FIC: The District (6/?)
Title: The District (6/?)
Author: Rave (dorkorific)
Fandoms: Football RPF. The West Wing (eventually). Punditfic.
Characters: Xabi Alonso, Steven Gerrard, Cesc Fabregas, Iker Casillas. Full, [not yet]-updated cast list here.
Disclaimer: Surely I don't have to tell you that this entire premise is ludicrous.
Warnings: None.
Summary: AU. Iker Casillas, a young state legislator from the fictional state of Fairfield, launches an unlikely bid for Senate.
Notes: At end.
Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.
Part Four.
Part Five.
The Albert Pub
Fairfield City, FA
Late September, 2000
Even though the bar was just across the street from the train station Xabi was soaked by the time he pushed inside, a wet newspaper flung over his head. He shook his hair out like a dog, blinked water out of his eyes, and looked around. The place was mostly empty, half-lit in gray by the rainy morning. There were a couple of guys at the bar, a girl in a red jersey. One of the old-timers was drinking a Guinness, even though it was 8:30 in the morning and Xabi was pretty sure that was illegal.
He hung up his coat. This was the only place near campus that played football at all; that they’d be playing a fairly obscure Liga game seemed unlikely, but he’d take what he could get.
The woman behind the bar was already making him a cup of coffee by the time he edged shyly up to a stool and slung his bag underneath.
“I’m assuming,” she said, setting it in front of him.
“Good guess,” Xabi said, smiling gratefully at her. She had an Irish accent, and Xabi thought about asking her where she was from, but he didn’t. It was too early to have to talk to anyone much.
“Here for Liverpool-Wigan, are you?” she asked, nodding toward the television.
Well, it would do. “If that’s what’s on.” The coffee was strong and hot and he curled his fingers around it, breathing in the steam.
“You footie fans,” the bartender said, and rolled her eyes. “Up at this hour, in this weather, and don’t even care what we’ve got playing. Need a menu?”
“Um,” Xabi said. “Eggs? Over easy. And toast, I guess, whole wheat if you’ve got it.”
The bartender nodded and, to Xabi’s relief, retreated. He scanned the bar again.
He knew one of the people here. The sandy-haired guy on the next stool but one, forehead wrinkled over this morning’s Barça and eating a breakfast that looked enormous enough for three: he was in Xabi’s poli-sci elective. God, Xabi really hoped they wouldn’t have to have some kind of awkward Oh-hey-what’s-your-name-again conversation.
The guy just looked briefly up at him though and nodded a brusque hello, so Xabi nodded back. He shuffled in his bag for his book and concentrated on his coffee.
The game started slow. He’d forgotten how crowded the English game looked, all these clumps of defenders, those thundering runs and slamming tackles, and he missed San Sebastian worse than he had in a long time.
Wigan broke loose suddenly, charging into the red side of the field. Bercow shot, an awkward left-foot strike that Xabi knew would be too easy to catch; the guy from Xabi’s poli-sci class let out a stifled yowl, hands flying to the back of his head; and the Liverpool goalie, true to Xabi’s prediction, caught the ball against his chest, yelling furiously.
“And where the fuck were you, Osborne?” the guy said to the television. His arms were spread as if the team had personally aggrieved him. “Where in the fuck?”
Xabi had noticed Osborne, too -- Liverpool’s 13, the right back -- skittering up the side, like an eager dog trying to catch a frisbee that wasn’t there. He’d been doing it all half.
“He thinks he’s a winger,” Xabi said. “He’s chasing his dream. It’s sort of touching.”
“I’ll show him wingers,” the guy said, darkly. He took a ferocious bite of bacon, as if he were imagining taking a bite out of Osborne’s face. Then he looked back at Xabi, mild interest creeping into his expression. “Hey, you’re in Attwell’s Judicial Politics class with me, aren’t you?”
“Mm-hm,” Xabi said, looking back down at his eggs. Now they’d have to wave awkwardly in class, and run into each other at this bar and pretend they had anything to say to each other, the whole thing.
“Watch football?” the guy said, which was a pretty stupid question, considering.
“Well, I watch soccer,” Xabi parried.
The guy’s face cracked into a smile. He did have a nice smile, all wrinkled forehead and little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Thought you were Spanish.”
“My parents,” Xabi said. He rubbed his wrist with his thumb. “I lived there for a while, til I was...thirteen? Fourteen. So that’s why the little accent, but no. I thought you were American and just talked sort of funny.”
“Please. Born in Fairfield City. Red white and blue to the core,” the guy said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Mum’s English, though. I went to boarding school in Liverpool for a bit.”
“Ah,” Xabi said. He took another sip of coffee. “So that’s why we share this treacherous interest in Socialist sports.”
The guy lifted his eyebrows and Xabi felt his cheeks go a little hot. Since he was a kid he’d had this defensive tendency to talk in three-dollar latinates with people he didn’t know well. Like a human thesaurus.
But all the guy said was, “That must be it. Don’t tell Professor Attwell.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Xabi said.
“Stevie,” the guy said, wiping his mouth quickly with his napkin and sticking his hand out. “Steven. Gerrard. I’m a sophomore.”
“Xabi Alonso,” Xabi said, shaking it. “Freshman.” Steven’s grip was solid.
“Infants in the bar,” Steven said. “Alert the authorities.”
“I think this bar is actually English soil,” Xabi said. “Like embassies, you know. So we’re okay; the drinking age--”
“You’re funny,” Steven said. Xabi hated it when people said that -- it seemed so forced, like if you thought something was funny didn’t you usually laugh? -- but there was something sincere about Steven, something down-to-earth and open, so Xabi let himself smile back.
“You a Reds fan?” Steven asked.
Xabi pulled a little face. “Real Sociedad, in La Liga. I actually enjoy watching people pass the ball.”
“We can pass,” Steven said, defensively.
“Yeah, but I mean to their own teammates,” Xabi explained.
“Better watch yourself with that kind of talk,” Steven said warningly. “You know how dangerous we English football hooligans can be.”
“You said you’re American,” Xabi said. This was probably the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in his college career to date, other than Arteta, and he was surprised at how much he was savoring it, at how easily he’d slipped into enjoying Steven’s company.
“Wanker,” Stevie said.
“Pajillero,” Xabi said.
“Fuck off and let me watch the game, will you?” Steven said, flicking his napkin at Xabi as if he were shooing off a dog; but he was still smiling, and Xabi felt a small warmth uncurl in his chest.
The first message was just a hangup. The second one said “Pick up your fucking phone, shit.” The third one said, “Xabi, it’s Cesc, please please call me back, what the hell call have you been on for an hour, it’s important.” There was another missed call after that, but no message, and Xabi knew in his bones and his blood and the pit of his stomach that this wasn’t like Mourinho, this was a real thing: that they were fucked, fucked, fucked.
Cesc picked up before the first ring had even cut off. “Hello. Hello?”
“Don’t say my name,” Xabi said automatically. “Are you at work?”
“Yes,” Cesc said. He sounded lost.
“Stay there. Reserve a conference room on a different floor, if you can. You have a meeting with me about -- ” He stared up at the ceiling as if there were an answer written on it. “About Raul, about what we have to do to get an endorsement.”
“That’s what I tell people?”
“Don’t tell people anything,” Xabi said. He had to just keep breathing. He had to count to whatever. “But if they ask, and you have to say something, that’s what you say. I’ll be there in -- twenty minutes, half an hour maybe. Can you handle that? Just reserve the room and sit in it until I get there.”
“Yeah,” Cesc said again. “Okay. Okay.”
“Trust me, Cesc,” Xabi said. He touched his forehead for a second. His fingers, he noted distantly, were shaking a little. “Whatever this is, I promise you I’m going to handle it. Okay? Say ‘Okay.’”
“Okay,” Cesc said, and he hung up.
The kid at the front desk led him to the conference room. Cesc was at the long table, staring at nothing. He was paler than Xabi had ever seen him, and when Xabi said his name he looked up dazedly, like he didn’t recognize the sound. His phone lay in the middle of the table, a small dark ominous lump like a land mine. Xabi locked the door.
“I got a message,” Cesc said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Play it for me,” Xabi said calmly.
Cesc groped for the phone, dialed, handed it over.
Hi, Mr. Fabregas, I’m calling because I work for -- my name’s Ibrahim Afellay, I work for the Barça, the Barça newspaper. I got, that is, I received some information with regards -- pertaining to your connection with, um, Iker Casillas? Anyway, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about that. So just give me a call back when you get a chance. One eight seven, two four four, three-oh-six-three. Oh, or you can email me, a-f-e-l-l-a-y at barcadaily dot com. Okay. Thanks. Bye.
Xabi played it again, then a third time. Cesc’s eyes didn’t waver from his face.
“I need a pen,” Xabi said, holding his hand out, snapping his fingers. “Paper.”
Cesc looked so pathetically relieved to have a task that it was almost painful to watch. He practically tripped over himself heading to the cabinet in the corner, tearing through it for a legal pad and an entire box of Uniballs. Xabi wrote down Afellay’s number and his email. There was blood roaring in his ears, a heavy dull thudding behind his eyes.
He hung up the phone. “Do you have any records? Time you spent with Iker, when you were where.”
“No, you told me not to,” Cesc said, bewildered. “I mean, well. They’re in my planner -- personal training sessions. I don’t know where always. You always just left me the keycards, so I thought--”
He could have laughed. Personal fucking training! “All right. What I want you to do is write down the dates and times of every personal training session you have in that planner. And any time you can remember where you and Iker were that day, write it down. Can you do that for me?”
Cesc nodded. His eyes looked huge in his drawn white face.
“Okay,” Xabi said. “I need to go out and make a couple of calls. Nothing to worry about yet. Keep the door locked, and don’t let anyone in except me. Just focus on those dates. Focus on where you were. Okay?”
“Okay,” Cesc said.
“Take a deep breath, Fabregas,” Xabi said. He drew one in himself. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Cesc exhaled slowly, through his teeth. His shoulders were still trembling minutely.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Xabi said.
The bathroom was right down the hallway, a utilitarian affair in blue tile. Xabi slammed each stall door methodically open; no one. The last door stuck. He struck it with the side of his fist and it banged and rattled against the wall.
The restroom door, fortunately, was all right for his purposes. Xabi fumbled in his pocket for loose change, wedged a couple of coins between the hinges and the wall. Pepe had taught him that one in college. He tried the door, and was gratified to find it immovable. Then he clambered onto the sink to address the smoke detector.
It wasn’t a screw-off so he climbed back down. Some angel of fucking mercy had left a plastic bag in the garbage. He bought some band-aids from the wall dispenser to tape with, climbed back up, covered the detector, hopped down, and reached into his pocket for the packet of Lucky Strikes he’d been carrying around, untouched, for fourteen months.
His lighter wouldn’t take. He flicked it again and again, furious at the tremble in his hands, his body letting him down, even his damn lighter letting him down, the weakness of needing this cigarette, all those months, those years of working so fucking hard gone, for nothing, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--
The door vibrated briefly: someone trying to open it. There was a muffled curse from the other side. They would give up.
But there was a little pause, and a scratching; then the cascading ting of metal as the pennies he’d wedged in the hinges fell to the floor. The door opened and -- why, at this point, would he still be surprised? -- Steven Gerrard was standing in the entryway, blinking at him.
Someone had wedged the damn bathroom door shut again. Reina and his fucking pennies, Stevie thought. The guy needed a productive hobby more than anyone he’d ever met. Bonsai, or stamp-collecting. He fumbled in his wallet for a credit card and slipped it into the crack between the hinges and the door, sliding it around until he hit resistance, pushing harder, and letting himself smile at the satisfying jangle of change hitting the tiles. Then he opened the door.
Stevie thought he should be surprised to see Xabi leaning against the sink, his old monogrammed Zippo caged in a cupped, shaking hand, a cigarette between his teeth; but he wasn’t. For some reason he thought, Of course. Xabi stared at him, his eyes feverish with exhausted frustration, and Stevie felt a peculiar friction run down his spine. Like the rough scrape of brick against his back.
He fished his keys out of his pocket and wedged the heavy FASU keyring between the hinges. Then he turned around again and waited. Xabi didn’t move.
“How bad is it?” Stevie said.
A muscle at the corner of Xabi’s jaw ticked. “Bad.”
“Personal or political?”
Xabi barked a short, awful laugh through his teeth, still tight around the unlit cigarette. “Can’t it be both?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Xabi said. He let out a breath that shuddered a little. “I don’t know.” There was a bitter surprise edging his voice, and Stevie thought it was less at his own helplessness than at finding himself saying it aloud.
“You’ve told Pepe what it is?”
Xabi stared at him like he’d sprouted an extra head. “No, Steven, no, I haven’t fucking told fucking Pepe. Are you insane?”
“He’s in charge of your account -- I don’t know what you hired him for, but I’m sure whatever this is, it’ll be good to work through some possibilities with him--”
“That’s not on the table, Steven,” Xabi said tightly. He bent his head again and flicked the lighter. It wouldn’t spark.
It was just like him, the stubborn idiot. “Oh, good. Because you’ve clearly got so many brilliant ideas bouncing around, I can see why you’d want to handle this on your own.”
“You think I’m not capable of handling this?” Xabi said.
Oh for fuck’s sake. “No. I think you’re more than capable of prioritizing your own martyr complex over the success of your campaign.”
“I don’t have a martyr complex,” Xabi said, dangerously quiet. The muscle in his jaw worked.
“You do,” Stevie said. “You always have. To go right along with your -- your insane delusions of grandeur, like you’re some kind of superhero, like nobody else can handle --”
Xabi actually yelled, “Oh, fuck you!” The lighter smashed into the wall, two feet from Stevie’s face. “You fucking -- nobody else can handle it! Who are you recommending? You want me to put Reina’s ass in a fucking stroller and see if I can spare the time to teach him to give a shit? Christ! The ever-dependable Fernando Torres, or is he too busy leaping to a more lucrative account? I mean, who in the fuck, Gerrard? Are you volunteering? Because I’ve only ever known one person other than me who was remotely fucking capable of dealing with a shitstorm of this magnitude, Steven, and I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t fucking Pepe.”
He was breathing too hard. A flush had spread, high and hot, over his cheekbones.
In the too-long silence he smeared his hands over his face; said helplessly into his palms, “And now my fucking lighter.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.
“Sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve been under a lot of...look, I just, I need a second. Can you just -- can you please give me a minute alone?”
“Yeah,” Stevie said, but he didn’t move.
“Please,” Xabi said again. He sounded so tired. “I’m asking you. Just forget it.”
Stevie crouched to the tiles and picked up the lighter. He tossed it in the air once, caught it easily.
“It’s survived,” he said.
“It won’t light,” Xabi said. “I’ve been trying.”
Stevie flicked the lighter open and thumbed it: once, twice, and then the third time a thin white flame leapt from the nozzle, glowing steadily. He shut it again. The chrome was heavy and cool in his palm. The engraved X rubbed against his fingers.
“Oh, fuck off, Steven,” Xabi said. His laugh was more rueful than bitter. “Of course that would happen.”
“Sod’s law,” Stevie agreed. He flipped the lighter across the room and Xabi caught it clumsily in both hands.
“When you asked if I was volunteering.” He felt like he was stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. “Were you serious?”
“The fuck do you mean, ‘serious,’” Xabi said. He pocketed his lighter and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his hand. “Jesus. I’d like a pony, while we’re at it. I’d like Sociedad to win La Liga, I’m serious about that. What do you want from me.”
“I asked you first,” Stevie said.
Xabi’s mouth was tense. He said quietly, “I don’t need your pity. I’m not an idiot. I can do this myself.”
“The thing is,” Stevie said carefully, “you can do it better with me.”
Xabi said to the wall, “Why would you want to?”
Stevie thought about it for a second. “I hate my job,” he said finally, because that much was true.
“More or less than you hate me?” Xabi said.
“It’s not a matter of more or less,” Stevie said. “It’s that I hate you differently.” He tried out a smile.
Xabi said, “Hah.” He covered his mouth with his hand again, pressed his fingers hard against it. His eyelids closed slowly, heavily.
“From the way you’re talking it sounds like you’re pretty much fucked regardless,” Stevie pointed out. “Worst comes to worst, at least you’ve got someone else to blame it on.”
“Steven,” Xabi said. “Last time--”
“We were younger,” Stevie said. “Things were more complicated. Look, ass, just tell me what it is.”
Xabi opened his eyes again. They rested on Stevie, dark and unwavering. Even now, that still composure unnerved him. Something twinged in the pit of his belly.
“This is stupid,” Xabi said. “You don’t want to do this. This is a stupid idea.”
“Yeah,” Stevie said. They weren’t friends anymore, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe they’d work better together without all that stuff that had got in the way last time. “Name me a better one and I’ll drop it.”
Xabi’s mouth opened, then closed. He was silent for a minute.
“Please,” he said finally. “Don’t dick me around. Okay? If you want, I don’t know. To get back at me, or whatever. Just do it some other way.”
“What the hell, Xabi,” Stevie said, staring at him. “You can’t seriously think I’d--”
“I’m just asking, okay? I’m just--”
“What are we dealing with,” Stevie said. “That’s the only question here.”
Xabi took a deep breath. Then he said, “You know Cesc Fabregas?”
When the door opened and Steven Gerrard walked in behind Xabi, all Cesc could feel was a weird, detached relief. It was like the time in high school when Pique’s car had spun out on the Beltway; at first it had been like, Holy shit, holy shit! but once you actually saw the meridian racing towards you, once you were just going to hit it and there was nothing you could do, you gave up and then you felt better. Okay, he was fired, his life was kind of over, but at least maybe the weight of the lie would finally lift off of him, at least maybe he would be able to sleep and he wouldn’t feel weird and angry and sick all the time.
There were other jobs. He could work at...Barnes and Noble, maybe. Or the Krispy Kreme at Dupont, where they already knew him. He stood up and tried to look Mr. Gerrard in the eye.
“I’ll go clean out my desk,” he said. “I’m really sorry for all of this.”
“What?” Gerrard was saying, before he’d even finished the sentence, and Xabi said, “Jesus, Fabregas, sit down.”
“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said. “I’m not gonna fight it or like, sue you or anything.”
“You think you’re fired?” Gerrard said. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Xabi, who rolled his eyes heavenward and gave a little shrug, as if to say, See? “What the hell for?”
“Um,” Cesc said. “Fraternizing?”
Steven Gerrard let out a startled bark of laughter. Xabi said, “For God’s sake, Cesc. It’s not the Army.”
“You’re not fired,” Mr. Gerrard said. “Seriously, please sit down.” He went to the water cooler in the corner, fished out a paper cup.
“If I’m not fired, why is he here,” Cesc muttered to Xabi.
Xabi gave him a strange look; if Cesc hadn’t known Xabi too well to believe it, he’d have thought it meant I wish I knew. “We used to work together,” he said. “He wants to -- uh. He wants to help. With our strategy.”
“But why,” Cesc whispered.
“Because I hate my job,” Gerrard said. He pressed the cup into Cesc’s hands and firmly returned him to his chair. The water was cool, and Cesc was surprised at how thirsty he suddenly was. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“Steven wants to hear the message,” Xabi said. He nodded toward the phone. “Can you--”
Cesc picked it up and dialed. They listened together, a little frown pulling Gerrard’s mouth.
“Need it again?” Xabi asked him when the telephone lady was going To hear this message again, press four, but Gerrard shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “What’s your instinct?”
Xabi said, “We don’t know anything yet. We don’t know if this Afellay guy knows anything, or what he knows.” He sighed. “I’d like to think it’s Villa taking some new angle on the Mourinho thing, but he generally flies solo. And it’s so roundabout. I’m assuming the worst, but -- it could just be that you were in his class, you know? Did you read anything communist?”
“One time he said Ronald Reagan was a ‘delusional narcissist,’” Cesc said, unable to help smiling a little at the memory. “No, wait. A ‘delusional, narcissistic criminal asshole who couldn’t think his way out of a phone booth if you gave him directions.’”
“Oh, Iker,” Xabi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So that kind of thing could also be in play,” he said.
“You’d lie low, you’re saying,” Gerrard said. He was looking at Cesc, curiously, appraisingly.
Xabi nodded. “Wait until we hear who else he’s talking to. If he really has this story, we’ll get more bites from him. He’ll get in contact with me, probably, and with Cris. Maybe your sister, Cesc,” and Cesc went cold.
“I don’t want her caught up in this,” he said.
“You don’t need to worry about it yet,” Xabi said. And then -- to Cesc’s immense surprise -- he turned to Gerrard and said, grudgingly, “What do you think?” The words sounded odd in his mouth.
Gerrard blinked at him for a second.
“I am asking,” Xabi said, through gritted teeth. “For your honest opinion.”
Gerrard raised his eyebrows. Then he said, “Fuck that, is what I think.”
“Well, fuck you, how about,” Xabi said.
“I’m serious. You want to just sit around and wait for the Barça to tell you what your story is? Fuck that. Let’s make the story. I mean, look --” he returned his attention to Cesc, “Xabi’s told me a little, but. You’ve been seeing him a while, right?”
“I guess,” Cesc said, nervously. “Like. Two and a half years, maybe?”
“Two years!” Gerrard said, staring at Xabi.
“We can talk about it later,” Xabi said.
“Well, they’re practically married, then,” Gerrard said. “You guys are -- please, God, you guys are monogamous, right?”
“What?” Cesc said, after a stunned moment.
“No weird sex clubs, I have to clarify, stuff like that,” Gerrard said.
“No.” It was unbelievable. His skin burned with humiliation.
“Steven,” Xabi said in quiet, warning tones.
“Sorry,” Gerrard said, and then to Cesc, “Sorry, Fabregas. I’m not trying to -- all I’m saying is, here you are, you’re two upstanding citizens -- you are an upstanding citizen, right? We can talk about library fines and tax stuff later, but I mean any priors, drug habits --”
“Right, that’s definitely worth asking, because I have literally no idea how to do my job,” Xabi said.
Gerrard coughed and said, “Right,” but he was probably thinking that if Xabi had really done his job, Cesc wouldn’t be here and they wouldn’t be in this situation. Cesc thought that sometimes, too.
God, if Iker could just be here. Standing behind Cesc’s chair, maybe. Just close enough to rest one warm hand on the back of his neck. If Iker were here, Cesc would be able to handle this.
On the other hand, if Iker were here it would be incontrovertible proof of the magnitude of his fuckup. When Iker was here Cesc would have to see his jaw tighten and his eyes go all kind and sad, and he was going to say it didn’t matter or it wasn’t Cesc’s fault, it was going to be fucking awful --
Someone snapped their fingers an inch from his eyes. Cesc jumped.
“Stay with me, Fabregas,” Xabi said. “This involves you.”
“I know it does,” Cesc said sharply.
“You’re proposing what, exactly,” Xabi asked Gerrard. “A photoshoot in Vogue?”
“You would get bogged down in specifics,” Gerrard said, and Xabi said exasperatedly, “Jesus, what is it with you and your inability to handle details--” and Gerrard said, “What is it with you and your inability to look at the big picture long enough to brainstorm?” and Xabi said, “How the fuck do you think the big picture gets accomplished without -- God, I forgot how impossible -- sorry, Cesc, sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said.
Actually, it was sort of heartening to see Xabi get pushed around a little. Cesc had -- inasmuch as he’d been able to expect anything in the depths of his panic -- expected him to be striding around all brusque and purposeful, like I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it, wearing that grim, martyred face of his. Instead he looked pissed and resigned and distinctly flustered. It was neat.
“I’m serious, how would you suggest handling this roll-out?” he was saying now.
“We’d take a couple of days to poll and discuss--” Gerrard said.
“--Which is what I said in the first place,” Xabi objected.
“--but the first thing I’d do,” Gerrard went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “is get Pepe on board.”
“No,” Xabi said, turning sharply to him. “I told you, that’s not an option.”
“Then why did you hire him at all?”
“I hired him for after the damn election,” Xabi said. “It’s a whole different ballgame then. Pepe’s good at that kind of thing, but he has zero campaign experience. Why the hell are you so --”
“He’s got a better relationship with the media than anyone else in this building,” Gerrard said. “That should be your number one priority however you decide to play this, don’t you think?"
“Really, because I think my number one priority should be -- I don't know -- actually winning this election,” Xabi said.
“Oh, shut up,” Gerrard snapped. “Obviously.”
“It doesn't seem that obvious to you,” Xabi retorted.
“What it comes down to is, if you don’t get him on board, you’re stupid. And you might be a stubborn, selfish, mercenary asshole but you aren’t stupid,” he went on, raising his voice over Xabi’s indignant protest.
Xabi started to argue: they were going to get off on some stupid tangent, Cesc knew, and there were actual things at stake, so he said, “Hey.”
Xabi and Gerrard stared at him like they couldn’t figure out where he’d even come from.
“How are we going to tell Iker?” Cesc said.
Fairfield State University
Castilla, FA
March, 2009
It was so stupid that it barely even qualified for the word “plan,” but Cesc had gone beyond caring. This was like nothing he’d experienced since he was about thirteen; all Iker Casillas had to do was look at him and he felt this -- it was so stupid -- but this shock, like lightning, this dazzling ache between his throat and his spine. He kept drifting off in the middle of other conversations, remembering the way Iker moved and spoke, all the purpose in it and the intelligence and the strength, and he would have to swim through a head-rush of painful want just to hear what the other person was saying. It was all so cheesy and ridiculous but at the same time he couldn’t help it, so whatever.
The worst part, or the best, was that he was pretty sure Iker was -- wasn’t averse to him, anyway. In class that day he’d been trying to say something about their Rawls reading, and he’d sort of tripped over his point and tried to course-correct and then lost where he was going, and Iker had said, “Christ, Fabregas, what kind of lawyer are you going to make if you keep blowing up your own strongest points?” but his voice had been fond, and his eyes, when they rested briefly on Cesc’s, had been warm and knowing. Cesc wasn’t stupid: he recognized the way Iker looked at him.
At this point there was just nothing for it anyway. He had to do something, just to get it out of his system, or he was going to have, like, a complete breakdown. So fuck it.
He packed up as slowly as possible, taking his book out of his bag and putting it back in a couple of times, until the rest of the seminar had filtered out. Then it was just him and Iker, who was sorting through his notes, studiously not looking at Cesc.
Cesc slung his bag over one shoulder and sidled up to the desk.
“Can I help you with something, Fabregas?” Iker said. He stuffed the pile of papers into his briefcase, finally glancing up.
“Um,” Cesc said. He bit his lip, partly because he was nervous and partly to see the way Iker’s eyes dropped helplessly to his mouth. “I was thinking. Do you want to, like -- to get coffee or something, some time, maybe?”
There was a minute pause in the rhythm of Iker’s packing. “To discuss your paper?”
“No,” Cesc admitted. “Just -- to get coffee. To talk. You know. Like a date, I guess.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Iker said. He struggled with the latches of his case.
“The thing is,” Cesc said carefully, “is that I think you like me.”
Iker looked at him, wild-eyed -- and dropped his keys. He swore, vanishing behind the desk, and said from beneath it, “Well, I do like you, Fabregas. You’re an excellent student, you clearly have a really -- a really good mind, you engage with the material, I enjoy having you in my class. But it just wouldn’t be right for me to --”
Cesc walked around the back of the desk. Iker was all the way under it. He stared at Cesc’s shoes for a minute, then looked up, like a cornered animal.
Cesc crouched down to him. “This is a dumb hiding place,” he said. Iker smelled wonderful, warm, like coffee and firewood. His gray sweater looked impossibly soft.
“I’m not hiding,” Iker said. There were two spots of color high on his knifeblade cheekbones. He said, in a voice softer and lower than Cesc had ever heard, “Cesc. Please.”
Cesc rested his thumb against Iker’s jaw and kissed him. He didn’t mean to. It was just the way Iker said his name.
Iker’s mouth was warm and closed. His lips were a little chapped. His sweater, under Cesc’s fingertips, was as soft as Cesc had imagined. Distantly he heard Iker draw in a hard, shuddering breath through his nose.
Then Iker’s hands were painfully tight around his wrists, shoving him away. His eyes were so dark.
“No,” he said. “Cesc. Shit. That’s not an okay thing to do.”
“You do like me,” Cesc whispered, amazed. After a kiss like that, it was impossible not to know. He could feel the blood in his wrists beating hot and hard against Iker’s fingers.
Iker paled. “Oh for God’s -- listen, no, I have completely crossed the line here. I can’t believe I let it go this far. Obviously I take full responsibility for that, but you have to--” and blah blah blah, on and on, whatever. He had a really great mouth, like everything about his face was so...carved, but his mouth was mobile, expressive --
“Hello,” Iker said. He gave him a little shake. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Not really,” Cesc admitted.
“If this happens again,” Iker said, staring him down, “I’m going to tell the Dean. I’m fucking -- I’m very serious, okay? I can’t be your teacher if you’re going to behave like this. I’m in a position of authority here, and I --”
“I’m twenty years old,” Cesc protested. “Grading is anonymous, and anyway it’s nobody’s business --”
“Cesc!” Iker practically roared. “Stop! You’re so -- God, you’re so smart, you’re so promising, you have -- you have a fucking incredible future ahead of you, all right? And you’re so young. I’m not letting you throw that away on some adolescent crush, you idiot, I’m just not.”
Cesc looked at him. There was so much to object to here -- like, what was he throwing away? And how old was Iker, anyway, what, 28, 29 tops? But Iker’s face was tight with control, and the edges of his mouth were white. The frantic heartbeat Cesc could feel thudding against his skin wasn’t his own.
“Please,” Iker said. “Let this go, okay? Just be my student.”
A flood of heat washed over Cesc’s skin at that: he let his breath out. “Okay,” he said.
Iker blinked at him, searching Cesc’s face. “Really? That’s it?”
Cesc nodded.
“Okay,” Iker said. He still sounded nervous. His fingers slid off Cesc’s wrists, no faster than necessary. “Good. Uh. So could you...could you go back to the other side of the desk, please? Just give me a little space so I can get up.”
Cesc moved back. Iker stood, steadying himself on the desk, and tucked his keys into his pocket. There was still a wary intensity in his eyes. “Why are you making this so easy?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Because you told me to,” Cesc said simply.
Iker inhaled, sharp. He looked lost. He touched his briefcase as if to remind himself who he was. “Cesc,” he said hoarsely.
“Don’t worry,” Cesc said. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “You’re right. I’m your student. I swear, I’ll back off. I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
“Shit, Cesc,” Iker said again. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, down the side of his face. “I mean, I’m pretty uncomfortable already.”
“Sorry,” Cesc said. Their grades would be out in May; he’d be twenty-one. “I’m really sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again, I promise. If you feel like I’m doing anything, you know, creepy, or whatever, you can go to the Dean.”
“I don’t think you’re creepy,” Iker said. “I just -- I can’t. Okay?”
Cesc nodded, hefting his pack higher on his shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he said. “Have a good weekend.” He touched Iker’s whitened knuckles with two fingers, and -- oh -- the hair on Iker’s forearm prickled up at the touch, almost undetectably.
He could wait. He would wait.
Notes.
1. yeats is the worse keeper in the whirl and i mean that in the good way. thank you writing and photoshopping watermarks off of stevie's lovely baby face and whatever but mostly also for bringing this into my life. knees. KNEE MUSKLES.
2. you guyyyyys I have so many AMAZING "COLLEGE" PHOTOS, like, I am on my work computer (I mean what shh) so I cannot share them all with you, but peep, for example, this. "life" [staring at pictures on the computer] imitates "art" [fanfiction].
3. the answer to "how will they tell iker" is probably "in person."
Author: Rave (dorkorific)
Fandoms: Football RPF. The West Wing (eventually). Punditfic.
Characters: Xabi Alonso, Steven Gerrard, Cesc Fabregas, Iker Casillas. Full, [not yet]-updated cast list here.
Disclaimer: Surely I don't have to tell you that this entire premise is ludicrous.
Warnings: None.
Summary: AU. Iker Casillas, a young state legislator from the fictional state of Fairfield, launches an unlikely bid for Senate.
Notes: At end.
Part One.
Part Two.
Part Three.
Part Four.
Part Five.
The Albert Pub
Fairfield City, FA
Late September, 2000
Even though the bar was just across the street from the train station Xabi was soaked by the time he pushed inside, a wet newspaper flung over his head. He shook his hair out like a dog, blinked water out of his eyes, and looked around. The place was mostly empty, half-lit in gray by the rainy morning. There were a couple of guys at the bar, a girl in a red jersey. One of the old-timers was drinking a Guinness, even though it was 8:30 in the morning and Xabi was pretty sure that was illegal.
He hung up his coat. This was the only place near campus that played football at all; that they’d be playing a fairly obscure Liga game seemed unlikely, but he’d take what he could get.
The woman behind the bar was already making him a cup of coffee by the time he edged shyly up to a stool and slung his bag underneath.
“I’m assuming,” she said, setting it in front of him.
“Good guess,” Xabi said, smiling gratefully at her. She had an Irish accent, and Xabi thought about asking her where she was from, but he didn’t. It was too early to have to talk to anyone much.
“Here for Liverpool-Wigan, are you?” she asked, nodding toward the television.
Well, it would do. “If that’s what’s on.” The coffee was strong and hot and he curled his fingers around it, breathing in the steam.
“You footie fans,” the bartender said, and rolled her eyes. “Up at this hour, in this weather, and don’t even care what we’ve got playing. Need a menu?”
“Um,” Xabi said. “Eggs? Over easy. And toast, I guess, whole wheat if you’ve got it.”
The bartender nodded and, to Xabi’s relief, retreated. He scanned the bar again.
He knew one of the people here. The sandy-haired guy on the next stool but one, forehead wrinkled over this morning’s Barça and eating a breakfast that looked enormous enough for three: he was in Xabi’s poli-sci elective. God, Xabi really hoped they wouldn’t have to have some kind of awkward Oh-hey-what’s-your-name-again conversation.
The guy just looked briefly up at him though and nodded a brusque hello, so Xabi nodded back. He shuffled in his bag for his book and concentrated on his coffee.
The game started slow. He’d forgotten how crowded the English game looked, all these clumps of defenders, those thundering runs and slamming tackles, and he missed San Sebastian worse than he had in a long time.
Wigan broke loose suddenly, charging into the red side of the field. Bercow shot, an awkward left-foot strike that Xabi knew would be too easy to catch; the guy from Xabi’s poli-sci class let out a stifled yowl, hands flying to the back of his head; and the Liverpool goalie, true to Xabi’s prediction, caught the ball against his chest, yelling furiously.
“And where the fuck were you, Osborne?” the guy said to the television. His arms were spread as if the team had personally aggrieved him. “Where in the fuck?”
Xabi had noticed Osborne, too -- Liverpool’s 13, the right back -- skittering up the side, like an eager dog trying to catch a frisbee that wasn’t there. He’d been doing it all half.
“He thinks he’s a winger,” Xabi said. “He’s chasing his dream. It’s sort of touching.”
“I’ll show him wingers,” the guy said, darkly. He took a ferocious bite of bacon, as if he were imagining taking a bite out of Osborne’s face. Then he looked back at Xabi, mild interest creeping into his expression. “Hey, you’re in Attwell’s Judicial Politics class with me, aren’t you?”
“Mm-hm,” Xabi said, looking back down at his eggs. Now they’d have to wave awkwardly in class, and run into each other at this bar and pretend they had anything to say to each other, the whole thing.
“Watch football?” the guy said, which was a pretty stupid question, considering.
“Well, I watch soccer,” Xabi parried.
The guy’s face cracked into a smile. He did have a nice smile, all wrinkled forehead and little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Thought you were Spanish.”
“My parents,” Xabi said. He rubbed his wrist with his thumb. “I lived there for a while, til I was...thirteen? Fourteen. So that’s why the little accent, but no. I thought you were American and just talked sort of funny.”
“Please. Born in Fairfield City. Red white and blue to the core,” the guy said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Mum’s English, though. I went to boarding school in Liverpool for a bit.”
“Ah,” Xabi said. He took another sip of coffee. “So that’s why we share this treacherous interest in Socialist sports.”
The guy lifted his eyebrows and Xabi felt his cheeks go a little hot. Since he was a kid he’d had this defensive tendency to talk in three-dollar latinates with people he didn’t know well. Like a human thesaurus.
But all the guy said was, “That must be it. Don’t tell Professor Attwell.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Xabi said.
“Stevie,” the guy said, wiping his mouth quickly with his napkin and sticking his hand out. “Steven. Gerrard. I’m a sophomore.”
“Xabi Alonso,” Xabi said, shaking it. “Freshman.” Steven’s grip was solid.
“Infants in the bar,” Steven said. “Alert the authorities.”
“I think this bar is actually English soil,” Xabi said. “Like embassies, you know. So we’re okay; the drinking age--”
“You’re funny,” Steven said. Xabi hated it when people said that -- it seemed so forced, like if you thought something was funny didn’t you usually laugh? -- but there was something sincere about Steven, something down-to-earth and open, so Xabi let himself smile back.
“You a Reds fan?” Steven asked.
Xabi pulled a little face. “Real Sociedad, in La Liga. I actually enjoy watching people pass the ball.”
“We can pass,” Steven said, defensively.
“Yeah, but I mean to their own teammates,” Xabi explained.
“Better watch yourself with that kind of talk,” Steven said warningly. “You know how dangerous we English football hooligans can be.”
“You said you’re American,” Xabi said. This was probably the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in his college career to date, other than Arteta, and he was surprised at how much he was savoring it, at how easily he’d slipped into enjoying Steven’s company.
“Wanker,” Stevie said.
“Pajillero,” Xabi said.
“Fuck off and let me watch the game, will you?” Steven said, flicking his napkin at Xabi as if he were shooing off a dog; but he was still smiling, and Xabi felt a small warmth uncurl in his chest.
The first message was just a hangup. The second one said “Pick up your fucking phone, shit.” The third one said, “Xabi, it’s Cesc, please please call me back, what the hell call have you been on for an hour, it’s important.” There was another missed call after that, but no message, and Xabi knew in his bones and his blood and the pit of his stomach that this wasn’t like Mourinho, this was a real thing: that they were fucked, fucked, fucked.
Cesc picked up before the first ring had even cut off. “Hello. Hello?”
“Don’t say my name,” Xabi said automatically. “Are you at work?”
“Yes,” Cesc said. He sounded lost.
“Stay there. Reserve a conference room on a different floor, if you can. You have a meeting with me about -- ” He stared up at the ceiling as if there were an answer written on it. “About Raul, about what we have to do to get an endorsement.”
“That’s what I tell people?”
“Don’t tell people anything,” Xabi said. He had to just keep breathing. He had to count to whatever. “But if they ask, and you have to say something, that’s what you say. I’ll be there in -- twenty minutes, half an hour maybe. Can you handle that? Just reserve the room and sit in it until I get there.”
“Yeah,” Cesc said again. “Okay. Okay.”
“Trust me, Cesc,” Xabi said. He touched his forehead for a second. His fingers, he noted distantly, were shaking a little. “Whatever this is, I promise you I’m going to handle it. Okay? Say ‘Okay.’”
“Okay,” Cesc said, and he hung up.
The kid at the front desk led him to the conference room. Cesc was at the long table, staring at nothing. He was paler than Xabi had ever seen him, and when Xabi said his name he looked up dazedly, like he didn’t recognize the sound. His phone lay in the middle of the table, a small dark ominous lump like a land mine. Xabi locked the door.
“I got a message,” Cesc said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Play it for me,” Xabi said calmly.
Cesc groped for the phone, dialed, handed it over.
Hi, Mr. Fabregas, I’m calling because I work for -- my name’s Ibrahim Afellay, I work for the Barça, the Barça newspaper. I got, that is, I received some information with regards -- pertaining to your connection with, um, Iker Casillas? Anyway, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about that. So just give me a call back when you get a chance. One eight seven, two four four, three-oh-six-three. Oh, or you can email me, a-f-e-l-l-a-y at barcadaily dot com. Okay. Thanks. Bye.
Xabi played it again, then a third time. Cesc’s eyes didn’t waver from his face.
“I need a pen,” Xabi said, holding his hand out, snapping his fingers. “Paper.”
Cesc looked so pathetically relieved to have a task that it was almost painful to watch. He practically tripped over himself heading to the cabinet in the corner, tearing through it for a legal pad and an entire box of Uniballs. Xabi wrote down Afellay’s number and his email. There was blood roaring in his ears, a heavy dull thudding behind his eyes.
He hung up the phone. “Do you have any records? Time you spent with Iker, when you were where.”
“No, you told me not to,” Cesc said, bewildered. “I mean, well. They’re in my planner -- personal training sessions. I don’t know where always. You always just left me the keycards, so I thought--”
He could have laughed. Personal fucking training! “All right. What I want you to do is write down the dates and times of every personal training session you have in that planner. And any time you can remember where you and Iker were that day, write it down. Can you do that for me?”
Cesc nodded. His eyes looked huge in his drawn white face.
“Okay,” Xabi said. “I need to go out and make a couple of calls. Nothing to worry about yet. Keep the door locked, and don’t let anyone in except me. Just focus on those dates. Focus on where you were. Okay?”
“Okay,” Cesc said.
“Take a deep breath, Fabregas,” Xabi said. He drew one in himself. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Cesc exhaled slowly, through his teeth. His shoulders were still trembling minutely.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Xabi said.
The bathroom was right down the hallway, a utilitarian affair in blue tile. Xabi slammed each stall door methodically open; no one. The last door stuck. He struck it with the side of his fist and it banged and rattled against the wall.
The restroom door, fortunately, was all right for his purposes. Xabi fumbled in his pocket for loose change, wedged a couple of coins between the hinges and the wall. Pepe had taught him that one in college. He tried the door, and was gratified to find it immovable. Then he clambered onto the sink to address the smoke detector.
It wasn’t a screw-off so he climbed back down. Some angel of fucking mercy had left a plastic bag in the garbage. He bought some band-aids from the wall dispenser to tape with, climbed back up, covered the detector, hopped down, and reached into his pocket for the packet of Lucky Strikes he’d been carrying around, untouched, for fourteen months.
His lighter wouldn’t take. He flicked it again and again, furious at the tremble in his hands, his body letting him down, even his damn lighter letting him down, the weakness of needing this cigarette, all those months, those years of working so fucking hard gone, for nothing, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--
The door vibrated briefly: someone trying to open it. There was a muffled curse from the other side. They would give up.
But there was a little pause, and a scratching; then the cascading ting of metal as the pennies he’d wedged in the hinges fell to the floor. The door opened and -- why, at this point, would he still be surprised? -- Steven Gerrard was standing in the entryway, blinking at him.
Someone had wedged the damn bathroom door shut again. Reina and his fucking pennies, Stevie thought. The guy needed a productive hobby more than anyone he’d ever met. Bonsai, or stamp-collecting. He fumbled in his wallet for a credit card and slipped it into the crack between the hinges and the door, sliding it around until he hit resistance, pushing harder, and letting himself smile at the satisfying jangle of change hitting the tiles. Then he opened the door.
Stevie thought he should be surprised to see Xabi leaning against the sink, his old monogrammed Zippo caged in a cupped, shaking hand, a cigarette between his teeth; but he wasn’t. For some reason he thought, Of course. Xabi stared at him, his eyes feverish with exhausted frustration, and Stevie felt a peculiar friction run down his spine. Like the rough scrape of brick against his back.
He fished his keys out of his pocket and wedged the heavy FASU keyring between the hinges. Then he turned around again and waited. Xabi didn’t move.
“How bad is it?” Stevie said.
A muscle at the corner of Xabi’s jaw ticked. “Bad.”
“Personal or political?”
Xabi barked a short, awful laugh through his teeth, still tight around the unlit cigarette. “Can’t it be both?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Xabi said. He let out a breath that shuddered a little. “I don’t know.” There was a bitter surprise edging his voice, and Stevie thought it was less at his own helplessness than at finding himself saying it aloud.
“You’ve told Pepe what it is?”
Xabi stared at him like he’d sprouted an extra head. “No, Steven, no, I haven’t fucking told fucking Pepe. Are you insane?”
“He’s in charge of your account -- I don’t know what you hired him for, but I’m sure whatever this is, it’ll be good to work through some possibilities with him--”
“That’s not on the table, Steven,” Xabi said tightly. He bent his head again and flicked the lighter. It wouldn’t spark.
It was just like him, the stubborn idiot. “Oh, good. Because you’ve clearly got so many brilliant ideas bouncing around, I can see why you’d want to handle this on your own.”
“You think I’m not capable of handling this?” Xabi said.
Oh for fuck’s sake. “No. I think you’re more than capable of prioritizing your own martyr complex over the success of your campaign.”
“I don’t have a martyr complex,” Xabi said, dangerously quiet. The muscle in his jaw worked.
“You do,” Stevie said. “You always have. To go right along with your -- your insane delusions of grandeur, like you’re some kind of superhero, like nobody else can handle --”
Xabi actually yelled, “Oh, fuck you!” The lighter smashed into the wall, two feet from Stevie’s face. “You fucking -- nobody else can handle it! Who are you recommending? You want me to put Reina’s ass in a fucking stroller and see if I can spare the time to teach him to give a shit? Christ! The ever-dependable Fernando Torres, or is he too busy leaping to a more lucrative account? I mean, who in the fuck, Gerrard? Are you volunteering? Because I’ve only ever known one person other than me who was remotely fucking capable of dealing with a shitstorm of this magnitude, Steven, and I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t fucking Pepe.”
He was breathing too hard. A flush had spread, high and hot, over his cheekbones.
In the too-long silence he smeared his hands over his face; said helplessly into his palms, “And now my fucking lighter.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.
“Sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve been under a lot of...look, I just, I need a second. Can you just -- can you please give me a minute alone?”
“Yeah,” Stevie said, but he didn’t move.
“Please,” Xabi said again. He sounded so tired. “I’m asking you. Just forget it.”
Stevie crouched to the tiles and picked up the lighter. He tossed it in the air once, caught it easily.
“It’s survived,” he said.
“It won’t light,” Xabi said. “I’ve been trying.”
Stevie flicked the lighter open and thumbed it: once, twice, and then the third time a thin white flame leapt from the nozzle, glowing steadily. He shut it again. The chrome was heavy and cool in his palm. The engraved X rubbed against his fingers.
“Oh, fuck off, Steven,” Xabi said. His laugh was more rueful than bitter. “Of course that would happen.”
“Sod’s law,” Stevie agreed. He flipped the lighter across the room and Xabi caught it clumsily in both hands.
“When you asked if I was volunteering.” He felt like he was stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. “Were you serious?”
“The fuck do you mean, ‘serious,’” Xabi said. He pocketed his lighter and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his hand. “Jesus. I’d like a pony, while we’re at it. I’d like Sociedad to win La Liga, I’m serious about that. What do you want from me.”
“I asked you first,” Stevie said.
Xabi’s mouth was tense. He said quietly, “I don’t need your pity. I’m not an idiot. I can do this myself.”
“The thing is,” Stevie said carefully, “you can do it better with me.”
Xabi said to the wall, “Why would you want to?”
Stevie thought about it for a second. “I hate my job,” he said finally, because that much was true.
“More or less than you hate me?” Xabi said.
“It’s not a matter of more or less,” Stevie said. “It’s that I hate you differently.” He tried out a smile.
Xabi said, “Hah.” He covered his mouth with his hand again, pressed his fingers hard against it. His eyelids closed slowly, heavily.
“From the way you’re talking it sounds like you’re pretty much fucked regardless,” Stevie pointed out. “Worst comes to worst, at least you’ve got someone else to blame it on.”
“Steven,” Xabi said. “Last time--”
“We were younger,” Stevie said. “Things were more complicated. Look, ass, just tell me what it is.”
Xabi opened his eyes again. They rested on Stevie, dark and unwavering. Even now, that still composure unnerved him. Something twinged in the pit of his belly.
“This is stupid,” Xabi said. “You don’t want to do this. This is a stupid idea.”
“Yeah,” Stevie said. They weren’t friends anymore, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe they’d work better together without all that stuff that had got in the way last time. “Name me a better one and I’ll drop it.”
Xabi’s mouth opened, then closed. He was silent for a minute.
“Please,” he said finally. “Don’t dick me around. Okay? If you want, I don’t know. To get back at me, or whatever. Just do it some other way.”
“What the hell, Xabi,” Stevie said, staring at him. “You can’t seriously think I’d--”
“I’m just asking, okay? I’m just--”
“What are we dealing with,” Stevie said. “That’s the only question here.”
Xabi took a deep breath. Then he said, “You know Cesc Fabregas?”
When the door opened and Steven Gerrard walked in behind Xabi, all Cesc could feel was a weird, detached relief. It was like the time in high school when Pique’s car had spun out on the Beltway; at first it had been like, Holy shit, holy shit! but once you actually saw the meridian racing towards you, once you were just going to hit it and there was nothing you could do, you gave up and then you felt better. Okay, he was fired, his life was kind of over, but at least maybe the weight of the lie would finally lift off of him, at least maybe he would be able to sleep and he wouldn’t feel weird and angry and sick all the time.
There were other jobs. He could work at...Barnes and Noble, maybe. Or the Krispy Kreme at Dupont, where they already knew him. He stood up and tried to look Mr. Gerrard in the eye.
“I’ll go clean out my desk,” he said. “I’m really sorry for all of this.”
“What?” Gerrard was saying, before he’d even finished the sentence, and Xabi said, “Jesus, Fabregas, sit down.”
“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said. “I’m not gonna fight it or like, sue you or anything.”
“You think you’re fired?” Gerrard said. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Xabi, who rolled his eyes heavenward and gave a little shrug, as if to say, See? “What the hell for?”
“Um,” Cesc said. “Fraternizing?”
Steven Gerrard let out a startled bark of laughter. Xabi said, “For God’s sake, Cesc. It’s not the Army.”
“You’re not fired,” Mr. Gerrard said. “Seriously, please sit down.” He went to the water cooler in the corner, fished out a paper cup.
“If I’m not fired, why is he here,” Cesc muttered to Xabi.
Xabi gave him a strange look; if Cesc hadn’t known Xabi too well to believe it, he’d have thought it meant I wish I knew. “We used to work together,” he said. “He wants to -- uh. He wants to help. With our strategy.”
“But why,” Cesc whispered.
“Because I hate my job,” Gerrard said. He pressed the cup into Cesc’s hands and firmly returned him to his chair. The water was cool, and Cesc was surprised at how thirsty he suddenly was. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“Steven wants to hear the message,” Xabi said. He nodded toward the phone. “Can you--”
Cesc picked it up and dialed. They listened together, a little frown pulling Gerrard’s mouth.
“Need it again?” Xabi asked him when the telephone lady was going To hear this message again, press four, but Gerrard shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “What’s your instinct?”
Xabi said, “We don’t know anything yet. We don’t know if this Afellay guy knows anything, or what he knows.” He sighed. “I’d like to think it’s Villa taking some new angle on the Mourinho thing, but he generally flies solo. And it’s so roundabout. I’m assuming the worst, but -- it could just be that you were in his class, you know? Did you read anything communist?”
“One time he said Ronald Reagan was a ‘delusional narcissist,’” Cesc said, unable to help smiling a little at the memory. “No, wait. A ‘delusional, narcissistic criminal asshole who couldn’t think his way out of a phone booth if you gave him directions.’”
“Oh, Iker,” Xabi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So that kind of thing could also be in play,” he said.
“You’d lie low, you’re saying,” Gerrard said. He was looking at Cesc, curiously, appraisingly.
Xabi nodded. “Wait until we hear who else he’s talking to. If he really has this story, we’ll get more bites from him. He’ll get in contact with me, probably, and with Cris. Maybe your sister, Cesc,” and Cesc went cold.
“I don’t want her caught up in this,” he said.
“You don’t need to worry about it yet,” Xabi said. And then -- to Cesc’s immense surprise -- he turned to Gerrard and said, grudgingly, “What do you think?” The words sounded odd in his mouth.
Gerrard blinked at him for a second.
“I am asking,” Xabi said, through gritted teeth. “For your honest opinion.”
Gerrard raised his eyebrows. Then he said, “Fuck that, is what I think.”
“Well, fuck you, how about,” Xabi said.
“I’m serious. You want to just sit around and wait for the Barça to tell you what your story is? Fuck that. Let’s make the story. I mean, look --” he returned his attention to Cesc, “Xabi’s told me a little, but. You’ve been seeing him a while, right?”
“I guess,” Cesc said, nervously. “Like. Two and a half years, maybe?”
“Two years!” Gerrard said, staring at Xabi.
“We can talk about it later,” Xabi said.
“Well, they’re practically married, then,” Gerrard said. “You guys are -- please, God, you guys are monogamous, right?”
“What?” Cesc said, after a stunned moment.
“No weird sex clubs, I have to clarify, stuff like that,” Gerrard said.
“No.” It was unbelievable. His skin burned with humiliation.
“Steven,” Xabi said in quiet, warning tones.
“Sorry,” Gerrard said, and then to Cesc, “Sorry, Fabregas. I’m not trying to -- all I’m saying is, here you are, you’re two upstanding citizens -- you are an upstanding citizen, right? We can talk about library fines and tax stuff later, but I mean any priors, drug habits --”
“Right, that’s definitely worth asking, because I have literally no idea how to do my job,” Xabi said.
Gerrard coughed and said, “Right,” but he was probably thinking that if Xabi had really done his job, Cesc wouldn’t be here and they wouldn’t be in this situation. Cesc thought that sometimes, too.
God, if Iker could just be here. Standing behind Cesc’s chair, maybe. Just close enough to rest one warm hand on the back of his neck. If Iker were here, Cesc would be able to handle this.
On the other hand, if Iker were here it would be incontrovertible proof of the magnitude of his fuckup. When Iker was here Cesc would have to see his jaw tighten and his eyes go all kind and sad, and he was going to say it didn’t matter or it wasn’t Cesc’s fault, it was going to be fucking awful --
Someone snapped their fingers an inch from his eyes. Cesc jumped.
“Stay with me, Fabregas,” Xabi said. “This involves you.”
“I know it does,” Cesc said sharply.
“You’re proposing what, exactly,” Xabi asked Gerrard. “A photoshoot in Vogue?”
“You would get bogged down in specifics,” Gerrard said, and Xabi said exasperatedly, “Jesus, what is it with you and your inability to handle details--” and Gerrard said, “What is it with you and your inability to look at the big picture long enough to brainstorm?” and Xabi said, “How the fuck do you think the big picture gets accomplished without -- God, I forgot how impossible -- sorry, Cesc, sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Cesc said.
Actually, it was sort of heartening to see Xabi get pushed around a little. Cesc had -- inasmuch as he’d been able to expect anything in the depths of his panic -- expected him to be striding around all brusque and purposeful, like I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it, wearing that grim, martyred face of his. Instead he looked pissed and resigned and distinctly flustered. It was neat.
“I’m serious, how would you suggest handling this roll-out?” he was saying now.
“We’d take a couple of days to poll and discuss--” Gerrard said.
“--Which is what I said in the first place,” Xabi objected.
“--but the first thing I’d do,” Gerrard went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “is get Pepe on board.”
“No,” Xabi said, turning sharply to him. “I told you, that’s not an option.”
“Then why did you hire him at all?”
“I hired him for after the damn election,” Xabi said. “It’s a whole different ballgame then. Pepe’s good at that kind of thing, but he has zero campaign experience. Why the hell are you so --”
“He’s got a better relationship with the media than anyone else in this building,” Gerrard said. “That should be your number one priority however you decide to play this, don’t you think?"
“Really, because I think my number one priority should be -- I don't know -- actually winning this election,” Xabi said.
“Oh, shut up,” Gerrard snapped. “Obviously.”
“It doesn't seem that obvious to you,” Xabi retorted.
“What it comes down to is, if you don’t get him on board, you’re stupid. And you might be a stubborn, selfish, mercenary asshole but you aren’t stupid,” he went on, raising his voice over Xabi’s indignant protest.
Xabi started to argue: they were going to get off on some stupid tangent, Cesc knew, and there were actual things at stake, so he said, “Hey.”
Xabi and Gerrard stared at him like they couldn’t figure out where he’d even come from.
“How are we going to tell Iker?” Cesc said.
Fairfield State University
Castilla, FA
March, 2009
It was so stupid that it barely even qualified for the word “plan,” but Cesc had gone beyond caring. This was like nothing he’d experienced since he was about thirteen; all Iker Casillas had to do was look at him and he felt this -- it was so stupid -- but this shock, like lightning, this dazzling ache between his throat and his spine. He kept drifting off in the middle of other conversations, remembering the way Iker moved and spoke, all the purpose in it and the intelligence and the strength, and he would have to swim through a head-rush of painful want just to hear what the other person was saying. It was all so cheesy and ridiculous but at the same time he couldn’t help it, so whatever.
The worst part, or the best, was that he was pretty sure Iker was -- wasn’t averse to him, anyway. In class that day he’d been trying to say something about their Rawls reading, and he’d sort of tripped over his point and tried to course-correct and then lost where he was going, and Iker had said, “Christ, Fabregas, what kind of lawyer are you going to make if you keep blowing up your own strongest points?” but his voice had been fond, and his eyes, when they rested briefly on Cesc’s, had been warm and knowing. Cesc wasn’t stupid: he recognized the way Iker looked at him.
At this point there was just nothing for it anyway. He had to do something, just to get it out of his system, or he was going to have, like, a complete breakdown. So fuck it.
He packed up as slowly as possible, taking his book out of his bag and putting it back in a couple of times, until the rest of the seminar had filtered out. Then it was just him and Iker, who was sorting through his notes, studiously not looking at Cesc.
Cesc slung his bag over one shoulder and sidled up to the desk.
“Can I help you with something, Fabregas?” Iker said. He stuffed the pile of papers into his briefcase, finally glancing up.
“Um,” Cesc said. He bit his lip, partly because he was nervous and partly to see the way Iker’s eyes dropped helplessly to his mouth. “I was thinking. Do you want to, like -- to get coffee or something, some time, maybe?”
There was a minute pause in the rhythm of Iker’s packing. “To discuss your paper?”
“No,” Cesc admitted. “Just -- to get coffee. To talk. You know. Like a date, I guess.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Iker said. He struggled with the latches of his case.
“The thing is,” Cesc said carefully, “is that I think you like me.”
Iker looked at him, wild-eyed -- and dropped his keys. He swore, vanishing behind the desk, and said from beneath it, “Well, I do like you, Fabregas. You’re an excellent student, you clearly have a really -- a really good mind, you engage with the material, I enjoy having you in my class. But it just wouldn’t be right for me to --”
Cesc walked around the back of the desk. Iker was all the way under it. He stared at Cesc’s shoes for a minute, then looked up, like a cornered animal.
Cesc crouched down to him. “This is a dumb hiding place,” he said. Iker smelled wonderful, warm, like coffee and firewood. His gray sweater looked impossibly soft.
“I’m not hiding,” Iker said. There were two spots of color high on his knifeblade cheekbones. He said, in a voice softer and lower than Cesc had ever heard, “Cesc. Please.”
Cesc rested his thumb against Iker’s jaw and kissed him. He didn’t mean to. It was just the way Iker said his name.
Iker’s mouth was warm and closed. His lips were a little chapped. His sweater, under Cesc’s fingertips, was as soft as Cesc had imagined. Distantly he heard Iker draw in a hard, shuddering breath through his nose.
Then Iker’s hands were painfully tight around his wrists, shoving him away. His eyes were so dark.
“No,” he said. “Cesc. Shit. That’s not an okay thing to do.”
“You do like me,” Cesc whispered, amazed. After a kiss like that, it was impossible not to know. He could feel the blood in his wrists beating hot and hard against Iker’s fingers.
Iker paled. “Oh for God’s -- listen, no, I have completely crossed the line here. I can’t believe I let it go this far. Obviously I take full responsibility for that, but you have to--” and blah blah blah, on and on, whatever. He had a really great mouth, like everything about his face was so...carved, but his mouth was mobile, expressive --
“Hello,” Iker said. He gave him a little shake. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Not really,” Cesc admitted.
“If this happens again,” Iker said, staring him down, “I’m going to tell the Dean. I’m fucking -- I’m very serious, okay? I can’t be your teacher if you’re going to behave like this. I’m in a position of authority here, and I --”
“I’m twenty years old,” Cesc protested. “Grading is anonymous, and anyway it’s nobody’s business --”
“Cesc!” Iker practically roared. “Stop! You’re so -- God, you’re so smart, you’re so promising, you have -- you have a fucking incredible future ahead of you, all right? And you’re so young. I’m not letting you throw that away on some adolescent crush, you idiot, I’m just not.”
Cesc looked at him. There was so much to object to here -- like, what was he throwing away? And how old was Iker, anyway, what, 28, 29 tops? But Iker’s face was tight with control, and the edges of his mouth were white. The frantic heartbeat Cesc could feel thudding against his skin wasn’t his own.
“Please,” Iker said. “Let this go, okay? Just be my student.”
A flood of heat washed over Cesc’s skin at that: he let his breath out. “Okay,” he said.
Iker blinked at him, searching Cesc’s face. “Really? That’s it?”
Cesc nodded.
“Okay,” Iker said. He still sounded nervous. His fingers slid off Cesc’s wrists, no faster than necessary. “Good. Uh. So could you...could you go back to the other side of the desk, please? Just give me a little space so I can get up.”
Cesc moved back. Iker stood, steadying himself on the desk, and tucked his keys into his pocket. There was still a wary intensity in his eyes. “Why are you making this so easy?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Because you told me to,” Cesc said simply.
Iker inhaled, sharp. He looked lost. He touched his briefcase as if to remind himself who he was. “Cesc,” he said hoarsely.
“Don’t worry,” Cesc said. He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “You’re right. I’m your student. I swear, I’ll back off. I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
“Shit, Cesc,” Iker said again. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, down the side of his face. “I mean, I’m pretty uncomfortable already.”
“Sorry,” Cesc said. Their grades would be out in May; he’d be twenty-one. “I’m really sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again, I promise. If you feel like I’m doing anything, you know, creepy, or whatever, you can go to the Dean.”
“I don’t think you’re creepy,” Iker said. “I just -- I can’t. Okay?”
Cesc nodded, hefting his pack higher on his shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he said. “Have a good weekend.” He touched Iker’s whitened knuckles with two fingers, and -- oh -- the hair on Iker’s forearm prickled up at the touch, almost undetectably.
He could wait. He would wait.
Notes.
1. yeats is the worse keeper in the whirl and i mean that in the good way. thank you writing and photoshopping watermarks off of stevie's lovely baby face and whatever but mostly also for bringing this into my life. knees. KNEE MUSKLES.
2. you guyyyyys I have so many AMAZING "COLLEGE" PHOTOS, like, I am on my work computer (I mean what shh) so I cannot share them all with you, but peep, for example, this. "life" [staring at pictures on the computer] imitates "art" [fanfiction].
3. the answer to "how will they tell iker" is probably "in person."