Work Text:
When I Ruled the World
Everything around him was more than familiar to him. Every tile on the floor, every inch of wood, metal, and iron placed down had a history that he could recount. Each step he made down the long corridor reminded him of the moments still alive in his mind. The building had a scent to it; bitingly strong, sweet like a rose, and ever so tempting. The air inside was cool and fresh, just enough to hold off the warmth that tipped toed across his skin.
Upon the walls hung up frames of those he knew and used to know. There were photos of the hard won victories and some of even the most heartbreaking of losses. It was the collective echo of the spirit of the club, of presidents, players, staff, fans, and the stadium, even the training ground that embodied it. Those who were loved here had been decorated all over these halls like monuments. They were emblems of what this club represented.
He dared not to look at the images of himself that were among these portraits. He didn’t want to expend too much energy on reminiscing about his time in the club. It wasn’t something he wanted to delve too much into. Both him being in La Masia, being a player in the first team, and coaching was long time ago. He had undone that belt.
“You will never lose me.”
That’s what he told them all that fateful night. It was not a lie.
What ended up replacing the belt was the noose around his soul that connected him to the club he had loved – still loves – for a lifetime. No matter how far away he was he always kept an eye on them: the people, the team, everything. He had just gotten tired, stressed, and he knew that he had to let them go. He had wanted them to move on, to live on, and to stop taking so much from him, to let him breathe.
As much as he loved them, things were different now.
They aren’t mine anymore, he mused.
The long strides carried him onward in the empty building. It was rare for it to be so quiet especially during the season that was far from being concluded. Well, it was finished if he and the team - his team - he coached now had their way. He didn’t think they’d let him in nor let him be here alone, unsupervised. He had left them. He was pushed out. He was back to take away their chance to win a prize. They could have said no when he requested this, but he deemed the reason was that they didn’t want any news going out to the public about it.
He understood it all too well. Why would there be an official visit? It would only cause problems for his team. Bar- Bayern. There didn’t need to be fan-fare. There definitely didn’t need to be report after report in all the media about him. It should stay quiet. That’s what he preferred.
“I know you. You’re upset. Don’t lie to me, Pep.”
The voice was deep, strong, and urgent. It was searching for the truth. The man who spoke the words looked like he was about to fall and never get back up.
“I’ve always been honest with you. Always.”
That’s what he responded with. He felt the tears welling up inside. They wanted to be released, to be free, but his heart wouldn’t allow it.
“Fine. Then tell me how you feel? I’m their coach now. I can lead them to the title. Tell me, please. How do you feel?”
The speaker’s eyes stung him and made him feel cold. This cold wasn’t one that had comforted him so many times before like a dip into the ocean. He didn’t feel like he was going to float this time. He felt like he could drown. This cold didn’t offer him calm. Instead, it was blistering frigid and dared to extinguish his flames.
But the look was gentle and loving, but in pain, and almost begging him to say the right words.
The problem was he couldn’t say the right words. Couldn’t or wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure.
“I don’t feel anything.”
The regret was instant.
Like a train, it barreled through his body, practically destroying and shutting down all good feelings between them.
The hurt was more evident now in his friend’s features. The man flinched and almost withered as if having gone too close to the sun. His shoulders were almost slumped. His right hand was twitching as his left hand quickly moved up and touched his fragile throat and weakly went back down again.
“I would have thought you’d feel happy for me.”
The weight of the words from that day on had burrowed and burrowed within the very essence of him. They ate away at him, mocked him, and unfolded regret after regret, encouraging the darkness, never letting go of him.
The air was knocked out of him at the sudden memory. He almost tripped over the nothingness before him. He coughed a bit; felt the urge to vomit, to cry out in distress, to shiver in fear, to run in remorse.
“Tito, “ he uttered longingly.
The name was heavy on his lips. It had once been something of complete joy to say, to hear, and to feel. He would utter it in ecstasy. But now it was a nightmare, a virus, and a never-ending trip to the bottom of a well, one where he couldn’t stop drinking from its water of despondency and turmoil. Once the name meant something so alive. Now it was only a depiction of death.
The pride he so fervently held was their downfall. There was no reasonable bit of evidence to prove otherwise. He let it strain one of the most powerful relationships he had ever been a part of. He let it cause doubt between him and the one he had held most dear. He had let the bitterness within him go toward the man that never did him any wrong.
He fanned the flames watched as it melted the pure snow.
He had only led himself to believe that his friend had betrayed him.
The way it went was that he likened himself to King Arthur. His country of Catalonia was Camelot. His bride, his Guinevere, was Barcelona, within it the team, the fans, and the club, and everything else about it. Tito was his right hand man, his partner, his best friend, and his confidant. He couldn’t be anyone in the tale, but Lancelot.
He didn’t believe that Guinevere would do so well without him. He let the dark romantic tale in his mind believe that when he left it would take a bit longer for Guinevere to get over him, to move forward, to believe in herself. Yes, he said that he would always be with her. Yes, he said she would have to move on. He just didn’t expect it to be that quick.
Tito took over, grabbed the reigns with tight fists, and bolstered the team, the essence of Barcelona to the other side. Lancelot had wooed Guinevere; made her fall in love with him. Perhaps more than she had ever loved King Arthur. She mentioned him with adoration often, but she never looked at him the way she looked at Lancelot.
He should have accepted it. He shouldn’t have been so selfish. He shouldn’t have woven that dark tale in his brain. He should have been better to his friend.
If only he had said that he was proud of Tito. Instead of letting his romantic heart dive into a drama, he should have swallowed his notion of grandeur with their club– Tito’s club - and gave more encouragement instead of doubts. If only he had given more advice, more sweet everything instead of bitter nothings. Why couldn’t he have just stayed there with him in New York? If only he had stayed the whole way through instead of visiting just once.
If only he hadn’t let his stubborn pride get in the way.
“He visited me once in New York when I’d just arrived, but during my recovery from the operation I was there for two months and I didn’t see him. He’s my friend and I needed him, but he wasn’t there for me.”
He knew the guilt would never leave him just as the sadness would never go away. They were hand in hand, a constant relentless reminder to him of what he had failed to do.
The beating of his heart was so strong and so quick that it felt like it would beat itself out of him. There was heaviness in his mind and it throbbed as he recalled that particular press conference. He tried to say that the board was trying to pit him and Tito against each other, but that didn’t work. They didn’t need to bring themselves into that tragedy to create a rift.
He had done it all on his own.
In a desperate attempt to escape the memories, he scrambled to the nearest door, desiring nothing but to be more alone than he was now. It had been a long while since he last thought about Tito like this. The ferocity of these thoughts and the pangs against him haven’t been as strong since the day he found out that Tito had died.
You stopped being mine a long time ago, he thought.
He clutched at his sides as if trying to keep what ever was trapped inside from coming out, he turned the handle quickly and slammed open the door. He just needed to breathe. He needed to get away from the walls covered in relics and symbols of things that no longer belonged to him.
Much to his surprise there was someone already in the room. Faced away from him stood a tall man, dressed in a suit, standing straight, feet firmly pushed down as he stared out at the pitch below.
The dark curls on the mysterious person’s head struck him in its familiarity. The way the man stood even was something to regard. He scanned the stranger quickly, noting everything that he could like a checklist in his head: black coat, dark gray pants, sneakers, and no socks.
He debated on whether he should leave or not. He didn’t know anyone else would be here. It’s late in the evening. Everyone was home or at least should be. His fellow staff members were asleep and his players should be asleep as well in preparation for the first big game of two.
He should have been sleeping too. But how could he sleep without the chance of vising this stadium without bother. Well, that was until the waking nightmare started.
He knew he wanted to be alone with the coldness of his thoughts. He had no desire to converse with some stranger.
There are people coming in that I know, he noted. It was like a changing of the guard.
Before he had the chance to turn and walk away, the stranger had spoken in Castilian with a gruff voice.
“It’s beautiful. I had them turn on the some of the lights. I needed to see it before tomorrow. A calm before the storm.”
The realization of the identity of the stranger dawned upon him instantly. He couldn’t forget that voice anywhere. It was too distinct, unique, and very Austurian. It brought him back to days figuring out which verse to read from his collection of Catalan poetry to nights speaking in hushed and rushed voices in Catalan as they examined and explored each other.
“Apparently,” the words decided to come out of his mouth before he could give himself time to think them over. “I’m not the only one that needed to be here.”
Luis Enrique turned to face him. He was dressed in a dark grey suit with a white button up shirt and a black sweater vest. He had paired that with sneakers and no socks with a long black coat. His dark curls were alive. The grey hairs haven’t taken hold yet from the stress of his work. He stood straighter now too. His eyes gleamed in almost a sort of amusement at seeing his old teammate. He didn’t look surprised.
“And here I thought being let in this late at night made me special,” he joked with grin on his face. His eyes were a lit with fire that Pep knew could burn through him. Those eyes haven’t changed. “I guess I’m not that special after all.”
The heartbeats that were in such a rush slowed to a halt. The breath that he was trying to take in fled him and he was once again stuck in a rapid desperation for air. This time it wasn’t because of the pain of his longtime grief. This was because of the fire in the other man’s eyes; flames that matched his own, so very capable of burning things to the ground.
Those eyes were the eyes of a man that always watched him even when the man didn’t think he noticed. They could be inquisitive and soft one moment then at the flip of a coin they would be hard and wild. The dark orbs never failed to both analyze him and draw him in.
As soon as he directed his powerful stare at its target, the receiver would end up being pulled in by invisible rope as the hooks on the end of them dug in, and if one tried to let go, the bleeding would begin.
“Tomorrow will be interesting,” Lucho finally said. The fire in his eyes burned bright as the grin on his face morphed quickly to sucked in lips almost thoughtful and unsure, but then back to a carefree grin, loose and unstressed. “It will be fun even. I’m sure of it.”
It was a strange feeling that he felt. The coldness of the sorrow he held over Tito was still there poking his insides with their sharp edges even as the erratic embers of Lucho’s fire teased his skin. The combination of the two created an out of place feeling inside of him. They were such powerful emotions that he couldn’t combat properly. He didn’t really know when he lived without feeling either.
“It’s good to see you,” he greeted genuinely.
They had bonded rather quickly.
He had been rather intrigued by the younger man. Watching him leave the eternal rival after five years playing for that team to join his club – your club – without a moment’s hesitation sparked the curiosity within him. He fancied himself very good at reading people. All he would need is a few moments to watch and to think. The information would come. It always did.
He had wanted to make the first move, approach the man slowly, and figure out what he was all about.
But Lucho beat him to it.
It turned out the new member was interested in learning about him. The fiery man would always be there to listen, to make a dry joke, and even point out something new. He turned about to be just as clever or even more so than what was originally guessed.
Lucho had always been by his side then. Granted they both had unique relationships with their other compatriots in the team like he had with Mourinho and the other with Figo. But to one another, it was something different. He could only describe how they were with each other to a storm raging with lightning bolts hammering down and thunder clapping.
Tito was not as close to him during that time. He didn’t get to be in the first team with him. But they had always kept in touch. Sometimes they would send each other letters. They would write to each other their daily lives, their routines, and in each post-script they would write how much they missed one another from the other’s voice to the other’s laugh to the other’s touch.
It would have been wiser to not be involved with the impulsive and wildly tempered (at times) man. But there was the void that needed to be filled. It was a pit in his stomach, a hole in soul that even Barcelona itself couldn’t fill. It was something that Tito could help with.
He soon learned that Lucho could help him with it too, and it was comforting, but also bewildering. The news that someone other than Tito could bring out a whirl of emotions and fill up the empty parts of him, soothe the cracks and creaks in his soul astonished him. But instead of an invigorating cold that did the trick, it was the seeping heat that helped.
He was stuck in a sense. Longing for the man that he was without, but desperate for the man that he was with.
The most surprising thing that he found out was that Lucho could read him. Not always, but on rare moments, important pieces of time, he could see right through him and just know. It was uncannily like the way Tito read him. No doubt the older man could tell through any of the five senses that something was off, new, or whatever when it came to him. But it was mostly in the shadows of Camp Nou, overlooking the pitch, that he saw in Tito’s eyes the same look that Lucho would give him.
They both told him that he was a mystery.
And yet still they both – knew, he marveled.
That had frightened him. He liked being unreadable. He preferred keeping things close to his chest. He didn’t want any of his secrets going out. He protected himself so fervently even when he was here at his club – the club – he kept it all within a distance. But they both had a way of egging him on, of making him think of them at the best of times and at the worst of times.
If this were any other time and they were in any other place, they would envelop each other in a hug. They would laugh and let their arms linger around each other. Their bodies touching would stir the heat, and maybe – if it were a good day – they’d mutually be lit.
But he made no move to provide that action and neither did Lucho. It was as if there was this invisible barrier between them. If one made a step too close to what blocked them, they’d be wounded. It felt too treacherous to even attempt getting closer so they both stayed where they stood.
“I’ll admit that I was expecting to be up against you in the final,” he wound up saying to break the tension. The crispiness in the air dissipated and a new stuffiness formed. He placed a hand on the nearest thing to him. It was a rolling chair. He gripped it tightly. “But yet here we are. Tomorrow the fight begins. A child of Catalonia against the adopted child from Asturia.”
Lucho chuckled at the last sentence. He ran his long fingers through his hair, letting them linger a bit at one of his locks, and back down to his side. He moved to shrug, but stopped himself halfway. He laughed again, quicker this time and more forceful. He looked eager to keep the conversation going, and the scrutinizing gaze he sent was in full force.
“Would you care to be the prodigal son returning? That’d be untrue, no?” he said. The fire in his eyes burned brighter, gleamed too with deviltry, and his tone held humor in it. “If that were the case, you’d come back to win trophies for us and not against us.”
Pep wondered if us meant something more than just the club – my club… his club.
He felt his lips almost turn upward and he nodded in acknowledgement. He had thought about returning one day. He figured he would come back to coach again, but not of the first team. Maybe permanently coach the young ones at the farm. Or if he were ambitious enough he’d have tried to become president.
“If the circumstances were like that, you’d give me the trophy tonight. After all, didn’t the father bestow upon his wayward son riches aplenty and a generous amount of other gifts?” he said with humor. His hand that gripped the chair loosened, but didn’t leave. It was like an anchor or a cane. If he let go, he was sure he would stumble. He gestured at his friend with his other hand. “The other son received nothing despite claiming to have worked and toiled so hard.”
The cloudiness in his head was no longer there. The cold lingered though, beckoning him to feed it, to slip into it. It was tantalizing him with good memories of Tito instead of the horrifying ones it gave him earlier.
Lucho let out an even louder laugh. This time it was deeper, guttural too. His laugh made his eyes crinkled, his mouth parted a bit, teeth showed, and his body had spasms. The brown eyes of his were now deep and soft, gentle and smooth, appealing like chocolate.
“You’re holding back.”
He was.
He was getting in too deep. Doing this. Being a part of this. It was too much. He didn’t want to continue it because if it became vital to him, he’d never know how to walk away.
He’d never know how be without the other.
He already has that problem – that was challenging icicle like gift – with Tito. The hardship that came with that relationship was enough to make the world spin backwards for centuries. He didn’t need another pulverizing heat like present that he had with Lucho to adjust to, to support, and to dissolve in not when he was already dealing with the vastness of the chill, of the waves that overtook him when he was Tito.
“You’ll make a great captain, “ he assured.
The board wanted him out. He could hear the rumors. He could feel the stares. His time at the club was ending. He would have to hand it all over to the younger man. That was something he didn’t mind doing. He was proud of his friend and amazed by the skills he possessed.
It was just worrisome that he needed so much from Tito and wanted so much from Lucho.
“Enough shit, Pep. Really. Stop with the drama. This isn’t a play. This involves real lives, damnit.”
The intensity in his eyes was like the bubbling lava erupting bit after bit. They bore into him and scorched him. The volcano was ready to blow.
“This can’t continue,” he weakly said.
He felt the coldness of Tito’s last letter of love in his bones coinciding with the igniting licks of fire that the other man impressed upon his muscles. He wasn’t a man to be controlled. Tito had too much power over him. He couldn’t let Lucho have it too.
“They keep asking me about you.”
Jolted out of the memory, he blinked and readjusted himself inwardly. Looking back at his friend, he tilted his head in acknowledgement. He knew the media wouldn’t stop talking about him. It happened when he had first left and Tito took over, and it happened when Lucho accepted the job. They were unfairly compared to him.
Maybe Guinevere hadn’t really moved on, he speculated even though he knew it wasn’t the case.
“I tend not to look too much into the comparisons,” Lucho continued. The corners of his mouth quirked up and his eyes were darker now, deeper too, inescapable if looked into for too long. “But I’m not blind to it and to what it entails.”
“What about Pep?” they always asked.
“He and I keep in touch.”
That wasn’t a lie. They never sent each other letters. That mode of communication was reserved solely for Tito. No, they sent each other emails. They would always start each message with a “How long has it been?”
“I admire him.”
He had never thought a man like Lucho would ever feel that way about him. They were their own sparks that created flames that spread quickly to the people near them. When they collided, he had suspected they would terrorize each other. He didn’t expect them to become one bursting fire, alike and intertwined.
“If they haven’t figured it out by now. I do it all my way. You did an amazing job here. The shadows you casted are large and ever looming. No one will let me forget it. But that’s okay. I know how I am. I know what I can do.”
Lucho’s tone was a bit low and it was matter-of-fact. His chin was up, jaw set, and his arms were clasped behind his back.
That air of confidence he possessed filled the room. It was magnetic. It had the power to draw people in, claim them, assimilate them to his ideals, and send them out to do battle. He looked like a general ready for war.
“A Champions League final up for grabs by two FCBs, giants among the footballing world,” Pep marveled aloud. The success they both had was worth much applauding. They had led their clubs to great heights. The best club trophy was up for grabs. The legacies would be sealed soon. “One will be triumphant amid confetti and silverware, and the other left to wonder what went wrong.”
He fixed Lucho with a sly look.
“You could be on the brink of a treble,” he said with a wry smile.
He had lived through a treble winning season before. Far off in the wind, into the sun setting over rolling hills, he had been involved with the shocking turn of events. It had come upon them without warning. No one predicted it. No one could imagine the enormity of it all.
He had shared it with Tito in those days. Like a dream, he could sometimes still feel the trail of kisses the night after they won. Skin against skin. He had trembled at the firm touch given to him. Their celebration created a fog around them. Like a hurricane appears when the cold surrounds and joins up with the heat, they fit into each other, seamlessly.
Tito would look him in the eye as he increased pressure. He would feel the man’s hands stroke his face tenderly. He’d hiss at the coolness in the fingertips. He’d just lay there in submission, mouth wet, and eyes eager.
That was when he was mine, he thought.
“The dream continues,” Lucho said, his voice once again gruff and the side of his mouth was twitching. It looked like he had just come out of his own fog, out of his personal wandering. “I have blind faith in my players. I respect you and yours. But tomorrow will be tough for you all. That’s my vow.”
Pep recalled the recent cheers he heard when he watched his old team – your team – play against Manchester City. The exquisite play that he witnessed excited him. They were fluid again, but not like how they were when he was their mister. No longer was the emphasis solely on the coveted tiki-taka. The midfield wasn’t as central as it was before. What replaced it was a more direct approach, grimy and dirty even, less perfect, but all the more volatile. If he were bold enough, he would describe the team as more complete.
In your image, he realized, No longer in his.
The pestering voices of the periodistas rang through his thoughts. They displayed Lucho as a Mordred invading Camelot, slashing at the ideals, corrupting and upending the status quo, converting everything in his own image. King Arthur was dead he would say. The perceived king had abandoned his people
In their dejection he could see what it would become. They’d remember their king like they always would. But they would miss their knight more. Guinevere having gone through so much turmoil would end in the lap of Mordred. She would be hesitant at first, she’d voiced her doubts and would over endless questions, but she’d fall for the intruder (some say the rightful sovereign) and be with him consensually and happily because he reminded her not of the Arthur that left willingly, but of their Lancelot that left without a choice.
Annoyance began to arise within him. The tender wound still attached to him felt irritated by the notion he had just imagined. One of his hands clenched into a fist while the other gripped the rolling chair harder. He felt the pounding in his heart be like drums signaling for the battle to begin.
“I would have that you’d be happy for me.”
The fury within him subsided as he remembered once again Tito’s words that fateful night. He had almost done it again. If he hadn’t been careful, he would have spouted out things that he didn’t mean. He would have perpetuated the dark fairytale he made up. Words are his most powerful weapon and if he had lashed out with them he would have severed another connection.
He didn’t want to deal out the malice. The way he disappointed Tito shouldn’t be mirrored. He had no right to be upset. They weren’t his anymore. He’d feel a part of them always, but they didn’t belong to him anymore. His – the – Guinevere held her head high and found solace with Lancelot and a reckoning with Mordred. Arthur was merely a memory, a good memory, but no longer a present force.
On all accounts this wasn’t his team anymore. He may have left, but the team carried on like always. There was no way he could deny it although that couldn’t alleviate the pain from him though. It still hurt him at times. It was selfish really. Like a prized toy he had played with for so long in the sandbox, he proclaimed loudly that he didn’t want it anymore and put it aside for something else, for something new. But then someone picked up his toy – the toy – he felt indignant and possessive. It was like he refused to share. Like he had chosen to ignore that fact that he was the one that left the toy alone in the first place.
Reminded once more about the bitterness that he had let seep through his skin and ache his bones, he shivered. His head fell downward, eyes closed, and his heartbeat slowed to an odd tempo.
Couldn’t do it for you, Tito, he sadly thought, I couldn’t do it for you.
That was a mistake that he wished he could undo. That wasn’t how life worked though. Once the words come out, it was near impossible to take them back. He would have to live with it for the rest of his existence.
One mistake was made. He won’t risk making another.
“What I said that day. I meant it,” he finally said, carefully and slowly as if with each syllable he was testing the water, wondering if it will boil or evaporate completely. “You’ll do better than me.”
“Of course he can match me at Barcelona. I think very highly of him. He will do a better job than I did.
Lucho’s eyes flashed, almost dangerously. The trademark smirk he tended to have during matches and press conferences was on full display. His shoulders were straight and stiff. His head held high and his hands still clasped behind his back. It was like he accepted the compliment but didn’t want to take too much of it to heart.
“They made the right choice to choose you,” he claimed, full of belief.
“It’s important for Barcelona to have it’s own identity again, a philosophy that we all recognize. I think we will see just that under Luis Enrique.”
The evident pride on Lucho’s face cracked and disappeared. The smirk gone and in its place he bore a small smile, teeth showing after he licked his lips. He looked smug now. His hands no longer were behind him, but one was now holding the back of his neck and the other was stroking the side of his thigh.
“I never needed your approval.” Underneath those words was a strong implication of something else.
“I don’t want to be you.”
Pep regarded his friend with a thoughtful look. The sides of his mouth twitched as he let go of the chair to give a tug to the bottom of his sweater. The response he got was cheeky, filled with the sass that his friend had been known for. It wasn’t ripping in its delivery nor was it forceful in tone. It was like the sensation of a cough or a sneeze, and like the curious shiver one would get out of nowhere. It tickled.
He couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a pretend one. It didn’t hold any secret or bore any ill will. It was free and natural. He felt the laugh cause a flutter in his stomach, like tickles to his side, and be like the insane touch of feathers to his nose. It was uplifting.
“Nothing would faze you like that, Lucho,” he said as his laughter died down. His friend wasn’t the sort to change so quickly, to succumb to the peer pressure. The man was staunch in who he was. He did what he liked without being afraid, without needing permission. “Approval or not, you’d do things your way, and only your way.”
“Five years you wore that shirt,” he whispered from behind and into his teammate’s ear. “Did you feel anything with it?”
His hands roamed the body before him. No grips or pulls were made. There were only pets and strokes acting like extra coal and wood being put into the furnace.
“I did my job. That’s it.” Lucho hoarsely replied defiantly.
His hands gripped the table before him. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His tongue was constantly licking his lips and his teeth. He shoved his bottom against Pep hard then back to his previous position.
“I won’t deny you this.” Pep breathed heavily into the other’s throat. His loins made him want to shake. “Blaugrana becomes you.”
He kissed the neck slowly, one kiss at a time, up and down. His hands gripped Lucho’s hips tightly. After this, he bit his lip and looked at the tan skin. The image of the man wearing the rival’s jersey snaked its way into his mind. The image was powerful enough to make his breathing hitch and afterwards it made him almost snarl.
“Let’s burn the white away then.” Lucho suggested almost cheekily though his voice was heavy with lust.
With that, the wildfire began.
Pep watched the whistle come out of the other man’s mouth. Lucho’s eyes were closed. There was a mischievous smile on his face. It appeared to Pep that he too was thinking of the same moment. He wasn’t sure how it would be so but that’s what his gut told him. The inkling of it stirred his insides. It was incalescent.
“What did you want to find by being here by yourself?”
The abrupt question made Pep lurch as if pushed by an unseen force.
The Catalan words seemingly made the inquiry more powerful. The way it was said was calculating. He was seeking information. The question had probably been in his mind since the two met again. He tilted his head forward and back. The glint his eyes were searing and almost unstable.
“Are you trying to figure out if you still fit here? If they love you still? If there’s still room for you?”
The questions were so much like a slap in the face that it made Pep flinch as each one landed on him growing harder and harder. It became more charring and jarring as each question was unleashed with a flurry. There wasn’t any malice in the other man’s voice, but it was still unnerving.
“Stop asking yourself useless questions.” Lucho carried on. His voice getting stronger and louder at each word he said. He was being firm and resolute. He wanted to get something through. “Stop creating fiction to suit the situation.”
Lucho made one step, and another, he paused, then a few more steps closer. He stopped at the halfway point. He licked his lips twice and bit part of his cheek. He winced at the sharp pain and his hand tugged at his tie. His eyes were now dilated, and his breathing heavy and rapid.
There was a change in the atmosphere. It was the smell. No longer was there a pleasant perfume around them. Instead there was a musky spice invading his nostrils. Before the space surrounding them was light and airy, but now the room was getting dangerously humid, constricting. He felt his shirt cling to his skin, pasted to it by his sweat.
“You’ve had the answers with you all along.”
Pep grabbed Lucho’s tie and pulled the man to him. He was angry. Hurt too. He didn’t want to admit it. He wouldn’t agree. His friend – his something – knew nothing. He wanted to make Lucho shut up. He wanted to not feel this way anymore. He didn’t want someone else’s fire to consume him. He didn’t want the memory of Tito’s water to douse his flames.
He bent his head down. He held his breath. He debated whether to go for a kiss or to go for a choking hold to avoid more words from coming out. The pounding of his chest started again. He took in everything about Lucho’s face; the lines of his forehead, the fullness of his lips, the strong jawline, the prominent nose, the size of the Adam’s apple.
Lucho looked infuriating. It was the challenging look in his eyes. It was shouting out at him. It was dark and mesmerizing. His tongue flickered in and out, tasting the lips between it and the lack of air between them. He was a little shit sometimes. He always did this. Always threw back what he got. He never backed down. He just asked for more, took more.
They were closer than they have been in years. They were nose-to-nose, leg-to-leg, their bodies stiffening at the touch. They couldn’t avoid each other’s eyes. Nor could they avert their gaze from each other’s lips.
“You know nothing.” Pep hissed. He won’t admit anything. Not tonight. It wasn’t that he was in denial. It’s just that he was scared. He was angry. He didn’t want to remember the truth. “You always make it out that you do, but you don’t.”
The look Lucho had on now sent shiver after shiver down his spine. He watched as the other man pulled up his hands and shoved him on the chest. He was pushed over and over, forced to try to regain balance, and slammed against the door. His lower back hit the door handle and he cringed at the sting.
Lucho grabbed his throat and squeezed. Not enough to break anything or to take air out of his throat, but just enough to cause discomfort. Pep felt his friend – his former lover – press his body against him. He closed his eyes as Lucho’s lips clashed against his own. He felt the other’s tongue pushing inward, gliding along on his teeth, and clashing with his tongue.
Tito pushed him onto the bed. The expression on his face was calm, but determined. Tito climbed on top of him, straddling him with his hips. The elder man’s hands unbuttoning his shirt quickly but halfway through grew impatient and just ripped the rest off.
Lucho didn’t stop kissing Pep. He instead pushed his mouth harder against Pep’s. His hand left the throat and went to the coat that he was wearing. He frantically took it off himself without breaking the kiss.
Pep blindly unbuttoned Lucho’s shirt. He kissed back just as hard. He didn’t fight for control as he had done back when they were playing together. This time he wanted to be controlled. He wanted to forget.
Tito’s shirt was off, and so was his. He watched as Tito’s chest rose and fell. The cold touch of Tito’s fingers gave him goose bumps as it rubbed his chest up and down. He tried to squirm, but the power of Tito’s weight didn’t let him.
Lucho pulled back from the kiss. Their faces still close together. Pep felt his haggard breathing increase as his loins burned in anticipation. He went to recapture Lucho’s lips, but Lucho evaded it by turning his head.
Cheeks flushed and breathing erratic, Lucho closed his eyes and sighed.
“I would have been okay with sharing,” he whispered.
Tito laid kiss after kiss on his chest. He let his lips cover every bit of the slightly hairy surface. From down on up, he made his way kissing with lips that were like ice on skin that was burning and from the touch it looked as if they had created steam. Each kiss elicited a moan from Pep’s lips.
Tito stopped before he could kiss the neck. Tito pulled back slightly. His body still on top, but his eyes was looking past Pep’s face into the wall. He was contemplating something.
As if reaching a conclusion, Tito finally said, “I don’t mind taking turns.”
Pep knocked his head against the door in frustration. Why did Lucho have to bring that up now? He didn’t want to think about what could have been shared. What mattered now was putting things aflame.
He raised his hand and cupped Lucho’s cheek. He pressed his bottom half up against Lucho’s and grinded. He hid his satisfied smirk when Lucho let out a moan. He put his hands down, grabbed Lucho’s belt, and undid it. Pushing the man’s pants down to reveal black briefs. He couldn’t ignore the large prize underneath.
Before he could push down the underwear, Lucho slammed his body against Pep. Once again, the door handle dug itself into his back, but the pain was welcomed like an erogenous zone being activated. Pep let Lucho bring his arms above his head. He turned his head to the side to show his untouched neck.
“But that’s not what you wanted,” Lucho growled. He dry humped Pep once before laying his lips at the bare neck. He kissed Pep’s skin all over before whispering, “Because you’re so selfish.”
He let his teeth nip at the neck and Pep felt his eyelids closing and he found himself drifting off to a different place.
Pep shuddered at how quickly Tito removed his pants and then his briefs. He couldn’t help but blush when the man towered over him; a pleased smile on his face as he looked down at what was his.
But then an odd look rushed over onto Tito’s face. It was almost feral. Then before he knew it, Tito had slapped his right thigh and then his left. He winced in pain, but after that, a weird sense of excitement crept over him.
“But you won’t go for that.” Tito said in a raised voice.
Tito straddled him again. He could feel his friend - his lover’s – hardness through the man’s jeans. He pushed his hips up, hoping to feel more the bulge. He was in need.
“Because you’re self-serving.”
Pep was brought out of the haze by a nibble on his ear and a nibble on his neck. This momentary discomfort made him open his eyes and see that he was no longer up against the door. They had move to the glass window that separated them from the seats and the pitch below.
He grimaced at another bite. The pain was sharp and it moved all around his upper body. Reacting to his response, Lucho bit him harder. He felt his hips push up against Lucho’s again. The bite became a kick of adrenalize and desire.
The sizzling fire gave him a frenzy of wants for Lucho.
The numbing water gave him a fever of needs for Tito.
He craved for Lucho to help him get release. He wanted for them to light the match and watch their bodies go up into flames.
He demanded that Tito help him reach his climax. He needed for them to encircle one another and watch their bodies create the hurricane.
He was in love with Barcelona.
He was in love with Guinevere.
But Lucho filled the cavities of his soul.
But Tito filled the holes of his spirit.
“I don’t want to battle a memory.”
“I don’t want to fight a memory.”
Pep gulped at the words.
He watched helplessly as Lucho pulled away from him, grabbing his pants and putting them back on, tightening the belt around his hips. Pep tried to reach out, but Lucho evaded his hand and quickly stepped back some steps, creating such a space between them that Pep felt like Lucho was unreachable.
Lucho looked beautiful especially when untidy. His dark locks were in disarray. His shirt still unbuttoned, tie was still loose, and beneath his pants his bulge didn’t go away. He covered his face with his hands.
“Lucho.” Pep pled. Something was wrong. It was so apparent now. How all of his went down was exactly like it did with Tito. The words were phrased differently, but they meant the same thing. “Lucho.”
But the man didn’t seem to acknowledge his name being called. Hands still covering his face all Pep could see was Lucho shudder once, twice, and a third time until he heard a dismal sound, a sob.
Mordred and Arthur wound up killing each other.
Arthur and Lancelot never saw each other again after the break.
Lancelot and Guinevere held a long romance, but even they were parted.
Lucho shuddered one last time. He slowly lifted his head out of his hands, dropped his arms, and straightened himself. He bent his head side to side, stretching it on both ends until a little crack was heard.
It was his eyes that scared Pep. Seeing what he saw in them frightened him and sent a wave of regret into him. He did it again. It wasn’t what he had planned. He thought he delicately made the right moves. There wasn’t going to be a second mistake.
He put his head down.
Too late, he sadly realized.
Did he achieve something he thought he could never do? He melted Tito’s ice with the brunt of his flames. Now it appeared that he extinguished Lucho’s fire because he didn’t add the fuel. He had now laid witness to the two people he cared – loved – go into ruin because of his choices starting from his inability to look more inward, to be less stubborn, to see past his creative myths and into the realities before him.
One minute I held the key
Next the walls closed on me
And I discovered my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
Turned out the connection to the Coldplay song was a lot stronger than he realized. It was dual in meaning. One part of it alluded to the joy of his time coaching FC Barcelona especially during the treble season. The second part now referred to this, to Lucho and Tito.
Pep felt his chin being held by a hand, strong in grip, and let it guide his head up. The long fingers deftly held him so that he couldn’t look away. His eyes were made to meet Lucho’s, and in them he no longer saw a plane of barrenness and emptiness that had made him panic inside. Now Lucho’s dark eyes held a determination and patience. He even saw a glimpse of something akin to the lust he had earlier. Looking even deeper, to his surprise, there was a bit of fondness too.
“Remembering the past is okay, Pep.” Lucho said softly. “Just don’t belong to the memories. You aren’t theirs.”
He kissed Pep’s forehead. He let his lips linger there for a few moments. He inhaled the scents between them as if documenting the moment for future reference. He looked Pep dead in the eye again. A big, bright smile lay upon his face and it rendered Pep breathless for a moment. He too was searching, looking deep, grabbing all the features and putting it to memory for the future.
Lucho turned from him and walked to the door. He grabbed the handle and pressed down, pulling the door open.
Pep wanted to call out, tell him to wait, tell him to come back, something so he wouldn’t have to be alone. He didn’t mean to do any of it. He was just torn. He didn’t know how to handle it all. He was confused between the reality and his myths.
“Camelot is ours.” Lucho firmly said. He let out a sigh, and continued gently, “When you’re ready, all that comes with her will be yours again too.”
With that Lucho walked out of the room and the door closed after him with a thud. The sound of it seemed to reverberate off the walls over again, getting louder and harder, and then silence.
Camelot is ours, he repeated to himself.
“If I’m ready… If I’m ready,” he said out loud.
The need to see the pitch bubbled up. He needed to see it before the game tomorrow. That’s a reason why he was here. Out there on the pitch was a haven. He would everything out there. He swerved to face the window. He saw the empty seats first, but before he could fully capture the essence of the pitch the lights went out all at once.
He trembled at the darkness. Stuck in the silence he felt the weight of what just transpired laid heavily upon his shoulders. The tension down below hadn’t been fixed either. He was wrapped up in varying states of lust, regret, fear, and love. He was exhausted mentally too. The memories of Tito along with the confrontation between him and Lucho drained him.
La felicitat s'assembla a un monosi'llab.
Before leaving the room, he put on a brave face and looked to his left. There on the wall hung a photo of him and Tito. It was after the game their teams played against each other. It had been months in that time since they last spoke. They were hardly paying the cameramen attention. They were too lost in each other.
Just to the side of that photo was one of him being held up by his teammates. It was his last match. He was looking down at someone below him. It was Lucho giving him the same stare he always gives. That moment was funny. They had almost kissed each other in public in a more intimate way than they were comfortable showing.
Just above those two photos hung a picture of him as a kid carrying a ball. He looked so young and serious even. It was one of his first days at La Masia. He cried that day. He had promised to make his parents proud. He swore to make his country proud too.
“One day I’ll be ready, “ he said quietly.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and walked out of the room. He walked back down the halls with a smile on his face and his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His steps were loud upon the tiled floor and he hummed the Barcelona anthem all the way out of the stadium.
Per la seva senzillesa estructural. Tambe', per la brevetat amb qu`e ens visita la boca.
The End
Thanks again for reading this. Any feedback is welcome!
I still feel a bit rusty writing that’s why this will probably be edited and revised in the near future.