fanfic: Empanada

[txorakeriak]

Title: Empanada
Fandom: Football RPS
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas
Rating: PG
Summary: During Cesc's quest for his role and purpose amongst the Selección, molehills become mountains, good intentions end in misery, and conversations take turns he would never have expected...
Word Count: 8,847
A/N: Empanada is a Spanish dish that can be described as stuffed pastry. The pastry encloses the flavour of the filling completely so that it doesn't mix with whatever's outside.
Beta courtesy: The wonderful bolanboogie, who I love and adore. Thank you so much! ♥
Further thanks to: sophiamoon and her shiny little whip for once again doing a fantastic job at keeping me writing, aletta and jennis_footie for helping me with my research, ladyrocketdale for helping me with the Spanish. You are fantastic. ♥
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from glomps to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)

*****

Goya, Madrid, June 30th.

When Pepe had introduced him as "la auténtica empanada que no se entera de una mierda" at the Plaza de Colón, Cesc had toppled over with laughter, promptly joined by everyone else.1

'The guy who lived in his own bubble and didn't know shit about the world.'

Yes, that sounded rather a lot like him.

Each member of the team had been awarded his own personal line, an insider joke or an elemental truth obvious to everyone. The fact that they'd heard them all before (when Pepe had rehearsed his presentation on the plane and made last-minute changes to the script in his head) hadn't made them any less funny.

Cesc enjoyed living in his own bubble. Of course, he was perfectly aware that there was a world beyond, but it wasn't perfect, and judging from the headlines that appeared in newspapers every day, it didn't make people happy either. Tragedies and horrors filled entire pages, whereas good news hardly ever seemed to merit more than a small column. To Cesc, this was an imbalance as unjust as it was significant, and he seriously questioned the fact that nobody ever complained about it.

Acting one's age was all well and good, but he had yet to find the dictionary that defined growing up by becoming austere.

Those who thought him childish or immature for his perpetually cheerful nature failed to see the point of it, the reason for it all. In his eyes, there was nothing more mature and responsible than putting a smile on someone's face, even if it was achieved merely by smiling at them first. Also, he firmly believed that people shouldn't allow themselves to be burdened with problems they couldn't do anything about.

Breaking the ice of a conversation with intellectual remarks about world poverty and human rights issues was easy and convenient, but it was no match for the laughter that brightened a whole room after a well executed prank.

He had never talked to anyone about it - not even to Álvaro, who (according to Pepe) was living in his own little bubble too. It simply hadn't been necessary. And if he was completely honest with himself, he hadn't really given the matter that much thought in the first place.

That was, until Pepe had branded him in front of the entire Spanish nation.

With the best intentions, of course.

The goalkeeper couldn't have expected Cesc to do any in-depth thinking about what had been said on stage (especially since neither of them had been entirely sober at that point anyway).

Still, his words had somehow ended up tormenting the midfielder‘s paranoid thoughts. It wasn't even because of the way Pepe had introduced him, but rather because of the things he'd said about the other members of the Selección. The core, those who really mattered, all had a special role in the team, a special purpose, and Pepe hadn't failed to point them out.

Cesc was confident enough in his own abilities and talents to consider himself an integral part of the team, but whereas there was no doubt about his role and purpose on the pitch, and he wondered if he actually had a role and a purpose in the team itself.

Surely, there had to be more to him than his happy bubble?

And after all, Pepe was merely half-right because Cesc most definitely did know some shit about the world!

Didn’t he?

The midfielder leaned back into his seat and gazed out of the window, watching the buildings, fountains and trees of Madrid’s city centre fly by. When the team would re-gather after their well-deserved holidays, they would see a new Cesc.

No more Mr Clueless Guy.

He would perceive, understand, and remember.

***

Las Rozas, Madrid, August 18th.

"Who are you rooming with?"

Cesc gazed up from the magazine he had been unconsciously flicking through and caught sight of the smirk upon Sergio’s face. "Uhm… Iker, I think."

"Oh dear," the Sevillian sighed, the amused sparkle in his eyes betrayed his sarcastic tone.

"Yeah, oh dear indeed!" Fernando piped up behind the defender, flashing Cesc a grin. "I’m sure that tomorrow at breakfast we’ll be subjected to yet another rant about how he didn’t get any rest with you in the room."

Things had always been pretty much like this, ever since Cesc had received his first call-up for the Selección. He hadn't been a kid anymore back then, but he had still been the youngest amongst the squad and had thus been treated differently. Everyone had been patient and forgiving with him because, naturally, he still had so much to learn, but that hadn't prevented them from teasing Cesc in return.

Especially after Iker had taken him under his wing and helped him settle into the team.

Cesc had grown up considerably since then, but the jokes remained the same. Cesc, the annoying little kid that drove Iker up the wall. Iker, the moody goalkeeper who had been forced by Raúl to take care of the spawn, and hadn't forgiven any of them for it. (Cesc didn't know if that last part was true.)

At some point, he had decided to simply play along because he’d actually found it all quite amusing.

"Poor Iker," Sergio’s half-hearted sighs pulled Cesc out of his musings. He sounded almost pitiful, but Cesc knew perfectly well that his team-mate was enjoying himself far too much to feel pity.

The Catalonian snorted. "Yeah, right. It should be ‘poor me!’ I’m not the one with the unexpected mood swings!"

"That’s one side of it," the Sevillian commented with a grin. "Iker usually has a very good reason for exploding, doesn't he?"

"Must be you, Cesc," Fernando agreed. "Don't deny it."

"Well, what can I say?" Cesc pretended to give in, shrugging as if to say that it was simply his nature to be a pest. "I enjoy driving him crazy. I have a death wish, remember?"

"Don't worry," Sergio said, patting him on the back. "We'll make sure he doesn't strangle you."

"You'll be like my knights in shining armour, I know." The midfielder chuckled inwardly at the mental image. "I'm just so, so lucky."

"You are." Sergio picked up his trolley. "Right. See you later, then!"

Cesc nodded. "Later, guys!"

Humming a tune beneath his breath, he folded his magazine and strolled over to join the others in front of the elevators.

***

The room he was supposed to be sharing with Iker was empty and untouched when he’d arrived, and so he quickly opted for the bed beside the window (knowing that Iker preferred to sleep near the door) and started unpacking.

They had been joking earlier of course, Fernando and Sergio. Cesc wasn’t exactly a saint, no, but he had never tormented anyone on purpose, especially not Iker.

Yet, the more he thought about what Sergio and Fernando had said, the more aware he became of the decision he had made before the holidays.

Had there been any grain of truth in their jest? Truth that he hadn’t noticed before, being all clueless and apparently not knowing shit about the world around him?

Had Iker actually complained about him behind his back at some point in the recent past?

Every joke had a partially justified foundation after all, and not just the ones about him, either. If Iker's angry outbursts during games were anything to go by... No, he didn't really want to pursue that thought.

Frowning, he plopped on his bed.

He liked Iker. The goalkeeper was a great team-mate and a good captain, and not even half as moody as his reputation claimed him to be. He always stood up for the other players. And (usually when they had something to celebrate) he was actually fun to be with.

Not all of the time, of course. Cesc assumed that with the many duties that came with his captaincy (and the regular trouble at home, if one were to believe Sergio), Iker simply couldn't be in a great mood every single second of his life.

It had never occurred to Cesc before today that this could have had something to do with him as well, but now that he thought about it, he couldn't help noticing the possibility of a connection.

Maybe he hadn't even done anything wrong; at least he couldn’t remember if he had!

Maybe he and Iker were simply incompatible as people, and that one always unwittingly managed to annoy the other with everything he did? Things like that happened, didn't they?

And you'd never confront anyone with a problem like that when you couldn't even explain it, when it was just a matter of personal taste, right?

Suddenly, it seemed outright ironic to him that, right at the beginning of the new project, when it was so important for the players to have a clear head and focus on training for the World Cup qualifiers, their new coach had put the two of them in a room together.

Letting out a sigh, the midfielder leaned over the rim of the bed and fished for the bottle of water on his nightstand.

Maybe he was overreacting and blowing the matter entirely out of proportion.

But still, he had to be right about at least a couple of his assumptions, otherwise they wouldn't have provided him with so many explanations.

In any case, he had to do something about this. He enjoyed Iker's company and had been looking forward to spending some time with him again, but this wasn't about him and his wishes. Whereas he had enough competition in the midfield and would most likely find himself on the bench more often than not, Iker was playing regularly, and not just that, he was also the captain. It was Cesc's duty, as a team-mate, to make sure that he didn't annoy the keeper on purpose.

He didn't like the thought of Iker finding him even mildly annoying, but if Cesc being Cesc didn't wash with the Madrilenian, what was he supposed to do?

Maybe this was Iker's subtle way of telling him, "I helped you settle in, my job is now done and I'd rather spend my time with other people, if that's not too much to ask," and therefore, Cesc would be helpful and grown-up about it and take matters into his own hands, thus sparing the keeper an awkward confrontation. No hard feelings at all.

(And there was always the chance of Iker liking him again some day if he didn’t bother him for at least a while… perhaps?)

With a determined look on his face, Cesc nestled on the bed and picked up the magazine he had browsed through earlier, wondering when Iker would show up and present himself. He had stolen fleeting glances in his captain’s direction when they had arrived at the hotel, but he hadn’t spotted Iker again since he’d bantered with Sergio and Fernando in the foyer. The keeper would have to dump his luggage eventually. Was he prolonging the inevitable on purpose?

Cesc sighed. It would help matters considerably if Iker just spoke to him and told him what to do.

Why did everybody expect him to know what was happening around him if nobody really talked to him? He needed more than hints! He was trying to be perceptive, yes, but that didn’t mean he could read everyone’s minds!

Finally, the door opened and a rather grim-looking Iker stepped inside, a jacket on a hanger in one hand and a trolley handle in the other.

"Hi, Cesc."

Iker didn’t even really bother to look at him. He tossed the jacket on top of his bed, manhandled the suitcase between the wall and the wardrobe before hurriedly prising it open. For a while, he rummaged through its contents, cursing under his breath.

"For fuck’s sake…"

Cesc thought it better not to say anything. Maybe, if Iker could pretend that Cesc wasn’t even there, things would be easier for the both of them. So, Cesc just sat there, watching the events unfold with a mix of fascination and discomfort, feeling like a gawker at the scene of an accident.

A couple of seconds later, Iker produced a little folder and threw it on top of the bed before kicking the lid of the suitcase closed and storming out of the room.

"Now, that went well," Cesc muttered sarcastically as the door clicked shut.

***

He didn’t speak to Iker until after the first gathering of the Selección’s schedule for the day, a meeting in the conference room, during which del Bosque presented his plans and ideas for the World Cup qualifiers as well as the upcoming friendly against Denmark.

The keeper had been there, as well as the rest of the team, but he had sat himself down in the first row together with Xabi and Carles, whereas Cesc always preferred sitting a bit further back.

As the meeting had ended and the players left the conference room, Iker suddenly appeared beside Cesc.

"Sorry about earlier," he muttered quietly with an apologetic smile. "Del Bosque wanted to have a quick word before the meeting, and I had misplaced--"

"Oh, that’s perfectly fine!" Cesc quickly assured the keeper. "You’re not responsible for me anymore, right?"

A light frown appeared on Iker’s face. "I… guess not." He cleared his throat. "Okay, then, see you later."

As the Arsenal player watched his captain walk away, he felt a strange twinge in his stomach, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He had done the right thing, in his head, and that was all that mattered.

***

After dinner, Cesc ran into Iker in front of the elevators. He almost contemplated walking onwards towards the lobby, but he needed to go up to his room, their room, and get out of the uncomfortable new shirt he had foolishly chosen to wear for dinner. There was no way he’d survive the rest of the evening wearing it.

He risked a quick peek at Iker. The keeper didn’t look too annoyed as Cesc followed him into the elevator. He even wore a little smile on his face. Granted, it was quite possibly directed at Santi and El Guaje, who were having quite a silly conversation about the contents of the meal they had just eaten, but at least it was a smile, and a quite understandable one at that.

Cesc himself found it impossible to resist grinning when Santi pondered with amusement about the kitchen staff and the theory that they used special set-squares for their patatas bravas (because the potato cubes had all looked exactly the same), and David retorted with a pitiful grin that Santi simply had no talent in the kitchen and would cut his finger a hundred times before he made patatas bravas that looked at least vaguely symmetrical.

Once inside their room, Iker plonked himself down on top of his bed while Cesc quickly changed out of his uncomfortable shirt.

"Is everything alright?" the Madrilenian broke the silence after a while.

Cesc turned sharply at the unexpected disruption to the silence. "Uh, yeah, of course," he hurried to say.

"You’ve been rather quiet today," Iker explained. His mouth formed a grin. "It almost feels like heaven."

The midfielder forced himself to return the grin. "Great, isn’t it?"

"Don’t tell me you changed that much over the summer!" the keeper continued to banter. "By the way, how were your holidays? Did you have fun?"

"Oh yeah!" Cesc’s face lit up immediately as he remembered his holidays. "We went to Universal Studios. Yeah, childish, I know, but it’s really lots of fun there! They have a new Simpsons ride, which is totally awesome by the way. And there’s a ride that lets you star in an action movie with Christopher Walken! Just imagine! Oh, and I stole a policeman’s baton. But I gave it back to him afterwards. I didn’t want to get arrested--"

He stopped abruptly when he realised that he was gushing, and collapsed into his bed with a sigh.

He really didn’t want to annoy Iker. And he had managed to stay perfectly disciplined before, so why the hell could one simple question from his team-mate suddenly make him almost lose it completely?

"Sounds like a great trip," Iker spoke after a short while and Cesc was almost relieved to see that he was smiling. Almost, because he wasn’t sure if his captain was just humouring him and secretly hoping he’d get the fuck out of their room.

"You were in Peru, right?" Cesc didn’t want to appear too eager to keep the conversation up, but it would seem impolite of him not to ask about Iker’s holidays after the keeper had inquired about his own.

"Yeah, I was for a couple of days," Iker nodded. "Macchu Picchu and Cuzco. You wouldn’t believe that a country as beautiful as Peru has such problems. When Emilio - you know, Real’s former sports director - approached me with the concept of Plan International2, it was a given for me to take part in it. They were running a programme for children in poverty, and I got to play a bit of football with some orphan kids, so I wasn’t completely useless there."

"That’s really nice," Cesc replied honestly, a smile upon his lips. "You’re awesome for doing that. I’m sure they were more than happy to have you there."

"Oh, shut up," Iker replied after a pause, putting Cesc off the mood with an awkward smile. "It was great to be there."

A rather uncomfortable silence followed, and Cesc eventually excused himself, telling Iker he needed to take a leak.

It would have been an understatement to say that he was feeling majorly confused. The Madrilenian had been in quite a good mood (if not to say an exceptionally good mood) all evening, despite Cesc’s presence in the room and his unrestricted babbling. He hadn’t seemed the slightest bit annoyed, despite the earlier nuisance about the coach and whatever Iker had been looking for in his suitcase. The midfielder didn’t understand it at all.

Of course, it didn’t mean that he could be derelict from now on.

He quickly flushed the toilet to keep up the pretence.

"Oh, by the way, I brought my Mus cards," the keeper announced as Cesc returned from the bathroom. "You told me in Austria that you wanted to learn, so I thought I’d bring the set this time." He put the cards on his bed and gave the younger man an encouraging look. "Fancy a game?"

Cesc did his best to hide his disappointment about having to decline Iker’s offer. He's just being polite, he reminded himself, swallowing down the lump at the back of his throat. He did charity for orphans.

"Uhm, no, thanks, I agreed to play ProEvo with Sergio and Nando," he replied casually, hoping his lie wasn't that obvious. "In fact," he added, looking pointedly at his watch, "I'm already late. See you later!" And in the blink of an eye, he was out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him with a loud thud.

Only when he'd arrived at the door to Sergio's and Fernando's room and found it locked, he realised the flaw in his plan. What now? He couldn't just go back and act as if nothing had happened! At the same time, he couldn't go and bother someone else without a reason, either!

He ended up wasting the evening in front of the television in the lobby, watching boring documentaries on Spanish economy and wondering what the hell had gotten him into this mess. This clearly had to be the worst evening of his entire life. And if he didn't improve the organisation of his plan for future situations, there would be many more intolerable, disastrous evenings ahead of him.

Perhaps he should take his training kit with him next time and do some extra lifts in the weight room or a few extra laps in the swimming pool.

Or maybe he could actually bother to think ahead and make plans with his other team-mates so he wouldn't have to show up at their doors unannounced. (That was probably the best idea he’d come up with all evening.)

He quickly scanned his mind for the schedule of the upcoming day before thoroughly pondering what to do with the rest of his leisure time. (Fortunately, that took his mind off the boredom of the documentaries and the confusion about his captain.)

When he finally decided to return to his room, Iker was already fast asleep.

***

During the remainder of the Selección's stay at the training centre, Cesc tried his best to stay away from Iker.

It wasn't even that difficult, much to his relief. The keeper had had quite a lot of meetings to attend, and Cesc had somehow managed to get hold of a copy of Iker’s schedule. The moment Iker returned from a meeting, Cesc had made sure he was out of their room already.

Sergio and Fernando proved to be rather helpful. The striker had brought his Playstation, and after Cesc had invited himself for gaming a couple of times, Fernando had taken the hint and let him know whenever he and Sergio felt like playing. It wasn't too often, but Cesc was grateful for the time he spent with them and the distraction they provided.

At training, he regularly eavesdropped on his team-mates' conversations. It wasn't really something he was particularly proud of (and he wouldn't admit it to anyone), but it served him well. He wouldn't have thought he could find out so much about his team-mates by just listening to what they related to others. And after training, he would casually approach them, make some meaningful remarks, and hope they picked up on it. Which, luckily for Cesc, they usually did.

If he had to write a list of all the things he'd done in Las Rozas, it would probably fill an entire book.

For instance, he'd had a quite profound discussion with Álvaro about English cuisine (mostly the horrors of it, because those were always the most entertaining).
He'd helped Pepe find a birthday present for his aunt.
He'd found out that Villa had been borrowing a CD from Silva since the beginning of the Euros and, with some diplomatic skill, had made him give it back.
He'd called Rubén and told him some anecdotes from training after Sergio had mentioned that the midfielder had seemed rather sad about not having been called up again.
(He also found out some other things, for example the thing about Chori's3 girlfriend wanting to start a family, but Cesc thought it best not to interfere there.)

Additionally to that, Cesc was probably the only one who had made good use of pretty much all available training facilities in the camp. (Fortunately, nobody knew about that, and his extra training didn't have any obvious effects on his physique either, so he didn't have to feel like a careerist or the next Mr Universe contestant.)

As he sat on the plane that took them to Denmark, he wondered what Vicente del Bosque's stance on rooming was. Would Las Rozas have been a one-off, or was the coach determined to enforce some bonding by rooming his players with the same people for large parts of the World Cup preparations?

Cesc wasn't sure if he could survive that.

***

Copenhagen, August 20th.

In Denmark, Cesc discovered he indeed was rooming with Iker again, but, in all honestly, he’d hardly thought about the keeper at all. (Well, at least not as much as he had done previously.)

There was training, of course, and just after they’d returned, they heard of the plane crash at Barajas airport4, which left the entire team stunned.

The coaching staff called up a special meeting in the team's reserved conference room and, in lieu of the scheduled tactics lesson, ordered some team bonding to take the players' minds off what had happened in Madrid.

Cesc was actually supposed to meet with Silva (and Villa and Carles, who were quite possibly waiting for them in the lobby already) but ended up trying to calm down his Canarian teammate instead, who was almost in hysterics because he couldn't find his mobile.

"I have to call my family… and my friends," he repeated incessantly as he rummaged through his bag and suitcase. "I have to call them…"

"I'm sure they're okay," Cesc attempted to reassure him, for what had been the tenth time in about as many minutes, but Silva wasn't even listening to him.

Finally, Villa came into the room, grabbed Silva's arm and hauled him onto the bed before tending to the suitcase himself and, mere seconds later, presenting Silva's mobile.

"Calm down, Cuco," he said, squeezing Silva's shoulder. "Your friends and family are alright, I'm sure they are."

Silva didn't look at all convinced but at least Villa's words kept him glued to the bed instead of running around like a headless chicken.

As the Canarian pressed the first numbers into his mobile phone, Villa proceeded to drag Cesc out of the room in order to give his Valencia team-mate some peace and quiet.

On the way down to the lobby, they bumped into Iker and Xabi, but the two were huddled up in deep conversation and didn't even seem to notice them, so Cesc decided not to say anything.

Villa gave him a strange look as they walked past. "What happened?"

"Huh?" It took Cesc a while to realise what David was talking about, and when he did, he tried not to give anything away.

"Well, with you and Iker," the Asturian clarified. "I hardly see you two together anymore, and you're not talking either. You're rooming with him, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but he has to keep a clear head," Cesc explained, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Villa frowned. "He told you that?"

The midfielder merely shrugged. He really didn't want to talk about this.

"But it doesn't really seem to work out, if you ask me," the striker mused. "Ever since we landed here, he's been making a face as if someone cut up his gloves or something."

"Well, that definitely doesn't have anything to do with me!" Cesc snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I haven't been bothering him at all this time!"

"Whoa!" Villa raised his hands in mock defense. "Who pissed in your cheerios?"

"I'm just saying!"

They spent the rest of their walk to the lobby in silence, and Cesc hoped he hadn't let on more than he'd wanted to.

***

Las Rozas, Madrid, September 4th.

Vicente del Bosque made Cesc and Iker room together again back in Spain for the qualifier against Bosnia, and eventually Cesc began wondering what he had done to offend God.

Staying away from Iker had been rather easy at first, but within the few days they had spent preparing for the friendly in Denmark, his plan had turned out to be extremely exhausting.

It was difficult enough to remember his own schedule, but now he also had to pay attention to Iker's and plan his leisure time accordingly to it. Wistfully, he remembered the old days when he was able to spend time in his room whenever he pleased.

And to make things worse, he actually missed Iker's company.

Granted, the additional exercises hadn't been too bad for him considering how he'd spent his holidays, and he'd had a couple of great laughs with other team-mates, but it just wasn't the same.

Iker had always been different from them, and spending time with him had always been just a little more fun, a little more exciting, a little more memorable. He had looked up to the keeper from the beginning, but Iker had never patronised him or treated him as an inferior. He had laughed about his minor pranks and quickly forgiven him for the major ones. He had listened to the younger man when he'd had something important to talk about with him.

As he sat in the empty lobby with a book in his hand and gazed at the words without actually taking in the meaning of them, Cesc wondered for an instant what would happen if he threw his plan overboard, went up to his room and had a good long talk with Iker again. He hadn't avoided him during the Euro preparations, after all, and Iker had saved two penalties and captained them to victory. Despite Cesc. Despite everything.

Cesc hadn't even found any proof of his theory of Iker not being able to stand him. The keeper had been somewhat grumpy lately, but that couldn't have been only because of him. They only saw each other in the mornings (and Iker wasn't a morning person anyway, so Cesc didn't interpret anything into the heavy silence that filled the room every time he woke up).

Of course, that didn't prove Iker liked him, either. Had the keeper tried to grab his attention after Cesc had walked out and left him alone in their room with his Mus cards? No, not once.

And why would Sergio and Fernando lie to him? What was in it for them?

It didn't make any sense.

Cesc sighed audibly as he turned the page. Why did it have to be so difficult to be responsible, to do the right thing? Why did he have to feel like crap when he was actually helping out a team-mate?

It just wasn't fair.

Wasn't there a way for everyone to be happy, like during the Euro preparations, when they had grown together so closely as a team? It had been their recipe for victory. Could anything like that happen again?

"Who is she, Cesc?"

The Catalonian cocked his head to the side and found Xabi plopped down next to him. He hadn't even heard him approach.

"What?"

The Basque flashed him a sympathetic smile. "Who is she?"

Cesc stared at him. "Who is who?"

"Oh, come on." Xabi laughed. "It really is obvious."

"What is?" God, why did everybody always have to talk to him in riddles?!

Xabi gently patted his thigh. "Well, let me give you a hint. You're a million miles away with your thoughts. You mope around all day. You're not laughing. You're not playing pranks." He smirked. "Sounds pretty obvious to me! So, who is she?"

Instead of asking yet another incredulous question, the Arsenal midfielder settled for frowning deeply in reply.

"Your crush!" Xabi nudged Cesc. "It's pretty damn obvious you have one! Do I know her?"

Cesc nearly dropped his book. "My… crush?"

Xabi's smile grew wider. "Yeah, that girl you're thinking about all the time!"

"But I was thinking about…"

Wait.

Oh. For fuck's sake.

Quickly, Cesc excused himself, scrambled to his feet and stormed out of the room, leaving a chuckling, amused Xabi behind.

Great. Now he had a crush on Iker Casillas. Should he throw himself out of the window straight away or should he wait for Iker to notice and consequentially throttle him to death?

And Xabi did have a point, what with the fact that Iker had always been special to him. Cesc hadn't considered his feelings towards the keeper as a crush before, but compared to the crushes he'd had in the past, this one came pretty close, even though it didn't involve the urge to get into his pants--

Well, fuck. All right. It did. Somehow.

Of course, he wasn't very experienced in that department, so he had no clue what he should want to do, but there was no denying that Iker was attractive and… he'd better not even attempt pursue that thought any further. He wasn't supposed to be interested in anything like that. He wasn't gay. He didn't fancy guys. In general, that was. He might in one way or another like Iker a bit more than he should, and Iker was definitely a guy, but how was that supposed to be Cesc's fault?

And he wasn't going to act upon it anyway. Nothing would happen. In fact, his urge was stored in a very far corner of Cesc's mind because if anyone found out about it, especially Iker, he'd be dead in an instant.

Suddenly, getting lost in the corridors of La Ciudad del Fútbol de Las Rozas seemed like a very appealing idea. Maybe people wouldn't even notice that he was missing…

He sat down on the floor next to a big pot plant, cursing Xabi for having put that thought into his head.

***

Las Rozas, Madrid, September 9th.

In the end, Cesc hadn't gotten lost in the corridors. He'd played sixty-five minutes in Murcia against Bosnia, and if he managed not to get killed (or mutilated) within the next twenty-four hours, he would also travel to Albacete for the match against Armenia.

However, that didn't change anything about the fact that he was suffering. He tried not to show it, tried to grin every time somebody made a joke about him having a crush on some girl (which everybody seemed to be under the impression ever since he'd had that little talk with Xabi). He pretended to be cheerful and happy on the outside while inside, he was a mess.

His father had once chided him for a prank, shrilly cursing the words, "If stupidity hurt, you'd be crying out in pain right now."

Cesc hadn't understood back then, but as he sat alone in his room, counting down the minutes he'd be able to stay inside his bubble until Iker returned from training, the words seemed perfectly clear.

He was being incredibly stupid, and this time, he knew it. He felt it. Deep inside.

He felt like a junkie on cold turkey, only much worse, as his favourite drug was right in front of him with the guarantee to make him as miserable as possible as long as he resisted it. If he wanted, he could just grab it. Reach out and take it. Make the pain go away. Act as if he'd never even tried to stop. (Pretend not to fancy a certain goalkeeper.) Probably get on Iker's nerves again but, at the same time, at least have his company back.

But he didn't dare risk it. Too many things could go wrong.

Stifling a sigh, he turned on his bed and grabbed his watch from the bedside table.

Ten more minutes until Iker would return.

He might as well use them wisely and get some rest to make up for the hours he'd lain awake the night before.

He'd never had trouble sleeping before and the thought of having to take endless sleeping pills made him feel more than slightly uncomfortable.

Cesc hoped it wouldn't come to that, but even if it did, the situation just couldn't be helped. He’d have to carry on with his plan, no matter how much it hurt him, no matter how much of a wreck it made him.

And he might as well get over his silly infatuation at some point anyway, because it most certainly did not have a future in Cesc’s life.

***

The first thing he caught sight of as his eyes fluttered open was the big duffel bag laying on Iker's bed. Cesc immediately squeezed his eyes shut again.

Fuck.

He had overslept.

Now what? He knew Iker was in the bathroom for his post-training shower, but considering the silence, he had to be done already and would show up in a couple of minutes. Would that give Cesc enough time to decide how and where to spend the time until dinner, get out of his shirt and trackpants and into some more respectable clothes and leave the room?

Well, he could always try.

He quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes, jumped off the bed whilst trying to pull off all his clothes at once before rummaging wildly in his suitcase and spreading half of its contents all over the bedroom floor.

Just as he’d finished buttoning up his new shirt, the bathroom door opened and a freshly showered Iker emerged, pulling a t-shirt over his head.

Cesc froze mid-motion.

Granted, Iker was fully dressed, but that didn't really change much. The midfielder wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be - well, anywhere else but there.

To make matters worse, he had spent enough time thinking about what he hadn't been supposed to be thinking about, and had quickly realised, to his own exasperation, that picturing people naked seemed to be one of his most natural talents.

"Cesc!"

Of course, it would have been stupid to expect that Iker had suddenly gone blind.

The Catalonian swallowed uncomfortably. "Hi, Iker. I..."

The keeper looked at him expectantly.

He wasn't exactly smiling (but that would probably have been a bit too much to ask, considering his recent bad mood), but at least he wasn't glaring at him. Cesc decided he wasn't in any immediate danger and calculated that, thankfully, he would have enough time for a slow, careful escape.

"I was just about to..." He glanced around the room, then picked up the next best thing lying within his reach - a sports magazine with Lionel Messi on the cover. "Ah yes, that's what I was looking for. There's an article about... uhm, Sergio in it, and he wants to see the pictures."

The midfielder rushed past Iker trying his best not to look at him. His fingers were just about to grab the door handle as the keeper's voice echoed inside his ears again.

"If you dread my company so much, why don't you ask the coach to room you with somebody else instead?" Iker snapped. "I'm getting sick and tired of this."

Completely dumbstruck, Cesc turned around. "I dread your company?" he all but shouted, staring incredulously at the Madrilenian.

This had to be the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard in his entire life, and considering how many ridiculous things he'd said himself, that was quite some achievement.

The keeper crossed his arms in front of his chest, scoffing at him. "Well, apparently, or why else would you flee the room the moment I come in? And spend time with everyone else but your roommate? And lie so badly to me?"

"But I…" Cesc didn't even know what to say.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Iker huffed, obviously misinterpreting the Catalonian's reaction. "I know that's a Barça magazine in your hand. Why would there be any articles about Sergio in it?"

"I... was doing it for you," Cesc finally managed to say. He couldn't talk himself out of this, so he might just as well put the cards on the table. "All of this. I thought… I thought I was doing you a favour! I was just trying to help!"

"To help?!" Iker let out a bitter laugh. "How does that count for helping?"

"I thought I'd give you some space," the midfielder explained hesitantly. "You… need a clear head for the qualifiers, right?"

Iker frowned at first, but suddenly, his face fell, and he slumped down on the bed. "I see." His voice was coarse and quiet, almost resigned. "You're on a fool's errand, though. I can't be helped."

That was about the very second when Cesc's mind settled for total confusion and refused any further attempts at understanding what was going on.

The keeper's crestfallen reaction had caught him completely off-guard. He had expected Iker to yell at him, or to ignore him, or to tell him to continue staying away. Those reactions would have been perfectly natural.

Instead, Iker told him he had given up on something, and the alarm bells in Cesc's head couldn't have rung any louder.

"Why, what's wrong?"

Cesc didn't want to pry, but he couldn't help asking. Iker Casillas Fernández never surrendered. Something had to be really really wrong.

"I thought you knew!" Iker stared at him. "Why else would you want to help me if…" He trailed off. "Wait. What were you trying to help me for?"

The Catalonian cleared his throat. "Well, I…" Where should he start? How big a fool could he make of himself by telling this story from the beginning? "Uhm. Do you remember what Pepe said about me at the Plaza de Colón?" He might as well go all the way back. What did he have to lose, anyway?

Iker's face showed plain confusion. (Cesc was glad to notice that he wasn't alone in being entirely overtaxed with this conversation.)

"Well, he said something about me not knowing shit about the world," the midfielder explained. "And I started thinking about that. And about the jokes people always make about us. How I'm so annoying and all. And how you're always annoyed about me. I wondered if that was really a joke, or if it was actually true? And I thought I'd stay away so that you wouldn't get annoyed. I… I was trying, I swear. I overslept earlier, otherwise I wouldn't even be here right now. I… can go now, if you want?"

Cesc did his best at looking contrite and sorry, but either there was something wrong with Iker's hearing or his view - or both - because the keeper suddenly started laughing. Heartily. Loudly.

"Cesc, you idiot!" he exclaimed, getting up from the bed to pull the midfielder into a tight hug. "You big idiot!"

"I'm an idiot?" the midfielder mumbled into Iker's neck, wondering if he should be offended at the keeper's words.

It really wasn't easy for him to think right now, not when Iker was so close and warm and smelling really nice and...

"Yes, you are," Iker said with a fond smile as he loosened the embrace and ruffled Cesc's hair. "I can't believe you thought I didn’t like you."

"I suppose I really am an idiot," the midfielder mused, more to himself than to his opposite.

He still couldn't quite grasp what he'd just heard. (Also, he wanted to hug Iker again, but he tried to ignore the urge and be reasonable for a moment.)

"But people always made jokes, and…"

Iker put him off, gently patting his shoulder. "You shouldn't care about what they say."

There was silence for a moment. Cesc needed to process what Iker had told him, and judging from the look on his face, the goalkeeper had to do some thinking as well.

"I… I'm really glad you don't hate me," he said after a while and promptly chided himself for having been so thoughtless.

Fortunately, Iker didn't read anything into it, for he didn't say anything, he just smiled.

"But… what did you think I knew? Did I miss anything?" Cesc couldn't help asking. Iker's sudden breakdown had puzzled the hell out of him.

The keeper seemed equally puzzled at Cesc's question, so the younger man decided to clarify. "Well, you said that you couldn't be helped with something, and when I asked you what it was, you said you thought I knew. What was that?"

"Oh that." Iker cleared his throat. "It's… it's nothing, really. Forget about it." Almost casually, he opened his duffel bag and started looking for something inside, quite possibly considering the conversation to be over.

He didn't fool Cesc.

"Oh no." The Catalonian shook his head fervently. "No way. It's about me, so I have a right to know what it is!"

The Madrilenian turned to face him again. "You really don't want to know, believe me." His face was unreadable, but the way he fumbled at his own fingers told Cesc that he wasn't really that comfortable with this situation.

"Yes, I do!"

The keeper's face coloured slightly. "It's… rather stupid, actually. You'd just laugh." He let out a soft chuckle, but it sounded merely half-hearted. "I'll deal with it on my own."

"I'd laugh?" Cesc snorted. "Yeah, right. I could tell you a lot of things - well, one thing surely, that is a lot more stupid than anything you could tell me, so don't be such a chicken!"

"What's that?"

He would never tell him, of course. He didn't want to die just yet, especially not when he had only just made peace with Iker.

"Don't try to change the subject," he said instead of a reply. "You're telling me before I tell you!"

Iker sighed. "I can't. Seriously, Cesc, you don't want to know. Just forget about it."

Yeah, right, as if. The midfielder rolled his eyes. "I can't just forget about it now that you’ve made such a big thing out of it!"

"Well, I'm sorry!" Iker snapped, "but you kept nagging me about it!"

"So I'm back at being the annoying kid. I get it." Cesc pouted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Why can't you just be honest with me? You never tell me anything! That's what got me into this mess in the first place!"

Iker gave him a challenging look. "You want me to be honest with you?"

"I think that after everything, I deserve it," Cesc said firmly.

"This isn't just about you, you know."

By then, Cesc got the feeling Iker was going to continue trying to talk himself out of this forever. The midfielder couldn't let that happen.

How was he supposed to believe that there was just one thing that the keeper would give himself up on? It just wasn't genetically possible for this man to lay down his arms. So instead of giving him another retort, the younger man settled for an expectant (and hopefully encouraging) look.

"There's a lot at stake for me."

Cesc kept up his look.

"So you're determined to see me miserable, Cesc? Is that it?"

"Miserable?!?" Cesc spluttered, flabbergasted.

He had to be imagining things! What the hell did Iker know about being miserable?! He might not have been too amused about what Cesc had done, but the truly miserable of the two definitely hadn't been him!

This was getting ridiculous. Maybe he should indeed just tell him everything. Then Iker would see how insignificant his own problems were compared to Cesc's. Granted, the Catalonian wouldn't survive to see the next day, but at least he would die for a good cause, the one of putting all his captain's problems in perspective.

He took a step towards the keeper, his face the image of defiant determination. "You don't even know what being miserable feels like."

Iker's face darkened as he reduced the distance between the two, obviously ready to defend himself, but before the keeper could say anything, Cesc had already continued talking.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through? No, you don't. Of course you don't. You don't know what it feels like to fall for the wrong person. You don't know what it's like to be forced to see them when you can't even talk to them because everyone tells you they don't like you. So don't tell me you're miserable! You're not even close!"

With a grim look on his face, he plopped down onto his bed and started preparing himself for Iker's reaction. If he was lucky, the keeper would leave the room, maybe slam the door, and never speak to him again. If he was unlucky… well, it was too late to say goodbye to his family now, but they knew he loved them, didn't they?

"What?" Iker managed hoarsely, interrupting his line of thought. He looked positively confused.

Cesc couldn't believe this. He had just signed his own death warrant and told Iker his biggest (and worst) secret he'd ever kept, and the man hadn't even been listening?

"What? Are you deaf?" he snapped despite himself. "¿Hablan usted Español?"5

"You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

The midfielder groaned exasperatedly. "No! For once in my life, I am not! And it would be great if you could stop mocking me now because I'm in deep enough shit as it is."

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't apologise," Cesc interrupted him, letting out a deep sigh. He wished Iker would have just throttled him after his confession so he wouldn't have had to deal with this awkward aftermath. "It's my fault, really. I'll try to get over it."

"No, you don't understand, I…"

He sat down on the bed beside Cesc and cleared his throat. And even though the midfielder was prepared for what was probably about to happen, he couldn't help tensing up.

Hesitantly, he glanced sideways at the keeper and was surprised to see that Iker was looking back at him with an expression on his face that matched the cocktail of emotions stirring inside him.

Was that the look of someone who was about to strangle a fellow team-mate? Cesc wasn't sure, but before he could ponder the matter in depth, Iker suddenly leaned in and covered Cesc's lips with his own.

The midfielder didn't even grasp it was happening at first. The thought of Iker kissing him felt so surreal and wrong that he just couldn't believe it.

Had he gone insane? Was he imagining things?

But then… it wouldn't feel so damn realistic and send the most intense, fantastic jolts through his body… would it?

It had to be true.

Iker was kissing him.

Iker Casillas was kissing him.

It was hesitant, shy and experimental, but it was definitely a kiss.

The keeper had to have lost his mind in the confusing conversation they'd had earlier, because there was no way he would have even contemplated doing what he was doing if he had been of sound mind.

Of course, it didn't mean there was any need for Cesc to hold back now. He'd already let the cat out of the bag. So he quickly decided that he might just as well enjoy this, pull himself together and bloody well kiss Iker back before he realised his mistake.

If this was the only chance he'd get to find out what it was like to treat his keeper, his captain, like a lover, he would take it and make the very best out of it.

Determined, he raised his hand to cup Iker's neck and pulled him closer, slightly tilting his head to deepen the kiss whilst softly running his fingers over the stubble on his cheek and along the little hairs on the back of his neck.

This was heaven.

It had to be.

The way Iker tasted, the warmth that radiated from him, the unique scent of him, the feeling of his hands roaming all over his body, the touch of his skin against Cesc's fingertips…

The Catalonian was sure he had never experienced anything as intense as this, and he couldn't get enough of it, the wave of feelings that crashed over him as they both became bolder (shifting on the bed as they tried to get as close to each other as possible) almost knocking the breath out of him.

When Iker ran his tongue over Cesc's lips, begging for entrance, the midfielder was only too glad to comply. By then, they were already lying on the bed next to each other, bodies pressed so tightly together that there was absolutely no room between them, and yet, Cesc felt the urge to get closer, to crawl right underneath his skin.

Why hadn't anybody warned him how dangerously addictive it was to kiss Iker?

As they pulled apart, both of them gasped for air, Cesc exhaustedly dropped onto his back to catch his breath and calm his racing heart.

"Wow."

A soft chuckle was his answer, and he turned sideways to face Iker, who looked so adorably flushed that Cesc couldn't resist stealing another kiss.

"This… is wrong, isn't it?" he said as he pulled back, a shy smile etched upon his face.

Iker sighed softly. "I guess so..." His mouth suddenly curved into a grin. "But you know what? I couldn’t care less!"

Cesc couldn't help laughing. Iker was probably the most dutiful person he knew, making sure that everybody stuck to the rules. So, seeing him shit on those rules (and enjoying it too!) was quite a first.

"So you're…?" Cesc slowly ran his fingers through the keeper's short hair, not quite sure how to say the words.

Iker wasn't in love, was he? That would have been a bit too much to ask, right?

Yet, as he gazed into his captain's face and registered the solemn look, he wasn't so sure anymore.

"Yeah." Iker quickly wiped his glistening eyes and blushed as he realised what he was doing. "I'm sorry, I just… I never thought… And you thought I was worrying myself sick over nothing!"

Cesc sheepishly bit his lip, but before he could say anything, Iker had already claimed his mouth again, telling him exactly how much he thought of Cesc's apologies, and the midfielder wholeheartedly approved of the keeper's course of action.

Maybe he didn't know shit about the world, after all. But it didn't matter. Not anymore.

***

Notes:
1 A video and a transcript of Pepe Reina's hilarious introduction of the Selección at the Plaza de Colón can be found here.
2 Plan International is an organisation that works in 49 developing countries to generate change on issues affecting children at all levels. There's a special project in Peru to which Iker contributed.
3 "Chori" is a nickname of Valencia's Raúl Albiol.
4 In the afternoon of the Denmark friendly, a Spanish airliner bound for the Canary Islands crashed and broke into pieces while trying to take off from Madrid's Barajas airport, killing 154 of the 172 people on board. More than 70 of the victims were from Gran Canaria.
5 "Do you speak Spanish?"