(no subject)
title: yet to come
pairing: david villa/xavi
rating: r
words: ~10900
summary: "He’s in Valencia two days before he calls Xavi."
notes: thanks to cule4life for the feedback!
More often than he’d like, David dreams of time.
Once, he’s clinging to the hand of a clock, just waiting until it strikes twelve and he slips off into oblivion. A few times he’s trapped in an hour glass, sand pouring over his head, pooling around his legs and climbing higher and higher.
Stretched across the face of a watch; his heartbeat replaced with ticking; watching minutes slip through his fingers; David dreams of time. Wakes up with aching limbs and sore muscles and curses to himself.
For awhile, at the end of that first season, when it becomes clear that they’re going to do it, they’re going to win it all and David’s getting his league trophy and his Champions trophy and he’ll have them all, everything, just exactly what he’d come to Barcelona for, the dreams stop.
After those weeks with the Clasicos, when the days seemed to crawl along, never-ending, the sprint to the end is a breath of fresh air. Suddenly David’s watching his curling long-range shot beat van der Sar into the back of the net and all he can do is scream and scream because it’s over and they did it and he did it; he runs to the touchline, Xavi is there, hands in his hair, pulling hard, too hard, and they’re yelling in each other’s faces and none of it even makes sense, but it doesn’t matter because they’re going to be the Champions of Europe and Xavi’s heavy on top of him and David can’t stop looking at him, because it’s Xavi and it’s his best friend, and more than that, it’s Barcelona, and it’s like sometimes he doesn’t know where Barcelona ends and Xavi begins.
It doesn’t matter. He holds on.
After that it’s a whirlwind; they’re sticky with champagne, confetti plastered to their skin; they’re on a plane and there’s cake and singing and David’s face hurts from smiling; they’re on another bus, winding around Barcelona just like the week before and still there are so many people, David can’t believe they all care to come out and see them again but here they are.
Xavi’s warm and solid next to him, a sweating beer can in his fist and a quiet smile on his face, looking out over the crowd that’s yelling his name, looking up at him in adoration.
“I can’t believe they all came out again,” David says, just to say something, just to get Xavi’s attention.
Xavi doesn’t look over, keeps his eyes on the crowd as theirs are on him. “Of course they did,” he says, almost reproachful. “They always come.”
David looks out over them, a sea of blaugrana, knows he’ll never get it like Xavi does but who could? He lifts an arm and though his voice is raw he sings again, “Campeones, campeones!” He can feel Xavi’s smile as he leans in, slings an arm around David’s shoulder and joins in, skin hot but comfortable, familiar, and they glide over another crowd.
And then it’s over.
He goes to Madrid to meet up with the national team and it’s so quiet there, of course it is, he understands why, but it still makes it hard for him to focus, hard to concentrate.
He plays parchis with Busquets and Pedro and Gerard on the plane but it’s not the same, they don’t talk about anything even though he wants to, but he doesn’t want to drag up issues, doesn’t want to make things awkward. And even though there’s a lot of them of them there, a lot of his Barcelona teammates, it’s strange not to see all of them; even Xavi didn’t come, stayed home to rest and David can’t remember the last time he didn’t sit next to Xavi on a plane, didn’t eat lunch with him, spend the evening in Xavi’s room watching games or playing FIFA or chatting about nothing.
It’s just-quiet, and David tries to remember how to adjust.
It’s hot in Boston and he only plays 45 minutes, sits on the bench sweating while he watches his teammates trounce the other side. He’s barely paying attention, mind elsewhere.
He’s tired after, too tired for one game, half of one game, but it’s been a long season and he just wants to get back to Spain, just wants to rest. He turns the air conditioner in his room on high, shucks his shirt and falls back into the bed, eyes closing, but he can’t unwind, can’t relax.
His phone rings. It’s late and he knows anyone back in Spain is asleep so he ignores it at first, but it rings again and again and he hauls himself out of bed against the protests of his weary limbs.
“Guaje.” The voice is low, thick like syrup and David’s been drinking with him enough in the past few weeks to know he’s not sober. David falls back on his bed, relaxes.
“Xavi, how are you still awake?” he asks, glancing at his hotel room clock. “What time is it there?”
Xavi mutters something; David can hear the clink of a bottle against a tabletop. “I don’t know, Guaje, four or five? What’s it to you?”
David laughs. He likes it when Xavi’s like this, sharp and funny. “Just wondering why you’re still up, old man, that’s all.”
Xavi grumbles but then laughs, gravelly and deep, and David can’t stop smiling, his eyes drifting shut with long-awaited relaxation. “Watched the game,” Xavi says, and David hears the swish of liquid, pictures Xavi at home, head back, eyes closed, bottle against his lips, cheeks reddened with liquor.
“Get a life,” David jokes, and then, “Where are you?” He needs to know, couldn’t explain why.
“Costa Bravaaaa,” Xavi drawls, dragging the words out. “It’s nice, but,” he says and then silence. David wonders if he’s fallen asleep.
“Xavi?” he prompts quietly.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “I mean, it’s nice, but it’s kind of… boring.”
David laughs again. “Only you would finally get a vacation and then complain of being bored.”
There’s a noise in the background of the call and David’s smile fades quickly; he wonders, suddenly, if maybe Xavi isn’t alone.
“Is someone there?” he asks, and drums his fingers along his clenched stomach.
Xavi’s quiet for a long moment. “The TV, Guaje,” he says finally, and he sounds amused, a laugh held back.
“Oh,” David says. He racks his brain for a way to change the subject. He thinks, idly, of saying I miss you, curious how Xavi would react, but also just because it’s true; for the first time since he left Barcelona he feels calm, like himself.
It’s too much though; instead he says, “It’s weird without you here,” and still half expects Xavi to laugh, to hear that teasing note in his voice again.
But it’s quiet a beat too long for that, and Xavi’s voice is even lower when he says, “Yeah, Guaje, I know what you mean.”
When they hang up, David falls asleep quickly; dreams of building a sundial in a desert.
He steps off the plane in Madrid, turns his face up to the sky. It’s hot, scorching really, but they’re done and he’s finally on vacation so it doesn’t bother him. He can’t help it, when he’s here, can’t help thinking of stepping off a plane in Madrid last summer, dizzy with exhaustion and champagne, sweaty, tired, and so achingly happy he still feels it in his bones sometimes. He looks over at Pepe, who flashes him a distant smile, eyes faraway like a year back but in the same place.
He looks to his other side but no one’s there.
He’s in Valencia two days before he calls Xavi.
“Yeeees?” Xavi drawls, like he’s been waiting for the call.
“Fuck you, yes,” David laughs, relaxing back once again. He’s already sunburned, skin tight and hot across his bones; realizes briefly he doesn’t even know what time it is day, what day of the week, already lost in a summer haze. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Cooking,” Xavi says, and then David can hear it in the background, the hiss of a stove, the hum of a radio; it sounds like summer and David thinks, if I was there-but doesn’t go further.
“Hmm,” David says, letting his eyes fall shut against the sun through his windows. “Cooking what?”
“Pa amb tomaquet,” Xavi says briskly. “Pebrots farcits.”
David smiles at his clipped Catalan. “Okay, I know the first one,” he says, lazily stretching his arms above his head, phone tucked between a sunburned shoulder and his ear. “The second… peppers? With what?”
“Stuffed peppers,” Xavi says. David can hear the smile in his voice. “We have to get you out more next year, more Catalan food.”
David breathes in, still likes the sound of it, next year, said so easily; he can still remember when the words were “if you come,” “if we’re called up,” “maybe I’ll see you,” when he never knew where he would be, when he only saw Xavi now and then, and it feels like a lifetime ago that they weren’t this close, didn’t talk to each other so often.
He doesn’t say any of that; he says, “Why go out when I have my very own Catalan chef on the other end of the line?” Xavi laughs, loud and rich, and David opens his eyes, squints into the sun outside his window and listens to Xavi humming and cooking, lets it fill up the silence and the space in his chest.
He goes to Tuilla to get an award, he doesn’t even know what it’s for but he’s grateful for it, grateful to make his hometown proud. They speak of his accomplishments and he sits behind them, cheeks burning, but he’s proud. Listening, though, he thinks they make it sound so easy, and it wasn’t, it was anything but.
He wishes he could explain, but who would understand? The months and years he didn’t think it would happen, after the deal fell through the first time and Ibrahimovic went to Barcelona instead of him. The phone calls from Pep, assuring him it would still happen, and a season where he felt like he could crawl out of skin, anxiety in his veins.
Xavi had never been worried, eyes clear and confident. “You’re coming,” he’d said, like a fact, a final word. And that was the only thing that had eased his doubt, even if only for a minute, because Xavi wouldn’t sound like that if he wasn’t sure.
He’d remember it later, after he was already a Barca player, other times he’d heard that voice from Xavi. After the Switzerland game, when they didn’t know what went wrong. “Nothing,” Xavi had said. “Nothing went wrong. We played our game and we’re going to win.”
And again, later that year, after Hercules when the dressing room was more silent than David had heard since Valencia and he was starting to wonder if his dream move, his dream season, was going to be more complicated than he imagined. And Xavi had looked up, eyes glazed, worrying David even more, but then he’d cleared, focused, met David’s gaze steadily. “One game,” he’d said. “And now no more.” That was all but it was enough; he’d never let down David down before and David didn’t expect he would start now.
There was only one time he could remember that the roles were reversed; even now he doesn’t know if he imagined it, maybe he’d overreacted, made the whole thing up. Either way he was glad he’d been there; after the Ballon D’Or ceremony he’d sought Xavi out, found him in the lobby chatting with FIFA officials, and even from far away David could tell his face, his smile, was strained. He’d pulled him away from the crowd.
Xavi had leaned into him, tired. “This is exhausting,” he’d said.
They’d been standing close, so no one else could hear. “I’m sorry you didn’t win,” David had told him, earnest. He’d shrugged it off like it was nothing.
“Wasn’t expecting to,” he’d said, casual. And David couldn’t see it, strain in the words, or disappointment, but still. He’d held tightly onto Xavi’s wrist, kept them both steady.
“Well, I wasn’t even nominated, so,” he’d joked, and Xavi had laughed but David knew it was forced.
“I just want to get back to Barcelona,” he’d said, and for once, maybe the first time, he’d looked his age to David, older and tired.
“Okay,” David had said. “Let’s go.” And Xavi had leaned on him, in the lobby, on the plane, David stayed by him, until they were back in Barcelona.
He snaps back to attention, back to the present where the audience is applauding him. He stands up to take the award, thanks his family and his hometown and his teammates. Thinks of one in particular.
He’s still in Tuilla. It’s only been a few weeks but he’s restless, thrumming with energy. He’s so bored he watches a replay of a Copa America game with Xavi over the phone.
Xavi’s stopped mumbling about tactics awhile ago and now they’re watching mostly in silence. “Poor Leo,” David mutters; even through the TV screen they can hear the crowd booing him.
“He’s fine,” Xavi says, clipped but not harsh. “He’ll be fine.” David knows he’s right but it’s still hard to watch, his closed off face, eyes narrowed; David still doesn’t feel like he knows Leo that well, he’s a hard person to understand, but he’s never seen that look on his face before and it’s disconcerting.
“Remember what we were going through at his age,” Xavi says. “He still has time. He’s very young.”
“Yeah,” David says, “I guess we didn’t start winning until you were close to fifty or so,” joking but distracted. He’s thinking of that time, what it was like when he first came to the team, what they were like; eternal failures, wondering if they’d ever be able to lift themselves out of the hole.
And Xavi, it’s hard to remember now but he looked so different, not physically but in his eyes; now when David looks at him he sees something concrete, the quiet confidence that comes with winning, with the vindication of a style, but then-then he’d looked almost as much a kid as David had felt, wide eyes, frustrated, not knowing what was ahead of them.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Xavi’s saying.
“Okay,” David says. “Hey, Xavi, tell him-“ He’s thinking of quiet locker rooms, of the heaviness of defeat, of the years it took him to reach where he is now, how it felt like it would always be that way and how great it felt when it wasn’t-but Xavi knows Leo. Knows what to say. “Tell him I said hi,” he finishes, and leaves the rest to Xavi.
Sometimes he tries to remember what it was like, before every game was life or death, every competition his to be won. When Leo was just Messi, a pain in his ass, when Xavi was just a friend at call-ups and a rival all the other times. It comes back sometimes, during games, when they’re struggling and he feels that old pressure to single-handedly bring the game back into reach, until he looks up, sees Leo, sees Pedro. Sees Xavi. Hears Pep in his ear from the touchline and breathes.
He goes to Ibiza and it’s hot, crowded; sometimes he wonders why they even bother, there must be nicer beaches, empty beaches, beaches where no photographers spend their days taking pictures taking pictures of him just trying to spend time with his family.
He drinks, eats good food, swims, gets sunburned; feels dizzy and far away, not like himself. Leaves his phone at home and only checks it late at night before bed, tries not to think of Barcelona, tries to give his head a break. Sleeps, sleeps, sleeps all the time and never really feels awake.
“Well, you’ve really done it now.”
“What?” Xavi sounds breathless on top of his confusion, and David lets his mind wander a beat too long.
“Are you working out?” he asks, picking at the bowl of fruit in his lap.
“Treadmill,” Xavi confirms. The sounds muffles and David pictures him dragging a towel across his face, shiny with sweat.
“Why are you answering your phone then?” David asks, rolling his eyes even though he’s happy Xavi did answer.
“Because it was you,” the answer comes, so nonchalant David almost doesn’t register it; freezes when he does, a heavy silence.
“So what did I do?” Xavi asks a moment later, sounding unaffected by David’s silence. And that’s so Xavi, always saying things without thinking, without considering how they can be taken, not noticing or caring about the effect.
“Hm?” David asks, distracted. He pops a slice of watermelon in his mouth and it’s delicious, juicy and ripe. “Oh. ‘Cesc is suffering?’ You’ve got Wenger on your bad side now.”
Xavi makes a noise of disinterest; David can hear his feet slapping against the treadmill. “Cesc is my friend; I said how he is.”
“Yeah, well,” David says, rolling a berry around between his fingertips and glaring out at the sun setting behind a building. “They sure don’t like you in England.”
“Should I care what England thinks of me?” He sounds bemused, but David supposes he has a point; why should Xavi care what the English press says about him? He’s still Xavi.
“Do you care what I think of you?” He barely thinks about it before it’s out and then freezes again; hopes against hope for a laugh from Xavi, a way to brush it off. At the same time, he thinks, do you?
It’s silent for too long. Even Xavi’s footsteps in the background slow and stop, and David waits, feels like he’s on the edge of something, toeing a starting line he’s not sure he’s prepared for. But he’s there and the words are out, so. He huffs out a breath, lets Xavi know he’s still there, waiting.
“More than the English press?” Xavi asks, the slight laugh in his voice almost masking the question there, a different question than the one he’d asked. Part of David wants to say, be serious, take me seriously, but he has too much time to think and so he takes the out Xavi offers him.
“Stupid question,” he says lightly, “I know you don’t care about anyone’s opinion more than mine,” and he wonders if his own laughter sounds as forced as Xavi’s.
That night David dreams he’s tied down and can’t move; when he twists to look, he sees his restraints are watches, hundreds of them looped together, holding him in an endless web, and as much as he struggles he can’t escape, until he wakes up sweating.
“So Man City, huh?”
David leans back against a wall outside the restaurant where he’s having dinner. He knows it’s rude to step out to take a call, but he couldn’t help remembering that last conversation with Xavi, “Because it was you,” couldn’t bring himself to hit ignore.
He laughs. “Man City what?”
“I heard they’re interested ,” he says, voice low but teasing, David thinks. Isn’t sure. Down the street two girls fall out of a doorway, laughing loudly, high heels clacking against the stone street. He rubs his forehead, feeling warm; thinks maybe he had too much to drink.
“Who aren’t they interested in?” he points out. The girls clatter closer to him, laughter high and heated, dresses sparkling in the street lamps. And then, louder, “But sure. I hear Manchester’s nice.” Teasing, too.
It’s strangely silent on Xavi’s end, but Villa likes it, a stark contrast to the noisy restaurant behind him. A couple turns the corner, winds down the street toward him, faces turned toward each other but if they’re speaking he can’t hear it. He closes his eyes against them, suddenly feels dizzy with wine.
“Nice, huh?” Xavi says after a long silent minute. David knows he needs to get back inside and soon, but. He likes this. Talking to Xavi.
“Sure,” he says easily. “Good team. Young. And I kind of like the rain.”
“Really,” Xavi says, and David’s not sure-not sure, but he doesn’t sound that amused anymore. His words aren’t light. “So how much would it take, then?”
“How much would what take?” he asks, suddenly losing track of the conversation.
Xavi’s voice is sharp, precise in his ear, just like the man himself. “To go,” he says. “Man City. Sixty thousand a week?”
David feels like he’s chasing after Xavi but not quite keeping up. “I was joking, Xavi,” he says, and he thought it was obvious. It’s humid and it presses down on him, stifling.
“Everyone has a price, right?” Xavi asks, not sounding like a question, and David can’t find a ledge to hang onto. “Just wondering what yours is.”
“Xavi, I don’t-“ he grasps, closing his eyes and feeling the brick wall behind him scrape against his neck. “I don’t need money, Xavi.“
“Everyone has a price,” he says again, like that means something, and David tugs at his collar, trying to loosen it, get some air. “You didn’t come to Barcelona at all this summer,” he goes on, casual, like it’s a new thought but David knows somehow that it isn’t.
“I’m there all season,” he says testily, because it feels like being reprimanded and he’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything to deserve it. “I have family, friends to see. Barcelona isn’t-“
“Isn’t your home,” Xavi finishes for him, softly, all the edges smoothed from his voice.
“Isn’t my only home,” David corrects half-heartedly.
“Yeah.” Xavi’s agreeing with him but it doesn’t feel like a victory, and David doesn’t know how they got here, how he got here.
“I don’t understand-“ he starts, tongue too heavy for his mouth, and he wishes he’d skipped that last glass of wine, those last three, so he could be clear, so maybe he would understand. “Gerard was gone all summer, are you mad at him? Dani and Leo? Abi?”
“They’re different,” Xavi says, unyielding. “They’re not you.”
David huffs out a breath, certain suddenly that this a conversation he has no part in, a battle he never had a chance to win. “Lucky them,” he says. “You’re being--” he starts, but he doesn’t know exactly what Xavi’s being, or why. “You’re being irrational,” he says finally, and he’s stumbling over his words, his voice too loud, but there’s no one around to hear him, just a sheet flapping on a balcony above him.
It’s quiet for a long time, until Xavi says, “Yeah,” and then, “Sorry.”
David just grunts.
“I have to go,” Xavi says, and he hangs up without waiting.
He doesn’t talk to Xavi again before he’s headed back to Barcelona, and even though at times it had seemed the summer dragged out so long, now it feels like he’s barely been gone. The city feels the same, smells the same, and he finds he’s missed it.
He waits for Xavi in the locker room their first day back but he doesn’t come and he doesn’t come. David looks to Andres, asks if he knows where Xavi is.
“Recovery work with the physios,” Andres says, barely containing a yawn. “Him and Puyi.”
David tries not to look disappointed. Instead he looks at his friend, who he hasn’t seen in weeks, and he looks so tired. “How’s Valeria, then?” he asks gently; Andres eyes are falling shut as he sits on the bench.
“She has a cough,” he answers, straightening up and bending to tie his laces. “Nothing serious but I still-I wake up every time she makes a noise,” he says, shaking his head at himself.
David smiles fondly because Andres looks so happy behind his exhaustion, and if David didn’t know he deserved every good thing he might be jealous. “I’m a good babysitter,” he says, “If you ever need it.” Andres laughs and smiles and they go out to practice, muscles and joints creaking and stretching and coming back to life.
Xavi doesn’t practice with them and he’s never in the locker room and he doesn’t call, and David doesn’t call either because he doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know if Xavi wants him to. And as weird as it was to go the whole summer without seeing him it’s weirder now, knowing he’s there, just down the hall or a phone call away, and yet out of reach. It feels wrong to practice in Barca colors and not stand near him in the circle, not stretch with him, not bump into to him in the rondo.
The first time David really sees him for any significant period of time is when they go to Germany for the Audi cup. Xavi’s there, lingering outside the bus looking dour and David wants to laugh because it’s such a stark contrast, his sour face and drawn brows with his sunshine yellow Barca polo and plaid shorts. A smile pulls at David’s lips and then Xavi looks up, his face blank, until his own lips twist up too.
They sit next to each other on the bus and on the plane, because that’s what they do and it’s easier than trying to explain. It’s quiet and David thinks about what he would say to Xavi, if he could; would try to make him understand what it’s like for someone like him, who comes to a new club at 29, how even if he wanted to love it like Xavi does he couldn’t; how even if he wanted to promise he’ll never leave, he can’t, because even if he doesn’t want to, it’s not only his decision and Barcelona doesn’t have the loyalty to him that it does to Xavi, and to Leo and Andres and Puyi. Wants to explain that he can’t give that much of himself when there’s no guarantee he’ll get it back.
Instead he leans over Xavi’s shoulder, points out an ad in the magazine he’s reading that Pique’s in, and they make fun of him loudly until he looks over, miffed, and they laugh until their faces hurt.
David thinks they’re just going to forget about it and that’s okay with him, but Xavi says, out of nowhere and not looking at him, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
And it’s so simple, so straightforward, so Xavi. David can’t help but lean over, rest his chin on Xavi’s shoulder. “What was that about anyway?” he asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
Xavi’s quiet for a long time, flipping the pages of his magazine. “Nothing,” he says finally. “The summer heat was getting to me,” and laughs like he’s joking; David laughs too, if only to make him feel better.
And David accepts it because he has to and Xavi doesn’t say anything else. He falls asleep with his head on Xavi’s shoulder and dreams his fingers are replaced with the hands of a clock.
He can’t really help it and he knows it’s too much, but he can’t stop touching Xavi, leaning on him on the plane, an arm around him as they walk, even though he has headphones on, isn’t talking to Xavi at all-but maybe it’s okay, because Xavi’s doing the same, grasped onto him, fingers digging almost painfully into his side. When David glances over, his face is blank, stone.
He’s assigned to stay in a room with Andreu, but Xavi switches keys with him without a word. Andreu looks up with his eyebrows raised, disbelief on his face.
“You have the captain’s room, though,” he says, like Xavi didn’t realize.
“Take it,” Xavi says gruffly, no room for disagreement, and Andreu scurries away, catching up to Montoya and waving the key around animatedly.
David laughs to himself but even though he has questions he stays quiet, because Xavi’s face is set and he trusts Xavi, wouldn’t ever question Xavi.
Xavi flops on the bed, his shirt riding up to expose a slice of flesh at his hip and David looks away, flushed, wondering, wondering.
“It felt like a long summer, didn’t it?” he asks to fill the silence, throwing his bag in a corner.
“It was a long season,” Xavi corrects, his voice muffled by a pillow.
“Yeah, well,” David says, rubs his neck awkwardly, still standing.
Xavi looks up at him suddenly, face still pressed against the bed and serious, thoughtful. For a moment David thinks he’s going to say, “Come here,” but it passes and the silence folds in on them; they’ve known each other too long for awkward silences but like David knows it’s been a long summer and things have changed, they always do.
“It will be easier this season,” Xavi says, and his voice is low and tired, eyes drooping. “For you, it will be easier.” He smiles up at David lazily. “The best is yet to come.”
David watches him, stretched across the bed, so close to his, and wonders how he can be sure.
They go to America and it’s hot; he’s dizzy and sick with the heat and summer stuck in his body, not ready. He tries not to complain, but he’s relieved when Pep subs him out, sits on the bench with his head down and spinning. Xavi looks at him with concerned eyes but he knows they’re all out of shape and David thinks his concern doesn’t come as a teammate but from somewhere else, doesn’t think about that too much. On the plane they sit next to each other, elbows bumping, and play games on their iPads, fall asleep with heads against each other. If David dreams he doesn’t remember.
He thinks the Spanish Supercup is the first time Pep doesn’t believe they’re going to win a game.
“I know you can,” he tells them, him and Xavi, standing around the training center one afternoon. “But this isn’t what we’re training for. What we’re working for.” He almost sounds apologetic, looks at them like he wants them to understand and rubs a hand across the top of his head like David’s seen him do so many times in the past year, and before that, watching him on television. “But you know I think you can guys can do anything.”
And David never gets used to it, hearing that, not from Pep, someone whose picture he had hanging on his wall when he was a kid. He wants to look at Xavi, see what he thinks about what Pep’s saying, but he doesn’t.
Later, he shrugs when David asks him. “You already have a Supercup anyway, right?”
“Two, actually,” David says, but that’s not the point.
Xavi smirks. “Cocky.” David thinks the conversation’s over, Xavi agrees with Pep, and it’ll be weird to go into a game not thinking they’re going to win, but he’ll get used to it. Again. And then Xavi says, “I mean, Pep’s right. We probably shouldn’t win.” He hesitates, and when he looks up, his eyes are shining. “But.”
He doesn’t finish the thought because he doesn’t have to. He meets David’s eyes and smiles widely. David laughs aloud because he should have known, and a few days later he isn’t surprised at all when they do win.
“We’re going out!” The locker room is loud and Xavi’s yelling, gripping David’s face between his hands, so close David can see droplets of champagne clinging to his eyelashes.
David doesn’t say anything but laughs and pulls out of his grip, backs up. Xavi doesn’t let him get away that easily, swings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in so their cheeks are close. “I know you already have two,” he says, mocking, and David laughs again, shakes his head, “But this one,” he says, grandiose, sweeping his arm around the room. “This one is special.” David already knows that, has known it since that first Clasico a year ago, maybe even before that, the first time he ever wore blaugrana, tots units fem forca pressed against his heart, but it’s nice to hear it’s the same for Xavi, even after all the Clasicos he’s played, all the championships.
All the usual suspects come, Dani and Gerard, Thiago, Cesc, even Carles and Leo show up for a drink. The night crawls forward and he knows he should go home, knows it, they have practice in the morning, but Xavi’s there pressed up against him, handing him drink after drink, and if Xavi’s doing it so can he, so he stays, lets the liquor burn down his throat; Gerard’s dancing on a table, Andres ducks out early, Adriano and Dani teach half the club to samba, the club’s hot and Xavi’s too close, maybe, smiling and sweaty, leaning close to talk to him, forehead on David’s cheek and lips against his ear, saying words David can’t even make out, and the night crawls forward, hazy and damp.
Part 2
pairing: david villa/xavi
rating: r
words: ~10900
summary: "He’s in Valencia two days before he calls Xavi."
notes: thanks to cule4life for the feedback!
More often than he’d like, David dreams of time.
Once, he’s clinging to the hand of a clock, just waiting until it strikes twelve and he slips off into oblivion. A few times he’s trapped in an hour glass, sand pouring over his head, pooling around his legs and climbing higher and higher.
Stretched across the face of a watch; his heartbeat replaced with ticking; watching minutes slip through his fingers; David dreams of time. Wakes up with aching limbs and sore muscles and curses to himself.
For awhile, at the end of that first season, when it becomes clear that they’re going to do it, they’re going to win it all and David’s getting his league trophy and his Champions trophy and he’ll have them all, everything, just exactly what he’d come to Barcelona for, the dreams stop.
After those weeks with the Clasicos, when the days seemed to crawl along, never-ending, the sprint to the end is a breath of fresh air. Suddenly David’s watching his curling long-range shot beat van der Sar into the back of the net and all he can do is scream and scream because it’s over and they did it and he did it; he runs to the touchline, Xavi is there, hands in his hair, pulling hard, too hard, and they’re yelling in each other’s faces and none of it even makes sense, but it doesn’t matter because they’re going to be the Champions of Europe and Xavi’s heavy on top of him and David can’t stop looking at him, because it’s Xavi and it’s his best friend, and more than that, it’s Barcelona, and it’s like sometimes he doesn’t know where Barcelona ends and Xavi begins.
It doesn’t matter. He holds on.
After that it’s a whirlwind; they’re sticky with champagne, confetti plastered to their skin; they’re on a plane and there’s cake and singing and David’s face hurts from smiling; they’re on another bus, winding around Barcelona just like the week before and still there are so many people, David can’t believe they all care to come out and see them again but here they are.
Xavi’s warm and solid next to him, a sweating beer can in his fist and a quiet smile on his face, looking out over the crowd that’s yelling his name, looking up at him in adoration.
“I can’t believe they all came out again,” David says, just to say something, just to get Xavi’s attention.
Xavi doesn’t look over, keeps his eyes on the crowd as theirs are on him. “Of course they did,” he says, almost reproachful. “They always come.”
David looks out over them, a sea of blaugrana, knows he’ll never get it like Xavi does but who could? He lifts an arm and though his voice is raw he sings again, “Campeones, campeones!” He can feel Xavi’s smile as he leans in, slings an arm around David’s shoulder and joins in, skin hot but comfortable, familiar, and they glide over another crowd.
And then it’s over.
He goes to Madrid to meet up with the national team and it’s so quiet there, of course it is, he understands why, but it still makes it hard for him to focus, hard to concentrate.
He plays parchis with Busquets and Pedro and Gerard on the plane but it’s not the same, they don’t talk about anything even though he wants to, but he doesn’t want to drag up issues, doesn’t want to make things awkward. And even though there’s a lot of them of them there, a lot of his Barcelona teammates, it’s strange not to see all of them; even Xavi didn’t come, stayed home to rest and David can’t remember the last time he didn’t sit next to Xavi on a plane, didn’t eat lunch with him, spend the evening in Xavi’s room watching games or playing FIFA or chatting about nothing.
It’s just-quiet, and David tries to remember how to adjust.
It’s hot in Boston and he only plays 45 minutes, sits on the bench sweating while he watches his teammates trounce the other side. He’s barely paying attention, mind elsewhere.
He’s tired after, too tired for one game, half of one game, but it’s been a long season and he just wants to get back to Spain, just wants to rest. He turns the air conditioner in his room on high, shucks his shirt and falls back into the bed, eyes closing, but he can’t unwind, can’t relax.
His phone rings. It’s late and he knows anyone back in Spain is asleep so he ignores it at first, but it rings again and again and he hauls himself out of bed against the protests of his weary limbs.
“Guaje.” The voice is low, thick like syrup and David’s been drinking with him enough in the past few weeks to know he’s not sober. David falls back on his bed, relaxes.
“Xavi, how are you still awake?” he asks, glancing at his hotel room clock. “What time is it there?”
Xavi mutters something; David can hear the clink of a bottle against a tabletop. “I don’t know, Guaje, four or five? What’s it to you?”
David laughs. He likes it when Xavi’s like this, sharp and funny. “Just wondering why you’re still up, old man, that’s all.”
Xavi grumbles but then laughs, gravelly and deep, and David can’t stop smiling, his eyes drifting shut with long-awaited relaxation. “Watched the game,” Xavi says, and David hears the swish of liquid, pictures Xavi at home, head back, eyes closed, bottle against his lips, cheeks reddened with liquor.
“Get a life,” David jokes, and then, “Where are you?” He needs to know, couldn’t explain why.
“Costa Bravaaaa,” Xavi drawls, dragging the words out. “It’s nice, but,” he says and then silence. David wonders if he’s fallen asleep.
“Xavi?” he prompts quietly.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “I mean, it’s nice, but it’s kind of… boring.”
David laughs again. “Only you would finally get a vacation and then complain of being bored.”
There’s a noise in the background of the call and David’s smile fades quickly; he wonders, suddenly, if maybe Xavi isn’t alone.
“Is someone there?” he asks, and drums his fingers along his clenched stomach.
Xavi’s quiet for a long moment. “The TV, Guaje,” he says finally, and he sounds amused, a laugh held back.
“Oh,” David says. He racks his brain for a way to change the subject. He thinks, idly, of saying I miss you, curious how Xavi would react, but also just because it’s true; for the first time since he left Barcelona he feels calm, like himself.
It’s too much though; instead he says, “It’s weird without you here,” and still half expects Xavi to laugh, to hear that teasing note in his voice again.
But it’s quiet a beat too long for that, and Xavi’s voice is even lower when he says, “Yeah, Guaje, I know what you mean.”
When they hang up, David falls asleep quickly; dreams of building a sundial in a desert.
He steps off the plane in Madrid, turns his face up to the sky. It’s hot, scorching really, but they’re done and he’s finally on vacation so it doesn’t bother him. He can’t help it, when he’s here, can’t help thinking of stepping off a plane in Madrid last summer, dizzy with exhaustion and champagne, sweaty, tired, and so achingly happy he still feels it in his bones sometimes. He looks over at Pepe, who flashes him a distant smile, eyes faraway like a year back but in the same place.
He looks to his other side but no one’s there.
He’s in Valencia two days before he calls Xavi.
“Yeeees?” Xavi drawls, like he’s been waiting for the call.
“Fuck you, yes,” David laughs, relaxing back once again. He’s already sunburned, skin tight and hot across his bones; realizes briefly he doesn’t even know what time it is day, what day of the week, already lost in a summer haze. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Cooking,” Xavi says, and then David can hear it in the background, the hiss of a stove, the hum of a radio; it sounds like summer and David thinks, if I was there-but doesn’t go further.
“Hmm,” David says, letting his eyes fall shut against the sun through his windows. “Cooking what?”
“Pa amb tomaquet,” Xavi says briskly. “Pebrots farcits.”
David smiles at his clipped Catalan. “Okay, I know the first one,” he says, lazily stretching his arms above his head, phone tucked between a sunburned shoulder and his ear. “The second… peppers? With what?”
“Stuffed peppers,” Xavi says. David can hear the smile in his voice. “We have to get you out more next year, more Catalan food.”
David breathes in, still likes the sound of it, next year, said so easily; he can still remember when the words were “if you come,” “if we’re called up,” “maybe I’ll see you,” when he never knew where he would be, when he only saw Xavi now and then, and it feels like a lifetime ago that they weren’t this close, didn’t talk to each other so often.
He doesn’t say any of that; he says, “Why go out when I have my very own Catalan chef on the other end of the line?” Xavi laughs, loud and rich, and David opens his eyes, squints into the sun outside his window and listens to Xavi humming and cooking, lets it fill up the silence and the space in his chest.
He goes to Tuilla to get an award, he doesn’t even know what it’s for but he’s grateful for it, grateful to make his hometown proud. They speak of his accomplishments and he sits behind them, cheeks burning, but he’s proud. Listening, though, he thinks they make it sound so easy, and it wasn’t, it was anything but.
He wishes he could explain, but who would understand? The months and years he didn’t think it would happen, after the deal fell through the first time and Ibrahimovic went to Barcelona instead of him. The phone calls from Pep, assuring him it would still happen, and a season where he felt like he could crawl out of skin, anxiety in his veins.
Xavi had never been worried, eyes clear and confident. “You’re coming,” he’d said, like a fact, a final word. And that was the only thing that had eased his doubt, even if only for a minute, because Xavi wouldn’t sound like that if he wasn’t sure.
He’d remember it later, after he was already a Barca player, other times he’d heard that voice from Xavi. After the Switzerland game, when they didn’t know what went wrong. “Nothing,” Xavi had said. “Nothing went wrong. We played our game and we’re going to win.”
And again, later that year, after Hercules when the dressing room was more silent than David had heard since Valencia and he was starting to wonder if his dream move, his dream season, was going to be more complicated than he imagined. And Xavi had looked up, eyes glazed, worrying David even more, but then he’d cleared, focused, met David’s gaze steadily. “One game,” he’d said. “And now no more.” That was all but it was enough; he’d never let down David down before and David didn’t expect he would start now.
There was only one time he could remember that the roles were reversed; even now he doesn’t know if he imagined it, maybe he’d overreacted, made the whole thing up. Either way he was glad he’d been there; after the Ballon D’Or ceremony he’d sought Xavi out, found him in the lobby chatting with FIFA officials, and even from far away David could tell his face, his smile, was strained. He’d pulled him away from the crowd.
Xavi had leaned into him, tired. “This is exhausting,” he’d said.
They’d been standing close, so no one else could hear. “I’m sorry you didn’t win,” David had told him, earnest. He’d shrugged it off like it was nothing.
“Wasn’t expecting to,” he’d said, casual. And David couldn’t see it, strain in the words, or disappointment, but still. He’d held tightly onto Xavi’s wrist, kept them both steady.
“Well, I wasn’t even nominated, so,” he’d joked, and Xavi had laughed but David knew it was forced.
“I just want to get back to Barcelona,” he’d said, and for once, maybe the first time, he’d looked his age to David, older and tired.
“Okay,” David had said. “Let’s go.” And Xavi had leaned on him, in the lobby, on the plane, David stayed by him, until they were back in Barcelona.
He snaps back to attention, back to the present where the audience is applauding him. He stands up to take the award, thanks his family and his hometown and his teammates. Thinks of one in particular.
He’s still in Tuilla. It’s only been a few weeks but he’s restless, thrumming with energy. He’s so bored he watches a replay of a Copa America game with Xavi over the phone.
Xavi’s stopped mumbling about tactics awhile ago and now they’re watching mostly in silence. “Poor Leo,” David mutters; even through the TV screen they can hear the crowd booing him.
“He’s fine,” Xavi says, clipped but not harsh. “He’ll be fine.” David knows he’s right but it’s still hard to watch, his closed off face, eyes narrowed; David still doesn’t feel like he knows Leo that well, he’s a hard person to understand, but he’s never seen that look on his face before and it’s disconcerting.
“Remember what we were going through at his age,” Xavi says. “He still has time. He’s very young.”
“Yeah,” David says, “I guess we didn’t start winning until you were close to fifty or so,” joking but distracted. He’s thinking of that time, what it was like when he first came to the team, what they were like; eternal failures, wondering if they’d ever be able to lift themselves out of the hole.
And Xavi, it’s hard to remember now but he looked so different, not physically but in his eyes; now when David looks at him he sees something concrete, the quiet confidence that comes with winning, with the vindication of a style, but then-then he’d looked almost as much a kid as David had felt, wide eyes, frustrated, not knowing what was ahead of them.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Xavi’s saying.
“Okay,” David says. “Hey, Xavi, tell him-“ He’s thinking of quiet locker rooms, of the heaviness of defeat, of the years it took him to reach where he is now, how it felt like it would always be that way and how great it felt when it wasn’t-but Xavi knows Leo. Knows what to say. “Tell him I said hi,” he finishes, and leaves the rest to Xavi.
Sometimes he tries to remember what it was like, before every game was life or death, every competition his to be won. When Leo was just Messi, a pain in his ass, when Xavi was just a friend at call-ups and a rival all the other times. It comes back sometimes, during games, when they’re struggling and he feels that old pressure to single-handedly bring the game back into reach, until he looks up, sees Leo, sees Pedro. Sees Xavi. Hears Pep in his ear from the touchline and breathes.
He goes to Ibiza and it’s hot, crowded; sometimes he wonders why they even bother, there must be nicer beaches, empty beaches, beaches where no photographers spend their days taking pictures taking pictures of him just trying to spend time with his family.
He drinks, eats good food, swims, gets sunburned; feels dizzy and far away, not like himself. Leaves his phone at home and only checks it late at night before bed, tries not to think of Barcelona, tries to give his head a break. Sleeps, sleeps, sleeps all the time and never really feels awake.
“Well, you’ve really done it now.”
“What?” Xavi sounds breathless on top of his confusion, and David lets his mind wander a beat too long.
“Are you working out?” he asks, picking at the bowl of fruit in his lap.
“Treadmill,” Xavi confirms. The sounds muffles and David pictures him dragging a towel across his face, shiny with sweat.
“Why are you answering your phone then?” David asks, rolling his eyes even though he’s happy Xavi did answer.
“Because it was you,” the answer comes, so nonchalant David almost doesn’t register it; freezes when he does, a heavy silence.
“So what did I do?” Xavi asks a moment later, sounding unaffected by David’s silence. And that’s so Xavi, always saying things without thinking, without considering how they can be taken, not noticing or caring about the effect.
“Hm?” David asks, distracted. He pops a slice of watermelon in his mouth and it’s delicious, juicy and ripe. “Oh. ‘Cesc is suffering?’ You’ve got Wenger on your bad side now.”
Xavi makes a noise of disinterest; David can hear his feet slapping against the treadmill. “Cesc is my friend; I said how he is.”
“Yeah, well,” David says, rolling a berry around between his fingertips and glaring out at the sun setting behind a building. “They sure don’t like you in England.”
“Should I care what England thinks of me?” He sounds bemused, but David supposes he has a point; why should Xavi care what the English press says about him? He’s still Xavi.
“Do you care what I think of you?” He barely thinks about it before it’s out and then freezes again; hopes against hope for a laugh from Xavi, a way to brush it off. At the same time, he thinks, do you?
It’s silent for too long. Even Xavi’s footsteps in the background slow and stop, and David waits, feels like he’s on the edge of something, toeing a starting line he’s not sure he’s prepared for. But he’s there and the words are out, so. He huffs out a breath, lets Xavi know he’s still there, waiting.
“More than the English press?” Xavi asks, the slight laugh in his voice almost masking the question there, a different question than the one he’d asked. Part of David wants to say, be serious, take me seriously, but he has too much time to think and so he takes the out Xavi offers him.
“Stupid question,” he says lightly, “I know you don’t care about anyone’s opinion more than mine,” and he wonders if his own laughter sounds as forced as Xavi’s.
That night David dreams he’s tied down and can’t move; when he twists to look, he sees his restraints are watches, hundreds of them looped together, holding him in an endless web, and as much as he struggles he can’t escape, until he wakes up sweating.
“So Man City, huh?”
David leans back against a wall outside the restaurant where he’s having dinner. He knows it’s rude to step out to take a call, but he couldn’t help remembering that last conversation with Xavi, “Because it was you,” couldn’t bring himself to hit ignore.
He laughs. “Man City what?”
“I heard they’re interested ,” he says, voice low but teasing, David thinks. Isn’t sure. Down the street two girls fall out of a doorway, laughing loudly, high heels clacking against the stone street. He rubs his forehead, feeling warm; thinks maybe he had too much to drink.
“Who aren’t they interested in?” he points out. The girls clatter closer to him, laughter high and heated, dresses sparkling in the street lamps. And then, louder, “But sure. I hear Manchester’s nice.” Teasing, too.
It’s strangely silent on Xavi’s end, but Villa likes it, a stark contrast to the noisy restaurant behind him. A couple turns the corner, winds down the street toward him, faces turned toward each other but if they’re speaking he can’t hear it. He closes his eyes against them, suddenly feels dizzy with wine.
“Nice, huh?” Xavi says after a long silent minute. David knows he needs to get back inside and soon, but. He likes this. Talking to Xavi.
“Sure,” he says easily. “Good team. Young. And I kind of like the rain.”
“Really,” Xavi says, and David’s not sure-not sure, but he doesn’t sound that amused anymore. His words aren’t light. “So how much would it take, then?”
“How much would what take?” he asks, suddenly losing track of the conversation.
Xavi’s voice is sharp, precise in his ear, just like the man himself. “To go,” he says. “Man City. Sixty thousand a week?”
David feels like he’s chasing after Xavi but not quite keeping up. “I was joking, Xavi,” he says, and he thought it was obvious. It’s humid and it presses down on him, stifling.
“Everyone has a price, right?” Xavi asks, not sounding like a question, and David can’t find a ledge to hang onto. “Just wondering what yours is.”
“Xavi, I don’t-“ he grasps, closing his eyes and feeling the brick wall behind him scrape against his neck. “I don’t need money, Xavi.“
“Everyone has a price,” he says again, like that means something, and David tugs at his collar, trying to loosen it, get some air. “You didn’t come to Barcelona at all this summer,” he goes on, casual, like it’s a new thought but David knows somehow that it isn’t.
“I’m there all season,” he says testily, because it feels like being reprimanded and he’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything to deserve it. “I have family, friends to see. Barcelona isn’t-“
“Isn’t your home,” Xavi finishes for him, softly, all the edges smoothed from his voice.
“Isn’t my only home,” David corrects half-heartedly.
“Yeah.” Xavi’s agreeing with him but it doesn’t feel like a victory, and David doesn’t know how they got here, how he got here.
“I don’t understand-“ he starts, tongue too heavy for his mouth, and he wishes he’d skipped that last glass of wine, those last three, so he could be clear, so maybe he would understand. “Gerard was gone all summer, are you mad at him? Dani and Leo? Abi?”
“They’re different,” Xavi says, unyielding. “They’re not you.”
David huffs out a breath, certain suddenly that this a conversation he has no part in, a battle he never had a chance to win. “Lucky them,” he says. “You’re being--” he starts, but he doesn’t know exactly what Xavi’s being, or why. “You’re being irrational,” he says finally, and he’s stumbling over his words, his voice too loud, but there’s no one around to hear him, just a sheet flapping on a balcony above him.
It’s quiet for a long time, until Xavi says, “Yeah,” and then, “Sorry.”
David just grunts.
“I have to go,” Xavi says, and he hangs up without waiting.
He doesn’t talk to Xavi again before he’s headed back to Barcelona, and even though at times it had seemed the summer dragged out so long, now it feels like he’s barely been gone. The city feels the same, smells the same, and he finds he’s missed it.
He waits for Xavi in the locker room their first day back but he doesn’t come and he doesn’t come. David looks to Andres, asks if he knows where Xavi is.
“Recovery work with the physios,” Andres says, barely containing a yawn. “Him and Puyi.”
David tries not to look disappointed. Instead he looks at his friend, who he hasn’t seen in weeks, and he looks so tired. “How’s Valeria, then?” he asks gently; Andres eyes are falling shut as he sits on the bench.
“She has a cough,” he answers, straightening up and bending to tie his laces. “Nothing serious but I still-I wake up every time she makes a noise,” he says, shaking his head at himself.
David smiles fondly because Andres looks so happy behind his exhaustion, and if David didn’t know he deserved every good thing he might be jealous. “I’m a good babysitter,” he says, “If you ever need it.” Andres laughs and smiles and they go out to practice, muscles and joints creaking and stretching and coming back to life.
Xavi doesn’t practice with them and he’s never in the locker room and he doesn’t call, and David doesn’t call either because he doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t know if Xavi wants him to. And as weird as it was to go the whole summer without seeing him it’s weirder now, knowing he’s there, just down the hall or a phone call away, and yet out of reach. It feels wrong to practice in Barca colors and not stand near him in the circle, not stretch with him, not bump into to him in the rondo.
The first time David really sees him for any significant period of time is when they go to Germany for the Audi cup. Xavi’s there, lingering outside the bus looking dour and David wants to laugh because it’s such a stark contrast, his sour face and drawn brows with his sunshine yellow Barca polo and plaid shorts. A smile pulls at David’s lips and then Xavi looks up, his face blank, until his own lips twist up too.
They sit next to each other on the bus and on the plane, because that’s what they do and it’s easier than trying to explain. It’s quiet and David thinks about what he would say to Xavi, if he could; would try to make him understand what it’s like for someone like him, who comes to a new club at 29, how even if he wanted to love it like Xavi does he couldn’t; how even if he wanted to promise he’ll never leave, he can’t, because even if he doesn’t want to, it’s not only his decision and Barcelona doesn’t have the loyalty to him that it does to Xavi, and to Leo and Andres and Puyi. Wants to explain that he can’t give that much of himself when there’s no guarantee he’ll get it back.
Instead he leans over Xavi’s shoulder, points out an ad in the magazine he’s reading that Pique’s in, and they make fun of him loudly until he looks over, miffed, and they laugh until their faces hurt.
David thinks they’re just going to forget about it and that’s okay with him, but Xavi says, out of nowhere and not looking at him, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
And it’s so simple, so straightforward, so Xavi. David can’t help but lean over, rest his chin on Xavi’s shoulder. “What was that about anyway?” he asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
Xavi’s quiet for a long time, flipping the pages of his magazine. “Nothing,” he says finally. “The summer heat was getting to me,” and laughs like he’s joking; David laughs too, if only to make him feel better.
And David accepts it because he has to and Xavi doesn’t say anything else. He falls asleep with his head on Xavi’s shoulder and dreams his fingers are replaced with the hands of a clock.
He can’t really help it and he knows it’s too much, but he can’t stop touching Xavi, leaning on him on the plane, an arm around him as they walk, even though he has headphones on, isn’t talking to Xavi at all-but maybe it’s okay, because Xavi’s doing the same, grasped onto him, fingers digging almost painfully into his side. When David glances over, his face is blank, stone.
He’s assigned to stay in a room with Andreu, but Xavi switches keys with him without a word. Andreu looks up with his eyebrows raised, disbelief on his face.
“You have the captain’s room, though,” he says, like Xavi didn’t realize.
“Take it,” Xavi says gruffly, no room for disagreement, and Andreu scurries away, catching up to Montoya and waving the key around animatedly.
David laughs to himself but even though he has questions he stays quiet, because Xavi’s face is set and he trusts Xavi, wouldn’t ever question Xavi.
Xavi flops on the bed, his shirt riding up to expose a slice of flesh at his hip and David looks away, flushed, wondering, wondering.
“It felt like a long summer, didn’t it?” he asks to fill the silence, throwing his bag in a corner.
“It was a long season,” Xavi corrects, his voice muffled by a pillow.
“Yeah, well,” David says, rubs his neck awkwardly, still standing.
Xavi looks up at him suddenly, face still pressed against the bed and serious, thoughtful. For a moment David thinks he’s going to say, “Come here,” but it passes and the silence folds in on them; they’ve known each other too long for awkward silences but like David knows it’s been a long summer and things have changed, they always do.
“It will be easier this season,” Xavi says, and his voice is low and tired, eyes drooping. “For you, it will be easier.” He smiles up at David lazily. “The best is yet to come.”
David watches him, stretched across the bed, so close to his, and wonders how he can be sure.
They go to America and it’s hot; he’s dizzy and sick with the heat and summer stuck in his body, not ready. He tries not to complain, but he’s relieved when Pep subs him out, sits on the bench with his head down and spinning. Xavi looks at him with concerned eyes but he knows they’re all out of shape and David thinks his concern doesn’t come as a teammate but from somewhere else, doesn’t think about that too much. On the plane they sit next to each other, elbows bumping, and play games on their iPads, fall asleep with heads against each other. If David dreams he doesn’t remember.
He thinks the Spanish Supercup is the first time Pep doesn’t believe they’re going to win a game.
“I know you can,” he tells them, him and Xavi, standing around the training center one afternoon. “But this isn’t what we’re training for. What we’re working for.” He almost sounds apologetic, looks at them like he wants them to understand and rubs a hand across the top of his head like David’s seen him do so many times in the past year, and before that, watching him on television. “But you know I think you can guys can do anything.”
And David never gets used to it, hearing that, not from Pep, someone whose picture he had hanging on his wall when he was a kid. He wants to look at Xavi, see what he thinks about what Pep’s saying, but he doesn’t.
Later, he shrugs when David asks him. “You already have a Supercup anyway, right?”
“Two, actually,” David says, but that’s not the point.
Xavi smirks. “Cocky.” David thinks the conversation’s over, Xavi agrees with Pep, and it’ll be weird to go into a game not thinking they’re going to win, but he’ll get used to it. Again. And then Xavi says, “I mean, Pep’s right. We probably shouldn’t win.” He hesitates, and when he looks up, his eyes are shining. “But.”
He doesn’t finish the thought because he doesn’t have to. He meets David’s eyes and smiles widely. David laughs aloud because he should have known, and a few days later he isn’t surprised at all when they do win.
“We’re going out!” The locker room is loud and Xavi’s yelling, gripping David’s face between his hands, so close David can see droplets of champagne clinging to his eyelashes.
David doesn’t say anything but laughs and pulls out of his grip, backs up. Xavi doesn’t let him get away that easily, swings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in so their cheeks are close. “I know you already have two,” he says, mocking, and David laughs again, shakes his head, “But this one,” he says, grandiose, sweeping his arm around the room. “This one is special.” David already knows that, has known it since that first Clasico a year ago, maybe even before that, the first time he ever wore blaugrana, tots units fem forca pressed against his heart, but it’s nice to hear it’s the same for Xavi, even after all the Clasicos he’s played, all the championships.
All the usual suspects come, Dani and Gerard, Thiago, Cesc, even Carles and Leo show up for a drink. The night crawls forward and he knows he should go home, knows it, they have practice in the morning, but Xavi’s there pressed up against him, handing him drink after drink, and if Xavi’s doing it so can he, so he stays, lets the liquor burn down his throat; Gerard’s dancing on a table, Andres ducks out early, Adriano and Dani teach half the club to samba, the club’s hot and Xavi’s too close, maybe, smiling and sweaty, leaning close to talk to him, forehead on David’s cheek and lips against his ear, saying words David can’t even make out, and the night crawls forward, hazy and damp.
Part 2