As Far As You and Me Go; Mourinho/Guardiola
Title: As Far as You and Me Go
Pairing: José Mourinho/Pep Guardiola
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22,570
Summary: The love story of two sore losers.
Author distira
Mixer: meretricula
part i | listen
Benvolgut // Manel
Kiss With A Fist // Florence + The Machine
The One You Really Love // The Magnetic Fields
What Would Jay-Z Do? // Ben Lee
Roll Away Your Stone // Laura Marling (covering Mumford & Sons)
Shut Your Mouth // Garbage
I Think I Need a New Heart // The Magnetic Fields
Paris Is Burning // St. Vincent
You Can't Always Get What You Want // The Rolling Stones
part ii | listen
Truce // The Dresden Dolls
Country Leaver // The Dandy Warhols
The Things We Did and Didn't Do // The Magnetic Fields
Postcards From Italy // Beirut
Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On) // Robert Plant & Alison Krauss
Dearest Forsaken // Iron & Wine
Love Is Not A Competition (But I'm Winning) // Kaiser Chiefs
We Used to Be Friends // The Dandy Warhols
Some Things Don't Work Out // Joe Purdy
part iii | listen
Good Day // The Dresden Dolls
Long-Forgotten Fairytale // The Magnetic Fields
Jerusalem // Mirah
Somebody More Like You // Nickel Creek
Fix You // Coldplay
Bigmouth Strikes Again // Placebo
Antebellum // Vienna Teng
Somebody That I Used To Know // Gotye
No Children // The Mountain Goats
bonus track
Egmont Overture, Opus 84 // Ludwig van Beethoven; Anton Nanut; Ljubljana Radio Symphony Orchestra
download
"Today, tomorrow, and always- I will have Barcelona in my heart." -José Mourinho, 1997
It starts after a loss.
(Really it starts after a win, after they stood from a balcony together and sang the Cant and José watched the score go from 2-2 to 2-3, smiled with victory when he saw Pep raise the trophy; winning for José is a minute spent crouching near the touchline, whispering into Pep's ear what needs to be done. It is sitting in the dugout watching the score change from 2-2 to 3-2, and it is smiling without hidden intentions when the final whistle blows. But the first time they fall into bed together is after a loss.)
"Can you-" Pep starts, in the parking lot. He stops, turns to look at José, and José sees how tired he looks, the purple under his eyes and how his eyebrows are permanently knitted together. Then Pep cracks the tiniest of smiles, his professionalism back in place. "Come to mine for a while? Shouldn't wallow alone," he says, and José isn't sure if he's talking about himself or José.
He says yes, regardless. "I'll follow," he offers, reaching into his trouser pocket for his car keys, but Pep shakes his head.
"I can drive," Pep says, and José hesitates for a second, because he knows what that means; he knows they'll show up to the training grounds in the same car tomorrow.
"Okay," he says, his voice heavy, and the wrinkles in Pep's forehead smooth out almost imperceptibly. José gets into the car.
Pep offers him a drink and Jose accepts, mostly so he has something to do with his hands. They sit on the couch, almost stiffly, and Pep flicks through channels on the TV until he finds the highlights.
José does this every night, watch the Barcelona highlights, but it seems so much more masochistic now, with Pep sitting on his right, visibly flinching for every mistimed pass, every goal against. José ignores it at first, his fingers itching for a notepad so he can start working on how to fix it, how to help pull everything back together for the next game.
"Turn it off," he says eventually, reaching for the remote.
"Why?" Pep asks, but he lets José turn the TV off.
"You don't need to be watching this right now," José tells him. He's not sure if it's the coach in him that's saying it, or if it's the part of him that's concerned by the tension rolling off of Pep in waves. It's possible, he thinks, that the two are one and the same. "That's my job, not yours."
"It is, though," Pep tells him. "My job. This team is my job." José frowns. "To hold things together," Pep clarifies. "I can't do that if I don't know what went wrong."
"You already know," José says, because he and Pep are alike in as many ways as they are different. He knows that Pep catalogues every moment of every match as it happens, just like he does. And then, "hold yourself together first, you look exhausted."
"I am," Pep says, so simple and opposite to everything he says in practices and in press conferences.
"Come on, then," José says, and he stands up first, even though it's not his house. Holds out a hand.
"Why?"
He considers his words carefully. "Taking you to bed," he says after a pause, and Pep accepts the offer, lets José pull him up.
That's as much lead as José allows himself to take. He follows Pep to the bedroom, where he stands quietly and watches as Pep meticulously folds down the bedcovers. He waits until Pep nods at him before even toeing off his shoes, and then he still waits, until Pep takes his wrist and sits him down on the edge of the bed, tugs the team shirt that José's still wearing over his head and settles heavily in José's lap.
It's not needy, exactly, the way Pep presses his face into José's neck and breathes for a second before José cups his cheek in his palm, but he knows that Pep does need something. (He knows that Pep needs a lot more than what José can let him have- Pep needs Barcelona, needs the locker room united and every journalist in Spain forbidden from writing about him, and José can't give him that. All he has is control, and Pep needs that more than José does right now, so José lets him have it.)
Pep's fingers trail across José's torso and José makes no move to stop him when his hands trail farther down, skimming his stomach and scrabbling at his belt.
José lets Pep slide one-two-three fingers into him, and it's only an afterthought that he's hard, a pleasant surprise that he notices when Pep slides his cock in all the way. José's too focused on watching Pep, seeing the tension drain out of his shoulders and watching the set of his mouth become increasingly sloppy, until everything professional has been stripped away and all that's left is Pep's lips, parted in something like want.
Pep comes first, and he settles on top of José again, heavier than before, boneless and sated, until José pushes at his shoulder and he rolls off. He reaches for José's cock, but José shrugs him away, finishes himself off.
"Next time," Pep promises. "Sorry, I should've. Next time."
"Don't worry," José says, because Pep seems to have missed the point. He looks relaxed, though, sprawling on the bed while José slips into the bathroom to clean up.
"The guest bed isn't made up," Pep tells him when he comes back. "I can, if you want, of course. But you could stay here, also."
José stays.
(Pep kicks in his sleep, and José's fairly sure he snores through the night. They don't roll together, instead each talking a separate pillow and a separate side, but when José wakes up, his shoulders are bumping against Pep's, exactly in the middle of the bed.)
At practice the next day, José watches the training drills and doesn't look at his clipboard. He looks at Pep instead, and he can see Pep as if there are strings attached to every player and Pep is holding all of them in his hand, keeping them together.
"The left back, that's the weakness," José says quietly. It's the end of the session, but a few of the players and trainers are still out on the training grounds.
"Van Gaal tell you that?" Pep asks, dribbling one ball along the touchline and carrying another. He's turning in for the evening; José has waited for him to finish his extra footwork drills.
"What? No," José says. "I was looking at film last night. If you can't feed anything down the middle, pull their left back outside of the box, they'll send someone to cover him and you'll have a target for a cross."
Pep nods. "Thanks," he says. Genuine, as always. "Thank you."
José sharpens the crease on the scouting report he's carrying and tucks it into his pocket. They've reached the benches and he's about to head down the tunnel to the offices when Pep speaks again.
"You used to play, didn't you?"
José turns to face Pep, who's holding out the ball he's carrying, offering it to him. "I did," José says. Pep already knows this. It had been a point of contention when José first came to Barcelona, maybe not specifically for Pep, but for most of the team. "It didn't turn out very well."
"Professionally?"
"Yes," José says, a little short. When he doesn't take the football, Pep kicks the one at his feet to José, who steps on it to stop it. He's wearing sneakers and track pants; next to him, Pep is wearing shorts and boots. "In Portugal, for a few years."
"Why didn't it turn out well?" Pep asks. He drops the ball he's holding and jogs back a few paces, gestures for José to pass to him.
"Not fast enough," José says. "And not big enough to make up for it." He kicks the ball back to Pep, who dribbles a few paces and then sends it back to José. They go back and forth for a while, not at pace but not slowly either, until most of the other players have trickled off of the grounds and towards the showers.
"I should go," José says, picking up the ball. "This was- fun, though."
Pep shrugs. "You could've played," he says. "If you'd been here, they would've let you play."
José knows it's true - he's seen the next generation of Barcelona stars playing in the lower divisions and at the youth level over the past year, and he knows that many of them are smaller or slower than he ever was. "Too bad I wasn't here," he says, not as bothered as he might have been three or four years ago.
"We could've played together," Pep says, and he's smiling a little but he sounds almost rueful.
"I was never that good," José says drily.
"Is it hard, though?" Pep asks. "Being around football all day, after-? I couldn't, I don't think. I would want to play too badly."
"It's not," José tells him. "You only have control over the ball, but me? I have control over the entire team. Sometimes the other team, too."
"Oh?" Pep laughs, surprised. "The translator has control over the entire team?" It's not an insult the way it might've been two years ago. They both know José's doing more than translate, these days.
"Well," José says, grinning. He waves his hand dismissively. "I will, one day. Until then, I have control over you, so you'd better go for their left back on Sunday."
Pep shakes his head, smiling. "Using me to play your football for you, yeah? I see."
"You're good at that, I'm good at this," José shrugs. "Of course that's how it is."
When Sunday comes and Pep sends a beautiful, lofting cross over the left back, a gorgeous cross which is picked off by Ronaldo for a goal, José shakes a fist in celebration on the sideline. From the field, Pep turns from the throng of his celebrating teammates and points at José.
Barcelona is full of good players- great players, even, but Pep is José’s favorite to watch. Watching Pep is like watching everything he’d wished he could’ve become as a player, and it should be frustrating -it was frustrating, at first- but somehow, it’s not.
“Would you ever play anywhere else?” José asks, on the way back to Barcelona after a hard-fought away win. It's not entirely hypothetical; he's heard the rumors, keeps tabs of the mess the media has created.
“No,” Pep says. He’s always quiet after matches, José has learned.
“Why not?” José asks.
“Because Barcelona is-" Pep starts, but he stops himself. "I don't know. Maybe I would." He looks at José. "I'm old and injured," he says, only halfway trying for a joke.
"You're not old," José tells him. "You're not even thirty." But Pep shrugs, and José knows that the conversation is over.
“Do you think I should’ve cut inside, right before halftime? I think we could’ve had another goal if I did,” Pep asks. And then, without waiting for José to answer, “Do you want to come to mine for dinner?”
Most of the time, José doesn’t think of his players as existing off of the pitch. (He does think of them as his, though, Pep in particular, even though they’re really Van Gaal’s.) It’s easier that way, to think of how he can use them rather than how they are, and so it’s strange for him to be in Pep’s home, drinking a beer as he watches Pep putter around the kitchen, fixing dinner. It's strange too that he's coming here for dinner after he's come here for sex, but that was different. That was still captain Guardiola, even with his pants kicked across the room, sweating over José.
This version of him is softer, wears sweatpants that sit low on his hips and bag at his feet, and a sweater that looks more like it should be worn with dress pants. He seems small here, not at all like the presence José has come to be able to pick out in a heartbeat on the field or in game tape.
“What are you making?” José asks, leaning against the counter.
“Pasta,” Pep says. “Chicken. Broccoli.” Simple food, José thinks. Athlete food. “You know, most houseguests offer to help,” Pep tells him, turning away from the stove to raise his eyebrows.
José laughs. “We both know you don’t need help.”
“Do you really know that?” Pep asks, but he’s grinning. “I don’t seem to recall having cooked for you before, for all you know I could be a terrible chef.”
“You aren’t,” José tells him, because Pep may not have cooked for him until now, but José knows Pep, knows him the way only someone who has watched him for hundreds of hours picking apart his every strength and weakness can know a person.
And José's right. Dinner isn't terrible, and then, unexpectedly, José finds himself lingering. They sit at Pep's table for an hour after the finish eating, and José is comfortable. He doesn't itch to go back to his own home and watch the footage of the match, content to sit and talk with Pep instead.
"Drink?" Pep offers eventually.
"Sure," José says, and Pep brings two more beers out of the kitchen. They move to the living room, settling on the couch but not turning the TV on, and José stays almost until it's too late to leave.
"You can," Pep tells him. "Stay, if you want."
José knows. "Not tonight," he says, even so, feeling for some reason that it's imperative he goes home.
"Another time, then," Pep says easily. "Maybe I'll have you cook."
José doesn't say 'yes', but he doesn't say 'no', either, and Pep smiles as he shows José to the door.
"No Guardiola next match," Van Gaal says two weeks later, almost in passing.
"Why not?" José asks, because last he knew, Pep was still the captain, still the pivote.
"Another injury," Van Gaal says. "Happened this morning. He's in with the physios now."
The cafeteria at the training grounds is loud. José pokes at his lunch with his plasticware. "How long?" he asks, because Van Gaal doesn't seem overly concerned. José knows that doesn't mean anything, he knows how Van Gaal is, but still.
"We'll know once the physios tell us," Van Gaal says, and that is that.
For the first time that he can remember, José calls Pep before Pep can call him.
"How long?" he asks when Pep picks up.
Pep's sigh comes across the telephone line loud, and José has to hold the phone away from his ear until Pep starts to talk. "This time?" he says. He sounds frustrated. "A few weeks, maybe a month."
"That's not bad," José says. "You'll still get the end of the season, and the World Cup."
"It's not-" Pep starts. José can picture him frowning. "It's just that this is happening again, you know? I thought, the last time, with my calf, that that would be it for the season, I'd at least get to finish it strong."
José doesn't know exactly how to respond, so he snaps into manager mode. "You still can," he tells Pep. "This team will always be waiting for you to come back."
"No, José," Pep says. The particular blend of tired and sad, with only the barest hint of anger, tugs at José's gut. "Barcelona won't wait for me. They're more than that, we both know it."
"But you're the best," José argues. "How can a team be more than that?"
Pep ignores him. José is starting to get used to Pep ignoring him, ending conversations prematurely, and he doesn't like it, doesn't like that he's getting used to it instead of protesting it. "The kid, Xavi," he says. "The machine. He's good."
"Shut up," José tells him. "You're the best, he's not."
"I'm not going anywhere yet, if that's what you're worried about," Pep says drily. "They're renegotiating my contract."
"Oh," José says, and then, "I'm not- I wasn't. Worried."
Pep snorts. "Yes you were," he says. José rolls his eyes even though Pep can't see him.
"Are you coming to practice tomorrow, then?" José asks.
"Yeah," Pep says, serious again. "Physical therapy. Might come sit on the sideline with you."
"Okay," José says. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
A few weeks turns into a month and Pep is still on the sideline with José at the end of training sessions, after he's out of physical therapy. And then a month turns into two and two turns into three, and the end of the season is looming.
"Surgery," Pep says, hollow, in the middle of May.
Barcelona's all but won the league, is going to the final of the Copa del Rey again, and José has no doubt that the team will let Pep lift the trophies for them, even if he's not playing. He knows, Pep knows, and the management knows, that Pep still holds all of the strings, as if he were still in the center of the field, connected to every player. They love him, they'll give him the satisfaction of lifting the trophies and turning to face the crowd as their captain in spirit, if not on the pitch.
He also knows that it won't be satisfying at all to Pep as long as he's not on the field.
"When?" José asks.
"June," Pep says, and it doesn't take more than a second or two for José to realize- the World Cup.
"Barcelona's nice over the summer," he says slowly. He's trying, and it's not something he does very often. "I'll be here, keep you company maybe."
Pep's face darkens slightly. "Sure," he says, and then he walks away, towards the dressing room to leave the training grounds. José feels bad, watching him go, and isn't quite sure why. Or, really, he is sure why, but what he doesn't know is when he let it get this far.
José lives alone.
He likes it that way- he has a nice house not far from the training grounds, and it's not big or elaborate, but it has a TV with a VCR so he can watch game tape late into the night. The kitchen is too big for one person and the refrigerator is always half empty, because José doesn't like to cook, and there's a coffee maker on the counter but it never gets used, because José drinks ice water when he needs to stay awake.
He's not particularly neat- there's always a dish or two in the sink and his shoes are in a heap by the door. He doesn't straighten up for company because he never has company.
As the season winds to a close and the World Cup looms, not for him because Portugal hasn't qualified, but because of Spain, José starts to wonder if he should start having company over every now and then. Except- he doesn't wonder about company, he wonders about Pep.
In the end, he decides- he'll invite Pep over, but he won't clean.
They haven't gotten together like this, Luis and Pep and José, since Laurent left, but they're the only ones really left in Barcelona for the summer, so it seems natural that they all converge at Luis's house to watch the World Cup.
"At least you fucking qualified," Luis snaps when Pep makes a seemingly offhand remark about not being with the Spanish delegation.
"I didn't," Pep protests, but Luis just snorts at him, and that's the end of any serious conversation they have.
"Drinks?" Luis offers, and he pulls out beers for Pep and José before they can respond. "So, France-"
"Has Laurent," Pep says. "And Zidane. They should be ranked much higher."
"But Bergkamp's with the Dutch," Luis points out. "Look at him with Arsenal, fucking phenomenal."
"The Dutch aren't Arsenal," Pep tells him. "Besides, France has the new striker, Henry?"
"You're both ignoring Brazil," José cuts in. "Look at Ronaldo, you've played with him, you know what he can do with the ball. The whole team, what's the nickname? The Samba Kings? They're the ones to watch for."
Luis snorts again, and it goes on like that until they've each made a bracket, taped them to Luis's refrigerator, and agreed upon a substantial sum to the winner.
"Nobody plays a pivote like you," José says, deep in a discussion of midfield tactics after France beats South Africa by three in their opening match. He doesn't mean for it to sting -he means it as a compliment, in all honesty- but the hurt on Pep's face doesn't go away for a long moment.
Luis saves him. "Not even I do," he says. "Maybe, you know, then Portugal would've qualified. Or maybe if this old man had gotten off his ass and actually trained, back in his playing days-"
"As if," Pep says, cracking the hint of a smile.
"Fuck you," José says, without malice, and Luis nods at him from across the table.
Later, on his way out the door, he says, "thank you."
Luis shrugs. "I know what you meant, but. How he is, you know, he just thinks he's not good enough."
José nods. "He is, though. He- I mean, you know it as well as I do, he's the best there is."
"For his position," Luis concedes, winking. "He's not going to take the Spain game well."
"No, he won't," José agrees. "Should we- do this again?"
"I was thinking, actually, that we should just not let him watch at all," Luis says. He raises his eyebrows, inclines his head slightly. "Distract him." José frowns when Luis winks again. "Don't worry, I really mean you'll distract him, and I'll just be here to get him drunk afterwards. Or before, if that'd make it easier." He wiggles his eyebrows.
"I don't understand Portuguese, but I can tell when you're talking about me," Pep calls from the driveway.
"Vanity, thy name is Josep," Luis intones. Pep shakes his head and gets into his car. José turns back to Luis.
"It's not a bad idea," he admits.
"It would be a nice thing for you to do," Luis tells him.
José drives over to Pep's the next afternoon. It feels strange, to go over without tailing Pep home from the training grounds, to be going without an invitation.
"Hi," Pep says, surprised, when José knocks. "Are we- I didn't realize, when is Luis coming?"
"He's not," José says. "Just me."
"Oh," Pep says. "Well. Come in?" He steps back from the doorstep and José goes into the house, toes off his shoes and leaves them next to Pep's. "I was going to watch the game, if you want to watch."
They venture further into the house and José can hear the pundits talking on TV, the pregame show to the Spain and Nigeria match that starts soon.
"I don't want to," José says.
Pep puts his crutch against the back of the couch. "Okay?" he says slowly, turning to face José. José takes a step towards him- Pep looks soft here, younger than he ever does in a Barcelona shirt. He's wearing training shorts and a t-shirt and day-old stubble litters his jawline. José steps in front of him and takes the remote control, turns the TV off. "What-" Pep starts, but José turns around and pushes on Pep's shoulders until Pep sits on the arm of the couch. José slides a leg between Pep's, and the boot on Pep's ankle knocks against his calf, the plastic cold.
It's different than the last time- José starts in control, kissing Pep firmly, sliding his tongue between Pep's lips. Pep lets him for a while, moves his hands up and down José's back, and a swirling sort of want settles in José's stomach when Pep opens his legs further, lets José stand fully between them.
It doesn't last long, though, before Pep tugs at José's shirt, not to take it off but to get José closer, and they both tumble over the arm of the couch. Pep's head hits the cushions and bounces up a little bit, knocks his forehead against José's jaw, and José laughed, surprised.
They go back and forth for a while; Pep's shirt comes off first, but José gets his pants shoved down his thighs before Pep can slide out of his shorts. Their cocks brush and Pep gasps, surprised by the contact when José finally gets his shorts out of the way, and his head falls back against the couch, leaving the expanse of his neck for José to bite. Pep's stubble extends down most of his neck and it scrapes against José's lips, rough, and they feel chapped when he pulls away.
"Lube?" he asks, his hand around Pep's cock, jacking him quickly. Pep grunts.
"Bedroom," he says. José works his hand over the head of Pep's cock, and Pep bites his lip. "Who says you get to top, though?"
"You did last time," José says, giving Pep's cock a last tug before climbing off of him and pulling his pants the rest of the way off before he goes to Pep's bedroom to grab the lube.
Pep's touching himself when José returns, not even looking at the TV or the remote, and José smiles to himself. José coats his fingers with lube and clambers back between Pep's legs. He takes Pep's wrist with his free hand and pulls it away from Pep's cock, wanting to slow things down, make it last at least until halftime. Pep whines but lets him, pulls his hands up to settle on José's shoulders as José works a finger into him. His back arches when José pushes past the ring of muscle with his second finger and his legs fall further apart. José balances himself with his free hand on Pep's ribcage and he strokes the skin there in small circles with his thumb as he pushes a third finger in and opens Pep up until there's a steady stream of half-aborted noises coming from Pep.
José slicks his cock up and rolls on a condom. When he slides into Pep, he does it slow, so Pep feels every inch of him, and Pep takes it until José's in all the way, digging blunt nails into José's shoulders. Then Pep pulls himself up and pushes at José until José is forced to lay back against the arm of the couch and Pep starts to ride him, slow and hard, until José's hips are stuttering up into him and he can't hang on any longer.
He brings Pep off once he comes down, and Pep comes, sticky over his stomach. They don't move for a long minute, until it starts to get uncomfortable, so pep slides off of José and José ties off the condom, goes into the bathroom to clean up.
He's expecting Pep to have turned on the match when he gets back, so he's surprised to find Pep in the kitchen instead, drinking a glass of water and wearing only his shorts.
They don't check the score until well after the match is over, and Pep's face falls when he sees that Spain has lost. José kicks at him, not quite gently, and says, "I'll stay the night, if you want."
"I want," Pep says, so José does.
"Again," Pep says, just shy of a year later. "I need surgery again."
He's been out for almost three months.
José lets out a loud breath and folds the newspaper he's reading in half. "You might want to say specifically that you're getting surgery, in your presser," he says, skimming the article that's next to a picture of Pep. "They're saying you're in treatment for HIV."
"I know," Pep says. He sounds sad, but not particularly concerned.
"You aren't, right? Because I'd be a bit out of luck, you know," José says, dry enough that Pep knows he's joking. Pep just snorts in response. "How long are you going to put up with it, though?"
"With what?"
"With this bullshit," José says. He turns the page of the newspaper, not interested in finishing the article.
Pep sighs. "I'm not really interested in transferring," he says.
"That's not what I asked," José tells him.
"I know," Pep says. "But I don't know the answer."
"You could always follow Luis," José says, glib.
"Is that confirmed?"
"You'd know better than I would," José says. He shrugs, even though Pep can't see him. "His buyout's high enough, though, they don't have the money yet."
"That's not exactly reassuring," Pep tells him. And then, "are you going to stay, even?"
"Not sure," José shrugs. "I've had offers, but all as assistants."
"There's nothing wrong with being an assistant," Pep says. "You're good at it."
José bristles a little. "I know I am," he says. "I want to know if I'm good at being a head coach, too."
"You are," Pep says. He'd know, José supposes; José's coached Barcelona a few times, in cup ties and in the Copa Catalunya.
"So I might," José says. "Leave. If the right offer comes."
One day, billboards of Luis wearing the new kit go up in the city. José passes one as he drives to the training ground and thinks, at least Pep will have his second-in-command. The next day, Luis announces his official transfer to Real Madrid. The right offer, he says in a press conference.
Barcelona calls for blood; José calls Pep.
He gets voicemail three times, and then decides that enough is enough. He stops calling and does his dishes, reads Mundo Deportivo and AS, and starts going through the injury reports for the next match. He has his dinner, has a few beers, and is getting ready to turn in when the phone finally rings.
"Are you staying?" Pep demands when he answers.
"I don't know," José tells him, as he has for the past month.
"At least you're being fucking honest about it," Pep grumbles.
"Are you on a bender?" José asks, suspicious, because Pep doesn't curse often.
"Not yet," Pep says. "Gaspart would love that, if I get hauled out of some club for getting into a fight. Drunk. Better yet, a gay club. That would make his fucking year, then he wouldn't have to try anymore to get rid of me, and everyone would forget about- about Luis. I could just hand him my resignation along with the pap shots. Christ, José."
"Well," José says, speaking slowly, because Pep, when drunk (which is not often), is mostly harmless, but takes a long time to process basic information, "don't do that. Drink a glass of water and get in bed."
"I will," Pep hums.
"And call me in the morning," José adds. "So if you do end up doing something stupid, I can keep your ass at this club instead of on the streets."
"You- thanks," Pep says. "Thanks."
José dismisses him, sends him to bed and hangs up, but he moves the cordless phone into his bedroom and sleeps with it near the pillow, just in case.
"Why would you go anywhere else to stay an assistant?" Van Gaal asks.
"Because," José tells him. "I'll never be more than an assistant here. But if I leave-"
"You might move up," Van Gaal says. "But you might stay an assistant in Portugal, too."
"I won't," José says.
When he leaves, he does it quietly. There's no press conference, but he does call Pep before the news is announced to the players.
"Where?" Pep asks.
"Benfica," José says. "They're not great yet-"
"You'll make them, though," Pep says, and José can imagine him shrugging. "Still just an assistant?"
José bristles at just. "For now," he says, tight. "But you know as well as I do that if I stay here, I could be head coach permanently and I would still just be 'the translator' to half of you."
There's a lull. José bites his lip. "Good luck, then," Pep says, finally.
"You too," José replies. "Are you going to renegotiate your contract again? Stay past this season?"
"I don't know," Pep says. José figures, after the amount of times he and Luis gave the same answer, it's safe to assume Pep means no.
part two
Pairing: José Mourinho/Pep Guardiola
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22,570
Summary: The love story of two sore losers.
Author distira
Mixer: meretricula
part i | listen
Benvolgut // Manel
Kiss With A Fist // Florence + The Machine
The One You Really Love // The Magnetic Fields
What Would Jay-Z Do? // Ben Lee
Roll Away Your Stone // Laura Marling (covering Mumford & Sons)
Shut Your Mouth // Garbage
I Think I Need a New Heart // The Magnetic Fields
Paris Is Burning // St. Vincent
You Can't Always Get What You Want // The Rolling Stones
part ii | listen
Truce // The Dresden Dolls
Country Leaver // The Dandy Warhols
The Things We Did and Didn't Do // The Magnetic Fields
Postcards From Italy // Beirut
Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On) // Robert Plant & Alison Krauss
Dearest Forsaken // Iron & Wine
Love Is Not A Competition (But I'm Winning) // Kaiser Chiefs
We Used to Be Friends // The Dandy Warhols
Some Things Don't Work Out // Joe Purdy
part iii | listen
Good Day // The Dresden Dolls
Long-Forgotten Fairytale // The Magnetic Fields
Jerusalem // Mirah
Somebody More Like You // Nickel Creek
Fix You // Coldplay
Bigmouth Strikes Again // Placebo
Antebellum // Vienna Teng
Somebody That I Used To Know // Gotye
No Children // The Mountain Goats
bonus track
Egmont Overture, Opus 84 // Ludwig van Beethoven; Anton Nanut; Ljubljana Radio Symphony Orchestra
download
"Today, tomorrow, and always- I will have Barcelona in my heart." -José Mourinho, 1997
It starts after a loss.
(Really it starts after a win, after they stood from a balcony together and sang the Cant and José watched the score go from 2-2 to 2-3, smiled with victory when he saw Pep raise the trophy; winning for José is a minute spent crouching near the touchline, whispering into Pep's ear what needs to be done. It is sitting in the dugout watching the score change from 2-2 to 3-2, and it is smiling without hidden intentions when the final whistle blows. But the first time they fall into bed together is after a loss.)
"Can you-" Pep starts, in the parking lot. He stops, turns to look at José, and José sees how tired he looks, the purple under his eyes and how his eyebrows are permanently knitted together. Then Pep cracks the tiniest of smiles, his professionalism back in place. "Come to mine for a while? Shouldn't wallow alone," he says, and José isn't sure if he's talking about himself or José.
He says yes, regardless. "I'll follow," he offers, reaching into his trouser pocket for his car keys, but Pep shakes his head.
"I can drive," Pep says, and José hesitates for a second, because he knows what that means; he knows they'll show up to the training grounds in the same car tomorrow.
"Okay," he says, his voice heavy, and the wrinkles in Pep's forehead smooth out almost imperceptibly. José gets into the car.
Pep offers him a drink and Jose accepts, mostly so he has something to do with his hands. They sit on the couch, almost stiffly, and Pep flicks through channels on the TV until he finds the highlights.
José does this every night, watch the Barcelona highlights, but it seems so much more masochistic now, with Pep sitting on his right, visibly flinching for every mistimed pass, every goal against. José ignores it at first, his fingers itching for a notepad so he can start working on how to fix it, how to help pull everything back together for the next game.
"Turn it off," he says eventually, reaching for the remote.
"Why?" Pep asks, but he lets José turn the TV off.
"You don't need to be watching this right now," José tells him. He's not sure if it's the coach in him that's saying it, or if it's the part of him that's concerned by the tension rolling off of Pep in waves. It's possible, he thinks, that the two are one and the same. "That's my job, not yours."
"It is, though," Pep tells him. "My job. This team is my job." José frowns. "To hold things together," Pep clarifies. "I can't do that if I don't know what went wrong."
"You already know," José says, because he and Pep are alike in as many ways as they are different. He knows that Pep catalogues every moment of every match as it happens, just like he does. And then, "hold yourself together first, you look exhausted."
"I am," Pep says, so simple and opposite to everything he says in practices and in press conferences.
"Come on, then," José says, and he stands up first, even though it's not his house. Holds out a hand.
"Why?"
He considers his words carefully. "Taking you to bed," he says after a pause, and Pep accepts the offer, lets José pull him up.
That's as much lead as José allows himself to take. He follows Pep to the bedroom, where he stands quietly and watches as Pep meticulously folds down the bedcovers. He waits until Pep nods at him before even toeing off his shoes, and then he still waits, until Pep takes his wrist and sits him down on the edge of the bed, tugs the team shirt that José's still wearing over his head and settles heavily in José's lap.
It's not needy, exactly, the way Pep presses his face into José's neck and breathes for a second before José cups his cheek in his palm, but he knows that Pep does need something. (He knows that Pep needs a lot more than what José can let him have- Pep needs Barcelona, needs the locker room united and every journalist in Spain forbidden from writing about him, and José can't give him that. All he has is control, and Pep needs that more than José does right now, so José lets him have it.)
Pep's fingers trail across José's torso and José makes no move to stop him when his hands trail farther down, skimming his stomach and scrabbling at his belt.
José lets Pep slide one-two-three fingers into him, and it's only an afterthought that he's hard, a pleasant surprise that he notices when Pep slides his cock in all the way. José's too focused on watching Pep, seeing the tension drain out of his shoulders and watching the set of his mouth become increasingly sloppy, until everything professional has been stripped away and all that's left is Pep's lips, parted in something like want.
Pep comes first, and he settles on top of José again, heavier than before, boneless and sated, until José pushes at his shoulder and he rolls off. He reaches for José's cock, but José shrugs him away, finishes himself off.
"Next time," Pep promises. "Sorry, I should've. Next time."
"Don't worry," José says, because Pep seems to have missed the point. He looks relaxed, though, sprawling on the bed while José slips into the bathroom to clean up.
"The guest bed isn't made up," Pep tells him when he comes back. "I can, if you want, of course. But you could stay here, also."
José stays.
(Pep kicks in his sleep, and José's fairly sure he snores through the night. They don't roll together, instead each talking a separate pillow and a separate side, but when José wakes up, his shoulders are bumping against Pep's, exactly in the middle of the bed.)
At practice the next day, José watches the training drills and doesn't look at his clipboard. He looks at Pep instead, and he can see Pep as if there are strings attached to every player and Pep is holding all of them in his hand, keeping them together.
"The left back, that's the weakness," José says quietly. It's the end of the session, but a few of the players and trainers are still out on the training grounds.
"Van Gaal tell you that?" Pep asks, dribbling one ball along the touchline and carrying another. He's turning in for the evening; José has waited for him to finish his extra footwork drills.
"What? No," José says. "I was looking at film last night. If you can't feed anything down the middle, pull their left back outside of the box, they'll send someone to cover him and you'll have a target for a cross."
Pep nods. "Thanks," he says. Genuine, as always. "Thank you."
José sharpens the crease on the scouting report he's carrying and tucks it into his pocket. They've reached the benches and he's about to head down the tunnel to the offices when Pep speaks again.
"You used to play, didn't you?"
José turns to face Pep, who's holding out the ball he's carrying, offering it to him. "I did," José says. Pep already knows this. It had been a point of contention when José first came to Barcelona, maybe not specifically for Pep, but for most of the team. "It didn't turn out very well."
"Professionally?"
"Yes," José says, a little short. When he doesn't take the football, Pep kicks the one at his feet to José, who steps on it to stop it. He's wearing sneakers and track pants; next to him, Pep is wearing shorts and boots. "In Portugal, for a few years."
"Why didn't it turn out well?" Pep asks. He drops the ball he's holding and jogs back a few paces, gestures for José to pass to him.
"Not fast enough," José says. "And not big enough to make up for it." He kicks the ball back to Pep, who dribbles a few paces and then sends it back to José. They go back and forth for a while, not at pace but not slowly either, until most of the other players have trickled off of the grounds and towards the showers.
"I should go," José says, picking up the ball. "This was- fun, though."
Pep shrugs. "You could've played," he says. "If you'd been here, they would've let you play."
José knows it's true - he's seen the next generation of Barcelona stars playing in the lower divisions and at the youth level over the past year, and he knows that many of them are smaller or slower than he ever was. "Too bad I wasn't here," he says, not as bothered as he might have been three or four years ago.
"We could've played together," Pep says, and he's smiling a little but he sounds almost rueful.
"I was never that good," José says drily.
"Is it hard, though?" Pep asks. "Being around football all day, after-? I couldn't, I don't think. I would want to play too badly."
"It's not," José tells him. "You only have control over the ball, but me? I have control over the entire team. Sometimes the other team, too."
"Oh?" Pep laughs, surprised. "The translator has control over the entire team?" It's not an insult the way it might've been two years ago. They both know José's doing more than translate, these days.
"Well," José says, grinning. He waves his hand dismissively. "I will, one day. Until then, I have control over you, so you'd better go for their left back on Sunday."
Pep shakes his head, smiling. "Using me to play your football for you, yeah? I see."
"You're good at that, I'm good at this," José shrugs. "Of course that's how it is."
When Sunday comes and Pep sends a beautiful, lofting cross over the left back, a gorgeous cross which is picked off by Ronaldo for a goal, José shakes a fist in celebration on the sideline. From the field, Pep turns from the throng of his celebrating teammates and points at José.
Barcelona is full of good players- great players, even, but Pep is José’s favorite to watch. Watching Pep is like watching everything he’d wished he could’ve become as a player, and it should be frustrating -it was frustrating, at first- but somehow, it’s not.
“Would you ever play anywhere else?” José asks, on the way back to Barcelona after a hard-fought away win. It's not entirely hypothetical; he's heard the rumors, keeps tabs of the mess the media has created.
“No,” Pep says. He’s always quiet after matches, José has learned.
“Why not?” José asks.
“Because Barcelona is-" Pep starts, but he stops himself. "I don't know. Maybe I would." He looks at José. "I'm old and injured," he says, only halfway trying for a joke.
"You're not old," José tells him. "You're not even thirty." But Pep shrugs, and José knows that the conversation is over.
“Do you think I should’ve cut inside, right before halftime? I think we could’ve had another goal if I did,” Pep asks. And then, without waiting for José to answer, “Do you want to come to mine for dinner?”
Most of the time, José doesn’t think of his players as existing off of the pitch. (He does think of them as his, though, Pep in particular, even though they’re really Van Gaal’s.) It’s easier that way, to think of how he can use them rather than how they are, and so it’s strange for him to be in Pep’s home, drinking a beer as he watches Pep putter around the kitchen, fixing dinner. It's strange too that he's coming here for dinner after he's come here for sex, but that was different. That was still captain Guardiola, even with his pants kicked across the room, sweating over José.
This version of him is softer, wears sweatpants that sit low on his hips and bag at his feet, and a sweater that looks more like it should be worn with dress pants. He seems small here, not at all like the presence José has come to be able to pick out in a heartbeat on the field or in game tape.
“What are you making?” José asks, leaning against the counter.
“Pasta,” Pep says. “Chicken. Broccoli.” Simple food, José thinks. Athlete food. “You know, most houseguests offer to help,” Pep tells him, turning away from the stove to raise his eyebrows.
José laughs. “We both know you don’t need help.”
“Do you really know that?” Pep asks, but he’s grinning. “I don’t seem to recall having cooked for you before, for all you know I could be a terrible chef.”
“You aren’t,” José tells him, because Pep may not have cooked for him until now, but José knows Pep, knows him the way only someone who has watched him for hundreds of hours picking apart his every strength and weakness can know a person.
And José's right. Dinner isn't terrible, and then, unexpectedly, José finds himself lingering. They sit at Pep's table for an hour after the finish eating, and José is comfortable. He doesn't itch to go back to his own home and watch the footage of the match, content to sit and talk with Pep instead.
"Drink?" Pep offers eventually.
"Sure," José says, and Pep brings two more beers out of the kitchen. They move to the living room, settling on the couch but not turning the TV on, and José stays almost until it's too late to leave.
"You can," Pep tells him. "Stay, if you want."
José knows. "Not tonight," he says, even so, feeling for some reason that it's imperative he goes home.
"Another time, then," Pep says easily. "Maybe I'll have you cook."
José doesn't say 'yes', but he doesn't say 'no', either, and Pep smiles as he shows José to the door.
"No Guardiola next match," Van Gaal says two weeks later, almost in passing.
"Why not?" José asks, because last he knew, Pep was still the captain, still the pivote.
"Another injury," Van Gaal says. "Happened this morning. He's in with the physios now."
The cafeteria at the training grounds is loud. José pokes at his lunch with his plasticware. "How long?" he asks, because Van Gaal doesn't seem overly concerned. José knows that doesn't mean anything, he knows how Van Gaal is, but still.
"We'll know once the physios tell us," Van Gaal says, and that is that.
For the first time that he can remember, José calls Pep before Pep can call him.
"How long?" he asks when Pep picks up.
Pep's sigh comes across the telephone line loud, and José has to hold the phone away from his ear until Pep starts to talk. "This time?" he says. He sounds frustrated. "A few weeks, maybe a month."
"That's not bad," José says. "You'll still get the end of the season, and the World Cup."
"It's not-" Pep starts. José can picture him frowning. "It's just that this is happening again, you know? I thought, the last time, with my calf, that that would be it for the season, I'd at least get to finish it strong."
José doesn't know exactly how to respond, so he snaps into manager mode. "You still can," he tells Pep. "This team will always be waiting for you to come back."
"No, José," Pep says. The particular blend of tired and sad, with only the barest hint of anger, tugs at José's gut. "Barcelona won't wait for me. They're more than that, we both know it."
"But you're the best," José argues. "How can a team be more than that?"
Pep ignores him. José is starting to get used to Pep ignoring him, ending conversations prematurely, and he doesn't like it, doesn't like that he's getting used to it instead of protesting it. "The kid, Xavi," he says. "The machine. He's good."
"Shut up," José tells him. "You're the best, he's not."
"I'm not going anywhere yet, if that's what you're worried about," Pep says drily. "They're renegotiating my contract."
"Oh," José says, and then, "I'm not- I wasn't. Worried."
Pep snorts. "Yes you were," he says. José rolls his eyes even though Pep can't see him.
"Are you coming to practice tomorrow, then?" José asks.
"Yeah," Pep says, serious again. "Physical therapy. Might come sit on the sideline with you."
"Okay," José says. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
A few weeks turns into a month and Pep is still on the sideline with José at the end of training sessions, after he's out of physical therapy. And then a month turns into two and two turns into three, and the end of the season is looming.
"Surgery," Pep says, hollow, in the middle of May.
Barcelona's all but won the league, is going to the final of the Copa del Rey again, and José has no doubt that the team will let Pep lift the trophies for them, even if he's not playing. He knows, Pep knows, and the management knows, that Pep still holds all of the strings, as if he were still in the center of the field, connected to every player. They love him, they'll give him the satisfaction of lifting the trophies and turning to face the crowd as their captain in spirit, if not on the pitch.
He also knows that it won't be satisfying at all to Pep as long as he's not on the field.
"When?" José asks.
"June," Pep says, and it doesn't take more than a second or two for José to realize- the World Cup.
"Barcelona's nice over the summer," he says slowly. He's trying, and it's not something he does very often. "I'll be here, keep you company maybe."
Pep's face darkens slightly. "Sure," he says, and then he walks away, towards the dressing room to leave the training grounds. José feels bad, watching him go, and isn't quite sure why. Or, really, he is sure why, but what he doesn't know is when he let it get this far.
José lives alone.
He likes it that way- he has a nice house not far from the training grounds, and it's not big or elaborate, but it has a TV with a VCR so he can watch game tape late into the night. The kitchen is too big for one person and the refrigerator is always half empty, because José doesn't like to cook, and there's a coffee maker on the counter but it never gets used, because José drinks ice water when he needs to stay awake.
He's not particularly neat- there's always a dish or two in the sink and his shoes are in a heap by the door. He doesn't straighten up for company because he never has company.
As the season winds to a close and the World Cup looms, not for him because Portugal hasn't qualified, but because of Spain, José starts to wonder if he should start having company over every now and then. Except- he doesn't wonder about company, he wonders about Pep.
In the end, he decides- he'll invite Pep over, but he won't clean.
They haven't gotten together like this, Luis and Pep and José, since Laurent left, but they're the only ones really left in Barcelona for the summer, so it seems natural that they all converge at Luis's house to watch the World Cup.
"At least you fucking qualified," Luis snaps when Pep makes a seemingly offhand remark about not being with the Spanish delegation.
"I didn't," Pep protests, but Luis just snorts at him, and that's the end of any serious conversation they have.
"Drinks?" Luis offers, and he pulls out beers for Pep and José before they can respond. "So, France-"
"Has Laurent," Pep says. "And Zidane. They should be ranked much higher."
"But Bergkamp's with the Dutch," Luis points out. "Look at him with Arsenal, fucking phenomenal."
"The Dutch aren't Arsenal," Pep tells him. "Besides, France has the new striker, Henry?"
"You're both ignoring Brazil," José cuts in. "Look at Ronaldo, you've played with him, you know what he can do with the ball. The whole team, what's the nickname? The Samba Kings? They're the ones to watch for."
Luis snorts again, and it goes on like that until they've each made a bracket, taped them to Luis's refrigerator, and agreed upon a substantial sum to the winner.
"Nobody plays a pivote like you," José says, deep in a discussion of midfield tactics after France beats South Africa by three in their opening match. He doesn't mean for it to sting -he means it as a compliment, in all honesty- but the hurt on Pep's face doesn't go away for a long moment.
Luis saves him. "Not even I do," he says. "Maybe, you know, then Portugal would've qualified. Or maybe if this old man had gotten off his ass and actually trained, back in his playing days-"
"As if," Pep says, cracking the hint of a smile.
"Fuck you," José says, without malice, and Luis nods at him from across the table.
Later, on his way out the door, he says, "thank you."
Luis shrugs. "I know what you meant, but. How he is, you know, he just thinks he's not good enough."
José nods. "He is, though. He- I mean, you know it as well as I do, he's the best there is."
"For his position," Luis concedes, winking. "He's not going to take the Spain game well."
"No, he won't," José agrees. "Should we- do this again?"
"I was thinking, actually, that we should just not let him watch at all," Luis says. He raises his eyebrows, inclines his head slightly. "Distract him." José frowns when Luis winks again. "Don't worry, I really mean you'll distract him, and I'll just be here to get him drunk afterwards. Or before, if that'd make it easier." He wiggles his eyebrows.
"I don't understand Portuguese, but I can tell when you're talking about me," Pep calls from the driveway.
"Vanity, thy name is Josep," Luis intones. Pep shakes his head and gets into his car. José turns back to Luis.
"It's not a bad idea," he admits.
"It would be a nice thing for you to do," Luis tells him.
José drives over to Pep's the next afternoon. It feels strange, to go over without tailing Pep home from the training grounds, to be going without an invitation.
"Hi," Pep says, surprised, when José knocks. "Are we- I didn't realize, when is Luis coming?"
"He's not," José says. "Just me."
"Oh," Pep says. "Well. Come in?" He steps back from the doorstep and José goes into the house, toes off his shoes and leaves them next to Pep's. "I was going to watch the game, if you want to watch."
They venture further into the house and José can hear the pundits talking on TV, the pregame show to the Spain and Nigeria match that starts soon.
"I don't want to," José says.
Pep puts his crutch against the back of the couch. "Okay?" he says slowly, turning to face José. José takes a step towards him- Pep looks soft here, younger than he ever does in a Barcelona shirt. He's wearing training shorts and a t-shirt and day-old stubble litters his jawline. José steps in front of him and takes the remote control, turns the TV off. "What-" Pep starts, but José turns around and pushes on Pep's shoulders until Pep sits on the arm of the couch. José slides a leg between Pep's, and the boot on Pep's ankle knocks against his calf, the plastic cold.
It's different than the last time- José starts in control, kissing Pep firmly, sliding his tongue between Pep's lips. Pep lets him for a while, moves his hands up and down José's back, and a swirling sort of want settles in José's stomach when Pep opens his legs further, lets José stand fully between them.
It doesn't last long, though, before Pep tugs at José's shirt, not to take it off but to get José closer, and they both tumble over the arm of the couch. Pep's head hits the cushions and bounces up a little bit, knocks his forehead against José's jaw, and José laughed, surprised.
They go back and forth for a while; Pep's shirt comes off first, but José gets his pants shoved down his thighs before Pep can slide out of his shorts. Their cocks brush and Pep gasps, surprised by the contact when José finally gets his shorts out of the way, and his head falls back against the couch, leaving the expanse of his neck for José to bite. Pep's stubble extends down most of his neck and it scrapes against José's lips, rough, and they feel chapped when he pulls away.
"Lube?" he asks, his hand around Pep's cock, jacking him quickly. Pep grunts.
"Bedroom," he says. José works his hand over the head of Pep's cock, and Pep bites his lip. "Who says you get to top, though?"
"You did last time," José says, giving Pep's cock a last tug before climbing off of him and pulling his pants the rest of the way off before he goes to Pep's bedroom to grab the lube.
Pep's touching himself when José returns, not even looking at the TV or the remote, and José smiles to himself. José coats his fingers with lube and clambers back between Pep's legs. He takes Pep's wrist with his free hand and pulls it away from Pep's cock, wanting to slow things down, make it last at least until halftime. Pep whines but lets him, pulls his hands up to settle on José's shoulders as José works a finger into him. His back arches when José pushes past the ring of muscle with his second finger and his legs fall further apart. José balances himself with his free hand on Pep's ribcage and he strokes the skin there in small circles with his thumb as he pushes a third finger in and opens Pep up until there's a steady stream of half-aborted noises coming from Pep.
José slicks his cock up and rolls on a condom. When he slides into Pep, he does it slow, so Pep feels every inch of him, and Pep takes it until José's in all the way, digging blunt nails into José's shoulders. Then Pep pulls himself up and pushes at José until José is forced to lay back against the arm of the couch and Pep starts to ride him, slow and hard, until José's hips are stuttering up into him and he can't hang on any longer.
He brings Pep off once he comes down, and Pep comes, sticky over his stomach. They don't move for a long minute, until it starts to get uncomfortable, so pep slides off of José and José ties off the condom, goes into the bathroom to clean up.
He's expecting Pep to have turned on the match when he gets back, so he's surprised to find Pep in the kitchen instead, drinking a glass of water and wearing only his shorts.
They don't check the score until well after the match is over, and Pep's face falls when he sees that Spain has lost. José kicks at him, not quite gently, and says, "I'll stay the night, if you want."
"I want," Pep says, so José does.
"Again," Pep says, just shy of a year later. "I need surgery again."
He's been out for almost three months.
José lets out a loud breath and folds the newspaper he's reading in half. "You might want to say specifically that you're getting surgery, in your presser," he says, skimming the article that's next to a picture of Pep. "They're saying you're in treatment for HIV."
"I know," Pep says. He sounds sad, but not particularly concerned.
"You aren't, right? Because I'd be a bit out of luck, you know," José says, dry enough that Pep knows he's joking. Pep just snorts in response. "How long are you going to put up with it, though?"
"With what?"
"With this bullshit," José says. He turns the page of the newspaper, not interested in finishing the article.
Pep sighs. "I'm not really interested in transferring," he says.
"That's not what I asked," José tells him.
"I know," Pep says. "But I don't know the answer."
"You could always follow Luis," José says, glib.
"Is that confirmed?"
"You'd know better than I would," José says. He shrugs, even though Pep can't see him. "His buyout's high enough, though, they don't have the money yet."
"That's not exactly reassuring," Pep tells him. And then, "are you going to stay, even?"
"Not sure," José shrugs. "I've had offers, but all as assistants."
"There's nothing wrong with being an assistant," Pep says. "You're good at it."
José bristles a little. "I know I am," he says. "I want to know if I'm good at being a head coach, too."
"You are," Pep says. He'd know, José supposes; José's coached Barcelona a few times, in cup ties and in the Copa Catalunya.
"So I might," José says. "Leave. If the right offer comes."
One day, billboards of Luis wearing the new kit go up in the city. José passes one as he drives to the training ground and thinks, at least Pep will have his second-in-command. The next day, Luis announces his official transfer to Real Madrid. The right offer, he says in a press conference.
Barcelona calls for blood; José calls Pep.
He gets voicemail three times, and then decides that enough is enough. He stops calling and does his dishes, reads Mundo Deportivo and AS, and starts going through the injury reports for the next match. He has his dinner, has a few beers, and is getting ready to turn in when the phone finally rings.
"Are you staying?" Pep demands when he answers.
"I don't know," José tells him, as he has for the past month.
"At least you're being fucking honest about it," Pep grumbles.
"Are you on a bender?" José asks, suspicious, because Pep doesn't curse often.
"Not yet," Pep says. "Gaspart would love that, if I get hauled out of some club for getting into a fight. Drunk. Better yet, a gay club. That would make his fucking year, then he wouldn't have to try anymore to get rid of me, and everyone would forget about- about Luis. I could just hand him my resignation along with the pap shots. Christ, José."
"Well," José says, speaking slowly, because Pep, when drunk (which is not often), is mostly harmless, but takes a long time to process basic information, "don't do that. Drink a glass of water and get in bed."
"I will," Pep hums.
"And call me in the morning," José adds. "So if you do end up doing something stupid, I can keep your ass at this club instead of on the streets."
"You- thanks," Pep says. "Thanks."
José dismisses him, sends him to bed and hangs up, but he moves the cordless phone into his bedroom and sleeps with it near the pillow, just in case.
"Why would you go anywhere else to stay an assistant?" Van Gaal asks.
"Because," José tells him. "I'll never be more than an assistant here. But if I leave-"
"You might move up," Van Gaal says. "But you might stay an assistant in Portugal, too."
"I won't," José says.
When he leaves, he does it quietly. There's no press conference, but he does call Pep before the news is announced to the players.
"Where?" Pep asks.
"Benfica," José says. "They're not great yet-"
"You'll make them, though," Pep says, and José can imagine him shrugging. "Still just an assistant?"
José bristles at just. "For now," he says, tight. "But you know as well as I do that if I stay here, I could be head coach permanently and I would still just be 'the translator' to half of you."
There's a lull. José bites his lip. "Good luck, then," Pep says, finally.
"You too," José replies. "Are you going to renegotiate your contract again? Stay past this season?"
"I don't know," Pep says. José figures, after the amount of times he and Luis gave the same answer, it's safe to assume Pep means no.
part two