we can spend the day together.
For niche, a girl that I happen to adore insane amounts. If you have no idea who these two footballers (soccer players to Americans) are, take a look here for evidence of their OTP-ness. :"> (Password: love! - with the exclamation point and everything; creative, I realize.)
a history of
Mori leaves like a fucking heartache.
That night Raúl eats peppermint bark cookies and thinks of him. They're weirdly crunchy and sticky sweet, some recipe that Mamen had gotten from a friend in America, but they're good and greasy and the sort of thing dedicated footballers like him aren't supposed to have. It's late December and all Raúl can think about is how cold his feet are, how Mori's only a country away and learning French already and how atrocious his accent probably is.
It's sort of like that. The thought of Mori stumbling over smooth, airy syllables, the thought of Mori's dark hair and warm skin in a blue country, all of that follows Raúl around constantly. He wakes up and thinks, that bastard better not be late to lunch today, before he realizes that Mori won't ever be late again, not because he's suddenly developed a sense of punctuality outside of football after twenty-eight years, but because there is no Mori to be show up ten minutes tardy, laughing and a little flustered, no person there, no physical body to do anything. Jorge asks why he hasn't seen Fernandito lately, and it takes a minute before Raúl answers.
Delayed reactions have become familiar things lately. A pause on the pitch when he looks for a certain number, something reflexive like second nature and blinking; a pause in his breath before he picks up the phone; a pause in his head when Mori's voice broadcasts through the wires, thinner than Raúl remembers, but no less kind.
*
When he tells Mori about how he's been wearing that number 9 under his own jersey, there's a long silence through the line that sounds like a sad, silent sigh, like the pause before something angry, like a reprimand, a heart attack that comes from some heavy unbearable weight - resignation frustration regret love.
Raúl thinks too much. So he just takes a breath and waits, staring at the Christmas tree he'd helped the children decorate that morning. It's very pretty. It belongs in a magazine. And all of sudden, sitting on a black leather sofa, looking around at his perfectly designed living room and polished fireplace, he wants to make a mess, wants to buy a flat in the middle of the city, wants to run away, wants to play football with teenagers in the downtown centers. He almost does it before Mori's voice sounds again and he's saying, what will the others think.
I don't, I don't care what they'll think, I don't care if they see it.
And the rest of them? You think the management will be happy about it?
It doesn't matter.
You're the captain.
I don't owe them anything after what they did to you.
You're the captain. You are Real Madrid. Please, don't do this to yourself, it's not worth it. Listen to me.
How can you be saying this? Why are you saying this after the way they've treated you, the way they will treat you?
Raúl. Raúl.
Solemn, heavy. Quiet. That's the way Mori sounds when he's placating someone, when he's preventing you from doing something stupid. There's nothing left to say. Mori's pissed off and rightly so, but he's smarter than Raúl is, he's going to make his point without saying a single word. So Raúl says, okay and I'll stop and only because you asked. He manages a smile. Mori can't see it, of course, but he's always been able to tell with Raúl.
He doesn't stop the next game, though. Or the next. Beckham gives him a look the first time he sees it, but he doesn't know enough Spanish to ask him anything. He's dumb, but not that dumb. He probably knows a thing or two about people leaving, or maybe leaving people. Raúl doesn't stop wearing it, can't. It makes him feel like he's doing something, anything, for Mori; on the pitch, it's like wearing two skins so close together that they might as well be one. It feels like a fist wrapped up in his heart - something vital and angry and necessary. It's the sort of secret that makes Raúl stand straighter, that makes every goal he scores stand for something more, the sort of secret that's a little daring, almost on the edge of brave. Almost brave, because secrets don't mean anything unless they're spilled, and Raúl can score goals for Mori and play for him and do everything for him but it doesn't mean anything until someone, anyone, else realizes it. That's the fact of the matter.
*
Raúl is twenty-seven when he finally realizes that this, this is what being a captain means. It means letting go, cutting himself loose, saying goodbye to people that are as fundamental to him as football is. That's what it is, standing up and bearing it, readjusting his reflexes and learning all over again. But on his own, this time. It feels like fighting for breath. It feels like losing something important, a hand or a limb or a heart. It feels like everything that came easy, before, everything that was effortless and smooth, is a struggle all over again, like he's just had a stroke, like some basic, crucial part that made everything work right is gone.
It's frustrating as all hell, and sometimes he just wants --
It's Christmas Eve. It's supposed to be a happy day and it has been, mostly, Mamen's head on his shoulder, her hair soft against his neck. The kids are watching TV and everything is hazy and warm. He ruins it by wondering what Mori's doing right now. It's not something he can help, it's another one of those automatic things he has to smother out, but it's hard. Raúl tries to think of the first time he met Mori. He can't really remember it now, just the feeling of being young and victorious and unbeatable. That's what he associates with Mori, that feeling of invincibility, of something youthful and bright and golden that he can't quite reach for nowadays.
One thing he can remember clearly, details and all, is the day Mori had left. The airport, the drive over.
Please don't go, he'd asked, and Mori had just grinned a little and leaned his forehead against his and said, it's been eight years of my life spent with you and I won't regret any of it and you'll be okay, you're too sentimental, I know, but it'll be okay. He'd said that and all Raúl could think was, please don't be angry at me, please don't forget me. Please, please. It was one of those rare moments when he could feel that extra year Mori had on him, when he could see the gravity that a year of living added to people. He'd wanted it more than anything else in the world, at that moment. It would seem silly to him, later. People leave, move on. It happened all the time, was something you were just supposed to accept. But in that moment, sitting in the drivers seat with all of Mori's stupid luggage in the back and the trunk, looking at Mori's hair that was messy along his ears and getting too long, understanding that in exactly thirty-two minutes Mori would get on a plane and fly to France and play for a team without Raúl on it - all he'd wanted then was for Mori to stay. Another hour. Another day. Anything. They'd already won all the trophies and medals and all Raul wanted, now, was Mori, not the European Cup, not the La Liga title, not anything but him.
Mori was right. He's a sentimental person at heart. That, too, isn't something he can help. It's why he buys into the old, romanticized side of football. It's why he takes being captain so seriously. It's why he'll sacrifice almost anything for the team, for his team. It's also why he tried not to think about the new board of directors, the president of the club, the business of it. It's why he didn't know about Mori until too late, because at the bottom of it, Raúl is a believer in beautiful histories and legends and everything that's slowly being pushed aside.
He's sentimental, and it's why he believes in happy endings and impossible triumphs. It's why.
*
It's also why he wakes up on Christmas, helps Jorge and Hugo unwrap their presents, spends half the day with his in-laws, and then tells Mamen that he's taking a flight to France in two hours. She's not angry, and not as surprised as he had expected, either. Instead, she puts a hand on the side of his face, kisses him, and says, I hope you find what you're looking for. There's something akin to understanding in her open, cleanly pretty face, and it's another reason to love her, besides her delicate wrists and hands, her light laugh, her endless patience.
Raúl boards the plane. He's not going to get that flat in Madrid, he's not going to abandon his wife and children, but he is going to do this. Raúl's fine until they fly into France, and that's when he feels a little like puking. By the time they touch down, he's a bit of a nervous wreck, and when the taxi driver asks him for the address, his mind draws a total blank for a few seconds before he remembers again.
This is how, why, Raúl ends up standing in front of Mori's doorstep on Christmas day just as the sun's fading into something cold and blue. He feels ridiculous, because he doesn't even know if Mori's there, if he's spending the day with his own family, like Raúl should be. But he's brave in all the stupid ways, so he rings the doorbell and stands there feeling awkward and strange and changed. The door opens, which isn't something Raúl had really been ready for, but looking at Mori, there and solid and warm, is like going back to something familiar and comfortable, safe. There's a silence where neither of them know what to say before Mori hugs him. He still smells the same and all of a sudden Raúl's talking, saying everything he didn't know he needed to say: I'm sorry and I miss you and I don't know what I was thinking when I thought I could be fine without you.
And Mori mutters, you're so stupid sometimes, and kisses him, then, hands in his hair and out in cold, blue street in front of the entire world, or whoever happened to be watching at the moment. That, too, is both strange and familiar, but it feels like something he should have done already, feels right. He says something inane against Mori's mouth about two skins and being whole but it doesn't make that much sense without context, so all he does is kiss Mori again and step into the house, shutting the door behind him. Mori smiles, wide and pleased, says, you taste like peppermint, and Raúl feels like laughing until he's breathless for the first time in months.
He knows that he'll have to leave in a few days, knows that this is only temporary, that it won't always be like this, but it's, it's okay. It's okay. Mori's never been wrong yet.
notes: I had to end it happily, come on! :x And, Niche, darling, I hope you enjoyed it, abuse of italics and sappiness and all. Love love love. Meanwhile, this clip features an incredibly cute moment of the two at the end. alsdjf.
a history of
Mori leaves like a fucking heartache.
That night Raúl eats peppermint bark cookies and thinks of him. They're weirdly crunchy and sticky sweet, some recipe that Mamen had gotten from a friend in America, but they're good and greasy and the sort of thing dedicated footballers like him aren't supposed to have. It's late December and all Raúl can think about is how cold his feet are, how Mori's only a country away and learning French already and how atrocious his accent probably is.
It's sort of like that. The thought of Mori stumbling over smooth, airy syllables, the thought of Mori's dark hair and warm skin in a blue country, all of that follows Raúl around constantly. He wakes up and thinks, that bastard better not be late to lunch today, before he realizes that Mori won't ever be late again, not because he's suddenly developed a sense of punctuality outside of football after twenty-eight years, but because there is no Mori to be show up ten minutes tardy, laughing and a little flustered, no person there, no physical body to do anything. Jorge asks why he hasn't seen Fernandito lately, and it takes a minute before Raúl answers.
Delayed reactions have become familiar things lately. A pause on the pitch when he looks for a certain number, something reflexive like second nature and blinking; a pause in his breath before he picks up the phone; a pause in his head when Mori's voice broadcasts through the wires, thinner than Raúl remembers, but no less kind.
*
When he tells Mori about how he's been wearing that number 9 under his own jersey, there's a long silence through the line that sounds like a sad, silent sigh, like the pause before something angry, like a reprimand, a heart attack that comes from some heavy unbearable weight - resignation frustration regret love.
Raúl thinks too much. So he just takes a breath and waits, staring at the Christmas tree he'd helped the children decorate that morning. It's very pretty. It belongs in a magazine. And all of sudden, sitting on a black leather sofa, looking around at his perfectly designed living room and polished fireplace, he wants to make a mess, wants to buy a flat in the middle of the city, wants to run away, wants to play football with teenagers in the downtown centers. He almost does it before Mori's voice sounds again and he's saying, what will the others think.
I don't, I don't care what they'll think, I don't care if they see it.
And the rest of them? You think the management will be happy about it?
It doesn't matter.
You're the captain.
I don't owe them anything after what they did to you.
You're the captain. You are Real Madrid. Please, don't do this to yourself, it's not worth it. Listen to me.
How can you be saying this? Why are you saying this after the way they've treated you, the way they will treat you?
Raúl. Raúl.
Solemn, heavy. Quiet. That's the way Mori sounds when he's placating someone, when he's preventing you from doing something stupid. There's nothing left to say. Mori's pissed off and rightly so, but he's smarter than Raúl is, he's going to make his point without saying a single word. So Raúl says, okay and I'll stop and only because you asked. He manages a smile. Mori can't see it, of course, but he's always been able to tell with Raúl.
He doesn't stop the next game, though. Or the next. Beckham gives him a look the first time he sees it, but he doesn't know enough Spanish to ask him anything. He's dumb, but not that dumb. He probably knows a thing or two about people leaving, or maybe leaving people. Raúl doesn't stop wearing it, can't. It makes him feel like he's doing something, anything, for Mori; on the pitch, it's like wearing two skins so close together that they might as well be one. It feels like a fist wrapped up in his heart - something vital and angry and necessary. It's the sort of secret that makes Raúl stand straighter, that makes every goal he scores stand for something more, the sort of secret that's a little daring, almost on the edge of brave. Almost brave, because secrets don't mean anything unless they're spilled, and Raúl can score goals for Mori and play for him and do everything for him but it doesn't mean anything until someone, anyone, else realizes it. That's the fact of the matter.
*
Raúl is twenty-seven when he finally realizes that this, this is what being a captain means. It means letting go, cutting himself loose, saying goodbye to people that are as fundamental to him as football is. That's what it is, standing up and bearing it, readjusting his reflexes and learning all over again. But on his own, this time. It feels like fighting for breath. It feels like losing something important, a hand or a limb or a heart. It feels like everything that came easy, before, everything that was effortless and smooth, is a struggle all over again, like he's just had a stroke, like some basic, crucial part that made everything work right is gone.
It's frustrating as all hell, and sometimes he just wants --
It's Christmas Eve. It's supposed to be a happy day and it has been, mostly, Mamen's head on his shoulder, her hair soft against his neck. The kids are watching TV and everything is hazy and warm. He ruins it by wondering what Mori's doing right now. It's not something he can help, it's another one of those automatic things he has to smother out, but it's hard. Raúl tries to think of the first time he met Mori. He can't really remember it now, just the feeling of being young and victorious and unbeatable. That's what he associates with Mori, that feeling of invincibility, of something youthful and bright and golden that he can't quite reach for nowadays.
One thing he can remember clearly, details and all, is the day Mori had left. The airport, the drive over.
Please don't go, he'd asked, and Mori had just grinned a little and leaned his forehead against his and said, it's been eight years of my life spent with you and I won't regret any of it and you'll be okay, you're too sentimental, I know, but it'll be okay. He'd said that and all Raúl could think was, please don't be angry at me, please don't forget me. Please, please. It was one of those rare moments when he could feel that extra year Mori had on him, when he could see the gravity that a year of living added to people. He'd wanted it more than anything else in the world, at that moment. It would seem silly to him, later. People leave, move on. It happened all the time, was something you were just supposed to accept. But in that moment, sitting in the drivers seat with all of Mori's stupid luggage in the back and the trunk, looking at Mori's hair that was messy along his ears and getting too long, understanding that in exactly thirty-two minutes Mori would get on a plane and fly to France and play for a team without Raúl on it - all he'd wanted then was for Mori to stay. Another hour. Another day. Anything. They'd already won all the trophies and medals and all Raul wanted, now, was Mori, not the European Cup, not the La Liga title, not anything but him.
Mori was right. He's a sentimental person at heart. That, too, isn't something he can help. It's why he buys into the old, romanticized side of football. It's why he takes being captain so seriously. It's why he'll sacrifice almost anything for the team, for his team. It's also why he tried not to think about the new board of directors, the president of the club, the business of it. It's why he didn't know about Mori until too late, because at the bottom of it, Raúl is a believer in beautiful histories and legends and everything that's slowly being pushed aside.
He's sentimental, and it's why he believes in happy endings and impossible triumphs. It's why.
*
It's also why he wakes up on Christmas, helps Jorge and Hugo unwrap their presents, spends half the day with his in-laws, and then tells Mamen that he's taking a flight to France in two hours. She's not angry, and not as surprised as he had expected, either. Instead, she puts a hand on the side of his face, kisses him, and says, I hope you find what you're looking for. There's something akin to understanding in her open, cleanly pretty face, and it's another reason to love her, besides her delicate wrists and hands, her light laugh, her endless patience.
Raúl boards the plane. He's not going to get that flat in Madrid, he's not going to abandon his wife and children, but he is going to do this. Raúl's fine until they fly into France, and that's when he feels a little like puking. By the time they touch down, he's a bit of a nervous wreck, and when the taxi driver asks him for the address, his mind draws a total blank for a few seconds before he remembers again.
This is how, why, Raúl ends up standing in front of Mori's doorstep on Christmas day just as the sun's fading into something cold and blue. He feels ridiculous, because he doesn't even know if Mori's there, if he's spending the day with his own family, like Raúl should be. But he's brave in all the stupid ways, so he rings the doorbell and stands there feeling awkward and strange and changed. The door opens, which isn't something Raúl had really been ready for, but looking at Mori, there and solid and warm, is like going back to something familiar and comfortable, safe. There's a silence where neither of them know what to say before Mori hugs him. He still smells the same and all of a sudden Raúl's talking, saying everything he didn't know he needed to say: I'm sorry and I miss you and I don't know what I was thinking when I thought I could be fine without you.
And Mori mutters, you're so stupid sometimes, and kisses him, then, hands in his hair and out in cold, blue street in front of the entire world, or whoever happened to be watching at the moment. That, too, is both strange and familiar, but it feels like something he should have done already, feels right. He says something inane against Mori's mouth about two skins and being whole but it doesn't make that much sense without context, so all he does is kiss Mori again and step into the house, shutting the door behind him. Mori smiles, wide and pleased, says, you taste like peppermint, and Raúl feels like laughing until he's breathless for the first time in months.
He knows that he'll have to leave in a few days, knows that this is only temporary, that it won't always be like this, but it's, it's okay. It's okay. Mori's never been wrong yet.
notes: I had to end it happily, come on! :x And, Niche, darling, I hope you enjoyed it, abuse of italics and sappiness and all. Love love love. Meanwhile, this clip features an incredibly cute moment of the two at the end. alsdjf.