pasts, presents, and presence.
Title: Pasts, Presents, and Presence
Pairings: Raúl González / Guti Hernández, Xabi Alonso / Steven Gerrard, David Silva / David Villa, Sergio Ramos / Fernando Torres, David Beckham / Iker Casillas.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: One world cup; five ways to say 'I love you'.
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism is very welcome.
It's not a bitterness so much as a longing, an almost childlike want for something that seemingly everyone has but he doesn't. It's sadness hidden behind a smile and a handclap when Villa scores his first, before he realises that he's not in the crowd and needn't stretch himself with displays of solidarity, and he falls further back into the sofa bearing a mix of relief and pleasure and an envy that he tries to lock away.
Guti recognises this, because he feels it himself. He's just a little better at hiding it; a practised hand.
Raúl doesn't say much as the match comes to a close, making only the occasional comment about how little he knows about the Honduran team; how nice it is to see Álvaro get a few World Cup minutes; how, as soon as the match ends, Iker will undoubtedly be teasing Villa for not managing to score a hat-trick. He keeps his voice light as he speaks, but Guti can hear him wondering what he himself would have done as captain; whether he would have done anything differently; whether the fact that he isn't there to do things differently is the reason why Spain have the three points, the 'favourite' tag, their name etched into European history.
He doesn't look up at Guti throughout the entire ninety - as though he's scared of betraying his feelings of inadequate smallness should he offer anything more than his noncomittal voice. Guti glances over at him more than he does the television screen; it's his place to make things a little easier, but the words don't quite come to him, and he merely 'hmm's in response to the little observations into which Raúl is, valiantly, putting so much effort.
The match comes to an end far more welcome than it should be, and as the red-kitted figures slap backs and shake hands, Guti reaches for the remote and hits mute. Raúl barely seems to notice, blankly still wearing the smallest of smiles as he watches the celebrations.
"You don't have to force yourself to feel happy for them," Guti offers.
"What? No - I am, I'm very happy for them," Raúl replies quickly, looking somewhat stricken.
"They haven't forgotten you, those boys on the pitch," Guti says after a pause. "Just because you're not out there, it doesn't mean you're not a part of it."
"No, I know," Raúl says, unconvinced, but trying to sound convincing. "I feel like an older brother to them. A proud older brother, watching my little brothers grow up and take on the world."
Guti watches Raúl for a moment, the light melancholy of his words matched by a distance in his gaze, his body sinking into the sofa as though he doesn't want to emerge again. Guti speaks softly. "I'm glad you were never an older brother to me."
Raúl raises an eyebrow, still looking ahead blankly at the advertisement now flashing across the television screen. "Oh? Why?"
"Because I would never have had this."
And slowly, so slowly, Guti reaches up a hand to cup the side of Raúl's face, and Raúl's eyes flash with surprise before closing. Fingertips leaf through the curls that tumble over Raúl's hairline, and barely perceptibly, Guti leans in closer, his leg curling up onto the sofa behind him. His other hand meets Raúl's, and they lock together, their lips meeting, eyelids fluttering and remaining stubbornly closed, as though to open them would break the moment and bring them back to the disappointment of the world outside of them, outside of this small perfection. All they can feel, taste, want is each other.
And Raúl's childlike want for something that everyone has is forgotten for those minutes of protracted ecstasy, when he alone has Guti.
* * * * *
Steven is usually quite good on the phone, never having been able to understand those people who shirk phone conversations in favour of texts. He doesn't have the patience for text-messaging. The wait for the other person to reply simply isn't conducive to fluid conversation, and he just finds himself fidgeting and getting frustrated if the person misses the point of whatever he was trying to say in a mere 150 characters.
He doesn't flourish in person, either. He has entertained the idea that there's something about his facial expressions that put people off when he's talking to them, but it's surely too much to ask him to miraculously get rid of his frown lines. That people tend to take everything so personally when dealing with him face-to-face leads him to prefer the phone, where his goddamn frown can't get in the way of interpretation; where it's just voices, words, and nothing in between but breaths.
But his spirits have fallen through the floor and now rest somewhere near the lower mantle of the earth, and it's all he can do to escape the hungry journalists, endure the devastatingly quiet bus ride back to the hotel, and lose himself in the physical pain of post-match, desperately finding a distraction from thoughts of Germany's four humiliating, triumphant, bullying goals.
He's relieved to have Carra as his roommate, not possessing the energy to console younger lads - to hell with his captain's duty, he thinks - and worried that he'll punch someone's lights out if he'd had to come back to one of the Chelsea faces. As it happens, he has Carra - wonderful, quiet Carra - who sits on his bed reading his consolatory text messages for a few minutes before disappearing into the shower, leaving Steven with only merciful peace for company, as he has done every year, after every loss, when it's been the red shirt of Liverpool that Steven has depressedly pulled off his back rather than the red of England.
It's as though his body, his reactions, have completely switched off. His eyes won't even close, wanting only to stare unseeingly at the wall in front. He focuses on the pain of bruised legs and cramp and fatigue, but they only momentarily take him out of his looping replay of the ninety minutes that he wish had never happened. He can barely bring himself to move, a mental exhaustion as much as physical.
And when his phone rings, he hasn't life enough to brave an actual conversation. He expects his voice to falter if he were to try. Too depressed, too utterly defeated to face even the gentlest sympathies, he lets the caller go through to his voicemail, and it's only a few minutes later, after the longest message in history has been left, that he picks up the little slice of metal and plastic to see Xabi's name on the screen.
He looks at it for a moment, blankly - that's all he's capable of - before, with a sigh that takes a world of energy to muster, he hits the speakerphone button and lets the message play. He regrets it as soon as the crackling starts.
"It's me. Bad luck. I watched the match, obviously. There's not much to say about it, I suppose." Xabi's voice is quick and clipped, as though he's rattling off a list of things that he'd planned to mention and is making sure that he leaves nothing out. "I think you were unlucky. Not your team, so much, but you.
"I sometimes wish you would just leave the national team, and stop putting yourself through this. And I sometimes wish you were Spanish. I -" Xabi laughs a little, "I always wish you were Spanish.
"So, yes - I called to say bad luck, and I hope you're okay. I know you're not, but it's worth saying anyway. Maybe it'll push you to be more okay than you are. To remember that you're better than this."
Steven's breath is completely still as he hears Xabi's deep intake of breath through the crackling of the phone.
"But I won't say that I'm sorry, because if you'd stayed in the tournament, I might have had to play against you, and that would have killed me," Xabi's voice says matter-of-factly. "Not because you're a great player, not because it'd be weird to play against you - but because one of us would have to win, and one of us would have to lose, and I think we've had enough heartbreak, you and me."
There is another hesitation, before Xabi resumes speaking in the same rushed manner. "And because it would feel wrong, not passing the ball to you, not cheering if you score, not running up to you and..." A heavy sigh. "And it's hard enough to watch you play on the TV screen, and know that I can't hold you if you lose, or if you win... Even to say 'you' instead of 'we', it's - it's... hard. But it would be harder like this, in real life, instead of on TV... So, in a way, in a big way, I'm glad that one of us is going home before that happens. It makes it easier to pretend that it's just 2006 once more, and we'll see each other again, in training, in the rain."
The break in speech here lasts for a good ten seconds, interrupted only by soft breaths as Steven feels something tighten inside of his chest, and he clamps his jaw shut to keep himself locked in the cold, numb state of impenetrable shock that he's been wrapped inside since the final whistle, to keep himself from breaking down.
"That's all I had to say, I suppose. Well, more than I had to say, but all that I wanted to," Xabi says, slower now. "Goodbye, Stevie."
Steven immediately hits Xabi's name on the screen, and there is a moment's hesitation as he decides whether or not to hit the green button in response to his phone's 'Call back?' But before his finger can trace its usual path to the red button, a new message flashes up on the screen.
From: Xabi; Time: 23:19.
'P.S. Get some sleep.'
Steven actually smiles, and snaps his phone shut.
* * * * *
The best moments are when Silva is caught up in la furia roja, in being a part of the best team in the world and showing, little by little, match by match, that what happened two years ago wasn't a fluke. He latches onto the minutes of running and screaming and celebrating when he forgets that once this glorious month in South Africa comes to a close, the colour of the shirts on his chest and on Villa's will no longer be the same.
Silva tries to be happy for him, but the effort he pulls out to drag the corners of his mouth into a smile surprises even himself. He doesn't want to grin it out, to carry on as though he's not losing sleep in adolescent panics sprung on by losing love. All he wants is something to hold onto, to get him through the next year or two years or whatever length of time that it'll keep hurting - a token of everything they've shared, to convince himself that it was all real, that the distance between them wasn't always there. He wants to know that Villa won't forget.
He'll remember it now, but how long is now, anyway? Silva counts down the days. Eight, if they make the final. (They have to make the final; anything less than eight days would feel like a mere minute at this point.) Ten, if they win and take the Cup home to show their neighbours, their supporters, their doubters what they've achieved. Eleven, if Villa drinks as much as he did in 2008 and has to stay an extra night in Madrid.
Villa is all laughter and bad jokes preceded by winks and followed by embraces. His joviality coerces a reluctant smile from Silva, whose heavy regret would only be compounded by guilt if he were to ask for something more, something just for him, something that Villa dishes out thoughtlessly for his teammates at large. Perhaps, Silva supposes, he is just one of them now, one of the crowd. Perhaps he shouldn't expect a quiet word aside from a man who knows nothing of silence, or a kiss from a man whose tenderness has always been manifest in dug-in fingernails and bitten lips and pounding, bruising sex.
Silva nonetheless clings to the eleven days that lie ahead of them; there's something wonderfully naïve about him that stops him from losing that hope. He makes plans of things that he'll do and say on each of those days, to make them all count, to make those last eleven days the best they've ever shared. But he knows that he'll never actually do and say them.
The first day passes into a night of regret. The second, the third. By the time the morning of the semi-final arrives, he finds himself throwing desperately long glances in Villa's direction, as though willing himself to memorise his face more clearly, to know that smile and frown and stillness and hyperactivity as thoroughly, as permanently, as possible.
Silva measures out the game by the movements of Villa's face - his frustration, his fears, his triumphs. The first half is Silva watching Villa darting around the German defense in search of a perfect ball that never comes, the striker's determination and enterprise matched by Silva's jittery impatience on the bench, nerves that show themselves in twitching feet in those seconds that he forgets he's not on the pitch. Half-time sees rushed chattering and cold showers, faces rapt with attention as the manager spills out his last licks of inspiration onto the team which can taste victory on its tongue but daren't let it slip away.
"Hey." Silva regrets reaching out his hand to Villa's shoulder as he, surprised and with his mind on the match, turns and raises his eyebrows. "Good - good luck out there."
He is relieved when Villa smiles, faintly amused. "You already said that before the match."
"Well, this is a new half," Silva shrugs, his darkened cheeks matching those flushed around him as the heat of the game's first forty-five minutes has only heightened as they await the second.
If he'd expected a squeeze on his shoulder, or a prolonged gaze - anything more than the smile that anyone else would get - he'd be disappointed. But in the frantic, overpowering haze of half-time, a smile is all he really wants or needs. Its image remains dancing at the front of his mind as the team make their way back out onto the pitch and Silva takes his seat on the bench again, welcoming a new onset of terror and of hope.
The minutes slide by as hope turns to a helpless panic and the boys on the bench are leaping up and throwing their hands on their heads at every wasted opportunity, and at every opportunity that doesn't come. Silva watches Villa like a man possessed, as though his continued attention can will him on; as though he hopes that Villa knows he's doing it. But when Carles sends the ball into the back of the net and Silva is lost in hands and bodies and shouting, in the blind delirium of celebration, his head, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, is clear of Villa. Afterward, he immediately feels guilty for it, but with the slightest shake of his head, he supposes that he wouldn't want Villa to be thinking of him in this moment, either.
Villa slides into the seat next to him after the fourth official's lit-up board shows the number seven. Silva grins at him, and Villa, more distracted and more delighted, grins back.
"We're nearly there, baby!"
Silva laughs. "There's still a good ten minutes left. And then there'll be injury time, and you never know with these Germans -"
"You're such a killjoy," Villa chuckles, punching Silva playfully. "That's one thing about you that I won't miss."
Silva doesn't have time to think about how Villa will and won't miss him, and whether the fact that missing is to be done at all means anything - whether it means the acceptance of an end that Silva isn't ready for, and will never be ready for - as the manager shouts out his name and he finds himself dragging his sweatshirt over his head and running onto the pitch for the last few minutes of the match.
The celebrations after the final whistle cart Silva along like a man on parade, waving to crowds for whom he feels he's done little. They take him around the pitch and through the tunnel and into a jubilant locker room that smells of champagne before any of the players have even gotten inside, and he finds himself pushed up against a wall as his teammates lose themselves in front of him, the picture of men who have defied the past and made a new present.
The only thing that's missing is the sense of connection that saw Silva dancing and singing along two years ago, but it walks in last and searches for him before looking at him straight, baldly but warmly. And everything else disappears.
Silva holds the gaze for the longest seconds of silence. The shouts and singing around them are drowned out for those moments, when all he knows is Villa. And, through the mess between them, he sees Villa raise a hand and point to him, before putting the same hand on his heart.
And there's Silva's token.
Silva gives Villa the tiniest of nods, something in his heart flaring up and making him tremble slightly, and he smiles in relief and gratitude and quiet, blazing triumph, before turning away. Villa's face stretching into the warmest grin he's ever worn is what Silva will carry with him until their next memory is made.
* * * * *
The pounding of dancefloors streets away where their teammates have been claimed by rhythms of inebriation and celebration are the furthest thing from Fernando and Sergio's minds, as they pump out their own beat, on top of sheets which are supposed to lay above them, half hanging off of a bed which doesn't belong to either of them. The World Cup glints in the corner of the room, lying on its side, having been entrusted to Sergio with a knowing look from Iker as the rest of the team headed out into the starry night of victory's aftermath, and Sergio, the Cup in one hand, Fernando's fingers in the other, headed for quieter terrain.
But quiet, it is not. It is grunting and thrusting, the pauses in which are filled by heavy breaths as Fernando, standing, pours himself into Sergio with shuddering, determined force, and Sergio's body, legs spread as he takes it, submits to the frantic back-and-forth, the undulation of bodies and the guttoral moans of tired throats.
It would be perfect but for the fact that there's no warmth in Fernando's half-closed eyes or the mouth that lingers on Sergio's skin for torturous seconds too long before teeth and a tongue leave their marks. Sergio feels terrible for it, but he casts his mind back to this moment two years ago, when he and Fernando were united in their blind, youthful delirium and their sex was languid and loving. Their climaxes had seemed to collide, fingers slicked across skin, easy and inviting, and their breaths had been quietly laughed out through smiles of disbelief and fervour.
Tonight, Fernando won't even look at Sergio. His eyes travel over his body, or they lose themselves in the nothingness of the room that houses their raw, unfeeling love. It's reminiscent of the past month, when Fernando's smiles have been only half-meant, and quickly faded; when his celebrations have been tempered by the knowledge that he didn't cause them; when his kisses have been rough pecks on the lips and his hand hasn't held Sergio's. There's a sadness, a lack of worth, in the face that should be jubilant, a frustration in a body that should be exhilarant.
In the space between them, Fernando has put up a wall, and Sergio can't smell his skin or see the freckles that summer's tan has hidden. Fernando moves quicker and Sergio grabs onto the sheets and tries to keep his body mirroring Fernando's, to keep the rhythm going. But it's dictation, and Sergio can't feel anything but slipping heat, and while every line on Fernando's face suggests satisfaction, for the first time that night, Sergio feels empty.
He needs Fernando to know that nothing's changed in two years. That together, they're undefeated. That - more than anything - they're together. So he stills his aching body and Fernando, surprised, at last looks at him. Slowly, Sergio lifts himself up until their chests are together, and Fernando has nothing to see but the warm calm in Sergio's eyes. Sergio's arms wrap around Fernando and his hips buck, and it's he who takes them to the end, who opens himself up and let's Fernando's busy, tremulous mind, in time with his body, empty itself. It hits the spot and Sergio's legs seem to give out, and his back draws itself down onto the sheets. Sergio's hands still on Fernando's back, the striker collapses onto Sergio and he is still going, still lost in the physical of it all, when Sergio pulls his hips back a bit and looks down at his lover.
He doesn't wait for his breath to steady but for Fernando's. And looking hard into those huge, brown eyes that know only detached determination, he says, "You're perfect."
He doesn't expect it, but Fernando comes with the faintest of gasps and the next thing he knows, their mouths are together and Fernando is kissing him with the kind of furious gratitude that Sergio never wanted him to have to feel. He reaches up a hand to trail through Fernando's hair, but Fernando grabs it and holds it in his own. And, Fernando sliding warmly back into Sergio and Sergio only able to feel skin and tongue and sweat as Fernando, at last, is so close, the wall comes down.
* * * * *
It's been a long while since Iker last found himself in unfamiliar territory. He finds it funny that, sitting here in one of the only places in London that he knows better than the arrivals gate at Heathrow, waiting for the man he knows better than anyone, he feels vulnerable. He should be feeling on top of the world - his name in football history says that he is. But he's filled with a teenage sort of nervousness as his watch ticks down to four o'clock.
David had called Iker for the first time in two years. It wasn't that they hadn't stayed in touch; it was just that conversations hadn't factored into it. Their relationship had been Christmas cards and text messages of congratulations and happy birthdays - never a real engagement of words, of voices, of effort. Iker had ignored the call, because he hadn't had a clue what to do with it. A few minutes later, David had sent a message through: 'Right. I don't want our first conversation to be over the phone, either.'
A series of texts had ensued - careful, terse messages that finally suggested that they meet up, and tried to arrange a place. David had suggested a hotel room - though he'd been quick to assure that nothing need happen inside said hotel room. Iker wanted something more public, something under the eyes of strangers who would stop them from being anything more than civil - anything more than old teammates meeting up for coffee. He didn't read the keenness in David's quick acquiescence; after all these years, he still expects it.
So Iker finds himself on a bench at one of Hyde Park's many edges, the sun still high in summer languor, two take-away cups of coffee beside him, and his feet tapping restlessly on patchy grass, ready to walk swiftly away. His heart is racing with an excitement that he mistakes for dread, and, in these moments, he forgets how much he's been aching to see David, and can only think about how not to let it show.
When he sees David, he thinks something along the lines of 'He looks good, and older, and thinner'. It's a messy sort of obligation that frames his thoughts, as he forces himself to leave want and need and regret behind and assume a distant sort of objectivity when taking David in - seeing him as nothing more than an old teammate whom he's meeting for coffee.
But, good lord, if he doesn't look beautiful.
It feels as though every eye in the park is on them, though there is hardly anyone around in this particular corner, and both David and Iker are covered in sunglasses and hats and long-sleeved shirts which London's cooler summer makes less conspicuous. They nod their hello's, taking care not to do anything, keeping everything in eyes that are unwrapped as sunglasses are reluctantly taken off.
The first thing that David says is "Congratulations". He says it with a smile laced with as much trepidation as warmth, as well as a silent apology for not having spilled out the word in one of his untidy text messages.
"Thank you," Iker replies, not noticing that he's stood up, or that his breath seems to have abandoned him. And then, it just tumbles out. "I've really missed you."
The relief that crosses David's face elicits the same relief in Iker, a smile meeting a smile. 'I've missed you, too. So much." David is shaking his head and Iker's is light and it's as though two years of what should have been finally is. "So much," David repeats, his voice soft with the kind of urgency that he can't convey outside of his words in the bright light of daytime London. "I can't even say how much."
But in that moment, 'I miss you' is 'I love you'; thumping hearts mean entwined fingers and lingering lips and familiar tastes; and when they stare at each other for five, ten, fifteen minutes without saying anything more, they're making love. It doesn't matter that they're not touching; it's the closest they've been in a long time. In that moment, they're back in their memories, and everything is perfect again, as though imperfection never was.
Pairings: Raúl González / Guti Hernández, Xabi Alonso / Steven Gerrard, David Silva / David Villa, Sergio Ramos / Fernando Torres, David Beckham / Iker Casillas.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: One world cup; five ways to say 'I love you'.
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism is very welcome.
It's not a bitterness so much as a longing, an almost childlike want for something that seemingly everyone has but he doesn't. It's sadness hidden behind a smile and a handclap when Villa scores his first, before he realises that he's not in the crowd and needn't stretch himself with displays of solidarity, and he falls further back into the sofa bearing a mix of relief and pleasure and an envy that he tries to lock away.
Guti recognises this, because he feels it himself. He's just a little better at hiding it; a practised hand.
Raúl doesn't say much as the match comes to a close, making only the occasional comment about how little he knows about the Honduran team; how nice it is to see Álvaro get a few World Cup minutes; how, as soon as the match ends, Iker will undoubtedly be teasing Villa for not managing to score a hat-trick. He keeps his voice light as he speaks, but Guti can hear him wondering what he himself would have done as captain; whether he would have done anything differently; whether the fact that he isn't there to do things differently is the reason why Spain have the three points, the 'favourite' tag, their name etched into European history.
He doesn't look up at Guti throughout the entire ninety - as though he's scared of betraying his feelings of inadequate smallness should he offer anything more than his noncomittal voice. Guti glances over at him more than he does the television screen; it's his place to make things a little easier, but the words don't quite come to him, and he merely 'hmm's in response to the little observations into which Raúl is, valiantly, putting so much effort.
The match comes to an end far more welcome than it should be, and as the red-kitted figures slap backs and shake hands, Guti reaches for the remote and hits mute. Raúl barely seems to notice, blankly still wearing the smallest of smiles as he watches the celebrations.
"You don't have to force yourself to feel happy for them," Guti offers.
"What? No - I am, I'm very happy for them," Raúl replies quickly, looking somewhat stricken.
"They haven't forgotten you, those boys on the pitch," Guti says after a pause. "Just because you're not out there, it doesn't mean you're not a part of it."
"No, I know," Raúl says, unconvinced, but trying to sound convincing. "I feel like an older brother to them. A proud older brother, watching my little brothers grow up and take on the world."
Guti watches Raúl for a moment, the light melancholy of his words matched by a distance in his gaze, his body sinking into the sofa as though he doesn't want to emerge again. Guti speaks softly. "I'm glad you were never an older brother to me."
Raúl raises an eyebrow, still looking ahead blankly at the advertisement now flashing across the television screen. "Oh? Why?"
"Because I would never have had this."
And slowly, so slowly, Guti reaches up a hand to cup the side of Raúl's face, and Raúl's eyes flash with surprise before closing. Fingertips leaf through the curls that tumble over Raúl's hairline, and barely perceptibly, Guti leans in closer, his leg curling up onto the sofa behind him. His other hand meets Raúl's, and they lock together, their lips meeting, eyelids fluttering and remaining stubbornly closed, as though to open them would break the moment and bring them back to the disappointment of the world outside of them, outside of this small perfection. All they can feel, taste, want is each other.
And Raúl's childlike want for something that everyone has is forgotten for those minutes of protracted ecstasy, when he alone has Guti.
* * * * *
Steven is usually quite good on the phone, never having been able to understand those people who shirk phone conversations in favour of texts. He doesn't have the patience for text-messaging. The wait for the other person to reply simply isn't conducive to fluid conversation, and he just finds himself fidgeting and getting frustrated if the person misses the point of whatever he was trying to say in a mere 150 characters.
He doesn't flourish in person, either. He has entertained the idea that there's something about his facial expressions that put people off when he's talking to them, but it's surely too much to ask him to miraculously get rid of his frown lines. That people tend to take everything so personally when dealing with him face-to-face leads him to prefer the phone, where his goddamn frown can't get in the way of interpretation; where it's just voices, words, and nothing in between but breaths.
But his spirits have fallen through the floor and now rest somewhere near the lower mantle of the earth, and it's all he can do to escape the hungry journalists, endure the devastatingly quiet bus ride back to the hotel, and lose himself in the physical pain of post-match, desperately finding a distraction from thoughts of Germany's four humiliating, triumphant, bullying goals.
He's relieved to have Carra as his roommate, not possessing the energy to console younger lads - to hell with his captain's duty, he thinks - and worried that he'll punch someone's lights out if he'd had to come back to one of the Chelsea faces. As it happens, he has Carra - wonderful, quiet Carra - who sits on his bed reading his consolatory text messages for a few minutes before disappearing into the shower, leaving Steven with only merciful peace for company, as he has done every year, after every loss, when it's been the red shirt of Liverpool that Steven has depressedly pulled off his back rather than the red of England.
It's as though his body, his reactions, have completely switched off. His eyes won't even close, wanting only to stare unseeingly at the wall in front. He focuses on the pain of bruised legs and cramp and fatigue, but they only momentarily take him out of his looping replay of the ninety minutes that he wish had never happened. He can barely bring himself to move, a mental exhaustion as much as physical.
And when his phone rings, he hasn't life enough to brave an actual conversation. He expects his voice to falter if he were to try. Too depressed, too utterly defeated to face even the gentlest sympathies, he lets the caller go through to his voicemail, and it's only a few minutes later, after the longest message in history has been left, that he picks up the little slice of metal and plastic to see Xabi's name on the screen.
He looks at it for a moment, blankly - that's all he's capable of - before, with a sigh that takes a world of energy to muster, he hits the speakerphone button and lets the message play. He regrets it as soon as the crackling starts.
"It's me. Bad luck. I watched the match, obviously. There's not much to say about it, I suppose." Xabi's voice is quick and clipped, as though he's rattling off a list of things that he'd planned to mention and is making sure that he leaves nothing out. "I think you were unlucky. Not your team, so much, but you.
"I sometimes wish you would just leave the national team, and stop putting yourself through this. And I sometimes wish you were Spanish. I -" Xabi laughs a little, "I always wish you were Spanish.
"So, yes - I called to say bad luck, and I hope you're okay. I know you're not, but it's worth saying anyway. Maybe it'll push you to be more okay than you are. To remember that you're better than this."
Steven's breath is completely still as he hears Xabi's deep intake of breath through the crackling of the phone.
"But I won't say that I'm sorry, because if you'd stayed in the tournament, I might have had to play against you, and that would have killed me," Xabi's voice says matter-of-factly. "Not because you're a great player, not because it'd be weird to play against you - but because one of us would have to win, and one of us would have to lose, and I think we've had enough heartbreak, you and me."
There is another hesitation, before Xabi resumes speaking in the same rushed manner. "And because it would feel wrong, not passing the ball to you, not cheering if you score, not running up to you and..." A heavy sigh. "And it's hard enough to watch you play on the TV screen, and know that I can't hold you if you lose, or if you win... Even to say 'you' instead of 'we', it's - it's... hard. But it would be harder like this, in real life, instead of on TV... So, in a way, in a big way, I'm glad that one of us is going home before that happens. It makes it easier to pretend that it's just 2006 once more, and we'll see each other again, in training, in the rain."
The break in speech here lasts for a good ten seconds, interrupted only by soft breaths as Steven feels something tighten inside of his chest, and he clamps his jaw shut to keep himself locked in the cold, numb state of impenetrable shock that he's been wrapped inside since the final whistle, to keep himself from breaking down.
"That's all I had to say, I suppose. Well, more than I had to say, but all that I wanted to," Xabi says, slower now. "Goodbye, Stevie."
Steven immediately hits Xabi's name on the screen, and there is a moment's hesitation as he decides whether or not to hit the green button in response to his phone's 'Call back?' But before his finger can trace its usual path to the red button, a new message flashes up on the screen.
From: Xabi; Time: 23:19.
'P.S. Get some sleep.'
Steven actually smiles, and snaps his phone shut.
* * * * *
The best moments are when Silva is caught up in la furia roja, in being a part of the best team in the world and showing, little by little, match by match, that what happened two years ago wasn't a fluke. He latches onto the minutes of running and screaming and celebrating when he forgets that once this glorious month in South Africa comes to a close, the colour of the shirts on his chest and on Villa's will no longer be the same.
Silva tries to be happy for him, but the effort he pulls out to drag the corners of his mouth into a smile surprises even himself. He doesn't want to grin it out, to carry on as though he's not losing sleep in adolescent panics sprung on by losing love. All he wants is something to hold onto, to get him through the next year or two years or whatever length of time that it'll keep hurting - a token of everything they've shared, to convince himself that it was all real, that the distance between them wasn't always there. He wants to know that Villa won't forget.
He'll remember it now, but how long is now, anyway? Silva counts down the days. Eight, if they make the final. (They have to make the final; anything less than eight days would feel like a mere minute at this point.) Ten, if they win and take the Cup home to show their neighbours, their supporters, their doubters what they've achieved. Eleven, if Villa drinks as much as he did in 2008 and has to stay an extra night in Madrid.
Villa is all laughter and bad jokes preceded by winks and followed by embraces. His joviality coerces a reluctant smile from Silva, whose heavy regret would only be compounded by guilt if he were to ask for something more, something just for him, something that Villa dishes out thoughtlessly for his teammates at large. Perhaps, Silva supposes, he is just one of them now, one of the crowd. Perhaps he shouldn't expect a quiet word aside from a man who knows nothing of silence, or a kiss from a man whose tenderness has always been manifest in dug-in fingernails and bitten lips and pounding, bruising sex.
Silva nonetheless clings to the eleven days that lie ahead of them; there's something wonderfully naïve about him that stops him from losing that hope. He makes plans of things that he'll do and say on each of those days, to make them all count, to make those last eleven days the best they've ever shared. But he knows that he'll never actually do and say them.
The first day passes into a night of regret. The second, the third. By the time the morning of the semi-final arrives, he finds himself throwing desperately long glances in Villa's direction, as though willing himself to memorise his face more clearly, to know that smile and frown and stillness and hyperactivity as thoroughly, as permanently, as possible.
Silva measures out the game by the movements of Villa's face - his frustration, his fears, his triumphs. The first half is Silva watching Villa darting around the German defense in search of a perfect ball that never comes, the striker's determination and enterprise matched by Silva's jittery impatience on the bench, nerves that show themselves in twitching feet in those seconds that he forgets he's not on the pitch. Half-time sees rushed chattering and cold showers, faces rapt with attention as the manager spills out his last licks of inspiration onto the team which can taste victory on its tongue but daren't let it slip away.
"Hey." Silva regrets reaching out his hand to Villa's shoulder as he, surprised and with his mind on the match, turns and raises his eyebrows. "Good - good luck out there."
He is relieved when Villa smiles, faintly amused. "You already said that before the match."
"Well, this is a new half," Silva shrugs, his darkened cheeks matching those flushed around him as the heat of the game's first forty-five minutes has only heightened as they await the second.
If he'd expected a squeeze on his shoulder, or a prolonged gaze - anything more than the smile that anyone else would get - he'd be disappointed. But in the frantic, overpowering haze of half-time, a smile is all he really wants or needs. Its image remains dancing at the front of his mind as the team make their way back out onto the pitch and Silva takes his seat on the bench again, welcoming a new onset of terror and of hope.
The minutes slide by as hope turns to a helpless panic and the boys on the bench are leaping up and throwing their hands on their heads at every wasted opportunity, and at every opportunity that doesn't come. Silva watches Villa like a man possessed, as though his continued attention can will him on; as though he hopes that Villa knows he's doing it. But when Carles sends the ball into the back of the net and Silva is lost in hands and bodies and shouting, in the blind delirium of celebration, his head, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, is clear of Villa. Afterward, he immediately feels guilty for it, but with the slightest shake of his head, he supposes that he wouldn't want Villa to be thinking of him in this moment, either.
Villa slides into the seat next to him after the fourth official's lit-up board shows the number seven. Silva grins at him, and Villa, more distracted and more delighted, grins back.
"We're nearly there, baby!"
Silva laughs. "There's still a good ten minutes left. And then there'll be injury time, and you never know with these Germans -"
"You're such a killjoy," Villa chuckles, punching Silva playfully. "That's one thing about you that I won't miss."
Silva doesn't have time to think about how Villa will and won't miss him, and whether the fact that missing is to be done at all means anything - whether it means the acceptance of an end that Silva isn't ready for, and will never be ready for - as the manager shouts out his name and he finds himself dragging his sweatshirt over his head and running onto the pitch for the last few minutes of the match.
The celebrations after the final whistle cart Silva along like a man on parade, waving to crowds for whom he feels he's done little. They take him around the pitch and through the tunnel and into a jubilant locker room that smells of champagne before any of the players have even gotten inside, and he finds himself pushed up against a wall as his teammates lose themselves in front of him, the picture of men who have defied the past and made a new present.
The only thing that's missing is the sense of connection that saw Silva dancing and singing along two years ago, but it walks in last and searches for him before looking at him straight, baldly but warmly. And everything else disappears.
Silva holds the gaze for the longest seconds of silence. The shouts and singing around them are drowned out for those moments, when all he knows is Villa. And, through the mess between them, he sees Villa raise a hand and point to him, before putting the same hand on his heart.
And there's Silva's token.
Silva gives Villa the tiniest of nods, something in his heart flaring up and making him tremble slightly, and he smiles in relief and gratitude and quiet, blazing triumph, before turning away. Villa's face stretching into the warmest grin he's ever worn is what Silva will carry with him until their next memory is made.
* * * * *
The pounding of dancefloors streets away where their teammates have been claimed by rhythms of inebriation and celebration are the furthest thing from Fernando and Sergio's minds, as they pump out their own beat, on top of sheets which are supposed to lay above them, half hanging off of a bed which doesn't belong to either of them. The World Cup glints in the corner of the room, lying on its side, having been entrusted to Sergio with a knowing look from Iker as the rest of the team headed out into the starry night of victory's aftermath, and Sergio, the Cup in one hand, Fernando's fingers in the other, headed for quieter terrain.
But quiet, it is not. It is grunting and thrusting, the pauses in which are filled by heavy breaths as Fernando, standing, pours himself into Sergio with shuddering, determined force, and Sergio's body, legs spread as he takes it, submits to the frantic back-and-forth, the undulation of bodies and the guttoral moans of tired throats.
It would be perfect but for the fact that there's no warmth in Fernando's half-closed eyes or the mouth that lingers on Sergio's skin for torturous seconds too long before teeth and a tongue leave their marks. Sergio feels terrible for it, but he casts his mind back to this moment two years ago, when he and Fernando were united in their blind, youthful delirium and their sex was languid and loving. Their climaxes had seemed to collide, fingers slicked across skin, easy and inviting, and their breaths had been quietly laughed out through smiles of disbelief and fervour.
Tonight, Fernando won't even look at Sergio. His eyes travel over his body, or they lose themselves in the nothingness of the room that houses their raw, unfeeling love. It's reminiscent of the past month, when Fernando's smiles have been only half-meant, and quickly faded; when his celebrations have been tempered by the knowledge that he didn't cause them; when his kisses have been rough pecks on the lips and his hand hasn't held Sergio's. There's a sadness, a lack of worth, in the face that should be jubilant, a frustration in a body that should be exhilarant.
In the space between them, Fernando has put up a wall, and Sergio can't smell his skin or see the freckles that summer's tan has hidden. Fernando moves quicker and Sergio grabs onto the sheets and tries to keep his body mirroring Fernando's, to keep the rhythm going. But it's dictation, and Sergio can't feel anything but slipping heat, and while every line on Fernando's face suggests satisfaction, for the first time that night, Sergio feels empty.
He needs Fernando to know that nothing's changed in two years. That together, they're undefeated. That - more than anything - they're together. So he stills his aching body and Fernando, surprised, at last looks at him. Slowly, Sergio lifts himself up until their chests are together, and Fernando has nothing to see but the warm calm in Sergio's eyes. Sergio's arms wrap around Fernando and his hips buck, and it's he who takes them to the end, who opens himself up and let's Fernando's busy, tremulous mind, in time with his body, empty itself. It hits the spot and Sergio's legs seem to give out, and his back draws itself down onto the sheets. Sergio's hands still on Fernando's back, the striker collapses onto Sergio and he is still going, still lost in the physical of it all, when Sergio pulls his hips back a bit and looks down at his lover.
He doesn't wait for his breath to steady but for Fernando's. And looking hard into those huge, brown eyes that know only detached determination, he says, "You're perfect."
He doesn't expect it, but Fernando comes with the faintest of gasps and the next thing he knows, their mouths are together and Fernando is kissing him with the kind of furious gratitude that Sergio never wanted him to have to feel. He reaches up a hand to trail through Fernando's hair, but Fernando grabs it and holds it in his own. And, Fernando sliding warmly back into Sergio and Sergio only able to feel skin and tongue and sweat as Fernando, at last, is so close, the wall comes down.
* * * * *
It's been a long while since Iker last found himself in unfamiliar territory. He finds it funny that, sitting here in one of the only places in London that he knows better than the arrivals gate at Heathrow, waiting for the man he knows better than anyone, he feels vulnerable. He should be feeling on top of the world - his name in football history says that he is. But he's filled with a teenage sort of nervousness as his watch ticks down to four o'clock.
David had called Iker for the first time in two years. It wasn't that they hadn't stayed in touch; it was just that conversations hadn't factored into it. Their relationship had been Christmas cards and text messages of congratulations and happy birthdays - never a real engagement of words, of voices, of effort. Iker had ignored the call, because he hadn't had a clue what to do with it. A few minutes later, David had sent a message through: 'Right. I don't want our first conversation to be over the phone, either.'
A series of texts had ensued - careful, terse messages that finally suggested that they meet up, and tried to arrange a place. David had suggested a hotel room - though he'd been quick to assure that nothing need happen inside said hotel room. Iker wanted something more public, something under the eyes of strangers who would stop them from being anything more than civil - anything more than old teammates meeting up for coffee. He didn't read the keenness in David's quick acquiescence; after all these years, he still expects it.
So Iker finds himself on a bench at one of Hyde Park's many edges, the sun still high in summer languor, two take-away cups of coffee beside him, and his feet tapping restlessly on patchy grass, ready to walk swiftly away. His heart is racing with an excitement that he mistakes for dread, and, in these moments, he forgets how much he's been aching to see David, and can only think about how not to let it show.
When he sees David, he thinks something along the lines of 'He looks good, and older, and thinner'. It's a messy sort of obligation that frames his thoughts, as he forces himself to leave want and need and regret behind and assume a distant sort of objectivity when taking David in - seeing him as nothing more than an old teammate whom he's meeting for coffee.
But, good lord, if he doesn't look beautiful.
It feels as though every eye in the park is on them, though there is hardly anyone around in this particular corner, and both David and Iker are covered in sunglasses and hats and long-sleeved shirts which London's cooler summer makes less conspicuous. They nod their hello's, taking care not to do anything, keeping everything in eyes that are unwrapped as sunglasses are reluctantly taken off.
The first thing that David says is "Congratulations". He says it with a smile laced with as much trepidation as warmth, as well as a silent apology for not having spilled out the word in one of his untidy text messages.
"Thank you," Iker replies, not noticing that he's stood up, or that his breath seems to have abandoned him. And then, it just tumbles out. "I've really missed you."
The relief that crosses David's face elicits the same relief in Iker, a smile meeting a smile. 'I've missed you, too. So much." David is shaking his head and Iker's is light and it's as though two years of what should have been finally is. "So much," David repeats, his voice soft with the kind of urgency that he can't convey outside of his words in the bright light of daytime London. "I can't even say how much."
But in that moment, 'I miss you' is 'I love you'; thumping hearts mean entwined fingers and lingering lips and familiar tastes; and when they stare at each other for five, ten, fifteen minutes without saying anything more, they're making love. It doesn't matter that they're not touching; it's the closest they've been in a long time. In that moment, they're back in their memories, and everything is perfect again, as though imperfection never was.