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live-laugh-loverpool · 1 year

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Okay so damn... I want to actually cry. I've never felt so betrayed as I'm feeling right now. I love the boys, but I'm so freaking disappointed!

I want a fic with lots of angst between them. Especially Alisson. It can even have they fighting between each other (no violence, just words).

Maybe a little bit of comfort in the end.

I'm almost crying.

Yes, I know 😬😬😭😭😭 It pained me to write this but here we go.

Tags: @millythegoat @moomin279 @alissonbecksfan234 @rubybecker-rb2

Warnings: depression, fighting, cursing (mostly in Portuguese)

Sgt. Klopp’s Broken Hearts—Part 1

Jesse Marsch had never seen Liverpool play so badly. It was like they were a completely different club, with a different manager and players, and a different spirit.

This couldn’t be the club that won the Champions’ League in 2019. This couldn’t be the Premier League winners, the domestic cup champions, the tenacious victory-hungry warriors he’d come to know. This wasn’t Liverpool.

Marsch quickly switched off the TV before they could show the final whistle, taking his phone from the charger. He turned off all his news notifications before opening up the Weird Managers’ Club Group Chat.

CatalanMagician: Ninety minutes and the curse of Regio Madrid strikes again

TheSpecialOne: If I speak I am in big trouble

SuperFrankieLampard: Where’s Jurgen?

TT: where do you think he is 😑

Marsch didn’t want to think about the possible answers to that question. Klopp could technically be anywhere—he’d retired two decades ago, but was still quite swift. Faster than the entirety of that defense tonight, anyways.

Jessethe🐐: With his boys, hopefully

TT: I hope not, he’d never live down what Milner and Elliott will say

CatalanMagician: Jurgen told me those two have net zero tact

SuperFrankieLampard: At the rate they played they could’ve lost 9-0

Marsch hated Lampard for making that remark. He also hated the fact that the remark was true.

TheSpecialOne: I thought he understood that riddle

TT: 😬 Jurgen’s gonna beat down on himself so much

Jurgen doesn’t beat upon himself, Marsch thought. He didn’t know the German as well as the other managers did, but from what he’d seen Klopp didn’t hold very high standards when it came to himself.

TheSpecialOne: deservedly so, which manager doesn’t make one change when you’ve blown a two goal lead

“Jose Mourinho, you freaking idiot,” Marsch muttered, furiously typing out a reply.

Jessethe🐐: JOSE not helping

TheSpecialOne: I am

TT: I’m going to go get Jurgen

SuperFrankieLampard: You sure he hasn’t turned off his phone yet?

TT: It’s not been long since the match, it’s probably still on

Jessethe🐐: jeez guys! Leave him alone and he’ll find this chat himself. He made it after all

Marsch didn’t even stick around to see what would happen. He set his phone to “emergency contact only” and threw it across the room, slumping onto the couch.

If Jesse Marsch hadn’t known what sympathy pains were before, he sure knew now. And God knows what the others are feeling now…

The locker room was in complete catatonia. Some had hoped for a win going into the match, some had prepared themselves for a loss, and others had thought a draw as the best outcome. It would take a psychotically pessimistic fool to think Liverpool would concede 5 unanswered goals at Anfield. Today, that psychotically pessimistic fool happened to be fate itself.

“Toda hora, Fabinho! ¡Cada maldita vez!” Jota grabbed Fabinho by the shoulders with a vice-like grip, glaring into his teammate’s panicked, guilt-stricken eyes. “Se não fosse a sua maldita incapacidade de manter a bola, talvez não tivéssemos sofrido 5 malditos gols!!!”

“Leave Flaco out of this!” Firmino shoved the irate striker away, standing between him and Fabinho. “If you’d used some pace on the right wing we could’ve at least scored another goal! But nooo, you’re as useless as you always are when it comes to big competitions.”

Jota glared at Firmino, trying to brush him aside. “And you think you’re so big, hot-shot? You shot that header right into their goalie’s hands! Droga, você não consegue fazer nada direito!”

“Watch your mouth, you three,” Elliott warned the Portuguese speakers. Rather ironically, considering what he said next. “I don’t have to understand your Portuguese to realize how much of a bunch of useless cowards you are.”

“Harvey Elliott! Leave them alone,” Milner boomed, grabbing the youngster and swinging him over his shoulder. The vice-captain’s eyes flashed with rage, far more than the usual spite he carried. “If you want to blame somebody for doing freaking nothing in this match, blame Joe for forgetting to exist.”

Gomez looked up from the bench, the guilt in his eyes quickly morphing into anger. “Me?! Ali forgot how to clear a ball and he’s a goalkeeper! They don’t have many things to memorize and he completely forgot that one!” he ranted, hurling a water bottle at Alisson’ locker.

Alisson hadn’t even moved once he’d come into the locker room, not even to change out of the matchday kit. Gomez's water bottle hitting him square across the thigh seemed to activate him, though, as he glared daggers at the English defender.

“What are you talking about, goalkeepers don’t have many things to memorize? Dammit, Joe, I have to memorize about a million things to keep a clean sheet with you guys around!”

“Which you still couldn’t do today. You conceded more goals today than you did in the past two weeks!”

“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with all of you!” Alisson stabbed a finger towards Van Dijk, who’d looked shocked from the moment Alisson started yelling. “I wonder why I put up with you, Virgil! Where were you to help Joey out, where’s the strong able Virgil from the World Cup?!”

The Dutchman stood from his seat. In one swift movement he was holding Alisson back from Gomez. “You’re seriously not going to bring that up, are you? You brought that problem upon yourself. Ali, your own compatriot kicked your butt!”

“NÃO me chame de Ali. NÃO chame Vini de meu compatriota. NÃO fale sobre esse maldito jogo!” Alisson broke free from Van Dijk, storming towards the showers. “And do not DARE lay a hand on Flaco or I’ll make you regret holding me back!”

“You know what?” Van Dijk glared at the keeper. In a move nobody in the locker room expected, he took up Gomez's water bottle and threw it at Alisson. “I might as well leave you alone, fracasso. You can’t even handle a defeat without acting like a child! I can only imagine how disappointed Klopp’s going to be with you.”

“And they say I put my foot in my mouth,” Elliott muttered, still over Milner’s shoulder.

Milner only tightened his hold on Elliott. “Careful or you’re going to end up over my knee.”

“And where did ‘the lilac part of my heart’ go?” Alisson shot back. It was clear to see, though, that the spite in his comments were now more fueled by hurt than rage. “Do you even support me around anymore, Virgil? Do you not see that if it wasn’t for some of those saves, we would’ve lost by ten goals?! Is that all I am to you now, a failure?”

Van Dijk didn’t flinch at that, continuing to glare at Alisson. “You can’t even accept when you made a mistake.”

“Ali, calm down!” Henderson finally stepped into the brouhaha, grabbing Alisson before he could lash back at Van Dijk’s latest comment. “If you say something, you’re going to regret it later.”

“I’m going to regret it later?! I’m sure not going to regret telling Virgil that he’s the one who can’t accept when he makes a mistake. When was the last time you saw him apologize for something he did wrong?!” Alisson pushed Henderson away from him, slamming the door behind him as he disappeared into the showers.

The whole room was quiet after that. Until Firmino ran towards Van Dijk and socked him in the elbow.

“Caramba, caramba! Ainda damos a mínima? Todo esse time está uma bagunça, e é por sua causa!”

There was no way that he could face his boys now. It was impossible.

Klopp hadn’t even said a word, besides the compulsory handshake with Anzilotti. He’d gone straight down the tunnel and disappeared inside the nearest closet—which just happened to be a broom closet.

If it was a case of the five stages of grief, then Klopp didn’t need a therapist to know that he was currently experiencing shock. But shock was only supposed to last a few minutes—he knew that from experience.

His phone buzzing disturbed him from his thoughts. He’d forgotten to turn it off at halftime, and now he had a boatload of notifications from the managerial group chat.

TT: Jurgen you still alive?

TheNormalOne: I’m not sure

CatalanMagician: You totally disappeared after the game

TheNormalOne: I wish

TheSpecialOne: Are you hiding in a broom closet

TheNormalOne: how did you know

TheSpecialOne: Just a lucky guess 🙄

CatalanMagician: The press will come after you

TheNormalOne: I’m NOT going to put my foot in my mouth and say we’ll come back from this 😩.

TT: 😧

Jessethe🐐: 😧

CatalanMagician: Come on, that’s not like you! Where’s the fighting spirit that’s kept me on my toes ☹

Klopp hesitated before typing out a response. Has it really gotten to this point where Pep in sky blue has to motivate me?

TheNormalOne: I’ve made too many promises I can’t keep

TheSpecialOne: That’s what I meant by my coded advice earlier

TheNormalOne: Don’t say anything about that damn code

TheSpecialOne: I told you to exude on the pitch what you have within yourself. Judging by that performance I’d say you have no love, passion or pride in you whatsoever

CatalanMagician: THIS IS WHY I HATE YOU YOU HAVE NO FILTER

TheNormalOne: …

TT: Great work Jose, you broke him

Klopp shut off his phone, muting everything. He threw it into a bin on the other side of the closet and leaned against a mop. After two minutes of unbearable silence, he reached for his phone, turned it on and went straight to Youtube. He clicked on a song he’d only listened to once, before the events of the next day had stained its meaning forever.

What about sunrise?

What about rain?

What about all the things

That you said we were to gain?

Did you ever stop to notice

All the blood we've shed before?

Did you ever stop to notice

This crying Earth, these weeping shores?

Unlike most of Michael Jackson’s songs, this one was slower, more reflective. It was actually about the Earth rather than Liverpool, but right now Klopp felt like he'd let down the entire Red section of the earth.

I used to dream

I used to glance beyond the stars

Now I don't know where we are

Although I know we've drifted far

The first stadium he’d visited as Liverpool manager had been Whitehart Lane, Spurs’ then-home. To dare is to dream, the wall had said, painted in dark blue and white. And to dream is to dare, Klopp had added upon seeing the motto.

All his life, Klopp had been a dreamer and a darer. He’d dreamt of managing, dared to try something different than the rough and tumble macho style of football he’d experienced as a player. He’d dared to come to England and dreamt of creating a deep connection. He’d dared to dream it would last forever, and in some far-off future he would walk away from Liverpool to the sounds of cheers and appreciation as he embraced his eventual retirement.

Now he only dared to hope that this had all been a bad dream.

What about the crying man?

(What about us?)

What about Abraham?

(What about us?)

What about death again?

(Ooh)

Do we give a damn?