football actually [4/4, part ii.]
part i.
Cesc agrees to meet with Iker to close up the office for Christmas; they file away last-minute papers, sign over last minute things, turn off the computers and back-up files while they’re there. Surprisingly - or, maybe not, considering who they are - it isn’t at all awkward. For some reason, it’s natural, and Cesc bumps hips with him playfully as they walk past one another. Iker laughs easily, hands him papers, checks his phone.
“Are you going to see him?” Cesc asks.
Iker shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“You should,” Cesc says, turning to him. “Christmas is the time where, like, all of this romance bullshit thrives. It’s okay to make a fool of yourself now, because it’s Christmas. It’s like, a get out of jail free card.”
Iker laughs again, rolls his eyes. “Idealist.”
He shrugs. “Nah. I’ve just always been a supporter of getting things off your chest.”
At that moment, Gerard walks into the office, all smiles - until he sees Iker and Cesc alone together. He frowns, stands a little straighter (bringing him to around 8 feet tall) and nods at Iker.
“Geri!” Cesc semi-squeals out - will he ever not be embarrassingly, ridiculously pleased to see him? - and stands up. “You’re early!”
“I thought maybe your boss would let you start your Christmas vacation a little early.”
Iker glances up, notices the way Gerard stares at him - the way he crosses his arms, the way he gravitates towards Cesc.
“Yeah, of course.” He clears his throat. “I’m not… his boss. But, yeah. Of course.”
Cesc grins and hugs Iker, reaches up to ruffle his hair, and puts on his jacket. “I hope you have a very Merry Christmas, Iker!” he says happily. As he pulls away, he reaches over to tug on Gerard’s arm, to lead him out of the office.
“Hey, uh - Cesc? Can Gerard meet you downstairs?”
Gerard and Cesc raise identical eyebrows, frown at the same time. It’s almost adorable, Iker thinks. It’s too bad he never really put it all together before.
“Yeah,” Cesc says slowly, looking over to Gerard to make sure. Gerard nods, and Cesc walks out of the office, down the stairs.
The office is quiet.
“What’s this about, Casillas?” Gerard asks gruffly, and Iker realizes for the first time just how tall he is, and yet so childish.
“I just…” Iker tries to form the words, tries to verbalize what he’s thinking without stepping on his toes. “I don’t want you to hurt him. I want you to be careful with him.”
Gerard crosses his arms, laughs a little incredulously. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’ve been with him all of - what, a week? I’ve been with him my entire fucking life. I know what he likes, I know what he needs.”
Iker nods. “I don’t doubt that. He just…” He shrugs. “He loves you. It’s very obvious - and it’s obvious that you like him too. But for whatever reason, you haven’t… done anything about it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerard mumbles, but it’s obvious that Iker is on the right track.
Iker waves his hand. “I’m just saying, Gerard.” He sighs, aware that he’s starting to sound like an extremely bad Lifetime movie, and tries not to cringe too much as he says it. “But I think now - today, of all days, Cesc would appreciate being told. That someone loves him first, and best.”
Cesc is standing with his hands against his lips, breathing into them to keep warm. The tip of his nose is already red, and he hops in place to warm himself up - where the hell is Gerard? Why is he taking so long? What could Iker possibly be saying to him? He doesn’t like the idea of there being some grand conspiracy going on behind his back, and he has half a mind to go up there and ask him what’s going on -
And then Gerard is standing next to him. Cesc smiles - beams - at him, the same way he always does, the same way he always has.
“You took forever, what was Iker saying? What were you doing there? Why are you looking at me like -”
Gerard bends down, kisses him gently, softly. It’s a question - is this still okay? - and he hopes to God the answer is yes.
Cesc nibbles on his lower lip a little bit, already getting caught up in it, and throws his arms around Gerard’s neck, and pushes closer closer closer and Gerard laughs and pushes back a little bit, because they’re in the middle of the fucking street. He kisses his forehead.
“Cesc,” he says quietly, “I love you.”
Cesc smiles so wide it hurts.
Serge is far from a natural, but - somehow he’s a natural at figuring out just who to pass to, just who needs help scoring. He doesn’t score, and he isn’t the fastest runner, and the coach of the team certainly won’t be knocking down his door begging for a tryout, but. Bo glances over at him with this huge, ridiculous smile on his face, like he can’t even believe that he’s here, and that’s good enough for Serge.
(“He isn’t bad,” Fernando whispers to Sergio, and Sergio looks like a proud parent, hand-over-heart, smiling as he peers through the crowd and watches Serge.
Fernando thinks he’s beautiful.)
Somehow, in the midst of what is, at its core, a rather uninteresting high school football match, somehow magic happens.
Serge will never be sure just how it happens, but somehow he gets control of the ball, and dribbles it for a second - all the while with this panicked look on his face as his mind screams, what the fuck what the fuck what the hell do I do with this - unsure of where the goal even is. And then - he spots Bojan, passes it to him. Bojan kicks it once, twice, and - goal.
He runs around, frantically yelling, arms flailing and - and then his arms are around Serge’s neck, are pulling him closer. His lips press against his hair and he says something quietly in his ear. He isn’t sure what, but it sounds like Ser-gee-oh.
(Sergio and Fernando laugh and clap and feel like spectators for the first time in a very long time, and Sergio says something ridiculous like “my boy assisted, my boy assisted, Mini Me assisted!” and throws his arms around Fernando.
They pull apart when the whistle blows, and they look into each other’s eyes, arms still around each other.
“Stay in England,” Sergio whispers.
Fernando looks at him closely, confused. “What?”
“Just - just stay here. I don’t care if you go to some shitty team, or if you’re our biggest rivals - even though the best career choice would be to join my team, but, but that doesn’t even matter, I don’t care, just - I just need you to stay,” he says, all in a rush, like you’re forcing it all out as fast as he can.
Fernando licks his lips, tries to breathe. “Why?”
“Because I…” Sergio looks at him, sees him on his couch, sees him in the snow, sees him on the bench, sees him in every single one of his places, next to him, with him, near him. “Because,” he says.
And then he leans over and kisses him - soft lips and skin, Fernando’s fingers in his hair, over his scalp, resting on his neck; Sergio’s hands tight on his waist, holding him in place, holding him to him. Fernando pushes him against the wall, presses into him, shoves into him, can’t breathe, needs more, needs to be with Sergio, needs to stay in England even if it’s cold and windy and snowy and even if he isn’t good at English, even if he needs Sergio to translate everything, even if he doesn’t even go on this team, because Sergio wants him and really that’s all that matters, that someone wants him here - it’s enough.
They break apart for a minute, breathing heavily, and Sergio whispers, “so you’re staying?”
Fernando laughs and - and then suddenly there’s a spotlight on them, and suddenly there’s a group of boys running past them, through the tunnel and onto the pitch, and -
“Oh my God,” Fernando whispers out.)
“Oh my God,” Serge whispers out.
The whole stadium kind of goes quiet, and it’s kind of awkward, but - by the time the boys run past, Fernando and Sergio are rushing back down the corridor. There’s a murmur that runs through the stadium - “was that just Fernando Torres? Was that Sergio Ramos? Were they… they weren’t touching, were they?” - but by the time the game starts, everyone assumes they were mistaken.
Sergio Canales laughs hysterically the entire way to the bench.
Stevie hasn’t been thinking straight, or properly, for days. He goes to bed reading over his note cards, reminding himself of the differences between past tense and future tense and present tense, reminding himself of common phrases. (He tries to remind himself that this may never work, that he may already have left, that maybe he isn’t interested. He has a better time memorizing Spanish phrases, though, and eventually he gives up.)
For a week, he tells himself that right after Christmas, he’ll find him. He’ll track Xabi down, or get his phone number, or - or, or, or. After Christmas. Once the holidays are over, and the craziness has died down, and everyone isn’t so on-edge (because, God, is it just him or is the entire world fucking insane around Christmastime?)
He isn’t sure why or how he suddenly snaps, suddenly decides today’s the day. He calls his mother from the street, in a tuxedo, already dressed for Christmas Eve dinner - “I’m going to be late, I’m just - I’ll be there, but later, okay? I need to do something first” - and waits for the bus at the stop, something he hasn’t done since he was a kid. When the bus pulls up and the doors open, he cuts the line of people waiting - they yell and curse at him, but he doesn’t even seem to notice - and looks at the bus driver desperately.
“I need you to take me to stop 7.”
The driver raises an eyebrow. “Well, all right. That’s where this bus goes,” he says, and Stevie thinks, oh, is this not how buses work? And then, so that he feels like he has a reason for the outburst, says, “Do you know a Spanish bloke? Xabi Alonso?”
An old woman in the back of the bus raises her handkerchief eagerly, grinning.
“Yes, yes, he sit with me! He hold my yarn!” she says excitedly, her English broken by the Spanish accent that has become familiar.
“Really?” he asks, as he walks over to where she’s sitting. “Do you know where he’s staying?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I might. You are not one of those English drug lords, are you?”
Stevie doesn’t know what to say - he just kind of stares at her blankly for a moment as he makes his way over to the seat across from her.
“No,” he says finally. “I’m… in love with him.”
She looks skeptical. “But you are both men.”
Stevie laughs. “Yeah, I know. It was weird for me, too.”
She thinks it over for a second before nodding. “I always thought so, his hands were too clean.”
Stevie doesn’t have time to ask her what this means, because then she says, “I will take you to him, but only if you buy me lunch.” Stevie laughs again and shakes her hand. “Deal,” he says.
The woman holds his hands up to her face. “Your hands are dirty,” she says. “Are you sure about this?”
Stevie says nothing, just furrows his brow and turns towards his note cards.
Raul knocks once, twice. He can hear Guti behind the door, shuffling around, and then, with the chain on the door, he opens it a crack.
“Santa?” he asks, grinning.
Raul doesn’t really know what to say to this - mainly because he hasn’t seen Guti genuinely smile for weeks, for months, and also because the last time he saw Guti at all, he wasn’t exactly friendly. He crosses his arms.
“No.”
“Scrooge?”
Raul sighs. “Guti, can you just open the door?”
Guti laughs and removes the chain from the door.
“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” Guti singsongs as he leads Raul into his flat. “You really are a heel!”
Raul rolls his eyes and follows him inside, follows him into the living room. “Was there a reason you called me over on Christmas Eve?”
“Yes. I wanted to show you this.”
He takes something from his side table - a thin manila envelope - and hands it to Raul. Raul stares at it for a moment.
“What the hell is this?” Raul asks, holding it in his hands as if it’s a bomb, as if he doesn’t want to leave fingerprints.
Guti laughs. “You could open it, you know.”
Raul looks skeptical, but slowly opens it, not sure what he’s expecting but it certainly isn’t… this.
“…What is this? Who is Mesut Özil?”
Guti smiles. “My new assistant. My new you!”
‘My new you!’ - Oh, fuck.
“Your new…”
Raul is beyond confused, and more than a little hurt that his Christmas present from Guti is a replacement. It’s possibly the ultimate ‘fuck you,’ and Raul is a little impressed that Guti came up with it. It’s more twisted and sadistic and just fucking ruder than Raul expected, though, and it… it hurts more than he expected to. He quit, yeah, and he needed a replacement, and now he can maybe sleep and not deal with Guti anymore, but. This is their last connection, the last thing that ties them to each other. And Guti cut it off in one motion.
“Oh,” is about all he can manage.
“I thought you would be happier!” Guti says, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, you don’t have to worry about me anymore. You’re done. And, this guy, Mesut? I don’t even know what he looks like. I didn’t even google him, or look him up on Facebook - it’s completely based on his résumé! And I’m 90% sure it’s one of the ones you gave me!”
Raul is, quite literally, at a loss.
“You’re… You’re so…” He tries to think of the proper word, and settles on: “Peppy.”
“Peppy,” Guti repeats under his breath, breathing out a laugh. “I guess. Not really. Fuck, Raul, I - I did a lot of fucking thinking this week.”
Raul hates where this is going - he can just tell. He can just tell.
“A lot of thinking.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about why the fuck we do this all the time - about how much you bother me and how I feel about our situation -”
“Our situation,” he repeats, and Guti frowns at him.
“Raul, just - shut up for five seconds.”
Raul crosses his arms.
“You’re a pain in the ass to deal with. You’re cold, and you’re a perfectionist, and you’re never happy with anything I do. I don’t think anyone has ever gotten me as angry as you get me, not even the assholes on opposing teams.”
All of these things sound fairly negative, and Raul begins to wonder if Guti didn’t call him over just to torture him, just to get put the final nail in the coffin before he officially hired someone new. And then, he steps forward, a little closer than before.
“But,” he says quietly, and it’s the voice from that night on the couch, the voice from the dark corner of Raul’s mind where he allows himself to think about things like this (things (people) like Guti). “But you’re also one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, and talented, and passionate, and beautiful. And you call me out on all my shit. And you’re honest, most of the time, except when you’re not being honest with yourself. And although you drive me crazy for none of the good reasons and all of the bad, and even though you’ve told me, many times and in no uncertain terms, that you can’t stand me, and even though you quit, and you have no real tie to me anymore - you have been, more or less, the favorite part of my life for the past two years. And I could be at any number of parties right now, or screwing any number of women (or men) - but, I. I don’t want to spend Christmas Eve with anyone but you.”
Raul is speechless, and breathless, and - and - there’s no way he just said that, there’s absolutely no way - he must be delusional, there must be something wrong with him because he would never ever say that (except he can’t fight the hopeful thought that bubbles up to the surface - you, he wants you, he wants you) and he thinks, Christ, I need to say something.
And then Guti grumbles, “And I swear to fucking God if you ever mock me for this, I’ll -”
But Raul makes a little noise of protest and grabs a handful of Guti’s shirt and drags him forward. No more questions, no more talking.
Serge runs up to them after the game, eyes bright from the adrenaline but clearly tired, worn, and more than a little crestfallen.
“So you two looked cozy,” Serge says as Sergio and Fernando lead him to their cab.
Fernando blushes and Sergio throws his arm around Serge’s shoulders, bringing him close. “Get used to it, Signor Torres is going to be here for a while,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. Fernando rolls his eyes. “And anyway, Mini Me - you should talk. I saw you and that boy canoodling on the pitch.”
Serge looks down. “We weren’t. He’s gone.”
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Fernando asks, frowning.
“I mean he’s already left, he’s going to the bus depot, and then he’s going to go to the airport. He’ll be leaving for Barcelona.”
Sergio stops them suddenly, puts his hands on Sergio’s shoulders.
“Sergio Canales. I did not raise you to be a quitter.”
(Serge frowns, mumbles, “you didn’t raise me at all, but -”)
He shakes Serge’s shoulders a little bit, forcing him to look Sergio in the eye.
“We. Are going. To the bus depot.”
Serge frowns, looks nervous, shakes his head. “No, no - I - he doesn’t, it’s not - it’ll seem too weird, he’s going to think I’m -”
Sergio grips his shoulders even tighter. “He’s going to think you’re romantic.”
Serge makes a face (“What, romantic, I’m not - I don’t want to be, he’s not, I don’t -”) as Sergio leads him towards the taxi, where they all pile in the back, Serge squished rather uncomfortably near the window. Sergio hits the driver’s shoulder and yells “TO THE BUS DEPOT!” like he’s in a movie, and Serge groans and covers his face and pretends not to notice when Fernando presses small kisses against Sergio’s neck.
It isn’t that David doesn’t love Victoria.
He does. He loves her more than he’s ever loved another woman, more than he knew was capable. He loves her in a way that he never thought was possible, loves her so much that sometimes it keeps him awake at night - sometimes he watches the curve of her neck, the sleek line of her body, watches her sleepily smile as she hits him gently against the chest and tells him to “stop being creepy.” He loves her in a way that makes him feel like a provider, a protector, a husband, the man of the house. The problem isn’t how much he loves her.
The problem is how much he loves Iker.
It was never supposed to happen.
They were two friends - friends forever, friends who had seen each other at their best and worse. And David was what Iker liked to refer to as a Typical English Prat - no boundaries, no understanding that not everyone was quite as open or touchy-feely as he was. In fact, that was what drew him to Iker - they were sitting together and David threw his arm around his shoulder, pulled him closer, rubbed his knuckles against his scalp. And while he expected the younger man to squirm, or push away, or fight back - these were all things he did, in succession, along with stiffening his spine and hunching his back - he never expected him to smile like that.
It was a small smile, and clearly an accident, clearly a reflex - because seconds later he was covering it up with a falsely-disguised frown. But. But. The point was, it was there. And because of that, David never stopped.
It became a game - how far can he go until Iker yells? How much of this will he take before he tells Iker it makes him uncomfortable? But Iker never did claim discomfort, or curse, or push him away. He encouraged it, practically asked for it. He fought back, pushed him to the ground, climbed on top of him or let David grapple against him. And somewhere, in the middle of all of it, while neither of them were looking, they began to fall for each other.
(Never in so many words. David refused, forced himself on dates, drank himself to sleep, fought against the images that crept into his mind as he laid in bed at night.)
And when, drunkenly, he took it father than he intended, he vowed to never bring it up again. A drunken mistake between two friends, single and lonely on the holidays - that was all.
(Except that wasn’t all.)
David sits with Victoria at the kitchen table, the only noise being the carols sung on the radio. Victoria is writing cards and David is doing last-minute editing, work that should have been done ages ago, but - it was difficult to focus on work when he was so busy not focusing on Iker.
“I’m going in our room to wrap presents,” Victoria says sweetly, and reaches over the table to kiss him on the cheek. “No peeking!”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, and watches her while she goes, all the while wishing that his heart was too small to love two people so much.
He stares blankly at his pages, already distracted, and then - his phone buzzes.
From: Iker
I need to talk to you.
David sighs, looks back at Victoria as if she can see what he’s reading.
Draft
From: David
is that really the bes -
And then, before he can send it, another incoming message:
From: Iker
You don’t have to write back, or say anything.
And then, as if to prove his point, another message:
From: Iker
Hopefully by this time next year, I’m married to Sara. Or, Victoria, once she comes to her senses and realizes what an English Prat you are.
David laughs, shakes his head a little bit. Idiot.
From: Iker
But until then, I just need you to know…
From: Iker
And it’s okay if you don’t feel it, or if you delete these messages, but
From: Iker
I love you. And I may always love you. Even when you’re wrestling the other 99 year olds in the nursing home.
David freezes. His mouth is dry, and he rereads the messages again, and then again, and then again. He has to reply, but he can’t - he can’t, but he has to. The words echo in his head, and how sick is it that even though he’s reading it, he can still hear Iker saying it?
He hears rustling near the front door, and it takes him a second to understand what it means.
From: Iker
Merry Christmas.
A push against the door, footsteps - and then, fuck, he realizes. He stands up, practically knocks the chair backwards, rushes towards the front door. On his stoop, there’s a small present with a card that says “For David and Victoria,” and God, if that isn’t the most easily recognizable handwriting in the world, probably more recognizable than Victoria’s. He looks around for a moment, down the street, around the corner, and then -
“Iker!”
Iker freezes, heart hammering, and turns around.
David hesitates for a moment and glances back at the door, then seems to mumble “oh, fuck it,” and runs over to him.
Iker thinks maybe he should say, “forget it,” or, “I was drunk,” but - what kind of a transparent lie is that? And David walks over to him, and they’re in front of each other, and they’re close enough to touch, and Iker thinks, please say something before I die. And then, finally, David holds Iker’s face in his palms, pulls him forward, brushes his lips against Iker’s.
It feels like breathing, it feels like curling up with a good book and coffee on a cold winter’s day, it feels like - it feels like Christmas. It’s warmth, and home, and happiness, and - and perfect. Iker thinks he has maybe never touched something so perfect.
David pulls back slowly and looks at him, and although Iker searches for it, he sees no trace of remorse.
“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly. He reaches his hands up and brushes his fingertips over Iker’s coat, over the line of his zipper. And then he heads back inside, glancing over at Iker once more before closing the door behind him.
Iker takes a deep breath, calms his fast-beating heart, clenches his fists to bring feeling back into them. And then, quietly, he heads back to the Metro.
It’s far from perfect, and they may never be together, and he may not have everything he wants. For now, it’s okay.
“Enough,” he whispers to himself.
Somehow on the way to Xabi’s, they pick up… an entire little English village of old Spanish ladies who Xabi has somehow affected in some way - “he help with clean my house!” one woman yells; another claims “he teach daughter how ride bike!” At first, Stevie was skeptical (he’s only been here for a month, how could he possibly have affected so many people’s lives?) - and then he remembers how much he’s affected his, and suddenly it doesn’t seem all that crazy.
“Why are we following this boy? He speaks funny!” One woman asks another.
“He’s going to tell Xabi he loves him!” the first one explains, grabbing Stevie’s arm to lead him down the proper street.
“But they’re both men!” the second woman says incredulously, raising a hand to her chest.
The first woman nods. “I know, it’s all very strange. His hands are dirty, too.” She turns to Stevie. “This door,” she says, pointing to it.
Suddenly, Stevie feels like he has no idea what he’s doing here, or who he is, or who Xabi is, or who these women are, or what English is - not to mention, what Spanish is. He feels ridiculous. This was a terrible idea. It’s time to go. Forget this.
“Well? Go. You take too long.”
And then she rings the doorbell.
Fifteen times.
“Oh bloody fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, and then -
Xabi opens the door.
He’s sleepy-eyed, and his hair is ruffled, and there’s scruff on his chin, and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt (he owns such things?) and he generally looks like a mess, but - but he still looks fucking handsome. Not just - not hot, or attractive. But absolutely Prince Charming Handsome.
“Stevie?” he mumbles out, and then seems to notice his audience. “…Magdalena?”
“This man does not have honorable intentions,” she tells him, nodding her head. “But he is attractive, so I brought him.”
“Honorable…”
Stevie clears his throat, stands straighter. “Xabi,” he says. Xabi looks at him expectantly. He’s smiling at him, and he hasn’t even said anything yet but Xabi already looks happy with him, and. God, this man is perfect.
“Xabi,” he says again. “You may think I am being angry.” No. Wrong. Try again. “Craziness. Insanity. Because I am having just met you first of December. Not really longer time.”
Magdalena laughs a little, possibly at Stevie’s language, and he shifts a little bit, speaks quickly.
“I am - shitting on your language. But. I missing you minute you leave, and I missing you now that we are not work together, and I missing you cheat at football.”
Xabi smiles, bites his lip. Stevie is certain he’s blushing.
“And I am realize that I will always missing you because I am in love with you.”
The women gasp. He glances at them - fucking distracting - and then looks down at the floor, too embarrassed to look Xabi in the eye.
“And I am think maybe you can living with me, or I can living with you, at Bus Stop 7 - I am not caring. But I want to be with you.”
Slowly, he looks up at Xabi. Xabi is blinking up at him, and his expression is so unreadable, and Stevie feels like an absolute idiot.
Until: “That would be nice.”
It’s Stevie’s turn to blink, to stare incredulously.
“Yes,” he says, speaking slowly. “I love you, too.”
Stevie grins and Xabi pulls Stevie in, wraps his arms around Stevie’s neck, kisses him. He tastes the same, tastes beautiful, feels beautiful, smells beautiful, he loves him - oh fuck.
Some of the women giggle, and some of them clap, and Magdalena - very loudly - yells, “My sandwich! Part of the deal!”
Stevie mumbles against Xabi’s lips, and Xabi - never once parting, never once breaking away, reaches into his pocket and takes out a few bills, distractedly hands it to her and shuts the door behind them.
Xabi kisses the corner of Stevie’s mouth, kisses his cheek, kisses his neck.
“You learn Spanish,” he whispers, his breath warm against Stevie’s skin. Stevie smiles, kisses his hair, kisses his forehead.
“You learning English,” he mumbles back, trailing his hands down Xabi’s back.
Xabi laughs, presses a kiss against his collarbone. “I am better at English.”
Stevie blushes, embarrassed, and slips his hands under Xabi’s shirt. “You’re better at everything.”
“We will see,” Xabi says with a smirk, and kisses him again.
Serge spends the entire ride trying to get himself out of being embarrassed in front of Sergio and Fernando, in front of Bojan, in front of the entire world, but either Sergio isn’t listening (he does spend most of his time humming low in the back of his throat and sliding closer to Fernando) or he doesn’t care. Serge thinks his life is quite possibly ending with every mile they get closer to the depot, with every inch closer to Bojan. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say - he doesn’t even think there is anything to say. They’re not even friends, they’re just… they’re hardly even classmates. Serge has had an embarrassing one-sided crush on him for what feels like his whole fucking life, and Bojan just learned who he was, like, yesterday, and basically - basically, there’s no way this can end other than in smoke and flames and blushes (and probably Fernando and Sergio having sex in the back of the taxi, probably while Serge is there, because that’s just how his life would go.)
When they pull up to the station, he has to be physically pushed out of the cab.
Physically, brutally pushed. Serge kind of awkwardly stumbles out for a minute, and he hears Serge yell “JUST KEEP CIRCLING THE BLOCK!” to the driver and then the cab speeds away, leaving Serge standing frozen in place, blindly, dumbly searching for Bojan’s face.
Which shouldn’t be hard - considering how few people are waiting for a bus. On Christmas Eve. His only excuse is that he is so blinded by horror and shame that he’s unable to see properly, unable to see what’s right in front of him. It’s almost metaphorical, he thinks stupidly - his life is a teen drama, and not even the good kind, not even the kind with sex and drugs and rock ‘n roll - his is like, Chicken Soup for the Rejects’ Soul, or something embarrassing like, How to Do Nothing on a Saturday Night, or maybe something like How to be Hopefully and Helplessly in Love -
“Sergio?”
Oh, shit.
Serge turns around slowly, already blushing, and - he hates everything in this moment, he hates everything in the fucking world.
“Oh,” he says awkwardly, as Bojan grins at him (is Serge imagining it, or does he look happy to see him, if not more than a little confused?) and steps closer, leaving his bags on the bench. “Um, fancy seeing you here!”
Bojan raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms.
“Okay, uh, that was a lie,” Serge says stupidly, and he hates himself, too, he hates everything, this is worse than that time he stared at him for like twenty minutes when he was in the shower, because that was genuinely an accident - this, there is absolutely no way this is an accident. What could he say, I was just in the neighborhood? I just happened to be driving around and saw you waiting for your bus and thought you looked like you could use the company? …Actually, that one isn’t half bad -
“Sergio,” Bojan says again, a small amused smile playing on his lips. “What are you doing here?”
“You, uh. You know my name,” he stutters out, and he feels like a fucking idiot.
Bojan laughs. “Of course I do. You’re Sergio Canales. You don’t play any sports, but you probably should, because you’re actually pretty good. And you’re really smart, you were the smartest in your grade last year. And you’re really nice, even though you seem to have a problem speaking coherently,” he adds with a playful smile, stepping forward. “Do you know mine?”
Serge is blushing too hard to even function, possibly, and his cheeks are so hot he thinks he might actually combust, but somehow he regains his speech and mumbles: “Of course I do. You’re Bojan Krkić, and you’re amazing at football, and you’re the most popular boy in the entire school, and you’re really talented, and you’re smart too, and um, you’re really - you’re um.”
Bojan grins again, steps a little closer. He carefully puts his hands on Sergio’s hips. “I’m…?” he asks quietly, licking his lips.
“You’re, uh. You’re, really um.”
“We’ll need to work on that speech thing,” he whispers out, and then he kisses Serge.
Serge has never kissed anyone in his entire life, but he’s sure that if he had, it wouldn’t have been half as good as his kiss with Bo, because they wouldn’t have had Bo’s lips, or his hands firmly on his waist, or his hair in his face, or his laughter coming out in small puffs of breath against his cheek.
“You’re um,” Serge tries again quietly, breathing heavily, face flushed, eyes half-lidded. Bojan shakes his head, shushes him, kisses him again.
Raul stares up at the ceiling, blinking sleepily, trying desperately to hide the ridiculously, terribly embarrassing grin that’s threatening to cover his entire fucking face. His heart is still racing, and he’s too tired to reach down and cover himself with the blanket, settling instead to lean against Guti’s pillow.
He hasn’t been so happy in a really, really fucking long time.
Guti brings them back wine in ridiculously ornate gold chalices, and when Raul snorts at them Guti hits him in the chest. Raul catches his hand and holds it there for a second, fingering the lines of his palm, his skin. Guti stares at him for a moment, smiling at him happily if not deliriously, before groaning and leaning his head against the headboard.
“God, I’m never like this with anyone - I never do this for anyone.”
“Anyone but me,” Raul says quietly, hopefully.
Guti smiles at him. “Yeah,” he answers, just as quietly, and then he wrinkles his nose and looks revolted.
“Oh, God, I’m fucking disgusting. Tell me how manly I am.” He grins devilishly and leans closer to him. “Better yet, let’s watch some shitty porn and get drunk.”
They make it to halfway to the menu screen before finding each other’s arms, and lips, and legs, and hearts. They press against each other the entire night, lay in a languid tangle of limbs, press lazy kisses into each other’s skin. Guti runs his fingers over Raul’s body, centimeter by centimeter, and at midnight he gently pushes against him, gently kisses his neck and whispers, “Merry Christmas.”
Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around.
(Love Actually)
--
endnotes;
for those of you who still hadn't figured it out --
raul & guti, david & iker, stevie & xabi, iker & cesc, sergio & fernando, serge & bo, serge & sergio, & cesc & pk are a vague vague vague representation of them.
thank you so much for reading! ♥