Tan se val d'on venim 2a
Title: Tan se val d'on venim
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Jordi Alba, David Villa/David Silva, Andrés Iniesta/Xavi Hernández (so far)
Characters: Iker Casillas, Jordi Alba, David Silva, David Villa, Sergio Ramos, Andrés Iniesta, Xavi Hernández
Rating: R
Summary: A response to a prompt on footballkink2: Iker Casillas transfers to Barcelona. No one said it's going to be easy.
Disclaimer: Lies. Big fat lies.
Tan se val d'on venim
Iker rolls his eyes expressively when he hears the other easily falling into step behind him as he walks to his car.
"Missed your bus?", he opens the Audi and Andrés makes a beeline to the passenger’s door without hesitation.
"Seems that me and Villa have misunderstood each other", Andrés explains, shrugging in apology as he gets in.
"Really?", Iker turns the engine on noting with dismay that there are some six photographers hanging around the gate of the parking lot, "Because I’ve just thought you stayed behind to make sure I don’t give them the slip", he more or less barks out, but it’s no news he can’t bring himself to be cross with Andrés.
"Or that", Andrés doesn’t sound one bit chastised as he chooses something on his mobile.
Iker seriously needs to re-evaluate his sentiments. How does he even manage to land in situations where such people are those he has to call ‘friends’?
He slows down the car slightly as they’re going past the journalists, presenting them with an opportunity to take any pictures they’d like to, wondering if Andrés’ presence now would raise any questions, given his previous absence at the conference. Probably not much, let’s cease the paranoia. He did say after all that he had some friends from the NT here that’d ease the process of acclimating…
"It was quite sweet when that girl made you sign on her chest and the pen kept slipping down to her tits", Andrés had already found the right photo on the Instagram.
Iker wishes he was a turtle at the sight of his valiant attempts of not getting completely humiliated that were captured by a camera. What was he saying about easing the acclimation?
...
"Hello", Xavi clasps a hand on his shoulder strongly and for a second, a sense of long-needed serenity washes over Iker.
It disappears as quickly as he remembers that Andrés has mentioned that Jordi was at their place… Unless, of course, he’s run away again when he’s heard about him coming-
"Hi", he hears a rare, quiet cadence of that voice. At least he’s here.
He turns around, ready to enquire - but not actually knowing what would be suitable and not seem like the words of a man drowning - when another too-well-known figure emerges from the living room.
"What are you doing here?", he demands in lieu of saying something that could be considered important.
"I’d never miss a chance to meet you, Captain of mine", Silva purrs but obviously decides against stalking to him when Villa follows him out of the room, "Other than that, we have a flight from Girona tomorrow", his tone changes to disinterested.
Iker’s hands ball into fists on their own and not even Jordi’s reproachful eyes can help him ignore the guy as he should. He honestly yearns to punch Silva every time he utters that ‘captain of mine’ phrase.
He suddenly realises that damn, Xavi’s going to be his captain and he whips his head to the Catalan, ridiculing himself as soon as he does it. Right, what did he expect, that Xavi has grown a uniform overnight?
"Talking about flights", Villa drawls out slowly, deliberately lengthening out the syllables to allow them to shift their attention accordingly, "You catching that evening one we found in the morning?", he subtly pushes a foot in front of Silva.
He automatically glances to the clock. Shit, to get to El Prat in time he needed to leave, like ten minutes ago.
"As long as you have a pyjama with you, we have a guest room", Xavi must have interpreted his expression correctly, judging by how smoothly he offers that.
"Don’t be such a fucking goody-goody chaperone", Silva snorts at him from his comfort zone behind Villa’s back just when Iker’s prepared to ask if him having or not having a pyjama is a decisive factor, "I bet he and Jordi over here can’t wait to get into their respective pants and have some good time at last", he climbs onto his toes and rests his chin on Villa’s shoulder, "Like other people here. Want to have good time… Many, many times, in several different positions-"
"I was just offering", Xavi cuts him out with an exasperated glare.
"I know a good hotel", Andrés pipes in, "In case you’re scared of rumpling Xavi’s meticulously arranged linens. I would be", he declares straight-faced, "After this tirade I heard after our last guests left I was seriously considering putting up a tent in the garden-"
"They spilt coffee all over the carpet", Xavi supplies quickly, clearly to avoid them thinking him an obsessive-compulsive.
Because, how could they.
"Or there’s always the option of camping in the airport", Villa reminds, absent-mindedly (or what Iker hopes is absent-mindedly), slipping a hand into the back of Silva’s ill-fitted jeans.
Not wanting to get scarred for life, he desperately searches for something to lock his eyes on.
Jordi’s watching their bickering with lightly irritated face, having crossed his arms and generally appearing to wish be everywhere but there.
He never loses a chance to ridicule something. Fuck, he must really detest the idea of staying in his company since he’s not participating and therefore prolonging the exchange of veiled insults…
"Okay, off we go", Silva declares without any preamble, starting towards the door and tugging Villa behind him.
Of course, the other doesn’t follow before he’s swept a calculating look over the rest of the temporary occupants of the hall.
Xavi and Andrés rush over to wish them a happy journey (Iker hasn’t quite caught where they’re going, hopefully far away, from where it’s difficult to arrange return tickets) and before he can see what’s happening, he and Jordi get crowded out of Hernández-Iniesta estate and find themselves awkwardly facing each other in front of the rented Audi.
...
"You don’t have to do that just because Silva tricked you into taking me", he doesn’t want to but feels somewhat morally obliged to point that out, giving how miserable and defeated Jordi looks slumped in the seat to his right.
He doesn’t ignore the pang it gives him to see him like that, and the enormous black hole in his heart that opens at the realisation that it’s him who causes Jordi such discomfort.
"Don’t be silly", Jordi huffs at once, in surprising strong voice, "Like I’d ever do anything because he thinks he’s being cunning", he bends forwards slightly, but soon falls back again. The effect on his declaration would have been more striking if it was him who had the power to start the car and drive off into the right direction.
"Your parents won’t mind?", he chooses his questions carefully. He’s scared that if he asks ‘are you sure?’ the answer may not be to his liking.
"Do they ever?", Jordi shakes his head, a shadow of smile lightening his face up, "Though they’re busy packing, they may not have the three-course dinner ready as usually…"
Iker chuckles at that, relieved at some distant level, because as much as he appreciates Mr Alba and Mrs Ramos’ hospitality, he’d rather those dinners lasted a tiny bit less time. Like, no more than three hours.
...
“Hopeless”, Silva sighs with a shit-eating grin, stretching as much as one can in a passenger’s seat, “Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless…”, he keeps on repeating as Villa starts up Andrés’ car.
“What?”, the other asks without much interest in his voice, dabbling with the radio. Andrés never leaves his CDs in the car because someone may steal it and obviously losing his collection would be a painful blow, “Casillas’ conference?”, he finally settles down for a station that’s making a review of the hits of the last decade.
Silva furrows his eyebrows:
“Well”, he’s back to his sing-songing, “I guess that too… You didn’t watch it?”, he bangs his knee on the glove compartment in his attempts to sit cross-legged.
“You did”, Villa shrugs easily, grinning in turn, “I was slightly over-Casillas’ed after the night…”
“You didn’t lose much”, Silva decides, untangling his legs when they’re stopping at the first lights, “Honestly, if Xavi and Alba weren’t there, I’d have fallen asleep…”, he pretends to yawn, eyes skipping to Villa discreetly to gauge his reaction.
The man rolls his eyes in turn, snorting.
“You threaten to fall asleep whenever you’re not the centre of attention”, he grumbles, shifting the gear, “No news-”
“Now I’m not even a bit sleepy”, Silva’s grin blooms to its full wicked potential as his hand boldly sneaks down to Villa’s zip, “I can’t wait to get on the plane… Imagine that little paradisiac island… All alone for two whole weeks…”, he purrs, freeing himself from the seatbelt with one practised move and sliding down the seat slowly. Just when his knees hit the mat, his tone suddenly changes to that of an excited child, “You know what I’m going to do all days?”
“It’s not a difficult question”, there are wrinkles around Villa’s eyes as he answers, not even glancing away from the road.
“Hey!”, Silva protests punching him on the thigh, “I meant I was going to do some snorkelling! Or scuba diving”, he claps his hands at the prospect, “Maybe I’ll finally get to teach you, eh?”, he pulls himself up, hovering over the gear stick.
If he had a tail, he would be probably wagging it.
“Forget about it, I’d rather live”, Villa turns to him and gives him a spectacularly flat glare.
“I know how to do mouth to mouth too”, the other assures, then continues without missing the beat, “As well as other mouth to various anatomy parts activities”, he’s back into his seducing mode, working his hand back into Villa’s jeans and sliding as far up to his crotch as he can while the man’s driving, “Talking about which-”
He whines when Villa’s fingers suddenly find themselves in his hair, pulling him away.
“You were talking about Casillas”, he reminds in a half-amused tone.
“Not really”, Silva presses his lips together, “I was actually talking about Alba…”, he massages his scalp as he’s let go, “Thinking that Casillas’ still not over Carbonero… Can I carry on or do you have some other existential issues that’re bothering you?”
Villa waits a moment.
“You always can, but try not to earn me a ticket.”
...
“Iker”, Mrs Ramos hugs him briefly as soon as he makes it past the doorstep, “Just the guy we’ve wanted to see!”
“Really?”, he looks awkwardly from her to her husband who’s trailing after her and to her son, who’s standing outside like a moron because his mother’s effectively blocking him the entrance.
“Yes, the biggest scandal of the decade”, Jordi’s father snickers, patting his on the shoulder and finally dragging him fully in, “I’m not surprised you’ve wanted to keep it secret-”
“But you still could’ve told us!”, his wife interrupts, sending him a chastising glare, “We’d have changed the departure date to help you with the moving!”
He’s hit with a sinking realisation when her glare intensifies before jumping to Jordi.
Oh fuck.
“María, let them be, they must want to do it their own way”, Mr Alba shakes his head with a find exasperation and the dread that overwhelms Iker literally chokes him.
The whole family’s staring at him while he goes into a coughing fit.
“You okay?”, Jordi’s father claps his back strongly, almost succeeding in making him lose his balance.
“Yeah”, he chokes out, “The AC during that conference was…”, he trails off with a sheepish expression.
Over Mr Alba’s shoulder he spots Jordi’s unamused face.
“Do you want something for your throat?”, Mrs Ramos’ already heading to get the medicine, “I’ve just packed the drops, I still remember where-”, she’s chuckling to herself.
“No, no, thanks, don’t trouble yourself”, he has a feeling Jordi will tear him to pieces if he let his mother unpack the suitcases only to cure his inexistent cold.
“I should have something in my room”, Jordi cuts in smoothly when she doesn’t seem convinced.
“You sure?”, she lingers until Mr Alba begins to laugh at her trying to cuddle Iker, “Just don’t give him anything too strong, like the last time you took that flu drink-”
“I had a fever!”, Jordi grows red as he protests and if Iker’s experience is to be listened to, it’s whispering that the flu alarm was nothing more than a sore throat.
“It’s too strong, you two hear me? Iker’ll feel too weak…”, she’s not easily deterred, just like her son.
“I’ll try not to let him knock me out”, he smiles at her fretting, then clears his throat when Jordi huffs with indignation.
“Go grab something to eat if you’re hungry, we need to get those into the car”, Mr Alba invites, nodding towards a heap of suitcases next to the door which Iker hasn’t even noticed in his state.
He needs air, now would be perfect, so he mumbles something about helping and grabs the first suitcase, not noticing that Mr Alba’s already holding it. The man’s not fast enough to let it go instantly and Iker tugs uselessly, grows frustrated that he can’t move a simple suitcase and yanks harder, just when Mr Alba lets go at last, so, because he hasn’t reached his quota of humiliation for a day, of course he flattens his nose out on the front door.
...
“Your parents can’t wait to have you out of the house”, Iker jokes, stepping into Jordi’s room while its owner’s keeping the door open for him, then makes a circle, like a dog preparing to lie down and in the end plops down onto the bed.
He’ll never admit it aloud, but Jordi’s room always gives off a bit claustrophobic vibe to him. It’s spacious, why wouldn’t it be, with a bathroom and a wide balcony only for him, but Iker’s used to having a whole house for himself. It doesn’t cease to produce that uncomfortable feeling whenever he sees Jordi’s bed, desk and coffee table all in practically one corner.
It’s a kid’s room, for Virgin’s sake.
“Where do you live, then?”, Jordi’s question stops this living conditions comparison. He’s standing with his back to the closed door with arms crossed over his chest in what appears to be a self-protective stance.
“That’s…”, Iker’s desperately wreaking his brain for a sensible way of presenting his general hopelessness, “Complicated”, he takes a deep breath to string something together.
“You don’t want to move from Madrid or don’t want the rest to know where you live?”, Jordi hardly poses it as a question, as if he’s expecting an affirmative to both.
“I… What?”, well, Iker lives to disappoint him.
“Villa was talking about planes to Madrid”, Jordi says in a ‘it’s so obvious’ tone, “And you don’t even have a hand luggage. So either you’ve been planning to return to Madrid immediately after the conference or you have a place of your own arranged here…”, he seems to be one way or another totally unconcerned, but the way he’s chasing dust on the ceiling with his eyes sends Iker’s alarm bells ringing.
“I was planning to catch a flight back, maybe”, he stands up, speaking very slowly and what he hopes is a convincing tone; he’s discarded the idea of declaring he’s been counting on staying here at once - as Villa’s said, it may not be the best conversation starter in their circumstances, “But then everything took a bit longer than expected-”, and Andrés packed himself into his car and willy-nilly, he had to take him home because the guy was there only because of him…
“I see”, Jordi stiffly walks up to the wardrobe and wrenches it open.
His t-shirt hits Iker in the face soon after, just when he’s close enough to reach out and embrace him from behind.
“You left it the last time”, Jordi sidesteps him easily as if he didn’t understand while Iker’s suddenly found himself behind his back.
“Thanks”, he mumbles, stretching the fabric between his hands. It’s his old Reebok shirt he’s never had the heart to throw out. It’s pretty soft for a sportswear.
Meanwhile, Jordi busies himself with tidying the room up. There’s nothing to tidy up there, not even a bed to make or an empty mug to take back to the kitchen because Jordi’s even more rectal when it comes to cleaning than Xavi. He never just leaves things on a place other than their own, he’s not like Iker at all, who doesn’t tend to disturb a thing he’s used before he has a further need of it, or before it starts to get difficult to move without tripping.
He watches Jordi stalk up to the balcony door. He opens it, then rolls the roller blind down, then up, then proceeds to look for the best angle under which the door should be left open and Iker’s had enough.
“Will you stop that?”, he discards the t-shirt, walks up to his little new-found obsessive-compulsive.
“Stop what?”, Jordi whirls to him, so furious that he must’ve been keeping it in for quite some time to have worked himself into that state.
Iker crowds him up against the balcony door, fully ready to catch him should he decide to bolt once more.
“That, that not looking at me thing!”, he waves with his hand to demonstrate the point; Jordi’s eyes follow the hand, but shy away from his face, “Look”, he takes a step back and evens out his tone, “I don’t have a place in Barcelona, true, but whatever you think it means, it’s probably not that”, he waits for Jordi to relax a little, or at least to stop grinding his teeth, “I didn’t want to look for it because it won’t stay secret, there’d have been titles like ‘Iker Casillas contacts the realtors in Barcelona’ in gossip papers throughout the whole country… And I didn’t want the news about my transfer to leak out, not before the official announcement.”
Jordi gives out a short, irritated or maybe unsure huff, it’s hard to tell with him.
“You come here every second week”, he reminds, sounding as if it cost him a lot to speak up, “They’re already talking…”
“Yeah, I know”, he winces. Indeed, there’s been a significant increase of articles, both printed and on the Internet, treating about his personal life ever since some tourist decided to take a photo of him on Barcelona’s beach. There’d been an uproar before, after he’d broken up with Sara - ‘The perfect romance’s over!’ - and then frustration when neither he nor she agreed to disclose the reason for which they were no longer an item. So, unsurprisingly, the gossip columns latched onto the photo, ascribing Iker a new love interest in Barcelona.
For once the fucking paparazzi were right.
“But imagine what would’ve happened if they’d caught the wind of me moving here before the transfer. They’d have assumed I’m renting a weekend hideout to house my rendezvous, they’d have been following my every step and what if I’d have led them to you?”, he reins in an instinct to shake Jordi.
“Right”, Jordi’s eyes widen momentarily, then he falls silent.
Iker would lie if he said he isn’t relieved. He’s been afraid that he wouldn’t make himself clear, that Jordi would accuse him of disregarding his wellbeing, but of course he’s surprised him once more. If the press had somehow found out about Jordi and then learnt about his transfer, the hatred of his ex-fans would have undoubtedly turned against the ‘Catalan’s queer’ that seduced their righteous captain and set him against the club. He could picture it all too well, unfortunately. Transferring from Real to Barça and coming out at the same time would be the worst move possible, it’d be too much for the madridistas to blame him and only him. They still keep asking about Sara, even though he repeats that they’ll never be together again.
He doesn’t add it’s because his heart’s taken and held tight. People would sniff and it’d kill him if Jordi blamed him.
“I’ll start looking for something first thing in the morning”, he smiles reassuringly, going bad towards the bed, “Now it won’t be that suspicious-”
“You planning to stay here?”, Jordi doesn’t move from his corner.
“If you let me…”, he lowers his head to hide his worry. He might have put Jordi through a roller-coaster of emotions, he has every right to suggest he booked a hotel.
No answer’s coming, so he has to look up, prepared for a curt ‘no’ but Jordi just arches an eyebrow at him and shakes his head with fond exasperation.
“I think I’ll just kick you out as soon as my parents are out”, he bounces on the bed, “They like a bit too much to do it with them here…”, he doesn’t oppose when Iker tackles him to his side, “Wait”, he suddenly pushes against his chest, “What about Doce and Mr Hedgehog?”
Iker tries to lie him down again.
“Don’t worry, Marcelo’s babysitting them”, because he’s the only friend that didn’t seem downright murderous at his sight, “Once he learnt Mr Hedgehog’s yours, he actually offered him his bed.”
Jordi pouts and opens his mouth, but Iker can’t wait any longer and kisses him.
...
Iker wakes up to a completely silent house and, which damps his mood more, to an empty spot on the bed on his right.
It’s cold when he runs his hand over the linens.
He gets up and, feeling at loss as to how to proceed, decides to go to the kitchen because even if Jordi’s not here, at least his parents are busying around. Halfway there he catches an unmistakable sound of a knife hitting a cutting board in short, practised rhythm he’s grown to identify with Mrs Ramos and a soft hum of a tuned down TV.
He lingers at the door, though, when it’s not her plump form hovering over the counter.
“Good morning”, he smiles cheerfully, quickly moving towards Jordi and noting with dismay that his reflection has an unnaturally flat fringe sticking to its forehead.
Then his reflection changes to a face of Bartomeu and he realises it’s the TV.
“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit here”, Jordi doesn’t turn, not even when he rests his chin on his shoulder, observing how he’s cutting a banana into perfect slices.
“You recorded that?”, he frowns at the screen with mild annoyance as his words ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity I’m being given’ reach his ears.
“No”, Jordi sounds incredulous and suspiciously like laughing, “They’ve just put it on again, in case there’s someone who missed that news of the century yesterday”, he puts the banana into a bowl with strawberries, then covers them with a thick yoghurt.
Iker grabs two spoons in quiet hope of getting some and Jordi just sighs irritated but snatches a smaller bowl for him nevertheless.
They sit down. Iker tugs closer a laptop that someone has left on the windowsill wanting to use it as a diversion before everyone’s here for breakfast.
He’s already logging in when a clank of utensils alerts him to the fact Jordi’s not waiting up.
“Where are your parents?”, he asks, glancing towards the kitchen entrance, “Not eating before the flight?”
If looks could actually kill, the walls would be splattered with his blood.
“They’ve already left”, Jordi informs frostily, biting hard on a strawberry, “While you were sleeping.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”, he’s honestly surprised, with that more than the number of tweets about him he’s encountered.
“Because you were sleeping”, well, that’s a thought-through answer, “They didn’t wish to bother you, especially not since you’re ill”, Jordi says without much intonation.
“Shit”, he’s fucking known this sick card was going to bite him on the ass, “You shouldn’t have waken me up anyway”, he mumbles, because it’s true, it’s not his damn fault that he doesn’t have an internal alarm clock to go off at seven a.m. sharp like some people here, his built-in alarm clock isn’t much of a morning person. It doesn’t ring until some more godly hour, like 11 a.m. and not even the years of morning practise have been able to change that.
So maybe he just doesn’t have much in terms of an internal clock, because one look at the taskbar confirms that it’s exactly 12:34.
“They don’t hold it against you”, Jordi mutters, making it strikingly clear that he, on the other hand, does.
He almost says something to that but in the end decides that some battles aren’t worth fighting. Instead, he focuses on what people tweeted about him in the last several hours.
Huh, Xavi has posted a true epic in a rather lofty and impersonal style befitting a captain. That it befits more a captain in an army than that of a sports team is another matter. Andrés, meanwhile, has opted for an entirely too witty note, probably to make up for all the things Xavi wanted to but didn’t say because they seemed inappropriate.
There are two short posts from Gerard and Cesc, both kept simple but kind and… That’s about the extent of Barcelona’s welcoming party.
He mentally goes through the NT list. It’s only nature to assume that they’d be the only ones interested in saying ‘hello’, he doesn’t even know the other guys, just their names and some more or less infuriating practises from the pitch.
He hasn’t been expecting anything from Rodríguez, hell, human decency probably requires that you should do your best to never find yourself in a company of a person you’ve personally locked in a bathroom again.
Okay, so he’s not so sure about the ‘personally’ part: what he recalls is a hotel, Rio de Janeiro, copious amounts of alcohol and Villa’s suggestion they’d play a prank on Rodríguez. A mature man would decline no matter how pissed, but the stupid Canarian couldn’t keep his hands off Jordi so of course he deemed it the most splendid idea he’d ever heard. To his defence, Villa was in fact the sober one there.
He’d also never seen Del Bosque quite that pissed, talking about pissed. He hadn’t even known the man could do ‘furious’. Because, yeah, he was smashed. Del Bosque only found him to accuse of Rodríguez misfortune as Villa had magically disappeared and got himself so entangled with Silva no one’d suspect they hadn’t been at it for the whole evening.
All in all, he’d gladly never meet Rodríguez again in his life. Or he’ll just dig himself up a nice hole when they meet.
“You didn’t post anything”, it slips out a tad bit too accusingly.
Jordi doesn’t look up from the bowl, pushing the fruits around.
“Maybe ‘cause I was too busy trying not to get the life crushed out of me as you kept rolling onto me the entire night?”, he snaps, then adds more quietly, as if subdued, “No one expected me to post anything about you.”
Right. They don’t even talk all that much publicly after all.
Silence descends and only the TV keeps the situation from being completely uncomfortable.
Suddenly, just when Iker’s managed to finally zone its droning out, Jordi snorts, pointing to the screen.
“Who’d have thought that’s the same man who accused us of bribing the referees mere months ago.”
Iker’s eyes fly to him, confused, until he catches the part when he’s saying how much he admires Barcelona’s class.
“I’ve never said you bribed them”, it was Sergio and Cristiano’s cup of tea as far as he recalls.
“You’ve never said you don’t believe we do either”, Jordi looks at him at last, all closed-up and on offensive.
“I couldn’t”, Iker actually laughs, convinced that Jordi’s going to join him at once, but the other carries on staring reproachfully, “Oh, come on, I was their teammate. I couldn’t put their words into doubt like that. It didn’t matter anyway, no one believed them”, he chuckles. Once he thinks about it, the whole thing was extremely childish and pointless. Even if Barça had indeed bribed the referees, they had no proof whatsoever. It was like walking around the pitch and haphazardly accusing guys of being gay. Unless you were Silva it was just talk.
“Can we please turn it off?”, he gets up to find a remote without waiting for a response, “Listening to myself kind of puts me on the wrong side of sane and healthy”, he switches himself off and just in time, there was this stubborn Catalan-phone coming up next, “They’re just words”, he says firmly, rolling his eyes, “I say what people want to hear, don’t think I’ve suddenly begun to idolise one particular playing style. Don’t read too much into what idiocies leave my mouth”, he smiles, bending over to kiss his Chipmunk.
At first Jordi escapes him, persistently glaring at his yoghurt, but in the end he yields, titling his head to the side and his lips up.
“Wanna help me look for a new place?”
...
Iker keeps a finger on the screen while he introduces the number of one Laura Cancelas who apparently is a very ‘trustworthy’ person. Which probably just means she asks for enough money not to feel a need to share her clients’ secrets with others.
"You know what I still don’t get", Jordi mutters from somewhere behind him so he gives out a non-committal grunt in reply, grimacing when he presses a wrong digit by mistake, "How come Andrés sent you the names of all those realtors", Jordi bumps into his back, consulting the computer, "Two weeks ago when technically, no one had a clue you’re moving out", he spits the last part out and when Iker finally looks at him, his eyes shine triumphantly.
"I asked him", he states slowly pretending not to have spotted the veiled accusation, "I guess he just figured out I wanted a place here to meet with you…", he smiles sheepishly, shrugging and doesn’t mention how he’s fucking sure Andrés has known about his plans all along, ever since he, in his poor mental state, deemed it sensible to confide in Villa about his transfer ideas.
"Ah", Jordi seems to want to add something more, but in the end he stays silent, staring onto the wall over Iker’s head.
...
"Hi", Laura Cancelas is the first one to offer her hand; her eyes sweep over Iker and settle on Jordi who’s loitering behind.
"Hello", so maybe his handshake’s a little too strong as he puts himself between the two of them, but Cancelas is too much of a professional to comment and Jordi’s too distracted to notice, "Which place are we starting with?", he’d rather they stuck to business.
"This one’s the closest", she gives him a thin folder, raising an eyebrow at him.
He bits down an urge to growl but then Jordi’s already walking past and to the car, enquiring about the directions and stuff Iker’d never think is important when you’re buying a house. It’s probably for his best that Jordi’s making his wishes clear now and won’t be bitching later how he didn’t get a say about their house.
"Am I taking that all into account?", Cancelas gently stops him from getting in.
"Yes", he hisses, daring her to fish for more details.
"Alright", she doesn’t smile; she doesn’t seem the type, "Don’t worry, I was conducting the sale of Mr Villa’s estate", she tosses her hair and disappears inside.
...
"It’s… It’s nice", he inspects the stone-bricks surrounding the fireplace, "It’s really really nice."
He can her Cancelas’ stilettoes clinking on the kitchen tiles and it takes him a moment to find Jordi in the terrace door.
"It’s huge", he says as he approaches him, and wraps his hands around himself.
"Yeah, it is", he can’t stop a huge grin from blooming on his face, "It even has a sauna. And four bedrooms…"
"What the hell do you need a private sauna for?", Jordi bristles and Iker remembers that indeed, he’s never seen him using a sauna. Before he can ask though, he gets thrown off by what leaves Jordi’s mouth next, "And four bedrooms? It’s not as if you’re ever getting any children", there’s so much venom and remorse in those words that he can’t breathe around them, only stare mutely at Jordi as they’ve only just met.
He remembers little Joan and his chubby fingers, and his smiling mother and his Barcelona sheep and wonders if that’s what Jordi wants, a happy wife and an adoring child, not an older man whose professional career has consisted of getting hit with a ball, who still doesn’t know how to speak with him in order not to scare him away, who can’t imagine a loving woman and a gurgling baby by his side - and who were almost his, his biggest dream and only goal - not since that day before the Confederation Cup when suddenly all his plans and hopes transformed into one firmest desire to scoop that ridiculously proud cheeky being up and spirit him away and never let anyone else hear his sharp tongue and taste his lips.
He doesn’t find his words back, not even when Jordi stalks away, spine stiff with emotions he can’t name.
...
"Well, and this one?", he leans on the wall of a comfortable condo near the Ramblas, bumping their shoulders together.
"Well", Jordi parrots pretending to be pondering the question, "At least it’s smaller. Won’t look like you’re compensating for something."
"That’s what a car is for."
"Yeah, and that’s why I don’t have one", Jordi wriggles his eyebrows and to hell with Cancelas, he needs to kiss him, now, in that bedroom without bed sheets.
"And here I was thinking they just failed you every time you sat behind the wheel", he mutters into Jordi’s neck, dragging him down onto a ridiculously wide bed.
Jordi huffs but in the end cracks up and chuckles, rolling to his side to make his some room beside him.
"They couldn’t recognise the genius behind my road trouble solutions", he grins when Iker covers him with his body, "I didn’t insist because, as I said, no reason for compensation…"
"Honestly? Are you sure?", Iker pulls himself up on his elbows, "I haven’t noticed-", he doesn’t duck in time and a hand smacks him on the head clumsily.
"Then check!", Jordi barks out, then realises what he’s said and blushes, trying to keep a straight face but it doesn’t work for long because Iker takes that suggestion very seriously.
...
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Jordi Alba, David Villa/David Silva, Andrés Iniesta/Xavi Hernández (so far)
Characters: Iker Casillas, Jordi Alba, David Silva, David Villa, Sergio Ramos, Andrés Iniesta, Xavi Hernández
Rating: R
Summary: A response to a prompt on footballkink2: Iker Casillas transfers to Barcelona. No one said it's going to be easy.
Disclaimer: Lies. Big fat lies.
Tan se val d'on venim
Iker rolls his eyes expressively when he hears the other easily falling into step behind him as he walks to his car.
"Missed your bus?", he opens the Audi and Andrés makes a beeline to the passenger’s door without hesitation.
"Seems that me and Villa have misunderstood each other", Andrés explains, shrugging in apology as he gets in.
"Really?", Iker turns the engine on noting with dismay that there are some six photographers hanging around the gate of the parking lot, "Because I’ve just thought you stayed behind to make sure I don’t give them the slip", he more or less barks out, but it’s no news he can’t bring himself to be cross with Andrés.
"Or that", Andrés doesn’t sound one bit chastised as he chooses something on his mobile.
Iker seriously needs to re-evaluate his sentiments. How does he even manage to land in situations where such people are those he has to call ‘friends’?
He slows down the car slightly as they’re going past the journalists, presenting them with an opportunity to take any pictures they’d like to, wondering if Andrés’ presence now would raise any questions, given his previous absence at the conference. Probably not much, let’s cease the paranoia. He did say after all that he had some friends from the NT here that’d ease the process of acclimating…
"It was quite sweet when that girl made you sign on her chest and the pen kept slipping down to her tits", Andrés had already found the right photo on the Instagram.
Iker wishes he was a turtle at the sight of his valiant attempts of not getting completely humiliated that were captured by a camera. What was he saying about easing the acclimation?
...
"Hello", Xavi clasps a hand on his shoulder strongly and for a second, a sense of long-needed serenity washes over Iker.
It disappears as quickly as he remembers that Andrés has mentioned that Jordi was at their place… Unless, of course, he’s run away again when he’s heard about him coming-
"Hi", he hears a rare, quiet cadence of that voice. At least he’s here.
He turns around, ready to enquire - but not actually knowing what would be suitable and not seem like the words of a man drowning - when another too-well-known figure emerges from the living room.
"What are you doing here?", he demands in lieu of saying something that could be considered important.
"I’d never miss a chance to meet you, Captain of mine", Silva purrs but obviously decides against stalking to him when Villa follows him out of the room, "Other than that, we have a flight from Girona tomorrow", his tone changes to disinterested.
Iker’s hands ball into fists on their own and not even Jordi’s reproachful eyes can help him ignore the guy as he should. He honestly yearns to punch Silva every time he utters that ‘captain of mine’ phrase.
He suddenly realises that damn, Xavi’s going to be his captain and he whips his head to the Catalan, ridiculing himself as soon as he does it. Right, what did he expect, that Xavi has grown a uniform overnight?
"Talking about flights", Villa drawls out slowly, deliberately lengthening out the syllables to allow them to shift their attention accordingly, "You catching that evening one we found in the morning?", he subtly pushes a foot in front of Silva.
He automatically glances to the clock. Shit, to get to El Prat in time he needed to leave, like ten minutes ago.
"As long as you have a pyjama with you, we have a guest room", Xavi must have interpreted his expression correctly, judging by how smoothly he offers that.
"Don’t be such a fucking goody-goody chaperone", Silva snorts at him from his comfort zone behind Villa’s back just when Iker’s prepared to ask if him having or not having a pyjama is a decisive factor, "I bet he and Jordi over here can’t wait to get into their respective pants and have some good time at last", he climbs onto his toes and rests his chin on Villa’s shoulder, "Like other people here. Want to have good time… Many, many times, in several different positions-"
"I was just offering", Xavi cuts him out with an exasperated glare.
"I know a good hotel", Andrés pipes in, "In case you’re scared of rumpling Xavi’s meticulously arranged linens. I would be", he declares straight-faced, "After this tirade I heard after our last guests left I was seriously considering putting up a tent in the garden-"
"They spilt coffee all over the carpet", Xavi supplies quickly, clearly to avoid them thinking him an obsessive-compulsive.
Because, how could they.
"Or there’s always the option of camping in the airport", Villa reminds, absent-mindedly (or what Iker hopes is absent-mindedly), slipping a hand into the back of Silva’s ill-fitted jeans.
Not wanting to get scarred for life, he desperately searches for something to lock his eyes on.
Jordi’s watching their bickering with lightly irritated face, having crossed his arms and generally appearing to wish be everywhere but there.
He never loses a chance to ridicule something. Fuck, he must really detest the idea of staying in his company since he’s not participating and therefore prolonging the exchange of veiled insults…
"Okay, off we go", Silva declares without any preamble, starting towards the door and tugging Villa behind him.
Of course, the other doesn’t follow before he’s swept a calculating look over the rest of the temporary occupants of the hall.
Xavi and Andrés rush over to wish them a happy journey (Iker hasn’t quite caught where they’re going, hopefully far away, from where it’s difficult to arrange return tickets) and before he can see what’s happening, he and Jordi get crowded out of Hernández-Iniesta estate and find themselves awkwardly facing each other in front of the rented Audi.
...
"You don’t have to do that just because Silva tricked you into taking me", he doesn’t want to but feels somewhat morally obliged to point that out, giving how miserable and defeated Jordi looks slumped in the seat to his right.
He doesn’t ignore the pang it gives him to see him like that, and the enormous black hole in his heart that opens at the realisation that it’s him who causes Jordi such discomfort.
"Don’t be silly", Jordi huffs at once, in surprising strong voice, "Like I’d ever do anything because he thinks he’s being cunning", he bends forwards slightly, but soon falls back again. The effect on his declaration would have been more striking if it was him who had the power to start the car and drive off into the right direction.
"Your parents won’t mind?", he chooses his questions carefully. He’s scared that if he asks ‘are you sure?’ the answer may not be to his liking.
"Do they ever?", Jordi shakes his head, a shadow of smile lightening his face up, "Though they’re busy packing, they may not have the three-course dinner ready as usually…"
Iker chuckles at that, relieved at some distant level, because as much as he appreciates Mr Alba and Mrs Ramos’ hospitality, he’d rather those dinners lasted a tiny bit less time. Like, no more than three hours.
...
“Hopeless”, Silva sighs with a shit-eating grin, stretching as much as one can in a passenger’s seat, “Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless…”, he keeps on repeating as Villa starts up Andrés’ car.
“What?”, the other asks without much interest in his voice, dabbling with the radio. Andrés never leaves his CDs in the car because someone may steal it and obviously losing his collection would be a painful blow, “Casillas’ conference?”, he finally settles down for a station that’s making a review of the hits of the last decade.
Silva furrows his eyebrows:
“Well”, he’s back to his sing-songing, “I guess that too… You didn’t watch it?”, he bangs his knee on the glove compartment in his attempts to sit cross-legged.
“You did”, Villa shrugs easily, grinning in turn, “I was slightly over-Casillas’ed after the night…”
“You didn’t lose much”, Silva decides, untangling his legs when they’re stopping at the first lights, “Honestly, if Xavi and Alba weren’t there, I’d have fallen asleep…”, he pretends to yawn, eyes skipping to Villa discreetly to gauge his reaction.
The man rolls his eyes in turn, snorting.
“You threaten to fall asleep whenever you’re not the centre of attention”, he grumbles, shifting the gear, “No news-”
“Now I’m not even a bit sleepy”, Silva’s grin blooms to its full wicked potential as his hand boldly sneaks down to Villa’s zip, “I can’t wait to get on the plane… Imagine that little paradisiac island… All alone for two whole weeks…”, he purrs, freeing himself from the seatbelt with one practised move and sliding down the seat slowly. Just when his knees hit the mat, his tone suddenly changes to that of an excited child, “You know what I’m going to do all days?”
“It’s not a difficult question”, there are wrinkles around Villa’s eyes as he answers, not even glancing away from the road.
“Hey!”, Silva protests punching him on the thigh, “I meant I was going to do some snorkelling! Or scuba diving”, he claps his hands at the prospect, “Maybe I’ll finally get to teach you, eh?”, he pulls himself up, hovering over the gear stick.
If he had a tail, he would be probably wagging it.
“Forget about it, I’d rather live”, Villa turns to him and gives him a spectacularly flat glare.
“I know how to do mouth to mouth too”, the other assures, then continues without missing the beat, “As well as other mouth to various anatomy parts activities”, he’s back into his seducing mode, working his hand back into Villa’s jeans and sliding as far up to his crotch as he can while the man’s driving, “Talking about which-”
He whines when Villa’s fingers suddenly find themselves in his hair, pulling him away.
“You were talking about Casillas”, he reminds in a half-amused tone.
“Not really”, Silva presses his lips together, “I was actually talking about Alba…”, he massages his scalp as he’s let go, “Thinking that Casillas’ still not over Carbonero… Can I carry on or do you have some other existential issues that’re bothering you?”
Villa waits a moment.
“You always can, but try not to earn me a ticket.”
...
“Iker”, Mrs Ramos hugs him briefly as soon as he makes it past the doorstep, “Just the guy we’ve wanted to see!”
“Really?”, he looks awkwardly from her to her husband who’s trailing after her and to her son, who’s standing outside like a moron because his mother’s effectively blocking him the entrance.
“Yes, the biggest scandal of the decade”, Jordi’s father snickers, patting his on the shoulder and finally dragging him fully in, “I’m not surprised you’ve wanted to keep it secret-”
“But you still could’ve told us!”, his wife interrupts, sending him a chastising glare, “We’d have changed the departure date to help you with the moving!”
He’s hit with a sinking realisation when her glare intensifies before jumping to Jordi.
Oh fuck.
“María, let them be, they must want to do it their own way”, Mr Alba shakes his head with a find exasperation and the dread that overwhelms Iker literally chokes him.
The whole family’s staring at him while he goes into a coughing fit.
“You okay?”, Jordi’s father claps his back strongly, almost succeeding in making him lose his balance.
“Yeah”, he chokes out, “The AC during that conference was…”, he trails off with a sheepish expression.
Over Mr Alba’s shoulder he spots Jordi’s unamused face.
“Do you want something for your throat?”, Mrs Ramos’ already heading to get the medicine, “I’ve just packed the drops, I still remember where-”, she’s chuckling to herself.
“No, no, thanks, don’t trouble yourself”, he has a feeling Jordi will tear him to pieces if he let his mother unpack the suitcases only to cure his inexistent cold.
“I should have something in my room”, Jordi cuts in smoothly when she doesn’t seem convinced.
“You sure?”, she lingers until Mr Alba begins to laugh at her trying to cuddle Iker, “Just don’t give him anything too strong, like the last time you took that flu drink-”
“I had a fever!”, Jordi grows red as he protests and if Iker’s experience is to be listened to, it’s whispering that the flu alarm was nothing more than a sore throat.
“It’s too strong, you two hear me? Iker’ll feel too weak…”, she’s not easily deterred, just like her son.
“I’ll try not to let him knock me out”, he smiles at her fretting, then clears his throat when Jordi huffs with indignation.
“Go grab something to eat if you’re hungry, we need to get those into the car”, Mr Alba invites, nodding towards a heap of suitcases next to the door which Iker hasn’t even noticed in his state.
He needs air, now would be perfect, so he mumbles something about helping and grabs the first suitcase, not noticing that Mr Alba’s already holding it. The man’s not fast enough to let it go instantly and Iker tugs uselessly, grows frustrated that he can’t move a simple suitcase and yanks harder, just when Mr Alba lets go at last, so, because he hasn’t reached his quota of humiliation for a day, of course he flattens his nose out on the front door.
...
“Your parents can’t wait to have you out of the house”, Iker jokes, stepping into Jordi’s room while its owner’s keeping the door open for him, then makes a circle, like a dog preparing to lie down and in the end plops down onto the bed.
He’ll never admit it aloud, but Jordi’s room always gives off a bit claustrophobic vibe to him. It’s spacious, why wouldn’t it be, with a bathroom and a wide balcony only for him, but Iker’s used to having a whole house for himself. It doesn’t cease to produce that uncomfortable feeling whenever he sees Jordi’s bed, desk and coffee table all in practically one corner.
It’s a kid’s room, for Virgin’s sake.
“Where do you live, then?”, Jordi’s question stops this living conditions comparison. He’s standing with his back to the closed door with arms crossed over his chest in what appears to be a self-protective stance.
“That’s…”, Iker’s desperately wreaking his brain for a sensible way of presenting his general hopelessness, “Complicated”, he takes a deep breath to string something together.
“You don’t want to move from Madrid or don’t want the rest to know where you live?”, Jordi hardly poses it as a question, as if he’s expecting an affirmative to both.
“I… What?”, well, Iker lives to disappoint him.
“Villa was talking about planes to Madrid”, Jordi says in a ‘it’s so obvious’ tone, “And you don’t even have a hand luggage. So either you’ve been planning to return to Madrid immediately after the conference or you have a place of your own arranged here…”, he seems to be one way or another totally unconcerned, but the way he’s chasing dust on the ceiling with his eyes sends Iker’s alarm bells ringing.
“I was planning to catch a flight back, maybe”, he stands up, speaking very slowly and what he hopes is a convincing tone; he’s discarded the idea of declaring he’s been counting on staying here at once - as Villa’s said, it may not be the best conversation starter in their circumstances, “But then everything took a bit longer than expected-”, and Andrés packed himself into his car and willy-nilly, he had to take him home because the guy was there only because of him…
“I see”, Jordi stiffly walks up to the wardrobe and wrenches it open.
His t-shirt hits Iker in the face soon after, just when he’s close enough to reach out and embrace him from behind.
“You left it the last time”, Jordi sidesteps him easily as if he didn’t understand while Iker’s suddenly found himself behind his back.
“Thanks”, he mumbles, stretching the fabric between his hands. It’s his old Reebok shirt he’s never had the heart to throw out. It’s pretty soft for a sportswear.
Meanwhile, Jordi busies himself with tidying the room up. There’s nothing to tidy up there, not even a bed to make or an empty mug to take back to the kitchen because Jordi’s even more rectal when it comes to cleaning than Xavi. He never just leaves things on a place other than their own, he’s not like Iker at all, who doesn’t tend to disturb a thing he’s used before he has a further need of it, or before it starts to get difficult to move without tripping.
He watches Jordi stalk up to the balcony door. He opens it, then rolls the roller blind down, then up, then proceeds to look for the best angle under which the door should be left open and Iker’s had enough.
“Will you stop that?”, he discards the t-shirt, walks up to his little new-found obsessive-compulsive.
“Stop what?”, Jordi whirls to him, so furious that he must’ve been keeping it in for quite some time to have worked himself into that state.
Iker crowds him up against the balcony door, fully ready to catch him should he decide to bolt once more.
“That, that not looking at me thing!”, he waves with his hand to demonstrate the point; Jordi’s eyes follow the hand, but shy away from his face, “Look”, he takes a step back and evens out his tone, “I don’t have a place in Barcelona, true, but whatever you think it means, it’s probably not that”, he waits for Jordi to relax a little, or at least to stop grinding his teeth, “I didn’t want to look for it because it won’t stay secret, there’d have been titles like ‘Iker Casillas contacts the realtors in Barcelona’ in gossip papers throughout the whole country… And I didn’t want the news about my transfer to leak out, not before the official announcement.”
Jordi gives out a short, irritated or maybe unsure huff, it’s hard to tell with him.
“You come here every second week”, he reminds, sounding as if it cost him a lot to speak up, “They’re already talking…”
“Yeah, I know”, he winces. Indeed, there’s been a significant increase of articles, both printed and on the Internet, treating about his personal life ever since some tourist decided to take a photo of him on Barcelona’s beach. There’d been an uproar before, after he’d broken up with Sara - ‘The perfect romance’s over!’ - and then frustration when neither he nor she agreed to disclose the reason for which they were no longer an item. So, unsurprisingly, the gossip columns latched onto the photo, ascribing Iker a new love interest in Barcelona.
For once the fucking paparazzi were right.
“But imagine what would’ve happened if they’d caught the wind of me moving here before the transfer. They’d have assumed I’m renting a weekend hideout to house my rendezvous, they’d have been following my every step and what if I’d have led them to you?”, he reins in an instinct to shake Jordi.
“Right”, Jordi’s eyes widen momentarily, then he falls silent.
Iker would lie if he said he isn’t relieved. He’s been afraid that he wouldn’t make himself clear, that Jordi would accuse him of disregarding his wellbeing, but of course he’s surprised him once more. If the press had somehow found out about Jordi and then learnt about his transfer, the hatred of his ex-fans would have undoubtedly turned against the ‘Catalan’s queer’ that seduced their righteous captain and set him against the club. He could picture it all too well, unfortunately. Transferring from Real to Barça and coming out at the same time would be the worst move possible, it’d be too much for the madridistas to blame him and only him. They still keep asking about Sara, even though he repeats that they’ll never be together again.
He doesn’t add it’s because his heart’s taken and held tight. People would sniff and it’d kill him if Jordi blamed him.
“I’ll start looking for something first thing in the morning”, he smiles reassuringly, going bad towards the bed, “Now it won’t be that suspicious-”
“You planning to stay here?”, Jordi doesn’t move from his corner.
“If you let me…”, he lowers his head to hide his worry. He might have put Jordi through a roller-coaster of emotions, he has every right to suggest he booked a hotel.
No answer’s coming, so he has to look up, prepared for a curt ‘no’ but Jordi just arches an eyebrow at him and shakes his head with fond exasperation.
“I think I’ll just kick you out as soon as my parents are out”, he bounces on the bed, “They like a bit too much to do it with them here…”, he doesn’t oppose when Iker tackles him to his side, “Wait”, he suddenly pushes against his chest, “What about Doce and Mr Hedgehog?”
Iker tries to lie him down again.
“Don’t worry, Marcelo’s babysitting them”, because he’s the only friend that didn’t seem downright murderous at his sight, “Once he learnt Mr Hedgehog’s yours, he actually offered him his bed.”
Jordi pouts and opens his mouth, but Iker can’t wait any longer and kisses him.
...
Iker wakes up to a completely silent house and, which damps his mood more, to an empty spot on the bed on his right.
It’s cold when he runs his hand over the linens.
He gets up and, feeling at loss as to how to proceed, decides to go to the kitchen because even if Jordi’s not here, at least his parents are busying around. Halfway there he catches an unmistakable sound of a knife hitting a cutting board in short, practised rhythm he’s grown to identify with Mrs Ramos and a soft hum of a tuned down TV.
He lingers at the door, though, when it’s not her plump form hovering over the counter.
“Good morning”, he smiles cheerfully, quickly moving towards Jordi and noting with dismay that his reflection has an unnaturally flat fringe sticking to its forehead.
Then his reflection changes to a face of Bartomeu and he realises it’s the TV.
“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit here”, Jordi doesn’t turn, not even when he rests his chin on his shoulder, observing how he’s cutting a banana into perfect slices.
“You recorded that?”, he frowns at the screen with mild annoyance as his words ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity I’m being given’ reach his ears.
“No”, Jordi sounds incredulous and suspiciously like laughing, “They’ve just put it on again, in case there’s someone who missed that news of the century yesterday”, he puts the banana into a bowl with strawberries, then covers them with a thick yoghurt.
Iker grabs two spoons in quiet hope of getting some and Jordi just sighs irritated but snatches a smaller bowl for him nevertheless.
They sit down. Iker tugs closer a laptop that someone has left on the windowsill wanting to use it as a diversion before everyone’s here for breakfast.
He’s already logging in when a clank of utensils alerts him to the fact Jordi’s not waiting up.
“Where are your parents?”, he asks, glancing towards the kitchen entrance, “Not eating before the flight?”
If looks could actually kill, the walls would be splattered with his blood.
“They’ve already left”, Jordi informs frostily, biting hard on a strawberry, “While you were sleeping.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”, he’s honestly surprised, with that more than the number of tweets about him he’s encountered.
“Because you were sleeping”, well, that’s a thought-through answer, “They didn’t wish to bother you, especially not since you’re ill”, Jordi says without much intonation.
“Shit”, he’s fucking known this sick card was going to bite him on the ass, “You shouldn’t have waken me up anyway”, he mumbles, because it’s true, it’s not his damn fault that he doesn’t have an internal alarm clock to go off at seven a.m. sharp like some people here, his built-in alarm clock isn’t much of a morning person. It doesn’t ring until some more godly hour, like 11 a.m. and not even the years of morning practise have been able to change that.
So maybe he just doesn’t have much in terms of an internal clock, because one look at the taskbar confirms that it’s exactly 12:34.
“They don’t hold it against you”, Jordi mutters, making it strikingly clear that he, on the other hand, does.
He almost says something to that but in the end decides that some battles aren’t worth fighting. Instead, he focuses on what people tweeted about him in the last several hours.
Huh, Xavi has posted a true epic in a rather lofty and impersonal style befitting a captain. That it befits more a captain in an army than that of a sports team is another matter. Andrés, meanwhile, has opted for an entirely too witty note, probably to make up for all the things Xavi wanted to but didn’t say because they seemed inappropriate.
There are two short posts from Gerard and Cesc, both kept simple but kind and… That’s about the extent of Barcelona’s welcoming party.
He mentally goes through the NT list. It’s only nature to assume that they’d be the only ones interested in saying ‘hello’, he doesn’t even know the other guys, just their names and some more or less infuriating practises from the pitch.
He hasn’t been expecting anything from Rodríguez, hell, human decency probably requires that you should do your best to never find yourself in a company of a person you’ve personally locked in a bathroom again.
Okay, so he’s not so sure about the ‘personally’ part: what he recalls is a hotel, Rio de Janeiro, copious amounts of alcohol and Villa’s suggestion they’d play a prank on Rodríguez. A mature man would decline no matter how pissed, but the stupid Canarian couldn’t keep his hands off Jordi so of course he deemed it the most splendid idea he’d ever heard. To his defence, Villa was in fact the sober one there.
He’d also never seen Del Bosque quite that pissed, talking about pissed. He hadn’t even known the man could do ‘furious’. Because, yeah, he was smashed. Del Bosque only found him to accuse of Rodríguez misfortune as Villa had magically disappeared and got himself so entangled with Silva no one’d suspect they hadn’t been at it for the whole evening.
All in all, he’d gladly never meet Rodríguez again in his life. Or he’ll just dig himself up a nice hole when they meet.
“You didn’t post anything”, it slips out a tad bit too accusingly.
Jordi doesn’t look up from the bowl, pushing the fruits around.
“Maybe ‘cause I was too busy trying not to get the life crushed out of me as you kept rolling onto me the entire night?”, he snaps, then adds more quietly, as if subdued, “No one expected me to post anything about you.”
Right. They don’t even talk all that much publicly after all.
Silence descends and only the TV keeps the situation from being completely uncomfortable.
Suddenly, just when Iker’s managed to finally zone its droning out, Jordi snorts, pointing to the screen.
“Who’d have thought that’s the same man who accused us of bribing the referees mere months ago.”
Iker’s eyes fly to him, confused, until he catches the part when he’s saying how much he admires Barcelona’s class.
“I’ve never said you bribed them”, it was Sergio and Cristiano’s cup of tea as far as he recalls.
“You’ve never said you don’t believe we do either”, Jordi looks at him at last, all closed-up and on offensive.
“I couldn’t”, Iker actually laughs, convinced that Jordi’s going to join him at once, but the other carries on staring reproachfully, “Oh, come on, I was their teammate. I couldn’t put their words into doubt like that. It didn’t matter anyway, no one believed them”, he chuckles. Once he thinks about it, the whole thing was extremely childish and pointless. Even if Barça had indeed bribed the referees, they had no proof whatsoever. It was like walking around the pitch and haphazardly accusing guys of being gay. Unless you were Silva it was just talk.
“Can we please turn it off?”, he gets up to find a remote without waiting for a response, “Listening to myself kind of puts me on the wrong side of sane and healthy”, he switches himself off and just in time, there was this stubborn Catalan-phone coming up next, “They’re just words”, he says firmly, rolling his eyes, “I say what people want to hear, don’t think I’ve suddenly begun to idolise one particular playing style. Don’t read too much into what idiocies leave my mouth”, he smiles, bending over to kiss his Chipmunk.
At first Jordi escapes him, persistently glaring at his yoghurt, but in the end he yields, titling his head to the side and his lips up.
“Wanna help me look for a new place?”
...
Iker keeps a finger on the screen while he introduces the number of one Laura Cancelas who apparently is a very ‘trustworthy’ person. Which probably just means she asks for enough money not to feel a need to share her clients’ secrets with others.
"You know what I still don’t get", Jordi mutters from somewhere behind him so he gives out a non-committal grunt in reply, grimacing when he presses a wrong digit by mistake, "How come Andrés sent you the names of all those realtors", Jordi bumps into his back, consulting the computer, "Two weeks ago when technically, no one had a clue you’re moving out", he spits the last part out and when Iker finally looks at him, his eyes shine triumphantly.
"I asked him", he states slowly pretending not to have spotted the veiled accusation, "I guess he just figured out I wanted a place here to meet with you…", he smiles sheepishly, shrugging and doesn’t mention how he’s fucking sure Andrés has known about his plans all along, ever since he, in his poor mental state, deemed it sensible to confide in Villa about his transfer ideas.
"Ah", Jordi seems to want to add something more, but in the end he stays silent, staring onto the wall over Iker’s head.
...
"Hi", Laura Cancelas is the first one to offer her hand; her eyes sweep over Iker and settle on Jordi who’s loitering behind.
"Hello", so maybe his handshake’s a little too strong as he puts himself between the two of them, but Cancelas is too much of a professional to comment and Jordi’s too distracted to notice, "Which place are we starting with?", he’d rather they stuck to business.
"This one’s the closest", she gives him a thin folder, raising an eyebrow at him.
He bits down an urge to growl but then Jordi’s already walking past and to the car, enquiring about the directions and stuff Iker’d never think is important when you’re buying a house. It’s probably for his best that Jordi’s making his wishes clear now and won’t be bitching later how he didn’t get a say about their house.
"Am I taking that all into account?", Cancelas gently stops him from getting in.
"Yes", he hisses, daring her to fish for more details.
"Alright", she doesn’t smile; she doesn’t seem the type, "Don’t worry, I was conducting the sale of Mr Villa’s estate", she tosses her hair and disappears inside.
...
"It’s… It’s nice", he inspects the stone-bricks surrounding the fireplace, "It’s really really nice."
He can her Cancelas’ stilettoes clinking on the kitchen tiles and it takes him a moment to find Jordi in the terrace door.
"It’s huge", he says as he approaches him, and wraps his hands around himself.
"Yeah, it is", he can’t stop a huge grin from blooming on his face, "It even has a sauna. And four bedrooms…"
"What the hell do you need a private sauna for?", Jordi bristles and Iker remembers that indeed, he’s never seen him using a sauna. Before he can ask though, he gets thrown off by what leaves Jordi’s mouth next, "And four bedrooms? It’s not as if you’re ever getting any children", there’s so much venom and remorse in those words that he can’t breathe around them, only stare mutely at Jordi as they’ve only just met.
He remembers little Joan and his chubby fingers, and his smiling mother and his Barcelona sheep and wonders if that’s what Jordi wants, a happy wife and an adoring child, not an older man whose professional career has consisted of getting hit with a ball, who still doesn’t know how to speak with him in order not to scare him away, who can’t imagine a loving woman and a gurgling baby by his side - and who were almost his, his biggest dream and only goal - not since that day before the Confederation Cup when suddenly all his plans and hopes transformed into one firmest desire to scoop that ridiculously proud cheeky being up and spirit him away and never let anyone else hear his sharp tongue and taste his lips.
He doesn’t find his words back, not even when Jordi stalks away, spine stiff with emotions he can’t name.
...
"Well, and this one?", he leans on the wall of a comfortable condo near the Ramblas, bumping their shoulders together.
"Well", Jordi parrots pretending to be pondering the question, "At least it’s smaller. Won’t look like you’re compensating for something."
"That’s what a car is for."
"Yeah, and that’s why I don’t have one", Jordi wriggles his eyebrows and to hell with Cancelas, he needs to kiss him, now, in that bedroom without bed sheets.
"And here I was thinking they just failed you every time you sat behind the wheel", he mutters into Jordi’s neck, dragging him down onto a ridiculously wide bed.
Jordi huffs but in the end cracks up and chuckles, rolling to his side to make his some room beside him.
"They couldn’t recognise the genius behind my road trouble solutions", he grins when Iker covers him with his body, "I didn’t insist because, as I said, no reason for compensation…"
"Honestly? Are you sure?", Iker pulls himself up on his elbows, "I haven’t noticed-", he doesn’t duck in time and a hand smacks him on the head clumsily.
"Then check!", Jordi barks out, then realises what he’s said and blushes, trying to keep a straight face but it doesn’t work for long because Iker takes that suggestion very seriously.
...