
The worst part, the thing that really sinks Pep's heart when he thinks about it -- not often, never on purpose, usually late at night after too many glasses of wine with dinner -- is that first conversation he'd had with Leo, the first real one, just the two of them.
Pep called him through his dad. "I just want to talk to him," Pep told Jorge, "Just about his health. Mental and physical." Jorge knew him -- everyone in Barcelona did, but now he really knew him, now that Pep was coaching the B team -- and he understood, had put the phone down and Pep heard him, muffled, calling for his son.
Leo barely said a word the entire conversation, just quiet and fading "mhm"s to let Pep know he was still there. Pep intended to be forceful, but once he heard the sort of response he was getting, it softened into something else, almost pleading. Nothing about Leo's demeanor changed, and Pep was left with the feeling that he'd failed in getting through. Maybe that was it; the first moment. The first challenge. Still, it started something that makes Pep feel sick now, with the way things are turning out, because he'd presented himself as some kind of moral guidance, someone who was looking out for Leo, and he hadn't said it but the whole thing really was a chastisement of the older men, of Ronaldinho and Deco, maybe even Rijkaard, for pointing Leo down a path that would ultimately hurt him.
And now. And now. This isn't staying out all night, it isn't being late for practice, or drinking too much, or going home with strange women. It's worse, Pep knows.
Pep's never done anything. Since he started coaching at Barcelona, he's never done a single thing that anyone could call inappropriate, not with Leo and not with anyone else. It's not exactly a source of pride, but he has that knowledge tucked in his pocket, that if he wanted to -- no, if he tried -- he could have something with Leo, but he hasn't. It's not pride, because how could he be proud of it -- that he could ruin someone and he doesn't? Still, it's all that settles him, when he thinks about it. Not that often. Never on purpose.
*
Pep thinks by now Leo understands the politics of it all, how much power he actually has.
"I'm ready," he says, like he's never been more sure of anything in his life. "I've been training since the Copa ended, I swear. Ask Juanjo."
Pep studies him. He's tan, his hair is short, but it has been for years now.
"I don't need to ask Juanjo, Leo. If you tell me that you're ready, I believe you." Leo's jaw clenches, just a little, and Pep knows Leo doesn't trust him completely, but Pep doesn't trust Leo completely either. He knows that Leo will say anything to get to play, and Pep can't even blame him. He'd do the same, and he struggles not to admire Leo for it.
"So I'm starting, then?" Leo asks, not willing to leave it to veiled promises.
Pep has to make exceptions for some things. Sure, technically he chooses each lineup. Technically he has full control over the squad each day. Technically everyone sits some games. Technically, technically, technically. But Pep's been told, in private, in no uncertain terms, that Leo is to be made happy. That Leo's happiness is the priority, and Pep can't argue; hasn't he been working toward the same thing since that first phone call? The well-being of Leo Messi, and therefore, of Barcelona? Could he really convince himself it was all a means to an end?
"You know I don't release lineup decisions early," Pep says, standing and ushering Leo to the door of his office. He lays a hand across his shoulder, offers him what he thinks is a comforting smile. "You don't have to worry, Leo. Have I ever let you down?"
Leo still has that suspicious look in his eye, but finally he shakes his head. He turns to trudge down the hall, and Pep leans in his doorway, watching him.
"Leo," he calls, before he's too far away. Leo pauses and turns his head. "Don't forget it's just the Supercopa, all right? Don't kill yourself over this one."
For the first time that day, he gets a smile out of Leo. "Mister," he says. "You know me better than that." He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and disappears down the hall, so he misses Pep shaking his head, pushing his hand against his forehead to relieve the pressure there. Because he's right. Pep does know Leo better than that.
Pep knows the moment Leo gets sick, because Pep always has one eye on him, conscious of it or not. Always. And it's only been forty minutes, but he's hunched over with his hands on his knees, and then his back is spasming as he retches and Pep wants to roll his eyes, he wants to yell at Leo to get off the pitch, but all he does is watch.
He's still watching two minutes later when Leo picks the ball up at midfield -- not far from where he'd bent gasping a few moments earlier - and dodges past one, past two, past three, and then Pep stops looking, because he doesn't need to see. He's used to it by now, as much as a person can get used to someone doing the seemingly impossible, day after day, year after year. Pep already knows that Leo is stunning. He doesn't need the reminder.
"You have to let me take you off."
Leo looks up from where he's curled into himself on the bench, his eyes flashing, angry and maybe hurt. "I'm fine, mister, I just had too much water before we started."
Pep rolls his eyes but Leo's looking away already, thoughts on the second half. "I'm not stupid, Leo, please don't pretend like you think I am."
Leo's face softens and he looks back, almost ashamed. "I don't think you're stupid, mister, but I'm telling you the truth. I can play. We can win," he says, pleading. And the thing is that Pep believes him.
"You're going to tell me if you feel sick again," Pep tells him, a warning in his voice. "Swear it."
Leo's smiling already. He knows when he's won. "I swear."
Pep moves away from him. He wonders to himself if he'd be able to say no to Leo, if he did have the option; he's glad it doesn't make a difference.
*
Pep never made a habit of having one on one talks with his players. It could only lead to trouble, someone getting too much attention, someone not getting enough. He really only meets with them face to face when there's an issue, and there was one with Leo almost immediately that first summer, in Scotland during preseason.
It took Pep a long moment to figure out what was going on, because he'd never heard Leo shout before, and judging from the wide eyes around him, the players who had known him for longer than a few months hadn't either.
He'd been so small then - even smaller then than now- but he didn't hesitate in getting close to Rafa, yelling something in his face about a clumsy tackle, about how dumb he was, how close he'd come to hurting Leo, and then Pep got it and got over there, pushing Leo back.
"Leo," he said, and he knew his surprise was evident in his voice. "Leo, back off."
Leo allowed himself to be pushed back but his eyes remained on Rafa, flashing and hard.
Pep knew the rest of the team's eyes were on him, waiting to see how he would react when one the stars acted out, as if selling Ronnie and Deco wasn't enough of a signal.
"Go run laps," Pep said, keeping his voice hard. "And see me in my office before you go to the dressing room." He stalked away, his jaw set, and tried to figure out how to deal with the one superstar that allegedly didn't have an attitude problem.
After practice Leo slunk into his office, hair hanging in his face, a towel around his neck and flushed red from all the running Pep had made him do. He flopped into the chair across from Pep's desk.
"What happened?" Pep asked finally.
Leo glared up at him from behind his hair, shrugged.
Pep slammed his hand against the desk, the sound loud enough to make Leo flinch. The sullen look slipped off his face in favor of surprise.
"That's unacceptable, Leo," Pep said. He knew he was walking a fine line, knew his job as much as anything depended on getting the absolute best out of Leo Messi. "You are a professional and I expect you to act like one."
Leo raised his head enough to study Pep, as if assessing how serious he was. "Okay," he said finally. He sat up straight, his fingers tightly gripping the arm of the chair.
"You don't seem happy," Pep told him after minutes of silence.
Leo exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the wooden arms of the chair. It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but it was enough for Pep.
"Tell me why you're upset," he said, careful to sound caring and not patronizing. "You think we treated your friends badly?"
"I think you're treating me badly," Leo corrected, unexpectedly forceful.
Pep blinked. "How so?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Leo stared at him like he must be dumb. "The Olympics,” he said finally, disdainfully, but Pep could hear the hurt in his voice at the same time, the want.
"Oh," Pep said. He should have realized earlier, this wasn’t about Rafa at all.
"The club won't let me," Leo clarified, eyeing Pep, like by the club he really meant you. "Because of preseason."
Pep leaned back, studied him. Maybe it wasn’t the conversation he’d thought he’d be having, but Pep, ever the tactician, wondered if he could use this move to his advantage. "I went to the Olympics, you know," he said, spinning a pen round on his desk.
Leo looked back at him blankly, his hair still falling into his eyes.
Pep met his gaze evenly. "Leo, I promise you that I can be the best ally you can have in this club."
Leo stared at him, clearly confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I've been in your seat and I think the Olympics are a great experience," Pep said carefully. "And I'm willing to take on that fight for you, if -- and only if -- I can be sure that you're working your absolute hardest while you're here, that you're as committed to the cause as I am."
Leo tapped his fingers against the chair like he was considering it. "So if I work hard here--"
"And you have a good attitude," Pep interrupted.
Leo took a deep breath. "So if I work hard, and have a good attitude, then you'll...?"
"I'll take care of it," Pep finished for him.
Leo studied him, and for the first time his gaze wasn't clouded with anger, or resentment, or suspicion. "Okay," he said finally, and he wasn't smiling but he was brighter, looking at Pep like he actually cared to see him. He stood, holding his hand out for Pep, and Pep took it as a sign of acceptance, at the very least.
He was halfway out the door before Pep called for him again. "Leo," he said, and he waited until Leo turned back to go on. "If we're going through all this trouble, then you might as well win."
Leo shook the hair out of his face and grinned. By the time he came back in the fall, tired but happy -- and that made it worth the whole ordeal, for Pep, for all of them -- his hair was shorn short, and try as he might, Pep was never quite able to see him as that young kid in Scotland ever again.
*
The atmosphere in Monaco reminds Pep a little bit of when he used to play, when ultras still filled the stands of Camp Nou. There are still chants now, and sometimes the hymn is so loud it tightens his throat, but it's not like it used to be -- and that's good, Pep knows the horrible things they've done, the things they yell, but still he can't quite regret that his players get to experience it still, once in awhile.
Pep knows in the first five minutes that they can beat Porto, that they should win, the way he always knows as soon as he sees his team out there. If they're on, he knows no one can stop them; and if they're not he knows he's in for a tense 90 minutes.
But can and should never won any silverware and it's not until the 33rd minute that the tension eases when Leo -- Leo, who else -- intercepts a poor back pass and slides the ball into the goal easily to put them ahead going into halftime. Still, it's only one goal, and one goal is not enough, not for Pep, not for Leo and not for any of them.
It's all they get, though, until the very end when Cesc puts the nail in the coffin and Pep can finally relax -- can, but doesn't, because there are still two minutes left and extra time and this isn't the moment to sit back and relax and let anyone take this away from them.
But his team knows, and they hold on, and they hold on and then the whistle blows and they've done it again.
Tito's next to him. Tito's always next to him, and Pep turns to hug him while fireworks go off over their heads, and the players on the bench rush the pitch while Pep watches them over Tito's shoulder, and it's the best thing, it really is.
His first thought is for Tito and his second thought is for his players, but his third thought is for Porto, and he finds their coach, finds their captain, congratulates them. He knows what it is to be on their side, he's been there plenty of times, and maybe they don't care but for him the recognition is important.
Puyol finds him and pulls him into a hug. "You did it again," he says, yelling over the din of the stadium, and Pep wants to laugh because he didn’t do much besides watch from the touchline and worry.
"You did it again," Pep insists, speaking into Carles's hair, but the captain ignores him and claps him on the shoulder, and then it's an endless line, Xavi with a brief hug and Abidal with a longer one, and Gerard, looking tired but that huge smile stretched across his cheeks.
Leo doesn't come to him. Once Pep has a moment to breathe, he looks around and finds Leo instantly, standing away from the crowd, working a hand over his jaw and surveying the madness in front of him, from his teammates and from the stands. He almost looks detached, and Pep envies it briefly, even as he doesn't understand. If he could, he would stand next to Leo, quiet, and try to see what he sees, but he knows it would ruin the moment.
Instead he slides a hand around Leo's shoulders, bare except for his underarmor, a Porto jersey hanging from his waistband. "Congratulations, Leo," Pep says, turning to press his face into Leo's hair at the same moment Leo turns into his, face against his neck. Pep can feel his eyelashes as he blinks.
"Thank you," Leo says. Immediately his eyes are back out to the stadium, searching, searching for something that Pep couldn't begin to guess. He arm stays tight around Pep's waist, though, and so Pep doesn't leave.
After a moment Leo looks up at him, eyes bright, and he asks, almost teasing, "Are you proud?"
Pep can't match his lighthearted tone; the phrase jerks him back, makes him feel, not for the first time, like there's some joke that Leo's holding over his head and he doesn't quite understand it. "I'm always proud of all of you," he answers stiffly, "No matter the outcome."
Leo just raises an eyebrow, and he lets his arm drop. Pep wants to ask him a question, many questions, wants to hold him still and keep him there until he understands, but Manuel appears in front of him, taking Pep's face in his hands and Pep lets himself be pulled away, leaving Leo behind him, watching.
*
Rome.
That was it; the culmination of everything that Pep and all of them had worked for. With the league and the Spanish cup under his belt in his first season Pep almost felt selfish for how badly he wanted it, that third title and maybe the most prized of all; but looking at his players' faces he'd have felt worse if he didn't want it so much, with every bone in his body and every thought in his mind.
He always exhausted himself preparing for games, never one to leave something to chance, to miss a detail that could become important, but even for him the preparation for Manchester United had bordered on crazed, manic. Pep felt like he could write the book on them, like he could predict every moment of that game, so convinced he was of exactly how they would play, what they would do.
Even with his preparation, the feeling in his gut that he was prepared for every last thing -- plus the knowledge that he'd gleaned over the last year of his players and what they were capable of -- never in a hundred years did he think Leo would score the game clincher with his head.
Tito had shouted with laughter, even after they'd all calmed down, on the edges of their seats waiting for that final, delicious whistle. "He's a meter and a half tall!" he exclaimed. "What can't he do?"
Pep was barely listening, straining against himself for the moment he could run onto the field and congratulate his players, this team, this team. But the answer came easily anyway. "Nothing," he said, and there were no more words really. "Nothing."
Manuel was there next to him the second the whistle blew, crushing him so tightly he could barely breath to laugh, the word 'treble' hanging in the air, and Pep wasn't sure if it was in his head or someone was screaming it, or maybe both.
He found Ferguson and reached for his hand, but the older man pulled him in tightly, said into his ear, "The better team won," and then he was gone but it was a gift, and Pep tipped his head back to the sky, smile straining his face.
Leo found him. Pep didn't even see him, his eyes on the sky and the fans all the way up in the rafters, fans that came all this way for them, and then there were hands at his waist and a head pushing into his chest. Maybe if Pep had been wearing less layers he would have felt Leo's teeth against his torso, mouth stretched wide into a smile, but he could imagine it at least.
He was happy for Leo. Happy for all of them, of course, but Leo deserved this, this joy that he'd helped create so much of. Pep wasn't around at the time, but he knew about Paris, and he could imagine Leo's feelings on it, as much as he could imagine anything Leo felt; joy, of course, and pride in his team, but striped with regrets.
But there was nothing to regret in Rome.
Leo tipped his head up, his arms still around Pep's middle, and his face was close, and sweaty, and happy. "Are you proud?" he asked, and Pep thought it was bizarre; as if there was anything else he could possibly feel for this squad.
"A treble," Pep said, not really an answer but an answer enough. He leaned his forehead against Leo's, their eyes meeting close. "A treble!"
In his memory, that night is just flashes, that whole year really, passing in a blur, but he remembers this part clearly; the look on Leo's face when he'd asked, the flash across it as he answered, and watching Leo get pulled away, his eyes still clearly on Pep until someone stepped in the way and Pep could not see him anymore.
*
It’s always hard to say what it is exactly; fatigue, or injuries, or just a poor day. Either way nothing is going right and they’re heading into the last few minutes of injury time still tied at nothing, at Camp Nou, against Sevilla.
The thing is that it’s only October, and drawing at home in October shouldn’t be the end of the world - it isn’t the end of the world. Pep has lost many games over his life, many, many games, more important games than a home draw against Sevilla in October.
And yet the past three years have set them on a mountain of expectations so high that it’s difficult to keep perspective. Difficult even for Pep, and he knows better.
There’s a last gasp of a chance, right at the end; a penalty, a light at the end of the tunnel. Pep can’t even watch, maybe it’s cowardice or maybe it’s something else, but he turns away, only looking back when a skirmish delays and delays again.
The referee finally gets things under control. Leo pauses; he runs up; he shoots, and Varas saves, pushing the ball easily to the side. Pep thinks that’s about right, the logical conclusion to a game where nothing went right.
It’s not as easy for Leo. Pep can see it as soon as he walks off, the barely restrained fury on his face, but Pep doesn’t know who it’s for; the other side, the referee, himself. Pep would guess the latter. It isn’t the first time this has happened, and Pep knows it won’t be the last, but for some reason, this nothing day in October, it feels pretty damn bad.
Pep’s angry too. What to say to them - take your chances? Don’t be so sloppy? Don’t let them get into your head? He knows that they all know these things, that they don’t need to be reminded. It’s time like this that having been a player himself haunts Pep, because he knows that whatever he says isn’t going to help, but he also knows he can’t say nothing.
In the corner, Leo slumps, his face hidden from view. Pep has seen this before. Usually accompanied by shaking shoulders, by Gerard hovering nearby looking concerned and helpless. After the Inter match two seasons ago, Leo had followed Pep back to his office, eyes red and puffy but narrowed, and when they’d come upon one of the marketing posters - jo crec en la remuntada - Leo hadn’t ripped it from the wall but removed it carefully, peeling it from corner to corner, making sure nothing was left behind, and he’d folded it neatly before placing it into a garbage can outside Pep’s office, his stony face unmoving.
Pep never wants to see him look like that again.
In the end Pep just tells them, “It’s only October,” tells them to take the day off tomorrow. They look tired but not broken and it’s an important distinction. Except Pep still doesn’t know how Leo looks; he hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t even acknowledged that Pep is there.
Pep crouches in front of him, waiting until the room has cleared a bit, players heading off to the showers. Leo’s hair is short now, but he keeps his head so low Pep can’t see his eyes regardless.
“Leo,” he starts, unsure where he’s even meaning to go. “You can’t-“
“Tomorrow I’ll practice penalties,” Leo says, his voice clear, and when he looks up his eyes are dry and sharp. He shrugs. “That’s all.”
Pep sighs. He wants to say, I gave you tomorrow off. He wants to say, you don’t have to be the best at everything. He wants to say, it’s easier if you’re not.
Instead he says, “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest,” and then, “Now go take a shower, you stink,” and when Leo’s gone Pep sits in his place for a moment, his head in his hands.
*
Pep can’t remember when it happened exactly; sometime after the treble and before preseason, but other than that, he can’t place it. There were so many parties that summer, and Pep didn’t particularly care for the craziness but sometimes he wanted it, wanted to be with his players and celebrate.
This is what he remembers: Leo sat next to him. The party was loud and Pep was watching - something, or someone, and suddenly Leo was there next to him, pressed against him from shoulder to knee, and whatever it was, they watched it together for a moment, until Pep realized that Leo had turned his head and was now watching Pep.
“Having fun?” Pep called over the music and noise. Leo’s mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly, and it was all the answer he gave.
A few more moments passed, Pep studied his face, strangely serious given that they were at a party, given that there was nothing to be serious about, but still. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Leo said finally, leaning in enough that Pep could barely catch his words over the music.
“Here?” Pep asked, confused. He looked around the room; all the staff was there, coaches and the board and he didn’t understand why it suddenly bothered Leo. “Everyone was invited-“
Leo laughed then; Pep couldn’t hear it but he could see it. Leo leaned in again. “I don’t mean here. I mean at Barcelona.” Pep’s brow furrowed, and Leo leaned back enough to see his face before moving in close again to say, “I know what they did to you.”
Pep looked at him sharply. “Leo-“ he started, and then cut himself off. He knew that they all knew - some of them had been playing with him when it happened, and others had come more recently, but Pep was sure they’d all done their research on him. Still, it had never come up, and Pep didn’t expect it ever would.
Leo went on like he hadn’t noticed Pep’s discomfort with the topic. “I don’t think I could do it,” he said. “I think I’d turn around and never look back.”
Pep chewed his lip absently. He wanted to say, they would never do that to you, we would never do that to you, but it wasn’t something he could promise, not when he couldn’t be there forever. “You shouldn’t worry about that,” he called over the music instead.
Leo shrugged, like he wasn’t worrying about it, but Pep knew he brought it up for a reason. “I don’t understand how you’re here,” he repeated.
Pep took a deep breath. Of course he’d thought about it plenty, of course it had taken a long time before he could even think of coming back, but that wasn’t something he was ready to share with his players. Not with Leo, anyway. “What use is it to hold on to anger?” he asked instead. “It would only hurt me, and then I would miss out on this,” he said, gesturing around the club, the players gathered everywhere, their happiness spread throughout the room. “Is a grudge worth missing this?”
Leo looked out over the room too, but his jaw was clenched and Pep knew he wouldn’t - maybe couldn’t - understand. “It worked out well,” Leo conceded, “And I’m glad it did - of course I’m glad,” his eyes met Pep’s briefly, as if to make sure he understood, “But how can you be sure they won’t do it to you again?”
Pep was quiet for a long time, and Leo let him be. It was hot in the club, too hot to be pressed up against each other, but neither moved. Finally, Pep said, “You can never be sure of anything, Leo,” and the look on Leo’s face told him that wasn’t enough, but Pep never expected it to be. He wanted to tell Leo that he knows everything looks black and white when you’re 22, but the years move forward and the edges smooth out until one day you’re no longer young and everything is grey. But Pep knew Leo wouldn’t understand; not now, he couldn’t.
“You’ll get it when you’re older,” he said instead, nudging Leo with his shoulder to lighten the mood.
But Leo just looked at him sharply, his eyes dark. “I’m not that young,” he said, and in that second Pep believed him. The moment stretched, and then Thierry was there, swinging an arm around Leo’s shoulders and shouting about something he was missing. Still, Leo resisted long enough to look up at Pep, eyes serious, before he disappeared into the crowd.
*
He's shaking and he doesn't know why. Or he does; because they're in Japan, because they're the world champions of clubs, because they have five trophies and it isn't six but it's still enough for right now.
Pep slides a hand across a sweater on his hotel room bed, smoothing it out and creasing it over, folding carefully. He sets it in his suitcase, pausing to stretch out his neck as he straightens and then there's a knock on the door.
It's Leo, leaning in the doorway, a car of beer in his hand and a lazy smile on his face.
"Leo," Pep says, surprised to see him; he'd thought everyone was downstairs at the party. But maybe -- "If you're looking for Javier's room, I think it's two down." He leans out to point the direction but Leo doesn't move out of the way, and they're close.
Leo peers up at him before he answers, voice soft and blurred enough to make Pep wonder how many drinks he's had. "I'm not looking for Javi."
"Oh," Pep says. It takes him a moment too long to step back. "Do you want to - " he starts, and motions, pulling the door wider. Leo hesitates, but not for long, before he walks past Pep into the room.
There are clothes spread over the bed, but Leo pauses there anyway, and Pep moves a sweater and a pair of slacks out of the way so he can sit.
"What can I do for you, Leo?" he asks, reaching for another sweater to fold, to keep his hands busy.
Leo takes his time answering, pausing to take a drink of his beer and survey the room, tidy except for the clothes laid out for packing.
"Just wondering why you weren't at the party," he says finally.
Pep focuses on folding, making sure the creases are sharp and the sleeves are even, and he doesn't answer until he's done. "Just wanted a minute alone," he says carefully. "And to pack. But I'll be down soon."
Leo reaches out, finds a loose thread on one of the sweaters next to him and twists it between his fingers idly. He looks up with a sly smile. "Are you proud?" he asks. Pep should have expected it, but he didn't, and for some reason it causes a flare of irritation.
"Do you doubt it?" he asks, keeping his eyes down and his voice mild. But Leo doesn't answer and so he has to look over, where Leo's studying him from under his eyelashes.
Pep holds his gaze, unwilling to buckle first. Leo shrugs minutely rather than answering.
"Leo," he says, his voice ragged and tired suddenly, "This team could have lost 4 to nothing and I would still be proud to be its coach."
Leo just grunts, and Pep gets the feeling that the answer wasn't what he was looking for, but Pep can't imagine what that is.
"You should go back to the party," Pep tells him. "I'll follow you soon."
Leo looks at him sharply, suddenly. "Are you going to renew your contract?" he asks, and it's out of nowhere, it's not even the new year yet, and Pep knows the questions are coming but not now, and not from his players --
"Leo--" he says, but Leo's look cuts him off. "I've barely thought about it," he says, and it's not entirely truthful but he doesn't have any answers, so it's almost the same. "I promise, you'll know when I know."
"I want you to stay," he says bluntly. Nothing he hasn't heard before, but it's still nice, always nice to hear that you're wanted.
Pep shoots him half a smile. "I'm glad to know it."
"Aren't you worried about what will happen to us if you leave?" Leo asks, his voice light as if it's a joke.
"The team?" Pep asks. He grabs a pair of slacks and folds them over his arm, smoothing them down. "No, I'm not worried about the team." He keeps his head down. "Barca is bigger than you or me."
Leo purses his lips like he isn't sure, and Pep pauses after he lays the pants in his suitcase, doesn't pick up anything else to fold or pack away.
"I do worry about you, though."
"Me?" Leo asks. Sharp. He's offended, but Pep can't bring himself to care. "Why?" Leo pulls on the loose thread and Pep imagines the whole thing unraveling.
Pep tries to choose his words carefully. "You're special, Leo," he starts. "Not just how you play. But how you are." He looks at Leo, to see if he's listening, and it seems like he is but his face is blank. "And I think we have an understanding, you and me," Pep goes on. "But if I left..."
He trails off, but Leo just looks at him like he needs to keep going. "Look at what happens to men who are constantly told they're great," Pep says finally.
Leo raises his can to his lips, and over the rim his eyes flash with understanding, but also denial. After he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, he says, "You don't need to worry."
Pep shrugs. He stoops to grab a pair of dress shoes, half under the bed. "But I do," he says.
"Even if you leave," Leo insists. "There's still Puyi, and Xavi, and Andres--"
Pep straightens. "They won't be here forever either," he points out. "And what about when it's some young kid, from La Masia, or worse, someone we bought - is it going to be easy to listen to him, to acknowledge that he brings as much to this team as you do? When everyone else is telling you different?"
"Yes," Leo says, "Yes," and Pep gets the feeling that he's not thinking about it anymore, and maybe he's too tired, too drunk, maybe this wasn't the right time for this conversation, maybe there never would have been a right time. "You know how my family is," Leo says, and he's on his feet now, next to Pep, adamant. "They wouldn't let me --"
"That's what I worry about, Leo," Pep says. He keeps his voice mild. "That you'll rely on other people to keep you grounded and never on yourself. And other people will always let you down," he adds. Leo brow is furrowed, his eyes defiant, and he takes a step closer, close enough that he can reach out and grab Pep's wrist, hard.
"Even you?" he asks, surprisingly soft. It makes Pep smile, if sadly.
"Even me," he says.
Leo's gaze lingers, his grip tightens, and then he moves it so his fingers dig in to Pep's upper arm. Maybe Pep imagines it, but he thinks -- he thinks -- Leo isn't holding him still but pulling him, pulling him in, pulling him closer.
And he considers it. Just for a moment. Letting himself be pulled down, over him, this beautiful boy, and showing Leo, proving to him that no one is more likely to let him down than Pep. Letting everything unravel. He knows now that he wants it.
Instead he takes a breath, swallows, pulls his arm away. He takes a step back and regards Leo, whose eyes are burning, who is so still.
"You should go back to the party, Leo," he says, and he turns his back as if to grab more stuff to pack. He doesn't; he waits, and when he turns back Leo is gone, the room empty and the door half open, and Pep sinks into the space he vacated on the bed, still warm. He tugs on the loose thread on his sweater, but it snags and he can't pull it any further.
*
The first time they’d been to the Club World Cup it was different. Maybe in some ways there was more pressure then, even; trying to become the first team ever to win a sextuple, and Pep, still being their fairytale coach. Pep knew there were people waiting for the façade to crumble down, the truth to come.
“Gentlemen,” he said, surveying his group in the locker room before they went out. “If you lose today, you will still be the best team in the world.” They were leaning forward, almost every single one of them, eyes glistening while they waited for the punchline. “But if you win today,” he went on, looking at each of them, one by one, “You will be legendary.”
It was a good speech, Pep thought, but good speeches don’t win anything, and it felt like a punch to the gut when Estudiantes scored first, just before halftime.
Pep hurried them in the locker room, he drew them diagrams, he showed them what to do, but nothing happened. Nothing until Pedro, in the 89th minute, finally, finally equalized, and suddenly they had it; thirty more minutes to become legends.
On the bench behind him Tito was talking with the rest of the coaching staff about who should take penalties, but Pep couldn’t listen to that. He didn’t want it; he refused to believe it would get that far.
The second half of extra time started, still tied. Tito was calling him. “Pep,” he yelled. “Come on, we need to make a decision here.” Pep kept his toes on the touchline, watching the clock, watching his players. His mind flipping through them.
And then, Leo. Flying through the air, thrusting his chest into the ball, pushing it into the back of the net. And everything around them erupted.
Once they calmed down he walked with Tito back to the bench, their plans for penalties discarded on the ground. “He did it with the crest,” Tito said. He was beaming. “He scored with Barcelona’s crest.”
Pep’s throat was already tight, but he looked back out over the pitch and found Leo, smiled. Corrected his friend. “And his heart,” he said.
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