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It was the day after the win vs. West Ham. The Liverpool plane had flown back to Merseyside from London during the night, so the players had woken up just after the team plane had landed.
They would only have a half-day off due to the FA’s abysmal scheduling, so the next day Thiago made his way into the locker room, carrying his boots in hand. As he set his gear up, he noticed that something was different.
It was quieter in the locker room, that was for sure. But there were considerably less people inside it. Only Milner, Gakpo and the fullbacks were there. Come to think of it, there was something even more wrong with it.
Wait a minute.
“Has anyone seen Kostas today?” Thiago asked, sitting on the bench to lace his boots. He groaned when he realized that he’d missed a boot. “He’s not usually late.”
“He’s not usually early, either. But I didn’t see him at breakfast.” Gakpo turned to Milner, who as usual was already pumping weights into the air. “You?”
Milner snorted at the mention of Tsimikas. The two were civil with each other, but that was where the similarities ended. Thiago didn’t particularly mind; it wasn’t like all the Liverpudlians could get along perfectly fine. “I tend to steer clear of Plato Da God. Try the pitch, he might be there.”
Thiago didn’t waste a second to run out to the pitch, hopping on one boot.
*
“Stefanito!” Thiago called out to Bajcetic, running now that he had his shoe on. The youngster sat on the bench, busy with a Etch-A-Sketch he’d found during a basement clear-out of Klopp’s old stuff. “Have you seen Kostas around here?”
“Oh, Tio Kostas? He’s right here!” Bajcetic pointed to the group of players warming up for training, running in circles. “I can definitely see why you didn’t see him, though.”
Thiago raised an eyebrow. “Eh?”
Bajcetic nodded, putting away the Etch-A-Sketch. “He’s been quiet the whole training. That’s why Milly’s so happy today. I think even the boss is surprised that Kostas hasn’t said a word.”
That was Thiago’s red alert—no pun intended. Tsimikas was a constant chatterbox, like Elliott and Robertson. So much so, that the team joked that Tsimikas, Elliott and Robertson could be the only ones talking in the building and it’d still be too loud. So Tsimikas, quiet? Something was definitely wrong.
“ Thiagooooo, Thiago Alcantaraaaa! Buenos días, mi amigo!” Klopp seemed to be in an exorbitantly good mood that morning. Thiago could see why—Liverpool had shown a scrappiness and fight that they hadn’t shown for months. “Why the long face?”
Thiago was just about to ask Klossner about Tsimikas, but a part of him decided against it. The Liverpool boss had been drained lately to the point where he’d forgotten what day it was, and Thiago just didn’t want to ruin his manager’s happiness. “More importantly, where did you learn Spanish from?”
“Seriously Thi, I’m surrounded by Pep, Claudio and the Latino Reds! I’m bound to pick up some Spanish eventually. Speaking of which.” Klopp pulled Thiago closer to him, pointing to a cluster of players training in the center. “Could you do me a favor and check on mini-Darwin? I tried to ask him if he was alright, but he just nodded.”
“Sure.” With that, Thiago sprinted towards the group of loudly chattering players. “Hey, bros!”
“Oi, mate!” Robertson yelled even though he and Thiago were only five feet away from each other. The Scotsman currently had Mo Salah wrapped in a hug from behind, even when the Egyptian had the ball. “Trentski and I were just talking about our assists tally, and sweets, and the importance of nachos in this world! We asked Kostas about balaclavas, but he won’t answer.”
“It’s baklava, how many times do I have to say this?” Salah rolled his eyes, turning to Thiago. “Might want to check on him.”
“Kostas, you good?” Thiago ruffled Tsimikas’ hair, currently tied in a man bun. “Why aren’t you talking to us?”
Tsimikas shrugged wordlessly, turning his attention back to the ball that laid at his feet. Thiago noticed that his ball control skills were sloppier than usual, and Tsimikas himself seemed to have problems standing straight.
“Maybe he needs some cheering up!” Robertson announced three milliseconds after Tsimikas’ lack of response. “Hit it, Trentski!”
“Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did! Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid! I'm still standing, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Robertson and Alexander-Arnold sang loudly and off-key, yet with plenty of passion thrown into it. This earned them plenty of looks and poorly muffled snickers from their teammates.
“ I’m still standing! What do you think, mate?” Robertson shouted literally three centimeters away from Tsimikas’ ear. “Did we nail Sir Elton John or what?”
“I-I—” Tsimikas suddenly slumped on Thiago’s shoulder, holding onto the Spaniard for dear life. He never finished his sentence.
Time slowed to a dreadful pace as the others called over the medics, alerting the team of what happened. Somebody pulled Thiago away from Tsimikas’ limp body; he wasn’t sure who, but Thiago thought he spotted gray.
By instinct, Thiago looked for Bajcetic. He found the youngster clinging to a body much taller and larger than his; presumably one of the goalkeepers, since Thiago spotted a white and black glove. With that secured, Thiago resigned himself to being held back by one of his teammates, pleading to all the saints that Tsimikas was alright.
*
Salah had been the first to notice that Tsimikas was losing consciousness. Before he could say anything, the Greek had passed out in Thiago’s arms, which were only frozen in place by shock.
Luckily Klopp, Firmino, Dr. Power, and the O’Haras had been chatting on the sidelines, presumably about Firmino’s latest injury. When Alexander-Arnold screamed that Tsimikas had passed out without any current reason, the whole training ground sprang into life.
The players worriedly milled around Thiago and Tsimikas as Dr. Power meticulously checked for any signs of concussion, heart problems, or breathing problems. Thiago cradled Tsimikas in his arms the whole time, only letting go of him when the O’Haras checked for spinal alignment.
Finally, the medics deemed Tsimikas safe for movement. Klossner motioned for the players to clear the path as they brought Tsimikas inside on the stretcher. A rightfully worried Bajcetic had been guided inside by Alisson. Thiago would’ve followed Tsimikas to the examination room, but currently Milner held the midfielder back, who struggled and thrashed against him.
“Thi, listen to me!” Milner finally managed to make Thiago stop thrashing, pinning his arms to his side. Gakpo dragged up a chair, and Milner eased Thiago into it. “Kostas is going to be alright, okay? The medics said they couldn’t find anything serious, and you’ve got to trust them.”
But Thiago wasn’t listening. He’d been in a catatonic state of shock ever since Tsimikas had gone limp in his arms. Klopp had to pry the tearful Spaniard from Tsimikas, and Milner took over when Klopp was called in by the medics.
“ ¿Por qué no dijiste nada, Kosty? ¡Podríamos haber evitado esto, maldita sea!”
Firmino stood next to Thiago, holding a box of tissues. Thiago rocked back and forth in shock before he latched himself onto the Brazilian, his slender frame shaking as Firmino held him close. But Tsimikas was a good friend of Firmino’s, and it didn’t take very long before Firmino himself lost composure.
Robertson joined in on the hug, then Alexander-Arnold. Without any prompting, the Liverpudlians surrounded Firmino and Thiago in a thirty-person group hug. Nobody said anything; all the communication they needed was done by touch and by mind, almost telepathically.
“Boys!” Klossner sprinted back onto the pitch. His hair was ruffled by the wind and his coat and hat were gone, but otherwise the German looked somewhere near normal. “Kostas woke up. He’s in one of the single bedrooms, but,” he glanced at the players, “only one at a time for visitors. He’s got a booming headache that’ll only be made worse if thirty of us are talking at the same time.”
“Go ahead, Thi.” Firmino guided Thiago towards the door, ruffling his newly-grown hair. “I think you need to see him more than I do.”
*
Tsimikas had never felt this bad before. His head just wouldn’t stop hurting, no matter how tightly he closed his eyes or switched positions. His whole body felt sore—though that was to be expected after waking up on a gurney with one doctor, three medics and a very anxious manager watching his every move.
Now he lay in a much softer, much quieter single bedroom. The Liverpudlians only used these rooms if somebody was infectiously sick or desired private time, and they generally slept together. But as Tsimikas looked around, he noticed that his catfish plushie, Ioanna, was already by his side.
Weird.
“Took you long enough to wake up.” Thiago appeared within Tsimikas’ line of vision. His eyes were red and he clung to Tsimikas perhaps a little too tightly, but otherwise Thiago seemed okay. “You scared us back there, mi amor. ”
“Shut up,” Tsimikas drawled, reaching his hand over to gently smack Thiago on the shoulder. “I’m okay man, no need to panic.”
“What happened?”
“Medics said I'm not sleeping enough," Tsimikas whispered, sinking further into the pillows. The mere fact that Tsimikas was whispering told Thiago how bad the headache was.
" Te callas ." Thiago leaned against the pillows, untying Tsimikas' hair and spreading it over the cushions. "Let me take care of you. What you need is sleep, and I'm making sure you get it. Not painkillers, though that would help some of it."
Tsimikas visibly relaxed when Thiago's hands touched his skull. "How's Stefan?"
"He was worried about you, but Ali took him inside. Knowing those two marshmallows, I'll bet that we're going to find them with hot chocolate very soon." Thiago smirked at the thought of the two bonding over hot chocolate, obsessing over any picture of baby red pandas that they found on the internet. Alisson was twelve years older than Bajcetic was, but the two already had more in common than either would admit. "What about a lullaby?"
Instead of responding, Tsimikas rolled over until he was leaning on Thiago's shoulder. Thiago noticed that the Greek's hair trailed behind him like one of those models in the L'Oreal commercials, even better than Haaland's. An odd thing to notice considering their positioning and state, but nevermind that.
"Arrorró mi niño, arrorró mi sol,
Arrorró pedazo de mi corazón.
Este niño lindo se quiere dormir
Y el pícaro sueño no quiere—”
A loud, disturbing snore cut Thiago off. But for Thiago, the sound of Tsimikas sleeping was music to his ears.