Meet the Parents part 1
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Jordi Alba, David Villa/David Silva, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Xavi Hernández/Andrés Iniesta
Characters: Iker Casillas, Jordi Alba, David Silva, David Villa, Sergio Ramos, Fernando Torres, Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta, Fábio Coentrão
Rating: R
Warning: Unless every Spanish footballer is gay, this is a slightly AU work.
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Summary: Inspired by this prompt: http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4942120#t4942120 on footballkink2
Meet the Parents
“I’m not sure he’s taking it all that well”, Iker says because he feels that he kind of owes it to his companions, not because explaining Jordi’s tantrums has regretfully become his second nature.
Not to mention with this one, well, the blame may be all his.
“Oh, and it only crossed your mind now?”, Villa arches an eyebrow at him in his infuriatingly patronising way while Fernando’s trying to wipe off the beer from his shirt, which is a bit hard when he has to keep Sergio from going after Jordi at the same time.
It’s not exactly Iker’s fault that Jordi is perfectly calm right until he starts throwing things.
“What the hell did you tell him anyway?”, Villa shifts his attention to Fernando, completely ignoring the swearing Andalusian the other is wrestling with.
“That there’s nothing to worry about and all he has to do is be himself”, Fernando mutters snappily and finally manages to haul Sergio back onto a couch.
“Did you offer to hold his hand and talk about menstruation problems too?”
Iker winces. It’s the matter of principles for him to never, ever, agree with any barb that leaves the Asturian’s mouth and fortunately Sergio’s outburst spares him the humiliation of nodding his head to it.
“You what?”, Sergio’s head whirls to Fernando, the desire to spill Jordi’s blood momentarily forgotten, “You told him what?”
“I told him to be himself”, Fernando mumbles looking everything but at the Andalusian and Villa rolls his eyes.
What does he call it? ‘Gay Drama episode 10001’?
“That’s fucking curious because when I was to meet your parents you told me to be anything but myself!”
Villa whistles at that and Iker almost tells him he’s not helping but in the end he stays quiet and Guaje, apparently disheartened by his lack of response helps himself to what little beer Jordi didn’t manage to spill on his grand exit.
“That’s different”, Fernando is a lovely shade of red now, “You-you weren’t meeting my parents as my boyfriend-”
“We’re not boyfriends”, Iker cuts in without conviction because of course no one’s paying attention to him.
“But as my best friend”, Fernando doesn’t sound like someone who’s buying their own lie. His parents most likely didn’t too which must have been interesting since he’s still with Olalla, “Okay, so that was only because you and my dad, you know”, he makes a face, “Your views don’t exactly match.”
“And that’s why you forbid me to talk about politics, education, cuisine, fashion, women, men, football, tennis, cars, books, music…”, Sergio’s counting on his fingers until he runs out of them.
“Why not gag him already?”, Villa comments behind a bottle.
“That’s not funny”, Fernando snaps to him and yeah, Iker gives it to him, it is, “You know what he did? He kept changing the subject when my dad asked him any question!”, he points accusingly to the Andalusian, then groans.
“That seemed like a safe option”, Sergio shrugs and takes a crisp, “I was a fucking bundle of nerves after all the prep talk I’d got, you try acting sensible when you’re left alone with a ticking bomb”, he growls defensively.
“Safe option?”, Fernando makes very big eyes, “God, you were telling him about the weather when he asked you about the up-coming elections! That was downright rude!”
“Really?”, Sergio crosses his arms so enthusiastically that the bowl with crisps jumps up hazardously on the table, “Last time I heard it made me look crazy!”
“That-”, Fernando shakes his head, “Yeah, it’d have been rude if they hadn’t thought you off the rocket, I give it to you.”
Villa looks as if he’s truly enjoying himself here. With the beer and now the crisps on his lap he resembles a cinema spectator.
Iker would probably join him if… If he wasn’t so damn petrified. Thanks God Jordi hasn’t displayed any interest in politics, though knowing him he may make up some shit just to rile him and his parents up.
Fuck.
“What are you butting heads about this time?”
Iker sighs in relief and then a grin breaks up on his face at the sight of Xavi and Andrés walking inside, followed closely by Fábio.
He stands up to greet them and Sergio and Fernando decide to bury the battle axe in favour of hugging the newcomers who have just arrived from Barcelona. Villa gives them a salute with the bottle.
“Parents’ visits”, he takes a gulp before Iker can change the subject for good.
He moans inwardly when he catches Fábio’s un-amused expression. Shit. The Portuguese must have noticed the state of the couches. And the table. And the floor.
He’s not letting them drink in a private room, away from the paparazzi, only to have it devastated in return even if the said ‘private room’ is nothing more but a converted storage cubbyhole and they’re not the ones responsible for its current state, strictly speaking. Besides, Fábio has this ‘good host’ policy that prevents him from demanding that the 'guests' clean it.
Of course, Iker’s a madrileño and his club buddy, which means he’s not a guest. Neither is Sergio, but he knows the Andalusian’s going to protest vehemently against cleaning Jordi’s mess.
He smiles encouragingly at Fábio when Villa knocks off the last standing glass in his attempt to ruffle Andrés’ lack of hair.
Fábio glares and mimics strangulation.
Okay. No jokes.
“Casillas’ parents are coming for a weekend”, he hears Villa’s gruff chuckles and purses his lips, “Alba’s a bit stressed out.”
“Where’s he?”, Xavi glances around.
“God would know, if he had the patience to put up with him”, Sergio flops down onto the couch and throws an arm around Iker’s shoulders, only to realise he’s not Fernando when his hand encounters his stubble, “Threw a fit, threw a bottle at Niño and stormed out. Can be halfway to Barcelona from all we know. Maybe you've met him?”
Iker hopes that’s too much even for Jordi. The odds of him hauling that sorry arse back here in twenty four hours aren’t high.
“Your parents are visiting? That’s nice”, only Andrés could call that impending catastrophe nice.
“Really?”, he, Xavi and Villa drawl in unison.
“What?”, the Manchego stutters and spills some crisps, “Meeting your boyfriend’s-”, he catches Iker’s glare, “Your lover’s parents is a great thing. Relaxing as you're a part of a family then. I can’t even remember meeting Xavi’s parents in any special way”, he tries to get the snacks again.
“That’s fascinating”, Xavi stares at him as if he has grown a second nose, “Because my parents are forever going to remember how you described to them, in ever painful detail, how scoring that goal against the Netherlands was the most orgasmic experience in your life until I allowed you to tug at my hair when I was giving you a blowjob the next day.”
Villa snorts so hard he begins to choke on the beer. Andrés, on his part, looks completely abashed if not a little confused.
“You seriously told them that?”, Sergio is the first to find his voice.
“He explained them what was so peculiar about the technique I used”, Xavi sneers and Andrés hides his head under the table when Villa pets him confidentially and asks what technique it was.
“Our Andrés?”, Fernando’s mouth is hanging open, “Did that?”
“Our Andrés”, Xavi glares at the Manchego’s back, “Was so smashed it’s a wonder he was even able to string words together.”
“You were drunk?”, Sergio appears not to know whether he should laugh or get insulted that they are pulling his leg.
Villa has leaned back and just watches them with raised eyebrows.
“Drunk doesn’t begin to describe his state”, Xavi sounds half-defeated and half-furious, “He’d downed all the wine we had prepared for their three-day visit. It’s a miracle we didn’t finish the evening on an ER.”
“Oh God”, Iker closes his eyes when the others erupt into laughter, well everyone but Xavi and Andrés, who’s still under the counter, “I’m getting rid of all the alcohol.”
“Come on, Alba doesn’t strike me as the kind to share his private life with anyone even when plastered”, Villa finally gets a good hold on the Manchego’s collar to drag him back up to the world of the living, “Or with a gun at his temple. Or your temple-”
“He doesn’t drink”, Iker jabs a crisp with his finger.
“Like, at all?”, Sergio gives him a long stare.
“Yeah”, Iker snaps the crisp in two, “Just like that. Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when I get a drink after a hard day?”
“Like a hopeless degenerate drowning his sorrows in the bottle?”, Villa supplies helpfully.
“That was rhetorical”, Xavi explains and the Asturian only grins at them.
“Wait, you actually mean you’re afraid of what you’re gonna do?”, Fernando lightly elbows his way next to Sergio.
“No”, he says all too quickly, “But who knows what can happen-”
“Someone can propose a toast, that’s a petrifying prospect”, Villa makes Fábio bite on his lips to stop from laughing at his glowering captain.
“Better safe than sorry”, Fernando swiftly sums up before they can get into a full-blown glaring contest.
“You may not want your parents to face Alba while sober”, Sergio stares at him seriously and he has to reconsider that.
“He’s not going to do anything stupid”, Villa says with a certainly that only a person who’s sure they won’t be dealing with the situation can have.
“He’s already cleaned the whole house thrice this week”, Iker puts his head in his hands, “He made me move the bed and it hadn’t been touched since I moved in and he’s been wondering today how he could vacuum behind the fridge…”
“Isn’t it built-in?”, Sergio frowns.
“Exactly”, Iker growls because that’s not funny and they’re all chuckling, “He’s going to dismantle the kitchen before I realise it!”
He groans and bangs the forehead on the table, making the crisps jump to their common mirth. If someone says it’s cute he’s going on a rampage.
“Alright”, Fábio gets himself under a very strained control, “I know I’m just a bystander and all, but you’ve already met his parents, can’t you relate or something?”
“How did it go anyway?”, Sergio’s been pestering him for details ever since he came back from L’Hospitalet a month ago and now, with their current company, he can’t feed him crap.
“Splendid”, he rolls his eyes without looking at any of their unhealthily interested faces, “They thought we were kidding at first.”
“But then they accepted you”, Fernando’s voice is uncertain yet highly bemused.
“Yeah”, he levels him with a look, “After they stopped laughing, essentially yes - they did.”
He also found out that Jordi’s sharp tongue was a genetic thing so he had to abandon all hope. And it’s going to get worse with age.
“And I wasn’t freaking out like he is”, he feels a profound need to clarify that.
Despite having to meet them on their own turf, he was calm and collected and professional and mature and-
“Man, you called me at 3 a.m. to ask how you say ‘I love your son and want to spend a life with him’ in Catalan”, Xavi has to ruin the effect.
“And what’s wrong with that?”, so he may have lost his cool for a moment back then.
“Oh, I don’t know: 3 a.m. maybe?”, Xavi sighs heavily, “I don’t know such things at that hour myself, I’m too busy searching for my name then.”
“Smooth Casillas, really smooth”, Villa’s grinning as if Christmas has come earlier, “You didn’t actually tell them that, did you?”
No, he didn’t, because he’s never had a knack for languages plus Xavi was slurring a bit when he tried to dictate the words to him.
“I wonder what you told Silva’s parents when you met them?”, he barks out instead and then concludes that he truly is quite curious.
Villa doesn’t answer at first, only grins wider, a bit less friendly and stretches his legs.
“Silva’s parents? You mean that endearing elderly couple that’s convinced I’m a pervert that corrupted their innocent little boy for life and ruined their chances at grandchildren? Them?”, he doesn’t let any real emotion beside sarcasm seep into his voice.
“They don’t… Honestly think that, right?”, it’s embarrassing that Andrés is the only one able to reply to that.
“I think they do”, Villa chuckles and picks up the beer, quirking an eyebrow at the stuttering Manchego, “They just got better at keeping it to themselves after Silva’s mother realised I’m the only man in her life capable of fixing a dripping tap.”
They give out a team ‘oh’.
“You fix her plumbing”, Fábio pronounces carefully, probably sharing their disability to imagine Villa with a screwdriver, “What does Silva do for your parents?”
“Keeps their blood pressure suitably high?”, the Asturian shrugs with one shoulder, “They don’t need coffee.”
Andrés shifts uncomfortably next to him, having most likely worked out where it is going. Iker settles for pursing his lips. The hell he’s buying that Villa doesn’t give a shit about their parents’ opinion.
“They met him after those photos from Caprice”, Villa explains flatly, “And after Patricia filed the divorce papers, so I guess they kind of believe him to be a little slut that seduced their righteous son and estranged him from his loving family”, he finishes in a pompous tone Iker suspects his parents have never used, “They told him that much”, he adds and drinks some more.
“And you…”, Fernando’s slightly pale, okay, very pale, because what they call ‘the Caprice incident’: Villa and Silva getting photographed in a pretty unambiguous situation, the material published in every tabloid in the country and Patricia divorcing Villa promptly is a disaster than awaits him if he missteps once.
At least the rest of them don’t have to worry about that.
“And I told them to stuff it”, Villa lowers the beer and sends him an annoyed but unwavering glare, “Father came to his senses anyway when Patricia calmed down about the children.”
Yeah, that they remember too. Villa brooding for days after Patricia forbid him from ever seeking contacts with the kids again and a livid Silva inventing thousands of ways to kill her slowly and painfully. No one knows what really happened, just that Silva visited her and the next day Villa got invited to see them whenever he pleased, as long as he called first and kept his cursed whore away.
“They’re just parents”, the Asturian gives them all a disbelieving look, “It’s cool they brought us up and all, supported us and tagged along to every match but they don’t really get a say in our lives…”
They all start talking at once and Iker’s feeling even more nervous than before.
...
He wants to scream when his way out gets blocked by a broom.
“A-a-a”, Fábio shakes it a bit to get his point across, “You promised.”
He may have drunkenly declared once that he’s going to help the blonde straighten up the place after one especially spectacular celebration of Sergio’s birthday. He just can’t see how he can still be held to that.
He almost starts to plead that he’d better go and check up on Jordi when he senses someone behind his back.
“You’ve got another of those?”, Villa nods to the broom and Fábio’s very slow on getting over the stunned phase.
Villa’s never offered to clean their mess before, which kind of makes Iker wish to bash him with the said broom.
“So, what’s up?”, the Asturian is leaning on the mop when Iker bends over to pick up broken glass.
“Parents, stress, cleaning, you know the drill”, he forces between gritted teeth, “Oh wait, you don’t. You don’t give a fuck”, he throws them angrily to a bin.
“I’m not gonna pretend I do”, Villa’s watching him unnervingly as he stalks the room in search of beer cans, “But you? You’re overdoing it, Casillas, and that’s not your style so I’m asking what’s up.”
“Nothing”, he crushes a can with his foot.
“Try again”, the Asturian makes a face, “You can’t be that hard-pressed for their approval at your age-”
“You're the same age and I’m just not sure about their reaction, that’s all”, Iker snaps angrily and swears because he shouldn’t be discussing it, not with the guy in front of him or anyone, for that matter, “When they… See him”, he makes a vague gesture.
“See him?”, Villa repeats dumbly, “Wait, you did tell them he’s a guy, right?”
“Of course I did!”, he kicks some crisp crumbs.
“Then everything’s as cool as it can be with them learning that their son’s a gay who’s been dating a hot female journalist for years”, Villa will never let him live Sara down, “They gonna love him.”
“Right”, he snorts and turns back to rearrange the couches, “They so are.”
Villa’s silent for some time and Iker has to fight with himself not to check what he is planning. He can practically feel the calculating stare on his skin.
“I don’t get you”, the Asturian speaks up in the end, “You claim you’re in love with him and all that crap and yet you’re constantly treating him like a brat you have to be ashamed of. If that’s so, why the hell are you still together if it’s such a burden?”
Oh, that’s just what he needs. Villa the Shrink.
“I’m not ashamed of him”, he growls, abandoning his tedious task and takes several steps towards the other. Villa doesn’t even flinch.
“Then why do you keep on insinuating he’s going to make them hate him? Ever considered the possibility that whatever happens may not be his fault?”
“Whatever”, Iker’s not in the mood to start a brawl, so he doesn’t push the Asturian away when he retreats back to the couch, “You’re getting awfully touch-feely here, go home before the hang-over catches up with you.”
He’s sure that it’s not his words that make Villa leave him alone several seconds later.
...
“Jordi?”, Iker calls out cautiously as he opens the front door, half-expecting a silence to greet him, “Are you here?”
“Yes. I have decided a Hilton suits my needs much better”, the Catalan slips out of the kitchen, “But it’s turned out the Presidential Suit’s reserved, so as everything else’s below my standard, I’m stuck here for the time being.”
“The room service’s very good here though, no?”, he walks over to him and pauses after trapping Jordi against the wall.
“Will do”, Jordi picks up his nose haughtily, “But they expect such tips…”
Smirking, Iker leans down and… Kisses the wall.
“Jordi”, he closes his eyes to calm himself down when the Catalan’s scrambling back to his feet.
“I’m not done with the shopping list yet”, Jordi babbles as he disappears in the kitchen again.
“You were done with it when we were leaving for Fábio’s”, he groans, bumps his forehead on the doorframe and follows him to a counter.
The fridge’s still where it belongs so that’s an indisputable plus.
“Oh, right, it was a draft”, Jordi pointedly pushes away a heap of crumpled papers that probably are drafts of the drafts, “A Caesar salad, what do you think?”
Iker thinks that his father may actually prefer a dish that contains meat but he also knows that with Jordi’s cooking skills, the less real cooking involved the better.
“It’s okay”, he mentally goes through the list of ingredients and notes that Jordi’s draft indeed lacks any meat product.
“Too crude, I knew it”, the draft joins the crumpled heap as Jordi dives for a pile of cookbooks on the counter.
“It was alright”, Iker rubs his cheek tiredly when the Catalan begins to leaf through the first position.
“No, it wasn’t, a simpleton could do that”, Jordi doesn’t look up from the book, “You said Sara used to make roast beef and pate for them.”
Iker opens his arms in a general ‘so fucking what?’ gesture and curses the day he thought it’d be a good idea to share those memories with Jordi.
“Yeah, because she knew how to make them?”, he stares at Jordi with raised eyebrows.
Bad move. Shit, it must be the beer. Never, ever, tell Jordi he doesn’t know or can’t do something. Especially not in the same conversation where Sara’s being brought up.
“Could you pass me the thick one?”, Jordi’s venomous tone is deceptively civilised when he points to a book, a book that Iker’s fairly certain he didn’t own five hours ago.
“Could we go to bed?”, he counters but reaches for the tome.
“I’m not stopping you”, Jordi opens it at, God help them, the ‘French cuisine’ chapter.
“We’re not eating frogs, are we?”, he takes a peek over his shoulder and blanches at the sight of something that once served a toad as a… Leg? Stomach? Hopefully nothing of the lower anatomy.
“No, you sold the last one big enough for four people to Arsenal two weeks ago”, Jordi changes the page and contemplates anchois for a while and Iker suspects he has no idea what they are, which makes the two of them.
When they reach tripe dishes, he takes out a white flag.
“I’ll be in the bedroom”, he informs stiffly wondering if Jordi hasn’t washed the mattress in his enthusiasm.
“Don’t wait up”, the Catalan calls after him when he’s already in the hall, “Oh, and could you not use the linen?”
Iker halts and comes back because he must have misheard that.
“Excuse me?”
“Take out a blanket or something”, Jordi’s scribbling down another list, “There’s a sleeping bag in the wardrobe, on the third shelf.”
“What’s… Happened to the linen?”, he’s dreading the answer. He may not own an Egyptian cotton set but that doesn’t mean he’s not partial to sleeping on a pillow.
Jordi gives him a half-pitying, half-irritated glance.
“I’ve changed it”, he states as he inspects a photo of something reddish and terrifyingly pudding-like, which is actually quite optimistic as there’s a chance it has to stand in a dark and dump place for a year to be edible so they can’t serve it to his parents, “I may not have time for it later.”
Iker opens his mouth to point out that while it’s understandable that his parents’ bedclothes have to be fresh there’s nothing wrong in using theirs when the Catalan jerks his head up unexpectedly.
“What’s a ‘bouquet garni’?”
“Flowers?”, Iker suggests but doubts that flowers could be encountered in a cookbook.
Jordi doesn’t look convinced either.
“Okay”, he takes a deep breath, then scratches his head, “How about you don’t write down anything you don’t recognise?”, he could google it but if Jordi hasn’t thought of the Internet as the source of information yet, he’s not giving him ideas.
Jordi pouts but agrees petulantly. Iker sighs again and is ready to leave on a sleeping bag hunt when the Catalan all but whispers.
“I’ll go to Fábio in the morning.”
He nods, because Jordi is never going to admit he apologises to anyone and he mostly doesn’t, but he has a soft spot for Fábio a mile’s wide. Still, he has a reputation to uphold.
“Leave the list on the table. I’ll do the shopping.”
...
Of course he doesn’t, so Iker just kind of wanders aimlessly around the house, wary of touching anything and ruining Jordi’s attempts at feng shui. In the end, he decides to go to Fábio’s.
He remembers that Silva’s supposed to come from Manchester today only when he sees him straddling Villa’s lap and it’s too late to escape. He should probably get used to the sight soon as the little devil is set on transferring to Spain this season anyway. Virgin, he prays Real’s not interested or they may end up swapping clubs.
“Hi”, the Canarian waves cheerfully to him with a lollipop, “Rough night?”
If it was just Silva and Villa, he’d ignore that. But as Xavi and Fernando are staring at him expectantly too, he has no choice but to confess.
“I slept in a sleeping bag on my own bedroom’s floor”, he plops down on the couch and pretends not to hear Villa’s roaring laughter.
“Playing soldiers? Kinky”, Silva grins deviously around the candy and Xavi murmurs something about not having known that side of him.
“Could you be a bit more compassionate here?”, he whiningly turns to Fernando who he’s pinpointing as the only understanding soul in the establishment, “He’s bought ten cookbooks and is planning to make roasted toad’s tripe…”
“Remind me to never accept a dinner invitation from you”, Xavi shudders and sips a coffee to get rid of the imaginary taste.
“Why don’t you cook instead?”, Fernando can be so naïve at times, Iker almost envies him.
“Because he brandished a knife at me when I suggested that?”, he snatches an abandoned cappuccino and downs it in one gulp, “He wants to impress them I guess.”
“With toad’s tripe?”, Villa can barely talk, “Well, that’s bound to leave an ever-lasting impression for sure.”
Xavi helpfully holds the lollipop for a choking Silva.
“What’s the problem? Can’t he cook?”, the Catalan addresses Iker with a cup wave.
“No, I mean, he can, up to a point”, he shrugs, “Sandwiches, pancakes, rice with stuff, he’s okay with that though you should see what he does to a chicken breast”, he shudders at the image of Jordi meticulously cutting away everything having the audacity to resemble grease.
“Doesn’t sound like a Master Chef”, Silva’s gotten his candy back and is now swirling it obscenely in his mouth.
“I wonder what’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever cooked”, it’s stupid he gets defensive this easily.
“Belgian chocolate mousse”, the Canarian’s irrationally happy to oblige, “We dipped strawberries in it among… Other things”, he leans back and Villa immediately attaches himself to his neck.
Iker gives them an unimpressed stare while Xavi and Fernando are chasing dust on the floor with their eyes.
“I just wish he wouldn’t fret so much”, he shakes his head in defeat, “Or admitted he does, I’m not picky. I mean, it’s hard to show your support when someone’s acting as if everything was fabulous, right?”, he’s blaming Silva for using the word ‘fabulous’.
That heartfelt confession earns him two sympathetic glances, one keen and one… Okay, Silva may not strictly be paying attention to him, not with all that panting and whimpering when Villa’s not letting him go.
“Maybe you should talk to him”, Fernando jumps at the occasion to do something else than unwilling voyeurism, “Like, really talk to him, not the usual bickering of yours.”
“Just be there for him”, Xavi normally sounds this way when he’s explaining why exactly a particular tactic would never work on the pitch, “Shoulder to shoulder. Or shoulder to… Elbow, or whatever.”
“Fuck him”, Villa gives Silva the respite to pipe in with his typically invaluable piece of advice.
“Oh, that’d work”, he quirks his lips down.
“Every single time”, Villa does something to Silva’s butt that sends the Canarian flying off his lap, “You are with him”, he inclines his head towards Xavi, “You talk to him”, a nod to Fernando.
“Unless you gag him, but I guess listening to one’s narration or commands can be equally hot”, Silva pipes in innocently like a person who, of course, doesn’t have the necessary experience.
“All in one”, Villa summarises after he’s waved him off.
“I think I’ll… Go now”, that’s not the kind of a flooring come-back Iker’s been working on but it’ll do for now.
He all but runs away, dodging a concerned-looking Fábio at the door.
...
He yearns for a day when he’ll be able to say that he comes back to an eerily tranquil house.
No in this life, it seems.
“You’re suing that fucking Rubio guy!”, Jordi’s breathing heavily with fury, looking ready to go and beat his neighbour up personally, or rather he would be, if the fact that he’s standing on a kitchen table wasn’t diminishing the charging bull effect.
“What has he… Done?”, he asks cautiously, peeking through a window towards Mr Rubio’s estate, half-expecting him to be prowling the lawn with a rifle.
“What he’s done?”, Jordi crosses his arms, “Rather what he hasn’t! You said he’d promised that he’d get rid of those damned cockroaches. I’ve just seen one taking cover under the cooker.”
“I doubt cockroaches have the brain capacity to ‘take cover’”, Iker dutifully crouches down to track their squatter.
“And do you have the brain capacity to find it?”, Jordi’s swinging his legs down but hesitates before they actually touch the floor, “Have you even talked to Rubio about it?”
“Look”, Iker runs a hand through his hair, “The guy’s just moved in.”
“And brought his friends from whatever shithole he used to live earlier-”
“I have broached the subject with him”, Iker finishes stoically.
“I didn’t ask you to ‘broach the subject’, I gave you a jar with a dead insect of his to take it back to him”, Jordi hasn’t unfolded his arms yet, “And a brochure of a deratization company.”
“He doesn’t have rats”, obviously Iker didn’t go with the jar to Rubio, he just buried in in the garden alongside the deratization leaflet.
“Yet”, Jordi huffs, “Can you see it?”, he squints his eyes in the direction of the cooker.
There’s a centimetre-high pitch-black space of nothing between the cooker and the floor. He doesn’t know what Jordi hopes he’s going to see here.
“Do you know that you have to multiply the number of visible cockroaches by seven to estimate how many of them are in the house?”, he muses aloud, trying not to crack up at Jordi’s twitching face.
“Do you know you have to multiply the number of minutes that you sit there doing nothing by seven to estimate how many nights you’re spending on the front porch?”
Iker wants to reply but the cockroach chooses that moment to make a mad dash from the cooker to the sitting room, surprising the hell out of him so he jumps up with a shriek, bashes against a sink and sends a pyramid of pots crashing to the floor.
When he calms down enough to look up, he sees Jordi rolling on the table, apparently having some serious breathing problems.
“Call the deratization guys”, he straightens his shirt with a sense of new-found purpose, “I’m going to Rubio.”
....
Characters: Iker Casillas, Jordi Alba, David Silva, David Villa, Sergio Ramos, Fernando Torres, Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta, Fábio Coentrão
Rating: R
Warning: Unless every Spanish footballer is gay, this is a slightly AU work.
Disclaimer: I don't claim it has ever happened.
Summary: Inspired by this prompt: http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4942120#t4942120 on footballkink2
Meet the Parents
“I’m not sure he’s taking it all that well”, Iker says because he feels that he kind of owes it to his companions, not because explaining Jordi’s tantrums has regretfully become his second nature.
Not to mention with this one, well, the blame may be all his.
“Oh, and it only crossed your mind now?”, Villa arches an eyebrow at him in his infuriatingly patronising way while Fernando’s trying to wipe off the beer from his shirt, which is a bit hard when he has to keep Sergio from going after Jordi at the same time.
It’s not exactly Iker’s fault that Jordi is perfectly calm right until he starts throwing things.
“What the hell did you tell him anyway?”, Villa shifts his attention to Fernando, completely ignoring the swearing Andalusian the other is wrestling with.
“That there’s nothing to worry about and all he has to do is be himself”, Fernando mutters snappily and finally manages to haul Sergio back onto a couch.
“Did you offer to hold his hand and talk about menstruation problems too?”
Iker winces. It’s the matter of principles for him to never, ever, agree with any barb that leaves the Asturian’s mouth and fortunately Sergio’s outburst spares him the humiliation of nodding his head to it.
“You what?”, Sergio’s head whirls to Fernando, the desire to spill Jordi’s blood momentarily forgotten, “You told him what?”
“I told him to be himself”, Fernando mumbles looking everything but at the Andalusian and Villa rolls his eyes.
What does he call it? ‘Gay Drama episode 10001’?
“That’s fucking curious because when I was to meet your parents you told me to be anything but myself!”
Villa whistles at that and Iker almost tells him he’s not helping but in the end he stays quiet and Guaje, apparently disheartened by his lack of response helps himself to what little beer Jordi didn’t manage to spill on his grand exit.
“That’s different”, Fernando is a lovely shade of red now, “You-you weren’t meeting my parents as my boyfriend-”
“We’re not boyfriends”, Iker cuts in without conviction because of course no one’s paying attention to him.
“But as my best friend”, Fernando doesn’t sound like someone who’s buying their own lie. His parents most likely didn’t too which must have been interesting since he’s still with Olalla, “Okay, so that was only because you and my dad, you know”, he makes a face, “Your views don’t exactly match.”
“And that’s why you forbid me to talk about politics, education, cuisine, fashion, women, men, football, tennis, cars, books, music…”, Sergio’s counting on his fingers until he runs out of them.
“Why not gag him already?”, Villa comments behind a bottle.
“That’s not funny”, Fernando snaps to him and yeah, Iker gives it to him, it is, “You know what he did? He kept changing the subject when my dad asked him any question!”, he points accusingly to the Andalusian, then groans.
“That seemed like a safe option”, Sergio shrugs and takes a crisp, “I was a fucking bundle of nerves after all the prep talk I’d got, you try acting sensible when you’re left alone with a ticking bomb”, he growls defensively.
“Safe option?”, Fernando makes very big eyes, “God, you were telling him about the weather when he asked you about the up-coming elections! That was downright rude!”
“Really?”, Sergio crosses his arms so enthusiastically that the bowl with crisps jumps up hazardously on the table, “Last time I heard it made me look crazy!”
“That-”, Fernando shakes his head, “Yeah, it’d have been rude if they hadn’t thought you off the rocket, I give it to you.”
Villa looks as if he’s truly enjoying himself here. With the beer and now the crisps on his lap he resembles a cinema spectator.
Iker would probably join him if… If he wasn’t so damn petrified. Thanks God Jordi hasn’t displayed any interest in politics, though knowing him he may make up some shit just to rile him and his parents up.
Fuck.
“What are you butting heads about this time?”
Iker sighs in relief and then a grin breaks up on his face at the sight of Xavi and Andrés walking inside, followed closely by Fábio.
He stands up to greet them and Sergio and Fernando decide to bury the battle axe in favour of hugging the newcomers who have just arrived from Barcelona. Villa gives them a salute with the bottle.
“Parents’ visits”, he takes a gulp before Iker can change the subject for good.
He moans inwardly when he catches Fábio’s un-amused expression. Shit. The Portuguese must have noticed the state of the couches. And the table. And the floor.
He’s not letting them drink in a private room, away from the paparazzi, only to have it devastated in return even if the said ‘private room’ is nothing more but a converted storage cubbyhole and they’re not the ones responsible for its current state, strictly speaking. Besides, Fábio has this ‘good host’ policy that prevents him from demanding that the 'guests' clean it.
Of course, Iker’s a madrileño and his club buddy, which means he’s not a guest. Neither is Sergio, but he knows the Andalusian’s going to protest vehemently against cleaning Jordi’s mess.
He smiles encouragingly at Fábio when Villa knocks off the last standing glass in his attempt to ruffle Andrés’ lack of hair.
Fábio glares and mimics strangulation.
Okay. No jokes.
“Casillas’ parents are coming for a weekend”, he hears Villa’s gruff chuckles and purses his lips, “Alba’s a bit stressed out.”
“Where’s he?”, Xavi glances around.
“God would know, if he had the patience to put up with him”, Sergio flops down onto the couch and throws an arm around Iker’s shoulders, only to realise he’s not Fernando when his hand encounters his stubble, “Threw a fit, threw a bottle at Niño and stormed out. Can be halfway to Barcelona from all we know. Maybe you've met him?”
Iker hopes that’s too much even for Jordi. The odds of him hauling that sorry arse back here in twenty four hours aren’t high.
“Your parents are visiting? That’s nice”, only Andrés could call that impending catastrophe nice.
“Really?”, he, Xavi and Villa drawl in unison.
“What?”, the Manchego stutters and spills some crisps, “Meeting your boyfriend’s-”, he catches Iker’s glare, “Your lover’s parents is a great thing. Relaxing as you're a part of a family then. I can’t even remember meeting Xavi’s parents in any special way”, he tries to get the snacks again.
“That’s fascinating”, Xavi stares at him as if he has grown a second nose, “Because my parents are forever going to remember how you described to them, in ever painful detail, how scoring that goal against the Netherlands was the most orgasmic experience in your life until I allowed you to tug at my hair when I was giving you a blowjob the next day.”
Villa snorts so hard he begins to choke on the beer. Andrés, on his part, looks completely abashed if not a little confused.
“You seriously told them that?”, Sergio is the first to find his voice.
“He explained them what was so peculiar about the technique I used”, Xavi sneers and Andrés hides his head under the table when Villa pets him confidentially and asks what technique it was.
“Our Andrés?”, Fernando’s mouth is hanging open, “Did that?”
“Our Andrés”, Xavi glares at the Manchego’s back, “Was so smashed it’s a wonder he was even able to string words together.”
“You were drunk?”, Sergio appears not to know whether he should laugh or get insulted that they are pulling his leg.
Villa has leaned back and just watches them with raised eyebrows.
“Drunk doesn’t begin to describe his state”, Xavi sounds half-defeated and half-furious, “He’d downed all the wine we had prepared for their three-day visit. It’s a miracle we didn’t finish the evening on an ER.”
“Oh God”, Iker closes his eyes when the others erupt into laughter, well everyone but Xavi and Andrés, who’s still under the counter, “I’m getting rid of all the alcohol.”
“Come on, Alba doesn’t strike me as the kind to share his private life with anyone even when plastered”, Villa finally gets a good hold on the Manchego’s collar to drag him back up to the world of the living, “Or with a gun at his temple. Or your temple-”
“He doesn’t drink”, Iker jabs a crisp with his finger.
“Like, at all?”, Sergio gives him a long stare.
“Yeah”, Iker snaps the crisp in two, “Just like that. Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when I get a drink after a hard day?”
“Like a hopeless degenerate drowning his sorrows in the bottle?”, Villa supplies helpfully.
“That was rhetorical”, Xavi explains and the Asturian only grins at them.
“Wait, you actually mean you’re afraid of what you’re gonna do?”, Fernando lightly elbows his way next to Sergio.
“No”, he says all too quickly, “But who knows what can happen-”
“Someone can propose a toast, that’s a petrifying prospect”, Villa makes Fábio bite on his lips to stop from laughing at his glowering captain.
“Better safe than sorry”, Fernando swiftly sums up before they can get into a full-blown glaring contest.
“You may not want your parents to face Alba while sober”, Sergio stares at him seriously and he has to reconsider that.
“He’s not going to do anything stupid”, Villa says with a certainly that only a person who’s sure they won’t be dealing with the situation can have.
“He’s already cleaned the whole house thrice this week”, Iker puts his head in his hands, “He made me move the bed and it hadn’t been touched since I moved in and he’s been wondering today how he could vacuum behind the fridge…”
“Isn’t it built-in?”, Sergio frowns.
“Exactly”, Iker growls because that’s not funny and they’re all chuckling, “He’s going to dismantle the kitchen before I realise it!”
He groans and bangs the forehead on the table, making the crisps jump to their common mirth. If someone says it’s cute he’s going on a rampage.
“Alright”, Fábio gets himself under a very strained control, “I know I’m just a bystander and all, but you’ve already met his parents, can’t you relate or something?”
“How did it go anyway?”, Sergio’s been pestering him for details ever since he came back from L’Hospitalet a month ago and now, with their current company, he can’t feed him crap.
“Splendid”, he rolls his eyes without looking at any of their unhealthily interested faces, “They thought we were kidding at first.”
“But then they accepted you”, Fernando’s voice is uncertain yet highly bemused.
“Yeah”, he levels him with a look, “After they stopped laughing, essentially yes - they did.”
He also found out that Jordi’s sharp tongue was a genetic thing so he had to abandon all hope. And it’s going to get worse with age.
“And I wasn’t freaking out like he is”, he feels a profound need to clarify that.
Despite having to meet them on their own turf, he was calm and collected and professional and mature and-
“Man, you called me at 3 a.m. to ask how you say ‘I love your son and want to spend a life with him’ in Catalan”, Xavi has to ruin the effect.
“And what’s wrong with that?”, so he may have lost his cool for a moment back then.
“Oh, I don’t know: 3 a.m. maybe?”, Xavi sighs heavily, “I don’t know such things at that hour myself, I’m too busy searching for my name then.”
“Smooth Casillas, really smooth”, Villa’s grinning as if Christmas has come earlier, “You didn’t actually tell them that, did you?”
No, he didn’t, because he’s never had a knack for languages plus Xavi was slurring a bit when he tried to dictate the words to him.
“I wonder what you told Silva’s parents when you met them?”, he barks out instead and then concludes that he truly is quite curious.
Villa doesn’t answer at first, only grins wider, a bit less friendly and stretches his legs.
“Silva’s parents? You mean that endearing elderly couple that’s convinced I’m a pervert that corrupted their innocent little boy for life and ruined their chances at grandchildren? Them?”, he doesn’t let any real emotion beside sarcasm seep into his voice.
“They don’t… Honestly think that, right?”, it’s embarrassing that Andrés is the only one able to reply to that.
“I think they do”, Villa chuckles and picks up the beer, quirking an eyebrow at the stuttering Manchego, “They just got better at keeping it to themselves after Silva’s mother realised I’m the only man in her life capable of fixing a dripping tap.”
They give out a team ‘oh’.
“You fix her plumbing”, Fábio pronounces carefully, probably sharing their disability to imagine Villa with a screwdriver, “What does Silva do for your parents?”
“Keeps their blood pressure suitably high?”, the Asturian shrugs with one shoulder, “They don’t need coffee.”
Andrés shifts uncomfortably next to him, having most likely worked out where it is going. Iker settles for pursing his lips. The hell he’s buying that Villa doesn’t give a shit about their parents’ opinion.
“They met him after those photos from Caprice”, Villa explains flatly, “And after Patricia filed the divorce papers, so I guess they kind of believe him to be a little slut that seduced their righteous son and estranged him from his loving family”, he finishes in a pompous tone Iker suspects his parents have never used, “They told him that much”, he adds and drinks some more.
“And you…”, Fernando’s slightly pale, okay, very pale, because what they call ‘the Caprice incident’: Villa and Silva getting photographed in a pretty unambiguous situation, the material published in every tabloid in the country and Patricia divorcing Villa promptly is a disaster than awaits him if he missteps once.
At least the rest of them don’t have to worry about that.
“And I told them to stuff it”, Villa lowers the beer and sends him an annoyed but unwavering glare, “Father came to his senses anyway when Patricia calmed down about the children.”
Yeah, that they remember too. Villa brooding for days after Patricia forbid him from ever seeking contacts with the kids again and a livid Silva inventing thousands of ways to kill her slowly and painfully. No one knows what really happened, just that Silva visited her and the next day Villa got invited to see them whenever he pleased, as long as he called first and kept his cursed whore away.
“They’re just parents”, the Asturian gives them all a disbelieving look, “It’s cool they brought us up and all, supported us and tagged along to every match but they don’t really get a say in our lives…”
They all start talking at once and Iker’s feeling even more nervous than before.
...
He wants to scream when his way out gets blocked by a broom.
“A-a-a”, Fábio shakes it a bit to get his point across, “You promised.”
He may have drunkenly declared once that he’s going to help the blonde straighten up the place after one especially spectacular celebration of Sergio’s birthday. He just can’t see how he can still be held to that.
He almost starts to plead that he’d better go and check up on Jordi when he senses someone behind his back.
“You’ve got another of those?”, Villa nods to the broom and Fábio’s very slow on getting over the stunned phase.
Villa’s never offered to clean their mess before, which kind of makes Iker wish to bash him with the said broom.
“So, what’s up?”, the Asturian is leaning on the mop when Iker bends over to pick up broken glass.
“Parents, stress, cleaning, you know the drill”, he forces between gritted teeth, “Oh wait, you don’t. You don’t give a fuck”, he throws them angrily to a bin.
“I’m not gonna pretend I do”, Villa’s watching him unnervingly as he stalks the room in search of beer cans, “But you? You’re overdoing it, Casillas, and that’s not your style so I’m asking what’s up.”
“Nothing”, he crushes a can with his foot.
“Try again”, the Asturian makes a face, “You can’t be that hard-pressed for their approval at your age-”
“You're the same age and I’m just not sure about their reaction, that’s all”, Iker snaps angrily and swears because he shouldn’t be discussing it, not with the guy in front of him or anyone, for that matter, “When they… See him”, he makes a vague gesture.
“See him?”, Villa repeats dumbly, “Wait, you did tell them he’s a guy, right?”
“Of course I did!”, he kicks some crisp crumbs.
“Then everything’s as cool as it can be with them learning that their son’s a gay who’s been dating a hot female journalist for years”, Villa will never let him live Sara down, “They gonna love him.”
“Right”, he snorts and turns back to rearrange the couches, “They so are.”
Villa’s silent for some time and Iker has to fight with himself not to check what he is planning. He can practically feel the calculating stare on his skin.
“I don’t get you”, the Asturian speaks up in the end, “You claim you’re in love with him and all that crap and yet you’re constantly treating him like a brat you have to be ashamed of. If that’s so, why the hell are you still together if it’s such a burden?”
Oh, that’s just what he needs. Villa the Shrink.
“I’m not ashamed of him”, he growls, abandoning his tedious task and takes several steps towards the other. Villa doesn’t even flinch.
“Then why do you keep on insinuating he’s going to make them hate him? Ever considered the possibility that whatever happens may not be his fault?”
“Whatever”, Iker’s not in the mood to start a brawl, so he doesn’t push the Asturian away when he retreats back to the couch, “You’re getting awfully touch-feely here, go home before the hang-over catches up with you.”
He’s sure that it’s not his words that make Villa leave him alone several seconds later.
...
“Jordi?”, Iker calls out cautiously as he opens the front door, half-expecting a silence to greet him, “Are you here?”
“Yes. I have decided a Hilton suits my needs much better”, the Catalan slips out of the kitchen, “But it’s turned out the Presidential Suit’s reserved, so as everything else’s below my standard, I’m stuck here for the time being.”
“The room service’s very good here though, no?”, he walks over to him and pauses after trapping Jordi against the wall.
“Will do”, Jordi picks up his nose haughtily, “But they expect such tips…”
Smirking, Iker leans down and… Kisses the wall.
“Jordi”, he closes his eyes to calm himself down when the Catalan’s scrambling back to his feet.
“I’m not done with the shopping list yet”, Jordi babbles as he disappears in the kitchen again.
“You were done with it when we were leaving for Fábio’s”, he groans, bumps his forehead on the doorframe and follows him to a counter.
The fridge’s still where it belongs so that’s an indisputable plus.
“Oh, right, it was a draft”, Jordi pointedly pushes away a heap of crumpled papers that probably are drafts of the drafts, “A Caesar salad, what do you think?”
Iker thinks that his father may actually prefer a dish that contains meat but he also knows that with Jordi’s cooking skills, the less real cooking involved the better.
“It’s okay”, he mentally goes through the list of ingredients and notes that Jordi’s draft indeed lacks any meat product.
“Too crude, I knew it”, the draft joins the crumpled heap as Jordi dives for a pile of cookbooks on the counter.
“It was alright”, Iker rubs his cheek tiredly when the Catalan begins to leaf through the first position.
“No, it wasn’t, a simpleton could do that”, Jordi doesn’t look up from the book, “You said Sara used to make roast beef and pate for them.”
Iker opens his arms in a general ‘so fucking what?’ gesture and curses the day he thought it’d be a good idea to share those memories with Jordi.
“Yeah, because she knew how to make them?”, he stares at Jordi with raised eyebrows.
Bad move. Shit, it must be the beer. Never, ever, tell Jordi he doesn’t know or can’t do something. Especially not in the same conversation where Sara’s being brought up.
“Could you pass me the thick one?”, Jordi’s venomous tone is deceptively civilised when he points to a book, a book that Iker’s fairly certain he didn’t own five hours ago.
“Could we go to bed?”, he counters but reaches for the tome.
“I’m not stopping you”, Jordi opens it at, God help them, the ‘French cuisine’ chapter.
“We’re not eating frogs, are we?”, he takes a peek over his shoulder and blanches at the sight of something that once served a toad as a… Leg? Stomach? Hopefully nothing of the lower anatomy.
“No, you sold the last one big enough for four people to Arsenal two weeks ago”, Jordi changes the page and contemplates anchois for a while and Iker suspects he has no idea what they are, which makes the two of them.
When they reach tripe dishes, he takes out a white flag.
“I’ll be in the bedroom”, he informs stiffly wondering if Jordi hasn’t washed the mattress in his enthusiasm.
“Don’t wait up”, the Catalan calls after him when he’s already in the hall, “Oh, and could you not use the linen?”
Iker halts and comes back because he must have misheard that.
“Excuse me?”
“Take out a blanket or something”, Jordi’s scribbling down another list, “There’s a sleeping bag in the wardrobe, on the third shelf.”
“What’s… Happened to the linen?”, he’s dreading the answer. He may not own an Egyptian cotton set but that doesn’t mean he’s not partial to sleeping on a pillow.
Jordi gives him a half-pitying, half-irritated glance.
“I’ve changed it”, he states as he inspects a photo of something reddish and terrifyingly pudding-like, which is actually quite optimistic as there’s a chance it has to stand in a dark and dump place for a year to be edible so they can’t serve it to his parents, “I may not have time for it later.”
Iker opens his mouth to point out that while it’s understandable that his parents’ bedclothes have to be fresh there’s nothing wrong in using theirs when the Catalan jerks his head up unexpectedly.
“What’s a ‘bouquet garni’?”
“Flowers?”, Iker suggests but doubts that flowers could be encountered in a cookbook.
Jordi doesn’t look convinced either.
“Okay”, he takes a deep breath, then scratches his head, “How about you don’t write down anything you don’t recognise?”, he could google it but if Jordi hasn’t thought of the Internet as the source of information yet, he’s not giving him ideas.
Jordi pouts but agrees petulantly. Iker sighs again and is ready to leave on a sleeping bag hunt when the Catalan all but whispers.
“I’ll go to Fábio in the morning.”
He nods, because Jordi is never going to admit he apologises to anyone and he mostly doesn’t, but he has a soft spot for Fábio a mile’s wide. Still, he has a reputation to uphold.
“Leave the list on the table. I’ll do the shopping.”
...
Of course he doesn’t, so Iker just kind of wanders aimlessly around the house, wary of touching anything and ruining Jordi’s attempts at feng shui. In the end, he decides to go to Fábio’s.
He remembers that Silva’s supposed to come from Manchester today only when he sees him straddling Villa’s lap and it’s too late to escape. He should probably get used to the sight soon as the little devil is set on transferring to Spain this season anyway. Virgin, he prays Real’s not interested or they may end up swapping clubs.
“Hi”, the Canarian waves cheerfully to him with a lollipop, “Rough night?”
If it was just Silva and Villa, he’d ignore that. But as Xavi and Fernando are staring at him expectantly too, he has no choice but to confess.
“I slept in a sleeping bag on my own bedroom’s floor”, he plops down on the couch and pretends not to hear Villa’s roaring laughter.
“Playing soldiers? Kinky”, Silva grins deviously around the candy and Xavi murmurs something about not having known that side of him.
“Could you be a bit more compassionate here?”, he whiningly turns to Fernando who he’s pinpointing as the only understanding soul in the establishment, “He’s bought ten cookbooks and is planning to make roasted toad’s tripe…”
“Remind me to never accept a dinner invitation from you”, Xavi shudders and sips a coffee to get rid of the imaginary taste.
“Why don’t you cook instead?”, Fernando can be so naïve at times, Iker almost envies him.
“Because he brandished a knife at me when I suggested that?”, he snatches an abandoned cappuccino and downs it in one gulp, “He wants to impress them I guess.”
“With toad’s tripe?”, Villa can barely talk, “Well, that’s bound to leave an ever-lasting impression for sure.”
Xavi helpfully holds the lollipop for a choking Silva.
“What’s the problem? Can’t he cook?”, the Catalan addresses Iker with a cup wave.
“No, I mean, he can, up to a point”, he shrugs, “Sandwiches, pancakes, rice with stuff, he’s okay with that though you should see what he does to a chicken breast”, he shudders at the image of Jordi meticulously cutting away everything having the audacity to resemble grease.
“Doesn’t sound like a Master Chef”, Silva’s gotten his candy back and is now swirling it obscenely in his mouth.
“I wonder what’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever cooked”, it’s stupid he gets defensive this easily.
“Belgian chocolate mousse”, the Canarian’s irrationally happy to oblige, “We dipped strawberries in it among… Other things”, he leans back and Villa immediately attaches himself to his neck.
Iker gives them an unimpressed stare while Xavi and Fernando are chasing dust on the floor with their eyes.
“I just wish he wouldn’t fret so much”, he shakes his head in defeat, “Or admitted he does, I’m not picky. I mean, it’s hard to show your support when someone’s acting as if everything was fabulous, right?”, he’s blaming Silva for using the word ‘fabulous’.
That heartfelt confession earns him two sympathetic glances, one keen and one… Okay, Silva may not strictly be paying attention to him, not with all that panting and whimpering when Villa’s not letting him go.
“Maybe you should talk to him”, Fernando jumps at the occasion to do something else than unwilling voyeurism, “Like, really talk to him, not the usual bickering of yours.”
“Just be there for him”, Xavi normally sounds this way when he’s explaining why exactly a particular tactic would never work on the pitch, “Shoulder to shoulder. Or shoulder to… Elbow, or whatever.”
“Fuck him”, Villa gives Silva the respite to pipe in with his typically invaluable piece of advice.
“Oh, that’d work”, he quirks his lips down.
“Every single time”, Villa does something to Silva’s butt that sends the Canarian flying off his lap, “You are with him”, he inclines his head towards Xavi, “You talk to him”, a nod to Fernando.
“Unless you gag him, but I guess listening to one’s narration or commands can be equally hot”, Silva pipes in innocently like a person who, of course, doesn’t have the necessary experience.
“All in one”, Villa summarises after he’s waved him off.
“I think I’ll… Go now”, that’s not the kind of a flooring come-back Iker’s been working on but it’ll do for now.
He all but runs away, dodging a concerned-looking Fábio at the door.
...
He yearns for a day when he’ll be able to say that he comes back to an eerily tranquil house.
No in this life, it seems.
“You’re suing that fucking Rubio guy!”, Jordi’s breathing heavily with fury, looking ready to go and beat his neighbour up personally, or rather he would be, if the fact that he’s standing on a kitchen table wasn’t diminishing the charging bull effect.
“What has he… Done?”, he asks cautiously, peeking through a window towards Mr Rubio’s estate, half-expecting him to be prowling the lawn with a rifle.
“What he’s done?”, Jordi crosses his arms, “Rather what he hasn’t! You said he’d promised that he’d get rid of those damned cockroaches. I’ve just seen one taking cover under the cooker.”
“I doubt cockroaches have the brain capacity to ‘take cover’”, Iker dutifully crouches down to track their squatter.
“And do you have the brain capacity to find it?”, Jordi’s swinging his legs down but hesitates before they actually touch the floor, “Have you even talked to Rubio about it?”
“Look”, Iker runs a hand through his hair, “The guy’s just moved in.”
“And brought his friends from whatever shithole he used to live earlier-”
“I have broached the subject with him”, Iker finishes stoically.
“I didn’t ask you to ‘broach the subject’, I gave you a jar with a dead insect of his to take it back to him”, Jordi hasn’t unfolded his arms yet, “And a brochure of a deratization company.”
“He doesn’t have rats”, obviously Iker didn’t go with the jar to Rubio, he just buried in in the garden alongside the deratization leaflet.
“Yet”, Jordi huffs, “Can you see it?”, he squints his eyes in the direction of the cooker.
There’s a centimetre-high pitch-black space of nothing between the cooker and the floor. He doesn’t know what Jordi hopes he’s going to see here.
“Do you know that you have to multiply the number of visible cockroaches by seven to estimate how many of them are in the house?”, he muses aloud, trying not to crack up at Jordi’s twitching face.
“Do you know you have to multiply the number of minutes that you sit there doing nothing by seven to estimate how many nights you’re spending on the front porch?”
Iker wants to reply but the cockroach chooses that moment to make a mad dash from the cooker to the sitting room, surprising the hell out of him so he jumps up with a shriek, bashes against a sink and sends a pyramid of pots crashing to the floor.
When he calms down enough to look up, he sees Jordi rolling on the table, apparently having some serious breathing problems.
“Call the deratization guys”, he straightens his shirt with a sense of new-found purpose, “I’m going to Rubio.”
....