#when i learnt that after becks went to madrid he and gary would talk on the phone before and after EVERY utd match

[player1064]

February 2004

WIP asks but it's just the various sections of my happy (???) beville (/angsty carraville) WIP

ohohoho I loooove this section tbh. not sure WHY i love it but I do it's got it all it's got angst it's got fluff it's got gary being pathetic.... beautiful

---

February, 2004.

“Are you at Old Trafford yet?”

“Still in the car, we’re not due out on pitch for warm-up for another hour still.”

On the other side of the car’s back seat, Scholesy is sat slumped against the window, staring out with a bored expression. There’s no music playing – they can never agree on what radio station to tune to, and Gary spends most drives to matches on the phone with Becks anyway. He feels a bit guilty, though, ignoring him the whole drive, even if they have spent all morning together.

“Tell me when you get there, yeah?”

“Becks, I swear, you’re worse than my dad. I’ve only been doin’ this ten years, haven’t I? I’ll give the finger to one of the cameras just for you, how’s that sound?”

Next to him, Scholesy groans.

“Don’t, Gaz,” he says, “you’ll get fined.”

At the same time, down the phone Becks is saying “not sure that’s worth the fine, babe.”

“The two ‘a yous are always ganging up on me, it’s not fair.”

“Tell Scholesy I’m giving him a big wet kiss next time I see him.”

“I’m not tellin’ him that.”

“Is he threatenin’ to kiss me again? Tell him I’ll drop out of England squad next week if he does that.”

“Scholesy says he can’t wait to give you a nice big snog when we get to London on Monday.”

David laughs, pretty and perfect and it makes Gary’s chest ache just hearing it, makes him wish they could just skip the stupid match and get to Monday already.

“Good luck today, Gaz,” he says warmly, “you’ll smash ‘em, I know you will. I love you.”

Gary pulls a face at that, aware that Scholesy is watching him, that he can see his blush creeping up and know exactly what David’s saying to him. These things have always seemed to come so easily to David, it’s baffling. The first time he’d told Gary he loved him, a million years ago, Gary had blinked and said ‘do you fuck’, then spent the next ten minutes scrambling to assure him that he knows, that he knows, that there’s been no lack of affection on David’s part to make him doubt it. That he loves him too.

“Yeah,” he says now, darting his eyes towards Scholesy who looks away, pretends not to be listening. He clears his throat. “You too.”

*

When they walk into Old Trafford, the receptionist at the staff entrance calls for him to wait a second before going through to the dressing room. In the blink of an eye, Gary finds his arms being loaded up with chocolates, and roses, and a stupid little teddy bear with the Manchester United crest on it.

He shuffles into the dressing room awkwardly, struggling to see around the giant bouquet, and just as he’d expected (dreaded) he’s met with teasing cheers and wolf-whistles when he walks in and drops them into his locker.

He snaps his phone open and texts David ‘you are horrible <3’, before looking around the room with a glare and saying “not a fucking word”.

“Look at you, Nev,” Butty says with a grin, because he never just keeps his mouth shut. “You’re more popular than Giggsy, who’d’ve thought?”

Giggsy raises an eyebrow. “Is he fuck, those are obviously just long-distance guilt gifts. I’m the one who actually has a chance of getting laid tonight.”

Gary looks down at the floor, scratches at his head awkwardly. “I think he jus’ doesn’t want me feelin’ bad that we can’t do any of the Valentines nonsense this year.”

He swear he sees Roy lean towards John and mutter “he’s feeling guilty about something, that’s for sure”. But what would that even mean?

*

He should be focused on the game. He’s always focused on the game. Single-minded, that’s him.

Today, though, he can’t stop thinking about what Roy had said, about the concerned look he’d given Becks’ stupid flowers.

Surely, surely he hadn’t meant –

Because why would he even think that?

There’s still a game to win, though, and Gary does try to get on with it. Except that when he dives (yes, he dives, he’s in the penalty box – of course he dives, anyone would) and the City players start yelling at him, he feels everything bubbling up inside him and oh god, the Boss is going to kill him.

He storms back to the dressing room and is tugging off his shirt to go shower when his phone starts ringing, because of course it does. Because, if he was thinking clearly, he’d’ve been worried if it didn’t.

“I was provoked, Becks,” he says when he picks it up, skipping the greeting.

“You silly cow,” Becks replies softly, like he’s not disappointed. Like Gary’s not just put the cup at risk. “No you weren’t. What’d you go and do that for?”

“He –”

“Gaz, that’s a three match suspension.”

Gary’s been a professional footballer for ten years now, he knows perfectly well that he’s going to get a three match suspension, so he’s not sure why Becks feels the need to remind him of it. It’s not the sort of thing he’d rub in his face, when he knows that Gary’ll be getting the hairdryer treatment any minute now. When he knows it’ll mean –

Oh, god.

International break starts on Monday.

“Becks,” he says desperately, apologetically. “Becks, I forgot – I weren’t thinkin’, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it doesn’t have to mean – I can still come down, with the lads. I know I can’t train, but – but I can still come. We can still –”

“Gaz.” David sighs. “D’you really think the Boss would let you do that?”

Fuck.

*

“Boss,” he says, voice wobbly, “Boss, please. Double my fine, or – or bench me, but please. Just one day, not even that – half a day, and I’d be back for the next morning’s training.”

It feels a similar situation to the one he’d been in last summer, stood alone in front of Sir Alex’s desk with tears streaming down his face and a snotty nose, begging please, Boss, you know how stubborn he can be. He is sorry, it’s been eatin’ him up, he just doesn’t want to look stupid if he apologises and you sell ‘im anyway. You know how much he respects you. This is all he’s ever wanted. Boss, please.

“Gary,” the Boss says slowly, “actions must have consequences.”

I don’t – I can’t do this without him, I’m not good enough. You know I’m not good enough. I’ll do anything. Please, Boss, please.

He remembers the way Sir Alex had looked at him over his glasses, that long calculating stare of his. You assured me this… attachment of yours wouldn’t get in the way of your game.

“Okay,” he says now with a grim nod. “You’re right.” His voice cracks as he talks, so he blinks a few times and repeats “you’re right, I know. I jeopardised the match. I’m sorry.”

Sir Alex nods, and looks down at the papers on his desk, starts shuffling through them. This, Gary knows, is his cue to leave. They’re done here.

I know you don’t owe me anything, but it’s – it’s not just for me. It’s the team, we need him. He’s special, don’t – I know it’s been difficult between you two, but can’t you fix it? If anyone can fix it, surely you –

– You only get this one favour, Gary. Do you understand?

I’ll do anything, just – please. Please don’t sell him.

A one season loan. It’s an excellent opportunity, the chance to experience a new league, a new style of play. Gives our less senior players a chance to earn more minutes. Then he’ll come back, and we’ll all be stronger for it.

And you promise he’ll come back?

I promise he will be given the option. That’s my only offer, lad, not many people could get away with asking this of me.