football actually [multi-pairing] [1/4]
title | football actually [1/4]
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 | pg-13/r for language.
[part] word count | 6265
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 | UMMMMM... I DON'T KNOW. love actually is probably my favorite christmas movie (not including "a christmas story" for obvious reaasons) and the idea hit me a while ago that there are enough footballers to mush them together into a similiar story... i don't know. this will be broken into 4 parts, much like the way the movie is -- 1 part for each week. also, each song in the chapter is a song from the movie that (generally, generally) relates to the part of the chapter that this represents.
also, a lot of these couples are VERY, VEEEERY loosely based off the couples in the movie. a few of them are more distinct and similiar, but some of them are basically only vaguely like the couples from the movie. i didn't want this to be an exact copy of the movie! :>
MERRY EARLY CHRISTMAS? LET'S GET IN THE MOOD? idek. idk. idk. how does this happen to me.
this is dedicated to sugarlungs & snuzzie, because what else is new.
i love you all ♥
It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
& singing songs of joy & peace.
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on.
(Joni Mitchell, River)
i. Four weeks before Christmas.
There are many times when Raul questions his career, when he finds himself desperately trying to trace back the decisions he made in his life that led him to where he’s now sitting, wishing there was a way he could go back and change things - anything, anything at all, no matter what the consequences are. There are many times when he absolutely cannot be asked another stupid question, when he absolutely cannot read contracts and sign agreements and look at salaries, when he absolutely cannot be forced to deal with the dramatics of a diva footballer anymore. It’s times like these when he quietly excuses himself, finds the nearest utility closet or back door or bathroom, closes the door behind him, and screams into his fist. He lets it all out, lets his echoes reverberate back to his own eardrums, screams until his throat is hoarse and his lungs are hurting and his ears are pained. And then, as if nothing happened, he fixes his suit, straightens his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, and walks back inside, a little calmer than before.
Today is one of those days where he just knows that no matter how loud he screams, no matter how long he stays outside in the bitter cold and freezing rain, he will not feel relieved.
The man in the sound booth looks over at him again, a little desperately, as if to say, he’s your responsibility, you do something about him, and Raul wants to reply, if I could, I would. Instead, he simply shakes his head and motions for him to turn on the microphone.
“Again, Guti. From the top.”
Guti makes a face.
“This is the last time, Raul. I’m not doing this again. I’ve been here for how long now? Five hours? It’s not like I don’t have better things to do. I have places to go. I have other engagements, parties to attend, restaurants to visit, women’s bodies to christen…”
Raul rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Guti, we know. I’ve been here just as long as you have. Perhaps if you did what the director of the shoot was asking of you, maybe you’d be able to leave a bit earlier.”
Guti makes an impatient noise and leans close into the microphone, so close that his words are somewhat muffled and indistinguishable. And yet, Raul can not only hear every single word, he can also hear the extremely rude and sarcastic tone he speaks in.
“Perhaps if your director knew what the fuck he was talking about and-”
Raul cringes and motions for the man (who is looking more than a little bit insulted, truthfully, and Raul doesn’t blame him - he did direct the entire shoot, after all) to turn off the microphone. He does so, but not until he hears Guti mumbling about “and maybe if this camera was a little more HD, and maybe if everyone working on this commercial didn’t have a collective IQ of 2-”
Raul sighs and waits for Guti’s mouth to stop moving - something it doesn’t do for a very long time. And then, finally, he tells the man to put his microphone on.
“Just kick the snowman’s head and say ‘snow!’ instead of ‘goal!’” Raul says, faux-calmly, as if this is the simplest thing in the world (which, let’s face it, it kind of is, Raul could do this in his sleep.) “Think you can handle that, Guti?”
Guti rolls his eyes, gives him the finger, and purposefully misses the snowman.
Twelve times.
Iker stands straight, fixes his tie, steadies his breathing. There’s no reason he should be so nervous, none at all, because his only job is to stand up straight and hold his head high and not faint. None of these tasks should be hard. None of these tasks would be hard if he hadn’t had so much to drink last night, or been out so late with the boys, or allowed himself to drunkenly make out with a stripper - which he has yet to explain to Sara and still feels unbelievably guilty about, despite her insistence that he “have fun, just not too much fun.”
He certainly hadn’t had too much fun. The question of whether or not he had fun at all is still up for debate, since he has yet to remember everything that happened the night before, though he is fairly certain that it involved groping an equally-if-not-more drunk Cesc Fabregas and pitifully downing beer after beer in a desperate attempt to black out and not have to deal with the upcoming days.
But he isn’t thinking about that right now, because he needs to focus all his concentration on the following tasks:
1. Smiling.
2. Standing up.
3. Not fainting.
4. Not throwing up.
(Easier said than done.)
David looks over at him and laughs lightly, reaching over to fix his tie. Iker holds his breath, tries to calm his heartbeat. It’s kind of like fighting a losing battle, but he tries his best anyway. Why is he so fucking nervous?
“You look worse than I do, mate,” he says in a whisper as his hands move from Iker’s tie to his shoulders, bracing him, shaking him playfully. Iker wishes he wouldn’t touch him, wishes he wouldn’t shake him like this, wishes he isn’t here, wishes he could be anywhere else but here. “And you don’t even need to say anything! You know how rubbish I am with public speaking. I’m going to fuck it all up, I know I am.”
Iker laughs, but the voice sounds foreign and unnatural and forced. “You will be fine, David,” he says softly. “You always are.”
David looks at him closely for a second before pulling him into a familiar, friendly hug, the same kind of hug he gives him after a meeting that goes particularly well, after they play a pick-up game of football, after they’ve had too much to drink and say goodbye with hugs and kisses on the cheek instead of handshakes like they know they should. Iker forces himself to smile, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to be sick.
He forces himself to smile because he’s the best man, and that’s what the best man is supposed to do.
The music starts up and David grips Iker’s hand tightly before taking his spot near the altar. Iker stares out at the crowd, choosing to judge the attendants based on their terrible choices in attire rather than watching the women walk down the aisle. He’s unwilling and desperate not to see the flower girl and the bridesmaids and the maid of honor - Sara, gorgeous, perfect, the only person he should be concerned with right now (but she never is and probably never will be) - and, of course, Victoria.
He can’t help but watch as the song changes to the traditional wedding march and everyone stands up, turning to watch as she comes through the doors. David audibly takes in a harsh breath as she begins to walk down.
Gorgeous, perfect, beautiful Victoria.
She looks like an angel as she glides towards them, and Iker thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful in his life, never, and his stomach twists and turns and he wants to fucking leave, why isn’t it time for him to leave.
But he doesn’t leave. He stays. Through the vows and the speeches and the “I do’s”. Because that’s what best men do.
Stevie hates work.
He thinks it’s kind of silly that he’s suddenly the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation, because really? He couldn’t care less. About any of it. He’s no good at math and economics and business, no good at making decisions that affect more people than just himself - and even those simple decisions are hard enough. He gets nervous when he thinks about his choices impacting other people, feels seasick when he thinks about his gains being someone else’s loss. The only thing he’s good at it is talking to people, making them feel comfortable - and really, can’t anyone do that?
It’s all a fluke that he’s even in this position, anyway; David’s off getting married, taking time off to travel and start a family. And so, in his absence, he’s placed Steven in charge of it all, promptly moving him up from college-mate-and-co-owner to boss.
Worst bloody marketing decision in the entire fucking world.
Cesc knocks on the door of Steven’s office, catching him in the middle of repeatedly slamming his head against the keyboard of his - David’s - oh, whatever - high-tech computer. Bloody technology. He barely knows how to do anything other than check football scores and watch porn, and even doing those things are difficult for him. He looks up and cringes, embarrassed.
“Oh, er, hey, Cesc. What can I do for you?”
Cesc blushes and shifts awkwardly, finding Stevie’s sudden switch from co-worker and friend to boss a little confusing as well.
“Uh, Stev - Mr. Ger - St - uh, Xabi Alonso is here.”
Stevie stares at him blankly.
“…The accountant?” Cesc clarifies. Another stare. “The one that Mr. Beckham hired to help you with the books?”
Stevie has absolutely no recollection of this, but then again he can barely remember what he had to eat for dinner last night, so he nods and pretends to understand.
“Ah, yes, right, Zabby Abons-”
Cesc frowns. “Xabi Alonso,” he corrects. “Anyway, he’s here.”
Stevie nods, rubbing his neck. “Right, then. Okay. Bring him in, won’t you?”
Cesc shifts on his feet again, looking uncomfortable.
“Um, there’s just one thing. He doesn’t speak much English.”
Stevie frowns. “How much is not much?”
Cesc bites his lip. “Uh… none?”
“Pardon?” Stevie asks, leaning forward. “He doesn’t speak any English?”
“He’s new to the country and his English is a little bit, uh…” he tries to think of a word to describe it and settles on, “Shoddy. At best.”
“Shoddy,” Stevie repeats dumbly. “And what language does he speak, then?”
“Spanish.”
Stevie laughs. “Oi, more of your lot, then?” he says, half-joking, and Cesc pretends to be offended.
“I can, uh, translate?” he offers.
“Er, yeah, that’s…” Terrible. This is all terrible. “…Might as well bring him in, Cesc, yeah?”
Cesc nods and leaves quickly, giving Stevie enough time to organize his things and make himself look at least a little bit presentable before Cesc returns with Xabi Alonso in tow. Xabi is a serious-looking man who looks around Stevie’s age, if not younger. He’s tall and lean and attractive, dressed smartly and to the nines, suit pressed and hair brushed and clean-shaven. Stevie’s more than a little bit impressed, as if he was expecting a man dragged straight from the airport in a rumpled sweatshirt and five-o’clock shadow.
Xabi’s eyes trail around the room, taking in the office and the décor (or lack thereof; David’s style was minimalist and sleek, total opposite of Stevie, who prefers his office to look as worn-in as his favorite pair of Nike trainers) and then, finally, resting on Stevie, not bothering to hide the way he drags his eyes up and down Stevie’s form. Stevie shifts a little uncomfortably for a second before Cesc, ever the good host (and, as always, completely oblivious) motions to Xabi.
“Xabi, se trata de Sr. Gerrard,” he says, and then repeats, “Stevie, I just told Xabi that you’re Mr. Gerrard.”
Stevie rolls his eyes - he’s not an idiot, obviously that’s what he said - but he lets it go. “Er, yes,” he mumbles out, reaching to shake Xabi’s hand. Xabi’s handshake is firm but not too strong, as if he’s worried about hurting Stevie with a too-tight grasp. It’s mildly endearing, the way he holds back.
Xabi says something in Spanish (“Es un placer conocerlo, señor”) and Cesc translates: “He says it’s a pleasure to meet you. Sir,” he adds, as an afterthought, almost amused.
Stevie waves his hand dismissively. “Tell him to call me Steven. Or Stevie. Whichever.”
Cesc relays the message, and Xabi’s answer is simple: “No.”
Cesc’s eyebrows shoot up about a thousand feet, and he glances over at Stevie. “He says -”
“Yes, Cesc, I think I’ve got that one,” Stevie says in reply, watching the man in front of him carefully. “Er, anyway, okay, let’s show him the way the systems work, yeah?”
This is embarrassing, Sergio thinks as he tiptoes his way around around the empty hallways of his high school. This is utterly embarrassing.
Sergio thinks that there are very few moments in his life where he has been truly and fully ashamed of himself, very few times where he’s thought that, if he were forced to view a replay on the Movie Screen in the Sky upon waiting for entrance into Heaven, he would actually blush and be unable to watch himself. And yet this is, absolutely, without question, one of those moments. He can barely even pay attention to what he’s doing now - the idea of ever thinking back on this moment and reliving it makes him want to just kill himself and get it over with.
Distantly, Sergio realizes that a normal person would simply stop what they’re doing and instead go home and have a sandwich and some tea, and maybe try to move on and get on with his life. Maybe get another hobby. Maybe move.
The point is, a normal person - a sane person, a not totally-and-blindly-lovestruck person would leave.
However, Sergio Canales never claimed to be normal. (He also never claimed to lovestruck, but that seems to be implied.)
He slowly makes his way to the locker room, note in hand, already regretting the steps he hasn’t even made yet. Part of him desperately wants the locker room to be empty, to be able to slide the note into Mateos’ locker without any trouble. And another part of him, a more dominant (more masochistic) part of him wants there to be just one person in the locker room. Just one boy in particular.
(If he’s being honest with himself, he’d admit that the only reason he even volunteered to deliver a message from Mr. Donovan, the English teacher, is to possibly catch a glimpse of the football team’s newest recruit, the one he always sees in the lunch room surrounded by his other popular teammates. But he isn’t being honest with himself.
Clearly the only reason he volunteered was because he wanted to go for a walk, wanted to stop reading Shakespeare in class - because you can only hear Romeo and Juliet performed by two guys so many times before it isn’t just your own sexuality that you’re questioning.
Obviously.)
He opens the door to the locker room and peeks inside. When he sees that it’s empty, he sighs - though whether it’s out of relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure. He makes his way over to Mateos’ locker and gently slips the note inside, and he’s just about to leave when he hears a noise coming from one of the adjacent rooms.
Never one to shy away from a mystery, he glances around and slowly crosses the locker room, following the sound. Without thinking of what it could possibly (logically) be - (because illogically, he’s already considered a murderer, aliens, and the rival team from their brother school, sneaking in to steal the next day’s playbook - in which case, Sergio would step in and battle them and become a hero, earning free tuition and a wing of the library named in his honor) - he opens the door and steps inside, confused for a moment before he realizes where he is.
The room is steam-filled and stuffy, and the thick smell of soap and shampoo fills the air, barely covering a slightly more overbearing smell of mildew and sweat. The showers are basically what he’d always imagined locker room showers to look like - unimpressive and unhygienic. He wrinkles his nose and assumes that someone has left the water running - which would make the school’s water bill even higher than normal, and Sergio would single-handedly save his school hundreds of Euros - and he glances around, trying to see through the thick steam to find the running faucet.
And then, just like that, the water urns off.
And Sergio thinks, well, that’s strange.
And then Sergio thinks, but could the school have run out of water? If only I’d gotten here quicker!
And then Sergio hears the sound of someone humming - distinctly humming one of his favorite songs - and he can barely make out the figure of someone in one of the half-covered stalls.
Sergio thinks, oh! There’s a person in here!
And then Sergio thinks, Shit.
He freezes for a moment, almost paralyzed by the fear that the person is going to see him and think he’s a pervert for standing in the middle of the showers without saying anything - not to mention without the intention of actually taking a shower. And just as he’s finally about to move, the figure steps forward, towel tied low on his hips, chest and skin wet, hair dripping and sticking to his face.
“Oh,” Bojan says quietly, once he sees Sergio standing there like a deer in headlights. And Sergio, just barely coming to his senses, blurts out, “shit,” blurts out, “oh, God,” blurts out, “sorry,” before running out of the locker room, down the halls, out of the building, and straight to the bus. It takes him four stops to realize that he’s left his books in his locker and six to realize he’s made a complete fool of himself. By his stop, he already has a plan to transfer schools.
“All you have to do is show him around and make sure he’s comfortable here,” he says. “It’s really not a big deal.”
Sergio Ramos sighs for possibly the thirtieth time this evening. Del Bosque frowns at him. “Since when are you such a diva? I would expect this from someone like Guti or Gerard, not you.”
“That’s because Gerard is a bitch and Guti is a princess,” he says simply, and Del Bosque glares. “Well, it’s true,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands.
“If we sign him, this could mean big things for us,” Del Bosque continues, turning his back to Sergio and looking out the window of his office, staring down at the stadium below them. “We’ve been in need of a really great striker for a very long time, and I think he’s just the fit for us.”
He turns back around, facing Sergio again. Sergio looks down at his hands, shifts in his chair, feels like a child being chastised.
“But all of that rests on whether or not he has a good experience here. And that, Mr. Ramos,” he says, pointing at him, “rests on you.”
Sergio exhales again. “But I don’t understand. You know my, uh, reputation. I’m not exactly the best behaved. You should have given this job to a nice ass-kisser like Xavi, always so desperate to please, always-”
“Exactly,” Del Bosque interjects. “This will do good things for you, too. This is just what the public needs to see - Sergio Ramos helping little old ladies crossing the street, Sergio Ramos packing their groceries in the trunks of their car…”
“I’d much rather do that,” he mutters. Del Bosque frowns again. He sighs. “What’s his name, anyway?”
There’s suddenly a lot of commotion outside: reporters yelling, the flashing of cameras, the honking of cars as they try desperately to drive through the sudden traffic jam. Del Bosque crosses the room to look out the other window, the one with a clearer street view. He smiles.
“His name is Fernando Torres,” he says. “And he’s here.”
“Well!” Guti says brightly as they walk towards the limo waiting for them. “I think that went well, don’t you?”
Raul looks at him closely. “No, Guti, I do not think that went well. I don’t think that went well at all. Quite the opposite, really.”
Guti rolls his eyes. “Who pissed in your coffee?”
“You did!” Raul yells, unable to hold it in anymore. “All of that was rude and improper and terrible, Guti, literally terrible, and you made me look bad, you made yourself look bad-”
His words echo throughout the empty car park, and the chauffer who waits in front of the only car in the lot - Guti’s long, black limousine - cringes as he stands next to the open door, waiting for them. Guti laughs and it’s only half-bitterly.
“Well, Raul, don’t hold back on my account. By all means, tell me how you really feel.”
Raul continues as if he never stopped. “You don’t realize that your reputation is already mostly shot to hell, and your partying is worse than Ramos’ will ever be, and although you may think you’re being clever by hiding a suspended license behind a flashy limousine with a driver who also probably serves as your call boy, I’m not the only one who sees behind it. The press does, too.”
Raul’s hit a nerve, he knows it as soon as he mentions the car and Guti’s license. Guti stops a little before they’ve reached the limo and stares at Raul closely.
“I’m not going to fucking change,” he says, and Raul, who has walked ahead of him and is now at the chauffer, turns to face him. “This is the way I was before I got famous and this is the way I’ll be after and I’m not fucking changing for anyone.”
Raul stares at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Oh, how noble of you,” he says sarcastically. He glances down at his watch, as if suddenly remembering where they are, and sighs, walking towards Guti. “We’re going to be late, let’s go.”
He links his long fingers around Guti’s thin wrist and gently pulls him forward towards the car. Guti knows he’s stronger, knows he could easily pull his wrist back and grip Raul’s arm, knows he can easily shove Raul aside and growl, “Don’t touch me.”
But he doesn’t - he doesn’t, hasn’t, and wouldn’t, not ever. In the past, maybe. If it was anyone else, definitely. But it’s not - it’s Raul, and though Guti will never admit it, Guti has changed. Only for him.
They slide into the backseat, Guti giving the driver an apologetic and charming smile, and they drive off towards the direction of the reception hall in silence.
Guti has never been able to keep his mouth shut, however, and he turns to look at Raul.
“Any other complaints you’d like to get off your chest before we have to pretend to still have a functional work relationship?”
Raul looks out the window, watches as the gray streets of England pass him by.
“Do you ever think about the way your actions affect people? How, when you fuck up, you’re not the only one who looks bad?”
Guti shrugs in lieu of a response.
Raul faces him. “It does. You don’t sit there for hours trying to construct a flawless apologetic-yet-charmingly-cocky speech for a press conference. You don’t spend hours on the phone with gossip rags desperately trying to keep your drunken photographs off the internet. You’re not the one who has to beg to get companies to work with you - companies like the one you just made a mockery of. Do you know who does have to do these things, Guti?”
“Santa Claus?” he offers, uninterested.
Raul purses his lips, forcing himself not to yell again. “No, Guti,” he says quietly. He reaches up to grip the bridge of his nose tightly, trying to fight the stress headache that is fast approaching. “Me. I do. I do all of those things, and more, and better than anyone else. And while I don’t ask for a thank you, or even ever expect one - especially not from you - I at least think that maybe once you won’t make a fool out of us. Maybe once you’ll - God forbid - stay in instead of drunkenly making out with every stripper from here to Istanbul. But no, do you know what you do while I’m out trying to fix your reputation?”
Guti sighs. “Feed the homeless?”
“Fuck it up even more.”
Guti nods. “Ah. My next guess.”
The car is quiet. Suddenly the air is thick with let-out aggression and it hangs between them like a poison.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Raul says abruptly, looking out the window again.
Guti jerks his head, looks at Raul as if he’s crazy. “What did you say?” Raul repeats himself. Guti blinks dumbly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s silent. Guti is impatient, he slams his hand against the empty seat across from him.
“What do you mean, Raul?”
“I quit. I’m giving you notice. I can’t do this anymore. I - I can’t remember what it’s like to sleep a full night or eat a real meal or deal with people who actually give a shit about what I do for them.”
Guti feels a little desperate now, and reaches out to touch Raul’s knee. Raul turns to him, looking at him through the tired eyes of a man who has not had a real break or a day off or holiday in years. It catches Guti by surprise.
“But I do,” Guti says, suddenly earnest, all trace of sarcasm gone. “I do give a shit. You’re - you’re the only one I do give a shit about. You know? You’re the only person I trust, the only one I do listen to, the only one -”
Raul frowns, moving his knee out from under Guti’s hand so that it falls against the leather seat limply. “Let’s not make this something it’s not, Guti.”
And fuck, that hurts. That stings more than the fact that he’s quitting. Guti was being honest - for once, for the first time in a long time. And Raul just completely turned him away, threw his words in the garbage and disregarded his meaning. He pulls his hand back to his lap numbly, unsure of what to say.
The car slows to a stop in front of the banquet hall.
“We’ve arrived,” the driver says brightly, stupidly. Both men stay in their seats, Raul looking down at his hands and Guti looking at Raul. Neither of them acknowledges the chauffer.
“So, that’s it,” Guti says, bitterness unable to be masked.
Raul nods sharply. “That’s it.”
Guti opens his mouth to talk before he’s cut off by - “I said, we’ve arrive-”
“We fucking heard you, Jesus Christ,” Guti spits out, and Raul begins to slide out of the car, not waiting for the chauffer to open the door. He opens Guti’s side instead, and Guti brushes him away, sneering. “Incompetent idiot,” he mumbles under his breath.
He looks at Raul from over the roof of the car. He can’t believe he’s known this man for so long - years and years, what feels like centuries - and to think that it would end like this makes his stomach turn, makes him feel sick to his fucking stomach. The car drives away, leaving nothing but air between them. Raul finally looks at Guti and crosses the space between them, raches over to brush some lint off Guti’s suit jacket.
“I’ll help you find a replacement,” he says, and then, as if this is some sort of consolation prize, he adds, “and I’ll still be your friend.”
Guti laughs darkly and pushes Raul’s hand away as if it’s a dirty dog’s paw. “Don’t make this something it’s not,” he says.
Raul looks hurt, and Guti thinks, good. He almost says something else but then he notices one of the hosts with a tray of champagne in his hand, and he offers one to Guti. Guti grins widely, taking one in each hand.
Raul assumes that one is for him and reaches out to take it, but instead Guti downs them both in rapid succession, then takes another two drinks to compensate.
“Don’t worry, Raul,” he says, walking towards the hall. “I’ll make your last job really special, something for you to remember me by.”
And then he walks inside, already swaying.
They work pretty well - Stevie imagined it would be more complicated dealing with a man who can’t speak English and a translator who barely knows how to construct a proper sentence and a Scouser who speaks in slang 99% of the time, anyway. They somehow seem to work together in perfect unison, with Cesc serving as the perfect translator. Xabi is quick to understand the computer programs; things that Stevie still hasn’t learned after three years, Xabi is able to master within an hour. He doesn’t talk much - no that it would be of much help to Stevie anyway, seeing as how the only word in English he seems to understand is “no,” but either way.
Stevie finds himself watching the Spaniard, watching his movements. He bites his lower lip when he types, scratches his head with the eraser of his pencil as he reads. He shifts forward in his seat when he’s confused. He doesn’t ask for help until he’s gone over the problem numerous times, until he’s exhausted every other answer and he absolutely cannot do it by himself. (He has lean arms, he’s thin but built, he has nice hair.)
Stevie is so caught up in Xabi-watching that he barely notices Cesc shifting in his seat impatiently, glancing at his watch every five seconds, until finally he just sighs heavily and says, “Stevie, aren’t we going to go to the reception?”
Stevie frowns - he’d forgotten all about David Beckham’s wedding reception, and he feels a little guilty about it - he should have been looking forward to it, considering it’s his business partner and university friend. (But, really, he’s at the age when weddings are already driving him insane - can’t they just all have a communal wedding and get it over with already?)
“Er, yeah, Cesc. You go ahead. I’ll meet up with you both there, yeah?”
Cesc nods eagerly, and turns to Xabi: “Do you want to come to the reception with me?”
Xabi glances at Stevie. “Is Mr. Gerrard coming?”
Cesc shrugs. “He says we can go without him. He’ll meet us.”
Xabi shakes his head, says something else to Cesc. Cesc frowns and looks over at Stevie. “He says he doesn’t leave until his boss leaves.”
Stevie laughs a little bit, almost makes a joke - “kissing some arse on the first day?” - but he decides against it; he just shakes his head, amused. “Then I guess it’s time for me to leave.”
Cesc grins and pulls on Xabi’s sleeve. “He says he’s leaving now!!”
“But I thought he was staying? Why did he change his mind?”
Cesc shrugs again. “You, probably,” he says, distracted, as he drags Xabi out with him. Xabi stares at him as they leave the room, leaving Stevie behind as he pulls on his coat.
Stevie stares right back.
Fernando is bored.
Sergio, while polite and friendly (although clearly uninterested in showing him around) and attractive (beyond attractive; Fernando can’t even bother to hide the way he stares at his features in obvious curiosity), isn’t very interesting. He doesn’t really talk much, doesn’t tell much about himself, only shows him the parts of London that Fernando could have seen on his own if he was using a guide book. He feels like he’s on an elderly person’s trip around London - all museums and historical monuments and fancy buildings.
As they press close together walking through the crowded streets (crowded streets filled with people who recognize the both of them five seconds too late, and turn to take photographs after Fernando and Sergio have already passed them by), Fernando desperately wants to say something - wants to ask, “but who are you really? I’ve seen you in magazines - but who are you? Why would I bother coming here? What are your reasons for staying?” and, “Are you really this boring? Do you really go to these places?”
But that would be rude. And Fernando doesn’t want to be rude.
But.
“Do you really go to these museums?” he asks suddenly, interrupting Sergio in the middle of a boring lecture. Sergio turns to him, confused but a little relieved.
“Uh… Yes?”
Fernando raises his eyebrow. “Sergio Ramos. I know who you are, I’ve seen you in Marca. You are interested in - in history museums, and art museums, and churches?”
Sergio looks affronted. “I like the arts! I appreciate a nice Picasso!”
Fernando just looks at him.
Sergio sighs. “No. Not really. Not unless I’m…”
“Bringing old relatives around? Showing family members?” Fernando offers with a coy smile. Sergio laughs, nods.
“Pretty much.”
“Well,” he says, motioning towards himself, “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not an old relative.”
Sergio laughs again, allowing himself the chance to look at Fernando closely, look at his body and his hair and his freckles and his smile. “No,” he agrees, “you’re not.”
“So how about you show me the things you really like to do?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Are you sure you can handle that?”
Fernando laughs, not uncomfortably. Sergio is a little impressed by how easily Fernando replies, how easily his laughter slides into Sergio’s heart.
“I can keep up,” he answers, smiling so widely the corners of his eyes wrinkle. Sergio finds it both endlessly endearing and endlessly attractive.
“Well, then!” Sergio says brightly, pulling on Fernando’s elbow. “I hope you’re ready for some dancing.”
Iker has probably had too much to drink; this is becoming more and more apparent as the night goes on. His intolerance for stupidity is rapidly increasing and his level of decency is decreasing by the millisecond - he absolutely should not (cannot, cannot, cannot) be staring at David and Victoria like this. He’s watching as they dance together, spin circles around each other, watching as they flawlessly glide across the hall. He’s watching them with longing and want and desire and need and fuck, it’s obvious, he knows he’s being obvious. Sara, unsurprised by his lack of interest in dancing, chooses instead to dances with her bridesmaids, leaving Iker at a half-empty table with older half-drunken businessmen and their gossiping older wives on their Blackberries and iPhones, checking stocks and transfers. He should turn to them and discuss the market, discuss players and statistics.
He doesn’t. He just watches the dance floor.
The chair next to him shifts into his and suddenly there’s someone next to him, huffing and breathing heavily, out of breath, hand on chest. Iker turns, slowly - because that’s the speed of his movements after so many flutes of champagne and shots of gin and rum and coke - and Cesc grins at him.
“Hello, Iker!” he says brightly, lifting a hand to wave. Iker isn’t sure if Cesc is supposed to be at this table, but judging by the way Gerard Pique is glaring from his own half-empty table, Iker assumes that it isn’t. He doesn’t bother bringing this to Cesc’s attention, however (that would require more than one functioning brain cell) and he simply smiles back, too tired for a response.
“You’re sleepy,” Cesc states simply, and it isn’t a question or a statement but an observation, as if he’s taking notes on Iker’s state of being. “And drunk.”
Iker nods slowly. “I am. Both.”
“Hmmmm. Should we sober you up, or should we take advantage of this?” Cesc wonders aloud, and Iker opens his mouth to respond but he’s too delayed, Cesc is already replying with: “Taking advantage! I’m getting more drinks, hold on!”
And then he’s off, making his way through the crowd and towards the bar. Iker sighs, rubs his head (is it possible to be developing a hangover before he’s even finished the drink in his hand?) tiredly and looks out at the crowd again.
Pique has cornered Cesc before he’s even gotten to the bar, pulling him into a bear hug and ruffling his hair roughly. Cesc pretends to look hurt, pretends to act like he’s more mature, but it only lasts a few seconds and then he’s pulling at Pique’s coat, hitting him in the face, pulling him towards the hallway. Iker smiles.
And then, like an addict, he looks at the dance floor again. Watches David press his lips against Victoria’s neck, watches Victoria tilt her head back, angle her face so she can rest her head against his shoulder.
It’s a little sick, he thinks. He thinks he should just stop being so fucking masochistic, thinks he should stop looking when it kills him, stop staring when his heart breaks with every blink. But, fuck. It’s as painful as it is captivating, and he finds he can’t go a few minutes without looking at them, without watching their happiness pour throughout the room like a flood.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Iker turns, sees one of the older women sitting in the seat that Cesc has just left. She doesn’t look like she’s here to pry, doesn’t seem like she just wants to gossip, but. He shakes his head, points to Sara, giggling with her friends.
“That’s my girlfriend, right there,” he says.
The woman smiles. “Yes. But that’s not what I asked, was it?”
Iker glances at her for another moment before looking back at David and Victoria, letting his gaze linger on David’s form for a second longer than it should.
“No,” Iker replies. No, that’s not what you asked, it means. No, I’m not in love with her, it means. No, you’re asking about the wrong newlywed, it means.
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 | pg-13/r for language.
[part] word count | 6265
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 | UMMMMM... I DON'T KNOW. love actually is probably my favorite christmas movie (not including "a christmas story" for obvious reaasons) and the idea hit me a while ago that there are enough footballers to mush them together into a similiar story... i don't know. this will be broken into 4 parts, much like the way the movie is -- 1 part for each week. also, each song in the chapter is a song from the movie that (generally, generally) relates to the part of the chapter that this represents.
also, a lot of these couples are VERY, VEEEERY loosely based off the couples in the movie. a few of them are more distinct and similiar, but some of them are basically only vaguely like the couples from the movie. i didn't want this to be an exact copy of the movie! :>
MERRY EARLY CHRISTMAS? LET'S GET IN THE MOOD? idek. idk. idk. how does this happen to me.
this is dedicated to sugarlungs & snuzzie, because what else is new.
i love you all ♥
It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
& singing songs of joy & peace.
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on.
(Joni Mitchell, River)
i. Four weeks before Christmas.
There are many times when Raul questions his career, when he finds himself desperately trying to trace back the decisions he made in his life that led him to where he’s now sitting, wishing there was a way he could go back and change things - anything, anything at all, no matter what the consequences are. There are many times when he absolutely cannot be asked another stupid question, when he absolutely cannot read contracts and sign agreements and look at salaries, when he absolutely cannot be forced to deal with the dramatics of a diva footballer anymore. It’s times like these when he quietly excuses himself, finds the nearest utility closet or back door or bathroom, closes the door behind him, and screams into his fist. He lets it all out, lets his echoes reverberate back to his own eardrums, screams until his throat is hoarse and his lungs are hurting and his ears are pained. And then, as if nothing happened, he fixes his suit, straightens his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, and walks back inside, a little calmer than before.
Today is one of those days where he just knows that no matter how loud he screams, no matter how long he stays outside in the bitter cold and freezing rain, he will not feel relieved.
The man in the sound booth looks over at him again, a little desperately, as if to say, he’s your responsibility, you do something about him, and Raul wants to reply, if I could, I would. Instead, he simply shakes his head and motions for him to turn on the microphone.
“Again, Guti. From the top.”
Guti makes a face.
“This is the last time, Raul. I’m not doing this again. I’ve been here for how long now? Five hours? It’s not like I don’t have better things to do. I have places to go. I have other engagements, parties to attend, restaurants to visit, women’s bodies to christen…”
Raul rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Guti, we know. I’ve been here just as long as you have. Perhaps if you did what the director of the shoot was asking of you, maybe you’d be able to leave a bit earlier.”
Guti makes an impatient noise and leans close into the microphone, so close that his words are somewhat muffled and indistinguishable. And yet, Raul can not only hear every single word, he can also hear the extremely rude and sarcastic tone he speaks in.
“Perhaps if your director knew what the fuck he was talking about and-”
Raul cringes and motions for the man (who is looking more than a little bit insulted, truthfully, and Raul doesn’t blame him - he did direct the entire shoot, after all) to turn off the microphone. He does so, but not until he hears Guti mumbling about “and maybe if this camera was a little more HD, and maybe if everyone working on this commercial didn’t have a collective IQ of 2-”
Raul sighs and waits for Guti’s mouth to stop moving - something it doesn’t do for a very long time. And then, finally, he tells the man to put his microphone on.
“Just kick the snowman’s head and say ‘snow!’ instead of ‘goal!’” Raul says, faux-calmly, as if this is the simplest thing in the world (which, let’s face it, it kind of is, Raul could do this in his sleep.) “Think you can handle that, Guti?”
Guti rolls his eyes, gives him the finger, and purposefully misses the snowman.
Twelve times.
Iker stands straight, fixes his tie, steadies his breathing. There’s no reason he should be so nervous, none at all, because his only job is to stand up straight and hold his head high and not faint. None of these tasks should be hard. None of these tasks would be hard if he hadn’t had so much to drink last night, or been out so late with the boys, or allowed himself to drunkenly make out with a stripper - which he has yet to explain to Sara and still feels unbelievably guilty about, despite her insistence that he “have fun, just not too much fun.”
He certainly hadn’t had too much fun. The question of whether or not he had fun at all is still up for debate, since he has yet to remember everything that happened the night before, though he is fairly certain that it involved groping an equally-if-not-more drunk Cesc Fabregas and pitifully downing beer after beer in a desperate attempt to black out and not have to deal with the upcoming days.
But he isn’t thinking about that right now, because he needs to focus all his concentration on the following tasks:
1. Smiling.
2. Standing up.
3. Not fainting.
4. Not throwing up.
(Easier said than done.)
David looks over at him and laughs lightly, reaching over to fix his tie. Iker holds his breath, tries to calm his heartbeat. It’s kind of like fighting a losing battle, but he tries his best anyway. Why is he so fucking nervous?
“You look worse than I do, mate,” he says in a whisper as his hands move from Iker’s tie to his shoulders, bracing him, shaking him playfully. Iker wishes he wouldn’t touch him, wishes he wouldn’t shake him like this, wishes he isn’t here, wishes he could be anywhere else but here. “And you don’t even need to say anything! You know how rubbish I am with public speaking. I’m going to fuck it all up, I know I am.”
Iker laughs, but the voice sounds foreign and unnatural and forced. “You will be fine, David,” he says softly. “You always are.”
David looks at him closely for a second before pulling him into a familiar, friendly hug, the same kind of hug he gives him after a meeting that goes particularly well, after they play a pick-up game of football, after they’ve had too much to drink and say goodbye with hugs and kisses on the cheek instead of handshakes like they know they should. Iker forces himself to smile, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to be sick.
He forces himself to smile because he’s the best man, and that’s what the best man is supposed to do.
The music starts up and David grips Iker’s hand tightly before taking his spot near the altar. Iker stares out at the crowd, choosing to judge the attendants based on their terrible choices in attire rather than watching the women walk down the aisle. He’s unwilling and desperate not to see the flower girl and the bridesmaids and the maid of honor - Sara, gorgeous, perfect, the only person he should be concerned with right now (but she never is and probably never will be) - and, of course, Victoria.
He can’t help but watch as the song changes to the traditional wedding march and everyone stands up, turning to watch as she comes through the doors. David audibly takes in a harsh breath as she begins to walk down.
Gorgeous, perfect, beautiful Victoria.
She looks like an angel as she glides towards them, and Iker thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful in his life, never, and his stomach twists and turns and he wants to fucking leave, why isn’t it time for him to leave.
But he doesn’t leave. He stays. Through the vows and the speeches and the “I do’s”. Because that’s what best men do.
Stevie hates work.
He thinks it’s kind of silly that he’s suddenly the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation, because really? He couldn’t care less. About any of it. He’s no good at math and economics and business, no good at making decisions that affect more people than just himself - and even those simple decisions are hard enough. He gets nervous when he thinks about his choices impacting other people, feels seasick when he thinks about his gains being someone else’s loss. The only thing he’s good at it is talking to people, making them feel comfortable - and really, can’t anyone do that?
It’s all a fluke that he’s even in this position, anyway; David’s off getting married, taking time off to travel and start a family. And so, in his absence, he’s placed Steven in charge of it all, promptly moving him up from college-mate-and-co-owner to boss.
Worst bloody marketing decision in the entire fucking world.
Cesc knocks on the door of Steven’s office, catching him in the middle of repeatedly slamming his head against the keyboard of his - David’s - oh, whatever - high-tech computer. Bloody technology. He barely knows how to do anything other than check football scores and watch porn, and even doing those things are difficult for him. He looks up and cringes, embarrassed.
“Oh, er, hey, Cesc. What can I do for you?”
Cesc blushes and shifts awkwardly, finding Stevie’s sudden switch from co-worker and friend to boss a little confusing as well.
“Uh, Stev - Mr. Ger - St - uh, Xabi Alonso is here.”
Stevie stares at him blankly.
“…The accountant?” Cesc clarifies. Another stare. “The one that Mr. Beckham hired to help you with the books?”
Stevie has absolutely no recollection of this, but then again he can barely remember what he had to eat for dinner last night, so he nods and pretends to understand.
“Ah, yes, right, Zabby Abons-”
Cesc frowns. “Xabi Alonso,” he corrects. “Anyway, he’s here.”
Stevie nods, rubbing his neck. “Right, then. Okay. Bring him in, won’t you?”
Cesc shifts on his feet again, looking uncomfortable.
“Um, there’s just one thing. He doesn’t speak much English.”
Stevie frowns. “How much is not much?”
Cesc bites his lip. “Uh… none?”
“Pardon?” Stevie asks, leaning forward. “He doesn’t speak any English?”
“He’s new to the country and his English is a little bit, uh…” he tries to think of a word to describe it and settles on, “Shoddy. At best.”
“Shoddy,” Stevie repeats dumbly. “And what language does he speak, then?”
“Spanish.”
Stevie laughs. “Oi, more of your lot, then?” he says, half-joking, and Cesc pretends to be offended.
“I can, uh, translate?” he offers.
“Er, yeah, that’s…” Terrible. This is all terrible. “…Might as well bring him in, Cesc, yeah?”
Cesc nods and leaves quickly, giving Stevie enough time to organize his things and make himself look at least a little bit presentable before Cesc returns with Xabi Alonso in tow. Xabi is a serious-looking man who looks around Stevie’s age, if not younger. He’s tall and lean and attractive, dressed smartly and to the nines, suit pressed and hair brushed and clean-shaven. Stevie’s more than a little bit impressed, as if he was expecting a man dragged straight from the airport in a rumpled sweatshirt and five-o’clock shadow.
Xabi’s eyes trail around the room, taking in the office and the décor (or lack thereof; David’s style was minimalist and sleek, total opposite of Stevie, who prefers his office to look as worn-in as his favorite pair of Nike trainers) and then, finally, resting on Stevie, not bothering to hide the way he drags his eyes up and down Stevie’s form. Stevie shifts a little uncomfortably for a second before Cesc, ever the good host (and, as always, completely oblivious) motions to Xabi.
“Xabi, se trata de Sr. Gerrard,” he says, and then repeats, “Stevie, I just told Xabi that you’re Mr. Gerrard.”
Stevie rolls his eyes - he’s not an idiot, obviously that’s what he said - but he lets it go. “Er, yes,” he mumbles out, reaching to shake Xabi’s hand. Xabi’s handshake is firm but not too strong, as if he’s worried about hurting Stevie with a too-tight grasp. It’s mildly endearing, the way he holds back.
Xabi says something in Spanish (“Es un placer conocerlo, señor”) and Cesc translates: “He says it’s a pleasure to meet you. Sir,” he adds, as an afterthought, almost amused.
Stevie waves his hand dismissively. “Tell him to call me Steven. Or Stevie. Whichever.”
Cesc relays the message, and Xabi’s answer is simple: “No.”
Cesc’s eyebrows shoot up about a thousand feet, and he glances over at Stevie. “He says -”
“Yes, Cesc, I think I’ve got that one,” Stevie says in reply, watching the man in front of him carefully. “Er, anyway, okay, let’s show him the way the systems work, yeah?”
This is embarrassing, Sergio thinks as he tiptoes his way around around the empty hallways of his high school. This is utterly embarrassing.
Sergio thinks that there are very few moments in his life where he has been truly and fully ashamed of himself, very few times where he’s thought that, if he were forced to view a replay on the Movie Screen in the Sky upon waiting for entrance into Heaven, he would actually blush and be unable to watch himself. And yet this is, absolutely, without question, one of those moments. He can barely even pay attention to what he’s doing now - the idea of ever thinking back on this moment and reliving it makes him want to just kill himself and get it over with.
Distantly, Sergio realizes that a normal person would simply stop what they’re doing and instead go home and have a sandwich and some tea, and maybe try to move on and get on with his life. Maybe get another hobby. Maybe move.
The point is, a normal person - a sane person, a not totally-and-blindly-lovestruck person would leave.
However, Sergio Canales never claimed to be normal. (He also never claimed to lovestruck, but that seems to be implied.)
He slowly makes his way to the locker room, note in hand, already regretting the steps he hasn’t even made yet. Part of him desperately wants the locker room to be empty, to be able to slide the note into Mateos’ locker without any trouble. And another part of him, a more dominant (more masochistic) part of him wants there to be just one person in the locker room. Just one boy in particular.
(If he’s being honest with himself, he’d admit that the only reason he even volunteered to deliver a message from Mr. Donovan, the English teacher, is to possibly catch a glimpse of the football team’s newest recruit, the one he always sees in the lunch room surrounded by his other popular teammates. But he isn’t being honest with himself.
Clearly the only reason he volunteered was because he wanted to go for a walk, wanted to stop reading Shakespeare in class - because you can only hear Romeo and Juliet performed by two guys so many times before it isn’t just your own sexuality that you’re questioning.
Obviously.)
He opens the door to the locker room and peeks inside. When he sees that it’s empty, he sighs - though whether it’s out of relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure. He makes his way over to Mateos’ locker and gently slips the note inside, and he’s just about to leave when he hears a noise coming from one of the adjacent rooms.
Never one to shy away from a mystery, he glances around and slowly crosses the locker room, following the sound. Without thinking of what it could possibly (logically) be - (because illogically, he’s already considered a murderer, aliens, and the rival team from their brother school, sneaking in to steal the next day’s playbook - in which case, Sergio would step in and battle them and become a hero, earning free tuition and a wing of the library named in his honor) - he opens the door and steps inside, confused for a moment before he realizes where he is.
The room is steam-filled and stuffy, and the thick smell of soap and shampoo fills the air, barely covering a slightly more overbearing smell of mildew and sweat. The showers are basically what he’d always imagined locker room showers to look like - unimpressive and unhygienic. He wrinkles his nose and assumes that someone has left the water running - which would make the school’s water bill even higher than normal, and Sergio would single-handedly save his school hundreds of Euros - and he glances around, trying to see through the thick steam to find the running faucet.
And then, just like that, the water urns off.
And Sergio thinks, well, that’s strange.
And then Sergio thinks, but could the school have run out of water? If only I’d gotten here quicker!
And then Sergio hears the sound of someone humming - distinctly humming one of his favorite songs - and he can barely make out the figure of someone in one of the half-covered stalls.
Sergio thinks, oh! There’s a person in here!
And then Sergio thinks, Shit.
He freezes for a moment, almost paralyzed by the fear that the person is going to see him and think he’s a pervert for standing in the middle of the showers without saying anything - not to mention without the intention of actually taking a shower. And just as he’s finally about to move, the figure steps forward, towel tied low on his hips, chest and skin wet, hair dripping and sticking to his face.
“Oh,” Bojan says quietly, once he sees Sergio standing there like a deer in headlights. And Sergio, just barely coming to his senses, blurts out, “shit,” blurts out, “oh, God,” blurts out, “sorry,” before running out of the locker room, down the halls, out of the building, and straight to the bus. It takes him four stops to realize that he’s left his books in his locker and six to realize he’s made a complete fool of himself. By his stop, he already has a plan to transfer schools.
“All you have to do is show him around and make sure he’s comfortable here,” he says. “It’s really not a big deal.”
Sergio Ramos sighs for possibly the thirtieth time this evening. Del Bosque frowns at him. “Since when are you such a diva? I would expect this from someone like Guti or Gerard, not you.”
“That’s because Gerard is a bitch and Guti is a princess,” he says simply, and Del Bosque glares. “Well, it’s true,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands.
“If we sign him, this could mean big things for us,” Del Bosque continues, turning his back to Sergio and looking out the window of his office, staring down at the stadium below them. “We’ve been in need of a really great striker for a very long time, and I think he’s just the fit for us.”
He turns back around, facing Sergio again. Sergio looks down at his hands, shifts in his chair, feels like a child being chastised.
“But all of that rests on whether or not he has a good experience here. And that, Mr. Ramos,” he says, pointing at him, “rests on you.”
Sergio exhales again. “But I don’t understand. You know my, uh, reputation. I’m not exactly the best behaved. You should have given this job to a nice ass-kisser like Xavi, always so desperate to please, always-”
“Exactly,” Del Bosque interjects. “This will do good things for you, too. This is just what the public needs to see - Sergio Ramos helping little old ladies crossing the street, Sergio Ramos packing their groceries in the trunks of their car…”
“I’d much rather do that,” he mutters. Del Bosque frowns again. He sighs. “What’s his name, anyway?”
There’s suddenly a lot of commotion outside: reporters yelling, the flashing of cameras, the honking of cars as they try desperately to drive through the sudden traffic jam. Del Bosque crosses the room to look out the other window, the one with a clearer street view. He smiles.
“His name is Fernando Torres,” he says. “And he’s here.”
“Well!” Guti says brightly as they walk towards the limo waiting for them. “I think that went well, don’t you?”
Raul looks at him closely. “No, Guti, I do not think that went well. I don’t think that went well at all. Quite the opposite, really.”
Guti rolls his eyes. “Who pissed in your coffee?”
“You did!” Raul yells, unable to hold it in anymore. “All of that was rude and improper and terrible, Guti, literally terrible, and you made me look bad, you made yourself look bad-”
His words echo throughout the empty car park, and the chauffer who waits in front of the only car in the lot - Guti’s long, black limousine - cringes as he stands next to the open door, waiting for them. Guti laughs and it’s only half-bitterly.
“Well, Raul, don’t hold back on my account. By all means, tell me how you really feel.”
Raul continues as if he never stopped. “You don’t realize that your reputation is already mostly shot to hell, and your partying is worse than Ramos’ will ever be, and although you may think you’re being clever by hiding a suspended license behind a flashy limousine with a driver who also probably serves as your call boy, I’m not the only one who sees behind it. The press does, too.”
Raul’s hit a nerve, he knows it as soon as he mentions the car and Guti’s license. Guti stops a little before they’ve reached the limo and stares at Raul closely.
“I’m not going to fucking change,” he says, and Raul, who has walked ahead of him and is now at the chauffer, turns to face him. “This is the way I was before I got famous and this is the way I’ll be after and I’m not fucking changing for anyone.”
Raul stares at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Oh, how noble of you,” he says sarcastically. He glances down at his watch, as if suddenly remembering where they are, and sighs, walking towards Guti. “We’re going to be late, let’s go.”
He links his long fingers around Guti’s thin wrist and gently pulls him forward towards the car. Guti knows he’s stronger, knows he could easily pull his wrist back and grip Raul’s arm, knows he can easily shove Raul aside and growl, “Don’t touch me.”
But he doesn’t - he doesn’t, hasn’t, and wouldn’t, not ever. In the past, maybe. If it was anyone else, definitely. But it’s not - it’s Raul, and though Guti will never admit it, Guti has changed. Only for him.
They slide into the backseat, Guti giving the driver an apologetic and charming smile, and they drive off towards the direction of the reception hall in silence.
Guti has never been able to keep his mouth shut, however, and he turns to look at Raul.
“Any other complaints you’d like to get off your chest before we have to pretend to still have a functional work relationship?”
Raul looks out the window, watches as the gray streets of England pass him by.
“Do you ever think about the way your actions affect people? How, when you fuck up, you’re not the only one who looks bad?”
Guti shrugs in lieu of a response.
Raul faces him. “It does. You don’t sit there for hours trying to construct a flawless apologetic-yet-charmingly-cocky speech for a press conference. You don’t spend hours on the phone with gossip rags desperately trying to keep your drunken photographs off the internet. You’re not the one who has to beg to get companies to work with you - companies like the one you just made a mockery of. Do you know who does have to do these things, Guti?”
“Santa Claus?” he offers, uninterested.
Raul purses his lips, forcing himself not to yell again. “No, Guti,” he says quietly. He reaches up to grip the bridge of his nose tightly, trying to fight the stress headache that is fast approaching. “Me. I do. I do all of those things, and more, and better than anyone else. And while I don’t ask for a thank you, or even ever expect one - especially not from you - I at least think that maybe once you won’t make a fool out of us. Maybe once you’ll - God forbid - stay in instead of drunkenly making out with every stripper from here to Istanbul. But no, do you know what you do while I’m out trying to fix your reputation?”
Guti sighs. “Feed the homeless?”
“Fuck it up even more.”
Guti nods. “Ah. My next guess.”
The car is quiet. Suddenly the air is thick with let-out aggression and it hangs between them like a poison.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Raul says abruptly, looking out the window again.
Guti jerks his head, looks at Raul as if he’s crazy. “What did you say?” Raul repeats himself. Guti blinks dumbly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s silent. Guti is impatient, he slams his hand against the empty seat across from him.
“What do you mean, Raul?”
“I quit. I’m giving you notice. I can’t do this anymore. I - I can’t remember what it’s like to sleep a full night or eat a real meal or deal with people who actually give a shit about what I do for them.”
Guti feels a little desperate now, and reaches out to touch Raul’s knee. Raul turns to him, looking at him through the tired eyes of a man who has not had a real break or a day off or holiday in years. It catches Guti by surprise.
“But I do,” Guti says, suddenly earnest, all trace of sarcasm gone. “I do give a shit. You’re - you’re the only one I do give a shit about. You know? You’re the only person I trust, the only one I do listen to, the only one -”
Raul frowns, moving his knee out from under Guti’s hand so that it falls against the leather seat limply. “Let’s not make this something it’s not, Guti.”
And fuck, that hurts. That stings more than the fact that he’s quitting. Guti was being honest - for once, for the first time in a long time. And Raul just completely turned him away, threw his words in the garbage and disregarded his meaning. He pulls his hand back to his lap numbly, unsure of what to say.
The car slows to a stop in front of the banquet hall.
“We’ve arrived,” the driver says brightly, stupidly. Both men stay in their seats, Raul looking down at his hands and Guti looking at Raul. Neither of them acknowledges the chauffer.
“So, that’s it,” Guti says, bitterness unable to be masked.
Raul nods sharply. “That’s it.”
Guti opens his mouth to talk before he’s cut off by - “I said, we’ve arrive-”
“We fucking heard you, Jesus Christ,” Guti spits out, and Raul begins to slide out of the car, not waiting for the chauffer to open the door. He opens Guti’s side instead, and Guti brushes him away, sneering. “Incompetent idiot,” he mumbles under his breath.
He looks at Raul from over the roof of the car. He can’t believe he’s known this man for so long - years and years, what feels like centuries - and to think that it would end like this makes his stomach turn, makes him feel sick to his fucking stomach. The car drives away, leaving nothing but air between them. Raul finally looks at Guti and crosses the space between them, raches over to brush some lint off Guti’s suit jacket.
“I’ll help you find a replacement,” he says, and then, as if this is some sort of consolation prize, he adds, “and I’ll still be your friend.”
Guti laughs darkly and pushes Raul’s hand away as if it’s a dirty dog’s paw. “Don’t make this something it’s not,” he says.
Raul looks hurt, and Guti thinks, good. He almost says something else but then he notices one of the hosts with a tray of champagne in his hand, and he offers one to Guti. Guti grins widely, taking one in each hand.
Raul assumes that one is for him and reaches out to take it, but instead Guti downs them both in rapid succession, then takes another two drinks to compensate.
“Don’t worry, Raul,” he says, walking towards the hall. “I’ll make your last job really special, something for you to remember me by.”
And then he walks inside, already swaying.
They work pretty well - Stevie imagined it would be more complicated dealing with a man who can’t speak English and a translator who barely knows how to construct a proper sentence and a Scouser who speaks in slang 99% of the time, anyway. They somehow seem to work together in perfect unison, with Cesc serving as the perfect translator. Xabi is quick to understand the computer programs; things that Stevie still hasn’t learned after three years, Xabi is able to master within an hour. He doesn’t talk much - no that it would be of much help to Stevie anyway, seeing as how the only word in English he seems to understand is “no,” but either way.
Stevie finds himself watching the Spaniard, watching his movements. He bites his lower lip when he types, scratches his head with the eraser of his pencil as he reads. He shifts forward in his seat when he’s confused. He doesn’t ask for help until he’s gone over the problem numerous times, until he’s exhausted every other answer and he absolutely cannot do it by himself. (He has lean arms, he’s thin but built, he has nice hair.)
Stevie is so caught up in Xabi-watching that he barely notices Cesc shifting in his seat impatiently, glancing at his watch every five seconds, until finally he just sighs heavily and says, “Stevie, aren’t we going to go to the reception?”
Stevie frowns - he’d forgotten all about David Beckham’s wedding reception, and he feels a little guilty about it - he should have been looking forward to it, considering it’s his business partner and university friend. (But, really, he’s at the age when weddings are already driving him insane - can’t they just all have a communal wedding and get it over with already?)
“Er, yeah, Cesc. You go ahead. I’ll meet up with you both there, yeah?”
Cesc nods eagerly, and turns to Xabi: “Do you want to come to the reception with me?”
Xabi glances at Stevie. “Is Mr. Gerrard coming?”
Cesc shrugs. “He says we can go without him. He’ll meet us.”
Xabi shakes his head, says something else to Cesc. Cesc frowns and looks over at Stevie. “He says he doesn’t leave until his boss leaves.”
Stevie laughs a little bit, almost makes a joke - “kissing some arse on the first day?” - but he decides against it; he just shakes his head, amused. “Then I guess it’s time for me to leave.”
Cesc grins and pulls on Xabi’s sleeve. “He says he’s leaving now!!”
“But I thought he was staying? Why did he change his mind?”
Cesc shrugs again. “You, probably,” he says, distracted, as he drags Xabi out with him. Xabi stares at him as they leave the room, leaving Stevie behind as he pulls on his coat.
Stevie stares right back.
Fernando is bored.
Sergio, while polite and friendly (although clearly uninterested in showing him around) and attractive (beyond attractive; Fernando can’t even bother to hide the way he stares at his features in obvious curiosity), isn’t very interesting. He doesn’t really talk much, doesn’t tell much about himself, only shows him the parts of London that Fernando could have seen on his own if he was using a guide book. He feels like he’s on an elderly person’s trip around London - all museums and historical monuments and fancy buildings.
As they press close together walking through the crowded streets (crowded streets filled with people who recognize the both of them five seconds too late, and turn to take photographs after Fernando and Sergio have already passed them by), Fernando desperately wants to say something - wants to ask, “but who are you really? I’ve seen you in magazines - but who are you? Why would I bother coming here? What are your reasons for staying?” and, “Are you really this boring? Do you really go to these places?”
But that would be rude. And Fernando doesn’t want to be rude.
But.
“Do you really go to these museums?” he asks suddenly, interrupting Sergio in the middle of a boring lecture. Sergio turns to him, confused but a little relieved.
“Uh… Yes?”
Fernando raises his eyebrow. “Sergio Ramos. I know who you are, I’ve seen you in Marca. You are interested in - in history museums, and art museums, and churches?”
Sergio looks affronted. “I like the arts! I appreciate a nice Picasso!”
Fernando just looks at him.
Sergio sighs. “No. Not really. Not unless I’m…”
“Bringing old relatives around? Showing family members?” Fernando offers with a coy smile. Sergio laughs, nods.
“Pretty much.”
“Well,” he says, motioning towards himself, “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not an old relative.”
Sergio laughs again, allowing himself the chance to look at Fernando closely, look at his body and his hair and his freckles and his smile. “No,” he agrees, “you’re not.”
“So how about you show me the things you really like to do?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Are you sure you can handle that?”
Fernando laughs, not uncomfortably. Sergio is a little impressed by how easily Fernando replies, how easily his laughter slides into Sergio’s heart.
“I can keep up,” he answers, smiling so widely the corners of his eyes wrinkle. Sergio finds it both endlessly endearing and endlessly attractive.
“Well, then!” Sergio says brightly, pulling on Fernando’s elbow. “I hope you’re ready for some dancing.”
Iker has probably had too much to drink; this is becoming more and more apparent as the night goes on. His intolerance for stupidity is rapidly increasing and his level of decency is decreasing by the millisecond - he absolutely should not (cannot, cannot, cannot) be staring at David and Victoria like this. He’s watching as they dance together, spin circles around each other, watching as they flawlessly glide across the hall. He’s watching them with longing and want and desire and need and fuck, it’s obvious, he knows he’s being obvious. Sara, unsurprised by his lack of interest in dancing, chooses instead to dances with her bridesmaids, leaving Iker at a half-empty table with older half-drunken businessmen and their gossiping older wives on their Blackberries and iPhones, checking stocks and transfers. He should turn to them and discuss the market, discuss players and statistics.
He doesn’t. He just watches the dance floor.
The chair next to him shifts into his and suddenly there’s someone next to him, huffing and breathing heavily, out of breath, hand on chest. Iker turns, slowly - because that’s the speed of his movements after so many flutes of champagne and shots of gin and rum and coke - and Cesc grins at him.
“Hello, Iker!” he says brightly, lifting a hand to wave. Iker isn’t sure if Cesc is supposed to be at this table, but judging by the way Gerard Pique is glaring from his own half-empty table, Iker assumes that it isn’t. He doesn’t bother bringing this to Cesc’s attention, however (that would require more than one functioning brain cell) and he simply smiles back, too tired for a response.
“You’re sleepy,” Cesc states simply, and it isn’t a question or a statement but an observation, as if he’s taking notes on Iker’s state of being. “And drunk.”
Iker nods slowly. “I am. Both.”
“Hmmmm. Should we sober you up, or should we take advantage of this?” Cesc wonders aloud, and Iker opens his mouth to respond but he’s too delayed, Cesc is already replying with: “Taking advantage! I’m getting more drinks, hold on!”
And then he’s off, making his way through the crowd and towards the bar. Iker sighs, rubs his head (is it possible to be developing a hangover before he’s even finished the drink in his hand?) tiredly and looks out at the crowd again.
Pique has cornered Cesc before he’s even gotten to the bar, pulling him into a bear hug and ruffling his hair roughly. Cesc pretends to look hurt, pretends to act like he’s more mature, but it only lasts a few seconds and then he’s pulling at Pique’s coat, hitting him in the face, pulling him towards the hallway. Iker smiles.
And then, like an addict, he looks at the dance floor again. Watches David press his lips against Victoria’s neck, watches Victoria tilt her head back, angle her face so she can rest her head against his shoulder.
It’s a little sick, he thinks. He thinks he should just stop being so fucking masochistic, thinks he should stop looking when it kills him, stop staring when his heart breaks with every blink. But, fuck. It’s as painful as it is captivating, and he finds he can’t go a few minutes without looking at them, without watching their happiness pour throughout the room like a flood.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Iker turns, sees one of the older women sitting in the seat that Cesc has just left. She doesn’t look like she’s here to pry, doesn’t seem like she just wants to gossip, but. He shakes his head, points to Sara, giggling with her friends.
“That’s my girlfriend, right there,” he says.
The woman smiles. “Yes. But that’s not what I asked, was it?”
Iker glances at her for another moment before looking back at David and Victoria, letting his gaze linger on David’s form for a second longer than it should.
“No,” Iker replies. No, that’s not what you asked, it means. No, I’m not in love with her, it means. No, you’re asking about the wrong newlywed, it means.