(no subject)
title: the difference in the shades
pairing: david villa/cesc fabregas
rating: r
words: ~6000
summary: david and cesc are the same, and this is their story.
disclaimer: these characters are not mine but this story is.
notes: one night i just got this weird craving for villa and cesc because they're both kind of small and dark and sometimes bitchy but sometimes sweet? but i looked and didn't find much. so then this happened.
(2006)
They don’t get along, at first.
Cesc is young, and cocky- not really, but he acts like it, because he’s young and he’s new to the team and he’s surrounded by a group that’s been together for a long time, a group of people he looks up and doesn’t know how to fit into. He’s just-- young.
David’s still young too, but not like Cesc. But because he is how he is he doesn’t quite have the patience for Cesc that Iker does, or Carles. There’s something inside him that bristles when he hears Cesc at breakfast, every morning, chattering away, when it’s still too early to be awake, much less so loud, so one day in the middle of Cesc’s story about something that happened in London that year, something Thierry Henry had done in the locker room- that’s how he’d said it, “Thierry Henry,” like it should impress them- David picks up his plate and moves to the farthest table away, slams it down, sits in silence. David doesn’t care when he hears Cesc’s voice falter, fade away. He should learn to be quiet.
In a few years it will be hard for them to imagine this, a time when they were strangers who picked at each other’s nerves, a time when they didn’t know how to react to each other, to exist in the same sphere.
Iker tells David he has to apologize to Cesc, be nice to Cesc. David stares at him in disbelief but Iker glares at him, tells him they have enough drama without causing problems with the new kid.
“I don’t have a problem,” David says.
Iker turns away, signaling that the conversation is over. Before he leaves the room, though, he says, “He’s just a kid, David. You were fucking annoying at 19 too,” and David has to laugh at that.
David does apologize to Cesc, corners him during a break at practice, tells him, “Look, I’m just kind of a dick in the morning. And for the rest of the day. But you don’t know that yet so I’m sorry if I seemed rude or whatever.”
Cesc widens his eyes like he’s surprised, or nervous, but he catches himself quickly and shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and they go back to training.
Cesc seems to take it as a sign that they’re something like friends, and he sticks closer to David than to anyone else. He does seem to make an effort not to annoy David, especially not in the morning, although when David is a dick Cesc isn’t afraid to call him on it, can give it right back to David in equal amount.
It doesn’t take that long for David to start liking the guy. He thinks his flair for drama is funny, his naivety on the team endearing, his quick and loud laugh appealing. David thinks, really, that Cesc probably annoyed him so much at first because they’re basically the same.
He’d never admit it, but sometimes he thinks about Cesc even when he’s not around. He thinks about his dark eyes, his Catalan accent. The way Cesc watches Xavi and Iniesta during practice and it’s obvious, the turmoil in his eyes, the way he adores them, the way he resents them. David thinks about his contrasting humor and anger, the way the pieces of him don’t seem to fit together perfectly yet.
Sometimes he’ll catch himself thinking, 6 years isn’t such a big difference, but then he’ll remind himself, he’s 19. A teenager. He thinks of Iker’s words, “He’s just a kid,” and it makes it easier to push the thoughts from his mind.
But, eventually, Cesc turns 20.
(2008)
Still, Cesc's 21 before anything happens. They're at the Euros. Something about the air in Austria, the crispness of it, maybe the altitude- it makes David lose his head a little.
They develop a routine, all of them, at the Euros. David likes to join the poker games at night. Cesc doesn’t; he usually takes a pill and goes to sleep before anyone else. Most nights he’ll stop by David’s room an hour or so before David leaves for Capdevila’s room for the games.
One night, early in the tournament, he’s lounging on David’s bed while David sits at the desk writing emails. “I just feel useless,” he’s saying.
David’s only half paying attention. “Why would you feel useless? You got to play 40 minutes last game. And got an assist. Thanks to a beautiful finish from your striker.” David looks away from the screen briefly to flash Cesc a cocky smile.
Cesc rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well. You don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t always a starter either,” David tells him.
“And now look at you. A hat trick in the Euros,” Cesc laughs. He shakes his head. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
David’s embarrassed. “I know.” He frowns at the screen. “Anyway. You’re young. You’ll get your time eventually.”
Cesc grows quiet. “I’m not that young,” he says finally, like he can see the things David’s been thinking about for the past two years, like he knows.
David looks at him evenly, considers him. “I didn’t mean-no. You’re not that young.” The silence grows heavy and David feels a slow burn spreading through his belly, something connected to the way Cesc is looking at him, his eyes serious, contemplative.
David coughs, shuts his computer. “I’m gonna go to Joan’s,” he says, stretching his arms over his head, cracking his back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? You could just hang for a little.”
“No,” Cesc answers, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “I should go to sleep.” He stands.
Cesc doesn’t go to sleep though. What he does is press his body against David’s, his lips brushing lightly against the older man’s neck. When he meets no resistance, his lips continue up, over his ear, down his jaw, searching out his mouth.
Their lips finally meet, hot, and wet, and David doesn’t know who pushes who, but they end up on the bed, David over Cesc, holding himself up with one arm and letting his free hand wander down, past the band of Cesc’s sweats, his hand meeting Cesc’s warm cock, already hard in David’s hand. David presses his face into Cesc’s neck, thinking whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing, but then what he’s doing is jerking Cesc off, twisting his hand the way he prefers for himself, gasping into Cesc’s neck.
Cesc is saying “stop, stop,” and David doesn’t want to but then he realizes, and fuck, he stops and pulls his hand out and tries to get off Cesc as quickly as he can.
Cesc grabs for him though, pulls him back down. “No, I just meant- I was getting too close.” His breath is hot against David’s face. David’s heart rate starts to slow down. He rests his forehead against Cesc’s.
“This is fucking stupid,” David says, his eyes closed. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” All Cesc does in response is lift his hips, pressing them against David’s, and David groans and knows he won’t stop.
David tries to slow down, not to get too out of control. He drags his tongue down Cesc’s side, enjoying the way he squirms, doesn’t let Cesc lift his hips. He braces his hands on Cesc’s hips, pinning him down while he blows him, and Cesc makes these strangled sounds in the back of his throat until finally he goes silent and lifts his hips, pushing up, up, up into David as he comes.
After Cesc recovers he reaches for David, touching his cock for the first time and it’s almost too much right away. David covers Cesc’s hand with his own, shows him what he likes, what will make him last a little longer. Cesc doesn’t seem interested in making him last longer, though, and already seems to know what David likes, dragging his teeth across David’s nipple, biting down until it hurts, but not too much. David talks more than Cesc does, curses, pulls on his hair.
When he gets close he stills, locks eyes with Cesc, says, “Fuck-Cesc-fuck-“ Afterwards, while David catches his breath, they just lie there, just staring at each other. Finally Cesc gets up to get a washcloth from the bathroom. He brings David a glass of water. He doesn’t mention how David’s hands shake.
Not much changes. Their routine stays the same. They practice, they play games, Cesc comes over, David goes to poker. Sometimes Cesc stays in David’s room while he’s gone; usually he doesn’t.
When Cesc scores the penalty kick that gets them into the semi-finals, David pushes his forehead against Cesc’s, grins splitting both their faces, and yells, “I told you you weren’t useless!” That night he fucks Cesc slowly, making him meet his eyes with each thrust, jerking his cock between their sweaty bodies until Cesc's eyes roll back in his head and he can't look at David anymore.
After the Russia game- after David is subbed out 35 minutes in with a thigh injury- David comes to Cesc’s room. It’s the first time he’s done that. He sits on the edge of the bed and Cesc hovers nearby, fidgeting, not sure what to do, not sure how to act because he’s happy, happy he had a good game, and they’re in the final, but-
“I can’t play,” David says. He is looking forward, not at Cesc. “We’re in the final and-I can’t play.”
“We’ll be fine and so will you,” Cesc says, immediately knowing it was the wrong thing to say, but David doesn’t react to it anyway.
Eventually Cesc turns the lights off, pushes David until he lies down on the bed. Cesc lies down next to him, throws an arm over him. This isn’t really them- isn’t what they do- but then, David’s not usually the one feeling useless. He lies stiffly for awhile, but eventually David relaxes, pushes his forehead down into Cesc’s shoulder.
When Cesc wakes up, David is gone, but at breakfast he seems to be in a better mood. That night he shows up at Cesc’s door again, early, crawls into bed without a word.
Two days later they win the Euros.
One time, not that long after they’ve left Austria, David comes to visit Cesc in London.
Cesc wouldn’t call the trip disaster but it isn’t exactly something he wants to repeat soon either. He picks David up at the airport, waiting in his car at the curb, and David looks harried, flustered, when he makes it outside. He throws his suitcase in the trunk with barely a grunt hello at Cesc and then jumps in the car, slamming the door behind him.
“How was your flight?” Cesc ventures once they’re on the road.
“Bumpy,” David mumbles. He’s staring out the window like he’s never been to London before, scowling, like something about the place offends him. Cesc flips through radio stations, trying to find something he likes, but when he stops on an English pop song he knows, David snorts and turns the radio off. Cesc grits his teeth and bites his tongue.
Cesc stops at the grocery store to get things David wants for the weekend, but David seems uninterested and uncomfortable, and in the end they leave without buying anything.
When they get to Cesc’s house, he carries David’s bag inside, shows him around proudly. David must notice because he grunts, “It’s nice,” even though Cesc can still tell he’s in a mood.
Cesc asks if he’s hungry, tells him he can have whatever he likes, trying to be a magnanimous host. David starts looking in the cupboards, seeing what the options are, but then he sneers, reading labels and rolling his eyes. “What the fuck do you live off of?” He asks. “Canned vegetables and yogurt?”
Cesc shrugs. “Most days I have breakfast and lunch at the training center and then I just pick up something for dinner.” David sighs in that way he has that sounds like you’re such a child, and Cesc's annoyance starts to bubble over.
“If you want something, let’s go get it,” he snaps, thinking about how he imagined this weekend to be and how little it matches the reality. That’s the way life usually goes, Cesc knows, but he’s still disappointed, doesn’t understand why David’s not making an effort. Maybe things are different now, he thinks. Maybe we should have stopped after the Euros.
David seems to realize what he’s doing, flicks his eyes to where Cesc is standing , staring out the window, looking frustrated. David moves closer. “I don’t want food,” he says, and he presses himself into Cesc, touching him for the first time, sliding his hands underneath Cesc’s sweater and touching his sides the way he knows Cesc likes.
After they have sex, they lie in bed, side by side, on their backs. One of David’s hands is tangled in Cesc’s hair loosely, but otherwise they aren’t touching.
“I’m sorry,” David says suddenly, his eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t mean to be an asshole.”
Cesc turns his head towards him but doesn’t say anything so David continues. “I just… don’t know… how to be here.” He doesn’t explain but Cesc understands what he means anyway. David doesn’t know the language, the customs, doesn’t know anyone but Cesc. Cesc has been here so long sometimes he forgets what it’s like.
“Okay,” Cesc says finally. He turns his body toward David, rests his chin on his chest. “Maybe I’ll just come to Spain more, then.” David looks relieved, smiles genuinely for the first time since he arrived, tugs gently on Cesc’s hair.
Cesc does go to Valencia, when he can, which isn’t that often. He gets nervous every time, not that he would let David know, but he feels strange, always being a guest in David’s house, dirtying his sheets, eating his food. Sometimes if David has to leave, to go to practice or something, Cesc will clean his condo, do his laundry. Just to earn his keep. Whenever David comes home and sees, he gives Cesc a look like he’s crazy, but he doesn’t say anything.
One day they’re lying in bed, wrapped up in sheets that are still warm from the laundry Cesc did that morning while David went to a meeting. It’s late fall. David’s on his stomach, his head turned toward Cesc, who’s on his back, looking at the ceiling, one arm under his head. David trails his fingers over Cesc’s hair, down his forehead, over his nose. He picks his fingers up, drops them between Cesc’s eyes, runs them down his nose again, like he’s petting it.
Cesc slides his eyes to the side to look at David, raises his eyebrows in question. “Your nose,” David says. “It’s so…” He trails off, his eyes watching his fingers stroke over the bone.
“Regal?” Cesc supplies. “Refined?”
David smirks. “Weird,” he finishes. “It’s the weirdest fucking nose I’ve ever seen.” Cesc huffs and pushes his hand off, turning his head away from David, but David knows he isn’t really upset. He pulls his hand away from Cesc, stretches it over his head. “If you ever want to get it fixed, I’m sure Ramos can give you the name of his guy.” Before he can shield himself, Cesc turns toward him with a faux-outraged look on his face and slaps David’s naked chest with his open palm. David flinches into it but cracks up laughing, curling his body toward Cesc, his mouth open and eyes scrunched up.
Cesc thumbs the crinkles at the corners of David’s eyes, laughing a little too, and then moves his thumb to the hair under David’s lip. “Yeah, I’ll get my nose looked at the day you shave off this eye sore. What the actual fuck is it supposed to be anyway?”
David grins at him, crazily, his eyes still wrinkled up like Cesc likes. “You like it,” he says, and he moves so his chin is on Cesc’s chest. He turns his face down so the patch of hair is right on Cesc’s skin, and then starts moving his head down, down, down, breathing hot air over him. He stops when he reaches Cesc’s belly button, looks up at him and smiles.
Cesc scratches his fingers through David’s mussed hair. “I’m glad I’m here,” he says suddenly. David’s eyebrows go up a little. Cesc tries not to flush, not to look embarrassed about saying it. David pushes his face back into Cesc’s belly, his hands pushing Cesc’s hips down into the bed, his tongue snaking out over Cesc’s hot skin as he moves lower. Cesc thinks it means, me too.
The first time Valencia plays Barcelona after the Euros, David texts him in the morning.
“who ru rooting 4?”
Cesc doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about it for awhile, and finally he just sends back: “;) good luck.”
David doesn’t respond. Valencia loses.
(2009)
“I’m coming to Spain. This week,” Cesc mumbles into the phone. He can hear that David is out somewhere, voices are talking to him in the background. He hears David, muffled, telling them to be quiet for a minute.
“Sorry, okay,” David says, distractedly. “Why so suddenly?”
“Mmm,” Cesc hums, stalling, not sure if he can say the words. “Um, my grandfather. My grandfather died,” he says hurriedly, but it’s not quick enough and his voice hitches in the middle.
David is silent for a moment, and then he says, “Hold on,” and he doesn’t sound distracted anymore. Cesc hears him leave the room, knows from the way the background voices get distant and then disappear altogether.
“Okay. Cesc?” he says after a moment. Cesc makes a noise in the back of his throat to let David know he’s still there, doesn’t trust his voice. “Okay,” David says, and then says it again, “Okay,” and Cesc realizes he doesn’t know what to do either, and it makes Cesc feel better, a little. No one knows how to deal with death, not even David can fake it.
Finally David just sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Cesc, I’m really sorry,” and Cesc blinks back the burn in his eyes.
Cesc clears his throat. “Thanks. Thanks, really.” They sit in silence for a minute but it’s not awkward, and then Cesc says, “Yeah, so I’m going to Barcelona for the funeral, I’ll be in Spain… two, maybe three days.”
David hums like he’s thinking, and then he says, “Look, I don’t think I can get to Barcelona this week.” He sounds apologetic, an unusual tone on him.
“It’s okay. I’ll stop in Valencia before I come back. Okay?” Cesc feels better, making plans like they normally do.
He goes straight from the funeral to Valencia, can’t stay in Barcelona anymore. David picks him up at the train station.
“Hey,” David says, carefully, and Cesc wishes he wouldn’t. He’s wearing dark sunglasses but Cesc can feel his eyes studying him.
“Hey.”
David navigates away from the curb, looking over his shoulder. “How was… everything?” Cesc wants to laugh, wants to ask how he thinks it was, but he knows David is doing the best he can. Instead he just shrugs.
David doesn’t say anything else but Cesc sees him taking glances toward him out of the corner of his eye every now and then.
Cesc leans his head back against the seat. He’s tired. He hasn’t been sleeping well, not in his parents' house full of people all the time, not in his empty quiet London flat.
They stop at a red light and David drums his fingers against the steering wheel. Cesc sees from the corner of his eye when he stops and moves his hand, slowly, towards Cesc, like he’s not sure. Cesc wonders if he’s going to take Cesc’s hand, or pat his knee. Mostly he just wishes David would act like he normally does.
Finally, David rests his hand on Cesc’s arm gently, his thumb sweeping across the inside of Cesc’s wrist, the swell and dip of the small bones there. He keeps his hand there, gripping lightly just above Cesc’s wrist, for the rest of the drive home, like he’s holding him there, anchoring Cesc down. Cesc closes his eyes. As he drifts to sleep, he wonders how David knew, how he'd guessed that Cesc had been feeling like he was floating away.
(2009)
It almost ends, once.
It’s not something they ever talk about now. They don’t like to remember it, not just because it hurt, but because it’s embarrassing, the way they acted, the way tiny little things turned into something so dramatic. Sometimes one of them will wake up in a sweat, before his alarm even goes off, a clench of panic gripping his stomach, remembering; or they’ll fight over something stupid and one will think, it’s just like last time, before he can stop himself.
It starts out small, like most things that end up being important do. An innocuous comment taken the wrong way by someone in a specific mood. A short fuse, an over-sensitive reaction, a flash of stubbornness. If they did let themselves think about it, they probably wouldn’t be able to remember how it started, who said what and why.
It happens like this: They lose the Confederations Cup. Or maybe it starts when Pique gets his first call-up. Maybe it goes back to when they first met, when they were both young and cocky and their pride didn’t let them talk about anything, not the stuff that matters, and so that’s the habit they fell into, the way they were used to.
In any case, they lose the Confederations Cup. They’d expected to have more time together, there in South Africa, but neither of them says that’s part of the reason why he’s upset, beyond the obvious. They’re too stubborn, have too much pride.
After they lose, David doesn’t say anything to Cesc, or to anyone really, but when they get back to the hotel he assumes Cesc will come to his room. They’ll fly back to Spain tomorrow, and David will go to Valencia, and Cesc will go to- David isn’t sure, they never thought that far ahead. David guesses he’ll go to London, but maybe Barcelona.
David packs, slowly, and when he’s done and Cesc still hasn’t come, he sits at the edge of his bed and thinks about the game, goes over in his mind once again the things that went wrong, the chances missed, the mistakes. Confederations Cup isn’t the end of the world, he knows, but a loss is a loss and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the way it tastes in his mouth, doesn’t like the implications it has for next summer. He thinks and he waits.
Cesc doesn’t come until well after midnight, unusual for him because he likes to sleep early. His eyes are drooping already when David opens the door, and he shuffles in, collapsing on the bed.
David stares at Cesc, curling up in his bed. “Where have you been?” he snaps, and he doesn’t mean it to come out as annoyed as it does but he also doesn’t really care when it does.
Cesc’s eyes pop open and he sits up a little, propping himself up on his elbows. “I was with Geri and Puyi talking about what we’ll do-“ he stops short when David snorts. David sees him clench his jaw but then he takes a deep breath and says, “What?”
“Just not surprised you were spending your last night here with him. Even though it sounds like you’ll see him after we leave too.”
“Him?” Cesc asks, even though he knows. David knows he knows so he just glowers at Cesc from beneath furrowed brows.
Cesc can’t help it and he laughs. “David, it’s my best friend. Both of them, they’re two of my best friends. Anyway, I was going to invite you.”
“No,” David says, and there’s not a hint of humor in his voice.
“No what?”
“No, I’m not going.”
“I didn’t even tell you what we’re planning,” Cesc prods him, still smiling a little, like David is a kid having a tantrum and he finds it cute. It infuriates David.
He laughs meanly. “I don’t have any interest in hanging out with the two of you.”
Cesc is over his attitude, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. We’re friends. It’s like you and Silva.”
“It’s nothing like me and Silva,” David growls, and he’s not sure where this anger came from or if it’s even directed at Cesc but he’s furious, his hands curling into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I didn’t spend more time with Silva than with you this whole trip.”
Cesc is angry now too, gets off the bed and faces David. “You’re being fucking ridiculous. I didn’t spend more time with anyone else either.”
“The fuck you didn’t.”
Cesc looks at him and looks at him. “Come on. We’re leaving tomorrow and you’re ruining it.”
David scoffs. “Ruining what? This isn’t anything. We’re fucking stupid.” He doesn’t know what he means by it, but he knows how Cesc will take it.
Cesc shakes his head in disbelief and walks towards the door. “I’m too tired to deal with this shit,” he calls over his shoulder. “Talk to me when you’re not so fucking crazy.”
“Fuck you too,” David calls. As soon as the door shuts behind him, David flinches. He falls face down onto his bed, into the space Cesc vacated, and he doesn’t move until morning.
They are both stubborn, and angry, but never before have they used these traits against each other. They don’t speak again in Africa, or on the plane, nor after the plane touches down in Madrid. David only finds out his vacation with Pique and Puyol is to Mallorca because Pepe mentions it on the plane, says he might go. He asks if David is going, and he just says, “Nah,” shuts his eyes like he’s going to sleep. Pepe doesn’t bring it up again.
David goes back to Valencia. He doesn’t call Cesc. Cesc doesn’t contact him. David decides not to take a vacation. Instead he wakes up early, before the heat gets too unbearable, before too many people are out to bother him, and he runs. He should be tired of this after the summer and the long season, but he’s not. He gets upset when the sun rises and wipes out his energy, or when the street becomes crowded with people who know him and he’s forced to return home. Sometimes he’ll go out again after the sun goes down and the temperatures cool, trying to tire himself out and make sleep come, but it stays away.
The weeks pass. David wonders if he’s even going to stay in Valencia. His agent calls with daily updates on the Barcelona situation, which are usually that there are no updates. In the end, he stays at Valencia, and something in the pit of his stomach is relieved, not sure if he could have dealt with that particular club at this moment.
The season starts. He falls back into old routines. He knows he’s over-trained this summer; his head is constantly in a fog and his body is sore. But the Mestalla pulses around him, and for a few hours every week he feels alive.
One night he’s laying on the couch staring at a book when his phone rings. The number is unknown but he picks up anyway.
“Yeah.”
“Hey- David? Hey.” The voice is familiar but not instantly recognizable to David. After a moment of silence where he tries to work it out, the voice says, “It’s Gerard. Pique. Geri.”
David blinks and then immediately becomes suspicious. Despite what had happened in South Africa, he doesn’t actually dislike Pique, but it still isn’t a phone call he was expecting. “What’s up,” he says finally, not really as a question.
“I need some help with something, are you busy?” Pique sounds different on the phone, not as booming. He’s not as… much, when his huge frame isn’t hulking in front of you.
David looks around, looks at his watch, as if he has something to do. “It’s kind of late,” he says reluctantly, but curiosity is getting the best of him. He sighs. “But no, go ahead.”
“Cool, hold on a second,” and David doesn’t like the tone in his voice. He hears something muffled and a button being pushed and then Pique comes back.
“Sorry. Hello?” David says hello back but he hears another voice with his. He falls silent.
“Sweet, it worked!” Pique exclaims, and then says, “Oh, anyway. Okay, you’re both on the phone and neither of you are busy, so talk. Seriously. If you hang up I’ll fuck your sisters.”
“I don’t have a sister,” David says. He does, but he doesn’t think Pique knows that.
“Your mother then,” he answers. “The fuck do I care?” Then a beep and Pique is off the line. David doesn’t think his mom or sister would be particularly into Pique, but he doesn’t hang up anyway, doesn’t really want to. He hears Cesc breathing on the other end of the phone, but he hasn’t said anything since hello.
David searches for words, doesn’t know what to say, where to start. After they sit in silence for at least a full minute, David says, just to break the ice- “Nice game the other day.”
Cesc doesn’t answer right away, and David wonders if he’s going to say anything at all, but finally he says, “You watched?” and he sounds genuinely surprised.
David suddenly feels the weight of his exhaustion bearing down on him, hearing Cesc’s tone, hearing Cesc at all. “Of course,” he answers. “Cesc-- I always watch.”
No one apologizes. No one makes a grand statement. There’s no poetry, no flowers, no candy. But all the same, they move on, and it’s simple. Things change between them; something eases away, some barrier breaks down, a shift now that they’ve been through this thing and come out on the other side. It’s not the excitement and anxiety they’ve felt for a year, or for 3 years, but it’s something else, an evolution, a stability, and it still feels like them.
That year, at Christmas, David decides to come to London again.
“You don’t have to,” Cesc says when David calls him about dates. But David is stubborn and has made up his mind.
“You don’t get a break and I do. It only makes sense.” Cesc gives in. It's not like he's going to say no.
David comes and Cesc picks him up, just like the first time. He seems better. Cesc gets out to put his bag in the trunk and David touches his arm, half smiles.
“You wanna stop anywhere?” Cesc asks. He’s thinking about last time, about the grocery store, how David had hated being out, not understanding. But David says yes, let’s go get some food. He wants Italian. Cesc takes him to a restaurant near his house, a small place that isn’t ever crowded.
Cesc tries to help him with the menu, says, “You’d like the fish,” but David just grunts and stares down at his own menu, eyes flicking up and down the pages. The waitress brings them both water and asks if they’re ready to order.
Cesc gets chicken and looks to David. Very carefully, he says, “I’ll have the pasta primavera, please.” In English. The waitress takes their menus and leaves. Cesc gapes.
David doesn’t look up at him for several moments, checking his phone, smoothing his napkin down in his lap, looking around the restaurant. Finally he looks over and sees Cesc still staring at him, a smile creeping across his face. “What the hell are you leering at, Fabregas,” he mutters, a flush blooming over his cheekbones.
Cesc looks away, pinches his own leg under the table so he’ll stop grinning. It doesn’t work. He sneaks another peek at David, and on his face he sees the tiniest of smiles.
(2010)
“The deal’s almost done,” he says, nonchalantly, but David hardly ever calls him randomly so Cesc already knew it was something big.
“What deal?” Cesc knows exactly what David is talking about, but wants him to say it.
He hears David suck in a breath of air sharply. He’s annoyed. “Barcelona, Cesc,” he snaps. “The Barcelona deal.”
Cesc hangs up, knowing it’s childish. He calls back a few minutes later but it rolls over to voicemail. He isn’t worried. He knows David isn’t really upset.
“Congratulations,” he says once the voicemail beeps on. He hesitates, then hangs up.
“You could come, you know.” It’s a few days later, and David’s finally decided to return his call.
“David,” Cesc says, a warning in his voice.
“I’m not-“ David starts. “I’m just saying. If you want it that bad. You could have it.”
“It isn’t that easy,” Cesc says, and he knows that David knows.
Cesc wonders what it would be like, if he went to Barcelona. He and David have never been in the same place for more than a few months at a time. Would they keep their own places, see each other at practice and maybe a few times a week? Would they move in together? Would everyone know?
In the end it doesn’t matter. He and David win the World Cup together, but he doesn’t go to Barca, not that season anyway. He goes to Spain when he can, David comes to London a couple times too, tries to be pleasant about it, still blushes when he speaks English.
One day Cesc is in town, just for a day, and after practice David, Pique, and Leo take him to lunch before he has to go back to the airport. They sit at an outdoor café, the sun shining in their eyes.
David sits next to Cesc. He points to something on the menu, and Cesc hums, and David nods. Pique and Leo shake their heads at each other, at their friends speaking a different language. Cesc sees someone walking by and a smile spreads across his face; he nudges David and nods towards the guy. David’s eyes widen and they both break into peals of laughter, their mouths wide, their eyes crinkled.
“Jesus Christ,” Pique says. “You two are… something else.”
When David stops laughing, he glares. “What does that mean?”
Pique laughs, looks away. After a moment he says, “You’re just, like, the same, kind of. Like the same color in different shades.”
David and Cesc look at each other, both making a face. “No way,” Cesc says. “I’m way nicer.”
“The fuck you are,” David protests.
“It’s not like being the nicer one means a lot when it comes to you two,” Leo deadpans. They both stare at him like he’s betrayed them.
“You should really talk less, Leo,” Cesc says. David cackles. Pique orders more wine.
David takes Cesc to the airport. They’re used to saying goodbye. David doesn’t even get out of the car, just presses his knuckles into Cesc’s cheek and says, “Text me when you get home.” Cesc presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek and nods, spilling out of the car. David watches until he disappears into the terminal.
David drives away and he thinks, thinks about the weird situation they have, about the things they never say and the things they know. He thinks about the beginning when they didn’t like each other and he smiles, and he tries not to think about the times in the middle when they didn’t like each other, and he doesn’t think about an end. David goes home, and he falls asleep happy, and he knows Cesc does too, because they’re the same. The same color in different shades.
pairing: david villa/cesc fabregas
rating: r
words: ~6000
summary: david and cesc are the same, and this is their story.
disclaimer: these characters are not mine but this story is.
notes: one night i just got this weird craving for villa and cesc because they're both kind of small and dark and sometimes bitchy but sometimes sweet? but i looked and didn't find much. so then this happened.
(2006)
They don’t get along, at first.
Cesc is young, and cocky- not really, but he acts like it, because he’s young and he’s new to the team and he’s surrounded by a group that’s been together for a long time, a group of people he looks up and doesn’t know how to fit into. He’s just-- young.
David’s still young too, but not like Cesc. But because he is how he is he doesn’t quite have the patience for Cesc that Iker does, or Carles. There’s something inside him that bristles when he hears Cesc at breakfast, every morning, chattering away, when it’s still too early to be awake, much less so loud, so one day in the middle of Cesc’s story about something that happened in London that year, something Thierry Henry had done in the locker room- that’s how he’d said it, “Thierry Henry,” like it should impress them- David picks up his plate and moves to the farthest table away, slams it down, sits in silence. David doesn’t care when he hears Cesc’s voice falter, fade away. He should learn to be quiet.
In a few years it will be hard for them to imagine this, a time when they were strangers who picked at each other’s nerves, a time when they didn’t know how to react to each other, to exist in the same sphere.
Iker tells David he has to apologize to Cesc, be nice to Cesc. David stares at him in disbelief but Iker glares at him, tells him they have enough drama without causing problems with the new kid.
“I don’t have a problem,” David says.
Iker turns away, signaling that the conversation is over. Before he leaves the room, though, he says, “He’s just a kid, David. You were fucking annoying at 19 too,” and David has to laugh at that.
David does apologize to Cesc, corners him during a break at practice, tells him, “Look, I’m just kind of a dick in the morning. And for the rest of the day. But you don’t know that yet so I’m sorry if I seemed rude or whatever.”
Cesc widens his eyes like he’s surprised, or nervous, but he catches himself quickly and shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and they go back to training.
Cesc seems to take it as a sign that they’re something like friends, and he sticks closer to David than to anyone else. He does seem to make an effort not to annoy David, especially not in the morning, although when David is a dick Cesc isn’t afraid to call him on it, can give it right back to David in equal amount.
It doesn’t take that long for David to start liking the guy. He thinks his flair for drama is funny, his naivety on the team endearing, his quick and loud laugh appealing. David thinks, really, that Cesc probably annoyed him so much at first because they’re basically the same.
He’d never admit it, but sometimes he thinks about Cesc even when he’s not around. He thinks about his dark eyes, his Catalan accent. The way Cesc watches Xavi and Iniesta during practice and it’s obvious, the turmoil in his eyes, the way he adores them, the way he resents them. David thinks about his contrasting humor and anger, the way the pieces of him don’t seem to fit together perfectly yet.
Sometimes he’ll catch himself thinking, 6 years isn’t such a big difference, but then he’ll remind himself, he’s 19. A teenager. He thinks of Iker’s words, “He’s just a kid,” and it makes it easier to push the thoughts from his mind.
But, eventually, Cesc turns 20.
(2008)
Still, Cesc's 21 before anything happens. They're at the Euros. Something about the air in Austria, the crispness of it, maybe the altitude- it makes David lose his head a little.
They develop a routine, all of them, at the Euros. David likes to join the poker games at night. Cesc doesn’t; he usually takes a pill and goes to sleep before anyone else. Most nights he’ll stop by David’s room an hour or so before David leaves for Capdevila’s room for the games.
One night, early in the tournament, he’s lounging on David’s bed while David sits at the desk writing emails. “I just feel useless,” he’s saying.
David’s only half paying attention. “Why would you feel useless? You got to play 40 minutes last game. And got an assist. Thanks to a beautiful finish from your striker.” David looks away from the screen briefly to flash Cesc a cocky smile.
Cesc rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well. You don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t always a starter either,” David tells him.
“And now look at you. A hat trick in the Euros,” Cesc laughs. He shakes his head. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
David’s embarrassed. “I know.” He frowns at the screen. “Anyway. You’re young. You’ll get your time eventually.”
Cesc grows quiet. “I’m not that young,” he says finally, like he can see the things David’s been thinking about for the past two years, like he knows.
David looks at him evenly, considers him. “I didn’t mean-no. You’re not that young.” The silence grows heavy and David feels a slow burn spreading through his belly, something connected to the way Cesc is looking at him, his eyes serious, contemplative.
David coughs, shuts his computer. “I’m gonna go to Joan’s,” he says, stretching his arms over his head, cracking his back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? You could just hang for a little.”
“No,” Cesc answers, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “I should go to sleep.” He stands.
Cesc doesn’t go to sleep though. What he does is press his body against David’s, his lips brushing lightly against the older man’s neck. When he meets no resistance, his lips continue up, over his ear, down his jaw, searching out his mouth.
Their lips finally meet, hot, and wet, and David doesn’t know who pushes who, but they end up on the bed, David over Cesc, holding himself up with one arm and letting his free hand wander down, past the band of Cesc’s sweats, his hand meeting Cesc’s warm cock, already hard in David’s hand. David presses his face into Cesc’s neck, thinking whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing, but then what he’s doing is jerking Cesc off, twisting his hand the way he prefers for himself, gasping into Cesc’s neck.
Cesc is saying “stop, stop,” and David doesn’t want to but then he realizes, and fuck, he stops and pulls his hand out and tries to get off Cesc as quickly as he can.
Cesc grabs for him though, pulls him back down. “No, I just meant- I was getting too close.” His breath is hot against David’s face. David’s heart rate starts to slow down. He rests his forehead against Cesc’s.
“This is fucking stupid,” David says, his eyes closed. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” All Cesc does in response is lift his hips, pressing them against David’s, and David groans and knows he won’t stop.
David tries to slow down, not to get too out of control. He drags his tongue down Cesc’s side, enjoying the way he squirms, doesn’t let Cesc lift his hips. He braces his hands on Cesc’s hips, pinning him down while he blows him, and Cesc makes these strangled sounds in the back of his throat until finally he goes silent and lifts his hips, pushing up, up, up into David as he comes.
After Cesc recovers he reaches for David, touching his cock for the first time and it’s almost too much right away. David covers Cesc’s hand with his own, shows him what he likes, what will make him last a little longer. Cesc doesn’t seem interested in making him last longer, though, and already seems to know what David likes, dragging his teeth across David’s nipple, biting down until it hurts, but not too much. David talks more than Cesc does, curses, pulls on his hair.
When he gets close he stills, locks eyes with Cesc, says, “Fuck-Cesc-fuck-“ Afterwards, while David catches his breath, they just lie there, just staring at each other. Finally Cesc gets up to get a washcloth from the bathroom. He brings David a glass of water. He doesn’t mention how David’s hands shake.
Not much changes. Their routine stays the same. They practice, they play games, Cesc comes over, David goes to poker. Sometimes Cesc stays in David’s room while he’s gone; usually he doesn’t.
When Cesc scores the penalty kick that gets them into the semi-finals, David pushes his forehead against Cesc’s, grins splitting both their faces, and yells, “I told you you weren’t useless!” That night he fucks Cesc slowly, making him meet his eyes with each thrust, jerking his cock between their sweaty bodies until Cesc's eyes roll back in his head and he can't look at David anymore.
After the Russia game- after David is subbed out 35 minutes in with a thigh injury- David comes to Cesc’s room. It’s the first time he’s done that. He sits on the edge of the bed and Cesc hovers nearby, fidgeting, not sure what to do, not sure how to act because he’s happy, happy he had a good game, and they’re in the final, but-
“I can’t play,” David says. He is looking forward, not at Cesc. “We’re in the final and-I can’t play.”
“We’ll be fine and so will you,” Cesc says, immediately knowing it was the wrong thing to say, but David doesn’t react to it anyway.
Eventually Cesc turns the lights off, pushes David until he lies down on the bed. Cesc lies down next to him, throws an arm over him. This isn’t really them- isn’t what they do- but then, David’s not usually the one feeling useless. He lies stiffly for awhile, but eventually David relaxes, pushes his forehead down into Cesc’s shoulder.
When Cesc wakes up, David is gone, but at breakfast he seems to be in a better mood. That night he shows up at Cesc’s door again, early, crawls into bed without a word.
Two days later they win the Euros.
One time, not that long after they’ve left Austria, David comes to visit Cesc in London.
Cesc wouldn’t call the trip disaster but it isn’t exactly something he wants to repeat soon either. He picks David up at the airport, waiting in his car at the curb, and David looks harried, flustered, when he makes it outside. He throws his suitcase in the trunk with barely a grunt hello at Cesc and then jumps in the car, slamming the door behind him.
“How was your flight?” Cesc ventures once they’re on the road.
“Bumpy,” David mumbles. He’s staring out the window like he’s never been to London before, scowling, like something about the place offends him. Cesc flips through radio stations, trying to find something he likes, but when he stops on an English pop song he knows, David snorts and turns the radio off. Cesc grits his teeth and bites his tongue.
Cesc stops at the grocery store to get things David wants for the weekend, but David seems uninterested and uncomfortable, and in the end they leave without buying anything.
When they get to Cesc’s house, he carries David’s bag inside, shows him around proudly. David must notice because he grunts, “It’s nice,” even though Cesc can still tell he’s in a mood.
Cesc asks if he’s hungry, tells him he can have whatever he likes, trying to be a magnanimous host. David starts looking in the cupboards, seeing what the options are, but then he sneers, reading labels and rolling his eyes. “What the fuck do you live off of?” He asks. “Canned vegetables and yogurt?”
Cesc shrugs. “Most days I have breakfast and lunch at the training center and then I just pick up something for dinner.” David sighs in that way he has that sounds like you’re such a child, and Cesc's annoyance starts to bubble over.
“If you want something, let’s go get it,” he snaps, thinking about how he imagined this weekend to be and how little it matches the reality. That’s the way life usually goes, Cesc knows, but he’s still disappointed, doesn’t understand why David’s not making an effort. Maybe things are different now, he thinks. Maybe we should have stopped after the Euros.
David seems to realize what he’s doing, flicks his eyes to where Cesc is standing , staring out the window, looking frustrated. David moves closer. “I don’t want food,” he says, and he presses himself into Cesc, touching him for the first time, sliding his hands underneath Cesc’s sweater and touching his sides the way he knows Cesc likes.
After they have sex, they lie in bed, side by side, on their backs. One of David’s hands is tangled in Cesc’s hair loosely, but otherwise they aren’t touching.
“I’m sorry,” David says suddenly, his eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t mean to be an asshole.”
Cesc turns his head towards him but doesn’t say anything so David continues. “I just… don’t know… how to be here.” He doesn’t explain but Cesc understands what he means anyway. David doesn’t know the language, the customs, doesn’t know anyone but Cesc. Cesc has been here so long sometimes he forgets what it’s like.
“Okay,” Cesc says finally. He turns his body toward David, rests his chin on his chest. “Maybe I’ll just come to Spain more, then.” David looks relieved, smiles genuinely for the first time since he arrived, tugs gently on Cesc’s hair.
Cesc does go to Valencia, when he can, which isn’t that often. He gets nervous every time, not that he would let David know, but he feels strange, always being a guest in David’s house, dirtying his sheets, eating his food. Sometimes if David has to leave, to go to practice or something, Cesc will clean his condo, do his laundry. Just to earn his keep. Whenever David comes home and sees, he gives Cesc a look like he’s crazy, but he doesn’t say anything.
One day they’re lying in bed, wrapped up in sheets that are still warm from the laundry Cesc did that morning while David went to a meeting. It’s late fall. David’s on his stomach, his head turned toward Cesc, who’s on his back, looking at the ceiling, one arm under his head. David trails his fingers over Cesc’s hair, down his forehead, over his nose. He picks his fingers up, drops them between Cesc’s eyes, runs them down his nose again, like he’s petting it.
Cesc slides his eyes to the side to look at David, raises his eyebrows in question. “Your nose,” David says. “It’s so…” He trails off, his eyes watching his fingers stroke over the bone.
“Regal?” Cesc supplies. “Refined?”
David smirks. “Weird,” he finishes. “It’s the weirdest fucking nose I’ve ever seen.” Cesc huffs and pushes his hand off, turning his head away from David, but David knows he isn’t really upset. He pulls his hand away from Cesc, stretches it over his head. “If you ever want to get it fixed, I’m sure Ramos can give you the name of his guy.” Before he can shield himself, Cesc turns toward him with a faux-outraged look on his face and slaps David’s naked chest with his open palm. David flinches into it but cracks up laughing, curling his body toward Cesc, his mouth open and eyes scrunched up.
Cesc thumbs the crinkles at the corners of David’s eyes, laughing a little too, and then moves his thumb to the hair under David’s lip. “Yeah, I’ll get my nose looked at the day you shave off this eye sore. What the actual fuck is it supposed to be anyway?”
David grins at him, crazily, his eyes still wrinkled up like Cesc likes. “You like it,” he says, and he moves so his chin is on Cesc’s chest. He turns his face down so the patch of hair is right on Cesc’s skin, and then starts moving his head down, down, down, breathing hot air over him. He stops when he reaches Cesc’s belly button, looks up at him and smiles.
Cesc scratches his fingers through David’s mussed hair. “I’m glad I’m here,” he says suddenly. David’s eyebrows go up a little. Cesc tries not to flush, not to look embarrassed about saying it. David pushes his face back into Cesc’s belly, his hands pushing Cesc’s hips down into the bed, his tongue snaking out over Cesc’s hot skin as he moves lower. Cesc thinks it means, me too.
The first time Valencia plays Barcelona after the Euros, David texts him in the morning.
“who ru rooting 4?”
Cesc doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about it for awhile, and finally he just sends back: “;) good luck.”
David doesn’t respond. Valencia loses.
(2009)
“I’m coming to Spain. This week,” Cesc mumbles into the phone. He can hear that David is out somewhere, voices are talking to him in the background. He hears David, muffled, telling them to be quiet for a minute.
“Sorry, okay,” David says, distractedly. “Why so suddenly?”
“Mmm,” Cesc hums, stalling, not sure if he can say the words. “Um, my grandfather. My grandfather died,” he says hurriedly, but it’s not quick enough and his voice hitches in the middle.
David is silent for a moment, and then he says, “Hold on,” and he doesn’t sound distracted anymore. Cesc hears him leave the room, knows from the way the background voices get distant and then disappear altogether.
“Okay. Cesc?” he says after a moment. Cesc makes a noise in the back of his throat to let David know he’s still there, doesn’t trust his voice. “Okay,” David says, and then says it again, “Okay,” and Cesc realizes he doesn’t know what to do either, and it makes Cesc feel better, a little. No one knows how to deal with death, not even David can fake it.
Finally David just sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Cesc, I’m really sorry,” and Cesc blinks back the burn in his eyes.
Cesc clears his throat. “Thanks. Thanks, really.” They sit in silence for a minute but it’s not awkward, and then Cesc says, “Yeah, so I’m going to Barcelona for the funeral, I’ll be in Spain… two, maybe three days.”
David hums like he’s thinking, and then he says, “Look, I don’t think I can get to Barcelona this week.” He sounds apologetic, an unusual tone on him.
“It’s okay. I’ll stop in Valencia before I come back. Okay?” Cesc feels better, making plans like they normally do.
He goes straight from the funeral to Valencia, can’t stay in Barcelona anymore. David picks him up at the train station.
“Hey,” David says, carefully, and Cesc wishes he wouldn’t. He’s wearing dark sunglasses but Cesc can feel his eyes studying him.
“Hey.”
David navigates away from the curb, looking over his shoulder. “How was… everything?” Cesc wants to laugh, wants to ask how he thinks it was, but he knows David is doing the best he can. Instead he just shrugs.
David doesn’t say anything else but Cesc sees him taking glances toward him out of the corner of his eye every now and then.
Cesc leans his head back against the seat. He’s tired. He hasn’t been sleeping well, not in his parents' house full of people all the time, not in his empty quiet London flat.
They stop at a red light and David drums his fingers against the steering wheel. Cesc sees from the corner of his eye when he stops and moves his hand, slowly, towards Cesc, like he’s not sure. Cesc wonders if he’s going to take Cesc’s hand, or pat his knee. Mostly he just wishes David would act like he normally does.
Finally, David rests his hand on Cesc’s arm gently, his thumb sweeping across the inside of Cesc’s wrist, the swell and dip of the small bones there. He keeps his hand there, gripping lightly just above Cesc’s wrist, for the rest of the drive home, like he’s holding him there, anchoring Cesc down. Cesc closes his eyes. As he drifts to sleep, he wonders how David knew, how he'd guessed that Cesc had been feeling like he was floating away.
(2009)
It almost ends, once.
It’s not something they ever talk about now. They don’t like to remember it, not just because it hurt, but because it’s embarrassing, the way they acted, the way tiny little things turned into something so dramatic. Sometimes one of them will wake up in a sweat, before his alarm even goes off, a clench of panic gripping his stomach, remembering; or they’ll fight over something stupid and one will think, it’s just like last time, before he can stop himself.
It starts out small, like most things that end up being important do. An innocuous comment taken the wrong way by someone in a specific mood. A short fuse, an over-sensitive reaction, a flash of stubbornness. If they did let themselves think about it, they probably wouldn’t be able to remember how it started, who said what and why.
It happens like this: They lose the Confederations Cup. Or maybe it starts when Pique gets his first call-up. Maybe it goes back to when they first met, when they were both young and cocky and their pride didn’t let them talk about anything, not the stuff that matters, and so that’s the habit they fell into, the way they were used to.
In any case, they lose the Confederations Cup. They’d expected to have more time together, there in South Africa, but neither of them says that’s part of the reason why he’s upset, beyond the obvious. They’re too stubborn, have too much pride.
After they lose, David doesn’t say anything to Cesc, or to anyone really, but when they get back to the hotel he assumes Cesc will come to his room. They’ll fly back to Spain tomorrow, and David will go to Valencia, and Cesc will go to- David isn’t sure, they never thought that far ahead. David guesses he’ll go to London, but maybe Barcelona.
David packs, slowly, and when he’s done and Cesc still hasn’t come, he sits at the edge of his bed and thinks about the game, goes over in his mind once again the things that went wrong, the chances missed, the mistakes. Confederations Cup isn’t the end of the world, he knows, but a loss is a loss and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the way it tastes in his mouth, doesn’t like the implications it has for next summer. He thinks and he waits.
Cesc doesn’t come until well after midnight, unusual for him because he likes to sleep early. His eyes are drooping already when David opens the door, and he shuffles in, collapsing on the bed.
David stares at Cesc, curling up in his bed. “Where have you been?” he snaps, and he doesn’t mean it to come out as annoyed as it does but he also doesn’t really care when it does.
Cesc’s eyes pop open and he sits up a little, propping himself up on his elbows. “I was with Geri and Puyi talking about what we’ll do-“ he stops short when David snorts. David sees him clench his jaw but then he takes a deep breath and says, “What?”
“Just not surprised you were spending your last night here with him. Even though it sounds like you’ll see him after we leave too.”
“Him?” Cesc asks, even though he knows. David knows he knows so he just glowers at Cesc from beneath furrowed brows.
Cesc can’t help it and he laughs. “David, it’s my best friend. Both of them, they’re two of my best friends. Anyway, I was going to invite you.”
“No,” David says, and there’s not a hint of humor in his voice.
“No what?”
“No, I’m not going.”
“I didn’t even tell you what we’re planning,” Cesc prods him, still smiling a little, like David is a kid having a tantrum and he finds it cute. It infuriates David.
He laughs meanly. “I don’t have any interest in hanging out with the two of you.”
Cesc is over his attitude, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. We’re friends. It’s like you and Silva.”
“It’s nothing like me and Silva,” David growls, and he’s not sure where this anger came from or if it’s even directed at Cesc but he’s furious, his hands curling into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I didn’t spend more time with Silva than with you this whole trip.”
Cesc is angry now too, gets off the bed and faces David. “You’re being fucking ridiculous. I didn’t spend more time with anyone else either.”
“The fuck you didn’t.”
Cesc looks at him and looks at him. “Come on. We’re leaving tomorrow and you’re ruining it.”
David scoffs. “Ruining what? This isn’t anything. We’re fucking stupid.” He doesn’t know what he means by it, but he knows how Cesc will take it.
Cesc shakes his head in disbelief and walks towards the door. “I’m too tired to deal with this shit,” he calls over his shoulder. “Talk to me when you’re not so fucking crazy.”
“Fuck you too,” David calls. As soon as the door shuts behind him, David flinches. He falls face down onto his bed, into the space Cesc vacated, and he doesn’t move until morning.
They are both stubborn, and angry, but never before have they used these traits against each other. They don’t speak again in Africa, or on the plane, nor after the plane touches down in Madrid. David only finds out his vacation with Pique and Puyol is to Mallorca because Pepe mentions it on the plane, says he might go. He asks if David is going, and he just says, “Nah,” shuts his eyes like he’s going to sleep. Pepe doesn’t bring it up again.
David goes back to Valencia. He doesn’t call Cesc. Cesc doesn’t contact him. David decides not to take a vacation. Instead he wakes up early, before the heat gets too unbearable, before too many people are out to bother him, and he runs. He should be tired of this after the summer and the long season, but he’s not. He gets upset when the sun rises and wipes out his energy, or when the street becomes crowded with people who know him and he’s forced to return home. Sometimes he’ll go out again after the sun goes down and the temperatures cool, trying to tire himself out and make sleep come, but it stays away.
The weeks pass. David wonders if he’s even going to stay in Valencia. His agent calls with daily updates on the Barcelona situation, which are usually that there are no updates. In the end, he stays at Valencia, and something in the pit of his stomach is relieved, not sure if he could have dealt with that particular club at this moment.
The season starts. He falls back into old routines. He knows he’s over-trained this summer; his head is constantly in a fog and his body is sore. But the Mestalla pulses around him, and for a few hours every week he feels alive.
One night he’s laying on the couch staring at a book when his phone rings. The number is unknown but he picks up anyway.
“Yeah.”
“Hey- David? Hey.” The voice is familiar but not instantly recognizable to David. After a moment of silence where he tries to work it out, the voice says, “It’s Gerard. Pique. Geri.”
David blinks and then immediately becomes suspicious. Despite what had happened in South Africa, he doesn’t actually dislike Pique, but it still isn’t a phone call he was expecting. “What’s up,” he says finally, not really as a question.
“I need some help with something, are you busy?” Pique sounds different on the phone, not as booming. He’s not as… much, when his huge frame isn’t hulking in front of you.
David looks around, looks at his watch, as if he has something to do. “It’s kind of late,” he says reluctantly, but curiosity is getting the best of him. He sighs. “But no, go ahead.”
“Cool, hold on a second,” and David doesn’t like the tone in his voice. He hears something muffled and a button being pushed and then Pique comes back.
“Sorry. Hello?” David says hello back but he hears another voice with his. He falls silent.
“Sweet, it worked!” Pique exclaims, and then says, “Oh, anyway. Okay, you’re both on the phone and neither of you are busy, so talk. Seriously. If you hang up I’ll fuck your sisters.”
“I don’t have a sister,” David says. He does, but he doesn’t think Pique knows that.
“Your mother then,” he answers. “The fuck do I care?” Then a beep and Pique is off the line. David doesn’t think his mom or sister would be particularly into Pique, but he doesn’t hang up anyway, doesn’t really want to. He hears Cesc breathing on the other end of the phone, but he hasn’t said anything since hello.
David searches for words, doesn’t know what to say, where to start. After they sit in silence for at least a full minute, David says, just to break the ice- “Nice game the other day.”
Cesc doesn’t answer right away, and David wonders if he’s going to say anything at all, but finally he says, “You watched?” and he sounds genuinely surprised.
David suddenly feels the weight of his exhaustion bearing down on him, hearing Cesc’s tone, hearing Cesc at all. “Of course,” he answers. “Cesc-- I always watch.”
No one apologizes. No one makes a grand statement. There’s no poetry, no flowers, no candy. But all the same, they move on, and it’s simple. Things change between them; something eases away, some barrier breaks down, a shift now that they’ve been through this thing and come out on the other side. It’s not the excitement and anxiety they’ve felt for a year, or for 3 years, but it’s something else, an evolution, a stability, and it still feels like them.
That year, at Christmas, David decides to come to London again.
“You don’t have to,” Cesc says when David calls him about dates. But David is stubborn and has made up his mind.
“You don’t get a break and I do. It only makes sense.” Cesc gives in. It's not like he's going to say no.
David comes and Cesc picks him up, just like the first time. He seems better. Cesc gets out to put his bag in the trunk and David touches his arm, half smiles.
“You wanna stop anywhere?” Cesc asks. He’s thinking about last time, about the grocery store, how David had hated being out, not understanding. But David says yes, let’s go get some food. He wants Italian. Cesc takes him to a restaurant near his house, a small place that isn’t ever crowded.
Cesc tries to help him with the menu, says, “You’d like the fish,” but David just grunts and stares down at his own menu, eyes flicking up and down the pages. The waitress brings them both water and asks if they’re ready to order.
Cesc gets chicken and looks to David. Very carefully, he says, “I’ll have the pasta primavera, please.” In English. The waitress takes their menus and leaves. Cesc gapes.
David doesn’t look up at him for several moments, checking his phone, smoothing his napkin down in his lap, looking around the restaurant. Finally he looks over and sees Cesc still staring at him, a smile creeping across his face. “What the hell are you leering at, Fabregas,” he mutters, a flush blooming over his cheekbones.
Cesc looks away, pinches his own leg under the table so he’ll stop grinning. It doesn’t work. He sneaks another peek at David, and on his face he sees the tiniest of smiles.
(2010)
“The deal’s almost done,” he says, nonchalantly, but David hardly ever calls him randomly so Cesc already knew it was something big.
“What deal?” Cesc knows exactly what David is talking about, but wants him to say it.
He hears David suck in a breath of air sharply. He’s annoyed. “Barcelona, Cesc,” he snaps. “The Barcelona deal.”
Cesc hangs up, knowing it’s childish. He calls back a few minutes later but it rolls over to voicemail. He isn’t worried. He knows David isn’t really upset.
“Congratulations,” he says once the voicemail beeps on. He hesitates, then hangs up.
“You could come, you know.” It’s a few days later, and David’s finally decided to return his call.
“David,” Cesc says, a warning in his voice.
“I’m not-“ David starts. “I’m just saying. If you want it that bad. You could have it.”
“It isn’t that easy,” Cesc says, and he knows that David knows.
Cesc wonders what it would be like, if he went to Barcelona. He and David have never been in the same place for more than a few months at a time. Would they keep their own places, see each other at practice and maybe a few times a week? Would they move in together? Would everyone know?
In the end it doesn’t matter. He and David win the World Cup together, but he doesn’t go to Barca, not that season anyway. He goes to Spain when he can, David comes to London a couple times too, tries to be pleasant about it, still blushes when he speaks English.
One day Cesc is in town, just for a day, and after practice David, Pique, and Leo take him to lunch before he has to go back to the airport. They sit at an outdoor café, the sun shining in their eyes.
David sits next to Cesc. He points to something on the menu, and Cesc hums, and David nods. Pique and Leo shake their heads at each other, at their friends speaking a different language. Cesc sees someone walking by and a smile spreads across his face; he nudges David and nods towards the guy. David’s eyes widen and they both break into peals of laughter, their mouths wide, their eyes crinkled.
“Jesus Christ,” Pique says. “You two are… something else.”
When David stops laughing, he glares. “What does that mean?”
Pique laughs, looks away. After a moment he says, “You’re just, like, the same, kind of. Like the same color in different shades.”
David and Cesc look at each other, both making a face. “No way,” Cesc says. “I’m way nicer.”
“The fuck you are,” David protests.
“It’s not like being the nicer one means a lot when it comes to you two,” Leo deadpans. They both stare at him like he’s betrayed them.
“You should really talk less, Leo,” Cesc says. David cackles. Pique orders more wine.
David takes Cesc to the airport. They’re used to saying goodbye. David doesn’t even get out of the car, just presses his knuckles into Cesc’s cheek and says, “Text me when you get home.” Cesc presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek and nods, spilling out of the car. David watches until he disappears into the terminal.
David drives away and he thinks, thinks about the weird situation they have, about the things they never say and the things they know. He thinks about the beginning when they didn’t like each other and he smiles, and he tries not to think about the times in the middle when they didn’t like each other, and he doesn’t think about an end. David goes home, and he falls asleep happy, and he knows Cesc does too, because they’re the same. The same color in different shades.