La Suerte de Mi Vida -- Xavi fic [English version]
Yes, here it is, the English version of my first attempt at football/Xavi fanfic. xD
First, translated lyrics to El Canto del Loco's "La Suerte de Mi Vida" [The Luck of My Life].
I don't know if I should think that you're the angel who guides my path
I don't know if I should think that I deserve all this love
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
I want to think of you, I want to feel you always close to me
And I want to think that you're the luck that clothes me from the cold.
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
And I think that if you didn't exist I would die
That in my head was a dream
And that it's come true!
And I want to tell the whole world
That your life is what I want, and that you're my other half!
I want to die if I see sadness in your childlike smile
I depend on you, if you're having a bad day I may never smile
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
And I think that if you didn't exist I would die
That in my head was a dream
And that it's come true!
And I want to tell the whole world
That your life is what I want, and that you're my other half!
And I'm going to give you my soul and my truth
Erase your hurts and think that you are
The luck of my life
And I'm going to look at you, die, fight
Cry from happiness, love you still more
Because you're the luck of my life!
Title: La Suerte de Mi Vida
Rating: G - minor swearing in Spanish, but since Spaniards don't care about swearing, it's G.
Pairings: Xavi Hernández, Elsa.
Summary: It's been a rough start of the season, and Xavi's taking it personally. But there is one person who still believes in him.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Iniesta's girlfriend, who's un-named. I know he has one, and I can't remember if I saw her name somewhere or not. o___O Because I don't know any of the detail's of Xavi's relationship with Elsa, this version of her is completely mine.
Other notes: I read in an interview from 2005 that he has a girlfriend, and I'm assuming they're still together unless I'm told otherwise (with proof). Since no name or anything was given, I took the liberty. The title comes from a song by El Canto del Loco. I couldn't think of a title, until this song came into my head. It's probably one of my all-time favorites, and it's so fitting. I'll put up a translation with the English version. The story also stems from Xavi's goal against Sporting Lisbon in September. He puts his hand to his mouth like he's blowing a kiss, and I kind of imagined his girlfriend sitting in the stands right there. So I wondered what the significance of that could possibly be, and came up with this. :)
I didn't know anything about football, really. I knew nothing of statistics or strategies. I left that to the trainers, brothers, cousins, etcetera. I really didn't care. What I cared about was that my boyfriend didn't kill himself with the stress the sport brought on him.
We'd been going out for a long time, and I couldn't even remember when we first met, nor even when we started dating. I think it was before he was signed by Barcelona, the club of his life. He'd grown up with that club, he used to tell me. He played on the children's team as a kid until the day came when he was told they were bumping him up to the first team, in other words, he'd be playing with the greats at the age of eighteen. I think that around that time we were just friends. We'd met in high school, I think; I feel like I should remember all this, but the truth is it's like there's a fog in my memory. I do remember he was my best friend, that much is true. He was that person you wake up every morning for in order to get over the same ol', same ol'. He came to class when he could, sometimes with so much football the day before it was hard for him to wake up in the morning to go to class. It usually bothered him when he couldn't make it, though, and spent hours doing make-up work. I admired him for that. One time he invited me to a training session and I almost took a nap I was so bored. But I do remember the joy on his face when he was signed by Barcelona, when he was asked to form a part of the squad of the first team, sharing a locker room with Guardiola, Luis Enrique, Figo, and the other legends of that period.
I think our first date was his debut. He got the tickets and I went to the match with his parents, although the truth is I was just as bored as I was at that training session.
I don't think now that back then he'd had any idea who he'd become on the Barça squad. He denied he had much importcance, that he was just another player, whatever. Even though he was second captain he was just another player. But when something went wrong with the team, he'd get upset and angry as though it were all his fault. The beginning of this season has been hard on him, and I don't know why either. Josep Guardiola has returned to the team as a coach, and I know that he had a very important role in my boyfriend's life. My boyfriend was his substitute when he was injured, and was like a big brother to him. Supposedly this would relax him, but it only stressed him out more.
"I don't know, Elsa," he said to me once after the first training session of the preseason, a few weeks before his trip to the USA with the team. "He's not the same as before." I told him not to worry. Everything would turn out okay, that it was only his first year as a coach for the first team and everyone should be patient with him and give him time. I reminded him of how excited he was at working with Guardiola again, even if Guardiola was his boss this time around.
A few days later, when I went over to help him pack for the US trip (as much as he hated traveling...), he told me that everything was going well. It should be a great season and he'd already stopped worrying. I hugged him and told him how happy I was to hear that. I hated seeing him stressed out, as he didn't handle stress well at all.
The preseason went well. Barça won all their matches, although yeah, most of the teams they played against really weren't at the same level. They won all the Champions League qualifying matches, and we thought everything would run smoothly.
The regular season began against Numancia, which had just come up from Second Division, and it was obvious that they wanted badly to win, and it was what the team was missing. When he returned from Soria I went to pick him up at the stadium, and when he came into the house and his mother came up to him to console him, he turned and walked upstairs to his room like an angry child and slammed his door so hard I thought the house might collapse.
The tie against Racing Santander didn't do well for him either. At least it gave the team a point, but it wasn't enough.
"We worked so hard!" I heard him shout from outside his room. I didn't know what to do, what to say. "They shouldn't have named me captain."
As modest and humble as he was, I always knew that being captain was one of his dreams. He loved that team, and having a voice in what it did and being able to represent his teammates was what had always attracted him about the job. He didn't care that he wasn't first captain, as long as he was any kind of captain he was happy. His comment went directly into my soul, and I knocked on the door.
"Xavi, honey, can I come in?" I asked in a soft, quiet voice. Almost a whisper. There was a long, awkward silence, but I let him take his time.
"Yeah, sure, come on in." I opened the door and saw him lying on his bed, his eyes directed towards the ceiling.
"I can't stand to see you like this," I told him, sitting down beside him. "This isn't the Xavi I've known for so long. You've had worse seasons than this, why now? It's only been the second match and already you're giving up? You love being captain, you love having a voice on the team." He didn't look at me. "I want to know what's wrong with you, because if you stay like this you're not going to see me again until you get better."
"Dammit, it's just..." He couldn't say anything. "I just want to have the team that Guardiola deserves, that all the culés deserve. I want to have the team we didn't have last year, the team that I know we can be. And I want to be Carles' helper on the pitch that he needs."
And with that he'd said everything. The only thing he'd ever wanted was that the people he loved were taken care of. That they were happy, happy with him and without issues. I leaned over onto one of my arms so I could be in a position to look him right in the eyes, into those beautiful and entrancing eyes; one was darker than the other, something that had always interested me. They were now red and slightly swollen. He must have been crying before I knocked.
"Look at me and tell me you don't really want it. Look into my eyes and tell me that this isn't what you've always wanted." He sat in silence for a while. He didn't look at me, and his eyes wandered around the room which was mostly empty, save for a shelf with trophys and medals that he'd received in his long career. He still had to put in the most recent award, the one which he'd received a few days earlier for being the best footballer of this year's Eurocup, which had been won by the boys with strength and spirit, and with all the desire in the world.
"You have a Champions League match this Wednesday, right?" I asked. He nodded. "And do you think you can win?" He looked at me and nodded.
"I'm positive you can win. I'm postive that you can win everything this season, and that you can be one of the best clubs in history. And I know that you are the one who can make it happen. I know that you're the one who will make Guardiola's dreams come true. I know you can be the player who deserved to be named the best player of the Eurocup."
The truth is that I said it to cheer him up a bit. Since I knew nothing about football as it was besides what his brother and father had tried explaining to me during the many times we'd watch the matches, I had no idea what he'd do with what I'd said.
After another silence he got up until his face was parallel to mine.
"Why are you so good to me?" he asked. A smile spread across his face.
"Perquè t'estimo," I told him in Catalan. Because I love you.
Camp Nou was full that Wednesday for the first official Champions League match of the season. Sporting Lisbon was visiting, and everyone knew that this team would be the hardest to beat. Xavi had gotten me a ticket and I went to the match with Andrés Iniesta's girlfriend. Since the two were such good friends, we girls knew each other really well and even though we spent most of the matches acting like idiots and chatting, the truth was we enjoyed going to the matches in support of our boysfriends, because they deserved it.
It seemed as though they were playing much better than in the previous matches. They fought hard, and when Rafa Márquez scored the first gol for Barcelona we stood up and cheered. They were winning one nothing, but there was still an entire half left to play. Samuel Eto'o scored the second goal for Barça, and in a moment of disappointment Lisbon scored. Entering into the final stage of the match we were winning two to one.
With a brilliant pass by Iniesta in the eighty-seventh minute (so I was told, apparently he'd memorized the exact moment), the dynamic of the relationship between Xavi and me was changed. I saw him run after the ball and slide along the grass, and when the ball entered the net without Lisbon's keeper to block it I almost wanted to cry. A beautiful goal. Just what he needed. In getting up and meeting up with his teammates to celebrate the goal he blew a kiss in the direction of the stands, in my direction. That simple gesture so loaded with emotion reminded me of the good times we'd shared, and how many times he'd supported me in some tough times in my life, but above all, it was a gesture of gratefulness for everything I'd given him.
After the match and after the boys left to shower, Iniesta's girlfriend and I stood outside the gates of the stadium a bit, waiting for them to come out. Normally I'd just go back to his house to wait for him to come back, to greet him and prepare a small supper for him. But I wanted to be there with him, at the stadium.
He saw me behind the gate when he walked out of the locker room doors and came running.
"Did you see that goal?" he asked inside the area, without leaving, saying it as though he were six years old again and he'd scored his first goal ever.
"Of course I did," I replied, smiling. He came out to where I was standing and lept on top of me. He kissed me hard on my mouth, without paying any attention to his laughing teammates. I grabbed the back of his jacket, pulling him even closer. He let go, and one of his hands began to play with a lock of my hair.
"Thank you," he said in a soft voice so that no one could hear him. "Thank you for believing in me."
First, translated lyrics to El Canto del Loco's "La Suerte de Mi Vida" [The Luck of My Life].
I don't know if I should think that you're the angel who guides my path
I don't know if I should think that I deserve all this love
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
I want to think of you, I want to feel you always close to me
And I want to think that you're the luck that clothes me from the cold.
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
And I think that if you didn't exist I would die
That in my head was a dream
And that it's come true!
And I want to tell the whole world
That your life is what I want, and that you're my other half!
I want to die if I see sadness in your childlike smile
I depend on you, if you're having a bad day I may never smile
What have you seen in me, that you give me your truth
And your sky, that in this life I don't want any other kisses
And every day you give me your all!
And I think that if you didn't exist I would die
That in my head was a dream
And that it's come true!
And I want to tell the whole world
That your life is what I want, and that you're my other half!
And I'm going to give you my soul and my truth
Erase your hurts and think that you are
The luck of my life
And I'm going to look at you, die, fight
Cry from happiness, love you still more
Because you're the luck of my life!
Title: La Suerte de Mi Vida
Rating: G - minor swearing in Spanish, but since Spaniards don't care about swearing, it's G.
Pairings: Xavi Hernández, Elsa.
Summary: It's been a rough start of the season, and Xavi's taking it personally. But there is one person who still believes in him.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Iniesta's girlfriend, who's un-named. I know he has one, and I can't remember if I saw her name somewhere or not. o___O Because I don't know any of the detail's of Xavi's relationship with Elsa, this version of her is completely mine.
Other notes: I read in an interview from 2005 that he has a girlfriend, and I'm assuming they're still together unless I'm told otherwise (with proof). Since no name or anything was given, I took the liberty. The title comes from a song by El Canto del Loco. I couldn't think of a title, until this song came into my head. It's probably one of my all-time favorites, and it's so fitting. I'll put up a translation with the English version. The story also stems from Xavi's goal against Sporting Lisbon in September. He puts his hand to his mouth like he's blowing a kiss, and I kind of imagined his girlfriend sitting in the stands right there. So I wondered what the significance of that could possibly be, and came up with this. :)
I didn't know anything about football, really. I knew nothing of statistics or strategies. I left that to the trainers, brothers, cousins, etcetera. I really didn't care. What I cared about was that my boyfriend didn't kill himself with the stress the sport brought on him.
We'd been going out for a long time, and I couldn't even remember when we first met, nor even when we started dating. I think it was before he was signed by Barcelona, the club of his life. He'd grown up with that club, he used to tell me. He played on the children's team as a kid until the day came when he was told they were bumping him up to the first team, in other words, he'd be playing with the greats at the age of eighteen. I think that around that time we were just friends. We'd met in high school, I think; I feel like I should remember all this, but the truth is it's like there's a fog in my memory. I do remember he was my best friend, that much is true. He was that person you wake up every morning for in order to get over the same ol', same ol'. He came to class when he could, sometimes with so much football the day before it was hard for him to wake up in the morning to go to class. It usually bothered him when he couldn't make it, though, and spent hours doing make-up work. I admired him for that. One time he invited me to a training session and I almost took a nap I was so bored. But I do remember the joy on his face when he was signed by Barcelona, when he was asked to form a part of the squad of the first team, sharing a locker room with Guardiola, Luis Enrique, Figo, and the other legends of that period.
I think our first date was his debut. He got the tickets and I went to the match with his parents, although the truth is I was just as bored as I was at that training session.
I don't think now that back then he'd had any idea who he'd become on the Barça squad. He denied he had much importcance, that he was just another player, whatever. Even though he was second captain he was just another player. But when something went wrong with the team, he'd get upset and angry as though it were all his fault. The beginning of this season has been hard on him, and I don't know why either. Josep Guardiola has returned to the team as a coach, and I know that he had a very important role in my boyfriend's life. My boyfriend was his substitute when he was injured, and was like a big brother to him. Supposedly this would relax him, but it only stressed him out more.
"I don't know, Elsa," he said to me once after the first training session of the preseason, a few weeks before his trip to the USA with the team. "He's not the same as before." I told him not to worry. Everything would turn out okay, that it was only his first year as a coach for the first team and everyone should be patient with him and give him time. I reminded him of how excited he was at working with Guardiola again, even if Guardiola was his boss this time around.
A few days later, when I went over to help him pack for the US trip (as much as he hated traveling...), he told me that everything was going well. It should be a great season and he'd already stopped worrying. I hugged him and told him how happy I was to hear that. I hated seeing him stressed out, as he didn't handle stress well at all.
The preseason went well. Barça won all their matches, although yeah, most of the teams they played against really weren't at the same level. They won all the Champions League qualifying matches, and we thought everything would run smoothly.
The regular season began against Numancia, which had just come up from Second Division, and it was obvious that they wanted badly to win, and it was what the team was missing. When he returned from Soria I went to pick him up at the stadium, and when he came into the house and his mother came up to him to console him, he turned and walked upstairs to his room like an angry child and slammed his door so hard I thought the house might collapse.
The tie against Racing Santander didn't do well for him either. At least it gave the team a point, but it wasn't enough.
"We worked so hard!" I heard him shout from outside his room. I didn't know what to do, what to say. "They shouldn't have named me captain."
As modest and humble as he was, I always knew that being captain was one of his dreams. He loved that team, and having a voice in what it did and being able to represent his teammates was what had always attracted him about the job. He didn't care that he wasn't first captain, as long as he was any kind of captain he was happy. His comment went directly into my soul, and I knocked on the door.
"Xavi, honey, can I come in?" I asked in a soft, quiet voice. Almost a whisper. There was a long, awkward silence, but I let him take his time.
"Yeah, sure, come on in." I opened the door and saw him lying on his bed, his eyes directed towards the ceiling.
"I can't stand to see you like this," I told him, sitting down beside him. "This isn't the Xavi I've known for so long. You've had worse seasons than this, why now? It's only been the second match and already you're giving up? You love being captain, you love having a voice on the team." He didn't look at me. "I want to know what's wrong with you, because if you stay like this you're not going to see me again until you get better."
"Dammit, it's just..." He couldn't say anything. "I just want to have the team that Guardiola deserves, that all the culés deserve. I want to have the team we didn't have last year, the team that I know we can be. And I want to be Carles' helper on the pitch that he needs."
And with that he'd said everything. The only thing he'd ever wanted was that the people he loved were taken care of. That they were happy, happy with him and without issues. I leaned over onto one of my arms so I could be in a position to look him right in the eyes, into those beautiful and entrancing eyes; one was darker than the other, something that had always interested me. They were now red and slightly swollen. He must have been crying before I knocked.
"Look at me and tell me you don't really want it. Look into my eyes and tell me that this isn't what you've always wanted." He sat in silence for a while. He didn't look at me, and his eyes wandered around the room which was mostly empty, save for a shelf with trophys and medals that he'd received in his long career. He still had to put in the most recent award, the one which he'd received a few days earlier for being the best footballer of this year's Eurocup, which had been won by the boys with strength and spirit, and with all the desire in the world.
"You have a Champions League match this Wednesday, right?" I asked. He nodded. "And do you think you can win?" He looked at me and nodded.
"I'm positive you can win. I'm postive that you can win everything this season, and that you can be one of the best clubs in history. And I know that you are the one who can make it happen. I know that you're the one who will make Guardiola's dreams come true. I know you can be the player who deserved to be named the best player of the Eurocup."
The truth is that I said it to cheer him up a bit. Since I knew nothing about football as it was besides what his brother and father had tried explaining to me during the many times we'd watch the matches, I had no idea what he'd do with what I'd said.
After another silence he got up until his face was parallel to mine.
"Why are you so good to me?" he asked. A smile spread across his face.
"Perquè t'estimo," I told him in Catalan. Because I love you.
Camp Nou was full that Wednesday for the first official Champions League match of the season. Sporting Lisbon was visiting, and everyone knew that this team would be the hardest to beat. Xavi had gotten me a ticket and I went to the match with Andrés Iniesta's girlfriend. Since the two were such good friends, we girls knew each other really well and even though we spent most of the matches acting like idiots and chatting, the truth was we enjoyed going to the matches in support of our boysfriends, because they deserved it.
It seemed as though they were playing much better than in the previous matches. They fought hard, and when Rafa Márquez scored the first gol for Barcelona we stood up and cheered. They were winning one nothing, but there was still an entire half left to play. Samuel Eto'o scored the second goal for Barça, and in a moment of disappointment Lisbon scored. Entering into the final stage of the match we were winning two to one.
With a brilliant pass by Iniesta in the eighty-seventh minute (so I was told, apparently he'd memorized the exact moment), the dynamic of the relationship between Xavi and me was changed. I saw him run after the ball and slide along the grass, and when the ball entered the net without Lisbon's keeper to block it I almost wanted to cry. A beautiful goal. Just what he needed. In getting up and meeting up with his teammates to celebrate the goal he blew a kiss in the direction of the stands, in my direction. That simple gesture so loaded with emotion reminded me of the good times we'd shared, and how many times he'd supported me in some tough times in my life, but above all, it was a gesture of gratefulness for everything I'd given him.
After the match and after the boys left to shower, Iniesta's girlfriend and I stood outside the gates of the stadium a bit, waiting for them to come out. Normally I'd just go back to his house to wait for him to come back, to greet him and prepare a small supper for him. But I wanted to be there with him, at the stadium.
He saw me behind the gate when he walked out of the locker room doors and came running.
"Did you see that goal?" he asked inside the area, without leaving, saying it as though he were six years old again and he'd scored his first goal ever.
"Of course I did," I replied, smiling. He came out to where I was standing and lept on top of me. He kissed me hard on my mouth, without paying any attention to his laughing teammates. I grabbed the back of his jacket, pulling him even closer. He let go, and one of his hands began to play with a lock of my hair.
"Thank you," he said in a soft voice so that no one could hear him. "Thank you for believing in me."