Football: This Christmas Will Be (a very special Christmas, for me) [Various]

[crinklefries]

Title: This Christmas Will Be (a very special Christmas, for me)

Stories (in order): Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Bojan Krkić/Sergio Canales, Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká, Raúl Gonzalez/Guti, Cesc Fàbregas/Gerard Piqué, Sergio Ramos & Jesús Navas, David Beckham/Iker Casillas, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, everyone

Word Count: 10,123
Rating: F for fluffy as snow!

Summary: Eight stories, one Christmas.

Disclaimer: Not true, broseph.
Notes: Written for everyforever and sugarlungs because they’re losers. Happy ChristGaymas, Tweedle Dumb & Tweedle Dumber. :> ♥

This was supposed to be posted way earlier today but I kept getting distracted by certain drunk people playing Kings………….. idk i d k.

Anyway, Happy Holidays to everyone, regardless of what you celebrate! I hope this captures the holiday spirit and our love for these men and this sport and proves to be a special present for each of you! : )


one. stevie & xabi

“Do you remember?” Stevie asks.

He stops under a pine tree, turns his face up toward the heavy white sky. Sticks his pink tongue out and there’s a grin tugging at the corner of lips, a twitch as tiny, insignificant crystals fall and melt into sharp, cool pricks of water. He blinks rapidly before his eyelashes crystallize together. He doesn’t laugh at first, but the other man’s mittens tickle his cheeks as they brush gently across his eyes and the bridge of his nose. When he laughs, the sound is rich and deep, coming from a core that’s pure, liquid warmth even in the strange Madrid snow.

“The first snowfall or just that year?” Xabi smiles gently and pulls his hand away. Stevie catches his mittened fingers and holds them between his own gloved ones for just a moment, leather against soft yarn, wriggling fingers against stilled ones.

“Hmm. Both,” he finally decides.

“It wasn’t out of place there,” Xabi says thoughtfully, watching Stevie brush their fingers together. He should be chilled to the bone, but he’s strangely warm. His cheeks are pink. “It fit. Belonged.”

There’s a moment of silence as the two shuffle together. One shoulder mirrors the other and elbows are tucked in just so, although thick winter coats don’t let them disappear into their sides. They don’t touch, but their hearts do.

“You fit too,” Stevie murmurs. Frozen breath fans out between them, taking up what little space separates two warm, beating hearts. They’re miles apart, yet inches away. “You belonged.”

Xabi breathes out words, but they’re only caught by the wind, drift away as soon as they’re uttered. Neither of them mind, because words rarely said what they meant. They’ve never needed them anyway. Instead, he turns his face up and smiles, just as Stevie had earlier. Soft flakes settle across light skin, across dark brows, across the bridge of a nose that’s elegant in how subtly it’s swept.

Stevie joins suit, forgets to let Xabi’s hand go. Somehow a leather hand ends up on a waist and they stand in the profundity of the moment, the soft, gentle breath of winters and beginnings buffeting softly across pink cheeks. Xabi moves first and Stevie follows.

They don’t need music. They make their own music, humming under their breaths as they move closely against each other.

“Did you notice?” Xabi comments gently, face tucked into the crook of Stevie’s neck.

“What’s that?”

“It snows in Madrid too.”

Stevie’s movements slow and he only pulls back to give Xabi a curious look. It isn’t accusatory or sad, it simply is.

Xabi brushes a bright mitten gently across Stevie’s cheek and presses a soft kiss to pink lips.

“The world isn’t so big, querido.”

Stevie tilts his head, considering this. After a moment, he assents and fits his mouth to the corner of Xabi’s.

“Thank God for EasyJet.”

Xabi’s laughter doesn’t come out in puffs and Stevie breathes quiet words of warmth into the space between them as they turn slowly, the first snowfall of Madrid drifting like cellos behind them.

theme: first snowfall

two. bojan & sergio

The first snow lays in clean, tamed piles in front of Bojan’s house. It’s a blanket of soft cotton, cool and wet to the touch, but in a way that is easily malleable. Bojan grins as he bends down and picks up a handful, easily crumpling the white mass into a lopsided clump with too many sharp edges to be a perfect sphere. It serves the same purpose, which is all that matters, he supposes.

His grin widens as he squints past the white sun toward his doorway.

“Bo?” an uncertain young voice calls out. Bojan doesn’t answer, simply shuffles silently behind a tree. He peeks half of his face out, one brown eye catching on a tall form that’s plodding out of his front doorway.

It closes his front door and steps carefully down the bricks until it’s knee deep in snow and frowning as it struggles to fight against it in its attempts to walk.

“Bo, where did you go?” Sergio calls again and his voice is so worried, with a tinge of upset, that Bojan almost feels bad. Almost. Sergio is bundled up in the most ridiculously puffy jacket Bojan has ever seen in his life. It’s bright blue. There’s an 80% chance that Cristiano Ronaldo bought it for him.

Bojan sneaks a few steps past the tree, lining up his vision until it’s perfect. Sergio opens his mouth to, Bojan presumes, call his name again, when Bojan puts his entire weight behind hurling the white clump at Sergio. Bojan is a football player, but he has a brother and he can’t help but crumple into the snow, clutching at his sides in laughter as the snowball hits Sergio perfectly in the face.

Sergio shrieks as he splutters out a mouthful of cold.

“Bojan Krkić!”

Sergio scrambles madly for cover, as though Bojan isn’t curled into himself from laughter, as though he is in any position to throw another snowball.

“I’m going to kill you!” Sergio shouts and Bojan barely has time to scramble to his feet himself and dive behind the tree before Sergio’s throwing clumps of snow in his general direction. “This is war!”

Bojan sticks his head out from behind his tree.

“Like I’m going to be defeated by a Madridista!”

He lets a large snowball fly with his words and squeals and ducks as an expertly aimed clump flies through the air, right where his head was just a second ago.

“Don’t be so cocky, Cule!” Sergio declares and starts throwing round after round. The snowballs aren’t perfect, but they’re launched with dead accuracy and in such quick rapid succession that Bojan finds himself overwhelmed almost immediately. He has to dive out from behind his tree as Sergio gains ground on him.

He squeals again as he scrambles through the snow and Sergio’s snowballs start smashing into his jacket, into his knees, into the back of his head as he runs through the front yard, upending perfect, previously untouched layers of white.

Sergio’s maniacal laughter follows and Bojan only manages to shut him up by somehow sneaking up behind him and throwing his arms around his shoulders.

“Ha!” he shouts and Sergio shrieks again as they both go tumbling into the white mass.

Sergio’s shouts mix with Bojan’s wild laughter and they roll around, wrestling and pulling and tugging at each other until Bojan has to shove at Sergio’s face because he’s literally in stitches and he can’t breathe anymore.

“Serge-Serge oh my god, stop, stop,” he spurts out between breaths of laughter. Sergio’s nearly in tears above him and the younger boy wildly shakes his head so that puffs of snow fall out of his hair and sprinkle Bojan’s already frozen face. Then he collapses onto Bojan’s chest in a fit of laughter.

“I-I think I won that,” he declares after his giggles have subsided.

“No you didn’t, stupid,” Bojan contradicts and shoves a mitten into Sergio’s wet, light brown hair. He ruffles it before shaping it into spikes and then a Mohawk and then giving him emo bangs and then proceeding to style Sergio’s hair into the most ludicrous ones possible.

“I’m not stupid, you’re stupid,” Sergio retorts, smartly. He makes a face and covers Bojan’s with his own mittened hand. He feels puffs of warm, wet breath tickle his pink and painfully frozen fingers.

He gasps a little as he suddenly feels the wet of a tongue dart out and swipe across his wrist before retracting.

Sergio lifts his head, but Bojan already looks like a perfect angel again-rosy-cheeked, fair skinned, wide-eyed, with a grin on his face to melt the coldest of hearts. Sergio looks indignant and shoves at Bojan’s face until they both burst out laughing.

They lay like that, curled into each other in the mountain of snow, laughter and giggles unwinding from their bellies into the frigid air in clouds of white, until Bojan’s mother yells at them to come inside for lunch.

theme: snowball fight

three. cristiano & ricardo

“I’m in over my head,” were the first words out of Cristiano’s mouth after Ricardo picked up the phone. No real greeting, not even a hello. Just I’m in over my head and, “I need your help, Kaká. Please, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Caroline and Luca are visiting her mother,” Ricardo had said kindly, gently, trying to be as soothing as possible over the telephone. “Would you like to come over?”

“Yes,” Cristiano had been so desperate that he hung up the phone without a goodbye either, although Ricardo had caught the shrill cries of a baby in the background.

It takes Cristiano ten minutes in the snow where it usually would have taken five minutes. Ricardo is at his window, staring out across his front yard to the neighbor’s across the street. Two young boys and a young girl are having a snowball fight, white spheres flying every which way across the yard. As Cristiano gets out of his car, one of the balls misses its mark and goes careening wildly toward the striker.

Ricardo lets the curtain fall from his hand as he hides snickers into his sleeves. When he opens the door, Cristiano is glowering and wet, remnants of an ill-made snowball melting at the edges of spiked tips of black hair.

“Let me get you a towel,” Ricardo smiles, laughter in his voice, as he steps aside to let his friend in.

Cristiano shuffles over the doorway quickly, looking once over his shoulder as though he’s afraid that another snowball will find him if he doesn’t hurry.

By the time that Ricardo comes back to the kitchen with a towel, Cristiano is settled at the counter, fingers drumming impatiently onto the granite.

Without being asked, Ricardo moves in front of his teammate and begins slowly running the towel through his hair, wiping away crystals of snow, both melted and frozen.

Cristiano holds very still and Ricardo can almost feel the tension stiffening his shoulders.

“How long has he been crying?” he asks gently.

“Days now, Kaká,” Cristiano breathes out in frustration. He finally shifts and takes the towel from Ricardo. Their fingers brush. Ricardo ignores the tingle and moves away from Cristiano. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything.”

“Dolores has been with him, yes?” Ricardo asks, Portuguese sliding off his tongue as though it was written just for him. He moves toward the stove, where there is a pot settled over a flame.

“Yeah, but even she’s about to give up,” Cristiano bites his bottom lip in worry. He tosses the towel onto an empty chair and sighs. “I’m shit at this. I don’t even know what’s wrong with my own son.”

“Hmm.” Ricardo is quiet with contemplation as he turns the fire down and then off. He moves towards his cabinet and pulls out two mugs. “You said he was wheezing?”

“Yeah, it sounds like he’s having trouble breathing. He’s whining a lot.” Cristiano’s eyes perk up. “Should I take him to the hospital? I was going to, but I didn’t know, I could do that, fuck I should have-”

Ricardo’s chuckles seem to cut Cristiano off. The striker’s frown deepens.

“What?”

Ricardo simply shakes his head and pours whatever was in the pot into the two mugs. Steam rises wonderfully from both and he sets the pot back on the stove to cool. He’s quiet as he rummages in the refrigerator for something.

“Aha,” he says lightly as he finds what he was looking for. He closes the door and tops off the mugs with a beautiful layer of whipped cream. He then sets the can down and brings both mugs to the counter. Ricardo slides one across to Cristiano.

Cristiano looks as though he doesn’t know whether to be exasperated or patient.

“Peppermint hot chocolate,” Ricardo smiles by way of explanation. He takes his own mug, wraps his long fingers around the light green ceramic.

Cristiano does what he’s told and they drink in silence for a minute before Ricardo’s tinkling laughter breaks the silence.

“What?”

Ricardo shakes his head and shifts so that he isn’t leaning against the counter anymore. Instead, he takes his mug and walks around the kitchen island so that he can sit in the seat next to Cristiano.

“He has a cold, Cris,” Ricardo smiles.

“…what?”

“If he has been crying, whining, and cannot breathe properly, he probably has a bad cold.” Ricardo’s smile is warm and his words are patient, kind. “We get miserable enough when we have colds. Can you imagine being a baby? He can’t even tell you that he’s sick.”

Cristiano’s slightly opened mouth closes. He looks down at his peppermint hot chocolate.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” Ricardo laughs and nudges his friend’s shoulder. “I was lucky to have the help of Carol’s mother the first time Luca had a cold. I had no idea. I actually did drive him to the hospital.”

That makes Cristiano finally relax; makes him grin.

“What happened?”

“Everyone laughed at me.”

Cristiano laughs too and Ricardo shakes his head, grinning.

“Go to the pharmacy, they will give you everything you need. If you get something with sleeping aid, he will sleep soundly. Poor thing, it does not sound as though he has gotten much sleep recently.”

Cristiano exhales a sigh and shakes his head.

“No, he hasn’t.”

Ricardo smiles and leans forward, resting a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder.

“You haven’t either, have you?”

Cristiano sighs again and shakes his head. He looks almost woozy, now that Ricardo has mentioned it. Ricardo’s eyes twinkle and he withdraws, sets his mug on the counter.

“Where are you-”

“Finish your chocolate. I will be back in a minute, don’t worry.”

Cristiano does what he’s told. Ricardo, as promised, comes back within a few minutes.

“Come with me.”

The striker leaves his half-finished mug on the counter as well and joins Ricardo as he makes his way toward the living room. He stills in the doorway as Ricardo moves toward a couch where a makeshift bed has been made; a large pillow at one end and a thick, fuzzy blanket folded neatly at the other end.

“I can’t sleep-”

“Yes you can,” is all Ricardo says before taking a careful seat at the end of the couch near the pillow. He reaches for the remote and turns on the television, making sure to mute the volume as he does so. The TV flickers on to a sports channel playing a rerun of the latest AC Milan match. Ricardo’s face settles into an affectionate smile.

Cristiano, frozen at the doorway, finally thaws before moving toward the couch as well. He lays across it, head on pillow and pulls the blanket over himself as he curls on his side. His head is near Ricardo’s lap and his eyes seem to only vaguely watch the television.

“You must take care of yourself before you can take care of your little one,” Ricardo says softly and it’s almost a command.

Cristiano says nothing; simply nods.

They settle into the silence, eyes flickering as they watch friends play.

After a while, Ricardo leans over and presses a kiss to Cristiano’s forehead. He lingers just long enough and Cristiano’s fingers curl into the bottom of Ricardo’s shirt as his breathing evens and he finally falls asleep.

theme: peppermint hot chocolate

four. raúl & guti

Hands curled around a Starbuck’s cup, he crowds the heat desperately to skin that is burning with cold even underneath the wool of gloves. He shifts from one foot to another, fashionable boots-not particularly made for the snow, but being used in them regardless-rubbing against each other until he stops and frowns because he doesn’t want to wear them down.

“How much longer?” Guti asks, with an obvious whine to his voice.

“Shhhh,” Raúl admonishes. He takes a sip of his peppermint hot chocolate and Guti’s frown deepens as he shuffles closer to his former captain, until their arms are pressed together because two is better than one when warmth is involved.

“This better be fucking worth it, Gonzalez,” Guti mutters under his breath. Clear grey-blue eyes slide across crowded city sidewalks. Strands of English floats toward him from every direction and he winces, the change from Spanish and Turkish so stark that he feels culture shock rippling just below his expensive winter coat.

“You complain too much, Guti,” Raúl says with an amused smile. He is clearly too used to his former vice captain to be too fazed by his attitude.

“I still don’t know why we’re here,” Guti grumbles. He takes a long drink and finishes off his latte before crumpling and throwing the paper cup in the trash.

“Because I wanted to see snow before Christmas,” Raúl answers, simply.

“And you left Germany because-”

“You could have said no if you did not want to come, José Maria,” Raúl says, with a warning to his voice.

That shuts Guti up and he barely refrains from rolling his eyes as he stares out ahead of them. He checks his watch. Shifts from one foot to another and then back to the first foot again. Fidgets with his coat buttons. Inadvertently elbows Raúl and makes the other man grunt in response. He’s impatient. Raúl’s hand darts out and grasps Guti’s elbow to still him.

“Shhh, just hold on. It says another minute or so.”

Raúl is probably right, Guti thinks, partially because Raúl is always right and partially because everyone around them has finally slowed to a standstill.

The air around them suddenly slows as well, a tempo of rhythmic breathing-in and out, in and out-as every set of eyes stares in a particular direction. There’s cold on the ground and near the middle and near the top, wrapped tightly about them as though tailored to fit each of them, like a pair of gloves or a suit. No one seems to notice, although they breathe out white, thick air in unison.

Guti is entranced only for a second before Raúl’s grip on his elbow tightens. Guti’s attention immediately turns back to the task at hand.

He does a mental countdown.

5
4
3
2
1--

And sure enough, on 1, someone flips a switch.

Guti hears Raúl take in a sharp breath and only then because his own breath catches in his throat. It’s a dazzling sight; the majesties of thousands of lights twinkling and twisting in the low, dark setting of a time just past twilight. The small ones come on simultaneously while the larger lights take their time, popping into life one by one, waking up and calling to their friends to join their order. They sparkle and make shapes in the air and there’s a Christmas tree in the distance, but mostly the lights fill the air and the space between the buildings; New York shoppers standing with their large bags and their Christmas gifts just long enough to be illuminated by something that, for a moment, makes their individual lives miniscule.

The lights settle around them, touching each of them with some measure of grace and spirit that they had not felt before.

Guti finds a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and he finally concedes to it, letting it take over his face in a way that’s guarded most of the times, but not now.

Raúl leans over, Guti finds a warm mouth against his ear.

“You don’t find this just anywhere.”

You don’t find you just anywhere, Guti is tempted to reply, but he just lets his lips graze Raúl’s jaw in response instead.

Raúl smiles, squeezes Guti’s elbow, and withdraws.

They stand in the middle of the lighted city for another half an hour, drinking in the light and beauty, before finally making their way out of the center. Their bodies sway against one another, shoulders and elbows and hips touching, and the smiles and calm looks of pure comfort and wonder that they share is a different kind of light in and of itself.

theme: lights

five. cesc & gerard

From: Geri
To: Cesc Fàbregas
when does ur flight land??

From: Cescy
To: Gerard Piqué
14:00 Christmas Eve. I’ll be there until the 26th. Why??

From: Geri
To: Cesc Fàbregas
ooooooh!! ur mom invited me for christmas eve dinner. that okay??

From: Cescy
To: Gerard Piqué
Your family couldn’t stand you huh?

From: Cescy
To: Gerard Piqué
JK of course it’s okay, imbécil. See you then.

From: Cescy
To: Gerard Piqué
PS get off Twitter and train or something Jesús Cristo.

From: Geri
To: Cesc Fàbregas
FU!!!

Carlota meets him at the airport. No parents, no best friend, which is just how Cesc likes it, if he’s going to be honest. When he’s away from his family, from his country, for so long, Cesc always needs just an hour to catch his breath before he can be overwhelmed with hugs and kisses and pinches to his cheeks.

“Hey there loser,” his sister smiles as Cesc, expert as he is by now in traveling light, drags his pullman behind him. He meets her in front of her car and lets go of his handle, using both arms to wrap his favorite younger sister in the biggest hug possible. “Geez! You’d think you actually missed me or something!”

Cesc laughs and pulls away, but not before placing a kiss on Carlota’s cheek.

“You’ve grown taller,” he comments, because he thinks he’s supposed to. The first few minutes after the reunion is always the most awkward; when he’s at a loss for words and scrabbling through the air to find ones that fit.

“You’ve grown pudgier,” Carlota teases and sinks a finger into Cesc’s side. Cesc squirms away from her touch immediately, although there’s very little pudge about him, and that only makes his younger sister laugh. “Come on, mama’s waiting.”

Cesc breathes a sigh of relief and nods, puts his luggage into Carlota’s trunk as she pops it open.

“Where’s Carla?” she asks curiously as she slides into the driver’s seat. Cesc closes the trunk and joins her within a few seconds.

“We had an early Christmas. She wanted to be with her family,” Cesc remarks. He settles into leather seating and pulls a belt over. “I’m going to meet her for New Year’s.”

Carlota shifts the car into gear.

“Good,” she nods in approval. “I like her.”

Christmas Eve with the Fàbregas’ is a warm and colorful affair. Cesc has no sooner dragged his luggage up to his room than his mother comes in without knocking and drags him downstairs. Cesc doesn’t mind-to him, family is everything closest to his heart.

He stands at the kitchen counter while she makes a mixture of his favorite Spanish dishes and English ones. The heater is turned up just enough that he tugs his sweater off his head and throws it onto a chair, then leans forward to pop a raisin in his mouth, now in a simple Arsenal t-shirt. The kitchen smells like every Christmas from his childhood that he can remember-the tang of spices, fresh seafood, and peppered beef mixed with the more wholesome smells of breads, rice, cheeses before settling under the sweet aroma of too many fruits. The smells wrap around him, like a favorite Christmas sweater or a hug from his mama on a cold winter’s morning. He almost suffocates with it, but it’s with a smile on his face.

He exchanges stories with his mama, talks Arsenal and Barcelona statistics with his papa, and every once in a while teases Carlota about potential boyfriends. He laughs louder and more genuinely than he has in months. His mother lets him lick the bowl clean and Cesc feels home settle somewhere deep in his chest. When he breathes out, he’s not the captain of Arsenal or the future of Barcelona, he’s just Cesc-Cesc Fàbregas.

It is unsurprising to Cesc on any of a multitude of levels that when Gerard shows up, it is not with a handful of presents or cookies or empanadas-not even a handful of donuts; Cesc has half a mind to be offended, actually-but an armful of tinsel.

“Mama!” he cries as soon as Cesc opens the door and the shorter man barely has time to open his mouth in surprise before Gerard pushes past him and into the arms of his mother.

“Geri, you’ve grown so tall!” Cesc’s mother smiles as she pats Gerard’s face fondly. It’s almost an amusing sight, seeing Gerard bend his large stature down to fit a hug around that small woman. “You’re too skinny, have you been eating well? They work you too hard at that team of yours, why don’t you come over more often? Dios, I will call your mother this instant and tell her you aren’t being fed properly, just you hold on-”

“Mama,” Cesc whines, and it’s almost as though he’s ten years old again and he and Gerard have come home from the park, covered from head to toe in mud and she is admonishing the both of them like they are both equally her sons. Which, Cesc supposes, they both are, to a certain extent.

“Oh, Cescy!” Gerard exclaims, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “When did you get here, I didn’t even see you!”

Cesc barely has a chance to roll his eyes, before he feels huge bear arms surround him and lift him up. He blinks for just one flightless moment before laughing and wrapping his arms around Gerard’s massive neck.

“You’re an idiot,” he declares and ignores his mother as she tuts in disapproval from the hallway.

“Geri, wash up, we’re going to have dinner in a little bit. Did you bring that tinsel to decorate with?”

Gerard nods and Cesc can feel said tinsel scratching him all over his arms and tickling him just under his chin.

“You can never have enough tinsel is the Piqué household motto!” he grins and Cesc’s mother laughs affectionately before moving back to the kitchen.

“Are you going to let me down?” Cesc asks from somewhere above him and Gerard just laughs and shakes his head. He buries his face into Cesc’s neck and breathes him in, that familiar scent that he’s had memorized since boyhood.

“It’s been too long, Cescy.”

“Just a few months,” comes Cesc’s muffled voice, but it’s fond.

Gerard simply hums and they stay close like that, arms twined around one another and tangled with tinsel, until Cesc starts sneezing because it’s tickling his nose. Only then does Gerard let out a hearty laugh and let the smaller man down. Together, they cart the tinsel into the living room.

It takes approximately ten minutes and even then, Cesc is almost surprised that it’s taken so long. In approximately ten minutes’ time, the Fàbregas living room is absolutely covered in gold, silver, green, and red tinsel. The shimmery, slick material is everywhere-on the tree, over the fireplace, stuffed into stockings, strewn across the pile of presents, tucked into seat cushions, decoratively placed around family pictures; even the dog is curiously chewing on a few strands.

Cesc sits, Indian-style, in front of the tree, Christmas lights twinkling behind him, a confused look on his face. He blinks and stares down at himself.

“I can’t even see the Arsenal logo anymore.” He picks at where his shirt should be and comes away with a handful of gold strands. He blinks again and looks up at Gerard. “I was wearing a shirt. I’m positive I was wearing a shirt earlier.”

Gerard snickers into a handful of shimmering green and thinks for just a moment before upending it over Cesc’s head.

“Nope.”

Cesc opens his mouth and splutters out a mouthful of tinsel.

“That does not taste as good as expected.”

Gerard grins and finishes twining some gold around the tree before standing back and declaring it a masterpiece. In the time it takes for Cesc to cock his head and squint at the bedazzled, sparkling, ridiculously ornate mass of green, gold, silver, and red, Gerard collapses onto the ground next to him, half-sprawled on the smaller man and half squashing the dog who yelps in offense and scampers away to the kitchen.

“Remember when we were too small to reach the top of the tree?” he asks, smiling as he lays back and stares at the Christmas tree towering over them.

Cesc chuckles and shakes his head before shoving off gold and easing himself back too.

“You were never too small. You were always a giant.”

That makes Gerard laugh and he tweaks Cesc’s ear as his best friend curls into his side, tucks himself in just like he’s done every Christmas Eve since they were barely old enough to understand what it was.

Cesc wrinkles his nose in protest before burying it into the crook of Gerard’s neck. He breathes in the calm that settles between them, the sheer comfortability and it’s familiar, like a pair of his oldest sweatpants or cuddling with his dog on a cold winter’s day. He curls his arms into Gerard’s chest and Gerard lopes his arms loosely around Cesc’s waist and they breathe in and out in tandem. Gerard mouths words into Cesc’s hair and the smaller Spaniard shifts closer, smiles wider.

They only break the easy rhythm to laugh when the cat comes in and sits down haughtily on Cesc’s face.

theme: tinsel

six. jesús & sergio

It starts out with twelve eggs, six cups of milk, two cups heavy cream, two cups of sugar, three teaspoons of nutmeg, two cups of bourbon, and three fourths of a cup of brandy. It ends up with two jugs of semi-questionable, slightly discolored eggnog with no bourbon or brandy in it because Jesús was entirely too slow to hide the bottles from Sergio.

Sergio grins as he tops off the brandy, wiping his lips on the back of his hand before Jesús tugs the bottle away from him.

“Now you’re going to complain that it doesn’t taste right,” he admonishes.

Sergio laughs and rests his chin in the space between Jesús’s neck and shoulder, peering over it into the pot of bubbling eggnog. Sergio is wearing blue and white tinsel around his neck. It tickles Jesús’s skin and he laughs and swats at Sergio’s face.

“Get away!”

“It’s taking so fucking long,” Sergio whines, the smell of sweet alcohol washing faintly against Jesús’s cheek. The smaller man wrinkles his nose and swats at his best friend again.

“Go see if Paqui needs help wrapping, you’re annoying.”

Sergio pouts before pressing a kiss to Jesús’s cheek.

“I’m throwing your presents out into the snow!” he declares before shuffling away from the kitchen toward his mother and sister in the living room.

By the time Jesús brings mugs and eggnog into the living room, Sergio is tangled on the floor with ribbon, wrapping paper, tinsel, tape, and, somehow, the family dog. He’s laughing at Miriam’s story and warmly leaning against his mother’s legs behind him when Jesús sits down next to him on the floor. Sergio tugs his best friend-his brother, his soul mate-closer and the older Sevillan ends up resting his cheek against Sergio’s shoulder before the eggnog is even finished.

The air crackles with laughter and teasing, stories from distant lands, family tales, and football statistics. Sergio’s father comes in with his guitar and it doesn’t even take Daniela’s cooing and clapping to encourage him to start playing.

Sergio hums out with his father’s music, drumming the beat against his thigh, and when he starts singing, his voice is throaty and deep, warm and fond. Jesús feels a flush crawl up his neck and he turns his head so that it’s buried in Sergio’s shoulder. He immediately feels soft fingers in his hair and he doesn’t even have to hide his smile to know that it’s Sergio.

They climb out through Sergio’s window, grapple against the side of the house, and hoist themselves onto the roof. It’s a little bit more difficult now that they’re older and bigger, but Sergio gets there first and when Jesús takes his hand to be pulled up second, it’s almost like they’re kids again.

There’s a nest of blankets and pillows already set out and when Jesús breathes out a laugh, his breath hangs in the dark air like fog.

“I brought the thermos,” he smiles, holding up a large red thermos with the Sevilla crest on it.

Sergio wrinkles his nose then laughs before collapsing onto the pile of pillows and making grabby hands so that Jesús will join him. When his best friend sits down, Sergio grins and sneaks out a bottle he’s been hiding under his coat.

“I brought the alcohol.”

Jesús laughs again and shoves at Sergio’s head before they both fall back into their nest, pulling at blankets and sheets to protect their cold legs from the merciless wind of Madrid winter. The eggnog and bottle of bourbon lay nestled between them and when they turn toward one another, it’s to touch hands to hands, knees to knees, foreheads to foreheads.

“Do you remember?” Sergio begins.

Jesús smiles and nods, presses his nose to Sergio’s cheek.

It’s a game they play each time, a walk through years of friendship and brotherhood and two hearts so close that they’re almost always touching, no matter where home is.

Sergio tangles his hand in the bottom of Jesús’s shirt and Jesús’s fingers drift through Sergio’s brown hair.

“I thought you were crazy,” he laughs. “You looked like you were going to fall from the side.”

“I’ve done worse,” Sergio chuckles. His expression softens and Jesús can tell that he’s remembering too. “We were so little. It was easier then.”

“It was summer then,” Jesús amends and Sergio nods in response. “We would spend every night under the stars.”

“They looked so big, then,” Sergio murmurs. The wind picks up a little, flittering his hair across his face and Jesús’s wrist. Sergio wrinkles his nose and scratches it with a finger. “They’re so much smaller than they used to be.”

They’re quiet then, breathing together, eyes fluttering open and closed as the wind picks up and slows down, as light snow drifts from the tree nearby. Jesús shivers under the cold and Sergio moves closer just so they can be warmer.

The thermos and bottle clink in between them, but they don’t notice.

There’s so much love, so much warmth, so many memories between them, that it’s not until Jesús’s cold, pink lips brush against Sergio’s temple that he remembers it’s winter at all.

“No, hermano. We are just so much bigger than we were.” He tangles their chilled fingers together, like he used to when they were children.

Sergio opens his eyes and smiles. It’s large and bright and, to anyone else, it would be stuttering, thawing, as blinding as the sun itself.

To Jesús, it’s Christmas. It’s home. It’s family.

theme: eggnog

seven. david & iker

“Victoria let me out of the house!” are the first words out of David’s mouth.

Iker blinks, mouth agape, front door open.

David shifts his duffel bag from one hand to another.

“Okay, she said I was getting too clingy and I needed to find something to do until the New Year or she’s moving me out with the dog,” he laughs.

Iker raises an eyebrow.

“Hi!” David beams.

Iker had planned on a quiet Christmas. He shakes his head, grins. Adjusts his plans.

“You’ve done a shite job of decorating, mate,” David observes as he steps into the familiar house.

“Been busy,” Iker shrugs. “Mourinho and Valdano and-do you need help with that?”

David laughs and shakes his head.

”I remember where the guest bedroom is, Iker.”

He dumps his things on Iker’s bed.

Iker’s lips twitch. It’s dangerously close to a smile.

David props himself up on Iker’s kitchen counter as they talk. He tells the Spaniard about Victoria, about the boys, about the cold American sun during winter, about the smog in Los Angeles. He compares Galaxy to Madrid, hot dogs to paella, Donovan to Sergio.

“Sergio has much better hair,” Iker protests, mouth full of American chocolate that David’s brought for him.

“Landon’s definitely balding,” David says sagely. “He refuses to admit it, but there you are.”

Iker chokes on his chocolate and glares up at the Englishman.

“Hey!”

David just laughs, his feet lightly swinging into Iker’s thighs.

David wants to go out for lunch, but Iker has last minute meetings with Mourinho and the administration.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes and he really does look it. He bites his lower lip and rests a hand on David’s shoulder. “Tonight?”

Outside, Sergio honks.

“Don’t worry about me!” David pushes against Iker’s chest. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “I have things I need to do anyway.”

Iker is not reassured.

Iker comes back to a quiet house. It’s almost eerily silent in the way his footsteps echo down the hallway as he slides of his shoes and plods towards the kitchen.

“Dave?”

When only the crackling of cool, untouched air answers him, he frowns. He steps out of the hallway, to the kitchen and, almost immediately, the atmosphere changes.

There’s a tangible difference in temperature, but the warm air against Iker’s cool skin is noticeable only second to the comfortable smells of gingerbread and spices hovering past the oven. The oven light is on and Iker can see a tray of cookies baking lightly underneath.

“David?” Iker calls again, although he’s distracted halfway to the living room by the bowl of nuts and cool jug of eggnog setting on the granite. He breathes in the kitchen’s warmth and feels Christmas and home settle into his belly.

“Iker?”

He hears a voice call faintly from the living room.

Iker pops a walnut into his mouth and skirts around the jagged corner of granite counter. He doesn’t make it to the center of the living room; stops just past the doorway.

“Hi! Hi, wait-hold on, wait-I’m almost, ouch!”

Iker blinks, eyes wide, and moves to help David, who seems to be having difficulty behind an enormous Christmas tree that certainly wasn’t there before.

“No, no stay there I’m almost- shit fuck, ow, goddamn-okay, okay I’m good. I’m fine!” David emerges from behind, limbs flailing slightly, but with a huge grin on his face. “Wait-close your eyes!”

Iker stares at him.

“Come on, Iker. For me?” He flashes Iker his trademarked smile. Iker sighs and closes his eyes, although he feels as though he should really know better. “Okay, great! Okay, ready? One, two, three!”

On three, Iker opens his eyes. By fate, luck, or a combination of the two, the timing is picture perfect. Just as his pupils dilate, David thumbs a button and the tree lights up, starting from the bottom, until each colored, bright bulb pops into existence with all the majesty of a Beckham Christmas.

“David, what-” Iker takes in a sharp breath, a smile crawling across his face before he can stop it.

The tree is the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen, nearly falling over from balls and baubles, tinsel and popcorn strings, with a huge football at the top where a star should be. Underneath, there are shoddily wrapped presents threatening to topple, one over the other, and there’s a trail of popcorn and ribbons across Iker’s usually meticulous floor.

“What did you do?” he ogles and he’s surprised to find laughter where his voice should be.

“I brought Christmas, Mr. Scrooge!” David laughs brightly as he moves to scoop up all of the rubbish that’s strewn about.

Iker doesn’t doubt it. He pivots in spot, eyes glancing from the tree to stockings hung over the fireplace. There’s one for him and one for David and, as an afterthought, a smaller pink one that says Sara on it in rhinestones. It’s utterly tacky. Iker doesn’t think he’s laughed this hard in a long time.

“I’m making gingerbread, A Christmas Story is in the DVD player, my MP3 player has all of our music needs, and I ordered pizza.”

Iker blinks at David-a usual occurrence with the two of them-and pulls over a bin for the blond to dumb his extra wrappings into.

“Pizza?”

“I have no idea how the fuck to cook ham, Casillas.”

Iker barks out laughter and wraps his arms around David in a hug. David’s frenetic movements still long enough for his hands to rest on the small of Iker’s back.

“Thanks,” the Spaniard whispers into blond hair.

“Always,” the Englishman kisses into the Spaniard’s cheek.

They save the gingerbread cookies from burning, by some miracle, and Iker upends the rest of the popcorn into a bowl with salt and butter before joining David on the couch. He’s already started the movie and has his legs pulled up, Iker’s old Madrid sweatpants hanging comfortably on his hips.

“Hey,” David smiles as Iker takes a seat next to him. “Cookie?”

Iker takes an angry looking gingerbread man from David. Their fingers brush. Iker holds back a soft sigh.

They watch actors skit across the screen for a few minutes. Iker chews on gingerbread and only speaks after he swallows.

“These are really good. When did you learn how to bake?” he looks at David, amused.

David smiles back easily, but there’s something hesitant there; as though he’s waiting for Iker to catch on to something, but Iker doesn’t know what.

“Vic taught me,” he says. “She’s a bloody amazing baker. I think she’s trying to fatten me up so that she can always be the hottest one.”

Iker laughs and shoves against David’s hair and chest until the other man grabs his hand and pulls him forward. Iker falls into David and, in a flash, David has his arms around Iker’s waist, holding him securely in place.

“You’re never the hot one,” Iker mumbles into David’s collarbone.

David grins and shakes his head, rubbing his nose into Iker’s soft hair.

“Always jealous, Casillas. Green doesn’t look good on you.” David pauses as he suddenly remembers Iker’s kit. “Wait, no. Fuck, it looks bloody fantastic on you. Fuck you.”

Iker laughs heartily and wriggles so that he’s laying more comfortably on David and David’s sprawled back more comfortably across the couch.

The popcorn and gingerbread lay forgotten. Actors on the TV screen speak words, but neither David nor Iker hear them.

They don’t look at each other, but they stay close, one heartbeat thrumming through skin and cloth to match the other. Iker can feel a pulse, but he’s not sure whose it is.

David suddenly shifts and exhales in impatience.

“You’re so bloody dense, Casillas,” he complains. “And slow. Really fucking slow.”

Iker looks up, confused.

“Wha-”

“Would you bloody look up so that I can fucking kiss you?”

Iker’s confusion spreads, but he does as he’s told. He tilts his head up and-

Not just one, not just two, but enough sprigs of green with white berries to cover the entire space above the couch. It’s a forest, a jungle, a dense population of mistletoe, packed so closely together that all Iker can see is green and white.

“Finally,” David’s voice comes and Iker barely has time to register and turn his attention back to the blond before David’s thumb brushes across Iker’s cheek and he tugs the Spaniard forward.

When they kiss, it’s with hearts on their sleeves, blushes across throats and cheeks, with the soft sprinkle of something so old, something so deep, something so past understanding that it’s written across their skin. Their feather light touches are filled with memories and when Iker tries to pull away and David doesn’t let him, there’s something that tastes faintly of the future.

They don’t even notice when the movie ends or when the Christmas music drifts to a still, because there’s Christmas in the air, mistletoe over their heads, and years of memories to catch up on.

theme: mistletoe

eight. sergio & fernando

Olalla laughs as Sergio kisses her. Fernando raises an eyebrow from where he’s bent at Leo’s car seat, bundling his little Niño tightly so that he doesn’t catch a cold in the frigid Liverpool air.

“Gracias, Sergio,” Olalla smiles and Sergio replies with a grin and a shrug toward Fernando.

“You put it there, hombre. I’m just following Christmas law.”

Fernando rolls his eyes and Ollala laughs as she steps over shoes toward the car seat.

“We’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure that our flights are confirmed?” she smiles as Fernando kisses her, although she doesn’t notice Fernando flip Sergio off as the younger man pretends to gag into his arms.

“I’ll print everything out,” he smiles and opens the door for her. “Say hi to Alex for me. And Stevie.”

“I think he’s visiting Xabi in Madrid?” Olalla questions. Fernando looks surprised, but shrugs. “That’s what she told me the other day.”

“Looks like one huge Madrid Christmas to me,” Sergio grins as he comes up behind Fernando and throws an arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry Olalla, I’ll make sure he gets everything printed, stamped, signed, packaged, wrapped, stapled, enveloped-”

Fernando clamps Sergio’s mouth shut with his fingers and smiles sweetly at his wife.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t break anything. See you in a few hours.”

“I should really get a babysitter for the two of you,” is the last thing Olalla laughs out before taking Leo to join his sister in the car.

Sergio stumbles back in after Fernando closes the door.

“How much time do we have?”

“Three maybe four hours,” Fernando says, biting his lower lip. He bends down to pick up a stray toy and looks up at Sergio, slightly concerned. “Will that be enough time?”

Sergio cocks his head before grinning and grasping Fernando’s upper arm and dragging him to his feet.

“More than enough.”

“Nando, Nando no. That’s not where it goes-fuck, no, fuck you’re so bad at this,” Sergio groans.

Fernando looks up at Sergio from his back and frowns.

“That’s what you told me to do.”

“No,” Sergio pushes back his hair from his forehead and sighs in exasperation. “I told you to tie it around the base.”

There’s a pause as Sergio and Fernando glare at one another, a power battle in the making.

Finally, Fernando sighs and pushes himself up to his knees.

“Fine, there. Happy?”

Sergio grins from where he’s standing on a stool, lights tangled around his hands.

“Yes. Now get the box of ornaments.”

Fernando sighs again, even more aggrieved this time, and does as he’s told while Sergio stretches, winding the lights around the enormous Christmas tree Fernando has bought for his growing family. He reaches forward to pull the lights around the other side and his shirt rides up slightly, exposing a stretch of perfectly tan skin riddled with black ink. When he pulls back, he turns to see Fernando watching him curiously.

“Anywhere?” Fernando asks, although his gaze doesn’t move.

Sergio smiles and jumps off the stool.

“Yeah.”

They work quietly for a while, Sergio humming out Christmas music instead of flamenco and Fernando mouthing out lyrics when he can remember them. Fernando hangs Olalla’s Christmas globes and reindeer and plastic Spanish bulls with care while Sergio strings tinsel across the fire place, above and behind the stockings, making sure not to string it too close to the fire in case it catches.

The living room is plain at first, clean and nothing to marvel at. However, as they work, it becomes something else entirely; lights, tinsel, popcorn, glitter, fake snow that they pelt at each other and, subsequently, get all over Fernando’s carpet and couches. Sergio starts Christmas music on YouTube and Fernando crawls under the Christmas tree to straighten the piles of presents. Mostly, the presents are wrapped neatly, in appropriate, holiday wrapping paper. Then there are the enormous packages wrapped in shiny gold, silver, and bright, bright purple. It’s clear who those particular ones are from.

“Your aim fucking blows,” Sergio laughs as he throws crumpled up wrapping paper at Fernando. Fernando dodges and nearly knocks into the tree. It rattles dangerously and he falls flat to his chest just in time.

Sergio doubles over in laughter until Fernando attacks him with Leo’s newly acquired Christmas bear. It’s about five times the size of its owner.

They both collapse to the floor, arms and legs tangled and laugh until Fernando pushes Sergio away and the latter crawls over to switch the tree lights on.

The air shimmers, honestly. There’s so much light, so many edges and corners that glitter that when Fernando and Sergio breathe out, it’s through their noses and reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” Fernando says softly.

The words hang in the air, twist themselves and dissipate into the scent of cinnamon and oranges, into colors of bright gold and silver, of red and green. Fernando’s tongue darts out and he can taste it on his lips.

Sergio mumbles something into Fernando’s shoulder. The older man shifts and Sergio’s hands tangle lightly with his, fair skin brushing against honeyed hands until one finger wraps around the other and then another follows and then another until they’re intertwined and leaning into one another.

Fernando closes his eyes, a smile on his face and lights digging in to the back of his closed lids.

“You too, Sese.”

Sergio brushes his lips against the back of Fernando’s jaw, ghosts them until he can kiss Fernando’s cheek. Fernando squeezes his fingers.

“Feliz Navidad, mi parajito.”

Fernando presses his lips to Sergio’s temple.

“Feliz Navidad, mi gitano.”

theme: Christmas tree

one christmas. family

There are so many bottles of wine and champagne littering Iker’s kitchen, Iker’s living room, Iker’s coffee table, Iker’s floor. He literally has to squint to find the people in between. He thinks he sees the younger ones snickering over peppermint bark in the kitchen, but then, he’s not particularly sure if that’s Sergio, Bojan, or a bottle of Pinot Noir. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell them apart.

“Thanks for letting us take over your house,” a familiar voice says near his ear.

Iker smiles and turns his head slightly and Sergio leans over to kiss his cheek.

“David says he had to convince you a little.”

Sergio raises an eyebrow, gives Iker an all-too knowing look, but Iker just shrugs it off and shoves his vice captain’s shoulder.

“I’m not Scrooge, asshole.”

Sergio laughs, smoothly linking an arm through Iker’s.

“David told you where that came from.”

“Asshole,” Iker repeats, but it’s fond. He brushes lips against Sergio’s forehead and the younger man lights up underneath, practically beams at him.

“Come on,” Sergio twinkles.

Iker looks suspicious, almost immediately.

“Come on,” he insists. He tugs on Iker’s arm. The older man stumbles along, but Sergio shakes his head, not listening. “We’re playing four-on-four. You’re my keeper.”

Iker stutters to a halt. Cesc appears out of the corner with Fernando and a bottle of champagne. Fernando grins at something the younger man says while Cesc laughs and bounces up on the balls of his feet. He reaches up to whisper something to his fellow Spaniard. Fernando looks horrified, shakes his head.

Cesc grins cheekily, takes Fernando by the elbow, and pulls him out the kitchen and through the glass doors.

“There’s snow on the ground,” Iker protests, but Sergio just laughs as he throws an arm around his captain and drags him outside after Cesc.

Iker stands by the makeshift goal as Sergio goes through the house and pulls people out into the yard. He calls Iker almost immediately before David declares himself captain of the other team. The blond immediately claims Cesc, who is joined by Gerard. Fernando hovers uncertainly between the two teams before Cesc finally jumps on him and drags him over to their side of the field. Sergio pitches his eyes around the yard before they catch on the youngsters and he grins evilly as he yells at Bojan and Canales to get their asses over to their side of the field before their future Spanish captain cuts off their alcohol. Canales looks up, wide-eyed, but Bojan just grins and runs over to the proper side.

Within minutes, rules and boundaries have been drawn and Jesús has declared himself the referee due to his bad knee.

“Losers buy us drinks during the next national meet up!” Sergio declares.

“Not all of us play for Spain, arsehole!” David yells from his position near the goal. Beside him, Fernando frowns and scratches at an eye. He’s dying to play as striker, but Cesc and Gerard both pushed him into the goal.

Sergio pauses, considering this.

“Losers buy more drinks after the game!” Bojan offers helpfully.

Sergio nods, grins, and throws his arms around the young striker.

“What the little one said!”

David laughs and agrees to this. He and Sergio meet in the middle and grin evilly at one another, shake hands as Raúl and Guti make their way off the porch and into the snow.

“Raúl, come play!” Sergio calls, but his old captain just smiles and shakes his head.

Instead, Guti snakes an arm around Raúl’s waist and tugs him toward the hammock strung between two trees.

“You have to learn to play without us sometime, gypsy!” Guti yells. Sergio flips him off and the blond laughs as Raúl hides his smile in his friend’s hair.

“Ready?” Jesús calls. Cheers and jeers go up from the field. He waves his arms wildly and blows the whistle.

It’s ridiculous and fast and competitive. Laughter spirals with frozen breaths through the air and feet plod through soft, upended snow. Iker’s voice can be heard above all, shouting out at Sergio and Bojan and Canales. Bojan dodges past Cesc and nears the goal. Fernando gets in position, but a tackle by Gerard sends the youngster sprawling into the snow.

“Foul, foul!” Sergio calls.

Jesús shakes his head and Canales tries not to laugh into his hands.

Gerard takes possession of the ball and dodges past Canales, passes it smoothly to David who lobs it past Sergio. Cesc is near the goal.

Sergio runs as fast as he can, but he’s too far away. Cesc laughs wildly as he aims the ball at Iker. Iker glares and jumps for the ball as soon as it connects with Cesc’s foot.

The ball smacks into Iker’s gloves and wildly bounces off.

“Fuck!” Gerard’s voice goes up while Canales and Bojan start chanting San Iker, San Iker, San Iker!

Iker throws the ball at Sergio who takes it swiftly past Cesc. He kicks it toward Canales who rebounds it immediately to Bojan. Bojan looks like a man on fire. The only person standing in his way is his tall, almost-best friend. He grins at Gerard. Gerard goes left. Bojan goes right.

“Yessssssssssssssss!” He falls face down into the snow as Canales jumps on him even before the ball gets in past Fernando’s hands.

“Fuck!”

Sergio, Canales, and Bojan start a train, start dancing around and singing until David starts throwing snow at them. The three protest loudly and gear themselves up for a snowball fight until Jesús interrupts.

“Cesc has the ball, go!”

The three turns their attention immediately to the middle of the field and, sure enough, the smaller midfielder starts darting down with no opposition.

“Shit!” the three chorus and run after Cesc.

Fifteen minutes later, all of their faces are bright pink, fingers are painfully frozen, snow is in almost every crevice of clothing, and Fernando’s face is in the most endearing scowl Sergio has ever seen.

He chucks a snowball at his friend. Fernando’s scowl deepens and the entire field laughs.

“Team Sergio, five, Team David, five!” Jesús calls from the side. “The next one wins!”

Both sides tense as Iker looks across the field. He nods at Sergio in the sideline. Makes to toss it to him-and tosses it to Canales instead.

Canales takes it down the field easily in the confusion, dodging around Cesc. He meets Gerard too soon and kicks it to Bojan who fumbles with it. David picks up the ball easily and starts down toward Iker, a determined look on his face.

He’s near the goal when it happens. Sergio tackles him, something that he thinks is perfectly legitimate, but Referee Navas disagrees.

“Foul! Penalty kick!”

Sergio scrambles up and there’s immediately yelling from his entire team.

“What!”

“No!”

“Come on!”

“Jesu!”

Jesús just smiles and shakes his head.

Team David looks evil. David moves into position and everyone spaces out around him.

He locks eyes with Iker. Iker looks determined. David flashes him the most charming smile he can muster.

Iker’s face falters and before he can blink, David’s moved left and kicked the ball right.

He moves a second too late.

The ball goes past him smoothly and David cheers as Cesc and Gerard, and Fernando, belatedly, pile onto him. They’re a loud, wet, cold, clamoring mess as Canales and Bojan grumble and Iker frowns, then slowly melts into a sheepish, exasperated grin.

Sergio, on the other hand, has his eyes on Jesús.

“I’m going to kill you, Navas!”

Jesús’s eyes widen. For a second he must think that Sergio is joking. He isn’t.

He shrieks and turns to run, but Sergio runs at him faster, laughter spread across his open, friendly features, as he tackles his brother into the snow.

On the porch, two sets of eyes watch the game unfolding before them quietly. They laugh, they smile into one another’s hair, they leans their heads close together and whisper when there are lulls in the game.

After the first half, the Englishman shifts so that his thigh is pressed into the Spaniard’s.

“You’re right,” Stevie says quietly. Wrapped up in a blanket he’s sharing with Xabi, he leans into the other man’s arms as steam from their hot chocolate billows softly against their chilled faces. “I mean you always are, but. Especially now, you know?”

“Hmm?” Xabi takes a small mouthful. Smiles through it as his eyes glance over the football match and settle on his former captains. Raúl and Guti, whispering and laughing amongst themselves on the snowy hammock under Iker’s tree, smile and nod at him. Their hands graze and Guti’s head tilts almost imperceptibly onto Raúl’s shoulder. Xabi exhales and turns to Stevie, happiness playing at the corners of his mouth.

Stevie gestures at the backyard, full of Spaniards he knows and barely knows but all of whom, somehow, are like a second extension of Xabi, of himself. Somehow, cobbled together, from an entirely different country and world, Stevie can feel family settling on his shoulders.

“About the world.” He smiles and presses his lips to the corner of Xabi’s jaw. The younger man stirs, shifts closer. “Not so big.”

Light shimmers in Xabi’s eyes and he shakes his head, dislodging a few snowflakes that had lodged into his hair. He tilts his head forward and catches Stevie’s lips. It’s soft, quick, sweet.

“No, querido.”

In front of them, Jesús’s peals of laughter are only cut by Sergio’s own as the two of them wrestle, snow sticking to their coats and pants until they’re indistinguishable from the ground itself. Somehow, Gerard finds the fray and it’s only a short while before Cesc piles on and Canales does the same, while tugging on Bojan’s hand. Fernando is left hovering uncertainly, as usual, until Sergio latches a hand around his ankle and the striker collapses into the pile. Iker and David are already being pushed into the mound of snow. David’s high-pitched laughter is second only to the sounds of Iker smashing snow in his hair and barking out laughter. Neither Xabi nor Stevie are sure how they got there or when. They don’t try to find out.

Xabi can barely hear his own chuckling over the chaotic laughter, cheering, teasing. He only lifts his head when Guti peels away from Raúl and starts yelling at the men (boys, really) on the ground. He’s gesturing wildly. Smiling. It’s typical. Raúl shakes his head and joins at the blond’s elbow.

Xabi feels Stevie shift beside him. The Scouser grins and stretches before setting his hot chocolate down. He stands up and offers Xabi a hand; it’s an offer the Spaniard would never refuse. Xabi takes it, warmth in warmth, and he’s never been so good at hiding when he’s truly, indisputably happy. The smile on his face is nearly as bright as the white mass surrounding them under the blinding, cold sun.

He shakes his head and squeezes Stevie’s fingers.

“Not when you know where to go.”