football actually [4/4, part i.]
title | football actually [4/4]
fandom/pairing | football ; in order of appearance: Guti Hernández/Raul González, David Beckham/Iker Casillas, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Bojan Krkic/Sergio Canales, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Cesc Fabregas/Iker Casillas (unrequited?), Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique (unrequited?)
secondary characters mentioned: Victoria Beckham, Sara Carbonero, Vicente Del Bosque
rating | R for language & ... ungraphic sex. basically.
[part] word count | ~12k..... oh my god.
summary | AU. "Follows the lives of ten very different people in dealing with their love lives in various loosely and interrelated tales all set during a frantic month before Christmas in London, England." In simpler terms, Love Actually meets Football.
notes | OH MY GOD HOLY DON'T-KNOW-HOW-TO-SHUT-UP BATMAN. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE 12K. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BROKEN INTO 2 PARTS. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TAKE 3 WEEKS TO WRITE.
oh my god, okay, first of all -- i apologize, i swear i wrote this for like 2 GD WEEKS & it was torture & i never want to read or look at this again. i hope you all aren't completely sick of christmas. whoops. also, i apologize for the ultimate cornballiness of this part. my excuse for this is, well, have you ever seen a chick flick? ever? especially christmas-themed ones? SHIELD YOUR EYES, TURN OFF ALL SENSE OF REALISM. i also apologize for general shittiness.
i hope everyone's christmas/holidays went well. i love you all ♥ thank you!
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I won’t ask for much this Christmas,
I don’t even wish for snow
I’m just gonna keep on waiting
Underneath the mistletoe
I just want you for my own,
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you.
(Mariah Carey, All I Want For Christmas is You)
iv. Last Week of Christmas
When Stevie steps foot into the main office, he has certain expectations. For instance, he expects that when he turns the corner, Cesc will have a list of missed calls - because, as usual, he spent far too long in the shower this morning and is roughly 20 minutes late. He expects that Iker will give him that look - the one that says “just because the boss isn’t here doesn’t mean you can saunter in whenever you like” - but he won’t actually say any of these things, will instead simply hand him a bagel and shake his head. And when he turns the corner and opens the double-doors to his office, he expects to see the now-familiar, bright smile that he’s come to anticipate, the face of someone who makes his hear flip and flutter and burst in a way it hasn’t since high school. (Hasn’t since ever.)
What Stevie doesn’t expect, however, is David - weary-eyed but smiling, sitting where, just days before, Xabi had been sitting. It looks wrong, like a guess-what’s-missing puzzle and it makes Stevie’s gut twist and turn and he thinks, a little pathetically, that what he is feeling is bordering on a panic attack.
“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard!” David sing-songs, and stands up to ruffle Stevie’s hair. Stevie grimace-smiles and David pulls away. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did you miss me?”
Stevie scratches his head, shrugs. “About ten times more than you missed me.”
“So a one, then?” David replies, and barks out a laugh.
Stevie smiles - or at least, he tries to. The bagel is slowly making its way up his esophagus, and he’s fairly certain he’s going to be sick.
“I took a look at the books,” David continues, as if he hadn’t stopped. “That Alonso bloke did a great job. We’ll have to get him to come back soon. How did you lot do without me?”
Stevie is struggling desperately to catch up and finds himself rather embarrassingly panting, “Come back?”
David frowns. “Yes. To visit. He was only a temp for the month, I paid him and gave him a pretty hefty Christmas bonus last week when I visited.”
Stevie is going to throw up. It’s not a question of if, but of when. He’s going to absolutely without question throw up.
“Oh…? Where did he go?”
David shrugs. “No idea.” He pauses for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “You okay, mate?”
Stevie nods a little breathlessly, feels a little like a giant elephant is sitting on his heart and chest and lungs and - shite.
“Yeah, I’m - I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Cesc has been waiting for Iker to break it off with him for over a week. He isn’t sure why or how he suddenly knows that the inevitable is slowly happening, but the knowledge reveals itself one Sunday morning while he’s blinking away the sunlight that creeps through the window in Iker’s flat. He stretches his arm across Iker’s side of the bed and, instead of hitting bare skin, his hand hits the mattress.
And his sleep-muddled, confused mind suddenly clears and he thinks, so this is how he’s leaving me - this is when it’s over.
(Later, when Iker comes out of the shower, he’ll think he was being stupid, of course Iker wouldn’t leave Cesc in his own flat. But later, he’ll also think - wasn’t it weird how I wasn’t even surprised?)
“Snow is so strange,” Fernando says, bundled under jackets and sweaters and gloves. Sergio smiles over at him, watches as the light snowflakes land in his hair and eyelashes. Fernando looks like a child, all wide-eyed wonder, bright smile, pink nose and cheeks. He looks at everything with awe, looks at everything as if he’s seeing it for the first time and, Sergio supposes, maybe he is - maybe this is his first time really being in the cold, really feeling the winter like this. Sergio has had time to get used to it, has had time to let the winter chill settle in his bones - but Fernando, who usually wears such thin layers, as if he’s in denial, as if he refuses to give in to the temperature, has only had the chance to experience it for less than a month.
(Sergio wants to say, “get used to it,” but will that jinx it? Is that sort of wishful thinking the type that can get you into trouble? Is it too hopeful, is it too soon, to grab his hands and hold him close and say, “can you please just stay here, please?”)
“But nice?” Sergio clarifies hopefully, still watching Fernando. Fernando turns to him, as if he’s only just realized Sergio is there, and smiles.
“But nice,” he agrees, nodding, before turning his focus back on the sky, back on the snow. It isn’t much - it’s barely even sticking; mostly the snow falls in big, fluffy flakes that evaporate by the time they hit the ground, but. But it’s beautiful. But this is the first time he’s seen Fernando in it as it’s falling, and he thinks there’s possibly nothing as beautiful.
Sergio brushes some of the flakes out of Fernando’s hair and says, “You should catch some on your tongue.”
Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused. “Catch some on my tongue? Do people do that?”
“Of course! I did it all the time.”
“Let me restate the question,” Fernando says, laughing slightly. “Do adults do that?”
Sergio rolls his eyes. “You look like you’re twelve. I don’t see any adults around here.”
Fernando opens his mouth in mock disgust, mock outrage, and hits him in the chest playfully; Sergio catches his wrist, pulls him closer, uses his free hand to ruffle his hair. Fernando laughs and pushes back, gives him a gentle shove before looking in Sergio’s eyes.
Neither of them say anything for a moment - Fernando looks at him like he’s never seen him before, like this is someone new, like Sergio isn’t Sergio Ramos but Serge and his tongue darts out to lick his winter-bitten lips, pink and wet and Sergio is suddenly very thankful that they’re alone, that there isn’t anyone around, and -
“Just close your eyes,” Sergio says quietly.
Fernando does, almost before Sergio even finishes his command.
“Tilt your head back.” When he does, he says, “And now stick out your tongue.”
Head back, Fernando opens one eye and squints, eyebrow raised, looks at him dubiously. He looks ridiculous, and stupid, and endearing, and adorable.
“Do you trust me?” Sergio says, and Fernando stares after him for a moment before closing his eyes, before sticking his tongue out, before waiting.
The snow is falling so rapidly, it doesn’t take long for a few flakes to accumulate.
Sergio watches him for a second - watches Fernando standing there, shivering slightly, eyes closed, peaceful and expectant, the tips of his ears pink and raw. He looks - he looks perfect, really, and he can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop thinking about how he’s never thought someone looked so perfect. He thinks it’s almost a little backwards, because he didn’t start thinking he was perfect until after he talked to him, until after he spent time with him, and don’t you usually think people are attractive the moment you meet them? Isn’t that why they call it love at first sight? But with Fernando… Sergio feels like the more he stares at him, the more he likes.
(Yesterday, he discovered the small strip of hair that curls behind Fernando’s ear, the one that he must constantly forget about, the one that curves over his earlobe like an earring. When he saw it, he reached over and tugged at it, and Fernando didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t even know what he was touching. It almost felt like a secret, a secret between Sergio and Fernando’s body.)
Before he has the chance to think better of it, Sergio quickly leans over and kisses Fernando’s cheek, just above the corner of his mouth. As he pulls back, Fernando closes his mouth and slowly opens his eyes, slowly looks at him. His wrist is still in Sergio’s hands, his hand is still fisted in Sergio’s jacket. Fernando is breathing heavily, but he doesn’t know why, and his heart is racing, and his cheeks are so fucking hot, and -
“Now you’re a proper Scouser,” Sergio says quietly, and Fernando smiles.
The next time there is a photo shoot, Guti shows up on time. He and Raul barely speak, and each take separate means of transportation to the studio. At a press conference, Guti sticks to the selected topics, takes his time answering questions. He stays focused, only curses once - and the one time he does curse, he (somehow) does it so charmingly, so sweetly, that the reporters smile and laugh and snap their cameras greedily.
To the untrained eye, it would appear that Guti is doing what Raul has asked of him, is putting in the effort and attempting to make Raul’s job (career, life) easier.
But Raul knows better.
Guti isn’t giving in or giving up, but simply taking the path of least resistance. He does what Raul asks - and nothing more. He answers the questions as if reading straight from a script and barely even smiles for the photographers. He’s like a zombie, and Raul has to admit that he rather prefers the unruly, can’t-be-tamed version of Guti in comparison.
“You could show some of your personality without being a total asshole, you know,” Raul tells him as they walk from the photo shoot to his dressing room.
Guti laughs dryly. “So you want me to be myself, but not too much of myself,” he clarifies.
“Well, when you put it like that -”
“No,” Guti says simply. “We can’t all turn our personalities on and off.”
That seems like a jab, though Raul isn’t sure what he’s referring to.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You. I mean you.”
Raul frowns and stops in the hallway, crossing his arms. “Me? When have I ever changed my personality? When have I ever been duplicitous?”
Guti rolls his eyes and repeats “duplicitous” under his breath before turning around to face him.
“That night,” he says. “After we met, after you started working for me. You and I went out for drinks and on the couch I -”
“Yes,” Raul interrupts, and he isn’t one to blush normally but he feels his face flush with the memory.
“I woke up and you weren’t even there, and there was a girl in your place, and you didn’t even - what the fuck did you think I was? Your fucking boy-toy? You got all hot and bothered from the alcohol and from the idea that I wanted to get into your pants, and then you decided you were done?” His voice is a harsh whisper, a hiss, and it stings Raul’s ears. He bristles noticeably.
“It wasn’t like that,” Raul says quietly. “I - I was drunk.”
“And?”
“And - she knocked on the door and said she was there for you, or wanted to see you, and -” And Raul sounds like a fucking idiot right now, he knows it - he’s been reduced to a stuttering, blabbering mess, and he isn’t sure why but suddenly his explanation - which, for a year, forever, has seemed completely appropriate - sounds ridiculous and embarrassing.
“And so you let her in and left,” Guti continues once Raul doesn’t, and Raul shrugs.
“I didn’t want to be just… another.”
Guti raises an eyebrow. “Just another what?”
“Just another conquest, just another…”
“God, Raul, do you realize how you sound?”
Raul opens his mouth to defend himself and Guti waves his hand dismissively. “The point is, that night you let your guard down and then the next day it was up again - stronger than ever. You’ve never let it down since - you’ve never let me in again.”
Raul is quiet. He can’t say that Guti is wrong, because - is he, really? Isn’t he sort of right? Sort of completely right? (Not that he’d ever admit it.)
“So what do you expect from me?” Guti asks.
Raul has nothing to say. He looks down at the floor, down at his feet. He feels absolutely ridiculous. Guti moves closer, puts his hands on Raul’s shoulders, forces Raul to look at him. He repeats the question: “What do you expect from me, Raul?”
Raul feels like he has heartburn, feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Guti’s eyes are empty, emotionless. He doesn’t know what to say - he doesn’t have anything to say. His fingers twist together.
“Nothing,” he says finally.
Guti smiles bitterly - that same familiar, unsurprised smile. The same smile he seems to get whenever Raul says something particularly heartless and disappointing. His smile looks the same as Raul feels.
“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly. He lets go of him, walks away. Raul doesn’t even have the energy to walk after him.
Cesc is in the middle of typing up an email - not a particularly important one, but; but it’s easier to keep his mind off important things (his half-relationship with Iker, his feelings for his best friend, Christmas, the fact that the snow outside is going to fuck up his evening commute) if he focuses on meaningless things. He’s in the middle of it, constantly forgetting what he’s trying to say, constantly veering off-topic - and then, Gerard hops on his desk, swings his legs out, rests his hands behind his head and leans against the thin cubicle wall.
Cesc glares at him, but he can’t, not really. He’s never been able to be truly mad at his best friend - even if it’d be so much easier if he could just be pissed for once.
“I’m working,” Cesc says, minimizing a solitaire game.
“Yeah,” Gerard says, half-sarcastically. “I can see that.”
Cesc pushes his feet. “Shut up. Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
Gerard shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay…” Cesc leans back in his chair and scratches at his elbow; nervous habit, and the cold English winters make his skin raw and dry and irritated. He feels like no matter how long he lives here, it’ll never be home, his skin will never stop rioting against him. “Why aren’t you, then?”
Gerard reaches out and slaps his hand away. Cesc scowls, but. But maybe it’s nice to have someone there, someone to stop him from hurting himself.
“Because I’m going to take you out to lunch, imbecile.”
Cesc squirms, sits up a little straighter, can’t fight the happy grin that spreads across his face.
“Really? You’re going to take me out?”
Gerard grins at him, hooks his foot around the arm of his swivel chair and drags him closer, brings the chair between his legs and leans down to kiss his nose.
“Idiot,” he says fondly, and ruffles his hair.
Cesc scowls again, and he’s going to say something, and then -
“Hey, uh - Cesc?”
Cesc freezes, pales. He turns around to see Iker awkwardly standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Cesc wonders how long he’s been there, how much he’s seen. (There’s nothing to see, he tells himself - Gerard is, and always will be, a friend. There’s nothing to see.)
“Oh, uh, Iker, hey, Geri just -”
Iker waves his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, you need to go on break anyway. You’ve been working nonstop.”
Cesc frowns. “Oh, um, okay, thanks - uh, what did you…?”
He glances over at Gerard for a moment, opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it, closes it again. Then, finally, he says: “Tonight?”
Cesc’s heart somersaults at this, his stomach twists at this. He nods, almost too eagerly, almost too animatedly. He can feel Gerard’s eyes focused on the back of his head, can feel the anger radiating from him. He’s never liked Iker, and he probably never will.
“Yeah,” he squeaks out, blushing a little. “Um, yeah.”
Iker smiles somewhat, whispers, “okay.” He nods curtly (politely, warningly) at Gerard, then walks out. Cesc waits a full two beats before turning back to Gerard. Gerard isn’t smiling anymore, just stares at him, arms crossed. His face says enough.
“Don’t,” Cesc warns.
Gerard shrugs, doesn’t say anything as Cesc stands up, puts his jacket on. He doesn’t say anything until they get to the sidewalk, in front of Cesc’s office building. Gerard turns to him and says, “You deserve someone better.”
Cesc laughs a little bitterly, and his breath comes out in a little puff of smoke in front of his face. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Yeah? Like who?”
Gerard doesn’t say anything. But he wants to say, anyone. He wants to say, someone like me.
So. They’re not… friends, or anything. Serge isn’t deluded enough to think they’re actually friends, but. Like, there’s maybe the hope that one day, in the near future, hopefully sooner rather than later and hopefully before, like, graduation, and hopefully before Serge decides to just transfer and save himself the trouble because God this is frustrating and tiring and almost consistently, constantly disappointing, but - there’s maybe the hope that Bo will one day say his name. Or, rather, know it.
Because Serge still isn’t entirely sure he knows it. Since he never, you know… says it.
Serge’s life is so fucking hard.
But anyway, the point is - they’re not friends, but there seems to be definite progression. Such as: yesterday, they walked to the library together. They talked about football (Bo is a cule, and Serge is a Madridista, but - but he can overlook it, he’d overlook it for a smile like that, for a guy like that) and Bo asked him what he was doing for Christmas vacation, and Bo told him that he was going to take the first flight after the charity football match with his family and go back to Barcelona for the holidays.
(The idea that maybe Bo was leaving, and very soon - like, this weekend soon - made him feel more than a little sick.)
So maybe they’re not friends, but. They’re not enemies, and they’re not strangers, and - and that must count for something, right?
Bo leans against Serge’s locker.
“So,” he says lightly. “Are you going to the Christmas football game?”
Serge shifts his backpack on his shoulder and shrugs. “I don’t know yet…”
Bo looks down. “Oh. Well. You should!”
Serge smiles slightly. “Really? Why?”
“Because,” Bo says with a grin, and Serge wishes he’d say something flirty like, because, I’ll be there or because, I want you to come. Instead he says, “I’m helping organize it and I need enough people to play on our team, otherwise the numbers will be uneven.”
Serge frowns.
“And how many do you have for your team now?”
“With you, it’d be a perfect starting eleven.”
Serge bites his lip. “I’m not good at football.”
“That doesn’t matter! It’s for charity!” Serge is quiet, and Bo steps a little closer. His smell is intoxicating. “So, you’ll do it?”
Serge thinks, there’s possibly no reason I would ever say no to this boy.
He shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
Bo grins - a beaming, bright smile that causes his heart to twist and flip and turn and about five hundred other clichéd things, and he still is embarrassed by it, and he still feels like an idiot because of it, and he thinks he’ll never be completely used to it. Bo reaches over and, gently, softly touches Serge’s shoulder, fingertips light and brushing his skin carefully, almost shyly. Serge nearly forgets to breathe.
And then he says, “Thanks,” - not even, “Thanks, Sergio,” fuck, he really doesn’t know his name, does he? Just, thanks - and then walks away, down the hallway and out the double-doors.
And once again, Serge is left behind - clueless and confused and bewildered. He rests his head against his locker and closes his eyes, going over the millions of things that he could have (should have) said to keep the conversation going. He’s an idiot, he tells himself - an absolute idiot.
With an almost strangled, frustrated groan, he walks to the bus stop, cursing himself the entire time.
When Stevie reads books (it happens so rarely, but it does happen, every now and then when there’s nothing on the telly) he always finds himself annoyed at the characters who seem to fall apart when the person they love disappears, or leaves them, or breaks up with them. He hates reading things like, “he was beside himself,” because what the fuck does that even mean? When did that phrase come into use - why did one person think it was something that made sense, something that accurately described the feeling of being left behind or left alone or just simply left? He tends to mock the characters when they wander the streets, barely aware of where they are, barely aware of what they’re doing.
Except, suddenly - and it’s not even overnight, it’s seconds later, it’s that night, it’s right after David finishes talking to him - he has become that person, he is that person. He has become that person, incapable of functioning or thinking or breathing. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to do, but he knows that he needs Xabi. He’s been without him for less than a full day, and he needs him, and he misses him, and - Xabi. He needs Xabi.
He thinks, maybe he could give him a ring, but - he never did get his number. He thinks, maybe he could go to his flat, but - where does he even live? Considering the amount of time he and Xabi had spent together, Stevie would have thought that he’d be a little better prepared for this.
The rational part of his brain thinks, well, it was fun while it lasted, time to move on.
And the irrational part of his brain - the part that has had full reign over all his capabilities for the past month - tells him, ha, that’s funny. The irrational part of his brain has him walking past the car park instead of towards it. The irrational part of his brain has him walking to the library, has him walking over to the instructional books, has him picking out books like So You Want To Learn Spanish Right Now and Spanish for Absolute Dummies and You’re Hopeless, Mate, But Here, Let’s Teach You How To Say ‘Hello’. The irrational part of his brain forces him to stay in the back of the library, writing notes, checking things. It has him staying there past closing, flirting with the librarian to get a few more minutes as he finishes up a chapter on conjugations.
Stevie hates the irrational part of his brain, especially when it keeps him up at three in the morning by reminding him of how nice Xabi always smelled, how he always smiled, how his voice was smooth and low and deep and musical. In bed, he tries to copy the sound of his voice, tries to remember specific phrases. He settles on the one he’ll never forget, even if he wants to, meaning unknown: “Te echaré de menos.” (I will miss you.)
Apparently, it’s a lot easier to avoid someone when they, too, are desperately and blatantly avoiding you, too.
Last week, it was harder. Iker had phone calls to dodge, meetings to avoid, lunches and dinners to invent excuses for. He needed Cesc’s help with lying, needed to hide in the break room, needed to practically barricade himself in his office to avoid an awkward confrontation, to avoid having to pretend to be happy.
This week, though, it’s much easier. This week, David is doing the same thing - if not more.
When Iker walks by his office, he suddenly ducks down, picks up a forgotten pencil only to drop it again. When Iker calls him (out of necessity, because he has no other choice), he’s on the road, going through a tunnel, and can’t talk. When Iker bumps into him in the hallway, David slides past him so quickly that he barely even realizes whose shoulder he’s just hit into, who he’s just passed.
He’s not one to cry. He never cries, especially not over people. He gets angry instead, he does things, he puts his emotions to productive uses.
But he can’t help thinking that, maybe, if he was the type of person to cry - this would maybe make him cry. A little.
And it’s because of this that he decides: he’s not putting up with this shit. He’ll do something about it, and then - then, he’ll never think about it again.
When Serge talks, his voice comes out in a rush, in a confused and muddled run-on sentence, and although Sergio is used to it, Fernando listens to his voice over the speakerphone with a frown and a furrowed brow.
“Um, hey Sergio! So like I know you’ve been busy lately with like um what’s his name (you told me but I forgot I’m sorry!! Say hi to him for me anyway! Like I haven’t met him but I’m sure he’s great!!) and like I know we haven’t seen each other in a few days because you’ve been out late and I’ve been out early and basically you, like, have a life, and I don’t, or like - the life I do have absolutely sucks, Sergio, being a teenager sucks, I hate it more than anything in the world oh my God, but anyway I’m not calling to complain! Or, well, I kind of am? But there’s a better question that I have to ask you! I was wondering if maybe -”
And then the message abruptly cuts off.
Fernando looks at Sergio, confused. “Did he do that on purpose?”
Sergio shakes his head, puts up his index finger as he stares at the phone. “He’ll be calling back and leaving another one,” he says, and as if on cue, his phone beeps again, signaling another voicemail. Fernando snorts, a little disbelieving, and Sergio presses ‘play’ again.
“Whoops I always do that don’t I? My mistake! One day I’ll learn how to like, you know, leave voicemails, sorry! But anyway, so I was wondering if you could maybe teach me how to play football? Which is kind of… it’s a big task because um well have you seen me jogging for the bus in the morning, I’m sure you have because I’m always late, but I uh get winded really easily? I mean I don’t have to be a world-class footballer or anything! I just - there’s this charity match at my school, and uh, that boy I was telling you about…”
Fernando raises an eyebrow and makes a kissy face at Sergio, and Sergio waggles his eyebrows and nods.
“…He invited me to play? Or well, like, I don’t know how it happened but somehow he talked me into playing and ummm I’m kind of going to be playing? It’s on Christmas Eve and I uhhh don’t really know what position so uh maybe you can just teach me all of them? Today after school? Maybe? Please? Pretty please Sergio I swear I’ll um buy you things and never support another club, ever, only yours, and um, IhavetogobecauseI’minschoolandthebellisgoingtoringandtheheadmastermight -”
There’s a shrill ring, then a “shit!” followed by the dial tone.
Sergio and Fernando are silent for a moment.
And then Fernando begins laughing hysterically.
“You - would - be friends with someone like that!” he chokes out between giggles, holding onto his sides. His hot chocolate is dangerously close to spilling on his lap from the mini-tremors of his laughter and Sergio watches him carefully, worried about his leather couch’s wellbeing.
Sergio crosses his arms, but can’t stop his own laughter from bubbling to the surface. “What! I don’t know what you’re laughing at, he’s perfectly -”
Fernando looks at him skeptically. “Normal? Are you about to say he’s perfectly normal?”
“I - Well, no, he’s not - okay he’s not normal, but -”
Fernando stares at him again, eyebrow raised dubiously. “But?”
“But he’s… nice?”
“You’re nice,” Fernando laughs.
Sergio waggles his eyebrows. “Not that nice.”
He looks down, looks at his hands. “I’m, um. I won’t be here for Christmas, I was going to leave on Christmas Eve.”
Fernando takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and Sergio thinks, but, not yet. We haven’t had enough time yet.
“I could, um. Stay. And leave after,” he offers, a little shyly.
Sergio knows that a polite person, an unselfish person, would tell him that it’s silly, that he shouldn’t rearrange his whole flight and his holiday for a teenage boy’s charity football game. Instead, before Fernando even fully completes his thought, he says, “Really? Please?”
Fernando blushes again and looks down at his hot chocolate, and Sergio watches him for a moment, watches his pleased little smile and the way he squirms.
Sergio clears his throat and Fernando looks back over at him, eyes clouded by something, almost distracted.
Fernando says, “Sergio,” and Sergio says, “Do you want to teach him how to play football with me?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and Sergio feels like an idiot, feels like saying, “wait I changed my mind, you talk instead,” but Fernando smiles and nods.
“Yes. I’d love that.”
Somehow, Cesc knows this is Iker’s way of saying goodbye: a hand on his thigh during dinner, a soft, warm smile as they wash the dishes, a kiss pressed to each of his fingertips as Cesc (attempts to) tell a story about something that happened at lunch. It’s been a few weeks, but Cesc feels as though they’ve somehow completely lived through an entire relationship - they bypassed the entire awkward getting-to-know-you stage and moved straight into domesticity, into the period where Cesc knows Iker by the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, can smile at him across the room and know what Iker is thinking by the watt of his grin.
After dinner is done and the dishes are washed, they don’t bother with keeping up appearances, don’t fool themselves into settling in front of the television. Iker takes his hand - cold and wet and smelling of floral dishwashing detergent, and leads him into the bedroom.
It’s unlike anything Cesc and Iker have ever done before - Cesc doesn’t know how to explain it, but when they kiss, it is with the knowledge that their time is ending, that the day is slowly drawing to a close and so are they. Iker undresses Cesc, touches him unselfishly, almost reverently. He leads Cesc backward and, unlike the first time and every time since, Iker is the one who crawls to him, is the one to plant a light trail of kisses down the middle of his chest.
(Cesc thinks, I should be sad about this; thinks, this is ending, this should depress me, we’re - we’re breaking up. But Iker was never all-his to begin with, and Cesc didn’t let him in enough to be all Iker’s, either; hell, Iker never even went to his flat. Cesc can’t find the energy or the space in his heart to feel sad about their - whatever it was - finishing, not when Iker made him the happiest he’d been in a long time.)
Iker covers Cesc’s body with his own, presses against him with his full weight. It’s a comfortable feeling, being pinned underneath someone, the feeling of being secured in place. Iker pushes into him, kisses across his chest and face and lips, drawing out sighs and pants, and Cesc curls around him, against him.
(Cesc thinks that they will never fit together perfectly, but who says they need to? Not everyone Cesc is with needs to be his soul mate. He tries not to think about how, maybe once, he thought he’d found his. Maybe soul mates don’t exist.)
Iker pushes out and then in again, and Cesc’s breath hitches, and he lets out a little whimper that Iker drowns out with a kiss. He presses their foreheads together and Cesc feels Iker’s warm breath against his cheeks and he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of his heart slamming against his ribcage, against Iker’s chest.
Later, when they are spent and sweaty and lying against each other, Iker turns and presses a gentle kiss against Cesc’s temple. Maybe, in another life, this would just be a prelude for them - maybe they would continue being each other’s distraction. Maybe Iker would say, “I love you.”
But instead, Iker runs his fingers through Cesc’s hair, and Cesc says, “I think you’ll always love him,” and Iker quietly answers, “I think so, too.”
A single voicemail:
“I know it’s Christmas Eve, but. You need to come over. I have something to give you. I… You can leave right after, if you like. Whatever. Just. Come over?”
And then, quietly,
“Please?”
“This is such a bad idea,” Fernando whispers under his breath as Sergio leads them through a series of side-staircases and busy hallways. A group of little girls rush past them giggling (Sergio is fairly certain he hears someone say something about Fernando’s “silly spots,” but he figures if Fernando missed it there’s no need to bring it to his attention) and two boys in oversized kits brush against them and one of them says, “hey isn’t that…?” before thinking better of it.
“It’s fine,” Sergio says dismissively, nodding towards a series of tunnels. “I know my way around, I’ve gone to Serge’s parent-teacher conferences.”
Fernando glances at him, eyebrow raised. “You go to Serge’s parent-teacher conferences? Is there something you need to tell me?”
Sergio laughs. “They go easier on him if they’re star struck by me.”
“But you’re not even his -” Fernando loses his trail of thought when Sergio grips his wrist and pulls him through the tunnels and brings him to a shady, somewhat-hidden area overlooking the pitch. It’s a small pitch - smaller than normal fields, but still large for a high school; when Fernando was a kid, he would have killed to play in such an area. The beauty of the field surprises him, and he watches as students, family members, and players begin piling in the stadium.
“Were you saying something?” Sergio asks, and when Fernando looks over at him, he notices how close he is, how good he smells, how nice his smile is, how beautiful his skin is. It catches him off-guard for a moment, and he blinks a little dumbly, a little stunned. Sergio laughs and slides an arm around Fernando’s waist, pulls him closer.
Raul has just taken his jacket off and hung it by the door, has just taken his shoes off, has just opened his newspaper and sat down on the couch and put on the news and - and then, his phone buzzes.
New voicemail.
The little voice in his head that tells him to eat the chocolate bar at midnight, that tells him to put his feet on the table, that tells him to clean the bedroom tomorrow (not now, not when you’re so tired), tells him to ignore it. Tells him that it’s late, that it’s Christmas Eve, that he doesn’t have anyone he needs to be talking to right now.
Raul never eats the chocolate bar at midnight, never puts his feet on the table, and always cleans the bedroom exactly when he notices that his room is a mess. Raul checks his voicemail.
He is still so annoyed, still so aggravated at Guti that, on a normal day, Raul probably would have ignored him. But it’s that last word, so light and quiet and hushed that he isn’t even sure he hears it properly - “please.” That fucking word.
That fucking man.
He folds up his newspaper, turns off the news, puts his shoes on, puts his jacket on. He leaves.
part ii.
fandom/pairing | football ; in order of appearance: Guti Hernández/Raul González, David Beckham/Iker Casillas, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Bojan Krkic/Sergio Canales, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Cesc Fabregas/Iker Casillas (unrequited?), Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique (unrequited?)
secondary characters mentioned: Victoria Beckham, Sara Carbonero, Vicente Del Bosque
rating | R for language & ... ungraphic sex. basically.
[part] word count | ~12k..... oh my god.
summary | AU. "Follows the lives of ten very different people in dealing with their love lives in various loosely and interrelated tales all set during a frantic month before Christmas in London, England." In simpler terms, Love Actually meets Football.
notes | OH MY GOD HOLY DON'T-KNOW-HOW-TO-SHUT-UP BATMAN. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE 12K. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BROKEN INTO 2 PARTS. THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TAKE 3 WEEKS TO WRITE.
oh my god, okay, first of all -- i apologize, i swear i wrote this for like 2 GD WEEKS & it was torture & i never want to read or look at this again. i hope you all aren't completely sick of christmas. whoops. also, i apologize for the ultimate cornballiness of this part. my excuse for this is, well, have you ever seen a chick flick? ever? especially christmas-themed ones? SHIELD YOUR EYES, TURN OFF ALL SENSE OF REALISM. i also apologize for general shittiness.
i hope everyone's christmas/holidays went well. i love you all ♥ thank you!
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I won’t ask for much this Christmas,
I don’t even wish for snow
I’m just gonna keep on waiting
Underneath the mistletoe
I just want you for my own,
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you.
(Mariah Carey, All I Want For Christmas is You)
iv. Last Week of Christmas
When Stevie steps foot into the main office, he has certain expectations. For instance, he expects that when he turns the corner, Cesc will have a list of missed calls - because, as usual, he spent far too long in the shower this morning and is roughly 20 minutes late. He expects that Iker will give him that look - the one that says “just because the boss isn’t here doesn’t mean you can saunter in whenever you like” - but he won’t actually say any of these things, will instead simply hand him a bagel and shake his head. And when he turns the corner and opens the double-doors to his office, he expects to see the now-familiar, bright smile that he’s come to anticipate, the face of someone who makes his hear flip and flutter and burst in a way it hasn’t since high school. (Hasn’t since ever.)
What Stevie doesn’t expect, however, is David - weary-eyed but smiling, sitting where, just days before, Xabi had been sitting. It looks wrong, like a guess-what’s-missing puzzle and it makes Stevie’s gut twist and turn and he thinks, a little pathetically, that what he is feeling is bordering on a panic attack.
“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard!” David sing-songs, and stands up to ruffle Stevie’s hair. Stevie grimace-smiles and David pulls away. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did you miss me?”
Stevie scratches his head, shrugs. “About ten times more than you missed me.”
“So a one, then?” David replies, and barks out a laugh.
Stevie smiles - or at least, he tries to. The bagel is slowly making its way up his esophagus, and he’s fairly certain he’s going to be sick.
“I took a look at the books,” David continues, as if he hadn’t stopped. “That Alonso bloke did a great job. We’ll have to get him to come back soon. How did you lot do without me?”
Stevie is struggling desperately to catch up and finds himself rather embarrassingly panting, “Come back?”
David frowns. “Yes. To visit. He was only a temp for the month, I paid him and gave him a pretty hefty Christmas bonus last week when I visited.”
Stevie is going to throw up. It’s not a question of if, but of when. He’s going to absolutely without question throw up.
“Oh…? Where did he go?”
David shrugs. “No idea.” He pauses for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “You okay, mate?”
Stevie nods a little breathlessly, feels a little like a giant elephant is sitting on his heart and chest and lungs and - shite.
“Yeah, I’m - I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Cesc has been waiting for Iker to break it off with him for over a week. He isn’t sure why or how he suddenly knows that the inevitable is slowly happening, but the knowledge reveals itself one Sunday morning while he’s blinking away the sunlight that creeps through the window in Iker’s flat. He stretches his arm across Iker’s side of the bed and, instead of hitting bare skin, his hand hits the mattress.
And his sleep-muddled, confused mind suddenly clears and he thinks, so this is how he’s leaving me - this is when it’s over.
(Later, when Iker comes out of the shower, he’ll think he was being stupid, of course Iker wouldn’t leave Cesc in his own flat. But later, he’ll also think - wasn’t it weird how I wasn’t even surprised?)
“Snow is so strange,” Fernando says, bundled under jackets and sweaters and gloves. Sergio smiles over at him, watches as the light snowflakes land in his hair and eyelashes. Fernando looks like a child, all wide-eyed wonder, bright smile, pink nose and cheeks. He looks at everything with awe, looks at everything as if he’s seeing it for the first time and, Sergio supposes, maybe he is - maybe this is his first time really being in the cold, really feeling the winter like this. Sergio has had time to get used to it, has had time to let the winter chill settle in his bones - but Fernando, who usually wears such thin layers, as if he’s in denial, as if he refuses to give in to the temperature, has only had the chance to experience it for less than a month.
(Sergio wants to say, “get used to it,” but will that jinx it? Is that sort of wishful thinking the type that can get you into trouble? Is it too hopeful, is it too soon, to grab his hands and hold him close and say, “can you please just stay here, please?”)
“But nice?” Sergio clarifies hopefully, still watching Fernando. Fernando turns to him, as if he’s only just realized Sergio is there, and smiles.
“But nice,” he agrees, nodding, before turning his focus back on the sky, back on the snow. It isn’t much - it’s barely even sticking; mostly the snow falls in big, fluffy flakes that evaporate by the time they hit the ground, but. But it’s beautiful. But this is the first time he’s seen Fernando in it as it’s falling, and he thinks there’s possibly nothing as beautiful.
Sergio brushes some of the flakes out of Fernando’s hair and says, “You should catch some on your tongue.”
Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused. “Catch some on my tongue? Do people do that?”
“Of course! I did it all the time.”
“Let me restate the question,” Fernando says, laughing slightly. “Do adults do that?”
Sergio rolls his eyes. “You look like you’re twelve. I don’t see any adults around here.”
Fernando opens his mouth in mock disgust, mock outrage, and hits him in the chest playfully; Sergio catches his wrist, pulls him closer, uses his free hand to ruffle his hair. Fernando laughs and pushes back, gives him a gentle shove before looking in Sergio’s eyes.
Neither of them say anything for a moment - Fernando looks at him like he’s never seen him before, like this is someone new, like Sergio isn’t Sergio Ramos but Serge and his tongue darts out to lick his winter-bitten lips, pink and wet and Sergio is suddenly very thankful that they’re alone, that there isn’t anyone around, and -
“Just close your eyes,” Sergio says quietly.
Fernando does, almost before Sergio even finishes his command.
“Tilt your head back.” When he does, he says, “And now stick out your tongue.”
Head back, Fernando opens one eye and squints, eyebrow raised, looks at him dubiously. He looks ridiculous, and stupid, and endearing, and adorable.
“Do you trust me?” Sergio says, and Fernando stares after him for a moment before closing his eyes, before sticking his tongue out, before waiting.
The snow is falling so rapidly, it doesn’t take long for a few flakes to accumulate.
Sergio watches him for a second - watches Fernando standing there, shivering slightly, eyes closed, peaceful and expectant, the tips of his ears pink and raw. He looks - he looks perfect, really, and he can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop thinking about how he’s never thought someone looked so perfect. He thinks it’s almost a little backwards, because he didn’t start thinking he was perfect until after he talked to him, until after he spent time with him, and don’t you usually think people are attractive the moment you meet them? Isn’t that why they call it love at first sight? But with Fernando… Sergio feels like the more he stares at him, the more he likes.
(Yesterday, he discovered the small strip of hair that curls behind Fernando’s ear, the one that he must constantly forget about, the one that curves over his earlobe like an earring. When he saw it, he reached over and tugged at it, and Fernando didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t even know what he was touching. It almost felt like a secret, a secret between Sergio and Fernando’s body.)
Before he has the chance to think better of it, Sergio quickly leans over and kisses Fernando’s cheek, just above the corner of his mouth. As he pulls back, Fernando closes his mouth and slowly opens his eyes, slowly looks at him. His wrist is still in Sergio’s hands, his hand is still fisted in Sergio’s jacket. Fernando is breathing heavily, but he doesn’t know why, and his heart is racing, and his cheeks are so fucking hot, and -
“Now you’re a proper Scouser,” Sergio says quietly, and Fernando smiles.
The next time there is a photo shoot, Guti shows up on time. He and Raul barely speak, and each take separate means of transportation to the studio. At a press conference, Guti sticks to the selected topics, takes his time answering questions. He stays focused, only curses once - and the one time he does curse, he (somehow) does it so charmingly, so sweetly, that the reporters smile and laugh and snap their cameras greedily.
To the untrained eye, it would appear that Guti is doing what Raul has asked of him, is putting in the effort and attempting to make Raul’s job (career, life) easier.
But Raul knows better.
Guti isn’t giving in or giving up, but simply taking the path of least resistance. He does what Raul asks - and nothing more. He answers the questions as if reading straight from a script and barely even smiles for the photographers. He’s like a zombie, and Raul has to admit that he rather prefers the unruly, can’t-be-tamed version of Guti in comparison.
“You could show some of your personality without being a total asshole, you know,” Raul tells him as they walk from the photo shoot to his dressing room.
Guti laughs dryly. “So you want me to be myself, but not too much of myself,” he clarifies.
“Well, when you put it like that -”
“No,” Guti says simply. “We can’t all turn our personalities on and off.”
That seems like a jab, though Raul isn’t sure what he’s referring to.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You. I mean you.”
Raul frowns and stops in the hallway, crossing his arms. “Me? When have I ever changed my personality? When have I ever been duplicitous?”
Guti rolls his eyes and repeats “duplicitous” under his breath before turning around to face him.
“That night,” he says. “After we met, after you started working for me. You and I went out for drinks and on the couch I -”
“Yes,” Raul interrupts, and he isn’t one to blush normally but he feels his face flush with the memory.
“I woke up and you weren’t even there, and there was a girl in your place, and you didn’t even - what the fuck did you think I was? Your fucking boy-toy? You got all hot and bothered from the alcohol and from the idea that I wanted to get into your pants, and then you decided you were done?” His voice is a harsh whisper, a hiss, and it stings Raul’s ears. He bristles noticeably.
“It wasn’t like that,” Raul says quietly. “I - I was drunk.”
“And?”
“And - she knocked on the door and said she was there for you, or wanted to see you, and -” And Raul sounds like a fucking idiot right now, he knows it - he’s been reduced to a stuttering, blabbering mess, and he isn’t sure why but suddenly his explanation - which, for a year, forever, has seemed completely appropriate - sounds ridiculous and embarrassing.
“And so you let her in and left,” Guti continues once Raul doesn’t, and Raul shrugs.
“I didn’t want to be just… another.”
Guti raises an eyebrow. “Just another what?”
“Just another conquest, just another…”
“God, Raul, do you realize how you sound?”
Raul opens his mouth to defend himself and Guti waves his hand dismissively. “The point is, that night you let your guard down and then the next day it was up again - stronger than ever. You’ve never let it down since - you’ve never let me in again.”
Raul is quiet. He can’t say that Guti is wrong, because - is he, really? Isn’t he sort of right? Sort of completely right? (Not that he’d ever admit it.)
“So what do you expect from me?” Guti asks.
Raul has nothing to say. He looks down at the floor, down at his feet. He feels absolutely ridiculous. Guti moves closer, puts his hands on Raul’s shoulders, forces Raul to look at him. He repeats the question: “What do you expect from me, Raul?”
Raul feels like he has heartburn, feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Guti’s eyes are empty, emotionless. He doesn’t know what to say - he doesn’t have anything to say. His fingers twist together.
“Nothing,” he says finally.
Guti smiles bitterly - that same familiar, unsurprised smile. The same smile he seems to get whenever Raul says something particularly heartless and disappointing. His smile looks the same as Raul feels.
“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly. He lets go of him, walks away. Raul doesn’t even have the energy to walk after him.
Cesc is in the middle of typing up an email - not a particularly important one, but; but it’s easier to keep his mind off important things (his half-relationship with Iker, his feelings for his best friend, Christmas, the fact that the snow outside is going to fuck up his evening commute) if he focuses on meaningless things. He’s in the middle of it, constantly forgetting what he’s trying to say, constantly veering off-topic - and then, Gerard hops on his desk, swings his legs out, rests his hands behind his head and leans against the thin cubicle wall.
Cesc glares at him, but he can’t, not really. He’s never been able to be truly mad at his best friend - even if it’d be so much easier if he could just be pissed for once.
“I’m working,” Cesc says, minimizing a solitaire game.
“Yeah,” Gerard says, half-sarcastically. “I can see that.”
Cesc pushes his feet. “Shut up. Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
Gerard shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay…” Cesc leans back in his chair and scratches at his elbow; nervous habit, and the cold English winters make his skin raw and dry and irritated. He feels like no matter how long he lives here, it’ll never be home, his skin will never stop rioting against him. “Why aren’t you, then?”
Gerard reaches out and slaps his hand away. Cesc scowls, but. But maybe it’s nice to have someone there, someone to stop him from hurting himself.
“Because I’m going to take you out to lunch, imbecile.”
Cesc squirms, sits up a little straighter, can’t fight the happy grin that spreads across his face.
“Really? You’re going to take me out?”
Gerard grins at him, hooks his foot around the arm of his swivel chair and drags him closer, brings the chair between his legs and leans down to kiss his nose.
“Idiot,” he says fondly, and ruffles his hair.
Cesc scowls again, and he’s going to say something, and then -
“Hey, uh - Cesc?”
Cesc freezes, pales. He turns around to see Iker awkwardly standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Cesc wonders how long he’s been there, how much he’s seen. (There’s nothing to see, he tells himself - Gerard is, and always will be, a friend. There’s nothing to see.)
“Oh, uh, Iker, hey, Geri just -”
Iker waves his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, you need to go on break anyway. You’ve been working nonstop.”
Cesc frowns. “Oh, um, okay, thanks - uh, what did you…?”
He glances over at Gerard for a moment, opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it, closes it again. Then, finally, he says: “Tonight?”
Cesc’s heart somersaults at this, his stomach twists at this. He nods, almost too eagerly, almost too animatedly. He can feel Gerard’s eyes focused on the back of his head, can feel the anger radiating from him. He’s never liked Iker, and he probably never will.
“Yeah,” he squeaks out, blushing a little. “Um, yeah.”
Iker smiles somewhat, whispers, “okay.” He nods curtly (politely, warningly) at Gerard, then walks out. Cesc waits a full two beats before turning back to Gerard. Gerard isn’t smiling anymore, just stares at him, arms crossed. His face says enough.
“Don’t,” Cesc warns.
Gerard shrugs, doesn’t say anything as Cesc stands up, puts his jacket on. He doesn’t say anything until they get to the sidewalk, in front of Cesc’s office building. Gerard turns to him and says, “You deserve someone better.”
Cesc laughs a little bitterly, and his breath comes out in a little puff of smoke in front of his face. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Yeah? Like who?”
Gerard doesn’t say anything. But he wants to say, anyone. He wants to say, someone like me.
So. They’re not… friends, or anything. Serge isn’t deluded enough to think they’re actually friends, but. Like, there’s maybe the hope that one day, in the near future, hopefully sooner rather than later and hopefully before, like, graduation, and hopefully before Serge decides to just transfer and save himself the trouble because God this is frustrating and tiring and almost consistently, constantly disappointing, but - there’s maybe the hope that Bo will one day say his name. Or, rather, know it.
Because Serge still isn’t entirely sure he knows it. Since he never, you know… says it.
Serge’s life is so fucking hard.
But anyway, the point is - they’re not friends, but there seems to be definite progression. Such as: yesterday, they walked to the library together. They talked about football (Bo is a cule, and Serge is a Madridista, but - but he can overlook it, he’d overlook it for a smile like that, for a guy like that) and Bo asked him what he was doing for Christmas vacation, and Bo told him that he was going to take the first flight after the charity football match with his family and go back to Barcelona for the holidays.
(The idea that maybe Bo was leaving, and very soon - like, this weekend soon - made him feel more than a little sick.)
So maybe they’re not friends, but. They’re not enemies, and they’re not strangers, and - and that must count for something, right?
Bo leans against Serge’s locker.
“So,” he says lightly. “Are you going to the Christmas football game?”
Serge shifts his backpack on his shoulder and shrugs. “I don’t know yet…”
Bo looks down. “Oh. Well. You should!”
Serge smiles slightly. “Really? Why?”
“Because,” Bo says with a grin, and Serge wishes he’d say something flirty like, because, I’ll be there or because, I want you to come. Instead he says, “I’m helping organize it and I need enough people to play on our team, otherwise the numbers will be uneven.”
Serge frowns.
“And how many do you have for your team now?”
“With you, it’d be a perfect starting eleven.”
Serge bites his lip. “I’m not good at football.”
“That doesn’t matter! It’s for charity!” Serge is quiet, and Bo steps a little closer. His smell is intoxicating. “So, you’ll do it?”
Serge thinks, there’s possibly no reason I would ever say no to this boy.
He shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
Bo grins - a beaming, bright smile that causes his heart to twist and flip and turn and about five hundred other clichéd things, and he still is embarrassed by it, and he still feels like an idiot because of it, and he thinks he’ll never be completely used to it. Bo reaches over and, gently, softly touches Serge’s shoulder, fingertips light and brushing his skin carefully, almost shyly. Serge nearly forgets to breathe.
And then he says, “Thanks,” - not even, “Thanks, Sergio,” fuck, he really doesn’t know his name, does he? Just, thanks - and then walks away, down the hallway and out the double-doors.
And once again, Serge is left behind - clueless and confused and bewildered. He rests his head against his locker and closes his eyes, going over the millions of things that he could have (should have) said to keep the conversation going. He’s an idiot, he tells himself - an absolute idiot.
With an almost strangled, frustrated groan, he walks to the bus stop, cursing himself the entire time.
When Stevie reads books (it happens so rarely, but it does happen, every now and then when there’s nothing on the telly) he always finds himself annoyed at the characters who seem to fall apart when the person they love disappears, or leaves them, or breaks up with them. He hates reading things like, “he was beside himself,” because what the fuck does that even mean? When did that phrase come into use - why did one person think it was something that made sense, something that accurately described the feeling of being left behind or left alone or just simply left? He tends to mock the characters when they wander the streets, barely aware of where they are, barely aware of what they’re doing.
Except, suddenly - and it’s not even overnight, it’s seconds later, it’s that night, it’s right after David finishes talking to him - he has become that person, he is that person. He has become that person, incapable of functioning or thinking or breathing. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to do, but he knows that he needs Xabi. He’s been without him for less than a full day, and he needs him, and he misses him, and - Xabi. He needs Xabi.
He thinks, maybe he could give him a ring, but - he never did get his number. He thinks, maybe he could go to his flat, but - where does he even live? Considering the amount of time he and Xabi had spent together, Stevie would have thought that he’d be a little better prepared for this.
The rational part of his brain thinks, well, it was fun while it lasted, time to move on.
And the irrational part of his brain - the part that has had full reign over all his capabilities for the past month - tells him, ha, that’s funny. The irrational part of his brain has him walking past the car park instead of towards it. The irrational part of his brain has him walking to the library, has him walking over to the instructional books, has him picking out books like So You Want To Learn Spanish Right Now and Spanish for Absolute Dummies and You’re Hopeless, Mate, But Here, Let’s Teach You How To Say ‘Hello’. The irrational part of his brain forces him to stay in the back of the library, writing notes, checking things. It has him staying there past closing, flirting with the librarian to get a few more minutes as he finishes up a chapter on conjugations.
Stevie hates the irrational part of his brain, especially when it keeps him up at three in the morning by reminding him of how nice Xabi always smelled, how he always smiled, how his voice was smooth and low and deep and musical. In bed, he tries to copy the sound of his voice, tries to remember specific phrases. He settles on the one he’ll never forget, even if he wants to, meaning unknown: “Te echaré de menos.” (I will miss you.)
Apparently, it’s a lot easier to avoid someone when they, too, are desperately and blatantly avoiding you, too.
Last week, it was harder. Iker had phone calls to dodge, meetings to avoid, lunches and dinners to invent excuses for. He needed Cesc’s help with lying, needed to hide in the break room, needed to practically barricade himself in his office to avoid an awkward confrontation, to avoid having to pretend to be happy.
This week, though, it’s much easier. This week, David is doing the same thing - if not more.
When Iker walks by his office, he suddenly ducks down, picks up a forgotten pencil only to drop it again. When Iker calls him (out of necessity, because he has no other choice), he’s on the road, going through a tunnel, and can’t talk. When Iker bumps into him in the hallway, David slides past him so quickly that he barely even realizes whose shoulder he’s just hit into, who he’s just passed.
He’s not one to cry. He never cries, especially not over people. He gets angry instead, he does things, he puts his emotions to productive uses.
But he can’t help thinking that, maybe, if he was the type of person to cry - this would maybe make him cry. A little.
And it’s because of this that he decides: he’s not putting up with this shit. He’ll do something about it, and then - then, he’ll never think about it again.
When Serge talks, his voice comes out in a rush, in a confused and muddled run-on sentence, and although Sergio is used to it, Fernando listens to his voice over the speakerphone with a frown and a furrowed brow.
“Um, hey Sergio! So like I know you’ve been busy lately with like um what’s his name (you told me but I forgot I’m sorry!! Say hi to him for me anyway! Like I haven’t met him but I’m sure he’s great!!) and like I know we haven’t seen each other in a few days because you’ve been out late and I’ve been out early and basically you, like, have a life, and I don’t, or like - the life I do have absolutely sucks, Sergio, being a teenager sucks, I hate it more than anything in the world oh my God, but anyway I’m not calling to complain! Or, well, I kind of am? But there’s a better question that I have to ask you! I was wondering if maybe -”
And then the message abruptly cuts off.
Fernando looks at Sergio, confused. “Did he do that on purpose?”
Sergio shakes his head, puts up his index finger as he stares at the phone. “He’ll be calling back and leaving another one,” he says, and as if on cue, his phone beeps again, signaling another voicemail. Fernando snorts, a little disbelieving, and Sergio presses ‘play’ again.
“Whoops I always do that don’t I? My mistake! One day I’ll learn how to like, you know, leave voicemails, sorry! But anyway, so I was wondering if you could maybe teach me how to play football? Which is kind of… it’s a big task because um well have you seen me jogging for the bus in the morning, I’m sure you have because I’m always late, but I uh get winded really easily? I mean I don’t have to be a world-class footballer or anything! I just - there’s this charity match at my school, and uh, that boy I was telling you about…”
Fernando raises an eyebrow and makes a kissy face at Sergio, and Sergio waggles his eyebrows and nods.
“…He invited me to play? Or well, like, I don’t know how it happened but somehow he talked me into playing and ummm I’m kind of going to be playing? It’s on Christmas Eve and I uhhh don’t really know what position so uh maybe you can just teach me all of them? Today after school? Maybe? Please? Pretty please Sergio I swear I’ll um buy you things and never support another club, ever, only yours, and um, IhavetogobecauseI’minschoolandthebellisgoingtoringandtheheadmastermight -”
There’s a shrill ring, then a “shit!” followed by the dial tone.
Sergio and Fernando are silent for a moment.
And then Fernando begins laughing hysterically.
“You - would - be friends with someone like that!” he chokes out between giggles, holding onto his sides. His hot chocolate is dangerously close to spilling on his lap from the mini-tremors of his laughter and Sergio watches him carefully, worried about his leather couch’s wellbeing.
Sergio crosses his arms, but can’t stop his own laughter from bubbling to the surface. “What! I don’t know what you’re laughing at, he’s perfectly -”
Fernando looks at him skeptically. “Normal? Are you about to say he’s perfectly normal?”
“I - Well, no, he’s not - okay he’s not normal, but -”
Fernando stares at him again, eyebrow raised dubiously. “But?”
“But he’s… nice?”
“You’re nice,” Fernando laughs.
Sergio waggles his eyebrows. “Not that nice.”
He looks down, looks at his hands. “I’m, um. I won’t be here for Christmas, I was going to leave on Christmas Eve.”
Fernando takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and Sergio thinks, but, not yet. We haven’t had enough time yet.
“I could, um. Stay. And leave after,” he offers, a little shyly.
Sergio knows that a polite person, an unselfish person, would tell him that it’s silly, that he shouldn’t rearrange his whole flight and his holiday for a teenage boy’s charity football game. Instead, before Fernando even fully completes his thought, he says, “Really? Please?”
Fernando blushes again and looks down at his hot chocolate, and Sergio watches him for a moment, watches his pleased little smile and the way he squirms.
Sergio clears his throat and Fernando looks back over at him, eyes clouded by something, almost distracted.
Fernando says, “Sergio,” and Sergio says, “Do you want to teach him how to play football with me?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and Sergio feels like an idiot, feels like saying, “wait I changed my mind, you talk instead,” but Fernando smiles and nods.
“Yes. I’d love that.”
Somehow, Cesc knows this is Iker’s way of saying goodbye: a hand on his thigh during dinner, a soft, warm smile as they wash the dishes, a kiss pressed to each of his fingertips as Cesc (attempts to) tell a story about something that happened at lunch. It’s been a few weeks, but Cesc feels as though they’ve somehow completely lived through an entire relationship - they bypassed the entire awkward getting-to-know-you stage and moved straight into domesticity, into the period where Cesc knows Iker by the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, can smile at him across the room and know what Iker is thinking by the watt of his grin.
After dinner is done and the dishes are washed, they don’t bother with keeping up appearances, don’t fool themselves into settling in front of the television. Iker takes his hand - cold and wet and smelling of floral dishwashing detergent, and leads him into the bedroom.
It’s unlike anything Cesc and Iker have ever done before - Cesc doesn’t know how to explain it, but when they kiss, it is with the knowledge that their time is ending, that the day is slowly drawing to a close and so are they. Iker undresses Cesc, touches him unselfishly, almost reverently. He leads Cesc backward and, unlike the first time and every time since, Iker is the one who crawls to him, is the one to plant a light trail of kisses down the middle of his chest.
(Cesc thinks, I should be sad about this; thinks, this is ending, this should depress me, we’re - we’re breaking up. But Iker was never all-his to begin with, and Cesc didn’t let him in enough to be all Iker’s, either; hell, Iker never even went to his flat. Cesc can’t find the energy or the space in his heart to feel sad about their - whatever it was - finishing, not when Iker made him the happiest he’d been in a long time.)
Iker covers Cesc’s body with his own, presses against him with his full weight. It’s a comfortable feeling, being pinned underneath someone, the feeling of being secured in place. Iker pushes into him, kisses across his chest and face and lips, drawing out sighs and pants, and Cesc curls around him, against him.
(Cesc thinks that they will never fit together perfectly, but who says they need to? Not everyone Cesc is with needs to be his soul mate. He tries not to think about how, maybe once, he thought he’d found his. Maybe soul mates don’t exist.)
Iker pushes out and then in again, and Cesc’s breath hitches, and he lets out a little whimper that Iker drowns out with a kiss. He presses their foreheads together and Cesc feels Iker’s warm breath against his cheeks and he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of his heart slamming against his ribcage, against Iker’s chest.
Later, when they are spent and sweaty and lying against each other, Iker turns and presses a gentle kiss against Cesc’s temple. Maybe, in another life, this would just be a prelude for them - maybe they would continue being each other’s distraction. Maybe Iker would say, “I love you.”
But instead, Iker runs his fingers through Cesc’s hair, and Cesc says, “I think you’ll always love him,” and Iker quietly answers, “I think so, too.”
A single voicemail:
“I know it’s Christmas Eve, but. You need to come over. I have something to give you. I… You can leave right after, if you like. Whatever. Just. Come over?”
And then, quietly,
“Please?”
“This is such a bad idea,” Fernando whispers under his breath as Sergio leads them through a series of side-staircases and busy hallways. A group of little girls rush past them giggling (Sergio is fairly certain he hears someone say something about Fernando’s “silly spots,” but he figures if Fernando missed it there’s no need to bring it to his attention) and two boys in oversized kits brush against them and one of them says, “hey isn’t that…?” before thinking better of it.
“It’s fine,” Sergio says dismissively, nodding towards a series of tunnels. “I know my way around, I’ve gone to Serge’s parent-teacher conferences.”
Fernando glances at him, eyebrow raised. “You go to Serge’s parent-teacher conferences? Is there something you need to tell me?”
Sergio laughs. “They go easier on him if they’re star struck by me.”
“But you’re not even his -” Fernando loses his trail of thought when Sergio grips his wrist and pulls him through the tunnels and brings him to a shady, somewhat-hidden area overlooking the pitch. It’s a small pitch - smaller than normal fields, but still large for a high school; when Fernando was a kid, he would have killed to play in such an area. The beauty of the field surprises him, and he watches as students, family members, and players begin piling in the stadium.
“Were you saying something?” Sergio asks, and when Fernando looks over at him, he notices how close he is, how good he smells, how nice his smile is, how beautiful his skin is. It catches him off-guard for a moment, and he blinks a little dumbly, a little stunned. Sergio laughs and slides an arm around Fernando’s waist, pulls him closer.
Raul has just taken his jacket off and hung it by the door, has just taken his shoes off, has just opened his newspaper and sat down on the couch and put on the news and - and then, his phone buzzes.
New voicemail.
The little voice in his head that tells him to eat the chocolate bar at midnight, that tells him to put his feet on the table, that tells him to clean the bedroom tomorrow (not now, not when you’re so tired), tells him to ignore it. Tells him that it’s late, that it’s Christmas Eve, that he doesn’t have anyone he needs to be talking to right now.
Raul never eats the chocolate bar at midnight, never puts his feet on the table, and always cleans the bedroom exactly when he notices that his room is a mess. Raul checks his voicemail.
He is still so annoyed, still so aggravated at Guti that, on a normal day, Raul probably would have ignored him. But it’s that last word, so light and quiet and hushed that he isn’t even sure he hears it properly - “please.” That fucking word.
That fucking man.
He folds up his newspaper, turns off the news, puts his shoes on, puts his jacket on. He leaves.
part ii.