(no subject)
When he wakes up his mouth is dry like cotton and he doesn’t know why his room is so bright until he squints open one eye and realizes it isn’t his room.
He turns his head and already knows what he’s going to see because it comes rushing back to him, his head pounding; and sure enough, there he is, sprawled out and quiet, still asleep. They’re both fully clothed and David knows they didn’t do anything, just long hot cab ride home and falling into bed, stinking of alcohol and sweat, but nothing’s that uncomplicated in the morning and David wonders if it’s still okay to sneak out when it’s your best friend.
He’s still thinking about it, looking over at Xavi, and it’s so abnormal to see him so still, not observing everything around him, not concentrating, his face relaxed and smooth. David wants to touch him, wants to see him like that more often, but it’s too early, too weird, his head hurts too much.
Xavi stirs and David’s stomach lurches; he should have gotten out of the bed at least, but he didn’t, and at least it was too hot to get under the covers, too hot to touch, so they’re just sprawled out over the comforter, on opposite sides. He slams his eyes shut anyway, doesn’t want to get caught staring, but when there’s no sound for a long time he opens an eye and sees Xavi looking back at him.
He waits. He thinks Xavi should say something because he’s older and wiser and because he’s Xavi and he always has something to say.
He doesn’t; he blinks, long and slow, and then he rolls off the edge of the bed toward the bathroom, not looking back. After a moment of confusion, something in David’s stomach unclenches and he almost laughs, because that’s normal Xavi; he doesn’t like to wake up in the morning, certainly doesn’t like to chat, and so this is just exactly the best possible reaction, nothing at all.
He sits up in bed, unsure what to do now; squinting at the clock, he sees they don’t have much time before they have to be at the training center and he doesn’t have his car, doesn’t have anything.
Xavi reappears in the doorway of the bathroom, his rumpled shirt discarded, toothbrush in his mouth, foam across his lips. He studies David, face serious. Takes his toothbrush out of his mouth, morning light across his shoulders, and he just looks so serious, studying David like he studies a game, the only time David ever sees that look on his face.
“Are we going to do this?” Xavi asks, and it’s garbled because his mouth is full of toothpaste, but even though David might want to pretend he doesn’t understand so he can have a second to think, he does. He understands perfectly.
He looks back with wide eyes. Xavi turns, retreats back into the bathroom and David hears him spit, hears the water running before he returns. Stands in the doorway and looks at David some more, a question on his face.
“Guaje?”
He can hear his own heart thudding in his ears and he wasn’t expecting this, not right now, but Xavi’s waiting so he has to open his mouth. “I want to,” he says, not even thinking, and his voice is scratchy, hoarse from screaming and from alcohol and from sleep. He clears it and tries again. “I want to,” and he’s never even admitted it to himself but as soon as it’s out he feels giddy with adrenaline.
Xavi’s face is still so serious and David barely detects the small nod he gives. He goes back in the bathroom and the faucet turns on again; David wonders if that’s it, if that’s the whole conversation. His head spins.
When Xavi comes back out his face is wet and scrubbed clean. “Come on,” he says, nodding in David’s direction, “We have to be at practice soon.” David’s brow creases with confusion because he thinks it should be more than this, more complicated, more emotional, more something, but it’s just like normal, like it was yesterday and last week and for the past year.
“You can use my toothbrush,” he hears Xavi say from the depths of his closet, but it’s too weird, too intimate. He finds a bottle of mouthwash under the sink and uses that instead.
Xavi gives him a pair of sunglasses and a huge bottle of water and drives them to practice. David rolls the windows down because he needs the air; neither of them say a word.
The dressing room is quiet, lethargic; Dani looks up at him with bags under his eyes but a smile still spreads across his face because it’s Dani and he’s never not smiling.
“Good morning, huh?” he asks, yawns and reaches back into his locker. David grunts as he flops on the bench in front of his own locker.
“Where’d you get to last night anyway?” he asks, and it’s innocent but David’s head snaps over anyway, defensive.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
Dani looks startled at his reaction. “I mean you disappeared. Just wondering where you went.”
David tries to relax; he knows he didn’t do anything to be nervous about, but the whole thing with Xavi has him on edge. “Oh,” he says, casual, turns back to grab his training clothes. “Xavi and I took a cab back to his place and I crashed there.”
Dani’s not looking at him but he nods. “I figured you went home with him,” he says, and he doesn’t mean it any way but David still has to bite his tongue until it hurts.
Practice is awful but at least it’s that way for everyone, and it’s still early when Pep rolls his eyes and tells them to go home and be ready for tomorrow. David’s relieved; he just wants to crawl in his bed and sleep until tomorrow but he thinks he probably has other things to deal with, first.
The ride back to David’s condo is short and Xavi fills it with small talk, comments about practice, about what Pep will do tomorrow and what they need to do after the Supercup; now that the celebration is over he’s back to analyzing, back to tactics, back to normal. David coasts along in the conversation, nodding and mhmm’ing when appropriate, and for the first time he wonders whether he misinterpreted everything.
They pull up to David’s building but Xavi doesn’t turn the car, idles. David heaves a sigh, his hand on the door handle. “Don’t you want to come in?”
Xavi turns to him, eyes wide. Says, “Uh,” says, “I don’t know,” says, “I don’t really feel so hot.”
David rolls his eyes. “I don’t either, but,” and he shrugs his shoulders, tense and frustrated. “Don’t you think-“
Xavi laughs. It’s the first time David can tell he’s nervous, really nervous, and it makes him feel better. “Okay,” he says, “Okay. I’ll come up.”
Their elbows bump in the elevators and it’s just like it’s always been; familiar. Up in his condo David fetches them water and aspirin and Xavi stands by his window, looks out over the city; he always says he’s jealous of the view but he can’t live in Barcelona proper, something David doesn’t understand.
Xavi doesn’t look any more willing to start this conversation than he did all day, so David wracks his brain and tries to come up with it himself, owes that to Xavi, at least. “At your house,” he settles on finally. “I don’t know-maybe we weren’t on the same page.”
Xavi’s facing away from him, an outline against the city below, but he turns now and his face looks open and young. Uncertain in a way that David hasn’t seen before, makes him feel more confident. “I think we were,” he says. David sighs again; he needs more than that.
“Guaje,” Xavi says, and he leans forward to set his water on a table, leaving his hands free. He rubs them against the front of his pants, nervous. “David. When you came to Barca, I didn’t expect-“ He cuts himself off. Stops. Resets. His hands fist in his hair and David doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him like this before. Unsure.
“You’re my best friend,” he says finally, with a small shrug.
David smiles a little, tries to hide it. “You’re mine.”
Xavi just looks at him blankly, helpless. “I don’t-I don’t know how to be anything other than that.”
David wants to laugh but he knows it’s not the right time. “You don’t have to be anything other than that,” he says. “I don’t want you to change.”
“But it’s different, no?” Xavi asks. He seems less tense now, arms hanging by his sides, and he’s moved away from the windows more, towards David. “It has to change.”
“A few things, maybe,” he says slowly. He’s thinking of flashes of skin, pulling his own hands back; wanting to turn his head when Xavi’s talking close to him and instead holding himself perfectly still; thinking all the things he’d never let himself get close to thinking before. “But it should be easy. Because you’re my best friend.”
Xavi moves to sit next to him on the couch, not touching but close enough to feel his body heat. “Okay,” he says finally. “Then I’ll just-but tell me, if I’m doing something wrong, okay?”
David laughs, because he can’t ever imagine Xavi doing wrong by him, but he agrees anyway. “And I have no doubt you’ll tell me if I’m fucking up,” he says, and when Xavi laughs something eases. They lean against each other.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Xavi says, and their faces are close. “I’m pretty soft-spoken.” He’s joking but his voice is quiet now, different than David’s ever heard.
“Yeah,” David agrees softly. Their noses bump and he wrinkles his, in place of a laugh. “A real introvert.”
He can’t deny it; it’s weird at first, kissing his friend. But it’s been such a long time coming that he falls into it quickly, lips desperate and teeth clashing. Xavi kisses like he does everything else, confident and precise, clean and commanding. David tries to keep up, to anticipate, and when he can’t he settles for pressing back, nipping with his teeth, letting his hands wander.
“I’m sorry,” Xavi says, pulling back, lips red and swollen and David doesn’t understand what he could be apologizing for. He shakes his head, runs a hand over his face, and David wants to be the one doing that. “I’m still pretty hungover, I could really use a nap.”
David smiles. His hand is still fisted in Xavi’s shirt and he lets him go, lets him fall back and for the first time in a few minutes he feels the pounding in his own head. “Yeah,” he agrees, finding his voice. “Good call.”
He stands and grabs his glass of water, heading back toward his bedroom, but when he looks back Xavi’s still standing there. “Oh,” he says, suddenly realizing. “Did you mean go home and sleep, or…?”
“I don’t,” Xavi starts, and rolls his eyes, seemingly at himself. “I mean, you didn’t invite me, so…”
David can’t help laughing and Xavi tries to glare at him but David thinks it looks more affectionate than anything and his heart surges. “You’re invited,” he says. “You’re always invited, okay?”
Xavi rolls his eyes again but he follows David into the bedroom and they sleep soundly until dinnertime, a tangle of limbs.
He tries really hard to be normal. Xavi does too; David can tell, can feel him trying, sometimes wants to say “Stop, please stop, please relax,” but it would be hypocritical when he know he’s doing that exact same thing.
And it’s not easy, like he’d thought it would be. Not that he’d ever let himself think this would actually happen, that it could actually happen, not that he’d ever even let himself imagine, but he’d always thought that everything was simple with Xavi, sincere and straightforward, and that would never change.
They’re on Xavi’s couch, in the middle of the afternoon, sunlight filtering through his curtains, shut tight. Xavi’s on top of him, lips cool against his, pressing, searching. It’s nice, David thinks. Nice. His lips might be chapping a little, but that’s okay, a small price to pay, and besides they’re not ready to go further than that yet, he definitely doesn’t think they’re ready-
Not that he doesn’t want to, he’s hard, painfully hard in his track shorts, and when he moves his hips almost without thinking Xavi makes a sound between a gasp and moan so David knows he’s not the only one. But.
Not yet.
Xavi shifts, and his elbow slips, jabs painfully into David’s side. He yelps, tearing his face away, screwed up in pain, and Xavi jumps back on his knees, eyes wide with concern.
“Got me right in the liver,” David says, half-joking even though it’s really smarting. Xavi doesn’t smile, looks very serious, too serious. He pushes his fingers up David’s shirt the slightest bit, ghosting his fingers over the area.
“I’m sorry,” he says, genuine remorse in his voice, and his face is so drawn. “Guaje, I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” David says, reaching out for him but he’s too far away. “It’s nothing.” But he doesn’t move closer, instead sits down heavily, eyes focused in front of him, his shoulders still rising and falling quickly as he catches his breath.
“It’s not nothing,” Xavi says, voice flat and too loud, and David doesn’t think he’s just talking about hitting him in a vital organ anymore. He sits back against the arm of the couch, pulling his legs in as he watches Xavi leaning forward with tense shoulders.
He thinks of all the times Xavi’s hurt him before; clumsy tackles at practice, running into him, tripping over him, the time he accidentally hit him in the face with a cell phone. Thinks of the way it had always cracked them up, how Xavi would throw an arm over his shoulder, tell him to man up, his smile close and warm, maybe buy him a beer or give him his dessert at dinner, to make up for it.
“We used to laugh more,” David says absently, half a smile on his face from the memories.
Xavi doesn’t smile but he looks over, understanding in his eyes. Rolls his shoulders like he’s loosening up. “Yeah.”
He didn’t think it would be like this. He’s spent the last two years wanting to move forward, desperate to move forward, and now they’re wondering how to go back.
“Look, Guaje,” Xavi says, his body language closed off and set. “I get it.”
David doesn’t follow exactly. “Get what?”
“You changed your mind.” He’s not looking at David, but David can still see him in profile, the slope of his forehead and his strong brow, furrowed. It takes a minute for the words to catch up to him, and then he still doesn’t understand, because that’s exactly not what he-
“I didn’t-“ he starts, and he wants to reach out for Xavi again but he’s still so far away.
“I get it,” he says, voice firm, and he stands and turns away. “You wanted to try and you did. No hard feelings.”
Grace in defeat. It’s something Pep always says and it pops into David’s head now, watching Xavi, his firm shoulders and steady voice. But this isn’t a defeat and David certainly hasn’t won anything.
“I don’t get what you’re saying,” he says. “I’m fine. Nothing happened.” He pulls up the hem of his shirt, shows Xavi the unblemished skin on his side. “See?” he asks. “Not even a mark.”
Xavi exhales sharply. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Guaje.”
David lets his shirt fall, looks up at Xavi, because he doesn’t know, doesn’t get it, and he wishes he didn’t feel like he’s two steps behind Xavi but it’s always been this way. “Then what?”
Xavi’s quiet, looking at him like he should know. “You said it yourself,” he says softly. “’We used to laugh more.’ We used to have fun and now we don’t and it’s weird all the time.”
“Oh,” David says, because he knows the silence is on his shoulders. He grips the back of the couch until his knuckles turn white, holding himself down, an anchor. “But it’s just. I mean. It’s only been a few weeks. Stuff like this… it takes time, right?”
Xavi shakes his head like his mind is made up, and David wonders how long it’s been that way. “Guaje,” he says, and David tries to focus on him but wishes he would stay back, because it’s stifling hot and getting hotter. “I just mean. Maybe we back off a little. Stop forcing it. Take a break.”
“A break,” David says. “Oh. So you. No, yeah.” He’s a little bit dazed, and it’s a long silent minute before he realizes where he is and stumbles to his feet gracelessly. “I should go then, “ he mumbles, looking around for his keys. Xavi points to the end table.
“Guaje,” he hears behind him as he heads to the door, and he turns on numb legs. His side still hurts, feels bruised and tender. He makes himself meet Xavi’s eyes. “See you at practice, okay?” he says.
David doesn’t answer except to let the door click softly behind him.
He’s glad for once he has to go to Madrid before they’re due at call-ups to film an ad. He hates doing it, doesn’t like being in the spotlight that much even after all these years, but he gets to fly to Madrid by himself, a quiet plane ride and no teammates. It’s a short flight but he falls asleep anyway, dreams of a room of broken clocks all chiming incessantly, mercilessly.
He’s shooting a beer commercial with Iker, and maybe it’s awkward for the first few minutes but they’ve known each other so long and been through so much that it fades quickly. When they take a lunch break they huddle together at a table and pick at sandwiches and fruit.
“How are you?” Iker asks casually. David grimaces because he’d really rather talk about anything else, would rather rehash all the dramas of the Clasicos over the past year, but he shrugs.
“Can’t complain too much,” he says vaguely, and Iker laughs.
“True, not after the start to the season you’ve had.”
David relaxes minutely, back on a safe subject. “It is always nice to start the season scoring on you,” he says, taking a big bite of his ham and cheese and grinning widely.
To his credit, Iker manages not to actually look pissed when he rolls his eyes. “How’s Xavi?” he asks, stabbing at his fruit with a fork.
His head is down, so he doesn’t see the way David freezes. “He’s-“ he starts. Means to say fine, means to say his tendons are rested, he’s playing well, but David’s voice catches. Throat tightens.
Iker looks up at his silence, curious. David can see the moment it clicks. “Okay,” he says finally, and he doesn’t bring it up again.
It’s almost easier to avoid Xavi here than it is in Barcelona, even though their rooms are only a few feet apart; easier because Pepe is here, and Llorente, always someone to catch up with. Easy until Xavi scores and as slowly as he walks, David’s the first one there. Pulls him into a hug and he’s warm and familiar and David tries to make it as brief as possible; Xavi’s saying something in his ear but he can’t make it out, doesn’t want to make it out and he pulls away while Xavi’s still talking, walks away. He’s relieved that Xavi’s already off when he scores his own goals.
A few days later he watches in horror as his sloppy back-pass lands right at the foot of a Real Sociedad player not five feet from Victor. He thinks it can’t get worse but it does when the player dodges around Victor easily, when he shoots and Busquets jumps with a hand outstretched, when the rebound falls to the head of a teammate and finds the back of the net. When he looks up at the scoreboard and sees 2-2, sees two precious points slipping away.
He looks at the sky, can’t meet anyone’s eyes. Feels sick.
For their part, his teammates leave him alone, tone down the sympathy pats on the back and let him brood in silence. Pep clasps a hand at the back of his neck, pulls his face into his shoulder, says quietly against his ear, “Forget about it,” and if it wasn’t Pep he would laugh.
He sits alone on the plane, teeth clenched, and when they get back to Camp Nou he’s in a bad place, exhausted on top of his anger; at himself, for screwing up; at everyone else, for not helping to fix it. At Xavi, for leaving him and for lying to him, telling him the best was yet to come. David thinks maybe it’s the first time Xavi’s lied to him.
He slams his things into his locker. Chucks his cleats on top of it with a loud clang. Sits on the bench with his head down until he knows everyone else is gone, because he can’t look at them right now, their disappointed eyes, trying not to look so for his sake, pitying.
The last of them shuffles out and he sits silently awhile longer, wills his body to move. He knows he needs to get over it, heaves a sigh and stands as he turns toward the door-
Xavi’s sitting there, on a bench between him and the exit, regarding him with serious eyes. David glares but stops.
“Leagues aren’t lost in September, Guaje,” he says finally.
David grinds his teeth; he doesn’t need a pep talk from Xavi of all people. “You know as well as I do it could come down to two points,” he says.
“And that won’t be your fault,” Xavi says, not sympathetic, not pitying, but sure. Calm. He stands.
David clenches a fist but he’s more upset that he’s not that upset at Xavi, that he just wants to talk to him about what went wrong and how they’ll fix it. But he can’t.
“Guaje,” Xavi says, voice softer, and he takes a step closer. But David backs up, closes off.
“I can’t,” he says stubbornly, voice hoarse.
“I miss,” Xavi starts, David thinks you you you, and Xavi palms his hair, frustrated. “I miss being your friend.”
David looks at him. He doesn’t move. The air is thick with tension, with silence, with things unsaid, and in the end it presses too heavily on David’s shoulders. He shrugs at Xavi, tries to keep his face blank, walks out without another word.
He can’t sleep.
All he wants is to shut his brain off, start again tomorrow. Instead he lays in the dark, mind racing, staring at the ceiling, until he gives up and hauls himself into the kitchen, makes tea and sinks into his sofa.
There’s nothing on, just infomercials, and he leans back, learning about some kind of special mop. The host’s teeth are too white.
David fingers his phone, turns it over his in his hands. Figures if he needs to, he can blame it on the delirium of sleeplessness and dashes off a text.
What are you doing?
The reply comes almost instantly and he expected it because he knows Xavi doesn’t sleep after games, not easily.
Watching a game. You?
David pulls a face. It’s almost four in the morning and he can’t imagine what game Xavi might be watching, wants to laugh at how football crazy he is but he’s used to it by now, almost.
What game is on right now?
I don’t know, a South American league? Uruguay? Peru?
David does laugh now, rolling his eyes, because Xavi would watch random South American leagues in the middle of the night. Before he can stop himself he hits the call button and it doesn’t even ring once before it’s picked up.
“What channel is it on?” David asks instead of a greeting, and they watch the game over the phone, picking apart the tactics and arguing until the sun comes up.
It’s slow going, moving forward. Unable and unwilling to move back. David calls him at night sometimes, chats with him in the locker room, but it’s not like before and he doesn’t know if it ever will be. They talk on the phone and it’s like it was in the summer, only then talking to Xavi made him feel close when he was far away and now it makes him feel far away when he is close.
David gets tired. Tired of waiting. “Time heals all wounds” or whatever the fuck, but-but he’s not convinced there’s not another way-
“Xavi?” he asks. It’s a Sunday afternoon and they’re recovering from a Saturday game, a lazy day and he likes it when they have days like this on the weekend. He’s in his recliner, phone pressed to his ear, as has become his routine these last few days.
“Hmm?” The reply is low and lazy, like Xavi’s falling asleep.
“Do you ever have dreams about time?” He’s never told anyone else about his dreams but if anyone will understand-
Xavi’s quiet for a long minute. “What do you mean?” he asks finally. He sounds awake now.
“I dunno, I just have these dreams about time,” he says, and he already regrets bringing it up because it sounds so stupid out loud. “Like time is running out or holding me hostage or something.”
“Time is running out for what?” Xavi asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“I don’t know,” David says, uncomfortable. “My career? I don’t know.”
He expects Xavi to laugh because he’s being stupid, but he doesn’t. “But why,” he muses. “You’ve already done everything in your career.”
“Oh,” David says. “Well, thanks for making me feel like there’s nothing left for me.”
Now Xavi does laugh. “You know that’s not what I mean. I don’t know. Maybe dreaming about time means something else.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“How should I know?” Xavi asks. “Maybe you’re waiting for something.”
That night in his dream he’s in a room full of alarm clocks, all ringing shrilly, non-stop. He presses his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut but he can’t escape them, feels like he’s going mad.
And then Xavi walks in, and David didn’t expect it but he’s not surprised all the same, and Xavi says, “Just turn them off, Guaje.” Reaches over and presses a button on one of the alarms and all at once all the noise stops. Everything settles. And the last thing David remembers before he wakes up is him and Xavi, just standing in the silent room, staring at each other.
“Did you have a dream?” Xavi asks the next night on the phone.
David hesitates. Doesn’t know how to explain. “No,” he says. He doesn’t like to lie, but there’s a line he’s not ready to cross.
“Oh,” Xavi says. “Maybe you should pay me for the therapy session. I healed you.”
David laughs but it’s forced.
“Xavi?” he asks. He can hear crunching in the background, like Xavi’s eating.
“What?” he answers.
David hesitates. Thinks of alarm clocks. He’s tired of waiting. “Remember when you were over here a few weeks ago?”
Xavi coughs like he’s choking. Recovers quickly. “Uh, yeah?”
“Remember how you said I should tell you if you’re doing something wrong?”
Xavi’s quiet. He’s leaving David out on a limb, really, because David has no idea if he’s changed his mind, if he’s done with his break, if he still thinks they need to back off and stop trying.
“I remember.”
“I think,” David says. Forges on, because there’s nowhere to go but forward and because the best is yet to come, Xavi had said so, and Xavi doesn’t let him down. David won’t let him. “I think you’re doing something wrong.”
“I know,” Xavi says, and it sounds like a sigh. David’s not sure he’s ever heard Xavi sound guilty before, quite so sad. “But I thought you-“ He stops. And then, “You were so mad at me.”
David chews on his nails. He still doesn’t know where this is going to go. He takes a deep breath. “You gave up so easily,” he says. “I didn’t know you could be like that.”
It’s quiet for a long time. But David has waited long enough, and he can wait again now.
“I’m sorry,” Xavi says. And it’s amazing how much of a difference it makes, not just that he says it but that he means it, that there’s genuine remorse there. There’s so many years between them, and David thinks maybe when it’s been this long, forgiveness is up there with all the other stuff, trust and loyalty and kindness.
“Okay,” he says, and it’s easy, a rush of relief.
“Okay,” Xavi says, and then he laughs, nervous. “Does that mean-I don’t know what that means,” he admits carefully. And David laughs, too.
“Do you remember what I said that day?” he asks.
“Which part?”
“That you’re always invited.”
“Yeah,” Xavi breathes, and that’s his best friend, and David can barely hear him over the hammer of his own heart and because he knows Xavi so well, knows every part of him, the good and the bad, he knows he feels the same way.
“So stop fucking around and get over here,” David says, and the line’s dead almost before he’s done. He laughs out loud.
Xavi shows up in basketball shorts with takeout in his hand, David’s favorite, and immediately it’s easy, because it has to be, because they know what it’s like to have it and then not have it, to go without. They settle into the couch and find some game Xavi wants to watch-an Asian league, and David almost laughs until he cries and Xavi says he doesn’t see what’s funny-and they argue about tactics and root for opposite sides and their knees touch in front of the coffee table and Xavi steals the last eggroll because he always steals the last eggroll, because David lets him.
And when the game is over and the last of the food is cleared away, there’s no hesitation to go up to David’s room-no hesitation to slide beneath the covers, slide hands beneath shirts until they’re chest to chest, stomach to stomach, fingertips on jaws and there’s no waiting, no waiting, no more waiting, David’s shorts join his shirt in a pile on the floor, they’re laughing because it’s been so long, too long, but it’s comfortable-no waiting-
He wants to slow down, make it last, but it’s almost impossible. Xavi’s mouth is hot on his, the same as it always was, quick and precise, and he wants more and more and more. He shifts his hips until they’re pressed together, length to length and he has to break their mouths apart to groan because it feels so good so perfect and Xavi’s laughing again, his eyes bright.
David cuts him off by wrapping a fist around both of them together, as much as he can, tugging, and Xavi makes a noise low in his throat, one David hasn’t heard before but wants to hear again again again. He moves his hand quickly but it’s not enough, not enough for Xavi either, he knows. Not enough until he’s pressing in, and it’s been such a long time coming it takes all his energy just not to pass out, and then he’s in and Xavi’s breath is hot across his cheek and he seeks out Xavi’s eyes, finds them, thinks, you you you you and sees it reflected right back at him.
And after, David falls asleep easily, Xavi’s arm flung across his chest, dreams of nothing; and if he’s waiting for anything, it’s just to wake up.