Chapter Text
Thomas Müller was furious. That was the best way Mané could put it.
The German, currently captain of Bayern Munchen, was one of the mellowest people he'd met. If he wasn't laughing, he was chilling. If he wasn't chilling, he was being the dad figure to the youngsters on the team. If he wasn't being the dad figure, he was helping the youngsters sneak ice cream before a match, or joking with Neuer, or something like that.
To put it shortly, seeing Müller with any negativity was a shock. He always seemed to be chipper, even in the worst situations. But after the loss vs. City, Mané found his best friend standing in a corner of the hallway, speechless. And speechless was a word one did not use to describe Der Raumdeuter .
Müller was so rarely down, that Mané didn’t even know what to say to him. Neuer, who’d been at the club since forever like Müller, was the safest choice, but he was currently back in Germany recovering from a broken leg. So Mané decided to do the next right thing and find one of the few Bayern players who’d given a damn about Ederson’s clean sheet.
“Leroy!” Mané burst into the shower cubicle, startling Sané from his post-match shower. “I need your help.”
“No, I need your help. Without you in the second leg Ederson could get a clean sheet for the whole tie!” Sané groaned loudly, working the vanilla-scented shampoo throughout his hair. The stormy conditions had ruined everybody’s hairdos, even Tuchel who’d worn a hat through the whole match. “Kinda dumb for the coach to put me as the focal point when I’m playing against the goalie who watched me develop into the player I am now.”
“I’m not talking about the game. Well, kind of. Point is, Thomas is standing in the hallway like a statue and I don’t know what to do.” Mané closed the shower door behind him, not minding the sprays of lathery water spotting his shorts and face. He’d have to take a shower anyways, after this.
“I’ve been here for nine months now and I’ve never seen Raumdeuter this upset about anything. Not after the World Cup, not after Manu’s injury, not after we slipped to second place for the international break.” Mané grabbed Sané by his bare shoulders and came closer, boring deep into his brown eyes. “Please, Leroy? I know I’m older, but you’ve done this before. I need this, I need you —”
“Sadio! Geez, enough man. I’ll help you.” Sané pried Mané’s hands off his shoulders, stepping away. “Just wait for me outside, okay? I’m in my birthday suit and you aren’t exactly dressed.”
Mané stared down at his body, only clad in shorts and a thin matchday jersey, and blushed. “Hehehe…sorry.”
*
After ten minutes—how long did it take to wash hair?!—Mané and Sané went to find Müller. It wasn’t all that hard; Müller had stayed in exactly the same place that Mané had found him. Yet another Bayern red flag.
“Thomas, there you are!” Sané spoke first, popping up literally five inches away from Müller. “The corners here are pretty cozy, but it’s time to move on, man. Our team needs you.”
“That’s right.” Mané stepped out from behind Sané, flanking Müller. “Plus, you didn’t play too badly. We got better when you came on, the team needs you here.”
“If the team needed me, then would I be put on with eleven minutes to go?” Müller huffed, shaking his head. “Thanks for trying guys, but I’ve got to accept the facts. I’m getting too old for this.”
Mané gasped, stepping back in surprise. “You always say that you’re an immortal being, Thomas.”
“Probably just another self-lie.” Müller sighed in dismay, gently nudging the two away from him. “I’m going to take a walk…clear my mind a bit. Tell Yann to host the team talk.” And, perhaps faster than it took Müller to become a World Champion, he was gone, striding down the hall.
Sané shook his head, watching Müller’s hasty exit. “Poor guy. He’s got his self-confidence shot down to zero.”
Mané hummed, thoughtfully stroking his chin. “I’ve seen this before. And I think I know the cure.”
*
“Sadio!” Klopp cheered from Mané’s laptop screen. Sané nearly fell out of his chair, so much was his surprise at Klopp’s energy level. “You played like a king today.”
Mané rolled his eyes, but the huge grin on his face betrayed him. “I was only on the field for eleven minutes.”
“Eleven minutes that were far more attractive than the rest of the match! No wonder, with the camera panning to that under-grown stick thing for twenty minutes straight—”
“His name is Bernardo, and it was only twelve seconds,” Sané argued. “And he’s not that bad looking…okay, he is.”
“But enough of that onager!” Elliott popped up on the screen, shrieking in delight when he saw who it was. “GUYS! LADS! MATES! ONAGERS! SADIO’S ON THE PHONE, BABY!”
“Language!” Thiago yelled, walking into the room hand-in-hand with Tsimikas. “Stefan’s here.”
Bajcetic stared up at the screen, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard Harvey saying that before in the academy.”
“Harvey Daniel James Elliott, I will kill you!” Milner rushed into the room with a baseball bat, promptly dropping it when he saw who was on Klopp’s big screen. “I feel sorry for you, man. You went from one dumpster fire of a defense to another.”
Sané stared at Mané. His jaw had long since dropped open, and Mané could’ve sworn it would stay that way forever. “ This is where you came from? And you haven’t blocked their numbers yet? They’re insane!”
“Come on Leroy, I love them!” Mané protested. He smiled as he watched the kids shout with joy, pointing to his image on the other side of the screen. “And they love me. Any other reasons you think I should block them?”
“Dunno.” Sané shrugged, pointing to the corner of the screen. “But Alisson is hugging the screen.”
“The next great technological breakthrough,” Alisson announced, stepping back from the screen, “will be when people invent a screen that you can hug people through.”
“I agree, and that’s why I called you guys!” Mané grew serious, holding up a picture of Müller running around and acting like a nutcase. “Thomas hasn’t been doing too well after the match. He looks like he could use some love and appreciation. So…can Thomas, Leroy and I visit Kirkby? We already talked to Tritte, and it’ll only be us three, I promise.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Klopp stood from his chair, literally bouncing in place. “Get your butts on the nearest flight to Liverpool, I’ll pick you up! Your game’s on Saturday, so you can leave Friday morning, and then we’ll have so much fun together and—”
“Less talking, more walking!” Milner yelled, clapping his hands together. “We’re hanging up now, you two. First flight’s in an hour and we’ve already booked three tickets.”
“ That fast?!”
“What can I say? We’re excited to see you.” And with that, the screen turned off.
Sané turned to Mané, still confused as ever. “Are you sure about this, Sadio? Your old teammates look like a group of lunatics led by an even worse lunatic.”
“Trust me, Leroy.” Mané took his suitcase from the floor, opening the handle. “I know these guys better than the back of my mom’s hand. And it’s impossible to feel bad around them for two minutes.”
Mané and Sané opened the door of the room next to theirs. Müller had buried his head into the pillow, lying on the bed like an inert log. “Thomas! Pack your bags!”
Müller didn’t look up from his pillow, or even stir. “For what, retirement?”
“ Nein , Dummkopf !” Sané had already hauled Müller’s suitcase from the closet, stuffing every garment in sight inside of it. “We’re going to the AXA.”