Chapter Text

“I’m not going into my room! The office is just fine, and it’ll be so quiet without you boys around,” Klopp protested, holding onto the doorframe of the cafeteria. “Where will you be?”

“On the pitch,” Milner stuttered. To say Klopp’s clinginess was shocking would be an understatement. “But we’ll come check on you. Do you want anything?”

Klopp shook his head listlessly, leaning against the wall. Milner was alarmed by his manager’s lack of energy, but at least there was a reasonable explanation. “Do you want anyone?”

Instead of responding, Klopp took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Milner. “If it makes you feel any better, Milly, call this number. It’s one of my trusted contacts. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

Milner took the piece of paper, shaking his head in wonder. “All I do every day is worry about you.”

*

Two hours later, Milner couldn’t take it anymore. The number of excuses to get off the training pitch saw a trifold uptick from the usual. And apparently Kirkby had become more hazardous than usual, because every time somebody left the pitch, two or three would follow him “just to be safe”. In other words, with Klopp out sick and alone in his room, nobody could focus on training.

Twice, Milner had accompanied the others to go check on their manager. Even though they could only see him from the crack in the door, it was obvious how miserable Klopp was, lying listless on the couch. Normally Klopp was very active, and the lack of action was clearly getting to him.

Since Klopp didn’t keep toxic contacts around him, Milner decided to swallow his pride and call the mysterious phone number. He punched the digits into the dial and waited for a response. As he did, he couldn’t help but wonder who the contact was.

Maybe it’s Tuchel, or Jesse Marsch. I like him. Or maybe it’s even the ex vice manager. But why would the boss still have his phone number? Maybe they’re on better terms than I thought…

“Hola, qui és aquest?”

Pep freakin’ Guardiola. “Okay, hold on, I think I have the wrong number. You’re Klopp’s trusted contact?”

“ Well, when you word it that way Milly, I guess you could say we go a long way back. What do you need?”

Milner sighed in defeat. “The boss’s down with a cold and he’s clingy as a refrigerator magnet. He said to call you if it makes me feel any better.”

“ And does it?”

“Of flipping course it doesn’t. But just come anyways, okay? If the boss is acting like a refrigerator magnet I don’t need to be a nearby fridge.”

He could hear the uncertainty in Guardiola’s hesitant “okay”.

*

If Guardiola hadn’t seen Kirkby’s construction plans from the start, he wouldn’t know that Klopp had a whole bedroom in the building. It was that hidden away, and the German preferred to spend the night in his office anyways.

But Guardiola knew that if he left Klopp in his office, he would end up working or worrying about work. Neither of those were a good idea; so with some difficulty Guardiola coaxed Klopp to lay on the couch.

“Well, at least you’re laying down,” Guardiola sighed, leaning against the bed. “But honestly, I much prefer you in bed.”

Klopp choked on his glass of water, staring at the Catalan manager as if he’d donned a Real Madrid kit. “ Pep!”

“Okay, so this got off to a terrible start,” Guardiola admitted. He grabbed a blanket out of nowhere and tossed it over Klopp, frowning when he realized that it was too small. “Are you hungry?”

“Now that you mention food, and considering how good of a cook you are…” Klopp nodded, wincing as he flopped back onto the pillows. “Sorry, my head is killing me. But do you have to leave?”

Guardiola shook his head “Unless you have a kitchen inside your bedroom I so, so, so need to go down to the cafeteria. But I’ll be right back, okay?”

“I thought you were a defensive midfielder,” Klopp joked half-heartedly. His blue eyes lay dull and paled, but still had a spark in them. “Now you’re going to be right back?”

“Shut up, idiota,” said Guardiola in his best tone. It actually didn’t come out bad. “I’ll be up with something soon.”

*

To Guardiola, the international break couldn’t have come soon enough. He loved the beautiful game, but even he needed a break from his players. A stark contrast to his German counterpart, who loved his players to death.

So after the players had left Manchester to go on holiday or with their national teams, Guardiola had returned to his own house. He practically lived in the office nowadays, hypothesizing over any random idea that came to mind and talking for hours in random chat rooms about football tactics. 

And since he barely spent time in his own house, Guardiola had zero idea about how Kirkby was arranged. It was by sheer luck that he ended up standing in front of his pantry, wondering what he could whip up quickly—but not too quickly, so Klopp could get some rest. It was mainly canned and dried food inside that particular cabinet, so there wasn’t much to experiment with without making a fool of himself. But there was pasta.

It was by sheer coincidence that Guardiola knew about some of Klopp’s quirks. Years ago, Bayern had been in Dortmund to play one of the local teams as a friendly, when Guardiola had grown restless during the night. He’d decided to take a walk and, after getting lost in a residential area, ended up knocking on a random house’s door. That house and door just happened to belong to Buvac, where Klopp was recovering from a cold. Klopp had refused to pry himself from Buvac the whole time, protesting whether Buvac moved as much as an inch away from him.

The pasta boiled relatively quickly—it was couscous, after all, also known as acini de pepe in Italian. Football wasn’t Guardiola’s only passion; he’d secretly taken cooking lessons at Le Cordon Bleu during his sabbatical. It was the only time he’d willingly went to the city of Madrid without the thirst of revenge.

“Jurgen? I’ve got the pasta ready!” Guardiola called into the room. “Jurgen? You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

He turned towards a pile of pillows that hadn’t been there before. Suddenly getting an idea where his charge might be, Guardiola knocked off a bunch of pillows from the pile, revealing a certain German curled up in the middle.

“Let me guess,” Guardiola chuckled, tossing the pillows back on the bed. “Your players took it upon themselves to bundle you up properly?”

“More specifically, some of the boys checked on me.” Klopp yawned, prying himself out of the pillow pile. Guardiola noticed that some of the color had returned to Klopp’s face, and his eyes seemed more lively. “I couldn’t sleep at all, and they wrapped me up in pillows and blankets since they couldn’t hug me for contagion reasons. They’re too nice sometimes. Where were you? Is that couscous? I sure hope it’s not dry. I remember Tacito tried to make couscous after Morocco beat Spain in the World Cup, and I can’t remember how many hot chilies he used…”

“You’re telling irrelevant ancient anecdotes again. You’re definitely on the mend,” Guardiola decided, setting the bowl onto the table. “Are we sure this is a cold?”

“Well…I was taking a walk last night to the beach, to destress,” Klopp admitted. “And it might have started to rain?”

“The weather forecast was right!” Guardiola whipped out a notebook, furiously scribbling in it and gesturing in the air. “Based on your symptoms, the weather forecast, your previous activities and the rate of recovery, it is clear to me that you are suffering a combination of rain-related lethargy; a short-onset waterborne virus; and weakened immunity due to a seasonal frigid climate and general cumulative everyday stress.”

“Awesome, could you tell me that in German?” Klopp joked, staring bewilderedly at Guardiola’s notebook. “I might have wanted to be a doctor at some point in my life, but it doesn’t mean I understand that.”

Guardiola shook his head, sighing in exasperation. “Basically, you’re sick because you caught a small cold in the rain. The reason it made you feel so miserable is because your immune system was low, due to the cold temperatures of winter and stress.”

“So if I’d stayed inside last night, this wouldn’t have happened?” Klopp groaned, dramatically flopping against the couch. “Fantastic.”

“You would’ve gotten sick anyways, with all the stuff you’ve been handling at once,” Guardiola pointed out. He took a seat on the other side of the couch, setting a box in between them. “Now do you want to play chess? I always wanted to play chess with a tactical master on my level.”

Klopp shrugged, hoisting himself to an upright position. “It’s better than laying around all day. But are the boys—”

“There you go, stressing out again. Milner was right when he said you need to learn self-care. Your players are fine Jurgen, I checked on them while the pasta was cooking.” Guardiola pushed the chessboard towards Klopp, wringing his hands together in anticipation. “Now, black or white?”