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1
The whole team gets called in for an assembly in the conference room about fifteen minutes into training, but, to be honest, it’s a waste of time.
Someone from staff takes an awfully long time setting up a microphone and a video screen, and while the team is waiting in stubborn silence, Philipp can’t make himself look into anyone’s eyes. Instead, he stares at the empty chair on the left side of the table, a few seats away from him.
Side to side with it sit Thomas and Manuel. Manuel is leaning against its armrest, his hand spread into the empty space, as if trying to cover or compensate for the lack.
They’re going to have to get used to it.
That’s what goes through Philipp’s mind: they’re going to have to get used to it, they’re going to have to rearrange, they’re going to be asked about it after the next match, and they’re going to have to have an answer.
Philipp has to have an answer. And that’s just unfair, considering that Bastian never even let him know what the question was during the past month. Philipp feels let down, and sure, he said that he wasn’t planning with Bastian for the next season - but that’s the kind of shit you say in front of cameras.
Suddenly it makes sense that they hadn’t talked much, when Bastian had obviously been busy preparing to flee across the Channel without as much as a single word to anyone. At least that’s what Philipp hopes, selfishly. It would just make it all worse, if Bastian had decided to tell somebody else before him.
Philipp tears his eyes away from the chair, and the first person they land on after is Robert, who’s sitting next to Philipp.
Robert‘s face is blank, like everyone’s in the room, but when he opens his mouth to speak, a hint of curiosity crosses his face.
He doesn’t get to say his part though, because Guardiola gets up and announces the news. Not a word from Bastian himself. Afterwards someone else from the management board comments on it, using a mellow funeral voice, and all Philipp can wonder is when the hell they had the time to edit the farewell video that’s flickering over the screen.
There are scenes from the league, mostly goals and celebrations, but some in black and white as well, like Philipp consoling Bastian after the lost Champions League final. Nothing from the National Team, no, wait, there’s Bastian lifting the World Cup. Bastian weeping for joy.
It’s only missing slow piano music put over it, Philipp thinks, and it’s Xabi who says it out loud, Spanish accent and everything. It’s not funny. It probably wasn’t supposed to be.
When the video ends, nobody knows what to do. Philipp finds the others helplessly looking around, until Thomas slowly raises his hand. He never waits before he speaks up, so he’s either doing it because he’s seriously touched – or taking the piss. Philipp wouldn’t bet on the former.
Guardiola looks Thomas dead in the eye, says, “So that is all,” and walks out of the room.
So that is all. Just like that.
Philipp puts his hands on the table flat and pushes himself up. The slapping sound is loud in the otherwise hushed room, and he can feel all eyes on him.
“Training now, then the presentation” he addresses the others, half-surprised about his own emotionless voice. “Stop looking like someone died, for God’s sake.”
Holger’s shoulder slump and he mumbles something when he walks past Philipp on his way out of the room. The rest of the team doesn’t look much happier, and even the newer ones, who might not really understand, still get it.
Philipp doesn’t follow the order though, perhaps because he’s not in a state to believe in any of his own words right now. He slowly walks back to the dressing room, eerily feeling like he’s wading through water. His feet lead him down the hallways he has walked a thousand times before, past the red-framed windows through which he can see Thomas talk at Javi animatedly, past the printed canvases of his own face, of Manuel’s face, of Thomas’, of Basti’s.
Philipp stops dead in his tracks, still staring ahead, perceiving the blurry red and skin-colour of the portrait only out of the corner of his eyes.
He doesn’t dare to look, for the foolish reason that he’s afraid that Bastian might look different on the picture now, but he also feels unable to move, stuck in a place where Bastian is still here.
A voice behind him frees Philipp out of his rigour then.
“Philipp, hey. Hey. Can I talk to you?”
Philipp turns around to face Manuel striding towards him with a desperate look on his face. As soon as Manuel is close enough, he puts his hand on Philipp’s shoulder in what is probably meant as a consoling gesture.
“Don’t,” Philipp says and shakes off the hand.
Manuel looks taken aback, and Philipp understands his uncertainty. He’s rarely ever seen Manuel seem as small as he does now, as he slowly nods and kneads his hands.
“Did Bastian tell you?” Manuel asks, almost pleading, as if any answer could fix this. Philipp wants to howl. No answer can.
“Well, what do you think?”
Manuel stares in surprise. It was a rhetorical question, but apparently it didn’t come across as such.
“He didn’t tell me,” Philipp says gently. He’s being careful for Manuel’s sake, not his own.
“He didn’t? I’m so sorry,“ Manuel says and Philipp thinks, you sure are. “But – why not?”
“Why didn’t he tell you, huh?”
“I guess,” Manuel replies after a moment of silence, “I guess, I never asked.”
“There’s your answer then,” Philipp says and opens his arms. Manuel doesn’t hesitate to take the hug.
2
Later, at the press conference, Joshua can’t keep his mouth shut long enough and not half an hour passes, before the definite news it out.
Bastian Schweinsteiger is leaving Bayern Munich for Manchester United.
An FC Bayern team presentation without him seems impossible, but it’s laid out in front of everyone’s eyes - the smoke, the beats, the piano, the ball tricks. It works well enough.
It’s not like Bastian never gets in touch. He does the same day actually.
The minute Philipp sits down in his car after training, clenched jaw, his phone buzzes. For a cold second, Philipp figures it’s just another call about the transfer, but when he checks the caller ID, it’s like a smack to the face. Basti.
Philipp slides his thumb to answer the call with the dawning realisation that he doesn’t even know how many miles there are between them right now.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Philipp says, before Bastian can even get a word in. “It’s okay.”
Bastian breathes out audibly, and it sounds like relief.
“I had to,” Bastian says, a tired edge to his voice, “I’m sorry about everything, but I had to. I just couldn’t - I just - I.”
Bastian stumbles over the words, and Philipp listens to it, listens until he settles on a different sentence. “You know me. I could try to explain, but you, you know me. I didn’t want to leave like this and you know I mean that. Can you pass that to the rest of the team?”
Philipp doesn’t say yes or no. He stares at his own reflection in the window of the car and it feels like watching a stranger holding his phone and pinching his nose. “Where are you?”
“Not in -- I’m still here. In Germany. Until my flight leaves.”
Not ‘home’. Not in Munich then.
They have a game tomorrow. The thought appears in Philipp’s head out of nowhere, but it leeches on to his mind. It’s just the Telekom Cup, but usually he’d be talking to Bastian about it. Nothing to talk about now.
“I understand you,” Philipp says, staring through his mirror image in the car window now, not at it anymore. “I do.”
Bastian lets out a shaky breath on the other end of the line. “Thank you. You might not believe me, but it means a lot to me. It just that… time isn’t exactly standing still and we have to take our chances where we get them. Right?”
Bastian pronounces the last word like a real question, like it matters anything what Philipp says now when the ink has fucking dried.
“No, listen,” Philipp says and turns the ignition key of his car. “I understand you. And I am your friend after everything, but right now? Right now, you can shove your beats headphones up your ass. Don’t call again today.”
Philipp ends the call -- if not to hurt Bastian, then to hurt himself.
3
Bastian texts him.
The first five times or so, Philipp thought he was just sending mass texts, but then he gets messages specifially addressed at him and Bastian keeps them going, despite Philipp never having answered a single one.
it’s raining
van Gaal… that guy…
you always know what to say in interviews.
it’s red here
Rooney asked me about you today
either my English is improving or my embarassement about it fading
met Usain Bolt!
It goes on and on like this, and it takes Philipp a long time to scroll through all messages, back up to the last message he himself sent. It’s just a ‘yes’, something completely irrelevant, and Philipp surely didn’t think twice about typing it out and sending it. Back then, he didn’t.
Philipp sighs, locks his phone and puts it into one corner of his dressing room niche next to his towel. He turns around with his game face on and takes a look around the room, watches Douglas diligently tie his laces.
The team is just as good without Bastian, and it hurts that that makes sense.
Worse than that, it’s an excellent excuse for Philipp not to talk to Bastian, because Bastian is doing his thing, and they are just fine doing theirs. Same boys who grew up together, different league, different dream.
Except, of course, Philipp is also too stubborn to just let it be. Bastian keeps the text messages coming, sporadically but a constant reminder, and Philipp both wants to reply and not reply, tell him to shut up and tell him to come back.
Philipp’s thumb hovers over Bastian’s contact once, mere millimeters away from calling him, but in the end his perfectionist vein wins, and he plays it safe, calling a number somewhere below Bastian’s.
It’s awkward, to say the least.
“You don’t know what to do, because you’re fucked over Bastian and you thought of me as the first person to call?” Lukas snorts. “Low blow, Philipp, low blow.”
No point in calling Felix then.
The call to Miro is much shorter, he just sighs, then he says something in Polish to Sylwia. There’s a second of silence, probably because Miro is listening to Sylwia’s reply.
“Everybody’s got to move sometimes,” he says then and that is everything Philipp doesn’t want to hear.
Philipp doesn’t call Michael. He sees him on TV once though, and it’s about the best advice he can get as to not let things get away from him.
Claudia pushes a strand of hair out of Philipp’s eyes, kisses the corner of his mouth and says, “It’s only England, honey.”
The damn thing is, she’s right.
4
Philipp eventually does what is the adult thing to do.
That is, he pretends nothing has changed and calls Bastian on his phone like it’s any other day in any other year of his life.
“Coach banned me from training today,“ Philipp says without preface and relishes the chocked sound coming from Bastian.
“Philipp,” Bastian says slowly, like he’s been waiting for this call a long time, but had given up on it actually happening.
“Bastian,” Philipp mirrors him. “Coach banned me from training today.”
He can hear shuffeling on Bastian’s side, someone speaking in English in the background before Bastian closes a door and everything but Bastian’s voice is muffled.
“What? He banned you? Why?”
“Joshua talked shit about you and I—“ Philipp breaks off and sighs. “I was out of line, I know that. Guardiola was right in taking me away.”
“What on earth did you do?”
It feels good, hearing Bastian’s voice like that, stunned and amused at the same time. And now, when they’re just talking like friends, Philipp realises he doesn’t have to care all that much about Manchester United or the Premier League table or England’s weather to be able to care about Bastian. It’s freeing in such a way, that Philipp regrets ever talking about it to his friends like it is, like it should be a problem.
“God, I didn’t beat him up or anything. I just got loud, I guess. Stupidly.” Philipp shrugs, not sure how to describe the look of actual fear on Joshua’s face. “He’s young, he doesn’t know anything yet.”
“That’s. Woah, thanks. You - you didn’t have to do that,” Bastian says, and he sounds just a little breathy. “So you used your Captain Voice on him. Poor kid.”
“My what?”
“You know. Your Captain Voice.”
“Basti, what on earth are you talking about?”
Bastian laughs, and right then Philipp realises it’s true what they say - that you could never guess how much you’d miss something up until it’s gone.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about! It’s almost scary how you do it, just squaring your shoulders and everything you say sounds like it means something then. Your words all strict and deep and determined.” Bastian’s voice drops with his description until it sounds rich and vibrating and gravelly and nothing like Philipp at all. “I always wondered whether it was just the armband or - you.”
“You’ve worn the armband, you tell me,” Philipp answers and swallows.
“Just you then,” Bastian concludes after a beat. There’s a moment of silence, where Philipp doesn’t know what to say to that, and Bastian continues, “Tell Joshua it’s okay. I’ve got other asses to kick over here.”
“In my Captain Voice?”
“Better not,” Bastian laughs. “And, uhm, Fips?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling. Don’t be a stranger.”
“You know where to find me.”
5
Philipp comes to training during international break, because where else would he be, and there’s still an unwontedly quietness without all the national players on the pitch. Thomas still finds ways to talk his ear off via phone, sure, but it’s not quite the voice Philipp wants to hear the most.
Philipp had not actually watched the first international, had only been lying on their couch with his eyes closed during the whole match, with Claudia’s mumbled commentary enough to follow the action of the game.
At least it was enough to get that the team was not working together all too well, and he could read the same thing in the lines on Bastian’s forehead when they skype one evening before the second match.
“So. It almost hurts to watch you guys. Sorry, but it’s the truth. What’s going on?”
Bastian nods and rubs his hand across his eyes. His face looks pale even against the white hotel wallpaper.
“I don’t, I don’t know,” he mammers, “someone talked about how Jule hasn’t been called up, and Benni had something to say about him, and then Andre had something to say about Wolfsburg, and Mario had something to say about transferring, and now half of the team is latently pissed somehow.”
Sounds familiar, Philipp thinks.
“It’s not your job to help them with their personal problems.”
“But it’s my job to keep them on track and they’re far from it! If they keep fighting, we can just scratch the next game.”
“So... talk to them. Let them speak their heart out, it always helps.”
“I just feel overwhelmed sometimes,” Bastian admits. “How did you do it? How did Micha do it? How on earth did someone like Matthäus manage to do it?”
“Look, let me tell you a secret. Something I wish Micha had told me, I guess, but then again I sort of stole his captaincy. So.”
“Holy shit, Philipp!” Bastian mockingly throws his hand over his mouth as if in shock.
“What?”
“I don’t know, you—you never phrased it like that before.”
“And you have no proof I said it.” Philipp breathes in and out. “The thing about being captain is that you can make everyone love you by fulfilling everyone’s wishes and being kind to everyone, or you can ignore them all and do after your own determination. Does that help?"
“Not really. What’s the right thing to do?”
“The first one isn’t possible. Forget about trying to fix everything for your team mates. Glare at them once in a while, drop some cryptic sentence that’ll make them wonder and most importantly, know whom to pass work onto. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“You don’t need to know everything, just make the others think you do,” Philipp says, trying to look into Bastian’s eyes via the laptop camera. “Oh, and I know I said it’s not your job to help them figure it out, but... it’s okay to care. Whatever you can do.”
Bastian nods, licking his lips, then he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but just that moment there are new voices intruding and the sound of doors closing and opening.
Bastian groans and looks at someone off-screen with an annoyed look that Philipp thinks he can be pretty proud of, captaincy-wise.
“Is that Philipp?” someone who sounds like André asks, “Wow, hello, old man! How are you doing?” And before Bastian can do anything against it, Philipp can hear Mats yell, “Come in everybody, Basti’s got Philipp on Skype!”
Philipp shakes his head, laughing. Bastian smiles back and shrugs apologetically.
“Guess some of the others miss you so I’ll hand you over. But… thanks, Captain.”
“No. You’re welcome, Captain.”
Philipp catches sight of the slightest red on Bastian’s cheeks, then his screen gets blurry before it focuses again on a close-up of Shkodran’s and Mesut’s face, and the sound of a couple of guys yelling, “Fips!” blares from the speakers.
6
So maybe they’re both a bit drunk.
Philipp doesn’t remember whether there was any particular reason for it, except wait - how tactless of him to forget over a couple of drinks - it’s because United is out of the Champions League and Bayern, well. Isn’t.
They’re using Skype again, because hands-free telephoning is easier for when you need your hands to open beer bottles and for other thing as well, Philipp supposes. He prohibits himself from thinking about it any further. Takes the last foamy swig from his bottle.
“I’m sorry for you guys, you know,” Philipp says, uncomfortable in his skin, because he’s never had to console Bastian about anything that didn’t also touch him before. Sure there was Stuttgart once, but there was always, always Bayern.
“No, you’re not.” Bastian laughs bitterly. “Stop making that shit up. I can read you, Philipp, don’t forget that.” He waves the bottle in his hand around, some English brand Basti said he got from… Smalling or whatever that guy’s name was.
“I do though. Feel sorry.” For you. For me. It’s pretty much implied.
Bastian waves it off, rolling his eyes. He’s resting his head on his hand, steadily sliding down further the more the evening progresses. They’ve been skyping for quite some time now, but Philipp has a hard time recollecting what they’ve talked about or whether they even talked about much at all.
“Europa League is the new shit anyway.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Philipp says, tugging at his collar.
With an otherwise stone-cold facial expression (applaudable under the influence of alcohol) Bastian raises his eyebrow at Philipp for that, then he coughs up a dirty grin.
“Tsk. You haven’t changed, good on you,” he says.
“You have, though. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
Bastian shrugs and turns away from the camera so much that he’s almost out of the picuture, blending into the dark of his unlit flat.
Philipp had promised himself that he would never ask Basti that one question, considering that’s just not how football business works, but here they are, drinking together in the same minute, yet separated by an hour. It’s a moment where they are aligned again, Basti’s eyes bright and his shoulders hanging under his wool scarf. “Why’d you do it?”
“I just –“ Bastian starts and stops, sighs. “Remember after the Meisterfeier when they asked Thomas about transferring?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. What does that have to do with anything?”
“For a second, I actually wondered whether he would. Transfer, I mean. And – and then I came to my senses again, and I thought, what the fuck? How fucked up is my image of everything if I’m seriously considering Thomas leaving Bayern. Him, of all people.”
Philipp doesn’t reply, just waits, and it works to get more out of Bastian.
“And I’m old, that’s a fact. If I want to breathe different air, I gotta do it now. And anyway, you,” Bastian continues, “said you weren’t necessarily planning with me in the team.”
Philipp’s heart drops. “You better not tell me that that is what all this is about. You better not.”
“Jesus, I’m not that fickle. You don’t need to feel guilty.”
“Is this,” Philipp starts and waves his hand from himself to the vague direction of the screen, “is this still us?”
“Always has been, is and will be. You have to see the good side! Since we’re not players at Bayern anymore, we don’t have to be players at Bayern anymore when we play together! We can go back to shitty, dusty football grounds and scraped knees and playing for the hell of it!”
“Bastian. What the fuck are you talking about? We’re rarely going meet again during the year, as harsh as that sounds, we won’t have any time to just be two random guys kicking a ball. And I still love it at Bayern, thank you. It’s hard for me to see the good side in you leaving.”
“Philipp,” Bastian says pleadingly.
“No. Listen to yourself. I know this was your way to start anew and I respect that. But I don’t understand why you suddenly want to go back to the old days then. You leaving kind of meant we never can again. Come to terms with the shit you do. That’s life.”
Philipp hears himself get angry, using empty captain phrases, but he could do nothing against it except ground himself by gripping onto the edge of the table.
“This is not just about you and Bayern!” Bastian replies, “this, this is about us. Fuck you.”
They both stare at each other on their screen, their eyes never meeting, because neither is looking into the camera. The reality of the distance between them sobers Philipp up a little and he takes a deep breath.
“I knew that I was always just your fall-back plan, your plan B after Ana and Lukas and Mario and Sarah and whoever, and I didn’t mind. I really didn’t. I was just expecting that you would fall back on me one day.”
“I’m calling you now. Every other fucking day, I’m calling you. ”
“I,” Philipp says, “oh.”
7
They’re not drunk. That might actually be the hardest part about the whole situation, because Philipp would have preferred to have a little help with his courage for this one.
He has Bastian on the phone, nothing special, just their routine calls that have somehow established between them and that make Manuel furrow his brows every time.
“Bastian, can you promise me one thing, right now?”
Bastian laughs as clear as a bell and Philipp doesn’t know how to tell him to please take this seriously.
“That sounds like some wish on your death bed.”
“I guess it kind of is,” Philipp admits. His voice sounds small. He decides it’s best to just get it out all at once. “Look, when I retire in a couple of years, in two years, and we do my farewell game at the Allianz Arena, and there will be a Bayern team and a team for the national side – play for Bayern with me, okay?”
Bastian clicks his tongue, and for the longest second of his life Philipp thinks he’s going to say no.
“You’ve... thought about this, huh?”
“Maybe I have.”
“It’s still… two years is a long time,” Bastian stammers.
“It’s okay if you have to think about it. I get it.”
Philipp almost wishes he hadn’t asked, had just waited until a week before his retirement to tell Basti to better get his ass over here, but that’s not his style. It’s not so much the actual game, but Bastian’s answer that matters.
“If you will still have me -- yes.”
Bastian sounds careful, and Philipp would lie if he said he knew what was happening in England right now and feels bad for not caring, but this single, simple yes makes Philipp’s day. Week. Time until retirement.
“Of course, of course, I’m asking you, am I not? You’re so godawful stupid sometimes, Basti."
“Shut up,” Bastian says, his smile evident in his voice, and Philipp makes note to hug him when they see each other next time.
8
He doesn’t tell Bastian that he’s going be in the stadium for the match against England. He doesn’t really tell anyone at all, though the cameras spy him out soon enough, and he already has to reject interview requests by half time.
It’s not a match full of magic, but one of hard work, and even from up where’s he sitting, Philipp can see Manuel shouting his lungs out. Bastian is running across the grass like he’s wading through water and the sight of the black-red-yellow captain’s armband sends a phantom sensation like a heavy anchor of weight through Philipp’s shoulder.
When the new kid, Emre, score the redeeming goal at some point, 80th, 90th minute, who cares, a cuddle pile develops on the pitch, and the weirdest thing is, while Philipp fondly looks at all of them hugging each other, he doesn’t miss it.
He remembers it and honours it, but he sees them all down there, Sami, Benni, the even younger ones, Lukas - subbed in in the 75th minute - and Bastian, and Miro’s words ring true. Everybody’s got to move sometimes.
In the end, the crowd is cheering, clapping out the last seconds of the match, but Philipp already makes his way down the stairs and corridors to the locker room.
He meets Mesut first, but Philipp puts his index finger on his mouth as a sign for Mesut to keep quiet. Mesut frowns, then he smiles and shrugs and keeps walking.
But Bastian is next through the tunnel, and Philipp can’t keep himself from darting at him, grabbing him by the shirt and dragging him into the next open kit room.
“Wh- Philipp!” Bastian’s expression changes from shock to recognition to happiness. “What are you doing here?”
“I watched the game, obviously. Has been some time since I really watched one. Up close, I mean.”
Bastian laughs incredulously like it’s completely inconceivable that for once Philipp Lahm would do something that’s not completely logical. Falling in love with Bastian doesn’t seem to be a blip on that scale.
“And now?” Bastian asks, tugging at his jersey to fan himself.
“Now I’m here. Beause you’re here.”
Philipp takes a step towards Bastian and Bastian slowly freezes in his motion, eyeing Philipp. They’re as close now as they haven’t been for months, because of the stupid channel between them.
It doesn’t matter now.
On an impulse, Philipp reaches for the captain’s band that Basti still has wrapped around his biceps. Philipp slides his finger under the cloth, hooks it and pulls the armband down Basti’s arm in an excruciatingly slow motion.
Bastian is still sweaty and breathing hard from the match just now, but he holds completely still until the band slips over his fingers. They both stare at the cloth in Philipp’s hand for a moment, then Philipp drops the armband on the floor and looks up into Bastian’s eyes.
“Thanks for waiting,” Philipp says softly and hopes that Bastian knows what he means.
“I never had to wait. You were always there.”
Philipp smiles and Bastian smiles back and suddenly, it feels like a good time to figure this out, before the Champions League final, before France, before retirement.
Philipp shifts his weight onto the tips of his toes and puts his lips on Bastian’s. There’s no objective in the kiss, no surprise, no revelation. Just the feeling of coming home after a strenuous day, of putting down your weight, of finding trust in someone.
Bastian’s lips are warm and they feel familiar in a way they can’t actually be.
Bastian puts his hands on the sides of Philipp’s face, pulling him closer, and he leaves them there when they break the kiss and still don’t move away from each other.
“I would say ‘come back’ now,” Philipp says, “but I know it wouldn’t work.”
The corners of Bastian’s mouth drop and for a moment he looks oddly old in the dirty white shining jersey. Not necessarily in age, but in experience. Then he lightens up again, and his smile resurfaces.
“How about you come back? This team could need a better defense,” he says challengingly and lays a soft kiss on Philipp’s cheek.
“No, thanks. No offence. And, uhm, sorry for the disturbance.”
Bastian shrugs.
“I guess I... I've got to go. I have a Euros campaign to run. And a Euros campaign to win, actually. I hear it works out well to retire with a trophy in your hands.”
Philipp chuckles and draws his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t believe they will win the Euros, but it’s makes no difference for them, for this right now. And he can feel his trust growing again, bit by bit.
“And then?”
Bastian doesn’t answer right away. He bends down, picks up the armband from the ground and mindlessly strokes his thumb over it before giving it to Philipp and closing Philipp’s fingers around the band.
The smile Bastian flashes Philipp speaks of the calls they’ve shared -- and the things they haven’t yet.
“Then we’ll see.”